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?
“So my father’s out,” said Horace; “why should not I come to see you, Peggy? Has he forbidden it? He can shut his own door upon me, it is true; but neither he nor any man in the world can prevent me if I will from coming here.”
“Hush, sir! hold your peace!—the master says he’ll have none of you here again, and I’m no the woman to disobey the master!” said Peggy. “And what do you mean by staying away a year and never letting us hear word of you, Mr. Horry? Is Miss Susan nobody?—nor me?—wan would think your love was so great for your father, that you never thought of no person in the world but him!”
“So it is—perhaps,” said Horace, with a momentary smile; “and he’s out, is he?—what is he doing out in daylight and sunshine? Gone to walk with his pretty daughter, Peggy, like a good papa? Ah! I suppose these amiable little amusements would have begun sooner if I had but been wise enough to take myself away.”
“To walk with Miss Susan?—alas!” cried Peggy; “but ye allways had a bitter tongue as well as himsel’. Na, he’s out of a suddent at his own will, or rather at the good will of Providence, Mr. Horry, to prevent a meeting and unseemly words atween a father and son. What would ye have, young man?—and where have ye been?—and what are you doing? But come in here, for pity’s sake, if ye’ll no go away, and let me hear all your news, and I’ll keep a watch at the back window against the master’s coming in.”
“My news is nothing, except that I am about to leave Kenlisle,” said Horace, impatiently; “but, for heaven’s sake, Peggy, who is this father of mine? You know, though nobody else knows—who is he? what does he do here? why does he hate me? why can’t you tell me, and make an end of these mysteries? I’m a man now, and not a child; and here is your chance while we’re by ourselves—tell me, for heaven’s sake.”