“'The child is well and happy,' I told her. 'He's thinking nothing of yourself but what is good and kind,' I said.”
“God's peace rest on her! My darling! My wife!” said Pete solemnly. Then suddenly in another tone, “Do you know where she's buried?”
Philip hesitated. He had not foreseen this question. Where had been his head that he had never thought of it? But there was no going back now. He was compelled to go on. He must tell lie on lie. “Yes,” he faltered.
“Could you take me to the grave?”
Philip gasped; the sweat broke out on his forehead.
“Don't be freckened, sir,” said Pete; “I'm my own man again. Could you take me to my wife's grave?”
“Yes,” said Philip. He was in the rapids. He was on the edge of precipitation. He was compelled to go over. He made a blindfold plunge. Lie on lie; lie on lie!
“Then we'll start by the coach to-morrow,” said Pete.
Philip rose with rigid limbs. He had meant to tell one lie only, and already he had told many. Truly “a lie is a cripple;” it cannot stand alone. “Good night, Pete; I'll go home. I'm not well to-night.”
“We'll stop the coach at your aunt's gate in the morning,” said Pete.