The next morning Harley appeared at breakfast. He was in gay spirits,
and conversed more freely with Violante than he had yet done. He
seemed to amuse himself by attacking all she said, and provoking her to
argument. Violante was naturally a very earnest person; whether grave or
gay, she spoke with her heart on her lips, and her soul in her eyes.
She did not yet comprehend the light vein of Harley’s irony, so she grew
piqued and chafed; and she was so lovely in anger; it so brightened the
beauty and animated her words, that no wonder Harley thus maliciously
teased her. But what, perhaps, she liked still less than the
teasing--though she could not tell why--was the kind of familiarity that
Harley assumed with her,--a familiarity as if he had known her all her
life,--that of a good-humoured elder brother, or a bachelor uncle. To
Helen, on the contrary, when he did not address her apart, his manner
was more respectful. He did not call her by her Christian name, as he
did Violante, but “Miss Digby,” and softened his tone and inclined his
head when he spoke to her. Nor did he presume to jest at the very few
and brief sentences he drew from Helen, but rather listened to them with
deference, and invariably honoured them with approval. After breakfast
he asked Violante to play or sing; and when she frankly owned how little
she had cultivated those accomplishments, he persuaded Helen to sit down
to the piano, and stood by her side while she did so, turning over the
leaves of her music-book with the ready devotion of an admiring amateur.
Helen always played well, but less well than usual that day, for her
generous nature felt abashed. It was as if she were showing off to
mortify Violante. But Violante, on the other hand, was so passionately
fond of music that she had no feeling left for the sense of her own
inferiority. Yet she sighed when Helen rose, and Harley thanked Miss
Digby for the delight she had given him.
The day was fine. Lady Lansmere proposed to walk in the garden. While
the ladies went up-stairs for their shawls and bonnets, Harley lighted
his cigar, and stepped from the window upon the lawn. Lady Lansmere
joined him before the girls came out.
“Harley,” said she, taking his arm, “what a charming companion you have
introduced to us! I never met with any that both pleased and delighted
me like this dear Violante. Most girls who possess some power of
conversation, and who have dared to think for themselves, are so
pedantic, or so masculine; but she is always so simple, and always still
the girl. Ah, Harley!”
“Why that sigh, my dear mother?”
“I was thinking how exactly she would have suited you,--how proud I
should have been of such a daughter-in-law, and how happy you would have
been with such a wife.”
Harley started. “Tut,” said he, peevishly, “she is a mere child; you
forget my years.”
“Why,” said Lady Lansmere, surprised, “Helen is quite as young as
Violante.”
“In dates-yes. But Helen’s character is so staid; what it is now it will
be ever; and Helen, from gratitude, respect, or pity, condescends to
accept the ruins of my heart, while this bright Italian has the soul of
a Juliet, and would expect in a husband all the passion of a Romeo. Nay,
Mother, hush. Do you forget that I am engaged,--and of my own free will
and choice? Poor dear Helen! A propos, have you spoken to my father, as
you undertook to do?”
“Not yet. I must seize the right moment. You know that my Lord requires
management.”
“My dear mother, that female notion of managing us men costs you ladies
a great waste of time, and occasions us a great deal of sorrow. Men are
easily managed by plain truth. We are brought up to respect it, strange
as it may seem to you!”
Lady Lansmere smiled with the air of superior wisdom, and the experience
of an accomplished wife. “Leave it to me, Harley, and rely on my Lord’s
consent.”
Harley knew that Lady Lansmere always succeeded in obtaining her
way with his father; and he felt that the earl might naturally be
disappointed in such an alliance, and, without due propitiation, evince
that disappointment in his manner to Helen. Harley was bound to save her
from all chance of such humiliation. He did not wish her to think that
she was not welcomed into his family; therefore he said, “I resign
myself to your promise and your diplomacy. Meanwhile, as you love me, be
kind to my betrothed.”
“Am I not so?”
“Hem. Are you as kind as if she were the great heiress you believe
Violante to be?”
“Is it,” answered Lady Lansmere, evading the question--“is it because
one is an heiress and the other is not that you make so marked a
difference in your own manner to the two; treating Violante as a spoilt
child, and Miss Digby as--”
“The destined wife of Lord L’Estrange, and the daughter-in-law of Lady
Lansmere,--yes.”
The countess suppressed an impatient exclamation that rose to her lips,
for Harley’s brow wore that serious aspect which it rarely assumed save
when he was in those moods in which men must be soothed, not resisted.
And after a pause he went on, “I am going to leave you to-day. I have
engaged apartments at the Clarendon. I intend to gratify your wish, so
often expressed, that I should enjoy what are called the pleasures of my
rank, and the privileges of single-blessedness,--celebrate my adieu to
celibacy, and blaze once more, with the splendour of a setting sun, upon
Hyde Park and May Fair.”
“You are a positive enigma. Leave our house, just when you are betrothed
to its inmate! Is that the natural conduct of a lover?”
“How can your woman eyes be so dull, and your woman heart so obtuse?”
answered Harley, half laughing, half scolding. “Can you not guess that I
wish that Helen and myself should both lose the association of mere ward
and guardian; that the very familiarity of our intercourse under the
same roof almost forbids us to be lovers; that we lose the joy to meet,
and the pang to part. Don’t you remember the story of the Frenchman, who
for twenty years loved a lady, and never missed passing his evenings at
her house. She became a widow. ‘I wish you joy,’ cried his friend; ‘you
may now marry the woman you have so long adored.’ ‘Alas!’ said the
poor Frenchman, profoundly dejected; ‘and if so, where shall I spend my
evenings?’”
Here Violante and Helen were seen in the garden, walking affectionately
arm in arm.
“I don’t perceive the point of your witty, heartless anecdote,” said
Lady Lansmere, obstinately. “Settle that, however, with Miss Digby.
But to leave the very day after your friend’s daughter comes as a
guest!--what will she think of it?”
Lord L’Estrange looked steadfastly at his mother. “Does it matter much
what she thinks of me,--of a man engaged to another; and old enough to
be--”
“I wish to heaven you would not talk of your age, Harley; it is a
reflection upon mine; and I never saw you look so well nor so handsome.”
With that she drew him on towards the young ladies; and, taking Helen’s
arm, asked her, aside, “If she knew that Lord L’Estrange had engaged
rooms at the Clarendon; and if she understood why?” As while she said
this she moved on, Harley was left by Violante’s side.
“You will be very dull here, I fear, my poor child,” said he.
“Dull! But why will you call me child? Am I so very--very child-like?”
“Certainly, you are to me,--a mere infant. Have I not seen you one; have
I not held you in my arms?”
VIOLANTE.--“But that was a long time ago!”
HARLEY.--“True. But if years have not stood still for you, they have not
been stationary for me. There is the same difference between us now that
there was then. And, therefore, permit me still to call you child, and
as child to treat you!”
VIOLANTE.--“I will do no such thing. Do you know that I always thought I
was good-tempered till this morning.”
HARLEY.--“And what undeceived you? Did you break your doll?”
VIOLANTE (with an indignant flash from her dark
eyes).--“There!--again!--you delight in provoking me!”
HARLEY.--“It was the doll, then. Don’t cry; I will get you another.”
Violante plucked her arm from him, and walked away towards the countess
in speechless scorn. Harley’s brow contracted, in thought and in gloom.
He stood still for a moment or so, and then joined the ladies.
“I am trespassing sadly on your morning; but I wait for a visitor whom
I sent to before you were up. He is to be here at twelve. With your
permission, I will dine with you tomorrow, and you will invite him to
meet me.”
“Certainly. And who is your friend? I guess--the young author?”
“Leonard Fairfield,” cried Violante, who had conquered, or felt ashamed,
of her short-lived anger.
“Fairfield!” repeated Lady Lansmere. “I thought, Harley, you said the
name was Oran.”
“He has assumed the latter name. He is the son of Mark Fairfield, who
married an Avenel. Did you recognize no family likeness?--none in those
eyes, Mother?” said Harley, sinking his voice into a whisper.
“No;” answered the countess, falteringly.
Harley, observing that Violante was now speaking to Helen about Leonard,
and that neither was listening to him, resumed in the same low tone,
“And his mother--Nora’s sister--shrank from seeing me! That is the
reason why I wished you not to call. She has not told the young man
why she shrank from seeing me; nor have I explained it to him as yet.
Perhaps I never shall.”
“Indeed, dearest Harley,” said the countess, with great gentleness,
“I wish you too much to forget the folly--well, I will not say that
word--the sorrows of your boyhood, not to hope that you will rather
strive against such painful memories than renew them by unnecessary
confidence to any one; least of all to the relation of--”
“Enough! don’t name her; the very name pains me. And as to confidence,
there are but two persons in the world to whom I ever bare the old
wounds,--yourself and Egerton. Let this pass. Ha!--a ring at the
bell--that is he!”