If any one could be more surprised at seeing Lord L’Estrange at the
house of Madame di Negra that evening than the fair hostess herself,
it was Randal Leslie. Something instinctively told him that this visit
threatened interference with whatever might be his ultimate projects
in regard to Riccabocca and Violante. But Randal Leslie was not one of
those who shrink from an intellectual combat. On the contrary, he was
too confident of his powers of intrigue not to take a delight in their
exercise. He could not conceive that the indolent Harley could be a
match for his own restless activity and dogged perseverance. But in a
very few moments fear crept on him. No man of his day could produce a
more brilliant effect than Lord L’Estrange, when he deigned to desire
it. Without much pretence to that personal beauty which strikes at first
sight, he still retained all the charm of countenance, and all the grace
of manner, which had made him in boyhood the spoiled darling of society.
Madame di Negra had collected but a small circle round her; still it was
of the elite of the great world,--not, indeed, those more precise and
reserved dames de chateau, whom the lighter and easier of the fair
dispensers of fashion ridicule as prudes; but nevertheless, ladies
were there, as unblemished in reputation, as high in rank, flirts and
coquettes, perhaps,--nothing more; in short, “charming women,”--the
gay butterflies that hover over the stiff parterre. And there were
ambassadors and ministers, and wits and brilliant debaters, and
first-rate dandies (dandies, when first-rate, are generally very
agreeable men). Amongst all these various persons, Harley, so long a
stranger to the London world, seemed to make himself at home with the
ease of an Alcibiades. Many of the less juvenile ladies remembered him,
and rushed to claim his acquaintance, with nods and becks, and wreathed
smiles. He had ready compliment for each. And few indeed were there,
men or women, for whom Harley L’Estrange had not appropriate attraction.
Distinguished reputation as soldier and scholar for the grave; whim and
pleasantry for the gay; novelty for the sated; and for the more vulgar
natures was he not Lord L’Estrange, unmarried, possessed already of
a large independence, and heir to an ancient earldom, and some fifty
thousands a year?
Not till he had succeeded in the general effect--which, it must be
owned, he did his best to create--did Harley seriously and especially
devote himself to his hostess. And then he seated himself by her side;
and, as if in compliment to both, less pressing admirers insensibly
slipped away and edged off.
Frank Hazeldean was the last to quit his ground behind Madame di Negra’s
chair; but when he found that the two began to talk in Italian, and he
could not understand a word they said, he too--fancying, poor fellow,
that he looked foolish, and cursing his Eton education that had
neglected, for languages spoken by the dead, of which he had learned
little, those still in use among the living, of which he had learned
nought--retreated towards Randal, and asked wistfully, “Pray, what age
should you say L’Estrange was? He must be devilish old, in spite of his
looks. Why, he was at Waterloo!”
“He is young enough to be a terrible rival,” answered Randal, with
artful truth.
Frank turned pale, and began to meditate dreadful bloodthirsty thoughts,
of which hair-triggers and Lord’s Cricket-ground formed the staple.
Certainly there was apparent ground for a lover’s jealousy; for Harley
and Beatrice now conversed in a low tone, and Beatrice seemed agitated,
and Harley earnest. Randal himself grew more and more perplexed. Was
Lord L’Estrange really enamoured of the marchesa? If so, farewell to all
hopes of Frank’s marriage with her! Or was he merely playing a part in
Riccabocca’s interest; pretending to be the lover, in order to obtain
an influence over her mind, rule her through her ambition, and secure
an ally against her brother? Was this finesse compatible with Randal’s
notions of Harley’s character? Was it consistent with that chivalric and
soldierly spirit of honour which the frank nobleman affected, to make
love to a woman in mere ruse de guerre? Could mere friendship for
Riccabocca be a sufficient inducement to a man, who, whatever his
weaknesses or his errors, seemed to wear on his very forehead a soul
above deceit, to stoop to paltry means, even for a worthy end? At this
question, a new thought flashed upon Randal,--might not Lord L’Estrange
have speculated himself upon winning Violante; would not that account
for all the exertions he had made on behalf of her inheritance at the
court of Vienna,--exertions of which Peschiera and Beatrice had both
complained? Those objections which the Austrian government might take
to Violante’s marriage with some obscure Englishman would probably
not exist against a man like Harley L’Estrange, whose family not only
belonged to the highest aristocracy of England, but had always supported
opinions in vogue amongst the leading governments of Europe. Harley
himself, it is true, had never taken part in politics, but his notions
were, no doubt, those of a high-born soldier, who had fought, in
alliance with Austria, for the restoration of the Bourbons. And this
immense wealth--which Violante might lose, if she married one like
Randal himself--her marriage with the heir of the Lansmeres might
actually tend only to secure. Could Harley, with all his own
expectations, be indifferent to such a prize?--and no doubt he had
learned Violante’s rare beauty in his correspondence with Riccabocca.
Thus considered, it seemed natural to Randal’s estimate of human nature
that Harley’s more prudish scruples of honour, as regards what is due to
women, could not resist a temptation so strong. Mere friendship was not
a motive powerful enough to shake them, but ambition was.
While Randal was thus cogitating, Frank thus suffering, and many a
whisper, in comment on the evident flirtation between the beautiful
hostess and the accomplished guest, reached the ears both of the
brooding schemer and the jealous lover, the conversation between the two
objects of remark and gossip had taken a new turn. Indeed, Beatrice had
made an effort to change it.
“It is long, my Lord,” said she, still speaking Italian, “since I have
heard sentiments like those you address to me; and if I do not feel
myself wholly unworthy of them, it is from the pleasure I have felt in
reading sentiments equally foreign to the language of the world in which
I live.” She took a book from the table as she spoke: “Have you seen
this work?”
Harley glanced at the title-page. “To be sure I have, and I know the
author.”
“I envy you that honour. I should so like also to know one who has
discovered to me deeps in my own heart which I had never explored.”
“Charming marchesa, if the book has done this, believe me that I have
paid you no false compliment,--formed no overflattering estimate of your
nature; for the charm of the work is but in its simple appeal to good
and generous emotions, and it can charm none in whom those emotions
exist not!”
“Nay, that cannot be true, or why is it so popular?”
“Because good and generous emotions are more common to the human heart
than we are aware of till the appeal comes.”
“Don’t ask me to think that! I have found the world so base.”
“Pardon me a rude question; but what do you know of the world?”
Beatrice looked first in surprise at Harley, then glanced round the room
with significant irony.
“As I thought; you call this little room ‘the world.’ Be it so. I will
venture to say, that if the people in this room were suddenly converted
into an audience before a stage, and you were as consummate in the
actor’s art as you are in all others that please and command--”
“Well?”
“And were to deliver a speech full of sordid and base sentiments, you
would be hissed. But let any other woman, with half your powers,
arise and utter sentiments sweet and womanly, or honest and lofty, and
applause would flow from every lip, and tears rush to many a worldly
eye. The true proof of the inherent nobleness of our common nature is
in the sympathy it betrays with what is noble wherever crowds are
collected. Never believe the world is base; if it were so, no society
could hold together for a day. But you would know the author of this
book? I will bring him to you.”
“Do.”
“And now,” said Harley, rising, and with his candid, winning smile, “do
you think we shall ever be friends?”
“You have startled me so that I can scarcely answer. But why would you
be friends with me?”
“Because you need a friend. You have none?”
“Strange flatterer!” said Beatrice, smiling, though very sadly; and
looking up, her eye caught Randal’s.
“Pooh!” said Harley, “you are too penetrating to believe that you
inspire friendship there. Ah, do you suppose that; all the while I have
been conversing with you, I have not noticed the watchful gaze of Mr.
Randal Leslie? What tie can possibly connect you together I know not
yet; but I soon shall.”
“Indeed! you talk like one of the old Council of Venice. You try hard to
make me fear you,” said Beatrice, seeking to escape from the graver
kind of impression Harley had made on her, by the affectation partly of
coquetry, partly of levity.
“And I,” said L’Estrange, calmly, “tell you already that I fear you no
more.” He bowed, and passed through the crowd to rejoin Audley, who was
seated in a corner whispering with some of his political colleagues.
Before Harley reached the minister, he found himself close to Randal and
young Hazeldean.
He bowed to the first, and extended his hand to the last. Randal felt
the distinction, and his sullen, bitter pride was deeply galled,--a
feeling of hate towards Harley passed into his mind. He was pleased to
see the cold hesitation with which Frank just touched the hand offered
to him. But Randal had not been the only person whose watch upon
Beatrice the keen-eyed Harley had noticed. Harley had seen the
angry looks of Frank Hazeldean, and divined the cause. So he smiled
forgivingly at the slight he had received. “You are like me, Mr.
Hazeldean,” said he. “You think something of the heart should go with
all courtesy that bespeaks friendship--
“‘The hand of Douglas is his own.’”
Here Harley drew aside Randal. “Mr. Leslie, a word with you. If I wished
to know the retreat of Dr. Riccabocca, in order to render him a great
service, would you confide to me that secret?”
“That woman has let out her suspicions that I know the exile’s retreat,”
thought Randal; and with quick presence of mind, he replied at once,
“My Lord, yonder stands a connection of Dr. Riccabocca’s. Mr. Hazeldean
is surely the person to whom you should address this inquiry.”
“Not so, Mr. Leslie; for I suspect that he cannot answer it, and that
you can. Well, I will ask something that it seems to me you may grant
without hesitation. Should you see Dr. Riccabocca, tell him that I am
in England, and so leave it to him to communicate with me or not; but
perhaps you have already done so?”
“Lord L’Estrange,” said Randal, bowing low, with pointed formality,
“excuse me if I decline either to disclaim or acquiesce in the knowledge
you impute to me. If I am acquainted with any secret intrusted to me by
Dr. Riccabocca, it is for me to use my own discretion how best to guard
it. And for the rest, after the Scotch earl, whose words your Lordship
has quoted, refused to touch the hand of Marmion, Douglas could scarcely
have called Marmion back in order to give him--a message!”
Harley was not prepared for this tone in Mr. Egerton’s protege, and his
own gallant nature was rather pleased than irritated by a haughtiness
that at least seemed to bespeak independence of spirit. Nevertheless,
L’Estrange’s suspicions of Randal were too strong to be easily set
aside, and therefore he replied, civilly, but with covert taunt,
“I submit to your rebuke, Mr. Leslie, though I meant not the offence you
would ascribe to me. I regret my unlucky quotation yet the more,
since the wit of your retort has obliged you to identify yourself
with Marmion, who, though a clever and brave fellow, was an
uncommonly--tricky one.” And so Harley, certainly having the best of it,
moved on, and joined Egerton, and in a few minutes more both left the
room.
“What was L’Estrange saying to you?” asked Frank. “Something about
Beatrice, I am sure.”
“No; only quoting poetry.”
“Then what made you look so angry, my dear fellow? I know it was your
kind feeling for me. As you say, he is a formidable rival. But that
can’t be his own hair. Do you think he wears a toupet? I am sure he was
praising Beatrice. He is evidently very much smitten with her. But I
don’t think she is a woman to be caught by mere rank and fortune! Do
you? Why can’t you speak?”
“If you do not get her consent soon, I think she is lost to you,” said
Randal, slowly; and before Frank could recover his dismay, glided from
the house.