true.
“On the night of the double murder, Harriet Pyke told me, she had been with her baby. The sempstress, she said, would confirm this. And yet, if she had stated as much in open court, there would be no chance for that child to grow up into a decent life.
“Now the accused was in mortal terror. The sempstress did confirm her story. But the sempstress was of dubious character, and a fallen woman too; the Secretary of State for Home Affairs would not believe her. And, when I failed to obtain a reprieve, Harriet Pyke was carried screaming to the gallows.”
Matthew Damon paused.
He was sitting bolt upright, his hands flat on the desk, face almost without expression.
“Then what she told you was true!” said Clive.
“Oh, no,” said Mr. Damon.
“It was not true?”
“Except for the points I have indicated, not one word,” retorted the other. “But I believed it. Mark that! I believed it, and went on believing it for nearly two decades: until I learned the truth three months ago.”
He stared at the green-glass shade of the lamp as emotion grew inside him.
“A daughter of Harriet Pyke would have been born to sin in any case. As it was, however, I hoped to avoid the worse eventuality. There would have been problems in any case; as, for instance, the necessity of telling the truth when any of the three married. None the less, if only she had been innocent …”
“Mr. Damon!”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Forgive me, but what are you talking about? And how does this concern your own daughter?”
Again Matthew Damon sat up straight, but his nostrils were dilated. Over his face went a look so richly sardonic that it seemed almost a sneer.
“Oh, come!” he said. “You are an intelligent man. Pray don’t pretend you misunderstand?”
Clive did not misunderstand, but it was true he wished to misunderstand. Mentally he fought the images that crowded round.
“I should have questioned Whicher all those years ago,” said Mr. Damon, “when he was a young sergeant of the Detective Branch. But no. It was my conscience, my conscience, my conscience! An innocent woman, or so I believed, had been hanged because of me. I have prosecuted many criminals since then; but never with the unscrupulous violence I used towards her. And I feared God’s judgment unless I made atonement.”
“You made atonement—how? By adopting Harriet’s Pyke’s child as one of your own?”
“Yes,” said Matthew Damon.
He was silent for a moment.
“Oh, not a legal adoption! Every act had to be done in secret. When my wife died, we were living in the north of England. I had dismissed all my household except the nurse of my two real children. Only one person shares my secret; the children themselves do not know. Friends? I have so few friends.”
Clive looked at the carpet.
“All this I should have been happy to do (yes!), if Harriet Pyke had been innocent. But what is the result? Tainted blood! This very evening I have seen Harriet Pyke’s eyes and Harriet Pyke’s hands. ‘The sins of the fathers—’”
“Or the mothers.”
“Let us have no blasphemy, Mr. Strickland!”
“I meant no blasphemy, believe me.”
“‘The sins of the fathers—’ Need more be quoted?”
“No; I suppose not.”
Thunder split its echoes round the house and vibrated amid roof-slates.
“Tell me, sir: was Harriet Pyke insane?”
“On the contrary, she was most calculatingly sane. She cared nothing at all for the offspring of an unknown father; she would have saved her life, could she have done so, by lies to strike at my conscience; she screamed and screamed only when she had failed. Why do you ask?”
“Because,” answered Clive, with all the pressure of his ancestors’ wisdom against him, “it’s hard to believe that tainted blood, the certainty of brutality or theft or murder, can be handed down from father to son or mother to daughter. I have seen things in London streets …”
“Indeed. Do you doubt these
“On the night of the double murder, Harriet Pyke told me, she had been with her baby. The sempstress, she said, would confirm this. And yet, if she had stated as much in open court, there would be no chance for that child to grow up into a decent life.
“Now the accused was in mortal terror. The sempstress did confirm her story. But the sempstress was of dubious character, and a fallen woman too; the Secretary of State for Home Affairs would not believe her. And, when I failed to obtain a reprieve, Harriet Pyke was carried screaming to the gallows.”
Matthew Damon paused.
He was sitting bolt upright, his hands flat on the desk, face almost without expression.
“Then what she told you was true!” said Clive.
“Oh, no,” said Mr. Damon.
“It was not true?”
“Except for the points I have indicated, not one word,” retorted the other. “But I believed it. Mark that! I believed it, and went on believing it for nearly two decades: until I learned the truth three months ago.”
He stared at the green-glass shade of the lamp as emotion grew inside him.
“A daughter of Harriet Pyke would have been born to sin in any case. As it was, however, I hoped to avoid the worse eventuality. There would have been problems in any case; as, for instance, the necessity of telling the truth when any of the three married. None the less, if only she had been innocent …”
“Mr. Damon!”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Forgive me, but what are you talking about? And how does this concern your own daughter?”
Again Matthew Damon sat up straight, but his nostrils were dilated. Over his face went a look so richly sardonic that it seemed almost a sneer.
“Oh, come!” he said. “You are an intelligent man. Pray don’t pretend you misunderstand?”
Clive did not misunderstand, but it was true he wished to misunderstand. Mentally he fought the images that crowded round.
“I should have questioned Whicher all those years ago,” said Mr. Damon, “when he was a young sergeant of the Detective Branch. But no. It was my conscience, my conscience, my conscience! An innocent woman, or so I believed, had been hanged because of me. I have prosecuted many criminals since then; but never with the unscrupulous violence I used towards her. And I feared God’s judgment unless I made atonement.”
“You made atonement—how? By adopting Harriet’s Pyke’s child as one of your own?”
“Yes,” said Matthew Damon.
He was silent for a moment.
“Oh, not a legal adoption! Every act had to be done in secret. When my wife died, we were living in the north of England. I had dismissed all my household except the nurse of my two real children. Only one person shares my secret; the children themselves do not know. Friends? I have so few friends.”
Clive looked at the carpet.
“All this I should have been happy to do (yes!), if Harriet Pyke had been innocent. But what is the result? Tainted blood! This very evening I have seen Harriet Pyke’s eyes and Harriet Pyke’s hands. ‘The sins of the fathers—’”
“Or the mothers.”
“Let us have no blasphemy, Mr. Strickland!”
“I meant no blasphemy, believe me.”
“‘The sins of the fathers—’ Need more be quoted?”
“No; I suppose not.”
Thunder split its echoes round the house and vibrated amid roof-slates.
“Tell me, sir: was Harriet Pyke insane?”
“On the contrary, she was most calculatingly sane. She cared nothing at all for the offspring of an unknown father; she would have saved her life, could she have done so, by lies to strike at my conscience; she screamed and screamed only when she had failed. Why do you ask?”
“Because,” answered Clive, with all the pressure of his ancestors’ wisdom against him, “it’s hard to believe that tainted blood, the certainty of brutality or theft or murder, can be handed down from father to son or mother to daughter. I have seen things in London streets …”
“Indeed. Do you doubt these
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