“No, sir; we were to begin the New Testament after the holidays; for I had just gone over the grammar twice.”
“With mamma, of course?”
“Yes, sir.”
He helped himself to a cutlet, and as he poured the Harvey's sauce over it, it was plain to see that he was not thinking of what was before him, but employed in another and different direction. After a considerable pause he turned his eyes full upon me, and with a tone of far more serious import than he had yet used, said, “We 're not very long acquainted, Digby; but I have a trick of reading people through their faces, and I feel I can trust you.” He waited for some remark from me, but I made none, and he went on: “With an ordinary boy of your age,—indeed, I might go farther, and say with any other boy—I 'd not venture on the confidence I am now about to make; but a certain instinct tells me I run no danger in trusting you.”
“Is it a secret, sir?”
“Well, in one sense it is a secret; but why do you ask?”
“Because mamma told me to avoid secrets; to have none of my own, and know as little as I could of other people's.”
“An excellent rule in general, but there are cases where it will not apply: this is one of them, for here the secret touches your own family. You are aware that papa and mamma do not live together? Don't flush up, Digby; I 'm not going to say one word that could hurt you. It is for your benefit—I might say for your absolute safety—that I speak now. Your father has one of the noblest natures a man ever possessed; he is a prince in generosity, and the very soul of honor, and, except pride, I don't believe he has a fault. This same pride, however, leads him to fancy he can never do wrong; indeed, he does not admit that he ever made a mistake in his life, and, consequently, he does not readily forgive those to whom he imputes any disasters that befall him. Your mother's family are included in this condemned list,—I can't exactly say why; and for the same reason, or no reason, your mother herself. You must, therefore, take especial care that you never speak of one of these people.”
“And mamma?”
“Her name least of all. There may come a time—indeed, it is sure to come—when this difficulty can be got over; but any imprudence now—the smallest mistake—would destroy this chance. Of course it's very hard on you, my poor fellow, to be debarred from the very theme you 'd like best to dwell on; but when you know the danger—not merely danger, but the positive certainty of mischief—a chance word might bring about, I read you very ill, or you 'll profit by my warning.”