“What guilt, my poor child? Oh! Kenelm, she is cruelly distraught. What guilt can rest on one so sweet, so pure, so fair as she is?”
He did not answer, and the earl turned caressingly to his child.
“My darling,” he said; “my dearest Hermione, tell me what you mean. I do not understand. What cruel fancy have you of guilt—what simple folly have you magnified into crime?”
Her white lips trembled convulsively; she tried to speak, but the power of speech had gone from her.
“She cannot accuse herself,” said Mr. Eyrle. “She cannot tell him what she has done. It is a terrible task, and it will fall to me.”
But he had mistaken her; there was strength enough in that delicate body for more than men accomplish.
“When you have heard what I have to say, papa, you will turn from me in anger and never look at me again. Ronald’s death has troubled you. Would to Heaven I might die as he has done.”
Then her courage suddenly failed her. She could not look at that kind, noble face—the face she revered and honored—with that story of guilt and shame. Her arms fell, her head drooped, and for a few minutes Kenelm Eyrle thought she would fall down dead. The little packet almost slipped from her nerveless grasp; that revived her. What could it contain that the mere contact with it should nerve and fortify her? She held it more tightly, with a clinging touch, as she rose once more and looked at her father.
“Papa,” she said, “I am very guilty. I am terribly guilty. Mr. Eyrle will tell you of a discovery he has made. I confess to you that I am guilty of Clarice Alden’s death.”
Lord Lorriston recoiled as though a pistol had been fired in his face, horror and dismay on every feature. He stood for some minutes, rooted to the ground, in silent horror that knew no words.