Instead of replying readily and firmly "I can," which he
might have done without giving rise to harm, he stopped to ask himself
how far, consistently with safety to Hamish, he might defend his own
cause. His mind was not collected; he had not, as I have said, his
senses about him; and the unbroken silence, waiting for his answer, the
expectant faces turned upon him, helped to confuse him and to drive his
reason further away. The signs, which certainly did look like signs of
guilt, struck a knell on the heart of his father. "Arthur!" he wailed
out, in a tone of intense agony, "you _are_ innocent?"
"Y--es," replied Arthur, gulping down his rising agitation; his rising
words--impassioned words of exculpation, of innocence, of truth. They
had bubbled up within him--were hovering on the verge of his burning
lips. He beat them down again to repression; but he never afterwards
knew how he did it.
Better that he had been still silent, than speak that dubious,
indecisive "Y--es." It told terribly against him. One, conscious of his
own innocence, does not proclaim it in indistinct, half-uttered words.
Tom's mouth dropped with dismay, and his astonished eyes seemed as if
they could not take themselves from Arthur's uncertain face. Mrs.
Channing staggered against the wall, with a faint cry.
The policeman spoke up: he meant to be kindly. In all Helstonleigh
there was not a family more respected than were the Channings; and the
man felt a passing sorrow for his task.
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