It was a change for which Deborah was in no wise prepared. She
showed her amazement as ingenuously as a child, and he, observing
it, remarked in a different tone from any he had used yet:
"You do not look well. You are still suffering from the distress
and confusion into which this wretched swoon has thrown you. Or
can it be that you are not yet convinced of our wisdom in ignoring
this diabolic attack upon one whose reputation is as dear to us as
our own? If that is so, and I see that it is, let me remind you of
a fact which cannot be new to you if it is to others of happier
memories, that no accusation of this kind, however plausible--and
this is not plausible--can hold its own for a day without evidence
to back it. And there is no evidence against my son in this
ancient matter of my friend Etheridge's violent death, save the
one coincidence known to many, that he chanced to be somewhere in
the ravine at that accursed hour. A petty point upon which to hang
this late and elaborate insult of suspicion!" And his voice rang
out in a laugh, but not as it would have rung, or as Deborah
thought it would have rung, had his mind been as free as his
words.
When it had quite ceased, Deborah threw off the last remnant of
physical as well as moral weakness, and deliberately rose to her
feet. She believed she understood him now; and she respected the
effort he was making, and would have seconded it gladly had she
dared.
But she did not dare.
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