Mrs. Leslie came up in fidget and in fuss; she leant over Randal's
shoulder and read the card. Written in pen and ink, with an attempt at
imitation of printed Roman character, there appeared first, "MR. FRANK
HAZELDEAN;" but just over these letters, and scribbled hastily and less
legibly in pencil, was--
"Dear Leslie,--sorry you are out--come and see us--_Do_!"
"You will go, Randal?" said Mrs. Leslie, after a pause.
"I am not sure."
"Yes, _you_ can go; _you_ have clothes like a gentleman; _you_ can go
any where, not like those children;" and Mrs. Leslie glanced almost
spitefully on poor Oliver's coarse, threadbare jacket, and little
Juliet's torn frock.
"What I have I owe at present to Mr. Egerton, and I should consult his
wishes; he is not on good terms with these Hazeldeans." Then glancing
toward his brother, who looked mortified, he added, with a strange sort
of haughty kindness, "What I may have hereafter, Oliver, I shall owe to
myself; and then, if I rise, I will raise my family."
"Dear Randal," said Mrs. Leslie, fondly kissing him on the forehead,
"what a good heart you have!"
"No mother; my books don't tell me that it is a good heart that gets on
in the world; it is a hard head," replied Randal, with a rude and
scornful candor. "But I can read no more just now; come out, Oliver."
So saying, he slid from his mother's hand and left the room.
When Oliver joined him, Randal was already on the common; and, without
seeming to notice his brother, he continued to walk quickly and with
long strides in profound silence. At length he paused under the shade of
an old oak, that, too old to be of value save for firewood, had escaped
the ax. The tree stood on a knoll, and the spot commanded a view of the
decayed house--the old dilapidated church--the dismal, dreary village.
"Oliver," said Randal, between his teeth, so that his voice had the
sound of a hiss, "it was under this tree that I first resolved to--"
He paused.
"What, Randal?"
"Read hard; knowledge is power!"
"But you are so fond of reading."
"I?" cried Randal. "Do you think, when Wolsey and Thomas à-Becket became
priests, they were fond of telling their beads and pattering Aves? I
fond of reading!"
Oliver stared; the historical allusions were beyond his comprehension.
"You know," continued Randal, "that we Leslies were not always the
beggarly poor gentlemen we are now. You know that there is a man who
lives in Grosvenor-square, and is very rich--very. His riches come to
him from a Leslie; that man is my patron, Oliver, and he is very good to
me."
Randal's smile was withering as he spoke. "Come on," he said, after a
pause--"come on." Again the walk was quicker, and the brothers were
silent.
They came at length to a little shallow brook, across which some large
stones had been placed at short intervals, so that the boys walked over
the ford dryshod. "Will you pull me down that bough, Oliver?" said
Randal, abruptly, pointing to a tree. Oliver obeyed mechanically; and
Randal stripping the leaves, and snapping off the twigs, left a fork at
the end; with this he began to remove the stepping-stones. "What are you
about, Randal?" asked Oliver, wonderingly.
"We are on the other side of the brook now; and we shall not come back
this way. We don't want the stepping-stones any more! away with them!"