It is a singular, but well-attested fact, that women who are compelled to undergo all the inconveniences and uneasiness of clandestine pregnancy, often fare better than those whose situation is watched over by tender and anxious relatives; and that concealed or illegitimate births are actually attended with less danger and suffering than those which have all the aid that skill and affection can give. So it appeared likely to fare with Isidora. The retirement in which her family lived--the temper of Donna Clara, as slow to suspect from want of penetration, as she was eager in pursuing an object once discovered, from the natural cupidity of a vacant mind--these circumstances, combined with the dress of the day, the enormous and enveloping fardingale, gave safety to her secret, at least till the arrival of its crisis. As this crisis approached, one may easily imagine the secret and trembling preparation--the important nurse, proud of the trust reposed in her--the confidential maid--the faithful and discreet medical attendant--to obtain all these Melmoth supplied her amply with money--a circumstance that would have surprised Isidora, as his appearance was always remarkably plain and private, if, at this moment of anxiety, any thought but that of _the hour_ could have found room in her mind. * * * * * * * “On the evening supposed to be that preceding the dreaded event, Melmoth had thrown an unusual degree of tenderness into his manner--he gazed on her frequently with anxious and silent fondness--he seemed to have something to communicate which he had not courage to disclose. Isidora, well versed in the language of the countenance, which is often, more than that of words, the language of the heart, intreated him to tell her what he _looked_. “Your father is returning,” said Melmoth reluctantly. “He will certainly be here in a few days, perhaps in a few hours.” Isidora heard him in silent horror. “My father!” she cried--“I have never seen my father.--Oh, how shall I meet him now! And is my mother ignorant of this?--would she not have apprized me?”--“She is ignorant at present; but she will not long be so.”--“And from whence could _you_ have obtained intelligence that she is ignorant of?” Melmoth paused some time,--his features assumed a more contracted and gloomy character than they had done laterally--he answered with slow and stern reluctance--“Never again ask me that question--the intelligence that I can give you must be of more importance to you than the means by which I obtain it--enough for you that it is true.”--“Pardon me, love,” said Isidora; “it is probable that I may never again offend you--will you not, then, forgive my _last_ offence?”