“If you will pardon me for saying it, Mr. Houston, there is one other, whom you could, and, in my opinion, should trust with this.”
Houston looked at her inquiringly.
“I mean Miss Gladden,” was her response.
“I see you have given her no hint,” he said, smiling.
“Not a word,” Lyle answered, “it was not my place to do so; you know best what you wish her to know, and when, but I think you ought to confide in her fully, for she is a noble woman; you could trust her, and she would help you.”
“I realize that,” Houston replied, “but I did not wish her to be worried by this; there will probably be more or less danger before it is all over, and I thought she would be happier not to know.”
Lyle lifted her beautiful head proudly, with a gesture so full of grace, Houston could not but observe it.
“If I were in her place,” she said, slowly and firmly, and with peculiar emphasis, “and my lover were in any danger, I would far rather know it, and give him my help, if possible, my prayers and sympathy at any rate, than to remain in ignorance, and perhaps unconsciously hinder him.”
Houston looked at Lyle in astonishment; was this clear-headed woman the untutored, untrained child of the mountains whom he had always regarded with a tender, chivalric regard, almost akin to pity?
Lyle continued; “Do not think that even if you refrain from telling her this secret, she will not know that it exists; she will be quick to see indications of a secret understanding between yourself and others,––between yourself and myself, even,––in which she has no share. Will that seem to her like confidence, or even justice, on your part. It will be better for her, for you and for me that you tell her your plans fully, for you will find her strong and true and brave, whatever the end shall prove.”