The next day a somewhat old-fashioned, but exceedingly patrician,
equipage stopped at Riccabocca's garden-gate. Giacomo, who, from a
bedroom window, had caught sight of it winding towards the house,
was seized with undefinable terror when he beheld it pause before
their walls, and heard the shrill summons at the portal. He rushed
into his master's presence, and implored him not to stir--not to
allow any one to give ingress to the enemies the machine might
disgorge. "I have heard," said he, "how a town in Italy--I think it
was Bologna--was once taken and given to the sword, by incautiously
admitting a wooden horse, full of the troops of Barbarossa, and all
manner of bombs and Congreve rockets."
"The story is differently told in Virgil," quoth Riccabocca, peeping
out of the window. "Nevertheless, the machine looks very large and
suspicious; unloose Pompey!"
"Father," said Violante, colouring, "it is your friend Lord
L'Estrange; I hear his voice."
"Are you sure?"
"Quite. How can I be mistaken?"
"Go, then, Giacomo; but take Pompey with thee--and give the alarm,
if we are deceived."
But Violante was right; and in a few moments Lord L'Estrange was
seen walking up the garden, and giving the arm to two ladies.
"Ah," said Riccabocca, composing his dressing-robe round him, "go,
my child, and summon Jemima. Man to man; but, for Heaven's sake,
woman to woman."
Harley had brought his mother and Helen, in compliment to the ladies
of his friend's household.
The proud Countess knew that she was in the presence of Adversity,
and her salute to Riccabocca was only less respectful than that
with which she would have rendered homage to her sovereign. But
Riccabocca, always gallant to the sex that he pretended to despise,
was not to be outdone in ceremony; and the bow which replied to the
curtsey would have edified the rising generation, and delighted
such surviving relicts of the old Court breeding as may linger
yet amidst the gloomy pomp of the Faubourg St Germain. These dues
paid to etiquette, the Countess briefly introduced Helen, as Miss
Digby, and seated herself near the exile. In a few moments the two
elder personages became quite at home with each other; and really,
perhaps, Riccabocca had never, since we have known him, showed to
such advantage as by the side of his polished, but somewhat formal
visiter. Both had lived so little with our modern, ill-bred age!
They took out their manners of a former race, with a sort of pride
in airing once more such fine lace and superb brocade. Riccabocca
gave truce to the shrewd but homely wisdom of his proverbs--perhaps
he remembered that Lord Chesterfield denounces proverbs as
vulgar;--and gaunt though his figure, and far from elegant though
his dressing-robe, there was that about him which spoke undeniably
of the _grand seigneur_--of one to whom a Marquis de Dangeau
would have offered a _fauteuil_ by the side of the Rohans and
Montmorencies.
Meanwhile Helen and Harley seated themselves a little apart, and
were both silent--the first, from timidity; the second, from
abstraction. At length the door opened, and Harley suddenly sprang
to his feet--Violante and Jemima entered. Lady Lansmere's eyes first
rested on the daughter, and she could scarcely refrain from an
exclamation of admiring surprise; but then, when she caught sight of
Mrs Riccabocca's somewhat humble, yet not obsequious mien--looking
a little shy, a little homely, yet still thoroughly a gentlewoman,
(though of your plain rural kind of that genus)--she turned from the
daughter, and with the _savoir vivre_ of the fine old school, paid
her first respects to the wife; respects literally, for her manner
implied respect,--but it was more kind, simple, and cordial than the
respect she had shown to Riccabocca;--as the sage himself had said,
here "it was Woman to Woman." And then she took Violante's hand in
both hers, and gazed on her as if she could not resist the pleasure
of contemplating so much beauty. "My son," she said softly, and with
a half sigh--"my son in vain told me not to be surprised. This is
the first time I have ever known reality exceed description!"
Violante's blush here made her still more beautiful; and as the
Countess returned to Riccabocca, she stole gently to Helen's side.
"Miss Digby, my ward," said Harley pointedly, observing that his
mother had neglected her duty of presenting Helen to the ladies.
He then reseated himself, and conversed with Mrs Riccabocca; but
his bright quick eye glanced ever at the two girls. They were about
the same age--and youth was all that, to the superficial eye, they
seemed to have in common. A greater contrast could not well be
conceived; and, what is strange, both gained by it. Violante's
brilliant loveliness seemed yet more dazzling, and Helen's fair
gentle face yet more winning. Neither had mixed much with girls of
her own age; each took to the other at first sight. Violante, as the
less shy, began the conversation.
"You are his ward--Lord L'Estrange's?"
"Yes."
"Perhaps you came with him from Italy?"
"No, not exactly. But I have been in Italy for some years."
"Ah! you regret--nay, I am foolish--you return to your native land.
But the skies in Italy are so blue--here it seems as if nature
wanted colours."
"Lord L'Estrange says that you were very young when you left Italy;
you remember it well. He, too, prefers Italy to England."
"He! Impossible!"
"Why impossible, fair sceptic?" cried Harley, interrupting himself
in the midst of a speech to Jemima.
Violante had not dreamed that she could be overheard--she was
speaking low; but, though visibly embarrassed, she answered
distinctly--
"Because in England there is the noblest career for noble minds."
Harley was startled, and replied with a slight sigh, "At your age I
should have said as you do. But this England of ours is so crowded
with noble minds, that they only jostle each other, and the career
is one cloud of dust."
"So, I have read, seems a battle to the common soldier, but not to
the chief."
"You have read good descriptions of battles, I see."
Mrs Riccabocca, who thought this remark a taunt upon her
daughter-in-law's studies, hastened to Violante's relief.
"Her papa made her read the history of Italy, and I believe that is
full of battles."
HARLEY.--"All history is, and all women are fond of war and of
warriors. I wonder why."
VIOLANTE, (turning to Helen, and in a very low voice, resolved that
Harley should not hear this time.)--"We can guess why--can we not?"
HARLEY, (hearing every word, as if it had been spoken in St Paul's
Whispering Gallery.)--"If you can guess, Helen, pray tell me."
HELEN, (shaking her pretty head, and answering with a livelier smile
than usual.)--"But I am not fond of war and warriors."
HARLEY to Violante.--"Then I must appeal at once to you,
self-convicted Bellona that you are. Is it from the cruelty natural
to the female disposition?"
VIOLANTE, (with a sweet musical laugh.)--"From two propensities
still more natural to it."
HARLEY.--"You puzzle me: what can they be?"
VIOLANTE.--"Pity and admiration; we pity the weak, and admire the
brave."
Harley inclined his head, and was silent.
Lady Lansmere had suspended her conversation with Riccabocca to
listen to this dialogue. "Charming!" she cried. "You have explained
what has often perplexed me. Ah, Harley, I am glad to see that your
satire is foiled: you have no reply to that."
"No; I willingly own myself defeated-too glad to claim the
Signorina's pity, since my cavalry sword hangs on the wall, and I
can have no longer a professional pretence to her admiration."
He then rose, and glanced towards the window. "But I see a more
formidable disputant for my conqueror to encounter is coming into
the field--one whose profession it is to substitute some other
romance for that of camp and siege."
"Our friend Leonard," said Riccabocca, turning his eye also towards
the window. "True; as Quevedo says wittily, 'Ever since there has
been so great a demand for type, there has been much less lead to
spare for cannon-balls.'"
Here Leonard entered. Harley had sent Lady Lansmere's footman to him
with a note, that prepared him to meet Helen. As he came into the
room, Harley took him by the hand, and led him to Lady Lansmere.
"The friend of whom I spoke. Welcome him now for my sake, ever
after for his own;" and then, scarcely allowing time for the
Countess's elegant and gracious response, he drew Leonard towards
Helen. "Children," said he, with a touching voice, that thrilled
through the hearts of both, "go and seat yourselves yonder, and talk
together of the past. Signorina, I invite you to renewed discussion
upon the abstruse metaphysical subject you have started; let us see
if we cannot find gentler sources for pity and admiration than war
and warriors." He took Violante aside to the window. "You remember
that Leonard, in telling you his history last night, spoke, you
thought, rather too briefly of the little girl who had been his
companion in the rudest time of his trials. When you would have
questioned more, I interrupted you, and said, 'You should see her
shortly, and question her yourself.' And now what think you of Helen
Digby? Hush, speak low. But her ears are not so sharp as mine."
VIOLANTE.--"Ah! that is the fair creature whom Leonard called his
child-angel? What a lovely innocent face!--the angel is there still."
HARLEY, (pleased both at the praise and with her who gave it.)--"You
think so; and you are right. Helen is not communicative. But fine
natures are like fine poems--a glance at the first two lines
suffices for a guess into the beauty that waits you, if you read on."
Violante gazed on Leonard and Helen as they sat apart. Leonard was
the speaker, Helen the listener; and though the former had, in his
narrative the night before, been indeed brief as to the episode
in his life connected with the orphan, enough had been said to
interest Violante in the pathos of their former position towards
each other, and in the happiness they must feel in their meeting
again--separated for years on the wide sea of life, now both
saved from the storm and shipwreck. The tears came into her eyes.
"True," she said very softly, "there is more here to move pity and
admiration than in"--She paused.
HARLEY.--"Complete the sentence. Are you ashamed to retract? Fie on
your pride and obstinacy."
VIOLANTE.--"No; but even here there have been war and heroism--the
war of genius with adversity, and heroism in the comforter who
shared it and consoled. Ah! wherever pity and admiration are both
felt, something nobler than mere sorrow must have gone before: the
heroic must exist."
"Helen does not know what the word heroic means," said Harley,
rather sadly; "you must teach her."
'Is it possible,' thought he as he spoke, 'that a Randal Leslie
could have charmed this grand creature? No 'Heroic' surely, in that
sleek young placeman.' "Your father," he said aloud, and fixing his
eyes on her face, "sees much, he tells me, of a young man, about
Leonard's age, as to date; but I never estimate the age of men by
the parish register; and I should speak of that so-called young man
as a contemporary of my great-grandfather;--I mean Mr Randal Leslie.
Do you like him?"
"Like him?" said Violante slowly, and as if sounding her own mind.
"Like him--yes."
"Why?" asked Harley, with dry and curt indignation.
"His visits seem to please my dear father. Certainly I like him."
"Hum. He professes to like you, I suppose?"
Violante laughed, unsuspiciously. She had half a mind to reply, "Is
that so strange?" But her respect for Harley stopped her. The words
would have seemed to her pert.
"I am told he is clever," resumed Harley.
"O, certainly."
"And he is rather handsome. But I like Leonard's face better."
"Better--that is not the word. Leonard's face is as that of one who
has gazed so often upon heaven; and Mr Leslie's--there is neither
sunlight nor starlight reflected there."
"My dear Violante!" exclaimed Harley, overjoyed; and he pressed her
hand.
The blood rushed over the girl's cheek and brow; her hand trembled
in his. But Harley's familiar exclamation might have come from a
father's lips.
At this moment Helen softly approached them, and looking timidly
into her guardian's face, said, "Leonard's mother is with him: he
asks me to call and see her. May I?"
"May you! A pretty notion the Signorina must form of your enslaved
state of pupilage, when she hears you ask that question. Of course
you may."
"Will you take me there?"
Harley looked embarrassed. He thought of the widow's agitation at
his name; of that desire to shun him, which Leonard had confessed,
and of which he thought he divined the cause. And, so divining, he
too shrank from such a meeting.
"Another time, then," said he, after a pause.
Helen looked disappointed, but said no more.
Violante was surprised at this ungracious answer. She would have
blamed it as unfeeling in another. But all that Harley did was right
in her eyes.
"Cannot I go with Miss Digby?" said she, "and my mother will go too.
We both know Mrs Fairfield. We shall be so pleased to see her again."
"So be it," said Harley; "I will wait here with your father till you
come back. O, as to my mother, she will excuse the--excuse Madame
Riccabocca, and you too. See how charmed she is with _your_ father.
I must stay to watch over the conjugal interests of _mine_."
But Mrs Riccabocca had too much good old country breeding to leave
the Countess; and Harley was forced himself to appeal to Lady
Lansmere. When he had explained the case in point, the Countess rose
and said--
"But I will call myself, with Miss Digby."
"No," said Harley, gravely, but in a whisper. "No--I would rather
not. I will explain later."
"Then," said the Countess aloud, after a glance of surprise at her
son, "I must insist on your performing this visit, my dear madam,
and you, Signorina. In truth, I have something to say confidentially
to--"
"To me," interrupted Riccabocca. "Ah, Madame la Comtesse, you
restore me to five-and-twenty. Go, quick--O jealous and injured
wife; go, both of you, quick; and you, too, Harley."
"Nay," said Lady Lansmere, in the same tone, "Harley must stay,
for my design is not at present upon destroying your matrimonial
happiness, whatever it may be later. It is a design so innocent that
my son will be a partner in it."
Here the Countess put her lips to Harley's ear, and whispered. He
received her communication in attentive silence; but when she had
done, pressed her hand, and bowed his head, as if in assent to a
proposal.
In a few minutes the three ladies and Leonard were on their road to
the neighbouring cottage.
Violante, with her usual delicate intuition, thought that Leonard
and Helen must have much to say to each other; and ignorant, as
Leonard himself was, of Helen's engagement to Harley, began already,
in the romance natural to her age, to predict for them happy and
united days in the future. So she took her stepmother's arm, and
left Helen and Leonard to follow.
"I wonder," she said, musingly, "how Miss Digby became Lord
L'Estrange's ward. I hope she is not very rich, nor very high-born."
"La, my love," said the good Jemima, "that is not like you; you are
not envious of her, poor girl?"
"Envious! Dear mamma, what a word! But don't you think Leonard and
Miss Digby seem born for each other? And then the recollections
of their childhood--the thoughts of childhood are so deep, and
its memories so strangely soft!" The long lashes drooped over
Violante's musing eyes as she spoke. "And therefore," she said after
a pause--"therefore I hoped that Miss Digby might not be very rich,
nor very high-born."
"I understand you now, Violante," exclaimed Jemima, her own early
passion for match-making instantly returning to her; "for as
Leonard, however clever and distinguished, is still the son of Mark
Fairfield the carpenter, it would spoil all if Miss Digby was,
as you say, rich and high-born. I agree with you--a very pretty
match--a very pretty match, indeed. I wish dear Mrs Dale were here
now--she is so clever in settling such matters."
Meanwhile Leonard and Helen walked side by side a few paces in the
rear. He had not offered her his arm. They had been silent hitherto
since they left Riccabocca's house.
Helen now spoke first. In similar cases it is generally the woman,
be she ever so timid, who does speak first. And here Helen was the
bolder; for Leonard did not disguise from himself the nature of his
feelings, and Helen was engaged to another; and her pure heart was
fortified by the trust reposed in it.
"And have you ever heard more of the good Dr Morgan, who had powders
against sorrow, and who meant to be so kind to us--though," she
added, colouring, "we did not think so then?"
"He took my child-angel from me," said Leonard, with visible
emotion; "and if she had not returned, where and what should I be
now? But I have forgiven him. No, I have never met him since."
"And that terrible Mr Burley?"
"Poor, poor Burley! He, too, is vanished out of my present life. I
have made many inquiries after him; all I can hear is that he went
abroad, supposed as a correspondent to some journal. I should like
so much to see him again, now that perhaps I could help him as he
helped me."
"_Helped_ you--ah!"
Leonard smiled with a beating heart, as he saw again the dear,
prudent, warning look, and involuntarily drew closer to Helen. She
seemed more restored to him and to her former self.
"Helped me much by his instructions; more, perhaps, by his very
faults. You cannot guess, Helen--I beg pardon, Miss Digby--but I
forgot that we are no longer children: you cannot guess how much we
men, and, more than all perhaps, we writers, whose task it is to
unravel the web of human actions, owe even to our own past errors;
and if we learned nothing by the errors of others, we should be dull
indeed. We must know where the roads divide, and have marked where
they lead to, before we can erect our sign-posts; and books are the
sign-posts in human life."
"Books!--And I have not yet read yours. And Lord L'Estrange tells
me you are famous now. Yet you remember me still--the poor orphan
child, whom you first saw weeping at her father's grave, and with
whom you burdened your own young life, over-burdened already. No,
still call me Helen--you must always be to me--a brother! Lord
L'Estrange feels _that_; he said so to me when he told me that we
were to meet again. He is so generous, so noble. Brother!" cried
Helen, suddenly, and extending her hand, with a sweet but sublime
look in her gentle face--"brother, we will never forfeit his esteem;
we will both do our best to repay him! Will we not--say so?"
Leonard felt overpowered by contending and unanalysed emotions.
Touched almost to tears by the affectionate address--thrilled
by the hand that pressed his own--and yet with a vague fear, a
consciousness that something more than the words themselves was
implied--something that checked all hope. And this word "brother,"
once so precious and so dear, why did he shrink from it now?--why
could he not too say the sweet word "sister?"
"She is above me now and evermore!" he thought, mournfully; and the
tones of his voice, when he spoke again, were changed. The appeal
to renewed intimacy but made him more distant; and to that appeal
itself he made no direct answer; for Mrs Riccabocca, now turning
round, and pointing to the cottage which came in view, with its
picturesque gable-ends, cried out--
"But is that your house, Leonard? I never saw anything so pretty."
"You do not remember it, then," said Leonard to Helen, in accents of
melancholy reproach--"there where I saw you last! I doubted whether
to keep it exactly as it was, and I said, 'No! the association is
not changed because we try to surround it with whatever beauty we
can create; the dearer the association, the more the Beautiful
becomes to it natural.' Perhaps you don't understand this--perhaps
it is only we poor poets who do."
"I understand it," said Helen, gently. She looked wistfully at the
cottage.
"So changed--I have so often pictured it to myself--never,
never like this; yet I loved it, commonplace as it was to my
recollection; and the garret, and the tree in the carpenter's yard."
She did not give these thoughts utterance. And they now entered the
garden.