“Spare me, Mr. Ratcliffe,” replied the luckless bride; “and from the state in which you see me, judge of the cruelty of these questions.”
“Married? to Sir Frederick Langley? and this night? It must not cannot—shall not be.”
“It MUST be, Mr. Ratcliff, or my father is ruined.”
“Ah! I understand,” answered Ratcliffe; “and you have sacrificed yourself to save him who—But let the virtue of the child atone for the faults of the father it is no time to rake them up.—What CAN be done? Time presses—I know but one remedy—with four-and-twenty hours I might find many—Miss Vere, you must implore the protection of the only human being who has it in his power to control the course of events which threatens to hurry you before it.”
“And what human being,” answered Miss Vere, “has such power?”
“Start not when I name him,” said Ratcliffe, coming near her, and speaking in a low but distinct voice. “It is he who is called Elshender the Recluse of Mucklestane-Moor.”
“You are mad, Mr. Ratcliffe, or you mean to insult my misery by an ill-timed jest!”
“I am as much in my senses, young lady,” answered her adviser, “as you are; and I am no idle jester, far less with misery, least of all with your misery. I swear to you that this being (who is other far than what he seems) actually possesses the means of redeeming you from this hateful union.”
“And of insuring my father’s safety?”
“Yes! even that,” said Ratcliffe, “if you plead his cause with him—yet how to obtain admittance to the Recluse!”