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?