EGERTON.—“DO you really feel that your intended marriage will bestow on you the happiness, which is my prayer, as it must be your mother’s?”
HARLEY.—“Happiness, I hoped so. But perhaps—”
EGERTON.—“Perhaps what?”
HARLEY.—“Perhaps the marriage may not take place. Perhaps I have a rival; not an open one,—a secret, stealthy wooer, in one, too, whom I have loved, served, trusted. Question me not now. Such instances of treachery make one learn more how to prize a friendship honest, devoted, faithful as your own, Audley Egerton. But here comes your protege, released awhile from his canvass, and your confidential adviser, Baron Levy. He accompanied Randal through the town to-day. So anxious is he to see that that young man does not play false, and regard his own interest before yours! Would that surprise you?”
EGERTON.—“You are too severe upon Randal Leslie. He is ambitious, worldly, has no surplus of affection at the command of his heart—”
HARLEY.—“Is it Randal Leslie you describe?”
EGERTON (with a languid smile).—“Yes, you see I do not flatter. But he is born and reared a gentleman; as such he would scarcely do anything mean. And, after all, it is with me that he must rise or fall. His very intellect must tell him that. But again I ask, do not strive to prepossess me against him. I am a man who could have loved a son. I have none. Randal, such as he is, is a sort of son. He carries on my projects and my interest in the world of men beyond the goal of the tomb.”
Audley turned kindly to Randal.
“Well, Leslie, what report of the canvass?”
“Levy has the book, sir. I think we have gained ten fresh votes for you, and perhaps seven for me.”