“That’s it,” said the squire; “for I’ll not give way. Pretty pass things have come to, indeed! A widow, too, I hear. Artful jade! thought, no doubt, to catch a Hazeldean of Hazeldean. My estates go to an outlandish Papistical set of mongrel brats! No, no, never!”
“But,” said the parson, mildly, “perhaps we may be unjustly prejudiced against this lady. We should have consented to Violante; why not to her? She is of good family?”
“Certainly,” said Randal.
“And good character?”
Randal shook his head, and sighed. The squire caught him roughly by the arm—“Answer the parson!” cried he, vehemently.
“Indeed, sir, I cannot speak disrespectfully of the character of a woman,—who may, too, become Frank’s wife; and the world is ill-natured and not to be believed. But you can judge for yourself, my dear Mr. Hazeldean. Ask your brother whether Madame di Negra is one whom he would advise his nephew to marry.”
“My brother!” exclaimed the squire, furiously. “Consult my distant brother on the affairs of my own son?”
“He is a man of the world,” put in Randal.
“And of feeling and honour,” said the parson; “and, perhaps, through him, we may be enabled to enlighten Frank, and save him from what appears to be the snare of an artful woman.”
“Meanwhile,” said Randal, “I will seek Frank, and do my best with him. Let me go now,—I will return in an hour or so.”