“I’m afraid we couldn’t wait. Even my father’s patience would hardly hold out.”
“It wouldn’t be long tried; but in a way you’re right. It’s dangerous for him to stay here, and you’re responsible for his condition.”
“I’m responsible?” cried Gertrude with a start.
“Of course! You knew Mr. Prescott went away to look for your brother and you kept it secret; when he saved your father from freezing, he almost convinced him that he had nothing to do with Cyril’s disappearance. You must have known how it would have eased his mind to get rid of his dreadful suspicions, but you worked upon him and brought them back.”
Gertrude sank down in her chair with a shiver. A denial would serve no purpose and she was conscious of her guilt.
“Could you expect me to be indifferent to the loss of my brother?”
“You knew you had not lost him. You believed what Mr. Prescott told you, until we came.” Muriel flushed and hesitated, for this was as far as she would go. Even in her anger, she would not taunt her beaten rival with defeat. “Now,” she continued, “you must see what you have done. You have made your father suffer terribly; I think you have weakened his mind, and, if I hadn’t turned the pistol, you would have made him kill an innocent man. He seems too dazed and shaken to realize what he meant to do, but the thing was horrible.”
Gertrude sat silent for a few moments, her face drawn and colorless. Then she looked up.
“I couldn’t see what it would lead to. Do the others know what you have told me? Does Mr. Prescott?”
She looked crushed and defenseless and Muriel’s resentment softened.