“It was the will of God,” he answered, sternly.
Then there was a silence between us, unbroken for many minutes. My father waited by my side—waited for my answer. The despair in my heart grew deeper.
“I cannot live here,” I said, “and remain ignorant.”
“You must give me your promise, child,” he said. “I have no power to tell you anything. You are young, and for you the terror of this thing will fade away.”
I answered him then with a sinking heart.
“I promise,” I said, faintly. “Only—I shall have to go away. I cannot live here. It would drive me mad.”
His cold lips touched mine as he rose.
“You must do,” he said, gravely, “what seems best to you. You are old enough to be the moulder of your own life. If you would be happier away, you must go. Only there is this to be remembered—I can understand that this particular place may have become distasteful to you. We are not going to live here any longer. You will find life at Eastminster larger and more absorbing. I shall be able to do more for you than I have ever done before.”
“It is not that,” I interrupted, wearily. “You know that it is not that. It is between us two.”