She withdrew a hand, and quickly laid it on his mouth.
"No—not to-night! We have been so full of death all these weeks! Oh! how
I want to tell Augustina!"
But she did not move. She could not tear herself from this comfortless room—this strange circle of melancholy light in which they sat—this beating of the rain in their ears as it dashed against the old and fragile casements.
"Oh! my dear," he said suddenly as he watched her, "I have grown so old and cross. And so poor! It has taken far more than the picture"—he pointed to the vacant space—"to carry me through this six months. My schemes have been growing—what motive had I for holding my hand? My friends have often remonstrated—the Jesuits especially. But at last I have had my way. I have far—far less to offer you than I had before."
He looked at her in a sad apology.
"I have a little money," she said shyly. "I don't believe you ever knew it before."
"Have you?" he said in astonishment.
"Just a tiny bit. I shall pay my way"—and she laughed happily. "Alan!—have you noticed—how well I have been getting on with the Sisters?—what friends Father Leadham and I made? But no!—you didn't notice anything. You saw me all en noir—all" she repeated with a mournful change of voice.
Then her eyelids fell, and she shivered.
"Oh! how you hurt—how you hurt!—last night."