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.