The whole conversation had occupied nearly an hour, and when Sir John Slingsby and Beauchamp entered the drawing-room they found it only tenanted by Isabella and good Doctor Miles. Her face was uncommonly serious, one might say sad, and the worthy clergyman's was not gay.
"What is it, doctor?" cried Sir John Slingsby, "you look as grave as ten judges. Whose cat is dead?"
"James Thomson's," said Dr. Miles drily, "and thereupon I wish to speak with you, Sir John, for I suppose you will attend the funeral."
"You are a funny fellow, Doctor Miles," replied the baronet; "I'll talk to you in a minute, but I must first give my daughter a kiss--the first she has had this morning, for she played truant, and is going to do so again." So saying, he pressed his lips upon Isabella's cheek, and whispered a few words that made her colour vary, and then linking his arm in that of Dr. Miles, led him from the room, leaving his daughter and her lover alone together.
Isabella's face looked sadder and graver than Beauchamp had ever seen it; and to say the truth his heart began to beat somewhat uneasily, especially as for a moment or two she did not speak, but remained with her eyes bent down. "Isabella," he said at length, "Isabella, you look very sad."
"How can I be otherwise, Beauchamp," asked the fair girl, holding out her hand to him, "when I have just heard a narrative of events which have embittered all your life? I grieve for you very truly, indeed, and sympathise with you as much as a woman can do, with one placed in circumstances in which she could never find herself. But indeed, Beauchamp, it shall be the pleasant task of my whole life to make you forget these past sorrows."
His hand clasped more warmly upon hers as she spoke, and in the end he sat down by her on the sofa; his arm glided round her waist and his lips were pressed upon hers. She had not the slightest touch of Miss Biron about her, and though she blushed a little she was not horrified or shocked in the least.
"Then you do not blame?" he said, "and notwithstanding all this, you are mine, dearest girl?"
"Why should I blame you?" said Isabella with a smile, "you were not the person in fault--except, perhaps, in having drunk too much wine once in your life; and I suppose that is what all young men do, and old men too, very often; but the punishment has certainly far exceeded the offence; and as to being yours, Beauchamp, you know that I am--or at least will be when you wish it."
Beauchamp took her at her word, and that evening there were grand consultations upon many things. Sir John Slingsby was a hasty man, and he liked every thing done hastily. Love or murder, strife or matrimony, he would have it over in a hurry. Isabella, Mrs. Clifford, Mary, were all overruled, and as Beauchamp submitted to his fate as determined by Sir John without a murmur, the marriage was appointed for that day fortnight.