Then her
hand fell away from his; she gave a great sob, and, lowering her
head, muttered:
"John Scoville smote down Algernon Etheridge! O God! O God! what
horror!"
A sigh from her one auditor welled up in the silence, holding a
note which startled her erect and brought back a memory which
drove her again into passionate speech:
"But he swore the day I last visited him in the prison, with his
arms pressed tight about me and his eye looking straight into mine
as you are looking now, that he never struck that blow. I did not
believe him then, there were too many dark spots in my memory of
old lies premeditated and destructive of my happiness; but I
believed him later, AND I BELIEVE HIM NOW."
"Madam, this is quite unprofitable. A jury of his peers condemned
him as guilty and the law compelled me to pass sentence upon him.
That his innocent child should be forced, by the inexorable
decrees of fate, to suffer for a father's misdoing, I regret as
much, perhaps more, than you do; for my son--beloved, though
irreconcilably separated from me--suffers with her, you say. But I
see no remedy;--NO REMEDY, I repeat. Were Oliver to forget himself
so far as to ignore the past and marry Reuther Scoville, a stigma
would fall upon them both for which no amount of domestic
happiness could ever compensate. Indeed, there can be no domestic
happiness for a man and woman so situated. The inevitable must be
accepted. Madam, I have said my last word."
"But not heard mine," she panted.
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