"He is very much better," observed Mr. Ashley. "All that listless apathy is going."
"Oh yes. He is all but cured."
"What was it, William?"
William was taken by surprise. He did not answer, and Mr. Ashley repeated the question.
"It is his secret, sir, not mine."
"You must confide it to me," said Mr. Ashley, in his tone of quiet firmness. "You know me, William. When I promise that neither it nor the fact of its having been disclosed to me, shall ever escape me, directly or indirectly, to any living person, you know that you may depend upon me."
He paused. William did not speak: he was debating with himself what he ought to do.
"William, it is a relief that I must have. Since my suspicions, that there was a secret, were confirmed, I cannot tell you what improbable fancies and fears have not run riot in my brain. For prostration so excessive to have overtaken him, one would almost think he had been guilty of murder, or some other unaccountable crime. You must relieve my mind: which, in spite of my uncontrollable fancies, I do not doubt the truth will do. It will make no difference to any one; it will only be an additional bond between myself and you; and you, my almost son."
William's duty rose before him, clear and distinct. But when he spoke, it was in a whisper.
"He loved Anna Lynn."