The next morning Harley appeared at breakfast. He was in gay spirits, and conversed more freely with Violante than he had yet done. He seemed to amuse himself by attacking all she said, and provoking her to argument. Violante was naturally a very earnest person; whether grave or gay, she spoke with her heart on her lips, and her soul in her eyes. She did not yet comprehend the light vein of Harley’s irony, so she grew piqued and chafed; and she was so lovely in anger; it so brightened the beauty and animated her words, that no wonder Harley thus maliciously teased her. But what, perhaps, she liked still less than the teasing—though she could not tell why—was the kind of familiarity that Harley assumed with her,—a familiarity as if he had known her all her life,—that of a good-humoured elder brother, or a bachelor uncle. To Helen, on the contrary, when he did not address her apart, his manner was more respectful. He did not call her by her Christian name, as he did Violante, but “Miss Digby,” and softened his tone and inclined his head when he spoke to her. Nor did he presume to jest at the very few and brief sentences he drew from Helen, but rather listened to them with deference, and invariably honoured them with approval. After breakfast he asked Violante to play or sing; and when she frankly owned how little she had cultivated those accomplishments, he persuaded Helen to sit down to the piano, and stood by her side while she did so, turning over the leaves of her music-book with the ready devotion of an admiring amateur. Helen always played well, but less well than usual that day, for her generous nature felt abashed. It was as if she were showing off to mortify Violante. But Violante, on the other hand, was so passionately fond of music that she had no feeling left for the sense of her own inferiority. Yet she sighed when Helen rose, and Harley thanked Miss Digby for the delight she had given him.

The day was fine. Lady Lansmere proposed to walk in the garden. While the ladies went up-stairs for their shawls and bonnets, Harley lighted his cigar, and stepped from the window upon the lawn. Lady Lansmere joined him before the girls came out.

“Harley,” said she, taking his arm, “what a charming companion you have introduced to us! I never met with any that both pleased and delighted me like this dear Violante. Most girls who possess some power of conversation, and who have dared to think for themselves, are so pedantic, or so masculine; but she is always so simple, and always still the girl. Ah, Harley!”

“Why that sigh, my dear mother?”

“I was thinking how exactly she would have suited you,—how proud I should have been of such a daughter-in-law, and how happy you would have been with such a wife.”

Harley started. “Tut,” said he, peevishly, “she is a mere child; you forget my years.”

“Why,” said Lady Lansmere, surprised, “Helen is quite as young as Violante.”

“In dates-yes. But Helen’s character is so staid; what it is now it will be ever; and Helen, from gratitude, respect, or pity, condescends to accept the ruins of my heart, while this bright Italian has the soul of a Juliet, and would expect in a husband all the passion of a Romeo. Nay, Mother, hush. Do you forget that I am engaged,—and of my own free will and choice? Poor dear Helen! A propos, have you spoken to my father, as you undertook to do?”

“Not yet. I must seize the right moment. You know that my Lord requires management.”

“My dear mother, that female notion of managing us men costs you ladies a great waste of time, and occasions us a great deal of sorrow. Men are easily managed by plain truth. We are brought up to respect it, strange as it may seem to you!”

Lady Lansmere smiled with the air of superior wisdom, and the experience of an accomplished wife. “Leave it to me, Harley, and rely on my Lord’s consent.”

Harley knew that Lady Lansmere always succeeded in obtaining her way with his father; and he felt that the earl might naturally be disappointed in such an alliance, and, without due propitiation, evince that disappointment in his manner to Helen. Harley was bound to save her from all chance of such humiliation. He did not wish her to think that she was not welcomed into his family; therefore he said, “I resign myself to your promise and your diplomacy. Meanwhile, as you love me, be kind to my betrothed.”

“Am I not so?”

“Hem. Are you as kind as if she were the great heiress you believe Violante to be?”

“Is it,” answered Lady Lansmere, evading the question—“is it because one is an heiress and the other is not that you make so marked a difference in your own manner to the two; treating Violante as a spoilt child, and Miss Digby as—”

“The destined wife of Lord L’Estrange, and the daughter-in-law of Lady Lansmere,—yes.”

The countess suppressed an impatient exclamation that rose to her lips, for Harley’s brow wore that serious aspect which it rarely assumed save when he was in those moods in which men must be soothed, not resisted. And after a pause he went on, “I am going to leave you to-day. I have engaged apartments at the Clarendon. I intend to gratify your wish, so often expressed, that I should enjoy what are called the pleasures of my rank, and the privileges of single-blessedness,—celebrate my adieu to celibacy, and blaze once more, with the splendour of a setting sun, upon Hyde Park and May Fair.”

“You are a positive enigma. Leave our house, just when you are betrothed to its inmate! Is that the natural conduct of a lover?”

“How can your woman eyes be so dull, and your woman heart so obtuse?” answered Harley, half laughing, half scolding. “Can you not guess that I wish that Helen and myself should both lose the association of mere ward and guardian; that the very familiarity of our intercourse under the same roof almost forbids us to be lovers; that we lose the joy to meet, and the pang to part. Don’t you remember the story of the Frenchman, who for twenty years loved a lady, and never missed passing his evenings at her house. She became a widow. ‘I wish you joy,’ cried his friend; ‘you may now marry the woman you have so long adored.’ ‘Alas!’ said the poor Frenchman, profoundly dejected; ‘and if so, where shall I spend my evenings?’”

Here Violante and Helen were seen in the garden, walking affectionately arm in arm.

“I don’t perceive the point of your witty, heartless anecdote,” said Lady Lansmere, obstinately. “Settle that, however, with Miss Digby. But to leave the very day after your friend’s daughter comes as a guest!—what will she think of it?”

Lord L’Estrange looked steadfastly at his mother. “Does it matter much what she thinks of me,—of a man engaged to another; and old enough to be—”

“I wish to heaven you would not talk of your age, Harley; it is a reflection upon mine; and I never saw you look so well nor so handsome.” With that she drew him on towards the young ladies; and, taking Helen’s arm, asked her, aside, “If she knew that Lord L’Estrange had engaged rooms at the Clarendon; and if she understood why?” As while she said this she moved on, Harley was left by Violante’s side.

“You will be very dull here, I fear, my poor child,” said he.

“Dull! But why will you call me child? Am I so very—very child-like?”

“Certainly, you are to me,—a mere infant. Have I not seen you one; have I not held you in my arms?”

VIOLANTE.—“But that was a long time ago!”

HARLEY.—“True. But if years have not stood still for you, they have not been stationary for me. There is the same difference between us now that there was then. And, therefore, permit me still to call you child, and as child to treat you!”

VIOLANTE.—“I will do no such thing. Do you know that I always thought I was good-tempered till this morning.”

HARLEY.—“And what undeceived you? Did you break your doll?”

VIOLANTE (with an indignant flash from her dark eyes).—“There!—again!—you delight in provoking me!”

HARLEY.—“It was the doll, then. Don’t cry; I will get you another.”

Violante plucked her arm from him, and walked away towards the countess in speechless scorn. Harley’s brow contracted, in thought and in gloom. He stood still for a moment or so, and then joined the ladies.

“I am trespassing sadly on your morning; but I wait for a visitor whom I sent to before you were up. He is to be here at twelve. With your permission, I will dine with you tomorrow, and you will invite him to meet me.”

“Certainly. And who is your friend? I guess—the young author?”

“Leonard Fairfield,” cried Violante, who had conquered, or felt ashamed, of her short-lived anger.

“Fairfield!” repeated Lady Lansmere. “I thought, Harley, you said the name was Oran.”

“He has assumed the latter name. He is the son of Mark Fairfield, who married an Avenel. Did you recognize no family likeness?—none in those eyes, Mother?” said Harley, sinking his voice into a whisper.

“No;” answered the countess, falteringly.

Harley, observing that Violante was now speaking to Helen about Leonard, and that neither was listening to him, resumed in the same low tone, “And his mother—Nora’s sister—shrank from seeing me! That is the reason why I wished you not to call. She has not told the young man why she shrank from seeing me; nor have I explained it to him as yet. Perhaps I never shall.”

“Indeed, dearest Harley,” said the countess, with great gentleness, “I wish you too much to forget the folly—well, I will not say that word—the sorrows of your boyhood, not to hope that you will rather strive against such painful memories than renew them by unnecessary confidence to any one; least of all to the relation of—”

“Enough! don’t name her; the very name pains me. And as to confidence, there are but two persons in the world to whom I ever bare the old wounds,—yourself and Egerton. Let this pass. Ha!—a ring at the bell—that is he!”