"Do you imagine I stole the coat?" Freddy demanded, inwardly terrified, though he spoke haughtily, with an assumption of indignation.
"No, no," was the hasty response; "but I do imagine you know something about it. If you do, wouldn't it be better and—and straighter of you to own it, and—"
"But I don't! I know nothing about it!"
Freddy lied glibly. He had no intention of revealing his secret, having kept it so long. What good purpose would be gained by his speaking out now?
"Then I beg your pardon," Edwin said, looking distressed. "I was obliged to speak to you; I felt I ought. Of course, if you say you know nothing about the coat I must believe you. Good-night." He refrained from meeting the other's eyes as he spoke.
"Good-night," Freddy answered in a somewhat abashed tone, conscious that, as far as his cousin was concerned, he had lied in vain.
He felt exceedingly miserable, for Edwin had always shown him great consideration, smoothing his path for him at school, helping him with his lessons, and doing him many little, unobtrusive kindnesses. He admired Edwin, and was ambitious to be like him, whilst he realised that he never could he unless he was less selfish; and now the fact that he had told him a direct lie lay heavily upon his conscience. He could not recall ever having uttered a deliberate falsehood before.
"Oh, I am very wicked!" thought Freddy, as he knelt by his bed, after Edwin had left the room, to say his prayers. "How difficult it is to keep a secret; who would have thought that I should be obliged to tell a story? But I couldn't have told Edwin the truth; he would have considered me such a coward to have held my tongue so long. I see now I ought to have confessed that I had given away the coat. Poor Uncle Jo! I am sorry he has had to replace that ten pounds out of his own pocket. Oh, dear me, what mischief I have made! When I go home at Christmas I will tell father everything—that is, I think I will, and I will ask him to give Uncle Jo the money again."
Freddy was not in a fit state of mind to lift his heart in prayer, but his lips mechanically murmured the prayers he was accustomed to repeat every night, and then he got into bed; but it was a long, long time before he slept, for his conscience would not allow him to rest. Never—not even on the night after he had given away his uncle's old coat—had he felt so intensely wretched as he did now, for he seemed to be falling deeper into the mire of deception; he had never meant to be led into telling a lie, and his cheeks burned with shame at the remembrance of how, in reference to the missing coat, he had boldly declared, "I know nothing about it!"