"No, I left her free to speak or be silent. She would not confess—not for that shall I retract what I granted unconditionally; but pray do not let us speak of it."
Miriam however persisted.
"It is true," she said, "that Daisy did not confess, but then she did not deny."
The look of Cornelius lit: it was plain he caught at this eagerly.
"Very true," he replied; "very true, Miriam, she did not deny."
He looked at me as he said it. I stood where he had left me, by his vacant chair. I looked at him too, and at Miriam, as she stood by him with one hand clasped in his, and the other resting on his shoulder, and I never uttered one word. In his longing desire to reinstate me in his esteem and efface the stain on my tarnished honour, Cornelius, seeing me still silent, could not help saying—
"It is so, Daisy, is it not?—you do not deny it."
I had been quiet until then; quiet and forbearing. I had not protested my innocence in loud or vehement speech, but in the very simplest words of denial. Accused, judged, sentenced unheard, I had not resented this; I had blessed my accuser and kissed the hand of my judge. I had not wearied him with tears, entreaties, or protestations. I had no proof to give him save my word, and if that was doubted, I felt I had but to be silent. Four times indeed I had stood before him and told him—what more could I tell him?—that I had not done it. He had not believed me, and I had borne with it, borne with that forgiveness which to me could be but a bitter insult; but even from him I could bear no more; even to him no longer would I protest my innocence. I had laid my pride at his feet, in all the lowliness and humility of love; it now rose indignant within me, and bade me scorn further justification.
"No, Cornelius," I replied, without so much as looking at him, "I do not deny it."
I stood near the door; I opened it, and left the room.