Sadly and slowly did the brother and sister make their way home to Flixworth Manor, neither venturing a word for some miles. At last Julia, drawing as close to her brother as possible, said in a voice of agitated entreaty, “Walter, dear Walter, you must promise me one thing.”
“What is that?” he asked gloomily.
She noticed his manner, and cried, “O Walter, you must; indeed you must.”
“Must what?” he asked.
“Oh, you must promise me not to breathe to any one at home—not to my father, not to my aunt, not to any one at all, and least of all to Amos—who it was that—that met with this sad accident to-day. Will you promise me?” Walter was silent for a minute or more. “Oh!” she exclaimed passionately, “you will, you must; I shall be miserable if you do not.”
“But,” said her brother, “will this be right? ought you not to go to your poor wretched husband? Perhaps he is dying. I am sure Amos would say that you ought.”
“Never mind what Amos would say,” she exclaimed angrily; “I have not given up my conscience into his keeping. It’s of no use; I have suffered enough for him (you know who I mean) and from him already. He can’t be better cared for than he will be at the hospital. If I were to go to him he would only swear at me.”
“But it will be sure to come out and be generally known who he is, sooner or later,” her brother replied; “and what good can be done by concealing it now?”
“Only the good of doing your poor sister a kindness,” she said bitterly and pettishly. “But I don’t see why it need come out; and it will be time for it to be known at home when it does come out.”
“Well,” said Walter reluctantly, “I promise—”