"My Novel" — Complete

CHAPTER IV

With his hands behind him, and his head drooping on his breast, slow, stealthy, noiseless, Randal Leslie glided along the streets on leaving the Italian’s house. Across the scheme he had before revolved, there glanced another yet more glittering, for its gain might be more sure and immediate. If the exile’s daughter were heiress to such wealth, might he himself hope—He stopped short even in his own soliloquy, and his breath came quick. Now, in his last visit to Hazeldean, he had come in contact with Riccabocca, and been struck by the beauty of Violante. A vague suspicion had crossed him that these might be the persons of whom the marchesa was in search, and the suspicion had been confirmed by Beatrice’s description of the refugee she desired to discover. But as he had not then learned the reason for her inquiries, nor conceived the possibility that he could have any personal interest in ascertaining the truth, he had only classed the secret in question among those the further research into which might be left to time and occasion. Certainly the reader will not do the unscrupulous intellect of Randal Leslie the injustice to suppose that he was deterred from confiding to his fair friend all that he knew of Riccabocca by the refinement of honour to which he had so chivalrously alluded. He had correctly stated Audley Egerton’s warning against any indiscreet confidence, though he had forborne to mention a more recent and direct renewal of the same caution. His first visit to Hazeldean had been paid without consulting Egerton. He had been passing some days at his father’s house, and had gone over thence to the squire’s. On his return to London, he had, however, mentioned this visit to Audley, who had seemed annoyed and even displeased at it, though Randal knew sufficient of Egerton’s character to guess that such feelings could scarce be occasioned merely by his estrangement from his half-brother. This dissatisfaction had, therefore, puzzled the young man. But as it was necessary to his views to establish intimacy with the squire, he did not yield the point with his customary deference to his patron’s whims. Accordingly he observed that he should be very sorry to do anything displeasing to his benefactor, but that his father had been naturally anxious that he should not appear positively to slight the friendly overtures of Mr. Hazeldean.

“Why naturally?” asked Egerton.

“Because you know that Mr. Hazeldean is a relation of mine,—that my grandmother was a Hazeldean.”

“Ah!” said Egerton, who, as it has been before said, knew little and cared less about the Hazeldean pedigree, “I was either not aware of that circumstance, or had forgotten it. And your father thinks that the squire may leave you a legacy?”

“Oh, sir, my father is not so mercenary,—such an idea never entered his head. But the squire himself has indeed said, ‘Why, if anything happened to Frank, you would be next heir to my lands, and therefore we ought to know each other.’ But—”

“Enough,” interrupted Egerton. “I am the last man to pretend to the right of standing between you and a single chance of fortune, or of aid to it. And whom did you meet at Hazeldean?”

“There was no one there, sir; not even Frank.”

“Hum. Is the squire not on good terms with his parson? Any quarrel about tithes?”

“Oh, no quarrel. I forgot Mr. Dale; I saw him pretty often. He admires and praises you very much, sir.”

“Me—and why? What did he say of me?”

“That your heart was as sound as your head; that he had once seen you about some old parishioners of his, and that he had been much impressed with the depth of feeling he could not have anticipated in a man of the world, and a statesman.”

“Oh, that was all; some affair when I was member for Lansmere?”

“I suppose so.”

Here the conversation had broken off; but the next time Randal was led to visit the squire he had formally asked Egerton’s consent, who, after a moment’s hesitation, had as formally replied, “I have no objection.”

On returning from this visit, Randal mentioned that he had seen Riccabocca: and Egerton, a little startled at first, said composedly, “Doubtless one of the political refugees; take care not to set Madame di Negra on his track. Remember, she is suspected of being a spy of the Austrian government.”

“Rely on me, sir,” said Randal; “but I should think this poor doctor can scarcely be the person she seeks to discover.”

“That is no affair of ours,” answered Egerton: “we are English gentlemen, and make not a step towards the secrets of another.”

Now, when Randal revolved this rather ambiguous answer, and recalled the uneasiness with which Egerton had first heard of his visit to Hazeldean, he thought that he was indeed near the secret which Egerton desired to conceal from him and from all,—namely, the incognito of the Italian whom Lord L’Estrange had taken under his protection.

“My cards,” said Randal to himself, as with a deep-drawn sigh he resumed his soliloquy, “are become difficult to play. On the one hand, to entangle Frank into marriage with this foreigner, the squire could never forgive him. On the other hand, if she will not marry him without the dowry—and that depends on her brother’s wedding this countrywoman—and that countrywoman be, as I surmise, Violante, and Violante be this heiress, and to be won by me! Tush, tush. Such delicate scruples in a woman so placed and so constituted as Beatrice di Negra must be easily talked away. Nay, the loss itself of this alliance to her brother, the loss of her own dowry, the very pressure of poverty and debt, would compel her into the sole escape left to her option. I will then follow up the old plan; I will go down to Hazeldean, and see if there be any substance in the new one; and then to reconcile both. Aha—the House of Leslie shall rise yet from its ruin—and—”

Here he was startled from his revery by a friendly slap on the shoulder, and an exclamation, “Why, Randal, you are more absent than when you used to steal away from the cricket-ground, muttering Greek verses, at Eton.”

“My dear Frank,” said Randal, “you—you are so brusque, and I was just thinking of you.”

“Were you? And kindly, then, I am sure,” said Frank Hazeldean, his honest handsome face lighted up with the unsuspecting genial trust of friendship; “and Heaven knows,” he added, with a sadder voice, and a graver expression on his eye and lip,—“Heaven knows I want all the kindness you can give me!”

“I thought,” said Randal, “that your father’s last supply, of which I was fortunate enough to be the bearer, would clear off your more pressing debts. I don’t pretend to preach, but really, I must say once more, you should not be so extravagant.”

FRANK (seriously).—“I have done my best to reform. I have sold off my horses, and I have not touched dice nor card these six months; I would not even put into the raffle for the last Derby.” This last was said with the air of a man who doubted the possibility of obtaining belief to some assertion of preternatural abstinence and virtue.

RANDAL.—“Is it possible? But with such self-conquest, how is it that you cannot contrive to live within the bounds of a very liberal allowance?”

FRANK (despondingly).—“Why, when a man once gets his head under water, it is so hard to float back again on the surface. You see, I attribute all my embarrassments to that first concealment of my debts from my father, when they could have been so easily met, and when he came up to town so kindly.”

“I am sorry, then, that I gave you that advice.”

“Oh, you meant it so kindly, I don’t reproach you; it was all my own fault.”

“Why, indeed, I did urge you to pay off that moiety of your debts left unpaid, with your allowance. Had you done so, all had been well.”

“Yes; but poor Borrowell got into such a scrape at Goodwood, I could not resist him; a debt of honour,—that must be paid; so when I signed another bill for him, he could not pay it, poor fellow! Really he would have shot himself, if I had not renewed it. And now it is swelled to such an amount with that cursed interest, that he never can pay it; and one bill, of course, begets another,—and to be renewed every three months; ‘t is the devil and all! So little as I ever got for all I have borrowed,” added Frank, with a kind of rueful amaze. “Not L1,500 ready money; and the interest would cost me almost as much yearly,—if I had it.” “Only L1,500!”

“Well; besides seven large chests of the worst cigars you ever smoked, three pipes of wine that no one would drink, and a great bear that had been imported from Greenland for the sake of its grease.”

“That should, at least, have saved you a bill with your hairdresser.”

“I paid his bill with it,” said Frank, “and very good-natured he was to take the monster off my hands,—it had already hugged two soldiers and one groom into the shape of a flounder. I tell you what,” resumed Frank, after a short pause, “I have a great mind even now to tell my father honestly all my embarrassments.”

RANDAL (solemnly).—“Hum!”

FRANK.—“What? don’t you think it would be the best way? I never can save enough,—never can pay off what I owe; and it rolls like a snowball.”

RANDAL.—“Judging by the squire’s talk, I think that with the first sight of your affairs you would forfeit his favour forever; and your mother would be so shocked, especially after supposing that the sum I brought you so lately sufficed to pay off every claim on you. If you had not assured her of that it might be different; but she, who so hates an untruth, and who said to the squire, ‘Frank says this will clear him; and with all his faults, Frank never yet told a lie!’”

“Oh, my dear mother!—I fancy I hear her!” cried Frank, with deep emotion. “But I did not tell a lie, Randal; I did not say that that sum would clear me.”

“You empowered and begged me to say so,” replied Randal, with grave coldness; “and don’t blame me if I believed you.”

“No, no! I only said it would clear me for the moment.”

“I misunderstood you, then, sadly; and such mistakes involve my own honour. Pardon me, Frank; don’t ask my aid in future. You see, with the best intentions, I only compromise myself.”

“If you forsake me, I may as well go and throw myself into the river,” said Frank, in a tone of despair; “and sooner or later, my father must know my necessities. The Jews threaten to go to him already; and the longer the delay, the more terrible the explanation.”

“I don’t see why your father should ever learn the state of your affairs; and it seems to me that you could pay off these usurers, and get rid of these bills, by raising money on comparatively easy terms—”

“How?” cried Frank, eagerly.

“Why, the Casino property is entailed on you, and you might obtain a sum upon that, not to be paid till the property becomes yours.”

“At my poor father’s death? Oh, no, no! I cannot bear the idea of this cold-blooded calculation on a father’s death. I know it is not uncommon; I know other fellows who have done it, but they never had parents so kind as mine; and even in them it shocked and revolted me. The contemplating a father’s death, and profiting by the contemplation it seems a kind of parricide: it is not natural, Randal. Besides, don’t you remember what the Governor said,—he actually wept while he said it,—‘Never calculate on my death; I could not bear that.’ Oh, Randal, don’t speak of it!”

“I respect your sentiments; but still, all the post-orbits you could raise could not shorten Mr. Hazeldean’s life by a day. However, dismiss that idea; we must think of some other device. Ha, Frank! you are a handsome fellow, and your expectations are great—why don’t you marry some woman with money?”

“Pooh!” exclaimed Frank, colouring. “You know, Randal, that there is but one woman in the world I can ever think of; and I love her so devotedly, that, though I was as gay as most men before, I really feel as if the rest of her sex had lost every charm. I was passing through the street now—merely to look up at her windows.”

“You speak of Madame di Negra? I have just left her. Certainly, she is two or three years older than you; but if you can get over that misfortune, why not marry her?”

“Marry her!” cried Frank, in amaze, and all his colour fled from his cheeks. “Marry her! Are you serious?”

“Why not?”

“But even if she, who is so accomplished, so admired, even if she would accept me, she is, you know, poorer than myself. She has told me so frankly. That woman has such a noble heart,—and—and—my father would never consent, nor my mother either. I know they would not.”

“Because she is a foreigner?”

“Yes—partly.”

“Yet the squire suffered his cousin to marry a foreigner.”

“That was different. He had no control over Jemima; and a daughter-in-law is so different; and my father is so English in his notions; and Madame di Negra, you see, is altogether so foreign. Her very graces would be against her in his eyes.”

“I think you do both your parents injustice. A foreigner of low birth—an actress or singer, for instance—of course would be highly objectionable; but a woman like Madame di Negra, of such high birth and connections—”

Frank shook his head. “I don’t think the Governor would care a straw about her connections, if she were a king’s daughter. He considers all foreigners pretty much alike. And then, you know” (Frank’s voice sank into a whisper),—“you know that one of the very reasons why she is so dear to me would be an insuperable objection to the old-fashioned folks at home.”

“I don’t understand you, Frank.”

“I love her the more,” said young Hazeldean, raising his front with a noble pride, that seemed to speak of his descent from a race of cavaliers and gentlemen,—“I love her the more because the world has slandered her name,—because I believe her to be pure and wronged. But would they at the Hall,—they who do not see with a lover’s eyes, they who have all the stubborn English notions about the indecorum and license of Continental manners, and will so readily credit the worst? Oh, no! I love, I cannot help it—but I have no hope.”

“It is very possible that you may be right,” exclaimed Randal, as if struck and half convinced by his companion’s argument,—“very possible; and certainly I think that the homely folks at the Hall would fret and fume at first, if they heard you were married to Madame di Negra. Yet still, when your father learned that you had done so, not from passion alone, but to save him from all pecuniary sacrifice,—to clear yourself of debt, to—”

“What do you mean?” exclaimed Frank, impatiently.

“I have reason to know that Madame di Negra will have as large a portion as your father could reasonably expect you to receive with any English wife. And when this is properly stated to the squire, and the high position and rank of your wife fully established and brought home to him,—for I must think that these would tell, despite your exaggerated notions of his prejudices,—and then, when he really sees Madame di Negra, and can judge of her beauty and rare gifts, upon my word, I think, Frank, that there would be no cause for fear. After all, too, you are his only son. He will have no option but to forgive you; and I know how anxiously both your parents wish to see you settled in life.”

Frank’s whole countenance became illuminated. “There is no one who understands the squire like you, certainly,” said he, with lively joy. “He has the highest opinion of your judgment. And you really believe you could smooth matters?”

“I believe so; but I should be sorry to induce you to run any risk; and if, on cool consideration, you think that risk is incurred, I strongly advise you to avoid all occasion of seeing the poor marchesa. Ah, you wince; but I say it for her sake as well as your own. First, you must be aware, that, unless you have serious thoughts of marriage, your attentions can but add to the very rumours that, equally groundless, you so feelingly resent; and, secondly, because I don’t think any man has a right to win the affections of a woman—especially a woman who seems to me likely to love with her whole heart and soul—merely to gratify his own vanity.”

“Vanity! Good heavens! can you think so poorly of me? But as to the marchesa’s affections,” continued Frank, with a faltering voice, “do you really and honestly believe that they are to be won by me?”

“I fear lest they may be half won already,” said Randal, with a smile and a shake of the head; “but she is too proud to let you see any effect you may produce on her, especially when, as I take it for granted, you have never hinted at the hope of obtaining her hand.”

“I never till now conceived such a hope. My dear Randal, all my cares have vanished! I tread upon air! I have a great mind to call on her at once.”

“Stay, stay,” said Randal. “Let me give you a caution. I have just informed you that Madame di Negra will have, what you suspected not before, a fortune suitable to her birth. Any abrupt change in your manner at present might induce her to believe that you were influenced by that intelligence.”

“Ah!” exclaimed Frank, stopping short, as if wounded to the quick. “And I feel guilty,—feel as if I was influenced by that intelligence. So I am, too, when I reflect,” he continued, with a naivete that was half pathetic; “but I hope she will not be very rich; if so, I’ll not call.”

“Make your mind easy, it is but a portion of some twenty or thirty thousand pounds, that would just suffice to discharge all your debts, clear away all obstacle to your union, and in return for which you could secure a more than adequate jointure and settlement on the Casino property. Now I am on that head, I will be yet more communicative. Madame di Negra has a noble heart, as you say, and told me herself, that, until her brother on his arrival had assured her of this dowry, she would never have consented to marry you, never crippled with her own embarrassments the man she loves. Ah! with what delight she will hail the thought of assisting you to win back your father’s heart! But be guarded meanwhile. And now, Frank, what say you—would it not be well if I ran down to Hazeldean to sound your parents? It is rather inconvenient to me, to be sure, to leave town just at present; but I would do more than that to render you a smaller service. Yes, I’ll go to Rood Hall to-morrow, and thence to Hazeldean. I am sure your father will press me to stay, and I shall have ample opportunities to judge of the manner in which he would be likely to regard your marriage with Madame di Negra,—supposing always it were properly put to him. We can then act accordingly.”

“My dear, dear Randal, how can I thank you? If ever a poor fellow like me can serve you in return—but that’s impossible.”

“Why, certainly, I will never ask you to be security to a bill of mine,” said Randal, laughing. “I practise the economy I preach.”

“Ah!” said Frank, with a groan, “that is because your mind is cultivated,—you have so many resources; and all my faults have come from idleness. If I had had anything to do on a rainy day, I should never have got into these scrapes.”

“Oh, you will have enough to do some day managing your property. We who have no property must find one in knowledge. Adieu, my dear Frank, I must go home now. By the way, you have never, by chance, spoken of the Riccaboccas to Madame di Negra.”

“The Riccaboccas? No. That’s well thought of. It may interest her to know that a relation of mine has married her countryman. Very odd that I never did mention it; but, to say truth, I really do talk so little to her: she is so superior, and I feel positively shy with her.”

“Do me the favour, Frank,” said Randal, waiting patiently till this reply ended,—for he was devising all the time what reason to give for his request,—“never to allude to the Riccaboccas either to her or to her brother, to whom you are sure to be presented.”

“Why not allude to them?”

Randal hesitated a moment. His invention was still at fault, and, for a wonder, he thought it the best policy to go pretty near the truth.

“Why, I will tell you. The marchesa conceals nothing from her brother, and he is one of the few Italians who are in high favour with the Austrian court.”

“Well!”

“And I suspect that poor Dr. Riccabocca fled his country from some mad experiment at revolution, and is still hiding from the Austrian police.”

“But they can’t hurt him here,” said Frank, with an Englishman’s dogged inborn conviction of the sanctity of his native island. “I should like to see an Austrian pretend to dictate to us whom to receive and whom to reject.”

“Hum—that’s true and constitutional, no doubt; but Riccabocca may have excellent reasons—and, to speak plainly, I know he has (perhaps as affecting the safety of friends in Italy)—for preserving his incognito, and we are bound to respect those reasons without inquiring further.”

“Still I cannot think so meanly of Madame di Negra,” persisted Frank (shrewd here, though credulous elsewhere, and both from his sense of honour), “as to suppose that she would descend to be a spy, and injure a poor countryman of her own, who trusts to the same hospitality she receives herself at our English hands. Oh, if I thought that, I could not love her!” added Frank, with energy.

“Certainly you are right. But see in what a false position you would place both her brother and herself. If they knew Riccabocca’s secret, and proclaimed it to the Austrian Government, as you say, it would be cruel and mean; but if they knew it and concealed it, it might involve them both in the most serious consequences. You know the Austrian policy is proverbially so jealous and tyrannical?”

“Well, the newspapers say so, certainly.”

“And, in short, your discretion can do no harm, and your indiscretion may. Therefore, give me your word, Frank. I can’t stay to argue now.”

“I’ll not allude to the Riccaboccas, upon my honour,” answered Frank; “still, I am sure that they would be as safe with the marchesa as with—”

“I rely on your honour,” interrupted Randal, hastily, and hurried off.

CHAPTER V

Towards the evening of the following day, Randal Leslie walked slowly from a village in the main road (about two miles from Rood Hall), at which he had got out of the coach. He passed through meads and cornfields, and by the skirts of woods which had formerly belonged to his ancestors, but had been long since alienated. He was alone amidst the haunts of his boyhood, the scenes in which he had first invoked the grand Spirit of Knowledge, to bid the Celestial Still One minister to the commands of an earthly and turbulent ambition. He paused often in his path, especially when the undulations of the ground gave a glimpse of the gray church tower, or the gloomy firs that rose above the desolate wastes of Rood.