“And his father?”
“What do you mean?” he asked, startled. “Your father's will,—all that money to those two.”
“I explained to Aunt Agatha.”
“That was no explanation. From a hundred things I can remember now, I can't help feeling that there was force in the matter—oh, a horrible feeling—if it is as I suspect, you can understand—”
“I firmly believe Roderick to be innocent of any wrong of the sort.”
“Thank you,” she said. “And his father?” Sylvester rose and filled his pipe without speaking. It seemed odd to him that he felt no resentment at her questioning him. The chord in his temperament that once would have vibrated sharply and jarringly seemed to have snapped. He could only admire in a helpless way the strength of character that had carried her through so terrible an ordeal, her magnanimity, and the acuteness of her perception. But he filled his pipe with great deliberation, for to answer was difficult.
“I told you, Ella, I was powerless to judge any man,” he said. “Take my assurance as regards Roderick and forget it all. The answer to your question I have no right to give to any but one being in the world. Then it would be my duty.”
“Dorothy?”
“No. Another.”
Their eyes met for a moment. Hers lowered, and a faint spot of colour came into her cheek.