The House on the Moor. Volume 2

“The plea is, of course, that the solicitor was bound to his client’s interest, and had no right to make use of private information for his own advantage – and they’ll win it. There, my young friend, I give you my opinion without asking,” said Stenhouse; “purchases made by an agent for his needy client are always suspicious, sure to create a prejudice to start with, and against the honour of the profession, Mr. Pouncet? Attorneys can’t afford to risk a great deal – we don’t stand too high in the public estimation as it is. It’s a very interesting case, I do not wonder it attracted your attention. The baronet was a gouty, old spendthrift, perfectly careless of money matters – the solicitor, a sharp fellow, with an eye to his own interests; which,” continued Mr. Stenhouse, with his frank laugh, and a humorous roll of his eye towards his former partner, “is a thing permissible, and to be commended in every profession but our own.”

A general laugh followed this proposition. “You manage to feather your nests pretty well, notwithstanding; better than most of those other people who are encouraged to look after their own interests, and do not pretend to nurse their neighbour’s,” said one of the guests.

“Accident, my dear sir, accident!” said Stenhouse, laughing; “to be truly and sublimely disinterested, a man must be an attorney. It is the model profession of Christianity. Here you must see innumerable personal chances slip past you, at all times, without a sigh. Why? – because you are the guardian of other men’s chances, perpetually on the watch to assist your client, and forgetting that such a person as yourself is in the world, save for that purpose. That is our code of morals, eh, Pouncet? But it is high, certainly – a severe strain for ordinary minds; and as every man may follow the common laws of nature, save an attorney, it follows that an attorney, when he is caught tripping, has more odium and more punishment than any other man. Mr. Pouncet, you agree, don’t you, with all I say.”

And Mr. Stenhouse, once more with his broad laugh of self-mockery and extreme frankness, directed everybody’s attention to his old partner, who by no means relished the conversation. Mr. Pouncet’s glass remained still untasted before him on the table – he himself was fidgety and uneasy – the only answer he made was a spasmodic attention to his guests, to encourage the passing of the bottle, and a sudden proposition immediately after to join the ladies. Not one individual at his table had the slightest sympathy with the old lawyer – every man chuckled aside at the idea that all these arrows were “in to old Pouncet;” not that he was generally disliked or unpopular, but sublime disinterestedness was so oddly uncharacteristic of the man, and unlike the ordinary idea of his profession, that everybody was tickled with the thought. Next to Mr. Pouncet, however, the person most disconcerted of the party was Horace, whose “power” and menace were entirely thrust aside by the jokes of the stranger. The young man went in sulkily, last of the party, to Mrs. Pouncet’s drawing-room, dimly and angrily suspecting some wheel within wheel in the crafty machinery which he had supposed his own rash hand sufficient to stop. Perhaps Mr. Pouncet, after all, was the principal criminal, and Stenhouse only an accomplice – certainly appearances were stronger against the serious and cautious man, evidently annoyed and put out by this conversation, as he was, than against the bold and outspoken one, who showed no timidity upon the subject. But Horace’s ideas were disturbed, and his calculations put out. He had no knowledge of the character of Stenhouse, when he exulted in the vain idea of having him “in his power.” If things were really as he suspected, this was not an easy man to get into anybody’s power; and Horace began to inquire within himself whether it would not be better to have a solemn statement made by the old pitman, to send for authority from Roger Musgrave, the old Squire’s heir-at-law, and to come out on his own account in the grand character of redresser of injuries and defender of rights. That at least, stimulated by the influence of Mountjoy versus Mortlock, was in Horace’s power.

While the young man hung about the corners of the drawing-room, turning over Mrs. Pouncet’s stock of meagre Albums and superannuated Annuals, and pondering over his future proceedings, Mr. Stenhouse came up to him with his usual frankness. He was ready to talk on any subject, this open-minded and candid lawyer, and spoke upon all with the tone of a man who is afraid of none.

“Well, Mr. Scarsdale! so you are interested in this Mountjoy and Mortlock business,” said his new acquaintance – “a curious case in every way, if they can prove it. Want of legal wisdom, however, plays the very devil with these odd cases – it may be perfectly clear to all rational belief, and yet almost impossible to prove it. Perhaps something of the kind has fallen under your own observation – eh?”

“I have,” said Horace, a little stiffly, “become suddenly acquainted with a case of a very similar kind.”

“Aha, I thought so – I daresay there’s plenty,” said Stenhouse. “Capital cases for rising young barristers that want to show in the papers and get themselves known. Famous things for young fellows, indeed, in general – that is to say,” he added, more slowly, “if the heir happens to be anybody, or to have friends or money sufficient to see the thing out. In that case it does not matter much whether he loses or wins. Thinking perhaps of striking off from my friend Pouncet and establishing yourself, eh? Could not do better than start with such an affair in hand.”

“I should be glad of more experience first,” said Horace; “and, to tell the truth, I don’t care for beginning by betraying old friends. Mr. Pouncet has behaved very liberally by me, receiving me when I had very little qualification.”

“Pouncet!” cried Mr. Stenhouse – “you don’t mean to say that Pouncet has been burning his fingers in any such equivocal concerns. Come, come, my young friend, we must be cautious about this. Mr. Pouncet is a most respectable man.”

“Mr. Stenhouse,” said Horace, “I was, as it happens, at Tinwood this morning – perhaps you know Tinwood?”

“A little,” said the other, with his most engaging smile.

“There I met, partly by chance,” said Horace, feeling himself provoked into excitement by the perfect coolness of his antagonist, “an old man, who gave me an entire history of the first finding of the coal.”

“Ah, it was a very simple business. I was there myself, with a scientific friend of mine; a blind fellow, blind as a mole to everything that concerns himself – feeling about the world in spectacles, and as useless for ordinary purposes as if he had moved in a glass case,” said Mr. Stenhouse; “extraordinary, is it not? It was he who found the first traces of that coal.”

“And found them,” said Horace, pointedly, “before the land was purchased by Mr. Pouncet and yourself from Squire Musgrave of the Grange.”

“Ah, we had better say as little as possible about that in the present company. Pouncet mightn’t like it – it might look ugly enough for Pouncet if there was much talk on the subject,” said Mr. Stenhouse, sympathetically glancing towards his old partner, and subduing his own smile in friendly deprecation of a danger in which he seemed to feel no share.

“And how might it look for you?” said Horace, with his rough and coarse boldness.

Mr. Stenhouse laughed, and turned round upon him with the most candid face in the world.

“My dear fellow, Squire Musgrave was no client of mine!” said the good-humoured lawyer. “The utmost punctilio of professional honour could not bind me to take care of his interests. I was a young fellow like yourself, with my fortune to make. You put it very cleverly, I confess, and it might look ugly enough for Pouncet; but, my excellent young friend, it is nothing in the world to me.”

“Yet you were Mr. Pouncet’s partner,” said Horace, with a certain sulky virulence, annoyed at the small success of his grand coup.

“After, my dear sir, after!” cried Mr. Stenhouse, with another of his éclats de rire.

Horace made a pause, but returned to the charge with dogged obstinacy.

“I know Roger Musgrave,” he said, “and I know friends who will stand by him as long as there is the slightest hope – ”

“Ah, very well, as you please, it is not my concern; and it is quite likely you might make a good thing out of Pouncet,” said Mr. Stenhouse. “By-the-bye, now I think of it, come and breakfast with me to-morrow, when we can speak freely. I have no particular reason to be grateful to him, but Pouncet and I are very old friends. Come to the ‘George’ at eight o’clock, will you? I’d like to inquire into this a little more, for old Pouncet’s sake.”

So they parted, with some hope on Horace’s side, but no very great gratification in respect to his hoped-for “power.”

CHAPTER XXI

IT was with a slightly accelerated pulse that Horace went next morning to the “George” to keep his appointment. He seemed to have put his own fortune on the cast, and temper and ambition alike forbade his drawing back. Either he must secure Stenhouse as an ally and coadjutor, bound to him by secret ties of interest, or else he must establish his own career upon the charitable and Christian work of restoring to Roger Musgrave such remnants of his inheritance as it might be possible to rescue from the hands of Pouncet and Stenhouse. This last alternative was not captivating to Horace. It was not in his nature, had he been the instrument of such a restoration, to do it otherwise than grudgingly. He was too young as yet to have added any great powers of dissimulation to his other good qualities, and his own disposition sided much more with the clever operator who served his own interests by means of some unsuspecting simpleton, than with the simpleton who permitted himself to be so cheated. Accordingly, his thoughts were very reluctant to undertake that side of the question – still, it was his alternative, and as such he meant to use it.

Mr. Stenhouse entertained his young visitor sumptuously, and exerted all his powers to captivate him. He, too, was ignorant of the person he had to deal with, and did not suspect how entirely uninfluenceable by such friendly cajoleries was the young bear of Marchmain, who had scarcely heart enough to be flattered by them, and had acuteness sufficient to perceive the policy. He began, at length, cautiously enough, upon the subject of their last night’s conversation – cautiously, though with all his usual apparent candour and openness of tone.

“Let us have a little talk now about this business, this hold which you think you have got over poor old Pouncet,” said Mr. Stenhouse. “Do you know, my dear fellow, Pouncet has been established here some thirty years, and the people believe in him; do you think they will take your word, at your age, against so old an authority? I advise you to think of it a little, my friend, before you begin.”

“My word has very little to do with it,” said Horace; “of course, I know nothing of the transaction except by evidence, which has satisfied my own mind; and Squire Musgrave was quite as well known, while he lived, as Mr. Pouncet. Besides, it is your own opinion that the public verdict is always against the attorney; and then,” said Horace, with a slight irrepressible sneer at his own words, “we have all the story in our favour, and the sympathy which everybody feels for a disinherited heir.”

“But then, your disinherited heir has not a penny in his purse, nor the means of raising one – a private in a marching regiment,” said Stenhouse, with a laugh; “you yourself are one or two-and-twenty at the outside, have spent a year in Mr. Pouncet’s office, and do not assert yourself, so far as I am aware, to have any command of capital. How are you to do it? – your father, eh? – your father has a place in the country, and perhaps influence – you mean to seek support by his means?”

“My father,” said Horace, rudely enough, “has no influence – and, if he had, would never use it for me; my father is my greatest enemy, or takes me for his, which is the same thing.”

“That is very extraordinary,” said Stenhouse, with a sudden appearance of interest; “takes you for his enemy? – how is that? – there is surely some mystery here.”

“I don’t see that it matters at all to what we were speaking of,” said Horace. “Look here, Mr. Stenhouse, I’ll speak plainly: Pouncet and you are in the same boat – if you don’t actually lose money by having this brought to a trial, you’ll lose reputation – I know you will. I know well enough the thing was your doing. I don’t pretend to be very clever,” continued Horace; “but I think I know a man when I see him. It was you who found out the secret about that land – it was you who put the affair into Pouncet’s head – it was you who managed it all along – the success of the undertaking belongs to you, and you know it. Now, look here – perhaps there’s no legal hold upon you; but you are a flourishing man, with people who believe in you, as much as some other people believe in Mr. Pouncet. If this matter should come to a trial, how would your reputation come out of it? I ask you boldly, because you know better than I do the whole affair.”

“And am not afraid of it, I assure you, my dear fellow; go on as briskly as you please, so far as I am concerned,” said Stenhouse; “but though I don’t care for this, I care for you. You have a natural genius for this kind of work, not often to be met with. Pouncet would not understand it, but I do. I’ll tell you what, Scarsdale – you can’t do me any harm, but it is quite likely you might do me service. Another man most probably would send you off with a defiance, but I am not so liable to offence as most people; I never found it pay, somehow. You can’t do me any harm, as I tell you; but you are bold and capable, and might be extremely useful to me: whilst I for my share could probably advance your prospects. Pouncet was telling me something about you yesterday, but I did not hope to have so clear a specimen of your powers. I want a confidential man in my own office. What do you say to leaving Pouncet and transferring your services to me?”

“I should have perhaps a few questions to ask, in the first place,” said Horace, who, elated with this sudden success, the first fruits of his “power,” though his antagonist concealed it so skilfully, was by no means disinclined to be insolent; “about remuneration and prospects, and how I should be employed; for I do not hold myself a common clerk, to be hired by any man who pleases,” added the young man, with something of the rude arrogance that was in him. It was a new phase of his character to his observant new friend.

“So I understand,” he said gravely, but with a twinkle of sarcasm in his eye, which disconcerted Horace. “I shall be glad to hear the facts of your own private concern from yourself, and you may reckon on my best advice. As for the terms of your engagement, if you enter upon one with me, these, of course, you must consider on your own account, without suffering me to influence you. I shall look after my interests, to be sure,” added Mr. Stenhouse, with that charming candour of his, “and you must attend to yours; and if you make up your mind afterwards to attack Pouncet on behalf of your friend Musgrave,” he continued, with a pleasant smile, “why, well and good – you must follow your fancy. In the meanwhile, I have no doubt I can employ you to good account, and give you more insight into business than Pouncet could. Time for the office – eh? I thought so. Well, you must consider my proposal; no hurry about it – and let me know how you have decided; I’ll mention it to Pouncet, that there may be no difficulty there. Good morning, my young friend; you have a famous spirit, and want nothing but practice; and there is no saying what light you and I together may succeed in throwing on your own affairs.”

Thus dismissed, Horace had no resource but to take his hat, and shake the smooth hand of Mr. Stenhouse, which grasped his with so much apparent cordiality. The young man went to his business with a strange mixture of sensations: humiliated, because he had suffered a seeming conquest, and his antagonist had clearly borne away the victory, so far as appearances were concerned; and flattered and excited at the same time by the substantial proof he had just received that his threat had not been in vain. Advancement greater and more immediate than to be made the “confidential man” of a solicitor in excellent practice, after one brief year of apprenticeship in Mr. Pouncet’s office, he could not have hoped for; and his ambition was not of that great and vague kind which is always startled by the pettiness of reality. Then that last hint gave a certain glow of eagerness to his excited mind: light upon his own affairs! – light upon that mystery which shrouded the recluse of Marchmain, and made his only son his enemy and opponent! Horace had managed to content himself with inevitable work, and even to excite himself into the ambition of making a fortune and his own way in the world; but that was a mere necessity, to which his arrogance bowed itself against its will; and the thought of leaping into sudden fortune, and the bitter long-fostered enmity against his father which continually suggested to his mind something which that father kept him out of, remained as fresh as ever in his spirit when they were appealed to. These thoughts came freshly upon him as he hastened to his daily occupation, and again began to revive the dreams of Marchmain. Twice he had succeeded in his private essays towards self-advancement. After an hour or two’s reflection, with returning confidence he exulted to see his present and his future employer equally in his power, and made himself an easy victory in his own mind over the plausibilities of Mr. Stenhouse. Why should he not succeed as well in “his own affairs,” and with equal pains overcome as easily the defences of his father? – and what if Stenhouse had actually some light to throw upon these concerns? Horace revelled within himself with a secret arrogance and self-esteem as he pondered. What if it remained to him, in as short a time as he had taken to achieve these other successes, to dress himself in the grander spoils of imagination from which his father’s enmity or interest kept him at present shut out.

CHAPTER XXII

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?