Toward the evening, Randal was riding fast on the road to Norwood. The
arrival of Harley, and the conversation that had passed between that
nobleman and Randal, made the latter anxious to ascertain how far
Riccabocca was likely to learn L’Estrange’s return to England, and to meet
with him. For he felt that, should the latter come to know that
Riccabocca, in his movements, had gone by Randal’s advice, Harley would
find that Randal had spoken to him disingenuously; and, on the other hand,
Riccabocca, placed under the friendly protection of Lord L’Estrange, would
no longer need Randal Leslie to defend him from the machinations of
Peschiera. To a reader happily unaccustomed to dive into the deep and mazy
recesses of a schemer’s mind, it might seem that Randal’s interest, in
retaining a hold over the exile’s confidence, would terminate with the
assurances that had reached him, from more than one quarter, that Violante
might cease to be an heiress if she married himself. “But, perhaps,”
suggests some candid and youthful conjecturer—“perhaps Randal Leslie is in
love with this fair creature?” Randal in love! no! He was too absorbed by
harder passions for that blissful folly. Nor, if he could have fallen in
love, was Violante the one to attract that sullen, secret heart; her
instinctive nobleness, the very stateliness of her beauty, womanlike
though it was, awed him. Men of that kind may love some soft slave—they
can not lift their eyes to a queen. They may look down—they can not look
up. But, on the one hand, Randal could not resign altogether the _chance_
of securing a fortune that would realize his most dazzling dreams, upon
the mere assurance, however probable, which had so dismayed him; and, on
the other hand, should he be compelled to relinquish all idea of such
alliance, though he did not contemplate the base perfidy of actually
assisting Peschiera’s avowed designs, still, if Frank’s marriage with
Beatrice should absolutely depend upon her brother’s obtaining the
knowledge of Violante’s retreat, and that marriage should be as conducive
to his interests as he thought he could make it, why—he did not then push
his deductions farther, even to himself—they seemed too black; but he
sighed heavily, and that sigh foreboded how weak would be honor and virtue
against avarice and ambition. Therefore, on all accounts, Riccabocca was
one of those cards in a sequence, which so calculating a player would not
throw out of his hand: it _might_ serve for repique at the worst—it might
score well in the game. Intimacy with the Italian was still part and
parcel in that knowledge which was the synonym of power.
While the young man was thus meditating, on his road to Norwood,
Riccabocca and his Jemima were close conferring in their drawing-room. And
if you could have there seen them, reader, you would have been seized with
equal surprise and curiosity; for some extraordinary communication had
certainly passed between them. Riccabocca was evidently much agitated, and
with emotions not familiar to him. The tears stood in his eyes at the same
time that a smile, the reverse of cynical or sardonic, curved his lips;
while his wife was leaning her head on his shoulder, her hand clasped in
his, and, by the expression of her face, you might guess that he had paid
her some very gratifying compliment, of a nature more genuine and sincere
than those which characterized his habitual hollow and dissimulating
gallantry. But just at this moment Giacomo entered, and Jemima, with her
native English modesty, withdrew in haste from Riccabocca’s sheltering
side.
“Padrone,” said Giacomo, who, whatever his astonishment at the connubial
position he had disturbed, was much too discreet to betray it—“Padrone, I
see the young Englishman riding toward the house, and I hope, when he
arrives, you will not forget the alarming information I gave to you this
morning.”
“Ah—ah!” said Riccabocca, his face falling.
“If the Signorina were but married!”
“My very thought—my constant thought!” exclaimed Riccabocca. “And you
really believe the young Englishman loves her?”
“Why else should he come, Excellency?” asked Giacomo, with great
_naïveté_.
“Very true; why, indeed?” said Riccabocca. “Jemima, I can not endure the
terrors I suffer on that poor child’s account. I will open myself frankly
to Randal Leslie. And now, too, that which might have been a serious
consideration, in case I return to Italy, will no longer stand in our way,
Jemima.”
Jemima smiled faintly, and whispered something to Riccabocca, to which he
replied—
“Nonsense, _anima mia_. I know it _will_ be—have not a doubt of it. I tell
you it is as nine to four, according to the nicest calculations. I will
speak at once to Randal. He is too young—too timid to speak himself.”
“Certainly,” interposed Giacomo; “how could he dare to speak, let him love
ever so well?”
Jemima shook her head.
“O, never fear,” said Riccabocca, observing this gesture; “I will give him
the trial. If he entertain but mercenary views, I shall soon detect them.
I know human nature pretty well, I think, my love; and, Giacomo—just get
me my Machiavel—that’s right. Now, leave me, my dear; I must reflect and
prepare myself.”
When Randal entered the house, Giacomo, with a smile of peculiar suavity,
ushered him into the drawing-room. He found Riccabocca alone, and seated
before the fire-place, leaning his face on his hand, with the great folio
of Machiavel lying open on the table.
The Italian received him as courteously as usual; but there was in his
manner a certain serious and thoughtful dignity, which was, perhaps, the
more imposing, because but rarely assumed. After a few preliminary
observations, Randal remarked that Frank Hazeldean had informed him of the
curiosity which the disappearance of the Riccaboccas had excited at the
Hall, and inquired carelessly if the Doctor had left instructions as to
the forwarding of any letters that might be directed to him at the Casino.
“Letters,” said Riccabocca, simply—“I never receive any; or, at least, so
rarely, that it was not worth while to take an event so little to be
expected into consideration. No; if any letters do reach the Casino, there
they will wait.”
“Then I can see no possibility of indiscretion; no chance of a clew to
your address.”
“No I either.”
Satisfied so far, and knowing that it was not in Riccabocca’s habits to
read the newspapers, by which he might otherwise have learnt of
L’Estrange’s arrival in London, Randal then proceeded to inquire, with
much seeming interest, into the health of Violante—hoped it did not suffer
by confinement, &c. Riccabocca eyed him gravely while he spoke, and then
suddenly rising, that air of dignity to which I have before referred,
became yet more striking.
“My young friend,” said he, “hear me attentively, and answer me frankly. I
know human nature.”—Here a slight smile of proud complacency passed the
sage’s lips, and his eye glanced toward his Machiavel.
“I know human nature—at least I have studied it,” he renewed, more
earnestly, and with less evident self-conceit, “and I believe that when a
perfect stranger to me exhibits an interest in my affairs, which occasions
him no small trouble—an interest (continued the wise man, laying his hand
upon Randal’s shoulder) which scarcely a son could exceed, he must be
under the influence of some strong personal motive.”
“Oh, sir!” cried Randal, turning a shade more pale, and with a faltering
tone. Riccabocca surveyed him with the tenderness of a superior being, and
pursued his deductive theories.
“In your case, what is that motive? Not political; for I conclude you
share the opinions of your government, and those opinions have not favored
mine. Not that of pecuniary or ambitious calculations; for how can such
calculations enlist you on behalf of a ruined exile? What remains? Why the
motive which at your age is ever the most natural, and the strongest. I
don’t blame you. Machiavel himself allows that such a motive has swayed
the wisest minds, and overturned the most solid states. In a word, young
man, you are in love, and with my daughter Violante.”
Randal was so startled by this direct and unexpected charge upon his own
masked batteries, that he did not even attempt his defense. His head
drooped on his breast, and he remained speechless.
“I do not doubt,” resumed the penetrating judge of human nature, “that you
would have been withheld by the laudable and generous scruples which
characterize your happy age, from voluntarily disclosing to me the state
of your heart. You might suppose that, proud of the position I once held,
or sanguine in the hope of regaining my inheritance, I might be
over-ambitious in my matrimonial views for Violante; or that you,
anticipating my restoration to honors and fortune, might seem actuated by
the last motives which influence love and youth; and therefore, my dear
young friend, I have departed from the ordinary custom in England, and
adopted a very common one in my own country. With us, a suitor seldom
presents himself till he is assured of the consent of a father. I have
only to say this—If I am right, and you love my daughter, my first object
in life is to see her safe and secure; and, in a word—you understand me.”
Now, mightily may it comfort and console us ordinary mortals, who advance
no pretense to superior wisdom and ability, to see the huge mistakes made
by both these very sagacious personages—Dr. Riccabocca, valuing himself on
his profound acquaintance with character, and Randal Leslie, accustomed to
grope into every hole and corner of thought and action, wherefrom to
extract that knowledge which is power! For whereas the sage, judging not
only by his own heart in youth, but by the general influence of the
master-passion of the young, had ascribed to Randal sentiments wholly
foreign to that able diplomatist’s nature, so no sooner had Riccabocca
brought his speech to a close, than Randal, judging also by his own heart,
and by the general laws which influence men of the mature age and boasted
worldly wisdom of the pupil of Machiavel, instantly decided that
Riccabocca presumed upon his youth and inexperience, and meant most
nefariously to take him in.
“The poor youth!” thought Riccabocca, “how unprepared he is for the
happiness I give him!”
“The cunning old Jesuit!” thought Randal; “he has certainly learned, since
we met last, that he has no chance of regaining his patrimony, and so he
wants to impose on me the hand of a girl without a shilling. What other
motive can he possibly have? Had his daughter the remotest probability of
becoming the greatest heiress in Italy, would he dream of bestowing her on
me in this off-hand way? The thing stands to reason.”
Actuated by his resentment at the trap thus laid for him, Randal was about
to disclaim altogether the disinterested and absurd affection laid to his
charge, when it occurred to him that, by so doing, he might mortally
offend the Italian—since the cunning never forgive those who refuse to be
duped by them—and it might still be conducive to his interest to preserve
intimate and familiar terms with Riccabocca; therefore, subduing his first
impulse, he exclaimed,
“O, too generous man; pardon me if I have so long been unable to express
my amaze, my gratitude; but I can not—no, I can not, while your prospects
remain thus uncertain, avail myself of your—of your inconsiderate
magnanimity. Your rare conduct can only redouble my own scruples, if you,
as I firmly hope and believe, are restored to your great possessions—you
would naturally look so much higher than me. Should those hopes fail,
then, indeed, it may be different; yet, even then, what position, what
fortune, have _I_ to offer to your daughter worthy of her?”
“You are well born: all gentlemen are equals,” said Riccabocca, with a
sort of easy nobleness. “You have youth, information, talent—sources of
certain wealth in this happy country—powerful connections; and, in fine,
if you are satisfied with marrying for love, I shall be contented;—if not,
speak openly. As to the restoration to my possessions, I can scarcely
think that probable while my enemy lives. And even in that case, since I
saw you last, something has occurred (added Riccabocca with a strange
smile, which seemed to Randal singularly sinister and malignant) “that may
remove all difficulties. Meanwhile, do not think me so extravagantly
magnanimous—do not underrate the satisfaction I must feel at knowing
Violante safe from the designs of Peschiera—safe, and for ever, under a
husband’s roof. I will tell you an Italian proverb—it contains a truth
full of wisdom and terror:”
“ ‘Hai cinquanta Amici?—non basta—hai un Nemico?—è troppo.(6)’ ”
“Something has occurred!” echoed Randal, not heeding the conclusion of
this speech, and scarcely hearing the proverb which the sage delivered in
his most emphatic and tragic tone. “Something has occurred! My dear
friend, be plainer. What has occurred?” Riccabocca remained silent.
“Something that induces you to bestow your daughter on me?”
Riccabocca nodded, and emitted a low chuckle.
“The very laugh of a fiend,” muttered Randal. “Something that makes her
not worth bestowing. He betrays himself. Cunning people always do.”
“Pardon me,” said the Italian at last, “if I do not answer your question;
you will know later; but, at present, this is a family secret. And now I
must turn to another and more alarming cause for my frankness to you.”
Here Riccabocca’s face changed, and assumed an expression of mingled rage
and fear. “You must know,” he added, sinking his voice, “that Giacomo has
seen a strange person loitering about the house, and looking up at the
windows; and he has no doubt—nor have I—that this is some spy or emissary
of Peschiera’s.”
“Impossible; how could he discover you?”
“I know not; but no one else has any interest in doing so. The man kept at
a distance, and Giacomo could not see his face.”
“It may be but a mere idler. Is this all?”
“No; the old woman who serves us said that she was asked at a shop ‘if we
were not Italians?’ ”
“And she answered?”
“ ‘No;’ but owned that ‘we had a foreign servant, Giacomo.’ ”
“I will see to this. Rely on it that if Peschiera has discovered you, I
will learn it. Nay, I will hasten from you in order to commence inquiry.”
“I can not detain you. May I think that we have now an interest in
common?”
“O, indeed yes; but—but—your daughter! how can I dream that one so
beautiful, so peerless, will confirm the hope you have extended to me?”
“The daughter of an Italian is brought up to consider that it is a
father’s right to dispose of her hand?”
“But the heart?”
“_Cospetto!_” said the Italian, true to his infamous notions as to the
sex, “the heart of a girl is like a convent—the holier the cloister, the
more charitable the door.”