If any one could be more surprised at seeing Lord L’Estrange at the house of Madame di Negra that evening than the fair hostess herself, it was Randal Leslie. Something instinctively told him that this visit threatened interference with whatever might be his ultimate projects in regard to Riccabocca and Violante. But Randal Leslie was not one of those who shrink from an intellectual combat. On the contrary, he was too confident of his powers of intrigue not to take a delight in their exercise. He could not conceive that the indolent Harley could be a match for his own restless activity and dogged perseverance. But in a very few moments fear crept on him. No man of his day could produce a more brilliant effect than Lord L’Estrange, when he deigned to desire it. Without much pretence to that personal beauty which strikes at first sight, he still retained all the charm of countenance, and all the grace of manner, which had made him in boyhood the spoiled darling of society. Madame di Negra had collected but a small circle round her; still it was of the elite of the great world,—not, indeed, those more precise and reserved dames de chateau, whom the lighter and easier of the fair dispensers of fashion ridicule as prudes; but nevertheless, ladies were there, as unblemished in reputation, as high in rank, flirts and coquettes, perhaps,—nothing more; in short, “charming women,”—the gay butterflies that hover over the stiff parterre. And there were ambassadors and ministers, and wits and brilliant debaters, and first-rate dandies (dandies, when first-rate, are generally very agreeable men). Amongst all these various persons, Harley, so long a stranger to the London world, seemed to make himself at home with the ease of an Alcibiades. Many of the less juvenile ladies remembered him, and rushed to claim his acquaintance, with nods and becks, and wreathed smiles. He had ready compliment for each. And few indeed were there, men or women, for whom Harley L’Estrange had not appropriate attraction. Distinguished reputation as soldier and scholar for the grave; whim and pleasantry for the gay; novelty for the sated; and for the more vulgar natures was he not Lord L’Estrange, unmarried, possessed already of a large independence, and heir to an ancient earldom, and some fifty thousands a year?

Not till he had succeeded in the general effect—which, it must be owned, he did his best to create—did Harley seriously and especially devote himself to his hostess. And then he seated himself by her side; and, as if in compliment to both, less pressing admirers insensibly slipped away and edged off.

Frank Hazeldean was the last to quit his ground behind Madame di Negra’s chair; but when he found that the two began to talk in Italian, and he could not understand a word they said, he too—fancying, poor fellow, that he looked foolish, and cursing his Eton education that had neglected, for languages spoken by the dead, of which he had learned little, those still in use among the living, of which he had learned nought—retreated towards Randal, and asked wistfully, “Pray, what age should you say L’Estrange was? He must be devilish old, in spite of his looks. Why, he was at Waterloo!”

“He is young enough to be a terrible rival,” answered Randal, with artful truth.

Frank turned pale, and began to meditate dreadful bloodthirsty thoughts, of which hair-triggers and Lord’s Cricket-ground formed the staple.

Certainly there was apparent ground for a lover’s jealousy; for Harley and Beatrice now conversed in a low tone, and Beatrice seemed agitated, and Harley earnest. Randal himself grew more and more perplexed. Was Lord L’Estrange really enamoured of the marchesa? If so, farewell to all hopes of Frank’s marriage with her! Or was he merely playing a part in Riccabocca’s interest; pretending to be the lover, in order to obtain an influence over her mind, rule her through her ambition, and secure an ally against her brother? Was this finesse compatible with Randal’s notions of Harley’s character? Was it consistent with that chivalric and soldierly spirit of honour which the frank nobleman affected, to make love to a woman in mere ruse de guerre? Could mere friendship for Riccabocca be a sufficient inducement to a man, who, whatever his weaknesses or his errors, seemed to wear on his very forehead a soul above deceit, to stoop to paltry means, even for a worthy end? At this question, a new thought flashed upon Randal,—might not Lord L’Estrange have speculated himself upon winning Violante; would not that account for all the exertions he had made on behalf of her inheritance at the court of Vienna,—exertions of which Peschiera and Beatrice had both complained? Those objections which the Austrian government might take to Violante’s marriage with some obscure Englishman would probably not exist against a man like Harley L’Estrange, whose family not only belonged to the highest aristocracy of England, but had always supported opinions in vogue amongst the leading governments of Europe. Harley himself, it is true, had never taken part in politics, but his notions were, no doubt, those of a high-born soldier, who had fought, in alliance with Austria, for the restoration of the Bourbons. And this immense wealth—which Violante might lose, if she married one like Randal himself—her marriage with the heir of the Lansmeres might actually tend only to secure. Could Harley, with all his own expectations, be indifferent to such a prize?—and no doubt he had learned Violante’s rare beauty in his correspondence with Riccabocca.

Thus considered, it seemed natural to Randal’s estimate of human nature that Harley’s more prudish scruples of honour, as regards what is due to women, could not resist a temptation so strong. Mere friendship was not a motive powerful enough to shake them, but ambition was.

While Randal was thus cogitating, Frank thus suffering, and many a whisper, in comment on the evident flirtation between the beautiful hostess and the accomplished guest, reached the ears both of the brooding schemer and the jealous lover, the conversation between the two objects of remark and gossip had taken a new turn. Indeed, Beatrice had made an effort to change it.

“It is long, my Lord,” said she, still speaking Italian, “since I have heard sentiments like those you address to me; and if I do not feel myself wholly unworthy of them, it is from the pleasure I have felt in reading sentiments equally foreign to the language of the world in which I live.” She took a book from the table as she spoke: “Have you seen this work?”

Harley glanced at the title-page. “To be sure I have, and I know the author.”

“I envy you that honour. I should so like also to know one who has discovered to me deeps in my own heart which I had never explored.”

“Charming marchesa, if the book has done this, believe me that I have paid you no false compliment,—formed no overflattering estimate of your nature; for the charm of the work is but in its simple appeal to good and generous emotions, and it can charm none in whom those emotions exist not!”

“Nay, that cannot be true, or why is it so popular?”

“Because good and generous emotions are more common to the human heart than we are aware of till the appeal comes.”

“Don’t ask me to think that! I have found the world so base.”

“Pardon me a rude question; but what do you know of the world?”

Beatrice looked first in surprise at Harley, then glanced round the room with significant irony.

“As I thought; you call this little room ‘the world.’ Be it so. I will venture to say, that if the people in this room were suddenly converted into an audience before a stage, and you were as consummate in the actor’s art as you are in all others that please and command—”

“Well?”

“And were to deliver a speech full of sordid and base sentiments, you would be hissed. But let any other woman, with half your powers, arise and utter sentiments sweet and womanly, or honest and lofty, and applause would flow from every lip, and tears rush to many a worldly eye. The true proof of the inherent nobleness of our common nature is in the sympathy it betrays with what is noble wherever crowds are collected. Never believe the world is base; if it were so, no society could hold together for a day. But you would know the author of this book? I will bring him to you.”

“Do.”

“And now,” said Harley, rising, and with his candid, winning smile, “do you think we shall ever be friends?”

“You have startled me so that I can scarcely answer. But why would you be friends with me?”

“Because you need a friend. You have none?”

“Strange flatterer!” said Beatrice, smiling, though very sadly; and looking up, her eye caught Randal’s.

“Pooh!” said Harley, “you are too penetrating to believe that you inspire friendship there. Ah, do you suppose that; all the while I have been conversing with you, I have not noticed the watchful gaze of Mr. Randal Leslie? What tie can possibly connect you together I know not yet; but I soon shall.”

“Indeed! you talk like one of the old Council of Venice. You try hard to make me fear you,” said Beatrice, seeking to escape from the graver kind of impression Harley had made on her, by the affectation partly of coquetry, partly of levity.

“And I,” said L’Estrange, calmly, “tell you already that I fear you no more.” He bowed, and passed through the crowd to rejoin Audley, who was seated in a corner whispering with some of his political colleagues. Before Harley reached the minister, he found himself close to Randal and young Hazeldean.

He bowed to the first, and extended his hand to the last. Randal felt the distinction, and his sullen, bitter pride was deeply galled,—a feeling of hate towards Harley passed into his mind. He was pleased to see the cold hesitation with which Frank just touched the hand offered to him. But Randal had not been the only person whose watch upon Beatrice the keen-eyed Harley had noticed. Harley had seen the angry looks of Frank Hazeldean, and divined the cause. So he smiled forgivingly at the slight he had received. “You are like me, Mr. Hazeldean,” said he. “You think something of the heart should go with all courtesy that bespeaks friendship—

Here Harley drew aside Randal. “Mr. Leslie, a word with you. If I wished to know the retreat of Dr. Riccabocca, in order to render him a great service, would you confide to me that secret?”

“That woman has let out her suspicions that I know the exile’s retreat,” thought Randal; and with quick presence of mind, he replied at once,

“My Lord, yonder stands a connection of Dr. Riccabocca’s. Mr. Hazeldean is surely the person to whom you should address this inquiry.”

“Not so, Mr. Leslie; for I suspect that he cannot answer it, and that you can. Well, I will ask something that it seems to me you may grant without hesitation. Should you see Dr. Riccabocca, tell him that I am in England, and so leave it to him to communicate with me or not; but perhaps you have already done so?”

“Lord L’Estrange,” said Randal, bowing low, with pointed formality, “excuse me if I decline either to disclaim or acquiesce in the knowledge you impute to me. If I am acquainted with any secret intrusted to me by Dr. Riccabocca, it is for me to use my own discretion how best to guard it. And for the rest, after the Scotch earl, whose words your Lordship has quoted, refused to touch the hand of Marmion, Douglas could scarcely have called Marmion back in order to give him—a message!”

Harley was not prepared for this tone in Mr. Egerton’s protege, and his own gallant nature was rather pleased than irritated by a haughtiness that at least seemed to bespeak independence of spirit. Nevertheless, L’Estrange’s suspicions of Randal were too strong to be easily set aside, and therefore he replied, civilly, but with covert taunt,

“I submit to your rebuke, Mr. Leslie, though I meant not the offence you would ascribe to me. I regret my unlucky quotation yet the more, since the wit of your retort has obliged you to identify yourself with Marmion, who, though a clever and brave fellow, was an uncommonly—tricky one.” And so Harley, certainly having the best of it, moved on, and joined Egerton, and in a few minutes more both left the room.

“What was L’Estrange saying to you?” asked Frank. “Something about Beatrice, I am sure.”

“No; only quoting poetry.”

“Then what made you look so angry, my dear fellow? I know it was your kind feeling for me. As you say, he is a formidable rival. But that can’t be his own hair. Do you think he wears a toupet? I am sure he was praising Beatrice. He is evidently very much smitten with her. But I don’t think she is a woman to be caught by mere rank and fortune! Do you? Why can’t you speak?”

“If you do not get her consent soon, I think she is lost to you,” said Randal, slowly; and before Frank could recover his dismay, glided from the house.