A little before the appointed hour, she stole unobserved through the

trees, opened the little gate, and found herself in the quiet, solitary

lane. In a few minutes; a female figure came up, with a quick, light

step; and throwing aside her veil, said, with a sort of wild, suppressed

energy, “It is you! I was truly told. Beautiful! beautiful! And oh! what

youth and what bloom!”

The voice dropped mournfully; and Violante, surprised by the tone, and

blushing under the praise, remained a moment silent; then she said, with

some hesitation,

“You are, I presume, the Marchesa di Negra? And I have heard of you

enough to induce me to trust you.”

“Of me! From whom?” asked Beatrice, almost fiercely. “From Mr Leslie,

and--and--”

“Go on; why falter?”

“From Lord L’Estrange.”

“From no one else?”

“Not that I remember.”

Beatrice sighed heavily, and let fall her veil. Some foot-passengers now

came up the lane; and seeing two ladies, of mien so remarkable, turned

round, and gazed curiously.

“We cannot talk here,” said Beatrice, impatiently; “and I have so much

to say, so much to know. Trust me yet more; it is for yourself I speak.

My carriage waits yonder. Come home with me,--I will not detain you an

hour; and I will bring you back.”

This proposition startled Violante. She retreated towards the gate with

a gesture of dissent. Beatrice laid her hand on the girl’s arm, and

again lifting her veil, gazed at her with a look half of scorn, half of

admiration.

“I, too, would once have recoiled from one step beyond the formal line

by which the world divides liberty from woman. Now see how bold I am.

Child, child, do not trifle with your destiny. You may never again have

the same occasion offered to you. It is not only to meet you that I

am here; I must know something of you,--something of your heart. Why

shrink? Is not the heart pure?”

Violante made no answer; but her smile, so sweet and so lofty, humbled

the questioner it rebuked.

“I may restore to Italy your father,” said Beatrice, with an altered

voice. “Come!”

Violante approached, but still hesitatingly. “Not by union with your

brother?”

“You dread that so much then?”

“Dread it? No. Why should I dread what is in my power to reject. But if

you can really restore my father, and by nobler means, you may save me

for--”

Violante stopped abruptly; the marchesa’s eyes sparkled.

“Save you for--ah! I can guess what you leave unsaid. But come, come!

more strangers, see; you shall tell me all at my own house. And if you

can make one sacrifice, why, I will save you all else. Come, or farewell

forever!”

Violante placed her hand in Beatrice’s, with a frank confidence that

brought the accusing blood into the marchesa’s cheek.

“We are women both,” said Violante; “we descend from the same noble

House; we have knelt alike to the same Virgin Mother; why should I not

believe and trust you?”

“Why not?” muttered Beatrice, feebly; and she moved on, with her head

bowed on her breast, and all the pride of her step was gone.

They reached a carriage that stood by the angle of the road. Beatrice

spoke a word apart to the driver, who was an Italian, in the pay of the

count; the man nodded, and opened the carriage door. The ladies entered.

Beatrice pulled down the blinds; the man remounted his box, and drove on

rapidly. Beatrice, leaning back, groaned aloud. Violante drew nearer to

her side. “Are you in pain?” said she, with her tender, melodious voice;

“or can I serve you as you would serve me?”

“Child, give me your hand, and be silent while I look at you. Was I ever

so fair as this? Never! And what deeps--what deeps roll between her and

me!”

She said this as of some one absent, and again sank into silence; but

continued still to gaze on Violante, whose eyes, veiled by their long

fringes, drooped beneath the gaze.

Suddenly Beatrice started, exclaiming, “No, it shall not be!” and placed

her hand on the check-string.

“What shall not be?” asked Violante, surprised by the cry and the

action. Beatrice paused; her breast heaved visibly under her dress.

“Stay,” she said slowly. “As you say, we are both women of the same

noble House; you would reject the suit of my brother, yet you have seen

him; his the form to please the eye, his the arts that allure the fancy.

He offers to you rank, wealth, your father’s pardon and recall. If I

could remove the objections which your father entertains, prove that

the count has less wronged him than he deems, would you still reject the

rank and the wealth and the hand of Giulio Franzini?”

“Oh, yes, yes; were his hand a king’s!”

“Still, then, as woman to woman--both, as you say, akin, and sprung from

the same lineage--still, then, answer me, answer me, for you speak to

one who has loved--Is it not that you love another? Speak.”

“I do not know. Nay, not love,--it was a romance; it is a thing

impossible. Do not question,--I cannot answer.” And the broken words

were choked by sudden tears.

Beatrice’s face grew hard and pitiless. Again she lowered her veil, and

withdrew her hand from the check-string; but the coachman had felt the

touch, and halted. “Drive on,” said Beatrice, “as you were directed.”

Both were now long silent,--Violante with great difficulty recovering

from her emotion, Beatrice breathing hard, and her arms folded firmly

across her breast.

Meanwhile the carriage had entered London; it passed the quarter in

which Madame di Negra’s house was situated; it rolled fast over a

bridge; it whirled through a broad thoroughfare, then through defiles of

lanes, with tall blank dreary houses on either side. On it went, and

on, till Violante suddenly took alarm. “Do you live so far?” she said,

drawing up the blind, and gazing in dismay on the strange, ignoble

suburb. “I shall be missed already. Oh, let us turn back, I beseech

you!”

“We are nearly there now. The driver has taken this road in order to

avoid those streets in which we might have been seen together,--perhaps

by my brother himself. Listen to me, and talk of-of the lover whom

you rightly associate with a vain romance. ‘Impossible,’--yes, it is

impossible!”

Violante clasped her hands before her eyes, and bowed down her head.

“Why are you so cruel?” said she. “This is not what you promised. How

are you to serve my father, how restore him to his country? This is what

you promised!”

“If you consent to one sacrifice, I will fulfil that promise. We are

arrived.”

The carriage stopped before a tall, dull house, divided from other

houses by a high wall that appeared to enclose a yard, and standing

at the end of a narrow lane, which was bounded on the one side by the

Thames. In that quarter the river was crowded with gloomy, dark-looking

vessels and craft, all lying lifeless under the wintry sky.

The driver dismounted and rang the bell. Two swarthy Italian faces

presented themselves at the threshold. Beatrice descended lightly, and

gave her hand to Violante. “Now, here we shall be secure,” said she;

“and here a few minutes may suffice to decide your fate.”

As the door closed on Violante, who, now waking to suspicion, to alarm,

looked fearfully round the dark and dismal hall, Beatrice turned: “Let

the carriage wait.”

The Italian who received the order bowed and smiled; but when the two

ladies had ascended the stairs he re-opened the street-door, and said to

the driver, “Back to the count, and say, ‘All is safe.’”

The carriage drove off. The man who had given this order barred and

locked the door, and, taking with him the huge key, plunged into the

mystic recesses of the basement and disappeared. The hall, thus left

solitary, had the grim aspect of a prison,--the strong door sheeted with

iron, the rugged stone stairs, lighted by a high window grimed with the

dust of years, and jealously barred, and the walls themselves abutting

out rudely here and there, as if against violence even from within.

CHAPTER VI.

It was, as we have seen, without taking counsel of the faithful Jemima

that the sage recluse of Norwood had yielded to his own fears and

Randal’s subtle suggestions, in the concise and arbitrary letter which

he had written to Violante; but at night, when churchyards give up the

dead, and conjugal hearts the secrets hid by day from each other,

the wise man informed his wife of the step he had taken. And Jemima

then--who held English notions, very different from those which prevail

in Italy, as to the right of fathers to dispose of their daughters

without reference to inclination or repugnance--so sensibly yet so

mildly represented to the pupil of Machiavelli that he had not gone

exactly the right way to work, if he feared that the handsome count

had made some impression on Violante, and if he wished her to turn with

favour to the suitor he recommended,--that so abrupt a command could

only chill the heart, revolt the will, and even give to the

audacious Peschiera some romantic attraction which he had not before

possessed,--as effectually to destroy Riccabocca’s sleep that night. And

the next day he sent Giacomo to Lady Lansmere’s with a very kind letter

to Violante and a note to the hostess, praying the latter to bring his

daughter to Norwood for a few hours, as he much wished to converse

with both. It was on Giacomo’s arrival at Knightsbridge that Violante’s

absence was discovered. Lady Lansmere, ever proudly careful of the

world and its gossip, kept Giacomo from betraying his excitement to her

servants, and stated throughout the decorous household that the young

lady had informed her she was going to visit some friends that morning,

and had no doubt gone through the garden gate, since it was found open;

the way was more quiet there than by the high-road, and her friends

might have therefore walked to meet her by the lane. Lady Lansmere

observed that her only surprise was that Violante had gone earlier

than she had expected. Having said this with a composure that compelled

belief, Lady Lansmere ordered the carriage, and, taking Giacomo with

her, drove at once to consult her son.

Harley’s quick intellect had scarcely recovered from the shock upon his

emotions before Randal Leslie was announced. “Ah,” said Lady Lansmere,

“Mr. Leslie may know something. He came to her yesterday with a note

from her father. Pray let him enter.”

The Austrian prince approached Harley. “I will wait in the next room,”

he whispered. “You may want me if you have cause to suspect Peschiera in

all this.”

Lady Lansmere was pleased with the prince’s delicacy, and, glancing at

Leonard, said, “Perhaps you, too, sir, may kindly aid us, if you would

retire with the prince. Mr. Leslie may be disinclined to speak of

affairs like these, except to Harley and myself.”

“True, madam, but beware of Mr. Leslie.”

As the door at one end of the room closed on the prince and Leonard,

Randal entered at the other, seemingly much agitated.

“I have just been to your house, Lady Lansmere. I heard you were here;

pardon me if I have followed you. I have called at Knightsbridge to see

Violante, learned that she had left you. I implore you to tell me how

or wherefore. I have the right to ask: her father has promised me her

hand.” Harley’s falcon eye had brightened tip at Randal’s entrance. It

watched steadily the young man’s face. It was clouded for a moment by

his knitted brows at Randal’s closing words; but he left it to Lady

Lansmere to reply and explain. This the countess did briefly.

Randal clasped his hands. “And has she not gone to her father’s? Are you

sure of that?”

“Her father’s servant has just come from Norwood.”

“Oh, I am to blame for this! It is my rash suit, her fear of it, her

aversion! I see it all!” Randal’s voice was hollow with remorse and

despair. “To save her from Peschiera, her father insisted on her

immediate marriage with myself. His orders were too abrupt, my own

wooing too unwelcome. I knew her high spirit; she has fled to escape

from me. But whither, if not to Norwood,--oh, whither? What other

friends has she, what relations?”

“You throw a new light on this mystery,” said Lady Lansmere; “perhaps

she may have gone to her father’s after all, and the servant may have

crossed, but missed her on the way. I will drive to Norwood at once.”

“Do so,--do; but if she be not there, be careful not to alarm Riccabocca

with the news of her disappearance. Caution Giacomo not to do so. He

would only suspect Peschiera, and be hurried to some act of violence.”

“Do not you, then, suspect Peschiera, Mr. Leslie?” asked Harley,

suddenly.

“Ha! is it possible? Yet, no. I called on him this morning with Frank

Hazeldean, who is to marry his sister. I was with him till I went on to

Knightsbridge, at the very time of Violante’s disappearance. He could

not then have been a party to it.”

“You saw Violante yesterday. Did you speak to her of Madame di Negra?”

asked Harley, suddenly recalling the questions respecting the marchesa

which Violante had addressed to him.

In spite of himself, Randal felt that he changed countenance. “Of Madame

di Negra? I do not think so. Yet I might. Oh, yes, I remember now. She

asked me the marchesa’s address; I would not give it.”

“The address is easily found. Can she have gone to the marchesa’s

house?”

“I will run there, and see,” cried Randal, starting up. “And I with you.

Stay, my dear mother. Proceed, as you propose, to Norwood, and take Mr.

Leslie’s advice. Spare our friend the news of his daughter’s loss--if

lost she be--till she is restored to him. He can be of no use mean

while. Let Giacomo rest here; I may want him.”

Harley then passed into the next room, and entreated the prince and

Leonard to await his return, and allow Giacomo to stay in the same room.

He then went quickly back to Randal. Whatever might be his fears or

emotions, Harley felt that he had need of all his coolness of judgment

and presence of mind. The occasion made abrupt demand upon powers which

had slept since boyhood, but which now woke with a vigour that would

have made even Randal tremble, could he have detected the wit,

the courage, the electric energies, masked under that tranquil

self-possession. Lord L’Estrange and Randal soon reached the marchesa’s

house, and learned that she had been out since morning in one of Count

Peschiera’s carriages. Randal stole an alarmed glance at Harley’s face.

Harley did not seem to notice it.

“Now, Mr. Leslie, what do you advise next?”

“I am at a loss. Ah, perhaps, afraid of her father, knowing how despotic

is his belief in paternal rights, and how tenacious he is of his word

once passed, as it has been to me, she may have resolved to take refuge

in the country, perhaps at the Casino, or at Mrs. Dale’s, or Mrs.

Hazeldean’s. I will hasten to inquire at the coach-office. Meanwhile,

you--”

“Never mind me, Mr. Leslie. Do what you think best. But, if your

surmises be just, you must have been a very rude wooer to the high-born

lady you aspired to win.”

“Not so; but perhaps an unwelcome one. If she has indeed fled from me,

need I say that my suit will be withdrawn at once? I am not a selfish

lover, Lord L’Estrange.”

“Nor I a vindictive man. Yet, could I discover who has conspired against

this lady, a guest under my father’s roof, I would crush him into the

mire as easily as I set my foot upon this glove. Good-day to you, Mr.

Leslie.”

Randal stood still for a few moments as Harley strided on; then his lip

sneered as it muttered, “Insolent! But does he love her? If so, I am

avenged already.”

CHAPTER VII.

Harley went straight to Peschiera’s hotel. He was told that the count

had walked out with Mr. Frank Hazeldean and some other gentlemen who had

breakfasted with him. He had left word, in case any one called, that he

had gone to Tattersall’s to look at some horses that were for sale. To

Tattersall’s went Harley. The count was in the yard leaning against a

pillar, and surrounded by fashionable friends. Lord L’Estrange paused,

and, with an heroic effort at self-mastery, repressed his rage. “I may

lose all if I show that I suspect him; and yet I must insult and fight

him rather than leave his movements free. Ah, is that young Hazeldean?

A thought strikes me!” Frank was standing apart from the group round the

count, and looking very absent and very sad. Harley touched him on the

shoulder, and drew him aside unobserved by the count.

“Mr. Hazeldean, your uncle Egerton is my dearest friend. Will you be a

friend to me? I want you.”

“My Lord--”

“Follow me. Do not let Count Peschiera see us talking together.”

Harley quitted the yard, and entered St. James’s Park by the little

gate close by. In a very few words he informed Frank of Violante’s

disappearance and of his reasons for suspecting the count. Frank’s first

sentiment was that of indignant disbelief that the brother of Beatrice

could be so vile; but as he gradually called to mind the cynical

and corrupt vein of the count’s familiar conversation, the hints to

Peschiera’s prejudice that had been dropped by Beatrice herself, and

the general character for brilliant and daring profligacy which even the

admirers of the count ascribed to him, Frank was compelled to reluctant

acquiescence in Harley’s suspicions; and he said, with an earnest

gravity very rare to him,

“Believe me, Lord L’Estrange, if I can assist you in defeating a base

and mercenary design against this poor young lady, you have but to show

me how. One thing is clear, Peschicra was not personally engaged in this

abduction, since I have been with him all day; and--now I think of it--I

begin to hope that you wrong him; for he has invited a large party of us

to make an excursion with him to Boulogne next week, in order to try his

yacht, which he could scarcely do if--”

“Yacht, at this time of the year! a man who habitually resides at

Vienna--a yacht!”

“Spendquick sells it a bargain, on account of the time of year and other

reasons; and the count proposes to spend next summer in cruising about

the Ionian Isles. He has some property on those isles, which he has

never yet visited.”

“How long is it since he bought this yacht?”

“Why, I am not sure that it is already bought,--that is, paid for.

Levy was to meet Spendquick this very morning to arrange the matter.

Spendquick complains that Levy screws him.”

“My dear Mr. Hazeldean, you are guiding me through the maze. Where shall

I find Lord Spendquick?”

“At this hour, probably in bed. Here is his card.”

“Thanks. And where lies the vessel?”

“It was off Blackwall the other day. I went to see it, ‘The Flying

Dutchman,’--a fine vessel, and carries guns.”

“Enough. Now, heed me. There can be no immediate danger to Violante, so

long as Peschiera does not meet her, so long as we know his movements.

You are about to marry his sister. Avail yourself of that privilege to

keep close by his side. Refuse to be shaken off. Make what excuses

for the present your invention suggests. I will give you an excuse. Be

anxious and uneasy to know where you can find Madame di Negra.”

“Madame di Negra!” cried Frank. “What of her? Is she not in Curzon

Street?”

“No; she has gone out in one of the count’s carriages. In all

probability the driver of that carriage, or some servant in attendance

on it, will come to the count in the course of the day; and in order

to get rid of you, the count will tell you to see this servant, and

ascertain yourself that his sister is safe. Pretend to believe what

the man says, but make him come to your lodgings on pretence of writing

there a letter for the marchesa. Once at your lodgings, and he will

be safe; for I shall see that the officers of justice secure him. The

moment he is there, send an express for me to my hotel.”

“But,” said Frank, a little bewildered, “if I go to my lodgings, how can

I watch the count?”

“It will nor then be necessary. Only get him to accompany you to your

lodgings, and part with him at the door.”

“Stop, stop! you cannot suspect Madame di Negra of connivance in a

scheme so infamous. Pardon me, Lord L’Estrange; I cannot act in this

matter,--cannot even hear you except as your foe, if you insinuate a

word against the honour of the woman I love.”

“Brave gentleman, your hand. It is Madame di Negra I would save, as

well as my friend’s young child. Think but of her, while you act as

I entreat, and all will go well. I confide in you. Now, return to the

count.”

Frank walked back to join Peschiera, and his brow was thoughtful, and

his lips closed firmly. Harley had that gift which belongs to the genius

of Action. He inspired others with the light of his own spirit and the

force of his own will. Harley next hastened to Lord Spendquick, remained

with that young gentleman some minutes, then repaired to his hotel,

where Leonard, the prince, and Giacomo still awaited him.

“Come with me, both of you. You, too, Giacomo. I must now see the

police. We may then divide upon separate missions.”

“Oh, my dear Lord,” cried Leonard, “you must have had good news. You

seem cheerful and sanguine.”

“Seem! Nay, I am so! If I once paused to despond--even to doubt--I

should go mad. A foe to baffle, and an angel to save! Whose spirits

would not rise high, whose wits would not move quick to the warm pulse

of his heart?”

CHAPTER VIII.

Twilight was dark in the room to which Beatrice had conducted Violante.

A great change had come over Beatrice. Humble and weeping, she knelt

beside Violante, hiding her face, and imploring pardon. And Violante,

striving to resist the terror for which she now saw such cause as no

woman-heart can defy, still sought to soothe, and still sweetly assured

forgiveness.

Beatrice had learned, after quick and fierce questions, which at last

compelled the answers that cleared away every doubt, that her jealousy

had been groundless, that she had no rival in Violante. From that moment

the passions that had made her the tool of guilt abruptly vanished, and

her conscience startled her with the magnitude of her treachery. Perhaps

had Violante’s heart been wholly free, or she had been of that mere

commonplace, girlish character which women like Beatrice are apt to

despise, the marchesa’s affection for Peschiera, and her dread of him,

might have made her try to persuade her young kinswoman at least to

receive the count’s visit,--at least to suffer him to make his own

excuses, and plead his own cause. But there had been a loftiness of

spirit in which Violante had first defied the mareliesa’s questions,

followed by such generous, exquisite sweetness, when the girl perceived

how that wild heart was stung and maddened, and such purity of mournful

candour when she had overcome her own virgin bashfulness sufficiently to

undeceive the error she detected, and confess where her own affections

were placed, that Beatrice bowed before her as mariner of old to some

fair saint that had allayed the storm.

“I have deceived you!” she cried, through her sobs; “but I will now save

you at any cost. Had you been as I deemed,--the rival who had despoiled

all the hopes of my future life,--I could without remorse have been

the accomplice I am pledged to be. But now you--Oh, you, so good and

so noble--you can never, be the bride of Peschiera. Nay, start not; he

shall renounce his designs forever, or I will go myself to our emperor,

and expose the dark secrets of his life. Return with me quick to the

home from which I ensnared you.”

Beatrice’s hand was on the door while she spoke. Suddenly her face fell,

her lips grew white; the door was locked from without. She called,--no

one answered; the bell-pull in the room gave no sound; the windows were

high and barred,--they did not look on the river, nor the street, but on

a close, gloomy, silent yard, high blank walls all round it; no one to

hear the cry of distress, rang it ever so loud and sharp.

Beatrice divined that she herself had been no less ensnared than her

companion; that Peschiera, distrustful of her firmness in evil, had

precluded her from the power of reparation. She was in a house only

tenanted by his hirelings. Not a hope to save Violante from a fate that

now appalled her seemed to remain. Thus, in incoherent self-reproaches

and frenzied tears, Beatrice knelt beside her victim, communicating more

and more the terrors that she felt, as the hours rolled on, and the room

darkened, till it was only by the dull lamp which gleamed through the

grimy windows from the yard without, that each saw the face of the

other.

Night came on; they heard a clock from some distant church strike

the hours. The dim fire had long since burned out, and the air became

intensely cold. No one broke upon their solitude,--not a voice was heard

in the house. They felt neither cold nor hunger,--they felt but the

solitude, and the silence, and the dread of something that was to come.

At length, about midnight, a bell rang at the street door; then there

was the quick sound of steps, of sullen bolts withdrawn, of low,

murmured voices. Light streamed through the chinks of the door to the

apartment, the door itself opened. Two Italians bearing tapers entered,

and the Count di Peschiera followed.

Beatrice sprang up, and rushed towards her brother. He laid his hand

gently on her lips, and motioned to the Italians to withdraw. They

placed the lights on the table, and vanished without a word.

Peschiera then, putting aside his sister, approached Violante.

“Fair kinswoman,” said he, with an air of easy but resolute assurance,

“there are things which no man can excuse, and no woman can pardon,

unless that love, which is beyond all laws, suggests excuse for the one,

and obtains pardon for the other. In a word, I have sworn to win you,

and I have had no opportunities to woo. Fear not; the worst that can

befall you is to be my bride! Stand aside, my sister, stand aside.”

“Giulio Franzini, I stand between you and her; you shall strike me to

the earth before you can touch even the hem of her robe!”

“What, my sister! you turn against me?”

“And unless you instantly retire and leave her free, I will unmask you

to the emperor.”

“Too late, mon enfant! You will sail with us. The effects you may

need for the voyage are already on board. You will be witness to our

marriage, and by a holy son of the Church. Then tell the emperor what

you will.”

With a light and sudden exertion of his strength, the count put away

Beatrice, and fell on his knee before Violante, who, drawn to her full

height, death-like pale, but untrembling, regarded him with unutterable

disdain.

“You scorn me now,” said he, throwing into his features an expression

of humility and admiration, “and I cannot wonder at it. But, believe

me, that until the scorn yield to a kinder sentiment, I will take no

advantage of the power I have gained over your fate.”

“Power!” said Violante, haughtily. “You have ensnared me into this

house, you have gained the power of a day; but the power over my

fate,--no!”

“You mean that your friends have discovered your disappearance, and are

on your track. Fair one, I provide against your friends, and I defy all

the laws and police of England. The vessel that will bear you from these

shores waits in the river hard by. Beatrice, I warn you,--be still,

unhand me. In that vessel will be a priest who shall join our hands, but

not before you will recognize the truth, that she who flies with Giulio

Peschiera must become his wife or quit him as the disgrace of her House,

and the scorn of her sex.”

“O villain! villain!” cried Beatrice.

“Peste, my sister, gentler words. You, too, would marry. I tell no tales

of you. Signorina, I grieve to threaten force. Give me your hand; we

must be gone.”

Violante eluded the clasp that would have profaned her, and darting

across the room, opened the door, and closed it hastily behind her.

Beatrice clung firmly to the count to detain him from pursuit. But just

without the door, close, as if listening to what passed within, stood a

man wrapped from head to foot in a large boat cloak. The ray of the lamp

that beamed on the man glittered on the barrel of a pistol which he held

in his right hand.

“Hist!” whispered the man in English, and passing his arm round her; “in

this house you are in that ruffian’s power; out of it, safe. Ah, I am by

your side,--I, Violante!”

The voice thrilled to Violante’s heart. She started, looked up, but

nothing was seen of the man’s face, what with the hat and cloak, save a

mass of raven curls, and a beard of the same hue.

The count now threw open the door, dragging after him his sister, who

still clung round him.

“Ha, that is well!” he cried to the man, in Italian. “Bear the lady

after me, gently; but if she attempt to cry out, why, force enough to

silence her, not more. As for you, Beatrice, traitress that you are, I

could strike you to the earth, but--No, this suffices.” He caught

his sister in his arms as he spoke, and regardless of her cries and

struggles, sprang down the stairs.

The hall was crowded with fierce, swarthy men. The count turned to

one of them, and whispered; in an instant the marchesa was seized and

gagged. The count cast a look over his shoulder; Violante was close

behind, supported by the man to whom Peschiera had consigned her, and

who was pointing to Beatrice, and appeared warning Violante against

resistance.

Violante was silent, and seemed resigned. Peschiera smiled cynically,

and, preceded by some of his hirelings, who held torches, descended a

few steps that led to an abrupt landing-place between the hall and the

basement story. There a small door stood open, and the river flowed

close by. A boat was moored on the bank, round which grouped four men,

who had the air of foreign sailors. At the appearance of Peschiera,

three of these men sprang into the boat, and got ready their oars. The

fourth carefully re-adjusted a plank thrown from the boat to the wharf,

and offered his arm obsequiously to Peschiera. The count was the first

to enter, and, humming a gay opera air, took his place by the helm.

The two females were next lifted in, and Violante felt her hand

pressed almost convulsively by the man who stood by the plank. The rest

followed, and in another minute the boat bounded swiftly over the waves

towards a vessel that lay several furlongs adown the river, and apart

from all the meaner craft that crowded the stream. The stars struggled

pale through the foggy atmosphere; not a word was heard within the

boat,--no sound save the regular splash of the oars. The count paused

from his lively tune, and gathering round him the ample fold of his fur

pelisse, seemed absorbed in thought. Even by the imperfect light of the

stars, Peschiera’s face wore an air of sovereign triumph. The result

had justified that careless and insolent confidence in himself and in

fortune, which was the most prominent feature in the character of the

man, who, both bravo and gamester, had played against the world with

his rapier in one hand and cogged dice in the other. Violante, once in

a vessel filled by his own men, was irretrievably in his power. Even

her father must feel grateful to learn that the captive of Peschiera had

saved name and repute in becoming Peschiera’s wife. Even the pride of

sex in Violante herself must induce her to confirm what Peschiera, of

course, intended to state,--namely, that she was a willing partner in

a bridegroom’s schemes of flight towards the altar rather than the poor

victim of a betrayer, and receiving his hand but from his mercy. He

saw his fortune secured, his success envied, his very character

rehabilitated by his splendid nuptials. Ambition began to mingle with

his dreams of pleasure and pomp. What post in the Court or the State too

high for the aspirations of one who had evinced the most incontestable

talent for active life,--the talent to succeed in all that the will had

undertaken? Thus mused the count, half-forgetful of the present, and

absorbed in the golden future, till he was aroused by a loud hail from

the vessel and the bustle on board the boat, as the sailors caught at

the rope flung forth to them.

He then rose and moved towards Violante. But the man who was still in

charge of her passed the count lightly, half-leading, half-carrying his

passive prisoner. “Pardon, Excellency,” said the man, in Italian, “but

the boat is crowded, and rocks so much that your aid would but disturb

our footing.” Before Peschiera could reply, Violante was already on the

steps of the vessel, and the count paused till, with elated smile,

he saw her safely standing on the deck. Beatrice followed, and then

Peschiera himself; but when the Italians in his train also thronged

towards the sides of the boat, two of the sailors got before them, and

let go the rope, while the other two plied their oars vigorously,

and pulled back towards shore. The Italians burst into an amazed and

indignant volley of execrations. “Silence,” said the sailor who had

stood by the plank, “we obey orders. If you are not quiet, we shall

upset the boat. We can swim; Heaven and Monsignore San Giacomo pity you

if you cannot!”

Meanwhile, as Peschiera leaped upon deck, a flood of light poured upon

him from lifted torches. That light streamed full on the face and form

of a man of commanding stature, whose arm was around Violante, and whose

dark eyes flashed upon the count more luminously than the torches. On

one side this man stood the Austrian prince; on the other side (a cloak,

and a profusion of false dark locks, at his feet) stood Lord L’Estrange,

his arms folded, and his lips curved by a smile in which the ironical

humour native to the man was tempered with a calm and supreme disdain.

The count strove to speak, but his voice faltered.

All around him looked ominous and hostile. He saw many Italian faces,

but they scowled at him with vindictive hate; in the rear were English

mariners, peering curiously over the shoulders of the foreigners, and

with a broad grin on their open countenances. Suddenly, as the count

thus stood perplexed, cowering, stupefied, there burst from all

the Italians present a hoot of unutterable scorn, “Il traditore! il

traditore!” (the traitor! the traitor!)

The count was brave, and at the cry he lifted his head with a certain

majesty.

At that moment Harley, raising his hand as if to silence the hoot, came

forth from the group by which he had been hitherto standing, and towards

him the count advanced with a bold stride.

“What trick is this?” he said, in French, fiercely. “I divine that it is

you whom I can single out for explanation and atonement.”

“Pardieu, Monsieur le Comte,” answered Harley, in the same language,

which lends itself so well to polished sarcasm and high-bred enmity,

“let us distinguish. Explanation should come from me, I allow; but

atonement I have the honour to resign to yourself. This vessel--”

“Is mine!” cried the count. “Those men, who insult me, should be in my

pay.”

“The men in your pay, Monsieur le Comte, are on shore, drinking success

to your voyage. But, anxious still to procure you the gratification of

being amongst your own countrymen, those whom I have taken into my pay

are still better Italians than the pirates whose place they supply;

perhaps not such good sailors; but then I have taken the liberty to add

to the equipment of a vessel which cost me too much to risk lightly,

some stout English seamen, who are mariners more practised than even

your pirates. Your grand mistake, Monsieur le Comte, is in thinking that

the ‘Flying Dutchman’ is yours. With many apologies for interfering with

your intention to purchase it, I beg to inform you that Lord Spendquick

has kindly sold it to me. Nevertheless, Monsieur le Comte, for the next

few weeks I place it--men and all--at your service.”

Peschiera smiled scornfully.

“I thank your Lordship; but since I presume that I shall no longer have

the travelling companion who alone could make the voyage attractive, I

shall return to shore, and will simply request you to inform me at what

hour you can receive the friend whom I shall depute to discuss that

part of the question yet untouched, and to arrange that the atonement,

whether it be due from me or yourself, may be rendered as satisfactory

as you have condescended to make the explanation.”

“Let not that vex you, Monsieur le Comte; the atonement is, in much,

made already; so anxious have I been to forestall all that your nice

sense of honour would induce so complete a gentleman to desire. You have

ensnared a young heiress, it is true; but you see that it was only to

restore her to the arms of her father. You have juggled an illustrious

kinsman out of his heritage; but you have voluntarily come on board this

vessel, first, to enable his Highness the Prince Von ------, of whose

rank at the Austrian Court you are fully aware, to state to your emperor

that he himself has been witness of the manner in which you interpreted

his Imperial Majesty’s assent to your nuptials with a child of one of

the first subjects in his Italian realm; and, next, to commence by an

excursion to the seas of the Baltic the sentence of banishment which I

have no doubt will accompany the same act that restores to the chief of

your House his lands and his honours.”

The count started.

“That restoration,” said the Austrian prince, who had advanced to

Harley’s side, “I already guarantee. Disgrace that you are, Giulio

Franzini, to the nobles of the Empire, I will not leave my royal master

till his hand strike your name from the roll. I have here your own

letters, to prove that your kinsman was duped by yourself into the

revolt which you would have headed as a Catiline, if it had not better

suited your nature to betray it as a Judas. In ten days from this time,

these letters will be laid before the emperor and his Council.”

“Are you satisfied, Monsieur le Comte,” said Harley, “with your

atonement so far? If not, I have procured you the occasion to render it

yet more complete. Before you stands the kinsman you have wronged. He

knows now, that though, for a while, you ruined his fortunes, you failed

to sully his hearth. His heart can grant you pardon, and hereafter his

hand may give you alms. Kneel then, Giulio Franzini, kneel at the feet

of Alphonso, Duke of Serrano.”

The above dialogue had been in French, which only a few of the Italians

present understood, and that imperfectly; but at the name with which

Harley concluded his address to the count, a simultaneous cry from those

Italians broke forth.

“Alphonso the Good! Alphonso the Good! Viva, viva, the good Duke of

Serrano!”

And, forgetful even of the count, they crowded round the tall form of

Riccabocca, striving who should first kiss his hand, the very hem of his

garment.

Riccabocca’s eyes overflowed. The gaunt exile seemed transfigured into

another and more kingly man. An inexpressible dignity invested him. He

stretched forth his arms, as if to bless his countrymen. Even that rude

cry, from humble men, exiles like himself, consoled him for years of

banishment and penury.

“Thanks, thanks,” he continued; “thanks! Some day or other, you will all

perhaps return with me to the beloved land!”

The Austrian prince bowed his head, as if in assent to the prayer.

“Giulio Franzini,” said the Duke of Serrano,--for so we may now call the

threadbare recluse of the Casino,--“had this last villanous design of

yours been allowed by Providence, think you that there is one spot on

earth on which the ravisher could have been saved from a father’s arm?

But now, Heaven has been more kind. In this hour let me imitate its

mercy;” and with relaxing brow the duke mildly drew near to his guilty

kinsman.

From the moment the Austrian prince had addressed him, the count had

preserved a profound silence, showing neither repentance nor shame.

Gathering himself up, he had stood firm, glaring round him like one at

bay. But as the duke now approached, he waved his hand, and exclaimed,

“Back, pedant; back; you have not triumphed yet. And you, prating

German, tell your tales to our emperor. I shall be by his throne to

answer,--if, indeed, you escape from the meeting to which I will force

you by the way.” He spoke, and made a rush towards the side of the

vessel. But Harley’s quick wit had foreseen the count’s intention, and

Harley’s quick eye had given the signal by which it was frustrated.

Seized in the gripe of his own watchful and indignant countrymen, just

as he was about to plunge into the stream, Peschiera was dragged back,

pinioned clown. Then the expression of his whole countenance changed;

the desperate violence of the inborn gladiator broke forth. His great

strength enabled him to break loose more than once, to dash more than

one man to the floor of the deck; but at length, overpowered by numbers,

though still struggling, all dignity, all attempt at presence of mind

gone, uttering curses the most plebeian, gnashing his teeth, and foaming

at the mouth, nothing seemed left of the brilliant Lothario but the

coarse fury of the fierce natural man.

Then still preserving that air and tone of exquisite imperturbable

irony, which the highest comedian might have sought to imitate in vain,

Harley bowed low to the storming count.

“Adieu, Monsieur le Comte, adieu! The vessel which you have honoured me

by entering is bound to Norway. The Italians who accompany you were

sent by yourself into exile, and, in return, they now kindly promise to

enliven you with their society, whenever you feel somewhat tired of

your own. Conduct the count to his cabin. Gently there, gently. Adieu,

Monsieur le Comte, adieu! et bon voyage.”

Harley turned lightly on his heel, as Peschiera, in spite of his

struggles, was now fairly carried down to the cabin.

“A trick for the trickster,” said L’Estrange to the Austrian prince.

“The revenge of a farce on the would-be tragedian.”

“More than that,-he is ruined.”

“And ridiculous,” quoth Harley. “I should like to see his look when

they land him in Norway.” Harley then passed towards the centre of the

vessel, by which, hitherto partially concealed by the sailors, who were

now busily occupied, stood Beatrice,--Frank Hazeldean, who had first

received her on entering the vessel, standing by her side; and Leonard,

a little apart from the two, in quiet observation of all that had passed

around him. Beatrice appeared but little to heed Frank; her dark eyes

were lifted to the dim starry skies, and her lips were moving as if in

prayer; yet her young lover was speaking to her in great emotion, low

and rapidly.

“No, no, do not think for a moment that we suspect you, Beatrice. I will

answer for your honour with my life. Oh, why will you turn from me; why

will you not speak?”

“A moment later,” said Beatrice, softly. “Give me one moment yet.” She

passed slowly and falteringly towards Leonard, placed her hand, that

trembled, on his arm, and led him aside to the verge of the vessel.

Frank, startled by her movement, made a step as if to follow, and

then stopped short and looked on, but with a clouded and doubtful

countenance. Harley’s smile had gone, and his eye was also watchful.

It was but a few words that Beatrice spoke, it was but a sentence or so

that Leonard answered; and then Beatrice extended her hand, which the

young poet bent over, and kissed in silence. She lingered an instant;

and even by the starlight, Harley noted the blush that overspread her

face. The blush faded as Beatrice returned to Frank. Lord L’Estrange

would have retired,--she signed to him to stay.

“My Lord,” she said, very firmly, “I cannot accuse you of harshness

to my sinful and unhappy brother. His offence might perhaps deserve a

heavier punishment than that which you inflict with such playful scorn.

But whatever his penance, contempt now or poverty later, I feel that

his sister should be by his side to share it. I am not innocent if he be

guilty; and, wreck though he be, nothing else on this dark sea of life

is now left to me to cling to. Hush, my Lord! I shall not leave this

vessel. All that I entreat of you is, to order your men to respect my

brother, since a woman will be by his side.”

“But, Marchesa, this cannot be; and--”

“Beatrice, Beatrice--and me!--our betrothal? Do you forget me?” cried

Frank, in reproachful agony.

“No, young and too noble lover; I shall remember you ever in my prayers.

But listen. I have been deceived, hurried on, I might say, by others,

but also, and far more, by my own mad and blinded heart,--deceived,

hurried on, to wrong you and to belie myself. My shame burns into me

when I think that I could have inflicted on you the just anger of your

family, linked you to my own ruined fortunes,--my own--”

“Your own generous, loving heart!--that is all I asked!” cried Frank.

“Cease, cease! that heart is mine still!” Tears gushed from the

Italian’s eyes.

“Englishman, I never loved you; this heart was dead to you, and it will

be dead to all else forever. Farewell. You will forget me sooner than

you think for,--sooner than I shall forget you, as a friend, as a

brother--if brothers had natures as tender and as kind as yours! Now, my

Lord, will you give me your arm? I would join the count.”

“Stay; one word, Madame,” said Frank, very pale, and through his set

teeth, but calmly, and with a pride on his brow which had never before

dignified its habitual careless expression,--“one word. I may not be

worthy of you in anything else, but an honest love, that never doubted,

never suspected, that would have clung to you though all the world were

against,--such a love makes the meanest man of worth. One word, frank

and open. By all that you hold most sacred in your creed, did you speak

the truth when you said that you never loved me?”

Beatrice bent down her head; she was abashed before this manly nature

that she had so deceived, and perhaps till then undervalued.

“Pardon, pardon,” she said, in reluctant accents, half-choked by the

rising of a sob.

At her hesitation, Frank’s face lighted as if with sudden hope. She

raised her eyes, and saw the change in him, then glanced where Leonard

stood, mournful and motionless. She shivered, and added firmly,

“Yes, pardon; for I spoke the truth, and I had no heart to give. It

might have been as wax to another,--it was of granite to you.” She

paused, and muttered inly, “Granite, and--broken!”

Frank said not a word more. He stood rooted to the spot, not even gazing

after Beatrice as she passed on, leaning on the arm of Lord L’Estrange.

He then walked resolutely away, and watched the boat that the men were

now lowering from the side of the vessel. Beatrice stopped when she came

near the place where Violante stood, answering in agitated whispers her

father’s anxious questions. As she stopped, she leaned more heavily upon

Harley. “It is your arm that trembles now, Lord L’Estrange,” said she,

with a mournful smile, and, quitting him ere he could answer, she bowed

down her head meekly before Violante. “You have pardoned me already,”

she said, in a tone that reached only the girl’s ear, “and my last words

shall not be of the past. I see your future spread bright before me

under those steadfast stars. Love still; hope and trust. These are the

last words of her who will soon die to the world. Fair maid, they are

prophetic!”

Violante shrunk back to her father’s breast, and there hid her glowing

face, resigning her hand to Beatrice, who pressed it to her bosom.

The marchesa then came back to Harley, and disappeared with him in the

interior of the vessel.

When Harley again came on deck, he seemed much flurried and disturbed.

He kept aloof from the duke and Violante, and was the last to enter the

boat, that was now lowered into the water.

As he and his companions reached the land, they saw the vessel in

movement, gliding slowly down the river. “Courage, Leonard, courage!”

murmured Harley. “You grieve, and nobly. But you have shunned the worst

and most vulgar deceit in civilized life; you have not simulated love.

Better that yon poor lady should be, awhile, the sufferer from a harsh

truth, than the eternal martyr of a flattering lie! Alas, my Leonard!

with the love of the poet’s dream are linked only the Graces; with the

love of the human heart come the awful Fates!”

“My Lord, poets do not dream when they love. You will learn how the

feelings are deep in proportion as the fancies are vivid, when you read

that confession of genius and woe which I have left in your hands.”

Leonard turned away. Harley’s gaze followed him with inquiring interest,

and suddenly encountered the soft dark grateful eyes of Violante. “The

Fates, the Fates!” murmured Harley.

CHAPTER IX.

We are at Norwood in the sage’s drawing-room. Violante has long since

retired to rest. Harley, who had accompanied the father and daughter to

their home, is still conversing with the former.

“Indeed, my dear Duke,” said Harley

“Hush, hush! Diavolo, don’t call me Duke yet; I am at home here once

more as Dr. Riccabocca.”

“My dear doctor, then, allow me to assure you that you overrate my claim

to your thanks. Your old friends, Leonard and Frank Hazeldean, must come

in for their share. Nor is the faithful Giacomo to be forgotten.”

“Continue your explanation.”

“In the first place, I learned, through Frank, that one Baron Levy, a

certain fashionable money-lender, and general ministrant to the

affairs of fine gentlemen, was just about to purchase a yacht from Lord

Spendquick on behalf of the count. A short interview with Spendquick

enabled me to outbid the usurer, and conclude a bargain by which the

yacht became mine,--a promise to assist Spendquick in extricating

himself from the claws of the money-lender (which I trust to do by

reconciling him with his father, who is a man of liberality and sense)

made Spendquick readily connive at my scheme for outwitting the enemy.

He allowed Levy to suppose that the count might take possession of

the vessel; but affecting an engagement, and standing out for terms,

postponed the final settlement of the purchase-money till the next day.

I was thus master of the vessel, which I felt sure was destined to serve

Peschiera’s infamous design. But it was my business not to alarm the

count’s suspicions; I therefore permitted the pirate crew he had

got together to come on board. I knew I could get rid of them when

necessary. Meanwhile, Frank undertook to keep close to the count until

he could see and cage within his lodgings the servant whom Peschiera

had commissioned to attend his sister. If I could but apprehend this

servant, I had a sanguine hope that I could discover and free your

daughter before Peschiera could even profane her with his presence. But

Frank, alas! was no pupil of Machiavelli. Perhaps the count detected his

secret thoughts under his open countenance, perhaps merely wished to

get rid of a companion very much in his way; but, at all events, he

contrived to elude our young friend as cleverly as you or I could have

done,--told him that Beatrice herself was at Roehampton, had borrowed

the count’s carriage to go there, volunteered to take Frank to the

house, took him. Frank found himself in a drawing-room; and after

waiting a few minutes, while the count went out on pretence of seeing

his sister, in pirouetted a certain distinguished opera-dancer!

Meanwhile the count was fast back on the road to London, and Frank had

to return as he could. He then hunted for the count everywhere, and saw

him no more. It was late in the day when Frank found me out with this

news. I became seriously alarmed. Peschiera might perhaps learn my

counter-scheme with the yacht, or he might postpone sailing until he had

terrified or entangled Violante into some--In short, everything was to

be dreaded from a man of the count’s temper. I had no clew to the place

to which your daughter was taken, no excuse to arrest Peschiera, no

means even of learning where he was. He had not returned to Mivart’s.

The Police was at fault, and useless, except in one valuable piece

of information. They told me where some of your countrymen, whom

Peschiera’s perfidy had sent into exile, were to be found. I

commissioned Giacomo to seek these men out, and induce them to man the

vessel. It might be necessary, should Peschiera or his confidential

servants come aboard, after we had expelled or drawn off the pirate

crew, that they should find Italians whom they might well mistake for

their own hirelings. To these foreigners I added some English sailors

who had before served in the same vessel, and on whom Spendquick assured

me I could rely. Still these precautions only availed in case Peschiera

should resolve to sail, and defer till then all machinations against

his captives. While, amidst my fears and uncertainties, I was struggling

still to preserve presence of mind, and rapidly discussing with the

Austrian prince if any other steps could be taken, or if our sole

resource was to repair to the vessel and take the chance of what might

ensue, Leonard suddenly and quietly entered my room. You know his

countenance, in which joy or sadness is not betrayed so much by

the evidence of the passions as by variations in the intellectual

expression. It was but by the clearer brow and the steadier eye that I

saw he had good tidings to impart.”

“Ah,” said Riccabocca,--for so, obeying his own request, we will yet

call the sage,--“ah, I early taught that young man the great lesson

inculcated by Helvetius. ‘All our errors arise from our ignorance or our

passions.’ Without ignorance and without passions, we should be serene,

all-penetrating intelligences.”

“Mopsticks,” quoth Harley, “have neither ignorance nor passions; but as

for their intelligence--”

“Pshaw!” interrupted Riccabocca,--“proceed.”

“Leonard had parted from us some hours before. I had commissioned him

to call at Madame di Negra’s, and, as he was familiarly known to her

servants, seek to obtain quietly all the information he could collect,

and, at all events, procure (what in my haste I had failed to do) the

name and description of the man who had driven her out in the morning,

and make what use he judged best of every hint he could gather or glean

that might aid our researches. Leonard only succeeded in learning the

name and description of the coachman, whom he recognized as one Beppo,

to whom she had often given orders in his presence. None could say where

he then could be found, if not at the count’s hotel. Leonard went next

to that hotel. The man had not been there all the day. While revolving

what next he should do, his eye caught sight of your intended

son-in-law, gliding across the opposite side of the street. One of those

luminous, inspiring conjectures, which never occur to you philosophers,

had from the first guided Leonard to believe that Randal Leslie was

mixed up in this villanous affair.”

“Ha! He?” cried Riccabocca. “Impossible! For what interest, what

object?”

“I cannot tell, neither could Leonard; but we had both formed the same

conjecture. Brief: Leonard resolved to follow Randal Leslie, and

track all his movements. He did then follow him, unobserved,--and at a

distance, first to Audley Egerton’s house, then to Eaton Square, thence

to a house in Bruton Street, which Leonard ascertained to be Baron

Levy’s. Suspicious that, my clear sage?”

“Diavolo, yes!” said Riccabocca, thoughtfully.

“At Levy’s, Randal stayed till dusk. He then came out, with his

cat-like, stealthy step, and walked quickly into the neighbourhood of

Leicester Square. Leonard saw him enter one of those small hotels which

are appropriated to foreigners. Wild, outlandish fellows were loitering

about the door and in the street. Leonard divined that the count or the

count’s confidants were there.”

“If that can be proved,” cried Riccabocca, “if Randal could have been

thus in communication with Peschiera, could have connived at such

perfidy, I am released from my promise. Oh, to prove it!”

“Proof will come later, if we are on the right track. Let me go on.

While waiting near the door of this hotel, Beppo himself, the very man

Leonard was in search of, came forth, and, after speaking a few words

to some of the loitering foreigners, walked briskly towards Piccadilly.

Leonard here resigned all further heed of Leslie, and gave chase

to Beppo, whom he recognized at a glance. Coming up to him, he said

quietly, ‘I have a letter for the Marchesa di Negra. She told me I was

to send it to her by you. I have been searching for you the whole day.’

The man fell into the trap, and the more easily, because--as he since

owned in excuse for a simplicity which, I dare say, weighed on his

conscience more than any of the thousand-and-one crimes he may have

committed in the course of his illustrious life--he had been employed

by the marchesa as a spy upon Leonard, and, with an Italian’s acumen in

affairs of the heart, detected her secret.”

“What secret?” asked the innocent sage.

“Her love for the handsome young poet. I betray that secret, in order to

give her some slight excuse for becoming Peschiera’s tool. She believed

Leonard to be in love with your daughter, and jealousy urged her to

treason. Violante, no doubt, will explain this to you. Well, the man

fell into the trap. ‘Give me the letter, Signor, and quick.’

“‘It is at a hotel close by; come there, and you will have a guinea for

your trouble.’

“So Leonard walked our gentleman into my hotel; and having taken him

into my dressing-room, turned the key and there left him. On learning

this capture, the prince and myself hastened to see our prisoner. He was

at first sullen and silent; but when the prince disclosed his rank and

name (you know the mysterious terror the meaner Italians feel for an

Austrian magnate), his countenance changed, and his courage fell. What

with threats and what with promises, we soon obtained all that we sought

to know; and an offered bribe, which I calculated at ten times the

amount the rogue could ever expect to receive from his spendthrift

master, finally bound him cheerfully to our service, soul and body. Thus

we learned the dismal place to which your noble daughter had been

so perfidiously ensnared. We learned also that the count had not yet

visited her, hoping much from the effect that prolonged incarceration

might have in weakening her spirit and inducing her submission.

Peschiera was to go to the house at midnight, thence to transport her to

the vessel. Beppo had received orders to bring the carriage to Leicester

Square, where Peschiera would join him. The count (as Leonard surmised)

had taken skulking refuge at the hotel in which Randal Leslie had

disappeared. The prince, Leonard, Frank (who was then in the hotel), and

myself held a short council. Should we go at once to the house, and,

by the help of the police, force an entrance, and rescue your daughter?

This was a very hazardous resource. The abode, which, at various times,

had served for the hiding-place of men haunted by the law, abounded,

according to our informant, in subterranean vaults and secret passages,

and had more than one outlet on the river. At our first summons at the

door, therefore, the ruffians within might not only escape themselves,

but carry off their prisoner. The door was strong, and before our

entrance could be forced, all trace of her we sought might be lost.

Again, too, the prince was desirous of bringing Peschiera’s guilty

design home to him,--anxious to be able to state to the emperor, and

to the great minister his kinsman, that he himself had witnessed the

count’s vile abuse of the emperor’s permission to wed your daughter. In

short, while I only thought of Violante, the prince thought also of her

father’s recall to his dukedom. Yet, still to leave Violante in that

terrible house, even for an hour, a few minutes, subjected to the actual

presence of Peschiera, unguarded save by the feeble and false woman who

had betrayed and might still desert her--how contemplate that fearful

risk? What might not happen in the interval between Peschiera’s visit

to the house and his appearance with his victim on the vessel? An idea

flashed on me: Beppo was to conduct the count to the house; if I could

accompany Beppo in disguise, enter the house, myself be present?--I

rushed back to our informant, now become our agent; I found the plan

still more feasible than I had at first supposed. Beppo had asked the

count’s permission to bring with him a brother accustomed to the sea,

and who wished to quit England. I might personate that brother. You

know that the Italian language, in most of its dialects and varieties of

patois--Genoese, Piedmontese, Venetian--is as familiar tome as Addison’s

English! Alas! rather more so. Presto! the thing was settled. I felt my

heart, from that moment, as light as a feather, and my sense as keen as

the dart which a feather wings. My plans now were formed in a breath,

and explained in a sentence. It was right that you should be present

on board the vessel, not only to witness your foe’s downfall, but to

receive your child in a father’s arms. Leonard set out to Norwood for

you, cautioned not to define too precisely for what object you were

wanted, till on board.

“Frank, accompanied by Beppo (for there was yet time for these

preparations before midnight), repaired to the yacht, taking Giacomo by

the way. There our new ally, familiar to most of that piratical crew,

and sanctioned by the presence of Frank, as the count’s friend and

prospective brother-in-law, told Peschiera’s hirelings that they were to

quit the vessel, and wait on shore under Giacomo’s auspices till further

orders; and as soon as the decks were cleared of these ruffians (save a

few left to avoid suspicion, and who were afterwards safely stowed down

in the hold), and as soon as Giacomo had lodged his convoy in a public

house, where he quitted them drinking his health over unlimited rations

of grog, your inestimable servant quietly shipped on board the Italians

pressed into the service, and Frank took charge of the English sailors.

“The prince, promising to be on board in due time, then left me to make

arrangements for his journey to Vienna by the dawn. I hastened to a

masquerade warehouse, where, with the help of an ingenious stagewright

artificer, I disguised myself into a most thorough-paced-looking

cut-throat, and then waited the return of my friend Beppo with the most

perfect confidence.”

“Yet, if that rascal had played false, all these precautions were lost.

Cospetto! you were not wise,” said the prudent philosopher.

“Very likely not. You would have been so wise, that by this time your

daughter would have been lost to you forever.”

“But why not employ the police?”

“First, Because I had already employed them to little purpose; secondly,

Because I no longer wanted them; thirdly, Because to use them for

my final catastrophe would be to drag your name, and your daughter’s

perhaps, before a police court,--at all events, before the tribunal

of public gossip; and lastly, Because, having decided upon the proper

punishment, it had too much of equity to be quite consistent with law;

and in forcibly seizing a man’s person, and shipping him off to Norway,

my police would have been sadly in the way. Certainly my plan rather

savours of Lope de Vega than of Blackstone. However, you see success

atones for all irregularities. I resume: Beppo came back in time to

narrate all the arrangements that had been made, and to inform me that

a servant from the count had come on board just as our new crew were

assembled there, to order the boat to be at the place where we found

it. The servant it was deemed prudent to detain and secure. Giacomo

undertook to manage the boat.

“I am nearly at the close of my story. Sure of my disguise, I got on the

coach-box with Beppo. The count arrived at the spot appointed, and did

not even honour myself with a question or glance. ‘Your brother?’ he

said to Beppo; ‘one might guess that; he has the family likeness. Not a

handsome race yours! Drive on.’

“We arrived at the house. I dismounted to open the carriage-door. The

count gave me one look. ‘Beppo says you have known the sea.’

“‘Excellency, yes. I am a Genoese.’

“‘Ha! how is that? Beppo is a Lombard.’--Admire the readiness with which

I redeemed my blunder.

“‘Excellency, it pleased Heaven that Beppo should be born in Lombardy,

and then to remove my respected parents to Genoa, at which city they

were so kindly treated that my mother, in common gratitude, was bound

to increase its population. It was all she could do, poor woman. You see

she did her best.’

“The count smiled, and said no more. The door opened, I followed him;

your daughter can tell you the rest.”

“And you risked your life in that den of miscreants! Noble friend!”

“Risked my life,--no; but I risked the count’s. There was one moment

when my hand was on my trigger, and my soul very near the sin of

justifiable homicide. But my tale is done. The count is now on the

river, and will soon be on the salt seas, though not bound to Norway,

as I had first intended. I could not inflict that frigid voyage on his

sister. So the men have orders to cruise about for six days, keeping

aloof from shore, and they will then land the count and the marchesa, by

boat, on the French coast. That delay will give time for the prince to

arrive at Vienna before the count could follow him.”

“Would he have that audacity?”

“Do him more justice! Audacity, faith! he does not want for that. But I

dreaded not his appearance at Vienna with such evidence against him.

I dreaded his encountering the prince on the road, and forcing a duel,

before his character was so blasted that the prince could refuse it; and

the count is a dead shot of course,--all such men are!”

“He will return, and you--”

“I! Oh, never fear; he has had enough of me. And now, my dear

friend,--now that Violante is safe once more under your own roof;

now that my honoured mother must long ere this have been satisfied by

Leonard, who left us to go to her, that our success has been achieved

without danger, and, what she will value almost as much, without

scandal; now that your foe is powerless as a reed floating on the water

towards its own rot, and the Prince Von -------is perhaps about to enter

his carriage on the road to Dover, charged with the mission of restoring

to Italy her worthiest son,--let me dismiss you to your own happy

slumbers, and allow me to wrap myself in my cloak, and snatch a short

sleep on the sofa, till yonder gray dawn has mellowed into riper day.

My eyes are heavy, and if you stay here three minutes longer, I shall be

out of reach of hearing, in the land of dreams. Buona notte!”

“But there is a bed prepared for you.”

Harley shook his head in dissent, and composed himself at length on the

sofa.

Riccabocca, bending, wrapped the cloak round his guest, kissed him on

the forehead, and crept out of the room to rejoin Jemima, who still sat

up for him, nervously anxious to learn from him those explanations which

her considerate affection would not allow her to ask from the agitated

and exhausted Violante. “Not in bed!” cried the sage, on seeing her.

“Have you no feelings of compassion for my son that is to be? Just, too,

when there is a reasonable probability that we can afford a son?”

Riccabocca here laughed merrily, and his wife threw herself on his

shoulder, and cried for joy.

But no sleep fell on the lids of Harley L’Estrange. He started up when

his host had left him, and paced the apartment, with noiseless but rapid

strides. All whim and levity had vanished from his face, which, by the

light of the dawn, seemed death-like pale. On that pale face there was

all the struggle and all the anguish of passion.

“These arms have clasped her,” he murmured; “these lips have inhaled her

breath! I am under the same roof, and she is saved,--saved evermore from

danger and from penury, and forever divided from me. Courage, courage!

Oh, honour, duty; and thou, dark memory of the past,--thou that didst

pledge love at least to a grave,--support, defend me! Can I be so weak!”

The sun was in the wintry skies when Harley stole from the house. No

one was stirring except Giacomo, who stood by the threshold of the door,

which he had just unbarred, feeding the house-dog. “Good-day,” said the

servant, smiling. “The dog has not been of much use, but I don’t think

the padrone will henceforth grudge him a breakfast. I shall take him to

Italy, and marry him there, in the hope of improving the breed of our

native Lombard dogs.”

“Ah,” said Harley, “you will soon leave our cold shores. May sunshine

settle on you all!” He paused, and looked up at the closed windows

wistfully.

“The signorina sleeps there,” said Giacomo, in a husky voice, “just over

the room in which you slept.”

“I knew it,” muttered Harley. “An instinct told me of it. Open the gate;

I must go home. My excuses to your lord, and to all.”

He turned a deaf ear to Giacomo’s entreaties to stay till at least the

signorina was up,--the signorina whom he had saved. Without trusting

himself to speak further, he quitted the demesne, and walked with swift

strides towards London.

CHAPTER X.

Harley had not long reached his hotel, and was still seated before his

untasted breakfast, when Mr. Randal Leslie was announced. Randal, who

was in the firm belief that Violante was now on the wide seas with

Peschiera, entered, looking the very personation of anxiety and fatigue.

For like the great Cardinal Richelieu, Randal had learned the art how

to make good use of his own delicate and somewhat sickly aspect. The

cardinal, when intent on some sanguinary scheme requiring unusual

vitality and vigour, contrived to make himself look a harmless sufferer

at death’s door. And Randal, whose nervous energies could at that moment

have whirled him from one end of this huge metropolis to the other, with

a speed that would have outstripped a prize pedestrian, now sank into

a chair with a jaded weariness that no mother could have seen without

compassion. He seemed since the last night to have galloped towards the

last stage of consumption.

“Have you discovered no trace, my Lord? Speak, speak!”

“Speak! certainly. I am too happy to relieve your mind, Mr. Leslie. What

fools we were! Ha, ha!”

“Fools--how?” faltered Randal.

“Of course; the young lady was at her father’s house all the time.”

“Eh? what?”

“And is there now.”

“It is not possible!” said Randal, in the hollow, dreamy tone of a

somnambulist. “At her father’s house, at Norwood! Are you sure?”

“Sure.”

Randal made a desperate and successful effort at self-control. “Heaven

be praised!” he cried. “And just as I had begun to suspect the count,

the marchesa; for I find that neither of them slept at home last night;

and Levy told me that the count had written to him, requesting the

baron to discharge his bills, as he should be for some time absent from

England.”

“Indeed! Well, that is nothing to us,--very much to Baron Levy, if he

executes his commission, and discharges the bills. What! are you going

already?”

“Do you ask such a question? How can I stay? I must go to Norwood,--must

see Violante with my own eyes! Forgive my emotion--I--I--”

Randal snatched at his hat and hurried away. The low scornful laugh of

Harley followed him as he went.

“I have no more doubt of his guilt than Leonard has. Violante at

least shall not be the prize of that thin-lipped knave. What strange

fascination can he possess, that he should thus bind to him the two

men I value most,--Audley Egerton and Alphonso di Serrano? Both so wise

too!--one in books, one in action. And both suspicious men! While I, so

imprudently trustful and frank--Ah, that is the reason; our natures are

antipathetic; cunning, simulation, falsehood, I have no mercy, no pardon

for these. Woe to all hypocrites if I were a grand Inquisitor!”

“Mr. Richard Avenel,” said the waiter, throwing open the door.

Harley caught at the arm of the chair on which he sat, and grasped

it nervously, while his eyes became fixed intently on the form of the

gentleman who now advanced into the room. He rose with an effort.

“Mr. Avenel!” he said falteringly. “Did I hear your name aright?

Avenel!”

“Richard Avenel, at your service, my Lord,” answered Dick. “My family is

not unknown to you; and I am not ashamed of my family, though my parents

were small Lansmere tradesfolks, and I am--ahem!--a citizen of the

world, and well-to-do!” added Dick, dropping his kid gloves into his

hat, and then placing the hat on the table, with the air of an old

acquaintance who wishes to make himself at home. Lord L’Estrange bowed

and said, as he reseated himself (Dick being firmly seated already),

“You are most welcome, sir; and if there be anything I can do for one of

your name--”

“Thank you, my Lord,” interrupted Dick. “I want nothing of any man. A

bold word to say; but I say it. Nevertheless, I should not have presumed

to call on your Lordship, unless, indeed, you had done me the honour

to call first at my house, Eaton Square, No. ---- I should not have

presumed to call if it had not been on business,--public business, I may

say--NATIONAL business!”

Harley bowed again. A faint smile flitted for a moment to his lip, but,

vanishing, gave way to a mournful, absent expression of countenance, as

he scanned the handsome features before him, and, perhaps, masculine and

bold though they were, still discovered something of a family likeness

to one whose beauty had once been his ideal of female loveliness; for

suddenly he stretched forth his hand, and said, with more than his usual

cordial sweetness, “Business or not business, let us speak to each other

as friends,--for the sake of a name that takes me back to Lansmere, to

my youth. I listen to you with interest.”

Richard Avenel, much surprised by this unexpected kindliness, and

touched, he knew not why, by the soft and melancholy tone of Harley’s

voice, warmly pressed the hand held out to him; and seized with a rare

fit of shyness, coloured and coughed and hemmed and looked first down,

then aside, before he could find the words which were generally ready

enough at his command.

“You are very good, Lord L’Estrange; nothing can be handsomer. I feel it

here, my Lord,” striking his buff waistcoat,--“I do, ‘pon my honour. But

not to waste your time (time’s money), I come to the point. It is about

the borough of Lansmere. Your family interest is very strong in that

borough; but excuse me if I say that I don’t think you are aware that I

too have cooked up a pretty considerable interest on the other side. No

offence,--opinions are free. And the popular tide runs strong with us--I

mean with me--at the impending crisis,--that is, at the next election.

Now, I have a great respect for the earl your father, and so have those

who brought me into the world--my father, John, was always a regular

good Blue,--and my respect for yourself since I came into this room

has gone up in the market a very great rise indeed,--considerable. So I

should just like to see if we could set our heads together, and settle

the borough between us two, in a snug private way, as public men ought

to do when they get together, nobody else by, and no necessity for that

sort of humbug, which is so common in this rotten old country. Eh, my

Lord?”

“Mr. Avenel,” said Harley, slowly, recovering himself from the

abstraction with which he had listened to Dick’s earlier sentences, “I

fear I do not quite understand you; but I have no other interest in the

next election for the borough of Lansmere than as may serve one whom,

whatever be your politics, you must acknowledge to be--”

“A humbug!”

“Mr. Avenel, you cannot mean the person I mean. I speak of one of the

first statesmen of our time,--of Mr. Audley Egerton, of--”

“A stiff-necked, pompous--”

“My earliest and dearest friend.”

The rebuke, though gently said, sufficed to silence Dick for a moment;

and when he spoke again, it was in an altered tone.

“I beg your pardon, my Lord, I am sure. Of course, I can say nothing

disrespectful of your friend,--very sorry that he is your friend. In

that case, I am almost afraid that nothing is to be done. But Mr. Audley

Egerton has not a chance.

“Let me convince you of this.” And Dick pulled out a little book, bound

neatly in red.

“Canvass book, my Lord. I am no aristocrat. I don’t pretend to carry a

free and independent constituency in my breeches’ pocket. Heaven forbid!

But as a practical man of business, what I do is done properly. Just

look at this book.

“Well kept, eh? Names, promises, inclinations, public opinions, and

private interests of every individual Lansmere elector! Now, as one man

of honour to another, I show you this book, and I think you will see

that we have a clear majority of at least eighty votes as against Mr.

Egerton.”

“That is your view of the question,” said Harley, taking the book

and glancing over the names catalogued and ticketed therein. But his

countenance became serious as he recognized many names familiar to his

boyhood as those of important electors on the Lansmere side, and which

he now found transferred to the hostile. “But surely there are persons

here in whom you deceive yourself,--old friends of my family, stanch

supporters of our party.”

“Exactly so. But this new question has turned all old things

topsy-turvy. No relying on any friend of yours. No reliance except in

this book!” said Dick, slapping the red cover with calm but ominous

emphasis.

“Now, what I want to propose is this: Don’t let the Lansmere interest be

beaten; it would vex the old earl,--go to his heart, I am sure.”

Harley nodded.

“And the Lansmere interest need not be beaten, if you’ll put up another

man instead of this red-tapist. (Beg pardon.) You see I only want to get

in one man, you want to get in another. Why not? Now, there ‘s a smart

youth,--connection of Mr. Egerton’s,--Randal Leslie. I have no objection

to him, though he is of your colours. Withdraw Mr. Egerton, and I ‘ll

withdraw my second man before it comes to the poll; and so we shall

halve the borough slick between us. That’s the way to do business,--eh,

my Lord?”

“Randal Leslie! Oh, you wish to bring in Mr. Leslie? But he stands with

Egerton, not against him.”

“Ah,” said Dick, smiling as if to himself, “so I hear; and we could

bring him in over Egerton without saying a word to you. But all our

family respect yours, and so I have wished to do the thing handsome and

open. Let the earl and your party be content with young Leslie.”

“Young Leslie has spoken to you?”

“Not as to my coming here. Oh, no, that’s a secret,--private and

confidential, my Lord. And now, to make matters still more smooth, I

propose that my man shall be one to your Lordship’s own heart. I find

you have been very kind to my nephew; does you credit, my Lord,--a

wonderful young man, though I say it. I never guessed there was so much

in him. Yet all the time he was in my house, he had in his desk the very

sketch of an invention that is now saving me from ruin,--from positive

ruin,--Baron Levy, the King’s Bench, and almighty smash! Now, such

a young man ought to be in parliament. I like to bring forward a

relation,--that is, when he does one credit; ‘t is human nature and

sacred ties--one’s own flesh and blood; and besides, one hand rubs the

other, and one leg helps on the other, and relations get on best in

the world when they pull together; that is, supposing that they are the

proper sort of relations, and pull one on, not down. I had once thought

of standing for Lansmere myself,--thought of it very lately. The country

wants men like me, I know that; but I have an idea that I had better see

to my own business. The country may, or may not, do without me, stupid

old thing that she is! But my mill and my new engines--there is no doubt

that they cannot do without me. In short, as we are quite alone, and,

as I said before, there ‘s no kind of necessity for that sort of humbug

which exists when other people are present, provide elsewhere for Mr.

Egerton, whom I hate like poison,--I have a right to do that, I suppose,

without offence to your Lordship,--and the two younkers, Leonard

Fairfield and Randal Leslie, shall be members for the free and

independent borough of Lansmere!”

“But does Leonard wish to come into parliament?”

“No, he says not; but that’s nonsense. If your Lordship will just

signify your wish that he should not lose this noble opportunity to

raise himself in life, and get something handsome out of the nation, I’m

sure he owes you too much to hesitate,--‘specially when ‘t is to his own

advantage. And besides, one of us Avenels ought to be in parliament; and

if I have not the time and learning, and so forth, and he has, why, it

stands to reason that he should be the man. And if he can do something

for me one day--not that I want anything--but still a baronetcy or so

would be a compliment to British Industry, and be appreciated as such by

myself and the public at large,--I say, if he could do something of

that sort, it would keep up the whole family; and if he can’t, why, I’ll

forgive him.”

“Avenel,” said Harley, with that familiar and gracious charm of manner

which few ever could resist, “Avenel, if as a great personal favour to

myself--to me your fellow-townsman (I was born at Lansmere)--if I asked

you to forego your grudge against Audley Egerton, whatever that grudge

be, and not oppose his election, while our party would not oppose your

nephew’s, could you not oblige me? Come, for the sake of dear Lansmere,

and all the old kindly feelings between your family and mine, say ‘yes,

so shall it be.’”

Richard Avenel was almost melted. He turned away his face; but there

suddenly rose to his recollection the scornful brow of Audley Egerton,

the lofty contempt with which he, then the worshipful Mayor of

Screwstown, had been shown out of the minister’s office-room; and the

blood rushing over his cheeks, he stamped his foot on the floor, and

exclaimed angrily, “No; I swore that Audley Egerton should smart for his

insolence to me, as sure as my name be Richard Avenel; and all the soft

soap in the world will not wash out that oath. So there is nothing for

it but for you to withdraw that man, or for me to defeat him. And I

would do so, ay,--and in the way that could most gall him,--if it cost

me half my fortune. But it will not cost that,” said Dick, cooling, “nor

anything like it; for when the popular tide runs in one’s favour, ‘t

is astonishing how cheap an election may be. It will cost him enough

though, and all for nothing,--worse than nothing. Think of it, my Lord.”

“I will, Mr. Avenel. And I say, in my turn, that my friendship is as

strong as your hate; and that if it costs me, not half, but my whole

fortune, Audley Egerton shall come in without a shilling of expense to

himself, should we once decide that he stand the contest.”

“Very well, my Lord,--very well,” said Dick, stiffly, and drawing on

his kid gloves; “we’ll see if the aristocracy is always to ride over

the free choice of the people in this way. But the people are roused,

my Lord. The March of Enlightenment is commenced, the Schoolmaster is

abroad, and the British Lion--”

“Nobody here but ourselves, my dear Avenel. Is not this rather what you

call--humbug?”

Dick started, stared, coloured, and then burst out laughing, “Give us

your hand again, my Lord. You are a good fellow, that you are. And for

your sake--”

“You’ll not oppose Egerton?”

“Tooth and nail, tooth and nail!” cried Dick, clapping his hands to his

ears, and fairly running out of the room.

There passed over Harley’s countenance that change so frequent to

it,--more frequent, indeed, to the gay children of the world than those

of consistent tempers and uniform habits might suppose. There is many a

man whom we call friend, and whose face seems familiar to us as our own;

yet, could we but take a glimpse of him when we leave his presence, and

he sinks back into his chair alone, we should sigh to see how often the

smile on the frankest lip is but a bravery of the drill, only worn when

on parade.

What thoughts did the visit of Richard Avenel bequeath to Harley? It

were hard to define them.

In his place, an Audley Egerton would have taken some comfort from the

visit, would have murmured, “Thank Heaven! I have not to present to the

world that terrible man as my brother-in-law.” But probably Harley had

escaped, in his revery, from Richard Avenel altogether. Even as the

slightest incident in the daytime causes our dreams at night, but is

itself clean forgotten, so the name, so the look of the visitor, might

have sufficed but to influence a vision, as remote from its casual

suggester as what we call real life is from that life much more real,

that we imagine, or remember, in the haunted chambers of the brain. For

what is real life? How little the things actually doing around us affect

the springs of our sorrow or joy; but the life which our dulness calls

romance,--the sentiment, the remembrance, the hope, or the fear, that

are never seen in the toil of our hands, never heard in the jargon on

our lips,--from that life all spin, as the spider from its entrails,

the web by which we hang in the sunbeam, or glide out of sight into the

shelter of home.

“I must not think,” said Harley, rousing himself with a sigh, “either of

past or present. Let me hurry on to some fancied future. ‘Happiest are

the marriages,’ said the French philosopher, and still says many a

sage, ‘in which man asks only the mild companion, and woman but the calm

protector.’ I will go to Helen.”

He rose; and as he was about to lock up his escritoire, he remembered

the papers which Leonard had requested him to read. He took them from

their deposit, with a careless hand, intending to carry them with him

to his father’s house. But as his eye fell upon the characters, the hand

suddenly trembled, and he recoiled some paces, as if struck by a violent

blow. Then, gazing more intently on the writing, a low cry broke from

his lips. He reseated himself, and began to read.

CHAPTER XI.

Randal--with many misgivings at Lord L’Estrange’s tone, in which he

was at no loss to detect a latent irony--proceeded to Norwood. He found

Riccabocca exceedingly cold and distant; but he soon brought that sage

to communicate the suspicions which Lord L’Estrange had instilled

into his mind, and these Randal was as speedily enabled to dispel. He

accounted at once for his visits to Levy and Peschiera. Naturally he had

sought Levy, an acquaintance of his own,--nay, of Audley Egerton’s,--but

whom he knew to be professionally employed by the count. He had

succeeded in extracting from the baron Peschiera’s suspicious change of

lodgment from Mivart’s Hotel to the purlieus of Leicester Square; had

called there on the count, forced an entrance, openly accused him

of abstracting Violante; high words had passed between them,--even a

challenge. Randal produced a note from a military friend of his, whom he

had sent to the count an hour after quitting the hotel. This note stated

that arrangements were made for a meeting near Lord’s Cricket Ground,

at seven o’clock the next morning. Randal then submitted to Riccabocca

another formal memorandum from the same warlike friend, to the purport

that Randal and himself had repaired to the ground, and no count had

been forthcoming. It must be owned that Randal had taken all suitable

precautions to clear himself. Such a man is not to blame for want of

invention, if he be sometimes doomed to fail.

“I, then, much alarmed,” continued Randal, “hastened to Baron Levy, who

informed me that the count had written him word that he should be for

some time absent from England. Rushing thence, in despair, to your

friend Lord L’Estrange, I heard that your daughter was safe with you.

And though, as I have just proved, I would have risked my life against

so notorious a duellist as the count, on the mere chance of preserving

Violante from his supposed designs, I am rejoiced to think that she had

no need of my unskilful arm. But how and why can the count have left

England after accepting a challenge? A man so sure of his weapon,

too,--reputed to be as fearless of danger as he is blunt in conscience.

Explain,--you who know mankind so well,--explain. I cannot.” The

philosopher could not resist the pleasure of narrating the detection and

humiliation of his foe, the wit, ingenuity, and readiness of his

friend. So Randal learned, by little and little, the whole drama of the

preceding night. He saw, then, that the exile had all reasonable hope

of speedy restoration to rank and wealth. Violante, indeed; would be

a brilliant prize,--too brilliant, perhaps, for Randal, but not to be

sacrificed without an effort. Therefore wringing convulsively the hand

of his meditated father-in-law, and turning away his head as if to

conceal his emotions, the ingenuous young suitor faltered forth that

now Dr. Riccabocca was so soon to vanish into the Duke di Serrano,

he--Randal Leslie of Rood, born a gentleman, indeed, but of fallen

fortunes--had no right to claim the promise which had been given to him

while a father had cause to fear for a daughter’s future; with the fear

ceased the promise. Alight Heaven bless father and daughter both!

This address touched both the heart and honour of the exile. Randal

Leslie knew his man. And though, before Randal’s visit, Riccabocca was

not quite so much a philosopher but what he would have been well pleased

to have found himself released, by proof of the young man’s treachery,

from an alliance below the rank to which he had all chance of early

restoration, yet no Spaniard was ever more tenacious of plighted word

than this inconsistent pupil of the profound Florentine. And Randal’s

probity being now clear to him, he repeated, with stately formalities,

his previous offer of Violante’s hand.

“But,” still falteringly sighed the provident and far-calculating

Randal--“but your only child, your sole heiress! Oh, might not your

consent to such a marriage (if known before your recall) jeopardize your

cause? Your lands, your principalities, to devolve on the child of an

humble Englishman! I dare not believe it. Ah, would Violante were not

your heiress!”

“A noble wish,” said Riccabocca, smiling blandly, “and one that the

Fates will realize. Cheer up; Violante will not be my heiress.”

“Ah,” cried Randal, drawing a long breath--“ah, what do I hear?”

“Hist! I shall soon a second time be a father. And, to judge by the

unerring researches of writers upon that most interesting of all

subjects, parturitive science, I shall be the father of a son. He will,

of course, succeed to the titles of Serrano. And Violante--”

“Will have nothing, I suppose?” exclaimed Randal, trying his best to

look overjoyed till he had got his paws out of the trap into which he

had so incautiously thrust them.

“Nay, her portion by our laws--to say nothing of my affection--would far

exceed the ordinary dower which the daughters of London merchants bring

to the sons of British peers. Whoever marries Violante, provided I

regain my estates, must submit to the cares which the poets assure us

ever attend on wealth.”

“Oh!” groaned Randal, as if already bowed beneath the cares, and

sympathizing with the poets.

“And now, let me present you to your betrothed.” Although poor Randal

had been remorselessly hurried along what Schiller calls the “gamut

of feeling,” during the last three minutes, down to the deep chord of

despair at the abrupt intelligence that his betrothed was no heiress

after all; thence ascending to vibrations of pleasant doubt as to the

unborn usurper of her rights, according to the prophecies of parturitive

science; and lastly, swelling into a concord of all sweet thoughts at

the assurance that, come what might, she would be a wealthier bride

than a peer’s son could discover in the matrimonial Potosi of Lombard

Street,--still the tormented lover was not there allowed to repose

his exhausted though ravished soul. For, at the idea of personally

confronting the destined bride--whose very existence had almost vanished

from his mind’s eye, amidst the golden showers that it saw falling

divinely round her--Randal was suddenly reminded of the exceeding

bluntness with which, at their last interview, it had been his policy to

announce his suit, and of the necessity of an impromptu falsetto suited

to the new variations that tossed him again to and fro on the merciless

gamut. However, he could not recoil from her father’s proposition,

though, in order to prepare Riccabocca for Violante’s representation,

he confessed pathetically that his impatience to obtain her consent and

baffle Peschiera had made him appear a rude and presumptuous wooer. The

philosopher, who was disposed to believe one kind of courtship to be

much the same as another, in cases where the result of all courtships

was once predetermined, smiled benignly, patted Randal’s thin cheek,

with a “Pooh, pooh, pazzie!” and left the room to summon Violante.

“If knowledge be power,” soliloquized Randal, “ability is certainly good

luck, as Miss Edgeworth shows in that story of Murad the Unlucky, which

I read at Eton; very clever story it is, too. So nothing comes amiss to

me. Violante’s escape, which has cost me the count’s L10,000, proves to

be worth to me, I dare say, ten times as much. No doubt she’ll have a

hundred thousand pounds at the least. And then, if her father have no

other child, after all, or the child he expects die in infancy, why,

once reconciled to his Government and restored to his estates, the law

must take its usual course, and Violante will be the greatest heiress

in Europe. As to the young lady herself, I confess she rather awes me; I

know I shall be henpecked. Well, all respectable husbands are. There is

something scampish and ruffianly in not being henpecked.” Here Randal’s

smile might have harmonized well with Pluto’s “iron tears;” but, iron

as the smile was, the serious young man was ashamed of it. “What am I

about,” said he, half aloud, “chuckling to myself and wasting time, when

I ought to be thinking gravely how to explain away my former cavalier

courtship? Such a masterpiece as I thought it then! But who could

foresee the turn things would take? Let me think; let me think. Plague

on it, here she comes.”

But Randal had not the fine ear of your more romantic lover; and, to

his great relief, the exile entered the room unaccompanied by Violante.

Riccabocca looked somewhat embarrassed.

“My dear Leslie, you must excuse my daughter to-day; she is still

suffering from the agitation she has gone through, and cannot see you.”

The lover tried not to look too delighted.

“Cruel!” said he; “yet I would not for worlds force myself on her

presence. I hope, Duke, that she will not find it too difficult to obey

the commands which dispose of her hand, and intrust her happiness to my

grateful charge.”

“To be plain with you, Randal, she does at present seem to find it more

difficult than I foresaw. She even talks of--”

“Another attachment--Oh, heavens!”

“Attachment, pazzie! Whom has she seen? No, a convent! But leave it to

me. In a calmer hour she will comprehend that a child must know no lot

more enviable and holy than that of redeeming a father’s honour. And

now, if you are returning to London, may I ask you to convey to young

Mr. Hazeldean my assurances of undying gratitude for his share in my

daughter’s delivery from that poor baffled swindler.”

It is noticeable that, now Peschiera was no longer an object of dread to

the nervous father, he became but an object of pity to the philosopher,

and of contempt to the grandee.

“True,” said Randal, “you told me Frank had a share in Lord L’Estrange’s

very clever and dramatic device. My Lord must be by nature a fine

actor,--comic, with a touch of melodrame! Poor Frank! apparently he

has lost the woman he adored,--Beatrice di Negra. You say she has

accompanied the count. Is the marriage that was to be between her and

Frank broken off?”

“I did not know such a marriage was contemplated. I understood her to be

attached to another. Not that that is any reason why she would not have

married Mr. Hazeldean. Express to him my congratulations on his escape.”

“Nay, he must not know that I have inadvertently betrayed his

confidence; but you now guess, what perhaps puzzled you before,--namely,

how I came to be so well acquainted with the count and his movements. I

was so intimate with my relation Frank, and Frank was affianced to the

marchesa.”

“I am glad you give me that explanation; it suffices. After all, the

marchesa is not by nature a bad woman,--that is, not worse than women

generally are, so Harley says, and Violante forgives and excuses her.”

“Generous Violante! But it is true. So much did the marchesa appear

to me possessed of fine, though ill-regulated qualities, that I always

considered her disposed to aid in frustrating her brother’s criminal

designs. So I even said, if I remember right, to Violante.”

Dropping this prudent and precautionary sentence, in order to guard

against anything Violante might say as to that subtle mention of

Beatrice which had predisposed her to confide in the marchesa, Randal

then hurried on, “But you want repose. I leave you the happiest, the

most grateful of men. I will give your courteous message to Frank.”

CHAPTER XII.

Curious to learn what had passed between Beatrice and Frank, and deeply

interested in all that could oust Frank out of the squire’s goodwill,

or aught that could injure his own prospects by tending to unite son and

father, Randal was not slow in reaching his young kinsman’s lodgings. It

might be supposed that having, in all probability, just secured so

great a fortune as would accompany Violante’s hand, Randal might be

indifferent to the success of his scheme on the Hazeldean exchequer.

Such a supposition would grievously wrong this profound young man.

For, in the first place, Violante was not yet won, nor her father yet

restored to the estates which would defray her dower; and, in the next

place, Randal, like Iago, loved villany for the genius it called forth

in him. The sole luxury the abstemious aspirer allowed to himself was

that which is found in intellectual restlessness. Untempted by wine,

dead to love, unamused by pleasure, indifferent to the arts, despising

literature save as means to some end of power, Randal Leslie was

the incarnation of thought hatched out of the corruption of will.

At twilight we see thin airy spectral insects, all wing and nippers,

hovering, as if they could never pause, over some sullen mephitic pool.

Just so, methinks, hover over Acheron such gnat-like, noiseless soarers

into gloomy air out of Stygian deeps, as are the thoughts of spirits

like Randal Leslie’s. Wings have they, but only the better to pounce

down,--draw their nutriment from unguarded material cuticles; and just

when, maddened, you strike, and exulting exclaim, “Caught, by Jove!”

wh-irr flies the diaphanous, ghostly larva, and your blow falls on your

own twice-offended cheek.

The young men who were acquainted with Randal said he had not a

vice! The fact being that his whole composition was one epic vice, so

elaborately constructed that it had not an episode which a critic could

call irrelevant. Grand young man!

“But, my dear fellow,” said Randal, as soon as he had learned from Frank

all that had passed on board the vessel between him and Beatrice, “I

cannot believe this. ‘Never loved you’? What was her object, then, in

deceiving not only you, but myself? I suspect her declaration was but

some heroical refinement of generosity. After her brother’s dejection

and probable ruin, she might feel that she was no match for you. Then,

too, the squire’s displeasure! I see it all; just like her,--noble,

unhappy woman!”

Frank shook his head. “There are moments,” said he, with a wisdom that

comes out of those instincts which awake from the depths of youth’s

first great sorrow,--“moments when a woman cannot feign, and there are

tones in the voice of a woman which men cannot misinterpret. She does

not love me,--she never did love me; I can see that her heart has been

elsewhere. No matter,--all is over. I don’t deny that I am suffering

an intense grief; it gnaws like a kind of sullen hunger; and I feel so

broken, too, as if I had grown old, and there was nothing left worth

living for. I don’t deny all that.”

“My poor, dear friend, if you would but believe--”

“I don’t want to believe anything, except that I have been a great fool.

I don’t think I can ever commit such follies again. But I’m a man. I

shall get the better of this; I should despise myself if I could not.

And now let us talk of my dear father. Has he left town?”

“Left last night by the mail. You can write and tell him you have given

up the marchesa, and all will be well again between you.”

“Give her up! Fie, Randal! Do you think I should tell such a lie? She

gave me up; I can claim no merit out of that.”

“Oh, yes! I can make the squire see all to your advantage. Oh, if it

were only the marchesa! but, alas! that cursed postobit! How could

Levy betray you? Never trust to usurers again; they cannot resist the

temptation of a speedy profit.

“They first buy the son, and then sell him to the father. And the squire

has such strange notions on matters of this kind.”

“He is right to have them. There, just read this letter from my mother.

It came to me this morning. I could hang myself if I were a dog; but I’m

a man, and so I must bear it.”

Randal took Mrs. Hazeldean’s letter from Frank’s trembling hand. The

poor mother had learned, though but imperfectly, Frank’s misdeeds from

some hurried lines which the squire had despatched to her; and she wrote

as good, indulgent, but sensible, right-minded mothers alone can write.

More lenient to an imprudent love than the squire, she touched with

discreet tenderness on Frank’s rash engagements with a foreigner, but

severely on his own open defiance of his father’s wishes. Her anger

was, however, reserved for that unholy post-obit. Here the hearty genial

wife’s love overcame the mother’s affection. To count, in cold blood, on

that husband’s death, and to wound his heart so keenly, just where its

jealous, fatherly fondness made it most susceptible!

“O Frank, Frank!” wrote Mrs. Hazeldean, “were it not for this, were

it only for your unfortunate attachment to the Italian lady, only

for your debts, only for the errors of hasty, extravagant youth, I

should be with you now, my arms round your neck, kissing you,

chiding you back to your father’s heart. But--but the thought that

between you and his heart has been the sordid calculation of his

death,--that is a wall between us. I cannot come near you. I

should not like to look on your face, and think how my William’s

tears fell over it, when I placed you, new born, in his arms, and

bade him welcome his heir. What! you a mere boy still, your father

yet in the prime of life, and the heir cannot wait till nature

leaves him fatherless. Frank; Frank this is so unlike you. Can

London have ruined already a disposition so honest and

affectionate?--No; I cannot believe it. There must be some mistake.

Clear it up, I implore you; or, though as a mother I pity you, as a

wife I cannot forgive.”

Even Randal was affected by the letter; for, as we know, even Randal

felt in his own person the strength of family ties. The poor squire’s

choler and bluffness had disguised the parental heart from an eye that,

however acute, had not been willing to search for it; and Randal, ever

affected through his intellect, had despised the very weakness on which

he had preyed. But the mother’s letter, so just and sensible (allowing

that the squire’s opinions had naturally influenced the wife to

take what men of the world would call a very exaggerated view of

the every-day occurrence of loans raised by a son, payable only at

a father’s death),--this letter, I say, if exaggerated according to

fashionable notions, so sensible if judged by natural affections,

touched the dull heart of the schemer, because approved by the quick

tact of his intelligence.

“Frank,” said he, with a sincerity that afterwards amazed himself, “go

down at once to Hazeldean; see your mother, and explain to her how this

transaction really happened. The woman you loved, and wooed as wife,

in danger of an arrest, your distraction of mind, Levy’s counsels, your

hope to pay off the debt, so incurred to the usurer, from the fortune

you would shortly receive with the marchesa. Speak to your mother,--she

is a woman; women have a common interest in forgiving all faults that

arise from the source of their power over us men,--I mean love. Go!”

“No, I cannot go; you see she would not like to look on my face. And I

cannot repeat what you say so glibly. Besides, somehow or other, as I am

so dependent upon my father,--and he has said as much,--I feel as if

it would be mean in me to make any excuses. I did the thing, and must

suffer for it. But I’m a in--an--no--I ‘m not a man here.” Frank burst

into tears.