Peschiera had not been so inactive as he had appeared to Harley and the
reader. On the contrary, he had prepared the way for his ultimate
design, with all the craft and the unscrupulous resolution which
belonged to his nature. His object was to compel Riccabocca into
assenting to the Count’s marriage with Violante, or, failing that, to
ruin all chance of his kinsman’s restoration. Quietly and secretly he
had sought out, amongst the most needy and unprincipled of his own
countrymen, those whom he could suborn to depose to Riccabocca’s
participation in plots and conspiracies against the Austrian dominions.
These his former connection with the Carbonari enabled him to track in
their refuge in London; and his knowledge of the characters he had to
deal with fitted him well for the villanous task he undertook.
He had, therefore, already collected witnesses sufficient for his
purposes, making up in number for their defects in quality. Meanwhile,
he had (as Harley had suspected he would) set spies upon Randal’s
movements; and the day before that young traitor confided to him
Violante’s retreat, he had, at least, got scent of her father’s.
The discovery that Violante was under a roof so honoured, and seemingly
so safe as Lord Lansmere’s, did not discourage this bold and desperate
adventurer. We have seen him set forth to reconnoitre the house at
Knightsbridge. He had examined it well, and discovered the quarter which
he judged favourable to a _coup-de-main_, should that become necessary.
Lord Lansmere’s house and grounds were surrounded by a wall, the
entrance being to the high-road, and by a porter’s lodge. At the rear
there lay fields crossed by a lane or by-road. To these fields a small
door in the wall, which was used by the gardeners in passing to and from
their work, gave communication. This door was usually kept locked; but
the lock was of the rude and simple description common to such
entrances, and easily opened by a skeleton key. So far there was no
obstacle which Peschiera’s experience in conspiracy and gallantry did
not disdain as trivial. But the Count was not disposed to abrupt and
violent means in the first instance. He had a confidence in his personal
gifts, in his address, in his previous triumphs over the sex, which made
him naturally desire to hazard the effect of a personal interview; and
on this he resolved with his wonted audacity. Randal’s description of
Violante’s personal appearance, and such suggestions as to her character
and the motives most likely to influence her actions, as that young
lynx-eyed observer could bestow, were all that the Count required of
present aid from his accomplice.
Meanwhile we return to Violante herself. We see her now seated in the
gardens at Knightsbridge, side by side with Helen. The place was
retired, and out of sight from the windows of the house.
VIOLANTE.—“But why will you not tell me more of that early time? You are
less communicative even than Leonard.”
HELEN, (looking down, and hesitatingly.)—“Indeed there is nothing to
tell you that you do not know; and it is so long since, and things are
so changed now.”
The tone of the last words was mournful, and the words ended with a
sigh.
VIOLANTE, (with enthusiasm.)—“How I envy you that past which you treat
so lightly! To have been something, even in childhood, to the formation
of a noble nature; to have borne on those slight shoulders half the load
of a man’s grand labour. And now to see Genius moving calm in its clear
career; and to say inly, ‘Of that genius I am a part!’”
“HELEN, (sadly and humbly.)—“A part! Oh, no! A part? I don’t understand
you.”
VIOLANTE.—“Take the child Beatrice from Dante’s life, and should we have
a Dante? What is a poet’s genius but the voice of its emotions? All
things in life and in Nature influence genius; but what influences it
the most, are its sorrows and affections.”
Helen looks softly into Violante’s eloquent face, and draws nearer to
her in tender silence.
VIOLANTE, (suddenly.)—“Yes, Helen, yes—I know by my own heart how to
read yours. Such memories are ineffaceable. Few guess what strange
self-weavers of our own destinies we women are in our veriest
childhood!” She sunk her voice into a whisper: “How could Leonard fail
to be dear to you—dear as you to him—dearer than all others?”
HELEN, (shrinking back, and greatly disturbed.)—“Hush, hush! you must
not speak to me thus; it is wicked—I cannot bear it. I would not have it
be so—it must not be—it cannot!”
She clasped her hands over her eyes for a moment, and then lifted her
face, and the face was very sad, but very calm.
VIOLANTE, (twining her arm round Helen’s waist.)—“How have I wounded
you?—how offended? Forgive me—but why is this wicked? Why must it not
be? Is it because he is below you in birth?”
HELEN.—“No, no—I never thought of that. And what am I? Don’t ask me—I
cannot answer. You are wrong, quite wrong, as to me. I can only look on
Leonard as—as a brother. But—but, you can speak to him more freely than
I can. I would not have him waste his heart on me, nor yet think me
unkind and distant, as I seem. I know not what I say. But—but—break to
him—indirectly—gently—that duty in both forbids us both to—to be more
than friends—than——”
“Helen, Helen!” cried Violante, in her warm, generous passion, “your
heart betrays you in every word you say. You weep; lean on me, whisper
to me; why—why is this? Do you fear that your guardian would not
consent? He not consent! He who—”
HELEN.—“Cease—cease—cease.”
VIOLANTE.—“What! You can fear Harley—Lord L’Estrange? Fie; you do not
know him.”
HELEN, (rising suddenly.)—“Violante, hold; I am engaged to another.”
Violante rose also, and stood still, as if turned to stone; pale as
death, till the blood came, at first slowly, then with suddenness from
her heart, and one deep glow suffused her whole countenance. She caught
Helen’s hand firmly, and said, in a hollow voice—
“Another! Engaged to another! One word, Helen—not to him—not
to—Harley—to——”
“I cannot say—I must not. I have promised,” cried poor Helen, and as
Violante let fall her hand, she hurried away.
Violante sate down, mechanically. She felt as if stunned by a mortal
blow. She closed her eyes, and breathed hard. A deadly faintness seized
her; and when it passed away, it seemed to her as if she were no longer
the same being, nor the world around her the same world—as if she were
but one sense of intense, hopeless misery, and as if the universe were
but one inanimate void. So strangely immaterial are we really—we human
beings, with flesh and blood—that if you suddenly abstract from us but a
single, impalpable, airy thought, which our souls have cherished, you
seem to curdle the air, to extinguish the sun, to snap every link that
connects us to matter, and to benumb everything into death, except woe.
And this warm, young, southern nature, but a moment before was so full
of joy and life, and vigorous, lofty hope. It never till now had known
its own intensity and depth. The virgin had never lifted the veil from
her own soul of woman. What, till then, had Harley L’Estrange been to
Violante? An ideal—a dream of some imagined excellence—a type of poetry
in the midst of the common world. It had not been Harley the Man—it had
been Harley the Phantom. She had never said to herself, “He is
identified with my love, my hopes, my home, my future.” How could she?
Of such, he himself had never spoken; an internal voice, indeed, had
vaguely, yet irresistibly, whispered to her that, despite his light
words, his feelings towards her were grave and deep. O false voice! how
it had deceived her. Her quick convictions seized the all that Helen had
left unsaid. And now suddenly she felt what it is to love, and what it
is to despair. So she sate, crushed and solitary, neither murmuring nor
weeping, only now and then passing her hand across her brow, as if to
clear away some cloud that would not be dispersed; or heaving a deep
sigh, as if to throw off some load that no time henceforth could remove.
There are certain moments in life in which we say to ourselves, “All is
over; no matter what else changes, that which I have made my all is gone
evermore—evermore.” And our own thought rings back in our ears,
“Evermore—evermore!”