“I think you are right,” returned the other; “and I have not the slightest objection:  name the day.  The contract is drawn up, and only requires to be signed.”

“I should say, on Monday next,” replied his lordship; “but I fear we will have objections and protestations from Miss Gourlay; and if so, how are we to manage?”

“Leave the management of Miss Gourlay to me, my lord,” replied her father.  “I have managed her before and shall manage her now.”

His lordship had scarcely gone, when Lucy was immediately sent for, and as usual found her father in the library.

“Lucy,” said he, with as much blandness of manner as he could assume, “I have sent for you to say that you are called upon to make your father happy at last.”

“And myself wretched forever, papa.”

“But your word, Lucy—­your promise—­your honor:  remember that promise so solemnly given; remember, too, your duty of obedience as a daughter.”

“Alas!  I remember everything, papa; too keenly, too bitterly do I remember all.”

“You will be prepared to marry Dunroe on Monday next.  The affair will be comparatively private.  That is to say, we will ask nobody—­no dejeuner—­no nonsense.  The fewer the better at these matters.  Would you wish to see your brother—­hem—­I mean Mr. Gray?”

Lucy had been standing while he spoke; but she now staggered over to a seat, on which she fell rather than sat.  Her large, lucid eyes lost their lustre; her frame quivered; her face became of an ashy paleness; but still those eyes were bent upon her father.

“Papa,” she said, at length, in a low voice that breathed of horror, “do not kill me.”

“Kill you, foolish girl!  Now really, Lucy, this is extremely ridiculous and vexatious too.  Is not my daughter a woman of honor?”

“Papa,” she said, solemnly, going down upon her two knees, and joining her lovely and snowy hands together, in an attitude of the most earnest and heart-rending supplication; “papa, hear me.  You have said that I saved your life; be now as generous as I was—­save mine.”

“Lucy,” he replied, “this looks like want of principle.  You would violate your promise.  I should not wish Dunroe to hear this, or to know it.  He might begin to reason upon it, and to say that the woman who could deliberately break a solemn promise might not hesitate at the marriage vow.  I do not apply this reasoning to you, but he or others might.  Of course, I expect that, as a woman of honor, you will keep your word with me, and marry Dunroe on Monday.  You will have no trouble—­everything shall be managed by them; a brilliant trousseau can be provided as well afterwards as before.”

Lucy rose up; and as she did, the blood, which seemed to have previously gathered, to her heart, now returned to her cheek, and began to mantle upon it, whilst her figure, before submissive and imploring, dilated to its full size.