Randal to solve. As the young Etonian’s face was turned to the light, your first impression on seeing it would have been melancholy, but respectful, interest,—for the face had already lost the joyous character of youth; there was a wrinkle between the brows; and the lines that speak of fatigue were already visible under the eyes and about the mouth; the complexion was sallow, the lips were pale. Years of study had already sown in the delicate organization the seeds of many an infirmity and many a pain; but if your look had rested longer on that countenance, gradually your compassion might have given place to some feeling uneasy and sinister,—a feeling akin to fear. There was in the whole expression so much of cold calm force, that it belied the debility of the frame. You saw there the evidence of a mind that was cultivated, and you felt that in that cultivation there was something formidable. A notable contrast to this countenance, prematurely worn and eminently intelligent, was the round healthy face of Oliver, with slow blue eyes fixed hard on the penetrating orbs of his brother, as if trying with might and main to catch from them a gleam of that knowledge with which they shone clear and frigid as a star.
At Frank’s knock, Oliver’s slow blue eyes sparkled into animation, and he sprang from his brother’s side. The little girl flung back the hair from her face, and stared at her mother with a look which spoke wonder and fright.
The young student knit his brows, and then turned wearily back to the books on his desk.
“Dear me,” cried Mrs. Leslie, “who can that possibly be? Oliver, come from the window, sir, this instant: you will be seen! Juliet, run, ring the bell; no, go to the head of the kitchen stairs, and call out to Jenny ‘Not at home.’ Not at home, on any account,” repeated Mrs. Leslie, nervously, for the Montfydget blood was now in full flow.
In another minute or so, Frank’s loud boyish voice was distinctly heard at the outer door.
Randal slightly started.
“Frank Hazeldean’s voice,” said he; “I should like to see him, Mother.”
“See him,” repeated Mrs. Leslie, in amaze; “see him! and the room in this state!”
Randal might have replied that the room was in no worse state than usual; but he said nothing. A slight flush came and went over his pale face; and then he leaned his check on his hand, and compressed his lips firmly.
The outer door closed with a sullen, inhospitable jar, and a slip-shod female servant entered with a card between her finger and thumb.
“Who is that for?—give it to me. Jenny,” cried Mrs. Leslie.
But Jenny shook her head, laid the card on the desk beside Randal, and vanished without saying a word.
“Oh, look, Randal, look up,” cried Oliver, who had again rushed to the window; “such a pretty gray pony!”
Randal did look up; nay, he went deliberately to the window, and gazed a moment on the high-mettled pony and the well-dressed, spirited rider. In that moment changes passed over Randal’s countenance more rapidly than clouds over the sky in a gusty day. Now envy and discontent, with the curled lip and the gloomy scowl; now hope and proud self-esteem, with the clearing brow and the lofty smile; and then again all became cold, firm, and close, as he walked back to his books, seated himself resolutely, and said, half aloud,—“Well, KNOWLEDGE IS POWER!”
CHAPTER IV
Mrs. Leslie came up in fidget and in fuss; she leaned over Randal’s shoulder and read the card. Written in pen and ink, with an attempt at imitation of printed Roman character, there appeared first “MR. FRANK HAZELDEAN;” but just over these letters, and scribbled hastily and less legibly in pencil, was,—
“DEAR LESLIE,—Sorry you were out; come and see us,—do!”
“You will go, Randal?” said Mrs. Leslie, after a pause.
“I am not sure.”
“Yes, you can go; you have clothes like a gentleman; you can go anywhere, not like those children;” and Mrs. Leslie glanced almost spitefully at poor Oliver’s coarse threadbare jacket, and little Juliet’s torn frock.
“What I have I owe at present to Mr. Egerton, and I should consult his wishes; he is not on good terms with these Hazeldeans.” Then turning towards his brother, who looked mortified, he added, with a strange sort of haughty kindness, “What I may have hereafter, Oliver, I shall owe to myself; and then if I rise, I will raise my family.”
“Dear Randal,” said Mrs. Leslie, fondly kissing him on the forehead, “what a good heart you have!”
“No, Mother; my books don’t tell me that it is a good heart that gets on in the world: it is a hard head,” replied Randal, with a rude and scornful candour. “But I can read no more just now: come out, Oliver.”
So saying, he slid from his mother’s hand and left the room. When Oliver joined him, Randal was already on the common; and, without seeming to notice his brother, he continued to walk quickly, and with long strides, in profound silence. At length he paused under the shade of an old oak, that, too old to be of value save for firewood, had escaped the axe. The tree stood on a knoll, and the spot commanded a view of the decayed house, the dilapidated church, the dreary village.
“Oliver,” said Randal, between his teeth, so that his voice had the sound of a hiss, “it was under this tree that I first resolved to—”
He paused.
“What, Randal?”
“Read hard: knowledge is power!”
“But you are so fond of reading.”
“I!” cried Randal. “Do you think, when Wolsey and Thomas-a-Becket became priests, they were fond of telling their beads and pattering Aves? I fond of reading!”
Oliver stared; the historical allusions were beyond his comprehension.
“You know,” continued Randal, “that we Leslies were not always the beggarly poor gentlemen we are now. You know that there is a man who lives in Grosvenor Square, and is very rich,—very. His riches come to him from a Leslie; that man is my patron, Oliver, and he—is very good to me.”
Randal’s smile was withering as he spoke. “Come on,” he said, after a pause,—“come on.” Again the walk was quick, and the brothers were silent.
They came at length to a little shallow brook, across which some large stones had been placed at short intervals, so that the boys walked over the ford dryshod. “Will you pull down that bough, Oliver?” said Randal, abruptly, pointing to a tree. Oliver obeyed mechanically; and Randal, stripping the leaves and snapping off the twigs, left a fork at the end; with this he began to remove the stepping-stones.
“What are you about, Randal?” asked Oliver, wonderingly.
“We are on the other side of the brook now, and we shall not come back this way. We don’t want the stepping-stones any more!—away with them!”
CHAPTER V
The morning after this visit of Frank Hazeldean’s to Rood Hall, the Right Honourable
