Instantly there flashed into her mind the story Martha had brought in from the street.  “He has heard it,” she said to herself, “but he does not believe it, and he comes to comfort me.  I cannot tell the truth without betraying Lucy.”

She drew a step farther from him.

“You refer to what the people about us call a mystery—­that poor little child upstairs?” she said slowly, all her self-control in her voice.  “You think it is a torture for me to care for this helpless baby?  It is not a torture; it is a joy—­all the joy I have now.”  She stood looking at him as she spoke with searching eyes, wondering with the ever-questioning doubt of those denied love’s full expression.

“But I know—­”

“You know nothing—­nothing but what I have told you; and what I have told you is the truth.  What I have not told you is mine to keep.  You love me too well to probe it any further, I am sorry for the captain.  He has an iron will and a rough exterior, but he has a warm heart underneath.  If you see him before I do give him my deepest sympathy.  Now, my dear friend, I must go back to Archie; he is restless and needs me.  Good-night,” and she held out her hand and passed out of the room.

She was gone before he could stop her.  He started forward as her hand touched the door, but she closed it quickly behind her, as if to leave no doubt of her meaning.  He saw that she had misunderstood him.  He had intended to talk to her of Archie’s father, and of Lucy, and she had supposed he had only come to comfort her about the village gossip.

For some minutes he stood like one dazed.  Then a feeling of unspeakable reverence stole over him.  Not only was she determined to suffer alone and in silence, but she would guard her sister’s secret at the cost of her own happiness.  Inside that sacred precinct he knew he could never enter; that wine-press she intended to tread alone.

Then a sudden indignation, followed by a contempt of his own weakness took possession of him.  Being the older and stronger nature, he should have compelled her to listen.  The physician as well as the friend should have asserted himself.  No woman could be well balanced who would push away the hand of a man held out to save her from ruin and misery.  He would send Martha for her again and insist upon her listening to him.

He started for the door and stopped irresolute.  A new light broke in upon his heart.  It was not against himself and her own happiness that she had taken this stand, but to save her father’s and her sister’s name.  He knew how strong was her devotion to her duty, how blind her love for Lucy, how sacred she held the trust given to her by her dead father.  No; she was neither obstinate nor quixotic.  Hers was the work of a martyr, not a fanatic.  No one he had ever known or heard of had borne so great a cross or made so noble a sacrifice.  It was like the deed of some grand old saint, the light of whose glory had shone down the ages.  He was wrong, cruelly wrong.  The only thing left for him to do was to wait.  For what he could not tell.  Perhaps God in his mercy would one day find the way.