It was, as we have seen, without taking counsel of the faithful Jemima that the sage recluse of Norwood had yielded to his own fears and Randal’s subtle suggestions, in the concise and arbitrary letter which he had written to Violante; but at night, when churchyards give up the dead, and conjugal hearts the secrets hid by day from each other, the wise man informed his wife of the step he had taken. And Jemima then—who held English notions, very different from those which prevail in Italy, as to the right of fathers to dispose of their daughters without reference to inclination or repugnance—so sensibly yet so mildly represented to the pupil of Machiavelli that he had not gone exactly the right way to work, if he feared that the handsome count had made some impression on Violante, and if he wished her to turn with favour to the suitor he recommended,—that so abrupt a command could only chill the heart, revolt the will, and even give to the audacious Peschiera some romantic attraction which he had not before possessed,—as effectually to destroy Riccabocca’s sleep that night. And the next day he sent Giacomo to Lady Lansmere’s with a very kind letter to Violante and a note to the hostess, praying the latter to bring his daughter to Norwood for a few hours, as he much wished to converse with both. It was on Giacomo’s arrival at Knightsbridge that Violante’s absence was discovered. Lady Lansmere, ever proudly careful of the world and its gossip, kept Giacomo from betraying his excitement to her servants, and stated throughout the decorous household that the young lady had informed her she was going to visit some friends that morning, and had no doubt gone through the garden gate, since it was found open; the way was more quiet there than by the high-road, and her friends might have therefore walked to meet her by the lane. Lady Lansmere observed that her only surprise was that Violante had gone earlier than she had expected. Having said this with a composure that compelled belief, Lady Lansmere ordered the carriage, and, taking Giacomo with her, drove at once to consult her son.
Harley’s quick intellect had scarcely recovered from the shock upon his emotions before Randal Leslie was announced. “Ah,” said Lady Lansmere, “Mr. Leslie may know something. He came to her yesterday with a note from her father. Pray let him enter.”
The Austrian prince approached Harley. “I will wait in the next room,” he whispered. “You may want me if you have cause to suspect Peschiera in all this.”
Lady Lansmere was pleased with the prince’s delicacy, and, glancing at Leonard, said, “Perhaps you, too, sir, may kindly aid us, if you would retire with the prince. Mr. Leslie may be disinclined to speak of affairs like these, except to Harley and myself.”
“True, madam, but beware of Mr. Leslie.”
As the door at one end of the room closed on the prince and Leonard, Randal entered at the other, seemingly much agitated.
“I have just been to your house, Lady Lansmere. I heard you were here; pardon me if I have followed you. I have called at Knightsbridge to see Violante, learned that she had left you. I implore you to tell me how or wherefore. I have the right to ask: her father has promised me her hand.” Harley’s falcon eye had brightened tip at Randal’s entrance. It watched steadily the young man’s face. It was clouded for a moment by his knitted brows at Randal’s closing words; but he left it to Lady Lansmere to reply and explain. This the countess did briefly.
Randal clasped his hands. “And has she not gone to her father’s? Are you sure of that?”
“Her father’s servant has just come from Norwood.”
“Oh, I am to blame for this! It is my rash suit, her fear of it, her aversion! I see it all!” Randal’s voice was hollow with remorse and despair. “To save her from Peschiera, her father insisted on her immediate marriage with myself. His orders were too abrupt, my own wooing too unwelcome. I knew her high spirit; she has fled to escape from me. But whither, if not to Norwood,—oh, whither? What other friends has she, what relations?”
“You throw a new light on this mystery,” said Lady Lansmere; “perhaps she may have gone to her father’s after all, and the servant may have crossed, but missed her on the way. I will drive to Norwood at once.”
“Do so,—do; but if she be not there, be careful not to alarm Riccabocca with the news of her disappearance. Caution Giacomo not to do so. He would only suspect Peschiera, and be hurried to some act of violence.”
“Do not you, then, suspect Peschiera, Mr. Leslie?” asked Harley, suddenly.
“Ha! is it possible? Yet, no. I called on him this morning with Frank Hazeldean, who is to marry his sister. I was with him till I went on to Knightsbridge, at the very time of Violante’s disappearance. He could not then have been a party to it.”
“You saw Violante yesterday. Did you speak to her of Madame di Negra?” asked Harley, suddenly recalling the questions respecting the marchesa which Violante had addressed to him.
In spite of himself, Randal felt that he changed countenance. “Of Madame di Negra? I do not think so. Yet I might. Oh, yes, I remember now. She asked me the marchesa’s address; I would not give it.”
“The address is easily found. Can she have gone to the marchesa’s house?”
“I will run there, and see,” cried Randal, starting up. “And I with you. Stay, my dear mother. Proceed, as you propose, to Norwood, and take Mr. Leslie’s advice. Spare our friend the news of his daughter’s loss—if lost she be—till she is restored to him. He can be of no use mean while. Let Giacomo rest here; I may want him.”
Harley then passed into the next room, and entreated the prince and Leonard to await his return, and allow Giacomo to stay in the same room.
He then went quickly back to Randal. Whatever might be his fears or emotions, Harley felt that he had need of all his coolness of judgment and presence of mind. The occasion made abrupt demand upon powers which had slept since boyhood, but which now woke with a vigour that would have made even Randal tremble, could he have detected the wit, the courage, the electric energies, masked under that tranquil self-possession. Lord L’Estrange and Randal soon reached the marchesa’s house, and learned that she had been out since morning in one of Count Peschiera’s carriages. Randal stole an alarmed glance at Harley’s face. Harley did not seem to notice it.
“Now, Mr. Leslie, what do you advise next?”
“I am at a loss. Ah, perhaps, afraid of her father, knowing how despotic is his belief in paternal rights, and how tenacious he is of his word once passed, as it has been to me, she may have resolved to take refuge in the country, perhaps at the Casino, or at Mrs. Dale’s, or Mrs. Hazeldean’s. I will hasten to inquire at the coach-office. Meanwhile, you—”
“Never mind me, Mr. Leslie. Do what you think best. But, if your surmises be just, you must have been a very rude wooer to the high-born lady you aspired to win.”
“Not so; but perhaps an unwelcome one. If she has indeed fled from me, need I say that my suit will be withdrawn at once? I am not a selfish lover, Lord L’Estrange.”
“Nor I a vindictive man. Yet, could I discover who has conspired against this lady, a guest under my father’s roof, I would crush him into the mire as easily as I set my foot upon this glove. Good-day to you, Mr. Leslie.”
Randal stood still for a few moments as Harley strided on; then his lip sneered as it muttered, “Insolent! But does he love her? If so, I am avenged already.”
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