He stood for a moment like one stunned; then he took her roughly by the shoulders and twisted her round. She hid her face, and while he strove to drag her hands away he spoke brutally, because of his own terror.
"You're wrong—you don't know what you're talking about. Come now—look at me—speak to me—tell me."
She murmured behind her hands; he bent his head to listen. Then he got away from her and walked across to the fireplace, and stood there, beating his foot impatiently on the floor and biting his lips. Presently he came back to her and laid his hand on her shoulder, and spoke steadily:
"Now, look here—don't be silly—and don't give way. It'll be all right; you can take that from me, now, Moira; it'll be all right. You may be mistaken; I don't know anything about that; but in any case, it'll be all right. Do you understand?"
She shook her head in a dull, feeble sort of way, and he took her in his arms and soothed her, and kissed away her tears. Over and over again he impressed that upon her; it would be all right.
"Money or no money, we'll get married; it's only a little earlier than I meant—and no one can say a word against you then. I'm not a blackguard; I'll do the right thing. I'll get money from somewhere—from my father, if necessary; and I'll make him give me something to do—work of some sort."
"Soon?" she whispered.
"At once," he exclaimed. "I'll go down to-morrow; he's a good sort really, and he won't leave us in the lurch. There now"—he took her by the shoulders, and shook her rallyingly, and looked into her eyes—"the tears are gone—aren't they? That's right; give me a smile, if it's only an April one. And keep that in your mind clearly, my dear; it'll be all right."
Patience crept away upstairs noiselessly; when presently Moira came in, she saw the old woman seated in her chair as usual, with her eyes closed, and apparently asleep. But that night, when Moira lay wakeful—thinking long thoughts, and striving to look into a future that was dark and frightening, the door of her room was softly opened, and the old woman came in.
For a moment or two the queer-looking old figure in night array stood looking at the girl with a trembling lip; she was a little afraid to go near her. Then, stirred to tenderness by some understanding of the girl's desperate need, she set down her candle, and stretched out her thin arms; and with a cry Moira rose to meet her, and the two faces—the young and the old—the one of the woman with no experience, and the other of the woman who had learned so much—were bent together, and the kindly rain of tears fell from them and eased their hearts. There seemed no need for real words; it was the mere confused murmur of one woman to another, in a matter that only a woman could know and understand. Dawn, striking into the poor room, saw Moira sleeping in the old woman's arms, and Patience, cramped and tired, keeping watch with her, as she had done through the long night.