If the young face had been less earnest, the gray eyes less entreating, Horace would have laughed despite his anger.
"Of course, I shan't whip you, child," he said; "only I want you to prove your love for me by trusting me. You're a woman, Fledra. It would be an outrage to punish you that way. Then, too, I love you too well to hurt you."
She watched him for one tense moment. She was quivering under his firm grasp like a leaf in the wind. Her eyes were entreating him to trust her, to take her, regardless of her seeming stubbornness.
"Fledra," he whispered, "if the time ever comes that you can, will you tell me all about it?"
"Yes."
"And you'll not lie again?"
"I've never lied to you!" came sullenly.
"Never, Fledra?"
"Never!"
"And you won't tell another untruth to Ann, either--- not even once?"
Fledra's mind flashed to Everett. She might have to lie to keep Ann's happiness for her. She slowly drew her hand away, and turned fretfully with a hatred against Brimbecomb for bringing all this misery upon them.
"I'm not going to promise you that I won't lie to Sister Ann; but I'll tell you the truth, always--always--"
Because he did not understand a woman's heart, Horace opened the door, white and angered.
"It is beyond my comprehension that you should treat a woman as you have my sister. You take advantage of her generosity, and expect me to uphold you in it!"
There was a catch of genuine sorrow in his voice. Slowly Fledra looked back over her shoulder at him.
"You've promised me that you'd never tell anybody what I told you."
Horace supplemented his last rebuke with: "Nor will I! But I insist that you come to me the next time you are tempted to lie. Do you hear, Fledra?"
"Yes," she answered.
Suddenly she began to sob wildly, and in another instant fled down the hall.