Book: My Novel, Volume 9.

E >> Edward Bulwer Lytton >> My Novel, Volume 9.




"She has not yet read them, then?--not the last? The first was not
worthy of her attention," said Leonard, disappointed. "She has only just
arrived in England; and, though your books reached me in Germany, she was
not then with me. When I have settled some business that will take me
from town, I shall present you to her and my mother." There was a
certain embarrassment in Harley's voice as he spoke; and, turning round
abruptly, he exclaimed, "But you have shown poetry even here. I could
not have conceived that so much beauty could be drawn from what appeared
to me the most commonplace of all suburban gardens. Why, surely, where
that charming fountain now plays stood the rude bench in which I read
your verses."

"It is true; I wished to unite all together my happiest associations. I
think I told you, my Lord, in one of my letters, that I had owed a very
happy, yet very struggling time in my boyhood to the singular kindness
and generous instructions of a foreigner whom I served. This fountain is
copied from one that I made in his garden, and by the margin of which
many a summer day I have sat and dreamed of fame and knowledge."

"True, you told me of that; and your foreigner will be pleased to hear of
your success, and no less so of your grateful recollections. By the way,
you did not mention his name."

"Riccabocca."

"Riccabocca! My own dear and noble friend!--is it possible? One of my
reasons for returning to England is connected with him. You shall go
down with me and see him. I meant to start this evening."

"My dear Lord," said Leonard, "I think that you may spare yourself so
long a journey. I have reason to suspect that Signor Riccabocca is my
nearest neighbour. Two days ago I was in the garden, when suddenly
lifting my eyes to yon hillock I perceived the form of a man seated
amongst the brushwood; and though I could not see his features, there was
something in the very outline of his figure and his peculiar posture,
that irresistibly reminded me of Riccabocca. I hastened out of the
garden and ascended the hill, but he was gone. My suspicions were so
strong that I caused inquiry to be made at the different shops scattered
about, and learned that a family consisting of a gentleman, his wife, and
daughter had lately come to live in a house that you must have passed in
your way hither, standing a little back from the road, surrounded by high
walls; and though they were said to be English, yet from the description
given to me of the gentleman's person by one who had noticed it, by the
fact of a foreign servant in their employ, and by the very name
'Richmouth,' assigned to the newcomers, I can scarcely doubt that it is
the family you seek."

"And you have not called to ascertain?"

"Pardon me, but the family so evidently shunning observation (no one but
the master himself ever seen without the walls), the adoption of another
name too, led me to infer that Signor Riccabocca has some strong motive
for concealment; and now, with my improved knowledge of life, and
recalling all the past, I cannot but suppose that Riccabocca was not what
he appeared. Hence, I have hesitated on formally obtruding myself upon
his secrets, whatever they be, and have rather watched for some chance
occasion to meet him in his walks."

"You did right, my dear Leonard; but my reasons for seeing my old friend
forbid all scruples of delicacy, and I will go at once to his house."

"You will tell me, my Lord, if I am right."

"I hope to be allowed to do so. Pray, stay at home till I return. And
now, ere I go, one question more: You indulge conjectures as to
Riccabocca, because he has changed his name,--why have you dropped your
own?"

"I wished to have no name," said Leonard, colouring deeply, "but that
which I could make myself."

"Proud poet, this I can comprehend. But from what reason did you assume
the strange and fantastic name of Oran?"

The flush on Leonard's face became deeper. "My Lord," said he, in a low
voice, "it is a childish fancy of mine; it is an anagram."

"Ah!"

"At a time when my cravings after knowledge were likely much to mislead,
and perhaps undo me, I chanced on some poems that suddenly affected my
whole mind, and led me up into purer air; and I was told that these poems
were written in youth by one who had beauty and genius,--one who was in
her grave,--a relation of my own, and her familiar name was Nora--"

"Ah," again ejaculated Lord L'Estrange, and his arm pressed heavily upon
Leonard's.

"So, somehow or other," continued the young author, falteringly, "I
wished that if ever I won to a poet's fame, it might be to my own heart,
at least, associated with this name of Nora; with her whom death had
robbed of the fame that she might otherwise have won; with her who--"

He paused, greatly agitated.

Harley was no less so. But, as if by a sudden impulse, the soldier bent
down his manly head and kissed the poet's brow; then he hastened to the
gate, flung himself on his horse, and rode away.




CHAPTER XVII.

Lord L'Estrange did not proceed at once to Riecabocca's house. He was
under the influence of a remembrance too deep and too strong to yield
easily to the lukewarm claim of friendship. He rode fast and far; and
impossible it would be to define the feelings that passed through a mind
so acutely sensitive, and so rootedly tenacious of all affections. When,
recalling his duty to the Italian, he once more struck into the road to
Norwood, the slow pace of his horse was significant of his own exhausted
spirits; a deep dejection had succeeded to feverish excitement. "Vain
task," he murmured, "to wean myself from the dead! Yet I am now
betrothed to another; and she, with all her virtues, is not the one to--"
He stopped short in generous self-rebuke. "Too late to think of that!
Now, all that should remain to me is to insure the happiness of the life
to which I have pledged my own. But--" He sighed as he so murmured. On
reaching the vicinity of Riccabocca's house, he put up his horse at a
little inn, and proceeded on foot across the heathland towards the dull
square building, which Leonard's description had sufficed to indicate as
the exile's new home. It was long before any one answered his summons at
the gate. Not till he had thrice rung did he hear a heavy step on the
gravel walk within; then the wicket within the gate was partially drawn
aside, a dark eye gleamed out, and a voice in imperfect English asked who
was there.

"Lord L'Estrange; and if I am right as to the person I seek, that name
will at once admit me."

The door flew open as did that of the mystic cavern at the sound of
"Open, Sesame;" and Giacomo, almost weeping with joyous emotion,
exclaimed in Italian, "The good Lord! Holy San Giacomo! thou hast heard
me at last! We are safe now." And dropping the blunderbuss with which
he had taken the precaution to arm himself, he lifted Harley's hand to
his lips, in the affectionate greeting familiar to his countrymen.

"And the padrone?" asked Harley, as he entered the jealous precincts.

"Oh, he is just gone out; but he will not be long. You will wait for
him?"

"Certainly. What lady is that I see at the far end of the garden?"

"Bless her, it is our signorina. I will run and tell her you are come."

"That I am come; but she cannot know me even by name."

"Ah, Excellency, can you think so? Many and many a time has she talked
to me of you, and I have heard her pray to the holy Madonna to bless you,
and in a voice so sweet--"

"Stay, I will present myself to her. Go into the house, and we will wait
without for the padrone. Nay, I need the air, my friend." Harley, as he
said this, broke from Giacomo, and approached Violante.

The poor child, in her solitary walk in the obscurer parts of the dull
garden, had escaped the eye of Giacomo when he had gone forth to answer
the bell; and she, unconscious of the fears of which she was the object,
had felt something of youthful curiosity at the summons at the gate, and
the sight of a stranger in close and friendly conference with the
unsocial Giacomo.

As Harley now neared her with that singular grace of movement which
belonged to him, a thrill shot through her heart, she knew not why. She
did not recognize his likeness to the sketch taken by her father from his
recollections of Harley's early youth. She did not guess who he was; and
yet she felt herself colour, and, naturally fearless though she was,
turned away with a vague alarm.

"Pardon my want of ceremony, Signorina," said Harley, in Italian; "but I
am so old a friend of your father's that I cannot feel as a stranger to
yourself."

Then Violante lifted to him her dark eyes so intelligent and so
innocent,--eyes full of surprise, but not displeased surprise. And
Harley himself stood amazed, and almost abashed, by the rich and
marvellous beauty that beamed upon him. "My father's friend," she said
hesitatingly, and I never to have seen you!"

"Ah, Signorina," said Harley (and something of its native humour, half
arch, half sad, played round his lip), "you are mistaken there; you have
seen me before, and you received me much more kindly then."

"Signor!" said Violante, more and more surprised, and with a yet richer
colour on her cheeks.

Harley, who had now recovered from the first effect of her beauty, and
who regarded her as men of his years and character are apt to regard
ladies in their teens, as more child than woman, suffered himself to be
amused by her perplexity; for it was in his nature that the graver and
more mournful he felt at heart, the more he sought to give play and whim
to his spirits.

"Indeed, Signorina," said he, demurely, "you insisted then on placing one
of those fair hands in mine; the other (forgive me the fidelity of my
recollections) was affectionately thrown around my neck."

"Signor!" again exclaimed Violante; but this time there was anger in her
voice as well as surprise, and nothing could be more charming than her
look of pride and resentment.

Harley smiled again, but with so much kindly sweetness, that the anger
vanished at once, or rather Violante felt angry with herself that she was
no longer angry with him. But she had looked so beautiful in her anger,
that Harley wished, perhaps, to see her angry again. So, composing his
lips from their propitiatory smile, he resumed gravely,

"Your flatterers will tell you, Signorina, that you are much improved
since then, but I liked you better as you were; not but what I hope to
return some day what you then so generously pressed upon me."

"Pressed upon you!---I? Signor, you are under some strange mistake."

"Alas! no; but the female heart is so capricious and fickle! You
pressed it upon me, I assure you. I own that I was not loath to accept
it."

"Pressed it! Pressed what?"

"Your kiss, my child," said Harley; and then added, with a serious
tenderness, "and I again say that I hope to return it some day, when I
see you, by the side of father and of husband, in your native land,--the
fairest bride on whom the skies of Italy ever smiled! And now, pardon a
hermit and a soldier for his rude jests, and give your hand, in token of
that pardon, to Harley L'Estrange."

Violante, who at the first words of his address had recoiled, with a
vague belief that the stranger was out of his mind, sprang forward as it
closed, and in all the vivid enthusiasm of her nature pressed the hand
held out to her with both her own. "Harley L'Estrange! the preserver of
my father's life!" she cried; and her eyes were fixed on his with such
evident gratitude and reverence, that Harley felt at once confused and
delighted. She did not think at that instant of the hero of her dreams,
--she thought but of him who had saved her father. But, as his eyes sank
before her own, and his head, uncovered, bowed over the hand he held, she
recognized the likeness to the features on which she had so often gazed.
The first bloom of youth was gone, but enough of youth still remained to
soften the lapse of years, and to leave to manhood the attractions which
charm the eye. Instinctively she withdrew her hands from his clasp, and
in her turn looked down.

In this pause of embarrassment to both, Riccabocca let himself into the
garden by his own latch-key, and, startled to see a man by the side of
Violante, sprang forward with an abrupt and angry cry. Harley heard, and
turned.

As if restored to courage and self-possession by the sense of her
father's presence, Violante again took the hand of the visitor.
"Father," she said simply, "it is he,--he is come at last." And then,
retiring a few steps, she contemplated them both; and her face was
radiant with happiness, as if something, long silently missed and looked
for, was as silently found, and life had no more a want, nor the heart a
void.

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