“But,” she said, “you should have told me all.”

“It was not my secret,” he pleaded.

“You should have trusted me.”

“But the captain had trusted me.”

She looked at him with grave wonder, and then said with her old directness:  “But if I had been told such a secret affecting you, I should have told you.”  She stopped suddenly, seeing his eyes fixed on her, and dropped her own lids with a slight color.  “I mean,” she said hesitatingly, “of course you have acted nobly, generously, kindly, wisely—­but I hate secrets!  Oh, why cannot one be always frank?”

A wild idea seized Randolph.  “But I have another secret—­you have not guessed—­and I have not dared to tell you.  Do you wish me to be frank now?”

“Why not?” she said simply, but she did not look up.

Then he told her!  But, strangest of all, in spite of his fears and convictions, it flowed easily and naturally as a part of his other secret, with an eloquence he had not dreamed of before.  But when he told her of his late position and his prospects, she raised her eyes to his for the first time, yet without withdrawing her hand from his, and said reproachfully,—­

“Yet but for that you would never have told me.”

“How could I?” he returned eagerly.  “For but for that how could I help you to carry out your trust?  How could I devote myself to your plans, and enable you to carry them out without touching a dollar of that inheritance which you believe to be wrongfully yours?”

Then, with his old boyish enthusiasm, he sketched a glowing picture of their future:  how they would keep the Dornton property intact until the captain was found and communicated with; and how they would cautiously collect all the information accessible to find him until such time as Randolph’s fortunes would enable them both to go on a voyage of discovery after him.  And in the midst of this prophetic forecast, which brought them so closely together that she was enabled to examine his watch chain, she said,—­

“I see you have kept Cousin Jack’s ring.  Did he ever see it?”

“He told me he had given it to you as his little sweetheart, and that he”—­

There was a singular pause here.

“He never did that—­at least, not in that way!” said Sybil Eversleigh.

And, strangely enough, the optimistic Randolph’s prophecies came true.  He was married a month later to Sibyl Eversleigh, Mr. Dingwall giving away the bride.  He and his wife were able to keep their trust in regard to the property, for, without investing a dollar of it in the bank, the mere reputation of his wife’s wealth brought him a flood of other investors and a confidence which at once secured his success.  In two years he was able to take his wife on a six months’ holiday to Europe via Australia, but of the details of that holiday no one knew.  It is, however, on record that ten or twelve years ago Dornton Hall, which had been leased or unoccupied for a long time, was refitted for the heiress, her husband, and their children during a brief occupancy, and that in that period extensive repairs were made to the interior of the old Norman church, and much attention given to the redecoration and restoration of its ancient tombs.