“You believed him once. You are very bitter now.”
“Yes,” she said, “I have admitted that he is plausible; he deceived me. Perhaps that has made me more relentless; but I have lost my brother, and I loved him.”
Her father’s face grew very stern, and he clenched his hand.
“I have lost my son, and I wronged him.”
Then there was silence for a few moments; but Gertrude knew she had succeeded. Her father had been wavering, but she had stirred him to passion, and his thoughts had suddenly returned to the groove they would not leave again. The fixed idea had once more possessed him; unavailing sorrow and longing for justice would drive him on along the course he had chosen.
“You have reminded me of my duty,” he said with grim forcefulness. “I shall not fail in it.”
Then he got up and left her sitting still, lost in painful reflection. His motives were honest and blameless; but she had not this consolation. She tried to find comfort in the thought that if Prescott were innocent, he had nothing to fear.