"She declared that it was better for us to remain apart," I said.
"Yes," he sighed. "And she spoke the truth, Mr. Biddulph--the entire
truth, remember."
"Why? Do tell me what you know concerning the man Pennington."
"I regret that I am not permitted to do that."
"Why?"
For some moments he did not reply. He twisted his cigarette in his
thin, nervous fingers, his gaze being fixed upon the lawn outside. At
last, however, he turned to me, and in a low, rather strained tone
said slowly--
"The minister of religion sometimes learns strange family secrets,
but, as a servant of God, the confidences and confessions reposed in
him must always be treated as absolutely sacred. Therefore," he added,
"please do not ask me again to betray my trust."
His was, indeed, a stern rebuke. I saw that, in my eager enthusiasm, I
had expected him to reveal a forbidden truth. Therefore I stammered an
apology.
"No apology is needed," was his grave reply, his keen eyes fixed upon
me. "But I hope you will forgive me if I presume to give you, in your
own interests, a piece of advice."
"And what is that?"
"To keep yourself as far as possible from both Pennington and his
daughter," he responded slowly and distinctly, a strange expression
upon his clean-shaven face.
"But why do you tell me this?" I cried, still much mystified. "Have
you not told me that you are Sylvia's friend?"
"I have told you this because it is my duty to warn those in whose
path a pitfall is spread."
"And is a pitfall spread in mine?"
"Yes," replied the grave-faced, ascetic-looking rector, as he leaned
forward to emphasize his words. "Before you, my dear sir, there lies
an open grave. Behind it stands that girl yonder"--and he pointed with
his lean finger to the framed photograph--"and if you attempt to reach
her you must inevitably fall into the pit--that death-trap so
cunningly prepared. Do not, I beg of you, attempt to approach the
unattainable."