"I grieve and apprehend, dear Bernard," she replied, "but think not that I would strive to stay you from any course that you yourself judge right. I know you are moderate and just, and that you will not think, as some might do, that you prove your love for me by fiery haste to expose a life on which hangs all my hopes of happiness. Your honour is to me far more than life; but oh, Bernard, judge but the more calmly, I beseech you, of what that honour requires, by thinking that not your life and happiness alone are the stake, but mine also. Having told you all truly, as I ever will through life, I must scarce venture a word more to persuade or dissuade; and yet I cannot think honour can call upon you even to speak angry or reproachful words, when this man himself was not told, by me at least, that it was his friend he was trying to supplant." Bernard de Rohan's brow was somewhat cloudy, though he smiled. "I fear, my Isabel," he said, "that he knew the fact too well. I can call many a time to my mind when I have dropped words concerning you which he could not mistake. However, I have said I will pass over all that is gone, and now let us think of other brighter things." "I know not," she replied, "I know not why, Bernard, but a dark shadow seems to overhang me, which prevents my thinking of brighter things. Within the last year, so much has happened to cause apprehension and anxiety, so much to give birth to pain and grief, that my spirit has sunk; and, whereas everything used to seem full of brightness and hope, all is now full of despondency." "Cheer thee, cheer thee, Isabel," replied Bernard, adding those caresses that cheer far more than words; "I will take thee from the midst of the sad things that must surround thee here. I know, dear Isabel, that thy mother was often harsh and always cold, and, since I and your brother have left you, you have had no support or comfort under the pain which her behaviour must have given." "Oh, it was not her harshness nor her coldness, Bernard," replied Isabel Brienne; "I could have borne that easily; but when I recollected my dear father--when I remembered all his high and noble qualities--his kindness, his tenderness to her, and saw her again stand at the altar to give her hand to another so unlike him in everything, dark, treacherous, avaricious, and deceitful, it was then I first felt that I really wanted aid and consolation. It was then that I wanted help, I wanted protection and support; and even at that time I would have written to you to come to me with all speed if it had not been for some foolish feelings of shame." "They were indeed wrong, my Isabel," replied Bernard; "for surely, Isabel, with our faith plighted by your own father's will, with a long, dear intimacy from childhood until now, if you could not repose full, unhesitating trust and confidence in me, where, where could you place it, Isabel?"