Part 28 (1/2)

”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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sed 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 friends.h.i.+p--

”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 rare 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 lords.h.i.+p has quoted, refused to touch the hand of Marmion, Douglas could scarcely have called him 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 joining Egerton, 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 seemed happier 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 favorite talk was always of Harley. Helen had listened to such talk with respect and interest. Violante listened to it with inquisitive eagerness--with blus.h.i.+ng delight. The mother's heart noticed the distinction between the two, and no wonder that the 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 cla.s.s 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 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 humors 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 childlike--the att.i.tude 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.