This door was usually kept locked;
but the lock was of the rude and simple description common to such
entrances, and easily opened by a skeleton key. So far there was no
obstacle which Peschiera's experience in conspiracy and gallantry did
not disdain as trivial. But the count was not disposed to abrupt and
violent means in the first instance. He had a confidence in his personal
gifts, in his address, in his previous triumphs over the sex, which made
him naturally desire to hazard the effect of a personal interview; and
on this he resolved with his wonted audacity. Randal's description of
Violante's personal appearance, and such suggestions as to her character
and the motives most likely to influence her actions as that young
lynx-eyed observer could bestow, were all that the count required of
present aid from his accomplice.

Meanwhile we return to Violante herself. We see her now seated in
the gardens at Knightsbridge, side by side with Helen. The place was
retired, and out of sight from the windows of the house.

VIOLANTE.--"But why will you not tell me more of that early time? You
are less communicative even than Leonard."

HELEN (looking down, and hesitatingly).--"Indeed there is nothing to
tell you that you do not know; and it is so long since, and things are
so changed now."

The tone of the last words was mournful, and the words ended with a
sigh.

VIOLANTE (with enthusiasm).--"How I envy you that past which you treat
so lightly! To have been something, even in childhood, to the formation
of a noble nature; to have borne on those slight shoulders half the load
of a man's grand labour; and now to see Genius moving calm in its clear
career; and to say inly, 'Of that genius I am a part!'"

HELEN (sadly and humbly).--"A part! Oh, no! A part? I don't understand
you."

VIOLANTE.--"Take the child Beatrice from Dante's life, and should we
have a Dante? What is a poet's genius but the voice of its emotions? All
things in life and in Nature influence genius; but what influences it
the most are its own sorrows and affections."

Helen looks softly into Violante's eloquent face, and draws nearer to
her in tender silence.

VIOLANTE (suddenly).--"Yes, Helen, yes,--I know by my own heart how
to read yours. Such memories are ineffaceable. Few guess what
strange self-weavers of our own destinies we women are in our veriest
childhood!" She sunk her voice into a whisper: "How could Leonard fail
to be dear to you,--dear