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.