The dignified complacency with which Miss Morton uttered that last short sentence commanded the respect of her hearers.
“Indeed, they were yours, Miss Morton,” said Fessenden, “and I’m glad you secured them, before other eyes saw them.”
Kitty said nothing, but held Miss Morton’s hand in a firm, gentle pressure that seemed to seal their friendship.
“But,” said Fessenden, a little diffidently, “why didn’t you tell all this at the inquest as frankly as you have told us?”
Miss Morton paled, and then grew red.
“I am an idiot about such things,” she said. “When questioned publicly, like that, I am so embarrassed and also so fearful that I scarcely know what I say. I try to hide this by a curt manner and a bravado of speech, with the result that I get desperate and say anything that comes into my head, whether it’s the truth or not. I not only told untruths, but I contradicted myself, when witnessing, but I couldn’t seem to help it. I lost control of my reasoning powers, and finally I felt my only safety was in denying it all. For—and this was my greatest fear—I thought they might suspect that I killed Madeleine, if they knew I did burn the papers. Afterward, I would have confessed that I had testified wrongly, but I couldn’t see how it would do any good.”
“No,” said Rob slowly, “except to exonerate Marie of falsehood.”
Miss Morton set her lips together tightly, and seemed unwilling to pursue that subject.
“And now,” she said, “the reason I’ve told you two young people this, is because I want to warn you not to let a quarrel or a foolish misunderstanding of any sort come between you to spoil the happiness that I see is in store for you.”
“Good for you! Miss Morton!” cried Rob. “You’re a brick! You’ve precipitated matters a little; Kitty and I haven’t put it into words as yet, but—we accept these preliminary congratulations,—don’t we, dear?”