“His practice grows large, I suppose. You say Charles was preaching at Timberdale?” she added: “was Herbert Tanerton ill?”
“Yes. Ailing, that is. Your brother came over to take the duty for the day. Will you call at the Star to see the Squire, Lucy? You know how pleased he would be.”
“N—o,” she answered, her manner still more hesitating; and she seemed to be debating some matter mentally. “I—I would have come after dark, had Mrs. Todhetley been there. At least I think I would—I don’t know.”
“You can come all the same, Lucy.”
“But no—that would not have done,” she went on to herself, in a half-whisper. “I might have been seen. It would never have done to risk it. The truth is, Johnny, I ought to see Mrs. Todhetley on a matter of business. Though even if she were here, I do not know that I might dare to see her. It is—not exactly my own business—and—and mischief might come of it.”
“Is it anything I can say to her for you?”
“I—think—you might,” she returned slowly, pausing, as before, between her words. “I know you are to be trusted, Johnny.”
“That I am. I wouldn’t forget a single item of the message.”
“I did not mean in that way. I shall have to entrust to you a private matter—a disagreeable secret. It is a long time that I have wanted to tell some of you; ever since last winter: and yet, now that the opportunity has come that I may do it, I scarcely dare. The Squire is hasty and impulsive, his son is proud; but I think I may confide in you, Johnny.”