He raised her up; he kissed the white, despairing face again and again—­a rain of rapturous kisses.  A ton weight seemed suddenly lifted off his heart.

“I see it all,” he cried—­“I see it all now!  Fool that I was not to understand sooner.  There was some mystery, some guilt, perhaps, in Captain Hunsden’s life, and he revealed it to you on his death-bed, and made you swear to keep his secret.  Am I not right?”

She did not look up.  He could feel her shivering from head to foot.

“Yes, Everard.”

“And this man has in some way found it out, and wishes to trade upon it, to extort money from you?  I have often heard of such things.  Am I right again?”

“Yes, Everard,” very faint and sad.

“Then, my own dearest, leave me to deal with him; see him and fear him no more.  I will seek him out.  I will not ask to know it.  I will pay him his price and send him about his business.”

He rose as he spoke.  But Harriet clung to him with a strange, white face.

“No, no, no!” she cried.  “It would not do.  You could not satisfy him.  You don’t know—­” She stopped distractedly.  “Oh, Everard, I can’t explain.  You are all kindness, all generosity, all goodness; but I must settle with this man myself.  Don’t go near him—­don’t ask to see him.  It could do no good.”

“I am not right, then, after all.  The secret is yours, not your father’s?”

“Do not ask me!  If the sin is not mine, the atonement—­the bitter atonement—­is, at least.  Everard, look at me—­see!  I love you with all my heart.  I would not tell you a lie.  I never committed a deed, I never indulged a thought of my own, you are not free to know.  I never saw this man until that day in the library.  Oh, believe this and trust me, and don’t ask me to break my oath!”

“I will not!  I believe you; I trust you.  I ask no more.  Get rid of this man, and be happy once again.  We will not even talk of it longer; and—­will you come with me to my mother’s, Harrie?  I dine there, you know, to-day.”

“My head aches.  Not to-day, I think.  What time will you return?”

“Before ten.  And, as I have a little magisterial business to transact down in the village, it is time I was off.  Adieu, my own love!  Forget the harsh words, and be my own happy, radiant, beautiful bride once more.”

She lifted her face and smiled—­a smile as wan and fleeting as moonlight on snow.

Sir Everard hastened to his room to dress, striving with all his might to drive every suspicion out of his mind.

And she—­she flung herself on the sofa, face downward, and lay there as if she never cared to rise again.

“Papa, papa!” she wailed, “what have you done—­what have you done?”

All that day Lady Kingsland kept her room.  Her maid brought her what she wanted.  Sir Everard returned at the appointed hour, looking gloomy and downcast.