“Count on me, certainly, my dear fellow,” said the baron. “And I suppose there will be no witness the other way. Done for eternally is my poor dear friend Peschiera, whose cigars, by-the-by, were matchless;—I wonder if there will be any for sale. And if he were not so done for, it is not you, it is L’Estrange, that he would be tempted to do for!”
“We may blot Peschiera out of the map of the future,” rejoined Randal. “Men from whom henceforth we have nothing to hope or to fear are to us as the races before the deluge.”
“Fine remark,” quoth the baron, admiringly. “Peschiera, though not without brains, was a complete failure. And when the failure of one I have tried to serve is complete, the rule I have adopted through life is to give him up altogether.”
“Of course,” said Randal.
“Of course,” echoed the baron. “On the other hand, you know that I like pushing forward young men of mark and promise. You really are amazingly clever; but how comes it you don’t speak better? Do you know, I doubt whether you will do in the House of Commons all that I expected from your address and readiness in private life.”
“Because I cannot talk trash vulgar enough for a mob? Pooh! I shall succeed wherever knowledge is really power. Besides, you must allow for my infernal position. You know, after all, that Avenel, if he can only return himself or his nephew, still holds in his hands the choice of the candidate upon our side. I cannot attack him; I cannot attack his insolent nephew—”
“Insolent!—not that, but bitterly eloquent. He hits you hard. You are no match for him, Randal, before a popular audience; though, en petit comite, the devil himself were hardly a match for you. But now to a somewhat more serious point. Your election you will win, your bride is promised to you; but the old Leslie lands, in the present possession of Squire Thornhill, you have not gained,—and your chance of gaining them is in great jeopardy. I did not like to tell you this morning,—it would have spoiled your temper for canvassing; but I have received a letter from Thornhill himself. He has had an offer for the property, which is only L1000 short of what he asks. A city alderman, called Jobson, is the bidder; a man, it seems, of large means and few words. The alderman has fixed the date on which he must have a definite answer; and that date falls on the —th, two days after that fixed for the poll at Lansmere. The brute declares he will close with another investment, if Thornhill does not then come in to his terms. Now, as Thornhill will accept these terms unless I can positively promise him better, and as those funds on which you calculated (had the marriage of Peschiera with Violante, and Frank Hazeldean with Madame di Negra, taken place) fail you, I see no hope for your being in time with the money,—and the old lands of the Leslies must yield their rents to a Jobson.”
“I care for nothing on earth like those old lands of my forefathers,” said Randal, with unusual vehemence; “I reverence so little amongst the living, and I do reverence the dead. And my marriage will take place so soon; and the dower would so amply cover the paltry advance required.”
“Yes; but the mere prospect of a marriage to the daughter of a man whose lands are still sequestered would be no security to a money-lender.”
“Surely,” said Randal, “you, who once offered to assist me when my fortunes were more precarious, might now accommodate me with this loan, as a friend, and keep the title-deeds of the estate as—”