A FEW days after this scene Roger Musgrave and Sir John Armitage arrived at Harliflax. Edmund was still living, and not less life-like than he had been for years, though his will was by this time signed and sealed. This will had been a ready means of renewing the flirtation, which was all the beautiful Amelia owned to maintaining with her father’s clerk. Amelia was sadly tired of her mourning, and its inevitable decorums; she was glad to throw herself in Horace’s way when he came to finish that child’s will, which he did next morning, for Amelia’s sake. Amelia wanted to ask him about this will; papa had been very unjust to the rest for Edmund’s sake, and now somebody told her that the little wretch (though she was sure she had cried her eyes out about him, and hoped with all her heart he would get better) was making a will, leaving everything to mamma’s son by her first marriage, whom none of them had ever seen. Was it true?—could a little spoiled monkey like that, only eleven years old, make a will?—had anybody any right to give papa’s property away from his children? Mr. Scarsdale knew it was not of herself she was thinking, but poor Eliza and Fanny—what was to become of them if some one did not think of their interests?—for mamma cared for nothing in the world but little Edmund and her other son. All this flood of question and statement poured upon Horace, who incautiously set the beautiful doubter’s mind at rest by telling her that Edmund’s will was as useless as any other toy of Edmund’s, if the child died. Horace proceeded immediately to enlarge upon his own prospects, and the income he had already secured, but Amelia’s heart was shut against him. She was not more cruel or cold-blooded than a great many other people; she did not wish Edmund’s death; but that being a thing which everybody calculated upon as “rather to be desired than otherwise for his own sake, poor child,” Amelia’s spirits rose a little with the idea of finding herself an heiress, and once more regaining command of the house. That sickly child made a vast difference in various matters to Amelia; without Edmund she could easily subdue her mother; with Edmund, she was only Mr. Stenhouse’s eldest daughter, with two or three thousand pounds; but without him she was the mistress of a very pretty fortune. Perhaps it was not much wonder if the thoughts of the ambitious and uneducated young beauty availed themselves of this prospect without too much delicacy, and thrust Edmund out of the way. However, Horace found it very difficult to arrest her attention to the expression of his own wishes and arrangements. She was supremely indignant at the thought of anyone speaking to her of marriage at such a time. “Look at my mourning, Mr. Scarsdale, and think of Edmund, poor, dear fellow!” cried the virtuous Amelia. If Amelia came in for her proper share of papa’s money, she saw no reason why she should make anything less than a very brilliant match. So after she had beguiled her tedium by means of Horace, as long as, in the circumstances of the house, that was permissible, she went away stately and affronted, though by no means casting him off even now. He was not afraid; he could not have been in less real alarm if she had been his wife, but he wanted sorely to get back to the old frenzy of his first love-passion; he wanted to linger about her and on her, and make sure that she belonged to him. For her and for fortune he had played these terrible stakes, which only he and God knew of; and it was tantalizing to have the prize of his wickedness drawn away from him, when, perhaps, if he but knew, the obstacle was removed already, and fortune incomprehensible and stupendous, big enough to have purchased twice an Amelia, was already in his hand.
But when Horace came next to the house he found a still greater barrier arisen between himself and Amelia. She no longer wanted to be amused—she was independent of him: he might come or he might go, and Amelia did not care. A new life had visited Mrs. Stenhouse’s roof and family. Roger, the unknown brother, was there like a son at home, charming the little invalid, who had left all his wealth to him, out of the feverish excitement and unwholesome primary place, which were killing Edmund; warming his mother’s heart into a late summer of peace and thankfulness; making himself acceptable even to the pretty sisters who admired him, and whom he admired. But it was not Roger who had displaced Horace with Amelia. A young man who was her brother, and, consequently, not to be fascinated, was of no account in the eyes of the beauty; but Sir John Armitage, if he was not very young, had many other qualities which made up for that want, and Sir John had already concluded to himself that he had seen no such fine woman since the days when he was young himself, and beauty was more abundant. Amelia did not lose an hour with the excellent baronet; she had not only baited the hook, but landed her fish long before anybody else suspected her; and as for Horace, though that pretty by-play roused another demon within him, he had still no suspicions of Amelia—or rather, so absolute was his own self-regard, that he did not believe it possible that he could be set aside for any man or woman in the world.
“Nephew of Colonel Sutherland—hum—Scarsdale—happy to make your acquaintance,” said Sir John, doubtfully. “We didn’t expect to meet you here of all places in the world; did we, Roger, boy? Got something to say to you by-and-bye, Mr. Scarsdale—if you’ll do us the honour—about that confounded fellow Pouncet, and this—this young fellow here.”
“When you please, Sir John,” said Horace, with a giddiness about him scarcely bearable. Sir John was playing with a newspaper on the table—the Kenlisle paper, which always came there. Perhaps the notice, the intimation, the seal of all his breathless terrors and ghastly expectations lay there; but it was as unattainable as though strong walls had surrounded it, guarded by the trifling fingers of that stranger’s hand. This newspaper, however—the common vulgar broadsheet—kept thus in his sight, yet beyond his reach, rapt the mind of Horace out of all excitement as to any other question. He knew well enough, with the dull certainty which other matters had in his mind, that Musgrave and his friend must have heard from Mrs. Stenhouse of his own connection with Mr. Pouncet, and call to the deathbed of her husband; but he felt no apprehension about their questions, cared nothing about the matter—in short, cared for nothing in the world at this moment but that paper rustling under the baronet’s careless hand.
“Mr. Scarsdale is Edmund’s man of business,” cried Amelia. “Oh, poor dear little Edmund! I never shall forget that scene! Fancy, Sir John, Edmund taking it into his head that he was going to die, frightening poor mamma out of her wits, and sending for the doctor and Mr. Scarsdale long past midnight, when everybody was asleep. I peeped in at the door just after the doctor went, and there was poor Mr. Scarsdale at the table writing Edmund’s will. I had such a laugh after I knew all was safe, and my little brother no worse than usual; for, only think of Mr. Scarsdale humouring Edmund, when he knew it was no good, and writing his will!”
“It was very kind of Mr. Scarsdale, Amelia,” said Mrs. Stenhouse.
“Oh, it might be, mamma; but wasn’t it an odd scene?” cried the beauty, appealing to Sir John, and laughing at her own penetration. That was Amelia’s kind of wit—a wit which, being always played against one suitor for the amusement of another, was wonderfully successful. The baronet was extremely tickled with “the scene;” the fair artist went over it again for his behalf, with a ludicrous sketch of Horace, “though he knew it was no good” making little Edmund’s will. While this went on, Horace gradually wakened up into a grim surprise at this ridicule, and began to perceive that the object of his love really meant to hold him up to derision, and had changed her tone. The discovery roused him into something of his former self. What had he not done to gain possession of this girl? But to her he was only a common one of her many admirers, to be laughed at and cast aside in his turn. Dead to all better emotions, Horace had yet a little of common life left in him through his intense arrogance and self regard, and this pin-prick found it out.
“When Edmund called upon me to help him, it was not the first time I had been honoured by the confidence of the head of the house,” said Horace, with a sinister impulse of revenge—“the other scene might not have struck Miss Stenhouse as amusing, but, as it happened, it was more interesting to me.”
As he spoke, everybody looked at Horace. And perhaps then everybody noticed, for the first time, the change which had fallen upon the young man—putting their various interpretations upon it, as was natural. Amelia saw nothing but a desperate struggle of passion, love, and jealousy, most flatteringly tragic, in the white fever which consumed him. Sir John regarded him with his head a little on one side, and made a moral remark upon the effects of dissipation, in his own mind; while Mrs. Stenhouse, leaping at the first troublesome idea which occurred to her, thought instantly, as he had meant them all to think, upon her husband’s death-bed disclosure, and how it might affect her son.
“Oh, Mr. Scarsdale!” she cried, pleadingly, “you will tell Roger—you will tell Sir John, his kind friend, what it was that my dear Mr. Stenhouse had to say? It could be nothing against my son,” she continued, nervously taking Roger’s hand. Sir John roused himself up a little. It was much more agreeable flirting with Amelia; but, of course, as he had come to Harliflax about this matter, it was important to hear what the young man might have to say.
“If your late husband put his reputation into my hands, do you suppose I am going to betray him?” said Horace to Mrs. Stenhouse; but it was quite loud enough for everybody to hear.
“Mrs. Stenhouse will forgive you that—for her son’s sake; we are all frail, and nobody can blame the defunct,” said the baronet, with a hasty bow to the widow. “Come, my boy, out with it; or at least let’s have a little private conversation, Scarsdale—there’s a good fellow; a secret is the greatest humbug in the world—never does anybody any good to keep it. Should have been able to bring the late Mr. Stenhouse to reason, I have no doubt, if I could have seen him. My good fellow, with Mrs. Stenhouse’s permission, step downstairs with me.”
“Oh, do please, if it’s a secret, tell it here. I love a secret of all things,” cried Amelia.
But Amelia was cowed a little. She had caught Horace’s wild eye, where so many fires lay latent and smouldering. How could she tell what the secret might be? She was vaguely afraid in the midst of her curiosity. If he had gone downstairs with Sir John, Amelia would have followed them, and listened at the door.
“May I have the paper to look at?” said Horace, seizing it suddenly, as Sir John rose. “No, I do not trade in my friend’s secrets. Mrs. Stenhouse, good morning. I shall send back the paper, and I will see you again before I go.”
So saying, Horace left the room almost before any one was aware—before any one, save Amelia, saw what he was going to do. She, foreseeing his intention, vanished while he was still speaking, and waylaid him on the staircase.
“Oh, Mr. Scarsdale, was it something very dreadful?” said the breathless Amelia, with a pretty affectation of alarm.
“Do you care about your father’s reputation?” said Horace, with one of his old familiar sneers.
“I—don’t know—that was papa’s own business—if he did not mind, why should we?” said Amelia, with a toss of her pretty head.
“But suppose I had something to say which could make it quite sure that Edmund’s will was of no good, Miss Stenhouse?” said the vindictive lover—“suppose I knew of a creditor who could empty this pretty house, and all your purses, and leave you nothing—what then would you have to say to me?”
The beautiful Amelia stood dumb for a moment, looking at him—trembling for her problematical co-heiresship—trembling lest she might have to forswear Sir John, and no longer dream of being called “my lady”—trembling most of all before the fiery eyes fixed upon her with so intent a gaze. “What should I say?” said the troubled flirt, with a little gasp—“why, that you were bound to make up for it somehow, you cruel creature—you who were to be so very rich, too;” and Amelia escaped, scared, when he chose to permit her—making up her mind to do anything in the world rather than marry this violent lover; while he went downstairs, roused by these last words into a renewed frenzy of excitement, carrying the Kenlisle paper in his hand.
The paper, which perhaps brought him news of his success, and that the vast unsunned hoards of his old progenitor were already his; the paper which he dared not read, for fear of attracting notice, in the dim cowardice of guilt, till he had shut himself up in his own room. But there was nothing in it; not a syllable in it about Marchmain or any sudden death. Had they both perished—both master and servant, in that lonely house on the moor? Or did the recluse of Marchmain live a charmed life?