And she was grateful to him that he took no advantage of her weakness. He did not even take her hand again, or take her into his arms as he might have done, but stood looking at her, with something she did not understand in his eyes. How it was she saw the look in his face, through her passionate tears, she herself could not have explained. But she was conscious of it, and of a certain compassion and awe mingled in the eagerness of his gaze, which kept him standing apart, with a delicacy which had never appeared in him before. ‘Isabel,’ he said, hoarsely; ‘though you are cruel to me, I will not be hard upon you. I love you the same as ever--and you love me; all that has come between us is past. Don’t let us so much as speak of that--it is all over, my darling; there is no obstacle between us now. No, I will not press you further. I would not vex you for all the world. I will come to you to the old place or to your own house, my dear, if that is better. And after all it has cost us, Isabel--oh, Isabel! may we not be happy at last?’ ‘Horace, let me be!’ she cried, rising to her feet and holding out her hands to him as with an appeal for mercy. ‘I can never let you be,’ he cried, seizing her hands and putting down his face upon them for one moment. She felt that his eyes were wet and his lips dry and quivering, and their positions seemed reversed all at once--and it was she who yearned over him, longing to console him and give some comfort to his heart. ‘Oh, Horace,’ she said, ‘you are going away--you said you were going away? and you’ll forget. I could not live if I thought it grieved you and made your heart sore. You’ll go away, and you’ll think on me no more! Why should we be so sorry? It has not been appointed that you and me should be together. Bid me farewell; and, oh, go away and mind me no more. But I’ll think of you every night when I say my prayers.’ His answer was such a groan as made her start and shrink; and then he raised a pale, passionate face to her, and drew her to him, holding both her hands. ‘You are to be my wife, Isabel!’ he said. ‘No: oh, no. I am _his_ wife,’ she said, with a cry half of terror; ‘and my child--my child!’ ‘Was it my fault he took you from me?’ he cried. ‘I was absent and did not know. Your child shall be mine, Isabel; and you are mine--say you are mine! We can never more part again.’ ‘Oh, Horace! let me go.’