There was no response in words, but she breathed hard, every shrill respiration fraught with dread.
"Flower of the Dusk," he pleaded, "may I go?"
"Yes," she sobbed. "I have no right to say no."
"Dear, don't cry." The old man's voice was as tender as though she had been the merest child. "The dream is coming true at last—that you can walk and I can see. Think what it will mean to us both. And oh, Barbara, think what it will be to me to see the words your dear mother wrote to you—to know, from her own hand, that she died loving me."
Systematic Lying
Barbara suddenly turned cold. The hand that seemingly had clutched her heart was tearing unmercifully at the tender fibre now. He would read her mother's letter and know that his beloved Constance was in love with another; that she took her own life because she could bear it no more. He would know that they were poor, that the house was shabby, that the pearls and laces and tapestries had all been sold. He would know, inevitably, that Barbara's needle had earned their living for many years; he would see, in the dining-room, the pitiful subterfuge of the bit of damask, one knife and fork of solid silver, one fine plate and cup. Above all, he would know that Barbara herself had systematically lied to him ever since she could talk at all. And he had a horror of a lie.
"Don't," she cried, weakly. "Don't go."
"You promised Barbara," he said, gently. Then he added, proudly: "The Norths never go back on their spoken or written word. It is in the blood to be true and you have promised. I shall go to-morrow."