While Leonard Fairfield had been obscurely wrestling against poverty,
neglect, hunger, and dread temptation, bright had been the opening day,
and smooth the upward path, of Randal Leslie. Certainly no young man,
able and ambitious, could enter life under fairer auspices; the
connection and avowed favourite of a popular and energetic statesman,
the brilliant writer of a political work, that had lifted him at once
into a station of his own—received and courted in those highest circles,
to which neither rank nor fortune alone suffices for a familiar
passport—the circles above fashion itself—the circles of power—with
every facility of augmenting information, and learning the world betimes
through the talk of its acknowledged masters,—Randal had but to move
straight onward, and success was sure. But his tortuous spirit delighted
in scheme and intrigue for their own sake. In scheme and intrigue he saw
shorter paths to fortune, if not to fame. His besetting sin was also his
besetting weakness. He did not aspire—he _coveted_. Though in a far
higher social position than Frank Hazeldean, despite the worldly
prospects of his old school-fellow, he coveted the very things that kept
Frank Hazeldean below him—coveted his idle gaieties, his careless
pleasures, his very waste of youth. Thus, also, Randal less aspired to
Audley Egerton’s repute than he coveted Audley Egerton’s wealth and
pomp, his princely expenditure, and his Castle Rackrent in Grosvenor
Square. It was the misfortune of his birth to be so near to both these
fortunes—near to that of Leslie, as the future head of that fallen
house,—near even to that of Hazeldean, since, as we have seen before, if
the Squire had had no son, Randal’s descent from the Hazeldeans
suggested himself as the one on whom these broad lands should devolve.
Most young men, brought into intimate contact with Audley Egerton, would
have felt for that personage a certain loyal and admiring, if not very
affectionate, respect. For there was something grand in
Egerton—something that commands and fascinates the young. His determined
courage, his energetic will, his almost regal liberality, contrasting a
simplicity in personal tastes and habits that was almost austere—his
rare and seemingly unconscious power of charming even the women most
wearied of homage, and persuading even the men most obdurate to
counsel—all served to invest the practical man with those spells which
are usually confined to the ideal one. But, indeed, Audley Egerton was
an Ideal—the ideal of the Practical. Not the mere vulgar, plodding,
red-tape machine of petty business, but the man of strong sense,
inspired by inflexible energy, and guided to definite earthly objects.
In a dissolute and corrupt form of government, under a decrepit
monarchy, or a vitiated republic, Audley Egerton might have been a most
dangerous citizen; for his ambition was so resolute, and his sight to
its ends was so clear. But there is something in public life in England
which compels the really ambitious man to honour, unless his eyes are
jaundiced and oblique like Randal Leslie’s. It is so necessary in
England to be a gentleman. And thus Egerton was emphatically considered
a _gentleman_. Without the least pride in other matters, with little
apparent sensitiveness, touch him on the point of gentleman, and no one
so sensitive and so proud. As Randal saw more of him, and watched his
moods with the lynx eyes of the household spy, he could perceive that
this hard mechanical man was subject to fits of melancholy, even of
gloom; and though they did not last long, there was even in his habitual
coldness an evidence of something comprest, latent, painful, lying deep
within his memory. This would have interested the kindly feelings of a
grateful heart. But Randal detected and watched it only as a clue to
some secret it might profit him to gain. For Randal Leslie hated
Egerton; and hated him the more because, with all his book knowledge and
his conceit in his own talents, he could not despise his patron—because
he had not yet succeeded in making his patron the mere tool or
stepping-stone—because he thought that Egerton’s keen eye saw through
his wily heart, even while, as if in profound disdain, the minister
helped the protégé. But this last suspicion was unsound. Egerton had not
detected Leslie’s corrupt and treacherous nature. He might have other
reasons for keeping him at a certain distance, but he inquired too
little into Randal’s feelings towards himself to question the
attachment, or doubt the sincerity, of one who owed to him so much. But
that which more than all embittered Randal’s feelings towards Egerton,
was the careful and deliberate frankness with which the latter had, more
than once, repeated and enforced the odious announcement, that Randal
had nothing to expect from the minister’s—WILL, nothing to expect from
that wealth which glared in the hungry eyes of the pauper heir to the
Leslies of Rood. To whom, then, could Egerton mean to devise his
fortune? To whom but Frank Hazeldean. Yet Audley took so little notice
of his nephew—seemed so indifferent to him, that that supposition,
however natural, seemed exposed to doubt. The astuteness of Randal was
perplexed. Meanwhile, however, the less he himself could rely upon
Egerton for fortune, the more he revolved the possible chances of
ousting Frank from the inheritance of Hazeldean—in part, at least, if
not wholly. To one less scheming, crafty, and remorseless than Randal
Leslie with every day became more and more, such a project would have
seemed the wildest delusion. But there was something fearful in the
manner in which this young man sought to turn knowledge into power, and
make the study of all weakness in others subservient to his own ends. He
wormed himself thoroughly into Frank’s confidence. He learned through
Frank all the Squire’s peculiarities of thought and temper, and
thoroughly pondered over each word in the father’s letters, which the
son gradually got into the habit of showing to the perfidious eyes of
his friend. Randal saw that the Squire had two characteristics, which
are very common amongst proprietors, and which might be invoked as
antagonists to his warm fatherly love. First, the Squire was as fond of
his estate as if it were a living thing, and part of his own flesh and
blood; and in his lectures to Frank upon the sin of extravagance, the
Squire always let out this foible:—“What was to become of the estate if
it fell into the hands of a spendthrift? No man should make ducks and
drakes of Hazeldean; let Frank beware of _that_,” &c. Secondly, the
Squire was not only fond of his lands, but he was jealous of them—that
jealousy which even the tenderest fathers sometimes entertain towards
their natural heirs. He could not bear the notion that Frank should
count on his death; and he seldom closed an admonitory letter without
repeating the information that Hazeldean was not entailed; that it was
his to do with as he pleased through life and in death. Indirect menace
of this nature rather wounded and galled than intimidated Frank; for the
young man was extremely generous and high-spirited by nature, and was
always more disposed to some indiscretion after such warnings to his
self-interest, as if to show that those were the last kinds of appeal
likely to influence him. By the help of such insights into the character
of father and son, Randal thought he saw gleams of daylight illumining
his own chance of the lands of Hazeldean. Meanwhile it appeared to him
obvious that, come what might of it, his own interests could not lose,
and might most probably gain, by whatever could alienate the Squire from
his natural heir. Accordingly, though with consummate tact, he
instigated Frank towards the very excesses most calculated to irritate
the Squire, all the while appearing rather to give the counter advice,
and never sharing in any of the follies to which he conducted his
thoughtless friend. In this he worked chiefly through others,
introducing Frank to every acquaintance most dangerous to youth, either
from the wit that laughs at prudence, or the spurious magnificence that
subsists so handsomely upon bills endorsed by friends of “great
expectations.”
The minister and his protégé were seated at breakfast, the first reading
the newspaper, the last glancing over his letters; for Randal had
arrived to the dignity of receiving many letters—ay, and notes too,
three-cornered, and fantastically embossed. Egerton uttered an
exclamation, and laid down the paper. Randal looked up from his
correspondence. The minister had sunk into one of his absent reveries.
After a long silence, observing that Egerton did not return to the
newspaper, Randal said, “Ehem—sir, I have a note from Frank Hazeldean,
who wants much to see me; his father has arrived in town unexpectedly.”
“What brings him here?” asked Egerton, still abstractedly.
“Why, it seems that he has heard some vague reports of poor Frank’s
extravagance, and Frank is rather afraid or ashamed to meet him.”
“Ay—a very great fault extravagance in the young!—destroys independence;
ruins or enslaves the future. Great fault—very! And what does youth want
that it should be extravagant? Has it not everything in itself, merely
because it _is_? Youth is youth—what needs it more?”
Egerton rose as he said this, and retired to his writing-table, and in
his turn opened his correspondence. Randal took up the newspaper, and
endeavoured, but in vain, to conjecture what had excited the minister’s
exclamation, and the reverie that succeeded it.
Egerton suddenly and sharply turned round in his chair—“If you have done
with the _Times_, have the goodness to place it here.”
Randal had just obeyed, when a knock at the street-door was heard, and
presently Lord L’Estrange came into the room, with somewhat a quicker
step, and somewhat a gayer mien than usual.
Audley’s hand, as if mechanically, fell upon the newspaper—fell upon
that part of the columns devoted to births, deaths, and marriages.
Randal stood by, and noted; then, bowing to L’Estrange, left the room.
“Audley,” said L’Estrange, “I have had an adventure since I saw you—an
adventure that reopened the Past, and may influence my future.”
“How?”
“In the first place, I have met with a relation of—of—the Avenels.”
“Indeed! Whom—Richard Avenel?”
“Richard—Richard—who is he? Oh, I remember; the wild lad who went off to
America; but that was when I was a mere child.”
“That Richard Avenel is now a rich thriving trader, and his marriage is
in this newspaper—married to an honourable Mrs M‘Catchley. Well—in this
country—who should plume himself on birth?”
“You did not say so always, Egerton,” replied Harley, with a tone of
mournful reproach.
“And I say so now, pertinently to a Mrs M‘Catchley, not to the heir of
the L’Estranges. But no more of these—these Avenels.”
“Yes, more of them. I tell you I have met a relation of theirs—a nephew
of—of”—
“Of Richard Avenel’s?” interrupted Egerton; and then added in the slow,
deliberate, argumentative tone in which he was wont to speak in public,
“Richard Avenel the trader! I saw him once—a presuming and intolerable
man!”
“The nephew has not those sins. He is full of promise, of modesty, yet
of pride. And his countenance—oh, Egerton, he has _her_ eyes.”
Egerton made no answer. And Harley resumed—
“I had thought of placing him under your care. I knew you would provide
for him.”
“I will. Bring him hither,” cried Egerton eagerly. “All that I can do to
prove my—regard for a wish of yours.”
Harley pressed his friend’s hand warmly.
“I thank you from my heart; the Audley of my boyhood speaks now. But the
young man has decided otherwise; and I do not blame him. Nay, I rejoice
that he chooses a career in which, if he find hardship, he may escape
dependence.”
“And that career is—”
“Letters?”
“Letters—Literature!” exclaimed the statesman. “Beggary! No, no, Harley,
this is your absurd romance.”
“It will not be beggary, and it is not my romance: it is the boy’s.
Leave him alone, he is my care and my charge henceforth. He is of _her_
blood, and I said that he had _her_ eyes.”
“But you are going abroad; let me know where he is; I will watch over
him.”
“And unsettle a right ambition for a wrong one? No—you shall know
nothing of him till he can proclaim himself. I think that day will
come.”
Audley mused a moment, and then said, “Well, perhaps you are right.
After all, as you say, independence is a great blessing, and my ambition
has not rendered myself the better or the happier.”
“Yet, my poor Audley, you ask me to be ambitious.”
“I only wish you to be consoled,” cried Egerton with passion.
“I will try to be so; and by the help of a milder remedy than yours. I
said that my adventure might influence my future; it brought me
acquainted not only with the young man I speak of, but the most winning
affectionate child—a girl.”
“Is this child an Avenel too?”
“No, she is of gentle blood—a soldier’s daughter; the daughter of that
Captain Digby, on whose behalf I was a petitioner to your patronage. He
is dead, and in dying, my name was on his lips. He meant me, doubtless,
to be the guardian to his orphan. I shall be so. I have at last an
object in life.”
“But can you seriously mean to take this child with you abroad?”
“Seriously, I do.”
“And lodge her in your own house?”
“For a year or so while she is yet a child. Then, as she approaches
youth, I shall place her elsewhere.”
“You may grow to love her. Is it clear that she will love you?—not
mistake gratitude for love? It is a very hazardous experiment.”
“So was William the Norman’s—still he was William the Conqueror. Thou
biddest me move on from the past, and be consoled, yet thou wouldst make
me as inapt to progress as the mule in Slawkenbergius’s tale, with thy
cursed interlocutions, ‘Stumbling, by St Nicholas, every step. Why, at
this rate, we shall be all night getting into—’ _Happiness!_ Listen,”
continued Harley, setting off, full pelt, into one of his wild whimsical
humours. “One of the sons of the prophets in Israel, felling wood near
the River Jordan his hatchet forsook the helve, and fell to the bottom
of the river; so he prayed to have it again, (it was but a small
request, mark you;) and having a strong faith, he did not throw the
hatchet after the helve, but the helve after the hatchet. Presently two
great miracles were seen. Up springs the hatchet from the bottom of the
water, and fixes itself to its old acquaintance, the helve. Now, had he
wished to coach it to Heaven in a fiery chariot like Elias, be as rich
as Job, strong as Samson, and beautiful as Absalom, would he have
obtained it, do you think? In truth, my friend, I question it very
much.”
“I cannot comprehend what you mean. Sad stuff you are talking.”
“I can’t help that; Rabelais is to be blamed for it. I am quoting him,
and it is to be found in his prologue to the chapters on the Moderation
of Wishes. And apropos of ‘moderate wishes in point of hatchet,’ I want
you to understand that I ask but little from Heaven. I fling but the
helve after the hatchet that has sunk into the silent stream. I want the
other half of the weapon that is buried fathom deep, and for want of
which the thick woods darken round me by the Sacred River, and I can
catch not a glimpse of the stars.”
“In plain English,” said Audley Egerton, “you want”—he stopped short,
puzzled.
“I want my purpose and my will, and my old character, and the nature God
gave me. I want the half of my soul which has fallen from me. I want
such love as may replace to me the vanished affections. Reason not—I
throw the helve after the hatchet.”