"My Novel" — Complete

CHAPTER XIX

When a clever man resolves on a villanous action, he hastens, by the exercise of his cleverness, to get rid of the sense of his villany. With more than his usual alertness, Randal employed the next hour or two in ascertaining how far Baron Levy merited the character he boasted, and how far his word might be his bond. He repaired to young men whom he esteemed better judges on these points than Spendquick and Borrowell,—young men who resembled the Merry Monarch, inasmuch as—

There are many such young men about town,—sharp and able in all affairs except their own. No one knows the world better, nor judges of character more truly, than your half-beggared roue. From all these Baron Levy obtained much the same testimonials: he was ridiculed as a would-be dandy, but respected as a very responsible man of business, and rather liked as a friendly, accommodating species of the Sir Epicure Mammon, who very often did what were thought handsome, liberal things; and, “in short,” said one of these experienced referees, “he is the best fellow going—for a money-lender! You may always rely on what he promises, and he is generally very forbearing and indulgent to us of good society; perhaps for the same reason that our tailors are,—to send one of us to prison would hurt his custom. His foible is to be thought a gentleman. I believe, much as I suppose he loves money, he would give up half his fortune rather than do anything for which we could cut him. He allows a pension of three hundred a year to Lord S——-. True; he was his man of business for twenty years, and before then S——- was rather a prudent fellow, and had fifteen thousand a year. He has helped on, too, many a clever young man,—the best borough-monger you ever knew. He likes having friends in parliament. In fact, of course he is a rogue; but if one wants a rogue, one can’t find a pleasanter. I should like to see him on the French stage,—a prosperous Macaire; Le Maitre could hit him off to the life.”

From information in these more fashionable quarters, gleaned with his usual tact, Randal turned to a source less elevated, but to which he attached more importance. Dick Avenel associated with the baron,—Dick Avenel must be in his clutches. Now Randal did justice to that gentleman’s practical shrewdness. Moreover, Avenel was by profession a man of business. He must know more of Levy than these men of pleasure could; and as he was a plain-spoken person, and evidently honest, in the ordinary acceptation of the word, Randal did not doubt that out of Dick Avenel he should get the truth.

On arriving in Eaton Square, and asking for Mr. Avenel, Randal was at once ushered into the drawing-room. The apartment was not in such good, solid, mercantile taste as had characterized Avenel’s more humble bachelor’s residence at Screwstown. The taste now was the Honourable Mrs. Avenel’s; and, truth to say, no taste could be worse. Furniture of all epochs heterogeneously clumped together,—here a sofa a la renaissance in Gobelin; there a rosewood Console from Gillow; a tall mock-Elizabethan chair in black oak, by the side of a modern Florentine table of Mosaic marbles; all kinds of colours in the room, and all at war with each other; very bad copies of the best-known pictures in the world in the most gaudy frames, and impudently labelled by the names of their murdered originals,—“Raphael,” “Corregio,” “Titian,” “Sebastian del Piombo.” Nevertheless, there had been plenty of money spent, and there was plenty to show for it. Mrs. Avenel was seated on her sofa a la renaissance, with one of her children at her feet, who was employed in reading a new Annual in crimson silk binding. Mrs. Avenel was in an attitude as if sitting for her portrait.

Polite society is most capricious in its adoptions or rejections. You see many a very vulgar person firmly established in the beau monde; others, with very good pretensions as to birth, fortune, etc., either rigorously excluded, or only permitted a peep over the pales. The Honourable Mrs. Avenel belonged to families unquestionably noble, both by her own descent and by her first marriage; and if poverty had kept her down in her earlier career, she now, at least, did not want wealth to back her pretensions. Nevertheless, all the dispensers of fashion concurred in refusing their support to the Honourable Mrs. Avenel. One might suppose it was solely on account of her plebeian husband; but indeed it was not so. Many a woman of high family can marry a low-born man not so presentable as Avenel, and, by the help of his money, get the fine world at her feet. But Mrs. Avenel had not that art. She was still a very handsome, showy woman; and as for dress, no duchess could be more extravagant. Yet these very circumstances had perhaps gone against her ambition; for your quiet little plain woman, provoking no envy, slips into coteries, when a handsome, flaunting lady—whom, once seen in your drawing-room, can be no more over-looked than a scarlet poppy amidst a violet bed—is pretty sure to be weeded out as ruthlessly as a poppy would be in a similar position.

Mr. Avenel was sitting by the fire, rather moodily, his hands in his pockets, and whistling to himself. To say truth, that active mind of his was very much bored in London, at least during the fore part of the day. He hailed Randal’s entrance with a smile of relief, and rising and posting himself before the fire—a coat tail under each arm—he scarcely allowed Randal to shake hands with Mrs. Avenel, and pat the child on the head, murmuring, “Beautiful creature!” (Randal was ever civil to children,—that sort of wolf in sheep’s clothing always is; don’t be taken in, O you foolish young mothers!)—Dick, I say, scarcely allowed his visitor these preliminary courtesies, before he plunged far beyond depth of wife and child into the political ocean. “Things now were coming right,—a vile oligarchy was to be destroyed. British respectability and British talent were to have fair play.” To have heard him you would have thought the day fixed for the millennium! “And what is more,” said Avenel, bringing down the fist of his right hand upon the palm of his left, “if there is to be a new parliament, we must have new men; not worn-out old brooms that never sweep clean, but men who understand how to govern the country, Sir. I INTEND TO COME IN MYSELF!”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Avenel, hooking in a word at last, “I am sure, Mr. Leslie, you will think I did right. I persuaded Mr. Avenel that, with his talents and property, he ought, for the sake of his country, to make a sacrifice; and then you know his opinions now are all the fashion, Mr. Leslie; formerly they would have been called shocking and vulgar!”

Thus saying, she looked with fond pride at Dick’s comely face, which at that moment, however, was all scowl and frown. I must do justice to Mrs. Avenel; she was a weak woman, silly in some things, and a cunning one in others, but she was a good wife as wives go. Scotch women generally are. “Bother!” said Dick. “What do women know about politics? I wish you’d mind the child,—it is crumpling up and playing almighty smash with that flim-flam book, which cost me one pound one.”

Mrs. Avenel submissively bowed her head, and removed the Annual from the hands of the young destructive; the destructive set up a squall, as destructives usually do when they don’t have their own way. Dick clapped his hand to his ears. “Whe-e-ew, I can’t stand this; come and take a walk, Leslie: I want stretching!” He stretched himself as he spoke, first half-way up to the ceiling, and then fairly out of the room.

Randal, with his May Fair manner, turned towards Mrs. Avenel as if to apologize for her husband and himself.

“Poor Richard!” said she, “he is in one of his humours,—all men have them. Come and see me again soon. When does Almack’s open?”

“Nay, I ought to ask you that question,—you who know everything that goes on in our set,” said the young serpent. Any tree planted in “our set,” if it had been but a crab-tree, would have tempted Mr. Avenel’s Eve to jump at its boughs.

“Are you coming, there?” cried Dick, from the foot of the stairs.

CHAPTER XX

“I have just been at our friend Levy’s,” said Randal, when he and Dick were outside the street door. “He, like you, is full of politics; pleasant man,—for the business he is said to do.”

“Well,” said Dick, slowly, “I suppose he is pleasant, but make the best of it—and still—”

“Still what, my dear Avenel?” (Randal here for the first time discarded the formal Mister.)

MR. AVENEL.—“Still the thing itself is not pleasant.”

RANDAL (with his soft hollow laugh).—“You mean borrowing money upon more than five per cent?”

“Oh, curse the percentage. I agree with Bentham on the Usury Laws,—no shackles in trade for me, whether in money or anything else. That’s not it. But when one owes a fellow money even at two per cent, and ‘t is not convenient to pay him, why, somehow or other, it makes one feel small; it takes the British Liberty out of a man!”

“I should have thought you more likely to lend money than to borrow it.”

“Well, I guess you are right there, as a general rule. But I tell you what it is, sir; there is too great a mania for competition getting up in this rotten old country of ours. I am as liberal as most men. I like competition to a certain extent, but there is too much of it, sir,—too much of it.” Randal looked sad and convinced. But if Leonard had heard Dick Avenel, what would have been his amaze? Dick Avenel rail against competition! Think there could be too much of it! “Of course heaven and earth are coming together,” said the spider, when the housemaid’s broom invaded its cobweb. Dick was all for sweeping away other cobwebs; but he certainly thought heaven and earth coming together when he saw a great Turk’s-head besom poked up at his own.

Mr. Avenel, in his genius for speculation and improvement, had established a factory at Screwstown, the first which had ever eclipsed the church spire with its Titanic chimney. It succeeded well at first. Mr. Avenel transferred to this speculation nearly all his capital. “Nothing,” quoth he, “paid such an interest. Manchester was getting worn out,—time to show what Screwstown could do. Nothing like competition.” But by-and-by a still greater capitalist than Dick Avenel, finding out that Screwstown was at the mouth of a coal mine, and that Dick’s profits were great, erected a still uglier edifice, with a still taller chimney. And having been brought up to the business, and making his residence in the town, while Dick employed a foreman and flourished in London, this infamous competitor so managed, first to share, and then gradually to sequester, the profits which Dick had hitherto monopolized, that no wonder Mr. Avenel thought competition should have its limits. “The tongue touches where the tooth aches,” as Dr. Riccabocca would tell us. By little and little our Juvenile Talleyrand (I beg the elder great man’s pardon) wormed out from Dick this grievance, and in the grievance discovered the origin of Dick’s connection with the money-lender.

“But Levy,” said Avenel, candidly, “is a decentish chap in his way,—friendly too. Mrs. A. finds him useful; brings some of your young highflyers to her soirees. To be sure, they don’t dance,—stand all in a row at the door, like mutes at a funeral. Not but what they have been uncommon civil to me lately, Spendquick particularly. By-the-by, I dine with him to-morrow. The aristocracy are behindhand,—not smart, sir, not up to the march; but when a man knows how to take ‘em, they beat the New Yorkers in good manners. I’ll say that for them. I have no prejudice.”

“I never saw a man with less; no prejudice even against Levy.”

“No, not a bit of it! Every one says he’s a Jew; he says he’s not. I don’t care a button what he is. His money is English,—that’s enough for any man of a liberal turn of mind. His charges, too, are moderate. To be sure, he knows I shall pay them; only what I don’t like in him is a sort of way he has of mon-cher-ing and my-good-fellow-ing one, to do things quite out of the natural way of that sort of business. He knows I have got parliamentary influence. I could return a couple of members for Screwstown, and one, or perhaps two, for Lansmere, where I have of late been cooking up an interest; and he dictates to—no, not dictates—but tries to humbug me into putting in his own men. However, in one respect, we are likely to agree. He says you want to come into parliament. You seem a smart young fellow; but you must throw over that stiff red-tapist of yours, and go with Public Opinion, and—Myself.”

“You are very kind, Avenel; perhaps when we come to compare opinions we may find that we agree entirely. Still, in Egerton’s present position, delicacy to him—However, we’ll not discuss that now. But you really think I might come in for Lansmere,—against the L’Estrange interest, too, which must be strong there?”

“It was very strong, but I’ve smashed it, I calculate.”

“Would a contest there cost very much?”

“Well, I guess you must come down with the ready. But, as you say, time enough to discuss that when you have squared your account with ‘delicacy;’ come to me then, and we’ll go into it.”

Randal, having now squeezed his orange dry, had no desire to waste his time in brushing up the rind with his coat-sleeve, so he unhooked his arm from Avenel’s, and, looking at his watch, discovered he should be just in time for an appointment of the most urgent business,—hailed a cab, and drove off.

Dick looked hipped and disconsolate at being left alone; he yawned very loud, to the astonishment of three prim old maiden Belgravians who were passing that way; and then his mind began to turn towards his factory at Screwstown, which had led to his connection with the baron; and he thought over a letter he had received from his foreman that morning, informing him that it was rumoured at Screwstown that Mr. Dyce, his rival, was about to have new machinery on an improved principle; and that Mr. Dyce had already gone up to town, it was supposed, with the intention of concluding a purchase for a patent discovery to be applied to the new machinery, and which that gentleman had publicly declared in the corn-market “would shut up Mr. Avenel’s factory before the year was out.” As this menacing epistle recurred to him, Dick felt his desire to yawn incontinently checked. His brow grew very dark; and he walked, with restless strides, on and on, till he found himself in the Strand. He then got into an omnibus, and proceeded to the city, wherein he spent the rest of the day looking over machines and foundries, and trying in vain to find out what diabolical invention the over-competition of Mr. Dyce had got hold of. “If,” said Dick Avenel to himself, as he returned fretfully homeward—“if a man like me, who has done so much for British industry and go-a-head principles, is to be catawampously champed up by a mercenary, selfish cormorant of a capitalist like that interloping blockhead in drab breeches, Tom Dyce, all I can say is, that the sooner this cursed old country goes to the dogs, the better pleased I shall be. I wash my hands of it.”

CHAPTER XXI

Randal’s mind was made up. All he had learned in regard to Levy had confirmed his resolves or dissipated his scruples. He had started from the improbability that Pesehiera would offer, and the still greater improbability that Peschiera would pay him, L10,000 for such information or aid as he could bestow in furthering the count’s object. But when Levy took such proposals entirely on himself, the main question to Randal became this,—could it be Levy’s interest to make so considerable a sacrifice? Had the baron implied only friendly sentiments as his motives, Randal would have felt sure he was to be taken in; but the usurer’s frank assurance that it would answer to him in the long-run to concede to Randal terms so advantageous, altered the case, and led our young philosopher to look at the affair with calm, contemplative eyes. Was it sufficiently obvious that Levy counted on an adequate return? Might he calculate on reaping help by the bushel if he sowed it by the handful? The result of Randal’s cogitations was that the baron might fairly deem himself no wasteful sower. In the first place, it was clear that Levy, not without reasonable ground, believed that he could soon replace, with exceeding good interest, any sum he might advance to Randal, out of the wealth which Randal’s prompt information might bestow on Levy’s client, the count; and secondly, Randal’s self-esteem was immense, and could he but succeed in securing a pecuniary independence on the instant, to free him from the slow drudgery of the Bar, or from a precarious reliance on Audley Egerton, as a politician out of power, his convictions of rapid triumph in public life were as strong as if whispered by an angel or promised by a fiend. On such triumphs, with all the social position they would secure, Levy might well calculate for repayment by a thousand indirect channels. Randal’s sagacity detected that, through all the good-natured or liberal actions ascribed to the usurer, Levy had steadily pursued his own interests, he saw that Levy meant to get him into his power, and use his abilities as instruments for digging new mines, in which Baron Levy would claim the right of large royalties. But at that thought Randal’s pale lip curled disdainfully; he confided too much in his own powers not to think that he could elude the grasp of the usurer, whenever it suited him to do so. Thus, on a survey, all conscience hushed itself; his mind rushed buoyantly on to anticipations of the future. He saw the hereditary estates regained,—no matter how mortgaged,—for the moment still his own, legally his own, yielding for the present what would suffice for competence to one of few wants, and freeing his name from that title of Adventurer, which is so prodigally given in rich old countries to those who have no estates but their brains. He thought of Violante but as the civilized trader thinks of a trifling coin, of a glass bead, which he exchanges with some barbarian for gold dust; he thought of Frank Hazeldean married to the foreign woman of beggared means, and repute that had known the breath of scandal,—married, and living on post-obit instalments of the Casino property; he thought of the poor squire’s resentment; his avarice swept from the lands annexed to Rood on to the broad fields of Hazeldean; he thought of Avenel, of Lansmere, of parliament; with one hand he grasped fortune, with the next power. “And yet I entered on life with no patrimony (save a ruined hall and a barren waste),—no patrimony but knowledge. I have but turned knowledge from books to men; for books may give fame after death, but men give us power in life.” And all the while he thus ruminated, his act was speeding his purpose. Though it was but in a miserable hack-cab that he erected airy scaffoldings round airy castles, still the miserable hack-cab was flying fast, to secure the first foot of solid ground whereon to transfer the mental plan of the architect to foundations of positive slime and clay. The cab stopped at the door of Lord Lansmere’s house. Randal had suspected Violante to be there: he resolved to ascertain. Randal descended from his vehicle and rang the bell. The lodge-keeper opined the great wooden gates.