“Tell the truth!  Is it so—­this shame—­crime?  Speak!  I will shake the truth from you!”

“Father!  Don’t!” she screamed, terrified by his look; and from his searching gaze, she essayed to hide, by covering her face with her hands, the secret her conscience magnified so as to forbid confession and denial alike.  I am glad to recall this act of womanhood, which showed her inability to brazen all accusation out.

But Mr. Faringfield saw no palliating circumstance in this evidence of womanly feeling.  Seeing in it only an admission of guilt, he raised his arms convulsively for a moment as if he would strike her down with his hands, or crush her throat with them.  But, overcoming this impulse, he drew back so as to be out of reach of her, and said, in a low voice shaken with passion: 

“Go!  From my house, I mean—­my roof—­and from Philip’s part of it.  God! that a child of mine should plot against my country, for England—­that was enough; but to be false to her husband, too—­false to Philip!  I will own no such treason!  I turn you out, I cast you off!  Not another hour in my house, not another minute!  You are not my daughter, not Philip’s wife!—­You are a thing I will not name!  We disown you.  Go, I bid you; let me never see you again!”

She had not offered speech or motion; and she continued to stand motionless, regarding her father in fear and sorrow.

“I tell you to leave this house!” he added, in a slightly higher and quicker voice.  “Do you wait for me to thrust you out?”

She slowly moved toward the door.  But her mother ran and caught her arm, and stood between her and Mr. Faringfield.

“William!” said the lady.  “Consider—­the poor child—­your favourite, she was—­you mustn’t send her out.  I’m sure Philip wouldn’t have you do this, for all she might seem guilty of.”

“Ay, the lad is too kind of heart.  So much the worse her treason to him!  She shall go; and you, madam, will not interfere.  ’Tis for me to command.  Be pleased to step aside!”

His passion had swiftly frozen into an implacable sternness which struck fear to the childish heart of his wife, and she obeyed him dumbly.  Dropping weakly upon a chair, she added her sobs to those of Fanny, which had begun to break plaintively upon the tragic silence.

Margaret raised her glance from the floor, in a kind of wistful leave-taking, to us who looked on and pitied her.

“Indeed, sir,” began Mr. Cornelius softly, rising and taking a step toward Mr. Faringfield.  But the latter cut his good intention short, by a mandatory gesture and the harshly spoken words: 

“No protests, sir; no intercessions.  I am aware of what I do.”

“But at midnight, sir.  Think of it.  Where can she find shelter at this hour?”

“Why,” put in my mother, “in my house, and welcome, if she must leave this one.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Russell,” said Margaret, in a stricken voice.  “For the time being, I shall be glad—­”