The question was not replied to. Mr. Channing spoke again, with the same calm emphasis. “Arthur, you can vouch for your innocence?”
Arthur Channing did the very worst thing that he could have done—he hesitated. Instead of replying readily and firmly “I can,” which he might have done without giving rise to harm, he stopped to ask himself how far, consistently with safety to Hamish, he might defend his own cause. His mind was not collected; he had not, as I have said, his senses about him; and the unbroken silence, waiting for his answer, the expectant faces turned upon him, helped to confuse him and to drive his reason further away. The signs, which certainly did look like signs of guilt, struck a knell on the heart of his father. “Arthur!” he wailed out, in a tone of intense agony, “you are innocent?”
“Y—es,” replied Arthur, gulping down his rising agitation; his rising words—impassioned words of exculpation, of innocence, of truth. They had bubbled up within him—were hovering on the verge of his burning lips. He beat them down again to repression; but he never afterwards knew how he did it.
Better that he had been still silent, than speak that dubious, indecisive “Y—es.” It told terribly against him. One, conscious of his own innocence, does not proclaim it in indistinct, half-uttered words. Tom’s mouth dropped with dismay, and his astonished eyes seemed as if they could not take themselves from Arthur’s uncertain face. Mrs. Channing staggered against the wall, with a faint cry.
The policeman spoke up: he meant to be kindly. In all Helstonleigh there was not a family more respected than were the Channings; and the man felt a passing sorrow for his task. “I wouldn’t ask no questions, sir, if I was you. Sometimes it’s best not; they tell against the accused.”
“Time’s up,” called out the one who was in the hall, to his fellow. “We can’t stop here all day.”
The hint was taken at once, both by Arthur and the man. Constance had kept herself still, throughout, by main force; but Mrs. Channing could not see him go away like this. She rose and threw her arms round him, in a burst of hysterical feeling, sobbing out, “My boy! my boy!”
“Don’t, mother! don’t unnerve me,” he whispered. “It is bad enough as it is.”
“But you cannot be guilty, Arthur.”
For answer he looked into her eyes for a single moment. His habitual expression had come back to them again—the earnest of truth, which she had ever known and trusted. It spoke calm to her heart now. “You are innocent,” she murmured. “Then go in peace.”