"My Novel" — Complete

CHAPTER XV

The entrance of a servant, announcing a name which Harley, in the absorption of his gloomy revery, did not hear, was followed by that of a person on whom he lifted his eyes in the cold and haughty surprise with which a man much occupied greets and rebukes the intrusion of an unwelcome stranger.

“It is so long since your Lordship has seen me,” said the visitor, with mild dignity, “that I cannot wonder you do not recognize my person, and have forgotten my name.”

“Sir,” answered Harley, with an impatient rudeness, ill in harmony with the urbanity for which he was usually distinguished,—“sir, your person is strange to me, and your name I did not hear; but, at all events, I am not now at leisure to attend to you. Excuse my plainness.”

“Yet pardon me if I still linger. My name is Dale. I was formerly curate at Lansmere; and I would speak to your Lordship in the name and the memory of one once dear to you,—Leonora Avenel.”

HARLEY (after a short pause).—“Sir, I cannot conjecture your business. But be seated. I remember you now, though years have altered both, and I have since heard much in your favour from Leonard Fairfield. Still let me pray, that you will be brief.”

MR. DALE.—“May I assume at once that you have divined the parentage of the young man you call Fairfield? When I listened to his grateful praises of your beneficence, and marked with melancholy pleasure the reverence in which he holds you, my heart swelled within me. I acknowledged the mysterious force of nature.”

HARLEY.—“Force of nature! You talk in riddles.”

MR. DALE (indignantly).—“Oh, my Lord, how can you so disguise your better self? Surely in Leonard Fairfield you have long since recognized the son of Nora Avenel?”

Harley passed his hand over his face. “Ah,” thought he, “she lived to bear a son then,—a son to Egerton! Leonard is that son. I should have known it by the likeness, by the fond foolish impulse that moved me to him. This is why he confided to me these fearful memoirs. He seeks his father,—he shall find him.”

MR. DALE (mistaking the cause of Harley’s silence).—“I honour your compunction, my Lord. Oh, let your heart and your conscience continue to speak to your worldly pride.”

HARLEY.—“My compunction, heart, conscience! Mr. Dale, you insult me!”

MR. DALE (sternly).—“Not so; I am fulfilling my mission, which bids me rebuke the sinner. Leonora Avenel speaks in me, and commands the guilty father to acknowledge the innocent child!”

Harley half rose, and his eyes literally flashed fire; but he calmed his anger into irony. “Ha!” said he, with a sarcastic smile, “so you suppose that I was the perfidious seducer of Nora Avenel,—that I am the callous father of the child who came into the world without a name. Very well, sir, taking these assumptions for granted, what is it you demand from me on behalf of this young man?”

“I ask from you his happiness,” replied Mr. Dale, imploringly; and yielding to the compassion with which Leonard inspired him, and persuaded that Lord L’Estrange felt a father’s love for the boy whom he had saved from the whirlpool of London, and guided to safety and honourable independence, he here, with simple eloquence, narrated all Leonard’s feelings for Helen,—his silent fidelity to her image, though a child’s, his love when he again beheld her as a woman, the modest fears which the parson himself had combated, the recommendation that Mr. Dale had forced upon him, to confess his affection to Helen, and plead his cause. “Anxious, as you may believe, for his success,” continued the parson, “I waited without your gates till he came from Miss Digby’s presence. And oh, my Lord, had you but seen his face!—such emotion and such despair! I could not learn from him what had passed. He escaped from me and rushed away. All that I could gather was from a few broken words, and from those words I formed the conjecture (it may be erroneous) that the obstacle to his happiness was not in Helen’s heart, my Lord, but seemed to me as if it were in yourself. Therefore, when he had vanished from my sight, I took courage, and came at, once to you. If he be your son, and Helen Digby be your ward,—she herself an orphan, dependent on your bounty,—why should they be severed? Equals in years, united by early circumstance, congenial, it seems, in simple habits and refined tastes,—what should hinder their union, unless it be the want of fortune? And all men know your wealth, none ever questioned your generosity. My Lord, my Lord, your look freezes me. If I have offended, do not visit my offence on him,—on Leonard!”

“And so,” said Harley, still controlling his rage, “so this boy—whom, as you say, I saved from that pitiless world which has engulfed many a nobler genius—so, in return for all, he has sought to rob me of the last affection, poor and lukewarm though it was, that remained to me in life? He presume to lift his eyes to my affianced bride! He! And for aught I know, steal from me her living heart, and leave to me her icy hand!”

“Oh, my Lord, your affianced bride! I never dreamed of this. I implore your pardon. The very thought is so terrible, so unnatural! the son to woo the father’s! Oh, what sin have I fallen into! The sin was mine,—I urged and persuaded him to it. He was ignorant as myself. Forgive him, forgive him!”

“Mr. Dale,” said Harley, rising, and extending his hand, which the poor parson felt himself—unworthy to take,—“Mr. Dale, you are a good man,—if, indeed, this universe of liars contains some man who does not cheat our judgment when we deem him honest. Allow me only to ask why you consider Leonard Fairfield to be my son.”

“Was not your youthful admiration for poor Nora evident to me? Remember I was a frequent guest at Lansmere Park; and it was so natural that you, with all your brilliant gifts, should captivate her refined fancy, her affectionate heart.”

“Natural—you think so,—go on.”

“Your mother, as became her, separated you. It was not unknown to me that you still cherished a passion which your rank forbade to be lawful. Poor girl! she left the roof of her protectress, Lady Jane. Nothing was known of her till she came to her father’s house to give birth to a child, and die. And the same day that dawned on her corpse, you hurried from the place. Ah, no doubt your conscience smote you; you have never returned to Lansmere since.”

Harley’s breast heaved, he waved his hand; the parson resumed,

“Whom could I suspect but you? I made inquiries: they confirmed my suspicions.”

“Perhaps you inquired of my friend, Mr. Egerton? He was with me when—when—as you say, I hurried from the place.”

“I did, my Lord.”

“And he?”

“Denied your guilt; but still, a man of honour so nice, of heart so feeling, could not feign readily. His denial did not deceive me.”

“Honest man!” said Harley; and his hand griped at the breast over which still rustled, as if with a ghostly sigh, the records of the dead. “He knew she had left a son, too?”

“He did, my Lord; of course, I told him that.”

“The son whom I found starving in the streets of London! Mr. Dale, as you see, your words move me very much. I cannot deny that he who wronged, it may be with no common treachery, that young mother—for Nora Avenel was not one to be lightly seduced into error—”

“Indeed, no!”

“And who then thought no more of the offspring of her anguish and his own crime—I cannot deny that that man deserves some chastisement,—should render some atonement. Am I not right here? Answer with the plain speech which becomes your sacred calling.”

“I cannot say otherwise, my Lord,” replied the parson, pitying what appeared to him such remorse. “But if he repent—”

“Enough,” interrupted Harley. “I now invite you to visit me at Lansmere; give me your address, and I will apprise you of the day on which I will request your presence. Leonard Fairfield shall find a father—I was about to say, worthy of himself. For the rest—stay; reseat yourself. For the rest”—and again the sinister smile broke from Harley’s eye and lip—“I will not yet say whether I can, or ought to, resign to a younger and fairer suitor the lady who has accepted my own hand. I have no reason yet to believe that she prefers him. But what think you, meanwhile, of this proposal? Mr. Avenel wishes his nephew to contest the borough of Lansmere, has urged me to obtain the young man’s consent. True, that he may thus endanger the seat of Mr. Audley Egerton. What then? Mr. Audley Egerton is a great man, and may find another seat; that should not stand in the way. Let Leonard obey his uncle. If he win the election, why, he ‘ll be a more equal match, in the world’s eye, for Miss Digby, that is, should she prefer him to myself; and if she do not, still, in public life, there is a cure for all private sorrow. That is a maxim of Mr. Audley Egerton’s; and he, you know, is a man not only of the nicest honour, but the deepest worldly wisdom. Do you like my proposition?”

“It seems to me most considerate, most generous.”

“Then you shall take to Leonard the lines I am about to write.”

LORD L’ESTRANGE TO LEONARD FAIRFIELD.

I have read the memoir you intrusted to me. I will follow up all the clews that it gives me. Meanwhile I request you to suspend all questions; forbear all reference to a subject which, as you may well conjecture, is fraught with painful recollections to myself. At this moment, too, I am compelled to concentre my thoughts upon affairs of a public nature, and yet which may sensibly affect yourself. There are reasons why I urge you to comply with your uncle’s wish, and stand for the borough of Lansmere at the approaching election. If the exquisite gratitude of your nature so overrates what I may have done for you that you think you owe me some obligations, you will richly repay them on the day in which I bear you hailed as member for Lansmere. Relying on that generous principle of self-sacrifice, which actuates all your conduct, I shall count upon your surrendering your preference to private life, and entering the arena of that noble ambition which has conferred such dignity on the name of my friend Audley Egerton. He, it is true, will be your opponent; but he is too generous not to pardon my zeal for the interests of a youth whose career I am vain enough to think that I have aided. And as Mr. Randal Leslie stands in coalition with Egerton, and Mr. Avenel believes that two candidates of the same party cannot both succeed, the result may be to the satisfaction of all the feelings which I entertain for Audley Egerton, and for you, who, I have reason to think, will emulate his titles to my esteem.

 

Yours,            L’ESTRANGE.

“There, Mr. Dale,” said Harley, sealing his letter, and giving it into the parson’s hands,—“there, you shall deliver this note to your friend. But no; upon second thoughts, since he does not yet know of your visit to me, it is best that he should be still in ignorance of it. For should Miss Digby resolve to abide by her present engagements, it were surely kind to save Leonard the pain of learning that you had communicated to me that rivalry he himself had concealed. Let all that has passed between us be kept in strict confidence.”

“I will obey you, my Lord,” answered the parson, meekly, startled to find that he who had come to arrogate authority was now submitting to commands; and all at fault what judgment he could venture to pass upon the man whom he had regarded as a criminal, who had not even denied the crime imputed to him, yet who now impressed the accusing priest with something of that respect which Mr. Dale had never before conceded but to Virtue. Could he have then but looked into the dark and stormy heart, which he twice misread!

“It is well,—very well,” muttered Harley, when the door had closed upon the parson. “The viper and the viper’s brood! So it was this man’s son that I led from the dire Slough of Despond; and the son unconsciously imitates the father’s gratitude and honour—Ha, ha!” Suddenly the bitter laugh was arrested; a flash of almost celestial joy darted through the warring elements of storm and darkness. If Helen returned Leonard’s affection, Harley L’Estrange was free! And through that flash the face of Violante shone upon him as an angel’s. But the heavenly light and the angel face vanished abruptly, swallowed up in the black abyss of the rent and tortured soul.

“Fool!” said the unhappy man, aloud, in his anguish—“fool! what then? Were I free, would it be to trust my fate again to falsehood? If, in all the bloom and glory of my youth, I failed to win the heart of a village girl; if, once more deluding myself, it is in vain that I have tended, reared, cherished, some germ of woman’s human affection in the orphan I saved from penury,—how look for love in the brilliant princess, whom all the sleek Lotharios of our gaudy world will surround with their homage when once she alights on their sphere! If perfidy be my fate—what hell of hells, in the thought!—that a wife might lay her head in my bosom, and—oh, horror! horror! No! I would not accept her hand were it offered, nor believe in her love were it pledged to me. Stern soul of mine, wise at last, love never more,—never more believe in truth!”

CHAPTER XVI

As Harley quitted the room, Helen’s pale sweet face looked forth from a door in the same corridor. She advanced towards him timidly.

“May I speak with you?” she said, in almost inaudible accents; “I have been listening for your footstep.”

Harley looked at her steadfastly. Then, without a word, he followed her into the room she had left, and closed the door.

“I, too,” said he, “meant to seek an interview with yourself—but later. You would speak to me, Helen,—say on. Ah, child, what mean you? Why this?”—for Helen was kneeling at his feet.

“Let me kneel,” she said, resisting the hand that sought to raise her. “Let me kneel till I have explained all, and perhaps won your pardon. You said something the other evening. It has weighed on my heart and my conscience ever since. You said ‘that I should have no secret from you; for that, in our relation to each other, would be deceit.’ I have had a secret; but oh, believe me! it was long ere it was clearly visible to myself. You honoured me with a suit so far beyond my birth, my merits. You said that I might console and comfort you. At those words, what answer could I give,—I, who owe you so much more than a daughter’s duty? And I thought that my affections were free,—that they would obey that duty. But—but—but—” continued Helen, bowing her head still lowlier, and in a voice far fainter—“I deceived myself. I again saw him who had been all in the world to me, when the world was so terrible, and then—and then—I trembled. I was terrified at my own memories, my own thoughts. Still I struggled to banish the past, resolutely, firmly. Oh, you believe me, do you not? And I hoped to conquer. Yet ever since those words of yours, I felt that I ought to tell you even of the struggle. This is the first time we have met since you spoke them. And now—now—I have seen him again, and—and—though not by a word could she you had deigned to woo as your bride encourage hope in another; though there—there where you now stand—he bade me farewell, and we parted as if forever,—yet—yet O Lord L’Estrange! in return for your rank, wealth, your still nobler gifts of nature, what should I bring?—Something more than gratitude, esteem; reverence,—at least an undivided heart, filled with your image, and yours alone. And this I cannot give. Pardon me,—not for what I say now, but for not saying it before. Pardon me, O my benefactor, pardon me!”

“Rise, Helen,” said Harley, with relaxing brow, though still unwilling to yield to one softer and holier emotion. “Rise!” And he lifted her up, and drew her towards the light. “Let me look at your face. There seems no guile here. These tears are surely honest. If I cannot be loved, it is my fate, and not your crime. Now, listen to me. If you grant me nothing else, will you give me the obedience which the ward owes to the guardian, the child to the parent?”

“Yes, oh, yes!” murmured Helen.

“Then while I release you from all troth to me, I claim the right to refuse, if I so please it, my assent to the suit of—of the person you prefer. I acquit you of deceit, but I reserve to myself the judgment I shall pass on him. Until I myself sanction that suit, will you promise not to recall in any way the rejection which, if I understand you rightly, you have given to it?”

“I promise.”

“And if I say to you, ‘Helen, this man is not worthy of you ‘”

“No, no! do not say that,—I could not believe you.” Harley frowned, but resumed calmly, “If, then, I say, ‘Ask me not wherefore, but I forbid you to be the wife of Leonard Fairfield, I what would be your answer?’”

“Ah, my Lord, if you can but comfort him, do with me as you will! but do not command me to break his heart.”

“Oh, silly child,” cried Harley, laughing scornfully, “hearts are not found in the race from which that man sprang. But I take your promise, with its credulous condition. Helen, I pity you. I have been as weak as you, bearded man though I be. Some day or other, you and I may live to laugh at the follies at which you weep now. I can give you no other comfort, for I know of none.”

He moved to the door, and paused at the threshold: “I shall not see you again for some days, Helen. Perhaps I may request my mother to join me at Lansmere; if so, I shall pray you to accompany her. For the present, let all believe that our position is unchanged. The time will soon come when I may—”

Helen looked up wistfully through her tears.

“I may release you from all duties to me,” continued Harley, with grave and severe coldness; “or I may claim your promise in spite of the condition; for your lover’s heart will not be broken. Adieu!”

CHAPTER XVII

As Harley entered London, he came suddenly upon Randal Leslie, who was hurrying from Eaton Square, having not only accompanied Mr. Avenel in his walk, but gone home with him, and spent half the day in that gentleman’s society. He was now on his way to the House of Commons, at which some disclosure as to the day for the dissolution of parliament was expected.

“Lord L’Estrange,” said Randal, “I must stop you. I have been to Norwood, and seen our noble friend. He has confided to me, of course, all that passed. How can I express my gratitude to you! By what rare talent, with what signal courage, you have saved the happiness—perhaps even the honour—of my plighted bride!”

“Your bride! The duke, then, still holds to the promise you were fortunate enough to obtain from Dr. Riccabocca?”

“He confirms that promise more solemnly than ever. You may well be surprised at his magnanimity.”

“No; he is a philosopher,—nothing in him can surprise me. But he seemed to think, when I saw him, that there were circumstances you might find it hard to explain.”

“Hard! Nothing so easy. Allow me to tender to you the same explanations which satisfied one whom philosophy itself has made as open to truth as he is clear-sighted to imposture.”

“Another time, Mr. Leslie. If your bride’s father be satisfied, what right have I to doubt? By the way, you stand for Lansmere. Do me the favour to fix your quarters at the Park during the election. You will, of course, accompany Mr. Egerton.”

“You are most kind,” answered Randal, greatly surprised.

“You accept? That is well. We shall then have ample opportunity for those explanations which you honour me by offering; and, to make your visit still more agreeable, I may perhaps induce our friends at Norwood to meet you. Good-day.” Harley walked on, leaving Randal motionless in amaze, but tormented with suspicion. What could such courtesies in Lord L’Estrange portend? Surely no good.

“I am about to hold the balance of justice,” said Harley to himself. “I will cast the light-weight of that knave into the scale. Violante never can be mine; but I did not save her from a Peschiera to leave her to a Randal Leslie. Ha, ha! Audley Egerton has some human feeling,—tenderness for that youth whom he has selected from the world, in which he left Nora’s child to the jaws of Famine. Through that side I can reach at his heart, and prove him a fool like myself, where he esteemed and confided! Good.”

Thus soliloquizing, Lord L’Estrange gained the corner of Bruton Street, when he was again somewhat abruptly accosted.

“My dear Lord L’Estrange, let me shake you by the hand; for Heaven knows when I may see you again, and you have suffered me to assist in one good action.”

“Frank Hazeldean, I am pleased indeed to meet you. Why do you indulge in that melancholy doubt as to the time when I may see you again?”

“I have just got leave of absence. I am not well, and I am rather hipped, so I shall go abroad for a few weeks.”

In spite of himself, the sombre, brooding man felt interest and sympathy in the dejection that was evident in Frank’s voice and countenance. “Another dupe to affection,” thought he, as if in apology to himself,—“of course, a dupe; he is honest and artless—at present.” He pressed kindly on the arm which he had involuntarily twined within his own. “I conceive how you now grieve, my young friend,” said he; “but you will congratulate yourself hereafter on what this day seems to you an affliction.”

“My dear Lord—”

“I am much older than you, but not old enough for such formal ceremony. Pray call me L’Estrange.”

“Thank you; and I should indeed like to speak to you as a friend. There is a thought on my mind which haunts me. I dare say it is foolish enough, but I am sure you will not laugh at me. You heard what Madame di Negra said to me last night. I have been trifled with and misled, but I cannot forget so soon how dear to me that woman was. I am not going to bore you with such nonsense; but from what I can understand, her brother is likely to lose all his fortune; and, even if not, he is a sad scoundrel. I cannot bear the thought that she should be so dependent on him, that she may come to want. After all, there must be good in her,—good in her to refuse my hand if she did not love me. A mercenary woman so circumstanced would not have done that.”

“You are quite right. But do not torment yourself with such generous fears. Madame di Negra shall not come to want, shall not be dependent on her infamous brother. The first act of the Duke of Serrano, on regaining his estates, will be a suitable provision for his kinswoman. I will answer for this.”

“You take a load off my mind. I did mean to ask you to intercede with Riccabocca,—that is, the duke (it is so hard to think he can be a duke!)—I, alas! have nothing in my power to bestow upon Madame di Negra. I may, indeed, sell my commission; but then I have a debt which I long to pay off, and the sale of the commission would not suffice even for that; and perhaps my father might be still more angry if I do sell it. Well, good-by. I shall now go away happy,—that is, comparatively. One must bear things like—a man!”

“I should like, however, to see you again before you go abroad. I will call on you. Meanwhile, can you tell me the number of one Baron Levy? He lives in this street, I know.”

“Levy! Oh, have no dealings with him, I advise, I entreat you! He is the most plausible, dangerous rascal; and, for Heaven’s sake! pray be warned by me, and let nothing entangle you into—a POST-OBIT!”

“Be re-assured, I am more accustomed to lend money than borrow it; and as to a post-obit, I have a foolish prejudice against such transactions.”

“Don’t call it foolish, L’Estrange; I honour you for it. How I wish I had known you earlier—so few men of the world are like you. Even Randal Leslie, who is so faultless in most things, and never gets into a scrape himself, called my own scruples foolish. However—”

“Stay—Randal Leslie! What! He advised you to borrow on a post-obit, and probably shared the loan with you?”

“Oh, no; not a shilling.”

“Tell me all about it, Frank. Perhaps, as I see that Levy is mixed up in the affair, your information may be useful to myself, and put me on my guard in dealing with that popular gentleman.”

Frank, who somehow or other felt himself quite at home with Harley, and who, with all his respect for Randal Leslie’s talents, had a vague notion that Lord L’Estrange was quite as clever, and, from his years and experience, likely to be a safer and more judicious counsellor, was noways loath to impart the confidence thus pressed for.

He told Harley of his debts, his first dealings with Levy, the unhappy post-obit into which he had been hurried by the distress of Madame di Negra; his father’s anger, his mother’s letter, his own feelings of mingled shame and pride, which made him fear that repentance would but seem self-interest, his desire to sell his commission, and let its sale redeem in part the post-obit; in short, he made what is called a clean breast of it. Randal Leslie was necessarily mixed up with this recital; and the subtle cross-questionings of Harley extracted far more as to that young diplomatist’s agency in all these melancholy concerns than the ingenuous narrator himself was aware of.

“So then,” said Harley, “Mr. Leslie assured you of Madame di Negra’s affection, when you yourself doubted of it?”

“Yes; she took him in, even more than she did me.”

“Simple Mr. Leslie! And the same kind friend?—who is related to you, did you say?”

“His grandmother was a Hazeldean.”

“Humph. The same kind relation led you to believe that you could pay off this bond with the marchesa’s portion, and that he could obtain the consent of your parents to your marriage with that lady?”

“I ought to have known better; my father’s prejudices against foreigners and Papists are so strong.”

“And now Mr. Leslie concurs with you, that it is best for you to go abroad, and trust to his intercession with your father. He has evidently, then, gained a great influence over Mr. Hazeldean.”

“My father naturally compares me with him,—he so clever, so promising, so regular in his habits, and I such a reckless scapegrace.”

“And the bulk of your father’s property is unentailed; Mr. Hazeldean might disinherit you?”

“I deserve it. I hope he will.”

“You have no brothers nor sisters,—no relation, perhaps, after your parents, nearer to you than your excellent friend Mr. Randal Leslie?”

“No; that is the reason he is so kind to me, otherwise I am the last person to suit him. You have no idea how well-informed and clever he is,” added Frank, in a tone between admiration and awe.

“My dear Hazeldean, you will take my advice, will you not?”

“Certainly. You are too good.”

“Let all your family, Mr. Leslie included, suppose you to be gone abroad; but stay quietly in England, and within a day’s journey of Lansmere Park. I am obliged to go thither for the approaching election. I may ask you to come over. I think I see a way to serve you; and if so, you will soon hear from me. Now, Baron Levy’s number?”

“That is the house with the cabriolet at the door. How such a fellow can have such a horse!—‘t is out of all keeping!”

“Not at all; horses are high-spirited, generous, unsuspicious animals. They never know if it is a rogue who drives them. I have your promise, then, and you will send me your address?”

“I will. Strange that I feel more confidence in you than I do even in Randal. Do take care of Levy.”

Lord L’Estrange and Frank here shook hands, and Frank, with an anxious groan, saw L’Estrange disappear within the portals of the sleek destroyer.