The parson started.
“You know Lord L’Estrange?—profligate, bad man, I fear.”
“Profligate! bad!” exclaimed Riccabocca. “Well, calumnious as the world is, I should never have thought that such expressions would be applied to one who, though I knew him but little,—knew him chiefly by the service he once rendered to me,—first taught me to love and revere the English name!”
“He may be changed since—” the parson paused.
“Since when?” asked Riccabocca, with evident curiosity. Mr. Dale seemed embarrassed. “Excuse me,” said he, “it is many years ago; and in short the opinion I then formed of the nobleman you named was based upon circumstances which I cannot communicate.”
The punctilious Italian bowed in silence, but he still looked as if he should have liked to prosecute inquiry.
After a pause he said, “Whatever your impression respecting Lord L’Estrange, there is nothing, I suppose, which would lead you to doubt his honour, or reject his testimonial in my favour?”
“According to fashionable morality,” said Mr. Dale, rather precisely, “I know of nothing that could induce me to suppose that Lord L’Estrange would not, in this instance, speak the truth. And he has unquestionably a high reputation as a soldier, and a considerable position in the world.” Therewith the parson took his leave. A few days afterwards, Dr. Riccabocca inclosed to the squire, in a blank envelope, a letter he had received from Harley L’Estrange. It was evidently intended for the squire’s eye, and to serve as a voucher for the Italian’s respectability; but this object was fulfilled, not in the coarse form of a direct testimonial, but with a tact and delicacy which seemed to show more than the fine breeding to be expected from one in Lord L’Estrange’s station. It evinced that most exquisite of all politeness which comes from the heart; a certain tone of affectionate respect (which even the homely sense of the squire felt, intuitively, proved far more in favour of Riccabocca than the most elaborate certificate of his qualities and antecedents) pervaded the whole, and would have sufficed in itself to remove all scruples from a mind much more suspicious and exacting than that of the Squire of Hazeldean. But, to and behold! an obstacle now occurred to the parson, of which he ought to have thought long before,—namely, the Papistical religion of the Italian. Dr. Riccabocca was professedly a Roman Catholic. He so little obtruded that fact—and, indeed, had assented so readily to any animadversions upon the superstition and priestcraft which, according to Protestants, are the essential characteristics of Papistical communities—that it was not till the hymeneal torch, which brings all faults to light, was fairly illumined for the altar, that the remembrance of a faith so cast into the shade burst upon the conscience of the parson. The first idea that then occurred to him was the proper and professional one,—namely, the conversion of Dr. Riccabocca. He hastened to his study, took down from his shelves long neglected volumes of controversial divinity, armed himself with an arsenal of authorities, arguments, and texts; then, seizing the shovel-hat, posted off to the Casino.