“Can you, can you be angry with him for loving me?”

“Deceiving you,” returned Mr. Pole; “that’s what it is.  And I tell you, I’d rather fifty times the fellow had deceived me.  Anything rather than that he should take advantage of a girl.”

“Wilfrid loves me and would die for me,” said Emilia.

“Now, let me tell you the fact,” Mr. Pole came to a halt, fronting her.  “My son Wilfrid Pole may be in love, as he says, here and there, but he is engaged to be married to a lady of title.  I have his word—­his oath.  He got near a thousand pounds out of my pocket the other day on that understanding.  I don’t speak about the money, but—­now—­it’s a lump—­others would have made a nice row about it—­but is he a liar?  Is he a seducing, idling, vagabond dog?  Is he a contemptible scoundrel?”

“He is my lover,” said Emilia.

She stood without changing a feature; as in a darkness, holding to the one thing she was sure of.  Then, with a sudden track of light in her brain:  “I know the mistake,” she said.  “Pardon him.  He feared to offend you, because you are his father, and he thought I might not quite please you.  For, he loves me.  He has loved me from the first moment he saw me.  He cannot be engaged to another.  I could bring him from any woman’s side.  I have only to say to myself—­he must come to me.  For he loves me!  It is not a thing to doubt.”

Mr. Pole turned and recommenced his pacing with hasty steps.  All the indications of a nervous tempest were on him.  Interjecting half-formed phrases, and now and then staring at Emilia, as at an incomprehensible object, he worked at his hair till it lent him the look of one in horror at an apparition.

“The fellow’s going to marry Lady Charlotte Chillingworth, I tell you.  He has asked my permission.  The infernal scamp! he knew it pleased me.  He bled me of a thousand pounds only the other day.  I tell you, he’s going to marry Lady Charlotte Chillingworth.”

Emilia received this statement with a most perplexing smile.  She shook her head.  “He cannot.”

“Cannot?  I say he shall, and must, and in a couple of months, too!”

The gravely sceptical smile on Emilia’s face changed to a blank pallor.

“Then, you make him, sir—­you?”

“He’ll be a beggar, if he don’t.”

“You will keep him without money?”

Mr. Pole felt that he gazed on strange deeps in that girl’s face.  Her voice had the wire-like hum of a rising wind.  There was no menace in her eyes:  the lashes of them drooped almost tenderly, and the lips were but softly closed.  The heaving of the bosom, though weighty, was regular:  the hands hung straight down, and were open.  She looked harmless; but his physical apprehensiveness was sharpened by his nervous condition, and he read power in her:  the capacity to concentrate all animal and mental vigour into one feeling—­this being the power of the soul.