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.