“Secrets, what?” He laughed, and went away again.
“That is the position,” she said quietly, when he was back on the terrace and busy with his carpentering. “I feel that I ought to help him to his heart’s desire—I feel now that I have no choice really. But I want you to advise me—to tell me what you think.”
“He oughtn’t to go,” said Mr. Dyke, once more touching, her arm. “It wouldn’t be fair to you.”
“Oh, me!” Her lips twitched, and for a moment her whole face seemed to be distorted, as if with a spasm of violent pain. “I mustn’t be allowed to count for a moment. No, leave me out of it altogether.”
“Emmie, dear. Emmie”; and Mr. Dyke kept his hand on her arm.
Quite quietly, without any convulsive movements of her throat or bosom, she had begun to cry. The tears flooded her eyes, rolled down her pale cheeks, and she looked through them towards the terrace while remaining absolutely still; so that no one up there who saw her rigid attitude could possibly guess what was happening. Presently, with furtive caution, she got out a handkerchief and dried her eyes.
“I have tried not to be selfish, dear Mr. Dyke—all along, you know. I claim no merit. For how could I be selfish, in such a case? Indeed his work and what the world says of him make up my life really. They are my life—that is, my pride and my joy. But one is weak. He himself is so much to me—so dreadfully much—so incredibly more, it always seems, than at the very beginning, when I was young—when we were both young. This time, it seems as if his going will be almost more than I can bear. It will seem like suicide if I bring it about, myself. In these last weeks I have been struggling with myself. Oh, dear Mr. Dyke, I have struggled in such terrible agony. I want him with me so dreadfully, and yet he wants to go away from me. And if he could do something big and splendid to wind up his career—well, I could never, never forgive myself if it was I who prevented him.”
Mr. Dyke was greatly perturbed.
“I said I wasn’t selfish,” she went on. “It is selfish, what I am doing now, pushing my burden on to you. But you are always so brave and so wise—and there is no one else that I can ask for counsel. Besides, you are his father. You have the right to be consulted—to decide. A much greater right than I—everybody would say.”
“If he goes,” said the old man, in a low voice, “I shall never see him again.”