"My Novel" — Complete

CHAPTER XVI

As Harley quitted the room, Helen’s pale sweet face looked forth from a door in the same corridor. She advanced towards him timidly.

“May I speak with you?” she said, in almost inaudible accents; “I have been listening for your footstep.”

Harley looked at her steadfastly. Then, without a word, he followed her into the room she had left, and closed the door.

“I, too,” said he, “meant to seek an interview with yourself—but later. You would speak to me, Helen,—say on. Ah, child, what mean you? Why this?”—for Helen was kneeling at his feet.

“Let me kneel,” she said, resisting the hand that sought to raise her. “Let me kneel till I have explained all, and perhaps won your pardon. You said something the other evening. It has weighed on my heart and my conscience ever since. You said ‘that I should have no secret from you; for that, in our relation to each other, would be deceit.’ I have had a secret; but oh, believe me! it was long ere it was clearly visible to myself. You honoured me with a suit so far beyond my birth, my merits. You said that I might console and comfort you. At those words, what answer could I give,—I, who owe you so much more than a daughter’s duty? And I thought that my affections were free,—that they would obey that duty. But—but—but—” continued Helen, bowing her head still lowlier, and in a voice far fainter—“I deceived myself. I again saw him who had been all in the world to me, when the world was so terrible, and then—and then—I trembled. I was terrified at my own memories, my own thoughts. Still I struggled to banish the past, resolutely, firmly. Oh, you believe me, do you not? And I hoped to conquer. Yet ever since those words of yours, I felt that I ought to tell you even of the struggle. This is the first time we have met since you spoke them. And now—now—I have seen him again, and—and—though not by a word could she you had deigned to woo as your bride encourage hope in another; though there—there where you now stand—he bade me farewell, and we parted as if forever,—yet—yet O Lord L’Estrange! in return for your rank, wealth, your still nobler gifts of nature, what should I bring?—Something more than gratitude, esteem; reverence,—at least an undivided heart, filled with your image, and yours alone. And this I cannot give. Pardon me,—not for what I say now, but for not saying it before. Pardon me, O my benefactor, pardon me!”

“Rise, Helen,” said Harley, with relaxing brow, though still unwilling to yield to one softer and holier emotion. “Rise!” And he lifted her up, and drew her towards the light. “Let me look at your face. There seems no guile here. These tears are surely honest. If I cannot be loved, it is my fate, and not your crime. Now, listen to me. If you grant me nothing else, will you give me the obedience which the ward owes to the guardian, the child to the parent?”

“Yes, oh, yes!” murmured Helen.

“Then while I release you from all troth to me, I claim the right to refuse, if I so please it, my assent to the suit of—of the person you prefer. I acquit you of deceit, but I reserve to myself the judgment I shall pass on him. Until I myself sanction that suit, will you promise not to recall in any way the rejection which, if I understand you rightly, you have given to it?”

“I promise.”

“And if I say to you, ‘Helen, this man is not worthy of you ‘”

“No, no! do not say that,—I could not believe you.” Harley frowned, but resumed calmly, “If, then, I say, ‘Ask me not wherefore, but I forbid you to be the wife of Leonard Fairfield, I what would be your answer?’”

“Ah, my Lord, if you can but comfort him, do with me as you will! but do not command me to break his heart.”

“Oh, silly child,” cried Harley, laughing scornfully, “hearts are not found in the race from which that man sprang. But I take your promise, with its credulous condition. Helen, I pity you. I have been as weak as you, bearded man though I be. Some day or other, you and I may live to laugh at the follies at which you weep now. I can give you no other comfort, for I know of none.”

He moved to the door, and paused at the threshold: “I shall not see you again for some days, Helen. Perhaps I may request my mother to join me at Lansmere; if so, I shall pray you to accompany her. For the present, let all believe that our position is unchanged. The time will soon come when I may—”

Helen looked up wistfully through her tears.

“I may release you from all duties to me,” continued Harley, with grave and severe coldness; “or I may claim your promise in spite of the condition; for your lover’s heart will not be broken. Adieu!”

CHAPTER XVII

As Harley entered London, he came suddenly upon Randal Leslie, who was hurrying from Eaton Square, having not only accompanied Mr. Avenel in his walk, but gone home with him, and spent half the day in that gentleman’s society. He was now on his way to the House of Commons, at which some disclosure as to the day for the dissolution of parliament was expected.

“Lord L’Estrange,” said Randal, “I must stop you. I have been to Norwood, and seen our noble friend. He has confided to me, of course, all that passed. How can I express my gratitude to you! By what rare talent, with what signal courage, you have saved the happiness—perhaps even the honour—of my plighted bride!”

“Your bride! The duke, then, still holds to the promise you were fortunate enough to obtain from Dr. Riccabocca?”

“He confirms that promise more solemnly than ever. You may well be surprised at his magnanimity.”

“No; he is a philosopher,—nothing in him can surprise me. But he seemed to think, when I saw him, that there were circumstances you might find it hard to explain.”

“Hard! Nothing so easy. Allow me to tender to you the same explanations which satisfied one whom philosophy itself has made as open to truth as he is clear-sighted to imposture.”

“Another time, Mr. Leslie. If your bride’s father be satisfied, what right have I to doubt? By the way, you stand for Lansmere. Do me the favour to fix your quarters at the Park during the election. You will, of course, accompany Mr. Egerton.”

“You are most kind,” answered Randal, greatly surprised.

“You accept? That is well. We shall then have ample opportunity for those explanations which you honour me by offering; and, to make your visit still more agreeable, I may perhaps induce our friends at Norwood to meet you. Good-day.” Harley walked on, leaving Randal motionless in amaze, but tormented with suspicion. What could such courtesies in Lord L’Estrange portend? Surely no good.

“I am about to hold the balance of justice,” said Harley to himself. “I will cast the light-weight of that knave into the scale. Violante never can be mine; but I did not save her from a Peschiera to leave her to a Randal Leslie. Ha, ha! Audley Egerton has some human feeling,—tenderness for that youth whom he has selected from the world, in which he left Nora’s child to the jaws of Famine. Through that side I can reach at his heart, and prove him a fool like myself, where he esteemed and confided! Good.”

Thus soliloquizing, Lord L’Estrange gained the corner of Bruton Street, when he was again somewhat abruptly accosted.

“My dear Lord L’Estrange, let me shake you by the hand; for Heaven knows when I may see you again, and you have suffered me to assist in one good action.”

“Frank Hazeldean, I am pleased indeed to meet you. Why do you indulge in that melancholy doubt as to the time when I may see you again?”

“I have just got leave of absence. I am not well, and I am rather hipped, so I shall go abroad for a few weeks.”

In spite of himself, the sombre, brooding man felt interest and sympathy in the dejection that was evident in Frank’s voice and countenance. “Another dupe to affection,” thought he, as if in apology to himself,—“of course, a dupe; he is honest and artless—at present.” He pressed kindly on the arm which he had involuntarily twined within his own. “I conceive how you now grieve, my young friend,” said he; “but you will congratulate yourself hereafter on what this day seems to you an affliction.”

“My dear Lord—”

“I am much older than you, but not old enough for such formal ceremony. Pray call me L’Estrange.”

“Thank you; and I should indeed like to speak to you as a friend. There is a thought on my mind which haunts me. I dare say it is foolish enough, but I am sure you will not laugh at me. You heard what Madame di Negra said to me last night. I have been trifled with and misled, but I cannot forget so soon how dear to me that woman was. I am not going to bore you with such nonsense; but from what I can understand, her brother is likely to lose all his fortune; and, even if not, he is a sad scoundrel. I cannot bear the thought that she should be so dependent on him, that she may come to want. After all, there must be good in her,—good in her to refuse my hand if she did not love me. A mercenary woman so circumstanced would not have done that.”

“You are quite right. But do not torment yourself with such generous fears. Madame di Negra shall not come to want, shall not be dependent on her infamous brother. The first act of the Duke of Serrano, on regaining his estates, will be a suitable provision for his kinswoman. I will answer for this.”

“You take a load off my mind. I did mean to ask you to intercede with Riccabocca,—that is, the duke (it is so hard to think he can be a duke!)—I, alas! have nothing in my power to bestow upon Madame di Negra. I may, indeed, sell my commission; but then I have a debt which I long to pay off, and the sale of the commission would not suffice even for that; and perhaps my father might be still more angry if I do sell it. Well, good-by. I shall now go away happy,—that is, comparatively. One must bear things like—a man!”

“I should like, however, to see you again before you go abroad. I will call on you. Meanwhile, can you tell me the number of one Baron Levy? He lives in this street, I know.”

“Levy! Oh, have no dealings with him, I advise, I entreat you! He is the most plausible, dangerous rascal; and, for Heaven’s sake! pray be warned by me, and let nothing entangle you into—a POST-OBIT!”

“Be re-assured, I am more accustomed to lend money than borrow it; and as to a post-obit, I have a foolish prejudice against such transactions.”

“Don’t call it foolish, L’Estrange; I honour you for it. How I wish I had known you earlier—so few men of the world are like you. Even Randal Leslie, who is so faultless in most things, and never gets into a scrape himself, called my own scruples foolish. However—”

“Stay—Randal Leslie! What! He advised you to borrow on a post-obit, and probably shared the loan with you?”

“Oh, no; not a shilling.”

“Tell me all about it, Frank. Perhaps, as I see that Levy is mixed up in the affair, your information may be useful to myself, and put me on my guard in dealing with that popular gentleman.”

Frank, who somehow or other felt himself quite at home with Harley, and who, with all his respect for Randal Leslie’s talents, had a vague notion that Lord L’Estrange was quite as clever, and, from his years and experience, likely to be a safer and more judicious counsellor, was noways loath to impart the confidence thus pressed for.

He told Harley of his debts, his first dealings with Levy, the unhappy post-obit into which he had been hurried by the distress of Madame di Negra; his father’s anger, his mother’s letter, his own feelings of mingled shame and pride, which made him fear that repentance would but seem self-interest, his desire to sell his commission, and let its sale redeem in part the post-obit; in short, he made what is called a clean breast of it. Randal Leslie was necessarily mixed up with this recital; and the subtle cross-questionings of Harley extracted far more as to that young diplomatist’s agency in all these melancholy concerns than the ingenuous narrator himself was aware of.

“So then,” said Harley, “Mr. Leslie assured you of Madame di Negra’s affection, when you yourself doubted of it?”

“Yes; she took him in, even more than she did me.”

“Simple Mr. Leslie! And the same kind friend?—who is related to you, did you say?”

“His grandmother was a Hazeldean.”

“Humph. The same kind relation led you to believe that you could pay off this bond with the marchesa’s portion, and that he could obtain the consent of your parents to your marriage with that lady?”

“I ought to have known better; my father’s prejudices against foreigners and Papists are so strong.”

“And now Mr. Leslie concurs with you, that it is best for you to go abroad, and trust to his intercession with your father. He has evidently, then, gained a great influence over Mr. Hazeldean.”

“My father naturally compares me with him,—he so clever, so promising, so regular in his habits, and I such a reckless scapegrace.”

“And the bulk of your father’s property is unentailed; Mr. Hazeldean might disinherit you?”

“I deserve it. I hope he will.”

“You have no brothers nor sisters,—no relation, perhaps, after your parents, nearer to you than your excellent friend Mr. Randal Leslie?”

“No; that is the reason he is so kind to me, otherwise I am the last person to suit him. You have no idea how well-informed and clever he is,” added Frank, in a tone between admiration and awe.

“My dear Hazeldean, you will take my advice, will you not?”

“Certainly. You are too good.”

“Let all your family, Mr. Leslie included, suppose you to be gone abroad; but stay quietly in England, and within a day’s journey of Lansmere Park. I am obliged to go thither for the approaching election. I may ask you to come over. I think I see a way to serve you; and if so, you will soon hear from me. Now, Baron Levy’s number?”

“That is the house with the cabriolet at the door. How such a fellow can have such a horse!—‘t is out of all keeping!”

“Not at all; horses are high-spirited, generous, unsuspicious animals. They never know if it is a rogue who drives them. I have your promise, then, and you will send me your address?”

“I will. Strange that I feel more confidence in you than I do even in Randal. Do take care of Levy.”

Lord L’Estrange and Frank here shook hands, and Frank, with an anxious groan, saw L’Estrange disappear within the portals of the sleek destroyer.

CHAPTER XVII

Lord L’Estrange followed the spruce servant into Baron Levy’s luxurious study.

The baron looked greatly amazed at his unexpected visitor; but he got up, handed a chair to my Lord with a low bow. “This is an honour,” said he.

“You have a charming abode here,” said Lord L’Estrange, looking round. “Very fine bronzes,—excellent taste. Your reception-rooms above are, doubtless, a model to all decorators?”

“Would your Lordship condescend to see them?” said Levy, wondering, but flattered.

“With the greatest pleasure.”

“Lights!” cried Levy, to the servant who answered his bell. “Lights in the drawing-rooms,—it is growing dark.” Lord L’Estrange followed the usurer upstairs; admired everything,—pictures, draperies, Sevres china, to the very shape of the downy fauteuils, to the very pattern of the Tournay carpets. Reclining then on one of the voluptuous sofas, Lord L’Estrange said smilingly, “You are a wise man: there is no advantage in being rich, unless one enjoys one’s riches.”

“My own maxim, Lord L’Estrange.”

“And it is something, too, to have a taste for good society. Small pride would you have, my dear baron, in these rooms, luxurious though they are, if filled with guests of vulgar exterior and plebeian manners. It is only in the world in which we move that we find persons who harmonize, as it were, with the porcelain of Sevres, and these sofas that might have come from Versailles.”