“Of course not,” Wollaston responded, quietly. “But I give you my word of honor that I will make no claim upon you, that I will resign my position when you say the word, that I will keep the wretched, absurd secret until you yourself tell me that you wish for—an annulment of the fictitious tie between us.”
Maria sat still.
“You will not think of running away now, will you?” Wollaston said, and there was a caressing tone in his voice, as if he were addressing a child.
Maria did not reply at once.
“Tell me, Maria,” said Wollaston. “You will not think of doing such a desperate thing, which might ruin your whole life, when I have promised you that there is no reason?”
“No, I will not,” Maria said.
Wollaston rose and went nearer the electric light and looked at his watch. Then he came back. “Now, Maria, listen to me again,” he said. “I have some business in Ridgewood. I would not attend to it to-night but I have made an appointment with a man and I don't see my way out of breaking it. It is about a house which I want to rent. Mother doesn't like the boarding-house at Westbridge, and in fact our furniture is on the road and I have no place to store it, and I am afraid there are other parties who want to rent this house, that I shall lose it if I do not keep the appointment. But I have only a little way to go, and it will not keep me long. I can be back easily inside of half an hour. The next train to Amity stops here in about thirty-seven minutes. Now I want you to go into the waiting-room, and sit there until I come back. Can I trust you?”
“Yes,” said Maria, with a curious docility. She rose.
“You had better buy your ticket back to Amity, and when I come into the station, I think it is better that I should only bow to you, especially if others should happen to be there. Can I trust you to stay there and not get on board any train but the one which goes to Amity?”
“Yes, you can,” said Maria, with the same docility which was born of utter weariness and the subjection to a stronger will.