"Father himself!" burst forth the squire. "Father to a swarm of sallow-faced Popish tadpoles! No foreign frogs shall hop about my grave in Hazeldean churchyard. No, no. But you need not look so reproachful,— I 'm not going to disinherit Frank."
"Of course not," said Randal, with a bitter curve in the lip that rebelled against the joyous smile which he sought to impose on it.
"No; I shall leave him the life-interest in the greater part of the property; but if he marry a foreigner, her children will not succeed,— you will stand after him in that case. But—now don't interrupt me—but Frank looks as if he would live longer than you, so small thanks to me for my good intentions, you may say. I mean to do more for you than a mere barren place in the entail. What do you say to marrying?"
"Just as you please," said Randal, meekly.
"Good. There's Miss Sticktorights disengaged,—great heiress. Her lands run onto Rood. At one time I thought of her for that graceless puppy of mine. But I can manage more easily to make up the match for you. There's a mortgage on the property; old Sticktorights would be very glad to pay it off. I 'll pay it out of the Hazeldean estate, and give up the Right of Way into the bargain. You understand?
"So come down as soon as you can, and court the young lady yourself."
Randal expressed his thanks with much grateful eloquence; and he then delicately insinuated, that if the squire ever did mean to bestow upon him any pecuniary favours (always without injury to Frank), it would gratify him more to win back some portions of the old estate of Rood, than to have all the acres of the Sticktorights, however free from any other incumbrance than the amiable heiress.
The squire listened to Randal with benignant attention. This wish the country gentleman could well understand and sympathize with. He promised to inquire into the matter, and to see what could be done with old Thornhill.
Randal here let out that Mr. Thornhill was about to dispose of a large slice of the ancient Leslie estate through Levy, and that he, Randal, could thus get it at a more moderate price than would be natural, if Mr. Thornhill knew that his neighbour the squire would bid for the purchase.
"Better say nothing about it either to Levy or Thornhill."
"Right," said the squire. "No proprietor likes to sell to another proprietor, in the same shire, as largely acred as hinmself: it spoils the balance of power. See to the business yourself; and if I can help you with the purchase (after that boy is married,—I can attend to nothing before), why, I will."
Randal now went to Egerton's. The statesman was in his library, settling the accounts of his house-steward, and giving brief orders for the reduction of his establishment to that of an ordinary private gentleman.
"I may go abroad if I lose my election," said Egerton, condescending to assign to his servant a reason for his economy; "and if I do not lose it, still, now I am out of office, I shall live much in private."
"Do I disturb you, sir?" said Randal, entering.
"No; I have just done."
The house-steward withdrew, much surprised and disgusted, and meditating the resignation of his own office,—in order, not like Egerton, to save, but to spend. The house steward had private dealings with Baron Levy, and was in fact the veritable X. Y. of the "Times," for whom Dick Avenel had been mistaken. He invested his wages and perquisites in the discount of bills; and it was part of his own money that had (though unknown to himself) swelled the last L5,000 which Egerton had borrowed from Levy.
"I have settled with our committee; and, with Lord Lansmere's consent," said Egerton, briefly, "you will stand for the borough, as we proposed, in conjunction with myself. And should any accident happen to me,—that is, should I vacate this seat from any cause,—you may succeed to it, very shortly perhaps. Ingratiate yourself with the electors, and speak at the public-houses for both of us. I shall stand on my dignity, and leave the work of the election to you. No thanks,—you know how I hate thanks. Good-night."
"I never stood so near to fortune and to power," said Randal, as he slowly undressed. "And I owe it but to knowledge,—knowledge of men, life, of all that books can teach us."
So his slight thin fingers dropped the extinguisher on the candle, and the prosperous Schemer laid himself down to rest in the dark. Shutters closed, curtains drawn—never was rest more quiet, never was room more dark!
That evening, Harley had dined at his father's. He spoke much to Helen, scarcely at all to Violante. But it so happened that when later, and a little while before he took his leave, Helen, at his request, was playing a favourite air of his, Lady Lausmere, who had been seated between him and Violante, left the room, and Violante turned quickly towards Harley.
"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."
"Ah," muttered Harley, "it may be so; but at your age and hers, nothing rests on the mind long. Observe, I say the mind,—the heart is more tenacious."
Helen sighed softly, but deeply.
"And therefore," continued Harley, half to himself, "we can detect when something is on the mind,—some care, some fear, some trouble. But when the heart closes over its own more passionate sorrow, who can discover, who conjecture? Yet you at least, my pure, candid Helen,—you might subject mind and heart alike to the fabled window of glass."
"Oh, no!" cried Helen, involuntarily.
"Oh, yes! Do not let me think that you have one secret I may not know, or one sorrow I may not share. For, in our relationship, that would be deceit."
He pressed her hand with more than usual tenderness as he spoke, and shortly afterwards left the house.
And all that night Helen felt like a guilty thing,—more wretched even than Violante.
CHAPTER V
Early the next morning, while Violante was still in her room, a letter addressed to her came by the post. The direction was in a strange hand. She opened it, and read, in Italian, what is thus translated:—
I would gladly see you, but I cannot call openly at the house in which you live. Perhaps I may have it in my power to arrange family dissensions,—to repair any wrongs your father may have sustained. Perhaps I may be enabled to render yourself an essential service. But for all this it is necessary that we should meet and