The Black Dwarf

Chapter 14

Mr. Vere, whom long practice of dissimulation had enabled to model his

very gait and footsteps to aid the purposes of deception, walked along

the stone passage, and up the first flight of steps towards Miss Vere's

apartment, with the alert, firm, and steady pace of one who is bound,

indeed, upon important business, but who entertains no doubt he can

terminate his affairs satisfactorily. But when out of hearing of the

gentlemen whom he had left, his step became so slow and irresolute, as

to correspond with his doubts and his fears. At length he paused in an

antechamber to collect his ideas, and form his plan of argument, before

approaching his daughter.

"In what more hopeless and inextricable dilemma was ever an unfortunate

man involved!" Such was the tenor of his reflections.--"If we now fall

to pieces by disunion, there can be little doubt that the government

will take my life as the prime agitator of the insurrection. Or, grant I

could stoop to save myself by a hasty submission, am I not, even in that

case, utterly ruined? 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.

"Yes!" he continued, "your hesitation confesses that you entertained

such an opinion, and I have now the painful task of acknowledging that

your suspicions have done me no injustice. But listen to my motives.

In an evil hour I countenanced the addresses of Sir Frederick Langley,

conceiving it impossible that you could have any permanent objections to

a match where the advantages were, in most respects, on your side. In

a worse, I entered with him into measures calculated to restore our

banished monarch, and the independence of my country. He has taken

advantage of my unguarded confidence, and now has my life at his

disposal."

"Your life, sir?" said Isabella, faintly.

"Yes, Isabella," continued her father, "the life of him who gave life to

you. So soon as I foresaw the excesses into which his headlong passion

(for, to do him justice, I believe his unreasonable conduct arises from

excess of attachment to you) was likely to hurry him, I endeavoured,

by finding a plausible pretext for your absence for some weeks, to

extricate myself from the dilemma in which I am placed. For this purpose

I wished, in case your objections to the match continued insurmountable,

to have sent you privately for a few months to the convent of your

maternal aunt at Paris. By a series of mistakes you have been brought

from the place of secrecy and security which I had destined for your

temporary abode. Fate has baffled my last chance of escape, and I have

only to give you my blessing, and send you from the castle with Mr.

Ratcliffe, who now leaves it; my own fate will soon be decided."

"Good Heaven, sir! can this be possible?" exclaimed Isabella. "O, why

was I freed from the restraint in which you placed me? or why did you

not impart your pleasure to me?"

"Think an instant, Isabella. Would you have had me prejudice in your

opinion the friend I was most desirous of serving, by communicating to

you the injurious eagerness with which he pursued his object? Could I do

so honourably, having promised to assist his suit?--But it is all over,

I and Mareschal have made up our minds to die like men; it only remains

to send you from hence under a safe escort."

"Great powers! and is there no remedy?" said the terrified young woman.

"None, my child," answered Vere, gently, "unless one which you would not

advise your father to adopt--to be the first to betray his friends."

"O, no! no!" she answered, abhorrently yet hastily, as if to reject

the temptation which the alternative presented to her. "But is there no

other hope--through flight--through mediation--through supplication?--I

will bend my knee to Sir Frederick!"

"It would be a fruitless degradation; he is determined on his course,

and I am equally resolved to stand the hazard of my fate. On one

condition only he will turn aside from his purpose, and that condition

my lips shall never utter to you."

"Name it, I conjure you, my dear father!" exclaimed Isabella. "What CAN

he ask that we ought not to grant, to prevent the hideous catastrophe

with which you are threatened?"

"That, Isabella," said Vere, solemnly, "you shall never know, until your

father's head has rolled on the bloody scaffold; then, indeed, you will

learn there was one sacrifice by which he might have been saved."

"And why not speak it now?" said Isabella; "do you fear I would flinch

from the sacrifice of fortune for your preservation? or would you

bequeath me the bitter legacy of life-long remorse, so oft as I shall

think that you perished, while there remained one mode of preventing the

dreadful misfortune that overhangs you?"

"Then, my child," said Vere, "since you press me to name what I would a

thousand times rather leave in silence, I must inform you that he will

accept for ransom nothing but your hand in marriage, and that conferred

before midnight this very evening!"

"This evening, sir?" said the young lady, struck with horror at the

proposal--"and to such a man!--A man?--a monster, who could wish to win

the daughter by threatening the life of the father--it is impossible!"

"You say right, my child," answered her father, "it is indeed

impossible; nor have I either the right or the wish to exact such a

sacrifice--It is the course of nature that the old should die and be

forgot, and the young should live and be happy."

"My father die, and his child can save him!--but no--no--my dear father,

pardon me, it is impossible; you only wish to guide me to your wishes. I

know your object is what you think my happiness, and this dreadful tale

is only told to influence my conduct and subdue my scruples."

"My daughter," replied Ellieslaw, in a tone where offended authority

seemed to struggle with parental affection, "my child suspects me of

inventing a false tale to work upon her feelings! Even this I must

bear, and even from this unworthy suspicion I must descend to vindicate

myself. You know the stainless honour of your cousin Mareschal--mark

what I shall write to him, and judge from his answer, if the danger in

which we stand is not real, and whether I have not used every means to

avert it."

He sate down, wrote a few lines hastily, and handed them to Isabella,

who, after repeated and painful efforts, cleared her eyes and head

sufficiently to discern their purport.

"Dear cousin," said the billet, "I find my daughter, as I expected, in

despair at the untimely and premature urgency of Sir Frederick Langley.

She cannot even comprehend the peril in which we stand, or how much we

are in his power--Use your influence with him, for Heaven's sake, to

modify proposals, to the acceptance of which I cannot, and will not,

urge my child against all her own feelings, as well as those of delicacy

and propriety, and oblige your loving cousin,--R. V."

In the agitation of the moment, when her swimming eyes and dizzy brain

could hardly comprehend the sense of what she looked upon, it is not

surprising that Miss Vere should have omitted to remark that this

letter seemed to rest her scruples rather upon the form and time of the

proposed union, than on a rooted dislike to the suitor proposed to her.

Mr. Vere rang the bell, and gave the letter to a servant to be delivered

to Mr. Mareschal, and, rising from his chair, continued to traverse

the apartment in silence and in great agitation until the answer was

returned. He glanced it over, and wrung the hand of his daughter as he

gave it to her. The tenor was as follows:--

"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."

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.