Book: My Novel, Volume 11.

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




"Peace, old fool," said he, fondly. "You shall tell anglers hereafter
how John Burley came to fish for the one-eyed perch which he never
caught; and how, when he gave it up at the last, his baits all gone, and
the line broken amongst the weeds, you comforted the baffled man. There
are many good fellows yet in the world who will like to know that poor
Burley did not die on a dunghill. Kiss me. Come, boy, you too. Now,
God bless you, I should like to sleep." His cheeks were wet with the
tears of both his listeners, and there was a moisture in his own eyes,
which, nevertheless, beamed bright through the moisture.

He laid himself down again, and the old woman would have withdrawn the
light. He moved uneasily. "Not that," he murmured,--"light to the
last!" and putting forth his wan hand, he drew aside the curtain so that
the light might fall full on his face.

[Every one remembers that Goethe's last words are said to have been,
"More Light;" and perhaps what has occurred in the text may be
supposed a plagiarism from those words. But, in fact, nothing is
more common than the craving and demand for light a little before
death. Let any consult his own sad experience in the last moments
of those whose gradual close he has watchaed and tended. What more
frequent than a prayer to open the shutters and let in the sun?
What complaint more repeated and more touching than "that it is
growing dark"? I once knew a sufferer, who did not then seem in
immediate danger, suddenly order the sick room to be lit up as if
for a gala. When this was told to the physician, he said gravely,
"No worse sign."]

In a few minutes he was asleep, breathing calmly and regularly as an
infant.

The old woman wiped her eyes, and drew Leonard softly into the adjoining
room, in which a bed had been made up for him. He had not left the house
since he had entered it with Dr. Morgan. "You are young, sir," said she,
with kindness, "and the young want sleep. Lie down a bit: I will call
you when he wakes."

"No, I could not sleep," said Leonard. "I will watch for you."

The old woman shook her head. "I must see the last of him, sir; but I
know he will be angry when his eyes open on me, for he has grown very
thoughtful of others."

"Ah, if he had but been, as thoughtful of himself!" murmured Leonard; and
he seated himself by the table, on which, as he leaned his elbow, he
dislodged some papers placed there. They fell to the ground with a dumb,
moaning, sighing sound.--

"What is that?" said he, starting.

The old woman picked up the manuscripts and smoothed them carefully.

"Ah, sir, he bade me place these papers here. He thought they might keep
you from fretting about him, in case you would sit up and wake. And he
had a thought of me, too; for I have so pined to find out the poor young
lady, who left them years ago. She was almost as dear to me as he is;
dearer perhaps until now--when--when I am about to lose him!"

Leonard turned from the papers, without a glance at their contents: they
had no interest for him at such a moment. The hostess went on,

"Perhaps she is gone to heaven before him; she did not look like one long
for this world. She left us so suddenly. Many things of hers besides
these papers are still, here; but I keep them aired and dusted, and strew
lavender over them, in case she ever come for them again. You never
heard tell of her, did you, sir?" she added, with great simplicity, and
dropping a half courtesy.

"Of her--of whom?"

"Did not Mr. John tell you her name--dear, dear; Mrs. Bertram."

Leonard started; the very name so impressed upon his memory by Harley
L'Estrange!

"Bertram!" he repeated. "Are you sure?"

"Oh, yes, sir! And many years after she had left us, and we had heard no
more of her, there came a packet addressed to her here, from over sea,
sir. We took it in, and kept it, and John would break the seal, to know
if it would tell us anything about her; but it was all in a foreign
language like,--we could not read a word."

"Have you the packet? Pray show it to me. It may be of the greatest
value. To-morrow will do--I cannot think of that just now. Poor
Burley!"

Leonard's manner indicated that he wished to talk no more, and to be
alone. So Mrs. Goodyer left him, and stole back to Burley's room on
tiptoe:

The young man remained in deep revery for some moments. "Light," he
murmured. "How often 'Light' is the last word of those round whom the
shades are gathering!" He moved, and straight on his view through the
cottage lattice there streamed light indeed,--not the miserable ray lit
by a human hand, but the still and holy effulgence of a moonlit heaven.
It lay broad upon the humble floors, pierced across the threshold of the
death chamber, and halted clear amidst its shadows.

Leonard stood motionless, his eye following the silvery silent splendour.

"And," he said inly--"and does this large erring nature, marred by its
genial faults, this soul which should have filled a land, as yon orb the
room, with a light that linked earth to heaven--does it pass away into
the dark, and leave not a ray behind? Nay, if the elements of light are
ever in the space, and when the flame goes out, return to the vital air,
so thought once kindled lives forever around and about us, a part of our
breathing atmosphere. Many a thinker, many a poet, may yet illumine the
world, from the thoughts which yon genius, that will have no name, gave
forth to wander through air, and recombine again in some new form of
light."

Thus he went on in vague speculations, seeking, as youth enamoured of
fame seeks too fondly, to prove that mind never works, however
erratically, in vain, and to retain yet, as an influence upon earth, the
soul about to soar far beyond the atmosphere where the elements that make
fame abide. Not thus had the dying man interpreted the endurance of
light and thought.

Suddenly, in the midst of his revery, a loud cry broke on his ear. He
shuddered as he heard, and hastened forebodingly into the adjoining room.
The old woman was kneeling by the bedside, and chafing Burley's hand,
eagerly looking into his face. A glance sufficed to Leonard. All was
over. Burley had died in sleep,--calmly, and without a groan.

The eyes were half open, with that look of inexpressible softness which
death sometimes leaves; and still they were turned towards the light; and
the light burned clear.

Leonard closed tenderly the heavy lids; and as he covered the face, the
lips smiled a serene farewell.




CHAPTER XIII.

We have seen Squire Hazeldean (proud of the contents of his pocketbook,
and his knowledge of the mercenary nature of foreign women) set off on
his visit to Beatrice di Negra. Randal thus left, musing lone in the
crowded streets, resolved with astute complacency the probable results of
Mr. Hazeldean's bluff negotiation; and convincing himself that one of his
vistas towards Fortune was becoming more clear and clear, he turned, with
the restless activity of some founder of destined cities in a new
settlement, to lop the boughs that cumbered and obscured the others. For
truly, like a man in a vast Columbian forest, opening entangled space,
now with the ready axe, now with the patient train that kindles the
slower fire, this child of civilized life went toiling on against
surrounding obstacles, resolute to destroy, but ever scheming to
construct. And now Randal has reached Levy's dainty business-room, and
is buried deep in discussion how to secure to himself, at the expense of
his patron, the representation of Lansmere, and how to complete the
contract which shall reannex to his forlorn inheritance some fragments of
its ancient wealth.

Meanwhile, Chance fought on his side in the boudoir of May Fair. The
squire had found the marchesa at home, briefly introduced himself and his
business, told her she was mistaken if she had fancied she had taken in a
rich heir in his son; that, thank Heaven, he could leave his estates to
his ploughman, should he so please, but that he was willing to do things
liberally; and whatever she thought Frank was worth, he was very ready to
pay for.

At another time Beatrice would perhaps have laughed at this strange
address; or she might, in some prouder moment, have fired up with all a
patrician's resentment and a woman's pride; but now her spirit was
crushed, her nerves shattered: the sense of her degraded position, of her
dependence on her brother, combined with her supreme unhappiness at the
loss of those dreams with which Leonard had for a while charmed her
wearied waking life,--all came upon her. She listened; pale and
speechless; and the poor squire thought he was quietly advancing towards
a favourable result, when she suddenly burst into a passion of hysterical
tears; and just at that moment Frank himself entered the room. At the
sight of his father, of Beatrice's grief, his sense of filial duty gave
way. He was maddened by irritation, by the insult offered to the woman
he loved, which a few trembling words from her explained to him,--
maddened yet more by the fear that the insult had lost her to him; warm
words ensued between son and father, to close with the peremptory command
and vehement threat of the last.

"Come away this instant, sir! Come with me, or before the day is over, I
strike you out of my will!"

The son's answer was not to his father; he threw himself at Beatrice's
feet.

"Forgive him; forgive us both--"

"What! you prefer that stranger to me,--to the inheritance of Hazeldean!"
cried the squire, stamping his foot.

"Leave your estates to whom you will; all that I care for in life is
here!"

The squire stood still a moment or so, gazing on his son with a strange
bewildered marvel at the strength of that mystic passion, which none not
labouring under its fearful charm can comprehend, which creates the
sudden idol that no reason justifies, and sacrifices to its fatal shrine
alike the Past and the Future. Not trusting himself to speak, the father
drew his hand across his eyes, and dashed away the bitter tear that
sprang from a swelling and indignant heart; then he uttered an
inarticulate sound, and, finding his voice gone, moved away to the door,
and left the house.

He walked through the streets, bearing his head very erect, as a proud
man does when deeply wounded, and striving to shake off some affection
that he deems a weakness; and his trembling nervous fingers fumbled at
the button of his coat, trying to tighten the garment across his chest,
as if to confirm a resolution that still sought to struggle out of the
revolting heart.

Thus he went on, and the reader, perhaps, will wonder whither; and the
wonder may not lessen when he finds the squire come to a dead pause in
Grosvenor Square, and at the portico of his "distant brother's" stately
house.

At the squire's brief inquiry whether Mr. Egerton was at home, the porter
summoned the groom of the chambers; and the groom of the chambers, seeing
a stranger, doubted whether his master was not engaged, but would take in
the stranger's card and see.

"Ay, ay," muttered the squire, "this is true relationship!--my child
prefers a stranger to me; why should I complain that I am a stranger in a
brother's house? Sir," added the squire aloud, and very meekly--"sir,
please to say to your master that I am William Hazeldean."

The servant bowed low, and without another word conducted the visitor
into the statesman's library, and announcing Mr. Hazeldean, closed the
door.

Audley was seated at his desk, the grim iron boxes still at his feet, but
they were now closed and locked. And the ex-minister was no longer
looking over official documents; letters spread open before him of far
different nature; in his hand there lay a long lock of fair silken hair,
on which his eyes were fixed sadly and intently. He started at the sound
of his visitor's name, and the tread of the squire's stalwart footstep;
and mechanically thrust into his bosom the relic of younger and warmer
years, keeping his hand to his heart, which beat loud with disease under
the light pressure of that golden hair.

The two brothers stood on the great man's lonely hearth, facing each
other in silence, and noting unconsciously the change made in each during
the long years in which they had never met.

The squire, with his portly size, his hardy sunburned cheeks, the partial
baldness of his unfurrowed open forehead, looked his full age,--deep into
middle life. Unmistakably he seemed the pater familias, the husband and
the father, the man of social domestic ties. But about Audley (really
some few years junior to the squire), despite the lines of care on his
handsome face, there still lingered the grace of youth. Men of cities
retain youth longer than those of the country,--a remark which Buffon has
not failed to make and to account for. Neither did Egerton betray the
air of the married man; for ineffable solitariness seemed stamped upon
one whose private life had long been so stern a solitude. No ray from
the focus of Home played round that reserved, unjoyous, melancholy brow.
In a word, Audley looked still the man for whom some young female heart
might fondly sigh; and not the less because of the cold eye and
compressed lip, which challenged interest even while seeming to repel it.

Audley was the first to speak, and to put forth the right hand, which he
stole slowly from its place at his breast, on which the lock of hair
still stirred to and fro at the heave of the labouring heart. "William,"
said he, with his rich deep voice, "this is kind. You are come to see
me, now that men say that I am fallen. The minister you censured is no
more; and you see again the brother."

The squire was softened at once by this address. He shook heartily the
hand tendered to him; and then, turning away his head, with an honest
conviction that Audley ascribed to him a credit which he did not deserve,
he said, "No, no, Audley; I am more selfish than you think me. I have
come--I have come to ask your advice,--no, not exactly that--your
opinion. But you are busy?"

"Sit down, William. Old days were coining over me when you entered; days
earlier still return now,--days, too, that leave no shadow when their
suns are set."

The proud man seemed to think he had said too much. His practical nature
rebuked the poetic sentiment and phrase. He re-collected himself, and
added, more coldly, "You would ask my opinion? What on? Some public
matter--some parliamentary bill that may affect your property?"

"Am I such a mean miser as that? Property--property? what does property
matter, when a man is struck down at his own hearth? Property, indeed!
But you have no child--happy brother!"

"Ay, ay; as you say, I am a happy man; childless! Has your son
displeased you? I have heard him well spoken of, too."

"Don't talk of him. Whether his conduct be good or ill is my affair,"
resumed the poor father, with a testy voice--jealous alike of Audley's
praise or blame of his rebellious son. Then he rose a moment, and made
a strong gulp, as if for air; and laying his broad brown hand on his
brother's shoulder, said, "Randal Leslie tells me you are wise,--a
consummate man of the world. No doubt you are so. And Parson Dale tells
me that he is sure you have warm feelings,--which I take to be a strange
thing for one who has lived so long in London, and has no wife and no
child, a widower, and a member of parliament,--for a commercial city,
too. Never smile; it is no smiling matter with me. You know a foreign
woman, called Negra or Negro; not a blackymoor, though, by any means,--at
least on the outside of her. Is she such a woman as a plain country
gentleman would like his only son to marry--ay or no?"

"No, indeed," answered Audley, gravely; "and I trust your son will commit
no action so rash. Shall I see him, or her? Speak, my dear William.
What would you have me do?"

"Nothing; you have said enough," replied the squire, gloomily; and his
head sank on his breast.

Audley took his hand, and pressed it fraternally. "William," said the
statesman, "we have been long estranged; but I do not forget that when we
last met, at--at Lord Lansmere's house, and when I took you aside, and
said, 'William, if I lose this election, I must resign all chance of
public life; my affairs are embarrassed. I would not accept money from
you,--I would seek a profession, and you can help me there,' you divined
my meaning, and said, 'Take orders; the Hazeldean living is just vacant.
I will get some one to hold it till you are ordained.' I do not forget
that. Would that I had thought earlier of so serene an escape from all
that then tormented me! My lot might have been far happier."

The squire eyed Audley with a surprise that broke forth from his more
absorbing emotions. "Happier! Why, all things have prospered with you;
and you are rich enough now; and--you shake your head. Brother, is it
possible! do you want money? Pooh, not accept money from your mother's
son!--stuff!" Out came the squire's pocketbook. Audley put it gently
aside.

"Nay," said he, "I have enough for myself; but since you seek and speak
with me thus affectionately, I will ask you one favour. Should I die
before I can provide for my wife's kinsman, Randal Leslie, as I could
wish, will you see to his fortunes, so far as you can, without injury to
others,--to your own son?"

"My son! He is provided for. He has the Casino estate--much good may it
do him! You have touched on the very matter that brought me here. This
boy, Randal Leslie, seems a praiseworthy lad, and has Hazeldean blood in
his veins. You have taken him up because he is connected with your late
wife. Why should I not take him up, too, when his grandmother was a
Hazeldean? My main object in calling was to ask what you mean to do for
him; for if you do not mean to provide for him, why, I will, as in duty
bound. So your request comes at the right time; I think of altering my
will. I can put him into the entail, besides a handsome legacy. You are
sure he is a good lad,--and it will please you too, Audley!"

"But not at the expense of your son. And stay, William: as to this
foolish marriage with Madame di Negra,--who told you Frank meant to take
such a step?"

"He told me himself; but it is no matter. Randal and I both did all we
could to dissuade him; and Randal advised me to come to you."

"He has acted generously, then, our kinsman Randal--I am glad to hear
it," said Audley, his brow somewhat clearing. "I have no influence with
this lady; but, at least, I can counsel her. Do not consider the
marriage fixed because a young man desires it. Youth is ever hot and
rash."

"Your youth never was," retorted the squire, bluntly.

"You married well enough, I'm sure. I will say one thing for you: you
have been, to my taste, a bad politician--beg pardon--but you were always
a gentleman. You would never have disgraced your family and married a--"

"Hush!" interrupted Egerton, gently. "Do not make matters worse than
they are. Madame di Negra is of high birth in her own country; and if
scandal--"

"Scandal!" cried the squire, shrinking, and turning pale. "Are you
speaking of the wife of a Hazeldean? At least she shall never sit by the
hearth at which now sits his mother; and whatever I may do for Frank, her
children shall not succeed. No mongrel cross-breed shall kennel in
English Hazeldean. Much obliged to you, Audley, for your good feeling;
glad to have seen you; and hark ye, you startled me by that shake of your
head, when I spoke of your wealth; and from what you say about Randal's
prospects, I guess that you London gentlemen are not so thrifty as we
are. You shall let me speak. I say again, that I have some thousands
quite at your service. And though you are not a Hazeldean, still you are
my mother's son; and now that I am about to alter my will, I can as well
scratch in the name of Egerton as that of Leslie. Cheer up, cheer up:
you are younger than I am, and you have no child; so you will live longer
than I shall."

"My dear brother," answered Audley, "believe me, I shall never live to
want your aid. And as to Leslie, add to the L5,000 I mean to give him an
equal sum in your will, and I shall feel that he has received justice."

Observing that the squire, though he listened attentively, made no ready
answer, Audley turned the subject again to Frank; and with the adroitness
of a man of the world, backed by cordial sympathy in his brother's
distress, he pleaded so well Frank's lame cause, urged so gently the
wisdom of patience and delay, and the appeal to filial feeling rather
than recourse to paternal threats, that the squire grew mollified in
spite of himself, and left his brother's house a much less angry and less
doleful man.

Mr. Hazeldean was still in the Square, when he came upon Randal himself,
who was walking with a dark-whiskered, showy gentleman, towards Egerton's
house. Randal and the gentleman exchanged a hasty whisper, and the
former then exclaimed,

"What, Mr. Hazeldean, have you just left your brother's house? Is it
possible?"

"Why, you advised me to go there, and I did. I scarcely knew what I was
about. I am very glad I did go. Hang politics! hang the landed
interest! what do I care for either now?"

"Foiled with Madame di Negra?" asked Randal, drawing the squire aside.

"Never speak of her again!" cried the squire, fiercely. "And as to that
ungrateful boy--but I don't mean to behave harshly to him,--he shall have
money enough to keep her if he likes, keep her from coming to me, keep
him, too, from counting on my death, and borrowing post-obits on the
Casino--for he'll be doing that next--no, I hope I wrong him there; I
have been too good a father for him to count on my death already. After
all," continued the squire, beginning to relax, "as Audley says, the
marriage is not yet made; and if the woman has taken him in, he is young,
and his heart is warm. Make yourself easy, my boy. I don't forget how
kindly you took his part; and before I do anything rash, I'll at least
consult with his poor mother."

Randal gnawed his pale lip, and a momentary cloud of disappointment
passed over his face.

"True, sir," said he, gently; "true, you must not be rash. Indeed, I was
thinking of you and poor dear Frank at the very moment I met you. It
occurred to me whether we might not make Frank's very embarrassments a
reason to induce Madame di Negra to refuse him; and I was on my way to
Mr. Egerton, in order to ask his opinion, in company with the gentleman
yonder."

"Gentleman yonder. Why should he thrust his long nose into my family
affairs? Who the devil is he?"

"Don't ask, sir. Pray let me act."

But the squire continued to eye askant the dark-whiskered personage thus
interposed between himself and his son, and who waited patiently a few
yards in the rear, carelessly readjusting the camellia in his button-
hole.

"He looks very outlandish. Is he a foreigner too?" asked the squire at
last.

"No, not exactly. However, he knows all about Frank's embarrassments;
and--"

"Embarrassments! what, the debt he paid for that woman? How did he raise
the money?"

"I don't know," answered Randal; "and that is the reason I asked Baron
Levy to accompany me to Egerton's, that he might explain in private what
I have no reason--"

"Baron Levy!" interrupted the squire. "Levy, Levy--I have heard of a
Levy who has nearly ruined my neighbour Thornhill,--a money-lender.
Zounds! is that the man who knows my son's affairs? I'll soon learn,
sir."

Randal caught hold of the squire's arm: "Stop, stop; if you really insist
upon learning more about Frank's debts, you must not appeal to Baron Levy
directly, and as Frank's father: he will not answer you. But if I
present you to him as a mere acquaintance of mine, and turn the
conversation, as if carelessly, upon Frank, why, since, in the London
world, such matters are never kept secret, except from the parents of
young men, I have no doubt he will talk out openly."

"Manage it as you will," said the squire.

Randal took Mr. Hazeldean's arm, and joined Levy--"A friend of mine from
the country, Baron." Levy bowed profoundly, and the three walked slowly
on.

"By the by," said Randal, pressing significantly upon Levy's arm, "my
friend has come to town upon the somewhat unpleasant business of settling
the debts of another,--a young man of fashion,--a relation of his own.
No one, sir (turning to the squire), could so ably assist you in such
arrangements as could Baron Levy."

BARON (modestly, and with a moralizing air).--"I have some experience in
such matters, and I hold it a duty to assist the parents and relations of
young men who, from want of reflection, often ruin themselves for life.
I hope the young gentleman in question is not in the hands of the Jews?"

RANDAL.--"Christians are as fond of good interest for their money as ever
the Jews can be."

BARON.--"Granted, but they have not always so much money to lend. The
first thing, sir" (addressing the squire),--"the first thing for you to
do is to buy up such of your relation's bills and notes of hand as may be
in the market. No doubt we can get them a bargain, unless the young man
is heir to some property that may soon be his in the course of nature."

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