Randal’s acute faculty of comprehension had long since surmised the truth that Beatrice’s views and temper of mind had been strangely and suddenly altered by some such revolution as passion only can effect; that pique or disappointment had mingled with the motive which had induced her to accept the hand of his rash young kinsman; and that, instead of the resigned indifference with which she might at one time have contemplated any marriage that could free her from a position that perpetually galled her pride, it was now with a repugnance, visible to Randal’s keen eye, that she shrank from the performance of that pledge which Frank had so dearly bought. The temptations which the count could hold out to her to become his accomplice in designs of which the fraud and perfidy would revolt her better nature had ceased to be of avail. A dowry had grown valueless, since it would but hasten the nuptials from which she recoiled. Randal felt that he could not secure her aid, except by working on a passion so turbulent as to confound her judgment. Such a passion he recognized in jealousy. He had once doubted if Harley were the object of her love; yet, after all, was it not probable? He knew, at least, of no one else to suspect. If so, he had but to whisper, “Violante is your rival. Violante removed, your beauty may find its natural effect; if not, you are an Italian, and you will be at least avenged.” He saw still more reason to suppose that Lord L’Estrange was indeed the one by whom he could rule Beatrice, since, the last time he had seen her, she had questioned him with much eagerness as to the family of Lord Lansmere, especially as to the female part of it. Randal had then judged it prudent to avoid speaking of Violante, and feigned ignorance; but promised to ascertain all particulars by the time he next saw the marchesa. It was the warmth with which she had thanked him that had set his busy mind at work to conjecture the cause of her curiosity so earnestly aroused, and to ascribe that cause to jealousy. If Harley loved Violante (as Randal himself had before supposed), the little of passion that the young man admitted to himself was enlisted in aid of Peschiera’s schemes. For though Randal did not love Violante, he cordially disliked L’Estrange, and would have gone as far to render that dislike vindictive, as a cold reasoner, intent upon worldly fortunes, will ever suffer mere hate to influence him.
“At the worst,” thought Randal, “if it be not Harley, touch the chord of jealousy, and its vibration will direct me right.”
Thus soliloquizing, he arrived at Madame di Negra’s.
Now, in reality the marchesa’s inquiries as to Lord Lansmere’s family had their source in the misguided, restless, despairing interest with which she still clung to the image of the young poet, whom Randal had no reason to suspect. That interest had become yet more keen from the impatient misery she had felt ever since she had plighted herself to another. A wild hope that she might yet escape, a vague regretful thought that she had been too hasty in dismissing Leonard from her presence,—that she ought rather to have courted his friendship, and contended against her unknown rival,—at times drew her wayward mind wholly from the future to which she had consigned herself. And, to do her justice, though her sense of duty was so defective, and the principles which should have guided her conduct were so lost to her sight, still her feelings towards the generous Hazeldean were not so hard and blunted but what her own ingratitude added to her torment; and it seemed as if the sole atonement she could make to him was to find an excuse to withdraw her promise, and save him from herself. She had caused Leonard’s steps to be watched; she had found that he visited at Lord Lansmere’s; that he had gone there often, and stayed there long. She had learned in the neighbourhood that Lady Lansmere had one or two young female guests staying with her. Surely this was the attraction—here was the rival!
Randal found Beatrice in a state of mind that answered his purpose; and first turning his conversation on Harley, and noting that her countenance did not change, by little and little he drew forth her secret.
Then said Randal, gravely, “If one whom you honour with a tender thought visits at Lord Lansmere’s house, you have, indeed, cause to fear for yourself, to hope for your brother’s success in the object which has brought him to England; for a girl of surpassing beauty is a guest in Lord Lansmere’s house, and I will now tell you that that girl is she whom Count Peschiera would make his bride.”
As Randal thus spoke, and saw how his listener’s brow darkened and her eye flashed, he felt that his accomplice was secured. Violante! Had not Leonard spoken of Violante, and with such praise? Had not his boyhood been passed under her eyes? Who but Violante could be the rival? Beatrice’s abrupt exclamations, after a moment’s pause, revealed to Randal the advantage he had gained. And partly by rousing her jealousy into revenge, partly by flattering her love with assurances that, if Violante were fairly removed from England, were the wife of Count Peschiera, it would be impossible that Leonard could remain insensible to her own attractions; that he, Randal, would undertake to free her honourably from her engagement to Frank Hazeldean, and obtain from her brother the acquittal of the debt which had first fettered her hand to that confiding suitor,—he did not quit the marchesa until she had not only promised to do all that Randal might suggest, but impetuously urged him to mature his plans, and hasten the hour to accomplish them. Randal then walked some minutes musing and slow along the streets, revolving the next meshes in his elaborate and most subtle web. And here his craft luminously devised its masterpiece.
It was necessary, during any interval that might elapse between Violante’s disappearance and her departure from England, in order to divert suspicion from Peschiera (who might otherwise be detained), that some cause for her voluntary absence from Lord Lansmere’s should be at least assignable; it was still more necessary that Randal himself should stand wholly clear from any surmise that he could have connived at the count’s designs, even should their actual perpetrator be discovered or conjectured. To effect these objects, Randal hastened to Norwood, and obtained an interview with Riccabocca. In seeming agitation and alarm, he informed the exile that he had reason to know that Peschiera had succeeded in obtaining a secret interview with Violante, and he feared had made a certain favourable impression on her mind; and speaking as if with the jealousy of a lover, he entreated Riccabocca to authorize Randal’s direct proposals to Violante, and to require her consent to their immediate nuptials.
The poor Italian was confounded with the intelligence conveyed to him; and his almost superstitious fears of his brilliant enemy, conjoined with his opinion of the susceptibility to outward attractions common to all the female sex, made him not only implicitly credit, but even exaggerate, the dangers that Randal intimated. The idea of his daughter’s marriage with Randal, towards which he had lately cooled, he now gratefully welcomed.
But his first natural suggestion was to go, or send, for Violante, and bring her to his own house. This, however, Randal artfully opposed.
“Alas! I know,” said he, “that Peschiera has discovered your retreat, and surely she would be far less safe here than where she is now!”
“But, diavolo! you say the man has seen her where she is now, in spite of all Lady Lansmere’s promises and Harley’s precautions.”
“True. Of this Peschiera boasted to me. He effected it not, of course, openly, but in some disguise. I am sufficiently, however, in his confidence—any man may be that with so audacious a braggart—to deter him from renewing his attempt for some days. Meanwhile, I or yourself will leave discovered some surer home than this, to which you can remove, and then will be the proper time to take back your daughter. And for the present, if you will send by me a letter to enjoin her to receive me as her future bridegroom, it will necessarily divert all thought at once from the count; I shall be able to detect by the manner in which she receives me, how far the count has overstated the effect he pretends to have produced. You can give me also a letter to Lady Lansmere, to prevent your daughter coming hither. Oh, sir, do not reason with me. Have indulgence for my lover’s fears. Believe that I advise for the best. Have I not the keenest interest to do so?”
Like many a man who is wise enough with pen and paper before him, and plenty of time wherewith to get up his wisdom, Riccabocca was flurried, nervous, and confused when that wisdom was called upon for any ready exertion. From the tree of knowledge he had taken grafts enough to serve for a forest; but the whole forest could not spare him a handy walking-stick. The great folio of the dead Machiavelli lay useless before him,—the living Machiavelli of daily life stood all puissant by his side. The Sage was as supple to the Schemer as the Clairvoyant is to the Mesmerist; and the lean slight fingers of Randal actually dictated almost the very words that Riccabocca wrote to his child and her hostess.
The philosopher would have liked to consult his wife; but he was ashamed to confess that weakness. Suddenly he remembered Harley, and said, as Randal took up the letters which Riccabocca had indited,
“There, that will give us time; and I will send to Lord L’Estrange and talk to him.”
“My noble friend,” replied Randal, mournfully, “may I entreat you not to see Lord L’Estrange until at least I have pleaded my cause to your daughter,—until, indeed, she is no longer under his father’s roof?”
“And why?”
“Because I presume that you are sincere when you deign to receive me as a son-in-law, and because I am sure that Lord L’Estrange would hear with distaste of your disposition in my favour. Am I not right?”
Riccabocca was silent.
“And though his arguments would fail with a man of your honour and discernment, they might have more effect on the young mind of your child. Think, I beseech you, the more she is set against me, the more accessible she may be to the arts of Peschiera. Speak not, therefore, I implore you, to Lord L’Estrange till Violante has accepted my hand, or at least until she is again under your charge; otherwise take back your letter,—it would be of no avail.”
“Perhaps you are right. Certainly Lord L’Estrange is prejudiced against you; or rather, he thinks too much of what I have been, too little of what I am.”
“Who can see you, and not do so? I pardon him.” After kissing the hand which the exile modestly sought to withdraw from that act of homage, Randal pocketed the letters; and, as if struggling with emotion, rushed from the house.
Now, O curious reader, if thou wilt heedfully observe to what uses Randal Leslie put those letters,—what speedy and direct results he drew forth from devices which would seem to an honest simple understanding the most roundabout, wire-drawn wastes of invention,—I almost fear that in thine admiration for his cleverness, thou mayest half forget thy contempt for his knavery.
But when the head is very full, it does not do to have the heart very empty; there is such a thing as being top-heavy!
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