If any one could be more surprised at seeing Lord L'Estrange at the
house of Madame di Negra that evening than the fair hostess herself,
it was Randal Leslie. Something instinctively told him that this
visit threatened interference with whatever might be his ultimate
projects in regard to Riccabocca and Violante. But Randal Leslie
was not one of those who shrink from an intellectual combat. On the
contrary, he was too confident of his powers of intrigue, not to
take a delight in their exercise. He could not conceive that the
indolent Harley could be a match for his own restless activity and
dogged perseverance. But in a very few moments fear crept on him.
No man of his day could produce a more brilliant effect than Lord
L'Estrange, when he deigned to desire it. Without much pretence to
that personal beauty which strikes at first sight, he still retained
all the charm of countenance, and all the grace of manner, which
had made him in boyhood the spoiled darling of society. Madame di
Negra had collected but a small circle round her, still it was of
the _élite_ of the great world; not, indeed, those more precise and
reserved _dames du chateau_, whom the lighter and easier of the fair
dispensers of fashion ridicule as prudes; but, nevertheless, ladies
were there, as unblemished in reputation as high in rank; flirts and
coquettes, perhaps--nothing more; in short, "charming women"--the
gay butterflies that hover over the stiff parterre. And there were
ambassadors and ministers, and wits and brilliant debaters, and
first-rate dandies, (dandies, when first-rate, are generally very
agreeable men.) Amongst all these various persons, Harley, so long
a stranger to the London world, seemed to make himself at home
with the ease of an Alcibiades. Many of the less juvenile ladies
remembered him, and rushed to claim his acquaintance, with nods, and
becks, and wreathed smiles. He had ready compliment for each. And
few indeed were there, men or women, for whom Harley L'Estrange had
not appropriate attraction. Distinguished reputation as soldier and
scholar, for the grave; whim and pleasantry for the gay; novelty
for the sated; and for the more vulgar natures, was he not Lord
L'Estrange, unmarried, heir to an ancient earldom, and some fifty
thousands a-year?
Not till he had succeeded in the general effect--which, it must
be owned, he did his best to create--did Harley seriously and
especially devote himself to his hostess. And then he seated himself
by her side; and, as if in compliment to both, less pressing
admirers insensibly slipped away and edged off.
Frank Hazeldean was the last to quit his ground behind Madame
di Negra's chair; but when he found that the two began to talk
in Italian, and he could not understand a word they said, he
too--fancying, poor fellow, that he looked foolish, and cursing his
Eton education that had neglected, for languages spoken by the dead,
of which he had learned little, those still in use among the living,
of which he had learned nought--retreated towards Randal, and asked
wistfully, "Pray, what age should you say L'Estrange was? He must be
devilish old, in spite of his looks. Why, he was at Waterloo!"
"He is young enough to be a terrible rival," answered Randal, with
artful truth.
Frank turned pale, and began to meditate dreadful bloodthirsty
thoughts, of which hair-triggers and Lord's Cricket-ground formed
the staple.
Certainly there was apparent ground for a lover's jealousy. For
Harley and Beatrice now conversed in a low tone, and Beatrice seemed
agitated, and Harley earnest. Randal himself grew more and more
perplexed. Was Lord L'Estrange really enamoured of the Marchesa?
If so, farewell to all hopes of Frank's marriage with her! Or was
he merely playing a part in Riccabocca's interest; pretending to
be the lover, in order to obtain an influence over her mind, rule
her through her ambition, and secure an ally against her brother?
Was this _finesse_ compatible with Randal's notions of Harley's
character? Was it consistent with that chivalric and soldierly
spirit of honour which the frank nobleman affected, to make love
to a woman in mere _ruse de guerre_? Could mere friendship for
Riccabocca be a sufficient inducement to a man, who, whatever his
weaknesses or his errors, seemed to wear on his very forehead a soul
above deceit, to stoop to paltry means, even for a worthy end? At
this question, a new thought flashed upon Randal--might not Lord
L'Estrange have speculated himself upon winning Violante?--would
not that account for all the exertions he had made on behalf of her
inheritance at the court of Vienna--exertions of which Peschiera
and Beatrice had both complained? Those objections which the
Austrian government might take to Violante's marriage with some
obscure Englishman would probably not exist against a man like
Harley L'Estrange, whose family not only belonged to the highest
aristocracy of England, but had always supported opinions in vogue
amongst the leading governments of Europe. Harley himself, it is
true, had never taken part in politics, but his notions were, no
doubt, those of a high-born soldier, who had fought, in alliance
with Austria, for the restoration of the Bourbons. And this immense
wealth--which Violante might lose, if she married one like Randal
himself--her marriage with the heir of the Lansmeres might actually
tend only to secure. Could Harley, with all his own expectations, be
indifferent to such a prize?--and no doubt he had learned Violante's
rare beauty in his correspondence with Riccabocca.
Thus considered, it seemed natural to Randal's estimate of human
nature, that Harley's more prudish scruples of honour, as regards
what is due to women, could not resist a temptation so strong. Mere
friendship was not a motive powerful enough to shake them, but
ambition was.
While Randal was thus cogitating, Frank thus suffering, and many a
whisper, in comment on the evident flirtation between the beautiful
hostess and the accomplished guest, reached the ears both of the
brooding schemer and the jealous lover, the conversation between
the two objects of remark and gossip had taken a new turn. Indeed,
Beatrice had made an effort to change it.
"It is long, my lord," said she, still speaking Italian, "since I
have heard sentiments like those you address to me; and if I do not
feel myself wholly unworthy of them, it is from the pleasure I have
felt in reading sentiments equally foreign to the language of the
world in which I live." She took a book from the table as she spoke:
"Have you seen this work?"
Harley glanced at the title-page. "To be sure I have, and I know the
author."
"I envy you that honour. I should so like also to know one who has
discovered to me deeps in my own heart which I had never explored."
"Charming Marchesa, if the book has done this, believe me that I
have paid you no false compliment--formed no overflattering estimate
of your nature; for the charm of the work is but in its simple
appeal to good and generous emotions, and it can charm none in whom
those emotions exist not!"
"Nay, that cannot be true, or why is it so popular?"
"Because good and generous emotions are more common to the human
heart than we are aware of till the appeal comes."
"Don't ask me to think that! I have found the world so base."
"Pardon me a rude question; but what do you know of the world?"
Beatrice looked first in surprise at Harley, then glanced round the
room with significant irony.
"As I thought; you call this little room 'the world.' Be it so.
I will venture to say, that if the people in this room were
suddenly converted into an audience before a stage, and you were as
consummate in the actor's art as you are in all others that please
and command--"
"Well?"
"And were to deliver a speech full of sordid and base sentiments,
you would be hissed. But let any other woman, with half your
powers, arise and utter sentiments sweet and womanly, or honest
and lofty--and applause would flow from every lip, and tears rush
to many a worldly eye. The true proof of the inherent nobleness of
our common nature is in the sympathy it betrays with what is noble
wherever crowds are collected. Never believe the world is base;--if
it were so, no society could hold together for a day. But you would
know the author of this book? I will bring him to you."
"Do."
"And now," said Harley rising, and with his candid winning smile,
"do you think we shall ever be friends?"
"You have startled me so, that I can scarcely answer. But why would
you be friends with me?"
"Because you need a friend. You have none?"
"Strange flatterer!" said Beatrice, smiling, though very sadly; and
looking up, her eye caught Randal's.
"Pooh!" said Harley, "you are too penetrating to believe that you
inspire friendship _there_. Ah, do you suppose that, all the while I
have been conversing with you, I have not noticed the watchful gaze
of Mr Randal Leslie? What tie can possibly connect you together I
know not yet; but I soon shall."
"Indeed! you talk like one of the old Council of Venice. You try
hard to make me fear you," said Beatrice, seeking to escape from
the graver kind of impression Harley had made on her, by the
affectation, partly of coquetry, partly of levity.
"And I," said L'Estrange calmly, "tell you already, that I fear you
no more." He bowed, and passed through the crowd to rejoin Audley,
who was seated in a corner, whispering with some of his political
colleagues. Before Harley reached the minister, he found himself
close to Randal and young Hazeldean.
He bowed to the first, and extended his hand to the last. Randal
felt the distinction, and his sullen, bitter pride was deeply
galled--a feeling of hate towards Harley passed into his mind. He
was pleased to see the cold hesitation with which Frank just touched
the hand offered to him. But Randal had not been the only person
whose watch upon Beatrice the keen-eyed Harley had noticed. Harley
had seen the angry looks of Frank Hazeldean, and divined the cause.
So he smiled forgivingly at the slight he had received.
"You are like me, Mr Hazeldean," said he. "You think something of
the heart should go with all courtesy that bespeaks friendship--
"The hand of Douglas is his own."
Here Harley drew aside Randal. "Mr Leslie, a word with you. If I
wished to know the retreat of Dr Riccabocca, in order to render him
a great service, would you confide to me that secret?"
"That woman has let out her suspicions that I know the exile's
retreat," thought Randal; and with rare presence of mind, he replied
at once--
"My Lord, yonder stands a connection of Dr Riccabocca's. Mr
Hazeldean is surely the person to whom you should address this
inquiry."
"Not so, Mr Leslie; for I suspect that he cannot answer it, and that
you can. Well, I will ask something that it seems to me you may
grant without hesitation. Should you see Dr Riccabocca, tell him
that I am in England, and so leave it to him to communicate with me
or not; but perhaps you have already done so?"
"Lord L'Estrange," said Randal, bowing low, with pointed formality,
"excuse me if I decline either to disclaim or acquiesce in the
knowledge you impute to me. If I am acquainted with any secret
intrusted to me by Dr Riccabocca, it is for me to use my own
discretion how best to guard it. And for the rest, after the Scotch
earl, whose words your lordship has quoted, refused to touch the
hand of Marmion, Douglas could scarcely have called him back in
order to give him--a message!"
Harley was not prepared for this tone in Mr Egerton's _protégé_,
and his own gallant nature was rather pleased than irritated by a
haughtiness that at least seemed to bespeak independence of spirit.
Nevertheless, L'Estrange's suspicions of Randal were too strong to
be easily set aside, and therefore he replied, civilly, but with
covert taunt--
"I submit to your rebuke, Mr Leslie, though I meant not the offence
you would ascribe to me. I regret my unlucky quotation yet the
more, since the wit of your retort has obliged you to identify
yourself with Marmion, who, though a clever and brave fellow, was an
uncommonly--tricky one." And so Harley, certainly having the best of
it, moved on, and joining Egerton, in a few minutes more both left
the room.
"What was L'Estrange saying to you?" asked Frank. "Something about
Beatrice I am sure."
"No; only quoting poetry."
"Then what made you look so angry, my dear fellow? I know it was
your kind feeling for me. As you say, he is a formidable rival. But
that can't be his own hair. Do you think he wears a _toupet_? I am
sure he was praising Beatrice. He is evidently very much smitten
with her. But I don't think she is a woman to be caught by _mere_
rank and fortune! Do you? Why can't you speak?"
"If you do not get her consent soon, I think she is lost to you,"
said Randal slowly; and, before Frank could recover his dismay,
glided from the house.