dearly bought. The temptations which the count could hold out to her to
become his accomplice in designs of which the fraud and perfidy would
revolt her better nature had ceased to be of avail. A dowry had grown
valueless, since it would but hasten the nuptials from which she
recoiled. Randal felt that he could not secure her aid, except by
working on a passion so turbulent as to confound her judgment. Such a
passion he recognized in jealousy. He had once doubted if Harley were
the object of her love; yet, after all, was it not probable? He knew,
at least, of no one else to suspect. If so, he had but to whisper,
"Violante is your rival. Violante removed, your beauty may find its
natural effect; if not, you are an Italian, and you will be at least
avenged." He saw still more reason to suppose that Lord L'Estrange was
indeed the one by whom he could rule Beatrice, since, the last time he
had seen her, she had questioned him with much eagerness as to the family
of Lord Lansmere, especially as to the female part of it. Randal had
then judged it prudent to avoid speaking of Violante, and feigned
ignorance; but promised to ascertain all particulars by the time he next
saw the marchesa. It was the warmth with which she had thanked him that
had set his busy mind at work to conjecture the cause of her curiosity so
earnestly aroused, and to ascribe that cause to jealousy. If Harley
loved Violante (as Randal himself had before supposed), the little of
passion that the young man admitted to himself was enlisted in aid of
Peschiera's schemes. For though Randal did not love Violante, he
cordially disliked L'Estrange, and would have gone as far to render that
dislike vindictive, as a cold reasoner, intent upon worldly fortunes,
will ever suffer mere hate to influence him.

"At the worst," thought Randal, "if it be not Harley, touch the chord of
jealousy, and its vibration will direct me right."