"My Novel" — Complete

Leonard could not resist the pleasure of talking about Helen; and he got into the carriage, which was waiting at the door for the homoeopathist.

“I am going in the country a few miles to see a patient,” said the doctor; “so we shall have time for undisturbed consultation. I have so often wondered what had become of you. Not hearing from Prickett, I wrote to him, and received from his heir an answer as dry as a bone. Poor fellow, I found that he had neglected his globules and quitted the globe. Alas, ‘pulvis et umbra sumus!’ I could learn no tidings of you. Prickett’s successor declared he knew nothing about you. I hoped the best; for I always fancied you were one who would fall on your legs,—bilious-nervous temperament; such are the men who succeed in their undertakings, especially if they take a spoonful of chamomilla whenever they are over-excited. So now for your history and the little girl’s,—pretty little thing,—never saw a more susceptible constitution, nor one more suited to pulsatilla.”

Leonard briefly related his own struggles and success, and informed the good doctor how they had at last discovered the nobleman in whom poor Captain Digby had confided, and whose care of the orphan had justified the confidence.

Dr. Morgan opened his eyes at hearing the name of Lord L’Estrange. “I remember him very well,” said he, “when I practised murder as an allopathist at Lansmere. But to think that wild boy, so full of whim and life and spirit, should become staid enough for a guardian to that dear little child, with her timid eyes and pulsatilla sensibilities. Well, wonders never cease! And he has befriended you too, you say. Ah, he knew your family.”

“So he says. Do you think, sir, that he ever knew—ever saw—my mother?”

“Eh! your mother?—Nora?” exclaimed the doctor, quickly; and, as if struck by some sudden thought, his brows met, and he remained silent and musing a few moments; then, observing Leonard’s eyes fixed on him earnestly, he replied to the question,

“No doubt he saw her; she was brought up at Lady Lansmere’s. Did he not tell you so?”

“No.” A vague suspicion here darted through Leonard’s mind, but as suddenly vanished. His father! Impossible. His father must have deliberately wronged the dead mother. And was Harley L’Estrange a man capable of such wrong? And had he been Harley’s son, would not Harley have guessed it at once, and so guessing, have owned and claimed him? Besides, Lord L’Estrange looked so young,—old enough to be Leonard’s father!—he could not entertain the idea. He roused himself and said, falteringly,

“You told me you did not know by what name I should call my father.”

“And I told you the truth, to the best of my belief.”

“By your honour, sir?”

“By my honour, I do not know it.”

There was now a long silence. The carriage had long left London, and was on a high road somewhat lonelier, and more free from houses than most of those which form the entrances to the huge city. Leonard gazed wistfully from the window, and the objects that met his eyes gradually seemed to appeal to his memory. Yes! it was the road by which he had first approached the metropolis, hand in hand with Helen—and hope so busy at his poet’s heart. He sighed deeply. He thought he would willingly have resigned all he had won—independence, fame, all—to feel again the clasp of that tender hand, again to be the sole protector of that gentle life.

The doctor’s voice broke on his revery. “I am going to see a very interesting patient,—coats to his stomach quite worn out, sir,—man of great learning, with a very inflamed cerebellum. I can’t do him much good, and he does me a great deal of harm.”

“How harm?” asked Leonard, with an effort at some rejoinder.

“Hits me on the heart, and makes my eyes water; very pathetic case,—grand creature, who has thrown himself away. Found him given over by the allopathists, and in a high state of delirium tremens, restored him for a time, took a great liking to him,—could not help it,—swallowed a great many globules to harden myself against him, would not do, brought him over to England with the other patients, who all pay me well (except Captain Higginbotham). But this poor fellow pays me nothing,—costs me a great deal in time and turnpikes, and board and lodging. Thank Heaven, I’m a single man, and can afford it! My poy, I would let all the other patients go to the allopathists if I could but save this poor, big, penniless, princely fellow. But what can one do with a stomach that has not a rag of its coats left? Stop” (the doctor pulled the check-string). “This is the stile. I get out here and go across the fields.”

That stile, those fields—with what distinctness Leonard remembered them. Ah, where was Helen? Could she ever, ever again be, his child-angel?

“I will go with you, if you permit,” said he to the good doctor. “And while you pay your visit, I will saunter by a little brook that I think must run by your way.”

“The Brent—you know that brook? Ah, you should hear my poor patient talk of it, and of the hours he has spent angling in it,—you would not know whether to laugh or cry. The first day he was brought down to the place, he wanted to go out and try once more, he said, for his old deluding demon,—a one-eyed perch.”

“Heavens!” exclaimed Leonard, “are you speaking of John Burley?”

“To be sure, that is his name,—John Burley.”

“Oh, has it come to this? Cure him, save him, if it be in human power. For the last two years I have sought his trace everywhere, and in vain, the moment I had money of my own, a home of my own. Poor, erring, glorious Burley! Take me to him. Did you say there was no hope?”

“I did not say that,” replied the doctor. “But art can only assist Nature; and though Nature is ever at work to repair the injuries we do to her, yet, when the coats of a stomach are all gone, she gets puzzled, and so do I. You must tell me another time how you came to know Burley, for here we are at the house, and I see him at the window looking out for me.”

The doctor opened the garden gate of the quiet cottage to which poor Burley had fled from the pure presence of Leonard’s child-angel. And with heavy step, and heavy heart, Leonard mournfully followed, to behold the wrecks of him whose wit had glorified orgy, and “set the table in a roar.” Alas, poor Yorick!

CHAPTER V

Audley Egerton stands on his hearth alone. During the short interval that has elapsed since we last saw him, events had occurred memorable in English history, wherewith we have nought to do in a narrative studiously avoiding all party politics even when treating of politicians. The new ministers had stated the general programme of their policy, and introduced one measure in especial that had lifted them at once to the dizzy height of popular power. But it became clear that this measure could not be carried without a fresh appeal to the people. A dissolution of parliament, as Audley’s sagacious experience had foreseen, was inevitable. And Audley Egerton had no chance of return for his own seat, for the great commercial city identified with his name. Oh, sad, but not rare, instance of the mutabilities of that same popular favour now enjoyed by his successors! The great commoner, the weighty speaker, the expert man of business, the statesman who had seemed a type of the practical steady sense for which our middle class is renowned,—he who, not three years since, might have had his honoured choice of the largest popular constituencies in the kingdom,—he, Audley Egerton, knew not one single town (free from the influences of private property or interest) in which the obscurest candidate, who bawled out for the new liberal measure, would not have beaten him hollow. Where one popular hustings, on which that grave sonorous voice, that had stilled so often the roar of faction, would not be drowned amidst the hoots of the scornful mob?

True, what were called the close boroughs still existed; true, many a chief of his party would have been too proud of the honour of claiming Andley Egerton for his nominee. But the ex-minister’s haughty soul shrunk from this contrast to his past position. And to fight against the popular measure, as member of one of the seats most denounced by the people,—he felt it was a post in the grand army of parties below his dignity to occupy, and foreign to his peculiar mind, which required the sense of consequence and station. And if, in a few months, those seats were swept away—were annihilated from the rolls of parliament—where was he? Moreover, Egerton, emancipated from the trammels that had bound his will while his party was in office, desired, in the turn of events, to be nominee of no man,—desired to stand at least freely and singly on the ground of his own services, be guided by his own penetration; no law for action but his strong sense and his stout English heart. Therefore he had declined all offers from those who could still bestow seats in parliament. Seats that he could purchase with hard gold were yet open to him. And the L5,000 he had borrowed from Levy were yet untouched.

To this lone public man, public life, as we have seen, was the all in all. But now more than ever it was vital to his very wants. Around him yawned ruin. He knew that it was in Levy’s power at any moment to foreclose on his mortgaged lands; to pour in the bonds and the bills which lay within those rosewood receptacles that lined the fatal lair of the sleek usurer; to seize on the very house in which now moved all the pomp of a retinue that vied with the valetaille of dukes; to advertise for public auction, under execution, “the costly effects of the Right Hon. Audley Egerton.” But, consummate in his knowledge of the world, Egerton felt assured that Levy would not adopt these measures against him while he could still tower in the van of political war,—while he could still see before him the full chance of restoration to power, perhaps to power still higher than before, perhaps to power the highest of all beneath the throne. That Levy, whose hate he divined, though he did not conjecture all its causes, had hitherto delayed even a visit, even a menace, seemed to him to show that Levy still thought him one “to be helped,” or, at least, one too powerful to crush. To secure his position in parliament unshackled, unfallen, if but for another year,—new combinations of party might arise, new reactions take place, in public opinion! And, with his hand pressed to his heart, the stern firm man muttered, “If not, I ask but to die in my harness, and that men may not know that I am a pauper until all that I need from my country is a grave.”

Scarce had these words died upon his lips ere two quick knocks in succession resounded at the street door. In another moment Harley entered, and, at the same time, the servant in attendance approached Audley, and announced Baron Levy.

“Beg the baron to wait, unless he would prefer to name his own hour to call again,” answered Egerton, with the slightest possible change of colour. “You can say I am now with Lord L’Estrange.”

“I had hoped you had done forever with that deluder of youth,” said Harley, as soon as the groom of the chambers had withdrawn. “I remember that you saw too much of him in the gay time, ere wild oats are sown; but now surely you can never need a loan; and if so is not Harley L’Estrange by your side?”

EGERTON.—“My dear Harley! doubtless he but comes to talk to me of some borough. He has much to do with those delicate negotiations.”

HARLEY.—“And I have come on the same business. I claim the priority. I not only hear in the world, but I see by the papers, that Josiah Jenkins, Esq., known to fame as an orator who leaves out his h’s, and young Lord Willoughby Whiggolin, who is just made a Lord of the Admiralty, because his health is too delicate for the army, are certain to come in for the city which you and your present colleague will as certainly vacate. That is true, is it not?”

EGERTON.—“My old Committee now vote for Jenkins and Whiggolin; and I suppose there will not be even a contest. Go on.”

“So my father and I are agreed that you must condescend, for the sake of old friendship, to be once more member for Lansmere.”

“Harley,” exclaimed Egerton, changing countenance far more than he had done at the announcement of Levy’s portentous visit, “Harley, no, no!”

“No! But why? Wherefore such emotion?” asked L’Estrauge, in surprise.

Audley was silent.

HARLEY.—“I suggested the idea to two or three of the late ministers; they all concur in advising you to accede. In the first place, if declining to stand for the place which tempted you from Lansmere, what more natural than that you should fall back on that earlier representation? In the second place, Lansmere is neither a rotten borough to be bought, nor a close borough, under one man’s nomination. It is a tolerably large constituency. My father, it is true, has considerable interest in it, but only what is called the legitimate influence of property. At all events, it is more secure than a contest for a larger town, more dignified than a seat for a smaller. Hesitating still? Even my mother entreats me to say how she desires you to renew that connection.”

“Harley,” again exclaimed Egerton; and fixing upon his friend’s earnest face eyes which, when softened by emotion, were strangely beautiful in their expression,—“Harley, if you could but read my heart at this moment, you would—you would—” His voice faltered, and he fairly bent his proud head upon Harley’s shoulder; grasping the hand he had caught nervously, clingingly, “Oh, Harley, if I ever lose your love, your friendship, nothing else is left to me in the world.”

“Audley, my dear, dear Audley, is it you who speak to me thus? You, my school friend, my life’s confidant,—you?”

“I am grown very weak and foolish,” said Egerton, trying to smile. “I do not know myself. I, too, whom you have so often called ‘Stoic,’ and likened to the Iron Man in the poem which you used to read by the riverside at Eton.”

“But even then, my Audley, I knew that a warm human heart (do what you would to keep it down) beat strong under the iron ribs. And I often marvel now, to think you have gone through life so free from the wilder passions. Happier so!”

Egerton, who had turned his face from his friend’s gaze, remained silent for a few moments; and he then sought to divert the conversation, and roused himself to ask Harley how he had succeeded in his views upon Beatrice, and his watch on the count.

“With regard to Peschiera,” answered Harley, “I think we must have overrated the danger we apprehended, and that his wagers were but an idle boast. He has remained quiet enough, and seems devoted to play. His sister has shut her doors both on myself and my young associate during the last few days. I almost fear that in spite of very sage warnings of mine, she must have turned his poet’s head, and that either he has met with some scornful rebuff to incautious admiration or that, he himself has grown aware of peril, and declines to face it; for he is very much embarrassed when I speak to him respecting her. But if the count is not formidable, why, his sister is not needed; and I hope yet to get justice for my Italian friend through the ordinary channels. I have secured an ally in a young Austrian prince, who is now in London, and who has promised to back, with all his influence, a memorial I shall transmit to Vienna.—a propos, my dear Audley, now that you have a little breathing-time, you must fix an hour for me to present to you my young poet, the son of her sister. At moments the expression of his face is so like hers.”

“Ay, ay,” answered Egerton, quickly, “I will see him as you wish, but later. I have not yet that breathing-time you speak of; but you say he has prospered; and, with your friendship, he is secure from fortune. I rejoice to think so.”

“And your own protege, this Vandal Leslie, whom you forbid me to dislike—hard task!—what has he decided?”

“To adhere to my fate. Harley, if it please Heaven that I do not live to return to power, and provide adequately for that young man, do not forget that he clung to me in my fall.”

“If he still cling to you faithfully, I will never forget it. I will forget only all that now makes me doubt him. But you talk of not living, Audley! Pooh! your frame is that of a predestined octogenarian.”

“Nay,” answered Audley, “I was but uttering one of those vague generalities which are common upon all mortal lips. And now farewell,—I must see this baron.”

“Not yet, until you have promised to consent to my proposal, and be once more member for Lansmere. Tut! don’t shake your head. I cannot be denied. I claim your promise in right of our friendship, and shall be seriously hurt if you even pause to reflect on it.”

“Well, well, I know not how to refuse you, Harley; but you have not been to Lansmere yourself since—since that sad event. You must not revive the old wound,—you must not go; and—and, I own it, Harley, the remembrance of it pains even me. I would rather not go to Lansmere.”

“Ah, my friend, this is an excess of sympathy, and I cannot listen to it. I begin even to blame my own weakness, and to feel that we have no right to make ourselves the soft slaves of the past.”

“You do appear to me of late to have changed,” cried Egerton, suddenly, and with a brightening aspect. “Do tell me that you are happy in the contemplation of your new ties,—that I shall live to see you once more restored to your former self.”

“All I can answer, Audley,” said L’Estrange, with a thoughtful brow, “is, that you are right in one thing,—I am changed; and I am struggling to gain strength for duty and for honour. Adieu! I shall tell my father that you accede to our wishes.”

CHAPTER VI

When Harley was gone, Egerton sunk back on his chair, as if in extreme physical or mental exhaustion, all the lines of his countenance relaxed and jaded.

“To go back to that place—there—there—where—Courage, courage! what is another pang?”

He rose with an effort, and folding his arms tightly across his breast, paced slowly to and fro the large, mournful, solitary room. Gradually his countenance assumed its usual cold and austere composure,—the secret eye, the guarded lip, the haughty, collected front. The man of the world was himself once more.

“Now to gain time, and to baffle the usurer,” murmured Egerton, with that low tone of easy scorn, which bespoke consciousness of superior power and the familiar mastery over hostile natures. He rang the bell: the servant entered.

“Is Baron Levy still waiting?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Admit him.” Levy entered.

“I beg your pardon, Levy,” said the ex-minister, “for having so long detained you. I am now at your commands.”

“My dear fellow,” returned the baron, “no apologies between friends so old as we are; and I fear that my business is not so agreeable as to make you impatient to discuss it.”

EGERTON (with perfect composure).—“I am to conclude, then, that you wish to bring our accounts to a close. Whenever you will, Levy.”

THE BARON (disconcerted and surprised).—“Peste! mon cher, you take things coolly. But if our accounts are closed, I fear you will have but little to live upon.”

EGERTON.—“I can continue to live on the salary of a Cabinet Minister.”

BARON.—“Possibly; but you are no longer a Cabinet Minister.”

EGERTON.—“You have never found me deceived—in a political prediction. Within twelve months (should life be spared to me) I shall be in office again. If the same to you, I would rather wait till then formally and amicably to resign to you my lands and this house. If you grant that reprieve, our connection can thus close without the eclat and noise which may be invidious to you, as it would be disagreeable to me. But if that delay be inconvenient, I will appoint a lawyer to examine your accounts, and adjust my liabilities.”

THE BARON (soliloquizing).—“I don’t like this. A lawyer! That may be awkward.”

EGERTON (observing the baron, with a curl on his lip). “Well, Levy, how shall it be?”

THE BARON.—“You know, my dear fellow, it is not my character to be hard on any one, least of all upon an old friend. And if you really think there is a chance of your return to office, which you apprehend that an esclandre as to your affairs at present might damage, why, let us see if we can conciliate matters. But, first, mon cher, in order to become a minister, you must at least have a seat in parliament; and pardon me the question, how the deuce are you to find one?”

EGERTON.—“It is found.”

THE BARON.—“Ah, I forgot the L5,000 you last borrowed.”

EGERTON.—“NO; I reserve that sum for another purpose.”

THE BARON (with a forced laugh).—“Perhaps to defend yourself against the actions you apprehend from me?”

EGERTON.—“You are mistaken. But to soothe your suspicions I will tell you plainly, that finding any sum I might have insured on my life would be liable to debts preincurred, and (as you will be my sole creditor) might thus at my death pass back to you; and doubting whether, indeed, any office would accept my insurance, I appropriate that sum to the relief of my conscience. I intend to bestow it, while yet in life, upon my late wife’s kinsman, Randal Leslie. And it is solely the wish to do what I consider an act of justice, that has prevailed with me to accept a favour from the hands of Harley L’Estrange, and to become again the member for Lansmere.”

THE BARON.—“Ha!—Lansmere! You will stand for Lansmere?”

EGERTON (wincing).—“I propose to do so.”

THE BARON.—“I believe you will be opposed, subjected to even a sharp contest. Perhaps you may lose your election.”

EGERTON.—“If so, I resign myself, and you can foreclose on my estates.”

THE BARON (his brow clearing).—“Look you, Egerton, I shall be too happy to do you a favour.”

EGERTON (with stateliness).—“Favour! No, Baron Levy, I ask from you no favour. Dismiss all thought of rendering me one. It is but a consideration of business on both sides. If you think it better that we shall at once settle our accounts, my lawyer shall investigate them. If you agree to the delay I request, my lawyer shall give you no trouble; and all that I have, except hope and character, pass to your hands without a struggle.”

THE BARON.—“Inflexible and ungracious, favour or not—put it as you will—I accede, provided, first, that you allow me to draw up a fresh deed, which will accomplish your part of the compact; and secondly, that we saddle the proposed delay with the condition that you do not lose your election.”

EGERTON.—“Agreed. Have you anything further to say?”

THE BARON.—“Nothing, except that, if you require more money, I am still at your service.”

EGERTON.—“I thank you. No; I shall take the occasion of my retirement from office to reduce my establishment. I have calculated already, and provided for the expenditure I need, up to the date I have specified, and I shall have no occasion to touch the L5,000 that I still retain.”

“Your young friend, Mr. Leslie, ought to be very grateful to you,” said the baron, rising. “I have met him in the world,—a lad of much promise and talent. You should try and get him also into parliament.”

EGERTON (thoughtfully).—“You are a good judge of the practical abilities and merits of men, as regards worldly success. Do you really think Randal Leslie calculated for public life—for a parliamentary career?”

THE BARON.—“Indeed I do.”

EGERTON (speaking more to himself than Levy).—“Parliament without fortune,—‘t is a sharp trial; still he is prudent, abstemious, energetic, persevering; and at the onset, under my auspices and advice, he might establish a position beyond his years.”

THE BARON. “It strikes me that we might possibly get him into the next parliament; or, as that is not likely to last long, at all events, into the parliament to follow,—not for one of the boroughs which will be swept away, but for a permanent seat, and without expense.”