Early the next morning Randal received two notes—one from Frank, written
in great agitation, begging Randal to see and propitiate his father,
whom he feared he had grievously offended; and then running off, rather
incoherently, into protestations that his honour as well as his
affections were engaged irrevocably to Beatrice, and that her, at least,
he could never abandon.
And the second note was from the Squire himself—short, and far less
cordial than usual—requesting Mr Leslie to call on him.
Randal dressed in haste, and went at once to Limmer’s hotel.
He found the Parson with Mr Hazeldean, and endeavouring in vain to
soothe him. The Squire had not slept all night, and his appearance was
almost haggard.
“Oho! Mr young Leslie,” said he, throwing himself back in his chair as
Randal entered—“I thought you were a friend—I thought you were Frank’s
adviser. Explain, sir; explain.”
“Gently, my dear Mr Hazeldean,” said the Parson. “You do but surprise
and alarm Mr Leslie. Tell him more distinctly what he has to explain.”
SQUIRE.—“Did you or did you not tell me or Mrs Hazeldean, that Frank was
in love with Violante Rickeybockey?”
RANDAL, (as in amaze.)—“I! Never, sir! I feared, on the contrary, that
he was somewhat enamoured of a very different person. I hinted at that
possibility. I could not do more, for I did not know how far Frank’s
affections were seriously engaged. And indeed, sir, Mrs Hazeldean,
though not encouraging the idea that your son could marry a foreigner
and a Roman Catholic, did not appear to consider such objections
insuperable, if Frank’s happiness were really at stake.”
Here the poor Squire gave way to a burst of passion, that involved, in
one tempest, Frank, Randal, Harry herself, and the whole race of
foreigners, Roman Catholics, and women. While the Squire himself was
still incapable of hearing reason, the Parson, taking aside Randal,
convinced himself that the whole affair, so far as Randal was concerned,
had its origin in a very natural mistake; and that while that young
gentleman had been hinting at Beatrice, Mrs Hazeldean had been thinking
of Violante. With considerable difficulty he succeeded in conveying this
explanation to the Squire, and somewhat appeasing his wrath against
Randal. And the Dissimulator, seizing his occasion, then expressed so
much grief and astonishment at learning that matters had gone as far as
the Parson informed him—that Frank had actually proposed to Beatrice,
been accepted, and engaged himself, before even communicating with his
father; he declared so earnestly, that he could never conjecture such
evil—that he had had Frank’s positive promise to take no step without
the sanction of his parents; he professed such sympathy with the
Squire’s wounded feelings, and such regret at Frank’s involvement, that
Mr Hazeldean at last yielded up his honest heart to his consoler—and
griping Randal’s hand, said, “Well, well, I wronged you—beg your pardon.
What now is to be done?”
“Why, you cannot consent to this marriage—impossible,” replied Randal;
“and we must hope therefore to influence Frank by his sense of duty.”
“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 ill of the character of a woman, who may,
too, be 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.”
“I will accompany you,” said the Parson.
“Nay, pardon me, but I think we two young men can talk more openly
without a third person, even so wise and kind as you.”
“Let Randal go,” growled the Squire. And Randal went.
He spent some time with Frank, and the reader will easily divine how
that time was employed. As he left Frank’s lodgings, he found himself
suddenly seized by the Squire himself.
“I was too impatient to stay at home and listen to the Parson’s
prosing,” said Mr Hazeldean, nervously. “I have shaken Dale off. Tell me
what has passed. Oh! don’t fear—I’m a man, and can bear the worst.”
Randal drew the Squire’s arm within his, and led him into the adjacent
park.
“My dear sir,” said he, sorrowfully, “this is very confidential what I
am about to say. I must repeat it to you, because without such
confidence, I see not how to advise you on the proper course to take.
But if I betray Frank, it is for his good, and to his own father;—only
do not tell him. He would never forgive me—it would for ever destroy my
influence over him.”
“Go on, go on,” gasped the Squire; “speak out. I’ll never tell the
ungrateful boy that I learned his secrets from another.”
“Then,” said Randal, “the secret of his entanglement with Madame di
Negra is simply this—he found her in debt—nay, on the point of being
arrested—”
“Debt!—arrested! Jezabel!”
“And in paying the debt himself, and saving her from arrest, he
conferred on her the obligation which no woman of honour could accept
save from her affianced husband. Poor Frank!—if sadly taken in, still we
must pity and forgive him!”
Suddenly, to Randal’s great surprise, the Squire’s whole face brightened
up.
“I see, I see!” he exclaimed, slapping his thigh. “I have it—I have it.
’Tis an affair of money! I can buy her off. If she took money from him,
the mercenary, painted baggage! why, then, she’ll take it from me. I
don’t care what it costs—half my fortune—all! I’d be content never to
see Hazeldean Hall again, if I could save my son, my own son, from
disgrace and misery; for miserable he will be, when he knows he has
broken my heart and his mother’s. And for a creature like that! My boy,
a thousand hearty thanks to you. Where does the wretch live? I’ll go to
her at once.” And as he spoke, the Squire actually pulled out his
pocket-book and began turning over and counting the bank-notes in it.
Randal at first tried to combat this bold resolution on the part of the
Squire; but Mr Hazeldean had seized on it with all the obstinacy of his
straightforward English mind. He cut Randal’s persuasive eloquence off
in the midst.
“Don’t waste your breath. I’ve settled it; and if you don’t tell me
where she lives, ’tis easily found out, I suppose.”
Randal mused a moment. “After all,” thought he, “why not? He will be
sure so to speak as to enlist her pride against himself, and to irritate
Frank to the utmost. Let him go.”
Accordingly, he gave the information required; and, insisting with great
earnestness on the Squire’s promise not to mention to Madame di Negra
his knowledge of Frank’s pecuniary aid, (for that would betray Randal as
the informant); and satisfying himself as he best might with the
Squire’s prompt assurance, “that he knew how to settle matters, without
saying why or wherefore, as long as he opened his purse wide enough,” he
accompanied Mr Hazeldean back into the streets, and there left
him—fixing an hour in the evening for an interview at Limmer’s, and
hinting that it would be best to have that interview without the
presence of the Parson. “Excellent good man,” said Randal, “but not with
sufficient knowledge of the world for affairs of this kind, which _you_
understand so well.”
“I should think so,” quoth the Squire, who had quite recovered his
good-humour. “And the Parson is as soft as buttermilk. We must be firm
here—firm, sir.” And the Squire struck the end of his stick on the
pavement, nodded to Randal, and went on to Mayfair as sturdily and as
confidently as if to purchase a prize cow at a cattle show.