“He has been a by-word of contempt and dishonor for twenty years,” Perdita continued, “and now he has died with the stain still upon him. If he was innocent, that seems a pity, doesn’t it? I am his daughter, and my honor is involved in his. You had a father: what would you have done in my place?”
“I would have found the proof of his innocence, if it was in the world.”
“Well, and what then?”
“I should be content ... I hope.”
“I am not content!” exclaimed Perdita. “What use is the proof, unless to give him back his honorable name, and to punish the man who betrayed him? I have some letters sealed up here that will do all that, I think; and Sir Francis Bendibow must be content to hear them read, and....”
“Do not do it, Perdita,” interposed Marion, in a low but urgent voice. “His heart is broken already.”
“What is that to me?” the other returned. “His broken heart will not mend my father’s good name.”
“Your father is dead,” said Marion, “and you would kill him again if you do not let his spirit live in you. Why should you reveal the secret that he kept all his life? If he chose to suffer unjustly, it was because he was too noble to vindicate himself. He bequeathes his nobility to you; and you should spare his enemies, since he spared them.”
“This is a practical world,” Perdita remarked, with an odd smile; “I’m afraid it would misinterpret such refined generosity. However, your idea is interesting and original; I’ve a mind to adopt it. It would be amusing, for once, to mount a moral pedestal above one’s friends. But I can’t make an angel of myself in a moment: I shall give this packet to you to keep for me: if I were to read the contents I should never be able to hold my tongue. Here—take it quickly, before my pedestal crumbles! Well, Sir Francis, I wish you joy; you are an honest man again!”
“If I had not been sure your father was innocent, I should know it now,” said Marion. “Wicked men do not have such daughters.”