Chapter 5 - Page 2

conquer so, Michael."

Trevennack looked down upon her with a strange tender look on his
face, in which gentleness and condescension were curiously mingled.
"Yes," he answered, musing; "for dear Cleer's sake I will always keep
my peace about it. I'll say not a word. I'll never tell anybody. And
yet it's hard to keep it in; very hard, indeed. I have to bind myself
round, as it were, with bonds of iron. The secret will almost out of
itself at times. As this morning, for example, when that young fellow
wanted to know why St. Michael always clung to such airy pinnacles.
How jauntily he talked about it, as if the reason for the selection
were a matter of no moment! How little he seemed to think of the
Prince of the Archangels!"

"But for Cleer's sake, darling, you kept it in," Mrs. Trevennack said,
coaxingly; "and for Cleer's sake you'll keep it in still--I know you
will; now won't you?"

Trevennack looked the picture of embodied self-restraint. His back was
rigid. "For Cleer's sake I'll keep it in," he said, firmly. "I know
how important it is for her. Never in this world have I breathed a
word of it to any living soul but you; and never in this world I will.
The rest wouldn't understand. They'd say it was madness."

"They would," his wife assented very gravely and earnestly. "And that
would be so bad for Cleer's future prospects. People would think you
were out of your mind; and you know how chary young men are nowadays
of marrying a girl when they believe or even suspect there's insanity
in the family. You can talk of it as much and as often as you like to
ME, dear Michael. I think that does you good. It acts as a safety-
valve. It keeps you from bottling your secret up in your own heart too
long, and brooding over it, and worrying yourself. I like you to talk
to ME of it whenever you feel inclined. But for heaven's sake,
darling, to nobody else. Not a hint of it for worlds. The consequences
might be terrible."

Trevennack rose and stood at his full height, with his heels on the
edge of the low cottage fender. "You can trust me, Lucy," he said, in
a very soft tone, with grave and conscious dignity. "You can trust me
to hold my tongue. I know how much depends upon it."

The beautiful lady with the silvery hair sat and gazed on him
admiringly. She knew she could trust him; she knew he would keep it
in. But she knew at the same time how desperate a struggle the effort
cost him; and visionary though he was, she loved and admired him for
it.

There was an eloquent silence. Then, after a while, Trevennack spoke
again, more tenderly and regretfully. "That man did it!" he