He put his hand over his eyes, and said slowly,—
“You belong to a world, little one, of which you know next to nothing. More than Satan have fallen as lightning from heaven!”
He lay silent so long that I was constrained to speak again.
“Well, uncle dear,” I said, “are you not going to tell me?”
“I cannot,” he answered.
There was absolute silence for, I should think, about twenty minutes. I could not and would not urge him to speak. What right had I to rouse a killing effort! He was not bound to tell me anything! But I mourned the impossibility of doing my best for him, poor as that best might be.
“Do not think, my darling,” he said at last, and laid his hand on my head as I knelt beside him, “that I have the least difficulty in trusting you; it is only in telling you. I would trust you with my eternal soul. You can see well enough there is something terrible to tell, for would I not otherwise laugh to scorn the threat of that bad woman? No one on the earth has so little right to say what she knows of me. Yet I do share a secret with her which feels as if it would burst my heart. I wish it would. That would open the one way out of all my trouble. Believe me, little one, if any ever needed God, I need him. I need the pardon that goes hand in hand with righteous judgment, the pardon of him who alone can make lawful excuse.”
“May God be your judge, uncle, and neither man nor woman!”
“I do not think you would altogether condemn me, little one, much as I loathe myself—terribly as I deserve condemnation.”
“Condemn you, uncle! I want to know all, just to show you that nothing can make the least difference. If you were as bad as that bad woman says, you should find there was one of your own blood who knew what love meant. But I know you are good, uncle, whatever you may have done.”