Book: My Novel, Volume 10.

E >> Edward Bulwer Lytton >> My Novel, Volume 10.




"But Levy," said Avenel, candidly, "is a decentish chap in his way,--
friendly too. Mrs. A. finds him useful; brings some of your young
highflyers to her soirees. To be sure, they don't dance,--stand all in a
row at the door, like mutes at a funeral. Not but what they have been
uncommon civil to me lately, Spendquick particularly. By-the-by, I dine
with him to-morrow. The aristocracy are behindhand,--not smart, sir, not
up to the march; but when a man knows how to take 'em, they beat the New
Yorkers in good manners. I'll say that for them. I have no prejudice."

"I never saw a man with less; no prejudice even against Levy."

"No, not a bit of it! Every one says he's a Jew; he says he's not. I
don't care a button what he is. His money is English,--that's enough for
any man of a liberal turn of mind. His charges, too, are moderate. To
be sure, he knows I shall pay them; only what I don't like in him is a
sort of way he has of mon-cher-ing and my-good-fellow-ing one, to do
things quite out of the natural way of that sort of business. He knows I
have got parliamentary influence. I could return a couple of members for
Screwstown, and one, or perhaps two, for Lansmere, where I have of late
been cooking up an interest; and he dictates to--no, not dictates--but
tries to humbug me into putting in his own men. However, in one respect,
we are likely to agree. He says you want to come into parliament. You
seem a smart young fellow; but you must throw over that stiff red-tapist
of yours, and go with Public Opinion, and--Myself."

"You are very kind, Avenel; perhaps when we come to compare opinions we
may find that we agree entirely. Still, in Egerton's present position,
delicacy to him--However, we'll not discuss that now. But you really
think I might come in for Lansmere,--against the L'Estrange interest,
too, which must be strong there?"

"It was very strong, but I've smashed it, I calculate."

"Would a contest there cost very much?"

"Well, I guess you must come down with the ready. But, as you say, time
enough to discuss that when you have squared your account with
'delicacy;' come to me then, and we'll go into it."

Randal, having now squeezed his orange dry, had no desire to waste his
time in brushing up the rind with his coat-sleeve, so he unhooked his arm
from Avenel's, and, looking at his watch, discovered he should be just in
time for an appointment of the most urgent business,--hailed a cab, and
drove off.

Dick looked hipped and disconsolate at being left alone; he yawned very
loud, to the astonishment of three prim old maiden Belgravians who were
passing that way; and then his mind began to turn towards his factory at
Screwstown, which had led to his connection with the baron; and he
thought over a letter he had received from his foreman that morning,
informing him that it was rumoured at Screwstown that Mr. Dyce, his
rival, was about to have new machinery on an improved principle; and that
Mr. Dyce had already gone up to town, it was supposed, with the intention
of concluding a purchase for a patent discovery to be applied to the new
machinery, and which that gentleman had publicly declared in the corn-
market "would shut up Mr. Avenel's factory before the year was out." As
this menacing epistle recurred to him, Dick felt his desire to yawn
incontinently checked. His brow grew very dark; and he walked, with
restless strides, on and on, till he found himself in the Strand. He
then got into an omnibus, and proceeded to the city, wherein he spent the
rest of the day looking over machines and foundries, and trying in vain
to find out what diabolical invention the over-competition of Mr. Dyce
had got hold of. "If," said Dick Avenel to himself, as he returned
fretfully homeward--"if a man like me, who has done so much for British
industry and go-a-head principles, is to be catawampously champed up by a
mercenary, selfish cormorant of a capitalist like that interloping
blockhead in drab breeches, Tom Dyce, all I can say is, that the sooner
this cursed old country goes to the dogs, the better pleased I shall be.
I wash my hands of it."




CHAPTER XXI.

Randal's mind was made up. All he had learned in regard to Levy had
confirmed his resolves or dissipated his scruples. He had started from
the improbability that Pesehiera would offer, and the still greater
improbability that Peschiera would pay him, L10,000 for such information
or aid as he could bestow in furthering the count's object. But when
Levy took such proposals entirely on himself, the main question to Randal
became this,--could it be Levy's interest to make so considerable a
sacrifice? Had the baron implied only friendly sentiments as his
motives, Randal would have felt sure he was to be taken in; but the
usurer's frank assurance that it would answer to him in the long-run to
concede to Randal terms so advantageous, altered the case, and led our
young philosopher to look at the affair with calm, contemplative eyes.
Was it sufficiently obvious that Levy counted on an adequate return?
Might he calculate on reaping help by the bushel if he sowed it by the
handful? The result of Randal's cogitations was that the baron might
fairly deem himself no wasteful sower. In the first place, it was clear
that Levy, not without reasonable ground, believed that he could soon
replace, with exceeding good interest, any sum he might advance to
Randal, out of the wealth which Randal's prompt information might bestow
on Levy's client, the count; and secondly, Randal's self-esteem was
immense, and could he but succeed in securing a pecuniary independence on
the instant, to free him from the slow drudgery of the Bar, or from a
precarious reliance on Audley Egerton, as a politician out of power, his
convictions of rapid triumph in public life were as strong as if
whispered by an angel or promised by a fiend. On such triumphs, with all
the social position they would secure, Levy might well calculate for
repayment by a thousand indirect channels. Randal's sagacity detected
that, through all the good-natured or liberal actions ascribed to the
usurer, Levy had steadily pursued his own interests, he saw that Levy
meant to get him into his power, and use his abilities as instruments for
digging new mines, in which Baron Levy would claim the right of large
royalties. But at that thought Randal's pale lip curled disdainfully; he
confided too much in his own powers not to think that he could elude the
grasp of the usurer, whenever it suited him to do so. Thus, on a survey,
all conscience hushed itself; his mind rushed buoyantly on to
anticipations of the future. He saw the hereditary estates regained,--
no matter how mortgaged,--for the moment still his own, legally his own,
yielding for the present what would suffice for competence to one of few
wants, and freeing his name from that title of Adventurer, which is so
prodigally given in rich old countries to those who have no estates but
their brains. He thought of Violante but as the civilized trader thinks
of a trifling coin, of a glass bead, which he exchanges with some
barbarian for gold dust; he thought of Frank Hazeldean married to the
foreign woman of beggared means, and repute that had known the breath of
scandal,--married, and living on post-obit instalments of the Casino
property; he thought of the poor squire's resentment; his avarice swept
from the lands annexed to Rood on to the broad fields of Hazeldean; he
thought of Avenel, of Lansmere, of parliament; with one hand he grasped
fortune, with the next power. "And yet I entered on life with no
patrimony (save a ruined hall and a barren waste),--no patrimony but
knowledge. I have but turned knowledge from books to men; for books may
give fame after death, but men give us power in life." And all the while
he thus ruminated, his act was speeding his purpose. Though it was but
in a miserable hack-cab that he erected airy scaffoldings round airy
castles, still the miserable hack-cab was flying fast, to secure the
first foot of solid ground whereon to transfer the mental plan of the
architect to foundations of positive slime and clay. The cab stopped at
the door of Lord Lansmere's house. Randal had suspected Violante to be
there: he resolved to ascertain. Randal descended from his vehicle and
rang the bell. The lodge-keeper opined the great wooden gates.

"I have called to see the young lady staying here,--the foreign young
lady."

Lady Lansmere had been too confident of the security of her roof to
condescend to give any orders to her servants with regard to her guest,
and the lodge-keeper answered directly,--

"At home, I believe, sir. I rather think she is in the garden with my
lady."

"I see," said Randal; and he did see the form of Violante at a distance.
"But, since she is walking, I will not disturb her at present. I will
call another day."

The lodge-keeper bowed respectfully, Randal jumped into his cab: "To
Curzon Street,--quick!"




CHAPTER XXII.

Harley had made one notable oversight in that appeal to Beatrice's better
and gentler nature, which he entrusted to the advocacy of Leonard,--a
scheme in itself very characteristic of Harley's romantic temper, and
either wise or foolish, according as his indulgent theory of human
idiosyncrasies in general, and of those peculiar to Beatrice di Negra in
especial, was the dream of an enthusiast, or the inductive conclusion of
a sound philosopher.

Harley had warned Leonard not to fall in love with the Italian,--he had
forgotten to warn the Italian not to fall in love with Leonard; nor had
he ever anticipated the probability of that event. This is not to be
very much wondered at; for if there be anything on which the most
sensible men are dull-eyed, where those eyes are not lighted by jealousy,
it is as to the probabilities of another male creature being beloved.
All, the least vain of the whiskered gender, think it prudent to guard
themselves against being too irresistible to the fair sex; and each says
of his friend, "Good fellow enough, but the last man for that woman to
fall in love with!"

But certainly there appeared on the surface more than ordinary cause for
Harley's blindness in the special instance of Leonard.

Whatever Beatrice's better qualities, she was generally esteemed worldly
and ambitious. She was pinched in circumstances, she was luxuriant and
extravagant; how was it likely that she could distinguish any aspirant of
the humble birth and fortunes of the young peasant-author? As a
coquette, she might try to win his admiration and attract his fancy; but
her own heart would surely be guarded in the triple mail of pride,
poverty, and the conventional opinions of the world in which she lived.
Had Harley thought it possible that Madame di Negra could stoop below her
station, and love, not wisely, but too well, he would rather have thought
that the object would be some brilliant adventurer of fashion, some one
who could turn against herself all the arts of deliberate fascination,
and all the experience bestowed by frequent conquest. One so simple as
Leonard, so young and so new! Harley L'Estrange would have smiled at
himself, if the idea of that image subjugating the ambitious woman to the
disinterested love of a village maid had once crossed his mind.
Nevertheless, so it was, and precisely from those causes which would have
seemed to Harley to forbid the weakness.

It was that fresh, pure heart, it was that simple, earnest sweetness, it
was that contrast in look, in tone, in sentiment, and in reasonings, to
all that had jaded and disgusted her in the circle of her admirers,--it
was all this that captivated Beatrice at the first interview with
Leonard. Here was what she had confessed to the sceptical Randal she had
dreamed and sighed for. Her earliest youth had passed into abhorrent
marriage, without the soft, innocent crisis of human life,--virgin love.
Many a wooer might have touched her vanity, pleased her fancy, excited
her ambition--her heart had never been awakened; it woke now. The world,
and the years that the world had wasted, seemed to fleet away as a cloud.
She was as if restored to the blush and the sigh of youth,--the youth of
the Italian maid. As in the restoration of our golden age is the spell
of poetry with us all, so such was the spell of the poet himself on her.

Oh, how exquisite was that brief episode in the life of the woman palled
with the "hack sights and sounds" of worldly life! How strangely happy
were those hours, when, lured on by her silent sympathy, the young
scholar spoke of his early struggles between circumstance and impulse,
musing amidst the flowers, and hearkening to the fountain; or of his
wanderings in the desolate, lamp-lit streets, while the vision of
Chatterton's glittering eyes shone dread through the friendless shadows.
And as he spoke, whether of his hopes or his fears, her looks dwelt
fondly on the young face, that varied between pride and sadness,--pride
ever so gentle, and sad ness ever so nobly touching. She was never weary
of gazing on that brow, with its quiet power; but her lids dropped before
those eyes, with their serene, unfathomable passion. She felt, as they
haunted her, what a deep and holy thing love in such souls must be.
Leonard never spoke to her of Helen--that reserve every reader can
comprehend. To natures like his, first love is a mystery; to confide it
is to profane. But he fulfilled his commission of interesting her in the
exile and his daughter, and his description of them brought tears to her
eyes. She inly resolved not to aid Peschiera in his designs on Violante.
She forgot for the moment that her own fortune was to depend on the
success of those designs. Levy had arranged so that she was not reminded
of her poverty by creditors,--she knew not how. She knew nothing of
business. She gave herself up to the delight of the present hour, and to
vague prospects of a future associated with that young image,--with that
face of a guardian angel that she saw before her, fairest in the moments
of absence; for in those moments came the life of fairy-land, when we
shut our eyes on the world, and see through the haze of golden revery.
Dangerous, indeed, to Leonard would have been the soft society of
Beatrice di Negra, had not his heart been wholly devoted to one object,
and had not his ideal of woman been from that object one sole and
indivisible reflection. But Beatrice guessed not this barrier between
herself and him. Amidst the shadows that he conjured up from his past
life, she beheld no rival form. She saw him lonely in the world, as she
was herself. And in his lowly birth, his youth, in the freedom from
presumption which characterized him in all things (save that confidence
in his intellectual destinies which is the essential attribute of
genius), she but grew the bolder by the belief that, even if he loved
her, he would not dare to hazard the avowal.

And thus, one day, yielding, as she had ever been wont to yield, to the
impulse of her quick Italian heart--how she never remembered, in what
words she could never recall--she spoke, she owned her love, she pleaded,
with tears and blushes, for love in return. All that passed was to her
as a dream,--a dream from which she woke with a fierce sense of agony,
of humiliation,--woke as the woman "scorned." No matter how gratefully,
how tenderly Leonard had replied, the reply was refusal.

For the first time she learned she had a rival; that all he could give of
love was long since, from his boyhood, given to another. For the first
time in her life, that ardent nature knew jealousy, its torturing stings,
its thirst for vengeance, its tempest of loving hate. But, to outward
appearance, silent and cold she stood as marble. Words that sought to
soothe fell on her ear unheeded: they were drowned by the storm within.
Pride was the first feeling which dominated the warring elements that
raged in her soul. She tore her hand from that which clasped hers with
so loyal a respect. She could have spurned the form that knelt at her
feet, not for love, but for pardon. She pointed to the door with the
gesture of an insulted queen. She knew no more till she was alone. Then
came that rapid flash of conjecture peculiar to the storms of jealousy;
that which seems to single from all nature the one object to dread and
to destroy; the conjecture so often false, yet received at once by our
convictions as the revelation of instinctive truth. He to whom she had
humbled herself loved another; whom but Violante,--whom else, young and
beautiful, had he named in the record of his life?--None! And he had
sought to interest her, Beatrice di Negra, in the object of his love;
hinted at dangers which Beatrice knew too well; implied trust in
Beatrice's will to protect. Blind fool that she had been! This, then,
was the reason why he had come, day after day, to Beatrice's house; this
was the charm that had drawn him thither; this--she pressed her hands to
her burning temples, as if to stop the torture of thought. Suddenly a
voice was heard below, the door opened, and Randal Leslie entered.




CHAPTER XXIII.

Punctually at eight o'clock that evening, Baron Levy welcomed the new
ally he had secured. The pair dined /en tete a tete/, discussing general
matters till the servants left them to their wine. Then said the baron,
rising and stirring the fire--then said the baron, briefly and
significantly,

"Well!"

"As regards the property you spoke of," answered Randal, "I am willing to
purchase it on the terms you name. The only point that perplexes me is
how to account to Audley Egerton, to my parents, to the world, for the
power of purchasing it."

"True," said the baron, without even a smile at the ingenious and truly
Greek manner in which Randal had contrived to denote his meaning, and
conceal the ugliness of it--"true, we must think of that. If we could
manage to conceal the real name of the purchaser for a year or so, it
might be easy,--you may be supposed to have speculated in the Funds; or
Egerton may die, and people may believe that he had secured to you
something handsome from the ruins of his fortune."

"Little chance of Egerton's dying."

"Humph!" said the baron. "However, this is a mere detail, reserved for
consideration. You can now tell us where the young lady is?"

"Certainly. I could not this morning,--I can now. I will go with you to
the count. Meanwhile, I have seen Madame di Negra; she will accept Frank
Hazeldean if he will but offer himself at once."

"Will he not?"

"No! I have been to him. He is overjoyed at my representations, but
considers it his duty to ask the consent of his parents. Of course they
will not give it; and if there be delay, she will retract. She is under
the influence of passions on the duration of which there is no reliance."

"What passions? Love?"

"Love; but not for Hazeldean. The passions that bring her to accept his
hand are pique and jealousy. She believes, in a word, that one who seems
to have gained the mastery over her affections with a strange suddenness,
is but blind to her charms because dazzled by Violante's. She is
prepared to aid in all that can give her rival to Peschiera; and yet,
such is the inconsistency of woman" (added the young philosopher, with a
shrug of the shoulders), "that she is also prepared to lose all chance of
securing him she loves, by bestowing herself on another!"

"Woman, indeed, all over!" said the baron, tapping his snuff-box (Louis
Quinze), and regaling his nostrils with a scornful pinch. "But who is
the man whom the fair Beatrice has thus honoured? Superb creature!
I had some idea of her myself when I bought up her debts; but it might
have embarrassed me, in more general plans, as regards the count. All
for the best. Who's the man? Not Lord L'Estrange?"

"I do not think it is he; but I have not yet ascertained. I have told
you all I know. I found her in a state so excited, so unlike herself,
that I had no little difficulty in soothing her into confidence so far.
I could not venture more."

"And she will accept Frank?"

"Had he offered to-day she would have accepted him!"

"It may be a great help to your fortunes, /mon cher/, if Frank Hazeldean
marry this lady without his father's consent. Perhaps he may be
disinherited. You are next of kin.

"How do you know that?" asked Randal, sullenly.

"It is my business to know all about the chances and connections of any
one with whom I do money matters. I do money matters with young Mr.
Hazeldean; so I know that the Hazeldean property is not entailed; and,
as the squire's half-brother has no Hazeldean blood in him, you have
excellent expectations."

"Did Frank tell you I was next of kin?"

"I rather think so; but I am sure you did."

"I--when?"

"When you told me how important it was to you that Frank should marry
Madame di Negra. /Peste! mon cher/, do you think I am a blockhead?"

"Well, Baron, Frank is of age, and can marry to please himself. You
implied to me that you could help him in this."

"I will try. See that he call at Madame di Negra's tomorrow, at two
precisely."

"I would rather keep clear of all apparent interference in this matter.
Will you not arrange that he call on her? And do not forget to entangle
him in a post-obit."

"Leave it to me. Any more wine? No?--then let us go to the count's."




CHAPTER XXIV.

The next morning Frank Hazeldean was sitting over his solitary breakfast-
table. It was long past noon. The young man had risen early, it is
true, to attend his military duties, but he had contracted the habit of
breakfasting late. One's appetite does not come early when one lives in
London, and never goes to bed before daybreak.

There was nothing very luxurious or effeminate about Frank's rooms,
though they were in a very dear street, and he paid a monstrous high
price for them. Still, to a practised eye, they betrayed an inmate who
can get through his money, and make very little show for it. The walls
were covered with coloured prints of racers and steeple-chases,
interspersed with the portraits of opera-dancers, all smirk and caper.
Then there was a semi-circular recess covered with red cloth, and fitted
up for smoking, as you might perceive by sundry stands full of Turkish
pipes in cherry-stick and jessamine, with amber mouthpieces; while a
great serpent hookah, from which Frank could no more have smoked than he
could have smoked out of the head of a boa constrictor, coiled itself
up on the floor; over the chimney-piece was a collection of Moorish arms.
What use on earth ataghan and scimitar and damasquined pistols, that
would not carry straight three yards, could be to an officer in his
Majesty's Guards is more than I can conjecture, or even Frank
satisfactorily explain. I have strong suspicions that this valuable
arsenal passed to Frank in part payment of a bill to be discounted. At
all events, if so, it was an improvement on the bear that he had
sold to the hair-dresser. No books were to be seen anywhere, except a
Court Guide, a Racing Calendar, an Army List, the Sporting Magazine
complete (whole bound in scarlet morocco, at about a guinea per volume),
and a small book, as small as an Elzevir, on the chimney-piece, by the
side of a cigar-case. That small book had cost Frank more than all the
rest put together; it was his Own Book, his book par excellence; book
made up by himself,--his BETTING Book!

On a centre table were deposited Frank's well-brushed hat; a satinwood
box, containing kid-gloves, of various delicate tints, from primrose to
lilac; a tray full of cards and three-cornered notes; an opera-glass, and
an ivory subscription-ticket to his opera stall.

In one corner was an ingenious receptacle for canes, sticks, and whips--I
should not like, in these bad times, to have paid the bill for them; and
mounting guard by that receptacle, stood a pair of boots as bright as
Baron Levy's,--"the force of brightness could no further go." Frank was
in his dressing-gown,--very good taste, quite Oriental, guaranteed to be
true Indian cashmere, and charged as such. Nothing could be more neat,
though perfectly simple, than the appurtenances of his breakfast-table:
silver tea-pot, ewer, and basin, all fitting into his dressing-box--for
the which may Storr and Mortimer be now praised, and some day paid!
Frank looked very handsome, rather tired, and exceedingly bored. He had
been trying to read the "Morning Post," but the effort had proved too
much for him.

Poor dear Frank Hazeldean!--true type of many a poor dear fellow who has
long since gone to the dogs. And if, in this road to ruin, there had
been the least thing to do the traveller any credit by the way! One
feels a respect for the ruin of a man like Audley Egerton. He is ruined
/en roi/! From the wrecks of his fortune he can look down and see
stately monuments built from the stones of that dismantled edifice. In
every institution which attests the humanity of England was a record of
the princely bounty of the public man. In those objects of party, for
which the proverbial sinews of war are necessary, in those rewards for
service, which private liberality can confer, the hand of Egerton had
been opened as with the heart of a king. Many a rising member of
parliament, in those days when talent was brought forward through the aid
of wealth and rank, owed his career to the seat which Audley Egerton's
large subscription had secured to him; many an obscure supporter in
letters and the Press looked back to the day when he had been freed from
the jail by the gratitude of the patron. The city he represented was
embellished at his cost; through the shire that held his mortgaged lands,
which he had rarely ever visited, his gold had flowed as a Pactolus; all
that could animate its public spirit, or increase its civilization,
claimed kindred with his munificence, and never had a claim disallowed.
Even in his grand, careless household, with its large retinue and superb
hospitality, there was something worthy of a representative of that time-
honoured portion of our true nobility, the untitled gentlemen of the
land. The Great Commoner had, indeed, "something to show" for the money
he had disdained and squandered. But for Frank Hazeldean's mode of
getting rid of the dross, when gone, what would be left to tell the tale?
Paltry prints in a bachelor's lodging; a collection of canes and cherry-
sticks; half-a-dozen letters in ill-spelt French from a figurante; some
long-legged horses, fit for nothing but to lose a race; that damnable
Betting-Book; and--/sic transit gloria/--down sweeps some hawk of a Levy,
on the wings of an I O U, and not a feather is left of the pigeon!

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