"You must see that you are using a false argument," Mrs. Mowbray answered gently. "A girl cannot separate herself in this way from her father and brother: the family responsibilities are hers. It may sound very harsh, but you cannot repudiate the liability Gerald has incurred. When he did wrong, he made us all accountable."
Beatrice could not deny this. She had been taught that the family was not a group but a unit and its honor indivisible, and she had always been made to feel that it was her duty to reflect credit upon her name. It was a comfortable doctrine when things went well; when things went wrong, however, it became very cruel. Seeing no hope at all, she fell into mute despair, and it was some time before she could rouse herself. At last she got up with a quietly resolute expression.
"Well," she said slowly, as if it cost her a great effort, "I must try not to disgrace you by any foolish weakness. Since this is our debt, I must pay it. One understands that women have often done such things. It seems as if all the burdens were laid on our shoulders—and men call us weak!" She paused a moment, and then asked in a dead, indifferent voice: "Whose name did Gerald forge?"
"I don't know. Your father didn't tell me. I thought he tried to avoid it."
Moving calmly to the door, Beatrice was surprised to find Gerald waiting in the passage outside. She gave him a steady look. Her face was white and hard, and there was scorn in her eyes. Gerald drew back, almost as if she had struck him.
"You have been talking to Mother?" he asked awkwardly.
"Yes," she said; "and you know what we talked about. So far as anything I can do may count, you are safe. That, of course, was all you wanted to know."
She saw keen relief in his face.
"After all," he urged, "Brand is a very good fellow and has many advantages to offer."
She turned upon him with burning indignation.