“Yes, I do, Miss Revel. He is very much changed; his stamina appears to have been exhausted by the climate. I trust he will go home, as he proposes.”
“He has been ill—very ill indeed. He talks constantly of going home; he has done so for months; but when the time comes he puts it off. I wish you would persuade him.”
“I will do all I can; but if you cannot prevail, I’m afraid that my persuasion will be of little use.”
“Indeed, I think otherwise; you have power over him, Mr Forster. I have not forgot how kindly you exercised it in my behalf. We—that is,” continued Isabel, colouring up, “the colonel has often talked of you since you quitted us.”
“I feel highly flattered by his remembrance,” replied Newton; “but you are in mourning, Miss Revel. If not a liberty from one who feels an interest in all concerning you, may I inquire for whom?”
“It is for my father,” replied Isabel, with emotion, sitting down and passing her hand across her eyes.
“I never heard of his death, and must apologise for having been so indiscreet as to renew your sorrow. How long is it since? and what was his complaint?”
“He had no complaint—would to God that he had had! He was shot in a duel,” replied Isabel, as the tears coursed down her cheeks. “Oh! Mr Forster, I trust I am resigned to the dispensations of Providence, but—that he should be summoned away at the moment when he was seeking the life of his fellow-creature, with all the worst passions in excitement—unprepared—for he was killed on the spot. These reflections will make his death a source of bitter regret, which can terminate but with existence.”
“Your mother is still alive?” inquired Newton, to change the painful subject.
“Yes, but very ill; the last accounts were very distressing; they say that her complaint is incurable.”