Randal passed a sleepless night; but, indeed, he was one of those persons
who neither need, nor are accustomed to much sleep. However, toward
morning, when dreams are said to be prophetic, he fell into a most
delightful slumber—a slumber peopled by visions fitted to lure on, through
labyrinths of law, predestined chancellors, or wreck upon the rocks of
glory the inebriate souls of youthful ensigns—dreams from which Rood Hall
emerged crowned with the towers of Belvoir or Raby, and looking over
subject lands and manors wrested from the nefarious usurpation of
Thornhills and Hazeldeans—dreams in which Audley Egerton’s gold and
power—rooms in Downing-street, and saloons in Grosvenor-square—had passed
away to the smiling dreamer, as the empire of Chaldæa passed to Darius the
Median. Why visions so belying the gloomy and anxious thoughts that
preceded them should visit the pillow of Randal Leslie, surpasses my
philosophy to conjecture. He yielded, however, passively to their spell,
and was startled to hear the clock strike eleven as he descended the
stairs to breakfast. He was vexed at the lateness of the hour, for he had
meant to have taken advantage of the unwonted softness of Egerton, and
drawn therefrom some promises or proffers to cheer the prospects which the
minister had so chillingly expanded before him the preceding night. And it
was only at breakfast that he usually found the opportunity of private
conference with his busy patron. But Audley Egerton would be sure to have
sallied forth—and so he had—only Randal was surprised to hear that he had
gone out in his carriage, instead of on foot, as was his habit. Randal
soon dispatched his solitary meal, and with a new and sudden affection for
his office, thitherward bent his way. As he passed through Piccadilly, he
heard behind a voice that had lately become familiar to him, and, turning
round, saw Baron Levy walking side-by-side, though not arm-in-arm, with a
gentleman almost as smart as himself, but with a jauntier step and a
brisker air—a step that, like Diomed’s, as described by Shakspeare—
“Rises on the toe;—that spirit of his
In aspiration lifts him from the earth.”
Indeed, one may judge of the spirits and disposition of a man by his
ordinary gait and mien in walking. He who habitually pursues abstract
thought, looks down on the ground. He who is accustomed to sudden
impulses, or is trying to seize upon some necessary recollection, looks up
with a kind of jerk. He who is a steady, cautious, merely practical man,
walks on deliberately, his eyes straight before him; and even in his most
musing moods, observes things around sufficiently to avoid a porter’s knot
or a butcher’s tray. But the man with strong ganglions—of pushing, lively
temperament, who, though practical, is yet speculative—the man who is
emulous and active, and ever trying to rise in life—sanguine, alert,
bold—walks with a spring—looks rather above the heads of his
fellow-passengers—but with a quick, easy turn of his own, which is lightly
set on his shoulders; his mouth is a little open—his eye is bright, rather
restless, but penetrative—his port has something of defiance—his form is
erect, but without stiffness. Such was the appearance of the Baron’s
companion. And as Randal turned round at Levy’s voice, the Baron said to
his companion, “A young man in the first circles—you should book him for
your fair lady’s parties. How d’ye do, Mr. Leslie? Let me introduce you to
Mr. Richard Avenel.” Then, as he hooked his arm into Randal’s, he
whispered, “Man of first-rate talent—monstrous rich—has two or three
parliamentary seats in his pocket—wife gives parties—her foible.”
“Proud to make your acquaintance, sir,” said Mr. Avenel, lifting his hat.
“Fine day.”
“Rather cold, too,” said Leslie, who, like all thin persons with weak
digestions, was chilly by temperament; besides, he had enough on his mind
to chill his body.
“So much the healthier—braces the nerves,” said Mr. Avenel; “but you young
fellows relax the system by hot rooms and late hours. Fond of dancing, of
course, sir?” Then, without waiting for Randal’s negative, Mr. Richard
continued, rapidly, “Mrs. Avenel has a _soirée dansante_ on Thursday—shall
be very happy to see you in Eaton-square. Stop, I have a card;” and he
drew out a dozen large invitation cards, from which he selected one, and
presented it to Randal. The Baron pressed that young gentleman’s arm, and
Randal replied courteously that it would give him great pleasure to be
introduced to Mrs. Avenel. Then, as he was not desirous to be seen under
the wing of Baron Levy, like a pigeon under that of a hawk, he gently
extricated himself, and, pleading great haste, walked quickly on toward
his office.
“That young man will make a figure some day,” said the Baron. “I don’t
know any one of his age with so few prejudices. He is a connection by
marriage to Audley Egerton, who—”
“Audley Egerton!” exclaimed Mr. Avenel; “d—d haughty, aristocratic,
disagreeable, ungrateful fellow!”
“Why, what do you know of him?”
“He owed his first seat in parliament to the votes of two near relations
of mine, and when I called upon him some time ago, in his office, he
absolutely ordered me out of the room. Hang his impertinence; if ever I
can pay him off, I guess I shan’t fail for want of good-will!”
“Ordered you out of the room? That’s not like Egerton, who is civil, if
formal—at least to most men. You must have offended him in his weak
point.”
“A man whom the public pays so handsomely should have no weak point. What
is Egerton’s?”
“Oh, he values himself on being a thorough gentleman—a man of the nicest
honor,” said Levy, with a sneer. “You must have ruffled his plumes there.
How was it?”
“I forget now,” answered Mr. Avenel, who was far too well versed in the
London scale of human dignities since his marriage, not to look back with
a blush at his desire of knighthood. “No use bothering our heads now about
the plumes of an arrogant popinjay. To return to the subject we were
discussing. You must be sure to let me have this money next week.”
“Rely on it.”
“And you’ll not let my bills get into the market: keep them under lock and
key.”
“So we agreed.”
“It is but a temporary difficulty—royal mourning, such nonsense—panic in
trade, lest these precious minsters go out. I shall soon float over the
troubled waters.”
“By the help of a paper boat” said the Baron, laughing: and the two
gentlemen shook hands and parted.