‘My dear fellow, we shall always be glad to see you,’ the Vicar answered heartily. ‘It strikes me you are the kind of friend my son wants.’
CHAPTER XXXI.
WHY DON’T YOU TRUST ME?
That winter Sabbath was a dreary day for John Treverton. He walked home almost in silence, Laura wondering at his thoughtfulness, and speculating anxiously upon the possible reasons for this sudden change in his mood. Had this friend of the Clares brought him bad news? Yet how could that be? Must it not rather be that this meeting with an old acquaintance had recalled some painful period in that past life of which she knew so little?
‘That is my misfortune,’ she thought. ‘I am only half a wife while I am ignorant of all his old sorrows.’
She did not disturb her husband by questions of any kind, but walked quietly by his side through the wintry shrubberies, where the holly berries were gleaming in the mid-day sun, and the fearless robins fluttered from hawthorn to laurel.
‘I won’t come in to luncheon, dear,’ said John when they came to the hall door. ‘I feel a little dull and headachy, and I think it might do me good to lie down for an hour or two.’
‘Shall I come and read you to sleep, Jack?’
‘No, dear, I shall be better alone.’
‘Oh, Jack, why are you not frank with me?’ exclaimed his wife piteously. ‘I know there is something on your mind. Why don’t you trust me?’