Randal fell into deep but brief thought. The count observed him, not face to face, but by the reflection of an opposite mirror. “This man knows something; this man is deliberating; this man can help me,” thought the count.
But Randal said nothing to confirm these hypotheses. Recovering from his abstraction, he expressed courteously his satisfaction at the count’s prospects, either way. “And since, after all,” he added, “you mean so well to your cousin, it occurs to me that you might discover him by a very simple English process.”
“How?”
“Advertise that, if he will come to some place appointed, he will hear of something to his advantage.”
The count shook his head. “He would suspect me, and not come.”
“But he was intimate with you. He joined an insurrection; you were more prudent. You did not injure him, though you may have benefited yourself. Why should he shun you?”
“The conspirators forgive none who do not conspire; besides, to speak frankly, he thought I injured him.”
“Could you not conciliate him through his wife—whom you resigned to him?”
“She is dead,—died before he left the country.”
“Oh, that is unlucky! Still I think an advertisement might do good. Allow me to reflect on that subject. Shall we now join Madame la Marquise?”
On re-entering the drawing-room, the gentlemen found Beatrice in full dress, seated by the fire, and reading so intently that she did not remark them enter.
“What so interests you, ma seuur?—the last novel by Balzac, no doubt?”
Beatrice started, and, looking up, showed eyes that were full of tears. “Oh, no! no picture of miserable, vicious, Parisian life. This is beautiful; there is soul here.”
Randal took up the book which the marchesa laid down; it was the same which had charmed the circle at Hazeldean, charmed the innocent and fresh-hearted, charmed now the wearied and tempted votaress of the world.
“Hum,” murmured Randal; “the parson was right. This is power,—a sort of a power.”
“How I should like to know the author! Who can he be? Can you guess?”
“Not I. Some old pedant in spectacles.”
“I think not, I am sure not. Here beats a heart I have ever sighed to find, and never found.”
“Oh, la naive enfant!” cried the count; “comme son imagination s’egare en reves enchantes. And to think that while you talk like an Arcadian, you are dressed like a princess.”
“Ah, I forgot—the Austrian ambassador’s. I shall not go to-night. This book unfits me for the artificial world.”
“Just as you will, my sister. I shall go. I dislike the man, and he me; but ceremonies before men!”
“You are going to the Austrian Embassy?” said Randal. “I, too, shall be there. We shall meet.” And he took his leave.
“I like your young friend prodigiously,” said the count, yawning. “I am sure that he knows of the lost birds, and will stand to them like a pointer, if I can but make it his interest to do so. We shall see.”
CHAPTER IV
Randal arrived at the ambassador’s before the count, and contrived to mix with the young noblemen attached to the embassy, and to whom he was known. Standing among these was a young Austrian, on his travels, of very high birth, and with an air of noble grace that suited the ideal of the old German chivalry. Randal was presented to him, and, after some talk on general topics, observed, “By the way, Prince, there is now in London a countryman of yours, with whom you are, doubtless, familiarly acquainted,—the Count di Peschiera.”
“He is no countryman of mine. He is an Italian. I know him but by sight and by name,” said the prince, stiffly.
“He is of very ancient birth, I believe.”
“Unquestionably. His ancestors were gentlemen.”
“And very rich.”
“Indeed! I have understood the contrary. He enjoys, it is true, a large revenue.”
A young attache, less discreet than the prince; here observed, “Oh, Peschiera! poor fellow, he is too fond of play to be rich.”
“And there is some chance that the kinsman whose revenue he holds may obtain his pardon, and re-enter into possession of his fortunes—so I hear, at least,” said Randal, artfully.
“I shall be glad if it be true,” said the prince, with decision; “and I speak the common sentiment at Vienna. That kinsman had a noble spirit, and was, I believe, equally duped and betrayed. Pardon me, sir; but we Austrians are not so bad as we are painted. Have you ever met in England the kinsman you speak of?”
“Never, though he is supposed to reside here; and the count tells me that he has a daughter.”
“The count—ha! I heard something of a scheme,—a wager of that—that count’s. A daughter! Poor girl! I hope she will escape his pursuit; for, no doubt, he pursues her.”
“Possibly she may already have married an Englishman.”
“I trust not,” said the prince, seriously; “that might at present be a serious obstacle to her father’s return.”
“You think so?”
“There can be no doubt of it,” interposed the attache, with a grand and positive air; “unless, indeed, the Englishman were of a rank equal to her own.”
Here there was a slight, well-bred murmur and buzz at the door, for the Count di Peschiera himself was announced; and as he entered, his presence was so striking, and his beauty so dazzling, that whatever there might be to the prejudice of his character, it seemed instantly effaced or forgotten in that irresistible admiration which it is the prerogative of personal attributes alone to create.
The prince, with a slight curve of his lip at the groups that collected round the count, turned to Randal, and said, “Can you tell me if a distinguished countryman of yours is in England, Lord L’Estrange?”
“No, Prince, he is not. You know him?”
“Well.”
“He is acquainted with the count’s kinsman; and perhaps from him you have learned to think so highly of that kinsman?”
The prince bowed, and answered as he moved away, “When one man of high honour vouches for another, he commands the belief of all.”
“Certainly,” soliloquized Randal, “I must not be precipitate. I was very near falling into a terrible trap. If I were to marry the girl, and only, by so doing, settle away her inheritance on Peschiera!—how hard it is to be sufficiently cautious in this world!”
While thus meditating, a member of parliament tapped him on the shoulder.
“Melancholy, Leslie! I lay a wager I guess your thoughts.”
“Guess,” answered Randal.
“You were thinking of the place you are so soon to lose.”
“Soon to lose!”
“Why, if ministers go out, you could hardly keep it, I suppose.”
This ominous and horrid member of parliament, Squire Hazeldean’s favourite county member, Sir John, was one of those legislators especially odious to officials,—an independent “large-acred” member, who would no more take office himself than he would cut down the oaks in his park, and who had no bowels of human feeling for those who had opposite tastes and less magnificent means.
“Hem!” said Randal, rather surlily. “In the first place, Sir John, ministers are not going out.”
“Oh, yes, they will go. You know I vote with them generally, and would willingly keep them in; but they are men of honour and spirit; and if they can’t carry their measures, they must resign; otherwise, by Jove, I would turn round and vote them out myself!”
“I have no doubt you would, Sir John; you are quite capable of it; that rests with you and your constituents. But even if ministers did go out, I am but a poor subaltern in a public office,—I am no minister. Why should I go out too?
“Why? Hang it, Leslie, you are laughing at me. A young fellow like you could never be mean enough to stay in, under the very men who drove out your friend Egerton?”
“It is not usual for those in the public offices to retire with every change of government.”
“Certainly not; but always those who are the relations of a retiring minister; always those who have been regarded as politicians, and who mean to enter parliament, as of course you will do at the next election. But you know that as well as I do,—you who are so decided a politician, the writer of that admirable pamphlet! I should not like to tell my friend Hazeldean, who has a sincere interest in you, that you ever doubted on a question of honour as plain as your A, B, C.”
“Indeed, Sir John,” said Randal, recovering his suavity, while he inly breathed a dire anathema on his county member, “I am so new to these things that what you say never struck me before. No doubt you must be right; at all events I cannot have a better guide and adviser than Mr. Egerton himself.”
SIR JOHN.—“No, certainly; perfect gentleman, Egerton! I wish we could make it up with him and Hazeldean.”
RANDAL (sighing).—“Ah, I wish we could!”
SIR JOHN.—“And some chance of it now; for the time is coming when all true men of the old school must stick together.”
RANDAL.—“Wisely, admirably said, my dear Sir John. But, pardon me, I must pay my respects to the ambassador.” Randal escaped, and passing on, saw the ambassador himself in the next room, conferring in a corner with Audley Egerton. The ambassador seemed very grave, Egerton calm and impenetrable, as usual. Presently the count passed by, and the ambassador bowed to him very stiffly.
As Randal, some time later, was searching for his cloak below, Audley Egerton unexpectedly joined him.
“Ah, Leslie,” said the minister, with more kindness than usual, “if you don’t think the night air too cold for you, let us walk home together. I have sent away the carriage.”
This condescension in his patron was so singular, that it quite startled Randal, and gave him a presentiment of some evil. When they were in the street, Egerton, after a pause, began,
“My dear Mr. Leslie, it was my hope and belief that I had provided for you at least a competence; and that I might open to you, later, a career yet more brilliant. Hush! I don’t doubt your gratitude; let me proceed. There is a possible chance, after certain decisions that the Government have come to, that we may be beaten in the House of Commons, and of course resign. I tell you this beforehand, for I wish you to have time to consider what, in that case, would be your best course. My power of serving you may then probably be over. It would, no doubt (seeing our close connection, and my views with regard to your future being so well known),—no doubt, he expected that you should give up the place you hold, and follow my fortunes for good or ill. But as I have no personal enemies with the opposite party, and as I have sufficient position in the world to uphold and sanction your choice, whatever it may be, if you think it more prudent to retain your place, tell me so openly, and I think I can contrive that you may do it without loss of character and credit. In that case, confine your ambition merely to rising gradually in your office, without mixing in politics. If, on the other hand, you should prefer to take your chance of my return to office, and so resign your present place; and, furthermore, should commit yourself to a policy that may then be not only in opposition but unpopular, I will do my best to introduce you into parliamentary life. I cannot say that I advise the latter.”
Randal felt as a man feels after a severe fall,—he was literally stunned. At length he faltered out,—
“Can you think, sir, that I should ever desert your fortunes, your party, your cause?”
“My dear Leslie,” replied the minister, “you are too young to have committed yourself to any men or to any party, except, indeed, in that unlucky pamphlet. This must not be an affair of sentiment, but of sense and reflection. Let us say no more on the point now; but by considering the pros and the cons, you can better judge what to do, should the time for option suddenly arrive.”
“But I hope that time may not come.”
“I hope so too, and most sincerely,” said the minister, with deliberate and genuine emphasis.
“What could be so bad for the country?” ejaculated Pandal. “It does not seem to me possible, in the nature of things, that you and your party should ever go out!”
“And when we are once out, there will be plenty of wiseacres to say it is out of the nature of things that we should ever come in again. Here we are at the door.”
CHAPTER V
Randal passed a sleepless night; but, indeed, he was one of those persons who neither need, nor are accustomed to, much sleep. However, towards morning, when dreams are said to be prophetic, he fell into a most delightful slumber, a slumber peopled by visions fitted to lure on, through labyrinths of law, predestined chancellors, or wreck upon the rocks of glory the inebriate souls of youthful ensigns; dreams from which Rood Hall emerged crowned with the towers of Belvoir or Raby, and looking over subject lands and manors wrested from the nefarious usurpation of Thornhills and Hazeldeans; dreams in which Audley Egerton’s gold and power, rooms in Downing Street, and saloons in Grosvenor Square, had passed away to the smiling dreamer, as the empire of Chaldaea passed to Darius the Median. Why visions so belying the gloomy and anxious thoughts that preceded them should visit the pillow of Randal Leslie, surpasses my philosophy to conjecture. He yielded, however, passively to their spell, and was startled to hear the clock strike eleven as he descended the stairs to breakfast. He was vexed at the lateness of the hour, for he had meant to have taken advantage of the unwonted softness of Egerton, and drawn therefrom some promises or proffers to cheer the prospects which the minister had so chillingly expanded before him the preceding night; and it was only at breakfast that he usually found the opportunity of private conference with his busy patron. But Audley Egerton would be sure to have sallied forth; and so he had, only Randal was surprised to hear that he had gone out in his carriage, instead of on foot, as was his habit. Randal soon despatched his solitary meal, and with a new and sudden affection for his office, thitherwards bent his way. As he passed through Piccadilly, he heard behind a voice that had lately become familiar to him, and turning round, saw Baron Levy walking side by side, though not arm-in-arm, with a gentleman almost as smart as himself, but with a jauntier step and a brisker air,—a step that, like Diomed’s, as described by Shakspeare,—
“Rises on the toe; that spirit of his
In aspiration lifts him from the earth.”
Indeed, one may judge of the spirits and disposition of a man by his ordinary gait and mien in walking. He who habitually pursues abstract thought looks down on the ground. He who is accustomed to sudden impulses, or is trying to seize upon some necessary recollection, looks up with a kind of jerk. He who is a steady, cautious, merely practical man, walks on deliberately, his eyes straight before him; and, even in his most musing moods, observes things around sufficiently to avoid a porter’s knot or a butcher’s tray. But the man with strong ganglions—of pushing, lively temperament, who, though practical, is yet speculative; the man who is emulous and active, and ever trying to rise in life; sanguine, alert, bold—walks with a spring, looks rather above the heads of his fellow-passengers, but with a quick, easy turn of his own, which is lightly set on his shoulders; his mouth is a little open, his eye is bright, rather restless, but penetrative, his port has something of defiance, his form is erect, but without stiffness. Such was the appearance of the baron’s companion. And as Randal turned round at Levy’s voice, the baron said to his companion, “A young man in the first circles—you should book him for your fair lady’s parties. How d’ ye do, Mr. Leslie? Let me introduce you to Mr. Richard Avenel.” Then, as he hooked his arm into Randal’s, he whispered, “Man of first-rate talent, monstrous rich, has two or three parliamentary seats in his pocket, wife gives parties,—her foible.”
“Proud to make your acquaintance, sir,” said Mr. Avenel, lifting his hat. “Fine day.”
“Rather cold too,” said Leslie, who, like all thin persons with weak digestions, was chilly by temperament; besides, he had enough on his mind to chill his body.
“So much the healthier,—braces the nerves,” said Mr. Avenel; “but you young fellows relax the system by hot rooms and late hours. Fond of dancing, of course, sir?” Then, without waiting for Randal’s negative, Mr. Richard continued rapidly, “Mrs. Avenel has a soiree dansante on Thursday,—shall be very happy to see you in Eaton Square. Stop, I have a card;” and he drew out a dozen large invitation-cards, from which he selected one, and presented it to Randal. The baron pressed that young gentleman’s arm, and Randal replied courteously that it would give him great pleasure to be introduced to Mrs. Avenel. Then, as he was not desirous to be seen under the wing of Baron Levy, like a pigeon under that of a hawk, he gently extricated himself, and pleading great haste, walked quickly on towards his office.
“That young man will make a figure some day,” said the baron. “I don’t know any one of his age with so few prejudices. He is a connection by marriage to Audley Egerton, who—”
“Audley Egerton!” exclaimed Mr. Avenel; “a d—-d haughty, aristocratic, disagreeable, ungrateful fellow!”
“Why, what do you know of him?”
“He owed his first seat in parliament to the votes of two near relations of mine, and when I called upon him some time ago, in his office, he absolutely ordered me out of the room. Hang his impertinence; if ever I can pay him off, I guess I sha’n’t fail for want of good will!”
“Ordered you out of the room? That’s not like Egerton, who is civil, if formal,—at least to most men. You must have offended him in his weak point.”
“A man whom the public pays so handsomely should have no weak point. What is Egerton’s?”
“Oh, he values himself on being a thorough gentleman,—a man of the nicest honour,” said Levy, with a sneer. “You must have ruffled his plumes there. How was it?”
“I forget,” answered Mr. Avenel, who was far too well versed in the London scale of human dignities since his marriage, not to look back with a blush at his desire of knighthood. “No use bothering our heads now about the plumes of an arrogant popinjay. To return to the subject we were discussing: you must be sure to let me have this money next week.”
“Rely on it.”
“And you’ll not let my bills get into the market; keep them under lock and key.”
“So we agreed.”
“It is but a temporary difficulty,—royal mourning, such nonsense; panic in trade, lest these precious ministers go out. I shall soon float over the troubled waters.”
“By the help of a paper boat,” said the baron, laughing; and the two gentlemen shook hands and parted.
CHAPTER VI
Meanwhile Audley Egerton’s carriage had deposited him at the door of Lord Lansmere’s house, at Knightsbridge. He asked for the countess, and was shown into the drawing-room, which was deserted. Egerton was paler than usual; and as the door opened, he wiped the unwonted moisture from his forehead, and there was a quiver on his firm lip. The countess too, on entering, showed an emotion almost equally unusual to her self-control. She pressed Audley’s hand in silence, and seating herself by his side, seemed to collect her thoughts. At length she said,
“It is rarely indeed that we meet, Mr. Egerton, in spite of your intimacy with Lansmere and Harley. I go so little into your world, and you will not voluntarily come to me.”
“Madam,” replied Egerton, “I might evade your kind reproach by stating that my hours are not at my disposal; but I answer you with plain truth,—it must be painful to both of us to meet.”
The countess coloured and sighed, but did not dispute the assertion.
Audley resumed: “And therefore, I presume that, in sending for me, you have something of moment to communicate?”
“It relates to Harley,” said the countess, as if in apology; “and I would take your advice.”
“To Harley! Speak on, I beseech you.”
“My son has probably told you that he has educated and reared a young girl, with the intention to make her Lady L’Estrange, and hereafter Countess of Lansmere.”
“Harley has no secrets from me,” said Egerton, mournfully. “This young lady has arrived in England, is here, in this house.”
“And Harley too?”
“No, she came over with Lady N———and her daughters. Harley was to follow shortly, and I expect him daily. Here is his letter. Observe, he has never yet communicated his intentions to this young person, now entrusted to my care, never spoken to her as the lover.”
Egerton took the letter and read it rapidly, though with attention.
“True,” said he, as he returned the letter: “and before he does so he wishes you to see Miss Digby and to judge of her yourself,—wishes to know if you will approve and sanction his choice.”
“It is on this that I would consult you: a girl without rank; the father, it is true, a gentleman, though almost equivocally one, but the mother, I know not what. And Harley, for whom I hoped an alliance with the first houses in England!” The countess pressed her hands convulsively together.
EGERTON.—“He is no more a boy. His talents have been wasted, his life a wanderer’s. He presents to you a chance of resettling his mind, of re-arousing his native powers, of a home besides your own. Lady Lansmere, you cannot hesitate!”
LADY LANSMERE.—“I do, I do? After all that I have hoped after all that I did to prevent—”
EGERTON (interrupting her).—“You owe him now an atonement; that is in your power,—it is not in mine.” The countess again pressed Audley’s hand, and the tears gushed from her eyes.
“It shall be so. I consent, I consent. I will silence, I will crush back this proud heart. Alas! it well-nigh broke his own! I am glad you speak thus. I like to think he owes my consent to you. In that there is atonement for both.”
“You are too generous, madam,” said Egerton, evidently moved, though still, as ever, striving to repress emotion. “And now may I see the young lady? This conference pains me; you see even my strong nerves quiver; and at this time I have much to go through,—need of all my strength and firmness.”
“I hear, indeed, that the Government will probably retire. But it is with honour: it will be soon called back by the voice of the nation.”
“Let me see the future wife of Harley L’Estrange,” said Egerton, without heed of this consolatory exclamation.
The countess rose and left the room. In a few minutes she returned with Helen Digby.
Helen was wondrously improved from the pale, delicate child, with the soft smile and intelligent eyes, who had sat by the side of Leonard in his garret. She was about the middle height, still slight, but beautifully formed; that exquisite roundness of proportion which conveys so well the idea of woman, in its undulating, pliant grace,—formed to embellish life, and soften away its rude angles; formed to embellish, not to protect. Her face might not have satisfied the critical eye of an artist,—it was not without defects in regularity; but its expression was eminently gentle and prepossessing; and there were few who would not have exclaimed, “What a lovely countenance!” The mildness of her brow was touched with melancholy—her childhood had left its traces on her youth. Her step was slow, and her manner shy, subdued, and timid.
Audley gazed on her with earnestness as she approached him; and then coming forward, took her hand and kissed it. “I am your guardian’s constant friend,” said he, and he drew her gently to a seat beside him, in the recess of a window. With a quick glance of his eye towards the countess, he seemed to imply the wish to converse with Helen somewhat apart. So the countess interpreted the glance; and though she remained in the room, she seated herself at a distance, and bent over a book.
It was touching to see how the austere man of business lent himself to draw forth the mind of this quiet, shrinking girl; and if you had listened, you would have comprehended how he came to possess such social influence, and how well, some time or other in the course of his life, he had learned to adapt himself to women.
He spoke first of Harley L’Estrange,—spoke with tact and delicacy. Helen at first answered by monosyllables, and then, by degrees, with grateful and open affection. Audley’s brow grew shaded. He then spoke of Italy; and though no man had less of the poet in his nature, yet with the dexterity of one long versed in the world, and who had been accustomed to extract evidences from characters most opposed to his own, he suggested such topics as might serve to arouse poetry in others. Helen’s replies betrayed a cultivated taste, and a charming womanly mind; but they betrayed, also, one accustomed to take its colourings from another’s,—to appreciate, admire, revere the Lofty and the Beautiful, but humbly and meekly. There was no vivid enthusiasm, no remark of striking originality, no flash of the self-kindling, creative faculty. Lastly, Egerton turned to England,—to the critical nature of the times, to the claims which the country possessed upon all who had the ability to serve and guide its troubled destinies. He enlarged warmly on Harley’s natural talents, and rejoiced that he had returned to England, perhaps to commence some great career. Helen looked surprised, but her face caught no correspondent glow from Audley’s eloquence. He rose, and an expression of disappointment passed over his grave, handsome features, and as quickly vanished.
“Adieu, my dear Miss Digby; I fear I have wearied you, especially with my politics. Adieu, Lady Lansmere; no doubt I shall see Harley as soon as he returns.”
Then he hastened from the room, gained his carriage, and ordered the coachman to drive to Downing Street. He drew down the blinds, and leaned back. A certain languor became visible in his face, and once or twice, he mechanically put his hand to his heart.
“She is good, amiable, docile,—will make an excellent wife, no doubt,” said he, murmuringly. “But does she love Harley as he has dreamed of love? No! Has she the power and energy to arouse his faculties, and restore to the world the Harley of old? No! Meant by Heaven to be the shadow of another’s sun—not herself the sun,—this child is not the one who can atone for the Past and illume the Future.”