Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Volume 69, No. 427, May, 1851. Various

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СКАЧАТЬ am so sorry I can't oblige you. If it were anything else – "

      "There is something else. My valet – I can't turn him adrift – excellent fellow, but gets drunk now and then. Will you find him a place in the Stamp Office?"

      "With pleasure."

      "No, now I think of it – the man knows my ways: I must keep him. But my old wine-merchant – civil man, never dunned – is a bankrupt. I am under great obligations to him, and he has a very pretty daughter. Do you think you could thrust him into some small place in the Colonies, or make him a King's Messenger, or something of the sort?"

      "If you very much wish it, no doubt I can."

      "My dear Audley, I am but feeling my way: the fact is, I want something for myself."

      "Ah, that indeed gives me pleasure!" cried Egerton, with animation.

      "The mission to Florence will soon be vacant – I know it privately. The place would quite suit me. Pleasant city; the best figs in Italy – very little to do. You could sound Lord – on the subject."

      "I will answer beforehand. Lord – would be enchanted to secure to the public service a man so accomplished as yourself, and the son of a peer like Lord Lansmere."

      Harley L'Estrange sprang to his feet, and flung his cigar in the face of a stately policeman who was looking up at the balcony.

      "Infamous and bloodless official!" cried Harley L'Estrange; "so you could provide for a pimple-nosed lackey – for a wine-merchant who has been poisoning the king's subjects with white-lead or sloe-juice – for an idle sybarite, who would complain of a crumpled rose-leaf; and nothing, in all the vast patronage of England, for a broken-down soldier, whose dauntless breast was her rampart!"

      "Harley," said the Member of Parliament, with his calm sensible smile, "this would be a very good clap-trap at a small theatre; but there is nothing in which Parliament demands such rigid economy as the military branch of the public service; and no man for whom it is so hard to effect what we must plainly call a job as a subaltern officer, who has done nothing more than his duty – and all military men do that. Still, as you take it so earnestly, I will use what interest I can at the War Office, and get him, perhaps, the mastership of a barrack."

      "You had better; for, if you do not, I swear I will turn Radical, and come down to your own city to oppose you, with Hunt and Cobbett to canvass for me."

      "I should be very glad to see you come into Parliament, even as a Radical, and at my expense," said Audley, with great kindness. "But the air is growing cold, and you are not accustomed to our climate. Nay, if you are too poetic for catarrhs and rheums, I'm not – come in."

      CHAPTER VI

      Lord L'Estrange threw himself on a sofa, and leant his cheek on his hand thoughtfully. Audley Egerton sate near him, with his arms folded, and gazed on his friend's face with a soft expression of aspect, which was very unusual to the firm outline of his handsome features. The two men were as dissimilar in person as the reader will have divined that they were in character. All about Egerton was so rigid, all about L'Estrange so easy. In every posture of Harley's there was the unconscious grace of a child. The very fashion of his garments showed his abhorrence of restraint. His clothes were wide and loose; his neckcloth, tied carelessly, left his throat half bare. You could see that he had lived much in warm and southern lands, and contracted a contempt for conventionalities; there was as little in his dress as in his talk of the formal precision of the north. He was three or four years younger than Audley, but he looked at least twelve years younger. In fact, he was one of those men to whom old age seems impossible – voice, look, figure, had all the charm of youth; and, perhaps it was from this gracious youthfulness – at all events, it was characteristic of the kind of love he inspired – that neither his parents, nor the few friends admitted into his intimacy, ever called him, in their habitual intercourse, by the name of his title. He was not L'Estrange with them, he was Harley; and by that familiar baptismal I will usually designate him. He was not one of those men whom author or reader wish to view at a distance, and remember as "my Lord" – it was so rarely that he remembered it himself. For the rest, it had been said of him by a shrewd wit – "He is so natural that every one calls him affected." Harley L'Estrange was not so critically handsome as Audley Egerton; to a commonplace observer he was, at best, rather goodlooking than otherwise. But women said that he had "a beautiful countenance," and they were not wrong. He wore his hair, which was of a fair chestnut, long, and in loose curls; and instead of the Englishman's whiskers, indulged in the foreigner's moustache. His complexion was delicate, though not effeminate: it was rather the delicacy of a student, than of a woman. But in his clear grey eye there was wonderful vigour of life. A skilful physiologist, looking only into that eye, would have recognised rare stamina of constitution – a nature so rich that, while easily disturbed, it would require all the effects of time, or all the fell combinations of passion and grief, to exhaust it. Even now, though so thoughtful, and even so sad, the rays of that eye were as concentred and steadfast as the light of the diamond.

      "You were only, then, in jest," said Audley, after a long silence, "when you spoke of this mission to Florence. You have still no idea of entering into public life."

      "None."

      "I had hoped better things when I got your promise to pass one season in London. But, indeed, you have kept your promise to the ear to break it to the spirit. I could not presuppose that you would shun all society, and be as much of a hermit here as under the vines of Como."

      "I have sate in the Strangers' Gallery, and heard your great speakers; I have been in the pit of the opera, and seen your fine ladies; I have walked your streets, I have lounged in your parks, and I say that I can't fall in love with a faded dowager, because she fills up her wrinkles with rouge."

      "Of what dowager do you speak?" asked the matter-of-fact Audley.

      "She has a great many titles. Some people call her fashion, you busy men, politics: it is all one – tricked out and artificial. I mean London life. No, I can't fall in love with her, fawning old harridan!"

      "I wish you could fall in love with something."

      "I wish I could, with all my heart."

      "But you are so blasé."

      "On the contrary, I am so fresh. Look out of the window – what do you see?"

      "Nothing!"

      "Nothing – "

      "Nothing but houses and dusty lilacs, my coachman dozing on his box, and two women in pattens crossing the kennel."

      "I see none of that where I lie on the sofa. I see but the stars. And I feel for them as I did when I was a schoolboy at Eton. It is you who are blasé, not I – enough of this. You do not forget my commission, with respect to the exile who has married into your brother's family?"

      "No; but here you set me a task more difficult than that of saddling your cornet on the War Office."

      "I know it is difficult, for the counter influence is vigilant and strong; but, on the other hand, the enemy is so damnable a traitor that one must have the Fates and the household gods on one's side."

      "Nevertheless," said the practical Audley, bending over a book on the table, "I think that the best plan would be to attempt a compromise with the traitor."

      "To judge of others by myself," answered Harley with spirit, "it were less bitter to put up with wrong than to palter with it for compensation. And such wrong! Compromise with the open foe – that may be СКАЧАТЬ