I hastened to obey her, and then I returned, to stand before her, anxious and sick at heart; but she pointed to the seat at her side.
“Antony,” she said, after some time had elapsed, “why did you not tell me this—this piteous story at once? Was I not worthy of your confidence?”
“Yes, yes,” I said; “but how could I tell you? I dared not.”
“Dared not?”
“I felt that it would be so cowardly and mean to tell tales of Mr Lister, and I hoped that you might find out yourself that he was not so good a man as you thought.”
She drew a long, deep breath.
“But you might have caused me the deepest misery, Antony,” she said.
“But what could I do?” I cried passionately. “I wanted to tell you, and then I felt that I could not; and I talked to Mr Hallett about it, and he said, too, that I could not speak.”
“You must tell me now, Antony,” she said, as she turned away her face. “Tell me all.”
I drew a breath full of relief, and proceeded to tell her all, referring to Linny’s first adventure and Revitts’ injuries, and going on to all I knew of Linny’s elopement, to the end.