Buy Frank had arrived in Curzon Street, leaped from the cabriolet,
knocked at the door, which was opened by a strange-looking man in a buff
waistcoat and corduroy smalls. Frank gave a glance at this
personage, pushed him aside, and rushed upstairs. He burst into the
drawing-room,--no Beatrice was there. A thin elderly man, with a
manuscript book in his hands, appeared engaged in examining the
furniture, and making an inventory, with the aid of Madame di Negra’s
upper servant. The thin man stared at Frank, and touched the hat which
was on his head. The servant, who was a foreigner, approached Frank, and
said, in broken English, that his lady did not receive,--that she was
unwell, and kept her room. Frank thrust a sovereign into the servant’s
hand, and begged him to tell Madame di Negra. that Mr. Hazeldean
entreated the honour of an interview. As soon as the servant vanished
on this errand, Frank seized the thin man by the arm. “What is this?--an
execution?”
“Yes, sir.”
“For what sum?”
“Fifteen hundred and forty-seven pounds. We are the first in
possession.”
“There are others, then?”
“Or else, sir, we should never have taken this step. Most painful to our
feelings, sir; but these foreigners are here to day, and gone to-morrow.
And--”
The servant re-entered. Madame di Negra would see Mr. Hazeldean. Would
he walk upstairs? Frank hastened to obey this summons.
Madame di Negra was in a small room which was fitted up as a boudoir.
Her eyes showed the traces of recent tears, but her face was composed,
and even rigid, in its haughty though mournful expression. Frank,
however, did not pause to notice her countenance, to hear her dignified
salutation. All his timidity was gone. He saw but the woman whom he
loved in distress and humiliation. As the door closed on him, he flung
himself at her feet. He caught at her hand, the skirt of her robe.
“Oh, Madame di Negra!--Beatrice!” he exclaimed, tears in his eyes, and
his voice half-broken by generous emotion; “forgive me, forgive me!
don’t see in me a mere acquaintance. By accident I learned, or, rather,
guessed--this--this strange insult to which you are so unworthily
exposed. I am here. Think of me--but as a friend,--the truest friend.
Oh, Beatrice,”--and he bent his head over the hand he held,--“I never
dared say so before, it seems presuming to say it now, but I cannot
help it. I love you,--I love you with my whole heart and soul; to serve
you--if only but to serve you!--I ask nothing else.” And a sob went from
his warm, young, foolish heart.
The Italian was deeply moved. Nor was her nature that of the mere sordid
adventuress. So much love and so much confidence! She was not prepared
to betray the one, and entrap the other.
“Rise, rise,” she said softly; “I thank you gratefully. But do not
suppose that I--”
“Hush! hush!--you must not refuse me. Hush! don’t let your pride speak.”
“No, it is not my pride. You exaggerate what is occurring here. You
forget that I have a brother. I have sent for him. He is the only one
I can apply to. Ah, that is his knock! But I shall never, never forget
that I have found one generous noble heart in this hollow world.”
Frank would have replied, but he heard the count’s voice on the stairs,
and had only time to rise and withdraw to the window, trying hard to
repress his agitation and compose his countenance. Count di Peschiera
entered,--entered as a very personation of the beauty and magnificence
of careless, luxurious, pampered, egotistical wealth,--his surtout,
trimmed with the costliest sables, flung back from his splendid chest.
Amidst the folds of the glossy satin that enveloped his throat gleamed
a turquoise, of such value as a jeweller might have kept for fifty years
before he could find a customer rich and frivolous enough to buy it. The
very head of his cane was a masterpiece of art, and the man himself,
so elegant despite his strength, and so fresh despite his years!--it is
astonishing how well men wear when they think of no one but themselves!
“Pr-rr!” said the count, not observing Frank behind the draperies of
the window; “Pr-rr--It seems to me that you must have passed a very
unpleasant quarter of an hour. And now--Dieu me damne, quoi faire!”
Beatrice pointed to the window, and felt as if she could have sunk into
the earth for shame. But as the count spoke in French, and Frank did not
very readily comprehend that language, the words escaped him, though his
ear was shocked by a certain satirical levity of tone.
Frank came forward. The count held out his hand, and with a rapid change
of voice and manner, said, “One whom my sister admits at such a moment
must be a friend to me.”
“Mr. Hazeldean,” said Beatrice, with meaning, “would indeed have nobly
pressed on me the offer of an aid which I need no more, since you, my
brother, are here.”
“Certainly,” said the count, with his superb air of grand seigneur; “I
will go down and clear your house of this impertinent canaille. But I
thought your affairs were with Baron Levy. He should be here.”
“I expect him every moment. Adieu! Mr. Hazeldean.” Beatrice extended her
hand to her young lover with a frankness which was not without a certain
pathetic and cordial dignity. Restrained from further words by the
count’s presence, Frank bowed over the fair hand in silence, and
retired. He was on the stairs when he was joined by Peschiera.
“Mr. Hazeldean,” said the latter, in a low tone, “will you come into the
drawing-room?”
Frank obeyed. The man employed in his examination of the furniture was
still at his task: but at a short whisper from the count he withdrew.
“My dear sir,” said Peschiera, “I am so unacquainted with your English
laws, and your mode of settling embarrassments of this degrading
nature, and you have evidently showed so kind a sympathy in my sister’s
distress, that I venture to ask you to stay here, and aid me in
consulting with Baron Levy.”
Frank was just expressing his unfeigned pleasure to be of the slightest
use, when Levy’s knock resounded at the streetdoor, and in another
moment the baron entered.
“Ouf!” said Levy, wiping his brows, and sinking into a chair as if he
had been engaged in toils the most exhausting,--“ouf! this is a very sad
business,--very; and nothing, my dear count, nothing but ready money can
save us here.”
“You know my affairs, Levy,” replied Peschiera, mournfully shaking his
head, “and that though in a few months, or it may be weeks, I could
discharge with ease my sister’s debts, whatever their amount, yet at
this moment, and in a strange land, I have not the power to do so. The
money I brought with me is nearly exhausted. Can you not advance the
requisite sum?”
“Impossible!--Mr. Hazeldean is aware of the distress under which I
labour myself.”
“In that case,” said the count, “all we can do to-day is to remove my
sister, and let the execution proceed. Meanwhile I will go among my
friends, and see what I can borrow from them.”
“Alas!” said Levy, rising and looking out of the window--“alas!--we
cannot remove the marchesa,--the worst is to come. Look!--you see those
three men; they have a writ against her person: the moment she sets her
foot out of these doors she will be arrested.”
[At that date the law of mesne process existed still.]
“Arrested!” exclaimed Peschiera and Frank in a breath. “I have done my
best to prevent this disgrace, but in vain,” said the baron, looking
very wretched. “You see these English tradespeople fancy they have no
hold upon foreigners. But we can get bail; she must not go to prison--”
“Prison!” echoed Frank. He hastened to Levy and drew him aside. The
count seemed paralyzed by shame and grief. Throwing himself back on the
sofa, he covered his face with his hands.
“My sister!” groaned the count--“daughter to a Peschiera, widow to a
Di Negra!” There was something affecting in the proud woe of this grand
patrician.
“What is the sum?” whispered Frank, anxious that the poor count
should not overhear him; and indeed the count seemed too stunned and
overwhelmed to hear anything less loud than a clap of thunder!
“We may settle all liabilities for L5,000. Nothing to Peschiera, who is
enormously rich. Entre nous, I doubt his assurance that he is without
ready money. It may be so, but--”
“Five thousand pounds! How can I raise such a sum?”
“You, my dear Hazeldean? What are you talking about? To be sure you
could raise twice as much with a stroke of your pen, and throw your own
debts into the bargain. But--to be so generous to an acquaintance!”
“Acquaintance!--Madame di Negra! the height of my ambition is to claim
her as my wife!”
“And these debts don’t startle you?”
“If a man loves,” answered Frank, simply, “he feels it most when the
woman he loves is in affliction. And,” he added, after a pause, “though
these debts are faults, kindness at this moment may give me the power
to cure forever both her faults and my own. I can raise this money by a
stroke of the pen! How?”
“On the Casino property.”
Frank drew back.
“No other way?”
“Of course not. But I know your scruples; let us see if they can be
conciliated. You would marry Madame di Negra; she will have L20,000
on her wedding-day. Why not arrange that, out of this sum, your
anticipative charge on the Casino property be paid at once? Thus, in
truth, it will be but for a few weeks that the charge will exist. The
bond will remain locked in my desk; it can never come to your father’s
know ledge, nor wound his feelings. And when you marry (if you will but
be prudent in the mean while), you will not owe a debt in the world.”
Here the count suddenly started up.
“Mr. Hazeldean, I asked you to stay and aid us by your counsel; I see
now that counsel is unavailing. This blow on our House must fall! I
thank you, Sir,--I thank you. Farewell. Levy, come with me to my poor
sister, and prepare her for the worst.”
“Count,” said Frank, “hear me. My acquaintance with you is but slight,
but I have long known and--and esteemed your sister. Baron Levy has
suggested a mode in which I can have the honour and the happiness of
removing this temporary but painful embarrassment. I can advance the
money.”
“No, no!” exclaimed Peschiera. “How can you suppose that I will hear of
such a proposition? Your youth and benevolence mislead and blind you.
Impossible, sir,--impossible! Why, even if I had no pride, no delicacy
of my own, my sister’s fair fame--”
“Would suffer indeed,” interrupted Levy, “if she were under such
obligation to any one but her affianced husband. Nor, whatever my regard
for you, Count, could I suffer my client, Mr. Hazeldean, to make this
advance upon any less valid security than that of the fortune to which
Madame di Negra is entitled.”
“Ha!--is this indeed so? You are a suitor for my sister’s hand, Mr.
Hazeldean?”
“But not at this moment,--not to owe her hand to the compulsion of
gratitude,” answered gentleman Frank. “Gratitude! And you do not know
her heart, then? Do not know--” the count interrupted himself, and went
on after a pause. “Mr. Hazeldean, I need not say that we rank among
the first Houses in Europe. My pride led me formerly into the error
of disposing of my sister’s hand to one whom she did not love, merely
because in rank he was her equal. I will not again commit such an error,
nor would Beatrice again obey me if I sought to constrain her. Where she
marries, there she will love. If, indeed, she accepts you, as I believe
she will, it will be from affection solely. If she does, I cannot
scruple to accept this loan,--a loan from a brother-inlaw--loan to me,
and not charged against her fortune! That, sir,” turning to Levy, with
his grand air, “you will take care to arrange. If she do not accept you,
Mr. Hazeldean, the loan, I repeat, is not to be thought of. Pardon me,
if I leave you. This, one way or other, must be decided at once.” The
count inclined his head with much stateliness, and then quitted the
room. His step was heard ascending the stairs.
“If,” said Levy, in the tone of a mere man of business--“if the count
pay the debts, and the lady’s fortune be only charged with your own,
after all, it will not be a bad marriage in the world’s eye, nor ought
it to be in a father’s. Trust me, we shall get Mr. Hazeldean’s consent,
and cheerfully too.”
Frank did not listen; he could only listen to his love, to his heart
beating loud with hope and with fear.
Levy sat down before the table, and drew up a long list of figures in a
very neat hand,--a list of figures on two accounts, which the post-obit
on the Casino was destined to efface.
After a lapse of time, which to Frank seemed interminable, the count
re-appeared. He took Frank aside, with a gesture to Levy, who rose, and
retired into the drawing-room.
“My dear young friend,” said Peschiera, “as I suspected, my sister’s
heart is wholly yours. Stop; hear me out. But, unluckily, I informed her
of your generous proposal; it was most unguarded, most ill-judged in me,
and that has well-nigh spoiled all; she has so much pride and spirit;
so great a fear that you may think yourself betrayed into an imprudence
which you may hereafter regret, that I am sure she will tell you that
she does not love you, she cannot accept you, and so forth. Lovers like
you are not easily deceived. Don’t go by her words; but you shall see
her yourself and judge. Come.”
Followed mechanically by Frank, the count ascended the stairs, and threw
open the door of Beatrice’s room. The marchesa’s back was turned; but
Frank could see that she was weeping.
“I have brought my friend to plead for himself,” said the count, in
French; “and take my advice, sister, and do not throw away all prospect
of real and solid happiness for a vain scruple. Heed me!” He retired,
and left Frank alone with Beatrice.
Then the marchesa, as if by a violent effort, so sudden was her
movement, and so wild her look, turned her face to her wooer, and came
up to him, where he stood.
“Oh,” she said, clasping her hands, “is this true? You would save me
from disgrace, from a prison--and what can I give you in return? My
love! No, no. I will not deceive you. Young, fair, noble as you are, I
do not love you as you should be loved. Go; leave this house; you do
not know my brother. Go, go--while I have still strength, still virtue
enough to reject whatever may protect me from him! whatever--may--Oh,
go, go.”
“You do not love me?” said Frank. “Well, I don’t wonder at it; you are
so brilliant, so superior to me. I will abandon hope,--I will leave you,
as you command me. But at least I will not part with my privilege to
serve you. As for the rest, shame on me if I could be mean enough to
boast of love, and enforce a suit, at such a moment.”
Frank turned his face and stole away softly. He did not arrest his steps
at the drawing-room; he went into the parlour, wrote a brief line to
Levy charging him quietly to dismiss the execution, and to come to
Frank’s rooms with the necessary deeds; and, above all, to say nothing
to the count. Then he went out of the house and walked back to his
lodgings.
That evening Levy came to him, and accounts were gone into, and papers
signed; and the next morning Madame di Negra was free from debt; and
there was a great claim on the reversion of the Casino estates; and at
the noon of that next day, Randal was closeted with Beatrice; and before
the night came a note from Madame di Negra, hurried, blurred with tears,
summoning Frank to Curzon Street. And when he entered the marchesa’s
drawing-room, Peschiera was seated beside his sister; and rising at
Frank’s entrance, said, “My dear brother-in-law!” and placed Frank’s
hand in Beatrice’s.
“You accept--you accept me--and of your own free will and choice?”
And Beatrice answered, “Bear with me a little, and I will try to repay
you with all my--all my--” She stopped short, and sobbed aloud.
“I never thought her capable of such acute feelings, such strong
attachment,” whispered the count.
Frank heard, and his face was radiant. By degrees Madame di Negra
recovered composure, and she listened with what her young lover deemed
a tender interest, but what, in fact, was mournful and humbled
resignation, to his joyous talk of the future. To him the hours passed
by, brief and bright, like a flash of sunlight. And his dreams when he
retired to rest were so golden! But when he awoke the next morning, he
said to himself, “What--what will they say at the Hall?” At that same
hour Beatrice, burying her face on her pillow, turned from the loathsome
day, and could have prayed for death. At that same hour, Giulio
Franzini, Count di Peschiera, dismissing some gaunt, haggard Italians,
with whom he had been in close conference, sallied forth to reconnoitre
the house that contained Violante. At that same hour, Baron Levy was
seated before his desk, casting up a deadly array of figures,
headed, “Account with the Right Hon. Audley Egerton, M. P., Dr. and
Cr.”--title-deeds strewed around him, and Frank Hazeldean’s post-obit
peeping out fresh from the elder parchments. At that same hour, Audley
Egerton had just concluded a letter from the chairman of his committee
in the city he represented, which letter informed him that he had not a
chance of being re-elected. And the lines of his face were as composed
is usual, and his foot rested as firm on the grim iron box; but his hand
was pressed to his heart, and his eye was on the clock, and his voice
muttered, “Dr. F--should be here!” And that hour Harley L’Estrange, who
the previous night had charmed courtly crowds with his gay humour, was
pacing to and fro the room in his hotel with restless strides and many a
heavy sigh; and Leonard was standing by the fountain in his garden,
and watching the wintry sunbeams that sparkled athwart the spray;
and Violante was leaning on Helen’s shoulder, and trying archly, yet
innocently, to lead Helen to talk of Leonard; and Helen was gazing
steadfastly on the floor, and answering but by monosyllables; and Randal
Leslie was walking down to his office for the last time, and reading,
as he passed across the Green Park, a letter from home, from his sister;
and then, suddenly crumpling the letter in his thin pale hand, he looked
up, beheld in the distance the spires of the great national Abbey;
and recalling the words of our hero Nelson, he muttered, “Victory and
Westminster, but not the Abbey!” And Randal Leslie felt that, within the
last few days, he had made a vast stride in his ambition,--his grasp
on the old Leslie lands, Frank Hazeldean betrothed, and possibly
disinherited; and Dick Avenel, in the background, opening against the
hated Lansmere interest that same seat in parliament which had first
welcomed into public life Randal’s ruined patron.
“But some must laugh, and some must weep;
Thus runs the world away!”
BOOK ELEVENTH.
INITIAL CHAPTER.
ON THE IMPORTANCE OF HATE AS AN AGENT IN CIVILIZED LIFE.
It is not an uncommon crotchet amongst benevolent men to maintain that
wickedness is necessarily a sort of insanity, and that nobody would make
a violent start out of the straight path unless stung to such disorder
by a bee in his bonnet. Certainly when some very clever, well-educated
person like our friend, Randal Leslie, acts upon the fallacious
principle that “roguery is the best policy,” it is curious to see how
many points he has in common with the insane: what over-cunning, what
irritable restlessness, what suspicious belief that the rest of the
world are in a conspiracy against him, which it requires all his wit
to baffle and turn to his own proper aggrandizement and profit. Perhaps
some of my readers may have thought that I have represented Randal as
unnaturally far-fetched in his schemes, too wire-drawn and subtle in
his speculations; yet that is commonly the case with very refining
intellects, when they choose to play the knave; it helps to disguise
from themselves the ugliness of their ambition, just as a philosopher
delights in the ingenuity of some metaphysical process, which ends
in what plain men call “atheism,” who would be infinitely shocked and
offended if he were called an atheist.
Having premised thus much on behalf of the “Natural” in Randal Leslie’s
character, I must here fly off to say a word or two on the agency in
human life exercised by a passion rarely seen without a mask in our
debonair and civilized age,--I mean Hate.
In the good old days of our forefathers, when plain speaking and hard
blows were in fashion, when a man had his heart at the tip of his
tongue, and four feet of sharp iron dangling at his side, Hate played
an honest, open part in the theatre of the world. In fact, when we read
History, Hate seems to have “starred it” on the stage. But now, where
is Hate? Who ever sees its face? Is it that smiling, good-tempered
creature, that presses you by the hand so cordially, or that dignified
figure of state that calls you its “Right Honourable friend”? Is it that
bowing, grateful dependent; is it that soft-eyed Amaryllis? Ask not,
guess not: you will only know it to be hate when the poison is in your
cup, or the poniard in your breast. In the Gothic age, grim Humour
painted “the Dance of Death;” in our polished century, some sardonic wit
should give us “the Masquerade of Hate.”
Certainly, the counter-passion betrays itself with ease to our gaze.
Love is rarely a hypocrite. But Hate--how detect, and how guard against
it? It lurks where you least suspect it; it is created by causes that
you can the least foresee; and Civilization multiplies its varieties,
whilst it favours its disguise: for Civilization increases the number
of contending interests, and Refinement renders more susceptible to the
least irritation the cuticle of Self-Love. But Hate comes covertly
forth from some self-interest we have crossed, or some self-love we
have wounded; and, dullards that we are, how seldom we are aware of our
offence! You may be hated by a man you have never seen in your life: you
may be hated as often by one you have loaded with benefits; you may so
walk as not to tread on a worm; but you must sit fast on your easy-chair
till you are carried out to your bier, if you would be sure not to tread
on some snake of a foe. But, then, what harm does the hate do us? Very
often the harm is as unseen by the world as the hate is unrecognized
by us. It may come on us, unawares, in some solitary byway of our life;
strike us in our unsuspecting privacy; thwart as in some blessed hope
we have never told to another; for the moment the world sees that it is
Hate that strikes us, its worst power of mischief is gone.
We have a great many names for the same passion,--Envy, Jealousy,
Spite, Prejudice, Rivalry; but they are so many synonyms for the one old
heathen demon. When the death-giving shaft of Apollo sent the plague to
some unhappy Achaean, it did not much matter to the victim whether the
god were called Helios or Smintheus.
No man you ever met in the world seemed more raised above the malice
of Hate than Audley Egerton: even in the hot war of politics he had
scarcely a personal foe; and in private life he kept himself so aloof
and apart from others that he was little known, save by the benefits the
waste of his wealth conferred. That the hate of any one could reach the
austere statesman on his high pinnacle of esteem,--you would have smiled
at the idea! But Hate is now, as it ever has been, an actual Power
amidst “the Varieties of Life;” and, in spite of bars to the door, and
policemen in the street, no one can be said to sleep in safety while
there wakes the eye of a single foe.
CHAPTER II.
The glory of Bond Street is no more. The title of Bond Street Lounger
has faded from our lips. In vain the crowd of equipages and the blaze of
shops: the renown of Bond Street was in its pavement, its pedestrians.
Art thou old enough, O reader! to remember the Bond Street Lounger and
his incomparable generation? For my part, I can just recall the decline
of the grand era. It was on its wane when, in the ambition of boyhood, I
first began to muse upon high neck cloths and Wellington boots. But the
ancient habitues--the magni nominis umbrae, contemporaries of Brummell
in his zenith, boon companions of George IV. in his regency--still
haunted the spot. From four to six in the hot month of June, they
sauntered stately to and fro, looking somewhat mournful even then,
foreboding the extinction of their race. The Bond Street Lounger was
rarely seen alone: he was a social animal, and walked arm in arm with
his fellow-man. He did not seem born for the cares of these ruder
times; not made was he for an age in which Finsbury returns members to
parliament. He loved his small talk; and never since then has talk been
so pleasingly small. Your true Bond Street Lounger had a very dissipated
look. His youth had been spent with heroes who loved their bottle.
He himself had perhaps supped with Sheridan. He was by nature a
spendthrift: you saw it in the roll of his walk. Men who make money
rarely saunter; men who save money rarely swagger. But saunter and
swagger both united to stamp PRODIGAL on the Bond Street Lounger. And so
familiar as he was with his own set, and so amusingly supercilious with
the vulgar residue of mortals whose faces were strange to Bond Street!
But he is gone. The world, though sadder for his loss, still strives to
do its best without him; and our young men, nowadays, attend to
model cottages, and incline to Tractarianism. Still the place, to
an unreflecting eye, has its brilliancy and bustle; but it is a
thoroughfare, not a lounge. And adown the thoroughfare, somewhat
before the hour when the throng is thickest, passed two gentlemen of an
appearance exceedingly out of keeping with the place.--Yet both had
the air of men pretending to aristocracy,--an old-world air of
respectability and stake in the country, and Church-and-Stateism. The
burlier of the two was even rather a beau in his way. He had first
learned to dress, indeed, when Bond Street was at its acme, and Brummell
in his pride. He still retained in his garb the fashion of his youth;
only what then had spoken of the town, now betrayed the life of the
country. His neckcloth ample and high, and of snowy whiteness, set off
to comely advantage a face smooth-shaven, and of clear florid hues; his
coat of royal blue, with buttons in which you might have seen yourself
“veluti in speculum”, was rather jauntily buttoned across a waist that
spoke of lusty middle age, free from the ambition, the avarice, and the
anxieties that fret Londoners into thread-papers; his small-clothes,
of grayish drab, loose at the thigh and tight at the knee, were made by
Brummell’s own breeches-maker, and the gaiters to match (thrust half-way
down the calf), had a manly dandyism that would have done honour to
the beau-ideal of a county member. The profession of this gentleman’s
companion was unmistakable,--the shovel-hat, the clerical cut of the
coat, the neckcloth without collar, that seemed made for its accessory
the band, and something very decorous, yet very mild, in the whole mien
of this personage, all spoke of one who was every inch the gentleman and
the parson.
“No,” said the portlier of these two persons,--“no, I can’t say I like
Frank’s looks at all. There’s certainly something on his mind. However,
I suppose it will be all out this evening.”
“He dines with you at your hotel, Squire? Well, you must be kind to him.
We can’t put old heads upon young shoulders.”
“I don’t object to his bead being young,” returned the squire; “but I
wish he had a little of Randal Leslie’s good sense in it. I see how
it will end; I must take him back to the country; and if he wants
occupation, why, he shall keep the hounds, and I’ll put him into
Brooksby farm.”
“As for the hounds,” replied the parson, “hounds necessitate horses; and
I think more mischief comes to a young man of spirit from the stables
than from any other place in the world. They ought to be exposed from
the pulpit, those stables!” added Mr. Dale, thoughtfully; “see what they
entailed upon Nimrod! But Agriculture is a healthful and noble pursuit,
honoured by sacred nations, and cherished by the greatest men in
classical times. For instance, the Athenians were--”
“Bother the Athenians!” cried the squire, irreverently; “you need not go
so far back for an example. It is enough for a Hazeldean that his father
and his grandfather and his great-grandfather all farmed before him;
and a devilish deal better, I take it, than any of those musty old
Athenians, no offence to them. But I’ll tell you one thing, Parson, a
man to farm well, and live in the country, should have a wife; it is
half the battle.”
“As to a battle, a man who is married is pretty sure of half, though
not always the better half, of it,” answered the parson, who seemed
peculiarly facetious that day. “Ah, Squire, I wish I could think
Mrs. Hazeldean right in her conjecture!--you would have the prettiest
daughter-in-law in the three kingdoms. And I do believe that, if I could
have a good talk with the young lady apart from her father, we could
remove the only objection I know to the marriage. Those Popish errors--”
“Ah, very true!” cried the squire; “that Pope sticks hard in my gizzard.
I could excuse her being a foreigner, and not having, I suppose, a
shilling in her pocket--bless her handsome face!--but to be worshipping
images in her room instead of going to the parish church, that will
never do. But you think you could talk her out of the Pope, and into the
family pew?”
“Why, I could have talked her father out of the Pope, only, when he had
not a word to say for himself, he bolted out of the window. Youth is
more ingenuous in confessing its errors.”
“I own,” said the squire, “that both Harry and I had a favourite notion
of ours till this Italian girl got into our heads. Do you know we
both took a great fancy to Randal’s little sister,--pretty, blushing,
English-faced girl as ever you saw. And it went to Harry’s good heart
to see her so neglected by that silly, fidgety mother of hers, her hair
hanging about her ears; and I thought it would be a fine way to bring
Randal and Frank more together, and enable me to do something for Randal
himself,--a good boy with Hazeldean blood in his veins. But Violante is
so handsome, that I don’t wonder at the boy’s choice; and then it is our
fault,--we let them see so much of each other as children. However, I
should be very angry if Rickeybockey had been playing sly, and running
away from the Casino in order to give Frank an opportunity to carry on a
clandestine intercourse with his daughter.”
“I don’t think that would be like Riccabocca; more like him to run
away in order to deprive Frank of the best of all occasions to court
Violante, if he so desired; for where could he see more of her than at
the Casino?”
SQUIRE.--“That’s well put. Considering he was only a foreign doctor,
and, for aught we know, once went about in a caravan, he is a
gentleman-like fellow, that Rickeybockey. I speak of people as I find
them. But what is your notion about Frank? I see you don’t think he is
in love with Violante, after all. Out with it, man; speak plain.”
PARSON.--“Since you so urge me, I own I do not think him in love with
her; neither does my Carry, who is uncommonly shrewd in such matters.”
SQUIRE.--“Your Carry, indeed!--as if she were half as shrewd as my
Harry. Carry--nonsense!”
PARSON (reddening).--“I don’t want to make invidious remarks; but, Mr.
Hazeldean, when you sneer at my Carry, I should not be a man if I did
not say that--”
SQUIRE (interrupting).--“She is a good little woman enough; but to
compare her to my Harry!”
PARSON.--“I don’t compare her to your Harry; I don’t compare her to any
woman in England, Sir. But you are losing your temper, Mr. Hazeldean!”
SQUIRE.--“I!”
PARSON.--“And people are staring at you, Mr. Hazeldean. For decency’s
sake, compose yourself, and change the subject. We are just at the
Albany. I hope that we shall not find poor Captain Higginbotham as
ill as he represents himself in his letter. Ah, is it possible? No, it
cannot be. Look--look!”
SQUIRE.--“Where--what--where? Don’t pinch so hard. Bless me, do you see
a ghost?”
PARSON.--“There! the gentleman in black!”
SQUIRE.--“Gentleman in black! What! in broad daylight! Nonsense!”
Here the parson made a spring forward, and, catching the arm of the
person in question, who himself had stopped, and was gazing intently on
the pair, exclaimed,
“Sir, pardon me; but is not your name Fairfield? Ah, it is Leonard,--it
is--my dear, dear boy! What joy! So altered, so improved, but still
the same honest face. Squire, come here--your old friend, Leonard
Fairfield.”
“And he wanted to persuade me,” said the squire, shaking Leonard
heartily by the hand, “that you were the Gentleman in Black; but,
indeed, he has been in strange humours and tantrums all the morning.
Well, Master Lenny; why, you are grown quite a gentleman! The world
thrives with you, eh? I suppose you are head-gardener to some grandee.”
“Not that, sir,” said Leonard, smiling; “but the world has thriven with
me at last, though not without some rough usage at starting. Ah, Mr.
Dale, you can little guess how often I have thought of you and your
discourse on Knowledge; and, what is more, how I have lived to feel the
truth of your words, and to bless the lesson.”
PARSON (much touched and flattered).--“I expected nothing less from you,
Leonard; you were always a lad of great sense, and sound judgment. So
you have thought of my little discourse on Knowledge, have you?”
SQUIRE.--“Hang knowledge! I have reason to hate the word. It burned
down three ricks of mine; the finest ricks you ever set eyes on, Mr.
Fairfield.”
PARSON.--“That was not knowledge, Squire; that was ignorance.”
SQUIRE.--“Ignorance! The deuce it was. I’ll just appeal to you,
Mr. Fairfield. We have been having sad riots in the shire, and the
ringleader was just such another lad as you were!”
LEONARD.--“I am very much obliged to you, Mr. Hazeldean. In what
respect?”
SQUIRE.--“Why, he was a village genius, and always reading some cursed
little tract or other; and got mighty discontented with King, Lords, and
Commons, I suppose, and went about talking of the wrongs of the poor,
and the crimes of the rich, till, by Jove, sir, the whole mob rose
one day with pitchforks and sickles, and smash went Farmer Smart’s
thrashing-machines; and on the same night my ricks were on fire.
We caught the rogues, and they were all tried; but the poor deluded
labourers were let off with a short imprisonment. The village genius,
thank Heaven, is sent packing to Botany Bay.”
LEONARD.--“But did his books teach him to burn ricks and smash
machines?”
PARSON.--“No; he said quite the contrary, and declared that he had no
hand in those misdoings.”
SQUIRE.--“But he was proved to have excited, with his wild talk, the
boobies who had! ‘Gad, sir, there was a hypocritical Quaker once, who
said to his enemy, ‘I can’t shed thy blood, friend, but I will hold
thy head under water till thou art drowned.’ And so there is a set
of demagogical fellows, who keep calling out, ‘Farmer, this is an
oppressor, and Squire, that is a vampire! But no violence! Don’t smash
their machines, don’t burn their ricks! Moral force, and a curse on all
tyrants!’ Well, and if poor Hodge thinks moral force is all my eye, and
that the recommendation is to be read backwards, in the devil’s way of
reading the Lord’s prayer, I should like to know which of the two ought
to go to Botany Bay,--Hodge, who comes out like a man, if he thinks he
is wronged, or t’ other sneaking chap, who makes use of his knowledge to
keep himself out of the scrape?”
PARSON.--“It may be very true; but when I saw that poor fellow at the
bar, with his intelligent face, and heard his bold clear defence, and
thought of all his hard struggles for knowledge, and how they had ended,
because he forgot that knowledge is like fire, and must not be thrown
amongst flax,--why, I could have given my right hand to save him. And,
oh, Squire, do you remember his poor mother’s shriek of despair when
he was sentenced to transportation for life--I hear it now! And what,
Leonard--what do you think had misled him? At the bottom of all the
mischief was a tinker’s bag. You cannot forget Sprott?”
LEONARD.--“Tinker’s bag! Sprott!”
SQUIRE.--“That rascal, sir, was the hardest follow to nab you could
possibly conceive; as full of quips and quirks as an Old Bailey lawyer.
But we managed to bring it home to him. Lord! his bag was choke-full of
tracts against every man who had a good coat on his back; and as if that
was not enough, cheek by jowl with the tracts were lucifers, contrived
on a new principle, for teaching my ricks the theory of spontaneous
combustion. The labourers bought the lucifers--”
PARSON.--“And the poor village genius bought the tracts.”
SQUIRE.--“All headed with a motto, ‘To teach the working classes that
knowledge is power.’ So that I was right in saying that knowledge had
burnt my ricks; knowledge inflamed the village genius, the village
genius inflamed fellows more ignorant than himself, and they inflamed my
stackyard. However, lucifers, tracts, village genius, and Sprott are all
off to Botany Bay; and the shire has gone on much the better for it. So
no more of your knowledge for me, begging your pardon, Mr. Fairfield.
Such uncommonly fine ricks as mine were too! I declare, Parson, you
are looking as if you felt pity for Sprott; and I saw you, indeed,
whispering to him as he was taken out of court.”
PARSON (looking sheepish).--“Indeed, Squire, I was only asking him what
had become of his donkey, an unoffending creature.”
SQUIRE.--“Unoffending! Upset me amidst a thistle-bed in my own village
green! I remember it. Well, what did he say had become of the donkey?”
PARSON.--“He said but one word; but that showed all the vindictiveness
of his disposition. He said it with a horrid wink, that made my
blood run cold. ‘What’s become of your poor donkey?’ said I, and he
answered--”
SQUIRE.--“Go on. He answered--”
PARSON.--“‘Sausages.’”
SQUIRE.--“Sausages! Like enough; and sold to the poor; and that’s what
the poor will come to if they listen to such revolutionizing villains.
Sausages! Donkey sausages!” (spitting)--“‘T is bad as eating one
another; perfect cannibalism.”
Leonard, who had been thrown into grave thought by the history of Sprott
and the village genius, now pressing the parson’s hand, asked permission
to wait on him before Mr. Dale quitted London; and was about to
withdraw, when the parson, gently detaining him, said, “No; don’t leave
me yet, Leonard,--I have so much to ask you, and to talk about. I shall
be at leisure shortly. We are just now going to call on a relation
of the squire’s, whom you must recollect, I am sure,--Captain
Higginbotham--Barnabas Higginbotham. He is very poorly.”
“And I am sure he would take it kind in you to call too,” said the
squire, with great good-nature.
LEONARD.--“Nay, sir, would not that be a great liberty?”
SQUIRE.--“Liberty! To ask a poor sick gentleman how he is? Nonsense. And
I say, Sir, perhaps, as no doubt you have been living in town, and know
more of newfangled notions than I do,--perhaps you can tell us whether
or not it is all humbug,--that new way of doctoring people.”
LEONARD.--“What new way, sir. There are so many.”
SQUIRE.--“Are there? Folks in London do look uncommonly sickly. But
my poor cousin (he was never a Solomon) has got hold, he says, of a
homely--homely--What’s the word, Parson?”
PARSON. “Homoeopathist.”
SQUIRE.--“That’s it. You see the captain went to live with one Sharpe
Currie, a relation who had a great deal of money, and very little
liver;--made the one, and left much of the other in Ingee, you
understand. The captain had expectations of the money. Very natural, I
dare say; but Lord, sir, what do you think has happened? Sharpe Currie
has done him. Would not die, Sir; got back his liver, and the captain
has lost his own. Strangest thing you ever heard. And then the
ungrateful old Nabob has dismissed the captain, saying, ‘He can’t bear
to have invalids about him;’ and is going to marry, and I have no doubt
will have children by the dozen!”
PARSON.--“It was in Germany, at one of the Spas, that Mr. Currie
recovered; and as he had the selfish inhumanity to make the captain
go through a course of waters simultaneously with himself, it has
so chanced that the same waters that cured Mr. Currie’s liver have
destroyed Captain Higginbotham’s. An English homoeopathic physician,
then staying at the Spa, has attended the captain hither, and declares
that he will restore him by infinitesimal doses of the same chemical
properties that were found in the waters which diseased him. Can there
be anything in such a theory?”
LEONARD.--“I once knew a very able, though eccentric homoeopathist, and
I am inclined to believe there may be something in the system. My friend
went to Germany; it may possibly be the same person who attends the
captain. May I ask his name?”
SQUIRE.--“Cousin Barnabas does not mention it. You may ask it of
himself, for here we are at his chambers. I say, Parson” (whispering
slyly), “if a small dose of what hurt the captain is to cure him, don’t
you think the proper thing would be a--legacy? Ha! ha!”
PARSON (trying not to laugh).--“Hush, Squire. Poor human nature! We must
be merciful to its infirmities. Come in, Leonard.”
Leonard, interested in his doubt whether he might thus chance again upon
Dr. Morgan, obeyed the invitation, and with his two companions followed
the woman, who “did for the captain and his rooms,” across the small
lobby, into the presence of the sufferer.
CHAPTER III.
Whatever the disposition towards merriment at his cousin’s expense
entertained by the squire, it vanished instantly at the sight of the
captain’s doleful visage and emaciated figure.
“Very good in you to come to town to see me,--very good in you, cousin,
and in you, too, Mr. Dale. How very well you are both looking! I’m a sad
wreck. You might count every bone in my body.”
“Hazeldean air and roast beef will soon set you up, my boy,” said
the squire, kindly. “You were a great goose to leave them, and these
comfortable rooms of yours in the Albany.”
“They are comfortable, though not showy,” said the captain, with tears
in his eyes. “I had done my best to make them so. New carpets, this
very chair--(morocco!), that Japan cat (holds toast and muffins)--just
when--just when”--(the tears here broke forth, and the captain fairly
whimpered)--“just when that ungrateful, bad-hearted man wrote me word
‘he was--was dying and lone in the world;’ and--and--to think what I’ve
gone through for him;--and to treat me so! Cousin William, he has grown
as hale as yourself, and--and--”
“Cheer up, cheer up!” cried the compassionate squire. “It is a very hard
case, I allow. But you see, as the old proverb says, ‘‘T is ill waiting
for a dead man’s shoes;’ and in future--I don’t mean offence--but I
think if you would calculate less on the livers of your relations, it
would be all the better for your own. Excuse me!”
“Cousin William,” replied the poor captain, “I am sure I never
calculated; but still, if you had seen that deceitful man’s
good-for-nothing face--as yellow as a guinea--and have gone through
all I’ve gone through, you would have felt cut to the heart, as I do.
I can’t bear ingratitude. I never could. But let it pass. Will that
gentleman take a chair?”
PARSON.--“Mr. Fairfield has kindly called with us, because he knows
something of this system of homeeopathy which you have adopted, and may,
perhaps, know the practitioner. What is the name of your doctor?”
CAPTAIN (looking at his watch).--“That reminds me” (swallowing a
globule). “A great relief these little pills--after the physic I’ve
taken to please that malignant man. He always tried his doctor’s stuff
upon me. But there’s another world, and a juster!”
With that pious conclusion the captain again began to weep.
“Touched,” muttered the squire, with his forefinger on his forehead.
“You seem to have a good--tidy sort of a nurse here, Cousin Barnabas. I
hope she ‘s pleasant, and lively, and don’t let you take on so.”
“Hist!--don’t talk of her. All mercenary; every bit of her fawning!
Would you believe it? I give her ten shillings a week, besides all
that goes down of my pats of butter and rolls, and I overheard the
jade saying to the laundress that ‘I could not last long; and she
‘d--EXPECTATIONS!’ Ah, Mr. Dale, when one thinks of the sinfulness there
is in this life! But I’ll not think of it. No, I’ll not. Let us change
the subject. You were asking my doctor’s name. It is--”
Here the woman with “expectations” threw open the door, and suddenly
announced “DR. MORGAN.”
CHAPTER IV.
The parson started, and so did Leonard.
The homoeopathist did not at first notice either. With an unobservant
bow to the visitors, he went straight to the patient, and asked, “How go
the symptoms?”
Therewith the captain commenced, in a tone of voice like a schoolboy
reciting the catalogue of the ships in Homer. He had been evidently
conning the symptoms, and learning them by heart. Nor was there a single
nook or corner in his anatomical organization, so far as the captain
was acquainted with that structure, but what some symptom or other was
dragged therefrom, and exposed to day. The squire listened with horror
to the morbific inventory, muttering at each dread interval, “Bless me!
Lord bless me! What, more still! Death would be a very happy release!”
Meanwhile the doctor endured the recital with exemplary patience, noting
down in the leaves of his pocketbook what appeared to him the salient
points in this fortress of disease to which he had laid siege, and then,
drawing forth a minute paper said,
“Capital,--nothing can be better. This powder must be dissolved in eight
tablespoonfuls of water; one spoonful every two hours.”
“Tablespoonful?”
“Tablespoonful.”
“‘Nothing can be better,’ did you say, sir?” repeated the squire, who in
his astonishment at that assertion applied to the captain’s description
of his sufferings, had hitherto hung fire,--“nothing can be better?”
“For the diagnosis, sir!” replied Dr. Morgan.
“For the dogs’ noses, very possibly,” quoth the squire; “but for the
inside of Cousin Higginbotham, I should think nothing could be worse.”
“You are mistaken, sir,” replied Dr. Morgan. “It is not the captain
who speaks here,--it is his liver. Liver, sir, though a noble, is an
imaginative organ, and indulges in the most extraordinary fictions. Seat
of poetry and love and jealousy--the liver. Never believe what it says.
You have no idea what a liar it is! But--ahem--ahem. Cott--I think I’ve
seen you before, sir. Surely your name’s Hazeldean?”
“William Hazeldean, at your service, Doctor. But where have you seen
me?”
“On the hustings at Lansmere. You were speaking on behalf of your
distinguished brother, Mr. Egerton.”
“Hang it!” cried the squire: “I think it must have been my liver that
spoke there! for I promised the electors that that half-brother of mine
would stick by the land, and I never told a bigger lie in my life!”
Here the patient, reminded of his other visitors, and afraid he was
going to be bored with the enumeration of the squire’s wrongs, and
probably the whole history of his duel with Captain Dashmore, turned
with a languid wave of his hand, and said, “Doctor, another friend
of mine, the Rev. Mr. Dale, and a gentleman who is acquainted with
homoeopathy.”
“Dale? What, more old friends!” cried the doctor, rising; and the parson
came somewhat reluctantly from the window nook, to which he had retired.
The parson and the homoeopathist shook hands.
“We have met before on a very mournful occasion,” said the doctor, with
feeling.
The parson held his finger to his lips, and glanced towards Leonard. The
doctor stared at the lad, but he did not recognize in the person before
him the gaunt, care-worn boy whom he had placed with Mr. Prickett, until
Leonard smiled and spoke. And the smile and the voice sufficed.
“Cott! and it is the poy!” cried Dr. Morgan; and he actually caught
hold of Leonard, and gave him an affectionate Welch hug. Indeed, his
agitation at these several surprises became so great that he stopped
short, drew forth a globule--“Aconite,--good against nervous shocks!”
and swallowed it incontinently.
“Gad,” said the squire, rather astonished, “‘t is the first doctor I
ever saw swallow his own medicine! There must be something in it.”
The captain now, highly disgusted that so much attention was withdrawn
from his own case, asked in a querulous voice, “And as to diet? What
shall I have for dinner?”
“A friend!” said the doctor, wiping his eyes.
“Zounds!” cried the squire, retreating, “do you mean to say, that the
British laws (to be sure they are very much changed of late) allow you
to diet your patients upon their fellow-men? Why, Parson, this is worse
than the donkey sausages.”
“Sir,” said Dr. Morgan, gravely, “I mean to say, that it matters little
what we eat in comparison with care as to whom we eat with. It is better
to exceed a little with a friend than to observe the strictest
regimen, and eat alone. Talk and laughter help the digestion, and are
indispensable in affections of the liver. I have no doubt, sir, that it
was my patient’s agreeable society that tended to restore to health his
dyspeptic relative, Mr. Sharpe Currie.”
The captain groaned aloud.
“And, therefore, if one of you gentlemen will stay and dine with Mr.
Higginbotham, it will greatly assist the effects of his medicine.”
The captain turned an imploring eye, first towards his cousin, then
towards the parson.
“I ‘m engaged to dine with my son--very sorry,” said the squire. “But
Dale, here--”
“If he will be so kind,” put in the captain, “we might cheer the evening
with a game at whist,--double dummy.” Now, poor Mr. Dale had set his
heart on dining with an old college friend, and having no stupid, prosy
double dummy, in which one cannot have the pleasure of scolding one’s
partner, but a regular orthodox rubber, with the pleasing prospect of
scolding all the three other performers. But as his quiet life forbade
him to be a hero in great things, the parson had made up his mind to be
a hero in small ones. Therefore, though with rather a rueful face, he
accepted the captain’s invitation, and promised to return at six o’clock
to dine. Meanwhile he must hurry off to the other end of the town, and
excuse himself from the pre-engagement he had already formed. He now
gave his card, with the address of a quiet family hotel thereon, to
Leonard, and not looking quite so charmed with Dr. Morgan as he was
before that unwelcome prescription, he took his leave. The squire too,
having to see a new churn, and execute various commissions for his
Harry, went his way (not, however, till Dr. Morgan had assured him
that, in a few weeks, the captain might safely remove to Hazeldean);
and Leonard was about to follow, when Morgan hooked his arm in his old
protege, and said, “But I must have some talk with you; and you have to
tell me all about the little orphan girl.”
Leonard could not resist the pleasure of talking about Helen; and he got
into the carriage, which was waiting at the door for the homoeopathist.
“I am going in the country a few miles to see a patient,” said the
doctor; “so we shall have time for undisturbed consultation. I have
so often wondered what had become of you. Not hearing from Prickett,
I wrote to him, and received from his heir an answer as dry as a bone.
Poor fellow, I found that he had neglected his globules and quitted the
globe. Alas, ‘pulvis et umbra sumus!’ I could learn no tidings of you.
Prickett’s successor declared he knew nothing about you. I hoped
the best; for I always fancied you were one who would fall on your
legs,--bilious-nervous temperament; such are the men who succeed in
their undertakings, especially if they take a spoonful of chamomilla
whenever they are over-excited. So now for your history and the
little girl’s,--pretty little thing,--never saw a more susceptible
constitution, nor one more suited to pulsatilla.”
Leonard briefly related his own struggles and success, and informed the
good doctor how they had at last discovered the nobleman in whom poor
Captain Digby had confided, and whose care of the orphan had justified
the confidence.
Dr. Morgan opened his eyes at hearing the name of Lord L’Estrange.
“I remember him very well,” said he, “when I practised murder as an
allopathist at Lansmere. But to think that wild boy, so full of whim and
life and spirit, should become staid enough for a guardian to that dear
little child, with her timid eyes and pulsatilla sensibilities. Well,
wonders never cease! And he has befriended you too, you say. Ah, he knew
your family.”
“So he says. Do you think, sir, that he ever knew--ever saw--my mother?”
“Eh! your mother?--Nora?” exclaimed the doctor, quickly; and, as if
struck by some sudden thought, his brows met, and he remained silent
and musing a few moments; then, observing Leonard’s eyes fixed on him
earnestly, he replied to the question,
“No doubt he saw her; she was brought up at Lady Lansmere’s. Did he not
tell you so?”
“No.” A vague suspicion here darted through Leonard’s mind, but
as suddenly vanished. His father! Impossible. His father must have
deliberately wronged the dead mother. And was Harley L’Estrange a man
capable of such wrong? And had he been Harley’s son, would not Harley
have guessed it at once, and so guessing, have owned and claimed him?
Besides, Lord L’Estrange looked so young,--old enough to be Leonard’s
father!--he could not entertain the idea. He roused himself and said,
falteringly,
“You told me you did not know by what name I should call my father.”
“And I told you the truth, to the best of my belief.”
“By your honour, sir?”
“By my honour, I do not know it.”
There was now a long silence. The carriage had long left London, and was
on a high road somewhat lonelier, and more free from houses than most of
those which form the entrances to the huge city. Leonard gazed wistfully
from the window, and the objects that met his eyes gradually seemed
to appeal to his memory. Yes! it was the road by which he had first
approached the metropolis, hand in hand with Helen--and hope so busy at
his poet’s heart. He sighed deeply. He thought he would willingly have
resigned all he had won--independence, fame, all--to feel again the
clasp of that tender hand, again to be the sole protector of that gentle
life.
The doctor’s voice broke on his revery. “I am going to see a very
interesting patient,--coats to his stomach quite worn out, sir,--man
of great learning, with a very inflamed cerebellum. I can’t do him much
good, and he does me a great deal of harm.”
“How harm?” asked Leonard, with an effort at some rejoinder.
“Hits me on the heart, and makes my eyes water; very pathetic
case,--grand creature, who has thrown himself away. Found him given over
by the allopathists, and in a high state of delirium tremens,
restored him for a time, took a great liking to him,--could not help
it,--swallowed a great many globules to harden myself against him, would
not do, brought him over to England with the other patients, who all
pay me well (except Captain Higginbotham). But this poor fellow pays
me nothing,--costs me a great deal in time and turnpikes, and board and
lodging. Thank Heaven, I’m a single man, and can afford it! My poy, I
would let all the other patients go to the allopathists if I could but
save this poor, big, penniless, princely fellow. But what can one do
with a stomach that has not a rag of its coats left? Stop” (the doctor
pulled the check-string). “This is the stile. I get out here and go
across the fields.”
That stile, those fields--with what distinctness Leonard remembered
them. Ah, where was Helen? Could she ever, ever again be, his
child-angel?
“I will go with you, if you permit,” said he to the good doctor. “And
while you pay your visit, I will saunter by a little brook that I think
must run by your way.”
“The Brent--you know that brook? Ah, you should hear my poor patient
talk of it, and of the hours he has spent angling in it,--you would not
know whether to laugh or cry. The first day he was brought down to
the place, he wanted to go out and try once more, he said, for his old
deluding demon,--a one-eyed perch.”
“Heavens!” exclaimed Leonard, “are you speaking of John Burley?”
“To be sure, that is his name,--John Burley.”
“Oh, has it come to this? Cure him, save him, if it be in human power.
For the last two years I have sought his trace everywhere, and in
vain, the moment I had money of my own, a home of my own. Poor, erring,
glorious Burley! Take me to him. Did you say there was no hope?”
“I did not say that,” replied the doctor. “But art can only assist
Nature; and though Nature is ever at work to repair the injuries we do
to her, yet, when the coats of a stomach are all gone, she gets puzzled,
and so do I. You must tell me another time how you came to know Burley,
for here we are at the house, and I see him at the window looking out
for me.”
The doctor opened the garden gate of the quiet cottage to which poor
Burley had fled from the pure presence of Leonard’s child-angel. And
with heavy step, and heavy heart, Leonard mournfully followed, to behold
the wrecks of him whose wit had glorified orgy, and “set the table in a
roar.” Alas, poor Yorick!
CHAPTER V.
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 liberal 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
Andley 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, those 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 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. Seats that he could purchase with hard gold were yet open to
him. And the L5,000 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 forever 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 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’Estrauge, 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.--a propos, 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 protege, this Vandal 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.”
CHAPTER VI.
When Harley was gone, Egerton sunk back on his chair, as if in extreme
physical or mental exhaustion, all the lines of his countenance relaxed
and jaded.
“To go back to that place--there--there--where--Courage, courage! what
is another pang?”
He rose with an effort, and folding his arms tightly across his breast,
paced slowly to and fro the large, mournful, solitary room. Gradually
his countenance assumed its usual cold and austere composure,--the
secret eye, the guarded lip, the haughty, collected front. The man of
the world was himself once more.
“Now to gain time, and to baffle the usurer,” murmured Egerton, with
that low tone of easy scorn, which bespoke consciousness of superior
power and the familiar mastery over hostile natures. He rang the bell:
the servant entered.
“Is Baron Levy still waiting?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Admit him.” Levy entered.
“I beg your pardon, Levy,” said the ex-minister, “for having so long
detained you. I am now at your commands.”
“My dear fellow,” returned the baron, “no apologies between friends so
old as we are; and I fear that my business is not so agreeable as to
make you impatient to discuss it.”
EGERTON (with perfect composure).--“I am to conclude, then, that you
wish to bring our accounts to a close. Whenever you will, Levy.”
THE BARON (disconcerted and surprised).--“Peste! mon cher, you take
things coolly. But if our accounts are closed, I fear you will have but
little to live upon.”
EGERTON.--“I can continue to live on the salary of a Cabinet Minister.”
BARON.--“Possibly; but you are no longer a Cabinet Minister.”
EGERTON.--“You have never found me deceived--in a political prediction.
Within twelve months (should life be spared to me) I shall be in office
again. If the same to you, I would rather wait till then formally and
amicably to resign to you my lands and this house. If you grant that
reprieve, our connection can thus close without the eclat and noise
which may be invidious to you, as it would be disagreeable to me. But
if that delay be inconvenient, I will appoint a lawyer to examine your
accounts, and adjust my liabilities.”
THE BARON (soliloquizing).--“I don’t like this. A lawyer! That may be
awkward.”
EGERTON (observing the baron, with a curl on his lip). “Well, Levy, how
shall it be?”
THE BARON.--“You know, my dear fellow, it is not my character to be hard
on any one, least of all upon an old friend. And if you really think
there is a chance of your return to office, which you apprehend that an
esclandre as to your affairs at present might damage, why, let us see
if we can conciliate matters. But, first, mon cher, in order to become a
minister, you must at least have a seat in parliament; and pardon me the
question, how the deuce are you to find one?”
EGERTON.--“It is found.”
THE BARON.--“Ah, I forgot the L5,000 you last borrowed.”
EGERTON.--“NO; I reserve that sum for another purpose.”
THE BARON (with a forced laugh).--“Perhaps to defend yourself against
the actions you apprehend from me?”
EGERTON.--“You are mistaken. But to soothe your suspicions I will tell
you plainly, that finding any sum I might have insured on my life would
be liable to debts preincurred, and (as you will be my sole creditor)
might thus at my death pass back to you; and doubting whether, indeed,
any office would accept my insurance, I appropriate that sum to the
relief of my conscience. I intend to bestow it, while yet in life, upon
my late wife’s kinsman, Randal Leslie. And it is solely the wish to do
what I consider an act of justice, that has prevailed with me to accept
a favour from the hands of Harley L’Estrange, and to become again the
member for Lansmere.”
THE BARON.--“Ha!--Lansmere! You will stand for Lansmere?”
EGERTON (wincing).--“I propose to do so.”
THE BARON.--“I believe you will be opposed, subjected to even a sharp
contest. Perhaps you may lose your election.”
EGERTON.--“If so, I resign myself, and you can foreclose on my estates.”
THE BARON (his brow clearing).--“Look you, Egerton, I shall be too happy
to do you a favour.”
EGERTON (with stateliness).--“Favour! No, Baron Levy, I ask from you
no favour. Dismiss all thought of rendering me one. It is but a
consideration of business on both sides. If you think it better that we
shall at once settle our accounts, my lawyer shall investigate them. If
you agree to the delay I request, my lawyer shall give you no trouble;
and all that I have, except hope and character, pass to your hands
without a struggle.”
THE BARON.--“Inflexible and ungracious, favour or not--put it as you
will--I accede, provided, first, that you allow me to draw up a fresh
deed, which will accomplish your part of the compact; and secondly, that
we saddle the proposed delay with the condition that you do not lose
your election.”
EGERTON.--“Agreed. Have you anything further to say?”
THE BARON.--“Nothing, except that, if you require more money, I am still
at your service.”
EGERTON.--“I thank you. No; I shall take the occasion of my retirement
from office to reduce my establishment. I have calculated already, and
provided for the expenditure I need, up to the date I have specified,
and I shall have no occasion to touch the L5,000 that I still retain.”
“Your young friend, Mr. Leslie, ought to be very grateful to you,” said
the baron, rising. “I have met him in the world,--a lad of much promise
and talent. You should try and get him also into parliament.”
EGERTON (thoughtfully).--“You are a good judge of the practical
abilities and merits of men, as regards worldly success. Do you really
think Randal Leslie calculated for public life--for a parliamentary
career?”
THE BARON.--“Indeed I do.”
EGERTON (speaking more to himself than Levy).--“Parliament without
fortune,--‘t is a sharp trial; still he is prudent, abstemious,
energetic, persevering; and at the onset, under my auspices and advice,
he might establish a position beyond his years.”
THE BARON. “It strikes me that we might possibly get him into the next
parliament; or, as that is not likely to last long, at all events, into
the parliament to follow,--not for one of the boroughs which will be
swept away, but for a permanent seat, and without expense.”
EGERTON.--“Ay,--and how?”
THE BARON.--“Give me a few days to consider. An idea has occurred to me.
I will call again if I find it practicable. Good-day to you, Egerton,
and success to your election for Lansmere.”
CHAPTER VII.
Peschiera had not been so inactive as he had appeared to Harley and
the reader. On the contrary, he had prepared the way for his ultimate
design, with all the craft and the unscrupulous resolution which
belonged to his nature. His object was to compel Riccabocca into
assenting to the count’s marriage with Violante, or, failing that, to
ruin all chance of his kinsman’s restoration. Quietly and secretly
he had sought out, amongst the most needy and unprincipled of his
own countrymen, those whom he could suborn to depose to Riccabocca’s
participation in plots and conspiracies against the Austrian dominion.
These his former connection with the Carbonari enabled him to track to
their refuge in London; and his knowledge of the characters he had to
deal with fitted him well for the villanous task he undertook. He had,
therefore, already selected out of these desperadoes a sufficient number
either to serve as witnesses against his kinsman, or to aid him in any
more audacious scheme which circumstance might suggest to his adoption.
Meanwhile, he had (as Harley had suspected he would) set spies upon
Randal’s movements; and the day before that young traitor confided to
him Violante’s retreat, he had at least got scent of her father’s.
The discovery that Violante was under a roof so honoured, and seemingly
so safe, as Lord Lansmere’s, did not discourage this bold and desperate
adventurer. We have seen him set forth to reconnoitre the house at
Knightsbridge. He had examined it well, and discovered the quarter which
he judged favourable to a coup-de-main, should that become necessary.
Lord Lansmere’s house and grounds were surrounded by a wall, the
entrance being to the high-road, and by a porter’s lodge. At the rear
there lay fields crossed by a lane or byroad. To these fields a small
door in the wall, which was used by the gardeners in passing to and from
their work, gave communication. This door was usually kept locked;
but the lock was of the rude and simple description common to such
entrances, and easily opened by a skeleton key. So far there was no
obstacle which Peschiera’s experience in conspiracy and gallantry did
not disdain as trivial. But the count was not disposed to abrupt and
violent means in the first instance. He had a confidence in his personal
gifts, in his address, in his previous triumphs over the sex, which made
him naturally desire to hazard the effect of a personal interview; and
on this he resolved with his wonted audacity. Randal’s description of
Violante’s personal appearance, and such suggestions as to her character
and the motives most likely to influence her actions as that young
lynx-eyed observer could bestow, were all that the count required of
present aid from his accomplice.
Meanwhile we return to Violante herself. We see her now seated in
the gardens at Knightsbridge, side by side with Helen. The place was
retired, and out of sight from the windows of the house.
VIOLANTE.--“But why will you not tell me more of that early time? You
are less communicative even than Leonard.”
HELEN (looking down, and hesitatingly).--“Indeed there is nothing to
tell you that you do not know; and it is so long since, and things are
so changed now.”
The tone of the last words was mournful, and the words ended with a
sigh.
VIOLANTE (with enthusiasm).--“How I envy you that past which you treat
so lightly! To have been something, even in childhood, to the formation
of a noble nature; to have borne on those slight shoulders half the load
of a man’s grand labour; and now to see Genius moving calm in its clear
career; and to say inly, ‘Of that genius I am a part!’”
HELEN (sadly and humbly).--“A part! Oh, no! A part? I don’t understand
you.”
VIOLANTE.--“Take the child Beatrice from Dante’s life, and should we
have a Dante? What is a poet’s genius but the voice of its emotions? All
things in life and in Nature influence genius; but what influences it
the most are its own sorrows and affections.”
Helen looks softly into Violante’s eloquent face, and draws nearer to
her in tender silence.
VIOLANTE (suddenly).--“Yes, Helen, yes,--I know by my own heart how
to read yours. Such memories are ineffaceable. Few guess what
strange self-weavers of our own destinies we women are in our veriest
childhood!” She sunk her voice into a whisper: “How could Leonard fail
to be dear to you,--dear as you to him,--dearer than all others?”
HELEN (shrinking back, and greatly disturbed).--“Hush, hush! you must
not speak to me thus; it is wicked,--I cannot bear it. I would not have
it be so; it must not be,--it cannot!”
She clasped her hands over her eyes for a moment, and then lifted her
face, and the face was very sad, but very calm.
VIOLANTE (twining her arm round Helen’s waist).--“How have I wounded
you,--how offended? Forgive me, but why is this wicked? Why must it not
be? Is it because he is below you in birth?”
HELEN.--“No, no,--I never thought of that. And what am I? Don’t ask
me,--I cannot answer. You are wrong, quite wrong as to me. I can only
look on Leonard as--as a brother. But--but, you can speak to him more
freely than I can. I would not have him waste his heart on me, nor
yet think me unkind and distant, as I seem. I know not what I say.
But--but--break to him--indirectly--gently--that duty in both forbids us
both to--to be more than friends--than--”
“Helen, Helen!” cried Violante, in her warm, generous passion, “your
heart betrays you in every word you say. You weep; lean on me, whisper
to me; why--why is this? Do you fear that your guardian would not
consent? He not consent? He who--”
HELEN.--“Cease--cease--cease!”
VIOLANTE.--“What! You can fear Harley--Lord L’Estrange? Fie; you do not
know him.”
HELEN (rising suddenly).--“Violante, hold; I am engaged to another.”
Violante rose also, and stood still, as if turned to stone; pale as
death, till the blood came, at first slowly, then with suddenness from
her heart, and one deep glow suffused her whole countenance. She caught
Helen’s hand firmly, and said in a hollow voice,
“Another! Engaged to another! One word, Helen,--not to him--not
to--Harley--to--”
“I cannot say,--I must not. I have promised,” cried poor Helen, and
as Violante let fall her hand, she hurried away. Violante sat down
mechanically; she felt as if stunned by a mortal blow. She closed her
eyes and breathed hard. A deadly faintness seized her; and when it
passed away, it seemed to her as if she were no longer the same being,
nor the world around her the same world,--as if she were but one
sense of intense, hopeless misery, and as if the universe were but one
inanimate void. So strangely immaterial are we really--we human beings,
with flesh and blood--that if you suddenly abstract from us but single,
impalpable, airy thought, which our souls have cherished, you seem to
curdle the air, to extinguish the sun, to snap every link that connects
us to matter, and to benumb everything into death, except woe.
And this warm, young, southern nature but a moment before was so full of
joy and life, and vigorous, lofty hope. It never till now had known its
own intensity and depth. The virgin had never lifted the veil from her
own soul of woman.
What, till then, had Harley L’Estrange been to Violante? An ideal, a
dream of some imagined excellence, a type of poetry in the midst of the
common world. It had not been Harley the man,--it had been Harley the
Phantom. She had never said to herself, “He is identified with my love,
my hopes, my home, my future.” How could she? Of such he himself had
never spoken; an internal voice, indeed, had vaguely, yet irresistibly,
whispered to her that, despite his light words, his feelings towards her
were grave and deep. O false voice! how it had deceived her! Her quick
convictions seized the all that Helen had left unsaid. And now suddenly
she felt what it is to love, and what it is to despair. So she sat,
crushed and solitary, neither murmuring nor weeping, only now and then
passing her hand across her brow, as if to clear away some cloud that
would not be dispersed; or heaving a deep sigh, as if to throw off some
load that no time henceforth could remove. There are certain moments
in life in which we say to ourselves, “All is over; no matter what else
changes, that which I have made my all is gone evermore--evermore!” And
our own thought rings back in our ears, “Evermore--evermore!”
CHAPTER VIII.
As Violante thus sat, a stranger, passing stealthily through the trees,
stood between herself and the evening sun. She saw him not. He paused a
moment, and then spoke low, in her native tongue, addressing her by the
name which she had borne in Italy. He spoke as a relation, and excused
his intrusion: “For,” said he, “I come to suggest to the daughter
the means by which she can restore to her father his country and his
honours.”
At the word “father” Violante roused herself, and all her love for that
father rushed back upon her with double force. It does so ever,--we
love most our parents at the moment when some tie less holy is abruptly
broken; and when the conscience says, “There, at least, is a love that
has never deceived thee!”
She saw before her a man of mild aspect and princely form. Peschiera
(for it was he) had banished from his dress, as from his countenance,
all that betrayed the worldly levity of his character. He was acting a
part, and he dressed and looked it.
“My father!” she said, quickly, and in Italian. “What of him? And who
are you, signor? I know you not.” Peschiera smiled benignly, and replied
in a tone in which great respect was softened by a kind of parental
tenderness,--“Suffer me to explain, and listen to me while I speak.”
Then, quietly seating himself on the bench beside her, he looked into
her eyes, and resumed,--
“Doubtless you have heard of the Count di Peschiera?”
VIOLANTE.--“I heard that name, as a child, when in Italy. And when she
with whom I then dwelt (my father’s aunt) fell ill and died, I was
told that my home in Italy was gone, that it had passed to the Count di
Peschiera,--my father’s foe!”
PESCHTERA.--“And your father, since then, has taught you to hate this
fancied foe?”
VIOLANTE.--“Nay, my father did but forbid me ever to breathe his name.”
PESCHIERA.--“Alas! what years of suffering and exile might have been
saved your father, had he but been more just to his early friend and
kinsman,--nay, had he but less cruelly concealed the secret of his
retreat. Fair child, I am that Giulio Franzini, that Count di Peschiera.
I am the man you have been told to regard as your father’s foe. I am the
man on whom the Austrian Emperor bestowed his lands. And now judge if I
am, in truth, the foe. I have come hither to seek your father, in order
to dispossess myself of my sovereign’s gift. I have come but with one
desire,--to restore Alphonso to his native land, and to surrender the
heritage that was forced upon me.”
VIOLANTE.--“My father, my dear father! His grand heart will have room
once more. Oh, this is noble enmity, true revenge! I understand it,
signor, and so will my father, for such would have been his revenge on
you. You have seen him?”
PESCHIERA.--“No, not yet. I would not see him till I had seen yourself;
for you, in truth, are the arbiter of his destinies, as of mine.”
VIOLANTE.--“I, Count? I--arbiter of my father’s destinies? Is it
possible?”
PESCHIERA (with a look of compassionate admiration, and in a tone yet
more emphatically parental).--“How lovely is that innocent joy! But
do not indulge it yet. Perhaps it is a sacrifice which is asked from
you,--a sacrifice too hard to bear. Do not interrupt me. Listen still,
and you will see why I could not speak to your father until I had
obtained an interview with yourself. See why a word from you may
continue still to banish me from his presence. You know, doubtless,
that your father was one of the chiefs of a party that sought to free
Northern Italy from the Austrians. I myself was at the onset a warm
participator in that scheme. In a sudden moment I discovered that some
of its more active projectors had coupled with a patriotic enterprise
plots of a dark nature, and that the conspiracy itself was about to be
betrayed to the government. I wished to consult with your father; but
he was at a distance. I learned that his life was condemned. Not an
hour was to be lost. I took a bold resolve, that has exposed me to his
suspicions and to my country’s wrath. But my main idea was to save him,
my early friend, from death, and my country from fruitless massacre.
“I withdrew from the intended revolt. I sought at once the head of the
Austrian government in Italy, and made terms for the lives of Alphonso
and of the other more illustrious chiefs, which otherwise would have
been forfeited. I obtained permission to undertake myself the charge of
securing my kinsman in order to place him in safety, and to conduct
him to a foreign land, in an exile that would cease when the danger was
dispelled. But unhappily he deemed that I only sought to destroy him. He
fled from my friendly pursuit. The soldiers with me were attacked by an
intermeddling Englishman; your father escaped from Italy, concealing
his retreat; and the character of his flight counteracted my efforts
to obtain his pardon. The government conferred on me half his revenues,
holding the other half at its pleasure. I accepted the offer in order to
save his whole heritage from confiscation. That I did not convey to him
what I pined to do,--namely, the information that I held but in trust
what was bestowed by the government, and the full explanation of what
seemed blamable in my conduct,--was necessarily owing to the secrecy he
maintained. I could not discover his refuge; but I never ceased to plead
for his recall. This year only I have partially succeeded. He can be
restored to his heritage and rank, on one proviso,--a guarantee for his
loyalty. That guarantee the government has named: it is the alliance
of his only child with one whom the government can trust. It was the
interest of all the Italian nobility that the representation of a House
so great falling to a female should not pass away wholly from the direct
line,--in a word, that you should ally yourself with a kinsman. But one
kinsman, and he the next in blood, presented himself. In short, Alphonso
regains all that he lost on the day in which his daughter gives her
hand to Giulio Franzini, Count di Peschiera. Ah,” continued the count,
mournfully, “you shriek, you recoil. He thus submitted to your choice is
indeed unworthy of you. You are scarce in the spring of life, he is in
its waning autumn. Youth loves youth. He does not aspire to your love.
All that he can say is, love is not the only joy of the heart,--it is
joy to raise from ruin a beloved father; joy to restore, to a land poor
in all but memories, a chief in whom it reverences a line of heroes.
These are the joys I offer to you,--you, a daughter, and an Italian
maid. Still silent? Oh, speak to me!”
Certainly this Count Peschiera knew well how woman is to be wooed and
won; and never was woman more sensitive to those high appeals which most
move all true earnest womanhood than was the young Violante. Fortune
favoured him in the moment chosen. Harley was wrenched away from her
hopes, and love a word erased from her language. In the void of the
world, her father’s image alone stood clear and visible. And she who
from infancy had so pined to serve that father, who at first learned to
dream of Harley as that father’s friend! She could restore to him all
for which the exile sighed; and by a sacrifice of self,--self-sacrifice,
ever in itself such a temptation to the noble! Still, in the midst of
the confusion and disturbance of her mind, the idea of marriage with
another seemed so terrible and revolting, that she could not at once
conceive it; and still that instinct of openness and honour, which
pervaded all her character, warned even her inexperience that there was
something wrong in this clandestine appeal to herself.
Again the count besought her to speak, and with an effort she said,
irresolutely,
“If it be as you say, it is not for me to answer you; it is for my
father.”
“Nay,” replied Peschiera. “Pardon, if I contradict you. Do you know so
little of your father as to suppose that he will suffer his interest
to dictate to his pride? He would refuse, perhaps, even to receive my
visit, to hear my explanations; but certainly he would refuse to buy
back his inheritance by the sacrifice of his daughter to one whom he has
deemed his foe, and whom the mere disparity of years would incline the
world to say he had made the barter of his personal ambition. But if
I could go to him sanctioned by you; if I could say, ‘Your daughter
overlooks what the father might deem an obstacle,--she has consented
to accept my hand of her own free choice, she unites her happiness,
and blends her prayers with mine,’--then, indeed, I could not fail of
success; and Italy would pardon my errors, and bless your name.
Ah, Signorina, do not think of me save as an instrument towards the
fulfilment of duties so high and sacred! think but of your ancestors,
your father, your native land, and reject not the proud occasion to
prove how you revere them all!”
Violante’s heart was touched at the right chord. Her head rose, the
colour came back to her pale cheek, she turned the glorious beauty of
her countenance towards the wily tempter. She was about to answer and to
seal her fate, when at that instant Harley’s voice was heard at a little
distance, and Nero came bounding towards her, and thrust himself, with
rough familiarity, between her and Peschiera. The count drew back, and
Violante, whose eyes were still fixed on his face, started at the change
that passed there. One quick gleam of rage sufficed in an instant to
light up the sinister secrets of his nature,--it was the face of the
baffled gladiator. He had time but for few words.
“I must not be seen here,” he muttered; “but to-morrow, in these
gardens, about this hour. I implore you, for the sake of your
father,--his hopes, fortunes, his very life,--to guard the secret of
this interview,--to meet me again. Adieu!”
He vanished amidst the trees, and was gone,--noiselessly, mysteriously,
as he had come.
CHAPTER IX.
The last words of Peschiera were still ringing in Violante’s ears when
Harley appeared in sight, and the sound of his voice dispelled the vague
and dreamy stupor which had crept over her senses. At that voice there
returned the consciousness of a mighty loss, the sting of an intolerable
anguish. To meet Harley there, and thus, seemed impossible. She turned
abruptly away, and hurried towards the horse. Harley called to her by
name, but she would not answer, and only quickened her steps. He paused
a moment in surprise, and then hastened after her.
“Under what strange taboo am I placed?” said he, gayly, as he laid his
hand on her shrinking arm. “I inquire for Helen,--she is ill, and cannot
see me. I come to sun myself in your presence, and you fly me as if gods
and men had set their mark on my brow. Child! child! what is this? You
are weeping?”
“Do not stay me now,--do not speak to me,” answered Violante, through
her stifling sobs, as she broke from his hand and made towards the
house.
“Have you a grief, and under the shelter of my father’s roof,--a grief
that you will not tell to me? Cruel!” cried Harley, with inexpressible
tenderness of reproach in his soft tones.
Violante could not trust herself to reply. Ashamed of her self-betrayal,
softened yet more by his pleading voice, she could have prayed to the
earth to swallow her. At length, checking her tears by an heroic effort,
she said, almost calmly, “Noble friend, forgive me. I have no grief,
believe me, which--which I can tell to you. I was but thinking of my
poor father when you came up; alarming myself about him, it may be, with
vain, superstitious fears; and so--even a slight surprise--your abrupt
appearance has sufficed to make me thus weak and foolish; but I wish to
see my father!--to go home--home!”
“Your father is well, believe me, and pleased that you are here. No
danger threatens him; and you, here, are safe.”
“I safe--and from what?”
Harley mused irresolute. He inclined to confide to her the danger which
her father had concealed; but had he the right to do so against her
father’s will?
“Give me,” he said, “time to reflect, and to obtain permission to
intrust you with a secret which, in my judgment, you should know.
Meanwhile, this much I may say, that rather than you should incur the
danger that I believe he exaggerates, your father would have given you a
protector--even in Randal Leslie.”
Violante started.
“But,” resumed Harley, with a calm, in which a certain deep mournfulness
was apparent, unconsciously to himself, “but I trust you are reserved
for a fairer fate, and a nobler spouse. I have vowed to live henceforth
in the common workday world. But for you, bright child, for you, I am a
dreamer still!”
Violante turned her eyes for one instant towards the melancholy speaker.
The look thrilled to his heart. He bowed his face involuntarily. When he
looked up, she had left his side. He did not this time attempt to follow
her, but moved away and plunged amidst the leafless trees.
An hour afterwards he re-entered the house, and again sought to see
Helen. She had now recovered sufficiently to give him the interview he
requested.
He approached her with a grave and serious gentleness. “My dear Helen,”
said he, “you have consented to be my wife, my life’s mild companion;
let it be soon--soon--for I need you. I need all the strength of that
holy tie. Helen, let me press you to fix the time.”
“I owe you too much,” answered Helen, looking down, “to have any will
but yours. But your mother,” she added, perhaps clinging to the idea of
some reprieve,--“your mother has not yet--”
“My mother--true. I will speak first to her. You shall receive from my
family all honour due to your gentle virtues. Helen, by the way, have
you mentioned to Violante the bond between us?”
“No; that is, I fear I may have unguardedly betrayed it, against Lady
Lansmere’s commands too--but--but--”
“So, Lady Lansmere forbade you to name it to Violante? This should not
be. I will answer for her permission to revoke that interdict. It is due
to Violante and to you. Tell your young friend all. Ah, Helen, if I am
at times cold or wayward, bear with me--bear with me; for you love me,
do you not?”
CHAPTER X.
That same evening Randal heard from Levy (at whose house he stayed 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.”