“Oh, Swanhild!” cried Sigrid, “if only you had spoken sooner how much pain might have been saved.”
“Don’t say that,” said Frithiof, rousing himself, “she has chosen the right time, depend upon it. I can hardly believe it at all yet. But, oh! to think of having one’s honor once more unstained—and this death in life over!”
“What do you mean? What do you mean?” sobbed poor little Swanhild, utterly perplexed by the way in which her confession had been received.
“Tell her,” said Sigrid, glancing at Roy.
So he told her exactly what had happened in the shop on that Monday in June.
“We kept it from you,” said Frithiof, “because I liked to feel that there was at any rate one person unharmed by my disgrace, and because you seemed so young to be troubled with such things.”
“But how can it have happened?” said Swanhild; “who took the note really from the till?”
“It must have been Darnell,” said Roy. “He was present when Sardoni got the change, he saw James Horner put away the note, he must have managed during the time that you two were alone in the shop to take it out, and no doubt if he had been searched first the other five-pound note would have been found on him. What a blackguard the man must be to have let you suffer for him! I’ll have the truth out of him before I’m a day older.”
“Oh! Frithiof, Frithiof! I’m so dreadfully sorry,” sobbed poor Swanhild. “I thought it would have helped you, and it has done nothing but harm.”
But Frithiof stooped down and silenced her with a kiss “You see the harm it has done,” he said, “but you don’t see the good. Come, stop crying, and let us have tea, for your news has given me an appetite, and I’m sure you are tired and hungry after all this.”