Harley L'Estrange was seated alone in his apartments. He had just put
down a volume of some favourite classic author, and he was resting his
hand firmly clenched upon the book. Ever since Harley's return to
England, there had been a perceptible change in the expression of his
countenance, even in the very bearing and attitudes of his elastic
youthful figure. But this change had been more marked since that last
interview with Helen which has been recorded. There was a compressed,
resolute firmness in the lips, a decided character in the brow. To the
indolent, careless grace of his movements had succeeded a certain
indescribable energy, as quiet and self-collected as that which
distinguished the determined air of Audley Egerton himself. In fact, if
you could have looked into his heart, you would have seen that Harley
was, for the first time, making a strong effort over his passions and his
humours; that the whole man was nerving himself to a sense of duty.
"No," he muttered,--"no! I will think only of Helen; I will think only
of real life! And what (were I not engaged to another) would that dark-
eyed Italian girl be to me?--What a mere fool's fancy is this! I love
again,--I, who through all the fair spring of my life have clung with
such faith to a memory and a grave! Come, come, come, Harley L'Estrange,
act thy part as man amongst men, at last! Accept regard; dream no more
of passion. Abandon false ideals. Thou art no poet--why deem that life
itself can be a poem?"
The door opened, and the Austrian prince, whom Harley had interested in
the cause of Violante's father, entered, with the familiar step of a
friend.
"Have you discovered those documents yet?" said the prince. "I must now
return to Vienna within a few days; and unless you can arm me with some
tangible proof of Peschiera's ancient treachery, or some more
unanswerable excuse for his noble kinsman, I fear that there is no other
hope for the exile's recall to his country than what lies in the hateful
option of giving his daughter to his perfidious foe."
"Alas!" said Harley, "as yet all researches have been in vain; and I know
not what other steps to take, without arousing Peschiera's vigilance, and
setting his crafty brains at work to counteract us. My poor friend,
then, must rest contented with exile. To give Violante to the count were
dishonour. But I shall soon be married; soon have a home, not quite
unworthy of their due rank, to offer both to father and to child."
"Would the future Lady L'Estrange feel no jealousy of a guest so fair as
you tell me this young signorina is? And would you be in no danger
yourself, my poor friend?"
"Pooh!" said Harley, colouring. "My fair guest would have two fathers;
that is all. Pray do not jest on a thing so grave as honour."
Again the door opened, and Leonard appeared.
"Welcome," cried Harley, pleased to be no longer alone under the prince's
penetrating eye,--"welcome. This is the noble friend who shares our
interest for Riccabocca, and who could serve him so well, if we could but
discover the document of which I have spoken to you."
"It is here," said Leonard, simply; "may it be all that you require!"
Harley eagerly grasped at the packet, which had been sent from Italy to
the supposed Mrs. Bertram, and, leaning his face on his hand, rapidly
hurried through the contents.
"Hurrah!" he cried at last, with his face lighted up, and a boyish toss
of his right hand. "Look, look, Prince, here are Peschiera's own letters
to his kinsman's wife; his avowal of what he calls his 'patriotic
designs;' his entreaties to her to induce her husband to share them.
Look, look, how he wields his influence over the woman he had once wooed;
look how artfully he combats her objections; see how reluctant our friend
was to stir, till wife and kinsman both united to urge him!"
"It is enough,-quite enough," exclaimed the prince, looking at the
passages in Peschiera's letters which Harley pointed out to him.
"No, it is not enough," shouted Harley, as he continued to read the
letters with his rapid sparkling eyes. "More still! O villain, doubly
damned! Here, after our friend's flight, here is Peschiera's avowal of
guilty passion; here, he swears that he had intrigued to ruin his
benefactor, in order to pollute the home that had sheltered him. Ah, see
how she answers! thank Heaven her own eyes were opened at last, and she
scorned him before she died! She was innocent! I said so. Violante's
mother was pure. Poor lady, this moves me! Has your emperor the heart
of a man?"
"I know enough of our emperor," answered the prince, warmly, "to know
that, the moment these papers reach him, Peschiera is ruined, and your
friend is restored to his honours. You will live to see the daughter, to
whom you would have given a child's place at your hearth, the wealthiest
heiress of Italy,--the bride of some noble lover, with rank only below
the supremacy of kings!"
"Ah," said Harley, in a sharp accent, and turning very pale,--"ah, I
shall not see her that! I shall never visit Italy again!--never see her
more,--never, after she has once quitted this climate of cold iron cares
and formal duties! never, never!" He turned his head for a moment, and
then came with quick step to Leonard. "But you, O happy poet! No Ideal
can ever be lost to you. You are independent of real life. Would that I
were a poet!" He smiled sadly.
"You would not say so, perhaps, my dear Lord," answered Leonard, with
equal sadness, "if you knew how little what you call 'the Ideal' replaces
to a poet the loss of one affection in the genial human world.
Independent of real life! Alas! no. And I have here the confessions of
a true poet-soul, which I will entreat you to read at leisure; and when
you have read, say if you would still be a poet!"
He took forth Nora's manuscripts as he spoke.
"Place them yonder, in my escritoire, Leonard; I will read them later."
"Do so, and with heed; for to me there is much here that involves my own
life,--much that is still a mystery, and which I think you can unravel!"
"I!" exclaimed Harley; and he was moving towards the escritoire, in a
drawer of which Leonard had carefully deposited the papers, when once
more, but this time violently, the door was thrown open, and Giacomo
rushed into the room, accompanied by Lady Lansmere.
"Oh, my Lord, my Lord!" cried Giacomo, in Italian, "the signorina! the
signorina! Violante!"
"What of her? Mother, Mother! what of her? Speak, speak!"
"She has gone,--left our house!"
"Left! No, no!" cried Giacomo. "She must have been deceived or forced
away. The count! the count! Oh, my good Lord, save her, as you once
saved her father!"
"Hold!" cried Harley. "Give me your arm, Mother. A second such blow in
life is beyond the strength of man,--at least it is beyond mine. So, so!
I am better now! Thank you, Mother. Stand back, all of you! give me
air. So the count has triumphed, and Violante has fled with him!
Explain all,--I can bear it!"