“Oh, then I can’t say. Why should he condemn himself?”
“But you would know—you would know that he was a man to suffer death rather than be guilty of the smallest baseness. His birth—what is that!” Rose filliped her fingers: “But his acts—what he is himself you would be sure of, would you not? Dear Juley! Oh, for heaven’s sake, speak out plainly to me.”
A wily look had crept over Juliana’s features.
“Certainly,” she said, in a tone that belied it, and drawing Rose to her bosom, the groan she heard there was passing sweet to her.
“He has confessed it to Mama,” sobbed Rose. “Why did he not come to me first? He has confessed it—the abominable thing has come out of his own mouth. He went to her last night...”
Juliana patted her shoulders regularly as they heaved. When words were intelligible between them, Juliana said:
“At least, dear, you must admit that he has redeemed it.”
“Redeemed it? Could he do less?” Rose dried her eyes vehemently, as if the tears shamed her. “A man who could have let another suffer for his crime—I could never have lifted my head again. I think I would have cut off this hand that plighted itself to him! As it is, I hardly dare look at myself. But you don’t think it, dear? You know it to be false! false! false!”
“Why should Mr. Harrington confess it?” said Juliana.
“Oh, don’t speak his name!” cried Rose.