But he was resolute to blind his heart to the appeal.
“An hour ago,” he said—slowly, as if weighing his every word to himself—“I could not have done this. The interval has proved a fruitful one to us both.”
She clasped her hands as she gazed at him; a film seemed to come over her eyes. She murmured in a tranced, half-fearful voice. The warmth it seemed had drugged her brain.
“What happened! It was misty and shining. But, to be with you!—yes, thou art here, and the fire, and Nicette. That was always in the deep heart of my visions.”
He took no notice of her half-audible wanderings.
“I would not have you suppose,” he went on tonelessly, steadily, “that I shall allow any conversion by you of this accident into opportunity. I brought you to shelter for only the reason that I decline to burden myself with any shadow of compunction for what share my duty forced me to take in your punishment. For the rest, we remain, as always, wide poles apart.”
In the pause he made she dropped her head—crept a little nearer to him—crouched at his feet. Not to be haunted by the wistful eyes, by the look, like a dog’s, that was so full of the silent struggle to comprehend, made his task easier.
“You may stop here,” he said, “until I am able to procure you other quarters, and the means, if possible, to a living. That will not be later than to-morrow, I hope. For to-night, at least, you are to sleep in my room yonder, and I will make shift to lie out here. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” she whispered.
“Very well,” he said, “but I saddle the agreement with one fixed condition. As long as you remain here—whether it is for one day, or two, or more—you are to hold no communication with me—are never to speak to me, unless I first address you.”