The evening of the same day, as Egerton, who was to entertain a large party at dinner, was changing his dress, Harley walked into his room.
Egerton dismissed his valet by a sign, and continued his toilet.
“Excuse me, my dear Harley, I have only ten minutes to give you. I expect one of the royal dukes, and punctuality is the stern virtue of men of business, and the graceful courtesy of princes.”
Harley had usually a jest for his friend’s aphorisms; but he had none now. He laid his hand kindly on Egerton’s shoulder. “Before I speak of my business, tell me how you are,—better?”
“Better,—nay, I am always well. Pooh! I may look a little tired,—years of toil will tell on the countenance. But that matters little: the period of life has passed with me when one cares how one looks in the glass.”
As he spoke, Egerton completed his dress, and came to the hearth, standing there, erect and dignified as usual, still far handsomer than many a younger man, and with a form that seemed to have ample vigour to support for many a year the sad and glorious burden of power.
“So now to your business, Harley.”
“In the first place, I want you to present me, at the earliest opportunity, to Madame di Negra. You say she wished to know me.”
“Are you serious?”
“Yes.”
“Well, then, she receives this evening. I did not mean to go; but when my party breaks up—”
“You can call for me at The Travellers. Do!”
“Next, you knew Lady Jane Horton better even than I did, at least in the last year of her life.” Harley sighed, and Egerton turned and stirred the fire.
“Pray, did you ever see at her house, or hear her speak of, a Mrs. Bertram?”
“Of whom?” said Egerton, in a hollow voice, his face still turned towards the fire.
“A Mrs. Bertram; but heavens! my dear fellow, what is the matter? Are you ill?”
“A spasm at the heart, that is all; don’t ring, I shall be better presently; go on talking. Mrs.—why do you ask?”
“Why? I have hardly time to explain; but I am, as I told you, resolved on righting my old Italian friend, if Heaven will help me, as it ever does help the just when they bestir themselves; and this Mrs. Bertram is mixed up in my friend’s affairs.”
“His! How is that possible?”
Harley rapidly and succinctly explained. Audley listened attentively, with his eyes fixed on the floor, and still seeming to labour under great difficulty of breathing.
At last he answered, “I remember something of this Mrs.—Mrs.—Bertram. But your inquiries after her would be useless. I think I have heard that she is long since dead; nay, I am sure of it.”
“Dead!—that is most unfortunate. But do you know any of her relations or friends? Can you suggest any mode of tracing this packet, if it came to her hands?”
“No.”
“And Lady Jane had scarcely any friend that I remember except my mother, and she knows nothing of this Mrs. Bertram. How unlucky! I think I shall advertise. Yet, no. I could only distinguish this Mrs. Bertram from any other of the same name, by stating with whom she had gone abroad, and that would catch the attention of Peschiera, and set him to counterwork us.”
“And what avails it?” said Egerton. “She whom you seek is no more—no more!” He paused, and went on rapidly: “The packet did not arrive in England till years after her death, was no doubt returned to the post-office, is destroyed long ago.”
Harley looked very much disappointed. Egerton went on in a sort of set, mechanical voice, as if not thinking of what he said, but speaking from the dry practical mode of reasoning which was habitual to him, and by which the man of the world destroys the hopes of an enthusiast. Then starting up at the sound of the first thundering knock at the street door, he said, “Hark! you must excuse me.”
“I leave you, my dear Audley. But I must again ask, Are you better now?”
“Much, much,—quite well: I will call for you,—probably between eleven and twelve.”
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