She opened her lips to speak, but glanced at Mr. Carlyle and hesitated.  He was standing at the window, his back towards them.

“I suppose not,” said the earl, answering himself, for he was in a fever of hurry to be off, like many others are when starting on a journey.  “You will have no trouble whatever, my dear; only mind you get some refreshments in the middle of the day, for you won’t be at Castle Marling before dinner-time.  Tell Mrs. Va—­tell Lady Mount Severn that I had no time to write, but will do so from town.”

But Isabel stood before him in an attitude of uncertainty—­of expectancy, it may be said, her color varying.

“What is it, you wish to say something?”

She certainly did wish to say something, but she did not know how.  It was a moment of embarrassment to her, intensely painful, and the presence of Mr. Carlyle did not tend to lessen it.  The latter had no idea his absence was wished for.

“Bless me, Isabel!  I declare I forgot all about it,” cried the earl, in a tone of vexation.  “Not being accustomed to—­this aspect of affairs is so new—­” He broke off his disjointed sentences, unbuttoned his coat, drew out his purse, and paused over its contents.

“Isabel, I have run myself very short, and have but little beyond what will take me to town.  You must make three pounds do for now, my dear.  Once at Castle Marling—­Pound has the funds for the journey—­Lady Mount Severn will supply you; but you must tell her, or she will not know.”

He shot some gold out of his purse as he spoke, and left two sovereigns and two half sovereigns on the table.  “Farewell, my dear; make yourself happy at Castle Marling.  I shall be home soon.”

Passing from the room with Mr. Carlyle, he stood talking with that gentleman a minute, his foot on the step of the chaise, and the next was being whisked away.  Mr. Carlyle returned to the breakfast-room, where Isabel, an ashy whiteness having replaced the crimson on her cheeks, was picking up the gold.

“Will you do me a favor, Mr. Carlyle?”

“I will do anything I can for you.”

She pushed a sovereign and a half toward him.  “It is for Mr. Kane.  I told Marvel to send in and pay him, but it seems she forgot it, or put it off, and he is not paid.  The tickets were a sovereign; the rest is for tuning the piano.  Will you kindly give it him?  If I trust one of the servants it may be forgotten again in the hurry of their departure.”

“Kane’s charge for tuning a piano is five shillings,” remarked Mr. Carlyle.

“But he was a long time occupied with it, and did something with the leathers.  It is not too much; besides I never ordered him anything to eat.  He wants money even worse than I do,” she added, with a poor attempt at a smile.  “But for thinking of him I should not have mustered the courage to beg of Lord Mount Severn, as you have just heard me do.  In that case do you know what I should have done?”