“Do you know the Marchesa di Negra?” she asked, in a hurried voice.
“A little. Why do you ask?”
“That is my secret,” answered Violante, trying to smile with her old frank, childlike archness. “But, tell me, do you think better of her than of her brother?”
“Certainly. I believe her heart to be good, and that she is not without generous qualities.”
“Can you not induce my father to see her? Would you not counsel him to do so?”
“Any wish of yours is a law to me,” answered Harley, gallantly. “You wish your father to see her? I will try and persuade him to do so. Now, in return, confide to me your secret. What is your object?”
“Leave to return to my Italy. I care not for honours, for rank; and even my father has ceased to regret their loss. But the land, the native land—Oh, to see it once more! Oh, to die there!”
“Die! You children have so lately left heaven, that ye talk as if ye could return there, without passing through the gates of sorrow, infirmity, and age! But I thought you were content with England. Why so eager to leave it? Violante, you are unkind to us,—to Helen, who already loves you so well.” As Harley spoke, Helen rose from the piano, and approaching Violante, placed her hand caressingly on the Italian’s shoulder. Violante shivered, and shrunk away. The eyes both of Harley and Helen followed her. Harley’s eyes were very grave and thoughtful.
“Is she not changed—your friend?” said he, looking down.
“Yes, lately; much changed. I fear there is something on her mind,—I know not what.”