It
surely was futile that her mother should have suffered all those years,
with little to cheer her, while her daughter should be radiant in health
and with a mind free from care or sadness. Yet the bitterest thing of
all was the thought that her father was a traitor, and had died
sacrificing another man. When Dyck had told her first, she had shivered
with anger and shame--but anger and shame had gone. Only one thing gave
her any comfort--the man who knew Erris Boyne was a traitor, and could
profit by telling it, held his tongue for her own sake, kept his own
counsel, and went to prison for four years as the price of his silence.
He was now her neighbour and he loved her, and, if the shadow of a grave
was not between them, would offer himself in marriage to her. This she
knew beyond all doubt. He had given all a man can give--had saved her
and killed her father--in ignorance had killed her father; in love had
saved herself. What was to be done?
In a strange spirit Sheila entered the room where the governor sat with
her mother. She had reached the limit of her powers of suffering.
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