“Lord L’Estrange?”
“Lord L’Estrange!” repeated Randal, sharply, and watching her pale parted lips and her changing colour; “Lord L’Estrange! What could he do? Why did you name him?”
Violante turned aside. “He saved my father once,” said she, feelingly.
“And has interfered, and trifled, and promised, Heaven knows what, ever since: yet to what end? Pooh! The person I speak of your father would not consent to see, would not believe if he saw her; yet she is generous, noble, could sympathize with you both. She is the sister of your father’s enemy, the Marchesa di Negra. I am convinced that she has great influence with her brother,—that she has known enough of his secrets to awe him into renouncing all designs on yourself; but it is idle now to speak of her.”
“No, no,” exclaimed Violante. “Tell me where she lives—I will see her.”
“Pardon me, I cannot obey you; and, indeed, her own pride is now aroused by your father’s unfortunate prejudices against her. It is too late to count upon her aid. You turn from me,—my presence is unwelcome. I rid you of it now. But welcome or unwelcome, later you must endure it—and for life.”
Randal again bowed with formal ceremony, walked towards the house, and asked for Lady Lansmere. The countess was at home. Randal delivered Riccabocca’s note, which was very short, implying that he feared Peschiera had discovered his retreat, and requesting Lady Lansmere to retain Violante, whatever her own desire, till her ladyship heard from him again.
The countess read, and her lip curled in disdain. “Strange!” said she, half to herself.
“Strange!” said Randal, “that a man like your correspondent should fear one like the Count di Peschiera. Is that it?”
“Sir,” said the countess, a little surprised, “strange that any man should fear another in a country like ours!”