That same evening Randal heard from Levy (at whose house he staid late)
of that self-introduction to Violante which (thanks to his skeleton key)
Peschiera had contrived to effect; and the Count seemed more than
sanguine—he seemed assured as to the full and speedy success of his
matrimonial enterprise. “Therefore,” said Levy, “I trust I may very soon
congratulate you on the acquisition of your family estates.”
“Strange!” answered Randal, “strange that my fortunes seem so bound up
with the fate of a foreigner like Beatrice di Negra and her connection
with Frank Hazeldean.” He looked up at the clock as he spoke, and added—
“Frank, by this time, has told his father of his engagement.”
“And you feel sure that the Squire cannot be coaxed into consent?”
“No; but I feel sure that the Squire will be so choleric at the first
intelligence, that Frank will not have the self-control necessary for
coaxing; and, perhaps, before the Squire can relent upon this point, he
may, by some accident, learn his grievances on another, which would
exasperate him still more.”
“Ay, I understand—the _post obit_?”
Randal nodded.
“And what then?” asked Levy.
“The next of kin to the lands of Hazeldean may have his day.”
The Baron smiled.
“You have good prospects in that direction, Leslie: look now to another.
I spoke to you of the borough of Lansmere. Your patron, Audley Egerton,
intends to stand for it.”
Randal’s heart had of late been so set upon other and more avaricious
schemes, that a seat in Parliament had sunk into a secondary object;
nevertheless, his ambitious and all-grasping nature felt a bitter pang,
when he heard that Egerton thus interposed between himself and any
chance of advancement.
“So!” he muttered sullenly—“so. This man, who pretends to be my
benefactor, squanders away the wealth of my forefathers—throws me
penniless on the world; and, while still encouraging me to exertion and
public life, robs me himself of—”
“No!” interrupted Levy—“not robs you; we may prevent that. The Lansmere
interest is not so strong in the borough as Dick Avenel’s.”
“But I cannot stand against Egerton.”
“Assuredly not—you may stand with him.”
“How?”
“Dick Avenel will never suffer Egerton to come in; and though he cannot,
perhaps, carry two of his own politics, he can split his votes upon
you.”
Randal’s eyes flashed. He saw at a glance, that if Avenel did not
overrate the relative strength of parties, his seat could be secured.
“But,” he said, “Egerton has not spoken to me on such a subject; nor can
you expect that he would propose to me to stand with him, if he foresaw
the chance of being ousted by the very candidate he himself introduced.”
“Neither he nor his party will anticipate that possibility. If he asks
you, agree to stand—leave the rest to me.”
“You must hate Egerton bitterly,” said Randal; “for I am not vain enough
to think that you thus scheme but from pure love to me.”
“The motives of men are intricate and complicated,” answered Levy, with
unusual seriousness. “It suffices to the wise to profit by the actions,
and leave the motives in shade.”
There was silence for some minutes. Then the two drew closer towards
each other, and began to discuss details in their joint designs.
Randal walked home slowly. It was a cold moonlit night. Young idlers of
his own years and rank passed him by, on their way from the haunts of
social pleasure. They were yet in the first fair holiday of life. Life’s
holiday had gone from him for ever. Graver men, in the various callings
of masculine labour—professions, trade, the state—passed him also. Their
steps might be sober, and their faces careworn; but no step had the
furtive stealth of his—no face the same contracted, sinister, suspicious
gloom. Only once, in a lonely thoroughfare, and on the opposite side of
the way, fell a foot-fall, and glanced an eye, that seemed to betray a
soul in sympathy with Randal Leslie’s.
And Randal, who had heeded none of the other passengers by the way, as
if instinctively, took note of this one. His nerves crisped at the
noiseless slide of that form, as it stalked on from lamp to lamp,
keeping pace with his own. He felt a sort of awe, as if he had beheld
the wraith of himself; and ever, as he glanced suspiciously at the
stranger, the stranger glanced at him. He was inexpressibly relieved
when the figure turned down another street and vanished.
That man was a felon, as yet undetected. Between him and his kind there
stood but a thought—a veil airspun, but impassable, as the veil of the
Image at Sais.
And thus moved and thus looked Randal Leslie, a thing of dark and secret
mischief—within the pale of the law, but equally removed from man by the
vague consciousness that at his heart lay that which the eyes of man
would abhor and loathe. Solitary amidst the vast city, and on through
the machinery of Civilisation, went the still spirit of Intellectual
Evil.