“And though his arguments would fail with a man of your honour and discernment, they might have more effect on the young mind of your child. Think, I beseech you, the more she is set against me, the more accessible she may be to the arts of Peschiera. Speak not, therefore, I implore you, to Lord L’Estrange till Violante has accepted my hand, or at least until she is again under your charge; otherwise take back your letter,—it would be of no avail.”
“Perhaps you are right. Certainly Lord L’Estrange is prejudiced against you; or rather, he thinks too much of what I have been, too little of what I am.”
“Who can see you, and not do so? I pardon him.” After kissing the hand which the exile modestly sought to withdraw from that act of homage, Randal pocketed the letters; and, as if struggling with emotion, rushed from the house.
Now, O curious reader, if thou wilt heedfully observe to what uses Randal Leslie put those letters,—what speedy and direct results he drew forth from devices which would seem to an honest simple understanding the most roundabout, wire-drawn wastes of invention,—I almost fear that in thine admiration for his cleverness, thou mayest half forget thy contempt for his knavery.
But when the head is very full, it does not do to have the heart very empty; there is such a thing as being top-heavy!
CHAPTER IV.
Helen and Violante had been conversing together, and Helen had obeyed her guardian’s injunction, and spoken, though briefly, of her positive engagement to Harley. However much Violante had been prepared for the confidence, however clearly she had divined that engagement, however before persuaded that the dream of her childhood was fled forever, still the positive truth, coming from Helen’s own lips, was attended with that anguish which proves how impossible it is to prepare the human heart for the final verdict which slays its future. She did not, however, betray her emotion to Helen’s artless eyes; sorrow, deep-seated, is seldom self-betrayed. But, after a little while, she crept away; and, forgetful of Peschiera, of all things that could threaten danger (what danger could harm her more!) she glided from the house, and went her desolate way under the leafless wintry trees. Ever and anon she paused, ever and anon she murmured the same words: “If she loved him, I could be consoled; but she does not! or how could she have spoken to me so calmly! how could her very looks have been so sad! Heartless! heartless!”
Then there came on her a vehement resentment against poor Helen, that almost took the character of scorn or hate,—its excess startled herself. “Am I grown so mean?” she said; and tears that humbled her rushed to her eyes. “Can so short a time alter one thus? Impossible!”
Randal Leslie rang at the front gate, inquired for Violante, and, catching sight of her form as he walked towards the house, advanced boldly and openly. His voice startled her as she leaned against one of the dreary trees, still muttering to herself,—forlorn. “I have a letter to you from your father, Signorina,” said Randal; “but before I give it to your hands, some explanation is necessary. Condescend, then, to hear me.” Violante shook her head impatiently, and stretched forth her hand for the letter. Randal observed her countenance with his keen, cold, searching eye; but he still withheld the letter, and continued, after a pause,