Book: My Novel, Volume 9.

E >> Edward Bulwer Lytton >> My Novel, Volume 9.




"Proud to make your acquaintance, sir," said Mr. Avenel, lifting his hat.
"Fine day."

"Rather cold too," said Leslie, who, like all thin persons with weak
digestions, was chilly by temperament; besides, lie had enough on his
mind to chill his body.

"So much the healthier,--braces the nerves," said Mr. Avenel; "but you
young fellows relax the system by hot rooms and late hours. Fond of
dancing, of course, sir?" Then, without waiting for Randal's negative,
Mr. Richard continued rapidly, "Mrs. Avenel has a /soiree dansante/ on
Thursday,--shall be very happy to see you in Eaton Square. Stop, I have
a card;" and he drew out a dozen large invitation-cards, from which he
selected one, and presented it to Randal. The baron pressed that young
gentleman's arm, and Randal replied courteously that it would give him
great pleasure to be introduced to Mrs. Avenel. Then, as he was not
desirous to be seen under the wing of Baron Levy, like a pigeon under
that of a hawk, he gently extricated himself, and pleading great haste,
walked quickly on towards his office.

"That young man will make a figure some day," said the baron. "I don't
know any one of his age with so few prejudices. He is a connection by
marriage to Audley Egerton, who--"

"Audley Egerton!" exclaimed Mr. Avenel; "a d---d haughty, aristocratic,
disagreeable, ungrateful fellow!"

"Why, what do you know of him?"

"He owed his first seat in parliament to the votes of two near relations
of mine, and when I called upon him some time ago, in his office, he
absolutely ordered me out of the room. Hang his impertinence; if ever I
can pay him off, I guess I sha'n't fail for want of good will!"

"Ordered you out of the room? That's not like Egerton, who is civil, if
formal,--at least to most men. You must have offended him in his weak
point."

"A man whom the public pays so handsomely should have no weak point.
What is Egerton's?"

"Oh, he values himself on being a thorough gentleman,--a man of the
nicest honour," said Levy, with a sneer. "You must have ruffled his
plumes there. How was it?"

"I forget," answered Mr. Avenel, who was far too well versed in the
London scale of human dignities since his marriage, not to look back with
a blush at his desire of knighthood. "No use bothering our heads now
about the plumes of an arrogant popinjay. To return to the subject we
were discussing: you must be sure to let me have this money next week."

"Rely on it."

"And you'll not let my bills get into the market; keep them under lock
and key."

"So we agreed."

"It is but a temporary difficulty,--royal mourning, such nonsense; panic
in trade, lest these precious ministers go out. I shall soon float over
the troubled waters."

"By the help of a paper boat," said the baron, laughing; and the two
gentlemen shook hands and parted.




CHAPTER VI.

Meanwhile Audley Egerton's carriage had deposited him at the door of Lord
Lansmere's house, at Knightsbridge. He asked for the countess, and was
shown into the drawing-room, which was deserted. Egerton was paler than
usual; and as the door opened, he wiped the unwonted moisture from his
forehead, and there was a quiver on his firm lip. The countess too, on
entering, showed an emotion almost equally unusual to her self-control.
She pressed Audley's hand in silence, and seating herself by his side,
seemed to collect her thoughts. At length she said,

"It is rarely indeed that we meet, Mr. Egerton, in spite of your intimacy
with Lansmere and Harley. I go so little into your world, and you will
not voluntarily come to me."

"Madam," replied Egerton, "I might evade your kind reproach by stating
that my hours are not at my disposal; but I answer you with plain truth,
--it must be painful to both of us to meet."

The countess coloured and sighed, but did not dispute the assertion.

Audley resumed: "And therefore, I presume that, in sending for me, you
have something of moment to communicate?"

"It relates to Harley," said the countess, as if in apology; "and I would
take your advice."

"To Harley! Speak on, I beseech you."

"My son has probably told you that he has educated and reared a young
girl, with the intention to make her Lady L'Estrange, and hereafter
Countess of Lansmere."

"Harley has no secrets from me," said Egerton, mournfully. "This young
lady has arrived in England, is here, in this house."

"And Harley too?"

"No, she came over with Lady N------and her daughters. Harley was to
follow shortly, and I expect him daily. Here is his letter. Observe,
he has never yet communicated his intentions to this young person, now
entrusted to my care, never spoken to her as the lover."

Egerton took the letter and read it rapidly, though with attention.

"True," said he, as he returned the letter: "and before he does so he
wishes you to see Miss Digby and to judge of her yourself,--wishes to
know if you will approve and sanction his choice."

"It is on this that I would consult you: a girl without rank; the father,
it is true, a gentleman, though almost equivocally one, but the mother, I
know not what. And Harley, for whom I hoped an alliance with the first
houses in England!" The countess pressed her hands convulsively
together.

EGERTON.--"He is no more a boy. His talents have been wasted, his life a
wanderer's. He presents to you a chance of resettling his mind, of
re-arousing his native powers, of a home besides your own. Lady
Lansmere, you cannot hesitate!"

LADY LANSMERE .--"I do, I do? After all that I have hoped after all that
I did to prevent--"

EGERTON (interrupting her).--"You owe him now an atonement; that is in
your power,--it is not in mine." The countess again pressed Audley's
hand, and the tears gushed from her eyes.

"It shall be so. I consent, I consent. I will silence, I will crush
back this proud heart. Alas! it well-nigh broke his own! I am glad you
speak thus. I like to think he owes my consent to you. In that there is
atonement for both."

"You are too generous, madam," said Egerton, evidently moved, though
still, as ever, striving to repress emotion. "And now may I see the
young lady? This conference pains me; you see even my strong nerves
quiver; and at this time I have much to go through,--need of all my
strength and firmness."

"I hear, indeed, that the Government will probably retire. But it is
with honour: it will be soon called back by the voice of the nation."

"Let me see the future wife of Harley L'Estrange," said Egerton, without
heed of this consolatory exclamation.

The countess rose and left the room. In a few minutes she returned with
Helen Digby.

Helen was wondrously improved from the pale, delicate child, with the
soft smile and intelligent eyes, who had sat by the side of Leonard in
his garret. She was about the middle beight, still slight, but
beautifully formed; that exquisite roundness of proportion which conveys
so well the idea of woman, in its undulating, pliant grace,--formed to
embellish life, and soften away its rude angles; formed to embellish, not
to protect. Her face might not have satisfied the critical eye of an
artist,--it was not without defects in regularity; but its expression was
eminently gentle and prepossessing; and there were few who would not have
exclaimed, "What a lovely countenance!" The mildness of her brow was
touched with melancholy--her childhood had left its traces on her youth.
Her step was slow, and her manner shy, subdued, and timid.

Audley gazed on her with earnestness as she approached him; and then
coming forward, took her hand and kissed it. "I am your guardian's
constant friend," said he, and he drew her gently to a seat beside him,
in the recess of a window. With a quick glance of his eye towards the
countess, he seemed to imply the wish to converse with Helen somewhat
apart. So the countess interpreted the glance; and though she remained
in the room, she seated herself at a distance, and bent over a book.

It was touching to see how the austere man of business lent himself
to draw forth the mind of this quiet, shrinking girl; and if you had
listened, you would have comprehended how he came to possess such social
influence, and how well, some time or other in the course of his life, he
had learned to adapt himself to women.

He spoke first of Harley L'Estrange,--spoke with tact and delicacy.
Helen at first answered by monosyllables, and then, by degrees, with
grateful and open affection. Audley's brow grew shaded. He then spoke
of Italy; and though no man had less of the poet in his nature, yet with
the dexterity of one long versed in the world, and who had been
accustomed to extract evidences from characters most opposed to his own,
he suggested such topics as might serve to arouse poetry in others.
Helen's replies betrayed a cultivated taste, and a charming womanly mind;
but they betrayed, also, one accustomed to take its colourings from
another's,--to appreciate, admire, revere the Lofty and the Beautiful,
but humbly and meekly. There was no vivid enthusiasm, no remark of
striking originality, no flash of the self-kindling, creative faculty.
Lastly, Egerton turned to England,--to the critical nature of the times,
to the claims which the country possessed upon all who had the ability to
serve and guide its troubled destinies. He enlarged warmly on Harley's
natural talents, and rejoiced that he had returned to England, perhaps to
commence some great career. Helen looked surprised, but her face caught
no correspondent glow from Audley's eloquence. He rose, and an
expression of disappointment passed over his grave, handsome features,
and as quickly vanished.

"Adieu, my dear Miss Digby; I fear I have wearied you, especially with my
politics. Adieu, Lady Lansmere; no doubt I shall see Harley as soon as
he returns."

Then he hastened from the room, gained his carriage, and ordered the
coachman to drive to Downing Street. He drew down the blinds, and leaned
back. A certain languor became visible in his face, and once or twice,
he mechanically put his hand to his heart.

"She is good, amiable, docile,--will make an excellent wife, no doubt,"
said he, nuirmuringly. "But does she love Harley as he has dreamed of
love? No! Has she the power and energy to arouse his faculties, and
restore to the world the Harley of old? No! Meant by Heaven to be the
shadow of another's sun--not herself the sun,--this child is not the one
who can atone for the Past and illume the Future."




CHAPTER VII.

That evening Harley L'Estrange arrived at his father's house. The few
years that had passed since we saw him last had made no perceptible
change in his appearance. He still preserved his elastic youthfulness
of form, and singular variety and play of countenance. He seemed
unaffectedly rejoiced to greet his parents, and had something of the
gayety and tenderness of a boy returned from school. His manner to Helen
bespoke the chivalry that pervaded all the complexities and curves of his
character. It was affectionate, but respectful,--hers to him, subdued,
but innocently sweet and gently cordial. Harley was the chief talker.
The aspect of the times was so critical that he could not avoid questions
on politics; and, indeed, he showed an interest in them which he had
never evinced before. Lord Lansmere was delighted.

"Why, Harley, you love your country after all?"

"The moment she seems in danger, yes!" replied the Patrician; and the
Sybarite seemed to rise into the Athenian. Then he asked with eagerness
about his old friend Audley; and, his curiosity satisfied there, he
inquired the last literary news. He had heard much of a book lately
published. He named the one ascribed by Parson Dale to Professor Moss;
none of his listeners had read it.

Harley pished at this, and accused them all of indolence and stupidity,
in his own quaint, metaphorical style. Then he said, "And town gossip?"

"We never hear it," said Lady Lansmere.

"There is a new plough much talked of at Boodle's," said Lord Lansmere.

"God speed it. But is not there a new man much talked of at White's?"

"I don't belong to White's."

"Nevertheless, you may have heard of him,--a foreigner, a Count di
Peschiera."

"Yes," said Lord Lansmere; "he was pointed out to me in the Park,--a
handsome man for a foreigner; wears his hair properly cut; looks
gentlemanlike and English."

"Ah, ah! He is here then!" and Harley rubbed his hands.

"Which road did you take? Did you pass the Simplon?"

"No; I came straight from Vienna."

Then, relating with lively vein his adventures by the way, he continued
to delight Lord Lansmere by his gayety till the time came to retire to
rest. As soon as Harley was in his own room his mother joined him.

"Well," said he, "I need not ask if you like Miss Digby? Who would not?"

"Harley, my own son," said the mother, bursting into tears, "be happy
your own way; only be happy, that is all I ask."

Harley, much affected, replied gratefully and soothingly to this fond
injunction. And then gradually leading his mother on to converse of
Helen, asked abruptly, "And of the chance of our happiness,--her
happiness as well as mine,--what is your opinion? Speak frankly."

"Of her happiness there can be no doubt," replied the mother, proudly.
"Of yours, how can you ask me? Have you not decided on that yourself?"

"But still it cheers and encourages one in any experiment, however well
considered, to hear the approval of another. Helen has certainly a most
gentle temper."

"I should conjecture so. But her mind--"

"Is very well stored."

"She speaks so little--"

"Yes. I wonder why? She's surely a woman!"

"Pshaw," said the countess, smiling in spite of herself.

"But tell me more of the process of your experiment. You took her as a
child, and resolved to train her according to your own ideal. Was that
easy?"

"It seemed so. I desired to instil habits of truth: she was already by
nature truthful as the day; a taste for Nature and all things natural:
that seemed inborn; perceptions of Art as the interpreter of Nature:
those were more difficult to teach. I think they may come. You have
heard her play and sing?"

"NO."

"She will surprise you. She has less talent for drawing; still, all that
teaching could do has been done,--in a word, she is accomplished.
Temper, heart, mind,--these all are excellent." Harley stopped, and
suppressed a sigh. "Certainly I ought to be very happy," said he; and
he began to wind up his watch.

"Of course she must love you," said the countess, after a pause. "How
could she fail?"

"Love me! My dear mother, that is the very question I shall have to
ask."

"Ask! Love is discovered by a glance; it has no need of asking."

"I have never discovered it, then, I assure you. The fact is, that
before her childhood was passed, I removed her, as you may suppose, from
my roof. She resided with an Italian family near my usual abode. I
visited her often, directed her studies, watched her improvement--"

"And fell in love with her?"

"Fall is such a very violent word. No; I don't remember to have had a
fall. It was all a smooth inclined plane from the first step, until at
last I said to myself, 'Harley L'Estrange, thy time has come. The bud
has blossomed into flower. Take it to thy breast.' And myself replied
to myself, meekly, 'So be it.' Then I found that Lady N-----, with her
daughters, was coming to England. I asked her Ladyship to take my ward
to your house. I wrote to you, and prayed your assent; and, that
granted, I knew you would obtain my father's. Iam here,--you give me the
approval I sought for. I will speak to Helen to-morrow. Perhaps, after
all, she may reject me."

"Strange, strange! you speak thus coldly, thus lightly, you, so capable
of ardent love!"

"Mother," said Harley, earnestly, "be satisfied! I am! Love as
of old, I feel, alas! too well, can visit me never more. But gentle
companionship, tender friendship, the relief and the sunlight of woman's
smile, hereafter the voices of children,--music that, striking on the
hearts of both parents, wakens the most lasting and the purest of all
sympathies,--these are my hope. Is the hope so mean, my fond mother?"

Again the countess wept, and her tears were not dried when she left the
room.




CHAPTER VIII.

Oh, Helen, fair Helen,--type of the quiet, serene, unnoticed, deep-felt
excellence of woman! Woman, less as the ideal that a poet conjures from
the air, than as the companion of a poet on the earth! Woman, who, with
her clear sunny vision of things actual, and the exquisite fibre of her
delicate sense, supplies the deficiencies of him whose foot stumbles on
the soil, because his eye is too intent upon the stars! Woman, the
provident, the comforting, angel whose pinions are folded round the
heart, guarding there a divine spring unmarred by the winter of the
world! Helen, soft Helen, is it indeed in thee that the wild and
brilliant "lord of wantonness and ease" is to find the regeneration of
his life, the rebaptism of his soul? Of what avail thy meek prudent
household virtues to one whom Fortune screens from rough trial; whose
sorrows lie remote from thy ken; whose spirit, erratic and perturbed, now
rising, now falling, needs a vision more subtle than thine to pursue, and
a strength that can sustain the reason, when it droops, on the wings of
enthusiasm and passion?

And thou, thyself, O nature, shrinking and humble, that needest to be
courted forth from the shelter, and developed under the calm and genial
atmosphere of holy, happy love--can such affection as Harley L'Estrange
may proffer suffice to thee? Will not the blossoms, yet folded in the
petal, wither away beneath the shade that may protect them from the
storm, and yet shut them from the sun? Thou who, where thou givest love,
seekest, though meekly, for love in return; to be the soul's sweet
necessity, the life's household partner to him who receives all thy faith
and devotion,--canst thou influence the sources of joy and of sorrow in
the heart that does not heave at thy name? Hast thou the charm and the
force of the moon, that the tides of that wayward sea shall ebb and flow
at thy will? Yet who shall say, who conjecture how near two hearts can
become, when no guilt lies between them, and time brings the ties all its
own? Rarest of all things on earth is the union in which both, by their
contrasts, make harmonious their blending; each supplying the defects of
the helpmate, and completing, by fusion, one strong human soul!
Happiness enough, where even Peace does but seldom preside, when each can
bring to the altar, if not the flame, still the incense. Where man's
thoughts are all noble and generous, woman's feelings all gentle and
pure, love may follow if it does not precede; and if not, if the roses be
missed from the garland, one may sigh for the rose, but one is safe from
the thorn.

The morning was mild, yet somewhat overcast by the mist which announces
coming winter in London, and Helen walked musingly beneath the trees that
surrounded the garden of Lord Lansmere's house. Many leaves were yet
left on the boughs; but they were sere and withered. And the birds
chirped at times; but their note was mournful and complaining. All
within this house, until Harley's arrival, had been strange and saddening
to Helen's timid and subdued spirits. Lady Lansmere had received her
kindly, but with a certain restraint; and the loftiness of manner, common
to the countess with all but Harley, had awed and chilled the diffident
orphan. Lady Lansmere's very interest in Harley's choice, her attempts
to draw Helen out of her reserve, her watchful eyes whenever Helen shyly
spoke or shyly moved, frightened the poor child, and made her unjust to
herself.

The very servants, though staid, grave, and respectful, as suited a
dignified, old-fashioned household, painfully contrasted the bright
welcoming smiles and free talk of Italian domestics. Her recollections
of the happy, warm Continental manner, which so sets the bashful at their
ease, made the stately and cold precision of all around her doubly awful
and dispiriting. Lord Lansmere himself, who did not as yet know the
views of Harley, and little dreamed that he was to anticipate a daughter-
in-law in the ward, whom he understood Harley, in a freak of generous
roinance, had adopted, was familiar and courteous, as became a host; but
he looked upon Helen as a mere child, and naturally left her to the
countess. The dim sense of her equivocal position, of her comparative
humbleness of birth and fortunes, oppressed and pained her; and even her
gratitude to Harley was made burdensome by a sentiment of helplessness.
The grateful long to requite. And what could she ever do for him?

Thus musing, she wandered alone through the curving walks; and this sort
of mock-country landscape--London loud, and even visible, beyond the high
gloomy walls, and no escape from the windows of the square formal house--
seemed a type of the prison bounds of Rank to one whose soul yearns for
simple loving Nature.

Helen's revery was interrupted by Nero's joyous bark. He had caught
sight of her, and came bounding up, and thrust his large head into her
hand. As she stooped to caress the dog, happy at his honest greeting,
and tears that had been long gathering at the lids fell silently on his
face (for I know nothing that more moves us to tears than the hearty
kindness of a dog, when something in human beings has pained or chilled
us), she heard behind the musical voice of Harley. Hastily she dried or
repressed her tears, as her guardian came up, and drew her arm within his
own.

"I had so little of your conversation last evening, my dear ward, that I
may well monopolize you now, even to the privation of Nero. And so you
are once more in your native land?"

Helen sighed softly.

"May I not hope that you return under fairer auspices than those which
your childhood knew?"

Helen turned her eyes with ingenuous thankfulness to her guardian, and
the memory of all she owed to him rushed upon her heart.

Harley renewed, and with earnest, though melancholy sweetness, "Helen,
your eyes thank me; but hear me before your words do. I deserve no
thanks. I am about to make to you a strange confession of egotism and
selfishness."

"You!--oh, impossible!"

"Judge yourself, and then decide which of us shall have cause to be
grateful. Helen, when I was scarcely your age--a boy in years, but more,
methinks, a man at heart, with man's strong energies and sublime
aspirings, than I have ever since been--I loved, and deeply--"

He paused a moment, in evident struggle. Helen listened in mute
surprise, but his emotion awakened her own; her tender woman's heart
yearned to console. Unconsciously her arm rested on his less lightly.

"Deeply, and for sorrow. It is a long tale, that may be told hereafter.
The worldly would call my love a madness. I did not reason on it then,
I cannot reason on it now. Enough: death smote suddenly, terribly, and
to me, mysteriously, her whom I loved. The love lived on. Fortunately,
perhaps, for me, I had quick distraction, not to grief, but to its inert
indulgence. I was a soldier; I joined our armies. Men called me brave.
Flattery! I was a coward before the thought of life. I sought death:
like sleep, it does not come at our call. Peace ensued. As when the
winds fall the sails droop, so when excitement ceased, all seemed to me
flat and objectless. Heavy, heavy was my heart. Perhaps grief had been
less obstinate, but that I feared I had causes for self-reproach. Since
then I have been a wanderer, a self-made exile. My boyhood had been
ambitious,--all ambition ceased. Flames, when they reach the core of the
heart, spread, and leave all in ashes. Let me be brief: I did not mean
thus weakly to complain,--I to whom Heaven has given so many blessings!
I felt, as it were, separated from the common objects and joys of men.
I grew startled to see how, year by year, wayward humours possessed me.
I resolved again to attach myself to some living heart--it was my sole
chance to rekindle my own. But the one I had loved remained as my type
of woman, and she was different from all I saw. Therefore I said to
myself, 'I will rear from childhood some young fresh life, to grow up
into my ideal.' As this thought began to haunt me, I chanced to discover
you. Struck with the romance of your early life, touched by your
courage, charmed by your affectionate nature, I said to myself, 'Here is
what I seek.' Helen, in assuming the guardianship of your 'Life, in all
the culture which I have sought to bestow on your docile childhood, I
repeat, that I have been but the egotist. And now, when you have reached
that age when it becomes me to speak, and you to listen; now, when you
are under the sacred roof of my own mother; now I ask you, can you accept
this heart, such as wasted years, and griefs too fondly nursed, have left
it? Can you be, at least, my comforter? Can you aid me to regard life
as a duty, and recover those aspirations which once soared from the
paltry and miserable confines of our frivolous daily being? Helen, here
I ask you, can you be all this, and under the name of--Wife?"

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