IT was with a slightly accelerated pulse that Horace went next morning to the “George” to keep his appointment. He seemed to have put his own fortune on the cast, and temper and ambition alike forbade his drawing back. Either he must secure Stenhouse as an ally and coadjutor, bound to him by secret ties of interest, or else he must establish his own career upon the charitable and Christian work of restoring to Roger Musgrave such remnants of his inheritance as it might be possible to rescue from the hands of Pouncet and Stenhouse. This last alternative was not captivating to Horace. It was not in his nature, had he been the instrument of such a restoration, to do it otherwise than grudgingly. He was too young as yet to have added any great powers of dissimulation to his other good qualities, and his own disposition sided much more with the clever operator who served his own interests by means of some unsuspecting simpleton, than with the simpleton who permitted himself to be so cheated. Accordingly, his thoughts were very reluctant to undertake that side of the question – still, it was his alternative, and as such he meant to use it.

Mr. Stenhouse entertained his young visitor sumptuously, and exerted all his powers to captivate him. He, too, was ignorant of the person he had to deal with, and did not suspect how entirely uninfluenceable by such friendly cajoleries was the young bear of Marchmain, who had scarcely heart enough to be flattered by them, and had acuteness sufficient to perceive the policy. He began, at length, cautiously enough, upon the subject of their last night’s conversation – cautiously, though with all his usual apparent candour and openness of tone.

“Let us have a little talk now about this business, this hold which you think you have got over poor old Pouncet,” said Mr. Stenhouse. “Do you know, my dear fellow, Pouncet has been established here some thirty years, and the people believe in him; do you think they will take your word, at your age, against so old an authority? I advise you to think of it a little, my friend, before you begin.”

“My word has very little to do with it,” said Horace; “of course, I know nothing of the transaction except by evidence, which has satisfied my own mind; and Squire Musgrave was quite as well known, while he lived, as Mr. Pouncet. Besides, it is your own opinion that the public verdict is always against the attorney; and then,” said Horace, with a slight irrepressible sneer at his own words, “we have all the story in our favour, and the sympathy which everybody feels for a disinherited heir.”

“But then, your disinherited heir has not a penny in his purse, nor the means of raising one – a private in a marching regiment,” said Stenhouse, with a laugh; “you yourself are one or two-and-twenty at the outside, have spent a year in Mr. Pouncet’s office, and do not assert yourself, so far as I am aware, to have any command of capital. How are you to do it? – your father, eh? – your father has a place in the country, and perhaps influence – you mean to seek support by his means?”

“My father,” said Horace, rudely enough, “has no influence – and, if he had, would never use it for me; my father is my greatest enemy, or takes me for his, which is the same thing.”

“That is very extraordinary,” said Stenhouse, with a sudden appearance of interest; “takes you for his enemy? – how is that? – there is surely some mystery here.”

“I don’t see that it matters at all to what we were speaking of,” said Horace. “Look here, Mr. Stenhouse, I’ll speak plainly: Pouncet and you are in the same boat – if you don’t actually lose money by having this brought to a trial, you’ll lose reputation – I know you will. I know well enough the thing was your doing. I don’t pretend to be very clever,” continued Horace; “but I think I know a man when I see him. It was you who found out the secret about that land – it was you who put the affair into Pouncet’s head – it was you who managed it all along – the success of the undertaking belongs to you, and you know it. Now, look here – perhaps there’s no legal hold upon you; but you are a flourishing man, with people who believe in you, as much as some other people believe in Mr. Pouncet. If this matter should come to a trial, how would your reputation come out of it? I ask you boldly, because you know better than I do the whole affair.”

“And am not afraid of it, I assure you, my dear fellow; go on as briskly as you please, so far as I am concerned,” said Stenhouse; “but though I don’t care for this, I care for you. You have a natural genius for this kind of work, not often to be met with. Pouncet would not understand it, but I do. I’ll tell you what, Scarsdale – you can’t do me any harm, but it is quite likely you might do me service. Another man most probably would send you off with a defiance, but I am not so liable to offence as most people; I never found it pay, somehow. You can’t do me any harm, as I tell you; but you are bold and capable, and might be extremely useful to me: whilst I for my share could probably advance your prospects. Pouncet was telling me something about you yesterday, but I did not hope to have so clear a specimen of your powers. I want a confidential man in my own office. What do you say to leaving Pouncet and transferring your services to me?”

“I should have perhaps a few questions to ask, in the first place,” said Horace, who, elated with this sudden success, the first fruits of his “power,” though his antagonist concealed it so skilfully, was by no means disinclined to be insolent; “about remuneration and prospects, and how I should be employed; for I do not hold myself a common clerk, to be hired by any man who pleases,” added the young man, with something of the rude arrogance that was in him. It was a new phase of his character to his observant new friend.

“So I understand,” he said gravely, but with a twinkle of sarcasm in his eye, which disconcerted Horace. “I shall be glad to hear the facts of your own private concern from yourself, and you may reckon on my best advice. As for the terms of your engagement, if you enter upon one with me, these, of course, you must consider on your own account, without suffering me to influence you. I shall look after my interests, to be sure,” added Mr. Stenhouse, with that charming candour of his, “and you must attend to yours; and if you make up your mind afterwards to attack Pouncet on behalf of your friend Musgrave,” he continued, with a pleasant smile, “why, well and good – you must follow your fancy. In the meanwhile, I have no doubt I can employ you to good account, and give you more insight into business than Pouncet could. Time for the office – eh? I thought so. Well, you must consider my proposal; no hurry about it – and let me know how you have decided; I’ll mention it to Pouncet, that there may be no difficulty there. Good morning, my young friend; you have a famous spirit, and want nothing but practice; and there is no saying what light you and I together may succeed in throwing on your own affairs.”

Thus dismissed, Horace had no resource but to take his hat, and shake the smooth hand of Mr. Stenhouse, which grasped his with so much apparent cordiality. The young man went to his business with a strange mixture of sensations: humiliated, because he had suffered a seeming conquest, and his antagonist had clearly borne away the victory, so far as appearances were concerned; and flattered and excited at the same time by the substantial proof he had just received that his threat had not been in vain. Advancement greater and more immediate than to be made the “confidential man” of a solicitor in excellent practice, after one brief year of apprenticeship in Mr. Pouncet’s office, he could not have hoped for; and his ambition was not of that great and vague kind which is always startled by the pettiness of reality. Then that last hint gave a certain glow of eagerness to his excited mind: light upon his own affairs! – light upon that mystery which shrouded the recluse of Marchmain, and made his only son his enemy and opponent! Horace had managed to content himself with inevitable work, and even to excite himself into the ambition of making a fortune and his own way in the world; but that was a mere necessity, to which his arrogance bowed itself against its will; and the thought of leaping into sudden fortune, and the bitter long-fostered enmity against his father which continually suggested to his mind something which that father kept him out of, remained as fresh as ever in his spirit when they were appealed to. These thoughts came freshly upon him as he hastened to his daily occupation, and again began to revive the dreams of Marchmain. Twice he had succeeded in his private essays towards self-advancement. After an hour or two’s reflection, with returning confidence he exulted to see his present and his future employer equally in his power, and made himself an easy victory in his own mind over the plausibilities of Mr. Stenhouse. Why should he not succeed as well in “his own affairs,” and with equal pains overcome as easily the defences of his father? – and what if Stenhouse had actually some light to throw upon these concerns? Horace revelled within himself with a secret arrogance and self-esteem as he pondered. What if it remained to him, in as short a time as he had taken to achieve these other successes, to dress himself in the grander spoils of imagination from which his father’s enmity or interest kept him at present shut out.

CHAPTER XXII

HORACE did not require to reflect much over the offer of Mr. Stenhouse; but, a singular enough preliminary, went out once more that evening to Tinwood, and again saw his old pitman, from whose lips he took down in writing the statement which he had previously heard. The man was old and might die, and though Horace dared not make the deposition authoritative by having the sanction of a magistrate, and thus letting daylight in upon the whole transaction, he received the statement, and had it signed and witnessed, as a possible groundwork of future proceedings – a strong moral, if not legal, evidence. With this document in his pocket-book, he saw Mr. Stenhouse, accepted his proposal, and consented to his arrangements; then had an interview with Mr. Pouncet, more agreeable to his temper than anything he could extract from the more practised man of the world, to whom he had now engaged himself; the Kenlisle lawyer, it is true, was most deeply “in his power.” Mr. Pouncet was very serious, uneasy, and constrained, disapproving, but checking the expressions of his disapproval by a certain anxious politeness, most refreshing and consolatory to his departing clerk.

Horace could not for his life have behaved himself generously or modestly in such circumstances. He took full use of his advantage, and was as arrogant and insolent as a man could be, quietly, who suddenly finds himself in a position to domineer over an older man who has employed and condescended to him. That half-hour was sweet to Horace. Mr. Pouncet’s secret flush of rage; his visible determination to restrain himself; his forced politeness, and uneasy, unnatural deference to the studied rudeness of the young bear before him, were so many distinct expressions of homage dear to the young victor’s soul. He could strip the respectability off that grave, uneasy figure; he could hold up the man who had betrayed his trust to the odium of the world, and force out of his stores the riches he had gained so unjustly. Did he ever dream of doing it, or of suffering any one else to do it, honestly, as a piece of justice? Not he: but it delighted him to see the conscious culprit quail, and to recognize his own “power.”

However, before setting out for his new sphere, a less comprehensible motive determined the young man to pay a parting visit to Marchmain. Perhaps he himself could not have explained why. Not, certainly, to see his sister; for Susan had no great place or influence in her brother’s thoughts. To see his father, much more likely; for steady opposition and enmity is almost as exigeant as affection, and loves to contemplate and study its object with a clear and bitter curiosity, more particular and observing even than love. He reached Marchmain on a spring afternoon, when even Lanwoth Moor owned the influence of the season; when solitary specks of gold were bursting on the whin-bushes, and purple stalks of heather-bells rose from the brown underground. Under that sunshine and genial spring stir the very house looked less desolate. The moor, spreading far around and behind, was sweetened and softened by the light and shadow of those changeful northern heavens; the sunshine brightened the windows with a certain wistful, outward warmth, as if the very light was cognizant of the blank within, and would have penetrated if it could. The low hills which bounded the horizon had greened and softened like everything else; and even the wistful clump of firs, which stood watching on the windy height nearest to the house, were edged and fringed with a lighter growth, touching the tips of their grim branches into a mute compliment of unison with the sweet movement of the year. Perhaps the most human token of all was a row of two or three homely flower-pots, outside the dining-room window of Marchmain: that was a timid evidence of the spring sentiment in Susan’s solitary young heart, and it was something in such a desert place. Horace observed it as something new, with a little ridicule in his smile. Perhaps his father, now that he was gone, had changed the manner of his sway over Susan: perhaps it was only he, the son, who was obnoxious to Mr. Scarsdale, and had to be put down. Horace was not jealous, nor troubled with any affectionate envy; he smiled with superiority and contempt. He, a man not to be trifled with, was quite indifferent how any one might choose to behave to such a trifle as a girl.

But Susan, it appeared, was out, when Horace, going round by the back of the house, startled Peggy out of her wits by his sudden appearance; and, what was more, his father was out, an unexampled incident. The old woman screamed aloud when she saw who her visitor was, and put out both her hands with an involuntary movement to send him away.

“The Lord help us all! – they’ll come to blows if they meet!” cried Peggy, in her first impulse of terror. Then she put out her vigorous hand and dragged Horace in, as impatiently as she had motioned him away. “You misfortunate lad! what’s brought ye here?” said Peggy; “them that gangs away of their own will should stay away. Bless and preserve us! do ye think I dare to receive you here?”

She had not only received him, however, but fastened the kitchen-door carefully after him as she spoke. The very look of that kitchen, with Peggy’s careful preparations going on for her master’s fastidious meal – preparations so strangely at variance in their dainty nicety with the homely character and frugal expenditure of the house – brought all his old thoughts back to Horace as with a flash of magic. He had begun to forget how his father lived, and the singularity of all his habits. His old bitter, sullen curiosity overpowered him as he stood once more under this roof. Who was this extraordinary man, who preserved in a retirement so rude and unrefined these forlorn habits of another life? The dainty arrangements of the table, the skilful and learned expedients of Peggy’s cookery; the one formal luxurious meal for which Mr. Scarsdale every day made a formal toilette; the silent man with his claret-jug and evening dress, in that homeliest of country parlours, flashed before him like a sudden picture. Who was he? – and what had driven him here?

“So my father’s out,” said Horace; “why should not I come to see you, Peggy? Has he forbidden it? He can shut his own door upon me, it is true; but neither he nor any man in the world can prevent me if I will from coming here.”

“Hush, sir! hold your peace! – the master says he’ll have none of you here again, and I’m no the woman to disobey the master!” said Peggy. “And what do you mean by staying away a year and never letting us hear word of you, Mr. Horry? Is Miss Susan nobody? – nor me? – wan would think your love was so great for your father, that you never thought of no person in the world but him!”

“So it is – perhaps,” said Horace, with a momentary smile; “and he’s out, is he? – what is he doing out in daylight and sunshine? Gone to walk with his pretty daughter, Peggy, like a good papa? Ah! I suppose these amiable little amusements would have begun sooner if I had but been wise enough to take myself away.”

“To walk with Miss Susan? – alas!” cried Peggy; “but ye allways had a bitter tongue as well as himsel’. Na, he’s out of a suddent at his own will, or rather at the good will of Providence, Mr. Horry, to prevent a meeting and unseemly words atween a father and son. What would ye have, young man? – and where have ye been? – and what are you doing? But come in here, for pity’s sake, if ye’ll no go away, and let me hear all your news, and I’ll keep a watch at the back window against the master’s coming in.”

“My news is nothing, except that I am about to leave Kenlisle,” said Horace, impatiently; “but, for heaven’s sake, Peggy, who is this father of mine? You know, though nobody else knows – who is he? what does he do here? why does he hate me? why can’t you tell me, and make an end of these mysteries? I’m a man now, and not a child; and here is your chance while we’re by ourselves – tell me, for heaven’s sake.”

“You’re very ready with your ‘heaven’s sake,’ Mr. Horry,” said Peggy, severely; “do ye no think another word might stand better? Heaven has but little to do with it all. The Lord help us! Who is he? ’Deed and he’s a man, none so vartuous as he ought to be. And what does he here? Live as it pleases him, the Lord forgive him! without heeding God nor man – that’s all about it. And as for hating of you, how much love is there lost, Mr. Horry? Do you think I could kep it on the point o’ my finger? You never were wan to waste your kindness. How much of it, think you, gos to him?”

“It is well I can equal him in something,” said Horace, with a careless but bitter tone. “However, Peggy, you’ll tell nothing, as I might have known. I suppose I may wait to see Susan; there’s nothing against that, is there? So, with your permission, I’ll go and wait for her. Don’t be afraid – only to the dining-room.”

“The Lord preserve me! – and if he comes in!” cried Peggy, half addressing herself, and half appealing to her unwelcome visitor.

“Let him come in. I am in my father’s house,” cried Horace, with that cold, hopeless smile. Peggy knew it of old, and had seen it on other faces. She put out her hand with a fierce impatience, shaking it in his face.

“Oh, man! go away, and make me rid of ye! Go where ye please; if ever mortal man has a devil incarnate in him, it’s when ye see that smile!”

Smiling still, Horace went coolly away to the dining-room, as he said; and Peggy, at her wit’s end, as she was, found no better way of averting the evil she dreaded than by fastening the doors, so that they could not be opened from without, and clambering upstairs to watch at the elevated window of the storeroom, from whence she could see her master’s approach. Horace had never felt himself so entirely in command of the house. He paused at the door of the dull apartment in which he had spent so many hours and years, and where Susan’s needlework, more ornamental now than of old, made a little unaccustomed brightness on the dark mirror of the uncovered table; but no sympathy for his young sister, shut up here hopelessly during her early bloom of life, warmed his heart, or even entered his thoughts. He thought of himself – how he used to waste and curse the days in this miserable solitude, and what a change had passed upon his life since then. Listening, in the extreme silence, he heard Peggy go upstairs to her watch. He smiled at that, too, but accepted the safeguard; and, without any more hesitation, turned round, and went across the hall to his father’s room.

The study; that dreaded, dismal, apartment; – with its dull bookcases set at right-angles, the hard elbow-chair standing stiffly before the table, the big volume laid open upon the desk, the stifling red curtains drooping over the window; his heart beat, in spite of himself, as he entered; he could scarcely believe his father was not there, somehow watching him, reading his very thoughts. With a sudden “Pshaw!” of self-contempt and temerity, he hastened forward to the table. There was no lock upon the little sloping desk which sustained the volume Mr. Scarsdale had been reading. Without hoping to find anything, but with a vague thrill of curiosity and eagerness, Horace lifted the book, and opened the desk. It was full of miscellaneous papers – Peggy’s household bills, and other things entirely unimportant; but among these lay some folds of blotting-paper. He opened them with a trembling hand; the first thing he saw there was a letter, which fell out, and which Horace grasped at, half-consciously, and thrust into his pocket; another fold concealed, apparently, the answer to it, half written, and hurriedly concluded. The young man ran his eyes over it with burning curiosity. It was addressed to Colonel Sutherland, and chiefly concerned an invitation from her uncle to Susan, which Mr. Scarsdale peremptorily declined. Then his own name caught his eye; the last paragraph abruptly broken off, as if the writer had thrown down his pen in impatience, and could continue no longer. These words, which conveyed so little information to him, burned themselves, notwithstanding, upon Horace’s memory with all the vehement interest of unnatural hate: —

“As for my son, I do not choose to answer to any man for my sentiments and actions in respect to him. I held all natural ties as abrogated between us from the period you mention, when, as you say, he seems to have ceased to appear to me as my child, and I have only viewed him as a rival, unjustly preferred to me. I do not object to adopt your words; they are sufficiently correct; but I will suffer no question on the subject; let the blame be upon the head of the true culprit. As to the will – ”

Here the letter ended, with a dash and blot, as if the pen had fallen from the writer’s fingers; it was this, evidently, which had driven him forth in wild impatience, stung by his subject. Horace read, and re-read the sentence, devouring it with his eyes of enmity. Then he restored it rudely to its place, put back the book, and left the room. He thought he had discovered something in the first flush of his excitement. It did not seem possible that he could have looked thus directly into his father’s thoughts without discovering something. He no longer cared to risk a meeting with him. In the tumult of his imaginary enlightenment he called to Peggy, hastily, that he was going away, and went out, as he entered, by the back door. Nobody was visible on the moor; the whole waste lay barren before him, under the slanting light of the setting sun. He put up the collar of his coat, set his hat over his eyes, and plunged along the narrow path among the gorse and heather, to Tillington, thinking still in his excited mind, and feeling in his tingling frame, that he had found out something; and knew more of the secret of his life than he had ever known before; deluded by his eagerness and enmity, and the excitement caused in him by the first stealthy investigation it had ever been in his power to make.