“Answer me truthfully, dearest. Was there no further reason?”
She paused; and in her hesitation I detected a desire to deceive, even though I loved her so fondly.
“Yes, there was,” she admitted at last, bowing her head.
“Explain it.”
“Alas! I cannot. It is a secret.”
“A secret from me?”
“Yes, dear heart!” she cried, clutching my hands with a wild movement. “Even from you.”
My face must have betrayed the annoyance that I felt, for the next second she hastened to soften her reply by saying:
“At present it is impossible for me to explain. Think! Poor Mary is lying upstairs. I can say nothing at present—nothing—you understand.”
“Then afterwards—after the burial—you will tell me what you know?”