"Very well," she said quietly; "you know what the result will be if by any chance 'Mrs. Victor' and Inez Catheron are discovered to be one. But it shall be exactly as you please. Your father is as dead to you, to all the world, as though he lay in the vaults of Chesholm church, by your mother's side."
"My poor mother! my poor, murdered, unavenged mother! Inez Catheron, you are a noble woman—a brave woman; was it well to aid your brother to escape?—was it well, for the sake of saving the Catheron honor and the Catheron name, to permit a most cruel and cowardly murder to go unavenged?"
What was it that looked up at him out of her eyes? Infinite pity, infinite sorrow, infinite pain.
"My brother," she repeated softly, as if to herself; "poor Juan! he was the scapegoat of the family always. Yes, Sir Victor, it was a cruel and cowardly murder, and yet I believe in my soul we did right to screen the murderer from the world. It is in the hands of the Almighty—there let it rest."
There was a pause—then:
"I shall return with you to London and see my father," he said, as one who claims a right.
"No," she answered firmly; "it is impossible. Stay! Hear me out—it is your father's own wish."
"My father's wish! But—"
"He cannot express a wish, you would say. Of late years, Victor, at wide intervals, his reason has returned for a brief space—all the worse for him."
"The worse for him!" The young man looked at her blankly. "Miss
Catheron, do you mean to say it is better for him to be mad?"