Sedley accused!  Charles to be sacrificed to save his worthless cousin, the would-be murderer of his innocent child, who morally thus deserved to suffer!  Never, never!  She could not do so.  It would be treason to her benefactors, nay, absolute injustice, for Charles had struck in generous defence of herself; but Sedley had tried to allure the boy to his death merely for his own advantage.  Should she not be justified in simply keeping silence?  Yet there was like an arrow in her heart, the sense of guilt in so doing, guilt towards God and truth, guilt towards man and justice.  She should die under the load, and it would be for Charles.  Might it only be before he came home, then he would know that she had perished under his secret to save him.  Nay, but would he be thankful at being saved at the expense of his cousin’s life?  If he came, how should she meet him?

The sense of the certain indignation of a good and noble human spirit often awakes the full perception of what an action would be in the sight of Heaven, and Anne began to realise the sin more than at first, and to feel the compulsion of truth.  If only Charles were not coming home she could write to him and warn him, but the thought that he might be already on the way had turned from joy to agony.  “And to think,” she said to herself, “that I was fretting as to whether he would think me pretty!”

She tossed about in misery, every now and then rising on her knees to pray—­at first for Charles’s safety—­for she shrank from asking for Divine protection, knowing only too well what that would be.  Gradually, however, a shudder came over her at the thought that if she would not commit her way unto the Lord, she might indeed be the undoing of her lover, and then once more the higher sense of duty rose on her.  She prayed for forgiveness for the thought, and that it might not be visited upon him; she prayed for strength to do what must be her duty, for safety for him, and comfort to his parents, and so, in passing gusts of misery and apprehension, of failing heart and recovered resolution, of anguish and of prayer, the long night at length passed, and with the first dawn she arose, shaken and weak, but resolved to act on her terrible resolution before it again failed her.

Sir Philip was always an early riser, and she heard his foot on the stairs before seven o’clock.  She came out on the staircase, which met the flight which he was descending, and tried to speak, but her lips seemed too dry to part.

“Child! child! you are ill,” said the old gentleman, as he saw her blanched cheek; “you should be in bed this chilly morning.  Go back to your chamber.”

“No, no, sir, I cannot.  Pray, your Honour, come here, I have something to say;” and she drew him to the open door of his justice-room, called the gun-room.

“Bless me,” he muttered, “the wench does not mean that she has got smitten with that poor rogue my nephew!”