“Sir Ademar was not present. Were you, Sir Vivian?”
Vivian, whose face was far more eloquent in this instance than his tongue, muttered an affirmative.
“Then you can answer me. Did any one push her down?”
Vivian’s reply was unintelligible, being hardly articulate.
“Will you have the goodness to repeat that, if you please?” said his master.
In Clarice’s heart a terrible tempest had been raging. Ought she not to speak, and declare the fact of which she felt sure, that Vivian had not been intentionally the murderer of his child? that whatever he might have done, he had meant no more than simply to push her aside? Conscientiousness strove hard with bitterness and revenge. Why should she go out of her way to shield the man who had been the misery of her life from the just penalty which he deserved for having made that life more desolate than ever? She knew that her voice would be the most potent there—that her vote would outweigh twenty others. The pleading of the bereaved mother in favour of the father of the dead child was just what would make its way straight to the heart of his judge. Clarice’s own heart said passionately, No! Rosie’s dead face must stand between him and her for ever. But then upon her spirit’s fever fell calming words—words which she repeated every day of her life—words which she had taught Rosie.
“Forgive us our debts, as we forgive our debtors.”
If God were to forgive her as she forgave Vivian, what would become of her? Would she ever see Rosie again? And then a cry for help and strength to do it went up beyond the stars.
The Earl was quietly waiting for the repetition of Vivian’s answer. It came at last—the answer—not a repetition.
“Saint Mary love us, my Lord! I never meant any harm.”