The House on the Moor, v. 1/3Oliphant, Mrs. (Margaret)
General
The House on the Moor, v. 1/3
Oliphant, Mrs. (Margaret)
Fiction
Colonel Sutherland did not find much leisure that night. He had scarcely
returned from his walk, a little indignant and vexed at the conduct of
Kennedy, but less than ever inclined to believe him, when young Musgrave
made his appearance. The Colonel was seated by the fire with his
spectacles on, and the latest newspaper to be had in these regions laid
on the table beside him--but he had not begun to read, having thoughts
enough to keep him occupied. The room, with its dark walls and low roof
and the indistinct prints hung round it, was left in comparative
darkness by the little light of the two candles on the table. The
Colonel himself had his back to the light, and, with his elbows resting
on the arms of the chair, rubbed his hands slowly together, and pondered
in his heart. He had almost forgotten the young stranger in the closer
and nearer interests which moved himself; and what with his thoughts and
his deafness, and his position with his back to the door, did not
perceive the entrance of Roger, who stood undecided and shy when the
door had closed upon him, half inclined in sudden discouragement to turn
back again, and feeling for almost the first time, with a sudden painful
start of consciousness, that he had no claim upon the friendship of this
old man, whose kind interest in him this morning had cheered his forlorn
young heart, but whom, after all, he had seen for the first time this
day. A mind which is elevated by any one of the great primitive
emotions, ceases for the moment to feel those secondary impressions of
surprise and singularity with which in ordinary times we regard any
departure from the ordinary laws of life. Had he been happy, Roger would
have wondered, perhaps would have smiled, at the interest which this
stranger expressed in him; but it had not even astonished his
pre-occupied mind until now: now, as he stood behind the Colonel in the
dim apartment, and saw him sitting thoughtful by the fire, unconscious
of the presence of any visitor, the young man's impulse was to steal
softly out again, and make no claim upon a sympathy which he had no
right to. Yet his heart yearned for the kind look, the paternal voice
which had roused him this morning out of the quick despair of youth. He
approached slowly towards the table: when he reached it the Colonel
turned round with an exclamation of surprised but cordial welcome, and
pointed him to the chair opposite his own, which had been placed in
readiness for his young guest. This little token that he was expected
cheered the young man involuntarily; it was another of those trivial
things which, as Colonel Sutherland said, make up so much of the
happiness of life.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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