‘Why don’t you go on?’ he asked, after a moment of thoughtful silence. ‘Why are you so distressed? Does this confidence, or secret, concern any of us?’
‘It concerns YOU—and I may not tell you what it is. That is why I am troubled.’
And again she clasped hands over her head, as if to subdue its throbbing.
He was thoughtful; and an expression appeared on his face, so like the one often seen on his father’s, that Madge, whose nerves were quickened by her pain, was startled. But he spoke kindly:
‘Have you told—or are you to tell—Aunt Hessy and Uncle Dick?’
‘No ... no ... no’ (this was like a moan). ‘I am not to tell them either—not now, that is. By-and-by, you shall all know—you first, Philip.... Don’t ask me any more questions. I wish I could have held my tongue altogether—it would have spared you pain, perhaps. But I could not do that. I thought you might blame me afterwards, and maybe misunderstand many things that I may do. There is no wrong meant to any one—no harm. You will see that, when it is explained.’
He rose slowly, and stood with his back to the fire, gazing at her.
‘Is not this foolish, Madge?’ he said sadly. ‘You see what a state you have got into already over a matter which I have no doubt appears to you innocent enough, and is very likely quite trifling in its consequences to me or any one, except yourself. I can see you are going to worry about it—I shall not—and I cannot guess why you should. At the same time, it does not please me to think that you should accept any confidence which you may not share with Aunt Hessy, if not with me.’
She looked at him with such sad eyes: no tears in them, but questioning him, as if inspired by some distant thought, as yet only half comprehended. Her voice, too, seemed to come from a distance.
‘I thought you would have trusted me, Philip. I hope you will, when you know that my mother has to do with this promise I have given.’