"My Novel" — Complete

CHAPTER XIII

Randal reached home in time to dress for a late dinner at Baron Levy’s.

The baron’s style of living was of that character especially affected both by the most acknowledged exquisites of that day, and, it must be owned, also, by the most egregious parvenus. For it is noticeable that it is your parvenu who always comes nearest in fashion (so far as externals are concerned) to your genuine exquisite. It is your parvenu who is most particular as to the cut of his coat, and the precision of his equipage, and the minutia, of his menage. Those between the parvenu and the exquisite, who know their own consequence, and have something solid to rest upon, are slow in following all the caprices of fashion, and obtuse in observation as to those niceties which neither give them another ancestor, nor add another thousand to the account at their banker’s,—as to the last, rather indeed the contrary! There was a decided elegance about the baron’s house and his dinner. If he had been one of the lawful kings of the dandies, you would have cried, “What perfect taste!”—but such is human nature, that the dandies who dined with him said to each other, “He pretend to imitate D——! vulgar dog!” There was little affectation of your more showy opulence. The furniture in the rooms was apparently simple, but, in truth, costly, from its luxurious comfort; the ornaments and china scattered about the commodes were of curious rarity and great value, and the pictures on the walls were gems. At dinner, no plate was admitted on the table. The Russian fashion, then uncommon, now more prevalent, was adopted, fruit and flowers in old Sevres dishes of priceless vertu, and in sparkling glass of Bohemian fabric. No livery servant was permitted to wait; behind each guest stood a gentleman dressed so like the guest himself, in fine linen and simple black, that guest and lacquey seemed stereotypes from one plate.

The viands were exquisite; the wine came from the cellars of deceased archbishops and ambassadors. The company was select; the party did not exceed eight. Four were the eldest sons of peers (from a baron to a duke); one was a professed wit, never to be got without a month’s notice, and, where a parvenu was host, a certainty of green peas and peaches—out of season; the sixth, to Randal’s astonishment, was Mr. Richard Avenel; himself and the baron made up the complement.

The eldest sons recognized each other with a meaning smile; the most juvenile of them, indeed (it was his first year in London), had the grace to blush and look sheepish. The others were more hardened; but they all united in regarding with surprise both Randal and Dick Avenel. The former was known to most of them personally, and to all, by repute, as a grave, clever, promising young man, rather prudent than lavish, and never suspected to have got into a scrape. What the deuce did he do there? Mr. Avenel puzzled them yet more. A middle-aged man, said to be in business, whom they had observed “about town” (for he had a noticeable face and figure),—that is, seen riding in the Park, or lounging in the pit at the opera, but never set eyes on at a recognized club, or in the coteries of their “set;” a man whose wife gave horrid third-rate parties, that took up half a column in the “Morning Post” with a list of “The Company Present,” in which a sprinkling of dowagers fading out of fashion, and a foreign title or two, made the darkness of the obscurer names doubly dark. Why this man should be asked to meet them, by Baron Levy, too—a decided tuft-hunter and would-be exclusive—called all their faculties into exercise. The wit, who, being the son of a small tradesman, but in the very best society, gave himself far greater airs than the young lords, impertinently solved the mystery. “Depend on it,” whispered he to Spendquick,—“depend on it the man is the X. Y. of the ‘Times’ who offers to lend any sum of money from L10 to half-a-million. He’s the man who has all your bills; Levy is only his jackal.”

“‘Pon my soul,” said Spendquick, rather alarmed, “if that’s the case, one may as well be civil to him.”

“You, certainly,” said the wit. “But I never have found an X. Y. who would advance me the L. s.; and therefore I shall not be more respectful to X. Y. than to any other unknown quantity.”

By degrees, as the wine circulated, the party grew gay and sociable. Levy was really an entertaining fellow; had all the gossip of the town at his fingers’ ends; and possessed, moreover, that pleasant art of saying ill-natured things of the absent, which those present always enjoy. By degrees, too, Mr. Richard Avenel came out; and, as the whisper had circulated round the table that he was X. Y., he was listened to with a profound respect, which greatly elevated his spirits. Nay, when the wit tried once to show him up or mystify him, Dick answered with a bluff spirit, that, though very coarse, was found so humorous by Lord Spendquick and other gentlemen similarly situated in the money-market that they turned the laugh against the wit, and silenced him for the rest of the night,—a circumstance which made the party go off much more pleasantly. After dinner, the conversation, quite that of single men, easy and debonnaire, glanced from the turf and the ballet and the last scandal towards politics; for the times were such that politics were discussed everywhere, and three of the young lords were county members.

Randal said little, but, as was his wont, listened attentively; and he was aghast to find how general was the belief that the Government was doomed. Out of regard to him, and with that delicacy of breeding which belongs to a certain society, nothing personal to Egerton was said, except by Avenel, who, however, on blurting out some rude expressions respecting that minister, was instantly checked by the baron. “Spare my friend and Mr. Leslie’s near connection,” said he, with a polite but grave smile.

“Oh,” said Avenel, “public men, whom we pay, are public property,—aren’t they, my Lord?” appealing to Spendquick.

“Certainly,” said Spendquick, with great spirit,—“public property, or why should we pay them? There must be a very strong motive to induce us to do that! I hate paying people. In fact,” he subjoined in an aside, “I never do.”

“However,” resumed Mr. Avenel, graciously, “I don’t want to hurt your feelings, Mr. Leslie. As to the feelings of our host, the baron, I calculate that they have got tolerably tough by the exercise they have gone through.”

“Nevertheless,” said the baron, joining in the laugh which any lively saying by the supposed X. Y. was sure to excite, “nevertheless, ‘love me, love my dog,’—love me, love my Egerton.”

Randal started, for his quick ear and subtle intelligence caught something sinister and hostile in the tone with which Levy uttered this equivocal comparison, and his eye darted towards the baron. But the baron had bent down his face, and was regaling himself upon an olive.

By-and-by the party rose from table. The four young noblemen had their engagements elsewhere, and proposed to separate without re-entering the drawing-room. As, in Goethe’s theory, monads which have affinities with each other are irresistibly drawn together, so these gay children of pleasure had, by a common impulse, on rising from table, moved each to each, and formed a group round the fireplace. Randal stood a little apart, musing; the wit examined the pictures through his eye-glass; and Mr. Avenel drew the baron towards the side-board, and there held him in whispered conference. This colloquy did not escape the young gentlemen round the fireplace; they glanced towards each other.

“Settling the percentage on renewal,” said one, sotto voce. “X. Y. does not seem such a very bad fellow,” said another.

“He looks rich, and talks rich,” said a third.

“A decided, independent way of expressing his sentiments; those moneyed men generally have.”

“Good heavens!” ejaculated Spendquick, who had been keeping his eye anxiously fixed on the pair, “do look; X. Y. is actually taking out his pocket-book; he is coming this way. Depend on it he has got our bills—mine is due to-morrow!”

“And mine too,” said another, edging off. “Why, it is a perfect guet-apens.”

Meanwhile, breaking away from the baron, who appeared anxious to detain him, and failing in that attempt, turned aside, as if not to see Dick’s movements,—a circumstance which did not escape the notice of the group, and confirmed all their suspicions,—Mr. Avenel, with a serious, thoughtful face, and a slow step, approached the group. Nor did the great Roman general more nervously “flutter the dove-cots in Corioli,” than did the advance of the supposed X. Y. agitate the bosoms of Lord Spendquick and his sympathizing friends. Pocket-book in hand, and apparently feeling for something formidable within its mystic recesses, step by step came Dick Avenel towards the fireplace. The group stood still, fascinated by horror.

“Hum,” said Mr. Avenel, clearing his throat.

“I don’t like that hum at all,” muttered Spendquick. “Proud to have made your acquaintance, gentlemen,” said Dick, bowing.

The gentlemen thus addressed bowed low in return.

“My friend the baron thought this not exactly the time to—” Dick stopped a moment; you might have knocked down those four young gentlemen, though four finer specimens of humanity no aristocracy in Europe could produce,—you might have knocked them down with a feather! “But,” renewed Avenel, not finishing his sentence, “I have made it a rule in life never to lose securing a good opportunity; in short, to make the most of the present moment. And,” added he, with a smile which froze the blood in Lord Spendquick’s veins, “the rule has made me a very warm man! Therefore, gentlemen, allow me to present you each with one of these”—every hand retreated behind the back of its well-born owner, when, to the inexpressible relief of all, Dick concluded with,—“a little soiree dansante,” and extended four cards of invitation.

“Most happy!” exclaimed Spendquick. “I don’t dance in general; but to oblige X—I mean, to have a better acquaintance, sir, with you—I would dance on the tight-rope.”

There was a good-humoured, pleasant laugh at Spendquick’s enthusiasm, and a general shaking of hands and pocketing of the invitation cards.

“You don’t look like a dancing man,” said Avenel, turning to the wit, who was plump and somewhat gouty,—as wits who dine out five days in the week generally are; “but we shall have supper at one o’clock.”

Infinitely offended and disgusted, the wit replied dryly, “that every hour of his time was engaged for the rest of the season,” and, with a stiff salutation to the baron, took his departure. The rest, in good spirits, hurried away to their respective cabriolets; and Leslie was following them into the hall, when the baron, catching hold of him, said, “Stay, I want to talk to you.”

CHAPTER XIV

The baron turned into his drawing-room, and Leslie followed.

“Pleasant young men, those,” said Levy, with a slight sneer, as he threw himself into an easy-chair and stirred the fire. “And not at all proud; but, to be sure, they are—under great obligations to me. Yes; they owe me a great deal a propos, I have had a long talk with Frank Hazeldean,—fine young man, remarkable capacities for business. I can arrange his affairs for him. I find, on reference to the Will Office, that you were quite right; the Casino property is entailed on Frank. He will have the fee simple. He can dispose of the reversion entirely. So that there will be no difficulty in our arrangements.”

“But I told you also that Frank had scruples about borrowing on the event of his father’s death.”

“Ay, you did so. Filial affection! I never take that into account in matters of business. Such little scruples, though they are highly honourable to human nature, soon vanish before the prospect of the King’s Bench. And, too, as you so judiciously remarked, our clever young friend is in love with Madame di Negra.”

“Did he tell you that?”

“No; but Madame di Negra did!”

“You know her?”

“I know most people in good society, who now and then require a friend in the management of their affairs. And having made sure of the fact you stated, as to Hazeldean’s contingent property (excuse my prudence), I have accommodated Madame di Negra and bought up her debts.”

“You have—you surprise me!”

“The surprise will vanish on reflection. But you are very new to the world yet, my dear Leslie. By the way, I have had an interview with Peschiera—”

“About his sister’s debts?”

“Partly. A man of the nicest honour is Peschiera.” Aware of Levy’s habit of praising people for the qualities in which, according to the judgment of less penetrating mortals, they were most deficient, Randal only smiled at this eulogy, and waited for Levy to resume. But the baron sat silent and thoughtful for a minute or two, and then wholly changed the subject.

“I think your father has some property in ——shire, and you probably can give me a little information as to certain estates of a Mr. Thornhill, estates which, on examination of the title-deeds, I find once, indeed, belonged to your family.” The baron glanced at a very elegant memorandum-book.—“The manors of Rood and Dulmansberry, with sundry farms thereon. Mr. Thornhill wants to sell them—an old client of mine, Thornhill. He has applied to me on the matter. Do you think it an improvable property?”

Randal listened with a livid cheek and a throbbing heart. We have seen that, if there was one ambitious scheme in his calculation which, though not absolutely generous and heroic, still might win its way to a certain sympathy in the undebased human mind, it was the hope to restore the fallen fortunes of his ancient house, and repossess himself of the long alienated lands that surrounded the dismal wastes of the mouldering hall. And now to hear that those lands were getting into the inexorable gripe of Levy—tears of bitterness stood in his eyes.

“Thornhill,” continued Levy, who watched the young man’s countenance,—“Thornhill tells me that that part of his property—the old Leslie lands—produces L2, 000 a year, and that the rental could be raised. He would take L50,000 for it, L20,000 down, and suffer the remaining L30,000 to lie on mortgage at four per cent. It seems a very good purchase. What do you say?”

“Don’t ask me,” said Randal, stung into rare honesty; “for I had hoped I might live to repossess myself of that property.”

“Ah, indeed! It would be a very great addition to your consequence in the world,—not from the mere size of the estate, but from its hereditary associations. And if you have any idea of the purchase, believe me, I’ll not stand in your way.”

“How can I have any idea of it?”

“But I thought you said you had.”

“I understood that these lands could not be sold till Mr. Thornhill’s son came of age, and joined in getting rid of the entail.”

“Yes, so Thornhill himself supposed, till, on examining the title-deeds, I found he was under a mistake. These lands are not comprised in the settlement made by old Jasper Thornhill, which ties up the rest of the property. The title will be perfect. Thornhill wants to settle the matter at once,—losses on the turf, you understand; an immediate purchaser would get still better terms. A Sir John Spratt would give the money; but the addition of these lands would make the Spratt property of more consequence in the county than the Thornhill. So my client would rather take a few thousands less from a man who don’t set up to be his rival. Balance of power in counties as well as nations.”

Randal was silent.

“Well,” said Levy, with great kindness of manner, “I see I pain you; and though I am what my very pleasant guests would call a parvenu, I comprehend your natural feelings as a gentleman of ancient birth. Parvenu! Ah, is it not strange, Leslie, that no wealth, no fashion, no fame can wipe out that blot? They call me a parvenu, and borrow my money. They call our friend the wit a parvenu, and submit to all his insolence—if they condescend to regard his birth at all—provided they can but get him to dinner. They call the best debater in the parliament of England a parvenu, and will entreat him, some day or other, to be prime minister, and ask him for stars and garters. A droll world, and no wonder the parvenus want to upset it.”

Randal had hitherto supposed that this notorious tufthunter, this dandy capitalist, this money-lender, whose whole fortune had been wrung from the wants and follies of an aristocracy, was naturally a firm supporter of things as they are—how could things be better for men like Baron Levy? But the usurer’s burst of democratic spleen did not surprise his precocious and acute faculty of observation. He had before remarked, that it is the persons who fawn most upon an aristocracy, and profit the most by the fawning, who are ever at heart its bitterest disparagers. Why is this? Because one full half of democratic opinion is made up of envy; and we can only envy what is brought before our eyes, and what, while very near to us, is still unattainable. No man envies an archangel.

“But,” said Levy, throwing himself back in his chair, “a new order of things is commencing; we shall see. Leslie, it is lucky for you that you did not enter parliament under the government; it would be your political ruin for life.”

“You think, then, that the ministry really cannot last?”

“Of course I do; and what is more, I think that a ministry of the same principles cannot be restored. You are a young man of talent and spirit; your birth is nothing compared to the rank of the reigning party; it would tell, to a certain degree, in a democratic one. I say, you should be more civil to Avenel; he could return you to parliament at the next election.”

“The next election! In six years! We have just had a general election.”

“There will be another before this year, or half of it, or perhaps a quarter of it, is out.”

“What makes you think so?”

“Leslie, let there be confidence between us; we can help each other. Shall we be friends?”

“With all my heart. But though you may help me, how can I help you?”

“You have helped me already to Frank Hazeldean and the Casino estate. All clever men can help me. Come, then, we are friends; and what I say is secret. You ask me why I think there will be a general election so soon? I will answer you frankly. Of all the public men I ever met with, there is no one who has so clear a vision of things immediately before him as Audley Egerton.”

“He has that character. Not far-seeing, but clear-sighted to a certain limit.”

“Exactly so. No one better, therefore, knows public opinion and its immediate ebb and flow.”

“Granted.”

“Egerton, then, counts on a general election within three months, and I have lent him the money for it.”

“Lent him the money! Egerton borrow money of you, the rich Audley Egerton!”

“Rich!” repeated Levy, in a tone impossible to describe, and accompanying the word with that movement of the middle finger and thumb, commonly called a “snap,” which indicates profound contempt.

He said no more. Randal sat stupefied. At length the latter muttered, “But if Egerton is really not rich; if he lose office, and without the hope of return to it—”

“If so, he is ruined!” said Levy, coldly; “and therefore, from regard to you, and feeling interest in your future fate, I say, Rest no hopes of fortune or career upon Audley Egerton. Keep your place for the present, but be prepared at the next election to stand upon popular principles. Avenel shall return you to parliament; and the rest is with luck and energy. And now, I’ll not detain you longer,” said Levy, rising and ringing the bell. The servant entered. “Is my carriage here?”

“Yes, Baron.”

“Can I set you down anywhere?”

“No, thank you, I prefer walking.”

“Adieu, then. And mind you remember the soiree dansante at Mrs. Avenel’s.” Randal mechanically shook the hand extended to him, and went down the stairs.

The fresh frosty air roused his intellectual faculties, which Levy’s ominous words had almost paralyzed.

And the first thing the clever schemer said to himself was this,

“But what can be the man’s motive in what he said to me?”

The next was,—

“Egerton ruined! What am I, then?” And the third was,

“And that fair remnant of the old Leslie property! L20,000 down—how to get the sum? Why should Levy have spoken to me of this?”

And lastly, the soliloquy rounded back—“The man’s motives! His motives!”

Meanwhile, the baron threw himself into his chariot—the most comfortable, easy chariot you can possibly conceive, single man’s chariot, perfect taste,—no married man ever had such a chariot; and in a few minutes he was at ————-’s hotel, and in the presence of Giulio Franzini, Count di Peschiera.

“Mon cher,” said the baron, in very good French, and in a tone of the most familiar equality with the descendant of the princes and heroes of grand medieval Italy,—“mon cher, give me one of your excellent cigars. I think I have put all matters in train.”

“You have found out—”

“No; not so fast yet,” said the baron, lighting the cigar extended to him. “But you said that you should be perfectly contented if it only cost you L20,000 to marry off your sister (to whom that sum is legally due), and to marry yourself to the heiress.”

“I did, indeed.”

“Then I have no doubt I shall manage both objects for that sum, if Randal Leslie really knows where the young lady is, and can assist you. Most promising, able man is Randal Leslie—but innocent as a babe just born.”

“Ha, ha! Innocent? Que diable!”

“Innocent as this cigar, mon cher,—strong certainly, but smoked very easily. Soyez tranquille!”