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