"My Novel" — Complete

“O Frank, Frank!” wrote Mrs. Hazeldean, “were it not for this, were it only for your unfortunate attachment to the Italian lady, only for your debts, only for the errors of hasty, extravagant youth, I should be with you now, my arms round your neck, kissing you, chiding you back to your father’s heart. But—but the thought that between you and his heart has been the sordid calculation of his death,—that is a wall between us. I cannot come near you. I should not like to look on your face, and think how my William’s tears fell over it, when I placed you, new born, in his arms, and bade him welcome his heir. What! you a mere boy still, your father yet in the prime of life, and the heir cannot wait till nature leaves him fatherless. Frank; Frank this is so unlike you. Can London have ruined already a disposition so honest and affectionate?—No; I cannot believe it. There must be some mistake. Clear it up, I implore you; or, though as a mother I pity you, as a wife I cannot forgive.”

Even Randal was affected by the letter; for, as we know, even Randal felt in his own person the strength of family ties. The poor squire’s choler and bluffness had disguised the parental heart from an eye that, however acute, had not been willing to search for it; and Randal, ever affected through his intellect, had despised the very weakness on which he had preyed. But the mother’s letter, so just and sensible (allowing that the squire’s opinions had naturally influenced the wife to take what men of the world would call a very exaggerated view of the every-day occurrence of loans raised by a son, payable only at a father’s death),—this letter, I say, if exaggerated according to fashionable notions, so sensible if judged by natural affections, touched the dull heart of the schemer, because approved by the quick tact of his intelligence.

“Frank,” said he, with a sincerity that afterwards amazed himself, “go down at once to Hazeldean; see your mother, and explain to her how this transaction really happened. The woman you loved, and wooed as wife, in danger of an arrest, your distraction of mind, Levy’s counsels, your hope to pay off the debt, so incurred to the usurer, from the fortune you would shortly receive with the marchesa. Speak to your mother,—she is a woman; women have a common interest in forgiving all faults that arise from the source of their power over us men,—I mean love. Go!”

“No, I cannot go; you see she would not like to look on my face. And I cannot repeat what you say so glibly. Besides, somehow or other, as I am so dependent upon my father,—and he has said as much,—I feel as if it would be mean in me to make any excuses. I did the thing, and must suffer for it. But I’m a in—an—no—I ‘m not a man here.” Frank burst into tears.

At the sight of those tears, Randal gradually recovered from his strange aberration into vulgar and low humanity. His habitual contempt for his kinsman returned; and with contempt came the natural indifference to the sufferings of the thing to be put to use. It is contempt for the worm that makes the angler fix it on the hook, and observe with complacency that the vivacity of its wriggles will attract the bite. If the worm could but make the angler respect, or even fear it, the barb would find some other bait. Few anglers would impale an estimable silkworm, and still fewer the anglers who would finger into service a formidable hornet.

“Pooh, my—dear Frank,” said Randal; “I have given you my advice; you reject it. Well, what then will you do?”

“I shall ask for leave of absence, and run away some where,” said Frank, drying his tears. “I can’t face London; I can’t mix with others. I want to be by myself, and wrestle with all that I feel here—in my heart. Then I shall write to my mother, say the plain truth, and leave her to judge as kindly of me as she can.”

“You are quite right. Yes, leave town! Why not go abroad? You have never been abroad. New scenes will distract your mind. Run over to Paris.”

“Not to Paris—I don’t want gayeties; but I did intend to go abroad somewhere,—any dull dismal hole of a place. Good-by! Don’t think of me any more for the present.”

“But let me know where you go; and meanwhile I will see the squire.”

“Say as little of me as you can to him. I know you mean most kindly, but oh, how I wish there never had been any third person between me and my father! There: you may well snatch away your hand. What an ungrateful wretch to you I am. I do believe I am the wickedest fellow. What! you shake hands with me still! My dear Randal, you have the best heart—God bless you!” Frank turned away, and disappeared within his dressing-room.

“They must be reconciled now, sooner or later,—squire and son,” said Randal to himself, as he left the lodgings. “I don’t see how I can prevent that,—the marchesa being withdrawn,—unless Frank does it for me. But it is well he should be abroad,—something maybe made out of that; meanwhile I may yet do all that I could reasonably hope to do,—even if Frank had married Beatrice,—since he was not to be disinherited. Get the squire to advance the money for the Thornhill purchase, complete the affair; this marriage with Violante will help; Levy must know that; secure the borough;—well thought of. I will go to Avenel’s. By-the-by, by-the-by, the squire might as well keep me still in the entail after Frank, supposing Frank die childless. This love affair may keep him long from marrying. His hand was very hot,—a hectic colour; those strong-looking fellows often go off in rapid decline, especially if anything preys on their minds,—their minds are so very small.

“Ah, the Hazeldean parson,—and with Avenel! That young man, too, who is he? I have seen him before some where.—My dear Mr. Dale, this is a pleasant surprise. I thought you had returned to Hazeldean with our friend the squire?”

MR. DALE.—“The squire! Has he left town, and without telling me?”

RANDAL (taking aside the parson).—“He was anxious to get back to Mrs. Hazeldean, who was naturally very uneasy about her son and this foolish marriage; but I am happy to tell you that that marriage is effectually and permanently broken off.”

MR. DALE.—“How, how? My poor friend told me he had wholly failed to make any impression on Frank,—forbade me to mention the subject. I was just going to see Frank myself. I always had some influence with him. But, Mr. Leslie, explain this very sudden and happy event. The marriage broken off!”

RANDAL.—“It is a long story, and I dare not tell you my humble share in it. Nay, I must keep that secret. Frank might not forgive me. Suffice it that you have my word that the fair Italian has left England, and decidedly refused Frank’s addresses. But stay, take my advice, don’t go to him; you see it was not only the marriage that has offended the squire, but some pecuniary transactions,—an unfortunate post-obit bond on the Casino property. Frank ought to be left to his own repentant reflections. They will be most salutary; you know his temper,—he don’t bear reproof; and yet it is better, on the other hand, not to let him treat too lightly what has passed. Let us leave him to himself for a few days He is in an excellent frame of mind.”

MR. DALE (shaking Randal’s hand warmly).—“You speak admirably—a post-obit!—so often as he has heard his father’s opinion on such transactions. No, I will not see him; I should be too angry—”

RANDAL (leading the parson back, resumes, after an exchange of salutations with Avenel, who, meanwhile, had been conferring with his nephew).—“You should not be so long away from your rectory, Mr. Dale. What will your parish do without you?”

MR. DALE.—“The old fable of the wheel and the fly. I am afraid the wheel rolls on the same. But if I am absent from my parish, I am still in the company of one who does me honour as an old parishioner. You remember Leonard Fairfield, your antagonist in the Battle of the Stocks?”

MR. AVENEL.—“My nephew, I am proud to say, sir.” Randal bowed with marked civility, Leonard with a reserve no less marked.

MR. AVENEL (ascribing his nephew’s reserve to shyness).—“You should be friends, you two youngsters. Who knows but you may run together in the same harness? Ah, that reminds me, Leslie, I have a word or two to say to you. Your servant, Mr. Dale. Shall be happy to present you to Mrs. Avenel. My card,—Eaton Square, Number —. You will call on me to-morrow, Leonard. And mind, I shall be very angry if you persist in your refusal. Such an opening!” Avenel took Randal’s arm, while the parson and Leonard walked on.

“Any fresh hints as to Lansmere?” asked Randal.

“Yes; I have now decided on the plan of contest. You must fight two and two,—you and Egerton against me and (if I can get him to stand, as I hope) my nephew, Leonard.”

“What!” said Randal, alarmed; “then, after all, I can hope for no support from you?”

“I don’t say that; but I have reason to think Lord L’Estrange will bestir himself actively in favour of Egerton. If so, it will be a very sharp contest; and I must manage the whole election on our side, and unite all our shaky votes, which I can best do by standing myself in the first instance, reserving it to after consideration whether I shall throw up at the last; for I don’t particularly want to come in, as I did a little time ago, before I had found out my nephew. Wonderful young man! with such a head,—will do me credit in the rotten old House; and I think I had best leave London, go to Screwstown, and look to my business. No, if Leonard stand, I roust first see to get him in; and next, to keep Egerton out. It will probably, therefore, end in the return of one and one or either side, as we thought of before,—Leonard on our side; and Egerton sha’n’t be the man on the other. You understand?”

“I do, my dear Avenel. Of course, as I before said, I can’t dictate to your party whom they should prefer,—Egerton or myself. And it will be obvious to the public that your party would rather defeat so eminent an adversary as Mr. Egerton than a tyro in politics like me. Of course I cannot scheme for such a result; it would be misconstrued, and damage my character. But I rely equally on your friendly promise.”

“Promise! No, I don’t promise. I must first see how the cat jumps; and I don’t know yet how our friends may like you, nor how they can be managed. All I can say is, that Audley Egerton sha’n’t be M.P. for Lansmere. Meanwhile, you will take care not to commit yourself in speaking so that our party can’t vote for you consistently; they must count on having you—when you get into the House.”

“I am not a violent party-man at present,” answered Randal, prudently. “And if public opinion prove on your side, it is the duty of a statesman to go with the times.”

“Very sensibly said; and I have a private bill or two, and some other little jobs, I want to get through the House, which we can discuss later, should it come to a frank understanding between us. We must arrange how to meet privately at Lansmere, if necessary. I’ll see to that. I shall go down this week. I think of taking a hint from the free and glorious land of America, and establishing secret caucuses. Nothing like ‘em.”

“Caucuses?”

“Small sub-committees that spy on their men night and day, and don’t suffer them to be intimidated to vote the other way.”

“You have an extraordinary head for public affairs, Avenel. You should come into parliament yourself; your nephew is so very young.”

“So are you.”

“Yes; but I know the world. Does he?”

“The world knows him, though not by name, and he has been the making of me.”

“How? You surprise me.”

Avenel first explained about the patent which Leonard had secured to him; and next confided, upon honour, Leonard’s identity with the anonymous author whom the parson had supposed to be Professor Moss.

Randal Leslie felt a jealous pang. What! then—had this village boy, this associate of John Burley (literary vagabond, whom he supposed had long since gone to the dogs, and been buried at the expense of the parish)—had this boy so triumphed over birth, rearing, circumstance, that, if Randal and Leonard had met together in any public place, and Leonard’s identity with the rising author had been revealed, every eye would have turned from Randal to gaze on Leonard? The common consent of mankind would have acknowledged the supreme royalty of genius when it once leaves its solitude, and strides into the world. What! was this rude villager the child of Fame, who, without an effort, and unconsciously, had inspired in the wearied heart of Beatrice di Negra a love that Randal knew, by an instinct, no arts, no craft, could ever create for him in the heart of woman? And now, did this same youth stand on the same level in the ascent to power as he, the well-born Randal Leslie, the accomplished protege of the superb Audley Egerton? Were they to be rivals in the same arena of practical busy life? Randal gnawed his quivering lip.

All the while, however, the young man whom he so envied was a prey to sorrows deeper far than could ever find room or footing in the narrow and stony heart of the unloving schemer.

As Leonard walked through the crowded streets with the friend and monitor of his childhood, confiding the simple tale of his earlier trials,—when, amidst the wreck of fortune and in despair of fame, the Child-angel smiled by his side, like Hope,—all renown seemed to him so barren, all the future so dark! His voice trembled, and his countenance became so sad, that his benignant listener, divining that around the image of Helen there clung some passionate grief that overshadowed all worldly success, drew Leonard gently and gently on, till the young man, long yearning for some confidant, told him all,—how, faithful through long years to one pure and ardent memory, Helen had been seen once more, the child ripened to woman, and the memory revealing itself as love.

The parson listened with a mild and thoughtful brow, which expanded into a more cheerful expression as Leonard closed his story.

“I see no reason to despond,” said Mr. Dale. “You fear that Miss Digby does not return your attachment; you dwell upon her reserve, her distant, though kindly manner. Cheer up! All young ladies are under the influence of what phrenologists call the organ of Secretiveness, when they are in the society of the object of their preference. Just as you describe Miss Digby’s manner to you, was my Carry’s manner to myself.”

The parson here indulged in a very appropriate digression upon female modesty, which he wound up by asserting that that estimable virtue became more and more influenced by the secretive organ, in proportion as the favoured suitor approached near and nearer to a definite proposal. It was the duty of a gallant and honourable lover to make that proposal in distinct and orthodox form, before it could be expected that a young lady should commit herself and the dignity of her sex by the slightest hint as to her own inclinations.

“Next,” continued the parson, “you choose to torment yourself by contrasting your own origin and fortunes with the altered circumstances of Miss Digby,—the ward of Lord L’Estrange, the guest of Lady Lansmere. You say that if Lord L’Estrange could have countenanced such a union, he would have adopted a different tone with you,—sounded your heart, encouraged your hopes, and so forth. I view things differently. I have reason to do so; and from all you have told me of this nobleman’s interest in your fate, I venture to make you this promise, that if Miss Digby would accept your hand, Lord L’Estrange shall ratify her choice.”

“My dear Mr. Dale,” cried Leonard, transported, “you make me that promise?”

“I do,—from what you have said, and from what I myself know of Lord L’Estrange. Go, then, at once to Knightsbridge, see Miss Digby, show her your heart, explain to her, if you will, your prospects, ask her permission to apply to Lord L’Estrange (since he has constituted himself her guardian); and if Lord L’Estrange hesitate,—which, if your happiness be set on this union, I think he will not,—let me know, and leave the rest to me.”

Leonard yielded himself to the parson’s persuasive eloquence. Indeed, when he recalled to mind those passages in the manuscripts of the ill-fated Nora, which referred to the love that Harley had once borne to her,—for he felt convinced that Harley and the boy suitor of Nora’s narrative were one and the same; and when all the interest that Harley had taken in his own fortunes was explained by his relationship to her (even when Lord L’Estrange had supposed it less close than he would now discover it to be), the young man, reasoning by his own heart, could not but suppose that the noble Harley would rejoice to confer happiness upon the son of her, so beloved by his boyhood.

“And to thee, perhaps, O my mother!” thought Leonard, with swimming eyes—“to thee, perhaps, even in thy grave, I shall owe the partner of my life, as to the mystic breath of thy genius I owe the first pure aspirations of my soul.”

It will be seen that Leonard had not confided to the parson his discovery of Nora’s manuscripts, nor even his knowledge of his real birth; for the proud son naturally shrank from any confidence that implicated Nora’s fair name, until at least Harley, who, it was clear from those papers, must have intimately known his father, should perhaps decide the question which the papers themselves left so terribly vague,—namely, whether he were the offspring of a legal marriage, or Nora had been the victim of some unholy fraud.

While the parson still talked, and while Leonard still mused and listened, their steps almost mechanically took the direction towards Knightsbridge, and paused at the gates of Lord Lansmere’s house.

“Go in, my young friend; I will wait without to know the issue,” said the parson, cheeringly. “Go, and with gratitude to Heaven, learn how to bear the most precious joy that can befall mortal man; or how to submit to youth’s sharpest sorrow, with the humble belief that even sorrow is but some mercy concealed.”

CHAPTER XIII

Leonard was shown into the drawing-room, and it so chanced that Helen was there alone. The girl’s soft face was sadly changed, even since Leonard had seen it last; for the grief of natures mild and undemonstrative as hers, gnaws with quick ravages; but at Leonard’s unexpected entrance, the colour rushed so vividly to the pale cheeks that its hectic might be taken for the lustre of bloom and health. She rose hurriedly, and in great confusion faltered out, “that she believed Lady Lansmere was in her room,—she would go for her,” and moved towards the door, without seeming to notice the hand tremulously held forth to her; when Leonard exclaimed in uncontrollable emotions which pierced to her very heart, in the keen accent of reproach,—

“Oh, Miss Digby—oh, Helen—is it thus that you greet me,—rather thus that you shun me? Could I have foreseen this when we two orphans stood by the mournful bridge,—so friendless, so desolate, and so clinging each to each? Happy time!” He seized her hand suddenly as he spoke the last words, and bowed his face over it.

“I must not hear you. Do not talk so, Leonard, you break my heart. Let me go, let me go!”

“Is it that I am grown hateful to you; is it merely that you see my love and would discourage it? Helen, speak to me,—speak!”

He drew her with tender force towards him; and, holding her firmly by both hands, sought to gaze upon the face that she turned from him,—turned in such despair.

“You do not know,” she said at last, struggling for composure,—“you do not know the new claims on me, my altered position, how I am bound, or you would be the last to speak thus to me, the first to give me courage, and bid me—bid me—”

“Bid you what?”

“Feel nothing here but duty!” cried Helen, drawing from his clasp both her hands, and placing them firmly on her breast.

“Miss Digby,” said Leonard, after a short pause of bitter reflection, in which he wronged, while he thought to divine, her meaning, “you speak of new claims on you, your altered position—I comprehend. You may retain some tender remembrance of the past; but your duty now is to rebuke my presumption. It is as I thought and feared. This vain reputation which I have made is but a hollow sound,—it gives me no rank, assures me no fortune. I have no right to look for the Helen of old in the Helen of to-day. Be it so—forget what I have said, and forgive me.”

This reproach stung to the quick the heart to which it appealed. A flash brightened the meek, tearful eyes, almost like the flash of resentment; her lips writhed in torture, and she felt as if all other pain were light compared with the anguish that Leonard could impute to her motives which to her simple nature seemed so unworthy of her, and so galling to himself.

A word rushed as by inspiration to her lip, and that word calmed and soothed her.

“Brother!” she said touchingly, “brother!”

The word had a contrary effect on Leonard. Sweet as it was, tender as the voice that spoke it, it imposed a boundary to affection, it came as a knell to hope. He recoiled, shook his head mournfully: “Too late to accept that tie,—too late even for friendship. Henceforth—for long years to come—henceforth, till this heart has ceased to beat at your name to thrill at your presence, we two—are strangers.”

“Strangers! Well—yes, it is right—it must be so; we must not meet. Oh, Leonard Fairfield, who was it that in those days that you recall to me, who was it that found you destitute and obscure; who, not degrading you by charity, placed you in your right career; opened to you, amidst the labyrinth in which you were well-nigh lost, the broad road to knowledge, independence, fame? Answer me,—answer! Was it not the same who reared, sheltered your sister orphan? If I could forget what I have owed to him, should I not remember what he has done for you? Can I hear of your distinction, and not remember it? Can I think how proud she may be who will one day lean on your arm, and bear the name you have already raised beyond all the titles of an hour,—can I think of this, and not remember our common friend, benefactor, guardian? Would you forgive me, if I failed to do so?”

“But,” faltered Leonard, fear mingling with the conjectures these words called forth—“but is it that Lord L’Estrange would not consent to our union? Or of what do you speak? You bewilder me.”

Helen felt for some moments as if it were impossible to reply; and the words at length were dragged forth as if from the depth of her very soul.

“He came to me, our noble friend. I never dreamed of it. He did not tell me that he loved me. He told me that he was unhappy, alone; that in me, and only in me, he could find a comforter, a soother—He, he! And I had just arrived in England, was under his mother’s roof, had not then once more seen you; and—and—what could I answer? Strengthen me, strengthen me, you whom I look up to and revere. Yes, yes, you are right. We must see each other no more. I am betrothed to another,—to him! Strengthen me!”

All the inherent nobleness of the poet’s nature rose at once at this appeal.

“Oh, Helen—sister—Miss Digby, forgive me. You need no strength from me; I borrow it from you. I comprehend you, I respect. Banish all thought of me. Repay our common benefactor. Be what he asks of you,—his comforter, his soother; be more,—his pride and his joy. Happiness will come to you, as it comes to those who confer happiness and forget self. God comfort you in the passing struggle; God bless you, in the long years to come. Sister, I accept the holy name now, and will claim it hereafter, when I too can think more of others than myself.”

Helen had covered her face with her hands, sobbing; but with that soft, womanly constraint which presses woe back into the heart. A strange sense of utter solitude suddenly pervaded her whole being, and by that sense of solitude she knew that he was gone.

CHAPTER XIV