“Do you mean that you heard her speaking?”
“No, miss—crying.”
“Where was she crying?”
“In the master’s study.”
“How did you come to hear her?”
“Am I to understand, miss, that you suspect me of listening?”
Is a lie told by a look as bad as a lie told by words? I looked shocked at the bare idea of suspecting a respectable person of listening. The cook’s sense of honor was satisfied; she readily explained herself: “I was passing the door, miss, on my way upstairs.”
Here my discoveries came to an end. It was certainly possible that an afflicted member of my father’s congregation might have called on him to be comforted. But he sees plenty of afflicted ladies, without looking worried and anxious after they leave him. Still suspecting something out of the ordinary course of events, I waited hopefully for our next meeting at supper-time. Nothing came of it. My father left me by myself again, when the meal was over. He is always courteous to his daughters; and he made an apology: “Excuse me, Helena, I want to think.”
.......
I went to bed in a vile humor, and slept badly; wondering, in the long wakeful hours, what new rebuff I should meet with on the next day.