"My Novel" — Complete

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 he 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.”

“Not so, Mr. Leslie; for I suspect that he cannot answer it, and that you can. Well, I will ask something that it seems to me you may grant without hesitation. Should you see Dr. Riccabocca, tell him that I am in England, and so leave it to him to communicate with me or not; but perhaps you have already done so?”

“Lord L’Estrange,” said Randal, bowing low, with pointed formality, “excuse me if I decline either to disclaim or acquiesce in the knowledge you impute to me. If I am acquainted with any secret intrusted to me by Dr. Riccabocca, it is for me to use my own discretion how best to guard it. And for the rest, after the Scotch earl, whose words your Lordship has quoted, refused to touch the hand of Marmion, Douglas could scarcely have called Marmion back in order to give him—a message!”

Harley was not prepared for this tone in Mr. Egerton’s protege, and his own gallant nature was rather pleased than irritated by a haughtiness that at least seemed to bespeak independence of spirit. Nevertheless, L’Estrange’s suspicions of Randal were too strong to be easily set aside, and therefore he replied, civilly, but with covert taunt,

“I submit to your rebuke, Mr. Leslie, though I meant not the offence you would ascribe to me. I regret my unlucky quotation yet the more, since the wit of your retort has obliged you to identify yourself with Marmion, who, though a clever and brave fellow, was an uncommonly—tricky one.” And so Harley, certainly having the best of it, moved on, and joined Egerton, and in a few minutes more both left the room.

“What was L’Estrange saying to you?” asked Frank. “Something about Beatrice, I am sure.”

“No; only quoting poetry.”

“Then what made you look so angry, my dear fellow? I know it was your kind feeling for me. As you say, he is a formidable rival. But that can’t be his own hair. Do you think he wears a toupet? I am sure he was praising Beatrice. He is evidently very much smitten with her. But I don’t think she is a woman to be caught by mere rank and fortune! Do you? Why can’t you speak?”

“If you do not get her consent soon, I think she is lost to you,” said Randal, slowly; and before Frank could recover his dismay, glided from the house.

CHAPTER IX

Violante’s first evening at the Lansmeres had passed more happily to her than the first evening under the same roof had done to Helen. True that she missed her father much, Jemima somewhat; but she so identified her father’s cause with Harley that she had a sort of vague feeling that it was to promote that cause that she was on this visit to Harley’s parents. And the countess, it must be owned, was more emphatically cordial to her than she had ever yet been to Captain Digby’s orphan. But perhaps the real difference in the heart of either girl was this, that Helen felt awe of Lady Lansmere, and Violante felt only love for Lord L’Estrange’s mother. Violante, too, was one of those persons whom a reserved and formal person, like the countess, “can get on with,” as the phrase goes. Not so poor little Helen,—so shy herself, and so hard to coax into more than gentle monosyllables. And Lady Lansmere’s favourite talk was always of Harley. Helen had listened to such talk with respect and interest. Violante listened to it with inquisitive eagerness, with blushing delight. The mother’s heart noticed the distinction between the two, and no wonder that that heart moved more to Violante than to Helen. Lord Lansmere, too, like most gentlemen of his age, clumped all young ladies together as a harmless, amiable, but singularly stupid class of the genus-Petticoat, meant to look pretty, play the piano, and talk to each other about frocks and sweethearts. Therefore this animated, dazzling creature, with her infinite variety of look and play of mind, took him by surprise, charmed him into attention, and warmed him into gallantry. Helen sat in her quiet corner, at her work, sometimes listening with almost mournful, though certainly unenvious, admiration at Violante’s vivid, yet ever unconscious, eloquence of word and thought, sometimes plunged deep into her own secret meditations. And all the while the work went on the same, under the small, noiseless fingers. This was one of Helen’s habits that irritated the nerves of Lady Lansmere. She despised young ladies who were fond of work. She did not comprehend how often it is the resource of the sweet womanly mind, not from want of thought, but from the silence and the depth of it. Violante was surprised, and perhaps disappointed, that Harley had left the house before dinner, and did not return all the evening. But Lady Lansmere, in making excuse for his absence, on the plea of engagements, found so good an opportunity to talk of his ways in general,—of his rare promise in boyhood, of her regret at the inaction of his maturity, of her hope to see him yet do justice to his natural powers,—that Violante almost ceased to miss him.

And when Lady Lansmere conducted her to her room, and, kissing her cheek tenderly, said, “But you are just the person Harley admires,—just the person to rouse him from melancholy dreams, of which his wild humours are now but the vain disguise”—Violante crossed her arms on her bosom, and her bright eyes, deepened into tenderness, seemed to ask, “He melancholy—and why?”

On leaving Violante’s room, Lady Lansmere paused before the door of Helen’s; and, after musing a little while, entered softly.

Helen had dismissed her maid; and, at the moment Lady Lansmere entered, she was kneeling at the foot of the bed, her hands clasped before her face.

Her form, thus seen, looked so youthful and child-like, the attitude itself was so holy and so touching, that the proud and cold expression on Lady Lansmere’s face changed. She shaded the light involuntarily, and seated herself in silence that she might not disturb the act of prayer.

When Helen rose, she was startled to see the countess seated by the fire, and hastily drew her hand across her eyes. She had been weeping.

Lady Lansmere did not, however, turn to observe those traces of tears, which Helen feared were too visible. The countess was too absorbed in her own thoughts; and as Helen timidly approached, she said—still with her eyes on the clear low fire—“I beg your pardon, Miss Digby, for my intrusion; but my son has left it to me to prepare Lord Lansmere to learn the offer you have done Harley the honour to accept. I have not yet spoken to my Lord; it may be days before I find a fitting occasion to do so; meanwhile I feel assured that your sense of propriety will make you agree, with me that it is due to Lord L’Estrange’s father, that strangers should not learn arrangements of such moment in his family before his own consent be obtained.”

Here the countess came to a full pause; and poor Helen, finding herself called upon for some reply to this chilling speech, stammered out, scarce audibly,

“Certainly, madam, I never dreamed of—”

“That is right, my dear,” interrupted Lady Lansmere, rising suddenly, and as if greatly relieved. “I could not doubt your superiority to ordinary girls of your age, with whom these matters are never secret for a moment. Therefore, of course, you will not mention, at present, what has passed between you and Harley, to any of the friends with whom you may correspond.”

“I have no correspondents, no friends, Lady Lansmere,” said Helen, deprecatingly, and trying hard not to cry.

“I am very glad to hear it, my dear; young ladies never should have. Friends, especially friends who correspond, are the worst enemies they can have. Good-night, Miss Digby. I need not add, by the way, that though we are bound to show all kindness to this young Italian lady, still she is wholly unconnected with our family; and you will be as prudent with her as you would have been with your correspondents, had you had the misfortune to have any.”

Lady Lansmere said the last words with a smile, and left an ungenial kiss (the stepmother’s kiss) on Helen’s bended brow. She then left the room, and Helen sat on the seat vacated by the stately, unloving form, and again covered her face with her hands, and again wept. But when she rose at last, and the light fell upon her face, that soft face was sad indeed, but serene,—serene, as with some inward sense of duty, sad, as with the resignation which accepts patience instead of hope.

CHAPTER X

The next morning Harley appeared at breakfast. He was in gay spirits, and conversed more freely with Violante than he had yet done. He seemed to amuse himself by attacking all she said, and provoking her to argument. Violante was naturally a very earnest person; whether grave or gay, she spoke with her heart on her lips, and her soul in her eyes. She did not yet comprehend the light vein of Harley’s irony, so she grew piqued and chafed; and she was so lovely in anger; it so brightened the beauty and animated her words, that no wonder Harley thus maliciously teased her. But what, perhaps, she liked still less than the teasing—though she could not tell why—was the kind of familiarity that Harley assumed with her,—a familiarity as if he had known her all her life,—that of a good-humoured elder brother, or a bachelor uncle. To Helen, on the contrary, when he did not address her apart, his manner was more respectful. He did not call her by her Christian name, as he did Violante, but “Miss Digby,” and softened his tone and inclined his head when he spoke to her. Nor did he presume to jest at the very few and brief sentences he drew from Helen, but rather listened to them with deference, and invariably honoured them with approval. After breakfast he asked Violante to play or sing; and when she frankly owned how little she had cultivated those accomplishments, he persuaded Helen to sit down to the piano, and stood by her side while she did so, turning over the leaves of her music-book with the ready devotion of an admiring amateur. Helen always played well, but less well than usual that day, for her generous nature felt abashed. It was as if she were showing off to mortify Violante. But Violante, on the other hand, was so passionately fond of music that she had no feeling left for the sense of her own inferiority. Yet she sighed when Helen rose, and Harley thanked Miss Digby for the delight she had given him.

The day was fine. Lady Lansmere proposed to walk in the garden. While the ladies went up-stairs for their shawls and bonnets, Harley lighted his cigar, and stepped from the window upon the lawn. Lady Lansmere joined him before the girls came out.

“Harley,” said she, taking his arm, “what a charming companion you have introduced to us! I never met with any that both pleased and delighted me like this dear Violante. Most girls who possess some power of conversation, and who have dared to think for themselves, are so pedantic, or so masculine; but she is always so simple, and always still the girl. Ah, Harley!”

“Why that sigh, my dear mother?”

“I was thinking how exactly she would have suited you,—how proud I should have been of such a daughter-in-law, and how happy you would have been with such a wife.”

Harley started. “Tut,” said he, peevishly, “she is a mere child; you forget my years.”

“Why,” said Lady Lansmere, surprised, “Helen is quite as young as Violante.”

“In dates-yes. But Helen’s character is so staid; what it is now it will be ever; and Helen, from gratitude, respect, or pity, condescends to accept the ruins of my heart, while this bright Italian has the soul of a Juliet, and would expect in a husband all the passion of a Romeo. Nay, Mother, hush. Do you forget that I am engaged,—and of my own free will and choice? Poor dear Helen! A propos, have you spoken to my father, as you undertook to do?”

“Not yet. I must seize the right moment. You know that my Lord requires management.”

“My dear mother, that female notion of managing us men costs you ladies a great waste of time, and occasions us a great deal of sorrow. Men are easily managed by plain truth. We are brought up to respect it, strange as it may seem to you!”

Lady Lansmere smiled with the air of superior wisdom, and the experience of an accomplished wife. “Leave it to me, Harley, and rely on my Lord’s consent.”

Harley knew that Lady Lansmere always succeeded in obtaining her way with his father; and he felt that the earl might naturally be disappointed in such an alliance, and, without due propitiation, evince that disappointment in his manner to Helen. Harley was bound to save her from all chance of such humiliation. He did not wish her to think that she was not welcomed into his family; therefore he said, “I resign myself to your promise and your diplomacy. Meanwhile, as you love me, be kind to my betrothed.”

“Am I not so?”

“Hem. Are you as kind as if she were the great heiress you believe Violante to be?”

“Is it,” answered Lady Lansmere, evading the question—“is it because one is an heiress and the other is not that you make so marked a difference in your own manner to the two; treating Violante as a spoilt child, and Miss Digby as—”

“The destined wife of Lord L’Estrange, and the daughter-in-law of Lady Lansmere,—yes.”

The countess suppressed an impatient exclamation that rose to her lips, for Harley’s brow wore that serious aspect which it rarely assumed save when he was in those moods in which men must be soothed, not resisted. And after a pause he went on, “I am going to leave you to-day. I have engaged apartments at the Clarendon. I intend to gratify your wish, so often expressed, that I should enjoy what are called the pleasures of my rank, and the privileges of single-blessedness,—celebrate my adieu to celibacy, and blaze once more, with the splendour of a setting sun, upon Hyde Park and May Fair.”

“You are a positive enigma. Leave our house, just when you are betrothed to its inmate! Is that the natural conduct of a lover?”

“How can your woman eyes be so dull, and your woman heart so obtuse?” answered Harley, half laughing, half scolding. “Can you not guess that I wish that Helen and myself should both lose the association of mere ward and guardian; that the very familiarity of our intercourse under the same roof almost forbids us to be lovers; that we lose the joy to meet, and the pang to part. Don’t you remember the story of the Frenchman, who for twenty years loved a lady, and never missed passing his evenings at her house. She became a widow. ‘I wish you joy,’ cried his friend; ‘you may now marry the woman you have so long adored.’ ‘Alas!’ said the poor Frenchman, profoundly dejected; ‘and if so, where shall I spend my evenings?’”

Here Violante and Helen were seen in the garden, walking affectionately arm in arm.

“I don’t perceive the point of your witty, heartless anecdote,” said Lady Lansmere, obstinately. “Settle that, however, with Miss Digby. But to leave the very day after your friend’s daughter comes as a guest!—what will she think of it?”

Lord L’Estrange looked steadfastly at his mother. “Does it matter much what she thinks of me,—of a man engaged to another; and old enough to be—”

“I wish to heaven you would not talk of your age, Harley; it is a reflection upon mine; and I never saw you look so well nor so handsome.” With that she drew him on towards the young ladies; and, taking Helen’s arm, asked her, aside, “If she knew that Lord L’Estrange had engaged rooms at the Clarendon; and if she understood why?” As while she said this she moved on, Harley was left by Violante’s side.