Mr. Stenhouse, whatever his motive or purpose might be, received Horace,
on his arrival at Harliflax, where the lawyer had preceded his new clerk
by a few days, with great civility and kindness. Perhaps Mr. Stenhouse
was not much more beloved in his present residence than he had been in
Kenlisle; but he was now a man of some wealth and importance, and his
house had other attractions, which kept "society" in Harliflax on very
good terms with him. The lawyer's household was a little out of the
common order of such dwelling-places. It was divided by a singular
separation, but not divided against itself. Two distinct and
incompatible phases of life went on within its walls; but the one
displayed no antagonism, and fought no battles with the other; and any
Quixote who had chosen to take up arms for a wife neglected and a mother
set aside, would have been as completely in the wrong as ever Quixote
was. The family consisted of three daughters, aged from fifteen to
nineteen, and of one boy, a child five years younger than his youngest
sister, a hopeless little invalid, born to suffering. The girls were the
daylight surface of the family, the pride of their father, and the
supreme influence in the house. Two of them were pretty, the eldest as
near beautiful as it could fall to the fate of an imperfectly educated
provincial belle to be; and all three expensive and extravagant to the
very verge of their means and opportunities. Over such a trio of young
uncontrollable spirits--and the Misses Stenhouse were innocent of
sentiment, and neither had nor pretended any devotion for their
mother--the nervous and timid woman who was the nominal mistress of the
lawyer's house could exercise no sway. Years ago, when Amelia, the
beauty, was but just beginning to be conscious of her own perfections,
and to assert herself accordingly, Mrs. Stenhouse had retired from the
contest. The lovely young termagant had scarcely put off her last
pinafore, when she found herself triumphant mistress of the
drawing-room, while her mother fell back upon that never-failing
interest and occupation which the poor woman wept over and believed one
of the sorest afflictions of her life, but which was in fact its great
preservative--the illness and weakness of her boy. Little Edmund and she
lived together in a touching and perfect unity in the comfortable
parlour downstairs, while the young ladies entertained their own friends
and enjoyed their own pleasures above. Perhaps Mrs. Stenhouse did not do
her duty by consenting to this tacit arrangement; but, like most weak
people, she was so perfectly convinced that she could not help herself,
that she was quite unable for the task from which she shrank, and would
have done her daughters more harm than good by keeping up an unavailing
contest, that her conscience did not disturb her in the loving
performance of her other duty, her unwearied care of little Edmund,
from which nothing ever diverted or withdrew the entire heart of his
mother. This invisible fireside in the back parlour, where Edmund,
despotic and imperious as only a child-invalid can be, tyrannized over
his constant companion, and shared every thought she had, seemed no very
important influence in the family to a cursory observer; but the
household itself was perfectly aware that any distinct desire proceeding
thence from little Edmund's sharp, high-pitched, childish voice, was law
even to Edmund's father; and that the decrepid child, who did not even
particularly appreciate or return his affection, was the very apple of
that father's eye; his son, his heir, his representative; though nobody,
save the two most deeply interested, the father and mother, believed or
expected that the child could ever live to be a man.
This second domestic centre of Mr. Stenhouse's affections and interests
was, however, invisible and unknown to Horace Scarsdale, when the
unusual distinction of an invitation to dinner opened his employer's
house to him a day or two after his arrival. He saw, it is true, the
silent mother seated at the head of the table, nervously and quietly
impatient of the time occupied there; and he observed that she
disappeared from the drawing-room very early in the evening, and took
little or no part in what was going on there. But Horace had neither
eyes nor curiosity for Mrs. Stenhouse: he was more agreeably occupied.
He who entered the lawyer's house with all his usual disdainful
indifference--except in so far as they might serve him--to the people
whom he was about to meet, had encountered a new influence, which proved
too much for him at that undreaded table. All unprepared and unarmed as
he was, a sudden and alarming accident, altogether beyond his
calculations and out of his reckoning, happened to Horace; the young man
fell in love!
This extraordinary and unexpected event took Horace much by surprise. It
was the first time in his life that he had not scorned womankind and all
its influences; but Amelia Stenhouse was an entirely new development of
feminity. She was very--extremely handsome, in the first place, and she
was authoritative and imperious, and had a kind of wit which her beauty
made brilliant and successful. Used to homage and admiration, accustomed
to believe that it became her, and was her privilege to do unusual
things and make unusual speeches, and audaciously confident in her own
powers, she shone upon Horace like a new species unknown and
undiscovered before; and the contrast offered by her exuberant beauty,
"dash," and presumption, was irresistibly piquant to the brother of
Susan, on whom a tamer and sweeter beauty might have shone for years in
vain. Horace neither knew the moment nor the means by which that amazing
accident befell him; but it had happened long before the other people
had eaten their dinner, transcending such common earthly occupations as
much in speed as in importance. Neither did he know how the evening
passed, in his sudden and strange intoxication. His new passion partook
of the nature of all sublime and primitive emotions, so far, at least,
as to blot out the little cross-bars of time from the young man's
consciousness, and blur these hours into one exciting moment. He was
transported even out of himself--a more remarkable result--and turned
his back upon Mr. Stenhouse, and forgot his own interest, in devouring
with his eyes, and pursuing with his attentions, this new star called
Amelia, whom already--arrogant even in his love--he determined upon
appropriating, however she or any one else might choose to object.
Uncareful of either etiquette or propriety, Horace stayed as long as he
could stay, and only took his leave at length in obedience to hints
which there was no mistaking. He went downstairs hurriedly, wrapt in his
dream, all the air before him filled with two objects, intensely
visible, and eclipsing all the world besides; which two objects were,
Amelia Stenhouse, and that unknown document in Doctors' Commons which
was to reveal to Horace his fate; when his course was suddenly and
singularly interrupted. He had just reached the foot of the staircase,
when a door was timidly opened, a glow of firelight came flushing into
the hall, and the quiet little woman to whom he had been presented a few
hours before, but whose voice he had not yet heard, stood doubtful and
hesitating before him. Only for a moment, however, for, urged by an
exclamation from within, Mrs. Stenhouse hastily addressed the stranger:
"Mr. Scarsdale! Oh, come in here for a moment, please!" she cried
nervously. Taken by surprise, and scarcely knowing what he did, Horace
followed her. The room was very warm, carpeted and curtained into a sort
of noiseless, airless luxury, which was half suffocating to the healthy
and vigorous senses of the unwilling visitor; and near the fire, in an
easy-chair, sat a small boy, pale-faced and sharp-featured, restlessly
wide awake, as children are when kept up beyond their usual hour, and
full of eagerness about something, with a whole volume of questions in
his face. This was the little hermit of the luxurious seclusion into
which Horace, who knew nothing about the boy, and had not even heard of
his existence, was thus mysteriously introduced. The little fellow
measured his visitor with those sharp inquisitive eyes, and addressed
another adjuration to his mother. Edmund's "Now, mamma!" exclaimed
somewhat impatiently, acted like a spur upon the timid woman. She
started, and tremulously began a string of confused yet eager questions.
"Oh, Mr. Scarsdale! I beg your pardon! They told me you came from
Kenlisle," cried Mrs. Stenhouse. "There is some one near there--Yes,
Edmund, darling! wait an instant. Some one who--his name is Roger
Musgrave. Did you ever hear of him? Do you know him? Could you give me
any news of my--of--of--the young gentleman? Perhaps you may have heard
of Tillington Grange, if you know the country. Do you think they have
heard anything there of--of--. Oh, I beg your pardon! it is too much to
expect that you should know."
"I used to know Roger Musgrave very well," said Horace. "I lived near
Tillington when I was a boy."
"I say, sir, we've got a right to know," cried the sharp little voice
out of the easy-chair. "He's my brother, _he_ is; don't mind what mamma
says. I am not afraid to ask for him. I've sat up on purpose. I want to
hear all about Roger. How much is he bigger than you?"
"Oh, my darling child, the gentleman will be angry! He's a sad invalid,
Mr. Scarsdale; everybody indulges him," cried poor Mrs. Stenhouse.
"Pray, pray, don't be displeased!"
"He's a good deal bigger than me," said Horace, half amused, and half
spiteful, answering the question with an involuntary grudge, and
increased impulse of dislike to poor Roger, whose additional
inches--poor advantage though that was--it galled him for the moment to
remember.
The child clapped his hands. "How much?" he cried, with a little
childish shout of triumph. The sight would have been touching enough to
any one who had the heart to be moved by it. But Horace saw nothing that
was not ludicrous in the poor little dwarfish invalid's eager and
exultant curiosity about the size and strength of his unknown brother.
He laughed in spite of himself.
"About two inches, perhaps," he said; "I have not heard anything of
Musgrave lately," he continued, turning to the mother; "you know,
perhaps, that he enlisted and went abroad; but I have an uncle--Colonel
Sutherland, you may have heard of him--who took poor Roger up; he is
very likely to know."
The scant civility and supercilious tone of this reply lost all its
effect upon Mrs. Stenhouse from the name contained in it--"Colonel
Sutherland! Oh, Edmund, darling! the dear old Colonel who was so kind to
Roger!" she said, with tears in her eyes; "and to think a relation of
his should come here! Oh, Mr. Scarsdale, if there is anything we can do
for you, I or my poor boy (and Mr. Stenhouse will do anything to please
Edmund), you have only to say it--oh, thank you, thank you, a hundred
times! My dearest child, it is very late, we must not keep Mr. Scarsdale
longer to-night; another time perhaps he will come in and see us and
tell us more. Good night, good night! Say good night, darling, to the
gentleman; and thank you a hundred times, Mr. Scarsdale. I am so very,
very glad you have come here!"
Saying which, Mrs. Stenhouse preceded her visitor to the street-door,
and opened it for him with her own trembling hands.
He went away with a smile on his lip; but it was only a smile of
momentary ridicule, and bore no kindly meaning. That sad little secret
romance of domestic life had neither charm nor sentiment for Horace.
Without discovering what was in it, he plunged back into his own novel
passion and excitement, in which, as was sufficiently natural, the young
man passed that night and the remainder of his week in Harliflax as in a
rapid and exciting dream. Falling in love was no softening enchantment
for Horace; it did not involve affection, or respect, or tenderness,
those sentiments and principles which act upon a man's whole nature. It
made no difference on his opinion of other people, or his dealings with
other people, that he had fallen in love with Amelia Stenhouse. No sweet
imaginations of home or hearth clung round the object of his sudden
passion; he neither endowed herself with imaginary perfections, nor
thought better of his neighbours, for her sake; but still, according to
his nature, he was "in love." His thoughts burned and glowed about the
lawyer's beautiful daughter; he wanted her, without inquiring what, or
what manner of spirit she was--a sturdy principle of love on the whole,
and one which perhaps wears better than a more sentimental preference;
but its immediate influence upon Horace was not particularly elevating.
If it had been necessary, however, to fix and intensify his anxious
curiosity concerning that unknown document in Doctors' Commons, this
sudden attachment was the sharpest spur which could have been applied;
for here alone lay the means by which the beauty might be appropriated
and taken possession of. And every circumstance concurred to convince
Horace of the importance of the discovery he had made at Marchmain. He
saw the position of affairs there without any mistake or self-deception;
perceived, with perfect clearness, that the letter which he had taken
had been missed from his father's desk, and coolly contented himself
with the knowledge that Susan had been banished from home for his fault.
"So much the better for Susan," he said to himself, with entire
composure; and it did not trouble him in the least that both Susan and
Peggy must be quite aware who was the real criminal. He hoped, indeed,
to be able very shortly to make the consequences of that theft apparent
enough; for in all Horace's calculations the thought of some immediate
issue followed without pause his investigation of the will. The
impatience of youth and inexperience--mingling with all the calculations
and designs of his unyouthful and ungenerous intelligence, the foresight
and cold selfishness of age--made his very imaginations covetous and
grasping; but the youth in his veins betrayed him into dreams of a
conclusion as rapid as it was brilliant. He could form his schemes with
all the coolness of an old man, but he could not wait for his fortune;
like a young man, he was determined to have it now.
This point accordingly was one on which he concluded without doubt or
hesitation. He did not know what fortune might have in store for him; he
could not tell what mysterious inheritance lay waiting, till he should
make his momentous discovery; but he felt convinced that to enter upon
the immediate enjoyment of these unknown and concealed riches he had but
to find this secret out. With all the cold blood of age, totally
careless and indifferent to any results which did not affect himself, he
leapt at the rapid conclusion of youth, and found wealth, love, and
luxury in a sudden windfall of extraordinary fortune. So, happily
unaware of his own inconsistency, Horace lived in a fever through the
few tedious days which he was obliged to spend in Harliflax, in the
monotonous occupations of Mr. Stenhouse's office, with only one other
glimpse of Amelia before he could start on his important journey. Steady
though his selfish intelligence was, the hours danced and buzzed over
him in a dizzy whirl. He stood on the threshold of a dazzling and
splendid fortune, the future of a fairy tale. He stood like a knight of
romance, with his lady's name upon his lips, impatient to enter the
charmed gateway, and read in the enchanted scroll the secret of his
fate; but the talisman which should roll back these solemn gates of the
future was no spell for the lips of a true knight; and romantic as his
position might be, Horace Scarsdale occupied it in no romantic frame of
mind. The romance of his attitude was all unwitting and unwilling, the
work of circumstances. And it was not to conquer fortune, but to hunt
for a cruel bit of paper, that, burning with suppressed eagerness, he
set out for that London which to him meant only Doctors' Commons, bent
upon two ideas which occupied his whole being--Amelia Stenhouse and the
Will.