That evening was an epoch in the life of Horace. The people in the
little country inn to which he took his uncle were not unacquainted with
the young man. For a year or two past, ever since the bitter
independence of manhood had begun to possess him, he had spent much of
his waste unoccupied time in this and the other humble houses of
entertainment of the district. With a _sensation_ of superiority, which
he owed principally to his natural temper--for there was in reality very
little distinction of breeding or character between himself and the
society he frequented--he held a scornful dictatorial place among the
humbler _convives_ of the villages, and observed and amused himself with
the peculiarities he saw, very much as if he had been a man of the
world, trained to that odious criticism which is dignified by being
called "the study of mankind." The coarse enjoyments of the public-house
company did not tempt him--he threw his violent decisions into the hum
of drowsy talk when it suited him, and at other times looked on, noting,
with contemptuous amusement, the dull jollity of the place. His father's
singular solitude imposed a certain respect upon the imagination of the
district; and between Horace and the country lads around there remained
always that inexplainable, undefinable difference which, independent of
education, wealth, and every tangible advantage, separates those who are
born in different classes of society, especially in rural places. He had
accordingly a strange kind of popularity in the district--not the
popularity of common love and esteem, but an attraction perhaps more
remarkable; his careless rudeness, his bitter humour, the harsh
philosophy which contrasted with his youth and inexperience, gave him a
certain singular hold upon the imagination of his companions. The very
certainty that he did not care a single straw for them attached the
little crowd to his footsteps. Dominant and imperious self-regard, like
all other regnant qualities, has a wonderful influence upon the common
mind. No other person within the immediate knowledge of this rural
community assumed the same tone, or showed the same spirit--and the
vehement and forcible language, more refined than their own, the
utterance of a gentleman, which Horace had acquired involuntarily, the
arrogant sentiments he expressed, the unconcealed consciousness of
superiority which belonged to him, united to impose a certain allegiance
upon the inexperienced minds, which found him unique and singular, the
sole development known to them of a kind of intelligence and a manner
of man widely differing from their own.
But this night everything was changed. The landlady of the inn, amazed
into a flutter of perturbation, appeared herself, at the astounding
information that young Mr. Horry, as he was called, had arrived with a
gentleman. The good woman supposed it must be his mysterious father, and
hastened with all the speed of curiosity to receive them--but lost in
amazement to find "the gentleman" a stranger, who required the best
accommodation of her house for a few days, and desired to dine as soon
as that was practicable--found it only possible to curtsey and retire,
more curious than ever, without being able to show her previous
acquaintance and familiarity with Mr. Horry, who turned his face with an
arrogant blank of unrecognition full upon her, and added to his uncle's
orders a request that some one might be sent to Marchmain immediately
for the carpet-bag.
"Something's agoing to happen," said the landlady, as she returned to
her own domain. "A strange gentleman as wants the best o' everything--an
ould sodger lord with musstaches--egh, lad!--a lord I'll warrant, at the
very least o' him--and I'll lay you a sixpence he's coom to set a'
things straight; for yonder's Mr. Horry, he looks me in the face as
broad as I look at you, and says, says he, 'Send a man to Marchmain for
a carpet-bag immediantly,' as if he never set eyes on me in his born
days afore. Like him! I would ne'er goo starving to his door in hopes o'
meat."
Great preparations ensued for the hasty dinner, which was to be ready in
an hour; but even the landlady's conviction that her guest could not be
less than a lord was not sufficient to work impossibilities. While it
was getting ready, Colonel Sutherland and Horace sat together over the
new kindled fire. The best room of the inn, which did not receive a
guest twice in a year, was a dingy parlour hung with old portraits of
famous horses, winners of the cups of antiquity, with a county map, and
a print of George IV. to vary the embellishments, and two small windows
looking out upon the village street. The Colonel placed himself as close
as possible to the fire, not without dreadful apprehensions of the
rheumatism, which already sent flying twinges into his spare limbs, and
made him wince; and thought with a little natural indignation of his
repelled kindness, and the cold reception which had forced him to seek
this place, and substituted the accommodation of a poor little country
inn for the hospitality he had expected. Silence and these
recollections, and the startling twinges of his rheumatism, changed the
expression of his face almost into sternness, and seemed to develop in
him another phase of character. Horace watched him in the doubtful
light, more and more puzzled. The indulgent, tender kindness and
forbearance of the fatherly old man had disappeared with the animation
of their talk and intercourse--the whole face had a loftier and more
rigid expression. Horace, drawing back his chair out of the firelight,
gazed and pondered with knitted brows. He began to think more elaborate
approaches were necessary, and plans better laid. He had not found it
possible hitherto to get much information from this kind old uncle
touching the family secret, if there was one. Was Colonel Sutherland a
kind old uncle merely? Horace began to suspect he must be something
more, and that the task of persuading him and winning him over to his
own interests might not be so very easy after all.
The Colonel sat long in meditation, as if he were in full consideration
of the whole knotty subject; when he made a little stir in his chair as
if about to speak, a sudden burst of anxiety ran over Horace. "I
wonder," said the Colonel, with the gravest face, "how long it is since
a fire was lighted in this room before. Speak of England, Horace! I
don't believe there is anything so dismal from Berwick to John o' Groats
as that moor of yours, and no attempt at cultivation or improvement, so
far as I can perceive. You should see our high farming in Lothian! I
have not felt the cold so severe since I came home."
Horace had almost laughed aloud in his sudden relief and contempt. These
were the thoughts, so deeply ruminated, which had brought gravity to
Colonel Sutherland's face. The young man, who now less than ever
comprehended the old man, went to stand at the window, not without a
certain satisfaction in being seen there by the evening frequenters of
the place, who were sure to hear of his companion, and of the different
position he occupied for this night at least; and passed another half
hour of waiting before the dinner appeared, in strange calculations, at
once cunning and foolish--the wiles of a subtle mind, and the
inexperience of a young one--thinking with himself how long his uncle's
simplicity could withstand his attacks--how soon he should be able to
worm all the secrets of the family out of him, and how easily he could
work the old man to do what he would. Then, if such a man as Colonel
Sutherland had reached to a respectable position and command, what might
not such a man as Horace Scarsdale do? The young man's spirits rose--he
imagined himself making a stepping-stone of his uncle, to push his way
into the arena--and then----.
Considering the height and imaginative character of this ambition, which
at the outset gave it a certain refinement, it was astonishing,
notwithstanding, to perceive into what almost vulgar elation his spirits
rose during that dinner. It was no great things of a dinner, being too
ambitious by far for the occasion; but it was perhaps the very first
meal in his life, at least since he came to years of self-knowledge,
which Horace had eaten with freedom and pleasure. He thought of
Marchmain, and the scene in the dining-room at that moment, where Peggy,
in the ordinary course of events, would be about removing the cloth and
setting on the table his father's solitary glass and jug of claret, and
smiled to think of Mr. Scarsdale's silent rage at seeing _his_ vacant
place. He was pleased and flattered by the respectful manner of the
landlord who waited on them, and could not refrain from talking rather
big to his uncle, and assuming a confidence and frankness quite unusual
to him, and foreign to his nature, for the advantage of that individual.
He was too young to conceal this first gratification, and betrayed
himself unawares. Simple and unsuspecting though the Colonel was, he
perceived this. However, it was natural, and instead of a hard laugh at
it, Uncle Edward smiled and grew kinder, and loved Horace better and
trusted him the more for his weakness' sake. They seemed growing friends
gradually and surely--the old man believed they were, and rejoiced in
it, and could not have believed, had anybody told him that the cold
passion of self-regard, to the entire exclusion of warmer feelings,
filled his nephew's heart.
When they were left alone, Horace, a little stimulated by the wine he
had taken, commenced his attack with boldness:--
"Uncle," he said, "you _must_ think of me--you must help me. I have
never been able to speak my mind before to a single individual who could
comprehend or assist me. I _must_ know what are our circumstances. It is
needless to say that my father's past life does not affect me. It does
affect me--everything affects me that I am kept in ignorance of. What
are we?--what is he?--why are we here?"
Horace had hit by chance and unawares upon the means really most likely
to attain his end. Colonel Sutherland could not return anything but a
true answer to a plain and straightforward question; and evasion was so
strange to him that he managed it in the clumsiest manner. He retired on
his deafness in the first place--a defence from which Horace drove him
out triumphantly by a repetition of the question in tones that could not
be mistaken. Then he faltered over it a little, with common-places of
hesitation too palpable to deceive anybody.
"Your true circumstances--your father's past life? Your father's past
life has always been virtuous and honourable," said the Colonel. "What
is he? You ought surely to know better than I do, who have not seen him
for fifteen years. He is, if you wish my opinion, a man of very peculiar
temper. Horace, I do not wonder that you find him rather hard to get on
with sometimes, but he _is_ your father; and therefore, my dear boy,
whatever others may do, impatience and a harsh judgment do not become
you."
Horace shook his head.
"This is not what I want to know. You know it is not," he said, with a
rising colour. "Say no, if you will, but don't treat me like a child.
Look here, uncle: I am assured there is a secret--I know it, no matter
how--tell me what it is."
Horace put the whole force of his voice and mind into the question. He
made it not as one who asks, but as one who demands what he has a right
to know, feeling convinced that his gentle relative could not now evade
him, and had no strength to resist; and with this conviction strong upon
him, the young man stared into the Colonel's eyes, with the thought of
overawing him and compelling his answer thus.
Colonel Sutherland looked at him steadily, withdrew his eyes a moment,
looked again, and at last spoke.
"If you think," said the Colonel, coldly, "that by this persistence and
demand you can persuade any man of honour to betray to you a secret with
which another has entrusted him, you show only your ignorance of
gentlemen and want of belief in your fellow-creatures. If there is a
secret in your family circumstances--though, mind you, I do not admit
that there is--can you suppose that I will tell you anything which it is
your father's desire that you should not know?"
Horace shrunk for a moment in mingled rage and amazement from the tone.
It was inconceivable to him that anybody could feel even an instant's
contempt for him; but the feeling was momentary.
"Then he does desire that I should not know it!" he exclaimed, with a
certain triumph--and set his teeth over the admission, as if this at
least was something gained.
"I did not say so," said the Colonel, with some embarrassment. "I said
if--No, Horace, if you wish to investigate into all the secrets of your
family, go to your father, and ask him--he is the proper judge of what
should or should not be told you. At least, if you don't admit that, he
is at least the most proper person to be asked; and till he has refused
to satisfy you, you have no right to apply to any one else. Take my
advice--be honest and straightforward--it is the shortest way and the
clearest: ask himself."
"Ask himself! Do you know the terms we are on, uncle?" said Horace, with
a smile.
"So much the worse for you both--and long enough _that_ has lasted,
surely," said the Colonel. "The past is no man's, the future is every
man's: I say to you again, _that_ has lasted long enough! Ask himself,
and let the mystery and the strife end together. It is the only honest
way to clear your difficulties up."
Once more Horace smiled--a smile of disappointment and anger--baffled
and furious; while the Colonel went on with his honest, simple advice,
exhorting the young man to candour and openness--he might as well have
exhorted him to be Prime Minister--while Horace, for his part, kept
silent, perceiving, once for all, that whether it was from mere
foolishness, or some principle of character unknown to him, his uncle
was impracticable, and that the only way to find anything out from him
was to lie in wait for the unguarded admissions which, in spite of
himself, might fall from his lips.
"After all," said Colonel Sutherland, when he had concluded his good,
honest advice to his own satisfaction, "what has all this to do with it?
You are tired of inactivity and quiet, as a young man ought to be; you
want to set out upon the world. Of course, your father cannot object to
this; and as for me, all that I can do to forward it I will, heartily.
But, Horace, setting out on the world does not mean anything vague, my
lad. It means doing, or aiming at, some special thing--some _one_
special thing, my dear boy. We can't go out to conquer the world
now-a-days--it must be a profession, or business, or a place, or
something; so I'll tell you what to do. Think it well over--what you
said to me about having no inclinations. Sit down by yourself, and find
out if there is not a special turn one way or other in some corner of
your heart, and let us hear what it is. After that the way will be
clear; we must look for an opening for you, and," added Colonel
Sutherland, after a little pause, and speaking with hesitation, "if you
should then--wish for--my services with your father, why then,
Horace--though we are not the best friends in the world--I'll try my
best."
"Thank you," said Horace, with sullenness, which he tried vainly to
repress--"thank you, uncle. I will do as you say."
The conversation then came to an end, Horace fuming over it secretly as
a failure--and the young man had so high an idea of his own powers, that
the thought galled him deeply. Then, after an unsatisfactory interval of
indefinite conversation, which Horace could not keep up, and which the
Colonel--tired, disheartened, and perplexed--sustained but dully, the
young man got up and bade him "good night." Colonel Sutherland went down
to the door of the inn, half with a simple precaution to see him safely
out of the "temptation" of that "low company" which Horace had owned to
seeking, and half by suggestion of that kindness which could not bear to
see any one discouraged. "Think it well over," urged the Colonel once
more, "and expect me to-morrow; and be cheerful, and keep up your heart,
Horace. There's plenty of room for you in the world, and plenty of force
in yourself. Good night, my dear boy--good night."