“I'm sorry for it,” said Colin, bluntly.
Francis proposed carelessly “to drop the subject.” What! take away a man's good name, behind his back, and then merely “drop the subject.” Suppose the listener had been other than I, and had believed: or Colin had been a less honest fellow than he is, and he had believed, and we had both gone and promulgated the story, with a few elegant improvements of our own, where would it have ended? These are the things that destroy character—foul tales, that grow up in darkness, and before a man can seize hold of them, root them up, and drag them to light, homes are poisoned, reputation gone.
Such thoughts came in a crowd upon me. I hardly knew till then how much I cared for him—I mean his honour, his stainless name, all that helps to make his life valuable and noble. And he absent, too, unable to defend himself. I was right to do as I did; I take shame to myself even for this long preamble lest it might look like an apology.
“Francis,” I said, holding fast by the billiard-table, and trying to smother down the heat of my face, and the beat at my heart, which nearly choked me, “if you please, you have no right to say such things, and then drop the subject. You are quite mistaken. Doctor Urquhart was never married, he told papa so. Who informed you that he had a wife and six children living at Salisbury?”
“My dear girl, I do not vouch for any such fact; I merely 'tell the tale, as it was told to me.'”
“By whom? Remember the name, if you can. Any one who repeated it, ought to be able to give full confirmation.”
“Faith, I almost forget what the story was.”
“You said, he had a wife and six children, living near Salisbury. Or,” and I looked Francis direct in the face, “a woman who was not his wife, but who ought to have been.”
He must have been ashamed of himself, I think; for he turned away and began striking irritably at the balls.
“I must say, Dora, these are extraordinary questions to put. Young ladies ought to know nothing about such things; what possible concern is this of yours?”