“Well, and I”—­Mr. Pole was pursuing in the gusty energy of his previous explanation.  His eyes met Emilia’s, gravely widening.  “I—­I’m very sorry,” he broke down:  “upon my soul, I am!”

The old man went to the mantel-piece and leaned his elbow before the glass.

Emilia’s bosom began to rise again.

She was startled to hear him laugh.  A slight melancholy little burst; and then a louder one, followed by a full-toned laughter that fell short and showed the heart was not in it.

“That boy Braintop!  What fun it was!” he said, looking all the while into the glass.  “Why can’t we live in peace, and without bother!  Is your candle alight, my dear?”

Emilia now thought that he was practising evasion.

“I will light it,” she said.

Mr. Pole gave a wearied sigh.  His head being still turned to the glass, he listened with a shrouded face for her movements:  saying, “Good night; good night; I’ll light my own.  There’s a dear!”

A shouting was in his ears, which seemed to syllable distinctly:  “If she goes at once, I’m safe.”

The sight of pain at all was intolerable to him; but he had a prophetic physical warning now that to witness pain inflicted by himself would be more than he could endure.

Emilia breathed a low, “Good night.”

“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?”

“I tell you it’s the boy’s only chance to make his hit now.”  Mr. Pole stamped his foot angrily.