“I? To save myself! No, though I would live. You do not believe me innocent, my child. You think me a murderer.”
“Father, I believe you were beside yourself with your troubles, and that you were going to take those jewels when you were interrupted, and, in a fit of madness, did this deed to save yourself and children from disgrace.”
“Claire, Claire,” groaned the old man, “if you—if you only could have believed in me, I could have borne all, but you turn from me. Will you not believe in me? Have you not realised my self-sacrifice?”
“Oh, father, what can I say—what can I do?” cried Claire. “Do you not see my position? Can I think of my poor brother now as the guilty man?”
“No,” he said, taking her in his arms, and trying to soothe her in her agonised grief; “it is too much to ask you, my child. It is too much for such a one as you to be called upon to even think of. I will not press you, Claire; neither will I ask you to forgive me. I could not do that now. Only try to think of me as innocent. I ask you once more, my darling; I ask you once more.”
Claire threw her arms round his neck and drew his head down to her bosom.
“I am your child,” she whispered softly. “Father dear, good-bye—good-bye.”
“So soon?” muttered Denville. “Yes; good-bye—good-bye.”
He held her hand till she was half through the door; and then, as it was closed, he tottered back to his seat, and once more sank down to bury his face within his hands.