"Is that all you have to say to me?" I asked.
"Not quite all. I am most anxious that while I am away, although you are still kept in the dark, you should believe in me; I want you to trust me and also my friend. Believe that his intentions are honourable, are kind, are just, and that we are acting as we are doing both for your sake and for your mother's and for Miss Mullins'. I know that I ask quite a big thing, Miss Wickham; it is this—I ask you to trust me in the dark."
"It is a big thing and difficult," I replied.
"Your mother does."
"That is true, but mother would trust any one who had been as kind to her as you have been."
"Then will you trust me because your mother does? will you believe that when I come back I shall be in a position to set all her fears and yours also absolutely at rest? I am certain of this, I go away with a hope which I dare not express more fully; I shall come back trusting that that hope may be fulfilled in all its magnificence for myself. I cannot say more at present. I long to, but I dare not. Will you trust me? will you try to understand? Why, what is the matter?"
He turned and looked at me abruptly. Quick sobs were coming from my lips. I suddenly and unexpectedly lost my self-control.
"I shall be all right in a minute," I said. "I have gone through much to-day; it is—it is on account of mother. Don't—don't speak for a moment."
He did not, he stood near me. When I had recovered he said gently—
"Give me your promise. I wish I could say more, much, much more, but will you trust me in the dark?"