"Let the carriage go to the Clarendon," said Harley to his servant; "I
and Mr. Oran will walk to town. Leonard, I think you would rejoice at an
occasion to serve your old friends, Dr. Riccabocca and his daughter?"
"Serve them! Oh, yes." And there instantly returned to Leonard the
recollection of Violante's words when, on leaving his quiet village, he
had sighed to part from all those he loved; and the little dark-eyed girl
had said, proudly, yet consolingly, "But to SERVE those you love!" He
turned to L'Estrange, with beaming, inquisitive eyes.
"I said to our friend," resumed Harley, "that I would vouch for your
honour as my own. I am about to prove my words, and to confide the
secrets which your penetration has indeed divined,--our friend is not
what he seems." Harley then briefly related to Leonard the particulars
of the exile's history, the rank he had held in his native land, the
manner in which, partly through the misrepresentations of a kinsman he
had trusted, partly through the influence of a wife he had loved, he had
been drawn into schemes which he believed bounded to the emancipation of
Italy from a foreign yoke by the united exertions of her best and bravest
sons.
"A noble ambition!" interrupted Leonard, manfully. "And pardon me, my
Lord, I should not have thought that you would speak of it in a tone that
implies blame."
"The ambition in itself was noble," answered Harley; "but the cause to
which it was devoted became defiled in its dark channel through Secret
Societies. It is the misfortune of all miscellaneous political
combinations, that with the purest motives of their more generous members
are ever mixed the most sordid interests, and the fiercest passions of
mean confederates. When those combinations act openly, and in daylight,
under the eye of Public Opinion, the healthier elements usually prevail;
where they are shrouded in mystery, where they are subjected to no censor
in the discussion of the impartial and dispassionate, where chiefs
working in the dark exact blind obedience, and every man who is at war
with law is at once admitted as a friend of freedom, the history of the
world tells us that patriotism soon passes away. Where all is in public,
public virtue, by the natural sympathies of the common mind, and by the
wholesome control of shame, is likely to obtain ascendancy; where all is
in private, and shame is but for him who refuses the abnegation of his
conscience, each man seeks the indulgence of his private vice. And hence
in Secret Societies (from which may yet proceed great danger to all
Europe) we find but foul and hateful Eleusinia, affording pretexts to the
ambition of the great, to the license of the penniless, to the passions
of the revengeful, to the anarchy of the ignorant. In a word, the
societies of these Italian Carbonari did but engender schemes in which
the abler chiefs disguised new forms of despotism, and in which the
revolutionary many looked forward to the overthrow of all the
institutions that stand between Law and Chaos. Naturally, therefore,"
added L'Estrange, dryly, "when their schemes were detected, and the
conspiracy foiled, it was for the silly, honest men entrapped into the
league to suffer, the leaders turned king's evidence, and the common
mercenaries became--banditti." Harley then proceeded to state that it
was just when the /soi-disant/ Riccabocca had discovered the true nature
and ulterior views of the conspirators he had joined, and actually
withdrawn from their councils, that he was denounced by the kinsman who
had duped him into the enterprise, and who now profited by his treason.
Harley next spoke of the packet despatched by Riccabocca's dying wife,
as it was supposed, to Mrs. Bertram; and of the hopes he founded on the
contents of that packet, if discovered. He then referred to the design
which had brought Peschiera to England,--a design which that personage
had avowed with such effrontery to his companions at Vienna, that he had
publicly laid wagers on his success.
"But these men can know nothing of England, of the safety of English
laws," said Leonard, naturally. "We take it for granted that Riccabocca,
if I am still so to call him, refuses his consent to the marriage between
his daughter and his foe. Where, then, the danger? This count, even if
Violante were not under your mother's roof, could not get an opportunity
to see her. He could not attack the house and carry her off like a
feudal baron in the middle ages."
"All this is very true," answered Harley. "Yet I have found through life
that we cannot estimate danger by external circumstances, but by the
character of those from whom it is threatened. This count is a man of
singular audacity, of no mean natural talents,--talents practised in
every art of duplicity and intrigue; one of those men whose boast it is
that they succeed in whatever they undertake; and he is, here, urged on
the one hand by all that can whet the avarice, and on the other, by all
that can give invention to despair. Therefore, though I cannot guess
what plan he may possibly adopt, I never doubt that some plan, formed
with cunning and pursued with daring, will be embraced the moment he
discovers Violante's retreat,--unless, indeed, we can forestall all peril
by the restoration of her father, and the detection of the fraud and
falsehood to which Peschiera owes the fortune he appropriates. Thus,
while we must prosecute to the utmost our inquiries for the missing
documents, so it should be our care to possess ourselves, if possible,
of such knowledge of the count's machinations as may enable us to defeat
them. Now, it was with satisfaction that I learned in Germany that
Peschiera's sister was in London. I knew enough both of his disposition
and of the intimacy between himself and this lady, to make me think it
probable he will seek to make her his instrument and accomplice, should
he require one. Peschiera (as you may suppose by his audacious wager) is
not one of those secret villains who would cut off their right hand if it
could betray the knowledge of what was done by the left,--rather one of
those self-confident vaunting knaves of high animal spirits, and
conscience so obtuse that it clouds their intellect, who must have some
one to whom they can boast of their abilities and confide their projects.
And Peschiera has done all he can to render this poor woman so wholly
dependent on him as to be his slave and his tool. But I have learned
certain traits in her character that show it to be impressionable to
good, and with tendencies to honour. Peschiera had taken advantage of
the admiration she excited, some years ago, in a rich young Englishman,
to entice this admirer into gambling, and sought to make his sister both
a decoy and an instrument in his designs of plunder. She did not
encourage the addresses of our countryman, but she warned him of the
snare laid for him, and entreated him to leave the place lest her brother
should discover and punish her honesty. The Englishman told me this
himself. In fine, my hope of detaching this lady from Peschiera's
interests, and inducing her to forewarn us of his purpose, consists but
in the innocent, and, I hope, laudable artifice, of redeeming herself,--
of appealing to, and calling into disused exercise, the better springs of
her nature."
Leonard listened with admiration and some surprise to the singularly
subtle and sagacious insight into character which Harley evinced in the
brief clear strokes by which he had thus depicted Peschiera and Beatrice,
and was struck by the boldness with which Harley rested a whole system of
action upon a few deductions drawn from his reasonings on human motive
and characteristic bias. Leonard had not expected to find so much
practical acuteness in a man who, however accomplished, usually seemed
indifferent, dreamy, and abstracted to the ordinary things of life. But
Harley L'Estrange was one of those whose powers lie dormant till
circumstance applies to them all they need for activity,--the stimulant
of a motive.
Harley resumed: "After a conversation I had with the lady last night, it
occurred to me that in this part of our diplomacy you could render us
essential service. Madame di Negra--such is the sister's name--has
conceived an admiration for your genius, and a strong desire to know you
personally. I have promised to present you to her; and I shall do so
after a preliminary caution. The lady is very handsome, and very
fascinating. It is possible that your heart and your senses may not be
proof against her attractions."
"Oh, do not fear that!" exclaimed Leonard, with a tone of conviction so
earnest that Harley smiled.
"Forewarned is not always forearmed against the might of beauty, my dear
Leonard; so I cannot at once accept your assurance. But listen to me!
Watch yourself narrowly, and if you find that you are likely to be
captivated, promise, on your honour, to retreat at once from the field.
I have no right, for the sake of another, to expose you to danger; and
Madame di Negra, whatever may be her good qualities, is the last person I
should wish to see you in love with."
"In love with her! Impossible!"
"Impossible is a strong word," returned Harley; "still I own fairly (and
this belief alone warrants me in trusting you to her fascinations), that
I do think, as far as one man can judge of another, that she is not the
woman to attract you; and if filled by one pure and generous object in
your intercourse with her, you will see her with purged eyes. Still I
claim your promise as one of honour."
"I give it," said Leonard, positively. "But how can I serve Riccabocca?
How aid in--"
"Thus," interrupted Harley: "the spell of your writings is, that,
unconsciously to ourselves, they make us better and nobler. And your
writings are but the impressions struck off from your mind. Your
conversation, when you are roused, has the same effect. And as you grow
more familiar with Madame di Negra, I wish you to speak of your boyhood,
your youth. Describe the exile as you have seen him,--so touching amidst
his foibles, so grand amidst the petty privations of his fallen fortunes,
so benevolent while poring over his hateful Machiavelli, so stingless in
his wisdom of the serpent, so playfully astute in his innocence of the
dove--I leave the picture to your knowledge of humour and pathos.
Describe Violante brooding over her Italian Poets, and filled with dreams
of her fatherland; describe her with all the flashes of her princely
nature, shining forth through humble circumstance and obscure position;
waken in your listener compassion, respect, admiration for her kindred
exiles,--and I think our work is done. She will recognize evidently
those whom her brother seeks. She will question you closely where you
met with them, where they now are. Protect that secret; say at once that
it is not your own. Against your descriptions and the feelings they
excite, she will not be guarded as against mine. And there are other
reasons why your influence over this woman of mixed nature may be more
direct and effectual than my own."
"Nay, I cannot conceive that."
"Believe it, without asking me to explain," answered Harley.
For he did not judge it necessary to say to Leonard: "I am high-born and
wealthy, you a peasant's son, and living by your exertions. This woman
is ambitious and distressed. She might have projects on me that would
counteract mine on her. You she would but listen to, and receive,
through the sentiments of good or of poetical that are in her; you she
would have no interest to subjugate, no motive to ensnare."
"And now," said Harley, turning the subject, "I have another object in
view. This foolish sage friend of ours, in his bewilderment and fears,
has sought to save Violante from one rogue by promising her hand to a man
who, unless my instincts deceive me, I suspect much disposed to be
another. Sacrifice such exuberance of life and spirit to that bloodless
heart, to that cold and earthward intellect! By Heaven, it shall not
be!"
"But whom can the exile possibly have seen of birth and fortunes to
render him a fitting spouse for his daughter? Whom, my Lord, except
yourself?"
"Me!" exclaimed Harley, angrily, and changing colour. "I worthy of such
a creature?---I, with my habits! I, silken egotist that I am! And you,
a poet, to form such an estimate of one who might be the queen of a
poet's dreasn!"
"My Lord, when we sat the other night round Riccabocca's hearth, when I
heard her speak, and observed you listen, I said to myself, from such
knowledge of human nature as comes, we know not how, to us poets,--I
said, 'Harley L'Estrange has looked long and wistfully on the heavens,
and he now hears the murmur of the wings that can waft him towards them.'
And then I sighed, for I thought how the world rules us all in spite of
ourselves, and I said, 'What pity for both, that the exile's daughter is
not the worldly equal of the peer's son!' And you too sighed, as I thus
thought; and I fancied that, while you listened to the music of the wing,
you felt the iron of the chain. But the exile's daughter is your equal
in birth, and you are her equal in heart and in soul."
"My poor Leonard, you rave," answered Harley, calmly. "And if Violante
is not to be some young prince's bride, she should be some young poet's."
"Poet's! Oh, no!" said Leonard, with a gentle laugh. "Poets need repose
where they love!"
Harley was struck by the answer, and mused over it in silence. "I
comprehend," thought he; "it is a new light that dawns on me. What is
needed by the man whose whole life is one strain after glory--whose soul
sinks, in fatigue, to the companionship of earth--is not the love of a
nature like his own. He is right,--it is repose! While I!--it is true;
boy that he is, his intuitions are wiser than all my experience! It is
excitement, energy, elevation, that Love should bestow on me. But I have
chosen; and, at least, with Helen my life will be calm, and my hearth
sacred. Let the rest sleep in the same grave as my youth."
"But," said Leonard, wishing kindly to arouse his noble friend from a
revery which he felt was mournful, though he did not divine its true
cause,--"but you have not yet told me the name of the signorina's suitor.
May I know?"
"Probably one you never heard of. Randal Leslie,--a placeman. You
refused a place; you were right."
"Randal Leslie? Heaven forbid!" cried Leonard, revealing his surprise at
the name.
"Amen! But what do you know of him?
"Leonard related the story of Burley's pamphlet."
Harley seemed delighted to hear his suspicions of Randal confirmed. "The
paltry pretender;--and yet I fancied that he might be formidable!
However, we must dismiss him for the present,--we are approaching Madame
di Negra's house. Prepare yourself, and remember your promise."