CHAPTER XI
THE GATHERING OF THE CLOUD
From my low chair I watched my father cross the room. So far as Icould see there was no change in him. He came over to my side and tookmy hand with an air of anxious kindliness. Then he stooped down, andhis lips touched my forehead.
"You are better, Kate?" he inquired, quietly.
"Quite well," I answered.
He looked at me thoughtfully, and asked a few questions about myillness, touched upon his own visit to the Bishop, and the dignitywhich had been offered to him. Then after a short pause, during whichmy heart beat fiercely, he came and sat down by my side.
"Kate! You are strong enough to listen to me while I speak just for amoment or two upon a very painful subject."
"Yes," I whispered. "Go on."
"I gather from what Alice tells me that you have already shown a verywise discretion--in a certain matter. You have already alluded toit, it seems, and she has told you all that is known. Something, ofcourse, must have at once occurred to you--I mean the fact that I havenot thought it well to disclose the fact that you and I together metthat unfortunate man on the common, and that he asked me the way tothe Yellow House."
"I was bewildered when I found that you had not mentioned it," Ifaltered. "I do not understand. Please tell me."
He looked steadily into my eyes. There was not the slightestdisquietude in his still, stern face. My nervousness did not affecthim at all. He seemed to feel no embarrassment.
"It is a matter," he said, slowly, "to which I gave a good deal ofthought at the time. I came to the conclusion that for my own sake andfor the sake of another that the fact of that meeting had better notbe known. There are things concerning it which I may not tell you. Icannot offer you as I would like my whole confidence. Only I can saythis, my disclosure of the fact of our having met the man could havedone not one iota of good. It could not possibly have suggested to anyone either a clue as to the nature of the crime or to the criminalhimself, and bearing in mind other things of which you are happier toremain ignorant, silence became to me almost a solemn duty. It becameat any rate an absolute necessity. For the sake of others as well asfor my own sake I held my peace. Association direct or indirect withsuch a crime would have been harmful alike to me and to the personwhom he desired to visit. So I held my peace, and I require of you,Kate, that you take my pledged word as to the necessity for thissilence, and that you follow my example. I desire your solemn promisethat no word of that meeting shall ever pass your lips."
I did not answer. With his eyes fixed upon my face he waited. I laidmy hand upon his arm.
"Father, in the church, did you see his face? Did you hear what he wassaying?"
He did not shrink from me. He looked into my white, eager face withoutany sign of fear or displeasure.
"Yes," he answered, gravely.
"Was it--was it--you to whom he spoke?" I cried.
There was a short silence.
"I cannot answer you that question, Kate," he said.
I grasped his hand feverishly. There was a red livid mark afterwardswhere my nails had dug into his wrist.
"Father, would you have me go mad?" I moaned. "You know that man. Youknew who he was! You knew what he wanted--at the Yellow House."
"It is true," he answered.
"In the church I could have touched--could have touched him, he wasso near to me--there was a terrible light in his face, his eyes wereflaming upon you. He was like a man who suddenly understands. Hecalled 'Judas,' and he pointed--at you."
"He was mad," my father answered, with a terrible calmness. "Every onecould see that he was mad."
"Mad!" I caught at the thought. I repeated the word to myself, andforced my recollection backwards with a little shudder to those fewhorrible moments. After all was there any hope that this might be theinterpretation? My father's voice broke in upon my thoughts.
"I do not wish to harp upon what must be a terribly painful subjectto you, Kate. I only want your promise, you must take my word foreverything else."
I looked at him long and steadily. If the faces of men are in anyway an index to their lives, my father's should rank high--highindeed. His countenance was absolutely unruffled. There was not asingle shadow of fear there, or passion of any sort; only a delicatethoughtfulness tempered with that quiet dignity which seemed almostan inseparable characteristic of his. I took his hands in mine andclasped them fervently.
"Father," I cried, "give me your whole confidence. I will promiseall that you desire, only let me know everything. I have thoughtsometimes--terrible thoughts--I cannot help them. They torment menow--they will torment me always. I know so much--tell me a littlemore. My lips shall be sealed. I mean it! Only----"
He raised his hand softly, but the words died upon my lips.
"I have nothing to tell you, child," he said, quietly. "Put thatthought away from you forever. The burden which I bear is upon my ownshoulders only. God forbid that even the shadow of it should darkenyour young life."
"I am not afraid of any knowledge," I cried. "It is ignorance of whichI am afraid. I can bear anything except these horrible, namelessfears against which I have no power. Why don't you trust me? I am oldenough. I am wise enough. What you tell me shall be as sacred as God'sword to me."
He shook his head without any further response. I choked back thetears from my eyes.
"There is some mystery, here," I cried. "We are all enveloped init. What does it mean? Why did we come here?"
"We came here by pure accident," my father answered. "We came herebecause the curacy was offered to me; and I was glad to take anythingwhich relieved me of my duties at Belchester."
"It was fate!--a cruel fate!" I moaned.
"It was the will of God," he answered, sternly.
Then there was a silence between us, unbroken for many minutes. Myfather waited by my side--waited for my answer. The despair in myheart grew deeper.
"I cannot live here," I said, "and remain ignorant."
"You must give me your promise, child," he said. "I have no power totell you anything. You are young, and for you the terror of this thingwill fade away."
I answered him then with a sinking heart.
"I promise," I said, faintly. "Only--I shall have to go away. I cannotlive here. It would drive me mad."
His cold lips touched mine as he rose.
"You must do," he said, gravely, "what seems best to you. You areold enough to be the moulder of your own life. If you would behappier away, you must go. Only there is this to be remembered--I canunderstand that this particular place may have become distasteful toyou. We are not going to live here any longer. You will find life atEastminster larger and more absorbing. I shall be able to do more foryou than I have ever done before."
"It is not that," I interrupted, wearily. "You know that it is notthat. It is between us two."
He was silent. A sudden change stole into his face. His lipsquivered. An inexpressible sorrow gleamed for a moment in his darkeyes. He bent his head. Was that a tear that fell? I fancied so.
I took his hand and soothed it.
"Father, you will tell me, won't you?" I whispered. "I shall notmind. I will be brave, whatever dreadful things I may have toknow. Let me share the burden."
For a moment I thought that he was yielding. He covered his face withhis hands and remained silent. But when he looked up I saw that themoment of weakness had passed. He rose to his feet.
"Good night, Kate," he said, quietly. "Thank you for your promise."
My heart sank. I returned his kiss coldly. He left me without anotherword.