“Pardon me. I know you so well that I believe you could attain to any secret you sought earnestly to acquire. Nay, more, I believe that you know already that secret which I ask you to share with me.”
“What on earth makes you think so?”
“When, some weeks ago, you asked me to describe the personal appearance and manners of the exile, which I did partly from the recollections of my childhood, partly from the description given to me by others, I could not but notice your countenance, and remark its change; in spite,” said the marchesa, smiling, and watching Randal while she spoke,—“in spite of your habitual self-command. And when I pressed you to own that you had actually seen some one who tallied with that description, your denial did not deceive me. Still more, when returning recently, of your own accord, to the subject, you questioned me so shrewdly as to my motives in seeking the clew to our refugees, and I did not then answer you satisfactorily, I could detect—”
“Ha, ha,” interrupted Randal, with the low soft laugh by which occasionally he infringed upon Lord Chesterfield’s recommendations to shun a merriment so natural as to be illbred,—“ha, ha, you have the fault of all observers too minute and refined. But even granting that I may have seen some Italian exiles (which is likely enough), what could be more natural than my seeking to compare your description with their appearance; and granting that I might suspect some one amongst them to be the man you search for, what more natural also than that I should desire to know if you meant him harm or good in discovering his ‘whereabout’? For ill,” added Randal, with an air of prudery,—“ill would it become me to betray, even to friendship, the retreat of one who would hide from persecution; and even if I did so—for honour itself is a weak safeguard against your fascinations—such indiscretion might be fatal to my future career.”
“How?”
“Do you not say that Egerton knows the secret, yet will not communicate; and is he a man who would ever forgive in me an imprudence that committed himself? My dear friend, I will tell you more. When Audley Egerton first noticed my growing intimacy with you, he said, with his usual dryness of counsel, ‘Randal, I do not ask you to discontinue acquaintance with Madame di Negra, for an acquaintance with women like her forms the manners, and refines the intellect; but charming women are dangerous, and Madame di Negra is—a charming woman.’”
The marchesa’s face flushed. Randal resumed: “‘Your fair acquaintance’ (I am still quoting Egerton) ‘seeks to dis cover the home of a countryman of hers. She suspects that I know it. She may try to learn it through you. Accident may possibly give you the information she requires. Beware how you betray it. By one such weakness I should judge of your general character. He from whom a woman can extract a secret will never be fit for public life.’ Therefore, my dear marchesa, even supposing I possess this secret, you would be no true friend of mine to ask me to reveal what would imperil all my prospects. For as yet,” added Randal, with a gloomy shade on his brow,—“as yet, I do not stand alone and erect,—I lean, I am dependent.”
“There may be a way,” replied Madame di Negra, persisting, “to communicate this intelligence without the possibility of Mr. Egerton’s tracing our discovery to yourself; and, though I will not press you further, I add this,—You urge me to accept your friend’s hand; you seem interested in the success of his suit, and you plead it with a warmth that shows how much you regard what you suppose is his happiness; I will never accept his hand till I can do so without blush for my penury,—till my dowry is secured; and that can only be by my brother’s union with the exile’s daughter. For your friend’s sake, therefore, think well how you can aid me in the first step to that alliance. The young lady once discovered, and my brother has no fear for the success of his suit.”
“And you would marry Frank if the dower was secured?”
“Your arguments in his favour seem irresistible,” replied Beatrice, looking down.