On the same day, and in a manner not very dissimilar, Horace Scarsdale
left his home.
If that could be called home which had been for years a prison to the
young man. With a secret feeling of exultation, he collected everything
belonging to him into a trunk, which he confided, without much
explanation, into the hands of Peggy. "When I send for this give it to
my messenger," said Horace. Peggy was prudent, and nodded in assent,
without asking any question. She had divined for some time that he meant
to go away, and Peggy, who thought it the best thing he could do,
prepared to remain in ignorance, and to have no information to give her
master in case he should think of questioning her. Susan had not yet
returned from her walk; there was no one in the house but Mr. Scarsdale,
shut up as usual in his study, and Peggy looking out anxiously, but
stealthily; unwilling to be seen, or suspected of watching her young
master, when Horace left the house. He, too, carried a little bag--and
he, too, when he had got half-way across the moor, turned round to look
at the house in which the greater part of his life had been spent.
Looking back, no tender images softened in the mind of Horace the harsh
and angular outline of those unsheltered walls; he had no associations
to make sweet to him the dwelling of his youth. He drew a long, deep
breath of satisfaction. He had escaped, and he was young, and life was
bright before him. As he stood there, too far off to be called back,
with his bag lying at his feet among the brown heather, he could see
Peggy steal out to the corner of the house and look up and down the road
to see which way he had gone, with her hand over her eyes, to shield
them from the sun: and then another lighter figure came quickly, with an
agitated speed, to the door, and stood there in the sunshine, without
looking round her at all, waiting for admittance. Horace contracted his
eyebrows over his short-sighted eyes, and smiled to recognize his
sister--smiled, but not with affection or pleasure. Perhaps it
heightened for the moment his own sense of liberation to see that poor
little bird going back to her cage; perhaps he imagined her
consternation and alarm and amazement on finding him gone. When Peggy
had gone in from her corner, and Susan had disappeared into the house,
Horace took up his bag and pursued his way. He was not going any great
distance; his destination, for this time at least, was only Kenlisle,
where he arrived in the afternoon, after a long walk, made pleasant by
the sense of freedom, which increased as step by step he increased the
distance between himself and Marchmain.
Horace had not frequented the rural alehouses and listened to the rural
talk for nothing. He knew, as far as popular report could tell him, all
about the leading people of the district: he knew, what seldom comes to
the ears of their equals, except in snatches, what their servants said
about them, and all the details and explications which popular gossip
gave of every occurrence important enough to catch the public eye. All
this, long before he thought of making use of it, Horace noted and
remembered by instinct; it amused him to hear of the follies and vices
of other people; it amused him to distinguish, in the popular criticism
upon them, how much of the righteous indignation was envy, and a vain
desire to emulate the pleasant sins which were out of that disapproving
public's reach. By this means he knew a great deal more about the social
economy of the district than anybody who knew his manner of life would
have supposed possible. He had heard, for example, numberless allusions
made to a notable attorney, or solicitor, as he called himself, in
Kenlisle, who managed everybody's affairs, and knew the secrets of the
whole county. It was he to whom Horace intended addressing himself; a
romantic idea, one would have supposed; for he was a prosperous man, and
was not very likely to prefer a penniless individual in young
Scarsdale's position to a rich townsman's son, with premiums and
connections. However, the young man was strong in the most undaunted
self-confidence--an idea of failure never crossed his mind. He made as
careful a _toilette_ as he could at the inn, had himself brushed with
great care, and, pausing no longer than was absolutely necessary for
these operations, proceeded at once to the solicitor's office. Here
Horace presented himself, by no means in the humble guise of a man who
seeks employment. Business hours were nearly over--the young men in Mr.
Pouncet's office had clustered round one desk, the occupant of which was
performing some piece of amateur jugglery, to the immense admiration of
his colleagues. These accomplished young men dispersed in haste at the
appearance of a stranger. Mr. Pouncet was known to be disengaged, and
Horace asked for him with a confidence and authority which imposed even
upon the managing clerk. After a very little delay he was ushered into
the attorney's sanctuary, where Mr. Pouncet himself, business being
over, read the papers in his elbow-chair. Mr. Pouncet had none of
Colonel Sutherland's objections to Horace's stooping shoulders. He
bowed, and invited him to take a chair, without the least unfavourable
comment on the appearance of his visitor. Then the lawyer laid down his
paper, took off his spectacles, and assumed the proper look of
professional attention. Horace saw he had made a favourable beginning,
and rose in courage as he began to speak.
"I have come to consult you about some matters of much importance to
me," he said. "I am forced to adopt a profession, though I ought to have
no need for any such thing. I have determined to adopt yours, Mr.
Pouncet. I have a long explanation to make before you can understand the
case--have you time to hear me?"
"Certainly," said the lawyer, but not with effusion; for the preface was
not very encouraging to his hopes of a new client.
"My father lives not very far off, at Marchmain, on the borders of
Lanwoth Moor," said Horace, and made a pause at the end of these words.
A look of increased curiosity rewarded him. "Ah, Mr. Scarsdale? I
remember to have heard the name," said the attorney, taking up his pen,
playing with it, and at last, as if half by inadvertence, making a note
upon a sheet of paper.
"He lives a life of mystery and seclusion," said Horace; "he has some
secret which he guards from me; he says it is unnecessary for me to
support myself, and yet his own establishment is poor. What am I to
do?--life is insupportable at Marchmain. My uncle wishes me to proceed
to London, to read for the bar. I confess my ambition does not direct me
towards the bar. I see no necessity for losing my best years in labour
which, when I discover all, will most likely be useless to me. Here is
what I want to do: I wish to remain near; I wish to attain sufficient
legal knowledge to be able to follow this mystery out. Such is my case
plainly; what ought I to do?"
Mr. Pouncet gave a single, sharp glance at Horace, then resumed his
scribbling on his paper, drawing fantastic lines and flourishes, and
devoting a greater amount of attention to these than to his answer.
"Really, I find it difficult to advise," he said, in a tone which meant
plainly that he perceived his client had something more to say. "Take
your uncle's advice."
"No," said Horace; "you will receive me into your office."
"I--I am much obliged, it would be an honour; but my office is already
full," said Mr. Pouncet, with a little quiet sarcasm; "I have more
clerks than I know what to do with."
"Yes, these fellows there," said Horace--"I can see it; but I am of very
different mettle; you will find a place for me; wait a little, you will
soon see your advantage in it."
"You have a very good opinion of yourself, my young friend," said the
lawyer, laughing dryly, with a little amazement, and a little anger.
"I have," said Horace, laconically; "I know what I can do. Look here--I
am not what I have been brought up to appear; there is something in my
future which my father envies and grudges me; I know it!--and it must
be worth his while; he's not a man to waste his ill-temper without a
good cause; very likely there's an appeal to the law before me, when I
know what this secret is. You can see what stuff I am made of. I don't
want to go to London, to waste time and cultivate a profession; the
chances are I shall never require it--give me a place here!"
"Your request is both startling and unreasonable," said Mr. Pouncet,
putting down his pen, and looking his visitor full in the face. "I have
reason to complain of a direct imposition you have practised upon me.
You come as a client, and then you ask for employment; it is absurd. I
have young men in my office of most excellent connections--each of them
has paid me a premium; and you think the eccentricity of your demand
will drive me into accepting you, whom I never saw before; the thing is
quite absurd."
"I beg your pardon," said Horace, coolly; "I am not asking for
employment--I am your client, seeking your advice; here is your fee. I
ask you, whether this is not what you would advise me, as the best thing
I could do. As for premium, I don't care for that. If I am not worth
half-a-dozen of these lads, to any man who knows how to employ me, it is
a very odd thing to me. Now, understand me, sir: I have left home--I
wish to conclude what I am to do at once; if not in your office, in some
other; can you find a place for me here?"
The lawyer took a pinch of snuff, rose up, went to the window, came
back, and after a variety of other restless movements sat down again.
During this interval he turned over all that Horace had said, and
something more: he made a hurried run over the highly-condensed summary
of law reports in his brain, in a vain hunt after the name of Scarsdale.
"Most probably a will case," he said to himself. Then he turned once
more his eyes on Horace. The young man met that inspection without
wavering. What the inquisitor found in that face was certainly not
candour and openness of expression; he looked not with a human, but a
professional eye. Perhaps it occurred to him that his visitor's boast
was something more than a brag, and that one such unscrupulous and
acute assistant in his office would be worth much more to him than his
articled clerks, who teased the life out of his unfortunate manager, and
even puzzled himself. Then, "to do him this favour would be to bind him
to me in the commonest gratitude," was the inarticulate reflection which
passed through the mind of the attorney; forgetting entirely, as the
most sagacious men forget, that the qualities which would make Horace a
useful servant were not such as consist with sentiments like gratitude.
On the whole, the young man's assurance, coupled with the known mystery
that surrounded Marchmain, and the popular report of some great law-suit
in which Mr. Scarsdale had once been concerned, imposed upon the lawyer.
He kept repeating in his mind, Scarsdale versus ---- Scarsdale
against ----, but could not find any name which would satisfy him for the
other party to the suit. After some indifferent questions, he dismissed
Horace, promising him an answer next day, with which the young man left
him, calmly triumphant--and, as it appeared, with reason. Mr. Pouncet
could not resist the bait of a probable struggle at law, and all the
_éclat_ of a prolonged and important suit. He determined over and over
again that Horace had a clever face, and might be of the greatest use to
him. He found that he had for some time wanted some one who should be
entirely devoted to himself--ready to pick up any information, to make
any observation, to do whatever he wanted. He concluded at last that
this was the very person; and when Horace came in next day he found
himself engaged. The following morning he took his place among the
others in the office. Thus he too had entered upon his life.