Book: My Novel, Volume 11.

E >> Edward Bulwer Lytton >> My Novel, Volume 11.




CAPTAIN (looking at his watch).--"That reminds me" (swallowing a
globule). "A great relief these little pills--after the physic I've
taken to please that malignant man. He always tried his doctor's stuff
upon me. But there's another world, and a juster!"

With that pious conclusion the captain again began to weep.

"Touched," muttered the squire, with his forefinger on his forehead.
"You seem to have a good--tidy sort of a nurse here, Cousin Barnabas.
I hope she 's pleasant, and lively, and don't let you take on so."

"Hist!--don't talk of her. All mercenary; every bit of her fawning!
Would you believe it? I give her ten shillings a week, besides all that
goes down of my pats of butter and rolls, and I overheard the jade saying
to the laundress that 'I could not last long; and she 'd--EXPECTATIONS!'
Ah, Mr. Dale, when one thinks of the sinfulness there is in this life!
But I'll not think of it. No, I'll not. Let us change the subject. You
were asking my doctor's name. It is--"

Here the woman with "expectations" threw open the door, and suddenly
announced "DR. MORGAN."




CHAPTER IV.

The parson started, and so did Leonard.

The homoeopathist did not at first notice either. With an unobservant
bow to the visitors, he went straight to the patient, and asked, "How go
the symptoms?"

Therewith the captain commenced, in a tone of voice like a schoolboy
reciting the catalogue of the ships in Homer. He had been evidently
conning the symptoms, and learning them by heart. Nor was there a single
nook or corner in his anatomical organization, so far as the captain was
acquainted with that structure, but what some symptom or other was
dragged therefrom, and exposed to day. The squire listened with horror
to the morbific inventory, muttering at each dread interval, "Bless me!
Lord bless me! What, more still! Death would be a very happy release!"
Meanwhile the doctor endured the recital with exemplary patience, noting
down in the leaves of his pocketbook what appeared to him the salient
points in this fortress of disease to which he had laid siege, and then,
drawing forth a minute paper said,

"Capital,--nothing can be better. This powder must be dissolved in eight
tablespoonfuls of water; one spoonful every two hours."

"Tablespoonful?"

"Tablespoonful."

"'Nothing can be better,' did you say, sir?" repeated the squire, who in
his astonishment at that assertion applied to the captain's description
of his sufferings, had hitherto hung fire,--"nothing can be better?"

"For the diagnosis, sir!" replied Dr. Morgan.

"For the dogs' noses, very possibly," quoth the squire; "but for the
inside of Cousin Higginbotham, I should think nothing could be worse."

"You are mistaken, sir," replied Dr. Morgan. "It is not the captain
who speaks here,--it is his liver. Liver, sir, though a noble, is an
imaginative organ, and indulges in the most extraordinary fictions. Seat
of poetry and love and jealousy--the liver. Never believe what it says.
You have no idea what a liar it is! But--ahem--ahem. Cott--I think I've
seen you before, sir. Surely your name's Hazeldean?"

"William Hazeldean, at your service, Doctor. But where have you seen
me?"

"On the hustings at Lansmere. You were speaking on behalf of your
distinguished brother, Mr. Egerton."

"Hang it!" cried the squire: "I think it must have been my liver that
spoke there! for I promised the electors that that half-brother of mine
would stick by the land, and I never told a bigger lie in my life!"

Here the patient, reminded of his other visitors, and afraid he was going
to be bored with the enumeration of the squire's wrongs, and probably the
whole history of his duel with Captain Dashmore, turned with a languid
wave of his hand, and said, "Doctor, another friend of mine, the Rev. Mr.
Dale, and a gentleman who is acquainted with homoeopathy."

"Dale? What, more old friends!" cried the doctor, rising; and the parson
came somewhat reluctantly from the window nook, to which he had retired.
The parson and the homoeopathist shook hands.

"We have met before on a very mournful occasion," said the doctor, with
feeling.

The parson held his finger to his lips, and glanced towards Leonard. The
doctor stared at the lad, but he did not recognize in the person before
him the gaunt, care-worn boy whom he had placed with Mr. Prickett, until
Leonard smiled and spoke. And the smile and the voice sufficed.

"Cott! and it is the poy!" cried Dr. Morgan; and he actually caught hold
of Leonard, and gave him an affectionate Welch hug. Indeed, his
agitation at these several surprises became so great that he stopped
short, drew forth a globule--"Aconite,--good against nervous shocks!" and
swallowed it incontinently.

"Gad," said the squire, rather astonished, "'t is the first doctor I ever
saw swallow his own medicine! There must be sornething in it."

The captain now, highly disgusted that so much attention was withdrawn
from his own case, asked in a querulous voice, "And as to diet? What
shall I have for dinner?"

"A friend!" said the doctor, wiping his eyes.

"Zounds!" cried the squire, retreating, "do you mean to say, that the
British laws (to be sure they are very much changed of late) allow you to
diet your patients upon their fellow-men? Why, Parson, this is worse
than the donkey sausages."

"Sir," said Dr. Morgan, gravely, "I mean to say, that it matters little
what we eat in comparison with care as to whom we eat with. It is better
to exceed a little with a friend than to observe the strictest regimen,
and eat alone. Talk and laughter help the digestion, and are
indispensable in affections of the liver. I have no doubt, sir, that it
was my patient's agreeable society that tended to restore to health his
dyspeptic relative, Mr. Sharpe Currie."

The captain groaned aloud.

"And, therefore, if one of you gentlemen will stay and dine with Mr.
Higginbotham, it will greatly assist the effects of his medicine."

The captain turned an imploring eye, first towards his cousin, then
towards the parson.

"I 'm engaged to dine with my son--very sorry," said the squire. "But
Dale, here--"

"If he will be so kind," put in the captain, "we might cheer the evening
with a game at whist,--double dummy." Now, poor Mr. Dale had set his
heart on dining with an old college friend, and having no stupid, prosy
double dummy, in which one cannot have the pleasure of scolding one's
partner, but a regular orthodox rubber, with the pleasing prospect of
scolding all the three other performers. But as his quiet life forbade
him to be a hero in great things, the parson had made up his mind to be a
hero in small ones. Therefore, though with rather a rueful face, he
accepted the captain's invitation, and promised to return at six o'clock
to dine. Meanwhile he must hurry off to the other end of the town, and
excuse himself from the pre-engagement he had already formed. He now
gave his card, with the address of a quiet family hotel thereon, to
Leonard, and not looking quite so charmed with Dr. Morgan as he was
before that unwelcome prescription, he took his leave. The squire too,
having to see a new churn, and execute various commissions for his Harry,
went his way (not, however, till Dr. Morgan had assured him that, in a
few weeks, the captain might safely remove to Hazeldean); and Leonard was
about to follow, when Morgan hooked his arm in his old /protege/, and
said, "But I must have some talk with you; and you have to tell me all
about the little orphan girl."

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."

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