“Jemima, wife mine! pardon, pardon,” cried the Italian, whose heart had been yearning to repay such tenderness and devotion,—“come back to my breast—it has been long closed,—it shall be open to you now and forever.”
In another moment the wife was in her right place,—on her husband’s bosom; and Violante, beautiful peacemaker, stood smiling awhile at both, and then lifted her eyes gratefully to heaven and stole away.
CHAPTER XIII.
On Randal’s return to town, he heard mixed and contradictory rumours in the streets, and at the clubs, of the probable downfall of the Government at the approaching session of parliament. These rumours had sprung up suddenly, as if in an hour. True that, for some time, the sagacious had shaken their heads and said, “Ministers could not last.” True, that certain changes in policy, a year or two before, had divided the party on which the Government depended, and strengthened that which opposed it. But still the more important members of that Government had been so long identified with official station, and there seemed so little power in the Opposition to form a Cabinet of names familiar to official ears, that the general public had anticipated, at most, a few partial changes. Rumour now went far beyond this. Randal, whose whole prospects at present were but reflections from the greatness of his patron, was alarmed. He sought Egerton, but the minister was impenetrable, and seemed calm, confident, and imperturbed. Somewhat relieved, Randal then set himself to work to find a safe home for Riccabocca; for the greater need to succeed in obtaining fortune there, if he failed in getting it through Egerton. He found a quiet house, detached and secluded, in the neighbourhood of Norwood. No vicinity more secure from espionage and remark. He wrote to Riccabocca, and communicated the address, adding fresh assurances of his own power to be of use. The next morning he was seated in his office, thinking very little of the details, that he mastered, however, with mechanical precision, when the minister who presided over that department of the public service sent for him into his private room, and begged him to take a letter to Egerton, with whom he wished to consult relative to a very important point to be decided in the Cabinet that day. “I want you to take it,” said the minister, smiling (the minister was a frank homely man), “because you are in Mr. Egerton’s confidence, and he may give you some verbal message besides a written reply. Egerton is often over cautious and brief in the litera scripta.”
Randal went first to Egerton’s neighbouring office—Egerton had not been there that day. He then took a cabriolet and drove to Grosvenor Square. A quiet-looking chariot was at the door. Mr. Egerton was at home; but the servant said, “Dr. F——- is with him, sir; and perhaps he may not like to be disturbed.”
“What! is your master ill?”
“Not that I know of, sir. He never says he is ill. But he has looked poorly the last day or two.”
Randal hesitated a moment; but his commission might be important, and Egerton was a man who so held the maxim that health and all else must give way to business, that he resolved to enter; and, unannounced and unceremoniously, as was his wont, he opened the door of the library. He started as he did so. Audley Egerton was leaning back on the sofa, and the doctor, on his knees before him, was applying the stethoscope to his breast. Egerton’s eyes were partially closed as the door opened. But at the noise he sprang up, nearly oversetting the doctor. “Who’s that? How dare you?” he exclaimed, in a voice of great anger. Then recognizing Randal, he changed colour, bit his lip, and muttered dryly, “I beg pardon for my abruptness; what do you want, Mr. Leslie?”
“This letter from Lord—; I was told to deliver it immediately into your own hands. I beg pardon—”