Helen and Violante had been conversing together, and Helen had obeyed
her guardian's injunction, and spoken, though briefly, of her positive
engagement to Harley. However much Violante had been prepared for the
confidence, however clearly she had divined that engagement, however
before persuaded that the dream of her childhood was fled forever,
still the positive truth, coming from Helen's own lips, was attended
with that anguish which proves how impossible it is _to prepare_ the
human heart for the final verdict which slays its future. She did
not, however, betray her emotion to Ellen's artless eyes; sorrow,
deep-seated, is seldom self-betrayed. But, after a little while, she
crept away; and, forgetful of Peschiera, of all things that could
threaten danger (what danger could harm her more!), she glided from
the house, and went her desolate way under the leafless wintry trees.
Ever and anon she paused--ever and anon she murmured the same words:
"If she loved him, I could be consoled; but she does not! or how could
she have spoken to me so calmly! how could her very looks have been so
sad! Heartless--heartless!"
Then there came on her a vehement resentment against poor Helen,
that almost took the character of scorn or hate--its excess startled
herself. "Am I grown so mean?" she said; and tears, that humbled her,
rushed to her eyes. "Can so short a time alter one thus? Impossible!"
Randal Leslie rang at the front gate, inquired for Violante, and,
catching sight of her form as he walked toward the house, advanced
boldly and openly. His voice startled her as she leant against one of
the dreary trees, still muttering to herself--forlorn. "I have a letter
to you from your father, Signorina," said Randal. "But, before I give
it to your hands, some explanation is necessary. Condescend, then, to
hear me." Violante shook her head impatiently, and stretched forth her
hand for the letter. Randal observed her countenance with his keen,
cold, searching eye; but he still withheld the letter, and continued,
after a pause:
"I know that you were born to princely fortunes; and the excuse for my
addressing you now is, that your birthright is lost to you, at least,
unless you can consent to a union with the man who has despoiled you
of your heritage--a union which your father would deem dishonor to
yourself and him. Signorina, I might have presumed to love you; but I
should not have named that love, had your father not encouraged me by
his assent to my suit."
Violante turned to the speaker her face eloquent with haughty surprise.
Randal met the gaze unmoved. He continued, without warmth, and in the
tone of one who reasons calmly, rather than of one who feels acutely:
"The man of whom I spoke is in pursuit of you. I have cause to believe
that this person has already intruded himself upon you. Ah! your
countenance owns it; you have seen Peschiera? This house is, then,
less safe than your father deemed it. No house is safe for you but a
husband's. I offer to you my name--it is a gentleman's; my fortune,
which is small; the participation in my hopes of the future, which
are large. I place now your father's letter in your hand, and await
your answer." Randal bowed slightly, gave the letter to Violante, and
retired a few paces.
It was not his object to conciliate Violante's affection, but rather
to excite her repugnance, or, at least, her terror--we must wait to
discover why; so he stood apart, seemingly in a kind of self-confident
indifference, while the girl read the following letter:
"My child, receive with favor Mr. Leslie. He has my consent to address
you as a suitor. Circumstances, of which it is needless now to inform
you, render it essential to my very peace and happiness that your
marriage should be immediate. In a word, I have given my promise to
Mr. Leslie, and I confidently leave it to the daughter of my house to
redeem the pledge of her anxious and tender father."
The letter dropped from Violante's hand. Randal approached, and
restored it to her. Their eyes met. Violante recoiled.
"I can not marry you," said she, passively.
"Indeed?" answered Randal, drily. "Is it because you can not love me?"
"Yes."
"I did not expect that you would, and I still persist in my suit. I
have promised to your father that I would not recede before your first
unconsidered refusal."
"I will go to my father at once."
"Does he request you to do so in his letter? Look again. Pardon me, but
he foresaw your impetuosity; and I have another note for Lady Lansmere,
in which he begs her ladyship not to sanction your return to him
(should you so wish) until he come or send for you himself. He will do
so whenever your word has redeemed his own."
"And do you dare to talk to me thus, and yet pretend to love me?"
Randal smiled ironically.
"I pretend but to wed you. Love is a subject on which I might have
spoken formerly, or may speak hereafter. I give you some little time to
consider. When I next call, it will be to fix the day for our wedding."
"Never!"
"You will be, then, the first daughter of your house who disobeyed a
father; and you will have this additional crime, that you disobeyed him
in his sorrow, his exile, and his fall."
Violante wrung her hands.
"Is there no choice--no escape?"
"I see none for either. Listen to me. I might have loved you, it is
true; but it is not for my happiness to marry one who dislikes me, nor
for my ambition to connect myself with one whose poverty is greater
than my own. I marry but to keep my plighted faith with your father,
and to save you from a villain you would hate more than myself, and
from whom no walls are a barrier, no laws a defense. One person,
indeed, might, perhaps, have preserved you from the misery you seem to
anticipate with me; that person might defeat the plans of your father's
foe--effect, it might be, terms which could revoke his banishment, and
restore his honors; that person is--"
"Lord L'Estrange?"
"Lord L'Estrange!" repeated Randal, sharply, and watching her pale
parted lips and her changing color; "Lord L'Estrange! What could he do?
Why did you name him?"
Violante turned aside. "He saved my father once," said she, feelingly.
"And has interfered, and trifled, and promised, Heaven knows what,
ever since--yet to what end? Pooh! The person I speak of your father
would not consent to see--would not believe if he saw her; yet she is
generous, noble--could sympathize with you both. She is the sister of
your father's enemy--the Marchesa di Negra. I am convinced that she
has great influence with her brother--that she has known enough of his
secrets to awe him into renouncing all designs on yourself; but it is
idle now to speak of her."
"No, no," exclaimed Violante. "Tell me where she lives--I will see her."
"Pardon me, I can not obey you; and, indeed, her own pride is now
aroused by your father's unfortunate prejudices against her. It is too
late to count upon her aid. You turn from me--my presence is unwelcome.
I rid you of it now. But welcome or unwelcome, later you must endure
it--and for life."
Randal again bowed with formal ceremony, walked toward the house, and
asked for Lady Lansmere. The Countess was at home. Randal delivered
Riccabocca's note, which was very short, implying that he feared
Peschiera had discovered his retreat--and requesting Lady Lansmere to
retain Violante, whatever her own desire, till her ladyship heard from
him again.
The Countess read, and her lip curled in disdain. "Strange!" said she,
half to herself.
"Strange!" said Randal, "that a man like your correspondent should fear
one like the Count di Peschiera. Is that it?"
"Sir," said the Countess, a little surprised--"strange that any man
should fear another in a country like ours!"
"I don't know," said Randal, with his low, soft laugh; "I fear many
men, and I know many who ought to fear me; yet at every turn of the
street one meets a policeman!"
"Yes," said Lady Lansmere. "But to suppose that this profligate
foreigner could carry away a girl like Violante, against her will--a
man she has never seen, and whom she must have been taught to hate!"
"Be on your guard, nevertheless, I pray you, madam: where there's a
will there's a way."
Randal took his leave, and returned to Madame di Negra's. He staid with
her an hour, revisited the Count, and then strolled to Limmer's.
"Randal," said the Squire, who looked pale and worn, but who scorned to
confess the weakness with which he still grieved and yearned for his
rebellious son: "Randal, you have nothing now to do in London; can you
come and stay with me, and take to farming? I remember that you showed
a good deal of sound knowledge about thin sowing."
"My dear sir, I will come to you as soon as the general election is
over."
"What the deuce have you got to do with the general election?"
"Mr. Egerton has some wish that I should enter Parliament; indeed,
negotiations for that purpose are now on foot."
The Squire shook his head. "I don't like my half-brother's politics."
"I shall be quite independent of them," cried Randal, loftily; "that
independence is the condition for which I stipulate."
"Glad to hear it; and if you do come into Parliament, I hope you'll not
turn your back on the land?"
"Turn my back on the land!" cried Randal, with devout horror. "Oh, sir,
I am not so unnatural!"
"That's the right way to put it," quoth the credulous Squire; "it is
unnatural! It is turning one's back on one's own mother! The land is a
mother--"
"To those who live by her, certainly--a mother," said Randal, gravely.
"And though, indeed, my father starves by her rather than lives, and
Rood Hall is not like Hazeldean, still--I--"
"Hold your tongue," interrupted the Squire; "I want to talk to you.
Your grandmother was a Hazeldean."
"Her picture is in the drawing-room at Rood. People think me very like
her!"
"Indeed!" said the Squire. "The Hazeldeans are generally inclined to be
stout and rosy, which you are certainly not. But no fault of yours. We
are all as Heaven made us! However, to the point. I am going to alter
my will--(said with a choking gulp.) This is the rough draft for the
lawyers to work upon."
"Pray--pray, sir, do not speak to me on such a subject. I can not bear
to contemplate even the possibility of--of--"
"My death! Ha, ha! Nonsense. My own son calculated on the date of it by
the insurance tables. Ha, ha, ha. A very fashionable son--Eh! Ha, ha!"
"Poor Frank, do not let him suffer for a momentary forgetfulness of
right feeling. When he comes to be married to that foreign lady, and be
a father himself, he--"
"Father himself!" burst forth the Squire. "Father to a swarm of
sallow-faced Popish tadpoles! No foreign frogs shall hop about my
grave in Hazeldean church-yard. No, no. But you need not look so
reproachful--I am not going to disinherit Frank."
"Of course not," said Randal, with a bitter curve in the lip that
rebelled against the joyous smile which he sought to impose on it.
"No--I shall leave him the life-interest in the greater part of
the property; but if he marry a foreigner, her children will not
succeed--you will stand after him in that case. But--(now, don't
interrupt me)--but Frank looks as if he would live longer than you--so
small thanks to me for my good intentions, you may say. I mean to do
more for you than a mere barren place in the entail. What do you say to
marrying?"
"Just as you please," said Randal, meekly.
"Good! There's Miss Stick-to-rights disengaged--great heiress. Her
lands run on to Rood. At one time I thought of her for that graceless
puppy of mine. But I can manage more easily to make up the match for
you. There's a mortgage on the property; Old Stick-to-rights would be
very glad to pay it off. I'll pay it out of the Hazeldean estate, and
give up the Right of Way into the bargain. You understand. So come down
as soon as you can, and court the young lady yourself."
Randal expressed his thanks with much grateful eloquence; and he then
delicately insinuated, that if the Squire ever did mean to bestow upon
him any pecuniary favors (always without injury to Frank), it would
gratify him more to win back some portions of the old estate of Rood,
than to have all the acres of the Stick-to-rights, however free from
any other encumbrance than the amiable heiress.
The Squire listened to Randal with benignant attention. This wish
the country gentleman could well understand and sympathize with. He
promised to inquire into the matter, and to see what could be done with
old Thornhill.
Randal here let out that Mr. Thornhill was about to dispose of a large
slice of the ancient Leslie estate through Levy, and that he, Randal,
could thus get it at a more moderate price than would be natural if Mr.
Thornhill knew that his neighbor the Squire would bid for the purchase.
"Better say nothing about it either to Levy or Thornhill."
"Right," said the Squire; "no proprietor likes to sell to another
proprietor, in the same shire, as largely acred as himself; it spoils
the balance of power. See to the business yourself; and if I can help
you with the purchase--(after that boy is married--I can attend to
nothing before)--why, I will."
Randal now went to Egerton's. The statesman was in his parlor, settling
the accounts of his house-steward, and giving brief orders for the
reduction of his establishment to that of an ordinary private gentleman.
"I may go abroad if I lose my election," said Egerton, condescending to
assign to his servant a reason for his economy; "and if I do not lose
it, still, now I am out of office, I shall live much in private."
"Do I disturb you, sir?" said Randal, entering.
"No--I have just done." The house-steward withdrew, much surprised and
disgusted, and meditating the resignation of his own office--in order,
not like Egerton, to save, but to spend. The house-steward had private
dealings with Baron Levy, and was in fact the veritable X. Y. of the
_Times_, for whom Dick Avenel had been mistaken. He invested his wages
and perquisites in the discount of bills; and it was part of his own
money that had (though unknown to himself) swelled the last £5000 which
Egerton had borrowed from Levy.
"I have settled with our committee; and, with Lord Lansmere's consent,"
said Egerton, briefly, "you will stand for the borough as we proposed,
in conjunction with myself. And should any accident happen to me--that
is, should I vacate this seat from any cause, you may succeed to
it--very shortly perhaps. Ingratiate yourself with the electors,
and speak at the public-houses for both of us. I shall stand on my
dignity, and leave the work of the election to you. No thanks--you know
how I hate thanks. Good-night."
"I never stood so near to fortune and to power," said Randal, as
he slowly undressed. "And I owe it but to knowledge--knowledge of
men--life--of all that books can teach us."
So his slight thin fingers dropped the extinguisher on the candle, and
the prosperous Schemer laid himself down to rest in the dark. Shutters
closed, curtains down--never was rest more quiet, never was room more
dark!
That evening Harley had dined at his father's He spoke much to
Helen--scarcely at all to Violante. But it so happened that when later,
and a little while before he took his leave, Helen, at his request,
was playing a favorite air of his; Lady Lansmere, who had been seated
between him and Violante, left the room, and Violante turned quickly
toward Harley.
"Do you know the Marchesa di Negra?" she asked, in a hurried voice.
"A little. Why do you ask?"
"That is my secret," answered Violante, trying to smile, with her old
frank, childlike archness. "But, tell me, do you think better of her
than of her brother?"
"Certainly. I believe her heart to be good, and that she is not without
generous qualities."
"Can you not induce my father to see her? Would you not counsel him to
do so?"
"Any wish of yours is a law to me," answered Harley, gallantly. "You
wish your father to see her? I will try and persuade him to do so. Now,
in return, confide to me your secret. What is your object?"
"Leave to return to my Italy. I care not for honors--for rank; and even
my father has ceased to regret their loss. But the land, the native
land--Oh, to see it once more! Oh, to die there!"
"Die! You children have so lately left heaven, that ye talk as if
ye could return there, without passing through the gates of sorrow,
infirmity, and age! But I thought you were content with England. Why
so eager to leave it? Violante, you are unkind to us!--to Helen, who
already loves you so well!"
As Harley spoke, Helen rose from the piano, and, approaching Violante,
placed her hand caressingly on the Italian's shoulder. Violante
shivered, and shrunk away. The eyes both of Harley and Helen followed
her. Harley's eyes were very grave and thoughtful.
"Is she not changed--your friend?" said he, looking down.
"Yes, lately--much changed. I fear there is something on her mind--I
know not what."
"Ah!" muttered Harley, "it may be so; but at your age and hers, nothing
rests on the mind long. Observe, I say the mind--the heart is more
tenacious."
Helen sighed softly, but deeply.
"And therefore," continued Harley, half to himself, "we can detect when
something is on the mind--some care, some fear, some trouble. But when
the heart closes over its own more passionate sorrow, who can discover!
who conjecture! Yet you at least, my pure, candid Helen--you might
subject mind and heart alike to the fabled window of glass."
"O, no!" cried Helen involuntarily.
"O, yes! Do not let me think that you have one secret I may not know,
or one sorrow I may not share. For, in our relationship--_that_ would
be deceit."
He pressed her hand with more than usual tenderness as he spoke, and
shortly afterward left the house.
And all that night Helen felt like a guilty thing--more wretched even
than Violante.