"But—I had rather you did not. I prefer—not to trouble you."
"Pardon me, Lucy. I cannot suffer you to go alone."
It was a calm reply, quietly spoken. There were no fine phrases of its being "no trouble," that the "trouble was a pleasure," as others might indulge in. Fine phrases from them! from the one to the other! Neither could have spoken them.
Lucy said no more, and they walked on side by side in silence, both unpleasantly self-conscious. Lionel's face had resumed its strange expression of care. Lucy had observed it when she came up to him; she observed it still.
"You look as though you had some great trouble upon you, Mr. Verner," she said, after a while.
"Then I look what is the truth. I have one, Lucy."
"A heavy one?" asked Lucy, struck with his tone.
"A grievously heavy one. One that does not often fall to the lot of man."
"May I know it?" she timidly said.
"No, Lucy. If I could speak it, it would only give you pain; but it is of a private nature. Possibly it may be averted; it is at present a suspected dread, not a confirmed one. Should it become confirmed, you will learn it in common with all the world."