Violante glanced at Harley, and flung herself on her father’s breast. Randal involuntarily rose, and moved to the duke’s chair.
“And you, Mr. Randal Leslie,” continued Harley, “though you have lost your election, see before you at this moment such prospects of wealth and happiness, that I shall only have to offer you congratulations to which those that greet Mr. Audley Egerton may well appear lukewarm and insipid, provided you prove that you have not forfeited the right to claim that promise which the Duke di Serrano has accorded to the suitor of his daughter’s hand. Some doubts resting on my mind, you have volunteered to dispel them. I have the duke’s permission to address to you a few questions, and I now avail myself of your offer to reply to them.”
“Now,—and here, my Lord?” said Randal, glancing round the room, as if deprecating the presence of so many witnesses. “Now,—and here. Nor are those present so strange to your explanations as your question would imply. Mr. Hazeldean, it so happens that much of what I shall say to Mr. Leslie concerns your son.”
Randal’s countenance fell. An uneasy tremor now seized him.
“My son! Frank? Oh, then, of course, Randal will speak out. Speak, my boy!”
Randal remained silent. The duke looked at his working face, and drew away his chair.
“Young man, can you hesitate?” said he. “A doubt is expressed which involves your honour.”
“‘s death!” cried the squire, also gazing on Randal’s cowering eye and quivering lip, “what are you afraid of?”
“Afraid!” said Randal, forced into speech, and with a hollow laugh—“afraid?—I? What of? I was only wondering what Lord L’Estrange could mean.”
“I will dispel that wonder at once. Mr. Hazeldean, your son displeased you first by his proposals of marriage to the Marchesa di Negra against your consent; secondly, by a post-obit bond granted to Baron Levy. Did you understand from Mr. Randal Leslie that he had opposed or favoured the said marriage,—that he had countenanced or blamed the said post-obit?”