"I hope it will stay till to-morrow—till I get out of this house," she replied, and went to her own room without a good-night kiss, leaving her mother hurt and dismayed.
A few moments later Clarke knocked at the sitting-room door. "Julia, here is a message I want you to give to Viola."
As she opened to him he faced her, pale and tremulous, all his anger, all his resolution gone. "She was unjust to me," he said, humbly; "take her this." He extended a folded leaf of paper in a hand that partook of the pallor of his face.
"You poor boy," she exclaimed, her heart wrung by his suffering, "you mustn't mind what she said—it was only a girlish pet."
"Mother," he cried, passionately, "to lose her now would kill me. She is my hope, my stay, my God! She has stabbed me to the heart to-night. Did she mean it? She can't mean it!"
She patted him on the shoulder. "Go to bed, laddie, it's only a mood. She will be all sunshine to-morrow. It's only a reaction from a wearisome day—be patient and don't worry."
"She tortured me deliberately," he went on, wildly. "She let that man take her hand. She smiled at him in a way that set my brain on fire. I tried to be calm. I didn't intend to speak harshly, but I wanted to kill him when he said good-night to her. May God eternally damn his soul if he tries to steal her from me!"
She recoiled from his fury. "Tony! What are you saying?"
"I mean it! Do you think I will submit to his treachery? I told him she was mine, and yet he took her hand—he leaned to her—he looked into her face." His eyes blazed with such wild light that the gentle woman shrank and shivered.
"Tony, you are letting your imagination run away with you. Go to bed this instant," she commanded, in a voice that trembled.