His hands dropped to his sides at his daughter’s wild appeal, and the convulsed angry look once more gave place to the one of dread, as he drew back a step.
“Tell me,” he cried, still hesitating, “is it from that libertine, Sir Harry Payne?”
“No, no!”
“From Rockley?”
“No, father. How can you think me so degraded—so low!”
“Then—then—”
“Father, for pity’s sake!” she cried, as she crept to his knees and embraced them. “Can you not see how I am willing to bear everything to save you pain? Has there not been agony and suffering enough in this house? You cannot think—you cannot believe. Is it not better that we should let this rest?”
He raised his trembling hands to his lips in a nervous, excited way, looking searchingly and furtively by turns in his child’s piteous face. The rage in his own had died out, to give place to the look of terror; and, as Claire clung to him, he now and again glanced at the door, as if he would flee from her presence.
“No, no,” he said at last. “I was wrong. I will not see the letter. You have your secrets: I have mine. Claire, my child, there is a veil, drawn down by you, over that night’s work. I dare not lift it, I dare not look.”
“Once more, father,” she said, “had we not better let it rest? I am content; I make no murmur against my fate.”