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 dominion. These his former connection
with the Carbonari enabled him to track to 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 selected out
of these desperadoes a sufficient number either to serve as witnesses
against his kinsman, or to aid him in any more audacious scheme which
circumstance might suggest to his adoption. 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 byroad. 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 own 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 sat 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 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 sat,
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!"