Audley Egerton stands on his hearth alone. During the short interval
that has elapsed since we last saw him, events had occurred memorable in
English history, wherewith we have nought to do in a narrative
studiously avoiding all party politics even when treating of
politicians. The new Ministers had stated the general programme of their
policy, and introduced one measure in especial that had lifted them at
once to the dizzy height of popular power. But it became clear that this
measure could not be carried without a fresh appeal to the people. A
dissolution of Parliament, as Audley’s sagacious experience had
foreseen, was inevitable. And Audley Egerton had no chance of return for
his own seat—for the great commercial city identified with his name. Oh
sad, but not rare, instance of the mutabilities of that same popular
favour now enjoyed by his successors! The great commoner, the weighty
speaker, the expert man of business, the statesman who had seemed a type
of the practical steady sense for which our middle class is renowned—he
who, not three years since, might have had his honoured choice of the
largest popular constituencies in the kingdom—he, Audley Egerton, knew
not one single town (free from the influences of private property or
interest) in which the obscurest candidate, who bawled out for the new
popular measure, would not have beaten him hollow. Where one popular
hustings, on which that grave sonorous voice that had stilled so often
the roar of faction, would not be drowned amidst the hoots of the
scornful mob?
True, what were called the close boroughs still existed—true, many a
chief of his party would have been too proud of the honour of claiming
Audley Egerton for his nominee. But the ex-Minister’s haughty soul
shrunk from this contrast to his past position. And to fight against the
popular measure, as member of one of the seats most denounced by the
people,—he felt it was a post in the grand army of parties below his
dignity to occupy, and foreign to his peculiar mind, which required the
sense of consequence and station. And if, in a few months, these seats
were swept away—were annihilated from the rolls of Parliament—where was
he? Moreover, Egerton, emancipated from the trammels that had bound his
will while his party was in office, desired, in the turn of events, to
be nominee of no other man—desired to stand at least freely and singly
on the ground of his own services, be guided by his own penetration; no
law for action, but his strong sense and his stout English heart.
Therefore he had declined all offers from those who could still bestow
seats in Parliament. Those he could purchase with hard gold were yet
open to him. And the £5000 he had borrowed from Levy were yet untouched.
To this lone public man, public life, as we have seen, was the all in
all. But now more than ever it was vital to his very wants. Around him
yawned ruin. He knew that it was in Levy’s power at any moment to
foreclose on his mortgaged lands—to pour in the bonds and the bills
which lay within those rosewood receptacles that lined the fatal lair of
the sleek usurer—to seize on the very house in which now moved all the
pomp of a retinue that vied with the _valetaille_ of dukes—to advertise
for public auction, under execution, “the costly effects of the Right
Hon. Audley Egerton.” But, consummate in his knowledge of the world,
Egerton felt assured that Levy would not adopt these measures against
him while he could still tower in the van of political war—while he
could still see before him the full chance of restoration to power,
perhaps to power still higher than before—perhaps to power the highest
of all beneath the throne. That Levy, whose hate he divined, though he
did not conjecture all its causes, had hitherto delayed even a visit,
even a menace, seemed to him to show that Levy still thought him one “to
be helped,” or, at least, one too powerful to crush. To secure his
position in Parliament unshackled, unfallen, if but for another
year,—new combinations of party might arise, new reactions take place,
in public opinion! And, with his hand pressed to his heart, the stern
firm man muttered,—“If not, I ask but to die in my harness, and that men
may not know that I am a pauper, until all that I need from my country
is a grave.”
Scarce had these words died upon his lips ere two quick knocks in
succession resounded at the street door. In another moment Harley
entered, and, at the same time, the servant in attendance approached
Audley, and announced Baron Levy.
“Beg the Baron to wait, unless he would prefer to name his own hour to
call again,” answered Egerton, with the slightest possible change of
colour. “You can say I am now with Lord L’Estrange.”
“I had hoped you had done for ever with that deluder of youth,” said
Harley, as soon as the groom of the chambers had withdrawn. “I remember
that you saw too much of him in the gay time, ere wild oats are sown;
but now surely you can never need a loan; and if so, is not Harley
L’Estrange by your side?”
EGERTON.—“My dear Harley!—doubtless he but comes to talk to me of some
borough. He has much to do with those delicate negotiations.”
HARLEY.—“And I have come on the same business. I claim the priority. I
not only hear in the world, but I see by the papers, that Josiah
Jenkins, Esq., known to fame as an orator who leaves out his h’s, and
young Lord Willoughby Whiggolin, who is just now made a Lord of the
Admiralty, because his health is too delicate for the army, are certain
to come in for the city which you and your present colleague will as
certainly vacate. That is true, is it not?”
EGERTON.—“My old committee now vote for Jenkins and Whiggolin. And I
suppose there will not be even a contest. Go on.”
“So my father and I are agreed that you must condescend, for the sake of
old friendship, to be once more member for Lansmere!”
“Harley,” exclaimed Egerton, changing countenance far more than he had
done at the announcement of Levy’s portentous visit—“Harley—No, no!”
“No! But why? Wherefore such emotion?” asked L’Estrange, in surprise.
Audley was silent.
HARLEY.—“I suggested the idea to two or three of the late Ministers;
they all concur in advising you to accede. In the first place, if
declining to stand for the place which tempted you from Lansmere, what
more natural than that you should fall back on that earlier
representation? In the second place, Lansmere is neither a rotten
borough, to be bought, nor a close borough, under one man’s nomination.
It is a tolerably large constituency. My father, it is true, has
considerable interest in it, but only what is called the legitimate
influence of property. At all events, it is more secure than a contest
for a larger town, more dignified than a seat for a smaller. Hesitating
still? Even my mother entreats me to say how she desires you to renew
that connection.”
“Harley,” again exclaimed Egerton; and, fixing upon his friend’s
earnest face, eyes which, when softened by emotion, were strangely
beautiful in their expression—“Harley, if you could but read my heart
at this moment, you would—you would—” His voice faltered, and he
fairly bent his proud head upon Harley’s shoulder; grasping the hand
he had caught, nervously, clingingly—“Oh Harley, if I ever lose your
love, your friendship!—nothing else is left to me in the world.”
“Audley, my dear dear Audley, is it you who speak to me thus? You, my
school friend, my life’s confidant—you?”
“I am grown very weak and foolish,” said Egerton, trying to smile. “I do
not know myself. I, too, whom you have so often called ‘Stoic,’ and
likened to the Iron Man in the poem which you used to read by the
riverside at Eton.”
“But even then, my Audley, I knew that a warm human heart (do what you
would to keep it down) beat strong under the iron ribs. And I often
marvel now, to think you have gone through life so free from the wilder
passions. Happier so!”
Egerton, who had turned his face from his friend’s gaze, remained silent
for a few moments, and he then sought to divert the conversation, and
roused himself to ask Harley how he had succeeded in his views upon
Beatrice, and his watch on the Count.
“With regard to Peschiera,” answered Harley, “I think we must have
overrated the danger we apprehended, and that his wagers were but an
idle boast. He has remained quiet enough, and seems devoted to play. His
sister has shut her doors both on myself and my young associate during
the last few days. I almost fear that, in spite of very sage warnings of
mine, she must have turned his poet’s head, and that either he has met
with some scornful rebuff to incautious admiration, or that he himself
has grown aware of peril, and declines to face it; for he is very much
embarrassed when I speak to him respecting her. But if the Count is not
formidable, why, his sister is not needed; and I hope yet to get justice
for my Italian friend through the ordinary channels. I have secured an
ally in a young Austrian prince, who is now in London, and who has
promised to back, with all his influence, a memorial I shall transmit to
Vienna. _Apropos_, my dear Audley, now that you have a little
breathing-time, you must fix an hour for me to present to you my young
poet, the son of _her_ sister. At moments the expression of his face is
so like hers.”
“Ay, ay,” answered Egerton quickly, “I will see him as you wish, but
later. I have not yet that breathing-time you speak of; but you say he
has prospered; and, with your friendship, he is secure from fortune. I
rejoice to think so.”
“And your own _protégé_, this Randal Leslie, whom you forbid me to
dislike—hard task!—what has he decided?”
“To adhere to my fate. Harley, if it please Heaven that I do not live to
return to power, and provide adequately for that young man, do not
forget that he clung to me in my fall.”
“If he still cling to you faithfully, I will never forget it. I will
forget only all that now makes me doubt him. But you talk of not living,
Audley! Pooh!—your frame is that of a predestined octogenarian.”
“Nay,” answered Audley, “I was but uttering one of those vague
generalities which are common upon all mortal lips. And now farewell—I
must see this Baron.”
“Not yet, until you have promised to consent to my proposal, and be once
more member for Lansmere. Tut! don’t shake your head. I cannot be
denied. I claim your promise in right of our friendship, and shall be
seriously hurt if you even pause to reflect on it.”
“Well, well, I know not how to refuse you, Harley; but you have not been
to Lansmere yourself since—since that sad event. You must not revive the
old wound—_you_ must not go; and—and I own it, Harley; the remembrance
of it pains even me. I would rather not go to Lansmere.”
“Ah! my friend, this is an excess of sympathy, and I cannot listen to
it. I begin even to blame my own weakness, and to feel that we have no
right to make ourselves the soft slaves of the past.”
“You do appear to me of late to have changed,” cried Egerton suddenly,
and with a brightening aspect. “Do tell me that you are happy in the
contemplation of your new ties—that I shall live to see you once more
restored to your former self.”
“All I can answer, Audley,” said L’Estrange, with a thoughtful brow,
“is, that you are right in one thing—I am changed; and I am struggling
to gain strength for duty and for honour. Adieu! I shall tell my father
that you accede to our wishes.”