"My Novel" — Complete

CHAPTER XII.

Curious to learn what had passed between Beatrice and Frank, and deeply interested in all that could oust Frank out of the squire’s goodwill, or aught that could injure his own prospects by tending to unite son and father, Randal was not slow in reaching his young kinsman’s lodgings. It might be supposed that having, in all probability, just secured so great a fortune as would accompany Violante’s hand, Randal might be indifferent to the success of his scheme on the Hazeldean exchequer. Such a supposition would grievously wrong this profound young man. For, in the first place, Violante was not yet won, nor her father yet restored to the estates which would defray her dower; and, in the next place, Randal, like Iago, loved villany for the genius it called forth in him. The sole luxury the abstemious aspirer allowed to himself was that which is found in intellectual restlessness. Untempted by wine, dead to love, unamused by pleasure, indifferent to the arts, despising literature save as means to some end of power, Randal Leslie was the incarnation of thought hatched out of the corruption of will. At twilight we see thin airy spectral insects, all wing and nippers, hovering, as if they could never pause, over some sullen mephitic pool. Just so, methinks, hover over Acheron such gnat-like, noiseless soarers into gloomy air out of Stygian deeps, as are the thoughts of spirits like Randal Leslie’s. Wings have they, but only the better to pounce down,—draw their nutriment from unguarded material cuticles; and just when, maddened, you strike, and exulting exclaim, “Caught, by Jove!” wh-irr flies the diaphanous, ghostly larva, and your blow falls on your own twice-offended cheek.

The young men who were acquainted with Randal said he had not a vice! The fact being that his whole composition was one epic vice, so elaborately constructed that it had not an episode which a critic could call irrelevant. Grand young man!

“But, my dear fellow,” said Randal, as soon as he had learned from Frank all that had passed on board the vessel between him and Beatrice, “I cannot believe this. ‘Never loved you’? What was her object, then, in deceiving not only you, but myself? I suspect her declaration was but some heroical refinement of generosity. After her brother’s dejection and probable ruin, she might feel that she was no match for you. Then, too, the squire’s displeasure! I see it all; just like her,—noble, unhappy woman!”

Frank shook his head. “There are moments,” said he, with a wisdom that comes out of those instincts which awake from the depths of youth’s first great sorrow,—“moments when a woman cannot feign, and there are tones in the voice of a woman which men cannot misinterpret. She does not love me,—she never did love me; I can see that her heart has been elsewhere. No matter,—all is over. I don’t deny that I am suffering an intense grief; it gnaws like a kind of sullen hunger; and I feel so broken, too, as if I had grown old, and there was nothing left worth living for. I don’t deny all that.”

“My poor, dear friend, if you would but believe—”

“I don’t want to believe anything, except that I have been a great fool. I don’t think I can ever commit such follies again. But I’m a man. I shall get the better of this; I should despise myself if I could not. And now let us talk of my dear father. Has he left town?”

“Left last night by the mail. You can write and tell him you have given up the marchesa, and all will be well again between you.”

“Give her up! Fie, Randal! Do you think I should tell such a lie? She gave me up; I can claim no merit out of that.”

“Oh, yes! I can make the squire see all to your advantage. Oh, if it were only the marchesa! but, alas! that cursed postobit! How could Levy betray you? Never trust to usurers again; they cannot resist the temptation of a speedy profit.

“They first buy the son, and then sell him to the father. And the squire has such strange notions on matters of this kind.”

“He is right to have them. There, just read this letter from my mother. It came to me this morning. I could hang myself if I were a dog; but I’m a man, and so I must bear it.”

Randal took Mrs. Hazeldean’s letter from Frank’s trembling hand. The poor mother had learned, though but imperfectly, Frank’s misdeeds from some hurried lines which the squire had despatched to her; and she wrote as good, indulgent, but sensible, right-minded mothers alone can write. More lenient to an imprudent love than the squire, she touched with discreet tenderness on Frank’s rash engagements with a foreigner, but severely on his own open defiance of his father’s wishes. Her anger was, however, reserved for that unholy post-obit. Here the hearty genial wife’s love overcame the mother’s affection. To count, in cold blood, on that husband’s death, and to wound his heart so keenly, just where its jealous, fatherly fondness made it most susceptible!

   “O Frank, Frank!” wrote Mrs. Hazeldean, “were it not for this, were
   it only for your unfortunate attachment to the Italian lady, only
   for your debts, only for the errors of hasty, extravagant youth, I
   should be with you now, my arms round your neck, kissing you,
   chiding you back to your father’s heart. But—but the thought that
   between you and his heart has been the sordid calculation of his
   death,—that is a wall between us. I cannot come near you. I
   should not like to look on your face, and think how my William’s
   tears fell over it, when I placed you, new born, in his arms, and
   bade him welcome his heir. What! you a mere boy still, your father
   yet in the prime of life, and the heir cannot wait till nature
   leaves him fatherless. Frank; Frank this is so unlike you. Can
   London have ruined already a disposition so honest and
   affectionate?—No; I cannot believe it. There must be some mistake.
   Clear it up, I implore you; or, though as a mother I pity you, as a
   wife I cannot forgive.”
 

Even Randal was affected by the letter; for, as we know, even Randal felt in his own person the strength of family ties. The poor squire’s choler and bluffness had disguised the parental heart from an eye that, however acute, had not been willing to search for it; and Randal, ever affected through his intellect, had despised the very weakness on which he had preyed. But the mother’s letter, so just and sensible (allowing that the squire’s opinions had naturally influenced the wife to take what men of the world would call a very exaggerated view of the every-day occurrence of loans raised by a son, payable only at a father’s death),—this letter, I say, if exaggerated according to fashionable notions, so sensible if judged by natural affections, touched the dull heart of the schemer, because approved by the quick tact of his intelligence.

“Frank,” said he, with a sincerity that afterwards amazed himself, “go down at once to Hazeldean; see your mother, and explain to her how this transaction really happened. The woman you loved, and wooed as wife, in danger of an arrest, your distraction of mind, Levy’s counsels, your hope to pay off the debt, so incurred to the usurer, from the fortune you would shortly receive with the marchesa. Speak to your mother,—she is a woman; women have a common interest in forgiving all faults that arise from the source of their power over us men,—I mean love. Go!”

“No, I cannot go; you see she would not like to look on my face. And I cannot repeat what you say so glibly. Besides, somehow or other, as I am so dependent upon my father,—and he has said as much,—I feel as if it would be mean in me to make any excuses. I did the thing, and must suffer for it. But I’m a in—an—no—I ‘m not a man here.” Frank burst into tears.

At the sight of those tears, Randal gradually recovered from his strange aberration into vulgar and low humanity. His habitual contempt for his kinsman returned; and with contempt came the natural indifference to the sufferings of the thing to be put to use. It is contempt for the worm that makes the angler fix it on the hook, and observe with complacency that the vivacity of its wriggles will attract the bite. If the worm could but make the angler respect, or even fear it, the barb would find some other bait. Few anglers would impale an estimable silkworm, and still fewer the anglers who would finger into service a formidable hornet.

“Pooh, my—dear Frank,” said Randal; “I have given you my advice; you reject it. Well, what then will you do?”

“I shall ask for leave of absence, and run away some where,” said Frank, drying his tears. “I can’t face London; I can’t mix with others. I want to be by myself, and wrestle with all that I feel here—in my heart. Then I shall write to my mother, say the plain truth, and leave her to judge as kindly of me as she can.”

“You are quite right. Yes, leave town! Why not go abroad? You have never been abroad. New scenes will distract your mind. Run over to Paris.”

“Not to Paris—I don’t want gayeties; but I did intend to go abroad somewhere,—any dull dismal hole of a place. Good-by! Don’t think of me any more for the present.”

“But let me know where you go; and meanwhile I will see the squire.”

“Say as little of me as you can to him. I know you mean most kindly, but oh, how I wish there never had been any third person between me and my father! There: you may well snatch away your hand. What an ungrateful wretch to you I am. I do believe I am the wickedest fellow. What! you shake hands with me still! My dear Randal, you have the best heart—God bless you!” Frank turned away, and disappeared within his dressing-room.

“They must be reconciled now, sooner or later,—squire and son,” said Randal to himself, as he left the lodgings. “I don’t see how I can prevent that,—the marchesa being withdrawn,—unless Frank does it for me. But it is well he should be abroad,—something maybe made out of that; meanwhile I may yet do all that I could reasonably hope to do,—even if Frank had married Beatrice,—since he was not to be disinherited. Get the squire to advance the money for the Thornhill purchase, complete the affair; this marriage with Violante will help; Levy must know that; secure the borough;—well thought of. I will go to Avenel’s. By-the-by, by-the-by, the squire might as well keep me still in the entail after Frank, supposing Frank die childless. This love affair may keep him long from marrying. His hand was very hot,—a hectic colour; those strong-looking fellows often go off in rapid decline, especially if anything preys on their minds,—their minds are so very small.

“Ah, the Hazeldean parson,—and with Avenel! That young man, too, who is he? I have seen him before some where.—My dear Mr. Dale, this is a pleasant surprise. I thought you had returned to Hazeldean with our friend the squire?”

MR. DALE.—“The squire! Has he left town, and without telling me?”

RANDAL (taking aside the parson).—“He was anxious to get back to Mrs. Hazeldean, who was naturally very uneasy about her son and this foolish marriage; but I am happy to tell you that that marriage is effectually and permanently broken off.”

MR. DALE.—“How, how? My poor friend told me he had wholly failed to make any impression on Frank,—forbade me to mention the subject. I was just going to see Frank myself. I always had some influence with him. But, Mr. Leslie, explain this very sudden and happy event. The marriage broken off!”

RANDAL.—“It is a long story, and I dare not tell you my humble share in it. Nay, I must keep that secret. Frank might not forgive me. Suffice it that you have my word that the fair Italian has left England, and decidedly refused Frank’s addresses. But stay, take my advice, don’t go to him; you see it was not only the marriage that has offended the squire, but some pecuniary transactions,—an unfortunate post-obit bond on the Casino property. Frank ought to be left to his own repentant reflections. They will be most salutary; you know his temper,—he don’t bear reproof; and yet it is better, on the other hand, not to let him treat too lightly what has passed. Let us leave him to himself for a few days He is in an excellent frame of mind.”

MR. DALE (shaking Randal’s hand warmly).—“You speak admirably—a post-obit!—so often as he has heard his father’s opinion on such transactions. No, I will not see him; I should be too angry—”

RANDAL (leading the parson back, resumes, after an exchange of salutations with Avenel, who, meanwhile, had been conferring with his nephew).—“You should not be so long away from your rectory, Mr. Dale. What will your parish do without you?”

MR. DALE.—“The old fable of the wheel and the fly. I am afraid the wheel rolls on the same. But if I am absent from my parish, I am still in the company of one who does me honour as an old parishioner. You remember Leonard Fairfield, your antagonist in the Battle of the Stocks?”

MR. AVENEL.—“My nephew, I am proud to say, sir.” Randal bowed with marked civility, Leonard with a reserve no less marked.

MR. AVENEL (ascribing his nephew’s reserve to shyness).—“You should be friends, you two youngsters. Who knows but you may run together in the same harness? Ah, that reminds me, Leslie, I have a word or two to say to you. Your servant, Mr. Dale. Shall be happy to present you to Mrs. Avenel. My card,—Eaton Square, Number —. You will call on me to-morrow, Leonard. And mind, I shall be very angry if you persist in your refusal. Such an opening!” Avenel took Randal’s arm, while the parson and Leonard walked on.

“Any fresh hints as to Lansmere?” asked Randal.

“Yes; I have now decided on the plan of contest. You must fight two and two,—you and Egerton against me and (if I can get him to stand, as I hope) my nephew, Leonard.”

“What!” said Randal, alarmed; “then, after all, I can hope for no support from you?”

“I don’t say that; but I have reason to think Lord L’Estrange will bestir himself actively in favour of Egerton. If so, it will be a very sharp contest; and I must manage the whole election on our side, and unite all our shaky votes, which I can best do by standing myself in the first instance, reserving it to after consideration whether I shall throw up at the last; for I don’t particularly want to come in, as I did a little time ago, before I had found out my nephew. Wonderful young man! with such a head,—will do me credit in the rotten old House; and I think I had best leave London, go to Screwstown, and look to my business. No, if Leonard stand, I roust first see to get him in; and next, to keep Egerton out. It will probably, therefore, end in the return of one and one or either side, as we thought of before,—Leonard on our side; and Egerton sha’n’t be the man on the other. You understand?”

“I do, my dear Avenel. Of course, as I before said, I can’t dictate to your party whom they should prefer,—Egerton or myself. And it will be obvious to the public that your party would rather defeat so eminent an adversary as Mr. Egerton than a tyro in politics like me. Of course I cannot scheme for such a result; it would be misconstrued, and damage my character. But I rely equally on your friendly promise.”

“Promise! No, I don’t promise. I must first see how the cat jumps; and I don’t know yet how our friends may like you, nor how they can be managed. All I can say is, that Audley Egerton sha’n’t be M.P. for Lansmere. Meanwhile, you will take care not to commit yourself in speaking so that our party can’t vote for you consistently; they must count on having you—when you get into the House.”

“I am not a violent party-man at present,” answered Randal, prudently. “And if public opinion prove on your side, it is the duty of a statesman to go with the times.”

“Very sensibly said; and I have a private bill or two, and some other little jobs, I want to get through the House, which we can discuss later, should it come to a frank understanding between us. We must arrange how to meet privately at Lansmere, if necessary. I’ll see to that. I shall go down this week. I think of taking a hint from the free and glorious land of America, and establishing secret caucuses. Nothing like ‘em.”

“Caucuses?”

“Small sub-committees that spy on their men night and day, and don’t suffer them to be intimidated to vote the other way.”

“You have an extraordinary head for public affairs, Avenel. You should come into parliament yourself; your nephew is so very young.”

“So are you.”

“Yes; but I know the world. Does he?”

“The world knows him, though not by name, and he has been the making of me.”

“How? You surprise me.”

Avenel first explained about the patent which Leonard had secured to him; and next confided, upon honour, Leonard’s identity with the anonymous author whom the parson had supposed to be Professor Moss.

Randal Leslie felt a jealous pang. What! then—had this village boy, this associate of John Burley (literary vagabond, whom he supposed had long since gone to the dogs, and been buried at the expense of the parish)—had this boy so triumphed over birth, rearing, circumstance, that, if Randal and Leonard had met together in any public place, and Leonard’s identity with the rising author had been revealed, every eye would have turned from Randal to gaze on Leonard? The common consent of mankind would have acknowledged the supreme royalty of genius when it once leaves its solitude, and strides into the world. What! was this rude villager the child of Fame, who, without an effort, and unconsciously, had inspired in the wearied heart of Beatrice di Negra a love that Randal knew, by an instinct, no arts, no craft, could ever create for him in the heart of woman? And now, did this same youth stand on the same level in the ascent to power as he, the well-born Randal Leslie, the accomplished protege of the superb Audley Egerton? Were they to be rivals in the same arena of practical busy life? Randal gnawed his quivering lip.

All the while, however, the young man whom he so envied was a prey to sorrows deeper far than could ever find room or footing in the narrow and stony heart of the unloving schemer.

As Leonard walked through the crowded streets with the friend and monitor of his childhood, confiding the simple tale of his earlier trials,—when, amidst the wreck of fortune and in despair of fame, the Child-angel smiled by his side, like Hope,—all renown seemed to him so barren, all the future so dark! His voice trembled, and his countenance became so sad, that his benignant listener, divining that around the image of Helen there clung some passionate grief that overshadowed all worldly success, drew Leonard gently and gently on, till the young man, long yearning for some confidant, told him all,—how, faithful through long years to one pure and ardent memory, Helen had been seen once more, the child ripened to woman, and the memory revealing itself as love.

The parson listened with a mild and thoughtful brow, which expanded into a more cheerful expression as Leonard closed his story.

“I see no reason to despond,” said Mr. Dale. “You fear that Miss Digby does not return your attachment; you dwell upon her reserve, her distant, though kindly manner. Cheer up! All young ladies are under the influence of what phrenologists call the organ of Secretiveness, when they are in the society of the object of their preference. Just as you describe Miss Digby’s manner to you, was my Carry’s manner to myself.”

The parson here indulged in a very appropriate digression upon female modesty, which he wound up by asserting that that estimable virtue became more and more influenced by the secretive organ, in proportion as the favoured suitor approached near and nearer to a definite proposal. It was the duty of a gallant and honourable lover to make that proposal in distinct and orthodox form, before it could be expected that a young lady should commit herself and the dignity of her sex by the slightest hint as to her own inclinations.

“Next,” continued the parson, “you choose to torment yourself by contrasting your own origin and fortunes with the altered circumstances of Miss Digby,—the ward of Lord L’Estrange, the guest of Lady Lansmere. You say that if Lord L’Estrange could have countenanced such a union, he would have adopted a different tone with you,—sounded your heart, encouraged your hopes, and so forth. I view things differently. I have reason to do so; and from all you have told me of this nobleman’s interest in your fate, I venture to make you this promise, that if Miss Digby would accept your hand, Lord L’Estrange shall ratify her choice.”

“My dear Mr. Dale,” cried Leonard, transported, “you make me that promise?”

“I do,—from what you have said, and from what I myself know of Lord L’Estrange. Go, then, at once to Knightsbridge, see Miss Digby, show her your heart, explain to her, if you will, your prospects, ask her permission to apply to Lord L’Estrange (since he has constituted himself her guardian); and if Lord L’Estrange hesitate,—which, if your happiness be set on this union, I think he will not,—let me know, and leave the rest to me.”

Leonard yielded himself to the parson’s persuasive eloquence. Indeed, when he recalled to mind those passages in the manuscripts of the ill-fated Nora, which referred to the love that Harley had once borne to her,—for he felt convinced that Harley and the boy suitor of Nora’s narrative were one and the same; and when all the interest that Harley had taken in his own fortunes was explained by his relationship to her (even when Lord L’Estrange had supposed it less close than he would now discover it to be), the young man, reasoning by his own heart, could not but suppose that the noble Harley would rejoice to confer happiness upon the son of her, so beloved by his boyhood.

“And to thee, perhaps, O my mother!” thought Leonard, with swimming eyes—“to thee, perhaps, even in thy grave, I shall owe the partner of my life, as to the mystic breath of thy genius I owe the first pure aspirations of my soul.”

It will be seen that Leonard had not confided to the parson his discovery of Nora’s manuscripts, nor even his knowledge of his real birth; for the proud son naturally shrank from any confidence that implicated Nora’s fair name, until at least Harley, who, it was clear from those papers, must have intimately known his father, should perhaps decide the question which the papers themselves left so terribly vague,—namely, whether he were the offspring of a legal marriage, or Nora had been the victim of some unholy fraud.

While the parson still talked, and while Leonard still mused and listened, their steps almost mechanically took the direction towards Knightsbridge, and paused at the gates of Lord Lansmere’s house.

“Go in, my young friend; I will wait without to know the issue,” said the parson, cheeringly. “Go, and with gratitude to Heaven, learn how to bear the most precious joy that can befall mortal man; or how to submit to youth’s sharpest sorrow, with the humble belief that even sorrow is but some mercy concealed.”