"What was the circumstance?" asked Mr. Greatorex, for no one else liked to interrupt. "Why did you not speak of it at the time?"
"I could not speak of it then: I cannot speak of it fully now. It was of a nature so--so--so----." Bede came to a full stop: was he getting too agitated to speak, or could he not find a word? "What I would say is," he continued, in a firm low tone, rallying his nerves, "that it was sufficient to show me the facts must have been very much as Mr. Brown now states them."
"Then you only think that, Bede?"
"It is more than thinking. By all my hopes of Heaven, declare that Alletha Rye had not, and could not have had, anything to do with John's death," he added with emotion. "Father, you may believe me: I do know so much."
"But why can you not disclose what it is you know?"
"Because the time has not come for it. William, you are looking at me with reproachful eyes: if I could tell you more I would. The secret--so much as I know of it--has lain on me with a leaden weight: I would only have been too glad to disburthen myself of it at first, had it been possible."
"And what rendered it impossible?" questioned the clergyman.
"That which renders it so now. I may not speak; if I might, I should be far more thankful than any of you who hear me."
"Is it a secret of trust reposed in you?"
Bede paused. "Well, yes; in a degree. If I were to speak of what I know, I do not think there is one present"--and Bede's glance ran rapidly over each individual face--"but would hush it within his own breast, as I have done."