“Good night, my love—all right to-morrow!” he replied briskly; and remorse touching his kind heart as the music of her 'good night' penetrated to it by thrilling avenues, he added injudiciously: “Don't fret. We'll see what we can do. Soon make matters comfortable.”
“I love you, and I know you will not stab me,” she answered.
“No; certainly not,” said Mr. Pole, still keeping his back to her.
Struck with a sudden anticipating fear of having to go through this scene on the morrow, he continued: “No misunderstands, mind! Wilfrid's done with.”
There was a silence. He trusted she might be gone. Turning round, he faced her; the light of the candle throwing her pale visage into ghostly relief.
“Where is sleep for you if you part us?”
Mr. Pole flung up his arms. “I insist upon your going to bed. Why shouldn't I sleep? Child's folly!”
Though he spoke so, his brain was in strings to his timorous ticking nerves; and he thought that it would be well to propitiate her and get her to utter some words that would not haunt his pillow.
“My dear girl! it's not my doing. I like you. I wish you well and happy. Very fond of you;—blame circumstances, not me.” Then he murmured: “Are black spots on the eyelids a bad sign? I see big flakes of soot falling in a dark room.”
Emilia's mated look fleeted. “You come between us, sir, because I have no money?”