Saton’s face darkened.
“It is he, I am sure,” he said, “who is interfering in my concerns. Never mind, Lois, we will not talk about that, dear. Give me your hand. We are engaged, you know. You should be glad to have these few minutes with me.”
Her fingers which he clasped were like ice. He was puzzled at her attitude.
“A month ago,” he said softly, “you did not find it such a hardship to spend a little time alone with me.”
“A month ago,” she answered, “I had not seen you on your knees with a gun, seen your white face, heard the report, and seen Mr. Rochester fall. I had not seen you steal away through the bracken. Oh, it was terrible! You looked like a murderer! I shall never, never forget it.”
He laughed softly.
“These things are fancies,” he said—“dreams. You will forget them, my dear Lois. You will forget them very soon.”
They entered the house, and in the hall he drew her into his arms. She wrenched herself free, and crouched back in the corner, with her hands stretched out in front of her face.
“Don’t!” she cried. “Don’t! If you kiss me, I shall go mad. Can’t you see that I don’t want to come with you, that I don’t want to be with you? You shall let me go! You must let me go!”