I have said that Egerton’s conduct with respect to this boy was more praiseworthy than most of those generous actions for which he was renowned, since to this the world gave no applause. What a man does within the range of his family connections does not carry with it that eclat which invests a munificence exhibited on public occasions. Either people care nothing about it, or tacitly suppose it to be but his duty. It was true, too, as the squire had observed, that Randal Leslie was even less distantly related to the Hazeldeans than to Mrs. Egerton, since Randal’s grandfather had actually married a Miss Hazeldean (the highest worldly connection that branch of the family had formed since the great split I have commemorated). But Audley Egerton never appeared aware of that fact. As he was not himself descended from the Hazeldeans, he did not trouble himself about their genealogy; and he took care to impress it upon the Leslies that his generosity on their behalf was solely to be ascribed to his respect for his wife’s memory and kindred. Still the squire had felt as if his “distant brother” implied a rebuke on his own neglect of these poor Leslies, by the liberality Audley evinced towards them; and this had made him doubly sore when the name of Randal Leslie was mentioned. But the fact really was, that the Leslies of Rood had so shrunk out of all notice that the squire had actually forgotten their existence, until Randal became thus indebted to his brother; and then he felt a pang of remorse that any one save himself, the head of the Hazeldeans, should lend a helping hand to the grandson of a Hazeldean.
But having thus, somewhat too tediously, explained the position of Audley Egerton, whether in the world or in relation to his young protege, I may now permit him to receive and to read his letters.
CHAPTER VI
Mr. Egerton glanced over the pile of letters placed beside him, and first he tore up some, scarcely read, and threw them into the waste-basket. Public men have such odd, out-of-the-way letters, that their waste-baskets are never empty,—letters from amateur financiers proposing new ways to pay off the National Debt; letters from America (never free!) asking for autographs; letters from fond mothers in country villages, recommending some miracle of a son for a place in the king’s service; letters from free-thinkers in reproof of bigotry; letters from bigots in reproof of free-thinking; letters signed Brutus Redivivus, containing the agreeable information that the writer has a dagger for tyrants, if the Danish claims are not forthwith adjusted; letters signed Matilda or Caroline, stating that Caroline or Matilda has seen the public man’s portrait at the Exhibition, and that a heart sensible to its attractions may be found at No. — Piccadilly; letters from beggars, impostors, monomaniacs, speculators, jobbers,—all food for the waste-basket.
From the correspondence thus winnowed, Mr. Egerton first selected those on business, which he put methodically together in one division of his pocket-book; and secondly, those of a private nature, which he as carefully put into another. Of these last there were but three,—one from his steward, one from Harley L’Estrange, one from Randal Leslie. It was his custom to answer his correspondence at his office; and to his office, a few minutes afterwards, he slowly took his way. Many a passenger turned back to look again at the firm figure, which, despite the hot summer day, was buttoned up to the throat; and the black frock-coat thus worn well became the erect air and the deep, full chest of the handsome senator. When he entered Parliament Street, Audley Egerton was joined by one of his colleagues, also on his way to the cares of office.
After a few observations on the last debate this gentleman said,—
“By the way, can you dine with me next Saturday, to meet Lansmere? He comes up to town to vote for us on Monday.”
“I had asked some people to dine with me,” answered Egerton, “but I will put them off. I see Lord Lansmere too seldom to miss any occasion to meet a man whom I respect so much.”
“So seldom! True, he is very little in town; but why don’t you go and see him in the country? Good shooting,—pleasant, old-fashioned house.”
“My dear Westbourne, his house is ‘nimium vicina Cremonae,’ close to a borough in which I have been burned in effigy.”
“Ha! ha! yes, I remember you first came into parliament for that snug little place; but Lansmere himself never found fault with your votes, did he?”
“He behaved very handsomely, and said he had not presumed to consider me his mouthpiece; and then, too, I am so intimate with L’Estrange.”
“Is that queer fellow ever coming back to England?”
“He comes, generally, every year, for a few days, just to see his father and mother, and then returns to the Continent.”
“I never meet him.”
“He comes in September or October, when you, of course, are not in town, and it is in town that the Lansmeres meet him.”
“Why does he not go to them?”
“A man in England but once a year, and for a few days, has so much to do in London, I suppose.”
“Is he as amusing as ever?” Egerton nodded.
“So distinguished as he might be!” remarked Lord Westbourne.
“So distinguished as he is!” said Egerton, formally; “an officer selected for praise, even in such fields as Quatre Bras and Waterloo; a scholar, too, of the finest taste; and as an accomplished gentleman matchless!”
“I like to hear one man praise another so warmly in these ill-natured days,” answered Lord Westbourne. “But still, though L’Estrange is doubtless all you say, don’t you think he rather wastes his life living abroad?”
“And trying to be happy, Westbourne? Are you sure it is not we who waste our lives? But I can’t stay to hear your answer. Here we are at the door of my prison.”
“On Saturday, then?”
“On Saturday. Good day.”
For the next hour or more, Mr. Egerton was engaged on the affairs of the State. He then snatched an interval of leisure (while awaiting a report, which he had instructed a clerk to make him), in order to reply to his letters. Those on public business were soon despatched; and throwing his replies aside to be sealed by a subordinate hand, he drew out the letters which he had put apart as private.
He attended first to that of his steward: the steward’s letter was long, the reply was contained in three lines. Pitt himself was scarcely more negligent of his private interests and concerns than Audley Egerton; yet, withal, Audley Egerton was said by his enemies to be an egotist.
The next letter he wrote was to Randal, and that, though longer, was far from prolix: it ran thus:—
DEAR MR. LESLIE,—I appreciate your delicacy in consulting me whether you should accept Frank Hazeldean’s invitation to call at the Hall. Since you are asked, I can see no objection to it. I should be sorry if you appeared to force yourself there; and for the rest, as a general rule, I think a young man who has his own way to make in life had better avoid all intimacy with those of his own age who have no kindred objects nor congenial pursuits.
As soon as this visit is paid, I wish you to come to London. The report I receive of your progress at Eton renders it unnecessary, in my judgment, that you should return there. If your father has no objection, I propose that you should go to Oxford at the ensuing term. Meanwhile, I have engaged a gentleman, who is a fellow of Balliol, to read with you. He is of opinion, judging only by your high repute at Eton, that you may at once obtain a scholarship in that college. If you do so, I shall look upon your career in life as assured.
Your affectionate friend, and sincere well-wisher, A. E.
The reader will remark that in this letter there is a certain tone of formality. Mr. Egerton does not call his protege “Dear Randal,” as would seem natural, but coldly and stiffly, “Dear Mr. Leslie.” He hints, also, that the boy has his own way to make in life. Is this meant to guard against too sanguine notions of inheritance, which his generosity may have excited? The letter to Lord L’Estrange was of a very different kind from the others. It was long, and full of such little scraps of news and gossip as may interest friends in a foreign land; it was written gayly, and as with a wish to cheer his friend; you could see that it was a reply to a melancholy letter; and in the whole tone and spirit there was an affection, even to tenderness, of which those who most liked Audley Egerton would have scarcely supposed him capable. Yet, notwithstanding, there was a kind of constraint in the letter, which perhaps only the fine tact of a woman would detect. It had not that abandon, that hearty self-outpouring, which you might expect would characterize the letters of two such friends, who had been boys at school together, and which did breathe indeed in all the abrupt rambling sentences of his correspondent. But where was the evidence of the constraint? Egerton is off-hand enough where his pen runs glibly through paragraphs that relate to others; it is simply that he says nothing about himself,—that he avoids all reference to the inner world of sentiment and feeling! But perhaps, after all, the man has no sentiment and feeling! How can you expect that a steady personage in practical life, whose mornings are spent in Downing Street, and whose nights are consumed in watching Government bills through a committee, can write in the same style as an idle dreamer amidst the pines of Ravenna, or on the banks of Como?
Audley had just finished this epistle, such as it was, when the attendant in waiting announced the arrival of a deputation from a provincial trading town, the members of which deputation he had appointed to meet at two o’clock. There was no office in London at which deputations were kept waiting less than at that over which Mr. Egerton presided.
The deputation entered,—some score or so of middle-aged, comfortable-looking persons, who, nevertheless, had their grievance, and considered their own interest, and those of the country, menaced by a certain clause in a bill brought in by Mr. Egerton.
The mayor of the town was the chief spokesman, and he spoke well,—but in a style to which the dignified official was not accustomed. It was a slap-dash style,—unceremonious, free and easy,—an American style. And, indeed, there was something altogether in the appearance and bearing of the mayor which savoured of residence in the Great Republic. He was a very handsome man, but with a look sharp and domineering,—the look of a man who did not care a straw for president or monarch, and who enjoyed the liberty to speak his mind and “wallop his own nigger!”
His fellow-burghers evidently regarded him with great respect; and Mr. Egerton had penetration enough to perceive that Mr. Mayor must be a rich man, as well as an eloquent one, to have overcome those impressions of soreness or jealousy which his tone was calculated to create in the self-love of his equals.
Mr. Egerton was far too wise to be easily offended by mere manner; and though he stared somewhat haughtily when he found his observations actually pooh-poohed, he was not above being convinced. There was much sense and much justice in Mr. Mayor’s arguments, and the statesman civilly promised to take them into full consideration.
He then bowed out the deputation; but scarcely had the door closed before it opened again, and Mr. Mayor presented himself alone, saying aloud to his companions in the passage, “I forgot something I had to say to Mr. Egerton; wait below for me.”
“Well, Mr. Mayor,” said Audley, pointing to a seat, “what else would you suggest?”
The mayor looked round to see that the door was closed; and then, drawing his chair close to Mr. Egerton’s, laid his forefinger on that gentleman’s arm, and said, “I think I speak to a man of the world, sir?”
Mr. Egerton bowed, and made no reply by word, but he gently removed his arm from the touch of the forefinger.
MR. MAYOR.—“You observe, sir, that I did not ask the members whom we return to parliament to accompany us. Do better without ‘em. You know they are both in Opposition,—out-and-outers.”
MR. EGERTON.—“It is a misfortune which the Government cannot remember when the question is whether the trade of the town itself is to be served or injured.”
MR. MAYOR.—“Well, I guess you speak handsome, sir. But you’d be glad to have two members to support ministers after the next election.”
MR. EGERTON (smiling).—“Unquestionably, Mr. Mayor.”
MR. MAYOR.—“And I can do it, Mr. Egerton. I may say I have the town in my pocket; so I ought,—I spend a great deal of money in it. Now, you see, Mr. Egerton, I have passed a part of my life in a land of liberty—the United States—and I come to the point when I speak to a man of the world. I’m a man of the world myself, sir. And so, if the Government will do something for me, why, I’ll do something for the Government. Two votes for a free and independent town like ours,—that’s something, isn’t it?”
MR. EGERTON (taken by surprise).—“Really, I—”
MR. MAYOR (advancing his chair still nearer, and interrupting the official).—“No nonsense, you see, on one side or the other. The fact is, that I’ve taken it into my head that I should like to be knighted. You may well look surprised, Mr. Egerton,—trumpery thing enough, I dare say; still, every man has his weakness, and I should like to be Sir Richard. Well, if you can get me made Sir Richard, you may just name your two members for the next election,—that is, if they belong to your own set, enlightened men, up to the times. That’s speaking fair and manful, is n’t it?”
MR. EGERTON (drawing himself up).—“I am at a loss to guess why you should select me, sir, for this very extraordinary proposition.”
MR. MAYOR (nodding good-humouredly).—“Why, you see, I don’t go along with the Government; you’re the best of the bunch. And may be you’d like to strengthen your own party. This is quite between you and me, you understand; honour’s a jewel!”
MR. EGERTON (with great gravity).—“Sir, I am obliged by your good opinion; but I agree with my colleagues in all the great questions that affect the government of the country, and—”
MR. MAYOR (interrupting him).—“Ah, of course, you must say so; very right. But I guess things would go differently if you were Prime Minister. However, I have another reason for speaking to you about my little job. You see you were member for Lansmere once, and I think you only came in by a majority of two, eh?”
MR. EGERTON.—“I know nothing of the particulars of that election; I was not present.”
MR. MAYOR.—“No; but luckily for you, two relations of mine were, and they voted for you. Two votes, and you came in by two. Since then, you have got into very snug quarters here, and I think we have a claim on you—”
MR. EGERTON.—“Sir, I acknowledge no such claim; I was and am a stranger to Lansmere; and if the electors did me the honour to return me to parliament, it was in compliment rather to—”
MR. MAYOR (again interrupting the official).—“Rather to Lord Lansmere, you were going to say; unconstitutional doctrine that, I fancy. Peer of the realm. But never mind, I know the world; and I’d ask Lord Lansmere to do my affair for me, only he is a pompous sort of man; might be qualmish: antiquated notions. Not up to snuff like you and me.”
MR. EGERTON (in great disgust, and settling his papers before him).—“Sir, it is not in my department to recommend to his Majesty candidates for the honour of knighthood, and it is still less in my department to make bargains for seats in parliament.”
MR. MAYOR.—“Oh, if that’s the case, you’ll excuse me; I don’t know much of the etiquette in these matters. But I thought that if I put two seats in your hands for your own friends, you might contrive to take the affair into your department, whatever it was. But since you say you agree with your colleagues, perhaps it comes to the same thing. Now, you must not suppose I want to sell the town, and that I can change and chop my politics for my own purpose. No such thing! I don’t like the sitting members; I’m all for progressing, but they go too much ahead for me; and since the Government is disposed to move a little, why, I’d as lief support them as not. But, in common gratitude, you see,” added the mayor, coaxingly, “I ought to be knighted! I can keep up the dignity, and do credit to his Majesty.”
MR. EGERTON (without looking up from his papers).—“I can only refer you, sir, to the proper quarter.”
MR. MAYOR (impatiently).—“Proper quarter! Well, since there is so much humbug in this old country of ours, that one must go through all the forms and get at the job regularly, just tell me whom I ought to go to.”
MR. EGERTON (beginning to be amused as well as indignant).—“If you want a knighthood, Mr. Mayor, you must ask the Prime Minister; if you want to give the Government information relative to seats in parliament, you must introduce yourself to Mr. ———, the Secretary of the Treasury.”
MR. MAYOR.—“And if I go to the last chap, what do you think he’ll say?”
MR. EGERTON (the amusement preponderating over the indignation).—“He will say, I suppose, that you must not put the thing in the light in which you have put it to me; that the Government will be very proud to have the confidence of yourself and your brother electors; and that a gentleman like you, in the proud position of mayor, may well hope to be knighted on some fitting occasion; but that you must not talk about the knighthood just at present, and must confine yourself to converting the unfortunate political opinions of the town.”
MR. MAYOR.—“Well, I guess that chap there would want to do me! Not quite so green, Mr. Egerton. Perhaps I’d better go at once to the fountain-head. How d’ ye think the Premier would take it?”
MR. EGERTON (the indignation preponderating over the amusement).—“Probably just as I am about to do.”
Mr. Egerton rang the bell; the attendant appeared. “Show Mr. Mayor the way out,” said the minister.
The mayor turned round sharply, and his face was purple. He walked straight to the door; but suffering the attendant to precede him along the corridor, he came back with a rapid stride, and clenching his hands, and with a voice thick with passion, cried, “Some day or other I will make you smart for this, as sure as my name’s Dick Avenel!”
“Avenel!” repeated Egerton, recoiling,—“Avenel!” But the mayor was gone.
Audley fell into a deep and musing revery, which seemed gloomy, and lasted till the attendant announced that the horses were at the door.
He then looked up, still abstractedly, and saw his letter to Harley L’Estrange open on the table. He drew it towards him, and wrote, “A man has just left me, who calls himself Aven—” In the middle of the name his pen stopped. “No, no,” muttered the writer, “what folly to reopen the old wounds there!” and he carefully erased the words.
Audley Egerton did not ride in the Park that day, as was his wont, but dismissed his groom; and, turning his horse’s head towards Westminster Bridge, took his solitary way into the country. He rode at first slowly, as if in thought; then fast, as if trying to escape from thought. He was later than usual at the House that evening, and he looked pale and fatigued. But he had to speak, and he spoke well.
CHAPTER VII
In spite of all his Machiavellian wisdom, Dr. Riccabocca had been foiled in his attempt to seduce Leonard Fairfield into his service, even though he succeeded in partially winning over the widow to his views. For to her he represented the worldly advantages of the thing. Lenny would learn to be fit for more than a day-labourer; he would learn gardening, in all its branches,—rise some day to be a head gardener. “And,” said Riccabocca, “I will take care of his book-learning, and teach him whatever he has a head for.”
“He has a head for everything,” said the widow.
“Then,” said the wise man, “everything shall go into it.” The widow was certainly dazzled; for, as we have seen, she highly prized scholarly distinction, and she knew that the parson looked upon Riccabocca as a wondrous learned man. But still Riccabocca was said to be a Papist, and suspected to be a conjuror. Her scruples on both these points, the Italian, who was an adept in the art of talking over the fair sex, would no doubt have dissipated, if there had been any use in it; but Lenny put a dead stop to all negotiations. He had taken a mortal dislike to Riccabocca: he was very much frightened by him,—and the spectacles, the pipe, the cloak, the long hair, and the red umbrella; and said so sturdily, in reply to every overture, “Please, sir, I’d rather not; I’d rather stay along with Mother,” that Riccabocca was forced to suspend all further experiments in his Machiavellian diplomacy. He was not at all cast down, however, by his first failure; on the contrary, he was one of those men whom opposition stimulates; and what before had been but a suggestion of prudence, became an object of desire. Plenty of other lads might no doubt be had on as reasonable terms as Lenny Fairfield; but the moment Lenny presumed to baffle the Italian’s designs upon him, the special acquisition, of Lenny became of paramount importance in the eyes of Signor Riccabocca.
Jackeymo, however, lost all his interest in the traps, snares, and gins which his master proposed to lay for Leonard Fairfield, in the more immediate surprise that awaited him on learning that Dr. Riccabocca had accepted an invitation to pass a few days at the Hall.
“There will be no one there but the family,” said Riccabocca. “Poor Giacomo, a little chat in the servants’ hall will do you good; and the squire’s beef is more nourishing, after all, than the sticklebacks and minnows. It will lengthen your life.”
“The padrone jests,” said Jackeymo, statelily; “as if any one could starve in his service.”
“Um,” said Riccabocca. “At least, faithful friend, you have tried that experiment as far as human nature will permit;” and he extended his hand to his fellow-exile with that familiarity which exists between servant and master in the usages of the Continent. Jackeymo bent low, and a tear fell upon the hand he kissed.
“Cospetto!” said Dr. Riccabocca, “a thousand mock pearls do not make up the cost of a single true one! The tears of women—we know their worth; but the tears of an honest man—Fie, Giacomo!—at least I can never repay you this! Go and see to our wardrobe.”
So far as his master’s wardrobe was concerned, that order was pleasing to Jackeymo; for the doctor had in his drawers suits which Jackeymo pronounced to be as good as new, though many a long year had passed since they left the tailor’s hands. But when Jackeymo came to examine the state of his own clothing department, his face grew considerably longer. It was not that he was without other clothes than those on his back,—quantity was there, but the quality! Mournfully he gazed on two suits, complete in three separate members of which man’s raiments are composed: the one suit extended at length upon his bed, like a veteran stretched by pious hands after death; the other brought piecemeal to the invidious light,—the torso placed upon a chair, the limbs dangling down from Jackeymo’s melancholy arm. No bodies long exposed at the Morgue could evince less sign of resuscitation than those respectable defuncts! For, indeed, Jackeymo had been less thrifty of his apparel, more profusus sui, than his master. In the earliest days of their exile, he preserved the decorous habit of dressing for dinner,—it was a respect due to the padrone,—and that habit had lasted till the two habits on which it necessarily depended had evinced the first symptoms of decay; then the evening clothes had been taken into morning wear, in which hard service they had breathed their last.
The doctor, notwithstanding his general philosophical abstraction from such household details, had more than once said, rather in pity to Jackeymo than with an eye to that respectability which the costume of the servant reflects on the dignity of the master, “Giacomo, thou wantest clothes; fit thyself out of mine!”
And Jackeymo had bowed his gratitude, as if the donation had been accepted; but the fact was that that same fitting out was easier said than done. For though-thanks to an existence mainly upon sticklebacks and minnows—both Jackeymo and Riccabocca had arrived at that state which the longevity of misers proves to be most healthful to the human frame,—namely, skin and bone,—yet the bones contained in the skin of Riccabocca all took longitudinal directions; while those in the skin of Jackeymo spread out latitudinally. And you might as well have made the bark of a Lombardy poplar serve for the trunk of some dwarfed and pollarded oak—in whose hollow the Babes of the Wood could have slept at their ease—as have fitted out Jackeymo from the garb of Riccabocca. Moreover, if the skill of the tailor could have accomplished that undertaking, the faithful Jackeymo would never have had the heart to avail himself of the generosity of his master. He had a sort of religious sentiment, too, about those vestments of the padrone. The ancients, we know, when escaping from shipwreck, suspended in the votive temple the garments in which they had struggled through the wave. Jackeymo looked on those relics of the past with a kindred superstition. “This coat the padrone wore on such an occasion. I remember the very evening the padrone last put on those pantaloons!” And coat and pantaloons were tenderly dusted, and carefully restored to their sacred rest.
But now, after all, what was to be done? Jackeymo was much too proud to exhibit his person to the eyes of the squire’s butler in habiliments discreditable to himself and the padrone. In the midst of his perplexity the bell rang, and he went down into the parlour.
Riccabocca was standing on the hearth under his symbolical representation of the “Patriae Exul.”
“Giacomo,” quoth he, “I have been thinking that thou hast never done what I told thee, and fitted thyself out from my superfluities. But we are going now into the great world: visiting once begun, Heaven knows where it may stop. Go to the nearest town and get thyself clothes. Things are dear in England. Will this suffice?” And Riccabocca extended a five-pound note.
Jackeymo, we have seen, was more familiar with his master than we formal English permit our domestics to be with us; but in his familiarity he was usually respectful. This time, however, respect deserted him.
“The padrone is mad!” he exclaimed; “he would fling away his whole fortune if I would let him. Five pounds English, or a hundred and twenty-six pounds Milanese! Santa Maria! unnatural father! And what is to become of the poor signorina? Is this the way you are to marry her in the foreign land?”
“Giacomo,” said Riccabocca, bowing his head to the storm, “the signorina to-morrow; to-day the honour of the House. Thy small-clothes, Giacomo,—miserable man, thy small-clothes!”
“It is just,” said Jackeymo, recovering himself, and with humility; “and the padrone does right to blame me, but not in so cruel a way. It is just,—the padrone lodges and boards me, and gives me handsome wages, and he has a right to expect that I should not go in this figure.”
“For the board and the lodgment, good,” said Riccabocca. “For the handsome wages, they are the visions of thy fancy!”
“They are no such thing,” said Jackeymo, “they are only in arrear. As if the padrone could not pay them some day or other; as if I was demeaning myself by serving a master who did not intend to pay his servants! And can’t I wait? Have I not my savings too? But be cheered, be cheered; you shall be contented with me. I have two beautiful suits still. I was arranging them when you rang for me. You shall see, you shall see.”
And Jackeymo hurried from the room, hurried back into his own chamber, unlocked a little trunk which he kept at his bed-head, tossed out a variety of small articles, and from the deepest depth extracted a leathern purse. He emptied the contents on the bed. They were chiefly Italian coins, some five-franc pieces, a silver medallion inclosing a little image of his patron saint,—San Giacomo,—one solid English guinea, and somewhat more than a pound’s worth in English silver. Jackeymo put back the foreign coins, saying prudently, “One will lose on them here;” he seized the English coins, and counted them out. “But are you enough, you rascals?” quoth he, angrily, giving them a good shake. His eye caught sight of the medallion,—he paused; and after eying the tiny representation of the saint with great deliberation, he added, in a sentence which he must have picked up from the proverbial aphorisms of his master,—
“What’s the difference between the enemy who does not hurt me, and the friend who does not serve me? Monsignore San Giacomo, my patron saint, you are of very little use to me in the leathern bag; but if you help me to get into a new pair of small-clothes on this important occasion, you will be a friend indeed. Alla bisogna, Monsignore.” Then, gravely kissing the medallion, he thrust it into one pocket, the coins into the other, made up a bundle of the two defunct suits, and muttering to himself, “Beast, miser, that I am, to disgrace the padrone with all these savings in his service!” ran downstairs into his pantry, caught up his hat and stick, and in a few moments more was seen trudging off to the neighbouring town of L————.