"They won't tell? I don't feel sure of that. But do you want to trade on their not telling? Such things are always known."
"Well, I have done wrong. I must suffer for it."
"Who suffers? You—and I. The blow to me is incalculable. I don't understand it. Your mother's memory—that should have kept you straight. So far, child—why, you're a liar."
She was, she told herself, the tears streaming over her face. The happy certainties she had felt with Osmond withdrew into a vague distance. At last she understood; she had sinned, and she was not forgiven.
"Now!" said MacLeod. His voice had a ring she knew. "Now, we must consider what is to be done. One thing I have done already. I have taken passage for you. I will stand by you if you go back to France. I won't support you here. Nor shall they. Think what you did. A cheap adventuress could do no more, except persist in it." He was all breathing indignation.
"Do you mean"—Her voice broke. "Do you mean to take me back to him?"
"The prince? By no means. I mean to take you back to work, to be good and clean and honest. You must retrieve this step. You shall be independent of me, if you like. You shall sing. My dear daughter, you may not think I have shown you much affection,—but your honor is very dear to me." He looked nobly sincere, and yet she bent her brows upon him, and tried to read a deeper soul than he displayed.
"Father!" The word was wrung from her. She had not willingly called him by it for the two years past. "You have persuaded me before. How can I believe you?"
A melting change came over him. It was evident in his voice, his suffused look, his whole manner.
"My child," said he, "can't you believe I loved your mother?"