Ernest Maltravers — Complete

CHAPTER VII.

 “Don John. How canst thou cross this marriage?

 “Borachio. Not honestly, my lord; but so covertly, that no
  dishonesty shall appear in me, my lord.”—Much Ado about Nothing.

FERRERS and Cesarini were both sitting over their wine, and both had sunk into silence, for they had only one subject in common, when a note was brought to Lumley from Lady Florence.—“This is lucky enough!” said he, as he read it. “Lady Florence wishes to see you, and incloses me a note for you, which she asks me to address and forward to you. There it is.”

Cesarini took the note with trembling hands: it was very short, and merely expressed a desire to see him the next day at two o’clock.

“What can it be?” he exclaimed; “can she want to apologise, to explain?”

“No, no, no! Florence will not do that; but, from certain words she dropped in talking with me, I guess that she has some offer to your worldly advantage to propose to you. Ha! by the way, a thought strikes me.”

Lumley eagerly rang the bell. “Is Lady Florence’s servant waiting for an answer?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Very well—detain him.”

“Now, Cesarini, assurance is made doubly sure. Come into the next room. There, sit down at my desk, and write, as I shall dictate, to Maltravers.”

“I!”

“Yes, now do put yourself in my hands—write, write. When you have finished, I will explain.”

Cesarini obeyed, and the letter was as follows:

“DEAR MALTRAVERS,

“I have learned your approaching marriage with Lady Florence Lascelles. Permit me to congratulate you. For myself, I have overcome a vain and foolish passion; and can contemplate your happiness without a sigh.

“I have reviewed all my old prejudices against marriage, and believe it to be a state which nothing but the most perfect congeniality of temper, pursuits, and minds, can render bearable. How rare is such congeniality! In your case it may exist. The affections of that beautiful being are doubtless ardent—and they are yours!

“Write me a line by the bearer to assure me of your belief in my sincerity.

   “Yours,

     “C. CESARINI.”
 

“Copy out this letter, I want its ditto—quick. Now seal and direct the duplicate,” continued Ferrers; “that’s right; go into the hall, give it yourself to Lady Florence’s servant, and beg him to take it to Seamore Place, wait for an answer, and bring it here; by which time you will have a note ready for Lady Florence. Say I will mention this to her ladyship, and give the man half-a-crown. There, begone.”

“I do not understand a word of this,” said Cesarini, when he returned: “will you explain?”

“Certainly; the copy of the note you have despatched to Maltravers I shall show to Lady Florence this evening, as a proof of your sobered and generous feelings; observe, it is so written, that the old letter of your rival may seem an exact reply to it. To-morrow a reference to this note of yours will bring out our scheme more easily; and if you follow my instructions, you will not seem to volunteer showing our handiwork, as we at first intended; but rather to yield it to her eyes, from a generous impulse, from an irresistible desire to save her from an unworthy husband and a wretched fate. Fortune has been dealing our cards for us, and has turned up the ace. Three to one now on the odd trick. Maltravers, too, is at home. I called at his house, on returning from my uncle’s, and learned that he would not stir out all the evening.”

In due time came the answer from Ernest: it was short and hurried; but full of all the manly kindness of his nature; it expressed admiration and delight at the tone of Cesarini’s letter; it revoked all former expressions derogatory to Lady Florence; it owned the harshness and error of his first impressions; it used every delicate argument that could soothe and reconcile Cesarini; and concluded by sentiments of friendship and desire of service, so cordial, so honest, so free from the affectation of patronage, that even Cesarini himself, half insane as he was with passion, was almost softened. Lumley saw the change in his countenance—snatched the letter from his hand—read it—threw it into the fire—and saying, “We must guard against accidents,” clapped the Italian affectionately on the shoulder, and added, “Now you can have no remorse; for a more Jesuitical piece of insulting hypocritical cant I never read. Where’s your note to Lady Florence? Your compliments, you will be with her at two. There, now the rehearsal’s over, the scenes arranged, and I’ll dress, and open the play for you with a prologue.”