"It was long ago."

"It is for him the girl is searching. It is he who was her brother's enemy; it is----"

She held my hand and looked around her fearfully.

"Be careful," she said, softly. "The girl may have returned. It is not a thing to be even whispered about. Be silent, and keep your own counsel."

Then I covered my face with my hands, and my throat was choked with hard, dry sobs. The thing which I had most feared had come to pa.s.s. The scene in the church rose up again before my eyes. I saw the fierce gestures of a dying man, the froth on his lips, as he struggled with the words of denunciation, the partial utterance of which had killed him. With a little shiver I recognized how narrow had been my father's escape. For I could no longer have any real doubts. It was my father who had killed Stephen Berdenstein.

CHAPTER XVII

A CONFERENCE OR TWO

In the wood half-way between the Yellow House and home I met Bruce Deville. I should have hurried on, but it was impossible to pa.s.s him. He had a way of standing which took up the whole path.

"Miss Ffolliot," he said, "may I walk home with you?"

"It is only a few steps," I answered. "Please don't trouble."

"It will be a pleasure," he said, st.u.r.dily.

I looked at him; such a faint, acrimonious smile.

"Haven't you been almost polite enough for one day?" I asked.

He seemed to be genuinely surprised at my ill-humor.

"You mean, I suppose, because I walked home with that girl," he answered. "I did so on your account only. I wanted to know what she was going to do."

"I did not require any explanation," I remarked.

He seemed perplexed. Men are such idiots. In the end he ignored my speech.

"I wanted to see you," he began, thoughtfully. "I have been to call at the Vicarage; your sister would not let me see your father."

"I am not surprised at that," I answered; "you do not realize how ill he is."

"Have you had a doctor to see him?" he asked.

"No; he will not let me send for one," I answered. "Yet I know he is in need of medical advice. It is very hard to know what to do for the best."

"If I may advise you," he said, slowly, "I should strongly recommend your doing exactly as your father wishes. He knows best what is well for him. Only tell him this from me. Tell him that change will be his best medicine. I heard yesterday that the Bishop wished him to go to Eastminster at once. Let him get an invalid carriage and go there to-morrow. It will be better for him and safer."

I stopped short, and laid my hand upon his wrist. I tried to make him look at me; but he kept his face turned away.

"You are not thinking of his health only," I said; "there is something else. I know a good deal, you need not fear. You can speak openly. It is that girl."

He did not deny it. He looked down at me, and his strong, harsh face was softened in a peculiar manner. I knew that he was very sorry for me, and there was a lump in my throat.

"What is she going to do?" I asked, trembling. "What does she suspect?"

"Nothing definite," he answered, quickly. "She is bewildered. She is going to stay here and watch. I am afraid that she will send for a detective. It is not that she has any suspicion as to your father. It is you whom she distrusts--you and Adelaide. She thinks that you are trying to keep your father from her. She thinks that he could tell her--what she wants to know. That is all."

"It is quite enough!" I cried, pa.s.sionately. "If only we could get her to go away. I am afraid of her."

We were standing by the gate, I held out my hand to him; he grasped it warmly.

"Remember my advice to your father," he said. "I shall do my utmost to prevent the girl from taking any extreme measures. Fortunately she considers herself under some obligation to me."

"You saved her life," I remarked, thoughtfully.

"Yes, I am sorry for it," he added, curtly. "Goodbye."

He turned away and I hurried into the house. Alice was nowhere about. I went softly into my father's room. He was dozing, and as I stood over him and saw how pale and thin his face was, my heart grew sick and sorrowful. The tears stood in my eyes. After all, it was a n.o.ble face; I longed to have that barrier broken down between us, to hear the truth from his own lips, and declare myself boldly on his side--even if it were the side of the outlaw and the sinner. As I stood there, he opened his eyes. They were dull and glazed.

"You are ill, father," I said, softly, "you will get worse if you will not have advice. Let me go and bring the doctor?"

"You will do no such thing," he answered, firmly. "I am better--much better."

"You do not look it," I answered, doubtfully.

"Never mind, I am better, I feel stronger. Where is that girl? Has she gone away?"

I was glad he asked me the question outright. It was one step forward towards the more complete confidence which I so greatly desired. I shook my head.

"No, she has not gone away. She seems to have no idea of going. She has found a friend here."

"A friend?"

"Yes; she has met Mr. Deville before. He saved her life in Switzerland."

He tossed about for a moment or two with closed eyes and frowning face.

"You have seen her again, then?" he muttered.

"Yes; I met her this afternoon."

"Where?"

I hesitated. I had not wished to mention my visit to Adelaide Fortress, at any rate until he was stronger; but he saw my reluctance and forced me to answer him.

"At the Yellow House," I said, softly.

He gave a little gasp. At first I was afraid that he was going to be angry with me. As it chanced, the fact of my disobedience did not seem to occur to him.