Randal had scarcely left the house, before Mrs. Riccabocca, who was
affectionately anxious in all that concerned Violante, rejoined her
husband.
“I like the young man very well,” said the sage—“very well indeed. I find
him just what I expected from my general knowledge of human nature; for as
love ordinarily goes with youth, so modesty usually accompanies talent. He
is young, _ergo_ he is in love; he has talent, _ergo_ he is modest—modest
and ingenuous.”
“And you think not in any way swayed by interest in his affections?”
“Quite the contrary; and to prove him the more, I have not said a word as
to the worldly advantages which, in any case, would accrue to him from an
alliance with my daughter. In any case; for if I regain my country, her
fortune is assured; and if not, I trust” (said the poor exile, lifting his
brow with stately and becoming pride) “that I am too well aware of my
child’s dignity as well as my own, to ask any one to marry her to his own
worldly injury.”
“Eh! I don’t quite understand you, Alphonso. To be sure, your dear life is
insured for her marriage portion; but—”
“_Pazzie_—stuff!” said Riccabocca, petulantly; “her marriage portion would
be as nothing to a young man of Randal’s birth and prospects. I think not
of that. But listen; I have never consented to profit by Harley
L’Estrange’s friendship for me; my scruples would not extend to my
son-in-law. This noble friend has not only high rank, but considerable
influence—influence with the government—influence with Randal’s
patron—who, between ourselves, does not seem to push the young man as he
might do; I judge by what Randal says. I should write, therefore, before
any thing was settled, to L’Estrange, and I should say to him simply, ‘I
never asked you to save me from penury, but I do ask you to save a
daughter of my house from humiliation. I can give to her no dowry; can her
husband owe to my friend that advance in an honorable career—that opening
to energy and talent—which is more than a dowry to generous ambition?’ ”
“Oh, it is in vain you would disguise your rank!” cried Jemima, with
enthusiasm; “it speaks in all you utter, when your passions are moved.”
The Italian did not seem flattered by that eulogy. “Pish!” said he, “there
you are! rank again!”
But Jemima was right. There was something about her husband that was
grandiose and princely, whenever he escaped from his accursed Machiavel,
and gave fair play to his heart.
And he spent the next hour or so in thinking over all that he could do for
Randal, and devising for his intended son-in-law the agreeable surprises,
which Randal was at that very time racking his yet cleverer brains to
disappoint.
These plans conned sufficiently, Riccabocca shut up his Machiavel, and
hunted out of his scanty collection of books Buffon on Man, and various
other psychological volumes, in which he soon became deeply absorbed. Why
were these works the object of the sage’s study? Perhaps he will let us
know soon, for it is clearly a secret known to his wife; and though she
has hitherto kept one secret, that is precisely the reason why Riccabocca
would not wish long to overburden her discretion with another.