Two days after, the same party met again in Mrs. Stenhouse's
drawing-room. Horace had eluded all attempts on the part of Roger and
Sir John to see or have any conversation with him; but he could not keep
away from that only place where he had a chance of forgetting himself,
or, at least, of counterbalancing one passion with another. He could not
explain to himself why he stayed in Harliflax. It was against all his
interests; it was trifling with Mr. Pouncet; it was exposing himself to
a hundred risks, and leaving the citadel of the business to which he had
bound himself undefended. But Horace cared no longer for Mr. Pouncet's
credit, or for his own income. The young man was desperate: he was ready
at any moment, in pure recklessness, to have flung that secret at
anybody's head whom it had a chance of harming, or rendering unhappy,
though, with a characteristic sullen obstinacy, he kept it out of reach
of those whom it might have served. Nor could he any longer discern, out
of the fiery mists which blurred his future, any prospects of his own;
he could not make any definite stand upon that visionary thousand pounds
a-year which he had extorted from Mr. Pouncet; he could not think, in
that lurid haze out of which everything around him rose indistinct, like
a phantom, of such a certain and settled act as marriage, with a
household and steady beginning of life in its train. No such thing was
practicable to the unhappy young man. He might have found some wild
solace in breaking through the bounds of decorous life, and persuading
Amelia Stenhouse to elope with him; but, except that, nothing tempted
his fascinated mind. He could only sit and wait for the explosion--the
terrible intelligence which, sooner or later, must come to him from
Marchmain.
But he was once more in Mrs. Stenhouse's drawing-room, where there was
no longer any newspaper to excite him out of his senses--calmly seated
among people who were pursuing the common way of life, without any
stronger stimulant than a flirtation or common project of marriage among
them. Sir John, whose indolence was no match for the obstinacy of
Horace, was carrying on, as well as he could, the talk with Amelia,
which the entrance of "that cub" had interrupted; while Amelia herself
did her best to subdue the tone of that exceedingly interesting
consultation, in acknowledgment of the presence of her too ardent lover.
Somehow, Horace's entrance, and all the restrained passion,
unintelligible to them, which he carried about him, made the whole party
uneasy. Amelia remembered with terror that, if provoked, he knew of
somebody who could turn them out of doors, and leave them penniless.
Mrs. Stenhouse regarded him with a vague awe, as holding in his hands at
once her husband's good name and the well-being of her son; while
Musgrave, with a good deal of natural exasperation, sat in the same
room with the man who was in the secret of some conspiracy against
himself, yet showed no compunction towards him, and who had tried to
blacken his youthful character to his dearest friends. Nobody pretended
that he was welcome in that house--not even timid Mrs. Stenhouse nor
Amelia; yet he went--secure in his power;--went and set himself by
Amelia's elbow, turning his passionate looks upon her, while, from one
cause and another, nobody dared venture to say to him how little welcome
he was.
That day, however, destroyed the strange incubus to which his presence
had grown. The post came in while Horace sat in Mrs. Stenhouse's
drawing-room. Roger had some letters, and opened them without waiting to
be alone. When he had glanced over one he turned doubtfully, yet with
some eagerness, towards the visitor. "Mr. Scarsdale," he said, quietly,
"Colonel Sutherland is at Marchmain."
Horace did not fall down, or cry out, as he might have done; but, in the
extremity of his startled horror, he rose bolt upright, and stood with
his face blanched out of all natural colour. He could not speak, it was
evident, for a minute; then he said, with a strange blank voice out of
his throat, "My father is dead!"
"No, not dead--not so bad as that--but ill, I confess," said Roger,
kindly, quite melted by what seemed to him an overflowing of natural
feeling; "only ill; don't look so alarmed--not even seriously or
alarmingly ill, so far as Colonel Sutherland says. Pray, read the letter
yourself."
Horace took the letter mechanically, and sat down again, holding it up
before his face. He could not see the writing, which swam and floated in
variable lines before him. He had enough to do to control himself, that
nobody might see the wild tremor, exultation, horror, which possessed
him. And yet what did it mean?--not dead, but ill! His potion, surely
must have done better work. Not dead, only ill? The words came to his
very lips unaware. What did it mean?
"Take some wine, Mr. Scarsdale; you look quite ill. Nay, nay, perhaps
it isn't anything to be anxious about," said Mrs. Stenhouse, stealing
round the table with the charitable cordial to Horace's elbow. "How you
did comfort me, to be sure, the other night about Edmund!--and that came
true. Drink this to give you back your colour, and don't take on so; I
hope your father will be spared to so good a son!"
"What do you mean?" cried Horace, hoarsely; "do you mean to taunt
me?--as good a son as he was a father! Thank you, thank you! I was
startled. I'm going off for Marchmain; good-bye."
He crushed up the letter in his hand, and went away hurriedly; but
almost before they had begun to wonder and talk about him, came back and
thrust his head in at the door.
"Musgrave," said Horace, in a broken voice, "when I come back, if--if I
come back--I'll tell you something to your benefit. I say it freely,
without any man asking me--I promise you I will."
With this mysterious intimation he disappeared once more, going out from
among them upon his dismal way, leaving a strange suggestion of evil in
everybody's mind. Great misery, it was clear enough, was in this sudden
intimation. Was it the agonized apprehension of love fearing
death?--what was it?--for of all the unlikely things in the world, that
little company could have guessed at anything sooner than the truth.
"But I believe he expects to come into a great deal of money when his
father dies," said Amelia; "not a common fortune--such a deal! I daresay
that was why he looked so strange when he went away."
"And, oh, how do _you_ know, Amelia?" asked her next sister.
"I wish you would not ask ridiculous questions," said Amelia, casting
down her eyes with a pretty look of embarrassment, and a blush and
simper, intended for the benefit of the baronet. "I know, of course,
because--because Mr. Scarsdale told me; how else could I know?"
And Sir John Armitage saw, as clearly as if she had described it, a
presumptuous proposal on the part of "that cub," backed up by promises
of fortune, which the beautiful Amelia's delicate mind had remained
totally unmoved to hear of; and entirely subdued by her fascinations,
the bewitched baronet made up his own mind summarily. He flattered
himself there was not much fear of rejection; and how famously that
beautiful figure, which bent so often, and with such winning grace,
towards him, would brighten the great rooms of Armitage Park.
Thus the waters closed in placid circles, widening out into smiles of
well-pleased fortune, around the spot where Horace Scarsdale
disappeared; and one of the great stakes he had played his deadly play
for, slid out of his reach into the polished hands of a quiet spectator,
who staked nothing. But he did not know that; he thought of nothing--not
even of Amelia--as he rushed along to the railway, and flew by that iron
road, at the swiftest pace, to the nearest neighbouring town he could
reach in the vicinity of Lanwoth Moor; he was beyond thinking in the
extremity of his haste and desperation. The black wings were spread over
the lonely house. Death, whom he had invoked, was coming--his fortune
would soon be all his own; but there was never spectator at a tragedy
who held his breath for its consummation as Horace Scarsdale did,
rushing out of his own black, unrepentant remorse and misery to
Marchmain.