“The instinctive want of faith, and clutching at a sin to keep myself from sinking,” said she bitterly. “No! How could I? He knew nothing of Frederick. To put myself to rights in his good opinion, was I to tell him the secrets of our family, involving, as they seemed to do, the chances of poor Frederick’s entire exculpation? Fred’s last words had been to enjoin me to keep his visit a secret from all. You see, papa never told, even you. No! I could bear the shame—I thought I could at least. I did bear it. Mr. Thornton has never respected me since.”
“He respects you, I am sure,” said Mr. Bell. “To be sure it accounts a little for——. But he always speaks of you with regard and esteem, though now I understand certain reservations in his manner.”
Margaret did not speak; did not attend to what Mr. Bell had to say; lost all sense of it. By-and-by she said:
“Will you tell me what you refer to about ‘reservations’ in his manner of speaking to me?”
“Oh! simply he has annoyed me by not joining in my praises of you. Like an old fool, I thought that every one would have the same opinion as I had; and he evidently could not agree with me. I was puzzled at the time. But he must be perplexed, if the affair has never been in the least explained. There was first your walking out with a young man in the dark——”
“But it was my brother!” said Margaret, surprised.
“True. But how was he to know that?”
“I don’t know. I never thought anything of that kind,” said Margaret, reddening, and looking hurt and offended.
“And perhaps he never would, but for the lie,—which, under the circumstances, I maintain, was necessary.”
“It was not. I know it now. I bitterly repent it.”