Peschiera had not been so inactive as he had appeared to Harley and
the reader. On the contrary, he had prepared the way for his ultimate
design, with all the craft and the unscrupulous resolution which
belonged to his nature. His object was to compel Riccabocca into
assenting to the Count's marriage with Violante, or, failing that, to
ruin all chance of his kinsman's restoration. Quietly and secretly
he had sought out, among the most needy and unprincipled of his own
countrymen, those whom he could suborn to depose to Riccabocca's
participation in plots and conspiracies against the Austrian
dominions. These his former connection with the Carbonari enabled
him to track in their refuge in London; and his knowledge of the
characters he had to deal with fitted him well for the villainous task
he undertook.
He had, therefore, already collected witnesses sufficient for his
purposes, making up in number for their defects in quality. Meanwhile,
he had (as Harley had suspected he would) set spies upon Randal's
movements; and the day before that young traitor confided to him
Violante's retreat, he had, at least, got scent of her father's.
The discovery that Violante was under a roof so honored, and seemingly
so safe as Lord Lansmere's, did not discourage this bold and desperate
adventurer. We have seen him set forth to reconnoitre the house at
Knightsbridge. He had examined it well, and discovered the quarter
which he judged favorable to a _coup-de-main_, should that become
necessary.
Lord Lansmere's house and grounds were surrounded by a wall, the
entrance being to the high-road, and by a porter's lodge. At the rear
there lay fields crossed by a lane or by-road. To these fields a
small door in the wall, which was used by the gardeners in passing to
and from their work, gave communication. This door was usually kept
locked; but the lock was of the rude and simple description common to
such entrances, and easily opened by a skeleton key. So far there was
no obstacle which Peschiera's experience in conspiracy and gallantry
did not disdain as trivial. But the Count was not disposed to abrupt
and violent means in the first instance. He had a confidence in his
personal gifts, in his address, in his previous triumphs over the sex,
which made him naturally desire to hazard the effect of a personal
interview; and on this he resolved with his wonted audacity. Randal's
description of Violante's personal appearance, and such suggestions as
to her character, and the motives most likely to influence her actions,
as that young lynx-eyed observer could bestow, were all that the Count
required of present aid from his accomplice.
Meanwhile we return to Violante herself. We see her now seated in
the gardens at Knightsbridge, side by side with Helen. The place was
retired, and out of sight from the windows of the house.
VIOLANTE.--"But why will you not tell me more of that early time? You
are less communicative even than Leonard."
HELEN (looking down, and hesitatingly).--"Indeed there is nothing to
tell you that you do not know; and it is so long since, and things are
so changed now."
The tone of the last words was mournful, and the words ended with a
sigh.
VIOLANTE (with enthusiasm)--"How I envy you that past which you treat
so lightly! To have been something, even in childhood, to the formation
of a noble nature; to have borne on those slight shoulders half the
load of a man's grand labor. And now to see Genius moving calm in its
clear career; and to say inly, 'Of that genius I am a part!'"
HELEN (sadly and humbly).--"A part! Oh, no! A part? I don't understand
you."
VIOLANTE.--"Take the child Beatrice from Dante's life, and should we
have a Dante? What is a poet's genius but the voice of its emotions?
All things in life and in Nature influence genius; but what influences
it the most, are its sorrows and affections."
Helen looks softly into Violante's eloquent face, and draws nearer to
her in tender silence.
VIOLANTE (suddenly).--"Yes, Helen, yes--I know by my own heart
how to read yours. Such memories are ineffaceable. Few guess what
strange self-weavers of our own destinies we women are in our veriest
childhood!" She sunk her voice into a whisper: "How could Leonard fail
to be dear to you--dear as you to him--dearer than all others?"
HELEN (shrinking back, and greatly disturbed).--"Hush, hush! you must
not speak to me thus; it is wicked--I can not bear it. I would not have
it be so--it must not be--it can not!"
She clasped her hands over her eyes for a moment, and then lifted her
face, and the face was very sad, but very calm.
VIOLANTE (twining her arm round Helen's waist).--"How have I wounded
you?--how offended? Forgive me--but why is this wicked? Why must it not
be? Is it because he is below you in birth?"
HELEN.--No, no--I never thought of that. And what am I? Don't ask
me--I can not answer. You are wrong, quite wrong, as to me. I can only
look on Leonard as--as a brother. But--but, you can speak to him more
freely than I can. I would not have him waste his heart on me, nor
yet think me unkind and distant, as I seem. I know not what I say.
But--but--break to him--indirectly--gently--that duty in both forbids
us both to--to be more than friends-than--"
"Helen, Helen!" cried Violante, in her warm, generous passion, "your
heart betrays you in every word you say. You weep; lean on me, whisper
to me; why--why is this? Do you fear that your guardian would not
consent? He not consent! He who--"
HELEN.--"Cease--cease--cease."
VIOLANTE.--"What! You can fear Harley--Lord L'Estrange? Fie; you do not
know him."
HELEN (rising suddenly).--"Violante, hold; I am engaged to another."
Violante rose also, and stood still, as if turned to stone; pale as
death, till the blood came, at first slowly, then with suddenness from
her heart, and one deep glow suffused her whole countenance. She caught
Helen's hand firmly, and said, in a hollow voice--
"Another! Engaged to another! One word, Helen--not to him--not
to--Harley--to--"
"I can not say--I must not. I have promised," cried poor Helen, and as
Violante let fall her hand, she hurried away.
Violante sat down, mechanically. She felt as if stunned by a mortal
blow. She closed her eyes and breathed hard. A deadly faintness seized
her; and when it passed away, it seemed to her as if she were no longer
the same being, nor the world around her the same world--as if she were
but one sense of intense, hopeless misery, and as if the universe were
but one inanimate void. So strangely immaterial are we really--we human
beings, with flesh and blood--that if you suddenly abstract from us but
a single, impalpable, airy thought, which our souls have cherished, you
seem to curdle the air, to extinguish the sun, to snap every link that
connects us to matter, and to benumb every thing into death, except woe.
And this warm, young, southern nature, but a moment before was so full
of joy and life, and vigorous, lofty hope. It never till now had known
its own intensity and depth. The virgin had never lifted the veil from
her own soul of woman. What, till then, had Harley L'Estrange been to
Violante? An ideal--a dream of some imagined excellence--a type of
poetry in the midst of the common world. It had not been Harley the
Man--it had been Harley the Phantom. She had never said to herself, "He
is identified with my love, my hopes, my home, my future." How could
she? Of such, he himself had never spoken; an internal voice, indeed,
had vaguely yet irresistibly whispered to her that, despite his light
words, his feelings toward her were grave and deep. O false voice! how
it had deceived her. Her quick convictions seized the all that Helen
had left unsaid. And now suddenly she felt what it is to love, and what
it is to despair. So she sat, crushed and solitary, neither murmuring
nor weeping, only now and then passing her hand across her brow, as
if to clear away some cloud that would not be dispersed; or heaving a
deep sigh, as if to throw off some load that no time henceforth could
remove. There are certain moments in life in which we say to ourselves,
"All is over; no matter what else changes, that which I have made my
all is gone evermore--evermore." And our own thought rings back in our
ears, "Evermore--evermore!"