Our eyes are resting on each other, and, as I speak, I feel his go with clean and piercing search right through mine into my soul.  In a moment I think of Musgrave, and the untold black tale now forever in my thought attached to him, and, as I so think, the hot flush of agonized shame that the recollection of him never fails to call to my face, invades cheeks, brow, and throat.  To hide it, I drop my head on Roger’s breast.  Shall I tell him now, this instant?  Is it possible that he has already some faint and shadowy suspicion of the truth—­some vague conjecture concerning it, as something in his manner seems to say?  But no! it is absolutely impossible!  Who, with the best will in the world, could have told him?  Is not the tale safely buried in the deep grave of Musgrave’s and my two hearts?

I raise my head, and twice essay to speak.  Twice I stop, choked.  How can I put into words the insult I have received?  How can I reveal to him the slack levity, the careless looseness, with which I have kept the honor confided to me?

As my eyes stray helplessly round in a vain search for advice or help from the infinite unfeeling apathy of Nature, I catch sight of the distant chimneys of the abbey!  How near it is!  After all, why should I sow dissension between such close neighbors? why make an irreparable breach between two families, hitherto united by the kindly ties of mutual friendship and good-will?

Frank is young, very young; he has been—­so Roger himself told me—­very ill brought up.  Perhaps he has already repented, who knows?  I try to persuade myself that these are the reasons—­and sufficient reasons—­of my silence, and I take my resolution afresh.  I will be dumb.  The flush slowly dies out of my face, and, when I think it is almost gone, I venture to look again at Roger.  I think that his eyes have never left me.  They seem to be expecting me to speak, but, as I still remain silent, he turns at length away, and also gently removes his hands from my shoulders.  We stand apart.

“Well, Nancy,” he says, sighing again, as if from the bottom of his soul, “my poor child, it is no use talking about it.  I can never be your father now.”

“And a very good thing too!” rejoin I, with a dogged stoutness.  “I do not see what I want with two fathers; I have always found one amply enough—­quite as much as I could manage, in fact.”

He seems hardly to be listening to me.  He has dropped his eyes on the ground, and is speaking more to himself than to me.

“Husband and wife we are!” he says, with a slow depression of tone, “and, as long as God’s and man’s laws stand, husband and wife we must remain!”

“You are not very polite,” I cry, with an indignant lump rising in my throat; “you speak as if you were sorry for it—­are you?”

He lifts his eyes again, and again their keen search investigates the depths of my soul; but no human eye can rightly read the secrets of any other human spirit; they find what they expect to find, not what is there.  Clear and cuttingly keen as they are, Roger’s eyes do not read my soul aright.