WITH Mr. Pouncet's letter in his pocket--that self-betraying document,
which he had estimated at once at its due value--Horace set out the next
day for Kenlisle. Yet not for Kenlisle direct: the young man, with the
oddest, uncharacteristic trifling, stopped half-way, to visit a
remarkable cathedral town which lay in his road. What did Horace
Scarsdale care for cathedrals? Yet he paused, in that most anxious and
exciting moment, to inspect this one, and marched doggedly round and
about it, as if to persuade himself that he was interested. In his
progress he paused before an apothecary's shop--but did not enter there,
nor till hours after, when he rushed in on his way to the railway, and
made certain purchases. In haste to get his train, he did not permit
himself time to look at the things he had bought, but hurried them into
his pocket, and rushed on again as though it had been only a sudden
thought which moved him. Yet he had never looked so darkly pale and
dangerous as when, seated in the railway-carriage, he felt in his
pockets these little sealed packets. That day was a Mayday, warm and
bright; but Horace shivered in his corner with a chill that went to his
heart. For a moment the colour went out of his face, and the light out
of his eye; he gave a stealthy glance round--a glance full of the
intolerable terrors of guilt. Did any one guess what he had in his
pocket? Could any one tell what he had in his heart?
The next morning he presented himself to the troubled eyes of Mr.
Pouncet, an image of conscious power. That unfortunate man of character
knew by this time of the death of Stenhouse, and had spent a day or two
of agony wondering into whose hands his letter was likely to fall. The
advent of Horace was a relief for the moment: here he had, at least, an
assistant, who could do any further lying that might be necessary,
without burdening Mr. Pouncet's personal conscience. That was a great
point gained. But the answer to his first eager question was far from
satisfactory.
"Your letter was put into my hands by Mrs. Stenhouse," said Horace; "and
you know who she is--Roger Musgrave's mother."
Mr. Pouncet scratched his head in dismay. "She could not understand two
words of it!" he exclaimed, at last, endeavouring to re-assure himself.
"Perhaps not--but one word, most likely, is enough. She is alarmed, and
curious, and knows very well that something is wrong, though she cannot
tell what; and that to expose _you_ is for the interest of her son."
"To _expose_ me!" cried Mr. Pouncet, with a gasp of rage and
mortification.
"Yes," said Horace, coolly; "but," he added, producing that document out
of his pocket, "I managed, fortunately, to bring away your letter."
Mr. Pouncet writhed silently under this persecution, which he dared not
resent; for it was quite true that the story of that past transaction,
once laid open to the world, would empty those solemn boxes labelled
with his clients' names, which made his private office look so
important, and would banish him at once from Armitage Park, and many
another great house. The unfortunate lawyer was at his wit's end. That
secret would have died with Stenhouse but for the discovery of this
cold-blooded and unmanageable young man; and Mr. Pouncet cursed the day
when, in defiance of all accustomed rules, he admitted Horace to his
office. What was a romance of possible expectations to him?
"Have you ever learnt anything more of your own circumstances and the
fortune," said Mr. Pouncet, with a slight sneer, "which you expected
when I saw you last?"
But when Horace answered--as he did at once, having previously resolved
upon it--with a very succinct account, quite unencumbered by any
reflections or exhibitions of feeling, of what he _had_ discovered, the
lawyer opened his eyes. The heir of such a heap of money, penniless
though he was at the present moment, was a very different individual
from the poor Horace Scarsdale, with nothing but his cunning wits and
unscrupulous mind to help him on in the world. The revelation reconciled
Mr. Pouncet even to himself. It was no longer so sadly humiliating to
acknowledge himself in the young man's power.
"And what will you do?" he asked, breathlessly, with already a
difference in his tone. One does not speak to an attorney's clerk, even
when he knows one's cherished secret, as one speaks to the heir of a
good many thousands a-year.
"What can I do?" said Horace, rising in due proportion, and tasting the
first sweetness of his wealth. "Forbidden to borrow--debarred from all
ordinary means of reaping some present advantage; unless--I can be of
use to you, if you make it worth my while--unless _you_ can help me,
Pouncet. You can if you please."
Mr. Pouncet winced a little at this familiar address. "Had you not
better try," he suggested, "to make some arrangement with your father?"
"Arrangement with my father? What for? He has less power than you have:
the will is expressly constructed so as to make arrangement impossible,
and shut him out entirely," cried Horace, with a certain suppressed
exultation of enmity. "Besides, he hates me, and I'd much rather arrange
with you. Look here, Pouncet--I want to get married. Give me a thousand
a-year, and I'll give you my best services, and my word of honour to pay
you a reasonable sum, by way of acknowledgment, when I come into my
property. Will you? There is no use lingering over it--say Yes or No."
"A thousand a-year!" cried Mr. Pouncet, in dismay.
"Less would be useless," said Horace, in his high-flying arrogance.
"Besides, I could earn half as much anywhere, without asking any favour
from you."
Poor Mr. Pouncet took his hand out of his pocket, and grinned at the
young man with a helpless spite and disdain. Words were so incapable of
expressing all the mingled mockery and mortification with which he
heard that last speech, that the unfortunate lawyer would have made
derisive faces at him had he dared. As it was, he turned away to his
desk, and growled under his breath, "Catch me giving you fifty if you
hadn't known," by way of relieving his feelings. Stifled as it was, the
expression did him good. He turned round again with only some spasmodic
remains of that grin agitating the corners of his mouth.
"And you're going to marry? Any money--eh?" he said.
"I don't think it," said Horace--"but I should like to know your
decision at once, for I have some arrangements to make."
"A thousand a-year for the whole term of your father's life? Why, I
suppose he is no older than I am?--he may live for twenty years," said
the unhappy lawyer, rubbing up the scanty hair upon his head.
"He may," said Horace, briefly; but, as he spoke, a terrible throb
convulsed, in spite of himself, the young man's heart, upon which those
deadly packets seemed to press like an intolerable weight.
"He may! And you ask me, a man in my senses, to undertake paying you an
income of a thousand a-year for, perhaps, twenty years!"
"I ask you only to consider the matter, and what I might be able to do
for you at the end of my probation," said Horace, loftily--"not to say
my services for the present time. Don't do anything against your will. A
lawsuit promoted by young Musgrave--by that time most likely my
brother-in-law--would, I have no doubt, be quite as profitable to _me_."
The lawyer gave a gasp of rage and derision beyond words. "You could
conduct it, you suppose?" he cried aloud--"_you_!"--which was very
imprudent, but a burst of nature. Then he cooled himself down, with a
little shiver of passion: he dared not irritate this remorseless,
immovable boy.
"I could, easily, with all these facts in my possession," said Horace,
with a careless gesture; and Mr. Pouncet saw his whole substance, his
business, and, worst of all, his reputation, falling like so many
card-houses at the touch of that unpitying hand.
But the interview did not end so. Mr. Pouncet consented at last, with
many a grudge and inward compunction, to pay Horace the large stipend he
claimed, on the tacit understanding that one-half of it was to be repaid
to him when the young man came to his fortune; and the lawyer, though he
had guessed rightly when he judged Mr. Scarsdale to be about his own
age, notwithstanding, with the reckless boldness of humanity, began to
reckon in his mind all the chances against the recluse's life. The
wonder seemed to be that such a man, in such circumstances, could last
so long: there could not be much vigour of existence left in him. A very
short time now should surely make an end of these deplorable, hopeless
years. So reckoned the lawyer, who cared nothing about Mr. Scarsdale;
while that unhappy hermit's son, with all the desperation of an
unnatural enmity, cherished a darker kind of speculation in his hard
heart.
The conclusion of all was, however, that Mr. Pouncet wrote a placid
business letter to Sir John Armitage, informing him that he had just
dispatched a confidential clerk, in whom he could place the most perfect
reliance, to make the fullest investigation throughout the district. Mr.
Pouncet very much regretted that Sir John could not furnish him with
particulars, or indeed any clue whatever to the name and residence of
the suspected old man; but had every confidence, _if there was any such
person_, in the abilities of his clerk, who would leave no means untried
for finding him out.
Sir John thought this epistle so completely satisfactory, that he
forwarded it to Colonel Sutherland, with some uncomplimentary
suggestions about a "cock-and-a-bull story," and feminine powers of
imagination, which the Colonel did not read to Susan; and all the
parties concerned were comfortably lulled out of their anxiety by the
prospect of so complete an investigation. What might not be hoped from
the researches of Mr. Pouncet's confidential clerk?