"You condoned it. I am not condemning you. You condoned it, and now you defend yourself in this letter. But in your defence you do not really touch the offence as to which you are, according to your own showing, accused. In telling the whole story, you should say; 'They did live together though they were not married;—and, under all the circumstances, I did not think that they were on that account unfit to be left in charge of my boys."'
"But I sent him away immediately,—to America."
"You allowed the lady to remain."
"Then what would you have me say?" demanded the Doctor.
"Nothing," said Mr. Puddicombe;—"not a word. Live it down in silence. There will be those, like myself, who, though they could not dare to say that in morals you were strictly correct, will love you the better for what you did." The Doctor turned his face towards the dry, hard-looking man and showed that there was a tear in each of his eyes. "There are few of us not so infirm as sometimes to love best that which is not best. But when a man is asked a downright question, he is bound to answer the truth."
"You would say nothing in your own defence."
"Not a word. You know the French proverb: 'Who excuses himself is his own accuser.' The truth generally makes its way. As far as I can see, a slander never lives long."
"Ten of my boys are gone!" said the Doctor, who had not hitherto spoken a word of this to any one out of his own family;—"ten out of twenty."
"That will only be a temporary loss."
"That is nothing,—nothing. It is the idea that the school should be failing."