RANDAL (shaking his head incredulously).--“Not bribe!”

LEVY.--“Pooh! Not bribe so as to be found out.” There was a knock at the

door. A servant entered and presented Mr. Egerton’s compliments to Baron

Levy, with a request that the baron would immediately come to his rooms

for a few minutes.

“Well,” said Levy, when the servant had withdrawn, “I must go to

Egerton, and the instant I leave him I shall repair to the town. Perhaps

I may pass the night there.” So saying, he left Randal, and took his way

to Audley’s apartment.

“Levy,” said the statesman, abruptly, upon the entrance of the baron,

“have you betrayed my secret--my first marriage--to Lord L’Estrange?”

“No, Egerton; on my honour, I have not betrayed it.”

“You heard his speech! Did you not detect a fearful irony under his

praises, or is it but--but-my conscience?” added the proud man, through

his set teeth.

“Really,” said Levy, “Lord L’Estrange seemed to me to select for his

praise precisely those points in your character which any other of your

friends would select for panegyric.”

“Ay, any other of my friends!--What friends?” muttered Egerton,

gloomily. Then, rousing himself, he added, in a voice that had none

of its accustomed clear firmness of tone, “Your presence here in this

house, Levy, surprised me, as I told you at the first; I could not

conceive its necessity. Harley urged you to come,--he with whom you are

no favourite! You and he both said that your acquaintance with

Richard Avenel would enable you to conciliate his opposition. I cannot

congratulate you on your success.”

“My success remains to be proved. The vehemence of his attack may be but

a feint to cover his alliance to-morrow.”

Audley went on without notice of the interruption. “There is a change

in Harley,--to me and to all; a change, perhaps, not perceptible to

others--but I have known him from a boy.”

“He is occupied for the first time with the practical business of life.

That would account for a much greater change than you remark.”

“Do you see him familiarly, converse with him often?”

“No, and only on matters connected with the election. Occasionally,

indeed, he consults me as to Randal Leslie, in whom, as your special

protege, he takes considerable interest.”

“That, too, surprises me. Well, I am weary of perplexing myself. This

place is hateful; after to-morrow I shall leave it, and breathe in

peace. You have seen the reports of the canvass; I have had no heart to

inspect them. Is the election as safe as they say?”

“If Avenel withdraws his nephew, and the votes thus released split off

to you, you are secure.”

“And you think his nephew will be withdrawn? Poor young man! defeat at

his age, and with such talents, is hard to bear.” Audley sighed.

“I must leave you now, if you have nothing important to say,” said the

baron, rising. “I have much to do, as the election is yet to be won,

and--to you the loss of it would be--”

“Ruin, I know. Well, Levy, it is, on the whole, to your advantage that

I should not lose. There may be more to get from me yet. And, judging by

the letters I received this morning, my position is rendered so safe by

the absolute necessity of my party to keep me up, that the news of my

pecuniary difficulties will not affect me so much as I once feared.

Never was my career so free from obstacle, so clear towards the highest

summit of ambition; never, in my day of ostentatious magnificence, as

it is now, when I am prepared to shrink into a lodging, with a single

servant.”

“I am glad to hear it; and I am the more anxious to secure your

election, upon which this career must depend, because--nay, I hardly

like to tell you--”

“Speak on.”

“I have been obliged, by a sudden rush on all my resources, to consign

some of your bills and promissory notes to another, who, if your person

should not be protected from arrest by parliamentary privilege, might be

harsh and--”

“Traitor!” interrupted Egerton, fiercely, all the composed contempt with

which he usually treated the usurer giving way, “say no more. How could

I ever expect otherwise! You have foreseen my defeat, and have planned

my destruction. Presume no reply! Sir, begone from my presence!”

“You will find that you have worse friends than myself,” said the baron,

moving to the door; “and if you are defeated, if your prospects for

life are destroyed, I am the last man you will think of blaming. But

I forgive your anger, and trust that to-morrow you will receive those

explanations of my conduct which you are now in no temper to bear. I go

to take care of the election.”

Left alone, Audley’s sudden passion seemed to forsake him.

He gathered together, in that prompt and logical precision which the

habit of transacting public business bestows, all his thoughts, and

sounded all his fears; and most vivid of every thought, and most

intolerable of every fear, was the belief that the baron had betrayed

him to L’Estrange.

“I cannot bear this suspense,” he cried aloud and abruptly. “I will see

Harley myself. Open as he is, the very sound of his voice will tell me

at once if I am a bankrupt even of human friendship. If that friendship

be secure, if Harley yet clasp my hand with the same cordial warmth, all

other loss shall not wring from my fortitude one complaint.”

He rang the bell; his valet, who was waiting in the anteroom, appeared.

“Go and see if Lord L’Estrange is engaged. I would speak with him.”

The servant came back in less than two minutes.

“I find that my Lord is now particularly engaged, since he has given

strict orders that he is not to be disturbed.”

“Engaged! on what, whom with?”

“He is in his own room, sir, with a clergyman, who arrived, and dined

here, to-day. I am told that he was formerly curate of Lansmere.”

“Lansmere! curate! His name, his name! Not Dale?”

“Yes, sir, that is the name,--the Reverend Mr. Dale.”

“Leave me,” said Audley, in a faint voice. “Dale! the man who suspected

Harley, who called on me in London, spoke of a child,--my child,--and

sent me to find but another grave! He closeted with Harley,--he!”

Audley sank back on his chair, and literally gasped for breath. Few

men in the world had a more established reputation for the courage that

dignifies manhood, whether the physical courage or the moral. But at

that moment it was not grief, not remorse, that paralyzed Audley,--it

was fear. The brave man saw before him, as a thing visible and menacing,

the aspect of his own treachery,--that crime of a coward; and into

cowardice he was stricken. What had he to dread? Nothing save the

accusing face of an injured friend,--nothing but that. And what more

terrible? The only being, amidst all his pomp of partisans, who survived

to love him, the only being for whom the cold statesman felt the happy,

living, human tenderness of private affection, lost to him forever!

He covered his face with both hands, and sat in suspense of something

awful, as a child sits in the dark, the drops on his brow, and his frame

trembling.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

Meanwhile Harley had listened to Mr. Dale’s vindication of Leonard with

cold attention.

“Enough,” said he, at the close. “Mr. Fairfield (for so we will yet call

him) shall see me to-night; and if apology be due to him, I will make

it. At the same time, it shall be decided whether he continue this

contest or retire. And now, Mr. Dale, it was not to hear how this young

man wooed, or shrunk from wooing, my affianced bride, that I availed

myself of your promise to visit me at this house. We agreed that the

seducer of Nora Avenel deserved chastisement, and I promised that

Nora Avenel’s son should find a father. Both these assurances shall be

fulfilled to-morrow. And you, sir,” continued Harley, rising, his whole

form gradually enlarged by the dignity of passion, “who wear the garb

appropriated to the holiest office of Christian charity; you who have

presumed to think that, before the beard had darkened my cheek, I could

first betray the girl who had been reared under this roof, then abandon

her,--sneak like a dastard from the place in which my victim came to

die, leave my own son, by the woman thus wronged, without thought or

care, through the perilous years of tempted youth, till I found him, by

chance, an outcast in a desert more dread than Hagar’s,--you, sir, who

have for long years thus judged of me, shall have the occasion to direct

your holy anger towards the rightful head; and in me, you who have

condemned the culprit shall respect the judge.”

Mr. Dale was at first startled, and almost awed, by this unexpected

burst. But, accustomed to deal with the sternest and the darkest

passions, his calm sense and his habit of authority over those whose

souls were bared to him, nobly recovered from their surprise. “My Lord,”

said he, “first, with humility I bow to your rebuke, and entreat your

pardon for my erring, and, as you say, my uncharitable opinions.

We dwellers in a village and obscure pastors of a humble flock, we,

mercifully removed from temptation, are too apt, perhaps, to exaggerate

its power over those whose lots are cast in that great world which has

so many gates ever open to evil. This is my sole excuse if I was misled

by what appeared to me strong circumstantial evidence. But forgive me

again if I warn you not to fall into an error perhaps little lighter

than my own. Your passion, when you cleared yourself from reproach,

became you. But ah, my Lord, when with that stern brow and those

flashing eyes, you launched your menace upon another over whom you would

constitute yourself the judge, forgetful of the divine precept,

‘Judge not,’ I felt that I was listening no longer to honest

self-vindication,--I felt that I was listening to fierce revenge!”

“Call it revenge, or what you will,” said Harley, with sullen firmness;

“but I have been stung too deeply not to sting. Frank with all, till the

last few days, I have ever been. Frank to you, at least, even now,

this much I tell you: I pretend to no virtue in what I still hold to be

justice; but no declamations nor homilies tending to prove that justice

is sinful will move my resolves. As man I have been outraged, and as

man I will retaliate. The way and the mode, the true criminal and his

fitting sentence, you will soon learn, sir. I have much to do to-night;

forgive me if I adjourn for the present all further conference.”

“No, no; do not dismiss me. There is something, in spite of your present

language, which so commands my interest; I see that there has been so

much suffering where there is now so much wrath,--that I would save you

from the suffering worse than all,--remorse. Oh, pause, my dear Lord,

pause and answer me but two questions; then I will leave your after

course to yourself.”

“Say on, sir,” said Lord L’Estrange, touched, and with respect.

“First; then, analyze your own feelings. Is this anger merely to punish

an offender and to right the living,--for who can pretend to right the

dead? Or is there not some private hate that stirs and animates and

confuses all?”

Harley remained silent. Mr. Dale renewed,

“You loved this poor girl. Your language even now reveals it. You speak

of treachery: perhaps you had a rival who deceived you; I know not,

guess not, whom. But if you would strike the rival, must you not wound

the innocent son? And, in presenting Nora’s child to his father, as

you pledge yourself to do, can you mean some cruel mockery that, under

seeming kindness, implies some unnatural vengeance?”

“You read well the heart of man,” said Harley; “and I have owned to you

that I am but man. Pass on; you have another question.”

“And one more solemn and important. In my world of a village, revenge is

a common passion; it is the sin of the uninstructed. The savage deems

it noble! but Christ’s religion, which is the sublime Civilizer,

emphatically condemns it. Why? Because religion ever seeks to ennoble

a man; and nothing so debases him as revenge. Look into your own heart,

and tell me whether, since you have cherished this passion, you have not

felt all sense of right and wrong confused,--have not felt that whatever

would before have seemed to you mean and base, appears now but just

means to your heated end. Revenge is ever a hypocrite: rage, at least,

strikes with the naked sword; but revenge, stealthy and patient,

conceals the weapon of the assassin. My Lord, your colour changes. What

is your answer to my question?”

“Oh,” exclaimed Harley, with a voice thrilling in its mournful anguish,

“it is not since I have cherished the revenge that I am changed, that

right and wrong grow dark to me, that hypocrisy seems the atmosphere fit

for earth. No; it is since the discovery that demands the vengeance. It

is useless, sir,” he continued impetuously,--“useless to argue with me.

Were I to sit down, patient and impotent, under the sense of the wrong

which I have received, I should feel, indeed, that debasement which you

ascribe to the gratification of what you term revenge. I should never

regain the self-esteem which the sentiment of power now restores to me;

I should feel as if the whole world could perceive and jeer at my meek

humiliation. I know not why I have said so much,--why I have betrayed

to you so much of my secret mind, and stooped to vindicate my purpose. I

never meant it. Again I say, we must close this conference.” Harley here

walked to the door, and opened it significantly.

“One word more, Lord L’Estrange,--but one. You will not hear me. I am a

comparative stranger, but you have a friend, a friend dear and intimate,

now under the same roof. Will you consent, at least, to take counsel

of Mr. Audley Egerton? None can doubt his friendship for you; none

can doubt that whatever he advise will be that which best becomes your

honour. What, my Lord, you hesitate,--you feel ashamed to confide to

your dearest friend a purpose which his mind would condemn? Then I

will seek him, I will implore him to save you from what can but entail

repentance.”

“Mr. Dale, I must forbid you to see Mr. Egerton. What has passed between

us ought to be as sacred to you as a priest of Rome holds confession.

This much, however, I will say to content you: I promise that I will

do nothing that shall render me unworthy of Mr. Audley Egerton’s

friendship, or which his fine sense of honour shall justify him in

blaming. Let that satisfy you.”

“Ah, my Lord,” cried Mr. Dale, pausing irresolute at the doorway, and

seizing Harley’s hand, “I should indeed be satisfied if you would submit

yourself to higher counsel than mine,--than Mr. Egerton’s, than man’s.

Have you never felt the efficacy of prayer?”

“My life has been wasted,” replied Harley, “and I dare not, therefore,

boast that I have found prayer efficacious. But, so far back as I can

remember, it has at least been my habit to pray to Heaven, night and

morning, until at least--until--” The natural and obstinate candour of

the man forced out the last words, which implied reservation. He stopped

short.

“Until you have cherished revenge? You have not dared to pray since?

Oh, reflect what evil there is within us, when we dare not come before

Heaven,--dare not pray for what we wish. You are moved. I leave you to

your own thoughts.” Harley inclined his head, and the parson passed him

by, and left him alone,--startled indeed; but was he softened? As Mr.

Dale hurried along the corridor, much agitated, Violante stole from a

recess formed by a large bay window, and linking her arm in his, said

anxiously, but timidly: “I have been waiting for you, dear Mr. Dale; and

so long! You have been with Lord L’Estrange?”

“Well!”

“Why do you not speak? You have left him comforted, happier?”

“Happier! No.”

“What!” said Violante, with a look of surprise, and a sadness not

unmixed with petulance in her quick tone. “What! does he then so grieve

that Helen prefers another?”

Despite the grave emotions that disturbed his mind, Mr. Dale was struck

by Violante’s question, and the voice in which it was said. He loved

her tenderly. “Child, child,” said he, “I am glad that Helen has escaped

Lord L’Estrange. Beware, oh, beware how he excite any gentler interest

in yourself. He is a dangerous man,--more dangerous for glimpses of a

fine original nature. He may well move the heart of the innocent and

inexperienced, for he has strangely crept into mine. But his heart is

swollen with pride and ire and malice.”

“You mistake; it is false!” cried Violante, impetuously. “I cannot

believe one word that would asperse him who has saved my father from a

prison, or from death. You have not treated him gently. He fancies he

has been wronged by Leonard, received ingratitude from Helen. He has

felt the sting in proportion to his own susceptible and generous heart,

and you have chided where you should have soothed. Poor Lord L’Estrange!

And you have left him still indignant and unhappy?”

“Foolish girl! I have left him meditating sin; I have left him afraid to

pray; I have left him on the brink of some design--I know not what--but

which involves more than Leonard in projects of revenge; I have left him

so, that if his heart be really susceptible and generous, he will wake

from wrath to be the victim of long and unavailing remorse. If your

father has influence over him, tell Dr. Riccabocca what I say, and bid

him seek, and in his turn save, the man who saved himself. He has not

listened to religion,--he maybe more docile to philosophy. I cannot stay

here longer,--I must go to Leonard.”

Mr. Dale broke from Violante and hurried down the corridor; Violante

stood on the same spot, stunned and breathless. Harley on the brink of

some strange sin! Harley to wake, the victim of remorse! Harley to be

saved, as he had saved her father! Her breast heaved, her colour went

and came, her eyes were raised, her lips murmured. She advanced with

soft footsteps up the corridor; she saw the lights gleaming from

Harley’s room, and suddenly they were darkened, as the inmate of the

room shut to the door, with angry and impatient hand.

An outward act often betrays the inward mind. As Harley had thus closed

the door, so had he sought to shut his heart from the intrusion of

softer and holier thoughts. He had turned to his hearthstone, and

stood on it, resolved and hardened. The man who had loved with such

pertinacious fidelity far so many years could not at once part with

hate. A passion once admitted to his breast, clung to it with such

rooted force! But woe, woe to thee, Harley L’Estrange, if tomorrow

at this hour thou stand at the hearthstone, thy designs accomplished,

knowing that, in the fulfilment of thy blind will, thou hast met

falsehood with falsehood, and deception with deceit! What though those

designs now seem so consummate, so just, so appropriate, so exquisite a

revenge,--seem to thee the sole revenge wit can plan and civilized life

allow: wilt thou ever wash from thy memory the stain that will sully

thine honour? Thou, too, professing friendship still, and masking

perfidy under smiles! Grant that the wrong be great as thou deem it,--be

ten times greater: the sense of thy meanness, O gentleman and soldier,

will bring the blush to thy cheek in the depth of thy solitude. Thou,

who now thinkest others unworthy a trustful love, wilt feel thyself

forever unworthy theirs. Thy seclusion will know not repose. The dignity

of man will forsake thee. Thy proud eye will quail from the gaze. Thy

step will no longer spurn the earth that it treads on. He who has

once done a base thing is never again wholly reconciled to honour. And

woe--thrice woe, if thou learn too late that thou hast exaggerated thy

fancied wrong: that there is excuse, where thou seest none; that thy

friend may have erred, but that his error is venial compared to thy

fancied retribution!

Thus, however, in the superb elation of conscious power, though lavished

on a miserable object,--a terrible example of what changes one evil and

hateful thought, cherished to the exclusion of all others, can make

in the noblest nature, stood, on the hearth of his fathers, and on the

abyss of a sorrow and a shame from which there could be no recall, the

determined and scornful man.

A hand is on the door,--he does not hear it; a form passes the

threshold,-he does not see it; a light step pauses, a soft eye gazes.

Deaf and blind still to both.

Violante came on, gathering courage, and stood at the hearth by his

side.

CHAPTER XXIX.

“LORD L’ESTRANGE, noble friend!”

“You!--and here--Violante? Is it I whom you seek? For what? Good

heavens! what has happened? Why are you so pale; why tremble?”

“Have you forgiven Helen?” asked Violante, beginning with evasive

question, and her cheek was pale no more. “Helen, the poor child! I have

nothing in her to forgive, much to thank her for. She has been frank and

honest.”

“And Leonard--whom I remember in my childhood--you have forgiven him?”

“Fair mediator,” said Harley, smiling, though coldly, “happy is the man

who deceives another; all plead for him. And if the man deceived cannot

forgive, no one will sympathize or excuse.”

“But Leonard did not deceive you?”

“Yes, from the first. It is a long tale, and not to be told to you; but

I cannot forgive him.”

“Adieu! my Lord. Helen must, then, still be very dear to you!” Violante

turned away. Her emotion was so artless, her very anger so charming,

that the love, against which, in the prevalence of his later and darker

passions, he had so sternly struggled, rushed back upon Harley’s breast;

but it came only in storm.

“Stay, but talk not of Helen!” he exclaimed. “Ah, if Leonard’s sole

offence had been what you appear to deem it, do you think I could feel

resentment? No; I should have gratefully hailed the hand that severed a

rash and ungenial tie. I would have given my ward to her lover with such

a dower as it suits my wealth to bestow. But his offence dates from

his very birth. To bless and to enrich the son of a man who--Violante,

listen to me. We may soon part, and forever. Others may misconstrue my

actions; you, at least, shall know from what just principle they spring.

There was a man whom I singled out of the world as more than a brother.

In the romance of my boyhood I saw one who dazzled my fancy, captivated

my heart. It was a dream of Beauty breathed into waking life. I

loved,--I believed myself beloved. I confided all my heart to this

friend,--this more than brother; he undertook to befriend and to aid

my suit. On that very pretext he first saw this ill-fated girl, saw,

betrayed, destroyed her; left me ignorant that her love, which I had

thought mine, had been lavished so wildly on another; left me to believe

that my own suit she had fled, but in generous self-sacrifice,--for

she was poor and humbly born; that--oh, vain idiot that I was!--the

self-sacrifice had been too strong for a young human heart, which had

broken in the struggle; left me to corrode my spring of life in remorse;

clasped my hand in mocking comfort, smiled at my tears of agony--not one

tear himself for his own poor victim! And suddenly, not long since, I

learned all this. And in the father of Leonard Fairfield, you behold

the man who has poisoned all the well-spring of joy to me. You weep!

Oh, Violante! the Past he has blighted and embittered,--that I could

forgive; but the Future is blasted too. For just ere this treason

was revealed to me, I had begun to awake from the torpor of my dreary

penance, to look with fortitude towards the duties I had slighted, to

own that the pilgrimage before me was not barren. And then, oh then, I

felt that all love was not buried in a grave. I felt that you, had

fate so granted, might have been all to my manhood which youth only

saw through the delusion of its golden mists. True, I was then bound

to Helen; true, that honour to her might forbid me all hope. But still,

even to know that my heart was not all ashes, that I could love again,

that that glorious power and privilege of our being was still mine,

seemed to me so heavenly sweet. But then this revelation of falsehood

burst on me, and all truth seemed blotted from the universe. I am freed

from Helen; ah, freed, forsooth,--because not even rank and wealth, and

benefits and confiding tenderness, could bind to me one human heart!

Free from her; but between me and your fresh nature stands Suspicion as

an Upas tree. Not a hope that would pass through the tainted air and fly

to you, but falls dead under the dismal boughs. I love!

“Ha, ha! I--I, whom the past has taught the impossibility to be loved

again. No: if those soft lips murmured ‘Yes’ to the burning prayer that,

had I been free but two short weeks ago, would have rushed from

the frank deeps of my heart, I should but imagine that you deceived

yourself,--a girl’s first fleeting delusive fancy,--nothing more! Were

you my bride, Violante, I should but debase your bright nature by my own

curse of distrust. At each word of tenderness, my heart would say, ‘How

long will this last; when will the deception come?’ Your beauty, your

gifts, would bring me but jealous terror, eternally I should fly from

the Present to the Future, and say. ‘These hairs will be gray, while

flattering youth will surround her in the zenith of her charms.’ Why

then do I hate and curse my foe? Why do I resolve upon revenge? I

comprehend it now. I knew that there was something more imperious than

the ghost of the Past that urged me on. Gazing on you, I feel that it

was the dim sense of a mighty and priceless loss; it is not the dead

Nora,--it is the living Violante. Look not at me with those reproachful

eyes: they cannot reverse my purpose; they cannot banish suspicion from

my sickened soul; they cannot create a sunshine in the midst of this

ghastly twilight. Go, go; leave me to the sole joy that bequeaths no

disappointment, the sole feeling that unites me to social man; leave me

to my revenge.”

“Revenge! Oh, cruel!” exclaimed Violante, laying her hand on his arm.

“And in revenge, it is your own life that you will risk!”

“My life, simple child! This is no contest of life against life. Could I

bare to all the world my wrongs for their ribald laughter, I should only

give to my foe the triumph to pity my frenzy, to shun the contest; or

grant it, if I could find a second--and then fire in the air. And all

the world would say, ‘Generous Egerton! soul of honour!’”

“Egerton, Mr. Egerton! He cannot be this foe? It is not on him you can

design revenge,--you who spend all your hours in serving his cause, you

to whom he trusts so fondly, you who leaned yesterday on his shoulder,

and smiled so cheeringly in his face?”

“Did I? Hypocrisy against hypocrisy, snare against snare: that is my

revenge.”

“Harley, Harley! Cease, cease!”

The storm of passion rushed on unheeding.

“I seem to promote his ambition but to crush it into the mire. I have

delivered him from the gentler gripe of an usurer, so that he shall hold

at my option alms or a prison--”

“Friend, friend! Hush, hush!”

“I have made the youth he has reared and fostered into treachery like

his own (your father’s precious choice, Randal Leslie) mine instrument

in the galling lesson how ingratitude can sting. His very son shall

avenge the mother, and be led to his father’s breast as victor, with

Randal Leslie, in the contest that deprives sire and benefactor of all

that makes life dear to ambitious egotism. And if, in the breast of

Audley Egerton, there can yet lurk one memory of what I was to him

and to truth, not his least punishment will be the sense that his own

perfidy has so changed the man whose very scorn of falsehood has taught

him to find in fraud itself the power of retribution.”

“If this be not a terrible dream,” murmured Violante, recoiling, “it is

not your foe alone that you will deprive of all that makes life dear.

Act thus--and what, in the future, is left to me?”

“To you? Oh, never fear. I may give Randal Leslie a triumph over his

patron, but in the same hour I will unmask his villany, and sweep

him forever from your path. What in the future is left to you?--your

birthright and your native land; hope, joy, love, felicity. Could it be

possible that in the soft but sunny fancy which plays round the heart

of maiden youth, but still sends no warmth into its deeps,--could it be

possible that you had Honoured me with a gentler thought, it will pass

away, and you will be the pride and delight of one of your own years, to

whom the vista of Time is haunted by no chilling spectres, one who can

look upon that lovely face, and not turn away to mutter, ‘Too fair, too

fair for me!’”

“Oh, agony!” exclaimed Violante, with sudden passion. “In my turn hear

me. If, as you promise, I am released from the dreadful thought that he,

at whose touch I shudder, can claim this hand, my choice is irrevocably

made. The altars which await me will not be those of a human love. But

oh, I implore you--by all the memories of your own life, hitherto, if

sorrowful, unsullied, by the generous interest you yet profess for

me, whom you will have twice saved from a danger to which death were

mercy--leave, oh, leave to me the right to regard your image as I have

done from the first dawn of childhood. Leave me the right to honour and

revere it. Let not an act accompanied with a meanness--oh that I should

say the word!--a meanness and a cruelty that give the lie to your whole

life--make even a grateful remembrance of you an unworthy sin. When I

kneel within the walls that divide me from the world, oh, let me think

that I can pray for you as the noblest being that the world contains!

Hear me! hear me!”

“Violante!” murmured Harley, his whole frame heaving with emotion, “bear

with me. Do not ask of me the sacrifice of what seems to me the cause

of manhood itself,--to sit down, meek and patient, under a wrong that

debases me, with the consciousness that all my life I have been the

miserable dupe to affections I deemed so honest, to regrets that I

believed so holy. Ah, I should feel more mean in my pardon than you can

think me in revenge! Were it an acknowledged enemy, I could open my arms

to him at your bidding; but the perfidious friend!--ask it not. My

cheek burns at the thought, as at the stain of a blow. Give me but

to-morrow--one day--I demand no more--wholly to myself and to the past,

and mould me for the future as you will. Pardon, pardon the ungenerous

thoughts that extended distrust to you. I retract them; they are

gone,--dispelled before those touching words, those ingenuous eyes. At

your feet, Violante, I repent and I implore! Your father himself shall

banish your sordid suitor. Before this hour to-morrow you will be free.

Oh, then, then! will you not give me this hand to guide me again into

the paradise of my youth? Violante, it is in vain to wrestle with

myself, to doubt, to reason, to be wisely fearful! I love, I love you! I

trust again in virtue and faith. I place my fate in your keeping.” If

at times Violante may appear to have ventured beyond the limit of strict

maiden bashfulness, much may be ascribed to her habitual candour, her

solitary rearing, and remoteness from the world, the very innocence of

her soul, and the warmth of heart which Italy gives its daughters. But

now that sublimity of thought and purpose which pervaded her nature,

and required only circumstances to develop, made her superior to all the

promptings of love itself. Dreams realized which she had scarcely dared

to own; Harley free, Harley at her feet; all the woman struggling at her

heart, mantling in her blushes, still stronger than love, stronger than

the joy of being loved again, was the heroic will,--will to save him,

who in all else ruled her existence, from the eternal degradation to

which passion had blinded his own confused and warring spirit.

Leaving one hand in his impassioned clasp, as he still knelt before her,

she raised on high the other. “Ah,” she said, scarce audibly,--“ah, if

heaven vouchsafe me the proud and blissful privilege to be allied to

your fate, to minister to your happiness, never should I know one fear

of your distrust. No time, no change, no sorrow--not even the loss of

your affection--could make me forfeit the right to remember that you had

once confided to me a heart so noble. But”--here her voice rose in its

tone, and the glow fled from her cheek--“but, O Thou the Ever Present,

hear and receive the solemn vow. If to me he refuse to sacrifice the sin

that would debase him, that sin be the barrier between us evermore;

and may my life, devoted to Thy service, atone for the hour in which

he belied the nature he received from Thee! Harley, release me! I have

spoken: firm as yourself, I leave the choice to you.”

“You judge me harshly,” said Harley, rising, with sullen anger; “but at

least I have not the meanness to sell what I hold as justice, though the

bribe may include my last hope of happiness.”

“Meanness! Oh, unhappy, beloved Harley!” exclaimed Violante, with such

a gush of exquisite reproachful tenderness, that it thrilled him as

the voice of the parting guardian angel. “Meanness! But it is that from

which I implore you to save yourself. You cannot judge, you cannot see.

You are dark, dark. Lost Christian that you are, what worse than

heathen darkness to feign the friendship the better to betray; to punish

falsehood by becoming yourself so false; to accept the confidence even

of your bitterest foe, and then to sink below his own level in deceit?

And oh, worse than all--to threaten that a son--son of the woman you

professed to love--should swell your vengeance against a father! No! it

was not you that said this,--it was the Fiend!”

“Enough!” exclaimed Harley, startled, conscience-stricken, and rushing

into resentment, in order to escape the sense of shame. “Enough! you

insult the man you professed to honour.”

“I honoured the prototype of gentleness and valour. I honoured one who

seemed to me to clothe with life every grand and generous image that is

born from the souls of poets. Destroy that ideal, and you destroy the

Harley whom I honoured. He is dead to me forever. I will mourn for him

as his widow, faithful to his memory, weeping over the thought of what

he was.” Sobs choked her voice; but as Harley, once more melted, sprang

forward to regain her side, she escaped with a yet quicker movement,

gained the door, and darting down the corridor, vanished from his sight.

Harley stood still one moment, thoroughly irresolute, nay, almost

subdued. Then sternness, though less rigid than before, gradually came

to his brow. The demon had still its hold in the stubborn and marvellous

pertinacity with which the man clung to all that once struck root at his

heart. With a sudden impulse that still withheld decision, yet spoke

of sore-shaken purpose, he strode to his desk, drew from it Nora’s

manuscript, and passed from his room.

Harley had meant never to have revealed to Audley the secret he

had gained until the moment when revenge was consummated. He had

contemplated no vain reproach. His wrath would have spoken forth in

deeds, and then a word would have sufficed as the key to all. Willing,

perhaps, to hail some extenuation of perfidy, though the possibility

of such extenuation he had never before admitted, he determined on

the interview which he had hitherto so obstinately shunned, and went

straight to the room in which Audley Egerton still sat, solitary and

fearful.

CHAPTER XXX.

Egerton heard the well-known step advancing near and nearer up the

corridor, heard the door open and reclose; and he felt, by one of those

strange and unaccountable instincts which we call forebodings, that the

hour he had dreaded for so many secret years had come at last. He nerved

his courage, withdrew his hands from his face, and rose in silence.

No less silent, Harley stood before him. The two men gazed on each

other; you might have heard their breathing.

“You have seen Mr. Dale?” said Egerton, at length. “You know--”

“All!” said Harley, completing the arrested sentence. Audley drew a long

sigh. “Be it so; but no, Harley, you deceive yourself; you cannot know

all, from any one living, save myself.”

“My knowledge comes from the dead,” answered Harley, and the fatal

memoir dropped from his hand upon the table. The leaves fell with a

dull, low sound, mournful and faint as might be the tread of a ghost, if

the tread gave sound. They fell, those still confessions of an obscure,

uncomprehended life, amidst letters and documents eloquent of the strife

that was then agitating millions,--the fleeting, turbulent fears and

hopes that torture parties and perplex a nation; the stormy business

of practical public life, so remote from individual love and individual

sorrow.

Egerton’s eye saw them fall. The room was but partially lighted. At

the distance where he stood, he did not recognize the characters; but

involuntarily he shivered, and involuntarily drew near.

“Hold yet awhile,” said Harley. “I produce my charge, and then I leave

you to dispute the only witness that I bring. Audley Egerton, you took

from me the gravest trust one man can confide to another. You knew how

I loved Leonora Avenel. I was forbidden to see and urge my suit; you had

the access to her presence which was denied to myself. I prayed you

to remove scruples that I deemed too generous, and to woo her not to

dishonour, but to be my wife. Was it so? Answer.”

“It is true,” said Audley, his hand clenched at his heart. “You saw her

whom I thus loved,--her thus confided to your honour. You wooed her for

yourself. Is it so?”

“Harley, I deny it not. Cease here. I accept the penalty; I resign your

friendship; I quit your roof; I submit to your contempt; I dare not

implore your pardon. Cease; let me go hence, and soon!”

The strong man gasped for breath. Harley looked at him steadfastly, then

turned away his eyes, and went on. “Nay,” said he, “is that ALL? You

wooed her for yourself,--you won her. Account to me for that life which

you wrenched from mine. You are silent. I will take on myself your task;

you took that life and destroyed it.”

“Spare me, spare me!”

“What was the fate of her who seemed so fresh from heaven when these

eyes beheld her last? A broken heart, a dishonoured name, an early doom,

a forgotten gravestone!”

“No, no--forgotten,--no!”

“Not forgotten! Scarce a year passed, and you were married to another.

I aided you to form those nuptials which secured your fortunes. You

have had rank and power and fame. Peers call you the type of English

gentlemen; priests hold you as a model of Christian honour. Strip the

mask, Audley Egerton; let the world know you for what you are!”

Egerton raised his head, and folded his arms calmly; but he said, with a

melancholy humility, “I bear all from you; it is just. Say on.”

“You took from me the heart of Nora Avenel. You abandoned her, you

destroyed. And her memory cast no shadow over your daily sunshine; while

over my thoughts, over my life--oh, Egerton--Audley, Audley--how could

you have deceived me thus!” Here the inherent tenderness under all this

hate, the fount imbedded under the hardening stone, broke out. Harley

was ashamed of his weakness, and hurried on,

“Deceived,--not for an hour, a day, but through blighted youth, through

listless manhood,--you suffered me to nurse the remorse that should have

been your own; her life slain, mine wasted,--and shall neither of us

have revenge?”

“Revenge! Ah, Harley, you have had it!”

“No, but I await it! Not in vain from the charnel have come to me the

records I produce. And whom did fate select to discover the wrongs of

the mother, whom appoint as her avenger? Your son,--your own son; your

abandoned, nameless son!”

“Son! son!”

“Whom I delivered from famine, or from worse; and who, in return, has

given into my hands the evidence which proclaims in you the perjured

friend of Harley L’Estrange, and the fraudulent seducer, under mock

marriage forms--worse than all franker sin--of Leonora Avenel.”

“It is false! false!” exclaimed Egerton, all his stateliness and all his

energy restored to him. “I forbid you to speak thus to me. I forbid you

by one word to sully the memory of my lawful wife!”

“Ah!” said Harley, startled. “Ah! false? prove that, and revenge is

over! Thank Heaven!”

“Prove it! What so easy? And wherefore have I delayed the proof;

wherefore concealed, but from tenderness to you,--dread, too--a selfish

but human dread--to lose in you the sole esteem that I covet; the only

mourner who would have shed one tear over the stone inscribed with some

lying epitaph, in which it will suit a party purpose to proclaim the

gratitude of a nation. Vain hope. I resign it! But you spoke of a son.

Alas, alas! you are again deceived. I heard that I had a son,--years,

long years ago. I sought him, and found a grave. But bless you, Harley,

if you succoured one whom you even erringly suspect to be Leonora’s

child!” He stretched forth his hands as he spoke.

“Of your son we will speak later,” said Harley, strangely softened. “But

before I say more of him, let me ask you to explain; let me hope that

you can extenuate what--”

“You are right,” interrupted Egerton, with eager quickness. “You would

know from my own lips at last the plain tale of my own offence against

you. It is due to both. Patiently hear me out.”

Then Egerton told all,--his own love for Nora, his struggles against

what he felt as treason to his friend, his sudden discovery of Nora’s

love for him; on that discovery, the overthrow of all his resolutions;

their secret marriage, their separation; Nora’s flight, to which Audley

still assigned but her groundless vague suspicion that their nuptials

had not been legal, and her impatience of his own delay in acknowledging

the rite.

His listener interrupted him here with a few questions, the clear

and prompt replies to which enabled Harley to detect Levy’s plausible

perversion of the facts; and he vaguely guessed the cause of the

usurer’s falsehood, in the criminal passion which the ill-fated bride

had inspired.

“Egerton,” said Harley, stifling with an effort his own wrath against

the vile deceiver both of wife and husband, “if, on reading those

papers, you find that Leonora had more excuse for her suspicions and

flight than you now deem, and discover perfidy in one to whom you

trusted your secret, leave his punishment to Heaven. All that you say

convinces me more and more that we cannot even see through the cloud,

much less guide the thunderbolt. But proceed.”

Audley looked surprised and startled, and his eye turned wistfully

towards the papers; but after a short pause he continued his recital. He

came to Nora’s unexpected return to her father’s house, her death, his

conquest of his own grief, that he might spare Harley the abrupt

shock of learning her decease. He had torn himself from the dead, in

remorseful sympathy with the living. He spoke of Harley’s illness, so

nearly fatal, repeated Harley’s jealous words, “that he would rather

mourn Nora’s death, than take comfort from the thought that she had

loved another.” He spoke of his journey to the village where Mr. Dale

had told him Nora’s child was placed--“and, hearing that child and

mother were alike gone, whom now could I right by acknowledging a bond

that I feared would so wring your heart?” Audley again paused a moment,

and resumed in short, nervous, impressive sentences. This cold, austere

man of the world for the first time bared his heart,--unconscious,

perhaps, that he did so; unconscious that he revealed how deeply,

amidst State cares and public distinctions, he had felt the absence of

affections; how mechanical was that outer circle in the folds of life

which is called a “career;” how valueless wealth had grown--none to

inherit it. Of his gnawing and progressive disease alone he did not

speak; he was too proud and too masculine to appeal to pity for physical

ills. He reminded Harley how often, how eagerly, year after year, month

after month, he had urged his friend to rouse himself from mournful

dreams, devote his native powers to his country, or seek the surer

felicity of domestic ties. “Selfish in these attempts I might be,” said

Egerton; “it was only if I saw you restored to happiness that I could

believe you could calmly hear my explanation of the past, and on the

floor of some happy home grant me your forgiveness. I longed to confess,

and I dared not. Often have the words rushed to my lips,--as often

some chance sentence from you repelled me. In a word, with you were so

entwined all the thoughts and affections of my youth--even those

that haunted the grave of Nora--that I could not bear to resign your

friendship, and, surrounded by the esteem and honour of a world I cared

not for, to meet the contempt of your reproachful eye.”

Amidst all that Audley said, amidst all that admitted of no excuse,

two predominant sentiments stood clear, in unmistakable and touching

pathos,--remorseful regret for the lost Nora, and self-accusing,

earnest, almost feminine tenderness for the friend he had deceived.

Thus, as he continued to speak, Harley more and more forgot even the

remembrance of his own guilty and terrible interval of hate; the gulf

that had so darkly yawned between the two closed up, leaving them still

standing side by side, as in their schoolboy days. But he remained

silent, listening, shading his face from Audley, and as if under some

soft but enthralling spell, till Egerton thus closed,

“And now, Harley, all is told. You spoke of revenge?”

“Revenge!” muttered Harley, starting.

“And believe me,” continued Egerton, “were revenge in your power, I

should rejoice at it as an atonement. To receive an injury in return

for that which, first from youthful passion, and afterwards from the

infirmity of purpose that concealed the wrong, I have inflicted

upon you--why, that would soothe my conscience, and raise my lost

self-esteem. The sole revenge you can bestow takes the form which most

humiliates me,--to revenge is to pardon.”

Harley groaned; and still hiding his face with one hand, stretched forth

the other, but rather with the air of one who entreats than who accords

forgiveness. Audley took and pressed the hand thus extended.

“And NOW, Harley, farewell. With the dawn I leave this house. I

cannot now accept your aid in this election. Levy shall announce my

resignation. Randal Leslie, if you so please it, may be returned in

my stead. He has abilities which, under safe guidance, may serve his

country; and I have no right to reject from vain pride whatever will

promote the career of one whom I undertook, and have failed, to serve.”

“Ay, ay,” muttered Harley; “think not of Randal Leslie; think but of

your son.”

“My son! But are you sure that he still lives? You smile; you--you--oh,

Harley, I took from you the mother,--give to me the son; break my heart

with gratitude. Your revenge is found!”

Lord L’Estrange rose with a sudden start, gazed on Audley for a

moment,--irresolute, not from resentment, but from shame. At that moment

he was the man humbled; he was the man who feared reproach, and who

needed pardon. Audley, not divining what was thus passing in Harley’s

breast, turned away.

“You think that I ask too much; and yet all that I can give to the child

of my love and the heir of my name is the worthless blessing of a ruined

man. Harley, I say no more. I dare not add, ‘You too loved his mother!

and with a deeper and a nobler love than mine.’” He stopped short, and

Harley flung himself on his breast.

“Me--me--pardon me, Audley! Your offence has been slight to mine. You

have told me your offence; never can I name to you my own. Rejoice that

we have both to exchange forgiveness, and in that exchange we are equal

still, Audley, brothers still. Look up! look up! think that we are boys

now as we were once,--boys who have had their wild quarrel, and who, the

moment it is over, feel dearer to each other than before.”

“Oh, Harley, this is revenge! It strikes home,” murmured Egerton, and

tears gushed fast from eyes that could have gazed unwinking on the rack.

The clock struck; Harley sprang forward.

“I have time yet,” he cried. “Much to do and to undo. You are saved from

the grasp of Levy; your election will be won; your fortunes in much may

be restored; you have before you honours not yet achieved; your career

as yet is scarce begun; your son will embrace you to-morrow. Let me

go--your hand again! Ah, Audley, we shall be so happy yet!”

CHAPTER XXXI.

“There is a hitch,” said Dick, pithily, when Randal joined him in the

oak copse at ten o’clock. “Life is full of hitches.”

RANDAL.--“The art of life is to smooth them away. What hitch is this, my

dear Avenel?”

DICK.--“Leonard has taken huff at certain expressions of Lord

L’Estrange’s at the nomination to-day, and talks of retiring from the

contest.”

RANDAL (with secret glee).--“But his resignation would smooth a

hitch,--not create one. The votes promised to him would thus be freed,

and go to--”

DICK.--“The Right Honourable Red-Tapist!”

RANDAL.--“Are you serious?”

DICK.--“As an undertaker! The fact is, there are two parties among the

Yellows as there are in the Church,--High Yellow and Low Yellow. Leonard

has made great way with the High Yellows, and has more influence with

them than I; and the High Yellows infinitely preferred Egerton to

yourself. They say, ‘Politics apart, he would be an honour to the

borough.’ Leonard is of the same opinion; and if he retires, I don’t

think I could coax either him or the Highflyers to make you any the

better by his resignation.”

RANDAL.--“But surely your nephew’s sense of gratitude to you would

induce him not to go against your wishes?”

DICK.--“Unluckily, the gratitude is all the other way. It is I who am

under obligations to him,--not he to me. As for Lord L’Estrange, I

can’t make head or tail of his real intentions; and why he should have

attacked Leonard in that way puzzles me more than all, for he wished

Leonard to stand; and Levy has privately informed me that, in spite

of my Lord’s friendship for the Right Honourable, you are the man he

desires to secure.”

RANDAL.--“He has certainly shown that desire throughout the whole

canvass.”

DICK.--“I suspect that the borough-mongers have got a seat for Egerton

elsewhere; or, perhaps, should his party come in again, he is to be

pitchforked into the Upper House.”

RANDAL (smiling).--“Ah, Avenel, you are so shrewd; you see through

everything. I will also add that Egerton wants some short respite from

public life, in order to nurse his health and attend to his affairs,

otherwise I could not even contemplate the chance of the electors

preferring me to him, without a pang.”

DICK.--“Pang! stuff--considerable. The oak-trees don’t hear us! You want

to come into parliament, and no mistake. If I am the man to retire,--as

I always proposed, and had got Leonard to agree to, before this

confounded speech of L’Estrange’s,--come into parliament you will, for

the Low Yellows I can twist round my finger, provided the High Yellows

will not interfere; in short, I could transfer to you votes promised to

me, but I can’t answer for those promised to Leonard. Levy tells me you

are to marry a rich girl, and will have lots of money; so, of course,

you will pay my expenses if you come in through my votes.”

RANDAL.--“My dear Avenel, certainly I will.”

DICK.--“And I have two private bills I want to smuggle through

parliament.”

RANDAL.--“They shall be smuggled, rely on it. Mr. Fairfield being on

one side of the House, and I on the other, we two could prevent all

unpleasant opposition. Private bills are easily managed,--with that tact

which I flatter myself I possess.”

DICK.--“And when the bills are through the House, and you have had time

to look about you, I dare say you will see that no man can go against

Public Opinion, unless he wants to knock his own head against a stone

wall; and that Public Opinion is decidedly Yellow.”

RANDAL (with candour).--“I cannot deny that Public Opinion is Yellow;

and at my age, it is natural that I should not commit myself to the

policy of a former generation. Blue is fast wearing out. But, to return

to Mr. Fairfield: you do not speak as if you had no hope of keeping him

straight to what I understand to be his agreement with yourself. Surely

his honour is engaged to it?”

DICK.--“I don’t know as to honour; but he has now taken a fancy to

public life,--at least so he said no later than this morning before we

went into the hall; and I trust that matters will come right. Indeed,

I left him with Parson Dale, who promised me that he would use all his

best exertions to reconcile Leonard and my Lord, and that Leonard should

do nothing hastily.”

RANDAL.--“But why should Mr. Fairfield retire because Lord L’Estrange

wounds his feelings? I am sure Mr. Fairfield has wounded mine, but that

does not make me think of retiring.”

DICK.--“Oh, Leonard is a poet, and poets are quite as crotchety as

L’Estrange said they were. And Leonard is under obligations to Lord

L’Estrange, and thought that Lord L’Estrange was pleased by his

standing; whereas, now--In short, it is all Greek to me, except that

Leonard has mounted his high horse, and if that throws him, I am afraid

it will throw you. But still I have great confidence in Parson Dale,--a

good fellow who has much influence with Leonard. And though I thought it

right to be above-board, and let you know where the danger lies, yet one

thing I can promise,--if I resign, you shall come in; so shake hands on

it.”

RANDAL.--“My dear Avenel! And your wish is to resign?”

DICK.--“Certainly. I should do so a little time after noon, contriving

to be below Leonard on the poll. You know Emanuel Trout, the captain of

the Hundred and Fifty ‘Waiters on Providence,’ as they are called?”

RANDAL.--“To be sure I do.”

DICK.--“When Emanuel Trout comes into the booth, you will know how the

election turns. As he votes, all the Hundred and Fifty will vote. Now I

must go back. Good-night.

“You’ll not forget that my expenses are to be paid. Point of honour.

Still, if they are not paid, the election can be upset,--petition for

bribery and corruption; and if they are paid, why, Lansmere may be your

seat for life.”

RANDAL.--“Your expenses shall be paid the moment my marriage gives me

the means to pay them,--and that must be very soon.”

DICK.--“So Levy says. And my little jobs--the private bills?”

RANDAL.--“Consider the bills passed and the jobs done.”

DICK.--“And one must not forget one’s country. One must do the best one

can for one’s principles. Egerton is infernally Blue. You allow Public

Opinion--is--”

RANDAL.--“Yellow. Not a doubt of it.”

DICK.--“Good-night. Ha, ha! humbug, eh?”

RANDAL.--“Humbug! Between men like us,--oh, no. Good-night, my dear

friend, I rely on you.”

DICK.--“Yes; but mind, I promise nothing if Leonard Fairfield does not

stand.”

RANDAL.--“He must stand; keep him to it. Your affairs, your business,

your mill--”

DICK.--“Very true. He must stand. I have great faith in Parson Dale.”

Randal glided back through the park. When he came on the terrace, he

suddenly encountered Lord L’Estrange. “I have just been privately into

the town, my dear Lord, and heard a strange rumour, that Mr. Fairfield

was so annoyed by some remarks in your Lordship’s admirable speech, that

he talks of retiring from the contest. That would give a new feature

to the election, and perplex all our calculations; and I fear, in that

case, there might be some secret coalition between Avenel’s friends

and our Committee, whom, I am told, I displeased by the moderate speech

which your Lordship so eloquently defended,--a coalition by which Avenel

would come in with Mr. Egerton, whereas, if we all four stand, Mr.

Egerton, I presume, will be quite safe,--and I certainly think I have an

excellent chance.”

LORD L’ESTRANGE.--“SO Mr. Fairfield would retire in consequence of my

remarks! I am going into the town, and I intend to apologize for those

remarks, and retract them.”

RANDAL (joyously).--“Noble!”

Lord L’Estrange looked at Leslie’s face, upon which the stars gleamed

palely. “Mr. Egerton has thought more of your success than of his own,”

said he, gravely, and hurried on.

Randal continued on the terrace. Perhaps Harley’s last words gave him

a twinge of compunction. His head sunk musingly on his breast, and he

paced to and fro the long gravel-walk, summoning up all his intellect to

resist every temptation to what could injure his self-interest.

“Skulking knave!” muttered Harley. “At least there will be nothing to

repent, if I can do justice on him. That is not revenge. Come, that must

be a fair retribution. Besides, how else can I deliver Violante?”

He laughed gayly, his heart was so light; and his foot bounded on as

fleet as the deer that he startled amongst the fern.

A few yards from the turnstile he overtook Richard Avenel, disguised in

a rough great-coat and spectacles. Nevertheless, Harley’s eye detected

the Yellow candidate at the first glance. He caught Dick familiarly by

the arm. “Well met! I was going to you. We have the election to settle.”

“On the terms I mentioned to your Lordship?” said Dick, startled. “I

will agree to return one of your candidates; but it must not be Audley

Egerton.” Harley whispered close in Avenel’s ear.

Avenel uttered an exclamation of amazement. The two gentlemen walked on

rapidly, and conversing with great eagerness.

“Certainly,” said Avenel, at length, stopping short, “one would do a

great deal to serve a family connection,--and a connection that does

a man so much credit; and how can one go against one’s own

brother-in-law,--a gentleman of such high standing, pull up the whole

family! How pleased Mrs. Richard Avenel will be! Why the devil did not

I know it before? And poor--dear--dear Nora. Ah, that she were living!”

Dick’s voice trembled.

“Her name will be righted; and I will explain why it was my fault that

Egerton did not before acknowledge his marriage, and claim you as a

brother. Come, then, it is all fixed and settled.”

“No, my Lord; I am pledged the other way. I don’t see how I can get

off my word--to Randal Leslie. I’m not over nice, nor what is called

Quixotic; but still my word is given that if I retire from the election,

I will do my best to return Leslie instead of Egerton.”

“I know that through Baron Levy. But if your nephew retires?”

“Oh, that would solve all difficulties. But the poor boy has now a wish

to come into parliament; and he has done me a service in the hour of

need.”

“Leave it to me. And as to Randal Leslie, he shall have an occasion

himself to acquit you and redeem himself; and happy, indeed, will it

be for him if he has yet one spark of gratitude, or one particle of

honour!”

The two continued to converse for a few moments, Dick seeming to forget

the election itself, and ask questions of more interest to his heart,

which Harley answered so, that Dick wrung L’Estrange’s hand with great

emotion, and muttered, “My poor mother! I understand now why she would

never talk to me of Nora. When may I tell her the truth?”

“To-morrow evening, after the election, Egerton shall embrace you all.”

Dick started, and saying, “See Leonard as soon as you can,--there is

no time to lose,” plunged into a lane that led towards the obscurer

recesses of the town. Harley continued his way with the same light

elastic tread which (lost during his abnegation of his own nature) was

now restored to the foot, that seemed loath to leave a print upon the

mire.

At the commencement of the High Street he encountered Mr. Dale and

Fairfield, walking slowly, arm-in-arm.

HARLEY.--“Leonard, I was coming to you. Give me your hand. Forget for

the present the words that justly stung and offended you. I will do more

than apologize,--I will repair the wrong. Excuse me, Mr. Dale, I have

one word to say in private to Leonard.” He drew Fairfield aside.

“Avenel tells me that if you were to retire from this contest, it would

be a sacrifice of inclination. Is it so?”

“My Lord, I have sorrows that I would fain forget; and though I at first

shrunk from the strife in which I have been since engaged, yet now a

literary career seems to me to have lost its old charm; and I find that,

in public life, there is a distraction to the thoughts which embitter

solitude, that books fail to bestow. Therefore, if you still wish me to

continue this contest, though I know not your motive, it will not be

as it was to begin it,--a reluctant and a painful obedience to your

request.”

“I understand. It was a sacrifice of inclination to begin the contest;

it would be now a sacrifice of inclination to withdraw?”

“Honestly, yes, my Lord.”

“I rejoice to hear it, for I ask that sacrifice,--a sacrifice which you

will recall hereafter with delight and pride; a sacrifice sweeter, if

I read your nature aright--oh, sweeter far, than all which commonplace

ambition could bestow! And when you learn why I make this demand, you

will say, ‘This, indeed, is reparation for the words that wounded my

affections, and wronged my heart.’”

“My Lord, my Lord!” exclaimed Leonard, “the injury is repaired already.

You give me back your esteem, when you so well anticipate my answer.

Your esteem!--life smiles again. I can return to my more legitimate

career without a sigh. I have no need of distraction from thought

now. You will believe that, whatever my past presumption, I can pray

sincerely for your happiness.”

“Poet, you adorn your career; you fulfil your mission, even at this

moment; you beautify the world; you give to the harsh form of Duty

the cestus of the Graces,” said Harley, trying to force a smile to his

quivering lips. “But we must hasten back to the prose of existence. I

accept your sacrifice. As for the time and mode I must select in order

to insure its result, I will ask you to abide by such instructions as I

shall have occasion to convey through your uncle. Till then, no word

of your intentions,--not even to Mr. Dale. Forgive me if I would rather

secure Mr. Egerton’s election than yours. Let that explanation suffice

for the present. What think you, by the way, of Audley Egerton?”

“I thought when I heard him speak and when he closed with those touching

words,--implying that he left all of his life not devoted to his country

‘to the charity of his friends,’--how proudly, even as his opponent, I

could have clasped his hand; and if he had wronged me in private life,

I should have thought it ingratitude to the country he had so served to

remember the offence.”

Harley turned away abruptly, and joined Mr. Dale.

“Leave Leonard to go home by himself; you see that I have healed

whatever wounds I inflicted on him.”

PARSON.--“And, your better nature thus awakened, I trust, my dear Lord,

that you have altogether abandoned the idea of--”

HARLEY.--“Revenge?--no. And if you do not approve that revenge

to-morrow, I will never rest till I have seen you--a bishop!”

MR. DALE (much shocked).--“My Lord, for shame!”

HARLEY (seriously).--“My levity is but lip-deep, my dear Mr. Dale. But

sometimes the froth on the wave shows the change in the tide.”

The parson looked at him earnestly, and then seized him by both hands

with holy gladness and affection.

“Return to the Park now,” said Harley, smiling; “and tell Violante,

if it be not too late to see her, that she was even more eloquent than

you.”

Lord L’Estrange bounded forward.

Mr. Dale walked back through the park to Lansmere House. On the terrace

he found Randal, who was still pacing to and fro, sometimes in the

starlight, sometimes in the shadow.

Leslie looked up, and seeing Mr. Dale, the close astuteness of his

aspect returned; and stepping out of the starlight deep into the shadow,

he said,

“I was sorry to learn that Mr. Fairfield had been so hurt by Lord

L’Estrange’s severe allusions. Pity that political differences should

interfere with private friendships; but I hear that you have been to

Mr. Fairfield,--and, doubtless, as the peacemaker. Perhaps you met

Lord L’Estrange by the way? He promised me that he would apologize and

retract.”

“Good young man!” said the unsuspecting parson, “he has done so.”

“And Mr. Leonard Fairfield will, therefore, I presume, continue the

contest?”

“Contest--ah, this election! I suppose so, of course. But I grieve that

he should stand against you, who seem to be disposed towards him so

kindly.”

“Oh,” said Randal, with a benevolent smile, “we have fought before, you

know, and I beat him then. I may do so again!”

And he walked into the house, arm-in-arm with the parson. Mr. Dale

sought Violante; Leslie retired to his own room, and felt his election

was secured.

Lord L’Estrange had gained the thick of the streets--passing groups of

roaring enthusiasts--Blue and Yellow--now met with a cheer, now followed

by a groan. Just by a public-house that formed the angle of a lane with

the High Street, and which was all ablaze with light and all alive with

clamour, he beheld the graceful baron leaning against the threshold,

smoking his cigar, too refined to associate its divine vapour with the

wreaths of shag within, and chatting agreeably with a knot of females,

who were either attracted by the general excitement, or waiting to see

husband, brother, father, or son, who were now joining in the chorus

of “Blue forever!” that rang from tap-room to attic of the illumined

hostelry. Levy, seeing Lord L’Estrange, withdrew his cigar from his

lips, and hastened to join him. “All the Hundred and Fifty are in

there,” said the baron, with a backward significant jerk of his thumb

towards the inn. “I have seen them all privately, in tens at a time;

and I have been telling the ladies without that it will be best for the

interest of their families to go home, and let us lock up the Hundred

and Fifty safe from the Yellows, till we bring them to the poll. But I

am afraid,” continued Levy, “that the rascals are not to be relied upon

unless I actually pay them beforehand; and that would be disreputable,

immoral,--and, what is more, it would upset the election. Besides, if

they are paid beforehand, query, is it quite sure how they will vote

afterwards?”

“Mr. Avenel, I dare say, can manage them,” said Harley. “Pray do nothing

immoral, and nothing that will upset the election. I think you might as

well go home.”

“Home! No, pardon me, my Lord; there must be some head to direct the

Committee, and keep our captains at their posts upon the doubtful

electors. A great deal of mischief may be done between this and the

morrow; and I would sit up all night--ay, six nights a week for the next

three months--to prevent any awkward mistake by which Audley Egerton can

be returned.”

“His return would really grieve you so much?” said Harley.

“You may judge of that by the zeal with which I enter into all your

designs.”

Here there was a sudden and wondrously loud shout from another inn,--a

Yellow inn, far down the lane, not so luminous as the Blue hostelry; on

the contrary, looking rather dark and sinister, more like a place for

conspirators or felons than honest, independent electors,--“Avenel

forever! Avenel and the Yellows!”

“Excuse me, my Lord, I must go back and watch over my black sheep, if

I would have them blue!” said Levy; and he retreated towards the

threshold. But at that shout of “Avenel forever!” as if at a signal,

various electors of the redoubted Hundred and Fifty rushed from the Blue

hostelry, sweeping past Levy, and hurrying down the lane to the dark

little Yellow inn, followed by the female stragglers, as small birds

follow an owl. It was not, however, very easy to get into that Yellow

inn; Yellow Reformers, eminent for their zeal on behalf of purity of

election, were stationed outside the door, and only strained in one

candidate for admittance at a time. “After all,” thought the baron, as

he passed into the principal room of the Blue tavern, and proposed the

national song of “Rule Britannia,”--“after all, Avenel hates Egerton as

much as I do, and both sides work to the same end.” And thrumming on the

table, he joined with a fine lass in the famous line,

“For Britons never will be slaves!”

In the interim, Harley had disappeared within the Lansmere Arms, which

was the headquarters of the Blue Committee. Not, however, mounting to

the room in which a few of the more indefatigable were continuing their

labours, receiving reports from scouts, giving orders, laying wagers,

and very muzzy with British principles and spirits, Harley called aside

the landlord, and inquired if the stranger, for whom rooms had been

prepared, was yet arrived. An affirmative answer was given, and Harley

followed the host up a private stair, to a part of the house remote from

the rooms devoted to the purposes of the election. He remained with this

stranger about half an hour, and then walked into the Committee-room,

got rid of the more excited, conferred with the more sober, issued a few

brief directions to such of the leaders as he felt he could most rely

upon, and returned home as rapidly as he had quitted it.

Dawn was gray in the skies when Harley sought his own chamber. To

gain it, he passed by the door of Violante’s. His heart suffused with

grateful ineffable tenderness, he paused and kissed the threshold. When

he stood within his room (the same that he had occupied in his early

youth), he felt as if the load of years were lifted from his bosom. The

joyous, divine elasticity of spirit, that in the morning of life springs

towards the Future as a bird soars into heaven, pervaded his whole sense

of being. A Greek poet implies that the height of bliss is the sudden

relief of pain: there is a nobler bliss still,--the rapture of the

conscience at the sudden release from a guilty thought. By the bedside

at which he had knelt in boyhood, Harley paused to kneel once more. The

luxury of prayer, interrupted since he had nourished schemes of which

his passions had blinded him to the sin, but which, nevertheless, he

dared not confess to the All-Merciful, was restored to him. And yet,

as he bowed his knee, the elation of spirits he had before felt forsook

him. The sense of the danger his soul had escaped, the full knowledge of

the guilt to which the fiend had tempted, came dread before his clearing

vision; he shuddered in horror of himself. And he who but a few hours

before had deemed it so impossible to pardon his fellow-man, now felt

as if years of useful and beneficent deeds could alone purify his own

repentant soul from the memory of one hateful passion.

CHAPTER XXXII

But while Harley had thus occupied the hours of night with cares for the

living, Audley Egerton had been in commune with the dead. He had taken

from the pile of papers amidst which it had fallen, the record of Nora’s

silenced heart. With a sad wonder he saw how he had once been loved.

What had all which successful ambition had bestowed on the lonely

statesman to compensate for the glorious empire he had lost,--such

realms of lovely fancy; such worlds of exquisite emotion; that infinite

which lies within the divine sphere that unites spiritual genius with

human love? His own positive and earthly nature attained, for the

first time, and as if for its own punishment, the comprehension of that

loftier and more ethereal visitant from the heavens, who had once looked

with a seraph’s smile through the prison-bars of his iron life; that

celestial refinement of affection, that exuberance of feeling which

warms into such varieties of beautiful idea, under the breath of the

earth-beautifier, Imagination,--all from which, when it was all his own,

he had turned half weary and impatient, and termed the exaggerations

of a visionary romance, now that the world had lost them evermore, he

interpreted aright as truths. Truths they were, although illusions. Even

as the philosopher tells us that the splendour of colours which deck the

universe is not on the surface whereon we think to behold it, but in our

own vision; yet, take the colours from the universe, and what philosophy

can assure us that the universe has sustained no loss?

But when Audley came to that passage in the fragment which, though but

imperfectly, explained the true cause of Nora’s flight; when he saw how

Levy, for what purpose he was unable to conjecture, had suggested to his

bride the doubts that had offended him,--asserted the marriage to be a

fraud, drawn from Audley’s own brief resentful letters to Nora proof of

the assertion, misled so naturally the young wife’s scanty experience of

actual life, and maddened one so sensitively pure into the conviction of

dishonour,--his brow darkened, and his hand clenched. He rose and went

at once to Levy’s room. He found it deserted, inquired, learned that

Levy was gone forth, and had left word he might not be at home for the

night. Fortunate, perhaps, for Audley, fortunate for the baron, that

they did not then meet. Revenge, in spite of his friend’s admonition,

might at that hour have been as potent an influence on Egerton as it had

been on Harley, and not, as with the latter, to be turned aside.

Audley came back to his room and finished the tragic record. He traced

the tremor of that beloved hand through the last tortures of doubt and

despair; he saw where the hot tears had fallen; he saw where the hand

had paused, the very sentence not concluded; mentally he accompanied

his--fated bride in the dismal journey to her maiden home, and beheld

her before him as he had last seen, more beautiful even in death than

the face of living woman had ever since appeared to him; and as he bent

over the last words, the blank that they left on the leaf, stretching

pale beyond the quiver of the characters and the blister of the

tears,--pale and blank as the void which departed love leaves behind

it,--he felt his Heart suddenly stand still, its course arrested as the

record closed. It beat again, but feebly,--so feebly! His breath became

labour and pain, his sight grew dizzy; but the constitutional firmness

and fortitude of the man clung to him in the stubborn mechanism of

habit, his will yet fought against his disease, life rallied as the

light flickers up in the waning taper.

The next morning, when Harley came into his friend’s room, Egerton was

asleep. But the sleep seemed much disturbed; the breathing was hard

and difficult; the bed-clothes were partially thrown off, as if in the

tossing of disturbed dreams; the sinewy strong arm, the broad athletic

breast, were partly bare. Strange that so deadly a disease within should

leave the frame such apparent power that, to the ordinary eye, the

sleeping sufferer seemed a model of healthful vigour. One hand was

thrust with uneasy straining over the pillows,--it had its hold on

the fatal papers; a portion of the leaves was visible; and where the

characters had been blurred by Nora’s tears, were the traces, yet moist,

of tears perhaps more bitter.

Harley felt deeply affected; and while he still stood by the bed,

Egerton sighed heavily and woke. He stared round him, as if perplexed

and confused, till his eyes resting on Harley, he smiled and said,

“So early! Ah, I remember, it is the day for our great boat-race. We

shall have the current against us; but you and I together--when did we

ever lose?”

Audley’s mind was wandering; it had gone back to the old Eton days. But

Harley thought that he spoke in metaphorical allusion to the present

more important contest.

“True, my Audley,--you and I together--when did we ever lose? But will

you rise? I wish you would be at the polling-place to shake hands with

your voters as they come up. By four o’clock you will be released, and

the election won.”

“The election! How! what!” said Egerton, recovering himself. “I

recollect now. Yes,--I accept this last kindness from you. I always said

I would die in harness. Public life--I have no other. Ah, I dream again!

Oh, Harley my son, my son!”

“You shall see him after four o’clock. You will be proud of each other.

But make haste and dress. Shall I ring the bell for your servant?”

“Do,” said Egerton, briefly, and sinking back. Harley quitted the room,

and joined Randal and some of the more important members of the Blue

Committee, who were already hurrying over their breakfast.

All were anxious and nervous except Harley, who dipped his dry toast

into his coffee, according to his ordinary abstemious Italian habit,

with serene composure. Randal in vain tried for an equal tranquillity.

But though sure of his election, there would necessarily follow a scene

trying to the nerve of his hypocrisy. He would have to affect profound

chagrin in the midst of vile joy; have to act the part of decorous

high-minded sorrow, that by some untoward chance, some unaccountable

cross-splitting, Randal Leslie’s gain should be Audley Egerton’s loss.

Besides, he was flurried in the expectation of seeing the squire, and

of appropriating the money which was to secure the dearest object of his

ambition. Breakfast was soon despatched. The Committee-men, bustling for

their hats, and looking at their watches, gave the signal for departure;

yet no Squire Hazeldean had made his appearance. Harley, stepping from

the window upon the terrace, beckoned to Randal, who took his hat and

followed.

“Mr. Leslie,” said Harley, leaning against the balustrade, and

carelessly patting Nero’s rough, honest head, “you remember that

you were good enough to volunteer to me the explanation of certain

circumstances in connection with the Count di Peschiera, which you gave

to the Duke di Serrano; and I replied that my thoughts were at present

engaged on the election, but as soon as that was over, I should be very

willing to listen to any communications affecting yourself and my old

friend the duke, with which you might be pleased to favour me.”

This address took Randal by surprise, and did not tend to calm his

nerves. However, he replied readily,

“Upon that, as upon any other matter that may influence the judgment you

form of me, I shall be but too eager to remove a single doubt that, in

your eyes, can rest upon my honour.”

“You speak exceedingly well, Mr. Leslie; no man can express himself more

handsomely; and I will claim your promise with the less scruple because

the duke is powerfully affected by the reluctance of his daughter

to ratify the engagement that binds his honour, in case your own is

indisputably cleared. I may boast of some influence over the young lady,

since I assisted to save her from the infamous plot of Peschiera; and

the duke urges me to receive your explanation, in the belief that, if

it satisfy me, as it has satisfied him, I may conciliate his child in

favour of the addresses of a suitor who would have hazarded his very

life against so redoubted a duellist as Peschiera.”

“Lord L’Estrange,” replied Randal, bowing, “I shall indeed owe you much

if you can remove that reluctance on the part of my betrothed bride,

which alone clouds my happiness, and which would at once put an end to

my suit, did I not ascribe it to an imperfect knowledge of myself, which

I shall devote my life to improve into confidence and affection.”

“No man can speak more handsomely,” reiterated Harley, as if with

profound admiration; and indeed he did eye Randal as we eye some rare

curiosity. “I am happy to inform you, too,” continued L’Estrange, “that

if your marriage with the Duke of Serrano’s daughter take place--”

“If!” echoed Randal.

“I beg pardon for making an hypothesis of what you claim the right to

esteem a certainty,--I correct my expression: when your marriage with

that young lady takes place, you will at least escape the rock on which

many young men of ardent affections have split at the onset of the grand

voyage. You will form no imprudent connection. In a word, I received

yesterday a despatch from Vienna, which contains the full pardon and

formal restoration of Alphonso, Duke di Serrano. And I may add, that the

Austrian government (sometimes misunderstood in this country) is bound

by the laws it administers, and can in no way dictate to the duke, once

restored, as to the choice of his son-in-law, or as to the heritage that

may devolve on his child.”

“And does the duke yet know of his recall?” exclaimed Randal, his cheeks

flushed and his eyes sparkling.

“No. I reserve that good news, with other matters, till after the

election is over. But Egerton keeps us waiting sadly. Ah, here comes his

valet.”

Audley’s servant approached. “Mr. Egerton feels himself rather more

poorly than usual, my Lord; he begs you will excuse his going with

you into the town at present. He will come later if his presence is

absolutely necessary.”

“No. Pray tell him to rest and nurse himself. I should have liked him to

witness his own triumph,--that is all. Say I will represent him at the

polling-place. Gentlemen, are you ready? We will go on.”

The polling booth was erected in the centre of the marketplace. The

voting had already commenced; and Mr. Avenel and Leonard were already at

their posts, in order to salute and thank the voters in their cause who

passed before them. Randal and L’Estrange entered the booth amidst loud

hurrahs, and to the national air of “See the Conquering Hero comes.” The

voters defiled in quick succession. Those who voted entirely according

to principle or colour--which came to much the same thing--and were

therefore above what is termed “management,” flocked in first, voting

straightforwardly for both Blues or both Yellows. At the end of the

first half-hour the Yellows were About ten ahead of the Blues. Then

sundry split votes began to perplex conjecture as to the result; and

Randal, at the end of the first hour, had fifteen majority over Audley

Egerton, two over Dick Avenel, Leonard Fairfield heading the poll by

five. Randal owed his place in the lists to the voters that Harley’s

personal efforts had procured for him; and he was well pleased to see

that Lord L’Estrange had not withdrawn from him a single promise so

obtained. This augured well for Harley’s ready belief in his appointed

“explanations.” In short, the whole election seemed going just as he

had calculated. But by twelve o’clock there were some changes in the

relative position of the candidates. Dick Avenel had gradually gained

ground,--passing Randal, passing even Leonard. He stood at the head

of the poll by a majority of ten. Randal came next. Audley was twenty

behind Randal, and Leonard four behind Audley. More than half the

constituency had polled, but none of the Committee on either side, nor

one of the redoubted corps of a Hundred and Fifty.

The poll now slackened sensibly. Randal, looking round, and longing for

an opportunity to ask Dick whether he really meant to return himself

instead of his nephew, saw that Harley had disappeared; and presently a

note was brought to him requesting his presence in the Committee-room.

Thither he hastened.

As he forced his way through the bystanders in the lobby, towards the

threshold of the room, Levy caught hold of him and whispered, “They

begin to fear for Egerton. They want a compromise in order to secure

him. They will propose to you to resign, if Avenel will withdraw

Leonard. Don’t be entrapped. L’Estrange may put the question to you;

but--a word in your ear--he would be glad enough to throw over Egerton.

Rely upon this, and stand firm.”

Randal made no answer, but, the crowd giving way for him, entered the

room. Levy followed. The doors were instantly closed. All the Blue

Committee were assembled. They looked heated, anxious, eager. Lord

L’Estrange, alone calm and cool, stood at the head of the long table.

Despite his composure, Harley’s brow was thoughtful. “Yes,” said he

to himself, “I will give this young man the fair occasion to prove

gratitude to his benefactor; and if he here acquit himself, I will spare

him, at least, public exposure of his deceit to others. So young, he

must have some good in him,--at least towards the man to whom he owes

all.”

“Mr. Leslie,” said L’Estrange, aloud, “you see the state of the poll.

Our Committee believe that, if you continue to stand, Egerton must be

beaten. They fear that, Leonard Fairfield having little chance, the

Yellows will not waste their second votes on him, but will transfer them

to you, in order to keep out Egerton. If you retire, Egerton will be

safe. There is reason to suppose that Leonard would, in that case, also

be withdrawn.”

“You can hope and fear nothing more from Egerton,” whispered Levy. “He

is utterly ruined; and, if he lose, will sleep in a prison. The bailiffs

are waiting for him.”

Randal was still silent, and at that silence an indignant murmur ran

through the more influential members of the Committee. For, though

Audley was not personally very popular, still a candidate so eminent was

necessarily their first object, and they would seem very small to

the Yellows, if their great man was defeated by the very candidate

introduced to aid him,--a youth unknown. Vanity and patriotism

both swelled that murmur. “You see, young sir,” cried a rich, blunt

master-butcher, “that it was an honourable understanding that Mr.

Egerton was to be safe. You had no claim on us, except as fighting

second to him. And we are all astonished that you don’t say at once,

‘Save Egerton, of course.’ Excuse my freedom, sir. No time for palaver.”

“Lord L’Estrange,” said Randal, turning mildly from the butcher, “do

you, as the first here in rank and influence, and as Mr. Egerton’s

especial friend, call upon me to sacrifice my election, and what appear

to be the inclinations of the majority of the constituents, in order to

obtain what is, after all, a doubtful chance of returning Mr. Egerton in

my room?

“I do not call upon you, Mr. Leslie. It is a matter of feeling or of

honour, which a gentleman can very well decide for himself.”

“Was any such compact made between your Lordship and myself, when you

first gave me your interest and canvassed for me in person?”

“Certainly not. Gentlemen, be silent. No such compact was mentioned by

me.”

“Neither was it by Mr. Egerton. Whatever might be the understanding

spoken of by the respected elector who addressed me, I was no party to

it. I am persuaded that Mr. Egerton is the last person who would wish

to owe his election to a trick upon the electors in the midst of

the polling, and to what the world would consider a very unhandsome

treatment of myself, upon whom all the toil of the canvass has

devolved.”

Again the murmur rose; but Randal had an air so determined, that it

quelled resentment, and obtained a continued, though most chilling and

half-contemptuous hearing.

“Nevertheless,” resumed Randal, “I would at once retire were I not under

the firm persuasion that I shall convince all present, who now seem to

condemn me, that I act precisely according to Mr. Egerton’s own private

inclinations. That gentleman, in fact, has never been amongst you, has

not canvassed in person, has taken no trouble, beyond a speech, that

was evidently meant to be but a general defence of his past political

career. What does this mean? Simply that his standing has been merely a

form, to comply with the wish of his party, against his own desire.”

The Committee-men looked at each other amazed and doubtful. Randal saw

he had gained an advantage; he pursued it with a tact and ability which

showed that, in spite of his mere oratorical deficiencies, he had in

him the elements of a dexterous debater. “I will be plain with you,

gentlemen. My character, my desire to stand well with you all, oblige me

to be so. Mr. Egerton does not wish to come into parliament at present.

His health is much broken; his private affairs need all his time and

attention. I am, I may say, as a son to him. He is most anxious for

my success; Lord L’Estrange told me but last night, very truly, ‘more

anxious for my success than his own.’ Nothing could please him more

than to think I were serving in parliament, however humbly, those great

interests which neither health nor leisure will, in this momentous

crisis, allow himself to defend with his wonted energy. Later,

indeed, no doubt, he will seek to return to an arena in which he is

so distinguished; and when the popular excitement, which produces the

popular injustice of the day, is over, what constituency will not be

proud to return such a man? In support and proof of what I have thus

said, I now appeal to Mr. Egerton’s own agent,--a gentleman who,

in spite of his vast fortune and the rank he holds in society, has

consented to act gratuitously on behalf of that great statesman. I ask

you, then, respectfully, Baron Levy, Is not Mr. Egerton’s health much

broken, and in need of rest?”

“It is,” said Levy.

“And do not his affairs necessitate his serious and undivided

attention?”

“They do indeed,” quoth the baron. “Gentlemen, I have nothing to urge

in behalf of my distinguished friend as against the statement of his

adopted son, Mr. Leslie.”

“Then all I can say,” cried the butcher, striking his huge fist on the

table, “is, that Mr. Egerton has behaved d---d unhandsome to us, and we

shall be the laughing-stock of the borough.”

“Softly, softly,” said Harley. “There is a knock at the door behind.

Excuse me.”

Harley quitted the room, but only for a minute or two. On his return he

addressed himself to Randal.

“Are we then to understand, Mr. Leslie, that your intention is not to

resign?”

“Unless your Lordship actually urge me to the contrary, I should say,

Let the election go on, and all take our chance. That seems to me the

fair, manly, ENGLISH [great emphasis on the last adjective], honourable

course.”

“Be it so,” replied Harley; “‘let all take their chance.’ Mr. Leslie,

we will no longer detain you. Go back to the polling-place,--one of the

candidates should be present; and you, Baron Levy, be good enough to go

also, and return thanks to those who may yet vote for Mr. Egerton.”

Levy bowed, and went out arm-in-arm with Randal. “Capital, capital,”

said the baron. “You have a wonderful head.”

“I did not like L’Estrange’s look, nevertheless. But he can’t hurt me

now; the votes he got for me instead of for Egerton have already polled.

The Committee, indeed, may refuse to vote for me; but then there is

Avenel’s body of reserve. Yes, the election is virtually over. When we

get back, Hazeldean will have arrived with the money for the purchase of

my ancestral property; Dr. Riccabocca is already restored to the estates

and titles of Serrano; what do I care further for Lord L’Estrange?

Still, I do not like his look.”

“Pooh, you have done just what he wished. I am forbidden to say more.

Here we are at the booth. A new placard since we left. How are the

numbers? Avenel forty ahead of you; you thirty above Egerton; and

Leonard Fairfield still last on the poll. But where are Avenel and

Fairfield?” Both those candidates had disappeared, perhaps gone to their

own Committee-room.

Meanwhile, as soon as the doors had closed on Randal and the baron,

in the midst of the angry hubbub succeeding to their departure, Lord

L’Estrange sprang upon the table. The action and his look stilled every

sound.

“Gentlemen, it is in our hands to return one of our candidates, and to

make our own choice between the two. You have heard Mr. Leslie and Baron

Levy. To their statement I make but this reply,--Mr. Egerton is needed

by the country; and whatever his health or his affairs, he is ready to

respond to that call. If he has not canvassed, if he does not appear

before you at this moment, the services of more than twenty years plead

for him in his stead. Which, then, of the two candidates do you choose

as your member,--a renowned statesman, or a beardless boy? Both have

ambition and ability; the one has identified those qualities with the

history of a country, and (as it is now alleged to his prejudice) with

a devotion that has broken a vigorous frame and injured a princely

fortune. The other evinces his ambition by inviting you to prefer him

to his benefactor, and proves his ability by the excuses he makes for

ingratitude. Choose between the two,--an Egerton or a Leslie.”

“Egerton forever!” cried all the assembly, as with a single voice,

followed by a hiss for Leslie.

“But,” said a grave and prudent Committee-man, “have we really the

choice? Does not that rest with the Yellows? Is not your Lordship too

sanguine?”

“Open that door behind; a deputation from our opponents waits in the

room on the other side the passage. Admit them.”

The Committee were hushed in breathless silence while Harley’s order was

obeyed. And soon, to their great surprise, Leonard Fairfield himself,

attended by six of the principal members of the Yellow party, entered

the room.

LORD L’ESTRANGE.--“You have a proposition to make to us, Mr. Fairfield,

on behalf of yourself and Mr. Avenel, and with the approval of your

Committee?”

LEONARD (advancing to the table).--“I have. We are convinced that

neither party can carry both its candidates. Mr. Avenel is safe. The

only question is, which of the two candidates on your side it best

becomes the honour of this constituency to select. My resignation, which

I am about to tender, will free sufficient votes to give the triumph

either to Mr. Egerton or to Mr. Leslie.”

“Egerton forever!” cried once more the excited Blues. “Yes, Egerton

forever!” said Leonard, with a glow upon his cheek. “We may differ from

his politics, but who can tell us those of Mr. Leslie? We may differ

from the politician, but who would not feel proud of the senator? A

great and incalculable advantage is bestowed on that constituency which

returns to parliament a distinguished man. His distinction ennobles the

place he represents, it sustains public spirit, it augments the manly

interest in all that affects the nation. Every time his voice hushes the

assembled parliament, it reminds us of our common country; and even the

discussion amongst his constituents which his voice provokes, clears

their perceptions of the public interest, and enlightens themselves,

from the intellect which commands their interests, and compels their

attention. Egerton, then, forever! If our party must subscribe to the

return of one opponent, let all unite to select the worthiest. My

Lord L’Estrange, when I quit this room, it will be to announce my

resignation, and to solicit those who have promised me their votes to

transfer them to Mr. Audley Egerton.”

Amidst the uproarious huzzas which followed this speech, Leonard drew

near to Harley. “My Lord, I have obeyed your wishes, as conveyed to me

by my uncle, who is engaged at this moment elsewhere in carrying them

into effect.”

“Leonard,” said Harley, in the same undertone, “you have insured to

Audley Egerton what you alone could do,--the triumph over a perfidious

dependent, the continuance of the sole career in which he has hitherto

found the solace or the zest of life. He must thank you with his own

lips. Come to the Park after the close of the poll. There and then shall

the explanations yet needful to both be given and received.”

Here Harley bowed to the assembly and raised his voice: “Gentlemen,

yesterday, at the nomination of the candidates, I uttered remarks that

have justly pained Mr. Fairfield. In your presence I wholly retract and

frankly apologize for them. In your presence I entreat his forgiveness,

and say, that if he will accord me his friendship, I will place him

in my esteem and affection side by side with the statesman whom he has

given to his country.”

Leonard grasped the hand extended to him with both his own, and then,

overcome by his emotions, hurried from the room; while Blues and Yellows

exchanged greetings, rejoiced in the compromise that would dispel all

party irritation, secure the peace of the borough, and allow quiet

men, who had detested each other the day before, and vowed reciprocal

injuries to trade and custom, the indulgence of all amiable and

fraternal feelings--until the next general election.

In the mean while the polling had gone on slowly as before, but still to

the advantage of Randal. “Not two-thirds of the constituency will poll,”

murmured Levy, looking at his watch. “The thing is decided. Aha, Audley

Egerton! you who once tortured me with the unspeakable jealousy that

bequeaths such implacable hate; you who scorned my society, and called

me ‘scoundrel,’ disdainful of the very power your folly placed within my

hands,--aha, your time is up! and the spirit that administered to your

own destruction strides within the circle to seize its prey!”

“You shall have my first frank, Levy,” said Randal, “to enclose your

letter to Mr. Thornhill’s solicitor. This affair of the election is

over; we must now look to what else rests on our hands.”

“What the devil is that placard?” cried Levy, turning pale.

Randal looked, and right up the market-place, followed by an immense

throng, moved, high over the heads of all, a Yellow Board, that seemed

marching through the air, cometlike:--

Two o’clock p.m.

RESIGNATION OF FAIRFIELD.

------

YELLOWS!

Vote For

AVENEL AND EGERTON.

(Signed) Timothy Alljack

Yellow Committee Room.

“What infernal treachery is this?” cried Randal, livid with honest

indignation.

“Wait a moment; there is Avenel!” exclaimed Levy; and at the head of

another procession that emerged from the obscurer lanes of the town,

walked, with grave majesty, the surviving Yellow candidate. Dick

disappeared for a moment within a grocer’s shop in the broadest part of

the place, and then culminated at the height of a balcony on the first

story, just above an enormous yellow canister, significant of the

profession and the politics of the householder. No sooner did Dick, hat

in hand, appear on this rostrum, than the two processions halted below,

bands ceased, flags drooped round their staves, crowds rushed within

hearing, and even the poll clerks sprang from the booth. Randal and Levy

themselves pressed into the throng. Dick on the balcony was the Deus ex

machina.

“Freemen and electors!” said Dick, with his most sonorous accents,

“finding that the public opinion of this independent and enlightened

constituency is so evenly divided, that only one Yellow candidate can be

returned, and only one Blue has a chance, it was my intention last night

to retire from the contest, and thus put an end to all bickerings and

ill-blood (Hold your tongues there, can’t you!). I say honestly, I

should have preferred the return of my distinguished and talented young

nephew--honourable relation--to my own; but he would not hear of it, and

talked all our Committee into the erroneous but high-minded notion, that

the town would cry shame if the nephew rode into parliament by breaking

the back of the uncle.” (Loud cheers from the mob, and partial cries of

“We ‘ll have you both!”)

“You’ll do no such thing, and you know it; hold your jaw,” resumed Dick,

with imperious good-humour. “Let me go on, can’t you?--time presses. In

a word, my nephew resolved to retire, if, at two o’clock this day, there

was no chance of returning both of us; and there is none. Now, then, the

next thing for the Yellows who have not yet voted, is to consider how

they will give their second votes. If I had been the man to retire,

why, for certain reasons, I should have recommended them to split with

Leslie,--a clever chap, and pretty considerable sharp.”

“Hear, hear, hear!” cried the baron, lustily.

“But I’m bound to say that my nephew has an opinion of his own,--as an

independent Britisher, let him be twice your nephew, ought to have; and

his opinion goes the other way, and so does that of our Committee.”

“Sold!” cried the baron; and some of the crowd shook their heads, and

looked grave,--especially those suspected of a wish to be bought.

“Sold! Pretty fellow you with the nosegay in your buttonhole to talk of

selling! You who wanted to sell your own client,--and you know it. [Levy

recoiled.] Why, gentlemen, that’s Levy the Jew, who talks of selling!

And if he asperses the character of this constituency, I stand here to

defend it! And there stands the parish pump, with a handle for the arm

of Honesty, and a spout for the lips of Falsehood!”

At the close of this magniloquent period, borrowed, no doubt, from some

great American orator, Baron Levy involuntarily retreated towards the

shelter of the polling-booth, followed by some frowning Yellows with

very menacing gestures.

“But the calumniator sneaks away; leave him to the reproach of his

conscience,” resumed Dick, with a generous magnanimity.

“SOLD! [the word rang through the place like the blast of a trumpet]

Sold! No, believe me, not a man who votes for Egerton instead

of Fairfield will, so far as I am concerned, be a penny the

better--[chilling silence]--or [with a scarce perceivable wink

towards the anxious faces of the Hundred and Fifty who filled the

background]--or a penny the worse. [Loud cheers from the Hundred and

Fifty, and cries of ‘Noble!’] I don’t like the politics of Mr. Egerton.

But I am not only a politician,--I am a MAN! The arguments of our

respected Committee--persons in business, tender husbands, and devoted

fathers--have weight with me. I myself am a husband and a father. If a

needless contest be prolonged to the last, with all the irritations

it engenders, who suffer?--why, the tradesman and the operative.

Partiality, loss of custom, tyrannical demands for house rent, notices

to quit,--in a word, the screw!”

“Hear, hear!” and “Give us the Ballot!”

“The Ballot--with all my heart, if I had it about me! And if we had the

Ballot, I should like to see a man dare to vote Blue. [Loud cheers from

the Yellows.] But, as we have not got it, we must think of our families.

And I may add, that though Mr. Egerton may come again into office, yet

[added Dick solemnly] I will do my best, as his colleague, to keep him

straight; and your own enlightenment (for the schoolmaster is abroad)

will show him that no minister can brave public opinion, nor quarrel

with his own bread and butter. [Much cheering.] In these times the

aristocracy must endear themselves to the middle and working class; and

a member in office has much to give away in the Stamps and Excise, in

the Customs, the Post Office, and other State departments in this

rotten old--I mean this magnificent empire, by which he can benefit his

constituents, and reconcile the prerogatives of aristocracy with the

claims of the people,--more especially in this case, the people of the

borough of Lausmere. [Hear, hear!]

“And therefore, sacrificing party inclinations (since it seems that

I can in no way promote them) on the Altar of General Good Feeling, I

cannot oppose the resignation of my nephew,--honourable relation!--nor

blind my eyes to the advantages that may result to a borough so

important to the nation at large, if the electors think fit to choose my

Right Honourable brother--I mean the Right Honourable Blue candidate--as

my brother colleague. Not that I presume to dictate, or express a wish

one way or the other; only, as a Family Man, I say to you, Electors and

Freemen, having served your country in returning me, you have nobly won

the right to think of the little ones at home.”

Dick put his hand to his heart, bowed gracefully, and retired from the

balcony amidst unanimous applause.

In three minutes more Dick had resumed his place in the booth in his

quality of candidate. A rush of Yellow electors poured in, hot and fast.

Up came Emanuel Trout, and, in a firm voice, recorded his vote, “Avenel

and Egerton.” Every man of the Hundred and Fifty so polled. To each

question, “Whom do you vote for?” “Avenel and Egerton” knelled on the

ears of Randal Leslie with “damnable iteration.” The young man folded

his arms across his breast in dogged despair. Levy had to shake hands

for Mr. Egerton with a rapidity that took away his breath. He longed to

slink away,--longed to get at L’Estrange, whom he supposed would be

as wroth at this turn in the wheel of fortune as himself. But how, as

Egerton’s representative, escape from the continuous gripes of those

horny hands? Besides, there stood the parish pump, right in face of the

booth, and some huge truculent-looking Yellows loitered round it, as

if ready to pounce on him the instant he quitted his present sanctuary.

Suddenly the crowd round the booth receded; Lord L’Estrange’s carriage

drove up to the spot, and Harley, stepping from it, assisted out of the

vehicle an old, gray-haired, paralytic man. The old man stared round

him, and nodded smilingly to the mob. “I’m here,-I’m come; I’m but a

poor creature, but I’m a good Blue to the last!”

“Old John Avenel,--fine old John!” cried many a voice.

And John Avenel, still leaning on Harley’s arm, tottered into the booth,

and plumped for “Egerton.”

“Shake hands, Father,” said Dick, bending forward, “though you’ll not

vote for me.”

“I was a Blue before you were born,” answered the old man, tremulously;

“but I wish you success all the same, and God bless you, my boy!”