“There,” he continued quietly, “you are agitated now, and I will say good-bye. Is not that Madelaine Van Heldre coming up the path? Yes, unmistakably. Now let us bury the past and look forward to the future—a happier one for you, I hope and pray. Good-bye.”
He held out his hand, and she looked at him wonderingly.
“Good-bye?”
“Well, for a time. You are weak and ill. Perhaps you will go away for a change—perhaps I shall. Next time we meet, time will have softened all this trouble, and you will have forgiven one whose wish was to serve you, all his weakness, all his doubts. Good bless you, Louise Vine! Good-bye!”
He held out his hand again, but she did not take it. She only stood gazing wildly at him in a way that he dared not interpret, speechless, pale, and with her lips quivering.
He gave her one long, yearning look, and, turning quickly, he was at the door.
“Mr Leslie—stop!”
“You wished to say something,” he cried as he turned towards her and caught her outstretched hand to raise it passionately to his lips. “You do not, you cannot say it? I will say it for you, then. Good-bye!”
“Stop!” she cried as she clung to his hand. “My brother’s message?”
“Some day—in the future. I dare not give it now. When you have forgiven my jealous doubts.”