The mayor turned round sharply, and his face was purple. He walked straight to the door; but suffering the attendant to precede him along the corridor, he came back with a rapid stride, and clenching his hands, and with a voice thick with passion, cried, “Some day or other I will make you smart for this, as sure as my name’s Dick Avenel!”
“Avenel!” repeated Egerton, recoiling,—“Avenel!” But the mayor was gone.
Audley fell into a deep and musing revery, which seemed gloomy, and lasted till the attendant announced that the horses were at the door.
He then looked up, still abstractedly, and saw his letter to Harley L’Estrange open on the table. He drew it towards him, and wrote, “A man has just left me, who calls himself Aven—” In the middle of the name his pen stopped. “No, no,” muttered the writer, “what folly to reopen the old wounds there!” and he carefully erased the words.
Audley Egerton did not ride in the Park that day, as was his wont, but dismissed his groom; and, turning his horse’s head towards Westminster Bridge, took his solitary way into the country. He rode at first slowly, as if in thought; then fast, as if trying to escape from thought. He was later than usual at the House that evening, and he looked pale and fatigued. But he had to speak, and he spoke well.
CHAPTER VII.
In spite of all his Machiavellian wisdom, Dr. Riccabocca had been foiled in his attempt to seduce Leonard Fairfield into his service, even though he succeeded in partially winning over the widow to his views. For to her he represented the worldly advantages of the thing. Lenny would learn to be fit for more than a day-labourer; he would learn gardening, in all its branches,—rise some day to be a head gardener. “And,” said Riccabocca, “I will take care of his book-learning, and teach him whatever he has a head for.”
“He has a head for everything,” said the widow.
“Then,” said the wise man, “everything shall go into it.” The widow was certainly dazzled; for, as we have seen, she highly prized scholarly distinction, and she knew that the parson looked upon Riccabocca as a wondrous learned man. But still Riccabocca was said to be a Papist, and suspected to be a conjuror. Her scruples on both these points, the Italian, who was an adept in the art of talking over the fair sex, would no doubt have dissipated, if there had been any use in it; but Lenny put a dead stop to all negotiations. He had taken a mortal dislike to Riccabocca: he was very much frightened by him,—and the spectacles, the pipe, the cloak, the long hair, and the red umbrella; and said so sturdily, in reply to every overture, “Please, sir, I’d rather not; I’d rather stay along with Mother,” that Riccabocca was forced to suspend all further experiments in his Machiavellian diplomacy. He was not at all cast down, however, by his first failure; on the contrary, he was one of those men whom opposition stimulates; and what before had been but a suggestion of prudence, became an object of desire. Plenty of other lads might no doubt be had on as reasonable terms as Lenny Fairfield; but the moment Lenny presumed to baffle the Italian’s designs upon him, the special acquisition, of Lenny became of paramount importance in the eyes of Signor Riccabocca.