Book: My Novel, Volume 10.

E >> Edward Bulwer Lytton >> My Novel, Volume 10.




Helen now appropriated Mrs. Riccabocca's arm; and, after a kind leave-
taking with the widow, the ladies returned towards Riccabocca's house.

Mrs. Fairfield, however, ran after them with Leonard's hat and gloves,
which he had forgotten.

"'Deed, boy," she said, kindly, yet scoldingly, "but there'd be no more
fine books, if the Lord had not fixed your head on your shoulders. You
would not think it, marm," she added to Mrs. Riccabocca, "but sin' he has
left you, he's not the 'cute lad he was; very helpless at times, marm!"

Helen could not resist turning round, and looking at Leonard, with a sly
smile.

The widow saw the smile, and catching Leonard by the arm, whispered,
"But where before have you seen that pretty young lady? Old friends!"

"Ah, Mother," said Leonard, sadly, "it is a long tale; you have heard the
beginning, who can guess the end?" and he escaped. But Helen still
leaned on the arm of Mrs. Riccabocca, and, in the walk back, it seemed to
Leonard as if the winter had re-settled in the sky.

Yet he was by the side of Violante, and she spoke to him with such praise
of Helen! Alas! it is not always so sweet as folks say to hear the
praises of one we love. Sometimes those praises seem to ask ironically,
"And what right hast thou to hope because thou lovest? All love her."




CHAPTER V.

No sooner had Lady Lansmere found herself alone with Riccabocca and
Harley than she laid her hand on the exile's arm, and, addressing him by
a title she had not before given him, and from which he appeared to
shrink nervously, said, "Harley, in bringing me to visit you, was forced
to reveal to me your incognito, for I should have discovered it. You may
not remember me, in spite of your gallantry; but I mixed more in the
world than I do now, during your first visit to England, and once sat
next to you at dinner at Carlton House. Nay, no compliments, but listen
to me. Harley tells me you have cause for some alarm respecting the
designs of an audacious and unprincipled adventurer, I may call him; for
adventurers are of all ranks. Suffer your daughter to come to me on a
visit, as long as you please. With me, at least, she will be safe; and
if you, too, and the--"

"Stop, my dear madam," interrupted Riccabocca, with great vivacity; "your
kindness overpowers me. I thank you most gratefully for your invitation
to my child; but--"

"Nay," in his turn interrupted Harley, "no buts. I was not aware of my
mother's intention when she entered this room. But since she whispered
it to me, I have reflected on it, and am convinced that it is but a
prudent precaution. Your retreat is known to Mr. Leslie, he is known to
Peschiera. Grant that no indiscretion of Mr. Leslie's betray the secret;
still I have reason to believe that the count guesses Randal's
acquaintance with you. Audley Egerton this morning told me he had
gathered that, not from the young man himself, but from questions put to
himself by Madame di Negra; and Peschiera might and would set spies to
track Leslie to every house that he visits,--might and would, still more
naturally, set spies to track myself. Were this man an Englishman, I
should laugh at his machinations; but he is an Italian, and has been a
conspirator. What he could do I know not; but an assassin can penetrate
into a camp, and a traitor can creep through closed walls to one's
hearth. With my mother, Violante must be safe; that you cannot oppose.
And why not come yourself?"

Riccabocca had no reply to these arguments, so far as they affected
Violante; indeed, they awakened the almost superstitious terror with
which he regarded his enemy, and he consented at once that Violante
should accept the invitation proffered. But he refused it for himself
and Jemima.

"To say truth," said he, simply, "I made a secret vow, on re-entering
England, that I would associate with none who knew the rank I had
formerly held in my own land. I felt that all my philosophy was needed
to reconcile and habituate myself to my altered circumstances. In order
to find in my present existence, however humble, those blessings which
make all life noble,--dignity and peace,--it was necessary for poor, weak
human nature wholly to dismiss the past. It would unsettle me sadly,
could I come to your house, renew awhile, in your kindness and respect--
nay, in the very atmosphere of your society--the sense of what I have
been; and then (should the more than doubtful chance of recall from my
exile fail me) to awake, and find myself for the rest of life what I am.
And though, were I alone, I might trust myself perhaps to the danger, yet
my wife: she is happy and contented now; would she be so, if you had once
spoiled her for the simple position of Dr. Riccabocca's wife? Should I
not have to listen to regrets and hopes and fears that would prick sharp
through my thin cloak of philosophy? Even as it is, since in a moment of
weakness I confided my secret to her, I have had 'my rank' thrown at me,
--with a careless hand, it is true, but it hits hard nevertheless. No
stone hurts like one taken from the ruins of one's own home; and the
grander the home, why, the heavier the stone! Protect, dear madam,
protect my daughter, since her father doubts his own power to do so.
But--ask no more."

Riccabocca was immovable here; and the matter was settled as he decided,
it being agreed that Violante should be still styled but the daughter of
Dr. Riccabocca.

"And now, one word more," said Harley. "Do not confide to Mr. Leslie
these arrangements; do not let him know where Violante is placed,--at
least, until I authorize such confidence in him. It is sufficient excuse
that it is no use to know unless he called to see her, and his movements,
as I said before, may be watched. You can give the same reason to
suspend his visits to yourself. Suffer me, meanwhile, to mature my
judgment on this young man. In the meanwhile, also, I think that I shall
have means of ascertaining the real nature of Peschiera's schemes. His
sister has sought to know me; I will give her the occasion. I have heard
some things of her in my last residence abroad, which make me believe
that she cannot be wholly the count's tool in any schemes nakedly
villanous; that she has some finer qualities in her than I once supposed;
and that she can be won from his influence. It is a state of war; we
will carry it into the enemy's camp. You will promise me, then, to
refrain from all further confidence in Mr. Leslie?"

"For the present, yes," said Riccabocca, reluctantly.

"Do not even say that you have seen me, unless he first tell you that I
am in England, and wish to learn your residence. I will give him full
occasion to do so. Pish! don't hesitate; you know your own proverb--

"'Boccha chiusa, ed occhio aperto
Non fece mai nissun deserto.'

"The closed mouth and the open eye,' etc."

"That's very true," said the doctor, much struck. "Very true. 'In
boccha chiusa non c'entrano mosche.' One can't swallow flies if one
keeps one's mouth shut. /Corpo di Bacco!/ that's very true indeed."




CHAPTER VI.

Violante and Jemima were both greatly surprised, as the reader may
suppose, when they heard, on their return, the arrangements already made
for the former. The countess insisted on taking her at once, and
Riccabocca briefly said, "Certainly, the sooner the better." Violante
was stunned and bewildered. Jemima hastened to make up a little bundle
of things necessary, with many a woman's sigh that the poor wardrobe
contained so few things befitting. But among the clothes she slipped a
purse, containing the savings of months, perhaps of years, and with it a
few affectionate lines, begging Violante to ask the countess to buy her
all that was proper for her father's child. There is always something
hurried and uncomfortable in the abrupt and unexpected withdrawal of any
member from a quiet household. The small party broke into still smaller
knots. Violante hung on her father, and listened vaguely to his not very
lucid explanations. The countess approached Leonard, and, according to
the usual mode with persons of quality addressing young authors,
complimented him highly on the books she had not read, but which her son
assured her were so remarkable. She was a little anxious to know where
Harley had first met with Mr. Oran, whom he called his friend; but she
was too highbred to inquire, or to express any wonder that rank should be
friends with genius. She took it for granted that they had formed their
acquaintance abroad.

Harley conversed with Helen.--"You are not sorry that Violante is coming
to us? She will be just such a companion for you as I could desire; of
your own years too."

HELEN (ingenuously).--"It is hard to think I am not younger than she is."

HARLEY.--"Why, my dear Helen?"

HELEN.--"She is so brilliant. She talks so beautifully. And I--"

HARLEY.--"And you want but the habit of talking, to do justice to your
own beautiful thoughts."

Helen looked at him gratefully, but shook her head. It was a common
trick of hers, and always when she was praised.

At last the preparations were made, the farewell was said, Violante was
in the carriage by Lady Lansmere's side. Slowly moved on the stately
equipage with its four horses and trim postilions, heraldic badges on
their shoulders, in the style rarely seen in the neighbourhood of the
metropolis, and now fast vanishing even amidst distant counties.

Riccabocca, Jemima, and Jackeymo continued to gaze after it from the
gate.

"She is gone," said Jackeymo, brushing his eyes with his coat-sleeve.
"But it is a load off one's mind."

"And another load on one's heart," murmured Riccabocca. "Don't cry,
Jemima; it may be bad for you, and bad for him that is to come. It is
astonishing how the humours of the mother may affect the unborn. I
should not like to have a son who has a more than usual propensity to
tears."

The poor philosopher tried to smile; but it was a bad attempt. He went
slowly in, and shut himself with his books. But he could not read. His
whole mind was unsettled. And though, like all parents, he had been
anxious to rid himself of a beloved daughter for life, now that she was
gone but for a while, a string seemed broken in the Music of Home.




CHAPTER VII.

The evening of the same day, as Egerton, who was to entertain a large
party at dinner, was changing his dress, Harley walked into his room.

Egerton dismissed his valet by a sign, and continued his toilet.

"Excuse me, my dear Harley, I have only ten minutes to give you. I
expect one of the royal dukes, and punctuality is the stern virtue of men
of business, and the graceful courtesy of princes."

Harley had usually a jest for his friend's aphorisms; but he had none
now. He laid his hand kindly on Egerton's shoulder. "Before I speak of
my business, tell me how you are,--better?"

"Better,--nay, I am always well. Pooh! I may look a little tired,--
years of toil will tell on the countenance. But that matters little:
the period of life has passed with me when one cares how one looks in the
glass."

As he spoke, Egerton completed his dress, and came to the hearth,
standing there, erect and dignified as usual, still far handsomer than
many a younger man, and with a form that seemed to have ample vigour to
support for many a year the sad and glorious burden of power.

"So now to your business, Harley."

"In the first place, I want you to present me, at the earliest
opportunity, to Madame di Negra. You say she wished to know me."

"Are you serious?"

"Yes."

"Well, then, she receives this evening. I did not mean to go; but when
my party breaks up--"

"You can call for me at The Travellers. Do!"

"Next, you knew Lady Jane Horton better even than I did, at least in the
last year of her life." Harley sighed, and Egerton turned and stirred
the fire.

"Pray, did you ever see at her house, or hear her speak of, a Mrs.
Bertram?"

"Of whom?" said Egerton, in a hollow voice, his face still turned towards
the fire.

"A Mrs. Bertram; but heavens! my dear fellow, what is the matter? Are
you ill?"

"A spasm at the heart, that is all; don't ring, I shall be better
presently; go on talking. Mrs.--why do you ask?"

"Why? I have hardly time to explain; but I am, as I told you, resolved
on righting my old Italian friend, if Heaven will help me, as it ever
does help the just when they bestir themselves; and this Mrs. Bertram is
mixed up in my friend's affairs."

"His! How is that possible?"

Harley rapidly and succinctly explained. Audley listened attentively,
with his eyes fixed on the floor, and still seeming to labour under great
difficulty of breathing.

At last he answered, "I remember something of this Mrs.--Mrs.--Bertram.
But your inquiries after her would be useless. I think I have heard that
she is long since dead; nay, I am sure of it."

"Dead!--that is most unfortunate. But do you know any of her relations
or friends? Can you suggest any mode of tracing this packet, if it came
to her hands?"

"No."

"And Lady Jane had scarcely any friend that I remember except my mother,
and she knows nothing of this Mrs. Bertram. How unlucky! I think I
shall advertise. Yet, no. I could only distinguish this Mrs. Bertram
from any other of the same name, by stating with whom she had gone
abroad, and that would catch the attention of Peschiera, and set him to
counterwork us."

"And what avails it?" said Egerton. "She whom you seek is no more--no
more!" He paused, and went on rapidly: "The packet did not arrive in
England till years after her death, was no doubt returned to the post-
office, is destroyed long ago."

Harley looked very much disappointed. Egerton went on in a sort of set,
mechanical voice, as if not thinking of what he said, but speaking from
the dry practical mode of reasoning which was habitual to him, and by
which the man of the world destroys the hopes of an enthusiast. Then
starting up at the sound of the first thundering knock at the street
door, he said, "Hark! you must excuse me."

"I leave you, my dear Audley. But I must again ask, Are you better now?"

"Much, much,--quite well: I will call for you,--probably between eleven
and twelve."




CHAPTER VIII.

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 elite of the great world,--not, indeed, those more precise and
reserved /dames de 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, possessed already of a large
independence, and 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 be 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 quick 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."

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