There was some difference in Tom that Rose felt but could not define, some influence over him that was stronger than her own. She had been conscious before that she had but to speak and he would try his utmost to carry out her whim; but to-day, miserable as he was, oppressed by the weight of sin, she felt respect for a certain strength of purpose that seemed developed in him. Mr. Curzon was right; she had chosen the wrong man. Never had she valued Tom's love as she did now when she was just about to lose it.
"Then you are going directly?" she almost whispered.
"Yes; I leave here the day after to-morrow, and I sail in about a fortnight. The squire thought the sooner I was out of the way the better."
"Shall you ever come back?"
"I don't know."
"Nor ever write?" asked Rose, with a sob in her throat.
"That's as may be; I'd write to one who cared."
"I care. Write to me, please?"
She was looking at him with pleading eyes, but he would not trust himself to return her glance.
"Rose," he said, "there's not the woman now that I would ask to be my wife. I'm guilty, before God, of two black sins; but if He gives me time to live it down and earn a clean name again——"