“That I will readily do,” said Mareschal, “for never word escaped my lips that my hand was not ready to guarantee.-So, speak up, my pretty cousin, and tell me if it be your free will and unbiassed resolution to accept of this gallant knight for your lord and husband; for if you have the tenth part of a scruple upon the subject, fall back, fall edge, he shall not have you.”
“Are you mad, Mr. Mareschal?” said Ellieslaw, who, having been this young man’s guardian during his minority, often employed a tone of authority to him. “Do you suppose I would drag my daughter to the foot of the altar, were it not her own choice?”
“Tut, Ellieslaw,” retorted the young gentleman, “never tell me of the contrary; her eyes are full of tears, and her cheeks are whiter than her white dress. I must insist, in the name of common humanity, that the ceremony be adjourned till to-morrow.”
“She shall tell you herself, thou incorrigible intermeddler in what concerns thee not, that it is her wish the ceremony should go on—Is it not, Isabella, my dear?”
“It is,” said Isabella, half fainting—“since there is no help, either in God or man.”
The first word alone was distinctly audible. Mareschal shrugged up his shoulders and stepped back. Ellieslaw led, or rather supported, his daughter to the altar. Sir Frederick moved forward and placed himself by her side. The clergyman opened his prayer-book, and looked to Mr. Vere for the signal to commence the service.
“Proceed,” said the latter.
But a voice, as if issuing from the tomb of his deceased wife, called, in such loud and harsh accents as awakened every echo in the vaulted chapel, “Forbear!”
All were mute and motionless, till a distant rustle, and the clash of swords, or something resembling it, was heard from the remote apartments. It ceased almost instantly.
“What new device is this?” said Sir Frederick, fiercely, eyeing Ellieslaw and Mareschal with a glance of malignant suspicion.