"First tell me if you have seen the boy—young Millard?"
"Yes, I've seen him; he's happy enough now. I saw him go to Barbara; there seemed a perfect understanding between them in a moment. They trust each other so completely."
"They trust each other so completely," I replied mechanically. "Well—perhaps that is well. Now for my news, Barbara. What would you wish me to tell you?"
"The truth," she whispered, still looking at me intently.
I thought of the boy, with the brand of Cain upon him, who was at that moment doubtless holding the child of this Barbara in his arms, and whispering that he loved her; and she trusted him so completely! "You want the truth?" I responded with a smile. "Then I have no news for you."
She took me in her arms—there, in that quiet country lane; she spoke to me, as I knew, out of the depth of her great love for me. "The truth, Charlie—the truth to me, at least," she pleaded.
I saw that it had come once again to the parting of the ways for us, just as it had done twenty years before; I knew that for the boy's sake, and for the sake of the girl who loved him, I must again thrust myself out of life. For I must lie to this woman, who held me in her arms and pleaded for the truth. And in giving her that which she must for ever believe to be the truth, I must wound her again, as I had wounded her long ago. "You shall know the truth," I said slowly—"if you will promise to do what I ask. Promise."
"I will promise anything—and everything."
"I went away from you, meaning to kill Murray Olivant," I said, like one repeating a lesson. "You should know that I do not fail in such a matter. I have killed him." She clapped her hand upon my lips, and looked round her quickly; I took the hand, and drew it away, and kissed it, and went on with what I had to say. "All the world believes that he sails this morning for the Mediterranean; it is possible that the murder will not be discovered. That's the truth."
She clung to me, shuddering; she asked me in a whisper what it was that I wanted her to do.