"I—I hope you will not think me troublesome," she said; "but there is one more favour that I want to ask of you."
"Do not hesitate to ask anything of me; all I want is your confidence."
"It is only a question that I wish to ask. You talked some time since of going away from Midlandshire—from England; do you still think of doing so?"
"Yes, my plans are all made for an early departure."
"A very early departure? You are going almost immediately?"
"Immediately,—to-morrow, perhaps. I am going to the East. It may be a long time before I return to England."
There was a little pause, during which Roland saw that a faint flush kindled in Isabel Gilbert's face, and that her breath came and went rather quicker than before.
"Then I must say good-bye to-night," she said.
"Yes, it is not likely we shall meet again. Good night—good-bye. Perhaps some day, when I am a pottering old man, telling people the same anecdotes every time I dine with them, I shall come back to Midlandshire, and find Mr. Gilbert a crack physician in Kylmington, petted by rich old ladies, and riding in a yellow barouche;—till then, good-bye."
He held Isabel's hand for a few moments,—not pressing it ever so gently,—only holding it, as if in that frail tenure he held the last link that bound him to love and life. Isabel looked at him wonderingly. How different was this adieu from that passionate farewell under Lord Thurston's oak, when he had flung himself upon the ground and wept aloud in the anguish of parting from her! The melodramas she had witnessed at the Surrey Theatre were evidently true to nature. Nothing could be more transient than the wicked squire's love.