“My dear kinsman, I have already urged the knight on the point you mention, and I find him as fixed as Cheviot.  I am truly sorry my fair cousin should be pressed to give up any of her maidenly rights.  Sir Frederick consents, however, to leave the castle with me the instant the ceremony is performed, and we will raise our followers and begin the fray.  Thus there is great hope the bridegroom may be knocked on the head before he and the bride can meet again, so Bell has a fair chance to be Lady Langley A TRES Bon Marche.  For the rest, I can only say, that if she can make up her mind to the alliance at all—­it is no time for mere maiden ceremony—­my pretty cousin must needs consent to marry in haste, or we shall all repent at leisure, or rather have very little leisure to repent; which is all at present from him who rests your affectionate kinsman,—­R.  M.”

“P.S.—­Tell Isabella that I would rather cut the knight’s throat after all, and end the dilemma that way, than see her constrained to marry him against her will.”

When Isabella had read this letter, it dropped from her hand, and she would, at the same time, have fallen from her chair, had she not been supported by her father.

“My God, my child will die!” exclaimed Vere, the feelings of nature overcoming, even in his breast, the sentiments of selfish policy; “look up, Isabella—­look up, my child—­come what will, you shall not be the sacrifice—­I will fall myself with the consciousness I leave you happy—­My child may weep on my grave, but she shall not—­not in this instance—­reproach my memory.”  He called a servant.—­“Go, bid Ratcliffe come hither directly.”

During this interval, Miss Vere became deadly pale, clenched her hands, pressing the palms strongly together, closed her eyes, and drew her lips with strong compression, as if the severe constraint which she put upon her internal feelings extended even to her muscular organization.  Then raising her head, and drawing in her breath strongly ere she spoke, she said, with firmness,—­“Father, I consent to the marriage.”

“You shall not—­you shall not,—­my child—­my dear child—­you shall not embrace certain misery to free me from uncertain danger.”

So exclaimed Ellieslaw; and, strange and inconsistent beings that we are! he expressed the real though momentary feelings of his heart.

“Father,” repeated Isabella, “I will consent to this marriage.”

“No, my child, no—­not now at least—­we will humble ourselves to obtain delay from him; and yet, Isabella, could you overcome a dislike which has no real foundation, think, in other respects, what a match!—­wealth—­rank—­importance.”

“Father!” reiterated Isabella, “I have consented.”

It seemed as if she had lost the power of saying anything else, or even of varying the phrase which, with such effort, she had compelled herself to utter.

“Heaven bless thee, my child!—­Heaven bless thee!—­And it will bless thee with riches, with pleasure, with power.”