“I did not know such a marriage was contemplated. I understood her to be attached to another. Not that that is any reason why she would not have married Mr. Hazeldean. Express to him my congratulations on his escape.”
“Nay, he must not know that I have inadvertently betrayed his confidence; but you now guess, what perhaps puzzled you before,—namely, how I came to be so well acquainted with the count and his movements. I was so intimate with my relation Frank, and Frank was affianced to the marchesa.”
“I am glad you give me that explanation; it suffices. After all, the marchesa is not by nature a bad woman,—that is, not worse than women generally are, so Harley says, and Violante forgives and excuses her.”
“Generous Violante! But it is true. So much did the marchesa appear to me possessed of fine, though ill-regulated qualities, that I always considered her disposed to aid in frustrating her brother’s criminal designs. So I even said, if I remember right, to Violante.”
Dropping this prudent and precautionary sentence, in order to guard against anything Violante might say as to that subtle mention of Beatrice which had predisposed her to confide in the marchesa, Randal then hurried on, “But you want repose. I leave you the happiest, the most grateful of men. I will give your courteous message to Frank.”
CHAPTER XII.
Curious to learn what had passed between Beatrice and Frank, and deeply interested in all that could oust Frank out of the squire’s goodwill, or aught that could injure his own prospects by tending to unite son and father, Randal was not slow in reaching his young kinsman’s lodgings. It might be supposed that having, in all probability, just secured so great a fortune as would accompany Violante’s hand, Randal might be indifferent to the success of his scheme on the Hazeldean exchequer. Such a supposition would grievously wrong this profound young man. For, in the first place, Violante was not yet won, nor her father yet restored to the estates which would defray her dower; and, in the next place, Randal, like Iago, loved villany for the genius it called forth in him. The sole luxury the abstemious aspirer allowed to himself was that which is found in intellectual restlessness. Untempted by wine, dead to love, unamused by pleasure, indifferent to the arts, despising literature save as means to some end of power, Randal Leslie was the incarnation of thought hatched out of the corruption of will. At twilight we see thin airy spectral insects, all wing and nippers, hovering, as if they could never pause, over some sullen mephitic pool. Just so, methinks, hover over Acheron such gnat-like, noiseless soarers into gloomy air out of Stygian deeps, as are the thoughts of spirits like Randal Leslie’s. Wings have they, but only the better to pounce down,—draw their nutriment from unguarded material cuticles; and just when, maddened, you strike, and exulting exclaim, “Caught, by Jove!” wh-irr flies the diaphanous, ghostly larva, and your blow falls on your own twice-offended cheek.
The young men who were acquainted with Randal said he had not a vice! The fact being that his whole composition was one epic vice, so elaborately constructed that it had not an episode which a critic could call irrelevant. Grand young man!
“But, my dear fellow,” said Randal, as soon as he had learned from Frank all that had passed on board the vessel between him and Beatrice, “I cannot believe this. ‘Never loved you’? What was her object, then, in deceiving not only you, but myself? I suspect her declaration was but some heroical refinement of generosity. After her brother’s dejection and probable ruin, she might feel that she was no match for you. Then, too, the squire’s displeasure! I see it all; just like her,—noble, unhappy woman!”