“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.”