LITMIR.BIZ

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of sight, and then returned slowly. Young Leslie continued to walk on at a quick pace. With all his intellectual culture, and his restless aspirations, his breast afforded him no thought so generous, no sentiment so poetic, as those with which the unlettered clown crept slouchingly homeward.

      As Randal gained a point where several lanes met on a broad piece of waste land, he began to feel tired, and his step slackened. Just then a gig emerged from one of these by-roads, and took the same direction as the pedestrian. The road was rough and hilly, and the driver proceeded at a foot's-pace; so that the gig and the pedestrian went pretty well abreast.

      "You seem tired, sir," said the driver, a stout young farmer of the higher class of tenants, and he looked down compassionately on the boy's pale countenance and weary stride. "Perhaps we are going the same way, and I can give you a lift?"

      It was Randal's habitual policy to make use of every advantage proffered to him, and he accepted the proposal frankly enough to please the honest farmer.

      "A nice day, sir," said the latter, as Randal sat by his side. "Have you come far?"

      "From Rood Hall."

      "Oh, you be young Squire Leslie," said the farmer, more respectfully, and lifting his hat.

      "Yes, my name is Leslie. You know Rood, then?"

      "I was brought up on your father's land, sir. You may have heard of Farmer Bruce?"

      Randal. – "I remember, when I was a little boy, a Mr Bruce, who rented, I believe, the best part of our land, and who used to bring us cakes when he called to see my father. He is a relation of yours?"

      Farmer Bruce. – "He was my uncle. He is dead now, poor man."

      Randal. – "Dead! I am grieved to hear it. He was very kind to us children. But it is long since he left my father's farm."

      Farmer Bruce, apologetically. – "I am sure he was very sorry to go. But, you see, he had an unexpected legacy – "

      Randal. – "And retired from business?"

      Farmer Bruce. – "No. But, having capital, he could afford to pay a good rent for a real good farm."

      Randal, bitterly. – "All capital seems to fly from the lands of Rood. And whose farm did he take?"

      Farmer Bruce. – "He took Hawleigh, under Squire Hazeldean. I rent it now. We've laid out a power o' money on it. But I don't complain. It pays well."

      Randal. – "Would the money have paid as well, sunk on my father's land?"

      Farmer Bruce. – "Perhaps it might, in the long run. But then, sir, we wanted new premises – barns and cattle-sheds, and a deal more – which the landlord should do; but it is not every landlord as can afford that. Squire Hazeldean's a rich man."

      Randal. – "Ay!"

      The road now became pretty good, and the farmer put his horse into a brisk trot.

      "But which way be you going, sir? I don't care for a few miles more or less, if I can be of service."

      "I am going to Hazeldean," said Randal, rousing himself from a reverie. "Don't let me take you out of your way."

      "Oh, Hawleigh Farm is on the other side of the village, so it be quite my way, sir."

      The farmer then, who was really a smart young fellow – one of that race which the application of capital to land has produced, and which, in point of education and refinement, are at least on a par with the squires of a former generation – began to talk about his handsome horse, about horses in general, about hunting and coursing: he handled all these subjects with spirit, yet with modesty. Randal pulled his hat still lower down over his brows, and did not interrupt him till past the Casino, when, struck by the classic air of the place, and catching a scent from the orange trees, the boy asked abruptly – "Whose house is that?"

      "Oh, it belongs to Squire Hazeldean, but it is let or lent to a foreign Mounseer. They say he is quite the gentleman, but uncommonly poor."

      "Poor," said Randal, turning back to gaze on the trim garden, the neat terrace, the pretty belvidere, and (the door of the house being open) catching a glimpse of the painted hall within – "poor, the place seems well kept. What do you call poor, Mr Bruce?"

      The farmer laughed. "Well, that's a home question, sir. But I believe the Mounseer is as poor as a man can be who makes no debts and does not actually starve."

      "As poor as my father?" asked Randal openly and abruptly.

      "Lord, sir! your father be a very rich man compared to him."

      Randal continued to gaze, and his mind's eye conjured up the contrast of his slovenly shabby home, with all its neglected appurtenances! No trim garden at Rood Hall, no scent from odorous orange blossoms. Here poverty at least was elegant – there, how squalid! He did not comprehend at how cheap a rate the luxury of the Beautiful can be effected. They now approached the extremity of the Squire's park pales; and Randal, seeing a little gate, bade the farmer stop his gig, and descended. The boy plunged amidst the thick oak groves; the farmer went his way blithely, and his mellow merry whistle came to Randal's moody ear as he glided quick under the shadow of the trees.

      He arrived at the Hall, to find that all the family were at church; and, according to the patriarchal custom, the church-going family embraced nearly all the servants. It was therefore an old invalid housemaid who opened the door to him. She was rather deaf, and seemed so stupid that Randal did not ask leave to enter and wait for Frank's return. He therefore said briefly that he would just stroll on the lawn, and call again when church was over.

      The old woman stared, and strove to hear him; meanwhile Randal turned round abruptly, and sauntered towards the garden side of the handsome old house.

      There was enough to attract any eye in the smooth greensward of the spacious lawn – in the numerous parterres of varying flowers – in the venerable grandeur of the two mighty cedars, which threw their still shadows over the grass – and in the picturesque building, with its projecting mullions and heavy gables; yet I fear that it was with no poet's nor painter's eye that this young old man gazed on the scene before him.

      He beheld the evidence of wealth – and the envy of wealth jaundiced his soul.

      Folding his arms on his breast, he stood awhile, looking all around him with closed lips and lowering brow; then he walked slowly on, his eyes fixed on the ground, and muttered to himself —

      "The heir to this property is little better than a dunce; and they tell me I have talents and learning, and I have taken to my heart the maxim, 'Knowledge is power.' And yet, with all my struggles, will knowledge ever place me on the same level as that on which this dunce is born? I don't wonder that the poor should hate the rich. But of all the poor, who should hate the rich like the pauper gentleman? I suppose Audley Egerton means me to come into Parliament, and be a Tory like himself. What! keep things as they are! No; for me not even Democracy, unless there first come Revolution. I understand the cry of a Marat – 'More blood!' Marat had lived as a poor man, and cultivated science – in the sight of a prince's palace."

      He turned sharply round, and glared vindictively on the poor old hall, which, though a very comfortable habitation, was certainly no palace; and with his arms still folded on his breast, he walked backward, as if not to lose the view, nor the chain of ideas it conjured up.

      "But," he continued to soliloquise – "but of revolution there is no chance. Yet the same wit and will that would thrive in revolutions should thrive in this commonplace life. Knowledge is power. Well, then, shall I have no power to oust this blockhead? Oust him – what from? His father's halls? Well – but if he were dead, who would be the heir of Hazeldean? Have I not heard my mother say that I am as near in blood to this Squire as any one, if he had no children? Oh, but the boy's life is worth ten of mine! Oust him from what? At least from the thoughts of his uncle Egerton – an uncle who has never even seen him! That, at least, is more feasible. 'Make my way in life,' sayest thou, Audley Egerton. Ay – and to the fortune thou hast robbed from my ancestors. Simulation – simulation. Lord Bacon allows simulation. Lord Bacon practised it – and" —

      Here the soliloquy came to a sudden end; for as, rapt

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