"My Novel" — Complete
- -
- 100%
- +
“Now, what I want to propose is this: Don’t let the Lansmere interest be beaten; it would vex the old earl,—go to his heart, I am sure.”
Harley nodded.
“And the Lansmere interest need not be beaten, if you’ll put up another man instead of this red-tapist. (Beg pardon.) You see I only want to get in one man, you want to get in another. Why not? Now, there ‘s a smart youth,—connection of Mr. Egerton’s,—Randal Leslie. I have no objection to him, though he is of your colours. Withdraw Mr. Egerton, and I ‘ll withdraw my second man before it comes to the poll; and so we shall halve the borough slick between us. That’s the way to do business,—eh, my Lord?”
“Randal Leslie! Oh, you wish to bring in Mr. Leslie? But he stands with Egerton, not against him.”
“Ah,” said Dick, smiling as if to himself, “so I hear; and we could bring him in over Egerton without saying a word to you. But all our family respect yours, and so I have wished to do the thing handsome and open. Let the earl and your party be content with young Leslie.”
“Young Leslie has spoken to you?”
“Not as to my coming here. Oh, no, that’s a secret,—private and confidential, my Lord. And now, to make matters still more smooth, I propose that my man shall be one to your Lordship’s own heart. I find you have been very kind to my nephew; does you credit, my Lord,—a wonderful young man, though I say it. I never guessed there was so much in him. Yet all the time he was in my house, he had in his desk the very sketch of an invention that is now saving me from ruin,—from positive ruin,—Baron Levy, the King’s Bench, and almighty smash! Now, such a young man ought to be in parliament. I like to bring forward a relation,—that is, when he does one credit; ‘t is human nature and sacred ties—one’s own flesh and blood; and besides, one hand rubs the other, and one leg helps on the other, and relations get on best in the world when they pull together; that is, supposing that they are the proper sort of relations, and pull one on, not down. I had once thought of standing for Lansmere myself,—thought of it very lately. The country wants men like me, I know that; but I have an idea that I had better see to my own business. The country may, or may not, do without me, stupid old thing that she is! But my mill and my new engines—there is no doubt that they cannot do without me. In short, as we are quite alone, and, as I said before, there ‘s no kind of necessity for that sort of humbug which exists when other people are present, provide elsewhere for Mr. Egerton, whom I hate like poison,—I have a right to do that, I suppose, without offence to your Lordship,—and the two younkers, Leonard Fairfield and Randal Leslie, shall be members for the free and independent borough of Lansmere!”
“But does Leonard wish to come into parliament?”
“No, he says not; but that’s nonsense. If your Lordship will just signify your wish that he should not lose this noble opportunity to raise himself in life, and get something handsome out of the nation, I’m sure he owes you too much to hesitate,—‘specially when ‘t is to his own advantage. And besides, one of us Avenels ought to be in parliament; and if I have not the time and learning, and so forth, and he has, why, it stands to reason that he should be the man. And if he can do something for me one day—not that I want anything—but still a baronetcy or so would be a compliment to British Industry, and be appreciated as such by myself and the public at large,—I say, if he could do something of that sort, it would keep up the whole family; and if he can’t, why, I’ll forgive him.”
“Avenel,” said Harley, with that familiar and gracious charm of manner which few ever could resist, “Avenel, if as a great personal favour to myself—to me your fellow-townsman (I was born at Lansmere)—if I asked you to forego your grudge against Audley Egerton, whatever that grudge be, and not oppose his election, while our party would not oppose your nephew’s, could you not oblige me? Come, for the sake of dear Lansmere, and all the old kindly feelings between your family and mine, say ‘yes, so shall it be.’”
Richard Avenel was almost melted. He turned away his face; but there suddenly rose to his recollection the scornful brow of Audley Egerton, the lofty contempt with which he, then the worshipful Mayor of Screwstown, had been shown out of the minister’s office-room; and the blood rushing over his cheeks, he stamped his foot on the floor, and exclaimed angrily, “No; I swore that Audley Egerton should smart for his insolence to me, as sure as my name be Richard Avenel; and all the soft soap in the world will not wash out that oath. So there is nothing for it but for you to withdraw that man, or for me to defeat him. And I would do so, ay,—and in the way that could most gall him,—if it cost me half my fortune. But it will not cost that,” said Dick, cooling, “nor anything like it; for when the popular tide runs in one’s favour, ‘t is astonishing how cheap an election may be. It will cost him enough though, and all for nothing,—worse than nothing. Think of it, my Lord.”
“I will, Mr. Avenel. And I say, in my turn, that my friendship is as strong as your hate; and that if it costs me, not half, but my whole fortune, Audley Egerton shall come in without a shilling of expense to himself, should we once decide that he stand the contest.”
“Very well, my Lord,—very well,” said Dick, stiffly, and drawing on his kid gloves; “we’ll see if the aristocracy is always to ride over the free choice of the people in this way. But the people are roused, my Lord. The March of Enlightenment is commenced, the Schoolmaster is abroad, and the British Lion—”
“Nobody here but ourselves, my dear Avenel. Is not this rather what you call—humbug?”
Dick started, stared, coloured, and then burst out laughing, “Give us your hand again, my Lord. You are a good fellow, that you are. And for your sake—”
“You’ll not oppose Egerton?”
“Tooth and nail, tooth and nail!” cried Dick, clapping his hands to his ears, and fairly running out of the room.
There passed over Harley’s countenance that change so frequent to it,—more frequent, indeed, to the gay children of the world than those of consistent tempers and uniform habits might suppose. There is many a man whom we call friend, and whose face seems familiar to us as our own; yet, could we but take a glimpse of him when we leave his presence, and he sinks back into his chair alone, we should sigh to see how often the smile on the frankest lip is but a bravery of the drill, only worn when on parade.
What thoughts did the visit of Richard Avenel bequeath to Harley? It were hard to define them.
In his place, an Audley Egerton would have taken some comfort from the visit, would have murmured, “Thank Heaven! I have not to present to the world that terrible man as my brother-in-law.” But probably Harley had escaped, in his revery, from Richard Avenel altogether. Even as the slightest incident in the daytime causes our dreams at night, but is itself clean forgotten, so the name, so the look of the visitor, might have sufficed but to influence a vision, as remote from its casual suggester as what we call real life is from that life much more real, that we imagine, or remember, in the haunted chambers of the brain. For what is real life? How little the things actually doing around us affect the springs of our sorrow or joy; but the life which our dulness calls romance,—the sentiment, the remembrance, the hope, or the fear, that are never seen in the toil of our hands, never heard in the jargon on our lips,—from that life all spin, as the spider from its entrails, the web by which we hang in the sunbeam, or glide out of sight into the shelter of home.
“I must not think,” said Harley, rousing himself with a sigh, “either of past or present. Let me hurry on to some fancied future. ‘Happiest are the marriages,’ said the French philosopher, and still says many a sage, ‘in which man asks only the mild companion, and woman but the calm protector.’ I will go to Helen.”
He rose; and as he was about to lock up his escritoire, he remembered the papers which Leonard had requested him to read. He took them from their deposit, with a careless hand, intending to carry them with him to his father’s house. But as his eye fell upon the characters, the hand suddenly trembled, and he recoiled some paces, as if struck by a violent blow. Then, gazing more intently on the writing, a low cry broke from his lips. He reseated himself, and began to read.
CHAPTER XI
Randal—with many misgivings at Lord L’Estrange’s tone, in which he was at no loss to detect a latent irony—proceeded to Norwood. He found Riccabocca exceedingly cold and distant; but he soon brought that sage to communicate the suspicions which Lord L’Estrange had instilled into his mind, and these Randal was as speedily enabled to dispel. He accounted at once for his visits to Levy and Peschiera. Naturally he had sought Levy, an acquaintance of his own,—nay, of Audley Egerton’s,—but whom he knew to be professionally employed by the count. He had succeeded in extracting from the baron Peschiera’s suspicious change of lodgment from Mivart’s Hotel to the purlieus of Leicester Square; had called there on the count, forced an entrance, openly accused him of abstracting Violante; high words had passed between them,—even a challenge. Randal produced a note from a military friend of his, whom he had sent to the count an hour after quitting the hotel. This note stated that arrangements were made for a meeting near Lord’s Cricket Ground, at seven o’clock the next morning. Randal then submitted to Riccabocca another formal memorandum from the same warlike friend, to the purport that Randal and himself had repaired to the ground, and no count had been forthcoming. It must be owned that Randal had taken all suitable precautions to clear himself. Such a man is not to blame for want of invention, if he be sometimes doomed to fail.
“I, then, much alarmed,” continued Randal, “hastened to Baron Levy, who informed me that the count had written him word that he should be for some time absent from England. Rushing thence, in despair, to your friend Lord L’Estrange, I heard that your daughter was safe with you. And though, as I have just proved, I would have risked my life against so notorious a duellist as the count, on the mere chance of preserving Violante from his supposed designs, I am rejoiced to think that she had no need of my unskilful arm. But how and why can the count have left England after accepting a challenge? A man so sure of his weapon, too,—reputed to be as fearless of danger as he is blunt in conscience. Explain,—you who know mankind so well,—explain. I cannot.” The philosopher could not resist the pleasure of narrating the detection and humiliation of his foe, the wit, ingenuity, and readiness of his friend. So Randal learned, by little and little, the whole drama of the preceding night. He saw, then, that the exile had all reasonable hope of speedy restoration to rank and wealth. Violante, indeed; would be a brilliant prize,—too brilliant, perhaps, for Randal, but not to be sacrificed without an effort. Therefore wringing convulsively the hand of his meditated father-in-law, and turning away his head as if to conceal his emotions, the ingenuous young suitor faltered forth that now Dr. Riccabocca was so soon to vanish into the Duke di Serrano, he—Randal Leslie of Rood, born a gentleman, indeed, but of fallen fortunes—had no right to claim the promise which had been given to him while a father had cause to fear for a daughter’s future; with the fear ceased the promise. Alight Heaven bless father and daughter both!
This address touched both the heart and honour of the exile. Randal Leslie knew his man. And though, before Randal’s visit, Riccabocca was not quite so much a philosopher but what he would have been well pleased to have found himself released, by proof of the young man’s treachery, from an alliance below the rank to which he had all chance of early restoration, yet no Spaniard was ever more tenacious of plighted word than this inconsistent pupil of the profound Florentine. And Randal’s probity being now clear to him, he repeated, with stately formalities, his previous offer of Violante’s hand.
“But,” still falteringly sighed the provident and far-calculating Randal—“but your only child, your sole heiress! Oh, might not your consent to such a marriage (if known before your recall) jeopardize your cause? Your lands, your principalities, to devolve on the child of an humble Englishman! I dare not believe it. Ah, would Violante were not your heiress!”
“A noble wish,” said Riccabocca, smiling blandly, “and one that the Fates will realize. Cheer up; Violante will not be my heiress.”
“Ah,” cried Randal, drawing a long breath—“ah, what do I hear?”
“Hist! I shall soon a second time be a father. And, to judge by the unerring researches of writers upon that most interesting of all subjects, parturitive science, I shall be the father of a son. He will, of course, succeed to the titles of Serrano. And Violante—”
“Will have nothing, I suppose?” exclaimed Randal, trying his best to look overjoyed till he had got his paws out of the trap into which he had so incautiously thrust them.
“Nay, her portion by our laws—to say nothing of my affection—would far exceed the ordinary dower which the daughters of London merchants bring to the sons of British peers. Whoever marries Violante, provided I regain my estates, must submit to the cares which the poets assure us ever attend on wealth.”
“Oh!” groaned Randal, as if already bowed beneath the cares, and sympathizing with the poets.
“And now, let me present you to your betrothed.” Although poor Randal had been remorselessly hurried along what Schiller calls the “gamut of feeling,” during the last three minutes, down to the deep chord of despair at the abrupt intelligence that his betrothed was no heiress after all; thence ascending to vibrations of pleasant doubt as to the unborn usurper of her rights, according to the prophecies of parturitive science; and lastly, swelling into a concord of all sweet thoughts at the assurance that, come what might, she would be a wealthier bride than a peer’s son could discover in the matrimonial Potosi of Lombard Street,—still the tormented lover was not there allowed to repose his exhausted though ravished soul. For, at the idea of personally confronting the destined bride—whose very existence had almost vanished from his mind’s eye, amidst the golden showers that it saw falling divinely round her—Randal was suddenly reminded of the exceeding bluntness with which, at their last interview, it had been his policy to announce his suit, and of the necessity of an impromptu falsetto suited to the new variations that tossed him again to and fro on the merciless gamut. However, he could not recoil from her father’s proposition, though, in order to prepare Riccabocca for Violante’s representation, he confessed pathetically that his impatience to obtain her consent and baffle Peschiera had made him appear a rude and presumptuous wooer. The philosopher, who was disposed to believe one kind of courtship to be much the same as another, in cases where the result of all courtships was once predetermined, smiled benignly, patted Randal’s thin cheek, with a “Pooh, pooh, pazzie!” and left the room to summon Violante.
“If knowledge be power,” soliloquized Randal, “ability is certainly good luck, as Miss Edgeworth shows in that story of Murad the Unlucky, which I read at Eton; very clever story it is, too. So nothing comes amiss to me. Violante’s escape, which has cost me the count’s L10,000, proves to be worth to me, I dare say, ten times as much. No doubt she’ll have a hundred thousand pounds at the least. And then, if her father have no other child, after all, or the child he expects die in infancy, why, once reconciled to his Government and restored to his estates, the law must take its usual course, and Violante will be the greatest heiress in Europe. As to the young lady herself, I confess she rather awes me; I know I shall be henpecked. Well, all respectable husbands are. There is something scampish and ruffianly in not being henpecked.” Here Randal’s smile might have harmonized well with Pluto’s “iron tears;” but, iron as the smile was, the serious young man was ashamed of it. “What am I about,” said he, half aloud, “chuckling to myself and wasting time, when I ought to be thinking gravely how to explain away my former cavalier courtship? Such a masterpiece as I thought it then! But who could foresee the turn things would take? Let me think; let me think. Plague on it, here she comes.”
But Randal had not the fine ear of your more romantic lover; and, to his great relief, the exile entered the room unaccompanied by Violante. Riccabocca looked somewhat embarrassed.
“My dear Leslie, you must excuse my daughter to-day; she is still suffering from the agitation she has gone through, and cannot see you.”
The lover tried not to look too delighted.
“Cruel!” said he; “yet I would not for worlds force myself on her presence. I hope, Duke, that she will not find it too difficult to obey the commands which dispose of her hand, and intrust her happiness to my grateful charge.”
“To be plain with you, Randal, she does at present seem to find it more difficult than I foresaw. She even talks of—”
“Another attachment—Oh, heavens!”
“Attachment, pazzie! Whom has she seen? No, a convent! But leave it to me. In a calmer hour she will comprehend that a child must know no lot more enviable and holy than that of redeeming a father’s honour. And now, if you are returning to London, may I ask you to convey to young Mr. Hazeldean my assurances of undying gratitude for his share in my daughter’s delivery from that poor baffled swindler.”
It is noticeable that, now Peschiera was no longer an object of dread to the nervous father, he became but an object of pity to the philosopher, and of contempt to the grandee.
“True,” said Randal, “you told me Frank had a share in Lord L’Estrange’s very clever and dramatic device. My Lord must be by nature a fine actor,—comic, with a touch of melodrame! Poor Frank! apparently he has lost the woman he adored,—Beatrice di Negra. You say she has accompanied the count. Is the marriage that was to be between her and Frank broken off?”
“I did not know such a marriage was contemplated. I understood her to be attached to another. Not that that is any reason why she would not have married Mr. Hazeldean. Express to him my congratulations on his escape.”
“Nay, he must not know that I have inadvertently betrayed his confidence; but you now guess, what perhaps puzzled you before,—namely, how I came to be so well acquainted with the count and his movements. I was so intimate with my relation Frank, and Frank was affianced to the marchesa.”
“I am glad you give me that explanation; it suffices. After all, the marchesa is not by nature a bad woman,—that is, not worse than women generally are, so Harley says, and Violante forgives and excuses her.”
“Generous Violante! But it is true. So much did the marchesa appear to me possessed of fine, though ill-regulated qualities, that I always considered her disposed to aid in frustrating her brother’s criminal designs. So I even said, if I remember right, to Violante.”
Dropping this prudent and precautionary sentence, in order to guard against anything Violante might say as to that subtle mention of Beatrice which had predisposed her to confide in the marchesa, Randal then hurried on, “But you want repose. I leave you the happiest, the most grateful of men. I will give your courteous message to Frank.”
CHAPTER XII
Curious to learn what had passed between Beatrice and Frank, and deeply interested in all that could oust Frank out of the squire’s goodwill, or aught that could injure his own prospects by tending to unite son and father, Randal was not slow in reaching his young kinsman’s lodgings. It might be supposed that having, in all probability, just secured so great a fortune as would accompany Violante’s hand, Randal might be indifferent to the success of his scheme on the Hazeldean exchequer. Such a supposition would grievously wrong this profound young man. For, in the first place, Violante was not yet won, nor her father yet restored to the estates which would defray her dower; and, in the next place, Randal, like Iago, loved villany for the genius it called forth in him. The sole luxury the abstemious aspirer allowed to himself was that which is found in intellectual restlessness. Untempted by wine, dead to love, unamused by pleasure, indifferent to the arts, despising literature save as means to some end of power, Randal Leslie was the incarnation of thought hatched out of the corruption of will. At twilight we see thin airy spectral insects, all wing and nippers, hovering, as if they could never pause, over some sullen mephitic pool. Just so, methinks, hover over Acheron such gnat-like, noiseless soarers into gloomy air out of Stygian deeps, as are the thoughts of spirits like Randal Leslie’s. Wings have they, but only the better to pounce down,—draw their nutriment from unguarded material cuticles; and just when, maddened, you strike, and exulting exclaim, “Caught, by Jove!” wh-irr flies the diaphanous, ghostly larva, and your blow falls on your own twice-offended cheek.
The young men who were acquainted with Randal said he had not a vice! The fact being that his whole composition was one epic vice, so elaborately constructed that it had not an episode which a critic could call irrelevant. Grand young man!
“But, my dear fellow,” said Randal, as soon as he had learned from Frank all that had passed on board the vessel between him and Beatrice, “I cannot believe this. ‘Never loved you’? What was her object, then, in deceiving not only you, but myself? I suspect her declaration was but some heroical refinement of generosity. After her brother’s dejection and probable ruin, she might feel that she was no match for you. Then, too, the squire’s displeasure! I see it all; just like her,—noble, unhappy woman!”
Frank shook his head. “There are moments,” said he, with a wisdom that comes out of those instincts which awake from the depths of youth’s first great sorrow,—“moments when a woman cannot feign, and there are tones in the voice of a woman which men cannot misinterpret. She does not love me,—she never did love me; I can see that her heart has been elsewhere. No matter,—all is over. I don’t deny that I am suffering an intense grief; it gnaws like a kind of sullen hunger; and I feel so broken, too, as if I had grown old, and there was nothing left worth living for. I don’t deny all that.”
“My poor, dear friend, if you would but believe—”
“I don’t want to believe anything, except that I have been a great fool. I don’t think I can ever commit such follies again. But I’m a man. I shall get the better of this; I should despise myself if I could not. And now let us talk of my dear father. Has he left town?”
“Left last night by the mail. You can write and tell him you have given up the marchesa, and all will be well again between you.”
“Give her up! Fie, Randal! Do you think I should tell such a lie? She gave me up; I can claim no merit out of that.”
“Oh, yes! I can make the squire see all to your advantage. Oh, if it were only the marchesa! but, alas! that cursed postobit! How could Levy betray you? Never trust to usurers again; they cannot resist the temptation of a speedy profit.
“They first buy the son, and then sell him to the father. And the squire has such strange notions on matters of this kind.”
“He is right to have them. There, just read this letter from my mother. It came to me this morning. I could hang myself if I were a dog; but I’m a man, and so I must bear it.”
Randal took Mrs. Hazeldean’s letter from Frank’s trembling hand. The poor mother had learned, though but imperfectly, Frank’s misdeeds from some hurried lines which the squire had despatched to her; and she wrote as good, indulgent, but sensible, right-minded mothers alone can write. More lenient to an imprudent love than the squire, she touched with discreet tenderness on Frank’s rash engagements with a foreigner, but severely on his own open defiance of his father’s wishes. Her anger was, however, reserved for that unholy post-obit. Here the hearty genial wife’s love overcame the mother’s affection. To count, in cold blood, on that husband’s death, and to wound his heart so keenly, just where its jealous, fatherly fondness made it most susceptible!