“I will put my question to you in a different form,” said Lionel; “and so put to you, I shall expect you to answer it in your usual clear and straightforward way. Bristow, if you were circumstanced exactly as I am now circumstanced, what would you do in my place?”
“I would go through with the task I had taken in hand, let the consequences be what they might,” said Tom, without a moment’s hesitation. “Nothing should hold me back. I would clear my own name and my own fame, and let punishment fall where punishment is due. You are still young, Dering, and a fair career and a happy future may still be yours if you like to claim them.”
Tom’s words were very emphatic, and for a little while no one spoke. “We have yet to hear what Edith has to say,” said the General. “Her interests in the matter are second only to those of Lionel.”
“Yes, it is my wife’s turn to speak next,” said Lionel.
“What my opinion is, you know well, dearest, and have known for a long time.”
“My uncle and Bristow would like to hear it from your own lips.”
“Uncle,” began Edith, with a little blush, “whatever Lionel may ultimately decide to do will doubtless be for the best. The last wish I have in the world is to lead him or guide him in any way in opposition to his own convictions. But I have thought this: that it would be very terrible indeed to have to take part in a second tragedy—a tragedy that, in some of its features, would be far more dreadful than that first one, which none of us can ever forget. No one can know better than I know how grievously my husband has been sinned against. But nothing can altogether undo the wrong that has been done. Would it make my husband a happy man if, instead of being the accused, he should become the accuser? Let us for a few moments try to imagine that this second tragedy has been worked out in all its frightful consequences. That my husband has told everything. That he who is guilty has been duly punished. That Lionel’s fair fame has been re-established, and that he and I are living at Park Newton as if nothing had ever happened to disturb the commonplace tenor of our lives. In such a case, would my husband be a happy man? No. I know him too well to believe it possible that he could ever be happy or contented. The image of that man—one of his own kith and kin, we must remember—would be for ever in his mind. He would be the prey of a remorse all the more bitter in that the world would hold him as without blame. But would he so hold himself? I think not—I am sure not. He would feel as if he had sought for and accepted the price of blood.” Overcome by her emotion, she ceased.
“I think in a great measure as you think, my dear,” said the General. “What course do you propose that your husband should adopt?”
“It is not for me to propose anything,” answered Edith. “I can only suggest certain views of the question, and leave it for you and Lionel to adopt them or reject them, as may seem best to you.”
“Holding the proofs of his innocence in his hands as he does,” said the General, “is it your wish that Lionel should sit down contented with what he has already achieved, and knowing that the real facts of his story are in the keeping of you and me, and two or three trusted friends, rest satisfied with that and ask for nothing more?”