If that could be called home which had been for years a prison to the young man. With a secret feeling of exultation, he collected everything belonging to him into a trunk, which he confided, without much explanation, into the hands of Peggy. “When I send for this give it to my messenger,” said Horace. Peggy was prudent, and nodded in assent, without asking any question. She had divined for some time that he meant to go away, and Peggy, who thought it the best thing he could do, prepared to remain in ignorance, and to have no information to give her master in case he should think of questioning her. Susan had not yet returned from her walk; there was no one in the house but Mr. Scarsdale, shut up as usual in his study, and Peggy looking out anxiously, but stealthily; unwilling to be seen, or suspected of watching her young master, when Horace left the house. He, too, carried a little bag – and he, too, when he had got half-way across the moor, turned round to look at the house in which the greater part of his life had been spent. Looking back, no tender images softened in the mind of Horace the harsh and angular outline of those unsheltered walls; he had no associations to make sweet to him the dwelling of his youth. He drew a long, deep breath of satisfaction. He had escaped, and he was young, and life was bright before him. As he stood there, too far off to be called back, with his bag lying at his feet among the brown heather, he could see Peggy steal out to the corner of the house and look up and down the road to see which way he had gone, with her hand over her eyes, to shield them from the sun: and then another lighter figure came quickly, with an agitated speed, to the door, and stood there in the sunshine, without looking round her at all, waiting for admittance. Horace contracted his eyebrows over his short-sighted eyes, and smiled to recognize his sister – smiled, but not with affection or pleasure. Perhaps it heightened for the moment his own sense of liberation to see that poor little bird going back to her cage; perhaps he imagined her consternation and alarm and amazement on finding him gone. When Peggy had gone in from her corner, and Susan had disappeared into the house, Horace took up his bag and pursued his way. He was not going any great distance; his destination, for this time at least, was only Kenlisle, where he arrived in the afternoon, after a long walk, made pleasant by the sense of freedom, which increased as step by step he increased the distance between himself and Marchmain.

Horace had not frequented the rural alehouses and listened to the rural talk for nothing. He knew, as far as popular report could tell him, all about the leading people of the district: he knew, what seldom comes to the ears of their equals, except in snatches, what their servants said about them, and all the details and explications which popular gossip gave of every occurrence important enough to catch the public eye. All this, long before he thought of making use of it, Horace noted and remembered by instinct; it amused him to hear of the follies and vices of other people; it amused him to distinguish, in the popular criticism upon them, how much of the righteous indignation was envy, and a vain desire to emulate the pleasant sins which were out of that disapproving public’s reach. By this means he knew a great deal more about the social economy of the district than anybody who knew his manner of life would have supposed possible. He had heard, for example, numberless allusions made to a notable attorney, or solicitor, as he called himself, in Kenlisle, who managed everybody’s affairs, and knew the secrets of the whole county. It was he to whom Horace intended addressing himself; a romantic idea, one would have supposed; for he was a prosperous man, and was not very likely to prefer a penniless individual in young Scarsdale’s position to a rich townsman’s son, with premiums and connections. However, the young man was strong in the most undaunted self-confidence – an idea of failure never crossed his mind. He made as careful a toilette as he could at the inn, had himself brushed with great care, and, pausing no longer than was absolutely necessary for these operations, proceeded at once to the solicitor’s office. Here Horace presented himself, by no means in the humble guise of a man who seeks employment. Business hours were nearly over – the young men in Mr. Pouncet’s office had clustered round one desk, the occupant of which was performing some piece of amateur jugglery, to the immense admiration of his colleagues. These accomplished young men dispersed in haste at the appearance of a stranger. Mr. Pouncet was known to be disengaged, and Horace asked for him with a confidence and authority which imposed even upon the managing clerk. After a very little delay he was ushered into the attorney’s sanctuary, where Mr. Pouncet himself, business being over, read the papers in his elbow-chair. Mr. Pouncet had none of Colonel Sutherland’s objections to Horace’s stooping shoulders. He bowed, and invited him to take a chair, without the least unfavourable comment on the appearance of his visitor. Then the lawyer laid down his paper, took off his spectacles, and assumed the proper look of professional attention. Horace saw he had made a favourable beginning, and rose in courage as he began to speak.

“I have come to consult you about some matters of much importance to me,” he said. “I am forced to adopt a profession, though I ought to have no need for any such thing. I have determined to adopt yours, Mr. Pouncet. I have a long explanation to make before you can understand the case – have you time to hear me?”

“Certainly,” said the lawyer, but not with effusion; for the preface was not very encouraging to his hopes of a new client.

“My father lives not very far off, at Marchmain, on the borders of Lanwoth Moor,” said Horace, and made a pause at the end of these words.

A look of increased curiosity rewarded him. “Ah, Mr. Scarsdale? I remember to have heard the name,” said the attorney, taking up his pen, playing with it, and at last, as if half by inadvertence, making a note upon a sheet of paper.

“He lives a life of mystery and seclusion,” said Horace; “he has some secret which he guards from me; he says it is unnecessary for me to support myself, and yet his own establishment is poor. What am I to do? – life is insupportable at Marchmain. My uncle wishes me to proceed to London, to read for the bar. I confess my ambition does not direct me towards the bar. I see no necessity for losing my best years in labour which, when I discover all, will most likely be useless to me. Here is what I want to do: I wish to remain near; I wish to attain sufficient legal knowledge to be able to follow this mystery out. Such is my case plainly; what ought I to do?”

Mr. Pouncet gave a single, sharp glance at Horace, then resumed his scribbling on his paper, drawing fantastic lines and flourishes, and devoting a greater amount of attention to these than to his answer. “Really, I find it difficult to advise,” he said, in a tone which meant plainly that he perceived his client had something more to say. “Take your uncle’s advice.”

“No,” said Horace; “you will receive me into your office.”

“I – I am much obliged, it would be an honour; but my office is already full,” said Mr. Pouncet, with a little quiet sarcasm; “I have more clerks than I know what to do with.”

“Yes, these fellows there,” said Horace – “I can see it; but I am of very different mettle; you will find a place for me; wait a little, you will soon see your advantage in it.”

“You have a very good opinion of yourself, my young friend,” said the lawyer, laughing dryly, with a little amazement, and a little anger.

“I have,” said Horace, laconically; “I know what I can do. Look here – I am not what I have been brought up to appear; there is something in my future which my father envies and grudges me; I know it! – and it must be worth his while; he’s not a man to waste his ill-temper without a good cause; very likely there’s an appeal to the law before me, when I know what this secret is. You can see what stuff I am made of. I don’t want to go to London, to waste time and cultivate a profession; the chances are I shall never require it – give me a place here!”

“Your request is both startling and unreasonable,” said Mr. Pouncet, putting down his pen, and looking his visitor full in the face. “I have reason to complain of a direct imposition you have practised upon me. You come as a client, and then you ask for employment; it is absurd. I have young men in my office of most excellent connections – each of them has paid me a premium; and you think the eccentricity of your demand will drive me into accepting you, whom I never saw before; the thing is quite absurd.”

“I beg your pardon,” said Horace, coolly; “I am not asking for employment – I am your client, seeking your advice; here is your fee. I ask you, whether this is not what you would advise me, as the best thing I could do. As for premium, I don’t care for that. If I am not worth half-a-dozen of these lads, to any man who knows how to employ me, it is a very odd thing to me. Now, understand me, sir: I have left home – I wish to conclude what I am to do at once; if not in your office, in some other; can you find a place for me here?”

The lawyer took a pinch of snuff, rose up, went to the window, came back, and after a variety of other restless movements sat down again. During this interval he turned over all that Horace had said, and something more: he made a hurried run over the highly-condensed summary of law reports in his brain, in a vain hunt after the name of Scarsdale. “Most probably a will case,” he said to himself. Then he turned once more his eyes on Horace. The young man met that inspection without wavering. What the inquisitor found in that face was certainly not candour and openness of expression; he looked not with a human, but a professional eye. Perhaps it occurred to him that his visitor’s boast was something more than a brag, and that one such unscrupulous and acute assistant in his office would be worth much more to him than his articled clerks, who teased the life out of his unfortunate manager, and even puzzled himself. Then, “to do him this favour would be to bind him to me in the commonest gratitude,” was the inarticulate reflection which passed through the mind of the attorney; forgetting entirely, as the most sagacious men forget, that the qualities which would make Horace a useful servant were not such as consist with sentiments like gratitude. On the whole, the young man’s assurance, coupled with the known mystery that surrounded Marchmain, and the popular report of some great law-suit in which Mr. Scarsdale had once been concerned, imposed upon the lawyer. He kept repeating in his mind, Scarsdale versus – Scarsdale against – , but could not find any name which would satisfy him for the other party to the suit. After some indifferent questions, he dismissed Horace, promising him an answer next day, with which the young man left him, calmly triumphant – and, as it appeared, with reason. Mr. Pouncet could not resist the bait of a probable struggle at law, and all the éclat of a prolonged and important suit. He determined over and over again that Horace had a clever face, and might be of the greatest use to him. He found that he had for some time wanted some one who should be entirely devoted to himself – ready to pick up any information, to make any observation, to do whatever he wanted. He concluded at last that this was the very person; and when Horace came in next day he found himself engaged. The following morning he took his place among the others in the office. Thus he too had entered upon his life.

CHAPTER VIII

“EYEH, man! and that’s a’ the geed ye’ve done? If I had but had the sense to ging mysel’! Where’s my son? Black be the day ye coom across this door, ye bletherin’ Ould Hunderd! Where’s my Sam? Eyeh, my purty boy, that was aye handy to a’ things, and ne’er a crooked word in his mouth but when you crossed him, and a temper like an angel? Where’s my Sam? Do you mean to tell me you’ve gane and you’ve coomed, John Gilsland, and brought nae guid news in your hand?”

“The devil’s i’ the woman!” cried honest John. “Could I lay the lad on the front o’ the mare, and bring him hame like a sack o’ corn? He’s sorry enough and sick enough by this time, if that’s a consolation; but do you think it was me to face the sodger officers, and say he bud not to list? – and him had listed, if I preached till the morn. Na, wife, he’s fast and sure – as fast as the Ould Hunderd himsel’. If ye’ll take my advice, the best thing you can do is to put up his bundle and make him commforable. He’s brewed, and so must he drink. It’s for better, for warse, like the marriage state itsel’.”

“And grand I would be taking your advice!” said the landlady, more from habit than anger; “and a grand joodge you would mak’ o’ what a mother’ll do for her son! Eyeh, away! I’ve nae pleasure in man nor woman. Oh, my Sammy! and after all the pains the Colonel took to speak a word to the lad himsel’; and after all his schooling and what was done for him; and a new waistcoat and buttons I bought him mysel’ but a week agoo; and everything he could set his face to to make him commforable. Oh! Sammy, Sammy! what will ye say when your mother’s grey hairs is brought to the grave in sorrow along o’ you? I’ll tear the een out o’ that murderin’ Ould Hunderd if he come near this door! – I will! if he was the best customer in twenty mile. What do I care for his dribble of drink and his deceiving tongue? If it hadn’t been for him, I would ne’er have lost my Sammy, the best lad, though I say it as shouldn’t, and the cleverest, ye could set your eyes on. I could have trusted him with every key in the house, I could; and the modestest lad! Praise him to his face, and he would colour up like a girl. If I had but had the sense to ging and speak to the offisher mysel’!”

“Eyeh, woman, if ye but had!” said John, “ye would have knowed better; yon’er he is fast enough, and no a penny less than thirty pound’ll buy him off, and ye know best yoursel’ if ye can spare that off of the business in such bad times; but there’s mair as bad off as you. And I can tell you I saw greater folk nor our Sam look wistful at the ribbons. As I sat down by the chimney side, who should come in but Mr. Roger, him that should be the young Squire by rights, if the ould wan had done fairly by him. He stood i’ the door, as I might be dooing, and gave a look athwart the place. If he warn’t envying of the lads as could ’list, and no more said, never trust my word again. I’ll bet a shilling he was in twenty minds to take the bounty himsel’. Though he is a gentleman, he’s a deal worse off nor our Sam; he’ll goo hanging about in London, till the great folk doo somat for him. He durstent set for’ard bold, and into the ranks wi’ him. I’m more grieveder like, in a general way, for the sort of him nor our lad. Dry thy een, wife, and set on a great wash, and take it out on th’ wench; it’ll do thee good, and thoo canst do nae benefit to Sam.”

Mrs. Gilsland, though she contradicted her husband as usual, found some wisdom in his advice, and, after doing something elaborately the reverse for a time, adopted it, to the discomfiture of her poor maid-of-all-work, who might not have appreciated her master’s counsel had she been aware of it. A good scold did the landlady good; she sought out poor Sam’s wardrobe, collected a little heap of articles to be washed and mended for him, and managed, by this means, to get through the day with tolerable comfort, though interrupted by many gossiping visits of condolence, in all of which she renewed and expatiated upon her grief. When the evening arrived, Mrs. Gilsland was in considerable force, with red eyes, and face a little swollen, but strong in all her natural eloquence and courage, lying in wait for the arrival of the unsuspecting “Ould Hunderd,” who had not yet been informed, so far as she was aware of, what had taken place. Before he made his appearance, however, there arrived the carrier from Kenlisle, who made a diversion in her excitement. He brought a note from Horace Scarsdale to John Gilsland, enclosing an open one, addressed to Peggy at Marchmain, and requested her to send his trunk with the bearer; a communication which very much roused the curiosity of both husband and wife. While they were considering this billet, Sergeant Kennedy came in as usual, and got his place, and his pipe, in the public room, without calling forth any demonstration of hostilities. When she became aware of his presence, Mrs. Gilsland rushed into the apartment, with the note still in her hand.

“Eyeh, gude forgive me if I’m like to swear!” cried the indignant mother, “you’re here, ye ould deceiver! You’re here to beguile other folks’s sons, and dare to look me in the face as if ye had ne’er done mischief in your days. Where’s my Sam? Where’s my lad, that never had an ill thought intill his head till he came to speech of you? Well did the Cornel say ye wur an ould humbug! Where’s my son?”

“Husht! husht!” said the Sergeant, soothingly – “I have heard on’t already in the town. I always said he was a lad of spirit – he’ll make a good souldhier, and some day ye’ll be proud enough to see him in his uniform. Husht, would you have the onlearned believe he had ’listed in drink, or because of ill-doing? You’re an oncommon discreet woman when ye like. Think of the poor lad’s credit, then, and hould your peace. Would you make the foulks think he ’listed like a ne’er-do-well? Husht, if any person says so of Sam Gilsland to me, Sergeant Kennedy, o’ the Ould Hunderd, I’ll knock him down.”

This sudden new aspect of the subject took away the good woman’s breath; she was not prepared for so skilful a defence, since, to blame her son in blaming Kennedy, was the last thing she could have thought of. After a few moments she recovered herself, but not the full advantage she had started with.

“I said you was a deceiver, and it’s proved upon me,” said Mrs. Gilsland; “and you think you can take me in with your lyin’ tongue as well as my boy! How dare ye speak of drink or ill-doing and my Sam? – a steadier lad was never born; he’s no’ like you, you ould sponge that you are, soaking in whatever’s gooing in the way of liquor. He’s no as long-tongued nor as acquaint with ill; and but for coming across of you when the lad knowed no better, and taking a’ your stories for Gospel, he’d ha’ been here this day. And you sit and lift up your face to me in my own house, you do! Ye ould storyteller! – ye cruel deceiver! – ye onnat’ral ould man! You a feyther yoursel’ and make other foulks’s house desolate! But what need I speak? – there’s wan there forenenst ye, that cares little more nor you do, for all the lad I’m naming is his son as well as mine!”

This sudden attack took the unfortunate John entirely by surprise; he recoiled a step or two, with an exclamation of amazement and injury. He had been standing calmly by, enjoying the unusual pleasure of listening to his wife’s eloquence as a spectator, and rather rejoicing in the castigation of the sergeant. This assault took away his breath – nor was it allowed to remain a single blow. Before anyone could speak, an old cracked, high-pitched voice made itself heard from the door of the apartment, where, shivering with cold, and anger, and age, with an old checked shawl thrown over her cap, old Sally from the Grange shook her withered and trembling hand at the unhappy John.

“It’s you that’s a-spreading tales against the young maister – it’s you!” she cried, in her shrill accents; “and it’s you, Betty Gilsland, that’s puttin’ him up to it; you that’s eaten the Squire’s bread, and married on his present, and thrived wi’ his coostom. Fie upon me for a silly ould fool, that thought there was such a thing as thankfulness to the fore in this world! Eh, man! to think ye should have come coorting to the Grange kitchen, many’s the day, and eaten your commforable supper wi’ the rest on us, and yet have the heart to turn again Mr. Roger, like the gentry themsels! I would not have believed it if half the sheer had ta’en their Bible oath – no, not for nothing but hearing on it mysel’. What ill did he ever doo you, that you should raise a story on Mr. Roger? Oh, fie, fie, fie, for shame!”

The husband and wife looked at each other in mutual amazement at this unexpected charge, while Kennedy pricked up his ears and recovered his former boldness. He did not doubt now to come out of the affair with flying colours; for though John Gilsland’s reflections on the looks of Roger when he encountered him the previous night had been overheard and carried rapidly to the interested ears of Sally, the sergeant was still unaware both of Roger’s purpose and his departure. He inclined his ear with great attention to Sally’s complaint; he cocked his cap upon one side of his head, and assumed the part of moderator with a masterly promptitude; he called her in, waving his hand to her, and set a stool for her near the fire.

“It’s mortial cowld,” said the sergeant, “here’s a drop of beer for you, ould Sally. Them good foulks there, take my word, had no ill maening to Mr. Roger. We’ll al’ hear the rights on it. Many’s the talk I’ve had with him, and many’s the good advice I gave the young man. Onexperienced lads they’re al’ways the better of a good advice. Take a drop of beer.”

Sally made a nervous, frightened curtsey, warmed her icy fingers at the fire, and took the beer in her hand, with her respects to the sergeant; but before she could drink it Mrs. Gilsland arrested her with a sudden exclamation.

“Sally! touch you none on it – it’s pisoned – it’s Judas – it’s a-betraying on you!” cried the landlady; “if there’s harm come to your young gentleman, who should it be but him there? He’s seduced away my innocent lad. He’s led Sam astray, and putten it into his head to ’list and goo for a souldhier. He’s nothing but lies and deceits from end to end on him. If there’s harm to the young Squire, you take my word, it’s him!”

“Lord have a care of us!” cried Sally, emphasizing her exclamation by a violent start, and dropping the glass from her hands; “pisoned! – eh, the cannibal! the murderin’ villain! – and what harm did I ever do to him, a puir old body like me?”

Upon which text the excellent Mrs. Gilsland made a renewed onslaught upon the sergeant, referring directly or indirectly to his influence all the accidents of the country side. If he was in some way to blame for the failed crops and the potato disease, he was evidently first cause that Mr. Roger had left the Grange, and her boy had gone away; both were entirely under the influence of the all-conquering sergeant. John Gilsland stood by a little nervous, but secretly enjoying the attack which old Sally, easily diverted from her indignation against himself, and turning her arms upon “th’ Ould Hunderd,” aided with all her feeble forces. The other spectators encouraged the combatants with vociferous plaudits. As for the sergeant, he gave his cap a fiercer cock, crossed his arms upon his breast, sat back upright as a post in his chair, and puffed mighty volumes of smoke from his pipe. It was impossible to move him. When at last, in sheer exasperation and rage, the women found nothing more to say, Kennedy took the pipe from his mouth, thrust his chair farther back, and made his exculpatory address: —

“If you will listen to me,” said the sergeant, stretching forth his arms, and laying down the plan of his discourse with the fingers of one hand upon the palm of the other, “I’ll make you my answer under three heads: There’s, firstly, Sam Gilsland – and there’s, secondly, Mr. Roger – and there’s, thirdly, the Cornel. As ye cannot onderstand the first till ye’ve heard the last, I advise ye to have patience. Then, in the first place, Sam – he’s a very fine lad, clean, well-made, a good figure, a good spirit, fond to be out o’ dours, and to see the world. I’ll say, before a hunder faothers and maothers, it’s a disgrace to keep a man like that serving beer. He behooved to serve his country, did a lad like that; thinks I to mysel’, there’s a figure for a uniform; if the drill-sergeant had his will o’ him, there’s hands would be clever at their weapons! Was it my fault that his Maker had made him straight and strong? He heard me speak of the service, sure; I’m a man of experience; I see no good reason to hide my light away from the world; and natur’ up and spoke. I knowed no more of his going away nor the babe unborn.”

The wily sergeant saw with the corner of his eye that Sam’s mother, overcome by this eloquence, had fallen to crying – he knew the day was won.

“And I ask ye a’,” said the sergeant, “when a man that’s served his country sets foot among ye, with the Queen’s coat on his back, and a medal on his breast, do ye turn your backs upon him? Is he not as great a man as the Duke till his furlough’s done; and I ask you,” continued Kennedy, turning boldly round upon his principal accuser, “when the boy comes to end his life in aise and comfort, with a pension to keep him snug, and never to move his hand but when he pleases – would ye rather he was looking after the farmers’ horses, good weather and bad weather, and serving beer?”

Mrs. Gilsland was overcome; flattering fancies stole over her mind; splendid visions of a figure in uniform, with honours and rewards heaped upon him by the public gratitude, which should call her mother; she put up her apron to her eyes and sobbed. The sergeant was victorious.

“And as for Mr. Roger, I am not the man to meddle with them that are aboon my hand – I gave him my advice, like any other speerited young man,” said the sergeant; “I tould him my mind of the service. I tould him there was glory and fame to be found in the profession of arms. He was very well inclined to lead me on, was Mr. Roger; he asked about this one and he asked me about the t’other one, and I gave the young gentleman what information I could. And then, ye see, al’ at once, out of my knowledge, comes up the Cornel. I cannot purtend to say what business he had here. There was some story about a nevvy of his, Mr. Horry, that ye al’ knowe. I’ve no very great faith in Mr. Horry, for my own account. My belief is – for he never spared pains or trouble for his men, as I can well say – my belief is, if ye ask me, that the Cornel heard there was some promising lads here, and came to take a look at them himself. That’s just my fixed opinion, if ye ask me. So there’s Sam away, and Mr. Roger away, and I’ll lay any man here a hunder pounds we’ll hear tell of the Cornel again.”

“Eyeh, man! d’ye think it’s true?” cried Mrs. Gilsland. “I asked the Cornel to speak to my Sam mysel’. Eyeh, sergeant! it’s an awfu’ misfortune – but it’s a great honour! Do ye think it would be that that brought the Cornel here?”

John Gilsland was more sceptical than his wife; but, at the same time, he was more favourable. “Here’s Mr. Horry gone his gate also,” said John – “I’m strong o’ the mind to take the cart mysel’, and goo round by Marchmain the morn for his trunk as he bids, and see if I can see owght o’ the ould man.”

“Thoo’st aye right ready for a ploy,” said his wife, “a deal better than honest work. Eyeh, but it’s true – Mr. Horry has gane as well – three young men of them out of this wan place! Blees me! its awful like as if the Cornel was at the bottom o’t, after all.”

“Ay, ay – you’ll come into my opinion. I seed him three times mysel’. The Cornel was aye an affable gentleman, and spoke his mind free; I knows what I knows,” said the sergeant – “he had his own occasions here.”

“Come you with me, Sally, and you shall have a cup o’ tea to comfort your heart,” said Mrs. Gilsland. “Eyeh, woman, I’m heartbroken; but I’m glad! – three on them, and his own nevvy! That Mr. Horry is a rael queer lad – he takes no more notice of a body nor if they were the dust beneath his feet; but dreedful clever, there’s no doubt. I’ll make John goo himsel’ to Marchmain as he said – maybe there’s some news. Keep a good heart about the young Squire, Sally. I would not say but them three they’re all together, and the Cornel with them; and they’re rael well off, if he’s there, that’s for certain; such a man!”