“Does the—does my future husband know of my illness?”
“He has sent repeatedly to inquire after your health. His courier was here this morning.”
“Will you send him word I am well—and am ready in two weeks from now to become his wife?”
“Are you in earnest, Ysabel?”
“Perfectly so.”
“Is it of your own free will you speak?”
“It is, papa.” And the father was deceived—perhaps too willingly so.
The Lady Ysabel was able now to revisit her favorite haunts. Every thing she saw brought the page vividly before her eyes. Sometimes an inscription on a tree—the walks, the flowers, the bower where last they met—all, all brought with them the memory of him. She strove to banish, as high treason to her happiness, all thoughts of him—and the firmness of her nature conquered. She familiarised herself to all the old spots where she had loved to be with him—and she thought she was happy—almost—happy.
The day at length came—clear—cloudless—sun-bright. And then the lady’s heart misgave her—she said not a word, however, but let them deck her in her bridal gear, scarce knowing or caring what they did.
Evening came. The chapel was brilliantly lighted. The bright red wine flowed freely—and joy danced in all hearts, save one.