Early the next morning, while Violante was still in her room, a letter addressed to her came by the post. The direction was in a strange hand. She opened it, and read, in Italian, what is thus translated:—
I would gladly see you, but I cannot call openly at the house in
which you live. Perhaps I may have it in my power to arrange family
dissensions,—to repair any wrongs your father may have sustained.
Perhaps I may be enabled to render yourself an essential service.
But for all this it is necessary that we should meet and confer
frankly. Meanwhile time presses, delay is forbidden. Will you meet
me, an hour after noon, in the lane, just outside the private gate
of your gardens? I shall be alone, and you cannot fear to meet one
of your own sex, and a kinswoman. Ah, I so desire to see you!
Come, I beseech you.
BEATRICE.
Violante read, and her decision was taken. She was naturally fearless, and there was little that she would not have braved for the chance of serving her father. And now all peril seemed slight in comparison with that which awaited her in Randal’s suit, backed by her father’s approval. Randal had said that Madame di Negra alone could aid her in escape from himself. Harley had said that Madame di Negra had generous qualities; and who but Madame di Negra would write herself a kinswoman, and sign herself “Beatrice”?
A little before the appointed hour, she stole unobserved through the trees, opened the little gate, and found herself in the quiet, solitary lane. In a few minutes; a female figure came up, with a quick, light step; and throwing aside her veil, said, with a sort of wild, suppressed energy, “It is you! I was truly told. Beautiful! beautiful! And oh! what youth and what bloom!”
The voice dropped mournfully; and Violante, surprised by the tone, and blushing under the praise, remained a moment silent; then she said, with some hesitation,
“You are, I presume, the Marchesa di Negra? And I have heard of you enough to induce me to trust you.”
“Of me! From whom?” asked Beatrice, almost fiercely. “From Mr Leslie, and—and—”
“Go on; why falter?”
“From Lord L’Estrange.”
“From no one else?”
“Not that I remember.”
Beatrice sighed heavily, and let fall her veil. Some foot-passengers now came up the lane; and seeing two ladies, of mien so remarkable, turned round, and gazed curiously.
“We cannot talk here,” said Beatrice, impatiently; “and I have so much to say, so much to know. Trust me yet more; it is for yourself I speak. My carriage waits yonder. Come home with me,—I will not detain you an hour; and I will bring you back.”
This proposition startled Violante. She retreated towards the gate with a gesture of dissent. Beatrice laid her hand on the girl’s arm, and again lifting her veil, gazed at her with a look half of scorn, half of admiration.
“I, too, would once have recoiled from one step beyond the formal line by which the world divides liberty from woman. Now see how bold I am. Child, child, do not trifle with your destiny. You may never again have the same occasion offered to you. It is not only to meet you that I am here; I must know something of you,—something of your heart. Why shrink? Is not the heart pure?”
Violante made no answer; but her smile, so sweet and so lofty, humbled the questioner it rebuked.
“I may restore to Italy your father,” said Beatrice, with an altered voice. “Come!”
Violante approached, but still hesitatingly. “Not by union with your brother?”
“You dread that so much then?”
“Dread it? No. Why should I dread what is in my power to reject. But if you can really restore my father, and by nobler means, you may save me for—”
Violante stopped abruptly; the marchesa’s eyes sparkled.
“Save you for—ah! I can guess what you leave unsaid. But come, come! more strangers, see; you shall tell me all at my own house. And if you can make one sacrifice, why, I will save you all else. Come, or farewell forever!”
Violante placed her hand in Beatrice’s, with a frank confidence that brought the accusing blood into the marchesa’s cheek.
“We are women both,” said Violante; “we descend from the same noble House; we have knelt alike to the same Virgin Mother; why should I not believe and trust you?”
“Why not?” muttered Beatrice, feebly; and she moved on, with her head bowed on her breast, and all the pride of her step was gone.
They reached a carriage that stood by the angle of the road. Beatrice spoke a word apart to the driver, who was an Italian, in the pay of the count; the man nodded, and opened the carriage door. The ladies entered. Beatrice pulled down the blinds; the man remounted his box, and drove on rapidly. Beatrice, leaning back, groaned aloud. Violante drew nearer to her side. “Are you in pain?” said she, with her tender, melodious voice; “or can I serve you as you would serve me?”
“Child, give me your hand, and be silent while I look at you. Was I ever so fair as this? Never! And what deeps—what deeps roll between her and me!”
She said this as of some one absent, and again sank into silence; but continued still to gaze on Violante, whose eyes, veiled by their long fringes, drooped beneath the gaze.
Suddenly Beatrice started, exclaiming, “No, it shall not be!” and placed her hand on the check-string.
“What shall not be?” asked Violante, surprised by the cry and the action. Beatrice paused; her breast heaved visibly under her dress.
“Stay,” she said slowly. “As you say, we are both women of the same noble House; you would reject the suit of my brother, yet you have seen him; his the form to please the eye, his the arts that allure the fancy. He offers to you rank, wealth, your father’s pardon and recall. If I could remove the objections which your father entertains, prove that the count has less wronged him than he deems, would you still reject the rank and the wealth and the hand of Giulio Franzini?”
“Oh, yes, yes; were his hand a king’s!”
“Still, then, as woman to woman—both, as you say, akin, and sprung from the same lineage—still, then, answer me, answer me, for you speak to one who has loved—Is it not that you love another? Speak.”
“I do not know. Nay, not love,—it was a romance; it is a thing impossible. Do not question,—I cannot answer.” And the broken words were choked by sudden tears.
Beatrice’s face grew hard and pitiless. Again she lowered her veil, and withdrew her hand from the check-string; but the coachman had felt the touch, and halted. “Drive on,” said Beatrice, “as you were directed.”
Both were now long silent,—Violante with great difficulty recovering from her emotion, Beatrice breathing hard, and her arms folded firmly across her breast.
Meanwhile the carriage had entered London; it passed the quarter in which Madame di Negra’s house was situated; it rolled fast over a bridge; it whirled through a broad thoroughfare, then through defiles of lanes, with tall blank dreary houses on either side. On it went, and on, till Violante suddenly took alarm. “Do you live so far?” she said, drawing up the blind, and gazing in dismay on the strange, ignoble suburb. “I shall be missed already. Oh, let us turn back, I beseech you!”
“We are nearly there now. The driver has taken this road in order to avoid those streets in which we might have been seen together,—perhaps by my brother himself. Listen to me, and talk of-of the lover whom you rightly associate with a vain romance. ‘Impossible,’—yes, it is impossible!”
Violante clasped her hands before her eyes, and bowed down her head. “Why are you so cruel?” said she. “This is not what you promised. How are you to serve my father, how restore him to his country? This is what you promised!”
“If you consent to one sacrifice, I will fulfil that promise. We are arrived.”
The carriage stopped before a tall, dull house, divided from other houses by a high wall that appeared to enclose a yard, and standing at the end of a narrow lane, which was bounded on the one side by the Thames. In that quarter the river was crowded with gloomy, dark-looking vessels and craft, all lying lifeless under the wintry sky.
The driver dismounted and rang the bell. Two swarthy Italian faces presented themselves at the threshold. Beatrice descended lightly, and gave her hand to Violante. “Now, here we shall be secure,” said she; “and here a few minutes may suffice to decide your fate.”
As the door closed on Violante, who, now waking to suspicion, to alarm, looked fearfully round the dark and dismal hall, Beatrice turned: “Let the carriage wait.”
The Italian who received the order bowed and smiled; but when the two ladies had ascended the stairs he re-opened the street-door, and said to the driver, “Back to the count, and say, ‘All is safe.’”
The carriage drove off. The man who had given this order barred and locked the door, and, taking with him the huge key, plunged into the mystic recesses of the basement and disappeared. The hall, thus left solitary, had the grim aspect of a prison,—the strong door sheeted with iron, the rugged stone stairs, lighted by a high window grimed with the dust of years, and jealously barred, and the walls themselves abutting out rudely here and there, as if against violence even from within.
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