As Violante thus sat, a stranger, passing stealthily through the trees,
stood between herself and the evening sun. She saw him not. He paused a
moment, and then spoke low, in her native tongue, addressing her by the
name which she had borne in Italy. He spoke as a relation, and excused
his intrusion: "For," said he, "I come to suggest to the daughter
the means by which she can restore to her father his country and his
honors."
At the word "father" Violante roused herself, and all her love for that
father rushed back upon her with double force. It does so ever--we love
most our parents at the moment when some tie less holy is abruptly
broken; and when the conscience says, "_There_, at least, is a love
that never has deceived thee!"
She saw before her a man of mild aspect and princely form. Peschiera
(for it was he) had banished from his dress, as from his countenance,
all that betrayed the worldly levity of his character. He was acting a
part, and he dressed and looked it.
"My father!" she said quickly, and in Italian. "What of him? And who
are you, signior? I know you not."
Peschiera smiled benignly, and replied in a tone in which great respect
was softened by a kind of parental tenderness.
"Suffer me to explain, and listen to me while I speak." Then quietly
seating himself on the bench beside her, he looked into her eyes, and
resumed.
"Doubtless you have heard of the Count di Peschiera?"
VIOLANTE.--"I heard that name, as a child, when in Italy. And when she
with whom I then dwelt (my father's aunt), fell ill and died, I was
told that my home in Italy was gone, that it had passed to the Count di
Peschiera--my father's foe."
PESCHIERA.--"And your father, since then, has taught you to hate this
fancied foe?"
VIOLANTE.--"Nay; my father did but forbid me ever to breathe his name."
PESCHIERA.--"Alas! what years of suffering and exile might have been
saved your father, had he but been more just to his early friend
and kinsman; nay, had he but less cruelly concealed the secret of
his retreat. Fair child, I am that Giulio Franzini, that Count di
Peschiera. I am the man you have been told to regard as your father's
foe. I am the man on whom the Austrian emperor bestowed his lands. And
now judge if I am in truth the foe. I have come hither to seek your
father, in order to dispossess myself of my sovereign's gift. I have
come but with one desire, to restore Alphonso to his native land, and
to surrender the heritage that was forced upon me."
VIOLANTE.--"My father, my dear father! His grand heart will have room
once more. Oh! this is noble enmity, true revenge. I understand it,
signior, and so will my father, for such would have been his revenge on
you. You have seen him?"
PESCHIERA.--"No, not yet. I would not see him till I had seen yourself;
for you, in truth, are the arbiter of his destinies, as of mine."
VIOLANTE.--"I--Count? I--arbiter of my father's destinies? Is it
possible?"
PESCHIERA (with a look of compassionate admiration, and in a tone
yet more emphatically parental)--"How lovely is that innocent joy;
but do not indulge it yet. Perhaps it is a sacrifice which is asked
from you--a sacrifice too hard to bear. Do not interrupt me. Listen
still, and you will see why I could not speak to your father until I
had obtained an interview with yourself. See why a word from you may
continue still to banish me from his presence. You know, doubtless,
that your father was one of the chiefs of a party that sought to free
Northern Italy from the Austrians. I myself was at the onset a warm
participator in that scheme. In a sudden moment I discovered that some
of its more active projectors had coupled with a patriotic enterprise
schemes of a dark nature--and that the conspiracy itself was about to
be betrayed to the government. I wished to consult with your father;
but he was at a distance. I learned that his life was condemned. Not
an hour was to be lost. I took a bold resolve, that has exposed me to
his suspicious, and to my country's wrath. But my main idea was to
save him, my early friend, from death, and my country from fruitless
massacre. I withdrew from the intended revolt. I sought at once the
head of the Austrian government in Italy, and made terms for the lives
of Alphonso, and of the other more illustrious chiefs, which otherwise
would have been forfeited. I obtained permission to undertake myself
the charge of securing my kinsman in order to place him in safety, and
to conduct him to a foreign land, in an exile that would cease when
the danger was dispelled. But unhappily he deemed that I only sought
to destroy him. He fled from my friendly pursuit. The soldiers with
me were attacked by an intermeddling Englishman; your father escaped
from Italy--concealing his retreat; and the character of his flight
counteracted my efforts to obtain his pardon. The government conferred
on me half his revenues, holding the other at its pleasure. I accepted
the offer to save his whole heritage from confiscation. That I did
not convey to him, what I pined to do--viz., the information that I
held but in trust what was bestowed by the government, and the full
explanation of what seemed blamable in my conduct--was necessarily
owing to the secrecy he maintained. I could not discover his refuge;
but I never ceased to plead for his recall. This year only I have
partially succeeded. He can be restored to his heritage and rank, on
one proviso--a guarantee for his loyalty. That guarantee the government
has named: it is the alliance of his only child with one whom the
government can trust. It was the interest of all Italian nobility, that
the representation of a house so great falling to a female, should not
pass away wholly from the direct line; in a word, that you should ally
yourself with a kinsman. But one kinsman, and he the next in blood,
presented himself. Brief--Alphonso regains all that he lost on the
day in which his daughter gives her hand to Giulio Franzini, Count
di Peschiera. Ah," continued the Count, mournfully, "you shrink--you
recoil. He thus submitted to your choice is indeed unworthy of you. You
are scarce in the spring of life. He is in its waning autumn. Youth
loves youth. He does not aspire to your love. All that he can say is,
love is not the only joy of the heart--it is joy to raise from ruin a
beloved father--joy to restore to a land poor in all but memories,
a chief in whom it reverences a line of heroes. These are the joys I
offer to you--you, a daughter, and an Italian maid. Still silent! Oh
speak to me!"
Certainly this Count Peschiera knew well how woman is to be wooed and
won; and never was woman more sensitive to those high appeals which
most move all true earnest womanhood, than was the young Violante.
Fortune favored him in the moment chosen. Harley was wrenched away
from her hopes, and love a word erased from her language. In the void
of the world, her father's image alone stood clear and visible. And
she who from infancy had so pined to serve that father, who had first
learned to dream of Harley as that father's friend! She could restore
to him all for which the exile sighed; and by a sacrifice of self!
Self-sacrifice, ever in itself such a temptation to the noble! Still,
in the midst of the confusion and disturbance of her mind, the idea of
marriage with another seemed so terrible and revolting, that she could
not at once conceive it; and still that instinct of openness and honor,
which pervaded all her character, warned even her inexperience that
there was something wrong in this clandestine appeal to herself.
Again the Count besought her to speak; and with an effort she said,
irresolutely--
"If it be as you say, it is not for me to answer you; it is for my
father."
"Nay," replied Peschiera. "Pardon if I contradict you. Do you know so
little of your father as to suppose that he will suffer his interest
to dictate to his pride. He would refuse, perhaps, even to receive my
visit--to hear my explanations; but certainly he would refuse to buy
back his inheritance by the sacrifice of his daughter to one whom he
has deemed his foe, and whom the mere disparity of years would incline
the world to say he had made the barter of his personal ambition. But
if I could go to him sanctioned by you--if I could say, Your daughter
overlooks what the father might deem an obstacle--she has consented
to accept my hand of her own free choice--she unites her happiness,
and blends her prayers, with mine--then, indeed, I could not fail
of success: and Italy would pardon my errors, and bless your name.
Ah! Signorina, do not think of me save as an instrument toward the
fulfillment of duties so high and sacred--think but of your ancestors,
your father, your native land, and reject not the proud occasion to
prove how you revere them all!"
Violante's heart was touched at the right chord. Her head rose--her
color came back to her pale cheek--she turned the glorious beauty of
her countenance toward the wily tempter. She was about to answer, and
to seal her fate, when at that instant Harley's voice was heard at a
little distance, and Nero came bounding toward her, and thrust himself,
with rough familiarity, between herself and Peschiera. The Count drew
back, and Violante, whose eyes were still fixed on his face, started
at the change that passed there. One quick gleam of rage sufficed in
an instant to light up the sinister secrets of his nature--it was the
face of the baffled gladiator. He had time but for few words.
"I must not be seen here," he muttered; "but to-morrow--in these
gardens--about this hour. I implore you, for the sake of your
father--his hopes, fortunes, his very life, to guard the secret of this
interview--to meet me again. Adieu!"
He vanished amidst the trees, and was gone--noiselessly, mysteriously,
as he had come.