"My Novel" — Complete

RANDAL.—“My poor father lives a life so retired—and you cannot wonder at it. Fallen trees lie still, and so do fallen families.”

SQUIRE.—“Fallen families can get up again, which fallen trees can’t.”

RANDAL.—“Ah, sir, it often takes the energy of generations to repair the thriftlessness and extravagance of a single owner.”

SQUIRE (his brow lowering).—“That’s very true. Frank is d—-d extravagant; treats me very coolly, too—not coming; near three o’clock. By the by, I suppose he told you where I was, otherwise how did you find me out?”

RANDAL (reluctantly).—“Sir, he did; and to speak frankly, I am not surprised that he has not yet appeared.”

SQUIRE.—“Eh!”

RANDAL.—“We have grown very intimate.”

SQUIRE.—“So he writes me word,—and I am glad of it. Our member, Sir John, tells me you are a very clever fellow, and a very steady one. And Frank says that he wishes he had your prudence, if he can’t have your talent. He has a good heart, Frank,” added the father, relentingly. “But zounds, sir, you say you are not surprised he has not come to welcome his own father!”

“My dear sir,” said Randal, “you wrote word to Frank that you had heard from Sir John and others of his goings-on, and that you were not satisfied with his replies to your letters.”

“Well.”

“And then you suddenly come up to town.”

“Well.”

“Well. And Frank is ashamed to meet you. For, as you say, he has been extravagant, and he has exceeded his allowance; and knowing my respect for you and my great affection for himself, he has asked me to prepare you to receive his confession and forgive him. I know I am taking a great liberty. I have no right to interfere between father and son; but pray—pray think I mean for the best.”

“Humph!” said the squire, recovering himself very slowly, and showing evident pain, “I knew already that Frank had spent more than he ought; but I think he should not have employed a third person to prepare me to forgive him. (Excuse me,—no offence.) And if he wanted a third person, was not there his own mother? What the devil! [firing up] am I a tyrant, a bashaw, that my own son is afraid to speak to me? ‘Gad, I’ll give it him!”

“Pardon me, sir,” said Randal, assuming at once that air of authority which superior intellect so well carries off and excuses, “but I strongly advise you not to express any anger at Frank’s confidence in me. At present I have influence over him. Whatever you may think of his extravagance, I have saved him from many an indiscretion, and many a debt,—a young man will listen to one of his own age so much more readily than even to the kindest friend of graver years. Indeed, sir, I speak for your sake as well as for Frank’s. Let me keep this influence over him; and don’t reproach him for the confidence placed in me. Nay, let him rather think that I have softened any displeasure you might otherwise have felt.”

There seemed so much good sense in what Randal said, and the kindness of it seemed so disinterested, that the squire’s native shrewdness was deceived.

“You are a fine young fellow,” said he, “and I am very much obliged to you. Well, I suppose there is no putting old heads upon young shoulders; and I promise you I’ll not say an angry word to Frank. I dare say, poor boy, he is very much afflicted, and I long to shake hands with him. So, set his mind at ease.”

“Ah, sir,” said Randal, with much apparent emotion, “your son may well love you: and it seems to be a hard matter for so kind a heart as yours to preserve the proper firmness with him.”

“Oh, I can be firm enough,” quoth the squire,—“especially when I don’t see him,—handsome dog that he is: very like his mother—don’t you think so?

“I never saw his mother, sir.”

“‘Gad! Not seen my Harry? No more you have; you must come and pay us a visit. I suppose my half-brother will let you come?”

“To be sure, sir. Will you not call on him while you are in town?”

“Not I. He would think I expected to get something from the Government. Tell him the ministers must go on a little better, if they want my vote for their member. But go, I see you are impatient to tell Frank that all ‘s forgot and forgiven. Come and dine with him here at six, and let him bring his bills in his pocket. Oh, I sha’n’t scold him.”

“Why, as to that,” said Randal, smiling, “I think (forgive me still) that you should not take it too easily; just as I think that you had better not blame him for his very natural and praiseworthy shame in approaching you, so I think, also, that you should do nothing that would tend to diminish that shame,—it is such a check on him. And therefore, if you can contrive to affect to be angry with him for his extravagance, it will do good.”

“You speak like a book, and I’ll try my best.”

“If you threaten, for instance, to take him out of the army, and settle him in the country, it would have a very good effect.”

“What! would he think it so great a punishment to come home and live with his parents?”

“I don’t say that; but he is naturally so fond of London. At his age, and with his large inheritance, that is natural.”

“Inheritance!” said the squire, moodily,—“inheritance! he is not thinking of that, I trust? Zounds, sir, I have as good a life as his own. Inheritance!—to be sure the Casino property is entailed on him; but as for the rest, sir, I am no tenant for life. I could leave the Hazeldean lands to my ploughman, if I chose it. Inheritance; indeed!”

“My dear sir, I did not mean to imply that Frank would entertain the unnatural and monstrous idea of calculating on your death; and all we have to do is to get him to sow his wild oats as soon as possible,—marry and settle down into the country. For it would be a thousand pities if his town habits and tastes grew permanent,—a bad thing for the Hazeldean property, that! And,” added Randal, laughing, “I feel an interest in the old place, since my grandmother comes of the stock. So, just force yourself to seem angry, and grumble a little when you pay the bills.”

“Ah, ah, trust me,” said the squire, doggedly, and with a very altered air. “I am much obliged to you for these hints, my young kinsman.” And his stout hand trembled a little as he extended it to Randal.

Leaving Limmer’s, Randal hastened to Frank’s rooms in St. James’s Street. “My dear fellow,” said he, when he entered, “it is very fortunate that I persuaded you to let me break matters to your father. You might well say he was rather passionate; but I have contrived to soothe him. You need not fear that he will not pay your debts.”

“I never feared that,” said Frank, changing colour; “I only feared his anger. But, indeed, I fear his kindness still more. What a reckless hound I have been! However, it shall be a lesson to me. And my debts once paid, I will turn as economical as yourself.”

“Quite right, Frank. And, indeed, I am a little afraid that, when your father knows the total, he may execute a threat that would be very unpleasant to you.”

“What’s that?”

“Make you sell out, and give up London.”

“The devil!” exclaimed Frank, with fervent emphasis; “that would be treating me like a child.”

“Why, it would make you seem rather ridiculous to your set, which is not a very rural one. And you, who like London so much, and are so much the fashion!”

“Don’t talk of it,” cried Frank, walking to and fro the room in great disorder.

“Perhaps, on the whole, it might be well not to say all you owe, at once. If you named half the sum, your father would let you off with a lecture; and really I tremble at the effect of the total.”

“But how shall I pay the other half?”

“Oh, you must save from your allowance; it is a very liberal one; and the tradesmen are not pressing.”

“No; but the cursed bill-brokers—”

“Always renew to a young man of your expectations. And if I get into an office, I can always help you, my dear Frank.”

“Ah, Randal, I am not so bad as to take advantage of your friendship,” said Frank, warmly. “But it seems to me mean after all, and a sort of a lie, indeed, disguising the real state of my affairs. I should not have listened to the idea from any one else; but you are such a sensible, kind, honourable fellow.”

“After epithets so flattering, I shrink from the responsibility of advice. But apart from your own interests, I should be glad to save your father the pain he would feel at knowing the whole extent of the scrape you have got into. And if it entailed on you the necessity to lay by—and give up hazard, and not be security for other men—why, it would be the best thing that could happen. Really, too, it seems hard upon Mr. Hazeldean that he should be the only sufferer, and quite just that you should bear half your own burdens.”

“So it is, Randal; that did not strike me before. I will take your counsel; and now I will go at once to Limmer’s. My dear father! I hope he is looking well?”

“Oh, very. Such a contrast to the sallow Londoners! But I think you had better not go till dinner. He has asked me to meet you at six. I will call for you a little before, and we can go together. This will prevent a good deal of gene and constraint. Good-by till then. Ha! by the way, I think if I were you, I would not take the matter too seriously and penitentially. You see the best of fathers like to keep their sons under their thumb, as the saying is. And if you want at your age to preserve your independence, and not be hurried off and buried in the country, like a schoolboy in disgrace, a little manliness of bearing would not be amiss. You can think over it.”

The dinner at Limmer’s went off very differently from what it ought to have done. Randal’s words had sunk deep, and rankled sorely in the squire’s mind; and that impression imparted a certain coldness to his manner which belied the hearty, forgiving, generous impulse with which he had come up to London, and which even Randal had not yet altogether whispered away. On the other hand, Frank, embarrassed both by the sense of disingenuousness, and a desire “not to take the thing too seriously,” seemed to the squire ungracious and thankless.

After dinner the squire began to hum and haw, and Frank to colour up and shrink. Both felt discomposed by the presence of a third person; till, with an art and address worthy of a better cause, Randal himself broke the ice, and so contrived to remove the restraint he had before imposed, that at length each was heartily glad to have matters made clear and brief by his dexterity and tact.

Frank’s debts were not in reality large; and when he named the half of them, looking down in shame, the squire, agreeably surprised, was about to express himself with a liberal heartiness that would have opened his son’s excellent heart at once to him.

But a warning look from Randal checked the impulse; and the squire thought it right, as he had promised, to affect an anger he did not feel, and let fall the unlucky threat, “that it was all very well once in a way to exceed his allowance; but if Frank did not, in future, show more sense than to be led away by a set of London sharks and coxcombs, he must cut the army, come home, and take to farming.”

Frank imprudently exclaimed, “Oh, sir, I have no taste for farming. And after London, at my age, the country would be so horribly dull.”

“Aha!” said the squire, very grimly—and he thrust back into his pocket-book some extra bank-notes which his fingers had itched to add to those he had already counted out. “The country is terribly dull, is it? Money goes there not upon follies and vices, but upon employing honest labourers, and increasing the wealth of the nation. It does not please you to spend money in that way: it is a pity you should ever be plagued with such duties.”

“My dear father—”

“Hold your tongue, you puppy. Oh, I dare say, if you were in my shoes, you would cut down the oaks, and mortgage the property; sell it, for what I know,—all go on a cast of the dice! Aha, sir—very well, very well—the country is horribly dull, is it? Pray stay in town.”

“My dear Mr. Hazeldean,” said Randal, blandly, and as if with the wish to turn off into a joke what threatened to be serious, “you must not interpret a hasty expression so literally. Why, you would make Frank as bad as Lord A——-, who wrote word to his steward to cut down more timber; and when the steward replied, ‘There are only three sign-posts left on the whole estate,’ wrote back, ‘They’ve done growing at all events,—down with them!’ You ought to know Lord A——-, sir; so witty; and—Frank’s particular friend.”

“Your particular friend, Master Frank? Pretty friends!” and the squire buttoned up the pocket to which he had transferred his note-book, with a determined air.

“But I’m his friend, too,” said Randal, kindly; “and I preach to him properly, I can tell you.” Then, as if delicately anxious to change the subject, he began to ask questions upon crops and the experiment of bone manure. He spoke earnestly, and with gusto, yet with the deference of one listening to a great practical authority. Randal had spent the afternoon in cramming the subject from agricultural journals and parliamentary reports; and like all practised readers, had really learned in a few hours more than many a man, unaccustomed to study, could gain from books in a year. The squire was surprised and pleased at the young scholar’s information and taste for such subjects.

“But, to be sure,” quoth he, with an angry look at poor Frank, “you have good Hazeldean blood in you, and know a bean from a turnip.”

“Why, sir,” said Randal, ingenuously, “I am training myself for public life; and what is a public man worth if he do not study the agriculture of his country?”

“Right—what is he worth? Put that question, with my compliments, to my half-brother. What stuff he did talk, the other night, on the malt-tax, to be sure!”

“Mr. Egerton has had so many other things to think of, that we must excuse his want of information upon one topic, however important. With his strong sense he must acquire that information, sooner or later; for he is fond of power; and, sir, knowledge is power!”

“Very true,—very fine saying,” quoth the poor squire, unsuspiciously, as Randal’s eye rested on Mr. Hazeldean’s open face, and then glanced towards Frank, who looked sad and bored.

“Yes,” repeated Randal, “knowledge is power;” and he shook his head wisely, as he passed the bottle to his host.

Still, when the squire, who meant to return to the Hall next morning, took leave of Frank, his heart warmed to his son; and still more for Frank’s dejected looks. It was not Randal’s policy to push estrangement too far at first, and in his own presence.

“Speak to poor Frank,—kindly now, sir—do;” whispered be, observing the squire’s watery eyes, as he moved to the window.

The squire, rejoiced to obey, thrust out his hand to his son.

“My dear boy,” said he, “there, don’t fret—pshaw!—it was but a trifle after all. Think no more of it.”

Frank took the hand, and suddenly threw his arm round his father’s broad shoulder.

“Oh, sir, you are too good,—too good.” His voice trembled so that Randal took alarm, passed by him, and touched him meaningly.

The squire pressed his son to his heart,—heart so large, that it seemed to fill the whole width under his broadcloth. “My dear Frank,” said he, half blubbering, “it is not the money; but, you see, it so vexes your poor mother; you must be careful in future; and, zounds, boy, it will be all yours one day; only don’t calculate on it; I could not bear that, I could not, indeed.”

“Calculate!” cried Frank. “Oh, sir, can you think it?”

“I am so delighted that I had some slight hand in your complete reconciliation with Mr. Hazeldean,” said Randal, as the young men walked from the hotel. “I saw that you were disheartened, and I told him to speak to you kindly.”

“Did you? Ah—I am sorry he needed telling.”

“I know his character so well already,” said Randal, “that I flatter myself I can always keep things between you as they ought to be. What an excellent man!”

“The best man in the world,” cried Frank, heartily; and then, as his accents drooped, “yet I have deceived him. I have a great mind to go back—”

“And tell him to give you twice as much money as you had asked for? He would think you had only seemed so affectionate in order to take him in. No, no, Frank! save, lay by, economize; and then tell him that you have paid half your own debts. Something high-minded in that.”

“So there is. Your heart is as good as your head. Goodnight.”

“Are you going home so early? Have you no engagements!”

“None that I shall keep.”

“Good-night, then.”

They parted, and Randal walked into one of the fashionable clubs. He neared a table where three or four young men (younger sons, who lived in the most splendid style, Heaven knew how) were still over their wine.

Leslie had little in common with these gentlemen, but he forced his nature to be agreeable to them, in consequence of a very excellent piece of worldly advice given to him by Audley Egerton. “Never let the dandies call you a prig,” said the statesman. “Many a clever fellow fails through life, because the silly fellows, whom half a word well spoken could make his claqueurs, turn him into ridicule. Whatever you are, avoid the fault of most reading men: in a word, don’t be a prig!”

“I have just left Hazeldean,” said Randal. “What a good fellow he is!”

“Capital!” said the Honourable George Borrowell. “Where is he?”

“Why, he is gone to his rooms. He has had a little scene with his father, a thorough, rough country squire. It would be an act of charity if you would go and keep him company, or take him with you to some place a little more lively than his own lodgings.”

“What! the old gentleman has been teasing him!—a horrid shame! Why, Frank is not extravagant, and he will be very rich, eh?”

“An immense property,” said Randal, “and not a mortgage on it: an only son,” he added, turning away.

Among these young gentlemen there was a kindly and most benevolent whisper, and presently they all rose, and walked away towards Frank’s lodgings.

“The wedge is in the tree,” said Randal to himself, “and there is a gap already between the bark and the wood.”

CHAPTER XXII

Harley L’Estrange is seated beside Helen at the lattice-window in the cottage at Norwood. The bloom of reviving health is on the child’s face, and she is listening with a smile, for Harley is speaking of Leonard with praise, and of Leonard’s future with hope. “And thus,” he continued, “secure from his former trials, happy in his occupation, and pursuing the career he has chosen, we must be content, my dear child, to leave him.”

“Leave him!” exclaimed Helen, and the rose on her cheek faded.

Harley was not displeased to see her emotion. He would have been disappointed in her heart if it had been less susceptible to affection.

“It is hard on you, Helen,” said he, “to be separated from one who has been to you as a brother. Do not hate me for doing so. But I consider myself your guardian, and your home as yet must be mine. We are going from this land of cloud and mist, going as into the world of summer. Well, that does not content you. You weep, my child; you mourn your own friend, but do not forget your father’s. I am alone, and often sad, Helen; will you not comfort me? You press my hand, but you must learn to smile on me also. You are born to be the comforter. Comforters are not egotists; they are always cheerful when they console.”

The voice of Harley was so sweet and his words went so home to the child’s heart, that she looked up and smiled in his face as he kissed her ingenuous brow. But then she thought of Leonard, and felt so solitary, so bereft, that tears burst forth again. Before these were dried, Leonard himself entered, and, obeying an irresistible impulse, she sprang to his arms, and leaning her head on his shoulder, sobbed out,

“I am going from you, brother; do not grieve, do not miss me.”

Harley was much moved: he folded his arms, and contemplated them both silently,—and his own eyes were moist. “This heart,” thought he, “will be worth the winning!”

He drew aside Leonard, and whispered, “Soothe, but encourage and support her. I leave you together; come to me in the garden later.”

It was nearly an hour before Leonard joined Harley.

“She was not weeping when you left her?” asked L’Estrange.

“No; she has more fortitude than we might suppose. Heaven knows how that fortitude has supported mine. I have promised to write to her often.”

Harley took two strides across the lawn, and then, coming back to Leonard, said, “Keep your promise, and write often for the first year. I would then ask you to let the correspondence drop gradually.”

“Drop! Ah, my Lord!”

“Look you, my young friend, I wish to lead this fair mind wholly from the sorrows of the past. I wish Helen to enter, not abruptly, but step by step, into a new life. You love each other now, as do two children,—as brother and sister. But later, if encouraged, would the love be the same? And is it not better for both of you that youth should open upon the world with youth’s natural affections free and unforestalled?”

“True! And she is so above me,” said Leonard, mournfully.

“No one is above him who succeeds in your ambition, Leonard. It is not that, believe me.”

Leonard shook his head.

“Perhaps,” said Harley, with a smile, “I rather feel that you are above me. For what vantage-ground is so high as youth? Perhaps I may become jealous of you. It is well that she should learn to like one who is to be henceforth her guardian and protector. Yet how can she like me as she ought, if her heart is to be full of you?”

The boy bowed his head; and Harley hastened to change the subject, and speak of letters and of glory. His words were eloquent and his voice kindling; for he had been an enthusiast for fame in his boyhood, and in Leonard’s his own seemed to him to revive. But the poet’s heart gave back no echo,—suddenly it seemed void and desolate. Yet when Leonard walked back by the moonlight, he muttered to himself, “Strange, strange, so mere a child! this cannot be love! Still, what else to love is there left to me?”

And so he paused upon the bridge where he had so often stood with Helen, and on which he had found the protector that had given to her a home, to himself a career. And life seemed very long, and fame but a dreary phantom. Courage still, Leonard! These are the sorrows of the heart that teach thee more than all the precepts of sage and critic.

Another day, and Helen had left the shores of England, with her fanciful and dreaming guardian. Years will pass before our tale re-opens. Life in all the forms we have seen it travels on. And the squire farms and hunts; and the parson preaches and chides and soothes; and Riccabocca reads his Machiavelli, and sighs and smiles as he moralizes on Men and States; and Violante’s dark eyes grow deeper and more spiritual in their lustre, and her beauty takes thought from solitary dreams. And Mr. Richard Avenel has his house in London, and the Honourable Mrs. Avenel her opera-box; and hard and dire is their struggle into fashion, and hotly does the new man, scorning the aristocracy, pant to become aristocrat. And Audley Egerton goes from the office to the parliament, and drudges, and debates, and helps to govern the empire in which the sun never sets. Poor sun, how tired he must be—but not more tired than the Government! And Randal Leslie has an excellent place in the bureau of a minister, and is looking to the time when he shall resign it to come into parliament, and on that large arena turn knowledge into power. And meanwhile he is much where he was with Audley Egerton; but he has established intimacy with the squire, and visited Hazeldean twice, and examined the house and the map of the property, and very nearly fallen a second time into the ha-ha, and the squire believes that Randal Leslie alone can keep Frank out of mischief, and has spoken rough words to his Harry about Frank’s continued extravagance. And Frank does continue to pursue pleasure, and is very miserable, and horribly in debt. And Madame di Negra has gone from London to Paris, and taken a tour into Switzerland, and come back to London again, and has grown very intimate with Randal Leslie; and Randal has introduced Frank to her; and Frank thinks her the loveliest woman in the world, and grossly slandered by certain evil tongues. And the brother of Madame di Negra is expected in England at last; and what with his repute for beauty and for wealth, people anticipate a sensation. And Leonard, and Harley, and Helen? Patience,—they will all re-appear.