Part 173 (2/2)
Audley came back to his room and finished the tragic record. He traced the tremor of that beloved hand through the last tortures of doubt and despair; he saw where the hot tears had fallen; he saw where the hand had paused, the very sentence not concluded; mentally he accompanied his--fated bride in the dismal journey to her maiden home, and beheld her before him as he had last seen, more beautiful even in death than the face of living woman had ever since appeared to him; and as he bent over the last words, the blank that they left on the leaf, stretching pale beyond the quiver of the characters and the blister of the tears,--pale and blank as the void which departed love leaves behind it,--he felt his Heart suddenly stand still, its course arrested as the record closed. It beat again, but feebly,--so feebly! His breath became labour and pain, his sight grew dizzy; but the const.i.tutional firmness and fort.i.tude of the man clung to him in the stubborn mechanism of habit, his will yet fought against his disease, life rallied as the light flickers up in the waning taper.
The next morning, when Harley came into his friend's room, Egerton was asleep. But the sleep seemed much disturbed; the breathing was hard and difficult; the bed-clothes were partially thrown off, as if in the tossing of disturbed dreams; the sinewy strong arm, the broad athletic breast, were partly bare. Strange that so deadly a disease within should leave the frame such apparent power that, to the ordinary eye, the sleeping sufferer seemed a model of healthful vigour. One hand was thrust with uneasy straining over the pillows,--it had its hold on the fatal papers; a portion of the leaves was visible; and where the characters had been blurred by Nora's tears, were the traces, yet moist, of tears perhaps more bitter.
Harley felt deeply affected; and while he still stood by the bed, Egerton sighed heavily and woke. He stared round him, as if perplexed and confused, till his eyes resting on Harley, he smiled and said,
”So early! Ah, I remember, it is the day for our great boat-race. We shall have the current against us; but you and I together--when did we ever lose?”
Audley's mind was wandering; it had gone back to the old Eton days. But Harley thought that he spoke in metaphorical allusion to the present more important contest.
”True, my Audley,--you and I together--when did we ever lose? But will you rise? I wish you would be at the polling-place to shake hands with your voters as they come up. By four o'clock you will be released, and the election won.”
”The election! How! what!” said Egerton, recovering himself. ”I recollect now. Yes,--I accept this last kindness from you. I always said I would die in harness. Public life--I have no other. Ah, I dream again!
Oh, Harley my son, my son!”
”You shall see him after four o'clock. You will be proud of each other.
But make haste and dress. Shall I ring the bell for your servant?”
”Do,” said Egerton, briefly, and sinking back. Harley quitted the room, and joined Randal and some of the more important members of the Blue Committee, who were already hurrying over their breakfast.
All were anxious and nervous except Harley, who dipped his dry toast into his coffee, according to his ordinary abstemious Italian habit, with serene composure. Randal in vain tried for an equal tranquillity.
But though sure of his election, there would necessarily follow a scene trying to the nerve of his hypocrisy. He would have to affect profound chagrin in the midst of vile joy; have to act the part of decorous high-minded sorrow, that by some untoward chance, some unaccountable cross-splitting, Randal Leslie's gain should be Audley Egerton's loss.
Besides, he was flurried in the expectation of seeing the squire, and of appropriating the money which was to secure the dearest object of his ambition. Breakfast was soon despatched. The Committee-men, bustling for their hats, and looking at their watches, gave the signal for departure; yet no Squire Hazeldean had made his appearance. Harley, stepping from the window upon the terrace, beckoned to Randal, who took his hat and followed.
”Mr. Leslie,” said Harley, leaning against the bal.u.s.trade, and carelessly patting Nero's rough, honest head, ”you remember that you were good enough to volunteer to me the explanation of certain circ.u.mstances in connection with the Count di Peschiera, which you gave to the Duke di Serrano; and I replied that my thoughts were at present engaged on the election, but as soon as that was over, I should be very willing to listen to any communications affecting yourself and my old friend the duke, with which you might be pleased to favour me.”
This address took Randal by surprise, and did not tend to calm his nerves. However, he replied readily,
”Upon that, as upon any other matter that may influence the judgment you form of me, I shall be but too eager to remove a single doubt that, in your eyes, can rest upon my honour.”
”You speak exceedingly well, Mr. Leslie; no man can express himself more handsomely; and I will claim your promise with the less scruple because the duke is powerfully affected by the reluctance of his daughter to ratify the engagement that binds his honour, in case your own is indisputably cleared. I may boast of some influence over the young lady, since I a.s.sisted to save her from the infamous plot of Peschiera; and the duke urges me to receive your explanation, in the belief that, if it satisfy me, as it has satisfied him, I may conciliate his child in favour of the addresses of a suitor who would have hazarded his very life against so redoubted a duellist as Peschiera.”
”Lord L'Estrange,” replied Randal, bowing, ”I shall indeed owe you much if you can remove that reluctance on the part of my betrothed bride, which alone clouds my happiness, and which would at once put an end to my suit, did I not ascribe it to an imperfect knowledge of myself, which I shall devote my life to improve into confidence and affection.”
”No man can speak more handsomely,” reiterated Harley, as if with profound admiration; and indeed he did eye Randal as we eye some rare curiosity. ”I am happy to inform you, too,” continued L'Estrange, ”that if your marriage with the Duke of Serrano's daughter take place--”
”If!” echoed Randal.
”I beg pardon for making an hypothesis of what you claim the right to esteem a certainty,--I correct my expression: when your marriage with that young lady takes place, you will at least escape the rock on which many young men of ardent affections have split at the onset of the grand voyage. You will form no imprudent connection. In a word, I received yesterday a despatch from Vienna, which contains the full pardon and formal restoration of Alphonso, Duke di Serrano. And I may add, that the Austrian government (sometimes misunderstood in this country) is bound by the laws it administers, and can in no way dictate to the duke, once restored, as to the choice of his son-in-law, or as to the heritage that may devolve on his child.”
”And does the duke yet know of his recall?” exclaimed Randal, his cheeks flushed and his eyes sparkling.
”No. I reserve that good news, with other matters, till after the election is over. But Egerton keeps us waiting sadly. Ah, here comes his valet.”
Audley's servant approached. ”Mr. Egerton feels himself rather more poorly than usual, my Lord; he begs you will excuse his going with you into the town at present. He will come later if his presence is absolutely necessary.”
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