"My Novel" — Complete. Эдвард Бульвер-Литтон
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Leslie is there for the holidays, sir.”
PARSON.—“Your wife has cut for you, Mr. Hazeldean. I don’t think it was quite fair; and my partner has turned up a deuce,—deuce of hearts. Please to come and play, if you mean to play.”
The squire returns to the table, and in a few minutes the game is decided by a dexterous finesse of the captain against the Hazeldeans. The clock strikes ten; the servants enter with a tray; the squire counts up his own and his wife’s losings; and the captain and parson divide sixteen shillings between them.
SQUIRE.—“There, Parson, I hope you’ll be in a better humour. You win enough out of us to set up a coach-and-four.”
“Tut!” muttered the parson; “at the end of the year, I’m not a penny the richer for it all.”
And, indeed, monstrous as that assertion seemed, it was perfectly true, for the parson portioned out his gains into three divisions. One-third he gave to Mrs. Dale, for her own special pocket-money; what became of the second third he never owned even to his better half,—but certain it was, that every time the parson won seven-and-sixpence, half-a-crown, which nobody could account for, found its way to the poor-box; while the remaining third, the parson, it is true, openly and avowedly retained; but I have no manner of doubt that, at the year’s end, it got to the poor quite as safely as if it had been put into the box.
The party had now gathered round the tray, and were helping themselves to wine and water, or wine without water,—except Frank, who still remained poring over the map in the County History, with his head leaning on his hands, and his fingers plunged in his hair.
“Frank,” said Mrs. Hazeldean, “I never saw you so studious before.”
Frank started up and coloured, as if ashamed of being accused of too much study in anything.
SQUIRE (with a little embarrassment in his voice).—“Pray, Frank, what do you know of Randal Leslie?”
“Why, sir, he is at Eton.”
“What sort of a boy is he?” asked Mrs. Hazeldean.
Frank hesitated, as if reflecting, and then answered, “They say he is the cleverest boy in the school. But then he saps.”
“In other words,” said Mr. Dale, with proper parsonic gravity, “he understands that he was sent to school to learn his lessons, and he learns them. You call that sapping? call it doing his duty. But pray, who and what is this Randal Leslie, that you look so discomposed, Squire?”
“Who and what is he?” repeated the squire, in a low growl. “Why, you know Mr. Audley Egerton married Miss Leslie, the great heiress; and this boy is a relation of hers. I may say,” added the squire, “that he is a near relation of mine, for his grandmother was a Hazeldean; but all I know about the Leslies is, that Mr. Egerton, as I am told, having no children of his own, took up young Randal (when his wife died, poor woman), pays for his schooling, and has, I suppose, adopted the boy as his heir. Quite welcome. Frank and I want nothing from Mr. Audley Egerton, thank Heaven!”
“I can well believe in your brother’s generosity to his wife’s kindred,” said the parson, sturdily, “for I am sure Mr. Egerton is a man of strong feeling.”
“What the deuce do you know about Mr. Egerton? I don’t suppose you could ever have even spoken to him.”
“Yes,” said the parson, colouring up, and looking confused. “I had some conversation with him once;” and observing the squire’s surprise, he added—“when I was curate at Lansmere, and about a painful business connected with the family of one of my parishioners.”
“Oh, one of your parishioners at Lansmere,—one of the constituents Mr. Audley Egerton threw over, after all the pains I had taken to get him his seat. Rather odd you should never have mentioned this before, Mr. Dale!”
“My dear sir,” said the parson, sinking his voice, and in a mild tone of conciliatory expostulation, “you are so irritable whenever Mr. Egerton’s name is mentioned at all.”
“Irritable!” exclaimed the squire, whose wrath had been long simmering, and now fairly boiled over,—“irritable, sir! I should think so: a man for whom I stood godfather at the hustings, Mr. Dale! a man for whose sake I was called a ‘prize ox,’ Mr. Dale! a man for whom I was hissed in a market-place, Mr. Dale! a man for whom I was shot at, in cold blood, by an officer in His Majesty’s service, who lodged a ball in my right shoulder, Mr. Dale! a man who had the ingratitude, after all this, to turn his back on the landed interest,—to deny that there was any agricultural distress in a year which broke three of the best farmers I ever had, Mr. Dale!—a man, sir, who made a speech on the Currency which was complimented by Ricardo, a Jew! Good heavens! a pretty parson you are, to stand up for a fellow complimented by a Jew! Nice ideas you must have of Christianity! Irritable, sir!” now fairly roared the squire, adding to the thunder of his voice the cloud of a brow, which evinced a menacing ferocity that might have done honour to Bussy d’Amboise or Fighting Fitzgerald. “Sir, if that man had not been my own half-brother, I’d have called him out. I have stood my ground before now. I have had a ball in my right shoulder. Sir, I’d have called him out.”
“Mr. Hazeldean! Mr. Hazeldean! I’m shocked at you,” cried the parson; and, putting his lips close to the squire’s ear, he went on in a whisper, “What an example to your son! You’ll have him fighting duels one of these days, and nobody to blame but yourself.”
This warning cooled Mr. Hazeldean; and muttering, “Why the deuce did you set me off?” he fell back into his chair, and began to fan himself with his pocket-handkerchief.
The parson skilfully and remorselessly pursued the advantage he had gained. “And now that you may have it in your power to show civility and kindness to a boy whom Mr. Egerton has taken up, out of respect to his wife’s memory,—a kinsman, you say, of your own, and who has never offended you,—a boy whose diligence in his studies proves him to be an excellent companion to your son-Frank” (here the parson raised his voice), “I suppose you would like to call on young Leslie, as you were studying the county map so attentively.”
“Yes, yes,” answered Frank, rather timidly, “if my father does not object to it. Leslie has been very kind tome, though he is in the sixth form, and, indeed, almost the head of the school.”
“Ah!” said Mrs. Hazeldean, “one studious boy has a fellow feeling for another; and though you enjoy your holidays, Frank, I am sure you read hard at school.”
Mrs. Dale opened her eyes very wide, and stared in astonishment.
Mrs. Hazeldean retorted that look, with great animation. “Yes, Carry,” said she, tossing her head, “though you may not think Frank clever, his masters find him so. He got a prize last half. That beautiful book, Frank—hold up your head, my love—what did you get it for?”
FRANK (reluctantly).—“Verses, ma’am.”
MRS. HAZELDEAN (with triumph).—“Verses!—there, Carry, verses!”
FRANK (in a hurried tone).—“Yes, but Leslie wrote them for me.”
MRS. HAZELDEAN (recoiling).—“O Frank! a prize for what another did for you—that was mean.”
FRANK (ingenuously).—“You can’t be more ashamed, Mother, than I was when they gave me the prize.”
MRS. DALE (though previously provoked at being snubbed by Harry, now showing the triumph of generosity over temper).—“I beg your pardon, Frank. Your mother must be as proud of that shame as she was of the prize.”
Mrs. Hazeldean puts her arm round Frank’s neck, smiles beamingly on Mrs. Dale, and converses with her son in a low tone about Randal Leslie. Miss Jemima now approached Carry, and said in an “aside,” “But we are forgetting poor Mr. Riccabocca. Mrs. Hazeldean, though the dearest creature in the world, has such a blunt way of inviting people—don’t you