Early the next day Randal Leslie was in the luxurious business-room of Baron Levy. How unlike the cold Doric simplicity of the statesman’s library! Axminster carpets, three inches thick; portieres a la Francaise before the doors; Parisian bronzes on the chimney-piece; and all the receptacles that lined the room, and contained title-deeds and postobits and bills and promises to pay and lawyer-like japan boxes, with many a noble name written thereon in large white capitals—“making ruin pompous,” all these sepulchres of departed patrimonies veneered in rosewood that gleamed with French polish, and blazed with ormulu. There was a coquetry, an air of petit maitre, so diffused over the whole room, that you could not, for the life of you, recollect you were with a usurer! Plutus wore the aspect of his enemy Cupid; and how realize your idea of Harpagon in that baron, with his easy French “Mon cher,” and his white, warm hands that pressed yours so genially, and his dress so exquisite, even at the earliest morn? No man ever yet saw that baron in a dressing-gown and slippers! As one fancies some feudal baron of old (not half so terrible) everlastingly clad in mail, so all one’s notions of this grand marauder of civilization were inseparably associated with varnished boots and a camellia in the button-hole.
“And this is all that he does for you!” cried the baron, pressing together the points of his ten taper fingers. “Had he but let you conclude your career at Oxford, I have heard enough of your scholarship to know that you would have taken high honours, been secure of a fellowship, have betaken yourself with content to a slow and laborious profession, and prepared yourself to die on the woolsack.”
“He proposes to me now to return to Oxford,” said Randal. “It is not too late!”
“Yes, it is,” said the baron. “Neither individuals nor nations ever go back of their own accord. There must be an earthquake before a river recedes to its source.”
“You speak well,” answered Randal, “and I cannot gainsay you. But now!”
“Ah, the now is the grand question in life, the then is obsolete, gone by,—out of fashion; and now, mon cher, you come to ask my advice?”
“No, Baron, I come to ask your explanation.”
“Of what?”
“I want to know why you spoke to me of Mr. Egerton’s ruin; why you spoke to me of the lands to be sold by Mr. Thornhill; and why you spoke to me of Count Peschiera. You touched on each of those points within ten minutes, you omitted to indicate what link can connect them.”
“By Jove,” said the baron, rising, and with more admiration in his face than you could have conceived that face, so smiling and so cynical, could exhibit,—“by Jove, Randal Leslie, but your shrewdness is wonderful. You really are the first young man of your day; and I will ‘help you,’ as I helped Audley Egerton. Perhaps you will be more grateful.”
Randal thought of Egerton’s ruin. The parallel implied by the baron did not suggest to him the rare enthusiasm of gratitude. However, he merely said, “Pray, proceed; I listen to you with interest.”
“As for politics, then,” said the baron, “we will discuss that topic later. I am waiting myself to see how these new men get on. The first consideration is for your private fortunes. You should buy this ancient Leslie property—Rood and Dulmansberry—only L20,000 down; the rest may remain on mortgage forever—or at least till I find you a rich wife,—as in fact I did for Egerton. Thornhill wants the L20,000 now,—wants them very much.”
“And where,” said Randal, with an iron smile, “are the L20,000 you ascribe to me to come from?”
“Ten thousand shall come to you the day Count Peschiera marries the daughter of his kinsman with your help and aid; the remaining ten thousand I will lend you. No scruple, I shall hazard nothing, the estates will bear that additional burden. What say you,—shall it be so?”
“Ten thousand pounds from Count Peschiera!” said Randal, breathing hard. “You cannot be serious? Such a sum—for what?—for a mere piece of information? How otherwise can I aid him? There must be trick and deception intended here.”
“My dear fellow,” answered Levy, “I will give you a hint. There is such a thing in life as being over-suspicious. If you have a fault, it is that. The information you allude to is, of course, the first assistance you are to give. Perhaps more may be needed, perhaps not. Of that you will judge yourself, since the L10,000 are contingent on the marriage aforesaid.”
“Over-suspicious or not,” answered Randal, “the amount of the sum is too improbable, and the security too bad, for me to listen to this proposition, even if I could descend to—”
“Stop, mon cher. Business first, scruples afterwards. The security too bad; what security?”
“The word of Count di Peschiera.”
“He has nothing to do with it, he need know nothing about it. ‘T is my word you doubt. I am your security.”
Randal thought of that dry witticism in Gibbon, “Abu Rafe says he will be witness for this fact, but who will be witness for Abu Rafe?” but he remained silent, only fixing on Levy those dark observant eyes, with their contracted, wary pupils.
“The fact is simply this,” resumed Levy: “Count di Peschiera has promised to pay his sister a dowry of L20,000, in case he has the money to spare. He can only have it to spare by the marriage we are discussing. On my part, as I manage his affairs in England for him, I have promised that, for the said sum of L20,000, I will guarantee the expenses in the way of that marriage, and settle with Madame di Negra. Now, though Peschiera is a very liberal, warm-hearted fellow, I don’t say that he would have named so large a sum for his sister’s dowry, if in strict truth he did not owe it to her. It is the amount of her own fortune, which by some arrangements with her late husband, not exactly legal, he possessed himself of. If Madame di Negra went to law with him for it, she could get it back. I have explained this to him; and, in short, you now understand why the sum is thus assessed. But I have bought up Madame di Negra’s debts, I have bought up young Hazeldean’s (for we must make a match between these two a part of our arrangements). I shall present to Peschiera, and to these excellent young persons, an account that will absorb the whole L20,000. That sum will come into my hands. If I settle the claims against them for half the money, which, making myself the sole creditor, I have the right to do, the moiety will remain. And if I choose to give it to you in return for the services which provide Peschiera with a princely fortune, discharge the debts of his sister, and secure her a husband in my promising young client, Mr. Hazeldean, that is my lookout,—all parties are satisfied, and no one need ever be the wiser. The sum is large, no doubt; it answers to me to give it to you; does it answer to you to receive it?”
Randal was greatly agitated; but vile as he was, and systematically as in thought he had brought himself to regard others merely as they could be made subservient to his own interest, still, with all who have not hardened themselves in actual crime, there is a wide distinction between the thought and the act; and though, in the exercise of ingenuity and cunning, he would have had few scruples in that moral swindling which is mildly called “outwitting another,” yet thus nakedly and openly to accept a bribe for a deed of treachery towards the poor Italian who had so generously trusted him—he recoiled. He was nerving himself to refuse, when Levy, opening his pocket-book, glanced over the memoranda therein, and said, as to himself, “Rood Manor—Dulmansberry, sold to the Thornhills by Sir Gilbert Leslie, knight of the shire; estimated present net rental L2,250 7s. 0d. It is the greatest bargain I ever knew. And with this estate in hand, and your talents, Leslie, I don’t see why you should not rise higher than Audley Egerton. He was poorer than you once!”
The old Leslie lands—a positive stake in the country—the restoration of the fallen family; and on the other hand, either long drudgery at the Bar,—a scanty allowance on Egerton’s bounty, his sister wasting her youth at slovenly, dismal Rood, Oliver debased into a boor!—or a mendicant’s dependence on the contemptuous pity of Harley L’Estrange,—Harley, who had refused his hand to him, Harley, who perhaps would become the husband of Violante! Rage seized him as these contrasting pictures rose before his view. He walked to and fro in disorder, striving to re-collect his thoughts, and reduce himself from the passions of the human heart into the mere mechanism of calculating intellect. “I cannot conceive,” said he, abruptly, “why you should tempt me thus,—what interest it is to you!”
Baron Levy smiled, and put up his pocket-book. He saw from that moment that the victory was gained.
“My dear boy,” said he, with the most agreeable bonhommie, “it is very natural that you should think a man would have a personal interest in whatever he does for another. I believe that view of human nature is called utilitarian philosophy, and is much in fashion at present. Let me try and explain to you. In this affair I sha’n’t injure myself. True, you will say, if I settle claims which amount to L20,000 for L10,000, I might put the surplus into my own pocket instead of yours. Agreed. But I shall not get the L20,000, nor repay myself Madame di Negra’s debts (whatever I may do as to Hazeldean’s), unless the count gets this heiress. You can help in this. I want you; and I don’t think I could get you by a less offer than I make. I shall soon pay myself back the L10,000 if the count get hold of the lady and her fortune. Brief, I see my way here to my own interests. Do you want more reasons,—you shall have them. I am now a very rich man. How have I become so? Through attaching myself from the first to persons of expectations, whether from fortune or talent. I have made connections in society, and society has enriched me. I have still a passion for making money. ‘Que voulez-vous?’ It is my profession, my hobby. It will be useful to me in a thousand ways to secure as a friend a young man who will have influence with other young men, heirs to something better than Rood Hall. You may succeed in public life. A man in public life may attain to the knowledge of State secrets that are very profitable to one who dabbles a little in the Funds. We can perhaps hereafter do business together that may put yourself in a way of clearing off all mortgages on these estates,—on the encumbered possession of which I shall soon congratulate you. You see I am frank; ‘t is the only way of coming to the point with so clever a fellow as you. And now, since the less we rake up the mud in a pond from which we have resolved to drink the better, let us dismiss all other thoughts but that of securing our end. Will you tell Peschiera where the young lady is, or shall I? Better do it yourself; reason enough for it, that he has confided to you his hope, and asked you to help him; why should not you? Not a word to him about our little arrangement; he need never know it. You need never be troubled.” Levy rang the bell: “Order my carriage round.”
Randal made no objection. He was deathlike pale, but there was a sinister expression of firmness on his thin, bloodless lips.
“The next point,” Levy resumed, “is to hasten the match between Frank and the fair widow. How does that stand?”
“She will not see me, nor receive him.”
“Oh, learn why! And if you find on either side there is a hitch, just let me know; I will soon remove it.”
“Has Hazeldean consented to the post-obit?”
“Not yet; I have not pressed it; I wait the right moment, if necessary.”
“It will be necessary.”
“Ah, you wish it. It shall be so.”
Randal Leslie again paced the room, and after a silent self-commune came up close to the baron, and said,
“Look you, sir, I am poor and ambitious; you have tempted me at the right moment, and with the right inducement. I succumb. But what guarantee have I that this money will be paid, these estates made mine upon the conditions stipulated?”
“Before anything is settled,” replied the baron, “go and ask my character of any of our young friends, Borrowell, Spendquick—whom you please; you will hear me abused, of course; but they will all say this of me, that when I pass my word, I keep it. If I say, ‘Mon cher, you shall have the money,’ a man has it; if I say, ‘I renew your bill for six months,’ it is renewed. ‘T, is my way of doing business. In all cases any word is my bond. In this case, where no writing can pass between us, my only bond must be my word. Go, then, make your mind clear as to your security, and come here and dine at eight. We will call on Peschiera afterwards.”
“Yes,” said Randal, “I will at all events take the day to consider. Meanwhile, I say this, I do not disguise from myself the nature of the proposed transaction, but what I have once resolved I go through with. My sole vindication to myself is, that if I play here with a false die, it will be for a stake so grand, as once won, the magnitude of the prize will cancel the ignominy of the play. It is not this sum of money for which I sell myself,—it is for what that sum will aid me to achieve. And in the marriage of young Hazeldean with the Italian woman, I have another, and it may be a larger interest. I have slept on it lately,—I wake to it now. Insure that marriage, obtain the post-obit. from Hazeldean, and whatever the issue of the more direct scheme for which you seek my services, rely on my gratitude, and believe that you will have put me in the way to render gratitude of avail. At eight I will be with you.”
Randal left the room.
The baron sat thoughtful. “It is true,” said he to himself, “this young man is the next of kin to the Hazeldean estate, if Frank displease his father sufficiently to lose his inheritance; that must be the clever boy’s design. Well, in the long-run, I should make as much, or more, out of him than out of the spendthrift Frank. Frank’s faults are those of youth. He will reform and retrench. But this man! No, I shall have him for life. And should he fail in this project, and have but this encumbered property—a landed proprietor mortgaged up to his ears—why, he is my slave, and I can foreclose when I wish, or if he prove useless;—no, I risk nothing. And if I did—if I lost L10,000—what then? I can afford it for revenge!—afford it for the luxury of leaving Audley Egerton alone with penury and ruin, deserted, in his hour of need, by the pensioner of his bounty, as he will be by the last friend of his youth, when it so pleases me,—me whom he has called ‘scoundrel’! and whom he—” Levy’s soliloquy halted there, for the servant entered to announce the carriage. And the baron hurried his band over his features, as if to sweep away all trace of the passions that distorted their smiling effrontery. And so, as he took up his cane and gloves, and glanced at the glass, the face of the fashionable usurer was once more as varnished as his boots.
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