“If knowledge be power,” soliloquized Randal, “ability is certainly good luck, as Miss Edgeworth shows in that story of Murad the Unlucky, which I read at Eton; very clever story it is, too. So nothing comes amiss to me. Violante’s escape, which has cost me the count’s L10,000, proves to be worth to me, I dare say, ten times as much. No doubt she’ll have a hundred thousand pounds at the least. And then, if her father have no other child, after all, or the child he expects die in infancy, why, once reconciled to his Government and restored to his estates, the law must take its usual course, and Violante will be the greatest heiress in Europe. As to the young lady herself, I confess she rather awes me; I know I shall be henpecked. Well, all respectable husbands are. There is something scampish and ruffianly in not being henpecked.” Here Randal’s smile might have harmonized well with Pluto’s “iron tears;” but, iron as the smile was, the serious young man was ashamed of it. “What am I about,” said he, half aloud, “chuckling to myself and wasting time, when I ought to be thinking gravely how to explain away my former cavalier courtship? Such a masterpiece as I thought it then! But who could foresee the turn things would take? Let me think; let me think. Plague on it, here she comes.”
But Randal had not the fine ear of your more romantic lover; and, to his great relief, the exile entered the room unaccompanied by Violante. Riccabocca looked somewhat embarrassed.
“My dear Leslie, you must excuse my daughter to-day; she is still suffering from the agitation she has gone through, and cannot see you.”
The lover tried not to look too delighted.
“Cruel!” said he; “yet I would not for worlds force myself on her presence. I hope, Duke, that she will not find it too difficult to obey the commands which dispose of her hand, and intrust her happiness to my grateful charge.”
“To be plain with you, Randal, she does at present seem to find it more difficult than I foresaw. She even talks of—”
“Another attachment—Oh, heavens!”
“Attachment, pazzie! Whom has she seen? No, a convent! But leave it to me. In a calmer hour she will comprehend that a child must know no lot more enviable and holy than that of redeeming a father’s honour. And now, if you are returning to London, may I ask you to convey to young Mr. Hazeldean my assurances of undying gratitude for his share in my daughter’s delivery from that poor baffled swindler.”
It is noticeable that, now Peschiera was no longer an object of dread to the nervous father, he became but an object of pity to the philosopher, and of contempt to the grandee.
“True,” said Randal, “you told me Frank had a share in Lord L’Estrange’s very clever and dramatic device. My Lord must be by nature a fine actor,—comic, with a touch of melodrame! Poor Frank! apparently he has lost the woman he adored,—Beatrice di Negra. You say she has accompanied the count. Is the marriage that was to be between her and Frank broken off?”