This etext was produced by Pat Castevans <patcat@ctnet.net>
and David Widger <widger@cecomet.net>
By George Meredith
It was midnight. Mr. Pole had appeased his imagination with a chop, andwas trying to revive the memory of his old after-theatre night carousesby listening to a song which Emilia sang to him, while he sipped at asmoking mixture, and beat time on the table, rejoiced that he was warmfrom head to foot at last.
"That's a pretty song, my dear," he said. "A very pretty song. It doesfor an old fellow; and so did my supper: light and wholesome. I'm an oldfellow; I ought to know I've got a grown-up son and grown-up daughters.I shall be a grandpa, soon, I dare say. It's not the thing for me to goabout hearing glees. I had an idea of it. I'm better here. All I wantis to see my children happy, married and settled, and comfortable!"
Emilia stole up to him, and dropped on one knee: "You love them?"
"I do. I love my girls and my boy. And my brandy-and-water, do you meanto say, you rogue?"
"And me?" Emilia looked up at him beseechingly.
"Yes, and you. I do. I haven't known you long, my dear, but I shall beglad to do what I can for you. You shall make my house your home as longas you live; and if I say, make haste and get married, it's only justthis: girls ought to marry young, and not be in an uncertain position."
"Am I worth having?"
"To be sure you are! I should think so. You haven't got a penny; but,then, you're not for spending one. And"—Mr. Pole nodded to right andleft like a man who silenced a host of invisible logicians, urging thisand that—"you're a pleasant companion, thrifty, pretty, musical: byJingo! what more do they want? They'll have their song and chop athome."
"Yes; but suppose it depends upon their fathers?"
"Well, if their fathers will be fools, my dear, I can't help 'em. Weneedn't take 'em in a lump: how about the doctor? I'll see him to-morrowmorning, and hear what he has to say. Shall I?"
Mr. Pole winked shrewdly.
"You will not make my heart break?" Emilia's voice sounded one low chordas she neared the thing she had to say.
"Bless her soul!" the old merchant patted her; "I'm not the sort of manfor that."
"Nor his?"
"His?" Mr. Pole's nerves became uneasy in a minute, at the scent of amystification. He dashed his handkerchief over his forehead, repeating:"His? Break a man's heart! I? What's the meaning of that? For God'ssake, don't bother me!"
Emilia was still kneeling before him, eyeing him with a shadowedsteadfast air.
"I say his, because his heart is in mine. He has any pain that hurtsme."
"He may be tremendously in love," observed Mr. Pole; "but he seems adeuced soft sort of a doctor! What's his name?"
"I love Wilfrid."
The merchant appeared to be giving ear to her, long after the words hadbeen uttered, while there