CHAPTER XXVI. THE EVIL DRAWS NIGHER.
I rose early, and went to my uncle's room. He was awake, but complained of headache. I took him a cup of tea, and at his request left him.
About noon Martha brought me a letter where I sat alone in the drawing-room. I carried it to my uncle. He took it with a trembling hand, read it, and fell back with his eyes closed. I ran for brandy.
“Don't be frightened, little one,” he called after me. “I don't want anything.”
“Won't you tell me what is the matter, uncle?” I said, returning. “Is it necessary I should be kept ignorant?”
“Not at all, my little one.”
“Don't you think, uncle,” I dared to continue, forgetting in my love all difference of years, “that, whatever it be that troubles us, it must be better those who love us should know it? Is there some good in a secret after all?”
“None, my darling,” he answered. “The thing that made me talk to you so against secrets when you were a child, was, that I had one myself—one that was, and is, eating the heart out of me. But that woman shall not know and you be ignorant! I will not have a secret with her!—Leave me now, please, little one.”
I rose at once.
“May I take the letter with me, uncle?” I asked.