Randal's acute faculty of comprehension had long since surmised the
truth that Beatrice's views and temper of mind had been strangely and
suddenly altered by some such revolution as passion only can effect;
that pique or disappointment had mingled with the motive which had
induced her to accept the hand of his rash young kinsman; and that
instead of the resigned indifference with which she might at one time
have contemplated any marriage that could free her from a position that
perpetually galled her pride, it was now with a repugnance, visible to
Randal's keen eye, that she shrank from the performance of that pledge
which Frank had so dearly bought. The temptations which the Count
could hold out to her, to become his accomplice in designs of which
the fraud and perfidy would revolt her better nature, had ceased to be
of avail. A dowry had grown valueless, since it would but hasten the
nuptials from which she recoiled. Randal felt that he could not secure
her aid, except by working on a passion so turbulent as to confound
her judgment. Such a passion he recognized in jealousy. He had once
doubted if Harley were the object of her love; yet, after all, was it
not probable? He knew, at least, of no one else to suspect. If so, he
had but to whisper, "Violante is your rival. Violante removed, your
beauty may find its natural effect; if not, you are an Italian, and you
will be at least avenged." He saw still more reason to suppose that
Lord L'Estrange was indeed the one by whom he could rule Beatrice,
since, the last time he had seen her, she had questioned him with much
eagerness as to the family of Lord Lansmere, especially as to the
female part of it. Randal had then judged it prudent to avoid speaking
of Violante, and feigned ignorance; but promised to ascertain all
particulars by the time he next saw the Marchesa. It was the warmth
with which she had thanked him that had set his busy mind at work to
conjecture the cause of her curiosity so earnestly aroused, and to
ascribe that cause to jealousy. If Harley loved Violante (as Randal
himself had before supposed), the little of passion that the young man
admitted to himself was enlisted in aid of Peschiera's schemes. For
though Randal did not love Violante, he cordially disliked L'Estrange,
and would have gone as far to render that dislike vindictive, as a cold
reasoner, intent upon worldly fortunes, will ever suffer mere hate to
influence him.
"At the worst," thought Randal, "if it be not Harley, touch the chord
of jealousy, and its vibration will direct me right."
Thus soliloquizing, he arrived at Madame di Negra's.
Now, in reality, the Marchesa's inquiries as to Lord Lansmere's family
had their source in the misguided, restless, despairing interest with
which she still clung to the image of the young poet, whom Randal had
no reason to suspect. That interest had become yet more keen from the
impatient misery she had felt ever since she had plighted herself to
another. A wild hope that she might yet escape--a vague regretful
thought that she had been too hasty in dismissing Leonard from her
presence--that she ought rather to have courted his friendship, and
contended against her unknown rival, at times drew her wayward mind
wholly from the future to which she had consigned herself. And, to
do her justice, though her sense of duty was so defective, and the
principles which should have guided her conduct were so lost to her
sight, still her feelings toward the generous Hazeldean were not so
hard and blunted, but what her own ingratitude added to her torment;
and it seemed as if the sole atonement she could make to him was to
find an excuse to withdraw her promise, and save him from herself.
She had caused Leonard's steps to be watched; she had found that he
visited at Lord Lansmere's; that he had gone there often, and staid
there long. She had learned in the neighborhood that Lady Lansmere had
one or two young female guests staying with her. Surely this was the
attraction--here was the rival!
Randal found Beatrice in a state of mind that favored his purpose.
And first turning his conversation on Harley, and noting that her
countenance did not change, by little and little he drew forth her
secret.
Then, said Randal, gravely, "If one whom you honor with a tender
thought, visits at Lord Lansmere's house, you have, indeed, cause to
fear for yourself, to hope for your brother's success in the object
which has brought him to England--for a girl of surpassing beauty is a
guest in Lord Lansmere's house; and I will now tell you that that girl
is she whom Count Peschiera would make his bride."
As Randal thus spoke, and saw how his listener's brow darkened and her
eye flashed, he felt that his accomplice was secured. Violante! Had not
Leonard spoken of Violante, and with such praise? Had not his boyhood
been passed under her eyes? Who but Violante could be the rival?
Beatrice's abrupt exclamations after a moment's pause, revealed to
Randal the advantage he had gained. And partly by rousing her jealousy
into revenge--partly by flattering her love with assurances that, if
Violante were fairly removed from England, were the wife of Count
Peschiera--it would be impossible that Leonard could remain insensible
to her own attractions--that he, Randal, would undertake to free her
honorably from her engagement to Frank Hazeldean, and obtain from her
brother the acquittal of the debt which had first fettered her hand
to that confiding suitor--he did not quit the Marchesa until she had
not only promised to do all that Randal might suggest, but impetuously
urged him to mature his plans, and hasten the hour to accomplish them.
Randal then walked some minutes musing and slow along the streets,
revolving the next meshes in his elaborate and most subtle web. And
here his craft luminously devised its master-piece.
It was necessary, during any interval that might elapse between
Violante's disappearance and her departure from England, in order to
divert suspicion from Peschiera (who might otherwise be detained),
that some cause for her voluntary absence from Lord Lansmere's should
be at least assignable; it was still more necessary that Randal
himself should stand wholly clear from any surmise that he could have
connived at the Count's designs, even should their actual perpetrator
be discovered or conjectured. To effect these objects, Randal hastened
to Norwood, and obtained an interview with Riccabocca. In seeming
agitation and alarm, he informed the exile that he had reason to know
that Peschiera had succeeded in obtaining a secret interview with
Violante, and he feared had made a certain favorable impression on her
mind; and, speaking as if with the jealousy of a lover, he entreated
Riccabocca to authorize Randal's direct proposals to Violante, and to
require her consent to their immediate nuptials.
The poor Italian was confounded with the intelligence conveyed to him;
and his almost superstitious fears of his brilliant enemy, conjoined
with his opinion of the susceptibility to outward attractions common
to all the female sex, made him not only implicitly credit, but
even exaggerate, the dangers that Randal intimated. The idea of his
daughter's marriage with Randal, toward which he had lately cooled, he
now gratefully welcomed. But his first natural suggestion was to go,
or send, for Violante, and bring her to his own house. This, however,
Randal artfully opposed.
"Alas! I know," said he, "that Peschiera has discovered your retreat;
and surely she would be far less safe here than where she is now!"
"But, diavolo! you say that man has seen her where she is now, in spite
of all Lady Lansmere's promises and Harley's precautions."
"True. Of this Peschiera boasted to me. He effected it not, of course,
openly, but in some disguise. I am sufficiently, however, in his
confidence--(any man may be that with so audacious a braggart)--to
deter him from renewing his attempt for some days. Meanwhile, I or
yourself will have discovered some surer home than this, to which
you can remove, and then will be the proper time to take back your
daughter. Meanwhile, if you will send by me a letter to enjoin her
to receive me as her future bridegroom, it will necessarily divert
all thought at once from the Count; I shall be able to detect, by the
manner in which she receives me, how far the Count has overstated the
effect he pretends to have produced. You can give me also a letter to
Lady Lansmere, to prevent your daughter coming hither. O, sir, do not
reason with me. Have indulgence for my lover's fears. Believe that I
advise for the best. Have I not the keenest interest to do so?"
Like many a man who is wise enough with pen and paper before him, and
plenty of time wherewith to get up his wisdom, Riccabocca was flurried,
nervous, and confused when that wisdom was called upon for any ready
exertion. From the tree of knowledge he had taken grafts enough to
serve for a forest; but the whole forest could not spare him a handy
walking-stick. That great folio of the dead Machiavel lay useless
before him--the living Machiavel of daily life stood all puissant by
his side. The Sage was as supple to the Schemer as the Clairvoyant
is to the Mesmerist. And the lean, slight fingers of Randal actually
dictated almost the very words that Riccabocca wrote to his child and
her hostess.
The philosopher would like to have to consult his wife; but he was
ashamed to confess that weakness. Suddenly he remembered Harley, and
said as Randal took up the letters which Riccabocca had indited,
"There--that will give us time; and I will send to Lord L'Estrange, and
talk to him."
"My noble friend," replied Randal, mournfully, "may I intreat you not
to see Lord L'Estrange until at least I have pleaded my cause to your
daughter--until, indeed, she is no longer under his father's roof."
"And why?"
"Because I presume that you are sincere when you deign to receive me
as a son-in-law, and because I am sure that Lord L'Estrange would hear
with distaste of your disposition in my favor. Am I not right?"
Riccabocca was silent.
"And though the arguments would fail with a man of your honor and
discernment, they might have more effect on the young mind of your
child. Think, I beseech you, the more she is set against me, the more
accessible she may be to the arts of Peschiera. Speak not, therefore, I
implore you, to Lord L'Estrange till Violante has accepted my hand, or
at least until she is again under your charge; otherwise take back your
letter--it would be of no avail."
"Perhaps you are right. Certainly Lord L'Estrange is prejudiced against
you; or rather, he thinks too much of what I have been--too little of
what I am."
"Who can see you, and not do so? I pardon him." After kissing the hand
which the exile modestly sought to withdraw from the act of homage,
Randal pocketed the letters; and, as if struggling with emotion, rushed
from the house.
Now, O curious reader, if thou wilt heedfully observe to what uses
Randal Leslie put these letters--what speedy and direct results he drew
forth from devices which would seem to an honest, simple understanding
the most roundabout, wire-drawn wastes of invention--I almost fear that
in thine admiration for his cleverness, thou mayest half forget thy
contempt for his knavery.
But when the head is very full, it does not do to have the heart very
empty; there is such a thing as being topheavy!