The concluding phrases ran: "There is a justice that keeps within the letter of the law, and ignores every suggestion of compassion and fellow-feeling for other human beings. But this justice fails in severity before that which deals out punishment for breaking the edicts contained in the code of so-called social honor. The modern Brutus would immolate not the unhappy peasant only, to whom belong no human rights, he would immolate his own son, if he conspired to rebel against the sacred commandments contained in that code."
Meg was startled by a low exclamation. She looked up. Sir Malcolm was lying back in his chair, his eyes closed, his countenance ashen and drawn.
As she paused he opened his eyes and looked round; his expression was one of mental anguish.
"Thank you," he said, with a ghastly attempt to assume that fine air of dismissal he knew so well how to put on, "that will suffice for to-day."
"May I not do something more for you, sir?" asked Meg, affected by his tone and manner.
"Thank you, I am much obliged," he replied, turning away and taking up a book.
Meg noticed that his hand trembled. She remembered the editor's words. "He was not good to his son."
Was it for this that the reckless allusion to a father's condemnation of a son to death in the name of justice had hit him so hard?
She dared no longer intrude upon the presence of that sorrow or remorse, and left the room. What did it all mean? She went to the great dining-room and stood before the picture with its face turned to the wall. The disgrace appealed to her with tragic piteousness; and the father's unforgiveness acted upon her like a chill repulse.