I have broken irreconcilably with Ratcliffe, and can have nothing to expect from that quarter but insult and persecution.  I must wander forth an impoverished and dishonoured man, without even the means of sustaining life, far less wealth sufficient to counterbalance the infamy which my countrymen, both those whom I desert and those whom I join, will attach to the name of the political renegade.  It is not to be thought of.  And yet, what choice remains between this lot and the ignominious scaffold?  Nothing can save me but reconciliation with these men; and, to accomplish this, I have promised to Langley that Isabella shall marry him ere midnight, and to Mareschal, that she shall do so without compulsion.  I have but one remedy betwixt me and ruin—­her consent to take a suitor whom she dislikes, upon such short notice as would disgust her, even were he a favoured lover—­But I must trust to the romantic generosity of her disposition; and let me paint the necessity of her obedience ever so strongly, I cannot overcharge its reality.”

Having finished this sad chain of reflections upon his perilous condition, he entered his daughter’s apartment with every nerve bent up to the support of the argument which he was about to sustain.  Though a deceitful and ambitious man, he was not so devoid of natural affection but that he was shocked at the part he was about to act, in practising on the feelings of a dutiful and affectionate child; but the recollections, that, if he succeeded, his daughter would only be trepanned into an advantageous match, and that, if he failed, he himself was a lost man, were quite sufficient to drown all scruples.

He found Miss Vere seated by the window of her dressing-room, her head reclining on her hand, and either sunk in slumber, or so deeply engaged in meditation, that she did not hear the noise he made at his entrance.  He approached with his features composed to a deep expression of sorrow and sympathy, and, sitting down beside her, solicited her attention by quietly taking her hand, a motion which he did not fail to accompany with a deep sigh.

“My father!” said Isabella, with a sort of start, which expressed at least as much fear, as joy or affection.

“Yes, Isabella,” said Vere, “your unhappy father, who comes now as a penitent to crave forgiveness of his daughter for an injury done to her in the excess of his affection, and then to take leave of her for ever.”

“Sir?  Offence to me take leave for ever?  What does all this mean?” said Miss Vere.

“Yes, Isabella, I am serious.  But first let me ask you, have you no suspicion that I may have been privy to the strange chance which befell you yesterday morning?”

“You, sir?” answered Isabella, stammering between a consciousness that he had guessed her thoughts justly, and the shame as well as fear which forbade her to acknowledge a suspicion so degrading and so unnatural.