“But,” resumed the count, with a graceful wave of the hand, “I have to thank my Lord L’Estrange for reminding me that a man whose courage is above suspicion is privileged not only to apologize if he has injured another, but to accompany apology with atonement. Duke of Serrano, it is for that purpose that I am here. My Lord, you have signified your wish to ask me some questions of serious import as regards the duke and his daughter; I will answer them without reserve.”
“Monsieur le Comte,” said Harley, “availing myself of your courtesy, I presume to inquire who informed you that this young lady was a guest under my father’s roof?”
“My informant stands yonder,—Mr. Randal Leslie; and I call upon Baron Levy to confirm my statement.”
“It is true,” said the baron, slowly, and as if overmastered by the tone and mien of an imperious chieftain.
There came a low sound like a hiss from Randal’s livid lips.
“And was Mr. Leslie acquainted with your project for securing the person and hand of your young kinswoman?”
“Certainly,—and Baron Levy knows it.” The baron bowed assent. “Permit me to add—for it is due to a lady nearly related to myself—that it was, as I have since learned, certain erroneous representations made to her by Mr. Leslie which alone induced that lady, after my own arguments had failed, to lend her aid to a project which otherwise she would have condemned as strongly as, Duke di Serrano, I now with unfeigned sincerity do myself condemn it.”
There was about the count, as he thus spoke, so much of that personal dignity which, whether natural or artificial, imposes for the moment upon human judgment,—a dignity so supported by the singular advantages of his superb stature, his handsome countenance, his patrician air,—that the duke, moved by his good heart, extended his hand to the perfidious kinsman, and forgot all the Machiavellian wisdom which should have told him how little a man of the count’s hardened profligacy was likely to be influenced by any purer motives, whether to frank confession or to manly repentance. The count took the hand thus extended to him, and bowed his face, perhaps to conceal the smile which would have betrayed his secret soul. Randal still remained mute, and pale as death. His tongue clove to his mouth. He felt that all present were shrinking from his side. At last, with a violent effort, he faltered out, in broken sentences,
“A charge so sudden may well—may well confound me. But—but—who can credit it? Both the law and commonsense pre-suppose some motive for a criminal action; what could be my motive here? I—myself the suitor for the hand of the duke’s daughter—I betray her! Absurd—absurd! Duke, Duke, I put it to your own knowledge of mankind whoever goes thus against his own interest—and—and his own heart?”
This appeal, however feebly made, was not without effect on the philosopher. “That is true,” said the duke, dropping his kinsman’s hand; “I see no motive.”