Again the strange silence—in after years it returned to her—and she knew it had been more eloquent than any words.
“I cannot answer you,” he replied, after a time. “I have thought of it, but my mind has never been quite clear. Yes, I think some provocation, some treachery so great as to excuse murder.”
“Oh, Ronald, that is a dangerous doctrine.”
“Suppose,” he said, “I had lived in India at the time of the mutiny, and I had found some black fiend with his hand on your throat, or with my baby’s golden head just cloven in twain, I would have slain him with less remorse than I crush this leaf between my fingers.”
“But that,” she argued, “would be self-defence, not murder. Murder seems to me to be the cowardly death that creeps in silence, in treachery, and darkness—that sends the victim’s soul, with one horrible pang, straight into the presence of its Maker! Oh, Ronald, why are we speaking of such things? Poor Clarice! it seems to me I have never realized her terrible fate until now.”
Sir Ronald rose from his seat.
“Look how we have saddened the children, Hermione. Here is Harry, grave as a judge, and little Clare getting ready to cry. My darling, let the dead past be. Let us live in the sunny present.”
“It was Kenelm’s fault,” she said, half apologetically, “not mine. How strangely we have been talking! Every morning and night, when the little ones say their prayers, I shall make them add: ‘Please, God, teach those who suffer to forget.’”
“Papa,” cried a childish voice, “you said I should ride to-day.”
“So I did, Harry. Now, Hermione, come out on the lawn, and see your son take his first lesson in horsemanship.”