Miss Vere faintly entreated to be left by herself for the rest of the evening.

“But will you not receive Sir Frederick?” said her father, anxiously.

“I will meet him,” she replied, “I will meet him—­when I must, and where I must; but spare me now.”

“Be it so, my dearest; you shall know no restraint that I can save you from.  Do not think too hardly of Sir Frederick for this,—­it is an excess of passion.”

Isabella waved her hand impatiently.

“Forgive me, my child—­I go—­Heaven bless thee.  At eleven—­if you call me not before—­at eleven I come to seek you.”

When he left Isabella she dropped upon her knees—­“Heaven aid me to support the resolution I have taken—­Heaven only can—­O, poor Earnscliff! who shall comfort him? and with what contempt will he pronounce her name, who listened to him to-day and gave herself to another at night!  But let him despise me—­better so than that he should know the truth—­let him despise me; if it will but lessen his grief, I should feel comfort in the loss of his esteem.”

She wept bitterly; attempting in vain, from time to time, to commence the prayer for which she had sunk on her knees, but unable to calm her spirits sufficiently for the exercise of devotion.  As she remained in this agony of mind, the door of her apartment was slowly opened.

CHAPTER XV.

     The darksome cave they enter, where they found
     The woful man, low sitting on the ground,
     Musing full sadly in his sullen mind.—­Faery Queen.

The intruder on Miss Vere’s sorrows was Ratcliffe.  Ellieslaw had, in the agitation of his mind, forgotten to countermand the order he had given to call him thither, so that he opened the door with the words, “You sent for me, Mr. Vere.”  Then looking around—­“Miss Vere, alone! on the ground! and in tears!”

“Leave me—­leave me, Mr. Ratcliffe,” said the unhappy young lady.

“I must not leave you,” said Ratcliffe; “I have been repeatedly requesting admittance to take my leave of you, and have been refused, until your father himself sent for me.  Blame me not, if I am bold and intrusive; I have a duty to discharge which makes me so.”

“I cannot listen to you—­I cannot speak to you, Mr. Ratcliffe; take my best wishes, and for God’s sake leave me.”

“Tell me only,” said Ratcliffe, “is it true that this monstrous match is to go forward, and this very night?  I heard the servants proclaim it as I was on the great staircase—­I heard the directions given to clear out the chapel.”

“Spare me, Mr. Ratcliffe,” replied the luckless bride; “and from the state in which you see me, judge of the cruelty of these questions.”

“Married? to Sir Frederick Langley? and this night?  It must not cannot—­shall not be.”

“It must be, Mr. Ratcliff, or my father is ruined.”