“So was William the Norman’s,—still he was William the Conqueror. Thou biddest me move on from the Past, and be consoled, yet thou wouldst make me as inapt to progress as the mule in Slawkenbergius’s tale, with thy cursed interlocutions, ‘Stumbling, by Saint Nicholas, every step. Why, at this rate, we shall be all night in getting into’—HAPPINESS! Listen,” continued Harley, setting off, full pelt, into one of his wild whimsical humours. “One of the sons of the prophets in Israel felling wood near the river Jordan, his hatchet forsook the helve, and fell to the bottom of the river; so he prayed to have it again (it was but a small request, mark you); and having a strong faith, he did not throw the hatchet after the helve, but the helve after the hatchet. Presently two great miracles were seen. Up springs the hatchet from the bottom of the water, and fixes itself to its old acquaintance, the helve. Now, had he wished to coach it up to heaven in a fiery chariot like Elias, be as rich as Job, strong as Samson, and beautiful as Absalom, would he have obtained the wish, do you think? In truth, my friend, I question it very much.”
“I can’t comprehend what you mean. Sad stuff you are talking.”
“I cannot help that; ‘Rabelais is to be blamed for it. I am quoting him, and it is to be found in his Prologue to the Chapters on the ‘Moderation of Wishes.’ And a propos of ‘moderate wishes in point of hatchet,’ I want you to understand that I ask but little from Heaven. I fling but the helve after the hatchet that has sunk into the silent stream. I want the other half of the weapon that is buried fathom deep, and for want of which the thick woods darken round me by the Sacred River, and I can catch not a glimpse of the stars.”
“In plain English,” said Audley Egerton, “you want—” he stopped short, puzzled.
“I want my purpose and my will, and my old character, and the nature God gave me. I want the half of my soul which has fallen from me. I want such love as may replace to me the vanished affections. Reason not,—I throw the helve after the hatchet.”
CHAPTER XXI.
Randal Leslie, on leaving Audley, repaired to Frank’s lodgings, and after being closeted with the young Guardsman an hour or so, took his way to Limmer’s hotel, and asked for Mr. Hazeldean. He was shown into the coffee-room, while the waiter went up-stairs with his card, to see if the squire was within, and disengaged. The “Times” newspaper lay sprawling on one of the tables, and Randal, leaning over it, looked with attention into the column containing births, deaths, and marriages. But in that long and miscellaneous list he could not conjecture the name which had so excited Mr. Egerton’s interest.
“Vexatious!” he muttered; “there is no knowledge which has power more useful than that of the secrets of men.”
He turned as the waiter entered and said that Mr. Hazeldean would be glad to see him.