“He went thither, but there would seem some mystery about his ultimate destination; the old man binted at London.”
“London!” said he, with a heavy sigh. “It's now the 18th, and on Saturday she sails.”
“Who sails?” asked Miss Daly, with more of eagerness than she yet exhibited.
“Oh, I forgot, Molly, I had n't told you, I 'm about to take a voyage,—not a very long one, but still distant enough to make me wish to say good-bye ere we separate. If God wills it, I shall be back early in the spring.”
“What new freak is this, Bagenal?” said she, almost sternly; “I thought that time and the world's crosses might have taught you to care for quietness, if not for home.”
“Home!” repeated he, in an accent the sorrow of which sank into her very heart; “when had I ever a home? I had a house and lands, and equipages, horses, and liveried servants,—all that wealth could command, or, my own reckless vanity could prompt,—but these did not make a home!”
“You often promised we should have such one day, Bagenal,” said she, tenderly, while she stole her hand within his; “you often told me that the time would come when we should enjoy poverty with a better grace than ever we dispensed riches.”
“We surely are poor enough to make the trial now,” said he, with a bitterness of almost savage energy.
“And if we are, Bagenal,” replied she, “there is the more need to draw more closely to each other; let us begin at once.”
“Not yet, Molly, not yet,” said he, passing his hand across his eyes. “I would grasp such a refuge as eagerly as yourself, for,” added he, with deep emotion, “I am to the full as weary; but I cannot do it yet.”