"Amen!"
Solemnly Sir Everard Kingsland pronounced his own condemnation with the word. Awfully came back the memory of that adjuration in the terrible days to come.
"She is very young," said Captain Hunsden, after a pause--"too young to marry. You must wait a year."
"A year!"
Sir Everard repeated the word in consternation, as if it had been a century.
"Yes," said the captain, firmly. "A year is not too long, and she will only be eighteen then. Let her return to her old pension in Paris. She sadly needs the help of a finishing school, my poor little girl! My will is made. The little I leave will suffice for her wants. Mr. Green is her guardian--he understands my wishes. Oh, my lad! you will be very good to my friendless little Harrie! She will have but you in the wide world."
"I swear it, Captain Hunsden! It will be my bliss and my honor to make her my happy wife."
"I believe you. And now go--go both, and leave me alone, for I am very tired."
Sir Everard arose, but Harrie grasped her father's cold hand in terror.
"No, no, papa! I will not leave you. Let me stay. I will be very quiet--I shall not disturb you."
"As you like, my dear. She will call you, Kingsland, by and by."
The young man left the room. Then Harriet lifted a pale, reproachful face to her father.
"Papa, how could you?"
"My dear, you are not sorry? You will love this young man very dearly, and he loves you."
"But his mother, Lady Kingsland, detests me. And, I want to enter no man's house unwelcome."
"My dear, don't be hasty. How do you know Lady Kingsland detests you? That is impossible, I think. She will be a kind mother to my little motherless girl. Ah, pitiful Heaven! that agony is to come yet!"
A spasm of pain convulsed his features, his brows knit, his eyes gleamed.
"Harrie," he said, hoarsely, grasping her hands, "I have a secret to tell you--a horrible secret of guilt and disgrace! It has blighted my life, blasted every hope, turned the whole world into a black and festering mass of corruption! And, oh! worst of all, you must bear it--your life must be darkened, too. But not until the grave has closed over me. My child, look here."
He drew out, with a painful effort, something from beneath his pillow and handed it to her. It was a letter, addressed to herself, and tightly sealed.
"My secret is there," he whispered--"the secret it would blister my lips to tell you. When you are safe with Madame Beaufort, in Paris, open and read this--not before. You promise, Harrie?"