“Yes,” she said, with a shudder. “Sir Denton tells me that he has had great trouble in filling the appointment.”
“I suppose so. Yes: he told me.”
There was another pause.
“Ought you to go?” she said at last, and her voice was not so firm.
“Certainly,” he replied rather bitterly. “I have nothing to lose except my life.”
“You have those at home who love you—sister, father.”
“Poor little Isabel! Yes, but she has one who loves her. My father is sure to yield to circumstances there. It is of him I think most. I shall ask you to be kind to him, as you always have been. He will grow more exacting, I fear, as the years roll on; but you will see him occasionally. He likes you; his liking will grow into love, and he will take your advice. Will you do this for me?”
She made no reply, and as silence was gathering round them again, he hastened to break it and fight back the thoughts that would arise.
“I shall be grateful for anything you in your experience can do for him to make life pass more easily; and you will help and counsel my little sister, too. She must not marry a fox hunting squire.”
Still no answer, and he went on hurriedly.