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!”