"My Novel" — Complete

CHAPTER XXII

Nothing to Leonard could as yet be more distasteful or oppressive than his share in this memorable election. In the first place, it chafed the secret sores of his heart to be compelled to resume the name of Fairfeld, which was a tacit disavowal of his birth. It had been such delight to him that the same letters which formed the name of Nora should weave also that name of Oran, to which he had given distinction, which he had associated with all his nobler toils, and all his hopes of enduring fame,—a mystic link between his own career and his mother’s obscurer genius. It seemed to him as if it were rendering to her the honours accorded to himself,—subtle and delicate fancy of the affections, of which only poets would be capable, but which others than poets may perhaps comprehend! That earlier name of Fairfield was connected in his memory with all the ruder employments, the meaner trials of his boyhood; the name of Oran, with poetry and fame. It was his title in the ideal world, amongst all fair shapes and spirits. In receiving the old appellation, the practical world, with its bitterness and strife, returned to him as at the utterance of a spell. But in coming to Lansmere he had no choice. To say nothing of Dick, and Dick’s parents with whom his secret would not be safe, Randal Leslie knew that he had gone by the name of Fairfield,—knew his supposed parentage, and would be sure to proclaim them. How account for the latter name without setting curiosity to decipher the anagram it involved, and perhaps guiding suspicion to his birth from Nora, to the injury of her memory, yet preserved from stain?

His feelings as connected with Nora—sharpened and deepened as they all had been by his discovery of her painful narrative-were embittered still more by coming in contact with her parents. Old John was in the same helpless state of mind and body as before,—neither worse nor better; but waking up at intervals with vivid gleams of interest in the election at the wave of a blue banner, at the cry of “Blue forever!” It was the old broken-clown charger, who, dozing in the meadows, starts at the roll of the drum. No persuasions Dick could employ would induce his father to promise to vote even one Yellow. You might as well have expected the old Roman, with his monomaniac cry against Carthage, to have voted for choosing Carthaginians for consuls. But poor John, nevertheless, was not only very civil, but very humble to Dick,—“very happy to oblige the gentleman.”

“Your own son!” bawled Dick; “and here is your own grandson.”

“Very happy to serve you both; but you see you are the wrong colour.”

Then as he gazed at Leonard, the old man approached him with trembling knees, stroked his hair, looked into his face, piteously. “Be thee my grandson?” he faltered. “Wife, wife, Nora had no son, had she? My memory begins to fail me, sir; pray excuse it; but you have a look about the eyes that—” Old John began to weep, and his wife led him away.

“Don’t come again,” she said to Leonard, harshly, when she returned. “He’ll not sleep all night now.” And then, observing that the tears stood in Leonard’s eyes, she added, in softened tones, “I am glad to see you well and thriving, and to hear that you have been of great service to my son Richard, who is a credit and an honour to the family, though poor John cannot vote for him or for you against his conscience; and he should not be asked,” she added, firing up; “and it is a sin to ask it, and he so old, and no one to defend him but me. But defend him I will while I have life!”

The poet recognized woman’s brave, loving, wife-like heart here, and would have embraced the stern grandmother, if she had not drawn back from him; and, as she turned towards the room to which she had led her husband, she said over her shoulder,—

“I’m not so unkind as I seem, boy; but it is better for you, and for all, that you should not come to this house again,—better that you had not come into the town.”

“Fie, Mother!” said Dick, seeing that Leonard, bending his head, silently walked from the room. “You should be prouder of your grandson than you are of me.”

“Prouder of him who may shame us all yet?”

“What do you mean?”

But Mrs. Avenel shook her head and vanished.

“Never mind her, poor old soul,” said Dick, as he joined Leonard at the threshold; “she always had her tempers. And since there is no vote to be got in this house, and one can’t set a caucus on one’s own father,—at least in this extraordinary rotten and prejudiced old country, which is quite in its dotage,—we’ll not come here to be snubbed any more. Bless their old hearts, nevertheless!”

Leonard’s acute sensibility in all that concerned his birth, deeply wounded by Mrs. Avenel’s allusions, which he comprehended better than his uncle did, was also kept on the edge by the suspense to which he was condemned by Harley’s continued silence as to the papers confided to that nobleman. It seemed to Leonard almost unaccountable that Harley should have read those papers, be in the same town with himself, and yet volunteer no communication. At length he wrote a few lines to Lord L’Estrange, bringing the matter that concerned him so deeply before Harley’s recollection, and suggesting his own earnest interest in any information that could supply the gaps and omissions of the desultory fragments. Harley, in replying to this note, said, with apparent reason, “that it would require a long personal interview to discuss the subject referred to, and that such an interview, in the thick of the contest between himself and a candidate opposed to the Lansmere party, would be sure to get wind, be ascribed to political intrigues, be impossible otherwise to explain, and embarrass all the interests confided to their respective charge. That for the rest, he had not been unmindful of Leonard’s anxiety, which must now mainly be to see justice done to the dead parent, and learn the name, station, and character of the parent yet surviving. And in this Harley trusted to assist him as soon as the close of the poll would present a suitable occasion.” The letter was unlike Harley’s former cordial tone: it was hard and dry. Leonard respected L’Estrange too much to own to himself that it was unfeeling. With all his rich generosity of nature, he sought excuses for what he declined to blame. Perhaps something in Helen’s manner or words had led Harley to suspect that she still cherished too tender an interest in the companion of her childhood; perhaps under this coldness of expression there lurked the burning anguish of jealousy. And, oh, Leonard so well understood, and could so nobly compassionate even in his prosperous rival, that torture of the most agonizing of human passions, in which all our reasonings follow the distorted writhings of our pain.

And Leonard himself, amidst his other causes of disquiet, was at once so gnawed and so humbled by his own jealousy. Helen, he knew, was still under the same roof as Harley. They, the betrothed, could see each other daily, hourly. He would soon hear of their marriage. She would be borne afar from the very sphere of his existence,—carried into a loftier region, accessible only to his dreams. And yet to be jealous of one to whom both Helen and himself were under such obligations debased him in his own esteem,—jealousy here was so like ingratitude. But for Harley, what could have become of Helen, left to his boyish charge,—he who had himself been compelled, in despair, to think of sending her from his side, to be reared into smileless youth in his mother’s humble cottage, while he faced famine alone, gazing on the terrible river, from the bridge by which he had once begged for very alms,—begged of that Audley Egerton to whom he was now opposed as an equal; or flying from the fiend that glared at him under the lids of the haunting Chatterton? No, jealousy here was more than agony,—it was degradation, it was crime! But, all! if Helen were happy in these splendid nuptials! Was he sure even of that consolation? Bitter was the thought either way,—that she should wholly forget him, in happiness from which he stood excluded as a thing of sin; or sinfully herself remember, and be wretched!

With that healthful strength of will which is more often proportioned to the susceptibility of feeling than the world suppose, the young man at last wrenched himself for awhile from the iron that had entered into his soul, and forced his thoughts to seek relief in the very objects from which they otherwise would have the most loathingly recoiled. He aroused his imagination to befriend his reason; he strove to divine some motive not explained by Harley, not to be referred to the mere defeat, by counter-scheme, of the scheming Randal, nor even to be solved by any service to Audley Egerton, which Harley might evolve from the complicated meshes of the election,—some motive that could more interest his own heart in the contest, and connect itself with Harley’s promised aid in clearing up the mystery of his parentage. Nora’s memoir had clearly hinted that his father was of rank and station far beyond her own. She had thrown the glow of her glorious fancies over the ambition and the destined career of the lover in whom she had merged her ambition as poetess, and her career as woman. Possibly the father might be more disposed to own and to welcome the son, if the son could achieve an opening, and give promise of worth, in that grand world of public life in which alone reputation takes precedence of rank. Possibly, too, if the son thus succeeded, and became one whom a proud father could with pride acknowledge, possibly he might not only secure a father’s welcome, but vindicate a mother’s name. This marriage, which Nora darkly hinted she had been led to believe was fraudulent, might, after all, have been legal,—the ceremony concealed, even till now, by worldly shame at disparity of rank. But if the son could make good his own footing—there where rank itself owned its chiefs in talent—that shame might vanish. These suppositions were not improbable; nor were they uncongenial to Leonard’s experience of Harley’s delicate benignity of purpose. Here, too, the image of Helen allied itself with those of his parents, to support his courage and influence his new ambition. True, that she was lost to him forever. No worldly success, no political honours, could now restore her to his side. But she might hear him named with respect in those circles in which alone she would hereafter move, and in which parliamentary reputation ranks higher than literary fame. And perhaps in future years, when love, retaining its tenderness, was purified from its passion, they might thus meet as friends. He might without a pang take her children on his knees, and say, perhaps in their old age, when he had climbed to a social equality even with her high-born lord, “It was the hope to regain the privilege bestowed on our childhood, that strengthened me to seek distinction when you and happiness forsook my youth.” Thus regarded, the election, which had before seemed to him so poor and vulgar an exhibition of vehement passions for petty objects, with its trumpery of banners and its discord of trumpets, suddenly grew into vivid interest, and assumed dignity and importance. It is ever thus with all mortal strife. In proportion as it possesses, or is void of, the diviner something that quickens the pulse of the heart, and elevates the wing of the imagination, it presents a mockery to the philosopher, or an inspiration to the bard. Feel that something, and no contest is mean! Feel it not, and, like Byron, you may class with the slaughter of Cannae that field which, at Waterloo, restored the landmarks of nations; or may jeer with Juvenal at the dust of Hannibal, because he sought to deliver Carthage from ruin, and free a world from Rome.

CHAPTER XXIII

Once then, grappling manfully with the task he had undertaken, and constraining himself to look on what Riccabocca would have called “the southern side of things,” whatever there was really great in principle or honourable to human nature, deep below the sordid details and pitiful interests apparent on the face of the agitated current, came clear to his vision. The ardour of those around him began to be contagious: the generous devotion to some cause apart from self, which pervades an election, and to which the poorest voter will often render sacrifices that may be called sublime; the warm personal affection which community of zeal creates for the defender of beloved opinions,—all concurred to dispel that indifference to party politics, and counteract that disgust of their baser leaven, which the young poet had first conceived. He even began to look with complacency, for itself, on a career of toil and honours strange to his habitual labours and intellectual ambition. He threw the poetry of idea within him (as poets ever do) into the prose of action to which he was hurried forward. He no longer opposed Dick Avenel when that gentleman represented how detrimental it would be to his business at Screwstown if he devoted to his country the time and the acumen required by his mill and its steamengine; and how desirable it would be, on all accounts, that Leonard Fairfield should become the parliamentary representative of the Avenels. “If, therefore,” said Dick, “two of us cannot come in, and one must retire, leave it to me to arrange with the Committee that you shall be the one to persist. Oh, never fear but what all scruples of honour shall be satisfied. I would not for the sake of the Avenels have a word said against their representative.”

“But,” answered Leonard, “if I grant this, I fear that you have some intention of suffering the votes that your resignation would release to favour Leslie at the expense of Egerton.”

“What the deuce is Egerton to you?”

“Nothing, except through my gratitude to his friend Lord L’Estrange.”

“Pooh! I will tell you a secret. Levy informs me privately that L’Estrange will be well satisfied if the choice of Lansmere fall upon Leslie instead of Egerton; and I think I convinced my Lord—for I saw him in London—that Egerton would have no chance, though Leslie might.”

“I must think that Lord L’Estrange would resist to the utmost any attempt to prefer Leslie—whom he despises—to Egerton, whom he honours. And, so thinking, I too would resist it, as you may judge by the speeches which have so provoked your displeasure.”

“Let us cut short a yarn of talk which, when it comes to likings and dislikings, might last to almighty crack: I’ll ask you to do nothing that Lord L’Estrange does not sanction. Will that satisfy you?”

“Certainly, provided I am assured of the sanction.”

And now, the important day preceding the poll, the day in which the candidates were to be formally nominated, and meet each other in all the ceremony of declared rivalship, dawned at last. The town-hall was the place selected for the occasion; and before sunrise, all the streets were resonant with music, and gay with banners.

Audley Egerton felt that he could not—without incurring some just sarcasm on his dread to face the constituency he had formerly represented, and by the malcontents of which he had been burned in effigy—absent himself from the townhall, as he had done from balcony and hostel. Painful as it was to confront Nora’s brother, and wrestle in public against all the secret memories that knit the strife of the present contest with the anguish that recalled the first,—still the thing must be done; and it was the English habit of his life to face with courage whatever he had to do.

CHAPTER XXIV

The chiefs of the Blue party went in state from Lansmere Park; the two candidates in open carriages, each attended with his proposer and seconder. Other carriages were devoted to Harley and Levy, and the principal members of the Committee. Riccabocca was seized with a fit of melancholy or cynicism, and declined to join the procession. But just before they started, as all were assembling without the front door, the postman arrived with his welcome bag. There were letters for Harley, some for Levy, many for Egerton, one for Randal Leslie.

Levy, soon hurrying over his own correspondence, looked, in the familiar freedom wherewith he usually treated his particular friends, over Randal’s shoulder.

“From the squire?” said he. “Ah, he has written at last! What made him delay so long? Hope he relieves your mind?”

“Yes,” cried Randal, giving way to a joy that rarely lighted up his close and secret countenance,—“yes, he does not write from Hazeldean,—not there when my letter arrived, in London, could not rest at the Hall,—the place reminded him too much of Frank;—went again to town, on the receipt of my first letter concerning the rupture of the marriage, to see after his son, and take up some money to pay off his post-obit. Read what he says:—

“‘So, while I was about a mortgage—never did I guess that I should be the man to encumber the Hazeldean estate—I thought I might as well add L20,000 as L10,000 to the total. Why should you be indebted at all to that Baron Levy? Don’t have dealings with moneylenders. Your grandmother was a Hazeldean; and from a Hazeldean you shall have the whole sum required in advance for those Rood lands,— good light soil some of them. As to repayment, we’ll talk of that later. If Frank and I come together again, as we did of old, why, my estates will be his some day, and he’ll not grudge the mortgage, so fond as he always was of you; and if we don’t come together, what do I care for hundreds or thousands, either more or less? So I shall be down at Lansmere the day after to-morrow, just in the thick of your polling. Beat the manufacturer, my boy, and stick up for the land. Tell Levy to have all ready. I shall bring the money down in good bank-notes, and a brace of pistols in my coat pocket to take care of them in ease robbers get scent of the notes and attack me on the road, as they did my grandfather sixty years ago, come next Michaelmas. A Lansmere election puts one in mind of pistols. I once fought a duel with an officer in his Majesty’s service, R.N., and had a ball lodged in my right shoulder, on account of an election at Lansmere; but I have forgiven Audley his share in that transaction. Remember me to him kindly. Don’t get into a duel yourself; but I suppose manufacturers don’t fight,—not that I blame them for that—far from it.’”

The letter then ran on to express surprise, and hazard conjecture, as to the wealthy marriage which Randal had announced as a pleasing surprise to the squire.

“Well,” said Levy, returning the letter, “you must have written as cleverly as you talk, or the squire is a booby indeed.”

Randal smiled, pocketed his letter, and responding to the impatient call of his proposer, sprang lightly into the carriage.

Harley, too, seemed pleased with the letters delivered to himself, and now joined Levy, as the candidates drove slowly off.

“Has not Mr. Leslie received from the squire an answer to that letter of which you informed me?”

“Yes, my Lord, the squire will be here to-morrow.”

“To-morrow? Thank you for apprising me; his rooms shall be prepared.”

“I suppose he will only stay to see Leslie and myself, and pay the money.”

“Aha! Pay the money. Is it so, then?”

“Twice the sum, and, it seems, as a gift, which Leslie only asked as a loan. Really, my Lord, Mr. Leslie is a very clever man; and though I am at your commands, I should not like to injure him. With such matrimonial prospects, he could be a very powerful enemy; and if he succeed in parliament, still more so.”

“Baron, these gentlemen are waiting for you. I will follow by myself.”

CHAPTER XXV

In the centre of the raised platform in the town-hall sat the mayor. On either hand of that dignitary now appeared the candidates of the respective parties,—to his right, Audley Egerton and Leslie; to his left, Dick Avenel and Leonard.

The place was as full as it could hold. Rows of grimy faces peeped in, even from the upper windows outside the building. The contest was one that created intense interest, not only from public principles, but local passions. Dick Avenel, the son of a small tradesman, standing against the Right Honourable Audley Egerton, the choice of the powerful Lansmere aristocratic party,—standing, too, with his nephew by his side; taking, as he himself was wont to say, “the tarnation Blue Bull by both its oligarchical horns!”—there was a pluck and gallantry in the very impudence of the attempt to convert the important borough—for one member of which a great earl had hitherto striven, “with labour dire and weary woe” into two family seats for the House of Avenel and the triumph of the Capelocracy.

This alone would have excited all the spare passions of a country borough; but, besides this, there was the curiosity that attached to the long-deferred public appearance of a candidate so renowned as the ex-minister,—a man whose career had commenced with his success at Lansmere, and who now, amidst the popular tempest that scattered his colleagues, sought to refit his vessel in the same harbour from which it had first put forth. New generations had grown up since the name of Audley Egerton had first fluttered the dovecotes in that Corioli. The questions that had then seemed so important were, for the most part, settled and at rest. But those present who remembered Egerton in the former day, were struck to see how the same characteristics of bearing and aspect which had distinguished his early youth revived their interest in the mature and celebrated man. As he stood up for a few moments, before he took his seat beside the mayor, glancing over the assembly, with its uproar of cheers and hisses, there was the same stately erectness of form and steadfastness of look, the same indefinable and mysterious dignity of externals, that imposed respect, confirmed esteem, or stilled dislike. The hisses involuntarily ceased.

The preliminary proceedings over, the proposers and seconders commenced their office.

Audley was proposed, of course, by the crack man of the party,—a gentleman who lived on his means in a white house in the High Street, had received a University education, and was a cadet of a “County Family.” This gentleman spoke much about the Constitution, something about Greece and Rome; compared Egerton with William Pitt, also with Aristides; and sat down, after an oration esteemed classical by the few, and pronounced prosy by the many. Audley’s seconder, a burly and important maltster, struck a bolder key. He dwelt largely upon the necessity of being represented by gentlemen of wealth and rank, and not by “upstarts and adventurers.” (Cheers and groans.) “Looking at the candidates on the other side, it was an insult to the respectability of Lansmere to suppose its constituents could elect a man who had no pretensions whatever to their notice, except that he had once been a little boy in the town, in which his father kept a shop,—and a very noisy, turbulent, dirty little boy he was!” Dick smoothed his spotless shirt-front, and looked daggers, while the Blues laughed heartily, and the Yellows cried “Shame!” “As for the other candidate on the same side, he [the maltster] had nothing to say against him.—He was, no doubt, seduced into presumption by his uncle and his own inexperience. It was said that that candidate, Mr. Fairfield, was an author and a poet; if so, he was unknown to fame, for no bookseller in the town had ever even heard of Mr. Fairfield’s works. Then it was replied Mr. Fairfield had written under another name. What would that prove? Either that he was ashamed of his name, or that the works did him no credit. For his part, he [the maltster] was an Englishman; he did not like anonymous scribblers; there was something not right in whatever was concealed. A man should never be afraid to put his name to what he wrote. But grant that Mr. Fairfield was a great author and a great poet, what the borough of Lansinere wanted was, not a member who would pass his time in writing sonnets to Peggy or Moggy, but a practical man of business,—a statesman,—such a man as Mr. Audley Egerton, a gentleman of ancient birth, high standing, and princely fortune. The member for such a place as Lansmere should have a proper degree of wealth.” (“Hear, hear!” from the Hundred and Fifty Hesitators, who all stood in a row at the bottom of the hall; and “Gammon!” “Stuff!” from some revolutionary but incorruptible Yellows.) Still the allusion to Egerton’s private fortune had considerable effect with the bulk of the audience, and the maltster was much cheered on concluding. Mr. Avenel’s proposer and seconder—the one a large grocer, the other the proprietor of a new shop for ticketed prints, shawls, blankets, and counterpanes,—a man, who, as he boasted, dealt with the People for ready money, and no mistake, at least none that he ever rectified—next followed. Both said much the same thing. Mr. Avenel had made his fortune by honest industry, was a fellow-townsman, must know the interests of the town better than strangers, upright public principles, never fawn on governments, would see that the people had their rights, and cut down army, navy, and all other jobs of a corrupt aristocracy, etc. Randal Leslie’s proposer, a captain on half-pay, undertook a long defence of army and navy, from the unpatriotic aspersions of the preceding speakers, which defence diverted him from the due praise of Randal, until cries of “Cut it short,” recalled him to that subject; and then the topics he selected for eulogium were “amiability of character, so conspicuous in the urbane manners of his young friend;” “coincidence in the opinions of that illustrious statesman with whom he was conjoined;” “early tuition in the best principles; only fault, youth,—and that was a fault which would diminish every day.” Randal’s seconder was a bluff yeoman, an outvoter of weight with the agricultural electors. He was too straightforward by half,—adverted to Audley Egerton’s early desertion of questions espoused by landed interest, hoped he had had enough of the large towns; and he (the yeoman) was ready to forgive and forget, but trusted that there would be no chance of burning their member again in effigy. As to the young gentleman, whose nomination he had the pleasure to second, did not know much about him; but the Leslies were an old family in the neighbouring county, and Mr. Leslie said he was nearly related to Squire Hazeldean,—as good a man as ever stood upon shoe leather. He (the yeoman) liked a good breed in sheep and bullocks; and a good breed in men he supposed was the same thing. He (the yeoman) was not for abuses,—he was for King and Constitution. He should have no objection, for instance, to have tithes lowered, and the malt-tax repealed,—not the least objection. Mr. Leslie seemed to him a likely young chap, and uncommon well-spoken; and, on the whole, for aught he (the yeoman) could see, would do quite as well in parliament as nine-tenths of the gentlemen sent there. The yeoman sat down, little cheered by the Blues, much by the Yellows, and with a dim consciousness that somehow or other he had rather damaged than not the cause of the party he had been chosen to advocate. Leonard was not particularly fortunate in his proposer, a youngish gentleman, who, having tried various callings, with signal unsuccess, had come into a small independence, and set up for a literary character. This gentleman undertook the defence of poets, as the half-pay captain had undertaken that of the army and navy; and after a dozen sentences spoken through the nose, about the “moonlight of existence,” and “the oasis in the desert,” suddenly broke down, to the satisfaction of his impatient listeners. This failure was, however, redeemed by Leonard’s seconder, a master tailor, a practised speaker and an earnest, thinking man, sincerely liking and warmly admiring Leonard Fairfield. His opinions were delivered with brief simplicity, and accompanied by expressions of trust in Leonard’s talents and honesty, that were effective, because expressed with feeling.