That night, after the labours of the day, Randal had gained the sanctuary of his own room, and seated himself at his table, to prepare the heads of the critical speech he would have now very soon to deliver on the day of nomination,—critical speech when, in the presence of foes and friends, reporters from London, and amidst all the jarring interests that he sought to weave into the sole self-interest of Randal Leslie, he would be called upon to make the formal exposition of his political opinions. Randal Leslie, indeed, was not one of those speakers whom either modesty, fastidiousness, or conscientious desire of truth predisposes towards the labour of written composition. He had too much cleverness to be in want of fluent period or ready commonplace,—the ordinary materials of oratorical impromptu; too little taste for the Beautiful to study what graces of diction will best adorn a noble sentiment; too obtuse a conscience to care if the popular argument were purified from the dross which the careless flow of a speech wholly extemporaneous rarely fails to leave around it. But this was no ordinary occasion. Elaborate study here was requisite, not for the orator, but the hypocrite. Hard task, to please the Blues, and not offend the Yellows; appear to side with Audley Egerton, yet insinuate sympathy with Dick Avenel; confront, with polite smile, the younger opponent whose words had lodged arrows in his vanity, which rankled the more gallingly because they had raised the skin of his conscience.
He had dipped his pen into the ink and smoothed the paper before him, when a knock was heard at the door.
“Come in,” said he, impatiently. Levy entered saunteringly.
“I am come to talk over matters with you, mon cher,” said the baron, throwing himself on the sofa. “And, first, I wish you joy of your prospects of success.”
Randal postponed his meditated composition with a quick sigh, drew his chair towards the sofa, and lowered his voice into a whisper. “You think with me, that the chance of my success—is good?”
“Chance! Why, it is a rubber of whist, in which your partner gives you all the winnings, and in which the adversary is almost sure to revoke. Either Avenel or his nephew, it is true, must come in; but not both. Two parvenus aspiring to make a family seat of an earl’s borough! Bah! too absurd!”
“I hear from Riccabocca (or rather the Duke di Serrano) that this same young Fairfield is greatly indebted to the kindness of Lord L’Estrange. Very odd that he should stand against the Lansmere interest.”
“Ambition, mon cher. You yourself are under some obligations to Mr. Egerton. Yet, in reality, he has more to apprehend from you than from Mr. Fairfield.”
“I disown obligations to Mr. Egerton. And if the electors prefer me to him (whom, by-the-by, they once burned in effigy), it is no fault of mine: the fault, if any, will rest with his own dearest friend, L’Estrange. I do not understand how a man of such clear sense as L’Estrange undoubtedly possesses, should be risking Egerton’s election in his zeal for mine. Nor do his formal courtesies to myself deceive me. He has even implied that he suspects me of connivance with Peschiera’s schemes on Violante. But those suspicions he cannot support. For of course, Levy, you would not betray me—”
“I! What possible interest could I serve in that?”
“None that I can discover, certainly,” said Randal, relaxing into a smile. “And when I get into parliament, aided by the social position which my marriage will give me, I shall have so many ways to serve you. No, it is certainly your interest not to betray me; and I shall count on you as a witness, if a witness can be required.”
“Count on me, certainly, my dear fellow,” said the baron. “And I suppose there will be no witness the other way. Done for eternally is my poor dear friend Peschiera, whose cigars, by-the-by, were matchless;—I wonder if there will be any for sale. And if he were not so done for, it is not you, it is L’Estrange, that he would be tempted to do for!”
“We may blot Peschiera out of the map of the future,” rejoined Randal. “Men from whom henceforth we have nothing to hope or to fear are to us as the races before the deluge.”
“Fine remark,” quoth the baron, admiringly. “Peschiera, though not without brains, was a complete failure. And when the failure of one I have tried to serve is complete, the rule I have adopted through life is to give him up altogether.”
“Of course,” said Randal.
“Of course,” echoed the baron. “On the other hand, you know that I like pushing forward young men of mark and promise. You really are amazingly clever; but how comes it you don’t speak better? Do you know, I doubt whether you will do in the House of Commons all that I expected from your address and readiness in private life.”
“Because I cannot talk trash vulgar enough for a mob? Pooh! I shall succeed wherever knowledge is really power. Besides, you must allow for my infernal position. You know, after all, that Avenel, if he can only return himself or his nephew, still holds in his hands the choice of the candidate upon our side. I cannot attack him; I cannot attack his insolent nephew—”
“Insolent!—not that, but bitterly eloquent. He hits you hard. You are no match for him, Randal, before a popular audience; though, en petit comite, the devil himself were hardly a match for you. But now to a somewhat more serious point. Your election you will win, your bride is promised to you; but the old Leslie lands, in the present possession of Squire Thornhill, you have not gained,—and your chance of gaining them is in great jeopardy. I did not like to tell you this morning,—it would have spoiled your temper for canvassing; but I have received a letter from Thornhill himself. He has had an offer for the property, which is only L1000 short of what he asks. A city alderman, called Jobson, is the bidder; a man, it seems, of large means and few words. The alderman has fixed the date on which he must have a definite answer; and that date falls on the —th, two days after that fixed for the poll at Lansmere. The brute declares he will close with another investment, if Thornhill does not then come in to his terms. Now, as Thornhill will accept these terms unless I can positively promise him better, and as those funds on which you calculated (had the marriage of Peschiera with Violante, and Frank Hazeldean with Madame di Negra, taken place) fail you, I see no hope for your being in time with the money,—and the old lands of the Leslies must yield their rents to a Jobson.”
“I care for nothing on earth like those old lands of my forefathers,” said Randal, with unusual vehemence; “I reverence so little amongst the living, and I do reverence the dead. And my marriage will take place so soon; and the dower would so amply cover the paltry advance required.”
“Yes; but the mere prospect of a marriage to the daughter of a man whose lands are still sequestered would be no security to a money-lender.”
“Surely,” said Randal, “you, who once offered to assist me when my fortunes were more precarious, might now accommodate me with this loan, as a friend, and keep the title-deeds of the estate as—”
“As a money-lender,” added the baron, laughing pleasantly. “No, mon cher, I will still lend you half the sum required in advance, but the other half is more than I can afford as friend, or hazard as money-lender; and it would damage my character,—be out of all rule,—if, the estates falling by your default of payment into my own hands, I should appear to be the real purchaser of the property of my own distressed client. But, now I think of it, did not Squire Hazeldean promise you his assistance in this matter?”
“He did so,” answered Randal, “as soon as the marriage between Frank and Madame di Negra was off his mind. I meant to cross over to Hazeldean immediately after the election. How can I leave the place till then?”
“If you do, your election is lost. But why not write to the squire?”
“It is against my maxim to write where I can speak. However, there is no option; I will write at once. Meanwhile, communicate with Thornhill; keep up his hopes; and be sure, at least, that he does not close with this greedy alderman before the day fixed for decision.”
“I have done all that already, and my letter is gone. Now, do your part: and if you write as cleverly as you talk, you would coax the money out from a stonier heart than poor Mr. Hazeldean’s. I leave you now; good-night.”
Levy took up his candlestick, nodded, yawned, and went. Randal still suspended the completion of his speech, and indited the following epistle:—
MY DEAR MR. HAZELDEAN,—I wrote to you a few hasty lines on leaving
town, to inform you that the match you so dreaded was broken off,
and proposing to defer particulars till I could visit your kind and
hospitable roof, which I trusted to do for a few hours during my
stay at Lansmere, since it is not a day’s journey hence to
Hazeldean. But I did not calculate on finding so sharp a contest.
In no election throughout the kingdom do I believe that a more
notable triumph, or a more stunning defeat, for the great landed
interest can occur. For in this town—so dependent on agriculture—
we are opposed by a low and sordid manufacturer, of the most
revolutionary notions, who has, moreover, the audacity to force his
own nephew—that very boy whom I chastised for impertinence on your
village green, son of a common carpenter—actually the audacity, I
say, to attempt to force this peasant of a nephew, as well as
himself, into the representation of Lansmere, against the earl’s
interest, against your distinguished brother,—of myself I say
nothing. You should hear the language in which these two men
indulge against all your family! If we are beaten by such persons
in a borough supposed to be so loyal as Lansmere, every one with a
stake in the country may tremble at such a prognostic of the ruin
that must await not only our old English Constitution, but the
existence of property itself. I need not say that on such an
occasion I cannot spare myself. Mr. Egerton is ill too. All the
fatigue of the canvass devolves on me. I feel, my dear and revered
friend, that I am a genuine Hazeldean, fighting your battle; and
that thought carries me through all. I cannot, therefore, come to
you till the election is over; and meanwhile you, and my dear Mrs.
Hazeldean, must be anxious to know more about the affair that so
preyed on both your hearts than I have yet informed you, or can well
trust to a letter. Be assured, however, that the worst is over; the
lady has gone abroad. I earnestly entreated Frank (who showed me
Mrs. Hazeldean’s most pathetic letter to him) to hasten at once to
the Hall and relieve your minds. Unfortunately he would not be
ruled by me, but talked of going abroad too—not, I trust (nay, I
feel assured), in pursuit of Madame di Negra; but still—In short, I
should be so glad to see you, and talk over the whole. Could you
not come hither—I pray do. And now, at the risk of your thinking
that in this I am only consulting my own interest (but no—your
noble English heart will never so misiudge me!), I will add with
homely frankness, that if you could accommodate me immediately with
the loan you not long since so generously offered, you would save
those lands once in my family from passing away from us forever. A
city alderman—one Jobson—is meanly taking advantage of Thornhill’s
necessities, and driving a hard bargain for those lands. He has
fixed the —th inst. for Thornhill’s answer, and Levy (who is here
assisting Mr. Egerton’s election) informs me that Thornhill will
accept his offer, unless I am provided with L10,000 beforehand; the
other L10,000, to complete the advance required, Levy will lend me.
Do not be surprised at the usurer’s liberality; he knows that I am
about shortly to marry a very great heiress (you will be pleased
when you learn whom, and will then be able to account for my
indifference to Miss Sticktorights), and her dower will amply serve
to repay his loan and your own, if I may trust to your generous
affection for the grandson of a Hazeldean! I have the less scruple
in this appeal to you, for I know bow it would grieve you that a
Jobson, who perhaps never knew a grandmother, should foist your own
kinsman from the lands of his fathers. Of one thing I am
convinced,—we squires and sons of squires must make common cause
against those great moneyed capitalists, or they will buy us all out
in a few generations. The old race of country gentlemen is already
much diminished by the grasping cupidity of such leviathans; and if
the race be once extinct, what will become of the boast and strength
of England?
Yours, my dear Mr. Hazeldean, with most affectionate and grateful
respect,
RANDAL LESLIE.
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