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diff --git a/38647-h/38647-h.htm b/38647-h/38647-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..7264112 --- /dev/null +++ b/38647-h/38647-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,14868 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.1//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml11/DTD/xhtml11.dtd"> + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en"> + +<head> + +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=ISO-8859-1" /> + +<title> +The Project Gutenberg E-text of The Honour of the Clintons, +by Archibald Marshall +</title> + +<style type="text/css"> +body { color: black; + background: white; + margin-right: 10%; + margin-left: 10%; + font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; + text-align: justify } + +p {text-indent: 4% } + +p.noindent {text-indent: 0% } + +p.t1 {text-indent: 0% ; + font-size: 200%; + text-align: center } + +p.t2 {text-indent: 0% ; + font-size: 150%; + text-align: center } + +p.t3 {text-indent: 0% ; + font-size: 100%; + text-align: center } + +p.t3b {text-indent: 0% ; + font-size: 100%; + font-weight: bold; + text-align: center } + +p.t4 {text-indent: 0% ; + font-size: 80%; + text-align: center } + +p.t4b {text-indent: 0% ; + font-size: 80%; + font-weight: bold; + text-align: center } + +p.t5 {text-indent: 0% ; + font-size: 60%; + text-align: center } + +h1 { text-align: center } +h2 { text-align: center } +h3 { text-align: center } +h4 { text-align: center } +h5 { text-align: center } + +p.poem {text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10%; } + +p.contents1 {text-indent: -3%; + margin-left: 15% } + +p.contents2 {text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 15% } + +p.letter {text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10% ; + margin-right: 10% } + +p.finis { font-size: larger ; + text-align: center ; + text-indent: 0% ; + margin-left: 0% ; + margin-right: 0% } + +</style> + +</head> + +<body> + + +<pre> + +Project Gutenberg's The Honour of the Clintons, by Archibald Marshall + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Honour of the Clintons + +Author: Archibald Marshall + +Release Date: January 23, 2012 [EBook #38647] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE HONOUR OF THE CLINTONS *** + + + + +Produced by Al Haines + + + + + +</pre> + + +<h1> +<br /><br /> +The +<br /> +Honour of the Clintons +</h1> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p class="t3"> +By +</p> + +<p class="t2"> +Archibald Marshall +</p> + +<p><br /><br /></p> + +<p class="t4"> +<i>Author of</i> +<br /> +"Elton Manor," "The Squire's Daughter,"<br /> +"The Eldest Son," etc.<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /><br /></p> + +<p class="t3"> +New York +<br /> +Dodd, Mead and Company +<br /> +1919 +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p class="t4"> +COPYRIGHT, 1913, BY +<br /> +DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p class="t3"> +<i>To</i> +<br /> +<i>ARTHUR MARWOOD</i> +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p class="t2"> +CONTENTS +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p class="t3b"> +BOOK I +</p> + +<p class="contents1"> +CHAPTER<br /><br /> +I <a href="#chap0101">A Home-Coming</a><br /> +II <a href="#chap0102">A Vulgar Theft</a><br /> +III <a href="#chap0103">The Squire Is Drawn In</a><br /> +IV <a href="#chap0104">Joan Gives Her Evidence</a><br /> +V <a href="#chap0105">A Quiet Talk</a><br /> +VI <a href="#chap0106">The Young Birds</a><br /> +VII <a href="#chap0107">The Verdict</a><br /> +<br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p class="t3b"> +BOOK II +</p> + +<p class="contents2"> +I <a href="#chap0201">Bobby Trench Is Asked to Kencote</a><br /> +II <a href="#chap0202">Joan and Nancy</a><br /> +III <a href="#chap0203">Humphrey and Susan</a><br /> +IV <a href="#chap0204">Coming Home from the Ball</a><br /> +V <a href="#chap0205">Robert Recumbent</a><br /> +VI <a href="#chap0206">Joan Rebellious</a><br /> +VII <a href="#chap0207">Disappointments</a><br /> +VIII <a href="#chap0208">Proposals</a><br /> +<br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p class="t3b"> +BOOK III +</p> + +<p class="contents2"> +I <a href="#chap0301">The Squire Confronted</a><br /> +II <a href="#chap0302">A Very Present Help</a><br /> +III <a href="#chap0303">The Burden</a><br /> +IV <a href="#chap0304">This Our Sister</a><br /> +<br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p class="t3b"> +BOOK IV +</p> + +<p class="contents2"> +I <a href="#chap0401">A Return</a><br /> +II <a href="#chap0402">Payment</a><br /> +III <a href="#chap0403">The Straight Path</a><br /> +IV <a href="#chap0404">A Conclave</a><br /> +V <a href="#chap0405">Waiting</a><br /> +VI <a href="#chap0406">The Power of the Storm</a><br /> +VII <a href="#chap0407">Thinking It Out</a><br /> +VIII <a href="#chap0408">Skies Clearing</a><br /> +IX <a href="#chap0409">Skies Clear</a><br /> +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap0101"></a></p> + +<h2> +BOOK I +<br /><br /> +</h2> + +<h3> +CHAPTER I +</h3> + +<h4> +A HOME-COMING +</h4> + +<p> +The lilacs in the station-yard at Kencote were heavy with their trusses +of white and purple; the rich pastures that stretched away on either +side of the line were yellow with buttercups. +</p> + +<p> +Out of the smiling peace of the country-side came puffing the busy +little branch-line train. It came to and fro half a dozen times a day, +making a rare contact between the outside world and this sunny placid +corner of meadow and brook and woodland. Here all life that one could +see was so quiet and so contented that the train seemed to lose its +character as it crept across the bright levels, and to be less a noisy +determined machine of progress than a trail of white steam, floating +out over the grazing cattle and the willows by the brookside, as much +in keeping with the scene as the wisps of cloud that made delicate the +blue of the fresh spring sky. +</p> + +<p> +The white cloud detached itself from the engine and melted away into +the sky, and the train slid with a cheerful rattle alongside the +platform and came to a stand-still. Nancy Clinton, who had been +awaiting its arrival with some impatience, waved her hand and hurried +to the carriage from which she had seen looking out a face exactly like +her own. By the time she had reached it her twin sister, Joan, had +alighted, and was ready with her greeting. +</p> + +<p> +"Hullo, old girl!" +</p> + +<p> +"You're nearly ten minutes late." +</p> + +<p> +The twins had been parted for a fortnight, which had very seldom +happened to them before in the whole nineteen years of their existence, +and both of them were pleased to be together once more. If they had +been rather less pleased they might have said rather more. +</p> + +<p> +More was, in fact, said by the maid who stood at the carriage door with +Joan's dressing-bag in her hand. +</p> + +<p> +"Good-afternoon, Miss Nancy. Lor, you <i>are</i> looking well, and a sight +for sore eyes. We've come back again, you see, and don't want to go +away from you no more. Miss Joan, please ketch 'old of this, and I'll +get the other things out. Where's that porter? He wants somebody +be'ind 'im with a stick." +</p> + +<p> +"Hullo, Hannah!" said Nancy. "As talkative as ever! Come along, Joan. +She can look after the things." +</p> + +<p> +The two girls went out through the booking-office, at the door of which +the station-master expressed respectful pleasure at the return of the +traveller, and got into the carriage waiting for them. There was a +luggage cart as well, and the groom in charge of it touched his hat and +grinned with pleasure; as did also the young coachman on the box. +</p> + +<p> +"I seem to be more popular than ever," said Joan as she got into the +carriage. "Why aren't we allowed a footman?" +</p> + +<p> +"You won't find you're at all popular when you get home," said Nancy. +"The absence of a footman is intended to mark father's displeasure with +you. He sent out to say there wasn't to be one, and William was to +drive, instead of old Probyn. Father is very good at making his ritual +expressive." +</p> + +<p> +"What's the trouble?" enquired Joan. "My going to Brummels for the +week-end?" +</p> + +<p> +"Yes. Without a <i>with</i>-your-leave or <i>by</i>-your-leave. Such a house as +that is no place for a well-brought-up girl, and what on earth Humphrey +and Susan were thinking of in taking you there he can't think. I say, +why <i>did</i> you all go in such a hurry? You didn't say anything about it +when you wrote on Friday." +</p> + +<p> +"Because it was arranged all in a hurry. Lady Sedbergh is going +through a month's rest cure at Brummels, and she thought she'd have a +lively party to say good-bye before she shuts herself up. It was Bobby +Trench who made her ask us, at the last moment." +</p> + +<p> +"Joan, is Bobby Trench paying you attentions? You never told me +anything in your letters, but he seems to have been always about." +</p> + +<p> +Joan laughed. "I'll tell you all about Bobby Trench later on," she +said. "I've been saving it up. Mother isn't annoyed at my going to +Brummels, is she?" +</p> + +<p> +"I don't think so. But she said Humphrey and Susan ought not to have +taken you there without asking." +</p> + +<p> +"There wasn't time to ask. Besides, I wanted to go, just to see how +the smart set really do behave when they're all at home together." +</p> + +<p> +"Well, how do they?" +</p> + +<p> +"It really is what Frank calls '<i>chaude étoffe</i>.' I don't wonder that +Lady Sedbergh wants a rest cure if that's how she spends her life. On +Sunday we had a fancy dress dinner—anything we could find—and she +came down as the Brummels ghost in a sort of nightgown with her hair +down her back and her face whitened. She looked a positive idiot +sitting at the head of the table. She must be at least fifty and the +ghost was only seventeen." +</p> + +<p> +"What did you wear?" +</p> + +<p> +"Oh, I borrowed Hannah's cap and apron; and Susan's maid lent me a +black dress. I was much admired. Susan was a flapper. She had on +some clothes of Betty Trench's, who is only fourteen, and about her +size. She looked rather silly. Humphrey was properly dressed, except +that he wore white trousers and a pink silk pyjama jacket. He said he +was Night and Morning. He looked the most respectable of all the men, +except Lord Sedbergh, who said he wasn't playing. He's a dear old +thing and lets them all do just what they like, and laughs all the +time. Bobby Trench was a bathing woman, with a sponge bag thing on his +head. He was really awfully funny, but he was funniest of all when he +forgot what he looked like and languished at me. I was having soup, +and I choked, and Lord Rokeby, who was sitting next to me, thumped me +on the back. All their manners are delightfully free and natural." +</p> + +<p> +"Well, you seem to have enjoyed yourself." +</p> + +<p> +"We finished up the evening with a pillow fight. Fancy!—Lady Sedbergh +and some of the other older women joined in, and made as much noise as +anybody. You should have seen Hannah's face when I did at last get +into my room, where she was waiting for me. She said a judgment was +sure to fall on us for such goings on." +</p> + +<p> +"A judgment is certainly going to fall on <i>you</i>, my dear. Father will +seize you the moment you get into the house and ask you what you mean +by it." +</p> + +<p> +"Dear father!" said Joan affectionately. "It <i>is</i> jolly to be home +again, Nancy. How lovely the chestnuts are looking! Dear peaceful old +Kencote!" +</p> + +<p> +They drove in through the lodge gates, where Joan received a smile and +a curtsey, and along the short drive through the park, and drew up +beneath the porch of the big ugly square house. Mrs. Clinton was at +the door, and Joan enveloped her in an ardent embrace, which was +interrupted by the appearance of the Squire, big and burly, with a +grizzled beard and a look of self-contented authority. +</p> + +<p> +"I've got something to say to you, Miss Joan. Come into my room." +</p> + +<p> +He turned his back and marched off to the library, in which he spent +most of his time when he was indoors. +</p> + +<p> +Joan, after another hug and kiss, followed him. It may or may not have +been a sign of the deterioration in manner, wrought by her visit to +Brummels, that she winked at Nancy over her shoulder as she did so. +</p> + +<p> +"Aren't you going to kiss me, father?" she asked, going up to him. "I +am very pleased to see you again, and I'm sure you're just as pleased +to see me." +</p> + +<p> +The face that she lifted up to him could not possibly have been +resisted by any man who had not the privilege of close relationship. +The Squire, however, successfully resisted it. +</p> + +<p> +"I don't want to kiss you," he said. "I'm very displeased with you. +What on earth possessed Humphrey and Susan to take you off to a house +like that, without a with-your-leave or a by-your-leave? And what do +you mean by going to places where you knew perfectly well you wouldn't +be allowed to go?" +</p> + +<p> +"But, father darling," expostulated Joan, with an expression of puzzled +innocence, "I knew Lord Sedbergh was an old friend of yours. I didn't +think you could <i>possibly</i> object to my going there with Humphrey and +Susan. They only got up their party on Friday evening, and there +wasn't time to write home. Why do you mind so much?" +</p> + +<p> +"You know perfectly well why I mind," returned the Squire irritably. +"All sorts of things go on in houses like that, and all sorts of people +are welcomed there that I won't have a daughter of mine mixed up with. +You've been brought up in a God-fearing house, and you've got to +content yourself with the life we live here. I tell you I won't have +it." +</p> + +<p> +"Well, I'm sorry, father dear. I won't do it again. Now give me a +kiss." +</p> + +<p> +But the Squire was not yet ready for endearments. +</p> + +<p> +"Won't do it again!" he echoed. "No, you won't do it again. I'll take +good care of that. If you can't go on a visit to your relations +without getting into mischief you'll stop at home." +</p> + +<p> +"I don't want anything better," replied Joan tactfully. "I didn't know +how ripping Kencote was till I drove home just now. Everything is +looking lovely. How are the young birds doing?" +</p> + +<p> +"Never mind about the young birds," said the Squire. "We've got to get +to the bottom of this business. You must have known very well that I +should object to your going to a house like Brummels. When that young +Trench came here a few years ago you heard me object very strongly to +the way he behaved himself. Cards on Sunday, and using the house like +an hotel, never keeping any hours except what suited himself, and I +don't know what all. Did they play cards on Sunday at Brummels?" +</p> + +<p> +Joan was obliged to confess that they did. +</p> + +<p> +"Of course! Did <i>you</i> play? Did Humphrey and Susan play?" +</p> + +<p> +"Oh no, father; I don't know how to play and I wouldn't think of it," +replied Joan hurriedly, to the first question. +</p> + +<p> +"Did you go to church?" +</p> + +<p> +"Oh yes, father. I went with Lord Sedbergh. He is a dear old man, and +hates cards now." +</p> + +<p> +"I don't know why you should call him an old man. He is just the same +age as I am. It's quite true that we were friends as young fellows. +But that's a good many years ago. He has gone his way and I have gone +mine. I don't suppose he is responsible for all the folly and +extravagance that goes on in his house; still, he lives an altogether +different sort of life, and we haven't met for years. If he remembers +my name it's about as much as he would do." +</p> + +<p> +"Oh, but he talked a lot about you, father. He told me all sorts of +stories about when you were at Cambridge together. He said once you +began to play cards after dinner and didn't leave off until breakfast +time the next morning." +</p> + +<p> +"H'm! ha!" said the Squire. "Of course young fellows do a number of +foolish things that they don't do afterwards. Did anyone but you and +Lord Sedbergh go to church on Sunday?" +</p> + +<p> +Joan was obliged to confess that they had been the only attendants. +</p> + +<p> +"Well, there it is!" said the Squire. "Out of all that household, only +two willing to do their duty towards God Almighty! I shall give +Humphrey and Susan a piece of my mind. I blame them more for it than I +do you. But at the same time you ought not to have gone, and I hope +you fully understand that." +</p> + +<p> +"Oh, yes, father dear," replied Joan. "You have made it quite plain +now. Don't be cross any more, and give me a kiss. I've been longing +for one ever since I came in." +</p> + +<p> +The Squire capitulated. "Now run away," he said when he had satisfied +the calls of filial affection, and paternal no less. "I've got some +papers to look through. What you've got to do is to put it all out of +your mind, and settle down and make yourself happy at home. God knows +I do all <i>I</i> can to make my children happy. The amount that goes out +in a house like this would frighten a good many people, and I expect +some return of obedience to my wishes for all the sacrifices I make." +</p> + +<p> +When Joan had left him the Squire went to find his wife. +</p> + +<p> +"Nina," he said, "I'm infernally worried about Joan going to a house +like Brummels. The child's a good child, but wants looking after. She +ought never to have been allowed to go up to Susan. I thought trouble +would come of it when it was suggested." +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Clinton did not remind her husband that both the twins had stayed +with their sister-in-law before, and that beyond a grumble at anybody +preferring London to Kencote he had never made any objection. +</p> + +<p> +"I think they ought not to have taken her away on a visit without +asking," said Mrs. Clinton. "But Joan and Nancy are grown-up now, and +I think they are both too sensible to take any harm by being with +Susan. What I feel is that they must see things for themselves, and +not be kept always shut up at home." +</p> + +<p> +"Shut up!" repeated the Squire. "That's a foolish way of talking. +Home is the best place for young girls; and who could wish for a better +home than Kencote? The fact is that this London life is getting looser +and more immoral every day. Look what an effect it is having on +Humphrey and Susan! What with all that money that old Aunt Laura left +them, and the allowance I make to Humphrey, and the few hundreds a year +that Susan has, they could very well afford to keep up quite a nice +little place in the country, and live a sensible healthy life. As it +is they live in a poky flat that you can hardly turn round in, and yet +they spend twice as much money as Dick, who is my eldest son, and is +quite content to live here quietly in the Dower House and not go +running about all over the place. And they spend twice as much as +Walter, who has a family to keep. And they don't really get on well +together, either. Their marriage has been a great disappointment—a +disappointment in every way. The fact is that a young couple without +any children to look after and keep them steady are bound to get into +mischief, especially if they've got the tastes that Humphrey and Susan +have, and enough money to gratify them. Nina, I <i>hate</i> this set of +people that they make their friends of. Did you know that that Mrs. +Amberley was staying at Brummels?" +</p> + +<p> +"I saw her name in the paper," said Mrs. Clinton. +</p> + +<p> +"A nice sort of woman for a young girl like Joan to be asked to meet! +She's a notoriously loose character; and a good many other members of +the party are no better than they should be. Lady Sedbergh herself is +a frivolous fool, if she's no worse, and as for that young cub who came +here a year or two ago, I don't know when I've seen a young fellow I +object to more. I believe Sedbergh himself has the remains of decency +and dignity; but what does one person count amongst all that vicious +gang? Upon my word, Humphrey and Susan ought to be whipped for taking +a girl of Joan's age to such a place. The children shan't go to stay +with them again. The fact is that they can't be trusted in anything. +Well, I can't stay talking here; I must go back to my papers." +</p> + +<p> +In the meantime Joan had retired with Nancy to their own quarters. +They still occupied one of the large nurseries as their bedroom, and +used the old schoolroom as a place where they could enjoy the privacy +necessary for their own intimate pursuits. Their elder sister and +three of their brothers were married, their governess had left them at +the end of the previous year, and as a rule they had these rooms on the +second floor of the East wing entirely to themselves. But at this +time, Frank, their sailor brother, was at home on leave, and had taken +up his old quarters there. He was a rising young lieutenant of +twenty-six, and the twins had been presented to their sovereign and let +loose generally on a grown-up world. But between them they managed to +produce a creditable revival of the period when the East wing had been +full of the noise and games of childhood; for they were all three young +at heart and the cares of life as yet sat lightly on them. +</p> + +<p> +"Frank and I have started schoolroom tea again," said Nancy, as she and +Joan went up to their bedroom together. "He says he wants eggs, after +being out the whole afternoon; and mother doesn't mind. You will +preside over the urn at five o'clock." +</p> + +<p> +"Jolly!" said Joan. "Where is Frank?" +</p> + +<p> +"He hacked over to Mountfield to see Jim and Cicely." (Cicely, the +eldest of the Clinton girls, had married a country neighbour, Jim +Graham, and lived about five miles from Kencote.) "But he said he +would be back for tea. I suppose you calmed father down all right?" +</p> + +<p> +"Oh yes. He's a dear old lamb, but he must have his say out. You only +have to give him his head, and he works it all off. You know, Nancy, +although father is rather tiresome at times, he is much better than all +those silly old men you meet about London. He is over sixty, and he +doesn't mind behaving like it. A lot of <i>them</i> expect you to treat +them as if they were your own age, whether they are married or not." +</p> + +<p> +"You seem to have gone through some eye-opening experiences." +</p> + +<p> +"I have. I feel that I know the world now." +</p> + +<p> +She had taken off her hat, and stood in front of the glass, touching +the twined masses of her pretty fair hair. The lines of her slim body, +and her delicate tapering fingers, were those of a woman; but the +child's soul had not yet faded out of her eyes, and still set its +impress on the curves of her mouth. +</p> + +<p> +"Tell me about Bobby Trench." +</p> + +<p> +Joan laughed, with a ringing note of amusement. "Of course you know +<i>why</i> we were all given such a sudden and pressing invitation to +Brummels," she said. +</p> + +<p> +Nancy jumped the implied question and answer. "Well, it was bound to +come sooner or later," she said. "With <i>both</i> of us, I mean; not you +only. There is no doubt we possess great personal attractions. But I +don't think you have much to boast about, if it's only Bobby Trench. +What is he like? Has he changed at all since he came here?" +</p> + +<p> +"Oh, he is just as silly and conceited as ever; but love has softened +him." +</p> + +<p> +"I shouldn't want him softened, myself. He'd be sillier than ever. +Tell me all about it, Joan. How did he behave?" +</p> + +<p> +Joan told her all about it; and the recital would not have pleased Mr. +Robert Trench, if he had heard it. With those cool young eyes she had +remorselessly regarded the antics of the attracted male, and found them +only absurd. But she had not put a stop to them. +</p> + +<p> +"You know, Nancy," she said guilelessly, "it's all very well to talk as +they do in books about a man being able to make a girl like him if he +keeps at her long enough; but I am quite sure Bobby Trench could never +make me like him—in that way—if he tried for a hundred years. Still, +it <i>is</i> rather nice to feel that one is grown up at last." +</p> + +<p> +"The fact of the matter is, you have been flirting with Bobby Trench," +said Nancy; "and you ought to be ashamed of yourself." +</p> + +<p> +But Joan indignantly denied this. "What I did," she said, "was to +prevent his flirting with me." +</p> + +<p> +There was a moment's pause. Then Nancy said unconcernedly, "I suppose +I told you that John Spence came here." +</p> + +<p> +Joan turned round sharply, and looked at her. "No, you didn't," she +said. +</p> + +<p> +After another moment's pause, she said, "You know you didn't." +</p> + +<p> +Then came the question: "Why didn't you?" +</p> + +<p> +"He was only here for two nights," said Nancy. "At the Dower House, of +course. If I didn't tell you, I meant to." +</p> + +<p> +Joan scrutinised her closely, and then turned away. +</p> + +<p> +"He was awfully sorry to miss you," Nancy said. "He told me to give +you his love." +</p> + +<p> +"Thank you," said Joan, rather stiffly. +</p> + +<p> +John Spence was a friend of Dick Clinton, who had managed his estates +for him for a year. He had first come to Kencote when the twins were +about fifteen, and had impressed himself on their youthful +imaginations. He was nearly twenty years older than they, but simple +of mind, free of his laughter, and noticeably warm-hearted. He liked +all young things; and the Clinton twins had afforded him great +amusement. He had been to Kencote occasionally as they were growing +up, and the elder-brotherly intimacy with which he had treated them at +the first had not altered. He was the friend of both of them, but when +he had come twice to Kencote to shoot, during the previous season, he +had seemed to show a very slight preference for the society of Joan. +It had been so slight that the twins, who had never had thoughts which +they had not shared, had made no mention of it between them. +</p> + +<p> +But now, at a stroke, the great fact of sex came rushing in to affect +these young girls, who had played with it in a light unknowing way, but +had never felt it. They could amuse themselves, and each other, with +the amorous advances of Bobby Trench, but the fact that Nancy had +omitted to tell Joan of John Spence's visit was portentous, slight as +the omission might seem. Their habitual intercourse was one of +intimate humour, varied by frank disputes, which never touched the +close ties that bound them. But this was a subject on which they could +neither joke nor quarrel. It was likely to alter the relations that +had always existed between them, if it was not faced at once. +</p> + +<p> +It was impossible for either of them not to face it. For the whole of +their lives each had known exactly what was in the mind of the other. +Each knew now, and the knowledge could not be ignored. +</p> + +<p> +"Well, he was awfully nice," said Nancy, rather as if she were saying +something she did not want to. "I liked him better than ever. But he +sent his love to you." +</p> + +<p> +"I don't see why you shouldn't have told me that he had come," said +Joan. +</p> + +<p> +But she saw very well, and in the light of her seeing John Spence +ceased to be the openly admired friend of her and Nancy's childhood, +and became something quite different. +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap0102"></a></p> + +<h3> +CHAPTER II +</h3> + +<h4> +A VULGAR THEFT +</h4> + +<p> +In the great square dining-room at Kencote the Squire was sitting over +his wine, with his eldest and youngest sons. +</p> + +<p> +From the walls looked down portraits of Clintons dead and gone, and of +the horses and dogs that they had loved, as well as some pictures that +by-gone owners of Kencote had brought back from their travels, or +bought from contemporary rising and since famous artists. There were +some good pictures at Kencote, but nobody ever took much notice of +them, except a visitor now and then. +</p> + +<p> +Yet their presence had its effect on these latest members of a healthy, +ancient line. No family portraits went back further than two hundred +years, because Elizabethan Kencote, with nearly all its treasures of +art and antiquity, had been burnt down, and Georgian Kencote built in +its place. Even Georgian Kencote had suffered at the beginning of the +nineteenth century, at the hands of a rich and progressive owner; rooms +had been stripped of panelling, windows had been enlarged; and, but for +a few old pieces here and there, the furniture was massive but ugly. +The Clintons were as old as any commoner's family in England, and had +lived at Kencote without any intermission for something like six +hundred years; but there was little to show it in their surroundings as +they were at present. Only the portraits of the last six or seven +generations spoke mutely but insistently of the past, and their +prototypes were as well-known by name and character to their +descendants as if they had been known in the flesh. +</p> + +<p> +To us, observing Edward Clinton, twentieth century Squire of Kencote, +with the eldest son who would some day succeed him, and the youngest +son, who had taken to one of those professions to which the younger +sons of a line undistinguished for all except wealth and lineage had +taken as a matter of course throughout long generations, this +background of family portraits is full of suggestion. One might ask +how much of the continuity of life and habit it represents is stable, +how much of it dependent upon fast-changing circumstance. How far is +this robust elderly man, living on his lands and desiring to live +nowhere else, and the handsome younger man, whose life has been spent +in the centre of all modern happenings,—how far are they what they +appear to be, representative of the well-to-do classes of modern +England; how far is their attitude to the life about them affected by +ideas inherent in their long descent? Are they really of the twentieth +century, or in spite of superficial modernity, of a time already passed +away? +</p> + +<p> +One might say that the life lived by the Squire was the same life, in +all but accidentals, as that of the squires who had gone before him, +and whose portraits hung on the walls, and that it would be lived in +much the same way by the son who was to come after him. And so it was. +But the lives of those dead squires had been part of the natural order +of things of their time. Their lands had provided for it, and of +themselves would provide for it no longer. It was only by the accident +of our Squire being a rich man, and being able to leave his son a rich +man, that either of them could go on living it. To this extent his +life was not based upon his descent, and was indeed as much cut off +from that of the previous owners of Kencote as if he had been a man of +no ancestry at all, whose wealth, gained elsewhere, enabled him to +enjoy an exotic existence as a country gentleman. If wealth +disappeared the long chain would be broken, for a reason that would not +have broken it before. +</p> + +<p> +But, when that is said, there still remains the whole ponderous weight +of tradition, which makes of him something different from the rich +outsider who, with no more than a generation or two behind him, or +perhaps none at all, comes in to take the place of the dispossessed +owner whose land alone will no longer support his state. What that +counts for in inherited benevolence and sense of responsibility, +qualified by strange spots of blindness where the awakened conscience +of a community is beginning to see more clearly, it would be difficult +to gauge. What one may say is that some flower whose perfume one can +distinguish should be produced of a plant so many centuries rooted; +that twenty generations of men preserved from the struggle for +existence, and having power over their fellows, should end in something +easily distinguishable from a man of yesterday; that such old +established gentility should have some feelings not shared by the +common mass, some peculiar sense of honour, some quality not dependent +upon wealth alone, some clear principle emerging from the mists of +prejudice and the mere dislike of all change. +</p> + +<p> +So we come back to the Squire sitting with his sons over their wine, +their pictured forebears looking down on them from the walls, and +wonder a little whether there is anything in it all, or whether we are +merely in the company of a man to whom chance has given the opportunity +of ordering his life on obviously opulent lines, like many another with +no forebears that he knows anything of. +</p> + +<p> +Dick Clinton had held a commission in His Majesty's Brigade of Guards +up to the time of his marriage four years before, and had been very +much in the swim of everything that was going on in the world of rank +and fashion. Now he lived for the most part quietly at the Dower +House, which lay just across the park of Kencote, and busied himself +with country pursuits and the management of the estate to which he +would one day succeed. He was beginning ever so little to put on +flesh, to look more like his father, to lose his interest in the world +outside the manor of Kencote and the adjacent lands that went with it. +But he was not yet a stay-at-home, as the Squire had long since become, +and he and his wife had just returned from a fortnight in London, well +primed with the interests of their former associates. +</p> + +<p> +"Have you heard about this business at Brummels?" he said, as he passed +the decanter. +</p> + +<p> +The Squire frowned at the mention of Brummels. "No. What business?" +he asked. +</p> + +<p> +"Lady Sedbergh has had a pearl necklace stolen. It's said to be worth +ten thousand pounds; say five. She says that she kept it in a secret +hiding-place, and the only person who could have known where it was is +Rachel Amberley. She accuses her of stealing it. There's going to be +a pretty scandal." +</p> + +<p> +The Squire frowned more ferociously than ever. "That's the sort of +thing that goes on amongst people like that!" he said with disgust. +"They have no more sense of honour than a set of convicts. A vulgar +theft! And there's hardly one of the whole lot that wouldn't be +capable of it." +</p> + +<p> +"Well, I don't know about that," said Dick; "but if Mary Sedbergh can +be believed, there's not much doubt that Mrs. Amberley walked off with +it. It seems that there's an old hiding-place in the morning-room at +Brummels. You press a spring in the wainscot, and find a cupboard." +</p> + +<p> +"There are plenty of those about," said the Squire. "Anybody might +find it. Still, I've no doubt that she's right, and it was that Mrs. +Amberley who actually did steal it." +</p> + +<p> +Frank laughed suddenly. He was accustomed to suck amusement out of the +most unlikely sources, and his father, whether unlikely or not, was one +of them. "Why does she think Mrs. Amberley found it?" he asked. +</p> + +<p> +"Because she showed her the hiding-place in a moment of expansion. It +isn't just a cupboard behind the panelling. When you've found that you +have only begun. There is another secret place behind the cupboard +itself. Only Sedbergh and his wife knew of it. It's a secret that has +been handed down; and well kept." +</p> + +<p> +"Then why on earth did she tell a woman like Mrs. Amberley about it?" +enquired the Squire. +</p> + +<p> +"I don't know; though it's just like her to do it. I think Mrs. +Amberley was at school with her, or something of that sort. She had a +big party at Brummels, and then emptied the house and went through a +month's rest cure there. At the end of the month she looked for her +necklace, and found it gone. A diamond star had gone as well; but +other things she had put away had been left." +</p> + +<p> +"So, whoever the thief was, she had a month's start," said Frank. +</p> + +<p> +"Yes. Sedbergh was called in, and they both went straight to Rachel +Amberley and offered to hush it all up if she would give back the +necklace." +</p> + +<p> +The Squire snorted. +</p> + +<p> +"Rachel Amberley bluffed it out. She said she would have them up for +scandal if they breathed a word of suspicion anywhere. They have been +breathing a good many. In fact, it's all over the place. And nothing +has happened yet. Everybody is wondering who will make the first move." +</p> + +<p> +"<i>She</i> won't," said the Squire, who had never met Mrs. Amberley. "I am +not in the way of hearing much that goes on amongst people of that +sort, now, but she's a notoriously loose woman. That's why I was so +annoyed when I heard that Joan had been taken to a house where she was +staying. By the by, this affair didn't take place at that particular +time, did it?" +</p> + +<p> +"Yes. That's when it happened." +</p> + +<p> +The Squire's face was blacker than ever. "Then it will be known who +was of the party," he said. "Our name will be dragged into one of +these disgraceful scandals, and every Dick, Tom, and Harry in the +country will be talking about us. Upon my word, it's maddening. I +suppose I can't prevent Humphrey and Susan keeping what company they +please, but it makes me furious every time I think of it—their taking +Joan there." +</p> + +<p> +"I don't suppose Joan's name will come out," said Dick. "There were +lots of people in the house at the time, and they are not likely to +mention all of them." +</p> + +<p> +The Squire was forced to be content with this. "Well, don't say +anything about it to her," he said. "It's an unsavoury business, and +the less she knows about that sort of thing the better." +</p> + +<p> +"You can't keep her shut up for ever," said Dick; but his father +pressed more insistently for silence. "I don't want it mentioned," he +said irritably. "Please don't say anything to her—or you either, +Frank." +</p> + +<p> +Frank was mindful of this injunction when he next found himself alone +with his sisters, which was at tea-time the next day. But he saw no +harm in mentioning the name of Mrs. Amberley. What had Joan thought of +her during that visit to Brummels, made memorable by the disturbance +that had affected her home-coming? +</p> + +<p> +"Oh, I'm sick of Brummels," she said. "Anyone would think it +was—well, I won't sully my lips by repeating the name of the place. +Anyhow, it was a good deal more amusing than Kencote." +</p> + +<p> +"Kencote is the jolliest place in the world," said Frank. "You and +Nancy are always running it down." +</p> + +<p> +"It may be the jolliest place in the world to you," said Nancy, +"because you are here so seldom, and you do exactly what you want to do +when you <i>are</i> here. It is pretty slow for Joan and me, boxed up here +all the year round." +</p> + +<p> +"Well, never mind about that," said Frank, "I want to know how the +notorious Mrs. Amberley struck you, Joan." +</p> + +<p> +"Is she notorious?" asked Joan. "She struck me as being old, if you +want to know. Much older than mother, although I suppose they are +about the same age, and mother's hair is white, and hers is vermilion." +</p> + +<p> +"Did you talk to her at all?" +</p> + +<p> +"Not much. She isn't the sort of person who would care about girls. +And I don't suppose they would care much about her, unless they were +pretty advanced. I'm not, you know, Frank. I'm a bread and butter +Miss from the country. I keep my mouth shut and my eyes open." +</p> + +<p> +"At the same time," said Nancy, "our splendid youth is really a great +attraction. If Joan and I had lived in the eighteenth century, we +should have been known as the beautiful Miss Clintons. And we should +have had a very good time." +</p> + +<p> +"You have a very good time as it is," said Frank, "only you're not +sensible enough to know it. You ought not to want anything much +jollier than this." +</p> + +<p> +The windows of the big airy upstairs room were wide open to the summer +breezes. Outside, the spreading lawns of the garden, bordered by +ancient trees, and the grassy level of the park lay quiet and spacious, +flooded with soft sunshine. There was an air of leisure and +undisturbed seclusion about the scene, which was summed up in this +room, retired from the rest of the house, where the happiness of +childhood still lingered. It was not surprising that Frank, coming +back to it after his long sea wanderings, should have been seized by +the opulent tranquillity of his home. He was as happy as he could be, +all day and every day, woke up to a clear sensation of pleasure at +finding himself where he was, and watched the dwindling tail of his +leave with hardly less regret than the end of the holidays had brought +him during his schooldays. At twenty-six, with ten years of the sea +and the responsibilities of his profession behind him, he had stepped +straight back into his boyhood. He was not reflective enough to +realise that time would not stand still for him in this way for ever. +It seemed to him that, whatever else might change, Kencote would always +be the same, and he could always recapture his boyhood there. That was +partly why he disliked to hear his young sisters belittling its +comparative stagnation, which was to him so delightful. He had thought +them absurdly grown-up when he had first come home; but that effect had +worn off. He was a boy, and they were children in the schoolroom +again, their father and mother downstairs, out of the way of their +noise. So it would be when he came home again in two or three years' +time. So it would always be, as far as it was in him to look ahead. +</p> + +<p> +But his sisters had other ideas. Their wing-feathers were growing, and +they were already beginning to flutter them. Perhaps in after years, +whatever happiness might come to them—and all life in the future was, +of course, to be happy, as well as much more exciting—they too would +look back upon these midsummer months with regret, and wish for their +childhood back again. +</p> + +<p> +A few days later Joan and Nancy were taking a country walk with their +dogs. They were about a mile away from Kencote, when a motor-car came +suddenly along the road towards them, driven by a smart-looking young +man in a green hat and a blue flannel suit. The girls were on the +grass by the side of the road holding two of the dogs until it should +have passed, when to their surprise it stopped, and a cheerful voice +called out, "Hullo, Miss Joan! Here's a piece of luck! I was just on +my way to see you." +</p> + +<p> +Joan stood upright with a blush on her face, which she would have +preferred not to have shown, while Mr. Robert Trench jumped down from +the car and advanced to shake hands with her. He also shook hands with +Nancy, remarking that he remembered her very well, and should have +known her anywhere by her likeness to her sister. +</p> + +<p> +"What remarkable powers of observation you have!" observed Joan, +rallying her forces. +</p> + +<p> +Bobby Trench only grinned at her. "Chaffing, as usual!" he said. +"But, bless you, I don't mind. I say, I suppose you have heard about +this beastly thing that has happened at Brummels—about my mother's +necklace?" +</p> + +<p> +"No, I haven't," said Joan. +</p> + +<p> +"What, not heard that it was stolen! Why, it was when you were staying +in the house too. Everybody is talking about it. Wherever have you +been burying yourself that you've heard nothing?" +</p> + +<p> +"At home at Kencote," replied Joan. "You don't think I brought the +necklace away with me, do you?" +</p> + +<p> +Bobby Trench grinned again. "We were talking it over last night," he +said. "I think we have seen everybody that was in the house at the +time except you, and I said, 'By Jove! I wonder whether Miss Joan +noticed anything?' We don't want to leave any stone upturned, so I +said I would run down and look you all up. It must be years since I +came to Kencote. You were both jolly little kids then." +</p> + +<p> +"I beg your pardon," said Nancy, "we were fifteen. We weren't kids at +all." +</p> + +<p> +"I apologise," said Bobby. "Anyhow, I thought it was a chance not to +be missed. Now, did you notice anything, Miss Joan? Oh, I forgot; I +haven't told you the story yet." +</p> + +<p> +"I think you had better do that first," said Joan. +</p> + +<p> +Bobby Trench then told them the story, and when he came to describe the +hiding-place Joan gave an exclamation. +</p> + +<p> +"Is it just where that little Dutch picture hangs?" she asked. "The +one with the old woman cleaning a copper pot?" +</p> + +<p> +"Yes. That's the place," said Bobby. "Why? Do you know anything +about it?" +</p> + +<p> +Joan's face was serious. "Are you quite sure that Mrs. Amberley took +the necklace?" she asked. +</p> + +<p> +"We're about as sure as we could be, unless we had actually seen her +doing it. I'll tell you what we have found out afterwards. You didn't +see her opening the cupboard by any chance, did you?" +</p> + +<p> +Joan did not reply for a moment. Nancy looked at her with some +excitement on her face. "What <i>did</i> you see?" she asked. +</p> + +<p> +Still Joan seemed unwilling to speak, and Bobby Trench said, "If you +did see something, you ought to let us know. It's a very serious +business. The things stolen are worth pots of money, and we know +perfectly well that it can only be Mrs. Amberley who has taken them. +Besides, we've pretty well proved it now. We have found people to whom +she sold separate pearls; but for goodness' sake don't let that out +yet. I only tell you so that you may know that it wouldn't only rest +on you." +</p> + +<p> +Joan raised her eyes to his. "I went into the morning-room," she said, +"and Mrs. Amberley was standing with her back to me by the fireplace." +</p> + +<p> +"By Jove!" exclaimed Bobby Trench, staring at her as if fascinated. +</p> + +<p> +"She turned sharp round when I came in," said Joan, "and then she asked +me if I didn't love old Dutch pictures, and showed me that one. That +is why I remembered about it." +</p> + +<p> +"Was she actually looking at it when you came in?" +</p> + +<p> +"Well, no. I don't think she was. It was just a little to the right +of where she was standing. I had forgotten all about it, but I +remember now that when she mentioned the picture I thought to myself +that she seemed to have been looking at the bare panels, and not at the +picture at all. Besides, she was blushing scarlet, and it was just as +if I had caught her in something." +</p> + +<p> +"By Jove! you must jolly nearly have caught her with the panel open. +Did you notice anything odd about the wall she was standing in front of +as you came in?" +</p> + +<p> +Joan thought for a moment. "No, I didn't," she said decidedly. +</p> + +<p> +"Had she got anything in her hand?" +</p> + +<p> +Joan thought again. "I didn't notice," she said. "But I believe she +kept her hands behind her while she was talking to me. She didn't talk +long. Just as I was looking at the picture she suddenly said she had +some letters to write, and went out of the room." +</p> + +<p> +Bobby Trench, with growing excitement, asked her further questions—as +to the time at which this had happened, as to the exact words that Mrs. +Amberley had said. +</p> + +<p> +"We've hit the bull's eye this time," he said. "What a brilliant idea +it was of mine to come and ask you! Look here, hadn't we better go and +talk to Mr. Clinton about it? He's an old friend of my father's. I +expect he'll be pleased to be able to give us a hand up over this +business." +</p> + +<p> +"I should think he would be delighted," said Nancy drily. "Will Joan +have to give evidence at a trial?" +</p> + +<p> +"Oh yes. There'll be a trial all right. We've got the good lady +sitting, now. But you won't mind that, will you, Miss Joan? If you'll +both hop in, I'll drive you back. We can take the dogs, too, if you +like. I hope Mr. Clinton will be in. I shall be glad to see him +again." +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap0103"></a></p> + +<h3> +CHAPTER III +</h3> + +<h4> +THE SQUIRE IS DRAWN IN +</h4> + +<p> +If Bobby Trench really felt the pleasure he had expressed at the +prospect of seeing Mr. Clinton again, it was a sensation not shared by +the Squire, when his motor-car came swishing up the drive, and he +alighted from it in company with Joan and Nancy. +</p> + +<p> +Some few years before, Humphrey Clinton had brought him to Kencote for +some winter balls. Lady Susan Clinton, a distant connection, now +Humphrey's wife, and her mother, had been members of the house-party, +and trouble had ensued. They belonged to the fast modern world, which +the Squire abominated. They had essayed to play Bridge on Sunday; +Bobby Trench had tried to get out of going to church, had made havoc of +punctuality, had, in fact, seriously disturbed the serene, +self-satisfied atmosphere of Kencote. And the Squire had never +forgiven him. He was a "young cub," the sort of youth he never wished +to see at Kencote again, outside the pale of that God-fearing, +self-respecting country aristocracy which was to the Squire the head +and front of all that was most admirable and best worth preserving in +the body politic. +</p> + +<p> +Bobby Trench had been hardly less free of criticism on his own account. +Kencote was a cemetery of the dead, a little bit of Hampstead stuck +down ten miles from nowhere, which came to the same thing; its owner +was an old clodhopper. Never again would he permit himself to be +inveigled into paying such a visit. +</p> + +<p> +Yet here he was, advancing across the turf to where the tea-table was +spread in the shade of a great cedar, with an ingratiating smile on his +face, and apparently no doubt of the prospective warmth of his welcome. +</p> + +<p> +"How do you do, Mrs. Clinton? Years since I saw you. How do you do, +Mr. Clinton? You don't look a day older. The governor sent you +messages, in case I should be lucky enough to see you. We are all at +Brummels for the week-end. I started at ten this morning; made about a +hundred miles of it; lunched at Bathgate. By Jove, you live in a past +century here! Wonderful peaceful country, but a bit dull, eh?" +</p> + +<p> +The Squire had somewhat recovered from his surprise during this speech, +and was prepared to abide by his principles of hospitality, in spite of +his distaste for Bobby Trench, and all he represented. But the last +comment aroused his resentment, and emphasised the distance that lay +between him and this glib young man. +</p> + +<p> +"We don't find it dull," he said; "but I dare say people who spend +their lives rushing about from one place to another and never settling +to anything might. They are welcome to their tastes, but the less I +have to do with them the better I'm pleased." +</p> + +<p> +Bobby Trench laughed good-humouredly. "Well, it's true we <i>are</i> rather +a rackety lot nowadays," he said. "I don't know that you haven't got +the best of it, after all. I sometimes think I shouldn't mind settling +down in the country myself, and doing a bit of gardening. We've +started gardening at Brummels. We quarrel like anything about it; it's +the greatest sport. You don't go in for it here, I see. But it's a +jolly place. You've got lots of opportunities." +</p> + +<p> +The Squire found himself fast losing patience. It was true that he did +not go in for gardening, in the modern way, judging that pursuit to be +more fitted for the women of the family. Mrs. Clinton had her Spring +garden, in which she was allowed to have her own way, within limits, in +the matter of designing patterns of bright-coloured flowers; and she +was also allowed a say in the arrangement of the summer bedding, as +long as she did not interfere too much with the ideas of the head +gardener. But as for altering anything on a large scale, or even +additional planting of anything more permanent than spring or summer +flowers, that was not to be heard of. +</p> + +<p> +And yet the Squire did love his garden, as he loved everything else +about his home. He knew every tree and every shrub in it, and was +immensely proud of the few rarities which every old garden that has at +some time or other been in possession of an owner who has taken a +living interest in it possesses. He knew nothing of the modern +nurseryman's catalogue, but would gratefully accept a cutting or a root +of something he admired from somebody else's garden, and see that it +was brought on well and planted in the right place. He belonged to the +days of Will Wimble, who was pleased "to carry a tulip-root in his +pocket from one to another, or exchange a puppy between a couple of +friends that lived perhaps on the opposite sides of the county"; and +who shall say that that intimate sort of knowledge of an +old-established garden gives less pleasure than the constant changes +which modern gardening involves? If his great grandfather, who had +called in an eighteenth century innovator to sweep away the old formal +gardens of the Elizabethan Kencote, and lay the ground they covered all +out afresh, had stayed his hand in the same way, he would have done a +good deal better. +</p> + +<p> +The Squire swallowed a cup of tea and rose from his seat. "Well, I +have a great deal of work to get through," he said, "so I'll ask you to +excuse me. Remember me to your father. It's years since we met, but +we were a good deal together as young fellows." +</p> + +<p> +He held out his hand. It was as near a dismissal as he could bring +himself to utter under the circumstances. He would have liked to be in +a position to tell Bobby Trench that he did not want him at Kencote, +and the sooner he went the better; but he could not very well put his +meaning into words. +</p> + +<p> +"Oh, but wait a minute," said the totally unabashed Bobby. "I've come +over on important business, Mr. Clinton. I particularly want to have a +word with you." +</p> + +<p> +"Well, then, come into my room when you have had your tea," said the +Squire. "One of the girls will show you the way." +</p> + +<p> +"Well, it's about Miss Joan I wanted to talk to you," persisted Bobby. +"Of course, you've heard of that unfortunate business at Brummels when +she was there a few weeks ago—my mother's necklace being stolen, I +mean." +</p> + +<p> +The Squire's face showed rising temper. "I did hear of it," he said. +"Dick told me, and I asked him particularly not to say anything about +it to Joan. I don't want my girls to be mixed up in that sort of +thing. Have you told her about it?" +</p> + +<p> +Bobby Trench, marking the air of annoyance, chose to meet it with +diplomatic lightness. "Well, none of us want to be mixed up with that +sort of thing," he said with a smile. "But I'm afraid we can't help +ourselves in this instance. Yes, I told Miss Joan. Of course I +thought she knew." +</p> + +<p> +The Squire sat down again, the frown on his brow heavier than ever. "I +must say it's very annoying," he said. "To be perfectly frank with +you, I was annoyed at my daughter being taken to Brummels at all. Your +father is an old friend of mine, and I should say the same to him. I +don't like the sort of thing that goes on in houses like yours, and I +don't want my children to know the sort of people that go to them. I +may be old-fashioned; I dare say I am; but to my mind a woman like that +Mrs. Amberley is no fit person for a young girl to come into contact +with, and——" +</p> + +<p> +"Well, you're about right there," broke in Bobby Trench, who may have +been surprised at this exordium, but was unwilling to have to meet it +directly. "She's no fit person for anybody to come in contact with, as +it turns out. Still, she's all right in a way, you know. She and my +mother were friends as girls, and, of course, her people are all right. +We couldn't tell that——" +</p> + +<p> +"I don't care who her people were," interrupted the Squire in his turn. +"She might be a royal princess for all I care; I say she would still be +a disreputable woman. What's happened since only shows that she will +stick at nothing. I should have objected just as much to a daughter of +mine being asked to meet her if this vulgar theft hadn't happened. In +fact, I did object. And a good many other people that haven't got +themselves into trouble by stealing necklaces are no better than she +is. It's the whole state of society, or what is called such nowadays, +that I object to. I won't have my girls mixing with it. There are +plenty of good people left who wouldn't have such women as Mrs. +Amberley inside their houses, and they can find their friends amongst +them. I'm annoyed that you should have said anything to Joan about +what has happened, and I don't want the subject mentioned again." +</p> + +<p> +"Well, I'm sorry, Mr. Clinton," said Bobby. "But we were bound to +leave no stone unturned to get at the truth of things; and as it turns +out Miss Joan will be a very valuable witness on our side. She saw +Mrs. Amberley at the hiding-place, and can only just have escaped +seeing her take out what was in it. She——" +</p> + +<p> +"What's this?" exclaimed the Squire terrifically. +</p> + +<p> +Joan met his gaze unflinchingly. The state of her conscience being +serene, she was in truth rather enjoying herself, and her father's +asperities had long ceased to terrify either her or Nancy. "I told Mr. +Trench what I saw," she said. "Of course I hadn't thought about it +before, because I knew nothing of what had happened." +</p> + +<p> +"What did you see?" enquired the Squire. +</p> + +<p> +She told him. He received the information with a snort. "You saw a +lady looking at a picture," he said. "What is there in that? I've no +doubt that Mrs. Amberley did take the necklace, but if she is going to +be charged with it there's not the slightest necessity for your name to +be brought in at all. What you saw amounted to nothing." +</p> + +<p> +"Oh, but I think it did," said Bobby Trench. "It was what she looked +like when Miss Joan caught her. You said yourself that she looked as +if she had been doing something she oughtn't to have done, and was +startled at your coming in, didn't you, Miss Joan?" +</p> + +<p> +"Yes," said Joan. "It was just like that. And she blushed scarlet, +and then ran away suddenly." +</p> + +<p> +"The fact is," said her father, "that you have imagined all this, +because of what you were told. You think you will gain importance by +telling a story of that sort; but I tell you I won't have it." +</p> + +<p> +"Oh, father dear," expostulated Joan, "I wouldn't tell stories, you +know. I haven't imagined anything. It was all just as I have said." +</p> + +<p> +"Well, then, you had better forget it as soon as you can," said the +Squire, changing his ground. "It's a most unpleasant subject, and I +won't have you talking about it, do you hear?—either you or Nancy. +Now mind what I say." +</p> + +<p> +He rose from his seat again, as if the subject was finally disposed of. +And again Bobby Trench arrested his departure. "I'm afraid we can't +leave it like that, you know, Mr. Clinton," he said. "Miss Joan's +evidence is of the greatest possible importance to us. I'm bound to +tell my people. Besides, surely you wouldn't want to keep a fact like +that back, would you? The necklace is worth six or seven thousand +pounds, and if we bring the theft home to Mrs. Amberley, my mother may +get some of the pearls back. We've already traced some of them, and +know that she has been disposing of them separately." +</p> + +<p> +"Tell your people by all means," said the Squire. "But don't let +Joan's name be brought into the trial. I insist upon that. I won't +have it." +</p> + +<p> +Bobby Trench stared at this exhibition of blindness to the necessities +of the case. He made no reply, probably reflecting that the subpoena +which would be served upon Joan would bring those necessities home to +the Squire as readily as anything, and that it would be unnecessary to +bring additional wrath upon himself by explaining matters beforehand. +</p> + +<p> +It was Mrs. Clinton who, observing his face, said, "I think Mr. Trench +means that it will be necessary for Joan to give evidence of what she +saw at the trial, if it comes to that," she said. +</p> + +<p> +"What!" exclaimed the Squire, bending his brows upon her. "What can +you be thinking of to suggest such a thing, Nina? A girl of Joan's age +to give evidence at a criminal trial! A pretty idea, indeed!" +</p> + +<p> +He transferred his glare upon Bobby, who felt uncomfortable. "Absurd +old creature!" was his inward comment, but as he made it he looked at +Joan, standing in her white frock under the shade of her big hat, and +the picture she made appealed so forcibly to his ĉsthetic sense that he +was impelled to an endeavour to put the situation on a better footing. +It would never do to go away saying nothing, and then to launch the +bombshell of a subpoena into peaceful, prejudiced Kencote. It would +bring Joan into the witness-box, but it would certainly keep Bobby +Trench away from her, in the worst possible odour with her resentful +parent. +</p> + +<p> +"I know it's a most awful bore, Mr. Clinton," he said. "I'll promise +you this, that if Miss Joan can be kept out of it in any way, she shall +be. I should hate to see her in the court myself." +</p> + +<p> +"You won't see her there," said the Squire decisively. "But you'll +excuse my saying that it won't matter to you one way or the other where +you see her. I will write to your father about this business. It's +all most infernally annoying, and I wish to goodness you had kept away +from us—although I should have been glad enough to see you here if +this hadn't happened." +</p> + +<p> +The last statement was not in the least true, but was drawn from him by +the contest going on in his mind between his strong dislike of Bobby +Trench and his sense of what was required of him towards a guest. He +compelled himself to shake hands of farewell, and marched into the +house, the set of his back and the way he held his head indicating +plainly that he would give free rein to the acute irritation he was +feeling when he got there. +</p> + +<p> +There was a pause when he had disappeared through the windows of the +library, and then Mrs. Clinton asked quietly, "Do you think there is +any chance of Joan not being required to give evidence at the trial?" +</p> + +<p> +"Well, I'll tell you exactly how it is, Mrs. Clinton," said Bobby, +relieved at being able to address himself to somebody who was +apparently capable of accepting facts. "If Mrs. Amberley would admit +that she had stolen the necklace, and give back the pearls she hadn't +made away with, we should drop it, and there wouldn't be any more +bother. But I'm bound to say that I don't think she will now. It's +gone too far. She brazened it out when my father and mother charged +her with it, and she'll go on brazening it out. I think it is bound to +come into the courts." +</p> + +<p> +"Will she be charged with the theft?" +</p> + +<p> +"That's not quite settled on. She threatened to bring an action +against us if we talked about it. And, of course, we <i>have</i> talked. +We are quite ready to meet her action, and would rather it came on in +that way. But if she doesn't make a move soon, we shall be obliged to. +It will be the only chance of getting anything back. We have had +detectives working, and it is quite certain that she has sold pearls in +Paris within the last month. They are ready to swear to her. She has +pawned one in London, too—in the city. So you see we're quite certain +about her. Yet it would only be circumstantial evidence, for, of +course, nobody could swear to separate pearls; and she might get off. +What Miss Joan saw would clinch it. I'm awfully sorry about it, since +Mr. Clinton feels as he does, but I'm bound to say that I think she +ought to be prepared to give her evidence. It wouldn't be fair on us +to hold it back, even if it was possible—now would it?" +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Clinton seemed unwilling to express an opinion, but she told her +husband later on, when Bobby Trench had taken himself off, that she +feared there would be no help for it, Joan would have to give her +evidence, whether they liked it or no. +</p> + +<p> +And so it proved. In answer to his letter to Lord Sedbergh, the Squire +received an intimation from his old friend that they had decided to +prosecute at once. They had learnt that Mrs. Amberley, who was getting +cold-shouldered everywhere, was making arrangements to leave England +altogether. They were on the point of having her arrested. He was +very sorry that a girl of Joan's age should be mixed up in such an +unpleasant affair, but it must be plain that her evidence could not be +dispensed with, and he hoped that, after all, the ordeal might not be +such a very trying one for her. She would only have to tell her story +and stick to it. Everything should be done on their side that was +possible to make things easy for her, and the affair would soon blow +over. +</p> + +<p> +The Squire, raging inwardly and outwardly, had to bow to circumstances. +The day after he had received Lord Sedbergh's letter a summons came for +Joan to present herself at a certain police court, and he and Mrs. +Clinton took her up to London the same afternoon. +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap0104"></a></p> + +<h3> +CHAPTER IV +</h3> + +<h4> +JOAN GIVES HER EVIDENCE +</h4> + +<p> +The June sunshine, beating through the dusty windows of the Police +Court, fell upon a very different assembly from that which was usually +to be found in that place of mean omen. +</p> + +<p> +The gay London crowd that was accustomed to pass continuously within a +stone's throw of its walls, without giving a thought to those dubious +stories of the underworld which were daily elucidated there, had made +of it the centre of their interest this morning. Many more than could +be accommodated had sought for admission, in order to witness a scene +in which the parts would be taken, not by the squalid professionals of +crime, but by amateurs of their own high standing. The seedy loafers +who were accustomed to congregate there had been shouldered out by a +fashionable crowd, amongst which the actors who were to take part in +the play found themselves the objects of attentions which some of them +could well have dispensed with. +</p> + +<p> +Joan sat between her father and mother, outwardly subdued, inwardly +deeply interested. Behind the natural shrinking of a young girl, +compelled to stand up and be questioned in public, there was the pluck +of her race to support her. It would not be worse than having a tooth +stopped, and that prospect had never deterred her from appreciation of +the illustrated papers in the dentist's waiting-room. So now she sat +absorbed by the expectation of what was about to happen, and felt +exactly as if she were waiting for the curtain to go up on the first +scene of a play she eagerly wanted to see. +</p> + +<p> +She had almost come to feel as if she had been brought up to London to +be accused of a crime herself. Her father had been very trying, +continually harping back upon that old grievance of her having gone to +Brummels in the first instance, and adding to it irritable censure of +her fault in unburdening herself to Bobby Trench without consulting him +beforehand. She held herself free of offence on either count, but had +diplomatically refrained from asserting her innocence, to avoid still +further arraignment. She had been inundated with instructions, often +contradictory, as to how she should act and speak in the ordeal that +lay before her; and if she had been of a nervous temperament might well +have been driven into a panic long before she had come within +measurable distance of undergoing it, and thus have acquitted herself +in such a way as to draw an entirely new range of rebukes upon her +head. Her mother had simply told her that she must think before she +said anything, and not say more than was necessary; and her uncle, the +Judge, at whose house they were staying, had repeated much the same +advice, and had made light of what she would have to undergo. So, with +her mind not greatly disturbed on that score, she felt a sense of +relief at being now beyond her father's fussy attempts to blame and +direct her at the same time, and able to turn her mind to the interests +at hand. +</p> + +<p> +The Squire would probably, even now, have been at her ear with +repetitions of oft-given advice had not his own ear been engaged by +Lord Sedbergh, who sat on the other side of him. +</p> + +<p> +Lord Sedbergh was an amiable, easy-going nobleman, not without some +force of character, but too well off and indolent to care to exercise +it in opposition to the society in which circumstances compelled him to +move. He and the Squire had been friends at Eton, and also at +Cambridge, after which Lord Sedbergh had embraced a diplomatic career, +until such time as he had succeeded to the family honours, while Edward +Clinton, after a brief period of metropolitan glory as a cornet in the +Royal Horse Guards, had married early and settled down to a life of +undiluted squiredom. The two had actually never met for over thirty +years, and were now discovering that their youthful intimacy had not +entirely evaporated during that period. At a moment more free from +preoccupation they would have embarked on reminiscences which would +have shed considerable warmth on this late meeting; and even as it was +the Squire felt that his old friend was still a friend, and that it was +not such a bad thing after all to be in a position to lend strength to +his just cause. +</p> + +<p> +"That's a very charming girl of yours, Edward," Lord Sedbergh was +saying. "Bright and clever and pretty without being spoilt, as young +women so quickly are now-a-days. We made great friends, she and I, +when she stayed with us. I wish we could have spared her this, but I +don't think she will be much bothered. They are bound to send the case +for trial, and I should think the lady would reserve any defence she +may have thought of putting up. Still, I don't like to see young girls +brought into a business of this sort, and if we could have done without +little Joan's evidence I should have been pleased." +</p> + +<p> +The Squire was soothed by the expression of this very proper spirit, +and after a little further conversation was even inclined to think with +less annoyance of Joan's disastrous visit to Brummels, since the owner +of that house was apparently sane and right-minded, whatever might be +said of his family and their associates. +</p> + +<p> +"My boy Bobby," said Lord Sedbergh, "has thrown himself into clearing +this up heart and soul. He has a head on his shoulders, and I doubt if +we should have been in the position we are if it hadn't been for him." +</p> + +<p> +But the Squire was still incensed against Bobby Trench, and was not +prepared to give him credit for being anything but the shallow-pated +young fool with the over-free manners who had figured so frequently of +late in his diatribes. He might have given some expression to this +view of his friend's son, for he had not been accustomed in those early +years of comradeship to hold back his opinions, and he was getting to +feel more than ever that time and absence had wrought little change +between them. But at this moment the curtain rang up for the play, and +his attention was diverted. +</p> + +<p> +There was something of a sensation when Mrs. Amberley stood up before +the Court ready to meet her accusers. The Squire's face, as he set +eyes upon her for the first time, expressed surprise, condemnation, and +disgust. The surprise was at the appearance of a woman of striking if +somewhat strange and to him repellent beauty, whose eyes and cheeks +flamed indignant protest against her situation, when he had expected to +see some sort of haggard siren in an attitude combined of shame and +impudence. The condemnation was directed against her air of arrogant +scorn, and the bold way in which she looked round upon the assembled +throng, allowing her gaze to rest upon those who had brought her there +in such a way that she seemed to be the accuser and they the accused, +and Lady Sedbergh for one dropped her eyes, unable to meet it. The +disgust was at her appearance and attire, which seemed to the Squire a +bold flaunting of impudent wickedness in face of highly-placed +respectability, as represented by the wives of people like himself, who +were not ashamed to show the years which the Almighty had caused to +pass over their heads, and wore clothes which might indicate their +rank, but were not intended to exhibit the unholy seductions of sex. +</p> + +<p> +Joan, with the merciless arrogance of youth, had said that Mrs. +Amberley had struck her as being old. She would not have said so if +she had seen her now for the first time. Whether it was owing to art, +or to the stimulating flame of her indignation, her face showed none of +the ravages of years. If that was owing to art alone, it was supreme +art, for on a skin that was almost ivory in its pallor the flush stood, +not crudely contrasted, but as if a rare variant of that strange +whiteness. The great masses of her dull red hair even Lady Sedbergh, +now violently antagonistic to her, must have acknowledged herself +familiar with from before a time when art would have been brought to +their production, whatever share it may have had now in preserving +their arresting effect. Her figure, in a gown of clear green, had all +the slim suppleness of youth; her great black hat with its heavy +plumes, might have been worn by Joan herself. And yet, if she did not +look old, or even middle-aged, still less did she look young. Her +eager lustrous eyes had seen the weariness of life as well as its +consuming pleasures, and could not hide their knowledge; the lines of +her face, delicate enough, were not those of youth. +</p> + +<p> +When the preliminaries had been gone through, Lady Sedbergh had to tell +her story, which she did with a jumpy loquacity that seemed to indicate +that whatever benefit she had obtained from her late rest-cure had by +this time evaporated. +</p> + +<p> +The gist of it was that she and Mrs. Amberley had been discussing jewel +robberies, and Mrs. Amberley had said that no place was safe for jewels +if a clever thief was determined to get hold of them. They had been +sitting by the morning-room fire, and the hiding-place in which she had +always kept her own more valuable jewels was just at her side. She had +not been able to refrain from mentioning it, and showing, under a +promise of secrecy, where it was. You pressed a spring in the +panelling, and found a recess in the stone of the thick wall behind. +That might well have been discovered by chance; but what no one who did +not know of the secret would expect was that, by turning one of the +solid-looking stones on a pivot, a further receptacle was disclosed. +No one had known of this but herself and husband, until she had told +Mrs. Amberley. +</p> + +<p> +She was accustomed to carry her more valuable jewels with her wherever +she went, especially the pearl necklace, and the diamond star, which +had also been stolen. This she valued for sentimental reasons, which +she did not disclose to the Court. They were both in the secret +receptacle when she showed it to Mrs. Amberley, as well as a few other +cases containing more or less valuable jewels, none of which had been +taken. +</p> + +<p> +It was on the day before her party was to break up that she had showed +Mrs. Amberley her hiding-place. She had not worn any of the jewels she +had put there that evening, nor visited it again until a month later, +when she was about to return to London. Then she had missed the +necklace and the star. She had sent a telegram to her husband, who had +come down at once, and after hearing her story had gone to see Mrs. +Amberley with her. Neither of them had any doubt that she was the only +person who could possibly have taken the jewels, as she was the only +person who knew where they were kept. +</p> + +<p> +"Have you any questions to ask of the witness?" +</p> + +<p> +"Yes." +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Amberley spoke in a low-pitched vibrating voice. She was +completely at her ease, and the contemptuous tone in which she asked +her questions, and the significant pauses which she made after each +confused voluble reply, not commenting upon it, but passing on to the +next question, would have been effective if she had been a skilled +criminal lawyer, and was much more so considering what she was and what +she had at stake. +</p> + +<p> +"We have been intimate friends all our lives, you and I, haven't we?" +</p> + +<p> +Lady Sedbergh admitted it, but explained that she would never have made +an intimate friend of anyone who would behave in that way, if she had +known what she was really like. +</p> + +<p> +She was permitted to have her say out, with those scornful eyes fixed +on her, until she trailed off into ineffective silence, when the next +question came. +</p> + +<p> +"What was the first thing that I said to you when you had shown me the +cupboard, and shut it up again?" +</p> + +<p> +It needed more than one intervention on the part of the magistrate +before it was elicited that Mrs. Amberley had said, "Well, now, if +anything happens you can't accuse me. You would know I should be the +last person." Lady Sedbergh volunteered the additional information +that she had remembered those words, and even repeated them to her +husband, but added that she put them down to Mrs. Amberley's cunning. +</p> + +<p> +"But isn't it true that if I had stolen your necklace I should have +known positively that you would have suspected me at once?" +</p> + +<p> +No volubility would disguise the truth of that, and it had what weight +it deserved. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Amberley asked no more questions, but her solicitor cross-examined +Lady Sedbergh as to the means she had taken to preserve the knowledge +of the hiding-place from her own maid, for instance, or from the other +servants of the house. He made it appear rather absurd that in a great +house, overrun with servants, like Brummels, she could always have +carried cases of jewels to and fro without being observed, or that her +own maid would have had no curiosity as to where she kept them. The +poor lady explained eagerly that she seldom wore the things she kept in +her hiding-place when she was in the country, and that there was a safe +in her husband's room in which she was supposed to keep what valuables +she did not keep upstairs; but she explained so much and so +incoherently that it had small effect in view of his persistence. It +did seem rather absurd to everybody when her cross-examination was +over, that anyone so foolish as she should have been able for so long +to keep such a secret from everybody about her, especially in view of +the irresponsible and causeless way in which she was shown finally to +have let it out. If the case had rested on her testimony alone, Mrs. +Amberley would have been acquitted, with hardly an additional stain on +her character. +</p> + +<p> +Joan, standing up bravely in her fresh girlhood to tell her story, was +far more damaging. Between Mrs. Amberley, completely self-possessed, +and showing indignation only by the vibrations of her low voice, and +Lady Sedbergh, with her flurried, rather pathetic efforts to put +herself everywhere in the right, the advantage was on the side of the +accused. She had no such foil in the frank bearing of the young girl, +whose delicate bloom contrasted with her own exotic beauty only to show +that whatever quality it may have had was not that of innocence. Joan +repeated what she had told Bobby Trench, in much the same words, and +the only discount that could be taken off her evidence was the +admission that she had thought nothing of it at all until after she had +been told of what Mrs. Amberley was suspected. +</p> + +<p> +It was when she was just about to leave the witness-stand, and the +Squire, who had been following the process of question and answer with +spasms of nervousness at each fresh speech, was beginning to breathe +freely once more, that Mrs. Amberley looked at her with a glance from +which, with all her care to avoid the expression of feeling, she could +not banish the malice, and asked her, "Would you have said what you did +if it had been anybody but Mr. Trench who asked you?" +</p> + +<p> +The insinuation was plain enough, and Joan met it with a warm blush +which she would have given worlds to have been able to hold back. She +felt the blood warming and reddening her cheeks and her neck, but she +answered immediately in spite of it, "It was my sister who asked me +what I had seen, when Mr. Trench told us both of what you were +suspected"; and Mrs. Amberley let the answer pass, with an air of not +finding it worth while to take further notice of such a childish person. +</p> + +<p> +Joan made her way back to her seat between her father and mother, the +blush slowly fading from her cheeks. She felt outraged at having had +such a question put to her, and in such a tone, before all these +knowing, sniggering people; and her distress was not lightened by her +father saying to her in an angry whisper, "There now, you see what +comes of making yourself free in that sort of company." He added, +"Confound the woman's impudence!" in a tone still more angry, which +took off a little of the edge of his previous speech; and Mrs. Clinton +took Joan's hand in hers and pressed it. So presently she recovered +her equanimity, and only blushed intermittently when she remembered +what had been said to her. +</p> + +<p> +A French jeweller gave evidence of Mrs. Amberley having sold pearls to +him in Paris. She had been veiled and hooded, but he was sure it was +the same lady. He should have recognised her by her voice alone. He +gave the dates of the transactions, three in number; and other evidence +was duly brought forward to show that Mrs. Amberley had been in Paris +on each of those dates. +</p> + +<p> +A London pawnbroker's assistant gave evidence of her having pawned a +single pearl, which he produced. She had done it in her own name. He +proved to be an indecisive witness under the pressure of Mrs. +Amberley's lawyer, and said he was not sure now that it was the same +lady, although he was nearly sure. But there was the transaction duly +recorded, and Mrs. Amberley's name and London address entered in his +books at the time. Asked whether he thought it likely that a lady who +was pawning stolen property, obviously with no idea of redeeming it, +would give her own well-known name and address, he recovered himself +sufficiently to answer very properly that he had nothing to do with +what was likely or unlikely; there was his book. +</p> + +<p> +When all the witnesses had been examined, Mrs. Amberley's lawyer said +that he should not oppose the case going for trial. He had advised his +client to reserve her defence, but he might say that she had a full and +convincing answer to the charge. +</p> + +<p> +When Mrs. Amberley had been duly committed for trial, there was a +wrangle as to her being admitted to bail. It was stated in opposition +that she was known to have contemplated leaving the country; she had in +no way met the convincing evidence that had been brought against her, +and in view of the gravity of the offence, &c., &c. Finally, she was +admitted to bail on heavy securities, which were immediately +forthcoming. One of them was offered by Sir Roger Amberley, her late +husband's father, an old man who looked bowed down by shame; the other +by Lord Colne, an elderly roué, who, so far from showing shame, +appeared proud of his position as friend and supporter of the accused +lady. Mrs. Amberley left the court with her father-in-law, and some +who were within hearing when she thanked her other sponsor remarked +that he did not seem likely to get much change out of his liability of +two thousand pounds. +</p> + +<p> +The Squire, with his wife and daughter, lunched at the extremely +private hotel which he had patronised all his life, and left London for +Kencote by an early afternoon train. They were accompanied by Humphrey +and Lady Susan Clinton, who had paid no visit to Kencote since they had +committed the fault of taking Joan to Brummels; and would not have paid +the visit now if they could have got out of it. +</p> + +<p> +But the Squire had insisted. He had sent Mrs. Clinton and Joan on to +his brother-in-law's house on their arrival in London the afternoon +before, and had gone himself to his son's flat, with the object of +unburdening his mind both to Humphrey and his wife. But Humphrey and +Susan had been out. He had waited for an hour, getting more and more +angry, and convinced that they were seeking to evade him. He had then +written a peremptory note, ordering them to join him at the station on +the following afternoon, ready to go down to Kencote, with instructions +to wire acquiescence immediately on receipt of the order. +</p> + +<p> +The wire had arrived at his brother-in-law's house before he had +reached it. "Exceedingly sorry to have missed you. Both delighted +come Kencote to-morrow. Humphrey." +</p> + +<p> +The uncalled for expression of delight had not in the least softened +his mood of anger, but he had gained a grim satisfaction from feeling +that his word was law if he chose to make it so. This was added to by +the determination to make the visit anything but an occasion of +delight, and the anticipation of having somebody fresh on whom to wreak +his anger; the satisfaction of relieving his feelings by censure of +Joan having now begun to wear rather thin. +</p> + +<p> +If Humphrey was bent on smoothing out the situation, as was probably +the case, it was impolitic of him to bring his own man to Kencote as +well as his wife's maid. The Squire himself never took a man away with +him, except on the rare occasions on which he went anywhere to shoot, +and Humphrey's servant was an additional offence. The Squire's temper +was not improved when Humphrey, relieved of all anxieties about luggage +and tickets and the rest of it, strolled up to him on the platform, +dressed in the latest variety of summer country clothes, with the +correct thing in spats, and the most modern shade in soft felt hats, +and found him fussing over details that he might safely have left to +Mrs. Clinton's capable maid. +</p> + +<p> +"Oh, here you are," he said ungraciously. "If you're quite sure that +your fellow has done everything for your own comfort, you might tell +him to help Parker with those things. I've engaged a carriage, but if +I had thought you couldn't travel without your whole establishment I'd +have told 'em to put on a saloon." +</p> + +<p> +"We've left the cook and the housemaid behind," said Humphrey, +outwardly undisturbed. "Here, Grant, take these things into your +carriage." +</p> + +<p> +The Squire turned his back and went up to the compartment at which his +wife was standing with her daughter-in-law and Joan. "Better get in. +Better get in," he said. "We don't want to be left behind. How are +you, Susan? We've just had a pleasant result from your taking Joan +into the company of people like your precious Mrs. Amberley." +</p> + +<p> +Lady Susan made no attempt to avert his displeasure, which had +evidently worked itself up to a point at which it must have immediate +vent. She shook hands with him, and got into the carriage after Mrs. +Clinton. She was a tall, fashionably-dressed woman, with a young, +rather foolish face, not remarkably good-looking, but making the most +of such points as she possessed. The Squire rather liked her, in spite +of his disapproval of many of her ways, partly because she had always +treated him with deference, partly—although he would indignantly and +conscientiously have denied it—because her title was a suitable +ornament to the name she bore. He himself was the head of the family +of which hers was a junior branch, but that branch had been ennobled at +a date of quite respectable antiquity, and an Earl's daughter is an +Earl's daughter wherever she may be found. The mild degree of +satisfaction, however, that he felt on this head was quite +sub-conscious, and did not lead him to pay any more deference to Lady +Susan than he was accustomed to pay to the rest of the women of his +family. The only lady in that position whom he treated with marked +deference was the wife of his eldest son, who was an American, of no +ancestry that he would have recognised as significant, who had once for +a short period lowered even the ancestry she could claim by dancing on +the stage. That story has been told elsewhere, and if the reader is +inclined to cry snob, because the Squire is admitted to have been +pleased that one of his daughters-in-law bore a title, let it be +considered that Virginia, Dick's wife, had made a complete conquest of +him, and that he valued her little finger above Lady Susan's body. +</p> + +<p> +He began directly the train had started. "Now look here, I've got a +word to say to you two, and I may as well say it at once and get it +over." +</p> + +<p> +Humphrey, knowing that it was bound to come, was quite ready, but was +also aware that to get it over was really the last thing his father +wanted. Whatever attitude he might take upon the subject, it would be +returned to again and again as long as his visit to the paternal +mansion should last. The best he could do was to get it over for the +time being, and gain a respite in which to read the "Field" and the +other papers with which he had provided himself. To this end he put up +no opposition, but admitted with grave face that he and his wife had +done wrong, and agreed that subsequent events proved that they had done +very wrong indeed. +</p> + +<p> +The Squire would perhaps have preferred to have his annoyance warmed up +by a difference of opinion, and was obliged to express it with all the +more force, so that it might spontaneously acquire the requisite amount +of heat. +</p> + +<p> +The end of it was rather surprising. He was getting along swimmingly, +on a high note of displeasure, when he was brought to a sudden stop by +Lady Susan bursting into tears. +</p> + +<p> +Now tears from a woman were what the Squire never could stand. He was +essentially kind, and even tender-hearted, in spite of his usual +attitude of irritable authority, and, since he had never lived with +women who cried easily, he took tears from them very seriously. They +meant, of course, for one thing, complete capitulation; for of tears of +mere temper he had had no experience whatever; and they appealed to his +chivalry as emphasising the weakness of the vessels from which they +came. +</p> + +<p> +"Oh, come now!" he said soothingly, and with an expression of +discomfort. "No need to cry over it. It's over and done with for the +present, and now I've pointed out quietly what a wrong thing it was, +I'm quite sure it won't be repeated." +</p> + +<p> +But Susan still continued to sob freely, and Humphrey said with some +indignation, "She's very much upset at what's happened. She's taken it +much more to heart than you think. It doesn't want rubbing in any +more." +</p> + +<p> +"Well, perhaps I've said enough," admitted the Squire, "but you've got +to consider that we haven't done with this business yet. We shall have +it hanging over us for months, until the trial comes on; and then we +shall have to go through it all again. Still, you know, Susan, <i>you</i> +won't be called as a witness. <i>You've</i> nothing to cry about. Now, do +leave off, my dear girl. Let's put it out of our minds now, and think +no more about it till we're obliged to. My dear child, what is the +matter?" +</p> + +<p> +For Susan's sobs had increased in volume, and now showed some signs of +becoming hysterical. Mrs. Clinton essayed to soothe her in her calm +sensible way, and Humphrey said kindly, "All right, Susan, we're not +going to talk about it any more. We're both sorry we made the mistake +we did, and you are not so much to blame for it as I am." +</p> + +<p> +But perhaps it was Joan, who was not greatly moved by a woman's tears, +who brought Susan's to an end by remarking, "We are getting near +Lemborough. I think this train stops there." +</p> + +<p> +When Susan had dried her eyes, and was able to speak with no more than +an occasional hiccough, she said, "I am sorry for Mrs. Amberley. I +don't know her very well, and I don't like her, but it's a horrible +position to be put in." +</p> + +<p> +"Well, I don't think you need waste much sympathy on her," said the +Squire. "If that's all you are crying about you might have saved your +tears, my dear. She won't get more than she deserves." +</p> + +<p> +"It isn't what I was crying about," said Susan. "You spoke as if all +of us who were at Brummels were just the same as she is." +</p> + +<p> +The Squire did privately think that most of them, except Humphrey and +Susan themselves, and Lord Sedbergh, and of course Joan, would have +been capable of acting in the same way as Mrs. Amberley, if necessity +and opportunity had prompted them, but he said, "Oh no, Susan. I +didn't mean to go nearly so far as that. Still, there's a proverb +about evil communications, you know, and I do hope you will take a +lesson from this nasty business and steer clear of the sort of people +who go in for that kind of thing." +</p> + +<p> +He spoke as if the people received into fashionable society who "went +in" for stealing pearl necklaces were easily distinguishable from the +rest. This was probably not precisely what he meant, and as Susan +plucked up a smile and said, "Well, you've said some very unkind things +to me, but I'm going to be a good girl now, and I hope you won't say +any more," he allowed the subject to drop altogether, and the rest of +the journey passed in peace. +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap0105"></a></p> + +<h3> +CHAPTER V +</h3> + +<h4> +A QUIET TALK +</h4> + +<p> +Frank and Nancy were on the platform at Kencote. The Squire, longing +for his home whenever he was away from it, like any schoolboy detached +from the dear familiar, was pleased to see their smiling faces. They +were agreeably surprised by the warmth of his greeting, having expected +him to reach home in even a worse state of mind than that in which he +had left it, and not having realised that a dreaded ordeal has lost +most of its sting when it has been gone through, even if its terrors +have been worse than fancy had painted them. +</p> + +<p> +"Well, young people," was his hearty greeting, "I hope you haven't been +up to any pranks while we've been away." +</p> + +<p> +Not a word about the police court proceedings; no black looks! They +responded suitably to his geniality, and passed on to greet the other +members of the family, looking on to the time when one of them could be +detached to tell the story of what had happened. +</p> + +<p> +There was no stint of carriages in the Squire's stables, nor of horses +to draw or men to drive them. He himself invariably drove his phaeton +from the station, enjoying, whatever the weather, the sense of being in +the open air, doing one of the things that was a part of his natural +life, after being cooped up for a couple of hours in a train. On this +occasion there was also an open carriage, and the station omnibus for +the servants and the luggage. This involved six horses, and five men, +in the sober Clinton livery of black cloth with dark green facings, and +a general turn out in the way of fine upstanding satin-coated +horseflesh, gloss of silver-plated harness, mirror-like carriage +varnish, and spick and span retainerhood that would not have disgraced +royalty itself. It was indeed with a sense almost akin to that of +royalty that the Squire took the salutes of his servants, and threw his +eye over such of his vehicular possessions as met it. He was +undisputed lord of this little corner of the world, and it was good to +find himself back in his kingdom, after having been an undistinguished +unit amongst London's millions, and especially to breathe its serene +air after having had his nostrils filled with the sordid atmosphere of +the police court. He took the reins of his pair of greys from his head +coachman with a deep sense of satisfaction, and swung himself actively +up on to his seat, but not before he had settled exactly who was to +ride in which carriage. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Clinton always sat by the side of her husband, and did so now. +But all the rest had wished to walk. The landau, however, was there, +and could not be sent back empty. At least, the Squire asked what was +the good of having it sent down if nobody used it. So Humphrey and +Susan sacrificed their desire for exercise to his sense of fitness, and +Joan, Nancy, and Frank set out to walk the short mile that lay between +the station and the house, well pleased to find themselves alone +together. +</p> + +<p> +The Squire had completely recovered his equanimity for the time being, +and his satisfaction at finding himself at home again translated itself +into an impulse of good will towards his wife, sitting by his side. +</p> + +<p> +With her soft white hair and comely face, Mrs. Clinton looked a fitting +helpmate for a country gentleman getting on in years, but still full of +manly vigour. There was rather a splendid air about the Squire, with +his massive frame and his look of health and vigour, as he sat up +driving his handsome horses; and his wife did not share it. He had +married her for love when he had been a young man who might be called +splendid without any qualification whatever, the owner of a fine estate +at the pitch of its fruitfulness, and an admitted match for all but the +very highest. He had chosen her, the daughter of an Indian officer who +lived in a small way on the outskirts of the neighbouring town, and had +been considered by many to have made a misalliance. But he had never +thought so himself. He had made of her a slave to his own preferences, +kept her shut up from the time of her marriage, away from the pursuits +and the friendships for which her understanding fitted her, and +unconsciously belittled that understanding by demanding that in all +things she should bring her intelligence down on a level with his. But +he had trusted her more than he knew, and on the rare occasions on +which she had quietly asserted herself to influence him he had followed +her, and, without acknowledging or even feeling himself to have been in +the wrong, had afterwards been glad of it. By giving way to him on an +infinity of small matters, but not so small to her as to have avoided a +sacrifice of many strong inclinations, she had kept her power to guide +him in greater matters. Whatever it may have been to her, his marriage +had brought him all that he could ever have desired. She had brought +him, perhaps, more submission than had been good for him. His native +capacity for domineering had thriven on it; because he had never had to +meet any big troubles in his married life, he had always made much of +little ones; because she had so seldom opposed him, he took opposition +from any quarter like a thwarted child. But she had made him always +beneath the surface contented with her; never once in the forty years +of their marriage, when he had gone about angrily chewing a grievance, +had she been the cause of it. Nothing that she might have struggled +for and won in her own life would have outweighed that. +</p> + +<p> +Now, with her own thoughts about what had happened strong in her, she +had to sit and listen to his views, which were fortunately more +cheerfully coloured than they had been for some days past. +</p> + +<p> +"Well, that's over for the present," was the burden of his speech, but +when he had so expressed himself with sundry variations, he found +something else to comment upon. +</p> + +<p> +Susan's tears! They had moved him. "I think she's all right at +heart," he said. "She's had a shock." +</p> + +<p> +"Yes," said Mrs. Clinton. "I am glad that she is to be with us for a +day or two." +</p> + +<p> +The Squire considered this. Without any remarkable powers of +discernment, he was yet not entirely incapable of interpreting his +wife's sober judgments. +</p> + +<p> +"It will be a rest for her," he said. "She will want to forget it. +Yes. That's all very well—if she's learnt her lesson." +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Clinton left him to make his own decision. "I shall certainly +have a talk with Humphrey," he said, rather grudgingly. +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, Edward. If you have a quiet talk with him, I feel sure that he +will respond. He is in the mood for it." +</p> + +<p> +A quiet talk was not exactly what the Squire had promised himself when +he had summoned Humphrey and Susan to Kencote. But perhaps his wife +was right. She often was in these matters. And he had worked off a +good deal of his irritation already in the train. Yes, a quiet talk +would be the thing; and Susan should be left out of it. She had been +reduced to tears once, and it would be disturbing if that should happen +again. She might be considered to have learnt her lesson, as far as a +woman could learn any lesson. The wholesome influence of Kencote might +be left to work in her repentant soul. He would deny himself the +satisfaction of rubbing it in. +</p> + +<p> +The quiet talk took place as father and son walked out together after +tea to see the young birds. Frank had to be prevented from making a +third in the expedition, and there was interruption from keepers, from +dogs, and from the young birds themselves, whose place in the scheme of +things it was to be discussed, in the month of June. But it was a +satisfactory talk all the same, and the Squire was pleased, and a +little surprised, at his own kindly reasonableness. +</p> + +<p> +"I was sorry to make Susan cry in the train. At least I wasn't +altogether sorry—it showed she took to heart what I had said to her." +</p> + +<p> +"Oh yes. She took it to heart all right. The whole business has given +her a bit of a shock." +</p> + +<p> +"Exactly what I said to your mother. She's had a shock. Well, it +isn't a bad thing to have a shock sometimes. It brings you to your +senses if you've been going wrong. I don't want to be hard on you, my +boy; but I shan't regret all the worry and unpleasantness I've been put +to if it has the effect of making you think a bit about the way you +have been going on, and changing your way of life—you and Susan both." +</p> + +<p> +"Yes." Humphrey had not yet realised that the talk was to be a quiet +one. It was not unusual for openings of this sort to develop into +something that, however it might be viewed, could not be described as +quiet. He was ready to be quiet himself; but he would give no handles +if he could help it. +</p> + +<p> +The Squire, however, could not altogether dispense with some sort of a +handle, although he was prepared to grasp it softly. +</p> + +<p> +"You feel that yourself, eh?" he said. "You do recognise that you've +been going wrong, what?" +</p> + +<p> +"Oh yes," said Humphrey readily. "We've been spending too much money, +and I'm sick of it. It isn't good enough." +</p> + +<p> +This was not quite what the Squire wanted. If Humphrey had been +spending too much money, he must be in debt; and if he was sick of it, +he would obviously want to get out of debt. He did not want the quiet +talk to follow the path of suggestions as to how that might be done. +</p> + +<p> +"Well, if you've been spending too much money," he said, not without +adroitness, "you can easily spend less. You have a very handsome +income between you, and could have anything anybody could reasonably +want if you only spent half of it. The fact is, you know, my boy, that +you can't live the life you and Susan have been living with any lasting +satisfaction. Your Uncle Tom preached a capital sermon about that last +Sunday. It was something to the effect of doing your duty in the world +instead of looking out for pleasure, and it would be all the better for +you, both here and hereafter. I don't pose as a saint—never +have—but, after all, your religion's a real thing, or it isn't. I can +only say that mine has been a comfort to me, many's the time. I have +had my fair share of annoyances, and it has enabled me to get through +them, hoping for a better time to come. And it has done more than +that; it's made me see that a life of pleasure is a dangerous thing, by +Jove, and the man's a fool who goes in for it." +</p> + +<p> +"Well, it depends on what you mean by pleasure." +</p> + +<p> +"That's not very difficult to see, is it? Dancing about after +amusement all day and half the night; rushing here, rushing there; +never doing anything for the good of your fellow-creatures; getting +more and more bored with yourself and everybody else; never——" +</p> + +<p> +"Is that what you would call pleasure?" +</p> + +<p> +"What <i>I</i> should call pleasure? No, thank God, it isn't. I'd sooner +break stones on the road than live a life like that." +</p> + +<p> +"Well, there you are, you see. What you would really call pleasure is +something quite different. I suppose it would be to live quietly at +home in the country, just as you <i>are</i> doing. There's nothing +dangerous in that." +</p> + +<p> +"Of course there isn't. It's the best life for any man, if the +Almighty has put him into the position of enjoying it. It's a life of +pleasure in a way—yes, that's perfectly true; but it's a life of duty +too, and stern duty, by Jove, very often. You can't be always thinking +about yourself. You've got responsibilities, in a position like mine, +and you've got to remember that some day you'll have to give an account +of them. We'll just go in here and see Gotch; I want a word with him +about his bill for meal." +</p> + +<p> +Gotch's bill for meal, and the welfare of the young birds under his +charge having been duly discussed, the walk and the quiet talk were +resumed. +</p> + +<p> +"Well, as I was saying—what was it I was saying?" +</p> + +<p> +"You were pointing out that a big landowner had a jolly good time, but +that he would have to give an account of all the fun he'd had by and +by." +</p> + +<p> +"Eh? Well, that wasn't quite how I meant to put it. But you say +yourself you are sick of the life you've been leading—and I don't +wonder at it—and I wanted to show you that you can gain much more +satisfaction by living quietly in the country, and amusing yourself in +a healthy way, and doing your duty towards those dependent on you, than +by living that unhealthy rackety London life. Look at Dick. There's +no fellow who lived more in the thick of things than he did; but he +kept his head through it all, and now the time has come for him to +settle down here he's ready to do it, and I should think enjoys his +life as much as any man could. It was just the same with me, only I +gave it up sooner than he did. I had my two years in the Blues, and +then I married and settled down here; and I've never regretted it." +</p> + +<p> +"No, I don't suppose you have. The life suits you down to the ground, +and Dick too. It would suit me if I were in your place, or Dick's." +</p> + +<p> +"Well, you could easily live the life that Dick lives, and you would +find your money went a good deal further, if you made up your mind to +do it. I wish you would. You would be a happier man in every way, and +Susan would be a happier woman." +</p> + +<p> +"I'm not sure of that. We might for a time, but we should miss a lot +of things. You can amuse yourself in the country well enough half the +year, but not all the year round; and we couldn't afford both." +</p> + +<p> +"My dear boy, I've been trying to tell you. You are going on the wrong +tack altogether if you are always thinking about amusing yourself. It +isn't the way to look at life. Every man has duties to perform." +</p> + +<p> +"What duties should I have to perform? I'm not a landowner, and never +likely to be one. If I lived in the country I should hunt a bit and +shoot a bit; and for the rest of the time I don't know what I should +do." +</p> + +<p> +"Well, if you lived near here, you could be put on the bench. There's +a lot of useful work that a man living on the income you have can do in +keeping things going. In these times the more gentry there are living +in a place, the better it is for the country all round. What do you do +as it is? It can't be satisfactory to anybody to live year after year +in a whirl. There's not a single thing you do in London that's good +for you that you couldn't do better in the country." +</p> + +<p> +"I don't know about that. There's music for one thing, and pictures +and plays. I'm not altogether the brainless voluptuary, you know. +There's a lot goes on in London that keeps your mind alive, and you +drop that if you bury yourself in the country." +</p> + +<p> +"Stuff and nonsense!" exclaimed the Squire, but with persistent good +humour. "Don't I keep my mind alive? You'd have the 'Times' and the +'Spectator'; and there are lots of clever people in the country. Look +at Tom! He hardly ever goes near London. Hates the place. But I'll +guarantee that he reads as much as any Bishop, and knows what's going +on in the world as well as anybody. No, my dear boy, it won't do. I +don't say there aren't people it suits to be in London. Herbert +Birkett, for instance!" (This was Mrs. Clinton's brother, the Judge.) +"But he's been brought up to it. He hasn't got the tastes of a country +gentleman, wouldn't be happy away from the Athenĉum Club, and all that +sort of thing. And George Senhouse, with his Parliament and his +committees and so on. That's a different thing. They've got their +work to do. But don't tell me you are like that. Yours is a different +life altogether. They spend theirs amongst sober, God-fearing +people—at least George Senhouse does. Of course, Herbert Birkett was +a Radical, and I shouldn't like to answer for the morals of all <i>his</i> +friends, even now. But, anyhow, they're not the sort that would make a +bosom friend of a woman like that Mrs. Amberley." +</p> + +<p> +"Well, I don't know that I should make a bosom friend of her myself. +But she's no worse than a lot of others. She's been found out—that's +all—and, of course, the whole pack are in full cry after her now." +</p> + +<p> +"My dear boy, you are surely not going to stand up for a woman +convicted of a vulgar theft!" +</p> + +<p> +"She hasn't been convicted yet. But even if she is guilty, as I +suppose she is, one can't help feeling a bit sorry for her. You don't +know what may have driven her to it. Amberley left her badly off, and +it's a desperate thing for a woman to be worried night and day by debt. +That's what Susan feels. She's known it in a sort of way herself. You +know the dust-up we had a couple of years ago, when you kindly came to +the rescue. Well, I suppose that brings it home to her. She doesn't +care for Rachel Amberley any more than I do, but she can't take the +line about this business that most people take; and I'm inclined to +think she's right. After all—you were talking about religion just +now—it seems to me that religion ought to prevent you judging harshly +of people who have got into trouble." +</p> + +<p> +The Squire's upper lip went down. "Flagrant dishonesty is not a thing +that you can judge leniently, and no religion in the world would tell +you to do so," he said. "You've got to keep to certain lines, or +everything goes by the board. I don't like to hear you upholding such +views." +</p> + +<p> +"It is all a question of how you are situated. It would be impossible +to think of you, for instance, stealing anything. You wouldn't have +the smallest temptation to. But you might do something else that would +be just as bad." +</p> + +<p> +"<i>I</i> might do something just as bad—something dishonourable!" +</p> + +<p> +"You never know. You might have a sudden temptation. Of course, it +wouldn't come in any way you expected! You might act on the spur of +the moment." +</p> + +<p> +The Squire stopped and faced his son. "That's a very foolish thing to +say," he said with a frown. "A man of principle doesn't act +dishonourably on the spur of the moment. Doesn't honour count for +anything with you?" +</p> + +<p> +Humphrey walked on, and the Squire walked with him. +</p> + +<p> +"I say you don't know what you'd do if an unexpected temptation came. +You don't know how strong your principles are till they are tried." +</p> + +<p> +"They are tried. They are always being tried, in little ways. A man +leads an upright life, as far as in him lies, and if a big question +comes up, he's ready for it." +</p> + +<p> +"It depends on how much he is tried," said Humphrey. "I say you never +know." +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap0106"></a></p> + +<h3> +CHAPTER VI +</h3> + +<h4> +THE YOUNG BIRDS +</h4> + +<p> +"It's a horrid thing for a young girl to have to go through." +</p> + +<p> +John Spence fitted two walnuts together in the palms of his big hands +and cracked them with a sudden tightening of the muscles. His +good-humoured ruddy face was solicitous. "I think they ought to have +kept her out of it," he said. +</p> + +<p> +The dark-panelled dining-room of the Dower House framed a warm picture +of two men and two women sitting at the round table, bright with lights +and flowers, old silver and sparkling glass. A fire of applewood +twinkled on the hearth; for September had come round, and one section +at least of the young birds, now adolescent, were about to discover for +themselves what their elders had possibly warned them of: that those +great brown creatures, whom they had hitherto known only as protective +census-takers, became as dangerous as stoats and weasels when the dew +began to lie thick on the grass. +</p> + +<p> +John Spence had come down for the first day among the Kencote +partridges, leaving his own stubbles, which were more copiously +populated, until later. Dick Clinton had generally started the season +with him. The Kencote partridges ranked second to the Kencote +pheasants, and could very well bide the convenience of those who were +to kill them. But they had done very well this year, and it was +becoming less easy to draw Dick away from his home. +</p> + +<p> +"It's good of old John to put off his own shoot and come down here," he +had said to his wife, when he had received the somewhat unexpected +acceptance of his invitation. +</p> + +<p> +Virginia had looked at him out of her great dark eyes, and there had +been amusement in them, as well as the half-protective affection which +they always showed towards her handsome husband; but she had said +nothing to explain the amusement, and he had not noticed it. +</p> + +<p> +The party at the dinner-table was discussing Mrs. Amberley's trial, +which was to come on in the following month. +</p> + +<p> +"Joan has got her wits about her," said Dick. "She answered up very +well in the police court, and I don't suppose it will be any more +terrible next month." +</p> + +<p> +"Still, I think it's beastly for her," persisted his friend. "That +woman—putting it to her publicly about Trench! I read it in the +evidence." +</p> + +<p> +"It was a piece of bluff," said Dick. "Still, she ought to have her +neck wrung for it." +</p> + +<p> +"A cat!" said Miss Dexter, Virginia's friend, square-faced and +square-figured. "A spiteful, pilfering cat!" +</p> + +<p> +"Poor darling little Joan!" said Virginia. "She hates the very name of +Bobby Trench now, and she used to make all sorts of fun of him and his +love-making before." +</p> + +<p> +"Oh, he made love to her, did he?" asked Spence. +</p> + +<p> +"Don't talk such nonsense, Virginia," said Dick maritally. "He knew +the twins when they were children; looks on them as children now. So +they are. He's years older than Joan." +</p> + +<p> +"Still, she's a very pretty girl," said John Spence. "And so is Nancy." +</p> + +<p> +Virginia laughed. "It's the same thing," she said. +</p> + +<p> +"Well, I don't know," said John Spence judicially. "In appearance, +yes—perhaps so. But there is a difference. You see it more now they +are grown up. I think Nancy is cleverer. Of course, they're both +clever, but I should say Nancy read more books and things. And what I +like about Nancy is that with all her brains she's a real good country +girl. I must say I don't care about these knowing young women you meet +about London, and in other people's houses." +</p> + +<p> +Virginia laughed again. "Tell Mr. Clinton that," she said. "He will +think you one of the most sensible of men." +</p> + +<p> +"Well, I don't profess to be a clever fellow myself," said John Spence +modestly; "but I like a girl to have brains and know how to use 'em, +and I like her to like the country. It's what I like myself; and if +Mr. Clinton thinks the same I'm with him all the time." +</p> + +<p> +"Mr. Clinton might not insist upon the brains," said Miss Dexter. +</p> + +<p> +Virginia held up her finger. "Toby!" she said warningly, "we don't +criticise our relations-in-law." +</p> + +<p> +Dick grinned indulgently at his neighbour. "How you'll let us have it +when you go away from here!" he said. +</p> + +<p> +"I always do let you have it," she replied uncompromisingly. "You +think such a deal of yourselves that it does you all the good in the +world. But I don't wait till I go away." +</p> + +<p> +"I was rather sorry that Joan got let into that gang of people at all," +said John Spence. "They're no good to anybody. It hasn't altered her +at all, has it? She and Nancy were the jolliest pair. Lord, how they +made me laugh when they were kids, and I first came down here!" +</p> + +<p> +He laughed now at the remembrance, a jolly, robust laugh which wrinkled +his firm, weathered skin, and showed his white teeth. "I shouldn't +like to see either of them spoiled by going about to houses like +Brummels," he said, with a return to seriousness. "I don't believe +Nancy would have cared about it." +</p> + +<p> +"She would have gone just the same as Joan," said Miss Dexter, "if she +had happened to be in the way of it, and she would have behaved just +the same; that is, just as she ought to have behaved. You seem to +think that Joan is smirched because she has been let in, through no +fault of hers, for this horrid thing. You're as bad as Mrs. Amberley." +</p> + +<p> +John Spence received this charge with an "Oh, I say!" But he added, +"All the same, I wish it hadn't happened." +</p> + +<p> +The guns met the next morning at the corner by the Dower House. The +Squire brought with him Sir Herbert Birkett, the judge, and Sir George +Senhouse, who had married the judge's daughter. Neither of them would +be expected to do much execution amongst the young birds, but the +Squire was strong on family ties, and liked to have his relatives to +shoot with him, more especially when he was going to shoot partridges. +</p> + +<p> +The twins and Lady Senhouse were of the party, and Virginia and Miss +Dexter. It was a family occasion, and John Spence, knowing that it was +to be so, had felt glad, when he had looked out of his window in the +morning, that he had put off the inauguration of his campaign amongst +his own young birds in order to take part in it. +</p> + +<p> +Joan and Nancy, in workmanlike tweeds, gave him smiling welcome. +Previously, when he had shot at Kencote, and they had gone out with the +guns, they had disputed amicably as to which of them should walk and +stand with him, and the one who had won the dispute had taken bold +possession of him. Neither did so this morning, and it was left to him +to give an invitation. +</p> + +<p> +"Well, Joan," he said, when they were ready to move off, "are you going +to keep me company?" +</p> + +<p> +"Yes," said Nancy instantly. "I am going with Uncle Herbert." +</p> + +<p> +"But you will come with me after lunch," said John Spence, with a +trifle of anxiety. +</p> + +<p> +"All right," she threw over her shoulder. +</p> + +<p> +They walked over a field of roots. A single bird got up some little +distance away and flew parallel to the line. Spence snapped it off +neatly. "I'm going to shoot well to-day," he said with satisfaction. +"I like a gallery, you know, Joan. I say, Nancy's not annoyed about +anything, is she?" +</p> + +<p> +"Not that I know of. Why?" +</p> + +<p> +"Oh, I don't know. I thought she seemed as if she didn't much want to +come with me." +</p> + +<p> +"You see we're grown up now," said Joan. "We can't seize you by the +arm, as we used to do, and see which can pull hardest. We have to wait +till you ask us." +</p> + +<p> +They had come to a high, rather blind fence, and the line had spread +out, and was waiting. Joan and John Spence were practically alone, +except for Spence's wise and calm retriever. +</p> + +<p> +He looked down at her with the kind elder brotherly smile which, with +his frank and simple appreciation of their humours, had so endeared him +to the twins. "I say, that's awful rot, you know," he said. +</p> + +<p> +Joan was conscious of pleasure and some relief as she met his eyes. +She wanted nothing more than that things should be between the three of +them as they had always been. She had come to think that perhaps, +after all, Nancy wanted nothing more, either; but she did not know, +because they had not talked about John Spence together lately. If this +visit should show him to be what he had always been, they would talk +about him together again, and perhaps that was what she wanted at the +moment more than anything; for it was a source of discomfort to her +that there was a subject taboo between Nancy and herself. +</p> + +<p> +"It may be sad," she said. "But it isn't rot. We are grown up, and +there is no getting over it." +</p> + +<p> +A shadow came over his face. "They've been teaching you things," he +said. "When I came down here last, and you were away in London—and at +Brummels—Nancy was just the same as she had always been. I don't see +any reason why you should alter." +</p> + +<p> +"Dear old Jonathan! We'll never alter—to you," said Joan +affectionately. But she was conscious of a little pang. +</p> + +<p> +The birds began to come over. John Spence accounted for his due share +of them. "I wish I'd got another gun," he said. "You've done well +with them this year." +</p> + +<p> +When they all came together for lunch, Nancy said to Joan, "Uncle +Herbert is in splendid form—I don't mean over shooting, for he has +hardly hit anything. Has Jonathan been amusing?" +</p> + +<p> +"No, not at all," said Joan. "He has been lecturing me. He is getting +old; he is just like father. I will gladly change with you." +</p> + +<p> +Nancy stared, but said nothing. She and Joan were accustomed to +criticise everybody. But they had never yet criticised John Spence. +</p> + +<p> +"Well, my dear Joan," said the Judge, as she took her place by his side +after lunch, "I heaped disgrace upon myself this morning, and I very +much doubt if I shall wipe any of it off this afternoon. The Kencote +partridges are too many for me—too many and too fast. Why do I still +pursue them, at my age and with my reputation? Is it a genuine love of +sport, or mere vanity?" +</p> + +<p> +"Vanity, I think," said Joan. "You don't really care about it, you +know. You are not like Mr. Spence, and father, and the boys, who think +about nothing else." +</p> + +<p> +"It is true that I do think of other things occasionally. But where +does the vanity come in? Enlighten me for my good." +</p> + +<p> +"Men are like that. Mr. Spence wouldn't be in the least ashamed at +being ignorant of all the things that you know about, but you would be +quite ashamed of not knowing something about sport." +</p> + +<p> +"A searching indictment, my dear Joan. It comes home to me. I am a +foolish and contemptible old man. And yet I do rather like it, you +know. The colours of the trees and the fields, this delicious Autumn +air—the expectation—ah!" +</p> + +<p> +The advance guard of a covey had whizzed over his head unharmed; the +rest came on, swerving in their rapid flight as if to dodge the charges +from his barrels, which all except one of them succeeded in doing. +</p> + +<p> +"More coming. I shall be ready for them next time," he said, hastily +ramming cartridges into his breach. +</p> + +<p> +More came—and most of them went. He had been in the best place, and +had only killed three birds. +</p> + +<p> +"I must be content with that," he said with a sigh. "It is not bad for +me. Your John Spence would have shot three times as many, but he would +not have got more fun out of it than I have. Joan, it is not all +vanity." +</p> + +<p> +Joan spent a pleasant afternoon, but she did not feel as happy over it +as she would have done a year ago. When she and Nancy summed up the +experiences of the day she said, "I don't mind whether Uncle Herbert +can shoot or not. It is much more amusing to be with him than with any +of the others." +</p> + +<p> +"Jonathan said you weren't half as keen on sport as you used to be," +said Nancy. "He thinks you are becoming fashionable." +</p> + +<p> +"Idiot!" said Joan. Then she suddenly felt as if she wanted to cry, +but terror at the idea of doing anything so unaccountable—before +Nancy—dried up the desire almost as soon as it was felt. "I am afraid +I am getting too old for Jonathan," she said. "He is beginning to bore +me." +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap0107"></a></p> + +<h3> +CHAPTER VII +</h3> + +<h4> +THE VERDICT +</h4> + +<p> +The Squire rang his bell violently, with a loud exclamation of +impatience. It was a handbell, on a table by the side of his easy +chair, in front of which was a baize-covered rest, with his foot, +voluminously swathed, upon it. +</p> + +<p> +A servant answered the bell with but little loss of time. "Hasn't the +groom come back yet?" asked the Squire, in a tone of acute annoyance. +"I told him to waste no time. He must have been dawdling." +</p> + +<p> +"He was just a-coming into the yard when your bell rang, sir," replied +the man. +</p> + +<p> +"Well, then, why——? Ah, here they are at last. Give them to me, +Porter." +</p> + +<p> +The butler had come in with a big roll of newspapers, which the Squire +seized from him and opened hurriedly, choosing the most voluminous of +them, and throwing the others on to the floor by his side. +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p class="t3"> +THE SOCIETY TRIAL. FULL REPORT.<br /> +VERDICT.<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p> +It filled a whole page, and a column besides. +</p> + +<p> +The Squire read steadily; his face, set to a frowning censure, showed +gleams of surprise, and every now and then his lips forced an +expression of disgust. He was not a rapid reader, and it was half an +hour before he put down the paper, and after looking into the fire for +a minute, took up another from the floor. At that moment the door +opened, and a large elderly man with a mild and pleasant face came into +the room. He was dressed in a dark pepper-and-salt suit, with a white +tie, and shut the door carefully behind him. +</p> + +<p> +"Ah, my dear Tom!" said the Squire. "You had Nina's telegram, I +suppose. I sent it down to you directly it came." +</p> + +<p> +"Yes," said the Rector. "I was surprised that it should all have been +over so quickly. How is your foot this morning, Edward?" +</p> + +<p> +"Oh, all right. At least, it isn't all right. I had a horrible +night—never slept a wink. I've got the papers here. The woman ought +to have got penal servitude. Yes, it was over quickly. It was all as +plain as possible, and I'm glad she did herself no good by her +monstrous lies. The gross impudence of it! Evidently she'll stick at +nothing. But I forgot. You haven't seen the evidence. Here, read +this! Would it be believed that she could have put up such a defence? +That bit there!" +</p> + +<p> +The Rector deliberately fixed a pair of gold-rimmed glasses on to his +nose, and took the paper, looking up occasionally from his reading as +his brother interjected remarks, which interrupted but did not seem to +irritate him. +</p> + +<p> +"I don't quite understand, Edward," he said, when he had finished the +passage to which his attention had been drawn. "She says the pearls +she sold were given to her by somebody, but the name is not mentioned. +Apparently there was a wrangle about it." +</p> + +<p> +"Oh, my dear Tom," said the Squire, "can't you see what it all means? +It is as plain as the nose on your face. A wicked, baseless scandal." +</p> + +<p> +The Rector returned to the newspaper, but his air of bewilderment +remained. +</p> + +<p> +"Oh well," said the Squire with an impatient glance at him. "You don't +live in the world where these things are talked about. I don't either, +thank God. But one hears things. This infamous woman has posed as +the—the friend—the mistress—yes, actually wanted it to be thought +that she was the mistress, of—— No, I'm not going to say it; I won't +sully my lips, or put ideas into your head. It's untrue, absolutely +untrue, and people in that position are defenceless. She ought not to +bring in their names even in idle talk. I'm very glad indeed that +there was a strong stand made in the court." +</p> + +<p> +The Rector had re-read the passage, and looked up with a slight flush +on his cheeks—almost the look that an innocent girl might have shown +if some shameful suggestion had come home to her. "It is not——" he +hazarded. +</p> + +<p> +"Oh, not here," the Squire took him up. "Paris. But it is all the +more abominable. I don't believe a word of it. And even if it were +true—— But is it a likely story?" +</p> + +<p> +"I hope not," said the Rector gravely. +</p> + +<p> +"Oh, these things do happen; I don't deny that. One can't judge these +people quite the same as ourselves. But what a preposterous idea! +Pearls worth thousands! And at the very time when this necklace of +Lady Sedbergh's was missing, and she was practically seen taking it! +Joan saw her. I'm glad they didn't worry Joan too much over her +evidence. I'm glad it's over for the child. It's annoyed me most +infernally to be tied by the leg here, and not knowing what might be +going on, where I couldn't direct or advise. However, she did very +well—gave her answers simply and stuck to them, and there was no more +of that impudent suggestion about young Trench, I'm glad to say, except +that they tried to make out he had put it all into her head. He's +quite a decent fellow, that woman's counsel. Herbert Birkett knows +him. It's pretty plain that he was only making the best of a bad +job—couldn't expect to get the woman off, especially after she had put +herself out of court in the way she did." +</p> + +<p> +"I see," said the Rector, who had been reading steadily while this +speech was being delivered, "that there was evidence from several +people that she had worn a pearl necklace, before the time Lady +Sedbergh's was stolen." +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, and if you'll read further, you'll see that her maid declares +that it was a sham one. She told her so herself. They tried to make +out that she wanted to put her off the scent. But that won't wash. +The maid gave her evidence very well. You'll see it towards the end. +It is what clinched it. She had seen the diamond star in the woman's +jewel-box. Of course she has made away with it somehow, since; but the +maid described it exactly. She had had it in her hands, and there was +an unusual sort of catch, which she couldn't have heard about. She +told her young man, and he went to the police. Oh, it's <i>proved</i>. It +isn't only circumstantial evidence, it's damning proof. And she's got +far less than her deserts. A year's imprisonment! She ought to have +had ten years' hard labour." +</p> + +<p> +"They seem to have convicted her on the theft of the diamond star +alone." +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, I don't quite understand why, except that there is no conceivable +doubt as to that. I suppose her impudent lie about the necklace saved +her, as far as that goes. It led them to drop the charge, as they had +got her on the other. I must read the evidence again." +</p> + +<p> +The Rector put the paper aside, and took off his glasses. "Poor +woman!" he said, with a sigh. "Her life ruined! But it is well for +her that she has been found out. Her punishment will balance the +account against her; she will get another start." +</p> + +<p> +"Not in this country," said the Squire vindictively. "She is done for. +Nobody will look at her again. I think one can say that much, at any +rate. Society is disgracefully loose now-a-days; but there are some +things it can't stomach. I'm glad to think that this woman is one of +them. We shall hear no more of Mrs. Amberley." +</p> + +<p> +"Ah, well," said the Rector, after a pause. "The world is not made up +of what is called Society. Thank God there are men and women who will +not turn away from a repentant sinner. Who knows but what this poor +woman may win her soul out of the disgrace that has befallen her?" +</p> + +<p> +"Oh, my dear Tom!" said the Squire. "You live in the clouds. A woman +like that hasn't got a soul." +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Clinton and Joan, with Dick and Virginia, returned to Kencote that +evening. The Squire received his wife and daughter as if they had been +playing truant, and intimated that now they had come home they had +better put everything that had been happening out of their heads. They +had seen for themselves what came of mixing with those sort of people, +and he hoped that the lesson had not been wasted. The whole affair had +given him an infinity of worry, and had no doubt brought on the attack +from which he was suffering. It was all over now, and he didn't want +to hear another word about it. In fact, it was not to be mentioned in +the house. Did Joan understand that? He would not have her and Nancy +talking about it. They had plenty of other things to talk about. Did +she understand that? +</p> + +<p> +Joan said that she quite understood it, and went off to give Nancy a +full account of her experiences. +</p> + +<p> +"My dear, she looked awful," she said. "She was wonderfully dressed, +and had got herself up so that only a woman could have known that she +was got up at all. But she looked as old as the hills. Honestly, I +felt sorry for her, although I hated her for what she said to me +before. But she was fighting for her life, and she made a brave show." +</p> + +<p> +"But she couldn't say anything, could she? I thought the counsel did +it all." +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, that was the worst of it—for her. She had to stand there while +they fought over her, and look all the time as if she didn't care. +Awful! Poor thing, she's in prison now, and I should think she's glad +of it." +</p> + +<p> +"I don't know in the least what happened, except that she was sent to +prison for a year. Father kept all the papers in his room." +</p> + +<p> +"I don't know much either. Directly I had given my evidence mother +took me away." +</p> + +<p> +"We'll get hold of a paper." +</p> + +<p> +"No, we mustn't. Mother asked me not to." +</p> + +<p> +"What a bore! What was it like, giving your evidence? Were you +alarmed?" +</p> + +<p> +"No, not much. It wasn't worse than the other place. It wasn't so +bad. Sir Edward Logan, the Sedberghs' counsel, was awfully sweet. He +made me say exactly what I had seen, and when Sir Herbert Jessop—that +was <i>her</i> man—tried to worry me into saying that Bobby Trench had put +it all into my head, he got up and objected." +</p> + +<p> +"Did he try to——" +</p> + +<p> +"No. He was quite nice about it, really. I suppose he had to try and +make it out different, somehow. He left off directly our counsel +objected, and the old Judge said I had given my evidence very well and +clearly. I don't think he really believed that I was making it all up." +</p> + +<p> +"You didn't hear what anybody else said?" +</p> + +<p> +"Not a word. Except when I was in the witness-box myself, I might just +as well have been at home." +</p> + +<p> +"I wonder what the papers said about you. I wish we could see them." +</p> + +<p> +What those of the papers had said which gave their readers a +description as well as a report of what had occurred, was that Miss +Joan Clinton had appeared in the witness-box in a simple but becoming +costume, which some of them described, and given her evidence clearly +and modestly. Some of them said that she was pretty, and one, with a +special appeal to the nonconformist conscience, said that it was a pity +to see a young lady who from her appearance could not long since have +left the schoolroom, and who looked and spoke as if she had been well +brought up, involved in the sordid life of what was known as the higher +circles, brought to light by these proceedings. The Squire had read +this comment with a snort of indignation. But for the quarter from +which it came he would have recognised it as coinciding with his own +frequently expressed opinion. As it was, he considered it an +impertinent reflection upon himself and his order. +</p> + +<p> +When Dick came up to see him that evening he did not insist that the +subject should not be mentioned again. He asked him why he had not +come in on his way from the station. "There has been nobody to tell me +a thing," he said with some irritation. "I only know what I have read +in the papers. Upon my word, the woman's brazen insolence! Was that +why they dropped the charge of stealing the necklace, Dick?" +</p> + +<p> +"The other was dead certain," said Dick. +</p> + +<p> +"Ah, that's what I thought. But people don't think—er——" +</p> + +<p> +"He <i>did</i> give her pearls," said Dick, with a matter-of-course air of +inner knowledge. "And plenty of people have seen her wearing them, +though she never seems to have worn them in London." +</p> + +<p> +"Then it's true about——" +</p> + +<p> +"About him? Of course it is." +</p> + +<p> +"Oh! I thought she had made it up, shamelessly, because she knew it +couldn't be contradicted." +</p> + +<p> +"It could have been contradicted easily enough if it hadn't been true. +Everybody has known about it for years." +</p> + +<p> +"But she told the maid the pearls were sham ones." +</p> + +<p> +"I dare say she did. But they weren't." +</p> + +<p> +"Then there is really a doubt whether she did steal the necklace?" +</p> + +<p> +"Oh, I don't think so. It makes it all the more likely. She would +think, if it was found out she had got rid of single pearls, she could +explain it by her own necklace. The mistake she made was in not being +satisfied with taking the pearls. If she had left that rotten little +star alone, which can't have been worth more than a hundred pounds or +so, I doubt if they would have brought it home to her." +</p> + +<p> +"But she may have taken the star, and not have had time to find the +necklace, when Joan came in." +</p> + +<p> +"Oh no. If she had been in the middle of it Joan would have caught her +at it. There was the stone to push back, as well as the panel to shut. +Besides, the necklace went. Who did take it, if she didn't? Nobody +else knew." +</p> + +<p> +"Oh, it's plain enough, of course. I haven't a doubt about it. But I +thought you meant that there was some doubt." +</p> + +<p> +"No. I only meant there might have been, if she hadn't taken the star. +Of course, what she did was to get rid of those pearls as well as her +own. She hasn't known which way to turn for money for ever so long. +She went out of favour in <i>that</i> quarter a couple of years ago, or +more." +</p> + +<p> +"Did she make any attempt to get her story backed up?" +</p> + +<p> +"Moved heaven and earth, but found the doors shut. She found herself +up against the police over there. They told her that if she dared to +whisper such a story she would get into more serious trouble than she +was in already. She's got pluck, you know. She must have seen it was +no good, but she was in a royal rage, and made her people bring it up, +out of spite. They say there were hints given; but I doubt that—in a +court of law. Anyhow, they wouldn't have it, and it didn't do her any +good." +</p> + +<p> +"Well, it's a most unsavoury story altogether," said the Squire. "The +woman's in prison now, and she richly deserves it." +</p> + +<p> +He and Dick discussed the matter for another hour, and when the Squire +was helped up to bed he repeated his injunctions to Mrs. Clinton that +it was not to be mentioned in the house again. +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap0201"></a></p> + +<h2> +BOOK II +<br /><br /> +</h2> + +<h3> +CHAPTER I +</h3> + +<h4> +BOBBY TRENCH IS ASKED TO KENCOTE +</h4> + +<p> +"Well, old fellow, I think you might." +</p> + +<p> +It was Bobby Trench who spoke, in a voice of injured pleading. +</p> + +<p> +Humphrey laughed. "My dear chap," he said, "I would, like a shot; but, +to be perfectly honest with you, you haven't succeeded in commending +yourself to the Governor, and, after all, it's his house and not mine." +</p> + +<p> +They were driving to a meet of hounds. Humphrey had so far taken to +heart his father's criticisms upon his metropolitan mode of life that +he had let his flat for the winter and taken a hunting box in +Northamptonshire, at which Bobby Trench was a frequent visitor. He was +being asked by his friend to repeat the invitation he had given him +some years before, to stay at Kencote for some country balls, and he +was kindly but firmly resisting the request. +</p> + +<p> +"I suppose you know what I want to go there for?" +</p> + +<p> +"Well, I can form a rough guess. As far as I'm concerned, I should +welcome the idea; but I won't disguise it from you that the Governor +wouldn't." +</p> + +<p> +"Well, hang it! I may have trod on his corns—though I certainly never +meant to, and I like him and all that—but you can't say that I'm not +all right. I'm an only son, and all that sort of thing. I don't see +how he could expect to get anybody better." +</p> + +<p> +"Do you really mean business, Bobby?" +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, I do; if I can hit it off with her. She's bowled me over. She's +as pretty as paint, and as bright and clever as they make 'em. +Sweet-tempered and kind-hearted too; and I like that about a girl. She +was as nice as possible to my old Governor; took a lot of trouble about +him. He thinks the world of her. I tell you, he'd be as pleased as +Punch." +</p> + +<p> +"Have you said anything to him?" +</p> + +<p> +"No, not yet. To tell you the truth—I'm a modest fellow, though I'm +not always given the credit for it—I'm not in the least certain +whether she'll see it in the same light as I do. I dare say that's +what's brought it on, you know. They've been after me for years—it's +only natural, I suppose—but what these old dowagers, and lots of the +young women themselves too, don't seem to understand is that a man +doesn't <i>like</i> being run after. It puts him off. That's human nature. +Well, I needn't tell <i>you</i> that it's me that's got to do all the +running this time; and it's a pleasant change. I suppose she's never +said anything to you about me, has she?" +</p> + +<p> +Humphrey laughed. He remembered a few of the things that Joan had said +to him about his friend. +</p> + +<p> +"She looks on you as a stupendous joke so far," he said. "Still, she's +hardly more than a kid." +</p> + +<p> +"Oh, I know. Tell you the truth, when I first felt myself drawn that +way, I said, 'No, Robert. Plenty of time yet. If you feel the same in +a couple of years' time, you can let yourself go.' But I don't know. +Some other fellow might come along; and I'm not fool enough to think +I've made such an impression that I can afford to keep away and let my +hand play itself. No, what I want is to get my chance; I know now what +I'm going to do with it, and I tell you I'm keener than I've ever been +about anything in my life. Look here, Humphrey, you've got to get me +down to Kencote somehow after Christmas. I never see her anywhere +else. You ought not to keep those girls shut up as you do, you know." +</p> + +<p> +"<i>I</i> keep them shut up! You talk as if I were the head of my respected +family. Well, look here. If it has really gone as far as you say it +has, you'd better write to the Governor. I tell you plainly, he +doesn't think much of <i>you</i>; but he's an old friend of your father's, +and he'd probably be no more averse to seeing one of his daughters +marry a future peer than anybody else would. It wouldn't go all the +way with him, but it would go some of the way." +</p> + +<p> +"No, thanks. That's not my way of doing things. I want to be loved +for myself. If he did take to the idea, it wouldn't do me any good to +be shoved forward in that sort of light. Besides, to tell you the +truth, I don't believe I should be half so keen if I was asked down +with that idea." +</p> + +<p> +"Oh, well!" said Humphrey with a spurt of offence. "If that's how you +feel about it——! I don't care a damn about your peerage, and all +that sort of thing; I was only thinking it might help you over a fence +with the Governor. My young sister is good enough for any fellow." +</p> + +<p> +"I know that. I should consider myself jolly lucky if she took me. +You needn't get shirty. It's just because she is the girl I want that +I'm not going to lose any of the fun of winning off my own bat." +</p> + +<p> +"I'll see what I can do," said Humphrey, after further conversation. +"But if you go to Rome you've got to do as Rome does. You know what my +Governor is; and he's got a perfect right to run his own show as it +suits him, and not as it suits other people. As far as I'm concerned, +I've come to feel that Kencote is a precious sight nicer house to go to +than a great many. It's different, and the others are all just the +same. You've got to keep to the rules, but if you do you have a very +good time. It's a pleasant rest." +</p> + +<p> +"Oh, I know. I feel just the same as you about it. It reminds you of +the days of your childhood, and your mother's knee, and all that sort +of thing. Besides, they do you top-hole; I will say that. I'm old +enough to appreciate it now; of course, five or six years ago I dare +say I did think it a bit dull, and I may have shown it, though I never +meant to rub your old Governor up the wrong way. Still, it will be +quite different now. I'll teach in the Sunday school if he wants me +to." +</p> + +<p> +"If you go, you must observe strict punctuality as to meals, and you +must do without games on Sunday, and bally-ragging generally. That's +about all, and it isn't so very desperate." +</p> + +<p> +"Not a bit; and with your sister there it will be like heaven. Oh, +you've got to get me asked, Humphrey." +</p> + +<p> +"I'll do what I can. By the by, don't say a word about the Amberley +business at Kencote. He doesn't like that mentioned." +</p> + +<p> +"Doesn't he? Righto! It was the way your young sister showed up in +that that clinched it with me. She was topping. Looked as pretty as a +picture, and never let them rattle her once. They took her off the +moment she'd given her evidence, and I never got the chance of a word +with her. I've actually never seen her since, and that's a couple of +months ago now. Well, here we are. I'm going to enjoy myself to-day." +</p> + +<p> +Humphrey used his own discretion as to disclosing something of the +state of his friend's affections when he and Susan went down to Kencote +for Christmas. +</p> + +<p> +"Look here, father, I've got something rather interesting to tell you. +Bobby Trench—oh, I know you don't like him, but you'll find him much +improved—wants to pay his addresses to Joan." +</p> + +<p> +"What!" The Squire's expression was a mixture of disgust and +incredulity. +</p> + +<p> +"It would be a very good match for her. They've been chasing him for +years. He'll come in for all that money of Lady Sophia's, you know, as +well as everything else." +</p> + +<p> +"Oh, a good match!" exclaimed the Squire impatiently. "I wouldn't have +him about the place if he was the heir to a dukedom. And Joan is +hardly more than a child. Time enough for all that in three or four +years. And when the time comes I hope it will bring somebody as unlike +Master Trench as possible." +</p> + +<p> +Humphrey was rather dashed at this reception of his news. He was not +quite so unaffected by Bobby Trench's place in the world and his +prospective wealth as he had declared himself to be. To see one of his +sisters married thus had struck him more and more as being desirable, +and he had thought that his father would take much the same view, after +a first expression of surprise and independence. +</p> + +<p> +"I know he annoyed you when he came here before," he said. "I told him +that, and said I wasn't surprised at it." +</p> + +<p> +"Well, I'm not sorry you told him that. I should have told him so +myself pretty plainly if he hadn't been a guest in my house. What had +he got to say to it?" +</p> + +<p> +"He said he was sorry he had offended you. But it was a good many +years ago, and he was a fool in those days." +</p> + +<p> +"He's a fool now," said the Squire. "When he came over here last +summer, and let us in for all that infernal annoyance, which I shan't +forgive him readily, he was just as impudent and superior as ever. A +young cub like that—not that he's so very young now, but he's a cub +all the same—seems to think that because a man chooses to live on his +own property, and do his duty by the country, every smart gad-about +with a handle to his name has got a right to look down upon him. There +were Clintons at Kencote when <i>his</i> particular Trenches were +pettifogging tradesmen in Yorkshire, and centuries before that. I +don't deny that Sedbergh's title is a respectable one, as these things +go nowadays, but to talk as if I ought to think myself honoured because +a son of his wants to marry a daughter of mine is pure nonsense. Does +Sedbergh know anything about this?" +</p> + +<p> +"No. But Bobby says that he'll be as pleased as possible. He took a +great fancy to Joan. He said she had been better brought up than any +girl he knew." +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, he told me that himself, and I dare say it's true. I've brought +up my children to fear God and behave themselves properly. If he'd +done the same, or his idiot of a wife, I don't know that I should have +objected to the idea. But your 'Bobby' Trench isn't what his father +was at his age, and not likely to be. I suppose he hasn't had the +impudence to say anything to Joan yet?" +</p> + +<p> +"Oh no. She doesn't know anything about it. In fact, he's not in the +least sure about his chances with her. He only wants an opportunity of +what I believe is called preferring his suit." +</p> + +<p> +"Well, then, he won't get it. I don't care about the arrangement, and +you can tell him so, if you like—from me." +</p> + +<p> +With this the Squire strode out of the room, leaving Humphrey not so +convinced that Bobby Trench would not be given his opportunity as might +have seemed likely. +</p> + +<p> +The Squire spoke to his wife about it. What nonsense was this about +something between Joan and that young Trench? Surely a girl of Joan's +age might be doing something better than giving encouragement to every +crack-brained young fool to make free with her name! That's what came +of letting her run about all over the place, and in all sorts of +company, instead of keeping her quietly at home, as girls of that age +ought to be kept. When the proper time came he should have no +objection to seeing her suitably married. No doubt some nice young +fellow would come forward, whom they could welcome into the family, +just as Jim Graham had come forward for Cicely. In the meantime Joan +had better be kept from making herself too cheap. She seemed to think +she could do anything she liked, now that she had done with her +governess. If he heard any more of it, the governess should come back, +and Joan and Nancy should go into the school-room again. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Clinton always had the advantage of time to think, when surprises +of this sort were sprung upon her. When his speech came to an end she +looked up at him and said, "I am sure that Joan has not done or said +anything that you could blame her for, Edward. She does not like Mr. +Trench. I do not like him either, and I know you don't. What is it +you have heard?" +</p> + +<p> +"Oh, I don't say that Joan is to blame. I don't know. No, I don't +think she is. Sedbergh took to her, and said that she had been very +well brought up. He told me that himself, and it is quite true. I've +no fault to find with Joan in this respect. She and Nancy are good +girls enough, though troublesome sometimes. They will grow out of +that. She doesn't know anything about this, and I don't want it +mentioned to her. Young Trench has been talking to Humphrey. He wants +to come here and pay his addresses to Joan. That's what it comes to. +I told Humphrey I wouldn't have it, and there's an end of it." +</p> + +<p> +"I am glad of that, Edward. I don't think he would have any chance +with Joan, and I should be sorry if it were otherwise." +</p> + +<p> +"Well, as to that, Joan needn't be encouraged to think that she's got +the whole world to pick and choose from. If this young Trench was the +man his father was, it would be a very satisfactory arrangement. I +don't deny that. He is the only son; and I shouldn't be entitled to +expect a better marriage for a girl of mine, if position and money and +all that sort of thing were everything." +</p> + +<p> +"Oh, but they are not, are they?" said Mrs. Clinton. "They would not +count at all if the man to whom they belonged were not what you could +wish him to be." +</p> + +<p> +"Well, I don't know that I should welcome a son-in-law who had no +position and no money. I've a right to expect a daughter of mine to +marry into the position in which she has been brought up. I wouldn't +actually demand more than that. Cicely did it, and I was quite +satisfied. Still, I shouldn't turn up my nose at a better match, and +there's no doubt that this young Trench, if he were all right, would be +an excellent match." +</p> + +<p> +"But he is not, is he? You have always objected to him." +</p> + +<p> +"I can't say I know anything actually against him. I certainly +shouldn't want to see more of him than I could help for my own sake. +What is it <i>you</i> object to in him?" +</p> + +<p> +"Much the same as you do, Edward. I dislike the sort of life he and +those about him live. It is a different sort of life from that which +we have encouraged any of our children to look forward to. I should be +sorry to see Joan thrown into it." +</p> + +<p> +"Oh, thrown into it! Nobody is going to throw her into it. I have +said quite plainly that I don't like the idea. I may be +old-fashioned—I dare say I am—but I'm not the sort of man to lose my +head with pride because the heir to a peerage wants to marry my +daughter." +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Clinton looked down and said nothing, but her heart was rather +heavy. +</p> + +<p> +"Joan hasn't said anything about him, has she? Nothing to show that +she is aware that he—what shall I say—admires her?" +</p> + +<p> +"She has made fun of him constantly," said Mrs. Clinton. "I am glad +that you have refused to have Mr. Trench here. If he came, and paid +court to her, I cannot believe that she would have anything to say to +him. Nothing would come of it, except irritation and annoyance to you, +and pain to me, and very possibly to Joan." +</p> + +<p> +The Squire left her and took his news to Dick. "Your mother has taken +a strong prejudice against him," he said. "As far as I'm aware he has +never done anything to deserve it, but women are like that. They take +an idea into their heads and nothing will get it out." +</p> + +<p> +"Well, you've never shown any strong partiality for him yourself, that +I know of," said Dick. "I don't care much about him, but he's a +harmless sort of idiot. I always thought you were a bit rough on him." +</p> + +<p> +"Did you? Well, perhaps I am. I must say that he did annoy me +infernally when he came here before, and if he comes here again it will +be on the distinct understanding that he follows the rules of the house +and behaves himself. Kencote isn't Brummels, and never will be as long +as I'm alive. That has got to be made quite plain." +</p> + +<p> +"Do you want him to marry Joan, then?" +</p> + +<p> +"Want it? No, I don't want it. Why should I want anything of the +sort? I'm not in the position of having to say 'thank you' to the +first man who comes along and wants to marry one of my daughters. +They'll marry well enough when the time comes. Still, this young +fellow is the son of one of my oldest friends, and I've never heard +that there's actually anything against him; have you?" +</p> + +<p> +"No more than what's on the surface. If he married Joan, I shouldn't +want to live hand in glove with him." +</p> + +<p> +"You wouldn't object to the marriage if it came about?" +</p> + +<p> +Dick did not reply at once. +</p> + +<p> +"It would be a good enough match from the worldly point of view," said +the Squire. +</p> + +<p> +Dick looked up quickly. "I'm the wrong man to come to for that point +of view," he said. "I didn't marry from it myself; nor did you." +</p> + +<p> +The Squire digested this. "It's different for men," he said, with a +shade of unwillingness. "You've got to take it into account with +women." +</p> + +<p> +"I'm not going to advise either one way or the other," said Dick. "If +Joan likes that sort of fellow, she's welcome to him; if she doesn't, I +shan't blame her." +</p> + +<p> +"You think it's a matter for her to decide?" +</p> + +<p> +"It isn't a matter for me to decide." +</p> + +<p> +"She can't very well decide unless she sees him." +</p> + +<p> +"Then let her see him, if you're satisfied with him yourself. He's not +my fancy; but he may be hers, for all I can tell." +</p> + +<p> +The Squire went back to his wife and told her that Dick didn't care for +Bobby Trench any more than he did himself, but had never heard anything +against him. He didn't see any reason against his seeing Joan. She +could decide for herself. Nobody would bring any pressure to bear on +her. That wasn't the way things were done in these days. But Lord +Sedbergh was one of his oldest friends, and wouldn't like it if he +heard that they had refused to have his son in the house. He shouldn't +like it himself. Young Trench had better be asked to Kencote with the +rest, for these balls that were coming on after Christmas. If he +showed that he had anything in him, well and good. If not, he needn't +be asked again, and no harm would be done. +</p> + +<p> +"I will write to Mr. Trench," said Mrs. Clinton. "But I am sorry that +you have decided to ask him here." +</p> + +<p> +The Squire went away vaguely dissatisfied with himself, but took +comfort in the thought that women didn't understand these things. +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap0202"></a></p> + +<h3> +CHAPTER II +</h3> + +<h4> +JOAN AND NANCY +</h4> + +<p> +"My sweet old Joan, tell me all about it." +</p> + +<p> +Joan buried her fair head in Virginia's skirts and burst into tears. +She was sitting on the rug in front of the fire by Virginia's side, in +the gloaming. +</p> + +<p> +Virginia put her slim hand on to her shoulder, and caressed her +lightly. "It's too bad," she said gently, with her soft, hardly +distinguishable American intonation. +</p> + +<p> +"I'm such a fool," said Joan. "I don't know what I want. I don't want +anything." +</p> + +<p> +She dried her eyes, but still kept her head on Virginia's knee, and put +up her hand to give Virginia's a little squeeze. It was comforting to +be with her, looking into the fire. +</p> + +<p> +"It's about John Spence, isn't it, dear?" Virginia asked. +</p> + +<p> +"I'm a fool," said Joan again. "I don't like him as much as I used to." +</p> + +<p> +"Is that why you're a fool?" asked Virginia with a little laugh. +</p> + +<p> +"No," said Joan seriously. "For caring about things changing, because +one is grown up. I used to think it would be nothing but bliss to be +grown up. Now I wish Nancy and I were little girls again. We used to +be very happy together. We always talked about everything, it didn't +matter what it was." +</p> + +<p> +"And now you don't. You don't talk about John Spence." +</p> + +<p> +Joan's tears flowed afresh. "I don't want to talk about it, Virginia," +she said. "I am sure you would never understand what I feel. Whatever +I said you would think I meant something else; and I don't a bit. I +don't mind his liking Nancy best. I don't want him to like me more +than he does." +</p> + +<p> +"Oh, my darling girl! I think I understand it all better than you do +yourself. You are unhappy, and you don't know why." +</p> + +<p> +"Then tell me why." +</p> + +<p> +"Well, to begin with, you are just a little jealous." +</p> + +<p> +"Oh, Virginia! And you said you understood!" +</p> + +<p> +"You are jealous, just as you would be if Dick were suddenly to show +that he liked Nancy better than you." +</p> + +<p> +"We used to have such fun together, all three of us. It never entered +the heads of either of us to think which he liked the best. He liked +us both just the same. Why couldn't it go on like that? I've done +nothing. It was after I came back from that horrid Brummels. He +didn't like my going there—not that it had anything to do with him. +He was just like father about it, and tried to make out that it had +altered me. It hadn't altered me at all. I was just the same as I had +always been. It was he that had altered." +</p> + +<p> +"Can't you see, little girl, that it couldn't always go on as it used +to?" +</p> + +<p> +"Why not?" +</p> + +<p> +"How can a man fall in love with two girls at once? He must choose one +of them, or neither." +</p> + +<p> +"I didn't want him to fall in love with me," said Joan quickly. "I am +not in love with him. That's why it's so difficult to say anything. +If I'm unhappy, it looks as if I must be." +</p> + +<p> +"Not to me, dearest Joan. But you can be jealous about people without +being in love with them. You know, darling, I think John Spence was +almost bound to fall in love with one of you almost directly you grew +up. I should have been very much surprised if he hadn't. But I could +never tell which it would be. It was just as it happened to turn out. +He came here when you were away, and that just turned the scale. After +that it couldn't possibly be as it had been before, when you were both +children; not even if you had behaved well about it." +</p> + +<p> +"What!" exclaimed Joan, sitting up sharply. +</p> + +<p> +Virginia smiled, and drew her back to her. "You haven't been kind to +Nancy, you know," she said. +</p> + +<p> +Joan did not resist her, but said rather stiffly, "It's she who hasn't +been kind to me." +</p> + +<p> +"How?" +</p> + +<p> +"She has said nothing to me. I don't know even what she thinks about +it all. If you say I am jealous, that is what I am jealous about. I +don't even know that he <i>is</i> in love with her; and if he is, whether +she knows it. She acts <i>exactly</i> as we always used to with him, and as +I did, until I saw he didn't want me to." +</p> + +<p> +"And then you became offended, and rather ostentatiously left them +together whenever he came on the scene." +</p> + +<p> +"Well, if he wanted Nancy, and didn't want me, I wasn't going to push +myself forward." +</p> + +<p> +"Poor John Spence!" said Virginia. "He is very disturbed about you. I +think he is very much in love with Nancy. It has become plain even to +my obtuse old Dick now. But he might so easily have been very much in +love with you, instead, that it troubles his dear simple candid old +soul to think you have so changed. As far as he is concerned, he would +like nothing better than to be on the old terms with you. He wouldn't +like you any the less because he likes Nancy more." +</p> + +<p> +"It is Nancy I am thinking of," said Joan after a pause. "She always +has been just a little hard, and she is hard without a doubt now. +Fancy, Virginia—somebody being in love with her, and showing it, and +her never saying one single word to me about it! Talking about +anything else, but never about the only thing that she must be thinking +about!" +</p> + +<p> +"Don't you think she may be thinking you just a little hard? +Fancy—somebody being in love with her, and showing it, and Joan not +saying a word to her about it! Talking about anything else, but never +the one thing!" +</p> + +<p> +Joan put her handkerchief to her eyes. "If it hadn't begun as it did I +should have done everything I could to please her," she said. "I +should have been just as interested and perhaps excited about it, for +her sake, as she could have been herself. She could have told me +everything she was feeling, and now she tells me nothing. I suppose +when he has proposed to her, if he does, she will tell me, just as she +might tell me if anybody had asked her the time; and then she will ask +me what I am going to wear. Oh, everything ought to be different +between us just now." +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, it ought," said Virginia. "Dear Joan, you and Nancy mustn't go +on like this. I don't think Nancy is hard; I am sure she isn't in this +case. She must be feeling it—not to be able to talk to you." +</p> + +<p> +"If I thought that!" +</p> + +<p> +"Darling, you know her so well—almost as well as you know yourself. +Can't you see that it must be so? Can't you make it easy for her to +talk to you? It would do away with your own unhappiness. It is that +that you are really unhappy about. Life is changing all about you. +You are a child no longer, and you have nothing to put in the place of +what you are losing. You are feeling lonely, and out of it all. Isn't +that it?" +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, I suppose that is it. It used to be so jolly only a very short +time ago—when Frank was home in the summer. Now Kencote doesn't seem +like the same place. I should like to go away." +</p> + +<p> +"You wouldn't feel the change so much if you and Nancy were what you +have always been to each other. Joan dear, it is for you to take the +first step. Show Nancy that you, of all people, are the most pleased +at the happiness that is coming to her. I am quite sure she will +respond." +</p> + +<p> +Joan's tears came again. "I don't think she wants me now," she said. +"She has somebody else, and I have nobody. At least, I have you—and +mother. But Nancy and I have been almost like one person." +</p> + +<p> +"She does want you, Joan. She must want you, just as much as you want +her. But she won't say so unless you give her the chance." +</p> + +<p> +"Dear old Nancy!" said Joan softly. "I have been rather a pig to her. +But I won't be any more." +</p> + +<p> +There was a long silence. Then Joan said, "There is something else, +Virginia. Why has Bobby Trench been asked to come here to-morrow?" +</p> + +<p> +Virginia laughed, after a momentary pause. "I expect he asked +himself," she said. "Hasn't he shown himself to be a great admirer of +yours, Joan?" +</p> + +<p> +"Oh!" said Joan without a smile. "I have never shown myself to be a +great admirer of his. Virginia, I can't understand it. I know mother +wrote to him. I asked her why, and she said Humphrey had wanted him +asked, and father had said that he might be. She didn't seem to want +to talk about him, and I could see that she didn't like him, and was +sorry to have to ask him. It is father I don't understand. He has +almost foamed at the mouth whenever Bobby Trench's name has been +mentioned, and you know what a frightful fuss he made when I went to +Brummels, and when Bobby Trench came here about that Amberley affair. +He said he shouldn't be let in if he came again." +</p> + +<p> +"Well, my dear, you know what your father is. He could no more act +inhospitably to anybody than——" +</p> + +<p> +"Oh, Virginia, that's nonsense. He was quite rude to him when he came. +Besides, it's a different thing altogether, <i>asking</i> him to come. He +needn't have done that. Why did he do it?" +</p> + +<p> +"Isn't Lord Sedbergh an old friend of his?" +</p> + +<p> +"Virginia, I believe you are in the conspiracy against me. I <i>hate</i> +Bobby Trench, and when he comes here I won't have a thing to say to +him. If father wants him here, he can look after him himself. I +couldn't believe it when it first came into my head; but father said +something to me, after he had looked at me once or twice in an odd sort +of way, almost as if I were a person he didn't know." +</p> + +<p> +"What did he say to you?" +</p> + +<p> +"Oh, something about <i>him</i>, I forget what now. And when I said what an +idiot I thought he was, he was quite annoyed, and said I ought not to +talk about people in that way. How <i>can</i> father be so changeable? He +treats us as if nobody had any sense but himself, and lays down the +law; and then, even in a question in which you agree with him, you find +that all his sound and fury means nothing at all, and he has turned +completely round." +</p> + +<p> +"Well, my dear, we are not all the same. Your father speaks very +strongly whatever is in his mind at the moment, and if he has cause to +change his mind he is just as strong on the other side. It was so with +me, you know well enough. He wouldn't hear a word in my favour; and +now he likes me almost as much as Dick does. You have to dig down +deeper than his speech to find what is fixed in him." +</p> + +<p> +"I don't believe that anything is fixed. Anyone would have said that +he had a <i>real</i> dislike to Brummels, and all that goes with it. I am +sure he made fuss enough when I went there, and has gone on making it +ever since; and Bobby Trench summed it all up for him. He wouldn't +have this and he wouldn't have that; and Kencote, and the way we live +here, was the only sort of life that anybody ought to live. Oh, <i>you</i> +know it all by heart. And then, just as one is beginning to think +there is something in it, and that we <i>have</i> been very happy living +quietly here, one finds that <i>he</i>, of all people, wants something else." +</p> + +<p> +"What does he want?" +</p> + +<p> +"What does he want for <i>me</i>? Does he want Bobby Trench, Virginia? +There! You don't say anything. You <i>are</i> in the conspiracy. I +<i>won't</i>. Nothing will make me." +</p> + +<p> +"My dear child, there is no conspiracy. And if there were, I shouldn't +be in it. <i>I</i> don't want Bobby Trench for you; I want somebody much +better. But I don't want anybody, yet awhile. I want to keep you." +</p> + +<p> +"Doesn't mother want to keep me? Does <i>she</i> want Bobby Trench for me?" +</p> + +<p> +"No, I am quite sure she doesn't." +</p> + +<p> +"Then what is it all about? Oh, I am very unhappy, Virginia. I want +to talk it all over with Nancy; but I can't now. It is just as if +everything were falling away from me. Nobody cares. A little time ago +I should have gone to mother if I had hurt my finger. I feel all +alone. Why does father want to bring Bobby Trench worrying me, of all +the people in the world?" +</p> + +<p> +"Dearest Joan, you are making too much of it. You talk as if you were +going to be forced into something you don't like." +</p> + +<p> +"That is just what I feel is happening. It isn't like Kencote; not +like anything I have known. Oh, I wish I were a little girl again." +</p> + +<p> +"My dear, put it like this; somebody is bound to want you, sooner or +later. I suppose somebody wants you now. He moves mountains to get at +you, and find out whether you want <i>him</i>. You don't, and that is all +there is to say about it." +</p> + +<p> +"It might be," said Joan, "if it weren't that father is one of the +mountains. He is one that is very easily shifted. Oh, I'm not a child +any longer. I do know something about the world. I do know quite well +that if he were not who he is, father would not have him near the +place. Money and rank—those are what he really cares about, though he +pretends to despise them—in anybody else. What is the good of +belonging to an old and proud family, as we do, if you can't be just a +little prouder than the rest?" +</p> + +<p> +"Well, my dear, as a product of a country where those things don't +count for much, I am bound to say that I think it isn't much good. +People are what their characters and surroundings make them." +</p> + +<p> +"Father wouldn't say that. He would say that blood counted for a lot. +I am quite sure he would say that people like us had a finer sense of +honour than people who are nobodies by birth. I don't think he comes +out of the test very well. I think if anything were to happen to him +where his birth and his position wouldn't help him, his honour wouldn't +be finer than anybody else's. If he were to lose all his money, for +instance—I think he would feel that more than anything in the world. +He would be stripped of almost everything. No-one would know him." +</p> + +<p> +"Oh, Joan darling, you mustn't say things like that. It isn't like +you." +</p> + +<p> +Poor Joan, her mind at unrest, her first glimpse of the world outside +the sheltered garden of her childhood showing her only the chill +loneliness of its battling crowds, was not in a mood to insist upon her +discoveries. +</p> + +<p> +"It does make me feel rather bitter," she said through her tears. "But +I don't want to be." +</p> + +<p> +As she and Nancy were dressing for dinner, she said lightly, but with a +strained look in her eyes, "The conquering Bobby Trench will be here by +this time to-morrow. Nancy, you are not to go leaving me alone with +him." +</p> + +<p> +Nancy looked up at her sharply, but her face was hidden, and she did +not see the look in it, the look which hoped for a warm return to their +old habit of discussing everything and everybody together. +</p> + +<p> +"I suppose you would like me to take him off your hands so that you can +devote yourself to John Spence?" she said. +</p> + +<p> +If Joan was ready to mention names, she was ready too. Her meaning was +not so unkind as her words; but how was Joan, ready to smart at a +touch, to know that? +</p> + +<p> +She could not speak for a moment. Then she said with a quiver, "I +don't want to devote myself to him. He likes you best." +</p> + +<p> +Nancy heard the quiver, and it moved her; but not enough to soothe the +soreness she felt against Joan. Joan might be ready now, unwillingly, +to accept the fact that John Spence liked Nancy best; but she had stood +out against it for a long time, and had not taken the discovery in the +way that Nancy was convinced she would have taken it herself, if Joan +had been the preferred. +</p> + +<p> +"If he does, it is your fault," she said. "I've not tried to make him. +I have only been just the same as I always was; and you have been quite +different." +</p> + +<p> +There was nothing in this speech that would have struck Joan as unkind +a few months before. But the tension was too great now to bear of the +old outspokenness between them. How could Virginia say that Nancy +wasn't hard? She only wanted to make friends, but Nancy wanted to +quarrel. But she would not be hard in return. +</p> + +<p> +"Perhaps I have been rather a pig," she said. "I haven't meant to be; +and I shan't be any more." +</p> + +<p> +Nancy was conquered. The tears came into her own eyes. All that +Virginia said of her was true. She had been aching for the old +intimacy with Joan, more than ever now that such wonderful things were +happening to her, and she had to keep them uncomfortably locked up in +her own breast. +</p> + +<p> +But Nancy would never cry if she could possibly stop herself. It was a +point of honour with her, which Joan, with whom tears came more +readily, had always understood. If they were to get back on to the old +ground, signs of emotion on Joan's part would properly be met by a dry +carelessness on hers. +</p> + +<p> +"Well, you <i>have</i> been rather a pig," she said, ready to fall on Joan's +neck, and give way to her own feelings without restraint, when the +proprieties had once been observed. "But if you're not going to be any +more, I'll forgive you." +</p> + +<p> +Joan was too troubled to recognise this speech as a prelude to complete +capitulation. She had gone as far as she could, and thought that Nancy +was repulsing her. She now burst into open tears, into which wounded +pride entered as much as wounded affection. "You're a beast," she +cried, using the free language of their childhood. "I don't want you +to forgive me. I've done nothing to be forgiven for. I only thought +you might want to be friends again. But if you don't, I don't either. +I shan't try again." +</p> + +<p> +Nancy wavered for a moment. Then the memory of her own grievances +rushed back upon her, and she shrugged her shoulders. "All right," she +said. "If you're satisfied, I'm sure I am. I should have been quite +ready to be friends, but it's impossible with you as you are now. I +should leave off crying if I were you. You won't be fit to be seen." +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap0203"></a></p> + +<h3> +CHAPTER III +</h3> + +<h4> +HUMPHREY AND SUSAN +</h4> + +<p> +Humphrey and Susan arrived at Kencote on a waft of good fortune. A +widowed aunt of Susan's, a lady of unaccountable actions, from whom it +had never been safe to expect anything, whether good or bad, had died +and left her niece a "little place." +</p> + +<p> +In the satisfaction induced by this acquisition, which seemed to +endorse, almost supernaturally, his own oft-tendered advice, the Squire +looked upon his daughter-in-law with new eyes. Her faults were +forgotten; she was no longer, at best, a mere ornamental luxury of a +wife, at worst a too expensive one; she had brought land into the +family, or, at any rate—for there was very little land—property. She +took her stand, in a small way, with those heiresses with whom the +Clintons had from time to time allied themselves, not infrequently to +the permanent enhancement of the rooted Kencote dignity, and +occasionally to the swelling of one of the buds of the prolific Clinton +tree into the proud state of a branch. This had happened, many +generations before, in the case of the ancestor from whom Susan, a born +Clinton, had herself sprung, and had helped to the nurture of that +particular branch so effectively that its umbrage was more conspicuous +than that of the parent stem itself. +</p> + +<p> +What Susan now brought would hardly have that effect. Looked at +rigorously in the mouth, her gift-horse might even have received a cool +welcome in some stables. There was the house, situated on the borders +of the New Forest, charmingly enough, photographed as a pleasant, +two-storied, creeper-decked villa suitable for the occupation of a lady +of high rank and not more than adequate means. And there were gardens, +paddocks, and a few acres of half-tamed forest, not more than twenty or +five and twenty in all. There were also the contents of the house, +faded carpets, crowded knick-knacks, Berlin wool-work, theological +library, crayon drawings, and all. But there was no money. That had +been left to old servants, to "Societies," and to the support of +otherwise homeless cats and dogs, whose sad friendless state this old +lady had had much at heart. +</p> + +<p> +"It will want a great deal of doing up," Lady Susan said. "The papers +are too hideous for words, there's no sign of a bathroom, and the +outbuildings are tumbling to pieces." +</p> + +<p> +Nevertheless she seemed to be in high spirits over her legacy, and the +Squire, shutting his eyes to the state of the wallpapers and the +outbuildings, and remembering only the acreage, congratulated her, and +himself, warmly on the heritage. +</p> + +<p> +"My dear girl," he said, "it is a great piece of luck. You <i>are</i> +lucky, you know, you and Humphrey. He could never have expected the +life interest of practically the whole of old Aunt Laura's money, and +now this has come just to point out the way in which you ought to enjoy +your good fortune. The place produces nothing—well, that can't be +helped. At any rate you live rent free, with your foot on your own +little piece of ground; and you throw over all that nonsense which by +this time I should think you're getting heartily sick and tired of." +</p> + +<p> +There was hint of interrogation in the tone of the last sentence, and +it was responded to in a way to bring the Squire into still closer +approving accord with his daughter-in-law. +</p> + +<p> +"Oh yes. We are both tired of it. We are going to get rid of the flat +directly Denny Croft is ready for us. I am going to turn into a +regular countrywoman. I shall wear thick boots, and keep chickens. We +are going to economise too. We shall only keep three horses and a +pony. And Humphrey says he shall drink a great deal of beer. We are +going to like ourselves tremendously in the country." +</p> + +<p> +The Squire told Mrs. Clinton that nothing had pleased him better for a +long time than the way Susan was taking up with the idea of country +life. "It is the best thing in the world," he said. "It has made a +different woman of her already. She is brighter and steadier at the +same time. It proves what I have always said, that that London life, +if you go on living it year after year, is simply another name for +boredom. Who would have thought a year or two ago that Susan would +have been satisfied with anything else? Yet here she is, overjoyed at +the idea of escaping from it. Nina, I can't help thinking that the +finger of Providence is to be seen here. The property is nothing much, +after all—just a little bit of land to give them a hold on things. +But if it hadn't come, I doubt if they would have made the change. I +think we ought to be very thankful that things are ordered for us in +the way they are." +</p> + +<p> +Humphrey, accepting Dick's congratulations on Susan's legacy, expressed +himself moderately satisfied. "It's not going to make millionaires of +us," he said. "In fact, it will be a pretty tight squeeze to get the +place made habitable. The old lady might have left something to go +with it, instead of muddling away everything quite uselessly as she +did. It would have made all the difference to us. Still, it has +shoved us into making the change, and I'm glad of it." +</p> + +<p> +"I should think you would be able to amuse yourself there all right," +said Dick. "You'll save three hundred a year over your rent, for one +thing. But I don't know—if you get into the way of going up to London +constantly, you'll soon mop that up." +</p> + +<p> +"Oh, I know. I'm not going to. I don't say we're going to bury +ourselves there entirely, but we shall stick to it pretty well. And +when we do go up to town we can put up with Susan's people, or +somewhere." +</p> + +<p> +"Yes. If you'll take a word of warning, it's quite possible you may +find it a bit slow after the novelty has worn off. I don't myself, +because I've got what amounts to a job here. But you won't have; and +you were always keener on town pleasures than I was. You'll have to +watch it a bit after the first month or two." +</p> + +<p> +"Oh, my dear fellow, I've got all that in my mind. One has to do one +or the other; one can't do both; or, at least, most of us can't. I +tell you, I've had a sickener of the other. It isn't good enough. +This will be a change, and I want a change." +</p> + +<p> +More seemed to be coming, and Dick waited for it to come, after saying +rather perfunctorily, "Susan seems to like the idea too." +</p> + +<p> +"I'm glad to say she does," said Humphrey; "more than I should have +thought she would. Of course, she's excited at having the place left +to her, and she's going to have no end of fun over rigging it up. I +shall have to be careful how I go, there. It's a new toy; and my +experience is that new toys are apt to run you into a lot of money. +Still, I've warned her about that, and told her that when we go to +Denny Croft we stop there; and she says she doesn't want anything +better. I tell you, it's a weight off my mind to find her ready to +take a sensible view of things." +</p> + +<p> +Still Dick waited for more. +</p> + +<p> +"We <i>ought</i> to have been able to do all right," said Humphrey, after a +slight pause. "I don't like giving up London, and that's a fact. I +can amuse myself in the country all right, couldn't do without it +altogether—I'm not a born townsman, like some fellows—but I prefer it +to go to, not to live in. But I'm ready to do anything and go +anywhere, to get rid of the beastly burden of things. That's why I +welcome the change." +</p> + +<p> +"You won't find it such an unpleasant change." +</p> + +<p> +"As things are, it will be the greatest relief. And yet other people +manage to get on, and do everything we have done, on less than we have." +</p> + +<p> +"Well, you've neither of you got what you might call a passion for +economy." +</p> + +<p> +"I believe I'm getting it," said Humphrey with a laugh. "I've begun to +keep accounts. When I looked into things a year or two ago, and the +Governor squared us up, I told Susan that it mustn't happen again. I +made estimates and got her to agree with them." +</p> + +<p> +"It is the only way, if you want to know what you're spending. I do it +as a matter of principle. Besides, you get more for your money. The +difficulty is to keep to your estimates, I suppose, if you've been +spending too much." +</p> + +<p> +"I've kept to mine—the personal ones, I mean. But I don't know how it +is—Susan doesn't seem to be able to." +</p> + +<p> +"Well, then, you've got to make her," said Dick firmly. He had no love +for his sister-in-law, and was prepared to resist on his father's +behalf the further demands which he thought he saw coming. "After all, +it's mostly your money, and it's for you to say how it shall be spent." +</p> + +<p> +Humphrey, understanding quite well the source of this decisive speech, +flushed. "I'm not in debt," he said shortly. +</p> + +<p> +"Oh!" Dick was rather taken aback. +</p> + +<p> +"I suppose when you've once played the fool, everybody you talk to +about money thinks you must be trying to get something out of them. I +believe the Governor has an idea in his head that I'm coming to him +shortly with another tale of woe. If you get an opportunity, you might +disabuse his mind of it. I don't say I don't owe a bill or two, but +they are nothing to count." +</p> + +<p> +"I'm sorry if I misunderstood you. I've had some experience of keeping +within limits, and if I can lend you a hand over getting your house put +into order without wasting money, I shall be glad to do so. In fact, +if you want a hundred or two towards it, I dare say I can manage to let +you have it. Pleased to." +</p> + +<p> +"Thanks, Dick, it's awfully good of you." Humphrey was moved by this +offer. Dick was generous with money, but knew its value. An offer of +this sort from him meant more than was betokened by the matter-of-fact +tone in which it was made. "As a loan, it might help me over a corner, +for I've nothing in hand. But I shall keep things down for a year or +two, and take the cost of doing up the place into account." +</p> + +<p> +"Right you are, old chap. We'll go into it, and I'll let you know what +I can do." +</p> + +<p> +"Thanks. It will make things a good deal easier. I'm a reformed +character. I hate not seeing my way, now." +</p> + +<p> +The phrase struck Dick agreeably. It was what, with his cool robust +sense, he regarded as the one thing necessary, if life was to be +ordered on a satisfactory basis. He would have had no anxiety about +money if his own income had been cut down to a pittance. He would have +done without anything rather than forestall it by a week. He had +expressed himself freely about Humphrey's insane blindness, as it +seemed to him, in this respect; but now he seemed to have learnt his +lesson, and Dick's feelings warmed towards him. +</p> + +<p> +"How has it gone wrong?" he asked, with more interest than he had shown +hitherto. +</p> + +<p> +"It hasn't gone particularly wrong, lately. But we never seem to have +a bob in hand; and it has meant doing without every sort of thing that +one used to have as a matter of course." +</p> + +<p> +"Oh, come now! Only the two of you! You ought not to have to go +without much." +</p> + +<p> +"I can only tell you that I've come to thinking twice before I take a +taxi, and I've given up smoking cigars. It has to begin somewhere; but +nothing seems to make any difference. Susan's housekeeping! But what +can I do? I put it at so much; I asked people about it, and they said +it was ample. But she seems to want double as much as anybody else for +whatever she does. She says it <i>must</i> cost more because we chucked +dining at restaurants, except occasionally. I don't know what it is. +Money simply flows away in London, and you get nothing for it. I +chucked a couple of clubs at the beginning of this year. Seems to me +I've got to chuck everything if I'm to keep straight. And that's just +what I'm going to do. It's been easier since we went up to +Northamptonshire, although even there you'd think we inhabited a +mansion by the housekeeping bills, instead of a little dog's hole of a +place just big enough to hold us. Still, the main expense there is +outside, and I've got that in hand." +</p> + +<p> +"She must spend a tremendous lot on clothes." +</p> + +<p> +"Well, to do her justice, she's clever at that, and I haven't had any +trouble with her beastly dressmakers and milliners since that time two +years ago. They were the devil then, of course. She has got hold of +some cheap woman who turns her out extraordinarily well for very +little. I wish she'd tackle other things as she does that. No, I'm +not going to put all the blame on Susan. I really believe she's doing +her best; but she doesn't seem to have it in her, except about her +clothes. Anyhow, she's ready to do anything, and it shows that she's +as worried about what has gone on, in her way, as I am, that she's so +keen to go and live at Denny Croft. She's going to garden, and all the +rest of it, and she swears she'll keep to half her dress allowance and +put the rest into doing up the house." +</p> + +<p> +"That's the way to go about it," said Dick. "She certainly does seem +much keener on it than I should have thought she would have been. +Virginia says so too. Let's hope it will last." +</p> + +<p> +"It's going to," said Humphrey. "I'll see to that." +</p> + +<p> +Dick told Virginia something of the conversation between himself and +Humphrey, and what he had offered to do for him. +</p> + +<p> +"Oh, Dick!" she cried, "make him a present of it. You must have lots +laid by. We haven't been spending nearly up to our income." +</p> + +<p> +"It's what I meant," he said, smiling at her quick generosity. "But I +don't think I will—not until later." +</p> + +<p> +"Oh, why not? I can spare it, if you can't." +</p> + +<p> +"I can spare it. But it won't do him any harm to save a bit. When he +offers to pay me back, I shall tell him he can keep it. Go a bust with +it, if he likes. He's tackling the situation well. I'm pleased about +it. He does like his London pleasures, and he's quite ready to give +them up." +</p> + +<p> +"So is Susan, isn't she? She seems a different creature. As if a load +were lifted off her mind." +</p> + +<p> +"I'm not so sure about Susan. My idea is that Humphrey will have to +keep her to it. It will give him something to do. The trouble with +him is that he has always been at a loose end. All the rest of us have +got our jobs. It will be his job to keep his expenditure down, and +look after Susan. I've always thought she was a rotter, and I don't +trust her simply because, as Humphrey says himself, she's got a new toy +to play with." +</p> + +<p> +"Oh, I think she means it. I like her better than I did. She sees her +faults. Nobody who can do that is worthless. I'm sure she is not +worthless." +</p> + +<p> +Dick pinched her chin between his thumb and forefinger. He was still +in love with this slim sweet candid creature, whose great eyes were +lustrous with the flame of her eager spirit. "Nobody is worthless in +your eyes," he said. "You could even find excuses for Rachel Amberley." +</p> + +<p> +A shadow fell across her bright face. "Poor woman!" she said. "Oh, +poor, poor woman! Here we are, all of us together, happy at +Christmas-time; and she——! Oh, Dick—'for all prisoners and +captives'! I thought of her in church this morning. The +loneliness—the cold! I think we ought to pray to be forgiven, as well +as she." +</p> + +<p> +Dick kissed her gently. "You don't want to think too much about her," +he said. "She's paying the price." +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap0204"></a></p> + +<h3> +CHAPTER IV +</h3> + +<h4> +COMING HOME FROM THE BALL +</h4> + +<p> +"This is where we are going to shoot to-morrow. We've kept this side +entirely until now. We ought to do pretty well." +</p> + +<p> +Bobby Trench, muffled up to the cigar he was smoking, sat by the side +of Dick, who was driving the big omnibus back from the West Meadshire +Hunt Ball. The two fine horses, making nothing of the load behind +them, trotted rhythmically homewards. Heavy rain had ceased, and the +moon peeping through scudding clouds shone on pools of water lying on +the muddy road. The yellow lamp-rays tinged the wide strips of turf +bordering the roadway, and lit up successive tree trunks, posted +sentinel-like, behind the oak fences. +</p> + +<p> +Bobby Trench had chosen to sit outside, with Dick and Frank. His +evening had been disappointing. He had arrived at Kencote in time for +dinner, prepared to make himself pleasant all round, which he seemed to +have succeeded in doing to everybody except Joan, who had held somewhat +coldly aloof, although he had kept strictly to his predetermined plan +of treating her with cool friendliness until the ball should give him +opportunities of carefully graded tenderness. But the ball had given +him no opportunities, or none that Joan would allow him to take +advantage of. She had snubbed him, had shown herself, indeed, +determined to find occasions for snubbing him; for he was agile in +skipping out of the way of such occasions, but she had pursued his +skippings and dealt her strokes in spite of them. She had primly +refused him more than two dances, and had refused to go in to supper +with him. His anticipated pleasure having thus resolved itself into +puzzled pain, Bobby Trench had declared himself for tobacco and the +night air, and left Joan to her reflections inside, barbing them, as he +handed her in, with a careless example of his own peculiar humour, +which was founded on the basis of a cheery and always ready loquacity. +</p> + +<p> +Snubs, or attempted snubs, received with no diminution of +self-assurance or good-temper, at both of which they may be supposed to +be aimed, are apt to recoil on those who administer them; and Joan, +taking refuge between the comforting skirts of Virginia and Miss +Dexter, was already reproaching herself for her treatment of one who +had given her no cause for it except his presence, and whose persistent +cheerfulness under persecution was a shining lesson to ill-temper. She +was feeling miserable enough, in all conscience, and need not have +beaten down the last sparks of enjoyment that she might have gained +from the bright movement, hitherto eagerly anticipated, by setting +herself to a task so little productive of satisfaction. +</p> + +<p> +But she did not occupy her thoughts for long with Bobby Trench. She +made up her mind that, having shown him that particular attention from +him would not be welcome, she might safely return to the chaffing +intimacy which had hitherto been the note of their intercourse, and had +been quite as efficacious in keeping him at the requisite distance as +her recent manner. And having so decided she dismissed him from her +mind and wrapped herself round with her unhappiness. +</p> + +<p> +It was dreadful to be going home from a ball, not only with no +retrospective pleasure, but with nothing to look forward to in the way +of disrobing talk. She and Nancy, since her wrecked attempt at +reconciliation, had carried their respective heads in the air, and had +hardly spoken to one another, except in the presence of their handmaid, +for the purpose of averting comment. And yet she knew that Nancy's +happy fate was marching upon her, and reproached herself a thousand +times for her inability to cross the gulf between them, and share her +sister's doubts and sweet tremors. John Spence had danced with her +three times—many times with Nancy—and his manner had been +brotherly-kind and protecting, as if to soothe her soreness, which yet +he did not seem to have divined. His thoughts had not been much with +her, that had been plain—but his quietness and simplicity had +comforted her a little, and she had not wanted to talk. She had taken +refuge in a plea of headache, and held to it on the homeward drive. +</p> + +<p> +Nobody seemed to want to talk. Something had gone wrong with the lamp +inside the carriage, and they were in darkness, except for the faint +irradiation of the moon. Mrs. Clinton had driven home earlier, with +Sir George and Lady Senhouse and Muriel Clinton, Walter's wife. In the +absence of Bobby Trench, the eight of them inside the omnibus were of +such family intimacy that there was no necessity for conversation, if +private thoughts sufficed, or snatches of slumber. John Spence, the +one exception, had no great initiative in conversation at any time, and +in the far corner beside Nancy much preferred the silent, ruminative +progression through the dark country roads and lanes. Greatly daring, +he advanced his large muscular hand under the warm fur billowing down +the carriage, and sought for Nancy's. He found it and gave it a +squeeze. She returned the squeeze and withdrew her hand. A year +before, such a sign of appreciative affection might very well have come +from her—or from Joan—instead of from him. Perhaps her ready +acceptance of it might mean no more than that her affectionate +appreciation was still of the same quality. But the chance of its +meaning something more thrilled his big frame, and on it his thoughts +fed sweetly in the dark silence. +</p> + +<p> +Virginia was right. He was head over ears in love with Nancy, but he +shrank from telling her so. He was years older than she, almost as old +as Dick, almost an old bachelor, except that at heart he had kept his +simple youthfulness; and his great body, hardened and kept fine by +field-sports, was still as responsive to his mind as that of a youth in +his glorious twenties. But modesty was a great part of him, and he +could not envisage himself as a man likely to gain prizes usually +reserved for gallant youth. The fresh, laughing friendliness of the +twins, when he had first known them as girls of fifteen, had attracted +him delightfully, and he had been surprised to find that the attraction +had changed its quality; also, at first, a little incredulous. It was +only when he discovered that he thrilled to Nancy's touch and voice, +and not to Joan's, that he accepted his fate; and, ever since, he had +been tormented with doubts as to whether an avowal of his new feeling +would bring him a response, or only destroy the frank confidence with +which he still loved to be treated. The poor man sometimes imagined +Nancy regarding him in the light of a fun-producing uncle, and felt +that it would be sacrilege to her innocence to reveal himself as a +lover. If he risked all, he might lose all, and be for ever disgraced +in her eyes. He trembled, in his more darksome moods, at the thought. +But love was urging him on. The time would soon come when the +avuncular character would be more difficult to support than that of a +rejected absentee. +</p> + +<p> +Dick pulled up his horses at a gate opening on to a broad grass ride +between the trees. A groom got down from behind and opened it. +</p> + +<p> +"We cut off nearly a mile and a half here," Dick said. "But I'm afraid +it will be rather soft going after this rain. We'll chance it. +There's only one place where we might get stuck." +</p> + +<p> +The horses broke gently into a slow trot, their hoofs and the iron-shod +wheels of the heavy carriage making no sound on the thick grass. They +went down a long and very easy slope, and then Dick pulled them to a +walk through soft ground in the cup of the almost indistinguishable +hollow. With a tightening of traces and no more than the stroke of a +whip-lash they pulled the omnibus through, leaving sharp ruts behind +it, and were once more on springy turf. Just as they were about to +quicken into a trot again, Bobby Trench seized Dick's arm. "What's +that!" he cried. "Did you hear it?" +</p> + +<p> +"Somebody shouted," said Frank, standing up behind them; and had no +sooner spoken when the silence of the woods was sharply broken by a +gun-shot. +</p> + +<p> +"Poachers, by Jove!" said Dick. "We shall catch them." He drove +quickly on towards the point from which the report had come. +</p> + +<p> +Suddenly there were shouts of men, and another report from a gun; then +more shouting, and the cracking of trampled twigs quite near to them. +</p> + +<p> +"The keepers are out. Good boys!" cried Dick, in excitement, reining +in his horses. +</p> + +<p> +Frank and Bobby Trench were down and off into the covert. Humphrey, +who had been sitting next to the door, had followed them. Dick was for +doing the same, but paused irresolute when he had called a groom to +take the reins, and swung himself down from his seat. There was a +commotion inside the omnibus. The women must be thought of. +</p> + +<p> +Walter stood at the door, calming them. John Spence was on his feet +ready to push out, but Nancy had hold of his hand, and Susan Clinton +was clinging to him terrified. "All right, I'll stay, but I must get +out," he said, torn between his desire to be in the fray, and the +appeal, not of Susan's frightened cries, but of Nancy's silent call for +protection. +</p> + +<p> +"If you two will stay here, I'll go and see what's happening," said +Dick. "It's all right, Virginia; there can't be many of them, and the +men are there." +</p> + +<p> +Another shot rang out above the sounds, hard by, of an angry struggle, +and was followed by a cry of pain. Dick began to run towards the sound. +</p> + +<p> +The moon now shining brightly made his progress easy. He saw three or +four men, locked in a fierce struggle, and thought he recognised Frank +as one of them. Then a cry to his right brought him round to see +another group in combat. Someone was lying prone on the grass. A few +yards from the still figure two others were reeling to and fro, and as +he approached went down. The one underneath was wrapped in a long +coat, the uppermost was unhampered, a giant figure of a man as he +seemed, with a gun in his hands, on the barrels of which a shaft of +moonlight glinted. He looked to be striking at the head of the other +figure, and a cry for help rose up, urgently. +</p> + +<p> +Dick sprang forward, but caught his foot on a root and fell. As he +picked himself up, another figure ran past him with a raised cudgel. +</p> + +<p> +"All right, sir, coming!" +</p> + +<p> +The thick stick went down resoundingly on the ruffian's head, who let +go of the gun-barrels, and turned with his arm raised to guard himself. +</p> + +<p> +Dick had him by the neck, and was screwing his knuckles into the +throat. He gulped, put hands like vices on to his sleeves, and kicked +with a great iron-shod boot. Dick felt his shin peel through his thin +trousers, but no pain. In a moment the keeper had thrown himself on to +him, he ceased to struggle, and, Dick's fists relaxing their hold, +choked out submission. "All right, you got me. You can give over now." +</p> + +<p> +Humphrey rose from the ground, white and shaking, the blood trickling +from a wound over his eyebrow. "The brute!" he said. "He'd have +killed me. Lucky you came along. Where's Bobby?" +</p> + +<p> +Bobby Trench lay on the dark ground, motionless, his arm stretched at a +peculiar angle. As they bent over him, he fluttered an eyelid, then +opened both. "Winged me," he said in a faint voice. "Ugh!" Then +fainted again. +</p> + +<p> +"He shot at him," said Humphrey. "I was just behind. He got it in the +shoulder. Look here; all torn; he'll bleed to death." +</p> + +<p> +Dick set up a shout. The wood was still now of the louder clamour. +The mimic battle was over. +</p> + +<p> +Gotch, the keeper, had secured their captive with a rope. He took it +calmly; even good-humouredly. "'Aven't done for 'im, 'ave I, +Governor?" he called out. +</p> + +<p> +"Hold your tongue, you swine!" said Gotch, hitting him on the mouth, at +which he expostulated mildly, as at an unreasonable act. "All right, +mate; you got me. It's a lifer if I done for him. I on'y wanted to +know." +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap0205"></a></p> + +<h3> +CHAPTER V +</h3> + +<h4> +ROBERT RECUMBENT +</h4> + +<p> +Bobby Trench, lying in bed, the seams of his pyjama jacket cut and +ribboned at the left arm and shoulder to accommodate the bandages, was +an interesting figure. He had gone through his time of fever and fiery +pain, his probings and dressings; now, but for occasional discomfort, +and a languorous but convalescent weakness, he was himself again, and +prepared to take up his affairs at the point at which they had been +interrupted by what had befallen him. +</p> + +<p> +The nurse, moving capably about the large, airy, chintz-bedecked room, +in her trim livery, was besieged for news of the household. Tall, +handsome, and still young, she was on very good terms with her patient. +Regarded as a "case," he did her credit; and she couldn't help liking +him, as she wrote to her relations. +</p> + +<p> +"Look here, Sarah Gamp, you're a deceitful woman. You're keeping them +all away from me; you know you are. I'm as fit as a fiddle, or shall +be in about five minutes; and I want to see company." +</p> + +<p> +The nurse permitted herself a smile. "You're to be kept quiet for a +day or two. Doctor's orders." +</p> + +<p> +"Doctor's orders! Walter Clinton! What sort of a Bob Sawyer is he, to +give orders? You know much more about things than he does, don't you +now? You want to keep me to yourself, that's what it is." +</p> + +<p> +"Indeed, you're very ungrateful. Dr. Clinton is a rising man in the +profession. There isn't a doctor in London could have done better for +you." +</p> + +<p> +"You think so, Mrs. Gamp?" +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, I do. It was lucky for you that he was there when you were shot." +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, that was a piece of luck, wasn't it? He had a busy night of it. +I say, who has been asking for me?" +</p> + +<p> +"Oh, everybody, of course. You will have plenty of visitors when you +are well enough to receive them." +</p> + +<p> +"I'm well enough now. You're trying to keep me to yourself, Sarah. +There's a sort of fatal fascination about me that no good-looking woman +can resist? I say, do the doctors make love to you in the hospital?" +</p> + +<p> +"I think you are getting light-headed. You have talked quite enough +for the present. Would you like some jelly?" +</p> + +<p> +"I should like some strawberries and cream and a pint of champagne. +Look here, tell me about the doctors. Are there any good-looking +fellows amongst them?" +</p> + +<p> +The conversation was interrupted at this point by the arrival of Walter +Clinton, whose knickerbockered homespuns only served to heighten the +effect of his cool professional manner. +</p> + +<p> +"Well, nurse, how's your patient?" +</p> + +<p> +"Going on well, doctor; but you must please tell him that he must keep +quiet for the present. He wants to see everybody in the house." +</p> + +<p> +Walter took his seat by the bed and felt his patient's pulse. "You can +see people to-morrow," he said, as he pocketed his watch. "You're +doing all right. Better have one more day to yourself, though. You've +had a narrow squeak." +</p> + +<p> +"I know. Mrs. Gamp says that if it hadn't been for you, I should have +snuffed out. She revels in gore. I don't think she's the woman for +her job." +</p> + +<p> +"Don't you believe what he says, doctor. He's full of his nonsense." +</p> + +<p> +"How's Humphrey?" asked Bobby. +</p> + +<p> +"Oh, he's all right. He got off with a scalp wound. Poor old Dick had +his shin laid bare. I've got him on my hands. But we're well out of +it. That was a brute of a fellow. And there were two others; tough +customers, all of them. If we hadn't come along they might have got +the better of our fellows. They've quodded them. The Governor went +over to Petty Sessions to-day. By the by, he'd like to see you when +you're ready." +</p> + +<p> +"I'm ready now. Ask him to step up." +</p> + +<p> +"To-morrow—if you get a good night." +</p> + +<p> +"What are they all doing downstairs?" +</p> + +<p> +"Slacking, and playing with my kiddies. They all sent messages to you." +</p> + +<p> +"They must have got a pretty good shock. You turned them out of the +bus, didn't you? I don't remember much of what happened." +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, but I'd sent one of the grooms on to get some more carriages. +They didn't have to wait long. They're all right. Joan got a bit of a +chill, and is seedy." +</p> + +<p> +"I suppose she was—upset about it all? Pretty funking to see a fellow +brought along in the state I was in!" +</p> + +<p> +"Oh, they all took it very well. Susan was the worst, but of course +Humphrey looked worse than he really was—luckily." +</p> + +<p> +Bobby Trench, an incurable optimist, allowed himself the solace of +imagining that Joan's indisposition had been brought on by her +agitation on his account, which it well might have been without undue +partiality on her part. For after waiting for minutes that had seemed +like hours, while the fight was going on in the wood, and being +forsaken by Walter, who had left them in answer to Dick's shouts for +help, they had been turned out of the omnibus, so that the bleeding, +senseless figure of Bobby Trench might be laid there for Walter to +examine and bind up. Humphrey had also needed attention, and Susan had +been frightened almost into hysterics by his appearance. They had +walked for half a mile in satin shoes, mostly over grass wringing wet, +until the carriages from Kencote had picked them up; and after the +fatigue of the ball and in her state of low spirits, it was small +wonder that Joan should have succumbed to her experiences. +</p> + +<p> +But her indisposition had caused some lessening of the tension between +herself and Nancy, who, possibly supported by the tender attentions of +John Spence, had escaped all ill effect from the excitements of the +night. Their differences were ignored. There had been no real +reconciliation, but the events in which they had participated had +formed a skin over the wounds that each had dealt the other, and they +could behave with some approach to former freedom. +</p> + +<p> +Bobby Trench's first unofficial visitor was the Squire, as was only +fitting. Mrs. Clinton had been with him constantly until the arrival +of the nurse, but he had then been delirious, and had not known her, +and she had not entered his room since. +</p> + +<p> +The Squire came in, bringing with him a breath of the now frosty outer +air, but treading Agag-like on complimentary slippers. +</p> + +<p> +"Well, sir," was his hearty greeting, tuned to suitable lowness of +pitch, "this is a pretty business to have brought you into! Lucky it +wasn't worse, eh? I told them on the Bench to-day that you were the +first in the field. There were many enquiries after you; and we've got +those blackguards safely by the leg. You've got everything you want, I +hope. Nurse looking after you well?" +</p> + +<p> +"You wouldn't think it to look at her, but she's a bully, Mr. Clinton. +If you get ill you send for somebody else." +</p> + +<p> +The Squire, after a glance at the nurse's demurely smiling face, +checked a laugh at the witticism. "Keep up your spirits," he said. +"That's capital. You'll soon be out of the wood if you take it +cheerfully. We shall make a lot of you when you come downstairs. You +did well; and I've written to tell your father so." +</p> + +<p> +Bobby Trench felt that a few torn muscles and splintered bones were a +small price to pay for this approving geniality. On his arrival, the +Squire seemed to have swung back from the acquiescent mood in which he +had caused his former aversion to be invited to Kencote, and had +greeted him with a manner not much more conciliatory than he had +previously shown him. Bobby Trench, on reflection, had attributed his +invitation to Humphrey's having imparted as much of his confidence as +would secure it; and, in view of his acknowledged eligibility, had +expected a rather warmer welcome than he had received, either from his +host or hostess. It had seemed to him that he would have other +obstacles to surmount, in order to win Joan, than those which she might +be inclined to put between herself and him of her own accord. It was +therefore gratifying to find the face of his host thus turned towards +him, and would have been worth a substantial reduction in the sentence +to be presently passed upon his assailant, if he had had the computing +of his punishment. +</p> + +<p> +"I must write a line to my father," he said. "I'm glad you've written +to him. He doesn't suggest coming here, I suppose?" +</p> + +<p> +"Well, yes, he does. We shall be pleased to see him—and her ladyship +too, if she cares about it." +</p> + +<p> +"Oh, save us from her ladyship!" said Bobby, unfilially. "She'd be +hopeless in a sick-room; and this is a real keep-your-distance, +Sundays-only sick-room, ain't it, Sarah Gamp?" +</p> + +<p> +"Mr. Trench must be kept as quiet as possible," said the nurse; and the +Squire, with an unintentionally obvious lift of spirits, said that he +did not gather that Lady Sedbergh was anything but content to leave her +son in present hands. "I've said we are looking after you as well as +we can," he said. "You'll have plenty of company when you're well +enough to receive it. Humphrey wants to have a look at you later on. +If you hadn't been so sharp at the start, I expect he would have come +in for what you got. He'd have been pretty well knocked out as it was, +if it hadn't been for that young fellow, Gotch, and Dick. It's the +first time anything of this sort has happened at Kencote since my +grandfather's time. I don't say we haven't had to teach our local +sportsmen a lesson or two occasionally, but these were regular +professional ruffians from a distance—Ganton they come from—and that +class of gentry sticks at nothing when he's interfered with. You see +we've done very well with our young birds this year, and they must have +got wind of the fact that we'd kept those coverts. That's why they +turned their kind attentions on to us. They've been all round about, +but mostly on more fully stocked places than mine generally is, and +they've never been nabbed. Fortunately my keeper had an idea that they +might pay us a visit, and had all his watchers out there. Otherwise +you might have come upon them driving home, and then I don't know what +would have happened. It's providential all round—the keepers being +there, and you coming just in the nick of time to reinforce them. +We're rid of a dangerous pest; and no particular harm is done—except +to you, I'm afraid. I don't want to make light of that." +</p> + +<p> +But if the Squire did not, Bobby Trench was not unwilling to do so, now +that the worst was over. He saw himself an interesting, not to say +petted, figure, with a perhaps undeserved but none the less convenient +aura of heroism, and hoped accordingly. +</p> + +<p> +"You must have got a bit of a shock when you first heard of it," he +said. "I suppose that was when the ladies came in." +</p> + +<p> +"I was waiting for them," said the Squire on a note of detailed +reminiscence. "They had knocked me up and told me that the groom had +come in for carriages, and I had had him in and learnt what he could +tell me. I should have gone myself, but thought it better to stay and +direct any preparations that had to be made. I didn't know but what +there might have been serious accidents, and it turned out I was right. +My wife had the idea too; but women are apt to lose their heads in +these emergencies, so I stayed to see that everything was got ready. I +went down into the cellar myself for a bottle of my oldest brandy. You +want to keep a cool head on these occasions." +</p> + +<p> +"The ladies were pretty much upset, eh?" +</p> + +<p> +"Oh, I soon stopped their fuss. 'Look here, <i>you're</i> not hurt,' I +said. 'You'd better all swallow something hot, and then tuck +yourselves up in your blankets.' I packed them all off, except Virginia +and Miss Dexter—oh, and Susan, who wouldn't go till she'd seen +Humphrey safe; and Nancy was helping her mother; she's turning into a +useful girl, that—didn't turn a hair." +</p> + +<p> +"Then Miss Joan was the only one who went up?" +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, she was upset—hasn't quite the head that Nancy has. She's in +bed now, but there's nothing really the matter with her. We're over it +all very well, and ought to be thankful for it. Depend upon it, +there's a Providence that looks after these things; and I say we're not +doing our duty unless we recognise it, and show that we have some sense +of gratitude. Sure you've got everything you want here?" +</p> + +<p> +He looked round the large comfortable room with an air of complacent +proprietorship. He kept habitually to half-a-dozen rooms of the big +house, and had no such feeling for it and its hoarded contents as would +impel some men and most women to occasional tours of inspection and +appraisal. But it was all his, and it was all as it should be. He had +not put foot inside this room perhaps for years, and took it in with a +pleased feeling of proprietorship and recognition. +</p> + +<p> +"Oh, every mortal thing, thanks," said Bobby. "It's a jolly room, +this; cheery and peaceful at the same time. Just the room to be laid +up in, if you've got to be laid up." +</p> + +<p> +"My grandfather died in this room," said the Squire, by way of adding +to its impression of cheerfulness. "Had it before his father died and +never would shift downstairs. It was done up later, but I see there +are one or two of his pictures still on the walls. This was his +wardrobe, too. A good piece of mahogany; they don't make furniture so +solid now-a-days." +</p> + +<p> +He had got up to examine one or two of the old sporting prints on the +walls, which he did with informative comment. "Most of the furniture +is the same," he said, now looking round him from the vantage point of +the hearthrug, where he seemed more spaciously at his ease than sitting +in a chair by the bedside. "Yes, they only papered it, and put a new +carpet and curtains. He wouldn't have curtains at all; liked to see +the sun rise, and wasn't much behind it himself as a rule. He was a +fine old fellow. Have you read his diaries?" +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, I have," said Bobby, stretching the truth not unduly, for the two +volumes of Colonel Clinton of Kencote's record of his lifelong pursuit +of fur and feathers were in every adequately furnished country house +library, and had been at least dipped into by countless sportsmen. +"Jolly interesting! We don't take things so seriously now-a-days. +Good thing if we did. A book like that shows you that half the things +we do aren't nearly as amusing as sticking at home in the country and +looking about you." +</p> + +<p> +The Squire warmed to him. "That's a very sensible thing to say. The +nonsense people talk about the country being dull! Dull! It's the +people that say it who are dull. They've got no resources in +themselves. Now my grandfather—you can see what he knew about nature +by his diaries. But that wasn't his only interest by any means. He +had an electrical apparatus, when they weren't nearly as common as they +are now. He read books—stiff books, some of them. He was a man of +brains as well as muscle, and in the life he chose to lead he had time +and opportunity for exercising his brains. Oh, I say that the country +life is the best life, undoubtedly. And I go further, and say that +those who have a stake in the country—own land, and so forth—are +doing a criminal thing if they don't spend a good part of their lives +on their properties, instead of spending the money they get from them +elsewhere." +</p> + +<p> +"I quite agree with you," said Bobby Trench, anxious to fix the good +impression he had made, and also to put a point to these observations. +"Have your fling for a year or two when you're young, and then marry +and settle down. You don't want to tie yourself by the leg, especially +if you have a certain place in the world—House of +Lords—Committees—all that sort of thing. But make your <i>home</i> in the +country, I say. Bring up your children in pure air—fresh milk, and +all that. You know, Mr. Clinton, a house like Kencote makes you think +how jolly a simple country life may be made for everybody concerned. +Early to bed, early to rise, church on Sundays, good food and drink, +something to shoot, and all that sort of thing, and your family and +relations coming down to liven you up—oh, it's life, that's what it +is. All the rest is footle, compared with it." +</p> + +<p> +A Daniel come to judgment! Saul among the prophets! Never had the +shining example of Kencote, where wealth and ancestry adorned but did +not overpower a God-fearing simplicity of life, received a more +effective testimonial. Forgotten were Bobby Trench's offences against +its ordered ways, withdrawn the Squire's strictures on his manners and +character. He had found salvation. Kencote—and its owner—had +triumphed exceedingly. +</p> + +<p> +But Bobby Trench's speech, while offering most acceptable incense, had +brought to mind the object with which he had installed himself at +Kencote. This the Squire had, for the time, completely forgotten, and +was not yet ready to exercise his mind upon it. So with a "Well, I +mustn't make you talk too much," he took his leave, promising to come +again shortly, and in the meantime to send other visitors. +</p> + +<p> +These did not, on the first day of Bobby Trench's convalescence, +include any of the ladies of the house; but, on the day after, Mrs. +Clinton, urged by the Squire, paid him a visit. +</p> + +<p> +Bobby Trench could make no headway with her. She was solicitous as to +his welfare, ready to talk in an unembarrassed and even friendly +fashion; but kept him, beneath her ostensible approach, so at arm's +length that when she left him he had not found it possible to ask, as +he had meant to do, that Joan or Nancy—he was prepared to blunt the +point of his request by including Nancy—might pay him a visit. And +what Bobby Trench did not find it possible to ask of anybody was not +likely to come about of itself. For further female society he had to +be content with that of Susan Clinton, who, on already intimate terms +with him, promised to do what she could to make things "easy all round." +</p> + +<p> +This she essayed to do by hymning his courage at the call of danger, +patience in affliction, and amiability under all weathers; but found +none to take up her praises, except Humphrey, to a politic degree of +indifference, and the Squire, who admitted that he had been mistaken in +that young fellow, and had found him with a head on his shoulders, and +a very proper idea as to what he should do with his place in the world +when he should succeed to it. +</p> + +<p> +This positive praise, after a long course of unmeasured abuse, only +seemed to Joan, listening to it dispiritedly, a flick of the lash to +start her on the road along which she conceived her father wishing to +drive her, and caused her, if the ungallant simile may be carried out, +to set her feet the more obstinately against it. It had much the same +effect upon Mrs. Clinton, who foresaw herself plied with an enlargement +on this theme, and forced either to obey, or else openly resist, +directions founded upon it. Susan's intervention had only affected the +already converted, except to insubordination, and would have been +better omitted. +</p> + +<p> +But what lover can eschew the use of weapons so ready to hand as the +good nature of uninterested parties, or gauge their dangerous futility? +Only in the case of the adored object being predisposed to adore is +intentionally distilled praise treated without suspicion, and likely to +achieve its object; which in that case is already achieved. +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap0206"></a></p> + +<h3> +CHAPTER VI +</h3> + +<h4> +JOAN REBELLIOUS +</h4> + +<p> +Joan, more or less recovered from her indisposition, still looked upon +the world as a place from which all happiness had for ever fled. She +mooned about the house doing nothing, and only felt that youth had not +altogether departed from her when she was with her mother, who, in her +calm stability, was a refuge from the buffetings of life, but seemed to +be holding aloof from the troubles she must have known her girl to be +undergoing. +</p> + +<p> +Dick had gone up to Yorkshire to shoot with John Spence, and taken +Virginia and Nancy with him. The invitation had been extended to Joan; +but the Squire had said, with what she felt to be treacherous +affection, "Surely, you're not <i>both</i> going to desert your old father!" +and she had refused; partly because she had dreaded lest acceptance +should bring down upon her a direct prohibition, and the obliquity of a +parent, whom she still wished to respect if she could, would stand +revealed in all its nakedness; partly because Nancy had given her no +encouragement, and as things were between them, it would be a relief to +be apart for a time. Her mother had said nothing to influence her +either way. +</p> + +<p> +Walter had taken his wife and children back to London, leaving Bobby +Trench in the care of the local surgeon. Frank had gone back to +Greenwich, where he was taking a course. Humphrey and Susan were +paying a flying visit to Hampshire, to arrange about the work to be +done at Denny Croft. But there would be a mild recrudescence of +Christmas gaieties in a week's time, when there was to be another ball, +for which most of the party would reassemble. +</p> + +<p> +Joan was sitting in the schoolroom, feeling very low and miserable, and +wondering what was coming of it all, when she was surprised by the +entrance of her father, who visited this quarter of the house at +intervals so rare as to have permitted it to assume the character of a +retreat. +</p> + +<p> +"Well, my girl," he said paternally. "The house seems so empty that I +thought I'd come up for a little chat." +</p> + +<p> +It was the hour when Mrs. Clinton visited her recumbent guest, leaving +the nurse free for an airing. Joan had occasionally accompanied her in +her walks, but found them too apt to be filled with talk about her +patient, couched in such laudatory language that Joan suspected the +patient of having taken her into his confidence. In justice to him it +must be said that the suspicion was unfounded, and in justice to the +nurse that she had eyesight not less acute than the rest of her sex. +</p> + +<p> +There were times when Joan felt drawn to put her head on her father's +broad shoulder, and receive the protective petting which in his milder +moods he was as capable of administering as the most consistently +doting of parents. This would have been one of those times if it had +been possible to regard him as the solace as well as the occasion of +her trouble. But enough of the impulse remained to cause her to +welcome him with a sense of forgiveness, and to make room for him by +her side on the broad sofa. +</p> + +<p> +He would have done well to respond to the movement, but, instead, he +took up his attitude of harangue in front of her, with his back to the +fire, and cleared his throat. She saw what was coming, and stiffened. +</p> + +<p> +"Well, we shall have our invalid downstairs to-morrow," he made his +clumsy opening. "Wonderful recovery! 'Pon my word I'm beginning to +think that we shall see Walter a medical knight and I don't know what +all, before we're much older." +</p> + +<p> +"I dare say it wasn't so bad, after all, as it was thought to be," said +Joan. "Men make such a fuss about a little pain. Women bear it much +better." +</p> + +<p> +This speech caused the Squire to bend his brows upon her, traversing as +it did all the traditions in which she had been brought up as to the +relative values of the sexes, and challenging that prompt verbal +chastisement with which precocious rebellion must be dealt with, if +those values were to be preserved in his own household. But Joan's +eyes were downcast, and he took warning, without perceiving its source, +from a certain angle between the lines of her neck and her back, not to +pursue a by-path which would draw him—might indeed have been opened up +to draw him—from the road he had sought her out to pursue. +</p> + +<p> +"Well, that's as may be," he said, dismissing the offence; "but the +pain has been borne well enough by this particular man; and if a charge +of shot at such close quarters that it lays bare the bone and splinters +it isn't pretty serious, I don't know what is. Walter told me that he +would never be able to raise that arm above his shoulder again, however +well it might heal." +</p> + +<p> +Joan shuddered at the staring picture, and felt herself convicted of +brutal callousness. +</p> + +<p> +"However," proceeded her father, who might advantageously have left an +interval for his words to make their effect, "the worst is over now, +and we ought to do what we can to cheer him up and help him to forget +it. It's been pretty dull for him, lying there, mostly alone. Your +mother has seen fit to object for some reason or other to your paying +him a visit in his room, though I think those ideas can be carried too +far, and there couldn't be any harm in it, especially as he's now on +the sofa." +</p> + +<p> +Then her mother <i>was</i> on her side, although she had said nothing to +her. Joan perceived quite plainly that her father had asked that she +might be taken to see Bobby Trench, and her mother had refused, as she +sometimes did refuse the requests of her lord and master, but only if +she considered them quite beyond reason. Joan was drawn to one parent, +and all the more set against the other. +</p> + +<p> +"I don't like Mr. Trench," she said. "I shouldn't have gone to see +him, even if mother had said I might; unless she had said that I must." +</p> + +<p> +"Well, she wouldn't be likely to say that, if you didn't want to," said +the Squire, determined to keep the interview on a note of mild +reasonableness, in spite of provocation. "But now, I should like to +know why you have taken a dislike to young Trench. I saw nothing of it +when he was here before." +</p> + +<p> +"You told me, after he had come here in the summer, that I had been +making too free with him, and that you didn't want me to have anything +to do with young cubs like that; and that if I wasn't careful how I +behaved I should find myself back in the schoolroom with Miss Phipp." +</p> + +<p> +The Squire had an uneasy feeling that he had given his younger +daughters too much rope, and should have to bring them up with a round +turn one of these days. But this was not the occasion. +</p> + +<p> +"Well, I remember I did say something of the sort," he said. "I was +upset by that Amberley business, and I've never gone back from the view +I took then that if you had behaved sensibly you need never have been +brought into it at all." +</p> + +<p> +"How could I have helped it, father?" +</p> + +<p> +"How could you have helped it? Why—— But I don't want to go into +all that again. It's over and done with, thank God, and we can put it +out of our minds." +</p> + +<p> +"I'm sure I don't want to talk about it. But it's rather hard to know +what to do, when you scold me for having anything to do with Mr. Trench +one day, and want to know why I won't have anything to do with him the +next." +</p> + +<p> +It was probably at this moment that the Squire realised that his +daughter was grown up. She spoke to him as his sons were accustomed to +speak, with an offhand air of equality, to which, in them, he did not +object. It was not, however, fitting in his eyes that he should be +thus addressed by Joan, and he turned aside from his purpose to say, +"I'm sure you don't mean to be impertinent, but that's not the way to +speak to your father. Besides—one day and the next day! That's +nonsense, you know. It must be over six months since I said whatever +it was I did say, and you were a good deal younger then." +</p> + +<p> +"I was six months younger—that's all." +</p> + +<p> +"Well, six months is six months; and a good deal can happen in six +months. I've nothing to regret in what I said six months ago, except +that I may have said it rather more strongly than I need have done, +annoyed as I was." +</p> + +<p> +"Then you don't think that Mr. Trench was really a young cub, after +all?" +</p> + +<p> +"I wish you wouldn't keep on repeating those words. They are not words +for you to say, whatever <i>I</i> may say. But if you ask me a plain +question, and put it properly, I don't mind telling you that I was to a +certain extent mistaken in young Trench. He has a way with him, on the +surface, that I didn't care about, though I don't know that it means +anything more than that he has naturally high spirits, which are not a +bad thing to have when you are young." +</p> + +<p> +"But he isn't so very young. He must be at least thirty-five. <i>I</i> +think his way is a very silly way, and he is quite old enough to know +better." +</p> + +<p> +It was a choice of repeating her words, "<i>You</i> think!" and going on to +explain with strong irritability that it didn't matter what she +thought; or swallowing the offence. For he could not very well follow +his inclination to upbraid, without seriously impairing his efficacy +for reasoning with her. He chose the latter course. +</p> + +<p> +"A man of thirty-five is a young man in these days, especially if he +has led an active, temperate, open-air life, as young fellows in good +circumstances do lead now-a-days." +</p> + +<p> +"But I thought one of your objections to him was that he lived too much +in London." +</p> + +<p> +He waved the interruption aside. "Even people who live for the most +part in London—work there, perhaps—well, like Walter does—have a +taste for country life, and go in for sport and so forth whenever they +have the opportunity. In the old days it wasn't so. There was a story +of some big political wig—I forget who it was—Fox or Walpole or Pitt, +or one of those fellows—who had the front of his country house paved +with cobble stones, and made them drive carriages about half the night +whenever he had to be there, so as to make him think he was in St. +James's, with the hackney-coaches. Said he couldn't sleep otherwise. +Ha, ha!" +</p> + +<p> +"What a good idea!" said Joan, brightening to an opportunity of +diverting the conversation. "I think stories about people in the +eighteenth century are awfully interesting. Father, you have books of +reminiscences about them in the library, haven't you?" +</p> + +<p> +"Oh yes. Your great grandfather used to read them. He knew Fox; saw +him come into the Cocoa-Tree one night and call for a bumper of—— +However, that's not what we were talking about. But it's got this much +to do with it, that men like Fox were looked upon as middle-aged men at +five and thirty, and old men, by George, at fifty; but a man of +thirty-five now is a young man, and it's all owing to the revival of +country life and country sport, which, as I say, everybody who is +anybody takes part in now-a-days, whether he's a Londoner or not." +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, I see. But I like the people who live regularly in the country, +like you, and Dick, and Jim. I think it's much the best life for a +man, and a girl too. I should like to live it always, myself." +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, well, I hope you will—for a good part of the year, at any rate. +Of course, you can't expect to live at home—here at Kencote, I +mean—all your life. You're grown up, now, and when young fledglings +feel their wings, you know, the parent birds must make up their minds +to lose them out of the nest." +</p> + +<p> +"But they would like to keep them if they could. You don't want to +lose me, father, do you?" +</p> + +<p> +She looked up at him for the first time, and he was checked in the +march of his desires. A doubt came to him whether he did want her to +leave the nest just yet awhile. It was so very short a time since he +had looked upon her and Nancy as still children, hardly longer, indeed, +as it seemed, since they had made their somewhat disconcerting arrival, +and from being a laughable addition to his family, of which he had been +the least little bit ashamed, had found their way to his heart, and +sensibly heightened the already strong attraction of his home. If +Nancy was about to leave him, as to his great surprise he had recently +heard was likely to happen, and to take just the kind of husband whom +he had always desired for his daughters, could he not make up his mind +to forego for a few years the advantages held out to Joan, who had +always been a little closer to the centre of his heart? Was it so very +important that she should marry a man of rank, if he took the form of +Bobby Trench, when there were men like John Spence—good, honest, +well-born, wealthy country gentlemen, men after his own heart—who were +ready to come forward in due time? +</p> + +<p> +These questions presented themselves to him in the form of an uneasy +feeling that he might find himself obliged to change his course, if he +should consider them carefully. He therefore shut his mind to them as +quickly as possible; for there is nothing a hasty obstinate character +dislikes more than to be compelled to prove himself in the wrong. When +others try to prove him in the wrong, he can stand up to them. +</p> + +<p> +"My dear child," he said, "of course I don't want to lose you. But +when one is getting on in years, you know—not that I'm an old +man—hope to have many years in front of me yet, please God—one +doesn't live only in the present. You look forward into the future, +and you like to see your children married and settled down before the +time comes when you must get ready to go. And now we've got on to the +subject of marrying and settling down, I just want to say a word to you +which you mustn't misunderstand, or think I'm trying in any way to +influence you, which is the very last thing I should wish to do—but as +a father one is bound to put these matters in a light—not the most +important light perhaps, but still one that a young girl can hardly be +expected to take much into consideration herself—it wouldn't be +advisable that she should. In short—well, now we <i>are</i> on the +subject—this very young man—young Trench, whom we've been discussing, +as it turns out—er—— This is what I want to say to you—that I've +reason to believe that—er—there's a certain young lady—ha! ha! that +<i>he'd</i> like to marry and settle down with, and—er——" +</p> + +<p> +"But wasn't that exactly what you came upstairs to say to me, father?" +asked Joan, with innocent open eyes, inwardly girding herself to +contempt against this transparent duplicity, and hardening herself to +make it as uncomfortable as possible for him to say what he had to say, +even to the point of exhibiting herself as almost immodestly +experienced. +</p> + +<p> +He stared at her. "What!" he exclaimed. "You have had it in your mind +all along?" +</p> + +<p> +"You put it there, father," she retorted. "I'm grown up now. I've got +eyes in my head. I knew there must be <i>some</i> reason for your making +mother ask him here, when she dislikes him just as much as I do, and +after you had always said that <i>you</i> disliked him just as much, or +more." +</p> + +<p> +He gulped down oceans of displeasure and inclination to rebuke. "Now +look here," he said. "Let's have no more harping on that string, and +no more silly and undutiful speeches. You say you are grown-up. Very +well, then, you can listen to sense; and you can talk sense if you wish +it. I've already said that young Trench displeased me when he stayed +here before; and, as you keep on reminding me, I said so at the time +pretty plainly. It's my custom to speak plainly, and I've nothing to +regret in that. If he acted in the same way now, I should object just +as strongly. But the whole point is that he would <i>not</i> act in the +same way now. It is not I that have changed; it is he. Perhaps you're +right, to a certain extent, in saying that he was old enough to know +better. But a young fellow in his position is apt to keep on sowing +his wild oats when others who have to begin to take a serious view of +life more early have left off doing it. Anyhow, he has left off doing +it now. He told me himself, and I was gratified to hear it, that +seeing how life went in a house like this turned him round to see that +he had been playing the fool. There's nothing wrong with him at +bottom, any more than there is anything wrong with Humphrey, who played +the fool in much the same way for years after he ought to have done, +but has come to see you can't go on playing the fool all your life, and +is now quite ready to settle down in a sensible way. You'll find when +you come to talk to young Trench—when he comes down +to-morrow—that——" +</p> + +<p> +"I'm not going to talk to him," Joan interrupted. "I don't like him." +</p> + +<p> +Well, really! Was it possible to talk sensibly to women at all? Would +the clearest logic and reason weigh a grain against their obstinate +likes and dislikes? Was it worth while going on? +</p> + +<p> +"Are you going to listen to what I have to say, or not?" he asked +impatiently. "Or do you want to be——" +</p> + +<p> +"Sent to bed?" Joan took him up. "Yes, father, I think you had better +send me to bed. I know I'm being a very naughty girl, but you won't +make me like Mr. Trench, however long you talk." +</p> + +<p> +"You <i>are</i> naughty. You are laying yourself out to annoy me. There is +no question of my <i>making</i> you like Mr. Trench, and you know that as +well as I do. I am simply asking you to behave with ordinary courtesy +to a visitor in my house, who has been seriously hurt in coming to the +rescue of my own men—and in the pluckiest way too, and might very well +have been killed. Is that too much to expect my own daughter to do, I +should like to know, or——?" +</p> + +<p> +"Oh no, father. Of course I shall be polite. I didn't know that was +all you wanted." +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, it <i>is</i> all I want. You are taking up a most extraordinary and +unwarrantable position. Anyone would think, to hear you talk, that I +had come up here to order you to marry young Trench out of hand. You +see how outrageous it sounds when you put it plainly." +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, I know it does; but I thought it was what you meant." +</p> + +<p> +"Well, then, it is <i>not</i> what I meant, or anything like it. I'm the +last man in the world who would put any pressure on his daughters to +marry anybody; and when no word of marriage has been mentioned it seems +to me indelicate in the highest degree for a girl as young as you to be +turning it over and discussing it in the open way you do. It's what +comes of letting you gad about here and there and everywhere, amongst +all sorts of people; and I tell you I won't have it." +</p> + +<p> +Joan was enchanted. His leg was over the back of his favourite horse +now, and she only had to give it a flick in the flank to set it +galloping off with him. +</p> + +<p> +"But, father dear, I haven't been gadding about. It is six months and +more since I went to Brummels; and I'm sure I never want to go there +again, after all you said about it, and the people I met there." +</p> + +<p> +He reined in. The course was too difficult. "You're in a very +tiresome and obstinate mood," he said, "and I don't like it. I come up +here to spend a quiet half-hour with you, and you do nothing but set +yourself to annoy me. But there's one thing I insist upon; I won't +have you making yourself disagreeable to a guest in my house. When +young Trench comes downstairs to-morrow, it's our common duty to cheer +him up and try to make up to him for all he has gone through on our +account. And you have got to do your share of it, and Nancy too, when +she comes home. Now do you quite understand that?" +</p> + +<p> +"Oh yes, father," said Joan. "I quite understand that." +</p> + +<p> +"Very well, then. Mind you do it." +</p> + +<p> +With which words the Squire left the room with an air of victory. +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap0207"></a></p> + +<h3> +CHAPTER VII +</h3> + +<h4> +DISAPPOINTMENTS +</h4> + +<p> +Joan was so far fortified by her conversation with her father that she +was quite prepared to play her part in entertaining Bobby Trench when +he exchanged the sofa in his bedroom for one in the morning-room. +</p> + +<p> +She had proved to herself that there was little to fear. Her own +weapons had been effective in turning aside any that had been brought, +or could be brought, against her. Her mother, although she had not +spoken, was on her side, her father had been routed and was sulking. +No one else was likely to assail her, unless it was Bobby Trench +himself; and him alone she had never feared. +</p> + +<p> +She was even well-disposed towards him, and ready to amuse herself in +the momentary dulness of the house, as well as him, by playing games, +and forgetting, as far as was possible, in his spirited society, the +troubles that beset her. +</p> + +<p> +She was, to tell the truth, not unsympathetically shocked at his +appearance when she first gave him greeting. Although his speech was +as fluent and lively as ever, his face was pale and thin, and there was +no ignoring the seriousness of his bound-up wound. But he took it all +so lightly that some sense of the ready pluck he had shown came home to +her, and abated her prejudice against him, which, indeed, had hardly +existed until he had been presented to her mind as an encouraged wooer. +</p> + +<p> +As for him, his enforced absence from her society, while yet he knew +that she was under the same roof, had set him thinking about her with +ever-increasing desire; and to find her, in her fresh young beauty, not +holding him at arm's length, as she had done on the night of the ball, +but smiling and friendly—this was to bind the cords of love till more +tightly around him, and cause him most sweet discomfort in keeping them +hidden. +</p> + +<p> +And yet, by the time the house filled again, he could not congratulate +himself on having made any progress with her. She would laugh with him +and at him, and keep him agreeable company for an hour or two hours +together, during which time their intimacy appeared to be founded on a +complete and happy community of taste; but at a word or hint of +love-making she would freeze, and if it was persisted in, she would +leave him. +</p> + +<p> +The poor man was in torments, underneath his gay exterior. If her +behaviour had been designed to draw him on and enmesh him completely, +it could not have been more effective. She was merry with him, because +now she liked him, as a diversion from her lonely, sad-coloured +thoughts. She could forget her estrangement from Nancy when she was +playing with him, and the overcasting of her long-familiar life; and +she felt so confident of being able to hold him in his place that the +designs she knew him to be cherishing no longer troubled her at all. +</p> + +<p> +But how was he to escape the perpetual hope that her obvious increase +of liking for him was developing into something warmer than mere +liking? And how was he to avoid now and then putting that hope to the +test, seeing her so frank and so sweetly desirable? He was always cast +down to the ground when he did so. Love had not blunted his native +acuteness, and there was no mistaking the state of rising aversion in +which she met and parried his tentative advances. In that only was she +different from what she had been; for, before, she had parried them +with a demure mischievousness, which had shown her taking enjoyment in +the exercise of her wits. Now she used other weapons, and made it +plain that her friendliness would not stand the strain, if she was to +be put to those contests. +</p> + +<p> +And yet liking and love cannot be kept in separate compartments in such +circumstances as these. Liking, if it grows big enough, becomes love +some day or other. He knew that, and she didn't; which was why he put +very strong constraint on himself, made few mistakes in the way of +premature soundings, and set himself diligently to be the indispensable +companion of her days. The underlying contest, viewed from without, +would have been seen to turn upon the question of his possessing +qualities which would satisfy the deeper currents of her nature. +Gaiety and courage he had, and self-control, if he cared to exercise +it. Some amount of goodwill towards the world at large, also; but that +was apt to hang upon the satisfaction or otherwise that he received +from it. It was likely to come out at its strongest in his present +condition of mind, and to throw into shadow his innate triviality. +</p> + +<p> +It always seemed to Joan that he showed up least attractively in the +presence of her mother, and this although he seemed more anxious to +please her than he did to please Joan herself. +</p> + +<p> +Bobby Trench could never have said that Mrs. Clinton was not giving him +his chance. She never came into the room as if she wished to keep +guard, nor turned a disapproving face upon the merriment that he made +with Joan. She would respond to his sallies, and her smile was free, +if it was aroused at all. +</p> + +<p> +He thought that he had taken her measure. She was at heart a serious +woman, and on that account she could not be expected to take very +readily to him, for he hated seriousness, and it was out of his power +to disguise it. But she was a nonentity in this house: he had heard +her husband speak to her. The Squire was warmly in his favour, for +reasons which were too obvious to need stating, and those reasons might +be expected to appeal equally to Mrs. Clinton, who would also follow +her husband's lead in everything. He did think that it was owing to +her that Joan had been prevented from visiting him upstairs, for the +Squire had given him that hint, without intending to do so. But he put +that down to her old-fashioned prudery, and had forgiven her for it, +since she now seemed quite willing to leave Joan alone with him. She +might practically be disregarded as far as effective opposition was +concerned; but it would be as well to keep on her right side, for Joan +was evidently very fond of her, and by commending himself to her he +would commend himself to Joan. +</p> + +<p> +None but a shallow brain could have judged of Mrs. Clinton as a +nonentity, when opportunities for observing her were such as Bobby +Trench enjoyed. The very fact that when she was present his humour +seemed even to him to wear thin, and the conversation always followed +the paths into which she directed it, might have warned him of that +error. The paths she chose were not such as he could disport himself +in to any advantage, although she trod them naturally enough, and Joan +followed her as if she liked taking them. +</p> + +<p> +Ideas make the best talk, someone has said, then things, then people. +Bobby Trench could talk about people all day and all night if he were +to be called upon; his experience had been wide, he had a fund of +anecdote, and a quick eye for a point. To talk well about "things," +you want reading and knowledge, of which he had little. To talk well +about ideas, you want some of your own, and he had but few. He heard +Joan, to his surprise, venturing herself with interest on subjects to +which he had never given a moment's thought, and on which his readily +produced speeches were like those of a child pushing into and spoiling +the converse of its elders. Joan would sometimes look at him in +surprise, as if he had said something particularly foolish, when he was +not aware of having done so. He felt at a disadvantage. +</p> + +<p> +He could not see that the question of woman's suffrage, which he +started himself, was not satisfactorily covered by funny stories about +the suffragettes, and thought Mrs. Clinton a bore for going on with it. +She asked him about plays which he had seen and of which she had read, +and he told her about actors and actresses. Of books he knew nothing. +They were not much talked about at Kencote, but Mrs. Clinton read a +good deal, and so did Joan and Nancy, and talked between themselves of +what they read. It was impossible to keep allusion altogether out of +their talk, although they spared him as much as possible, having been +trained to do so in the similar case of the Squire, whose broad view of +literature was that as nobody had written better than Shakespeare, it +was waste of time to read anything else until you had thoroughly +mastered <i>him</i>, in which modest feat, however, he had not himself made +any startling progress. But Bobby Trench, otherwise quite at ease as +to his ignorance on such negligible matters, felt that it would have +been to his benefit with Mrs. Clinton, and possibly with Joan, if he +could have done with rather less explanation of points that were +readily appreciated by either of them. +</p> + +<p> +And yet no intellectual demands would have been made of a man like John +Spence that would have shown him to disadvantage if he had not been +able to meet them. His simple modesty would have fared better than +Bobby Trench's superficial smartness, because he would never have tried +to shine, and, failing, made a parade of his ignorance. He would have +been tried by other tests, and come through them. +</p> + +<p> +It was by these other tests that Bobby Trench stood or fell with Mrs. +Clinton, not by his lack of intellectual interests. +</p> + +<p> +What did he ask of life for himself? +</p> + +<p> +A good time. +</p> + +<p> +How did he stand with regard to the wealth and position which were the +unacknowledged cause of his being where he was? Were they to be held +as opportunities? +</p> + +<p> +Yes, for giving him a good time. +</p> + +<p> +What had he to bestow on others? +</p> + +<p> +Luncheons, dinners, suppers, boxes at theatres, motor trips, yachting +trips—all the material for a good time—on his equals; money tips, +drinks, an occasional patronising cigar, on such of his inferiors as +served or pleased him, so that he might imagine them also to be having +a good time, according to their degree. +</p> + +<p> +What did he demand from those of whom he made his friends? +</p> + +<p> +Assistance in the great aim of having a good time, which cannot be +enjoyed alone. Nothing beyond that; no steadfastness in friendship, no +character; only the power to amuse or to share amusement. +</p> + +<p> +That was Bobby Trench, as he revealed himself from day to day to the +woman whom he treated with almost patronising attention, and considered +a nonentity. Whether he so revealed himself to Joan there was nothing +yet to show; but it was unlikely that she would have so clear a vision, +or indeed that a good time, if he could persuade her that it was in his +power to offer it, would not appeal to her, at her age, as of more +importance than her mother could have desired. +</p> + +<p> +Joan scanned Nancy's face on her return home for signs of relenting, +and of a story completed. Neither appeared. Nancy kissed her lightly, +and said, "We've had an awfully cold journey." Joan's heart sank again. +</p> + +<p> +"How did you enjoy yourself?" she asked. +</p> + +<p> +"Oh, awfully. It is a splendid great house, bigger than this, and much +older. There were a lot of people staying there. We danced in the +ball-room every night, and had great fun. Dick's leg is pretty well +right now, though he had to shoot from a pony. How is Mr. Trench?" +</p> + +<p> +The bald sentences marked the gulf that had opened between them. And +there had not been a word of John Spence. +</p> + +<p> +He dined at Kencote that night. Joan saw how much in love he was with +Nancy; and indeed it was plain to everybody. The Squire was in the +highest state of good humour. He had had no more trouble with Joan, +and no longer sulked with her, having frequently made a third or fourth +in the society of the morning-room, and judged everything to be going +on there as he would have had it. And now there was this other affair, +going also exactly as he would have it. He felt that Providence was +busily at work on his behalf, and showed that it had the welfare of the +landed interest, in a general sort of way, at heart. +</p> + +<p> +The landed interest, though, had to keep a look-out on its own account, +if those responsible were to be properly treated by the rank and file +partly concerned in its continuance. There was a slight set-back the +next morning, which the Squire took more to heart than seemed warranted. +</p> + +<p> +The under-keeper, Gotch, who had come to Humphrey's rescue in the wood, +and behaved well in the affair generally, had been thanked, and told +that some substantial recognition of his merits would be considered, +and in due course certainly made. +</p> + +<p> +The Squire now had the satisfaction of being able to see his way to a +more handsome reward than he had at first thought of, or than was, +indeed, called for in the case of a man who had merely acted well in +the course of his duty. But he prided himself on taking an interest in +the welfare of all his servants; he was accustomed to say that he was +not like those who treated them as machines; and he was genuinely +pleased that circumstances brought it about that he could do Gotch a +very good turn, also at the prospect of telling him so. +</p> + +<p> +Gotch came to see him, on summons, in his business room. He was a fine +specimen of country-bred manhood, about thirty years of age, upright +and clean of limb, with a resourceful look on his open, weather-tanned +face, and speech quiet, but readier and more direct than is usual with +men of his class. He stood in his well-kept velveteens, cap in hand +before his master, and looked him in the face when he addressed him. +</p> + +<p> +"Well, Gotch," said the Squire, taking up his usual position in front +of the fire. "I hear you've been making love, what?" +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, sir," said Gotch, dropping his eyes for a moment. +</p> + +<p> +"Clark, eh? Lady Susan Clinton's maid. Well, she seems a very +respectable young woman, from what I've seen of her, and her ladyship +tells me she's saved a bit of money, which is satisfactory, what? And +I dare say you've saved a bit yourself." +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, sir." +</p> + +<p> +"When do you want to get married?" +</p> + +<p> +The question was asked with business-like curtness, and was answered as +shortly. "Soon as possible, sir." +</p> + +<p> +"Yes. Well now, I've been turning things over in my mind, Gotch. I +told you that I should do something for you, to mark my appreciation of +the way you behaved in the affair with those scoundrels in Buckle Wood. +In one way, you only did your duty, as anybody in my employ is expected +to do it; but that's not the way I look at things. Those who do well +by me—I like to do well by them; and there's not much doubt that if +you hadn't—or somebody hadn't—hit that ruffian on the head—and just +at the moment you did, too, by George—it might have gone very hard for +Mr. Humphrey. I don't like to think of what would have happened." +</p> + +<p> +"Thank you, sir," said Gotch, as there came a pause in the flow of +eloquence. +</p> + +<p> +"Very well, then. You want to get married. In the ordinary way you +couldn't just yet, because there isn't a cottage. Now, Gotch, I'll +build you a cottage. I've been talking it over with Captain Clinton, +and we've decided to do that. There's a site in Buckle Wood about a +hundred yards in from the gate on the Bathgate Road that'll be the very +thing. I dare say you know the place I mean—that clearing hard by the +brook. You shall have a good six-roomed house and a nice bit of garden +and so forth, and everything that you can want for bringing up a +family. Ha! ha! must look forward a bit, you know, in these matters. +And there you'll be till the time comes when—well, I won't make any +promises, and Rattray isn't an old man yet—but when he comes to the +end of his time, if you go on as you've begun, you take his place as +head-keeper. And let me tell you that head-keeper on a place like +Kencote is about as good a job as any man has a right to look forward +to. You'll follow some good men—men that have been written about in +books, amongst them—and I believe you'll fill the place as well as any +of them. You've got that to look forward to, Gotch, and in the +meantime you'll be very nearly as well off as Rattray. In fact, your +house will be a better house than his. We did think of moving him +there and putting you into his cottage, but decided not. Now what have +you got to say, Gotch? Will that meet your views?" +</p> + +<p> +Gotch turned his cap in his hands. "Well, sir," he said. "I'm sure +I'm very much obliged to you and Captain Clinton too. It's a handsome +return for what I done, and kindly thought of." +</p> + +<p> +"Well, we think kindly of you, Gotch," said the Squire. "I hope we +think kindly of all the people on the place, and do what we can for +their happiness. But we owe you something special, and it's right that +we should <i>do</i> something special." +</p> + +<p> +It was not, in fact, anything remarkably self-sacrificing that the +Squire intended to do. There was a dearth of cottages at Kencote, as +there is on so many otherwise well-managed country estates. Young +people who wished to marry were sometimes prevented from doing so for +years, and there were cases of overcrowding in existing cottages, +which, while not amounting to a scandal, might possibly be worked up +into one by hostile critics. A new medical officer of health, residing +outside the sphere of the Squire's social influence, and more than +suspected of Radical tendencies, had caused notices to be served during +the past year; and, worse than that, a London journalist spending his +holidays at a farmhouse just outside the manor of Kencote had poked his +nose in where he had no business to take it, and written a very +one-sided article on the depopulation of rural England, with Kencote +and its owner as a text. The Squire had been greatly scandalised, and +would have rushed instantly into print had not Dick's cooler head +restrained him. Unfair and ill-informed as both of them judged the +article to be, there was enough truth in it to give the enemy a handle. +There <i>was</i> overcrowding, though not to any serious extent; and there +<i>was</i> a dearth of cottage accommodation. +</p> + +<p> +"Much better build a few, and stop their mouths," said Dick. +</p> + +<p> +"It doesn't pay to build cottages," said the Squire. "It can't pay, +with these ridiculous bye-laws." +</p> + +<p> +"Can't be helped," said Dick. "We can afford to make this property a +model one up to a point, and we'd much better take the bone out of +their mouths. It isn't a very big one. It will only cost us a few +hundreds to satisfy everybody. And they'll like our doing it less than +anything. Besides, we've got to do something. That fellow Moxon has a +wife and five children sleeping in two rooms, and that sort of thing +simply doesn't do now-a-days." +</p> + +<p> +The Squire looked at him suspiciously. "I think Virginia has been +putting some of her American notions into your head," he said. "It did +well enough in my grandfather's time, and he was much ahead of his time +in that sort of thing. He built model cottages before anybody, almost, +and Kencote has always been considered——" +</p> + +<p> +"Oh, well, we needn't go into all that," interrupted Dick. "Moxon has +been served with a notice, and if we don't do something for him we +shall lose him. Let's be ahead of <i>our</i> time. There hasn't been a +brick laid on the place for fifty years or more, except at the home +farm and the stables here. It won't do any harm to improve the +property in that way, and we've got the money in hand. We might begin +with another keeper's cottage. We ought to have somebody in Buckle +Wood." +</p> + +<p> +And that was how it all came to fit in so nicely with the reward due to +Gotch, turning his cap round in his hands in front of his master. +</p> + +<p> +"Well, sir," said Gotch, "if I was thinking of keeping to what I've +been doing—and comfortable enough at it under you and Captain +Clinton—for the rest of my life, nothing wouldn't have suited me +better, and I take leave to thank you for it. But as you was so good +as to say you was going to do something substantial for me, me and 'er +talked it over, and we were going to ask you if you'd help us to get +over to Canada, to start farming. She's got a brother there what's +doing well, and I'd look to do as well as him if I could get a fair +start." +</p> + +<p> +The Squire heard him out, but his heavy brows came together, and by the +end of the speech had met in a frown of displeasure. One of the points +made by the London journalist had been that the best blood and muscle +of the countryside was being drafted overseas, because by the +selfishness of landowners there was no room for them in rural England; +and here was a man for whom room was being made in the most generous +manner, who wished to join in the altogether unnecessary stampede. +</p> + +<p> +"Canada!" he echoed impatiently. "I think you fellows think that the +soil is made of gold in Canada. What do <i>you</i>, of all people, want to +go dancing off to Canada for? You're not a practical farmer, and even +if you were there'd be better chances for you in the old country than +in all the Canadas in the world." +</p> + +<p> +"Well, you know more about these things than I do, sir," said Gotch +respectfully. "And I don't say as I should want to go if it was all in +the air like. But there's 'er brother's offer open to me. He'll put +me into the way of doing as well as he done himself, if I can take a +bit of money out with me. He's a well-to-do man, and he wasn't no +better than me when he went over there ten years ago." +</p> + +<p> +"Well, and ain't I giving you the offer of being a well-to-do man, +without pulling up stakes and starting again in a new country? What +more can a man want than to have a good home and situation secured to +him, on which he can marry and bring up a family, and work that he's +fitted for and likes? You do like your work, don't you?" +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, sir, I should like it better than anything, if——" +</p> + +<p> +"If what?" +</p> + +<p> +"Well, I hope you won't take it amiss what I says, sir; but every man +what's worth anything likes to be his own master, sir. It don't mean +that he's any complaint to make of them as he serves; and I haven't no +complaint—far otherwise. I've done my best by you, sir, and knowed as +I should get credit for it, and be well treated, as I 'ave been most +handsome, by your kind offer. But it isn't just what I want, sir, and +I make bold to say so, hoping not to be misunderstood." +</p> + +<p> +"Oh, you're not misunderstood," said the Squire, unsoftened by this +straightforward speech. "The fact is that you've got some pestilent +socialistic notion in your head that I'm very sorry to see there. I +didn't think it of you, Gotch, and I don't like it. I don't like it at +all. It's ungrateful." +</p> + +<p> +"I'm sure I shouldn't wish to be that, sir." +</p> + +<p> +"But you are that. Don't you see that you are? A master has his duty +towards those under him, and in my case I'm going out of my way to do +more than my duty to you. But a man has his duty towards his master +too. That's what seems to be forgotten now-a-days. It's all self. +I'm offering you something that ninety-nine men out of a hundred would +jump at in your position, and you throw it in my face. You won't be +any happier as your own master, I can tell you that. You've learnt +your Catechism, and you know what it says about doing your duty in the +state of life to which you are called. You are called plainly to the +state of life in which you can do your share in keeping up the +institutions that have made this country what it is; and you won't be +doing right if you try to go outside it." +</p> + +<p> +"Well, you'll excuse me, sir, if I don't see things quite in the same +light. As long as I'm in your service, sir, I'll do my duty as well as +I know how. But every man has got a right to try and better himself, +to my way of thinking, and I did hope as how you'd see that, and lend +me a hand to do well for myself." +</p> + +<p> +The Squire straightened himself. "I see it's no use talking sensibly +to you, Gotch," he said. "You simply repeat the same things over and +over again. If you want me to promise you money to take you out of the +country when I think it's plainly pointed out by Providence that you +should stay in it, I'm sorry I don't see my way to oblige you. In the +meantime you may consider the offer I made to you open for the present. +It's a very good one, and you'll be a fool if you don't take it. And I +shan't keep it open indefinitely. I shouldn't keep it open at all, +after the way you have spoken, if it hadn't been for what you did a +fortnight ago. And it's that or nothing." +</p> + +<p> +He turned towards his writing table. Gotch, after a pause as if he +were going to say something more, glanced at the profile presented to +him, said, "Thank you, sir," and went out. +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap0208"></a></p> + +<h3> +CHAPTER VIII +</h3> + +<h4> +PROPOSALS +</h4> + +<p> +"Well, my dear, everybody seems to be busily employed except you and +me. It's a fine morning. Supposing we go for a walk together!" +</p> + +<p> +Lord Sedbergh beamed upon Joan affectionately. He was a stoutish, +elderly man, with a large, clean-shaven face, not unhandsome, and +noticeably kind, and a bald head fringed with grey-white hair. He had +arrived at Kencote the afternoon before, to find his son recovering as +fast as could be hoped for, and to make a pleasant impression on the +company there assembled by his readiness to make friends all round. He +and the Squire were cronies already, and took delight in reminiscences +of their bright youth, which seemed to come nearer to them at every +story told. +</p> + +<p> +The sky was clear and frosty, the sun bestowed mild brilliance on the +browns and purples and greens of the winter landscape, the roads were +hard and clean under foot. It was the right morning for a long walk, +that form of recreation so seldom enjoyed for its own sake by the +Squire of Kencote and his likes. He came to the door as Joan and Lord +Sedbergh were setting out together, and expressed a hope that Joan was +not boring her companion. "I've got things that I <i>must</i> do for +another hour or so," he said; "but we could go up to the home farm at +eleven o'clock if that suited you; and the papers will be here in +half-an-hour." +</p> + +<p> +"My dear Edward," said Lord Sedbergh, "I wouldn't lose my walk with my +friend Joan for all the home farms in the world, or all the papers that +were ever written. And as for her boring me, she couldn't do it if she +tried. Come along, Joan." +</p> + +<p> +Lord Sedbergh had a trace of the garrulity that distinguished the +conversation of his son, but it was a ripe garrulity, founded on wide +experience of the world, and great good will towards mankind. And he +had gifts of taste and knowledge besides, although his indolence had +prevented him making any significant use of them. Joan found him the +most agreeable company, almost as diverting as her uncle, Sir Herbert +Birkett, and just as informative as an elderly man has a right to be +with an intelligent young girl for her entertainment, and no more. +</p> + +<p> +He told her about his early life in foreign cities, and amused her with +his stories. An easy strain of past intimacy with notable people and +events ran through his talk. +</p> + +<p> +"Life was very interesting in those days," he said. "I often wish I +had stuck to diplomacy. I might have been an ambassador by this +time—probably should have been." +</p> + +<p> +"Why did you give it up?" asked Joan. +</p> + +<p> +"Well, to tell you the truth, my dear, if I hadn't given it up when I +did I should have been appointed to the Embassy at Washington; and +don't breathe a word of it to your charming sister-in-law, but I have +no particular use for America. There it is, you see—probably, after +all, I should not have been made an ambassador. It wasn't the +diplomatic game I so much cared about, or Washington would have done as +well as any other place to play it in. No, it was the life of foreign +cities I liked as a young man. I like it still. I go abroad a great +deal, and wander all over the place. I like pictures and churches now, +though I can't say I paid much attention to that sort of thing in the +old days. Yes, it is one of my chief pleasures now, to go abroad. I +have been all over Europe." +</p> + +<p> +"I should love to go abroad," said Joan. "I have never been out of +England, and very seldom away from Kencote." +</p> + +<p> +He looked at her affectionately. "You have a great deal of pleasure to +come," he said, "and I am very much hoping that it may come to me to +give you some of it. Tell me, my little Joan, are you going to give +that boy of mine what he wants?" +</p> + +<p> +The abrupt transition threw her into confusion. She put her muff to +her mouth, and took it away again to stammer, "I don't know. I mean I +haven't thought of it—of anything." +</p> + +<p> +He withdrew his eyes from her face. "Well, I suppose it is rather +impertinent of me to ask such a question," he said, "before he has +asked it himself. But I think it is plain enough that he wants to ask +it, if you will let him; and you see I'm so interested in the answer +you are going to give him, on my own account, that I find it difficult +to keep away from it. You must put it down to the impatience of old +age, Joan. The things old people want they want quickly." +</p> + +<p> +"You are not old," said Joan in a turmoil. +</p> + +<p> +"Not so old, my dear, but what we shall have many good times together, +if you come to us, as I hope you will. I shouldn't allow Bobby to +monopolise you, you know. When he did his bit of soldiering in the +summer you and I would go off on a trip together. And we'd drag him +away from his hunting sometimes, and go off in search of +sunshine—Egypt, Algiers, all sorts of places—make up a little party. +And you and I would get together at Brummels occasionally, and amuse +ourselves quietly while the rest of them were making a noise, as we did +before. Oh, I tell you, I've got very selfish designs on you, my dear; +but I shouldn't be in the way, you know; I should never be in the way. +I shouldn't want to make Bobby jealous." +</p> + +<p> +It crossed Joan's mind that if he were to be always in the way, and +Bobby out of it, the proposal would be more attractive than it was at +present. But so many thoughts crossed her mind while he was speaking, +and she could not give expression to any one of them. +</p> + +<p> +He looked at her with kind eyes. "You do like him, little Joan, don't +you?" he asked. +</p> + +<p> +"Yes," she said, "but—oh, not in that way." Again her muff went to +her face. +</p> + +<p> +A shade of disappointment crossed his. "Then I mustn't press you," he +said. "But you are very young, my dear. Perhaps some day——! And I +shall be a very pleased old man if I can one day have you for a +daughter. There would be a house ready for you, and all—a charming +house—you saw it—the Lodge, you know. I lived there when I was first +married. I should like to see <i>you</i> there. I'd do it up for you from +top to toe, exactly as you liked it. And I'd give you a motorcar of +your own to get about in and pay your visits; and there are good +stables if you want to ride. I hope you would live there a good part +of the year, and there would be plenty of room for your friends and +relations. You would come to us, I hope, in London. Your own rooms +would be kept for you in my house, and you could have them as you +wanted them. There would be Scotland in the Autumn. You've never seen +Glenmuick. We're out all day there, and I don't know that it isn't +even better than going abroad. Bobby doesn't care about fishing, but I +think you would. We'd leave him to his stalking, and go off and spend +long days on the loch and by the river. You'd never get tired of that. +Then there's the yacht. You'd get lots of fun out of the yacht, if you +like that sort of thing. We generally go to Cowes, and have a little +cruise afterwards, just to blow away the cobwebs we get from amusing +ourselves too hard in London. You'd get lots of change, and your +pretty house as a background to it all, where you'd be queen of your +own kingdom, my little Joan. There now, it looks as if I were trying +to tempt you, with all sorts of things that wouldn't really matter, +unless you—— Well, of course, they do matter. Love in a cottage is +all very well, but I think young people are likely to get on better +together if they've both got something to do. And you'd have plenty to +do. I don't think you would ever feel dull." +</p> + +<p> +If Mrs. Clinton had heard this speech she might not have felt so +confident of its failing of its purpose as she did when Bobby Trench +disclosed his views on life at its most attractive. It amounted to the +same exaltation of "a good time," but it sounded different from Lord +Sedbergh's lips—fresher, opening up vistas, to a country-bred girl, +who had only just sipped at the delights of change, and was in the +first flush of adventurous youth. The inherent tendency of such a life +as he had set forth to lose its salience, to satisfy no more than the +stay-at-home life, which Joan was beginning to find so dull, could +hardly be known to her at her age. It held of itself glamorous +possibilities, of which not the least was the astonishing change viewed +in herself. The girl who was liable to be told at any moment that if +she did not behave herself she should be sent to bed, by her father, +was the same girl that her father's friend thought of as the honoured +mistress of a household, one on whom gifts were to be showered, whose +society was to be courted, whose every wish was to be considered. +</p> + +<p> +If only Bobby Trench were not included in the bright picture! And yet +she liked him now, and his society was never irksome. +</p> + +<p> +"You are awfully kind to me," she fluttered. "But——" +</p> + +<p> +"Oh, I know, my dear," he soothed her. "You couldn't possibly give me +any answer that I should like to have now. Only, I hope—— Well, I +do want you for Bobby, my little Joan. And he's very fond of you, you +know. It has made a different man of him—er—wanting you as he does. +That's the effect that the right sort of girl ought to have on a man. +Bobby will make a good husband, if he does get the right sort of girl; +I'm quite sure of that. She would be able to do anything with him that +she liked; make anything of him." +</p> + +<p> +This was flattery of a searching kind, and it did seem to Joan that she +would be able to do anything she liked with Bobby Trench. As for Bobby +Trench's father, she would have liked to go home and tell Nancy that he +was the sweetest old lamb in the world. He had healed to some extent +the wound caused by her sad discovery that nobody wanted her, caused in +its turn—although she did not know it—by the discovery that John +Spence didn't want her. The fact that Bobby Trench wanted her didn't +count; that Lord Sedbergh wanted her, did. Wonderful things were +happening to her as well as to Nancy, and if Nancy had a secret to hug, +so had she. +</p> + +<p> +But her secret did not support her long; she was made of stuff too +tender. A few hours after her exaltation at the hands of Lord Sedbergh +she was shedding lonely tears because Nancy had been so unkind to her, +having coldly repulsed an effort to draw out of her some admission as +to how she stood with regard to her own now plainly confessed lover. +</p> + +<p> +"I don't want to talk about that—to you," she said. "You seem to have +affairs of your own to attend to, and you can leave mine alone." +</p> + +<p> +Lord Sedbergh took his departure, and with him went much of the glamour +that he had thrown over the proposal which Joan now knew must come. +Bobby Trench, undiluted, pleased her less than before, and in a house +full of people, with most of whom he had been wont to make common +merriment, it vexed her to be constantly left with him in a solitude of +two. +</p> + +<p> +There was an air of expectancy about the house. It hovered with amused +gratification over John Spence and Nancy, but blew more coldly watchful +upon herself and Bobby Trench. It seemed that if she did what she +bitterly told herself was expected of her, she would not please anybody +particularly, except Bobby Trench himself. Even her father seemed to +watch her suspiciously, but that she supposed was because he was +doubtful whether naughtiness would not prevail in her after all. As +for her mother, she invited no confidences. Joan felt more and more +alone, and more and more dissatisfied with herself and everybody about +her. Her intercourse with Bobby Trench was less evenly amicable than +it had been, for she felt her power to make him suffer for some of her +moods. But he did, sometimes, with his unfailing cheerfulness lift her +out of them, and she wavered between resentment against him for being +the past cause of her present troubles, and remorseful gratitude for +his unconquerable fidelity. +</p> + +<p> +She had been unusually fractious with him on the afternoon preceding +the ball. Perhaps it was because she could not go to it herself, being +out of sorts, and confined to the house by doctor's orders. The +house-party was on the ice on the lake, enjoying itself exceedingly. +She and Bobby were sitting in front of the fire in the morning-room. +</p> + +<p> +"I say, you seem to have got out of bed the wrong side this morning," +he said with a conciliatory grin. "What have you got the hump about?" +</p> + +<p> +"Oh, I don't know," said Joan. "Everything is so dull, and everybody +is so horrid." +</p> + +<p> +"You're not such good pals with Nancy as you used to be, are you?" he +asked after a pause. +</p> + +<p> +"That has nothing to do with you," she said, following her mood of +snappish domination over him. +</p> + +<p> +His reply startled her. "Look here," he said, "I'm getting fed up with +this. I seem to be about the only person in the house who takes any +trouble to make themselves agreeable to you, and I'm the only person +you can't treat with ordinary politeness. What's the matter? What +have I done?" +</p> + +<p> +He spoke sharply, as he had not spoken before, and his words brought +home to her the sad state of isolation in which she imagined herself to +be living. +</p> + +<p> +"I know perfectly well how things are going," he went on, as she did +not reply. "There's going to be an engagement in this house in about +five minutes, and a general flare up of congratulations and excitement +all round; and you're feeling out of it. I can understand that; but +why you should turn round upon me, when I've laid myself out to be +agreeable to you—and haven't worried you either—I <i>don't</i> understand. +I call it devilish unfair." +</p> + +<p> +Joan felt that it <i>was</i> unfair. It was true that he had often caused +her to forget her troubles; and it was true that he had not "worried" +her for days. +</p> + +<p> +"I am rather unhappy, sometimes, about things I don't want to talk +about," she said; "but I'm sorry if I've been disagreeable. I won't be +any more. Shall we play bezique?" +</p> + +<p> +"No, we won't play bezique. We'll talk. Look here, you know quite +well what I want of you. I've been——" +</p> + +<p> +"I don't want to talk about that." +</p> + +<p> +"Well, I do, and you've got to listen this time. I've been playing the +game exactly as you wanted it so far, and you can't refuse to give me +my innings." +</p> + +<p> +This also was fair; and as love-making was apparently not to be +introduced into the game, Joan sat silent, looking into the fire, her +chin on her hand, and a flush on her cheeks. +</p> + +<p> +"It's pretty plain," he went on, "that I haven't got much farther with +you in the way I should like to have done. You've always shown you +didn't want me to make love to you, and I haven't bothered you much in +that way; now have I?" +</p> + +<p> +"No," said Joan. "And I shan't listen to you if you do." +</p> + +<p> +"All right. I'm not going to. But there's another way of looking at +things. We do get on well together, and you do like me a bit better +than you used to, don't you? Now answer straight." +</p> + +<p> +"I don't like you any better in the way I suppose you want me to, if +that's what you mean." +</p> + +<p> +"No, it isn't what I mean. I've said that. I mean, we <i>are</i> friends, +aren't we? If I were to go away to-morrow, and you were never to see +anything more of me, you would remember me as a friend, wouldn't you?" +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, I think so." +</p> + +<p> +"Well, then, look here! Can't we fix it up together? No, don't say +anything yet; I want to put it to you. You're having a pretty dull +time here, and you'll have a jolly sight duller time when your sister +gets married and goes away. But we'll give you the time of your life. +My old governor is almost as much in love with you as I am, and that's +saying a good deal, though you won't let me say it. He's longing to +have you, and there's nothing he won't do for us in the way of setting +us up. Look here, Joan, I'll do every mortal thing I can to make you +happy; and so will all of us. You'll be the chief performer in <i>our</i> +little circus; and it won't be such a little one, either. We can give +you anything, pretty well, that anybody could want, and will lay +ourselves out to do it. You won't find me such a bad fellow to live +with, Joan. We <i>are</i> pals, you know, already; you've said so. Can't +you give it a chance?" +</p> + +<p> +Dispossessed of its emotional constituents, the proposal was not +without its allure; and, so dispossessed, could be faced, or at least +glanced at, without undue confusion of face. +</p> + +<p> +Joan glanced at it, and said, "Lord Sedbergh is very sweet to me." +</p> + +<p> +"Well, he's sweet <i>on</i> you, you know," said Bobby with a grin. "Do say +yes, Joan. It'll make him the happiest man in the world—except me. I +<i>know</i> you won't regret it. I shan't let you. I shall lay myself out +to do exactly what you want; and there's such a lot I can do, if you'll +only let me. For one thing, you'd be taken out of everything that's +bothering you now, at a stroke. You'll have such a lot of attention +paid to you that you'll be likely to get your head turned; but I shan't +mind that, if it's turned the right way. Joan, let my old Governor and +me show what we can do to look after you and give you a good time." +</p> + +<p> +She twisted her handkerchief in her hands. "Oh, it's awfully good of +you both to want me so much," she said; and his eyes brightened, +because hitherto she had shown that she thought it anything but good of +him to want her so much. "But how can I? I don't love you, Bobby." +</p> + +<p> +She said it almost as if she wished she did; and the childish +plaintiveness in her voice moved him deeply. His voice shook a little +as he replied, still in the same dispassionate tone, "I know you don't, +my dear, but I'll put up with that. <i>I</i> love <i>you</i>; and that will have +to do for both of us." +</p> + +<p> +She looked at him with a smile. "That would be rather a one-sided +bargain, wouldn't it?" +</p> + +<p> +"<i>I</i> don't think so. It's as a pal I should want you chiefly, and you +would be that. You are already." +</p> + +<p> +She looked into the fire again, with a slight frown on her face. But +it was only a frown of indecision. How should she have known enough +about men to detect the unreality in <i>that</i> plea? +</p> + +<p> +He waited for her to speak, putting strong constraint on himself. +</p> + +<p> +"Oh, I can't," she said at last. +</p> + +<p> +He took her hand. "Joan, my dear," he said, "will you marry me? I'll +wait for what you can't give me now, and never worry you for it. +Honour bright, I won't." +</p> + +<p> +She let her hand remain in his for a moment, and then sprang up. "Oh, +they're coming in," she cried. +</p> + +<p> +He swore under his breath, but rose too, and said, as voices were heard +approaching, "Think over it, and tell me to-morrow." +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p> +Joan lay awake for a long time that night. She had gone to bed when +the others had driven off to their ball, about nine o'clock. +</p> + +<p> +She was offered a way of escape—she did not examine herself as to what +from. Bobby had been very nice to her—not silly, at all. Nobody else +wanted her, Nancy least of all. Very likely Nancy was even now being +offered <i>her</i> escape; the idea had got about that John Spence would +unbosom himself to the sound of the violins. She would have liked to +have talked to her mother, but had not had an opportunity. When she +considered what she should say to her, when the opportunity came, she +discovered that she did not want to say anything. If she had been able +to tell her that she loved Bobby Trench, it would have been different. +No, she did not love him. But she liked him—very much. And she liked +Lord Sedbergh even more. She supposed she loved her father, in fact +she was sure she did; but Lord Sedbergh would also be in the place of a +father to her, if she married Bobby Trench, and it would not be wrong +to love him, perhaps rather better. He would certainly know how to +treat her better. +</p> + +<p> +Should she—should she not? +</p> + +<p> +She had not quite made up her mind when she dropped off to sleep. +</p> + +<p> +She was awakened by Nancy coming into the room, with Hannah, both of +them speaking softly. She pretended not to have been awakened, but +through her lashes sought for signs in Nancy's face. +</p> + +<p> +There were none, except that she seemed unusually gay for that time of +the morning, made soft laughter with Hannah, and dismissed her suddenly +before she had finished undressing. +</p> + +<p> +When Hannah had left the room Nancy looked straight at Joan, lying with +her face turned towards her. Joan shut her eyes, and did not see the +expression with which she looked at her. When she opened them again +Nancy was standing by the fire, looking into the embers; and now there +was no mistaking the look on her face. It was tender and radiant. +</p> + +<p> +All Joan's soreness was wiped out. Nancy was very happy, and she +wanted to kiss her again and again, and cry, and tell her how much she +loved her. She moved in her bed, coughed, and opened her eyes. Nancy +was looking at her with a face from which the radiance had melted; she +left the fireplace and went to the dressing-table. +</p> + +<p> +"Hullo!" she said. "Are you feeling better?" +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, thanks," said Joan, choking her emotion. "Have you enjoyed +yourself?" +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, thanks. I wish you'd been there. The band was ripping, and the +floor was perfect." +</p> + +<p> +She talked on a little longer, and Joan began to think nothing had +happened after all. Then she said suddenly, "By the by, I'm engaged to +John Spence. I thought you'd like to know." +</p> + +<p> +Joan could not speak for the moment. Nancy drew aside the curtain and +looked out. "It's freezing hard," she said. "I shall wear my tweed +coat and skirt to-morrow. Well, good-night!" +</p> + +<p> +She did not look at Joan as she turned away from the window, but blew +out the lights and got into bed. +</p> + +<p> +There was a long silence. Both girls lay perfectly still. By and by +sounds came from Joan's pillow, as if she were crying softly and trying +to hide it. Nancy lay quite still, and the sounds ceased. +</p> + +<p> +There was another long silence. +</p> + +<p> +"Nancy, are you awake?" came in a voice that shook a little. +</p> + +<p> +"Yes." +</p> + +<p> +"I'm m-most awfully glad." +</p> + +<p> +"Then what are you crying for?" +</p> + +<p> +"Because I'm sorry I've been such a pig; and I d-do so want to be +friends again; and you won't." +</p> + +<p> +"Oh, I will, darling old Joan." +</p> + +<p> +Nancy was out of bed, and had thrown herself on Joan's neck. They were +mingling tears and kisses together, Nancy crying quite as freely as +Joan. They lay talking together for an hour or more, and fell asleep +in one another's arms. When morning came, Joan had the happiest waking +she had known for many months. +</p> + +<p> +That afternoon she told Bobby Trench that she could not marry him. +"I'm very sorry," she said. "I do like you, Bobby, and I hope we shall +always be friends; but I don't love you the least little bit, and I'm +quite sure now that one ought not to marry anyone one doesn't love." +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap0301"></a></p> + +<h2> +BOOK III +<br /><br /> +</h2> + +<h3> +CHAPTER I +</h3> + +<h4> +THE SQUIRE CONFRONTED +</h4> + +<p> +The lilacs in the station-yard at Kencote were blossoming again. Again +the train crawled over the sun-dappled meadows, and Joan was on the +platform to meet it. This time it was Humphrey who got out of it. +</p> + +<p> +"Hullo!" she said brightly. "They've sent the luggage-cart. I thought +you'd like to walk." +</p> + +<p> +He had hardly smiled when she greeted him, and now frowned. "I wanted +to see the Governor," he said. "However, it won't take long to walk. +Come along." +</p> + +<p> +"How's Susan?" Joan asked as they set out. +</p> + +<p> +"All right," said Humphrey shortly. "She's gone to her people." +</p> + +<p> +He cleared the preoccupation from his face, and looked at his sister. +"You look blooming," he said. "Do you miss Nancy?" +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, awfully," she said, "but I'm going to stay with them the moment +they get back. I hear from her every day. They're having a gorgeous +time. They are going to take me abroad with them next year. I shall +love it." +</p> + +<p> +"I've got a piece of news for you," said Humphrey after a pause. +"Bobby Trench is engaged to be married." +</p> + +<p> +A flush crept over her face and died away again before she said, +"That's rather sudden, isn't it? Who is he going to marry?" +</p> + +<p> +"Lady Bertha Willersley. Can't say I admire his taste much. She's +amusing enough for a time, but I should think she'd tire you to death +if you had too much of her. She can't be much younger than he is, +either. She's been about almost ever since I can remember." +</p> + +<p> +"Oh, well," said Joan, with an embarrassed laugh, "it shows I was +right." +</p> + +<p> +"I'm not sure that it doesn't," Humphrey admitted. "Bobby has always +been a friend of mine, and I like him well enough; but he <i>is</i> rather a +rotter. I think you're pretty well out of it, Joan." +</p> + +<p> +"I'm sure I am," she said. "But you didn't say so at the time." +</p> + +<p> +"Poor old girl," he said. "We gave you rather a bad time, didn't we? +But you did lead him on a bit, didn't you?" +</p> + +<p> +"I didn't," said Joan indignantly. "I always said I wouldn't have him." +</p> + +<p> +"Well, he told me himself that you would have said 'yes' one evening if +somebody hadn't come in." +</p> + +<p> +She was silent. +</p> + +<p> +"It's true then?" he said, with a glance at her. +</p> + +<p> +"Oh, I don't know. I <i>might</i> have done, but I should have been very +sorry for it afterwards." +</p> + +<p> +"You'd have had a topping good time." +</p> + +<p> +"I suppose that is what tempted me, just a little. But it would be +horrid to marry for that." +</p> + +<p> +"What made you change? He was most awfully in love with you, to do him +justice, though he seems to have got over it pretty quickly." +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, he did seem to be. But it shows how little it was worth. It +wasn't the sort of way John was in love with Nancy." +</p> + +<p> +"It was when Nancy fixed up her little affair that you sent Bobby about +his business." +</p> + +<p> +"Yes. Don't let's talk about it any more. I'm sick of Bobby Trench." +</p> + +<p> +"Governor been at you about him?" +</p> + +<p> +"He has never forgiven me. Perhaps he will now. But I know mother was +glad, so I don't much care." +</p> + +<p> +"How is the Governor?" asked Humphrey, rather gloomily. "Fairly +amiable?" +</p> + +<p> +"Fairly. I think he misses Nancy; but of course he is glad she married +John. He is so well off." +</p> + +<p> +Humphrey took no notice of this shaft. He hardly spoke again until +they reached the house, when he went straight into his father's room. +</p> + +<p> +"Well, my boy," said the Squire. "What good wind blows you here? I +thought you were moving down to Hampshire this week." +</p> + +<p> +"The house isn't quite ready yet. Susan has gone to her people. I +thought I'd run down. And—I've got something to talk to you about." +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, well!" The Squire was a little suspicious. He didn't want to +part with any money for the moment. +</p> + +<p> +"What have you decided about Gotch? Clark is leaving us, and wants +things settled. She doesn't want to find another place. She wants to +get married." +</p> + +<p> +"Well, then, let her get married," said the Squire, with some show of +heat. "It's nothing to do with me. Let Gotch marry her, and find a +place to take her to, if he can. I've no room for another married +keeper here, as I've filled up the place that Mr. Gotch saw fit to +refuse." +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, I know," said Humphrey. "But look here, father, can't you forget +that now, and do what he wants? He did me a jolly good turn, you know. +I might have been killed, or injured for life, if it hadn't been for +him." +</p> + +<p> +"I know all that, and I was ready to make him the most handsome reward +for what he did. He saw fit to refuse it, as I think in the most +ungrateful way, and there's an end. I kept the offer open for a month. +I did everything that could be expected of me, and a good deal more. +I've washed my hands of Mr. Gotch altogether." +</p> + +<p> +"I don't think he's ungrateful. But he has this exceptionally good +offer in Canada, if he can put down a few hundred pounds, and——" +</p> + +<p> +"Then let him put down his few hundred pounds. I've no objection." +</p> + +<p> +"He hasn't got it, you know," said Humphrey, with weary patience. "He +and Clark have both got a bit, but not enough, and I can't do anything +for them at the moment. Denny Croft has cost a lot more than I thought +it would to put right, and I haven't got a bob to spare." +</p> + +<p> +"Now, look here, Humphrey. I'm not going to do it, and that's flat. +Apart altogether from the fact that I don't think Gotch has behaved +well, and I feel myself relieved of all obligation to him now, I object +to this emptying of the country that's going on. As long as there are +places in England for men like Gotch, I say it's their duty to stay by +the old country. Supposing every keeper and farm-hand and so on on +this place took it into his head to go off to Canada, where should we +be, I should like to know? It's the duty of the people on the land to +stick together, or the whole basis of society goes. <i>I</i> stick here and +do my duty in <i>my</i> sphere; <i>I</i> don't want to go rushing off to Canada; +and I expect others in <i>their</i> sphere to do the same. It's quite +certain I'm not going to put down money to help them to run away from +their duty. So let's have no more talk about it." +</p> + +<p> +Humphrey did not seem to have been listening very closely to this +speech. He did not reply to it. +</p> + +<p> +"Something very disagreeable has happened," he said. "I don't want to +tell you the details of it. But it is important that Clark should be +got out of the country as soon as possible." +</p> + +<p> +The Squire stared at him, and marked for the first time his serious +face. "What do you mean?" he asked. "What has happened?" +</p> + +<p> +"I don't want to tell you more than this, that Clark has it in her +power to make mischief. I hope you won't ask any more, but will take +my word for it; it's very serious mischief. It's <i>she</i> who wants to go +to Canada. I think if Gotch had been left to himself he would have +accepted your offer; and I know he is upset at the way you have taken +his refusal. Do, for God's sake, let him have what he wants, and take +her off, or I don't know what won't happen." +</p> + +<p> +His ordinary level speech had become agitated, but he returned to +himself again as he said quietly, "I've said more than I meant to. +Take it from me that I'm not exaggerating, and do what I ask, for your +own sake as well as mine." +</p> + +<p> +A stormy gleam of light had broken over the Squire's puzzled features. +"Do you mean to tell me that you're in disgrace—with this woman?" he +asked. +</p> + +<p> +Humphrey looked at him, and then laughed, without amusement. "Oh, it's +nothing like that," he said. "But disgrace—yes. It will amount to +that for all of us. Mud will stick, and she's prepared to throw it. +She has said nothing to Gotch, and has promised not to. She'll say +nothing to anybody, if we lend Gotch the money. That's all he wants, +you know. He'll pay it back when he's made his way. We must lend him +three hundred pounds. He's a steady man and safe. I'd give it him, if +I had it. It's the greatest luck in the world that we can close her +mouth in that way. Oh, you <i>must</i> do it, father." +</p> + +<p> +He had become agitated again; and it was the rarest thing for him to +show agitation. +</p> + +<p> +The Squire was impressed. "I don't say I won't," he said; "but you +must show me some cause, Humphrey. I don't understand it yet. And +anyhow, I'm not going to pay blackmail, you know. What's the story +this woman has got hold of—if you've done nothing, as you say?" +</p> + +<p> +"No, I've done nothing. I don't want to tell you her story, father; +and it will do you no good to hear it. Besides, it simply <i>must</i> be +kept from getting out. You tell a thing in confidence to one person, +and they tell it in confidence to another; and it's public property and +the mischief done before you know where you are." +</p> + +<p> +"I shan't tell a soul." +</p> + +<p> +"Can't you just trust me, and think no more about it?" +</p> + +<p> +"No, I can't, Humphrey. You must tell me what it's all about. I can't +act in the dark." +</p> + +<p> +Humphrey sat silent, looking on the ground, while the Squire, with a +troubled look on his face, waited for him to speak. +</p> + +<p> +He looked up. "Will you promise me definitely that you'll keep it +absolutely to yourself?" he asked. "Mother mustn't know, or Dick, or +anybody." +</p> + +<p> +"Why not? Neither of them would breathe a word." +</p> + +<p> +"I won't tell it to more than one person. If you won't promise to keep +it sacred and give nobody a hint that might put them on the scent, I'll +tell somebody else. I <i>must</i> tell somebody, and get advice, as well as +money." +</p> + +<p> +"I don't keep things from Dick," said the Squire slowly, "and very +seldom from your mother. I'm not a man who likes hugging a secret. If +I give you this promise it will be a weight on me. But I'll do it if +you assure me that there is some special reason why neither of those +two shall be told. I think they ought to be, if it's a question of +disgrace, and a way of averting it. I shouldn't like to trust myself +to give you the right advice, without consulting them—or at any rate, +Dick." +</p> + +<p> +Humphrey considered again. "No, I won't risk it," he said. "Yes; +there <i>is</i> a special reason. It is not to be a matter of consultation, +except between you and me." +</p> + +<p> +"Very well," said the Squire unwillingly, "I will tell nobody." +</p> + +<p> +"Not even if they see something is wrong, and press you?" +</p> + +<p> +"You have my word, Humphrey," said the Squire simply. +</p> + +<p> +Humphrey wrung his hands together nervously. "Oh, it's a miserable +story," he said. "Clark accuses Susan of stealing that necklace from +Brummels." +</p> + +<p> +"What!" exclaimed the Squire, horrified. +</p> + +<p> +"She's prepared to swear to it, and says she will go and lay +information, unless we do what they want—help Gotch to settle in +Canada." +</p> + +<p> +The Squire sprang from his seat and strode the length of the room. His +face was terrific as he turned and stood before Humphrey. "But that's +the most scandalous case of blackmail I ever heard of," he said. "You +mean to say you are prepared to give in to that! And expect me to help +you! You ought to be ashamed of asking such a thing, Humphrey. And to +extract a promise from me to keep <i>that</i> to myself! What can you be +thinking of? I've not much difficulty in advising you if that's the +sort of trouble you're in. Send for a policeman, and have the woman +locked up at once. The brazen insolence of it! Let the whole world +know of it, if they want to, I say. Your honour can't stand much if +<i>that</i> sort of mud is going to stain it. It's your positive duty. I +can't think what you can have been thinking of not to do it at once. +To give in to the woman! Why, it's shameful, Humphrey! Disgrace! +That's where the disgrace is." +</p> + +<p> +Humphrey had sat silent under this exordium, his head bent and his eyes +on the ground. He said no word when his father had finished. +</p> + +<p> +A half-frightened look came over the Squire's face. "You've allowed +this woman to impose upon you," he said in a quieter voice. "You've +lost your head, my boy. Take hold of yourself, and fling the lie back +in her face. <i>Punish</i> her for it." +</p> + +<p> +There was another pause before Humphrey said, raising his head, but not +his eyes: "It isn't a lie. It's the truth. Oh, my God!" +</p> + +<p> +His frame was shaken by a great sob. He leant forward and buried his +face in his hands. +</p> + +<p> +The Squire sat down heavily in his chair. He picked up a paper-knife +from the writing-table and balanced it in his hand. For a moment his +face was devoid of all expression. Then he turned round to his son and +said in a firm voice: "You say Susan did steal them? Are you sure of +that? Joan as good as saw that Mrs. Amberley take them. Yes, and it +was proved that she sold them, at her trial! Aren't you allowing this +woman to bluff you, Humphrey?" +</p> + +<p> +His voice had taken a note of confidence. Humphrey sat up, his face +white and hard. +</p> + +<p> +"Mrs. Amberley's selling pearls was a coincidence—unlucky for her," he +said. "We know where she got them from. The story they wouldn't +listen to was true." +</p> + +<p> +"But Joan!—seeing her at the very cupboard itself!" +</p> + +<p> +"She may have <i>wanted</i> to steal them. She did steal the diamond star." +</p> + +<p> +The Squire drooped. "Still, it may be bluff," he said weakly. "How +did Clark know of it?" +</p> + +<p> +"Oh, don't turn the knife round, father," said Humphrey. "It isn't +Clark; it's Susan. She told me herself." +</p> + +<p> +"She told you she was a thief!" The Squire's voice had changed, and +was harder. +</p> + +<p> +"Yes. It's a wretched story. Don't make it harder for me to tell." +</p> + +<p> +The control in which he had held himself, coming down in the train, +walking from the station with Joan, and first addressing his father, +was gone. He spoke as if he were broken, but in a hard, monotonous +voice. +</p> + +<p> +The Squire's face softened. "Go on, my boy," he said. "Tell me +everything. I'll help you if I can." +</p> + +<p> +"I taxed her with it. She's frightened to death. I could only get at +it by degrees; and there are some things I don't understand now. I +shall clear them up when she's better. She's ill now, and I don't +wonder at it." +</p> + +<p> +"Where is she?" +</p> + +<p> +"With her mother. <i>She</i> doesn't know anything. She thinks we've had a +row." +</p> + +<p> +"Well, tell me." +</p> + +<p> +"I was a fool not to suspect what was going on. She was head over ears +in debt. What she must have been spending on clothes it frightens me +to think of. She told me that she had got somebody to make them for +almost nothing, but I might have known that was nonsense, if I'd +thought about it at all. I remember now some woman or other laughing +at me when I told her she dressed herself on two hundred a year. 'I +suppose you mean two thousand,' she said, and I should think it +couldn't have been much less than that. She had things put away that +I'd never seen. She didn't disclose half what she owed when you helped +us two years ago. Then she'd been playing Bridge with a lot of +harpies—Auction—at sixpenny points—and she's no more head for it +than an infant in arms." +</p> + +<p> +"Sixpenny points!" repeated the Squire. +</p> + +<p> +"Well, it means she could easily lose forty or fifty pounds in an +afternoon, and probably did, often enough. She had to find ready money +for that. I haven't got at it all yet, but when we went down to +Brummels she didn't know which way to turn, and was desperate—ready to +do anything. I know there was a—— No, I can't tell you that; and it +doesn't matter. I'm not sure it isn't as well for her, and for me, +that she did get the money in the way she did." +</p> + +<p> +The Squire's face was very grave. "You know, Humphrey, if she has +deceived you, and is capable of this horrible theft, you ought to +satisfy yourself——" +</p> + +<p> +Humphrey broke down again, but recovered himself quickly. "Thank God, +I know everything," he said. "Everything that matters. She was +terrified. She turned to me. There's nothing between us. It's all +partly my fault. I'd been in debt myself, and hadn't helped her to +keep straight. And we'd had rows, and she was afraid to tell me +things." +</p> + +<p> +"Go on, my dear boy," said the Squire very kindly. +</p> + +<p> +"It's soon told. She heard Lady Sedbergh and Mrs. Amberley talking +about the hiding-place." +</p> + +<p> +"Was she in the room?" +</p> + +<p> +"She was just outside. The door was open." +</p> + +<p> +"She listened?" +</p> + +<p> +"Yes. She stayed outside, and listened. They went out by another +door, and she went into the room at once and took the necklace. She +pawned pearls here and there, going out in the evening, veiled, but in +a foolish, reckless way. I can't conceive why something didn't come +out at the trial. It was she who gave Rachel Amberley's name at that +place in the city. She's about the same height. But imagine the folly +of it! She says that it 'came over her' to do it, and she only did it +that once. She seems to have made up names at the other places." +</p> + +<p> +"Did she get rid of all the pearls?" +</p> + +<p> +"That's what I can't make out yet. She got enough money to pay up +everything; but not more. She can't say how much, but it can't +possibly have been what the pearls were worth. Perhaps she let some of +them go at an absurd value, which would be a reason for those who had +got them to lie low. I couldn't get at everything; there was so much +that I had to ask about; and she wasn't in a state—— Oh, she'd have +been capable of any folly—even throwing some of them away, if she got +frightened. We've been dancing on gunpowder. Clark knew all along; or +almost from the first." +</p> + +<p> +"Did she help her?" +</p> + +<p> +"Oh no. She was fond of her; she was the daughter of one of their +gardeners." +</p> + +<p> +"Are you <i>sure</i> she didn't help her? What do you mean—she was fond of +her?" +</p> + +<p> +"I mean that she might have given her away." +</p> + +<p> +"She knew at the time of the trial?" +</p> + +<p> +"Yes." +</p> + +<p> +"Did she threaten Susan, then?" +</p> + +<p> +"No. I think she never meant to do anything at all. Susan had given +her a lot of things. She was in with her to that extent—knew about +her dressmaking bills. And she wanted to marry Gotch, and Gotch is +loyal to us. She didn't want to make trouble. It was only Gotch being +kept hanging on about Canada that put it into her head that she had a +weapon." +</p> + +<p> +"But you say she threatened you. She must be a bad woman." +</p> + +<p> +"Well, I put her back up. She came to me and said she wanted something +done at once, and hinted that she knew things. I was angry at being +pressed in that way, and made her speak out. I believe, at first, she +thought I was in it; or she wouldn't have come to me in the way she +did. I soon disabused her of that idea, if she really held it, and I +was furious. I thought it was blackmail, as you did. I threatened to +have her up. That scandalised her, and she convinced me that she was +telling the truth. She told me to go and ask Susan, if I didn't +believe her. It was then, when she had burnt her boats, that she +threatened." +</p> + +<p> +"Well—however you look at it—it is blackmail. She's ready to +compound a felony. And we are asked to do the same. Humphrey, this is +a terrible story. It's the blackest day I've ever known. I don't +think I've quite taken it all in yet. Susan a thief! All that we've +said and thought about that other woman—and justly too, if she'd been +guilty—applies to—to one of ourselves—to a Clinton. I feel stunned +by it. I don't know what to say or do." +</p> + +<p> +His face was grey. His very tranquillity showed how deeply he had been +hit. +</p> + +<p> +"What we have to do," said Humphrey, "is to avert the disgrace to our +name. Fortunately that can be done. It isn't blackmail; Clark never +thought of it in that light, or she would have moved long ago. She +thought we were not treating Gotch well in refusing him what he asked, +after what he had done, and the promises we had made him. <i>He'll</i> +never know anything about it. Have him in and tell him that you will +lend him the money he wants. That cuts the whole horrible knot." +</p> + +<p> +The Squire made no answer to this. "She is <i>more</i> guilty than the +other woman," he went on, as if Humphrey had not spoken. "She stood by +and saw an innocent woman suffer. Humphrey, it was very base." +</p> + +<p> +"Mrs. Amberley <i>wasn't</i> innocent," said Humphrey. "She went to steal +the necklace, and found it gone. She <i>did</i> steal the star, and that +was what she was punished for. Her punishment was deserved. Besides, +it's over now. You know that she was let out. She has gone to +America. We shall never hear of her over here again." +</p> + +<p> +"It's a very terrible story," said the Squire again. "I don't know +what's to be done. I'm all at sea. I must—— Humphrey, why did you +make me promise to keep this a secret? Dick ought to be told. He's +got a cooler head than I have." +</p> + +<p> +"Dick shall <i>not</i> be told," said Humphrey, almost with violence. "Nor +anyone else. We've got to settle this between ourselves. Nobody must +suspect anything, and nobody must be put in the position of treating +Susan so that others will be tempted to talk about it. If she came +down here, and there were two besides you—and me—who knew what she +had done, it would be an impossible position. I've made up my mind +absolutely about that, and you gave me your word." +</p> + +<p> +"Susan down here!" repeated the Squire, in a tone that made Humphrey +wince. +</p> + +<p> +"You won't be asked to have more to do with her than is necessary to +keep away all suspicion," he said. "It isn't Susan you have to think +of—that's my business—it's yourself, and the whole lot of us. The +scandal doesn't bear thinking of if it comes out. Think what it would +mean. Think of all you said yourself about Mrs. Amberley. Think of +the whole country saying that about one of us; and saying much more, +because of what you said—of her keeping quiet about it. Oh, I'm not +trying to defend her—but think of the ghastly disgrace. We should +never hold up our heads again. Think of the dock for her—and prison! +Father, you must put an end to it. Thank God it can be done, without +touching your honour." +</p> + +<p> +The knife had gone right home. The Squire sprang up from his chair and +strode down the room again. "My honour!" he cried. "Oh, Humphrey, +what honour is left to us after this?" +</p> + +<p> +"Susan is sorry," Humphrey went on quickly. "Bitterly sorry. She has +been quite different lately. She had a terrible shock. She is +spending next to nothing now, and——" +</p> + +<p> +"Oh!" The Squire glared at him, looking more like himself than he had +done since Humphrey's disclosure. "She paid her debts out of stolen +money. Yes, she was different, when she thought the danger had been +removed, and that other woman was safe in prison. She was gay and +light-hearted when she came here at Christmas, with that—that crime on +her conscience. You say that as if it was to her credit!" +</p> + +<p> +"I don't!" said Humphrey sullenly. "But she is sorry now. She's +punished. It isn't for us to punish her again; and punish ourselves. +It's too ghastly to think about. Oh, what's the use of going on +talking about it, father, while the risk is still hanging over us? Let +me send a wire to Clark; or let Gotch do it, this evening. Then we can +breathe freely, and talk about all the rest later." +</p> + +<p> +The Squire took another turn down the room. "I won't be hurried into +anything," he said with some indignation. "I won't think of what may +happen until I've made up my mind, in case I should do something wrong, +out of fear. Oh, why can't you let me call in Dick?" +</p> + +<p> +"I won't. And you've <i>got</i> to think of what will happen. The name of +Clinton horribly disgraced—held up to the most public scorn—not a +corner to hide yourself in. It will last all <i>your</i> lifetime, and mine +too, and go on to your grandchildren. You will never know another +happy moment. The stain will never come out; it will stick to every +one of us." +</p> + +<p> +"Oh, that's enough," said the Squire, seating himself again. +</p> + +<p> +He turned sharply round again. "What do you want me to do?" he asked +angrily. +</p> + +<p> +"Send for Gotch—send for him now this moment—and tell him that you +have changed your mind. You will arrange to let him have the money he +has asked for, and he can go off as soon as he likes." +</p> + +<p> +"I'm to say I've changed my mind?" +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, of course. You don't want to set him wondering." +</p> + +<p> +"Then he will let this woman, Clark, know——" He began to speak more +slowly. +</p> + +<p> +"Yes. I shall go back to-morrow morning and see her. I shall have a +hold over her, and she will certainly keep quiet, for her own sake." +</p> + +<p> +"She will be liable to prosecution if the truth becomes known from any +other source." +</p> + +<p> +"It won't be. She is the only person who knows anything." +</p> + +<p> +"And <i>I</i> shall have compounded a felony too, if it becomes known." +</p> + +<p> +"No. That isn't so. <i>You</i> will have nothing to do with her at all. +You will never see her." +</p> + +<p> +"That's true. But she will know why I pay this money." +</p> + +<p> +"Not necessarily. No, she needn't know. I shall tell her I persuaded +you. She doesn't know you were so definitely against it. She thinks +it was just hanging fire." +</p> + +<p> +The Squire rose from his seat, and went to the empty fireplace, where +he took his stand, facing his son. +</p> + +<p> +He looked at him steadily, and said in a quiet but firm voice, "I won't +do it, Humphrey." +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap0302"></a></p> + +<h3> +CHAPTER II +</h3> + +<h4> +A VERY PRESENT HELP +</h4> + +<p> +Virginia among her flowers, in the sweet, old-fashioned retired garden +of the Dower House was a sight to refresh the eyes. She was gathering +a sheaf of long-stalked May-flowering tulips as Humphrey pushed open +the gate leading from the park, and came in. +</p> + +<p> +He was not able to keep all signs of the terrible blow that had been +dealt him, and the disappointment that had come of the appeal he had +just made to his father, from showing on his face; but he had schooled +himself, walking across the park, to a natural bearing. He had to make +another effort to avert such ruin and disgrace as would overwhelm him +utterly, and make the rest of his life a burden and a reproach. +</p> + +<p> +The sun was setting behind the tall elms that bordered the garden of +the Dower House. The rooks were busy with their evening conference. +The westward windows of the ancient, mellowed house were shining. +Peace and hope sat brooding on the fair, home-enchanted place, and a +lump sprang up in Humphrey's throat as he came upon it, and saw his +brother's wife, so sweet and gracious, protected here and shut in from +the ugliness of life, and quietly happy in her seclusion. The contrast +between Virginia in her garden, and the desperate wreck of his own +married life, was too poignant. He turned round to shut the door in +the wall, but by the time she had looked up and seen him he had +hardened himself against emotion. +</p> + +<p> +She gave a little cry of pleasure. "Why, Humphrey!" she said, "I had +no idea you were here. I am so glad to see you. I am all alone. Dick +has gone up to dine and sleep in London." +</p> + +<p> +The disappointment was so keen that his taut-stretched nerves gave way +for a moment, and he felt physically ill. +</p> + +<p> +"Why, what's the matter?" she said. "Is there any bad news? You look +dreadful, Humphrey." +</p> + +<p> +He forced a laugh. "I'm not very fit," he said. "But I had made sure +of seeing Dick, about something rather important. When will he be +back?" +</p> + +<p> +"To-morrow afternoon. But isn't there anything that I can do? Do tell +me, Humphrey. Dick has no secrets from me, you know." +</p> + +<p> +He was afraid to make any mystery. "Oh, it's only about the keeper, +Gotch," he said at once. "Clark is leaving us, and they want to get +married. They have both set their hearts on going to Canada, and I +came down to see if I could get the Governor to consent to helping +them. But he won't do it, and I was going to ask Dick if <i>he</i> could +possibly raise the money." +</p> + +<p> +"Oh, but, Humphrey—easily—if it isn't too much. What do they want?" +</p> + +<p> +"Three hundred pounds—only as a loan. He would pay it back after the +first year—in instalments—when he had got himself settled. He has a +fine opportunity waiting for him over there. He ought not to miss it. +I do feel that I owe him a lot. That scoundrel would have battered me +to death, very likely, if he hadn't come on the scene. I wish to +goodness I could give him the money myself. I <i>could</i> raise it, but it +would take time. I want to go back to-morrow and tell Clark that it is +all settled." +</p> + +<p> +"Oh, you shall, Humphrey. Let me do it for you. I have heaps of money +that I don't know what to do with. Dick won't let me spend a penny on +living here. I believe he hates to think he has married a rich woman. +I can write you a cheque now. Come indoors." +</p> + +<p> +The relief was enormous. But many things had to be thought of. It was +not only the money he had come for. He could have got that, as he had +said, elsewhere, and no sacrifice would have been too great to make for +it, if it had been all that was wanted. +</p> + +<p> +"My dear Virginia," he said, "you are generosity itself; but I +shouldn't like to take it from you without Dick knowing of it." +</p> + +<p> +"Oh, I shall tell him, of course. But he won't mind. Why should he?" +</p> + +<p> +"I don't know how he feels about Gotch going. The Governor is up in +arms at his wanting to leave Ken cote at all. Dick may feel the same, +for all I know." +</p> + +<p> +She laughed. "Oh, I see," she said. "We are up against the dear old +feudal system. I am always forgetting about that; and I do try so hard +to be British, Humphrey." +</p> + +<p> +Humphrey smiled. "You'll do as you are," he said. "I think myself +that every fellow ought to have his chance. If he sees his way to +doing well for himself it isn't fair to expect him to throw it away +just because he's your servant, as his fathers were before him." +</p> + +<p> +Virginia's face showed mock horror. "But, Humphrey!" she said, "this +is rank Radicalism! <i>What</i>! A man who can have as many blankets and +as much soup as he likes—to make up for the smallness of his +wages—has a right to go off and be his own master! To think that I +should hear such words from a Clinton!" +</p> + +<p> +Humphrey could not keep it up. He smiled, but had no light answer +ready. "Keepers get quite decent wages," he said, "and the Governor +was prepared to put Gotch into that new cottage he's building; do well +for him, in fact. That's why he thinks it ungrateful of him to want to +go, and won't help in any way. The question is whether Dick won't feel +the same." +</p> + +<p> +"Oh, I think not," she said. "Dick is getting quite democratic. I, +Virginia Clinton, have made him so. Why, the other day he actually +said that the will of the people ought to prevail—if we could only +find out what it was. He is getting on fast. No, Humphrey, I'm sure +Dick won't mind. If I thought he would, I wouldn't do it—without +asking him first. I am going to do it. I <i>want</i> to do it. I like to +think of a young man like Gotch, good and strong, going off to carve +himself out a place in a new country. You have all been very patient +with me, and I love you all dearly, but I shall <i>never</i> come to think +that it is a proper life for a man to spend all his days in bringing up +birds for other people to kill. Now who shall I make the cheque out +to—you or Gotch?" +</p> + +<p> +She was at her writing-table with her cheque-book in front of her, and +a pen in her hand. It was difficult to restrain her. But the cheque +was not all that Humphrey wanted. +</p> + +<p> +"Wait a minute," he said. "Let's get it right in our minds. Gotch +doesn't want charity." +</p> + +<p> +She put down her pen, and her delicate skin flushed. "I shouldn't +offer it to him," she said. "I hate charity—the charity of the +money-bags." +</p> + +<p> +"Oh, my dear girl!" he said, "I didn't mean to hurt you. We're a +clumsy race, you know; we think things out aloud. I was only wondering +what would be the best way." +</p> + +<p> +She smiled up at him, standing over her, her momentary offence gone. +"Why, of course," she said. "We must help him without putting him +under any obligation. How shall we do it?" +</p> + +<p> +"You see, the money ought to come from the Governor, or Dick. If you +or I were to give it him, and they had no hand in it, he would be +leaving Kencote under a sort of cloud. He wouldn't want that, and I +shouldn't like it for him. And I don't want the money to come from me. +That would look as if I thought a money payment would be a suitable +acknowledgment of what he did in coming to my rescue." +</p> + +<p> +There was more earnestness in his voice than his words seemed to +warrant. Virginia looked a little puzzled. But her brow cleared +again. Perhaps this was only one of those little niceties of feudal +honour which she never did and never would understand. +</p> + +<p> +"Well then, I'll tell you what I'll do," she said. "Let us go to Gotch +together, and I'll give him my cheque and tell him that it comes from +Dick, who is away." +</p> + +<p> +He breathed deeply. "Are you sure Dick won't mind?" he asked. +</p> + +<p> +"Quite sure. He said the other day that Gotch ought to be allowed to +go if he wanted to." +</p> + +<p> +"Did he really say that, Virginia?" +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, it was when your father settled that the other man should have +the new cottage. No, Dick won't mind. By the bye, are you sure that +Mr. Clinton won't? If he objects to Gotch going——" +</p> + +<p> +"He objects to helping him to go. I told him I should ask Dick." +</p> + +<p> +"What did he say?" +</p> + +<p> +"He said he should wash his hands of it." +</p> + +<p> +"Oh, then, that's all right. Here is the cheque; we'll go and find +Gotch, and give it him, and wish him joy. There is just time before +dinner." +</p> + +<p> +"Virginia," said Humphrey devoutly, "you are an angel." +</p> + +<p> +That night Humphrey and his father sat up late together. +</p> + +<p> +The Squire had gone through a terrible time since Humphrey had left him +to go down to the Dower House, with the words, "Whatever you do, or +don't do, I'm going to fight hard to save our name." All the usual +outlets through which he was accustomed to relieve the pressure of an +offence were denied him. Irritability would cause remark. And this +was too deep and dreadful an offence to create irritability. High +words would not assuage it; cries raised to heaven about the +ingratitude of mankind, and his own liability to suffer from it, had +been used too often over small matters to make them anything but a +mockery as applied to this great one. He was stricken dumb by it. +</p> + +<p> +The night was black all around him. There was no light to guide his +steps. Even the one he had already taken he was in doubt about, now he +had taken it. He did not question his own action in refusing to cut +the knot. He had simply felt unable to do it, and had followed that +light, as far as it had led him. But when Humphrey had gone away to +find Dick, and ask him to provide money for Gotch, without telling him +why it <i>must</i> be found, somewhere or other, he had hoped that Dick +would consent; and this troubled him. +</p> + +<p> +When he went upstairs to dress for dinner, after sitting motionless in +the library for over an hour, he locked the door and knelt down by the +bed in his dressing-room and prayed to God for help in his trouble and +guidance in his difficulties. He had felt increasingly, as he sat and +thought downstairs, that prayer was the only thing that would help him; +but he could not kneel down in the library, and it was dishonouring to +God Almighty not to kneel down when you prayed. So he went upstairs, +earlier than his wont, to the bedside at which he had said his daily +and nightly prayers for over forty years. He never slept in this bed; +it was the altar of his private devotions, which were never +pretermitted, although by lapse of time they had slid into a kind of +home-made liturgy, which demanded small effort of spirit, and less of +mind. But now he prayed earnestly, with bowed head and broken words, +repeating the Lord's Prayer at the close of his petitions, and rising +from his knees purged somewhat of his fears, and supported in his deep +trouble. +</p> + +<p> +At dinner he was a good deal silent, but not perceptibly brooding over +disclosures made to him, as Humphrey had feared of him. He even smiled +once or twice, and spoke courteously to his wife and affectionately to +Joan. He took Joan's hand in his as she passed him to go out of the +room with her mother, and she gave him a hug, and a kiss, which he +returned. She thought that Humphrey had told him about Bobby Trench's +engagement, and this was his way of showing that she was finally +forgiven for rejecting that fickle suit. But it was his desire to find +contact with innocence, and the tranquillity of his home, that had +prompted the caress. +</p> + +<p> +"Dick has gone up to London," he said, raising his eyes, when Humphrey +had shut the door and come back to the table. +</p> + +<p> +"Yes," said Humphrey. "But Virginia had the money, and said that Dick +would like her to give it. He had told her that Gotch ought to be +helped to go away." +</p> + +<p> +"He never said that to me," said the Squire, with no clear sense of +relief at the news, except that it meant that a decision had been taken +out of his hands. +</p> + +<p> +"Well, he had said it to her, or she wouldn't have done it. She and I +went to Gotch together. She said just the right things, and he was as +grateful as possible. He takes it that he's forgiven for holding out. +I told him that you wouldn't do it yourself after all you had said, but +you had withdrawn your opposition." +</p> + +<p> +"Why do you say these things, Humphrey?" asked the Squire, in a pained +and almost querulous voice. "None of them are lies, exactly, but they +are not the truth, either." +</p> + +<p> +"I shouldn't care if they <i>were</i> lies," said Humphrey. "I'm long past +caring about that." +</p> + +<p> +The Squire sighed deeply. "I won't talk about it over the table," he +said, rising, and leaving his glass of port half full. "We will go and +ask Joan to play to us, and talk in my room later." +</p> + +<p> +As Joan played, he sat in his chair thinking. Relief was beginning to +find its way into his sombre thoughts. He took it to be in answer to +his prayer. If you took your difficulties to God, a way of escape +would be opened out. The old aunts who had brought him up in his +childhood had impressed that upon him, and he had never doubted it, +although he had had no occasion hitherto to try the experiment. He had +not made it a subject of prayer when Walter had so annoyed him by +refusing to take Holy Orders with a view to the family living, and +insisted on studying medicine, which no Clinton had ever done before; +or when Cicely had gone off to stay in London without a with-your-leave +or a by-your-leave; or when Dick had gone against his strong wishes and +insisted upon marrying Virginia; or when Humphrey had come to him with +debts; or even when Joan had refused to make a marriage which he +thought to be well for her to make. Soothed by Joan's playing, his +thoughts ran reflectively through these and other disturbances and +difficulties that had marked his otherwise equable, prosperous life, +and he saw for the first time how little he had really had to complain +of. +</p> + +<p> +But that enlightenment only seemed to deepen the black shadows that lay +in the gulf opened out before him. The props of position and wealth +that had sustained him were of no avail here. They had supported him +in other troubles; they would only make this one worse to bear. It +would find him stripped naked for the world to jeer at. This was the +sort of trouble in which a man wanted help from above. +</p> + +<p> +And the help had come, promptly; perhaps all the more promptly because +he had acted uprightly. He could not have given in to Humphrey's +request, whatever the consequences, knowing what he did. But that it +should have been immediately met, in a way to which no objection could +be taken, elsewhere, seemed to show that it was not the will of God +that disgrace should overwhelm the innocent as well as the guilty. He +could look that disgrace in the face now, or rather in the flank, as a +peril past; and he went through almost unendurable pangs as he did so. +He turned in his chair, and the perspiration broke out on his brow as +the horror of what he had escaped came home to him. He thanked God +that he had acted aright. If he had pictured to himself fully what +might come from his refusal, he might have stained his honour with +almost any act that would avert such appalling humiliation. +</p> + +<p> +When he and Humphrey were alone together he spoke with more of his +usual manner than he had hitherto done. "I can't justly complain of +what you have done," he said. "Whether it would have been right to +take any steps to save Susan herself from the consequence of what she +has done—to hush it up—fortunately we haven't got to decide on. We +can leave that in the hands of a higher power." +</p> + +<p> +"She has been pretty well punished already," said Humphrey. "Right or +wrong, I'm going to do what I can to keep the rest of her life from +being ruined. Thank God, it <i>has</i> been done." +</p> + +<p> +"Well, I think I can say 'Thank God' too. Others would have had to +suffer—grievously—and, after all, no wrong has been done to anybody. +With regard to Gotch, I can wash my hands of it. I couldn't have given +him money myself, knowing what I did, and you must take the +responsibility of it—with Dick." +</p> + +<p> +"Oh, I'll take the responsibility," said Humphrey with a shade of +contempt. "It won't trouble my conscience much." +</p> + +<p> +"But now we have to consider what is to be done," said the Squire. "I +can't have Susan here, Humphrey. She must never come here again. I +won't add to your troubles, my boy, by talking about what she has done. +I couldn't trust myself to do it. But I couldn't see her and behave as +I always have done. It would be beyond my power." +</p> + +<p> +"Very well," said Humphrey shortly. "I'll shoulder that, with the +rest." +</p> + +<p> +The Squire looked at him. "What are you going to do?" he asked. +</p> + +<p> +"What do you mean? With her?" +</p> + +<p> +"Yes. How are you going to live together, after this?" +</p> + +<p> +"As we always have done. I took her for better or worse. I'm going to +do my duty by her. I'm going to protect her first of all from +suffering any more; and then I'm going to help her to live it +down—with herself. I haven't helped her much, so far. She is weak, +and I've been weak with her—weak and selfish. I've got something more +in me than I've shown yet, and now's the time to show it, and to help +her on as well as myself." +</p> + +<p> +The Squire was deeply touched. "My dear boy," he said, "I'm glad to +hear you talk like that. Yes, you're right; you must be right. One +can't judge of her leniently, perhaps, but what she must have gone +through at the time of that trial—and before! You will be able to +work on her; and nobody else could. Perhaps, later on—I don't know—I +might bring myself—-" +</p> + +<p> +"I don't know that you need. I am going to take her away for some +time—for some years, perhaps." +</p> + +<p> +"What! You're not going to live in your new house?" +</p> + +<p> +"No. I couldn't, yet awhile. So far, I've talked as if nothing +mattered except getting clear of this horrible exposure that threatened +us. I can't feel that anything does matter much until that is done. +But that's not all I have been thinking of, father, since this blow +came to me. It has gone pretty deep. I couldn't go on living the same +sort of life, under rather different surroundings, but amongst people +that we have known, and who would expect us to be just the same as we +have always been. We've got to start together afresh, and get used to +ourselves—to our new selves, if you like to put it so. We're going +abroad. Susan is ill now, and we can make it seem natural enough. We +shall stay abroad for some time, and then I shall let the house, if I +can, so that it won't seem odd that we shouldn't come back. In a few +years, if we want to, we can come back; and then perhaps we shall live +there." +</p> + +<p> +"Well, it wants thinking over carefully, Humphrey; but I think you are +right. Still, I shouldn't like to lose sight of you—for years." +</p> + +<p> +Humphrey was silent. +</p> + +<p> +"I don't know—perhaps I was rather hasty, just now, when I said I +couldn't have Susan here. I couldn't, now. But later on—— Oh, my +boy, I don't want to make it harder for you than it is already. You've +set yourself a big task. God help you to carry it through! Bring her +here, Humphrey, in a year or so. I'm your father; I'll do what I can +to help you." +</p> + +<p> +"Thank you, father. You've been very good." +</p> + +<p> +"If you want any money——" +</p> + +<p> +"Oh no. We shan't be spending much—not for a long time." +</p> + +<p> +Neither spoke for some minutes. Then the Squire frowned and cleared +his throat. "There's one thing that has to be done," he said. +"The—the taking of that necklace—Lady Sedbergh's—she has had this +loss——" +</p> + +<p> +"You mean about paying back the money. I've thought of that. I must +do it by degrees. That's one reason why I'm going abroad. I can save +more than half my income." +</p> + +<p> +"Oh, you've thought of that." +</p> + +<p> +"Yes. You didn't suppose I was going to hush it up, and do nothing +about the money! I've not quite come down to that, father." +</p> + +<p> +"Oh no, no, my boy. Only—well, it didn't occur to me for some time. +But how could you do it—if it were left to you? How could you send +money by degrees?" +</p> + +<p> +"I haven't thought much about how to do it. Perhaps I should have to +wait until I had got it all. Then I could send it in a lump, from some +place where it couldn't be traced." +</p> + +<p> +The Squire spoke after a thoughtful pause. "I don't like that, +Humphrey." +</p> + +<p> +"Well, there is plenty of time to think out a way. I haven't got a +penny of it yet." +</p> + +<p> +"No; and it can't wait until you have saved it. I should never have a +moment's peace of mind while it was owing. I must help you there, +Humphrey. It's what I can do to help." +</p> + +<p> +"Oh no, father. It's part of the price. I mean to pay it. It will +keep it before us—going short. I wish I could have raised the money +at once. I wish you hadn't made old Aunt Laura put that clause into +her will." +</p> + +<p> +The Squire rather wished he hadn't, too. Seven thousand pounds was a +large sum to find. Something like thirty thousand pounds had been left +to Humphrey, with reversion to Walter and his children. But the Squire +had advised that Humphrey should be restrained from anticipation of his +life interest, and this had been effected. +</p> + +<p> +"Well," he said, "that's done. But this money must be paid at once. +It will only be fair to the others, Humphrey, that it shall come off +your share. But I will find it for you now. If you like to pay it, or +some of it, back again, I won't say no. But that shall be as you like. +It will be the same in the end." +</p> + +<p> +"You are very good, father. But how can you do it without Dick's +knowing?" +</p> + +<p> +"Dick doesn't take part in all my affairs; only in matters that have to +do with the land. I can raise it without affecting the estate +accounts. He will know, probably, that something is being done, but he +won't ask questions. Dick is very careful not to touch on my right to +do what I please with my own." +</p> + +<p> +At any other time Humphrey would have been interested in this +statement. Like the sons of many rich men, he knew little of his +father's affairs, and had only the vaguest ideas as to the amount and +sources of his wealth. But he was only interested now in the fact that +his father was able, and willing, to provide so large a sum as seven +thousand pounds at once. +</p> + +<p> +"It would be a tremendous relief to be rid of that burden," he said. +"If you can do it, I would pay you back what I don't spend out of my +income." +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, I can do it, and I will, as soon as possible. But, Humphrey, my +boy, this money can't be sent anonymously." +</p> + +<p> +"Why not?" +</p> + +<p> +"I don't think you can be expected to see everything very clearly yet. +If you will think it over, you will see that we can't act in that way. +You mustn't expect me to do it." +</p> + +<p> +Humphrey thought for a time. "What do you suggest?" he asked. +</p> + +<p> +"Either you or I must make a clean breast of it to Sedbergh!" +</p> + +<p> +"Oh, father!" +</p> + +<p> +"Yes. That must be done. Our honour demands it. You will see it +plainly enough if you think it over. I believe you were right in +stipulating for secrecy on my part, as you did. Certainly I couldn't +behave as I want to do to Susan, when the time comes, if I knew that +others in the house besides myself knew her story. But this is +different. We mustn't act like cowards." +</p> + +<p> +"Isn't he annoyed with us—about Joan?" +</p> + +<p> +"Not annoyed. He was sorry. So was I—though I'm not sure now. I +think my first instinct was the right one. The sort of life that's +lived in houses like Brummels—well, you see what it leads to." +</p> + +<p> +It was the old familiar song; but set to how different a tune! +Humphrey, even in his pre-occupation, noted the change, and felt a +sense of comfort and support in something stable, underlying the +habitual crudities and inconsistencies in his father. +</p> + +<p> +"Jim Sedbergh was a very intimate friend of mine," said the Squire, +"many years ago. He is a friend still. We found we hadn't changed +much to each other when he came here. I can trust him as I would trust +myself. He will take the view I do, whatever it is. You had better +let me see him, Humphrey. He'll keep whatever I tell him to himself." +</p> + +<p> +They settled that he should go up to London the next day. That was all +there was to settle for the present, and it was already very late. +</p> + +<p> +"Well, good night, Humphrey, my dear boy," said the Squire. "You'll +get through this great trouble. We shall all get through it in time. +You know where to go for help and comfort. I've been there already, +and I've got what I went for. God bless you, my dear boy. He will, if +you ask Him." +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap0303"></a></p> + +<h3> +CHAPTER III +</h3> + +<h4> +THE BURDEN +</h4> + +<p> +"My dear Edward, I am deeply sorry for you." +</p> + +<p> +The Squire leant back in the big easy-chair and wiped his brow, which +was beaded with perspiration. He had told his story, and it had been +the bitterest task he had ever undertaken. +</p> + +<p> +Lord Sedbergh's face was very serious. The two men had lunched +together at his club, and were sitting in the inner upstairs library, +with coffee and liqueurs at their elbows, by the window looking on to +the green of the park—two men of substantial fortune and accredited +position, entrenched in one of the rich retreats dedicated to the +leisure of their exclusive kind. +</p> + +<p> +But the Squire's curaçoa was untouched, and his cigar had gone out. +The retired and tranquil luxury of his surroundings brought no sense of +refuge; he felt naked before those others of his untroubled equals who, +out of hearing in the larger room, would have looked up with +reprehensive curiosity if they could have imagined what breath from the +sordid outer world was tainting the temple of their comfort. +</p> + +<p> +"I appreciate your courage in coming to tell me this; it must have cost +you a deal. But I almost wish you hadn't." +</p> + +<p> +The Squire sat forward again, and drank his liqueur at a gulp. +</p> + +<p> +"I couldn't leave it as it was," he said. +</p> + +<p> +"Perhaps not; though most men in your case would have been inclined to +do so. Have another cigar, Edward. That one hasn't lighted well." +</p> + +<p> +The Squire accepted this offer. The worst was over; and his friend had +taken the disclosure with all the kindness he had expected of him. +</p> + +<p> +"I couldn't do anything myself to stop its coming out," he said, when +his wants had been supplied. "But I can't find it in my heart to blame +Humphrey for what he did. You couldn't say that this money that has +been paid to somebody who knows nothing about it, by somebody who knows +nothing about it, is in any way hush-money." +</p> + +<p> +Whether you could or not, Lord Sedbergh was not prepared to say it. +"No, no," he said comfortably, "you were quite right there, Edward. +You acted honourably—nothing to reproach yourself with. But what an +astonishing story it is! To think that we were wrong all the time! +And Susan Clinton, of all people! Did you say she was hidden in the +room when my wife was talking about the secret?" +</p> + +<p> +His mind was running on details which had long ceased to occupy the +Squire. His curiosity had to be satisfied to some extent, and his +surprise vanquished, before he was ready to consider the story in its +actual bearings. Without intending to add to the pangs of his friend, +he made clear by the way he discussed it, the position that Susan must +occupy in the view of anyone not influenced by the fact of +relationship. She was the thief, found out and condemned, to the loss +of all reputation and right of intercourse with her equals. So had +Mrs. Amberley been condemned, by the self-protective code of society. +The Squire saw Susan in Mrs. Amberley's place, more vividly and +afflictively than he had seen her hitherto. +</p> + +<p> +"She will be kept out of the way," he said, struggling against the hurt +to his pride. "Humphrey is going to take her abroad. You don't think +it is necessary for anyone else to know?" +</p> + +<p> +"Oh no, no. Good heavens, no! What you have told me shall be kept +absolutely sacred, Edward. I shouldn't breathe a word, or a hint, to +any living soul." +</p> + +<p> +The Squire breathed more freely. "We shall look after her," he said +with a stronger feeling of the measure to be dealt out to the culprit +than he had yet experienced. "She won't go scot-free. But exposure +would bear so hard on the innocent—I couldn't have come to you, I +believe—though I know it's the only right thing to do—if I hadn't +been pretty sure that you would have felt that." +</p> + +<p> +"Oh, of course, I feel it. It mustn't happen. It won't happen. It +needn't happen." +</p> + +<p> +"Thank you, Jim," said the Squire simply. "You were always a good +friend of mine." +</p> + +<p> +"Don't think any more of it, Edward. Lord, what a terrible time you +must have gone through! Let's put it out of our minds, for good. You +and I have done nothing wrong, at any rate. Why shouldn't we sustain +ourselves with another——" +</p> + +<p> +"There's a detail that has to be settled between us," interrupted the +Squire, "before we can put it aside. What did you value that necklace +at? Seven thousand pounds, wasn't it? I have been to my people this +morning. I can let you have it within a week or ten days." +</p> + +<p> +"That's a matter," said Lord Sedbergh after a pause of reflection, +"that can only be considered with the help of some very old brandy. It +hadn't occurred to me." +</p> + +<p> +"Wonderful stuff this." Neither of them had spoken since the brandy +had been ordered. "I don't believe you'll get anything like it +anywhere else. Well now, my dear Edward, I think we shall have to +leave that business alone." +</p> + +<p> +"Oh, I couldn't do that. Humphrey doesn't want to, either. He +mentioned it before I did. It is he who will pay it in the long run. +That's only fair. But I can provide the money now, and he can't." +</p> + +<p> +"Well, I don't want the money; and I'm glad to be in the position of +being able to say so. What could I do with it? Buy another necklace? +That would be running the risk of questions being asked that it might +be difficult to answer." +</p> + +<p> +"I don't think so. You are rich enough to be able to replace an +heirloom—it was an heirloom, wasn't it?—and make up to your wife what +has been lost, without occasioning remark. Oh, you must take the +money, Jim. You're as generous as any man living—I know that. But +the loss cannot fall on you, now it is known where the money went to. +That poor misguided creature had it and spent it. It would be a burden +on me all my life, if I couldn't put that right—and on Humphrey too. +He would feel it as much as I should." +</p> + +<p> +"I'm afraid you can't put it right," said Lord Sedbergh, speaking more +seriously. "And it's a burden that you and Humphrey will have to +shoulder. I'll do everything I can for you, Edward; but I won't carry +that burden." +</p> + +<p> +"What do you mean?" asked the Squire. +</p> + +<p> +Lord Sedbergh did not speak for a moment. Then he looked up and asked, +"What about Mrs. Amberley?" +</p> + +<p> +The Squire frowned deeply. The question was a surprise to him. He had +not thought much about Mrs. Amberley, except as an example of what +Susan might be made to appear before the world. +</p> + +<p> +"I ought to have told you how I regard that," he said unwillingly. "I +didn't, because it seems to me perfectly plain, and I thought you would +see it in the same light as I do." +</p> + +<p> +Lord Sedbergh waited for him to explain the light in which he saw it. +</p> + +<p> +"She isn't in prison any longer. They let her out, because she was +ill—or so they said. She's as free as you or I. Nothing that could +be done—somebody else suffering in the same way—would wipe out what +she has already undergone—and done with. Besides, it wasn't on +account of the necklace that she was sent to prison. It was on account +of the other thing; and that she did steal." +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, that's perfectly true. She has had no more than her +deserts—rather less in fact. No, you couldn't reinstate her by +publishing the truth." +</p> + +<p> +"Well, then, what's the difficulty?" +</p> + +<p> +"There's no difficulty, Edward, in my mind, about keeping quiet. It +would be too much to expect any man in your situation to bring the +heaviest possible misfortune on himself, and others, for the sake of +doing justice to someone who could hardly benefit by it. At least +that's how it seems to me." +</p> + +<p> +"Justice!" echoed the Squire. "There's no question of justice. She +was punished for something quite different. If she had been found +guilty of stealing the necklace, and were still undergoing punishment +for it, the whole question would be different altogether. Thank God, +we haven't got to face that question. It would be terrible. As it has +so mercifully turned out, no injustice is done to her at all. Can't +you see that?" +</p> + +<p> +"Well, do you think <i>she</i> would, if she were asked?" +</p> + +<p> +Lord Sedbergh did not leave time for his question to sink in. "My dear +fellow," he went on, "your course is as difficult as it could be. Who +am I that I should put my finger on any one of its difficulties, and +make it heavier? You have done nothing that I shouldn't have done +myself if I had been in your place. At the same time, you have to take +the responsibility for whatever you do, and I haven't." +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, I know that; and it's just what I want to do—put things right +wherever I can." +</p> + +<p> +"But you wouldn't be putting anything right by paying me money. You +would only be making me share your difficulties—your great and very +disagreeable difficulties; and that, with all the good will in the +world towards you, my dear Edward, I won't do." +</p> + +<p> +The Squire saw it dimly, and what he saw did not please him. Nor was +his light enough to prevent him from pressing his point. +</p> + +<p> +When Lord Sedbergh had combated it for some time, with firm good +humour, he said more seriously, "Can't you see that if this story were +ever to come out, and I had taken your money, I should be in a very +awkward position?" +</p> + +<p> +"It never will come out now." +</p> + +<p> +"That's your risk, Edward. I may be a monster of selfishness, but I +won't make it mine." +</p> + +<p> +When the Squire left the club half-an-hour later, his face was not that +of a man who had been set free of a debt of seven thousand pounds. +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap0304"></a></p> + +<h3> +CHAPTER IV +</h3> + +<h4> +THIS OUR SISTER +</h4> + +<p> +"Clinton. On the 16th inst. the Lady Susan Clinton, aged 28." +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p> +How could such an announcement, to the Squire reading it in the +obituary column of his paper, cause any emotion stronger than the +feeling that all was for the best? +</p> + +<p> +For one thing, although the direct cause of Susan's death had been +pneumonia, there was little doubt, to him who knew the state of mind +she had been in when her illness had first attacked her, that she had +succumbed to that, and not to any ailment of the body, which, +otherwise, she could have shaken off. She had paid the price, poor +girl! The account as against her was closed, her name dropped from the +ledger. +</p> + +<p> +That she had died in full repentance, and would therefore escape the +ultimate fate of branded sinners, his easy creed allowed him to take +for granted. The very fact that she <i>had</i> died seemed to make her +state in the hereafter secure. For her it was well. +</p> + +<p> +And not less so for those whom she had, in the phrase that came readily +to his lips, left behind. Humphrey—poor Humphrey—who was overwhelmed +with grief, as it was only natural he should be, would come to feel in +time that her death had been, if not a blessing in disguise—which +would be a harsh way of putting it—then a merciful dispensation of +Providence. He had nothing to reproach himself with. He had cloven to +his wife at a time when he might, justifiably, have played a very +different part; had been prepared to share with her such of the +punishment for her crime as could not be avoided; had even +accepted—quixotically, as the Squire thought—part responsibility for +it; and in short had fulfilled his duty towards her with a fine loyalty +such as his father, remembering certain episodes in his career, had +hardly thought to be in him. He had been tried as by fire, and had +come well out of the ordeal, a better man in every way. +</p> + +<p> +No, Humphrey had nothing to reproach himself with. Indeed, it would +comfort him in the future to think that he had been tender to the poor +girl in her disgrace, comforted her, been ready to throw over the life +that suited him, so as to help her to recover herself, stood up for +her, when she could not with reason be defended, been with her at the +last, broken down when it was all over. His thoughts ran smoothly into +the worn phrases apt to these sad occasions, when grief is subdued to +not unpleasing melancholy, and melancholy is the shade of the tree of +death, in which we are sitting for a time, but with the sunshine of +life still before us. +</p> + +<p> +Humphrey was still young. He could travel for a time, if he wanted to, +or, perhaps better still, stay quietly at Kencote, until he had got +over his loss; and then he could take up his life as before. When time +had healed his wound he might even marry again. But that was to look +too far ahead, with poor Susan not yet under the ground, and the Squire +checked the thought at once. If she had lived he would certainly have +had a very difficult time with her. A high resolve is one thing; the +power to carry it out, day by day, when the exaltation in which it was +made has faded away, is another. Humphrey was not trained to such +efforts. He might have tired of it. Susan might have "broken out" +again. All sorts of trouble might have arisen, which—well, which, by +the mercy of Providence, it was not necessary now to conjecture. For +Humphrey, all was for the best. +</p> + +<p> +The Squire was glad, on his own account, that he had withdrawn his +embargo upon Susan's visiting Kencote, before this had happened. He +had been very near to imposing it again after his interview with Lord +Sedbergh; but Susan had even then been dangerously ill; and the +absorption caused by the rapid progress of her illness, and the +contingent comings and goings, had fortunately taken his mind off the +details of her past misdemeanour. He had been +preserved—mercifully—from dealing his son that extra blow. +</p> + +<p> +And yet he doubted whether he would have been able to play his part +with her. It was plain now, whatever it had been when he had walked +down the steps of Lord Sedbergh's club, that strong reproaches would +not have helped matters; that nothing he had had it in his mind, then, +to do or say to ease himself of the burden, whose weight his old friend +had made him compute by refusing to touch it, would have lightened it; +and that the effect of his knowledge would only have been to make +things more difficult alike for himself and for Humphrey. His anger +against the poor girl would be buried in her grave. It would not be +difficult to speak of her now with that regretful affection that would +be expected of him. +</p> + +<p> +And her death made him less vulnerable. He perceived now, not without +a shudder, that his safety depended upon the silence of a woman who, +wherever the responsibility lay, had been bought, and might be bought +again; or, if that were unlikely, might lightly let loose the hint +which, gathering other hints to itself, would grow into the avalanche +that would involve him in the disgrace he so much feared. But an +accusation against a dead woman—if it were made it would be less +readily believed, more reprehensible, easier to cast off. And Susan +would not be there, a possible weakness to her own defence. +</p> + +<p> +Here again he checked his thoughts. He was not ready to face a +situation in which he would either have to deny untruthfully, or to +keep damaging silence. But, certainly, for him, all was for the best. +</p> + +<p> +Dick came in, as he was sitting with the paper on his knee. He wore a +black tie, but was otherwise dressed as usual. His face was becomingly +grave. They talked over details of the funeral. Susan was to be +buried at Kencote, in the churchyard where so many generations of +Clintons had been buried, her own distant ancestors among them, but +none within living memory who had not lived out the full tale of their +years. Her body would lie in the church that night, and the house +would fill up with many of those who would follow her to the grave on +the morrow, including some members of her own family, all of whom the +Squire disliked or was prepared to dislike. He ardently wished himself +done with the painful ordeal. He doubted whether he would be able to +acquit himself unremittingly in the manner that would be expected of +him. He would have to wear a face of gloom, when he was already +itching to be rid of these cheerless trailing postscripts to the +message of death, and commit himself once more to the warm current of +life. He would have to say so many things that he did not feel, and do +so much that he hated doing. +</p> + +<p> +The shadow, not of grief but of the adjuncts of grief, lay over the +house, and darkened the bright June sunshine, or such of it as was +allowed to filter through the blinded windows. Not for fifty years or +more had such an assemblage been made at Kencote. The successive +funerals of the Squire's six aunts, who had lived since his marriage at +the Dower House, and the last of whom had died at another house in the +village only two years ago, had been untroublous, not to say brisk, +ceremonies, occasions of meeting between seldom-seen relations, and of +hospitality almost festive, but tempered by affectionate reminiscence +of the departed, and the feeling that one might talk naturally and +freely, so long as one did not actually laugh. Ripe age had fallen on +the rest laid up for it; there had been no occasion to feign deep +sorrow. +</p> + +<p> +But—"the Lady Susan Clinton, aged 28"!—there was material for sharp +sorrow there; and the Squire was disturbed by the fear that he might +not be able to show it; might even, if he were off his guard, show that +he did not feel it. +</p> + +<p> +"Did you hear from mother this morning?" asked Dick, when they had +disposed of the details he had come to discuss. +</p> + +<p> +"Yes. Humphrey is bearing up; but, of course, poor fellow, he can't +get used to the idea yet. We must keep him here for a bit, after we +rid the house of all these people; and he'll soon come round to +himself." +</p> + +<p> +"Was there any trouble between them latterly?" Dick asked, in a +matter-of-fact voice, but gave the Squire time to collect his thoughts +by going on immediately, "I don't want to pry into your affairs or his, +but I had an idea that that business of Gotch's wasn't all he came to +see you about the other day." +</p> + +<p> +"Why do you think that?" asked the Squire with undiplomatic directness. +</p> + +<p> +"Well—your going up to town with him the next day, for one thing. I +only wanted to say that if it's a question of money again, which hasn't +been put right by poor Susan's death, you can count on me for help if +there's any difficulty in raising it." +</p> + +<p> +What a good son this was—safe, level-headed, coolly and responsibly +generous! The Squire would have given a good deal to have been +released from his promise, and able to take him into full confidence +then and there. +</p> + +<p> +"Well," he said, "there <i>was</i> trouble about money, and I was prepared +to find it, without interfering with estate affairs. That's why I +didn't come to you. But the necessity is over now." +</p> + +<p> +He mentally patted himself on the back for this masterpiece of +statement, transgressing the strict truth by no more than perfectly +allowable omission. +</p> + +<p> +"Her settlement falls in, I suppose," said Dick. "I'm glad you were +spared the worry, although the way out of it is sad enough. I've been +sorry for Humphrey for some time. He had come to see that he had +always played the fool about money, and was beginning to get his ideas +straight; but poor Susan—well, one doesn't want to think about her in +that way now—but there's no doubt she was a terrible drag on him. I'd +seen it coming for some time, and when he talked to me at Christmas +about settling down, I was pretty sure that he didn't know everything, +and would be coming with another story soon." +</p> + +<p> +"Why did you think that?" asked the Squire, with the sensation of +treading on very thin ice. +</p> + +<p> +"Oh, it was common talk of how she was going on—<i>had</i> been, I should +say, for she did seem to have calmed down within the last year. +Otherwise, I think I should have made up my mind to give Humphrey a +hint, disagreeable as it would have been. Things were being hinted at +about a year ago that made me think we might find ourselves involved in +some bad scandal before we were much older." +</p> + +<p> +"Oh, Dick," the Squire broke out, "we mustn't talk like this about a +dead woman. Humphrey told me everything. It's all wiped out and done +with now, for her, poor girl." +</p> + +<p> +"Yes," said Dick. "But I'm not going to pretend that I think her death +is a calamity. I don't; although any feeling one may have had against +her is wiped out, as you say. In fact, if she had begun to pull +herself up, as I think she had, and had got it all off her mind before +she died, as I suppose she did, it's possible to feel kindly towards +her. Still, I think she had made too big a mess of things. It would +have come between them. As it is, he'll be able to think of her +without bitterness. He'll get over the shock in time." +</p> + +<p> +This was all so much what the Squire felt himself, summed up as it +might have been in the comfortable phrase, "all for the best," that its +effect upon him was much the same as if he had had the relief of +telling Dick everything. He cheered up palpably, until he remembered +what lay immediately in front of him; but faced even that with more +equanimity, upheld by Dick's sympathetic support, and relieved of some +doubt as to whether his thoughts about poor Susan were quite of the +right colour. +</p> + +<p> +The afternoon train, which in the course of these histories we have so +often met at Kencote Station, brought the coffin and the mourners. +Humphrey looked pale and worn, but collected. He stood with his +mother's arm in his while the coffin, covered with flowers, was taken +out of the purple-lined van, and lifted on to a hand bier. The church +was much nearer to the station than the house, and the little +procession walked there, past the cottages with blinds all drawn, and +the villagers standing by them, mostly in black, which only served to +heighten the bright colours of the flowers with which the gardens were +full. The sky was of the purest blue, and larks trilled unseen in its +translucent vapours, as if to draw the thoughts of the mourners away +from the earth in which they were presently to see these mortal remains +laid. The elms and chestnuts whispered of life going on and renewing +itself year by year until the end. The rich springing growth of early +summer in this quiet country village spoke of life and of hope; and the +black line of mourners moving slowly along was not incongruous with it, +if the poor clay they were escorting was really only the husk from +which new life had already sprung. +</p> + +<p> +The Squire, sobered to becoming gravity by the sight of the coffin, yet +felt his thoughts tuned to the beauty of the sky and the familiar +surroundings. It was he who had planned this walking escort. There +would be carriages, and a state suitable to the occasion on the morrow. +This was to be a home-coming, a token of his forgiveness of her for the +trouble she had caused him, a sort of last taste of the everyday life +of Kencote, into the intimacy of which she was finally to be received +as a daughter of the house. It appealed also to that sense of common +human life, which is the fine flower of squiredom. Death levels all; +he had no feeling that the cottagers standing at their garden gates +were intruding their curiosity, as was felt by Susan's mother for one, +who thought this public tramp between a station and a church an outrage +on her nobility. The cottagers were his friends on an occasion like +this, had a right to share mourning as well as festival with the family +in whose interests they were hereditarily bound up. He took comfort +from seeing them there. They were his people; without them this quiet +home-coming would have been incomplete. +</p> + +<p> +The coffin was taken into the chancel of the ancient church, and set +down over the brass of a knightly Clinton who had died and been buried +there five centuries before. Almost without exception those who +followed it were his direct descendants, and the same stones surrounded +them as had sheltered the mourners at his funeral. So many years, so +little change! Christening, marriage, burial—the renewal of life in +the same stock had gone on through the centuries. This new burial was +only a ripple in the steady, pauseless flow, and would have been no +more if the head of the house himself had lain where this poor, +foolish, erring girl, now hardly regretted, and soon to be forgotten, +was laid. +</p> + +<p> +A few prayers were said, and a hymn sung, and then she was left to lie +there alone. Shafts of sunlight would slant across the stones, and +fading, give place to twilight, then to dusk, then to darkness. The +church would be very still. Dawn would come, with the sweet twittering +of birds, and the sun would once more strike through the armorial glass +of the East window, and paint stone and timber with bright colour; and +still she would be lying there, dead to the glory of a new day as she +had been dead to the darkness of the night. Nothing would matter to +her any more. In a little while her dust would mingle with that of +long generations of Clintons forgotten, and her memory would pass away +as theirs had passed. Her life had been everything to her, her wants +and hopes and regrets the centre of her being. Now it was as if it had +never been—for her, lying in the still church. +</p> + +<p> +But her acts lived. The ripples she had caused in the pond of life +would spread, intersecting other ripples caused by other acts, until +they reached the border. +</p> + +<p> +When they had returned to the house Nancy went up with Joan into her +room—the room in which they had slept side by side for all but a few +nights in their lives until Nancy's marriage. There was only one bed +in the room now. +</p> + +<p> +"How odd it looks!" said Nancy. "Do you miss me, my precious old Joan?" +</p> + +<p> +"Of course I do," said Joan. "I had to make them take your bed out. +It made me feel so horribly lonely." +</p> + +<p> +"If John is ever unkind to me," said Nancy, "I shall come here and have +it put back." +</p> + +<p> +She checked herself. No vestige of a joke was to be allowed until +after to-morrow. She thought herself unfeeling for even inclining to +light speech. To her and Joan the death of someone not much older than +themselves was a startling thing; and the death of anyone so close to +them, in their inexperience of death, would have subdued them for a +time. +</p> + +<p> +"Let's go and talk in the schoolroom," Nancy said. "Nobody will come +there." +</p> + +<p> +They sat together on the old comfortable sofa, arms entwined. The +absence of sentiment with which they had been accustomed to treat one +another had given place to frequent signs of affection. They had +hardly been more together during their childhood than since Nancy had +come to Kencote after her honeymoon the day before. Their stream of +talk flowed unceasingly. Oceans of separate experience had to be +bridged. +</p> + +<p> +Now they put aside for a time their own affairs of the past and future, +and talked about the immediate present. +</p> + +<p> +"Did you speak to Humphrey?" Joan asked. "I didn't; but I thought he +looked awful." +</p> + +<p> +"He kissed me when we came in," said Nancy, "and said he was glad I had +come back in time. He spoke much the same as usual, but went away +directly. Joan, how awful he must be feeling! Just think what John +would feel if he were to lose me!" +</p> + +<p> +"You haven't been married so long," said Joan; but immediately added, +"I suppose that wouldn't make any difference, though. I do feel +frightfully sorry for Humphrey. I almost think it would have been +better if the funeral had been at once, instead of making it like two. +It must be awful for him to think of her lying there all alone in the +church. You know, Uncle Tom wanted to have tapers and somebody to +watch; but father wouldn't." +</p> + +<p> +"No; I didn't know that. Why?" +</p> + +<p> +"He said candles were Roman Catholic; and that there would be nobody +who wanted to watch. I think he was right there. You know, Nancy, I +think the saddest thing about it is that there is nobody who is very +sorry for poor Susan's death—except Humphrey. I don't think her own +people are. None of them looked it." +</p> + +<p> +"Lady Aldeburgh cried." +</p> + +<p> +"She pretended to. Her eyes were quite dry." +</p> + +<p> +"I liked Susan. So did you." +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, in a way. Perhaps not very much. I wish I had liked her more, +now. I <i>am</i> sorry, of course. But I feel much more glad at having you +again, than sorry because she is dead." +</p> + +<p> +Nancy gave her a squeeze. "I can't realise that she is dead," she +said, "that she was in that coffin. I felt just a little bit like +choking when Uncle Tom read that part about a place of rest and peace. +It was so dreadful to think of her being dead; but that seemed to alter +it all. If she is somewhere alive still—and happy!" +</p> + +<p> +"Yes," said Joan seriously. "I hope Humphrey is thinking about that." +</p> + +<p> +On the morrow there was a difficult time to get through before the +funeral, at twelve o'clock. The Squire took the "Times" into his room +when it came, but only glanced over it, standing up. He made occasion +to go to the Rectory, and to the Dower House, and spent some little +time at each; and the hour came round. +</p> + +<p> +It was over quickly. The large company walked and drove back to the +house, which stood once more normally unshuttered, and ate and drank. +There was a buzz of conversation in the crowded dining-room, which at +times swelled beyond the limits of strict propriety, and suddenly +subsided, only to rise and sink again. +</p> + +<p> +Departures began to be taken. This was the hardest time for the Squire +to go through, for he had to say something in answer to the words of +each. The end came with a rush, when most of those who had been +staying in the house, with those who had come down that morning, left +to take the special train back to London. +</p> + +<p> +When the last carriage had departed the Squire turned back into the +hall with a great sigh of relief. He went into his room and stood by +the open window, breathing deeply of the soft summer air, as if his +lungs had been cleared of some obstacle. "Well, that's over," he said +aloud as he turned away. +</p> + +<p> +The sound of his words checked him. He went to the window again, and +looked across the garden and the park to where the church tower showed +between the trees. "Poor girl!" he said slowly. And then, after a +pause, "Poor dear girl!" +</p> + +<p> +This satisfied him, and he went briskly to the table where the +newspapers were laid in order. +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap0401"></a></p> + +<h2> +BOOK IV +<br /><br /> +</h2> + +<h3> +CHAPTER I +</h3> + +<h4> +A RETURN +</h4> + +<p> +The Squire shut to the gate in the garden wall of the Dower House and +stepped out across the park. His face was lit up with gratification, +his step was as light as that of an elderly man of seventeen stone very +well could be. +</p> + +<p> +He had been to see Virginia, and she had given him the news that had +caused this elation. +</p> + +<p> +She had just come down from Scotland, where John Spence had taken a +moor, leaving Dick amongst the grouse. Mrs. Clinton was there too, and +Joan, and a large house-party besides. The Squire had been asked, but +it was many years since the twelfth had caused a stir in his movements, +and he had refused. Didn't care much about it; might come to them +later, when they moved down, for the pheasants. It was a not +unpleasant change for him to have the house entirely to himself. But +he had got a little tired of his solitary condition after a fortnight, +and had been extremely glad to see Virginia, who had come South to meet +a friend on her way from America to Switzerland. +</p> + +<p> +It seemed that young Inverell—the Earl of Inverell, twenty-seven years +of age, master of mines as well as acres, handsome and amiable as well +as high-principled—in fact the very type and picture of young +Earls—whose Highland property marched with that which John Spence had +rented, had been constantly of their party, even to the extent of +putting off one of his own. +</p> + +<p> +The attraction? Joan. +</p> + +<p> +There could be no doubt about it, Virginia had said. He was head over +ears. And Joan was as gay as a lark. It was the sweetest thing to see +them together—a picture of adorable youth, and love, unspoken as yet, +but shining out of their eyes and ringing in their laughter for +everyone to see and hear. +</p> + +<p> +She had enlarged on the enchanting spectacle, and the Squire had +listened to her tale, not so much because he "cared about that sort of +thing," but so as to assure himself that it was undoubtedly a true one, +on both sides, and that Joan, especially, would not be likely to rebel +a second time. +</p> + +<p> +How providentially things worked out! Young Inverell was a <i>parti</i> +beside whom the eligibility of Bobby Trench paled perceptibly. Bobby +Trench, socially and financially, would have been a good match. This +would be a great one. If it would not "lift" the Clintons of Kencote, +which the Squire was persuaded no marriage whatever could do, it would +at least point their retiring worth. It would bring them into that +prominence in which, to speak truth, they had always been somewhat +lacking. +</p> + +<p> +And he was a nice young fellow too, so the Squire had always heard; +already beginning modestly to play the part in public affairs which was +expected of the head of his house; untouched as yet by the staleness of +the world, which had touched Bobby Trench so much to the Squire's +disgust, until he had closed his senses to it; and a fitting mate in +point of youth and good looks for a beautiful young girl like Joan, +which Bobby Trench could hardly have been said to be, in spite of his +ever youthful behaviour. +</p> + +<p> +Really, it was highly gratifying. It just showed that there was no +need to hurry these things. If Joan had taken the first person that +came along—a young fellow he had never thought much of himself, but +had allowed to take his chances out of old friendship to his +father—she would have missed this. The child was a good child. She +would do credit to any station. Countess of Inverell! Nothing in +that, of course, but—well, really the whole thing was highly +gratifying. +</p> + +<p> +Why hadn't his wife written about it? +</p> + +<p> +There was nothing in that. She always left out of her letters the +things she might have known he would like to hear. Virginia was quite +certain; and she could be trusted on such a subject, or indeed on any. +</p> + +<p> +Well, one got through one's troubles. It was extraordinary how +sunshine came after rain, or would be if one didn't believe in a wise +Providence overruling everything for our good. A few months ago there +had been that terrible affair, now buried and forgotten—— +</p> + +<p> +The brightness left his face as his thoughts touched on that subject. +It was buried, sadly, though perhaps mercifully, enough; but it was not +forgotten. It was thought of as little as possible, but the debt still +rankled—the debt that could not be paid. It came up at nights, when +sleep tarried, which fortunately happened seldom. But time was +adjusting the burden. It would not be felt much longer. +</p> + +<p> +The thought of it now came only as a passing shadow to heighten the +sunshine of the present. In fact this gleam of sunshine seemed to +remove the shadow finally. He had done, all that he could do, had kept +back nothing, had satisfied his honour. An obligation to so old a +friend as Sedbergh need not weigh on any man. +</p> + +<p> +It would be ungrateful not to recognise how plainly things had been +"ordered." Apart from the curious accidents of the problem—the fact +that "the woman" had not been condemned for <i>that</i> crime; that she had +already paid her penalty; that the other woman had been connected in +such a way that it had been possible to silence her by a perfectly +innocent transaction, carried out by perfectly innocent people—facts +surely beyond coincidence, and of themselves demanding belief in an +overruling Providence—apart from all this there had been poor Susan's +death, no longer demanding the least pretence of lamentation, but to be +regarded as a clear sign that the account had been squared and no +further penalty would be exacted. +</p> + +<p> +And now there was this new satisfaction, as a further most bountiful +token of favour. How was it possible that there could be those who did +not believe in a God above, when signs were so plain to those who could +read them? It would be churlish now not to throw off all disagreeable +thoughts of the past, and not to take full pleasure in the brightness +of present and future. +</p> + +<p> +As the Squire came round a group of shrubs that masked the lawn from +the carriage drive he saw a woman approaching the house. As he caught +sight of her she caught sight of him, changed her course, and came +towards him. +</p> + +<p> +He stopped short with a gasp of dismay. It was Mrs. Amberley. +</p> + +<p> +"Mr. Clinton," she said, "I have never had the pleasure of meeting you, +but I expect you know who I am. I have come down from London on +purpose to have a little talk with you." +</p> + +<p> +She had altered in no way that he could have described. She was +fashionably dressed, in a manner suitable for the country, her +wonderful hair had not lost its lustre, her face was still the +beautiful mask of whatever lurked in secret behind it. Yet she seemed +to him a thing of horror, degraded and stained for all the world to +see. And even the world might have been aware of some subtle change. +Whether it was that her neat boots were slightly filmed with dust, or +that her clothes, smart as they were, were not of the very latest; or +that it was no outward sign, but the consciousness of disgrace +affecting her bearing, however she might try to conceal it—whatever it +was, it was there. This was a woman who had come down very low, knew +that the world was against her, and would fight the world with no shame +for what it could still withhold from her. +</p> + +<p> +He stared at her open-mouthed, unable for the moment either to speak or +think. +</p> + +<p> +She laughed at him elaborately. "You don't seem very pleased to see +me," she said. "May we go into the house and sit down? I have walked +from the station, and am rather tired." +</p> + +<p> +"No," he said quickly, reacting to his immediate impulse. "You will +not enter my house." +</p> + +<p> +She looked at him with careful insolence. "Shall we go into the +churchyard?" she said, "and talk over Susan Clinton's grave?" +</p> + +<p> +The infamous taunt brought him to himself. "Come this way," he said, +and turned his back on her to stride off along a path between the +shrubs. +</p> + +<p> +She followed him for a few steps, and then, feeling probably that this +rapid progress in his wake did not accord with her dignity, stopped and +said, "Where are you taking me to, please? I haven't come here to look +at your garden." +</p> + +<p> +He turned sharply and faced her. "I am taking you to where we can be +neither seen nor heard," he said, and waited for her to speak. +</p> + +<p> +"Very well," she said. "That will suit me very well—for a <i>first</i> +conversation—as long as it is not too far, and I am not expected to +race there." +</p> + +<p> +He turned his back on her and went on again, but at a slower pace. +They went through a thick shrubbery and out on to a little sloping lawn +at the edge of the lake, which was entirely surrounded by great +rhododendrons. There was a boat-house here, and a garden seat, to +which he motioned her. +</p> + +<p> +She sat down, and looked up at him. "I am not going to talk to you +standing over me like that," she said. "It will be giving you an +unfair advantage." +</p> + +<p> +He sat down on the same seat, as far away from her as possible. +</p> + +<p> +"Well, what have you got to say for yourself?" she asked him, in much +the same tone as a schoolmaster might have asked the question of an +errant schoolboy. +</p> + +<p> +He said nothing. He had nothing to say. His thoughts were still in a +turmoil. +</p> + +<p> +Perhaps silence was the best retort to her air of insolence. She had +to find another opening. +</p> + +<p> +"You call yourself a man of honour!" she said in a slow contemptuous +voice. "You pay hush-money, so that the innocent may suffer, and the +guilty go free." +</p> + +<p> +"It's a lie," he said. "I paid no money. I refused to pay money." +</p> + +<p> +"Ah, then you did know everything. It was what I could not be quite +certain about. The story was confused. Thank you for clearing it up." +</p> + +<p> +He felt himself trapped at the first opening of his mouth. He would +need all his wits to cope with this shameless, cunning woman. He tried +to break through her deliberate artifices. "What do you want?" he +asked. "What have you come here for?" +</p> + +<p> +"You didn't pay the money yourself?" she went on. "That would hardly +have done, would it? You let somebody else pay it, and washed your +hands of it, I suppose." +</p> + +<p> +It had been his own phrase. Her chance lighting on it seemed to make +her uncannily aware of everything that had passed. How had she got +hold of her information? He had not had time to think about that yet. +</p> + +<p> +"I refused to pay anything," he repeated. "Nothing was paid to anybody +who had anything to do with you. I refuse to discuss these affairs +with you." +</p> + +<p> +"Oh, do you?" she taunted him. "Will you refuse to discuss them when +you are brought up on a charge of conspiracy? You will be allowed to +do it through Counsel, of course. They allowed me Counsel, when I was +brought up on a charge of stealing something that a member of your +family stole. I wish I could have done without him. I should have +liked to defend myself. But it will suit <i>you</i>. You can shelter +behind him. You seem rather good at that." +</p> + +<p> +"What do you want?" he asked her again. "What have you come here for?" +</p> + +<p> +"To talk it over quietly," she said, with the same mocking intonation. +"Do you want to know how I found out about it all? You seem to have +forgotten entirely that I <i>knew</i> that somebody staying in the house at +the same time that I was must have stolen the things. It wasn't very +difficult, afterwards, to decide on the thief. I have a few friends +still, Mr. Clinton, and I heard that your precious Susan, whom every +one knew to have been head over ears in debt, had suddenly and +miraculously become out of debt, and had money to throw about. I had +enquiries made, and heard that the woman whom you bought—I beg your +pardon, whom you made somebody else a cat's-paw to buy, so as to save +your own skin, had been sent over to the other side of the water, to +get her out of the way. It was the finger of Providence, I think, that +led me to follow her up. I expect you have been thinking that +Providence had been specially engaged in your interests; and it +certainly did look like it—for a time." +</p> + +<p> +Again the uncanny cognisance of his very thoughts! But this was only a +very clever woman, who knew her man, and his type. +</p> + +<p> +"I went over myself, and found her," she went on. "She was going West +to make a start on the money that her poor fool of a husband thought +had been given him for his own sweet sake. She didn't intend to +undeceive him. At one time I had had an idea of going 'West' myself. +You see I had been hounded out of London for the crime that one of you +Clintons had committed, and as you had so chivalrously left me to bear +the burden of it, and hushed up the truth, instead of clearing my name, +I didn't know then that I should be able to come back again. I wanted +to get away as far as possible." +</p> + +<p> +He was unendurably taunted. "Your name couldn't have been cleared," he +said. "You were not condemned for that; it was for stealing the other +thing; and that will stick to you still." +</p> + +<p> +She affected bewilderment, and then enlightenment seemed to come to +her, and she laughed. "Oh, that's it, is it?" she said. "Your mind +seems to run so much in twists and curves that anyone who expects a +straight sense of right and wrong in honourable men must be pardoned +for being a little slow in following them. But I didn't steal that +either, you know. The sainted Susan stole it as well as the +necklace—she was an expert in such things—and this woman Clark told +<i>my</i> woman about it—the one who committed perjury at my trial, and is +now going to suffer for it, if I can find her." +</p> + +<p> +The sneer at the dead girl pierced something in him which set his brain +clear. This was a wicked woman, and she was lying to him. "That's a +likely story!" he said with rough contempt, and she winced for the +first time, although, with his eyes on the ground, he did not mark it. +</p> + +<p> +"It is one that will keep for the present," she said, instantly +recovering her coolness. "Well, fortunately I was able to make friends +with Susan's maid. It is a way I have with that sort of person, +although it is true that my own brute of a woman gave me away." +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, she gave you away," said the Squire, more quick-witted than +ordinarily. +</p> + +<p> +"Lied about me, I ought to have said," she corrected herself, with a +blink of the eyelids. "I see I must be careful to choose my words. +Words mean so much with you, don't they? Acts so little. If you can +say you haven't paid a bribe, it doesn't in the least matter that you +have let it be done and taken advantage of it. Well, I made friends +with her to begin with. She had just heard of Susan's death and wanted +to talk about it. She couldn't keep her foolish mind off the +connection between me and Susan, and spoke in such a way that I soon +knew I had been right to follow her up. I drew her on—I have always +been considered rather clever, you know—and before she knew she had +done it she had let out her story. You may be sure I frightened her, +when I could safely do so, into telling me the whole of it. I heard +what a fright dear Humphrey was in—a nice young man that—came to my +trial, I believe, jingling the stolen money in his pocket." +</p> + +<p> +"That's not true," said the Squire. "He knew nothing of it whatever." +</p> + +<p> +"He may have told you so. But six or seven thousand pounds! To repeat +your own words: 'That's a likely story, isn't it?'" +</p> + +<p> +"He didn't know. You can go on." +</p> + +<p> +"Thank you. I heard how he came posting down here, to get the +hush-money; and how it came by return of post—telegraph, I believe; I +think he telegraphed to the woman, 'Blackmail will be paid,' I suppose, +'on condition do not say from father.'" +</p> + +<p> +She laughed at her jest. The Squire kept miserable silence. +</p> + +<p> +"Well, there it is," she said. "To use my words more carefully this +time—she gave you away. You never thought you could be given away, +did you? You thought you were safe. Your conscience hasn't troubled +you much, I should think, to judge by your healthy appearance. +Conscience never does trouble cowards much, when they can once assure +themselves they won't be found out." +</p> + +<p> +In the turbulent confusion of his mind, the Squire still clung to +certain fixities. He had acted for the best; he had acted so that the +innocent should not suffer; and if he himself had been amongst the +innocent who were to escape suffering, his own safety had not been his +chief thought. And if his actions, or his refraining from action, had +added to the burden justly borne by the guilty, that had been +inevitable if the innocent were to be saved; in any case it had added +so little that he could not be blamed for ignoring it. Cowardice at +least, he had thought, was no crime that could ever be laid to his +charge, and he had not shown it when he had braved all consequences in +refusing to lift a finger to avert the disaster that was now, in spite +of all, threatening him. +</p> + +<p> +But she was dragging from him all his armour, piece by piece. He let +it go, and clung to his naked manhood. +</p> + +<p> +"You may say what you like," he said, squaring himself and looking out +over the water in front of him. "I simply stood aside. What could +you—no, not you, what could anyone—have expected me to do? Publish +the truth—overwhelm the innocent with the guilty; and all for what? +For nothing. You were free. You——" +</p> + +<p> +"Free! Yes. They had let me out of prison, that's quite true. Would +<i>you</i> consider yourself free with that taint hanging over you? Was I +free to come back to my friends? Was I free even to settle down +anywhere where my story was known? Susan, the thief, was to be +sheltered, because she bore the honoured name of Clinton. <i>She</i> was to +go free. Yes. But <i>I</i>, who had taken her punishment, was to be left +to bear the bitter results of it all my life. What meanness! What +base cowardice!" +</p> + +<p> +He hardened himself, but said nothing. +</p> + +<p> +"Susan had stolen this necklace, worth thousands of pounds," she went +on. "She had——" +</p> + +<p> +"But not the jewel that you were imprisoned for stealing," he put in +again. +</p> + +<p> +"I have already told you that she did; and I can prove it by that +woman's evidence." +</p> + +<p> +He wavered, but stuck to his point. "I don't believe it," he said, +"and you can leave it out." +</p> + +<p> +"I will, because it doesn't really matter whether you believe it or +not. You will believe it when you see her in the witness-box." +</p> + +<p> +"You won't get her into the witness-box, to swear to that." +</p> + +<p> +"Well, we shall see. There's no sense in haggling with you over that. +We will leave it out, as you advised. I was talking about Susan. She +and your precious Humphrey had spent the money that they had got from +the sale, or pawning, or whatever it was, of the pearls she had stolen." +</p> + +<p> +"I have already said," he interposed quietly, "that Humphrey knew +nothing of it." +</p> + +<p> +"And I have already said, 'That's a likely story!' However, we need not +press the point now. Say she had had all the money if you like, and +that he—dear innocent—never noticed that she was spending some +thousands of pounds more than he allowed her. If you like to believe +that it's your affair; we shall have plenty of opportunities of judging +what view other people will take of it, by and by. At any rate, the +money was spent—the stolen money—and you, a rich man, can sit down +quietly and let somebody else bear the loss of it." +</p> + +<p> +He knew he was giving himself into her hands, but he could not help +himself. "That's not true," he said. +</p> + +<p> +She looked at him, her lip curling. "Oh! you sent it back—anonymously +perhaps. You did have that much honesty." +</p> + +<p> +"You can make what use of the admission you like," he said. "I told +Lord Sedbergh the story, and offered him the money." +</p> + +<p> +This set her a little aback. "<i>He</i> knows the truth, then," she +exclaimed. "Another man of honour! <i>He</i> lets me lie under the stigma +of having stolen something that he's got the price of in his pocket all +the time. Upon my word! You're a pretty pair! I'm not certain that +he's not worse than you are." +</p> + +<p> +He struggled with himself, but only for a moment, and then said, "He +refused to take the money." +</p> + +<p> +She was quick to take that up. "Oh! I see. Dear me, how I should +have enjoyed being present at that interview. You go to him with the +delightful proposal that he shall make himself party to your meanness, +and he refuses. Yes. I suppose he would. I've no reason to suppose +there are two men of supposed honour who could act quite as vilely as +you have done. Come now, Mr. Clinton, I've given you a piece of +gratuitous information. Supposing you return it by telling me what he +said to you. Did he tell you what he really thought of you, or only +hint it?" +</p> + +<p> +"Oh, let's have an end of this," he said, with agonised impatience. +"What have you come here for? What do you want?" +</p> + +<p> +Her manner changed. "Yes, we will have an end of it," she said, with +quick scorn. "It's useless to tell you what I think of your meanness, +and how I despise your cowardice. I should have respected you much +more if you had paid your blackmail down like a man, and then kept +quiet about it, instead of running snivelling about trying to salve +your own conscience. But a man who can believe as you have has no +shame. You can't touch him by showing him up to himself. You can, +though, by making him pay for it. And I'm going to make <i>you</i> pay—to +the last rag of reputation you've got left." +</p> + +<p> +She clenched her fist, and bent towards him fiercely. On his +fathomless trouble her change of attitude made no new impression. What +mattered it whether she sneered or stormed? The truth would be known; +the pit of disgrace was already yawning for him. +</p> + +<p> +"I can't touch Susan," she went on. "If I could, I'd drag her out of +her grave and set her up for all the world to mock at." +</p> + +<p> +The intensity with which she said this affected him not merely to +horror. He began to see dimly what an adversary he had to cope with, +and the burning rage against circumstance that must consume her. Even +if all he had comforted himself with was true—if she was guilty of +stealing the diamonds, and had suffered for that alone—still, she had +suffered for Susan's crime. For if Susan had been found out, she +would, or might, have gone undetected. How that knowledge must +smoulder or blaze in her mind, night and day—all the worse if she was +partly guilty! He might expect no mercy from her. +</p> + +<p> +"I <i>will</i> make her name a mockery," she cried, "and I'll make yours +stink in the nostrils of every decent honest man and woman in the +country. I've only to tell my story. You can't deny it; you won't be +allowed to. But I'll do more than that. I'll make you stand where I +stood; first in the police court, then in the dock—you and Humphrey +together, and your other son too and his wife, who paid the money. +Tell your story <i>then</i>, and see what's thought of you! Some of them +may get off—but <i>you</i> won't. You'll go where I went—to a vile and +horrible prison, where you'll be with the scum of the earth; where +you'll have plenty of time to think it all over, and whether it +wouldn't have been better for you, after all, to tell the truth and +shame the devil,—you dastardly coward!" +</p> + +<p> +Her voice had risen almost to a shriek. He looked round him, in fear +that it would bring someone to the scene. But the lake was retired, +and seldom visited. They were quite alone. +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, I suppose you would like to move away," she said in a voice more +controlled, but still quivering with rage. "You can't run away. +You'll have to face it now; you and your whole family, guilty and +innocent. I'll make you suffer through them, as well as in yourself. +You'll never wipe off the blot, never in all your life, not even when +you come out of prison and come back here—a man that nobody will speak +to again, for all your wealth and position. You can think of that when +you're in your cell. They give you plenty of time to think. It's not +more than <i>I</i> suffered; it's not so much, because I was innocent. But +I'd no children and grandchildren to make it worse. You have. It's +your <i>name</i> you've blackened. Clinton will mean thief, and +conspirator, and everything that's vile long after <i>you</i> are dead." +</p> + +<p> +He had heard enough. He got up, turned his back on her, and began to +walk very slowly across the little lawn, his head bent. She watched +him with a look of hate, which gradually faded to scorn, then to +cunning, then to expectation. But it became dismay when, having +crossed the grass, he did not turn, but kept on between the shrubs, as +if he had forgotten her, and were going to leave her there alone. +</p> + +<p> +She had to call to him. "Where are you going?" +</p> + +<p> +He turned at once, and the look on his face might have made her pity +him, if she had had any pity in her. +</p> + +<p> +"You must do what you will," he said. "There is nothing more to be +said." +</p> + +<p> +Then he turned from her again, and pursued his slow, contemplative walk +along the path, his shoulders bent, his steps dragging a little, like +those of an old man. +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap0402"></a></p> + +<h3> +CHAPTER II +</h3> + +<h4> +PAYMENT +</h4> + +<p> +She forced a laugh. "Oh, there's a lot more to be said," she called +after him, in a voice almost gay. "Please come back." +</p> + +<p> +He took no notice of her, but went on. +</p> + +<p> +She sprang up, a look of alarm on her face, and took a few quick steps +across the grass. +</p> + +<p> +"Mr. Clinton!" she said. "Mr. Clinton! I have a proposal to make to +you." +</p> + +<p> +He stopped and turned then. She expected him to come back on to the +lawn; but he stood still, and she had to go up the path to him. +</p> + +<p> +She lifted her face, that some men, but not he, would have called +beautiful, to his, and smiled. +</p> + +<p> +"It needn't happen, you know," she said. +</p> + +<p> +He did not understand in the least, and looked his puzzlement—and his +disgust of her. She dropped her eyes, and her seductive manner at the +same time. "Come and sit down again," she said, "and let us talk +sensibly. I have worked off my anger. Now let us see what can be +done." +</p> + +<p> +A slight gleam of hope came to him. Perhaps—now Susan was dead—she +would see ... she could gain nothing.... +</p> + +<p> +He followed her to the seat obediently, and sat down. +</p> + +<p> +"I have told you what I think of you," she said, speaking now coolly +and evenly. "I had to do that to clear my mind. You have treated me +with the meanest cruelty, and I mean every word I have said to you. I +have suffered bitterly, and perhaps I have succeeded in showing you +that I have it in my power to make you suffer in the same way. Revenge +is very sweet, and I have tasted a little of it. But, after all, it +can't do away with the past; and its savour soon goes. I shan't gain +much by punishing you, though you ought to be punished." +</p> + +<p> +"No," he said eagerly. "You can gain nothing. And look at the +terrible—awful suffering you would bring upon those who are innocent +of any offence against you." +</p> + +<p> +"Quite so," she said coolly. "I am glad you realise that. I meant you +to." +</p> + +<p> +"It would be inhuman," he went on. "You would never be forgiven for +it—in this world or the next." +</p> + +<p> +She laughed, this time without affectation. "You are really rather +funny," she said. "Well now, what do you suggest? That I shall hold +my tongue and go away? Back to America, for instance, and settle down +there for good, perhaps under another name?" +</p> + +<p> +He could hardly believe his ears. "You would do that?" he cried. +</p> + +<p> +"I think perhaps I might be persuaded to. I am not unreasonable." +</p> + +<p> +"If you did that," he broke out, his face aflame, "the blessing of the +innocent would be yours to the end of your life. You would be their +saviour; you——" +</p> + +<p> +"I suppose I should," she interrupted dryly. "I should like that. But +the trouble is, you see, that one can't live on the blessing of the +innocent. It isn't sustaining enough. And I have very little to live +on." +</p> + +<p> +The light died slowly out of his face as he listened to her. +</p> + +<p> +"You must help me," she said. "You are a rich man, and you can do it. +You allowed money to be paid before, to hush up this scandal; you +offered a very large sum of money to free yourself of a mere +disagreeable feeling of indebtedness, and took some risk in doing it +too—I give you that much justice. I am glad Lord Sedbergh refused +that money. Now you can lend it to me—I will pay you back some +day—and a few thousands more. Let me have ten thousand pounds, Mr. +Clinton. You can ease your conscience of the wrong you have done me, +and save your innocents at the same time—yourself, who are not +innocent, into the bargain." +</p> + +<p> +Perhaps she had mistaken the motives which had led him to refuse to pay +money to Gotch, and really thought that he had done it only to save his +own skin, knowing that it would be paid elsewhere; in which case +nothing in this proposal would shock him. Or perhaps she relied +overmuch on having frightened him into acquiescence with any proposal. +Otherwise, with all her powers of finesse, she would hardly have +plumped out her demand in this careless fashion. +</p> + +<p> +She had restored him in some degree to himself. "What!" he cried, his +brows terrifically together. "After all you have said, you now want me +to pay blackmail to <i>you</i>. It's an impudent proposal; and I refuse it." +</p> + +<p> +She was quick to see her error. If he wanted his susceptibilities +soothed, she was quite ready to do that. +</p> + +<p> +"Oh, don't be absurd," she said. "I never really thought that you had +looked on that transaction as blackmail; I only said so because I +wanted to make you smart. Is it likely that I should be fool enough to +suggest such a thing to you? Besides, whatever you may think of me, I +am not a blackmailer; it wouldn't suit my book. You are not very +clever, you know, Mr. Clinton. I will tell you what I want, and why I +think you ought to help me to get it, as carefully as I can; and you +must listen to me and try and understand it." +</p> + +<p> +Poor man! How could he help listening to her, with so much at stake! +</p> + +<p> +"The mischief is done," she said. "I am innocent, but I am +smirched—poor me!—and although I could make you suffer, and would, I +tell you frankly, if I could do it without hurting myself, I don't +believe I could ever get back—not all the way. I don't know that I +want to try; I am not young now, whatever I look, and I have no heart +for the struggle. I am young enough, at any rate, to enjoy my life, if +I can begin it again, in quite new surroundings, and not dogged by +poverty. It isn't much I want. What is ten thousand pounds for life +to a woman like me, who has spent that in a year? I have something of +my own, but not much. This would make me secure against that horrible +wolf at the door, which frightens me more than anything." +</p> + +<p> +He was about to speak, but she silenced him with a lift of the hand, +and said, "Let me go on, please. Why should <i>you</i> give it to me? you +were going to ask—I drop the pretence of a loan, though you can call +it that if you like. Because you are the only person I can ask it of. +It is compensation; and nobody but you—except Humphrey, of course—has +offended against me. Sedbergh <i>thinks</i> I stole the star, and so does +Mary Sedbergh, and it is true that that is all I was actually found +guilty of. Under the circumstances they are not to be blamed. The +coincidences—and the perjury—were too strong for me. They owe me +nothing—except out of kindness to an old friend whom they had done +injustice to." +</p> + +<p> +"If you want me to listen to you in patience," said the Squire angrily, +"you'll drop that impudent pretence of not having stolen the star. My +daughter saw you at the cupboard; and you would have stolen the +necklace if you could. You hardly take the trouble to hide that you're +lying. You must take me for a fool." +</p> + +<p> +"Shall I drop it?" she asked. "I think perhaps I will, with you. It +is quite safe. I can take it up again if you drive me to action; and +nobody will believe that I could have been such a fool as to admit to +you that I had stolen it." +</p> + +<p> +"You infamous creature!" he cried. "That was the plea you used before. +It didn't save you, and it won't save you this time." +</p> + +<p> +She saw that she had made a mistake, but answered, "Well, no; perhaps +it wouldn't save me. But you see the question wouldn't arise. If I +did take it, I couldn't be punished for taking it twice. I could +confess it to all the world now, and nothing further would happen. +Besides, you see, it will be <i>you</i> who will be standing in the dock, +for an offence into which the question of the star wouldn't come." +</p> + +<p> +His eyes dropped. Her specious reasoning—before she had made the +mistake of interrupting it with her insolent cynicism—had made some +way with him, and allowed his mind to detach itself ever so little from +that frightful picture. +</p> + +<p> +"Oh, you can't be prepared to face that," she said, pursuing her +recovered advantage; "and it would be too absurd—quixotic. The same +reasons hold good here as they did before, when you allowed silence to +be kept, and were prepared to pay not much less than I ask for. You +save your children as well as yourself. Think what it would mean for +that young girl of yours, when the time came for her to be married." +</p> + +<p> +Ah! That was a sharper pang than she knew. Oh, for the sunny +satisfaction of that walk across the park back again! And the sun +shining now on his black misery had only shifted a point or two. +</p> + +<p> +"And the other one," went on the cool voice, "who was married the other +day. Their father in the dock! in prison!" +</p> + +<p> +He rallied again. "You can drop that nonsense too," he said. "It's a +bogy that doesn't frighten me." +</p> + +<p> +"Not the dock? I admit that you <i>might</i> escape the prison—though +Humphrey couldn't very well." +</p> + +<p> +"Whatever mistake I may have made—and I'm not yet prepared to admit +that I made any—I did nothing that I could be even asked to justify in +a court of law." +</p> + +<p> +"Well, I think you're wrong there. But in any case you would fear the +court of your friends and neighbours and the whole public opinion of +England hardly less than a court of law, wouldn't you?" +</p> + +<p> +This was so true that he showed his sense of it in his face. +</p> + +<p> +"Oh, my dear good man, how can you be so foolish as to run the risk of +it? Look here, Mr. Clinton, supposing I admit the theft of the star, +and say that I have deserved what I got for that, do I <i>really</i> suffer +nothing whatever by bearing the burden of Susan's far bigger theft all +my life? Be honest now. Take it as a woman's weakness. Wouldn't it +mean a good deal to me to be cleared of that?" +</p> + +<p> +She waited for his answer, which was slow in coming. He fought hard +against his inclination to give an evasive one. "Yes—it might—it +would," he said. +</p> + +<p> +"Then I bear it, and save her name, now she is dead; and your name. I +save the honour of you Clintons, who think so much of yourselves. If I +do that, and allow the shame you have fastened on to me to rest where +it is, don't I deserve some little kindness from you—some help in the +life I shall have to live, right away from all that has ever made my +life worth living to me before, right away from all my friends? I +should get <i>some</i> of them back, you know, if it were known that <i>that</i>, +at least, wasn't true of me." +</p> + +<p> +Her voice was pleading. It affected him no more than by the sense of +the words it carried. Perhaps if this had been her tone from the first +it might have done so. +</p> + +<p> +But the words themselves did affect him. They were true. If it could +be regarded as only help that she wanted! +</p> + +<p> +"This time," she said, "you wouldn't be doing injury to a living soul. +You would only be doing something towards setting right a wrong. You +wouldn't even be doing anything that the law would blame you for. +Susan is dead. There is nobody who could be prosecuted." +</p> + +<p> +"I could pay Sedbergh his money," he said slowly. +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, you could do that," she took him up eagerly. "Honourably, now. +He could take it without any scruple. The Sedberghs would be sorry for +me, I think. They would be glad that I had been helped. <i>They</i> +couldn't blame you. And who else could?" +</p> + +<p> +The Squire knitted his brows hard, and tried to think, but couldn't. +He could only feel. Release might be in view from the chains that +already seemed to have begun to rust on him. +</p> + +<p> +"I can't see my way," he said. "I must think it over." +</p> + +<p> +With her eyes fixed sharply and anxiously on him, she had seemed to be +reading his very thoughts. She had influenced him; she could do +nothing more by repetition of her plea; he must have time to think it +over—and <i>would</i> have time, whatever she might say; he was that sort +of man. +</p> + +<p> +She rose from the seat. "I know you must have time," she said. "I +know that the sum I ask for is a large one, especially if you are going +to add another seven thousand on to it; but I can't take less. I won't +take less. But remember what it buys you, Mr. Clinton, when you think +it over. If you refuse me this money which you owe me for what you +have done to me, if ever man owed woman anything, I shall speak out and +bring it home to you. I would rather have peace for the rest of my +days, and ease, than perpetual fighting. But I shall be ready to +fight, if you refuse me, for I shall get <i>something</i> out of that." +</p> + +<p> +He rose too. "You needn't go over all that again," he said. "If I +consider it right to do this I will do it. If not, no threats will +weigh with me." +</p> + +<p> +"Very well," she said. "If you accept, as of course you will, for it +<i>is</i> right to do it, you will want to see me again to settle details. +Probably you won't want to pay the money all at once, and we can +arrange that. You will want to be assured that I shan't come down on +you again, that my silence will be absolutely unbroken. I can satisfy +you as to that too; I have thought out a way. There will be other +details to settle. You won't want to see me down here again. You must +come to see me in London. I will help you in every way I can." +</p> + +<p> +She gave him an address. +</p> + +<p> +"Now I will go," she said. "Show me a way out without my passing the +house." +</p> + +<p> +They walked round the lower end of the lake together, neither of them +speaking a word. He took her to a gate leading into a lane. "If you +follow that to the left," he said, "you will come to the village." +</p> + +<p> +She went through the gate which he held open for her. Then she turned +and looked at him out of level eyes, and said before she walked away: +"If you do what I ask, you will hear nothing more of me after we have +settled matters. If you don't, I will punish you somehow—in +addition—for not receiving me into your house." +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap0403"></a></p> + +<h3> +CHAPTER III +</h3> + +<h4> +THE STRAIGHT PATH +</h4> + +<p> +"Mr. Clinton has had to go to Bathgate, ma'am. He told me to say he +would dine at the club and might be late home. He partic'ly asked that +you and Miss Joan—Miss Clinton—shouldn't sit up for him." +</p> + +<p> +The old butler gave his message as if there was more behind it than +appeared from his words. Mrs. Clinton, standing in the hall, in her +travelling cloak, looked puzzled and a little anxious. It was unlike +her husband not to be at home to meet her, especially when she and Joan +were returning from so comparatively long a visit—and there was +something so very interesting to talk about. And, although he +frequently lunched at the County Club in Bathgate, he had not dined +there half a dozen times since their marriage. +</p> + +<p> +"Is Mr. Clinton quite well?" she asked, preparing to move away. +</p> + +<p> +"Well, ma'am, I don't think he is quite well. We've all noticed it. +Or it seems more as if he was worried about something. But he's not +eating well, ma'am, and not sleeping well." +</p> + +<p> +"Poor father!" said Joan, standing by her mother. "We've been too long +away from him. We'll cheer him up, and soon put him right, mother." +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Clinton went to bed at half-past ten, as usual. The Squire came +home at eleven o'clock. It was the hour when he expected her to have +her light out, if he should come up then. +</p> + +<p> +He went straight to her room. It was in darkness. "Well, Nina," he +said from the door, "you're back safely. Sorry I had to be out when +you arrived. I'll come to you in a few minutes." +</p> + +<p> +He went along to his dressing-room. Just outside it, in the broad +carpeted corridor was Joan. She was in a white dressing-gown, her hair +in a thick plait down her back. She looked hardly older than the child +she had been five years before. +</p> + +<p> +"Father dear!" she said. "How naughty of you to be away when we came +home! Have you heard about it?" +</p> + +<p> +Her beautiful eyes, swimming with tender happiness, looked up into his. +She had come close for his embrace. +</p> + +<p> +"My dear child!" he said, kissing her. "My little Joan!" +</p> + +<p> +"I thought you'd be glad," she said, nestling to him. "I'm so +frightfully happy, father." +</p> + +<p> +"Well, run along to bed now," he said. "We'll talk about it to-morrow. +You ought to have been in bed long ago." +</p> + +<p> +"I know. But I had to stop up and tell you. Good-night, father." +</p> + +<p> +He strained her to him. "Good-night, my darling!" +</p> + +<p> +He was not a man of endearments; he had not called her that since she +was a tiny child. She flitted along the passage, and he went into his +room and shut the door. +</p> + +<p> +The old butler came up to put out the lamps in the corridor. He had +performed this duty nightly since he had been a very young butler, and +had often thought, as he passed the closed doors, of those who were +behind them. For many years there had been somebody behind most of the +doors, except in the rooms reserved for visitors. Now there were only +three left out of all the big family in whose service he had grown old. +He had seen all the children, who had crowded the nursery wing, with +their nurses and governess, grow up and leave the nest one by one. It +had been such a warm, protected nest for them. He had always liked to +go up to the floor on which the nurseries were, and think of all the +little white-robed sleepers behind those doors as he passed them. They +were so safe, tucked up for the night, and so well-off in that great +guarded house, where nothing that might affright other less fortunate +children could touch them. +</p> + +<p> +The nursery wing was empty now. Joan had come down to another room on +the first floor; he only had one broad passage to see to upstairs. And +soon she would have flown. He thought of her with the affection of an +old servant as he put out the light outside her room. Little Miss +Joan! She was in there with her happiness. He smiled as he turned +from that door. +</p> + +<p> +Outside his master's dressing-room his face became solicitous. Mr. +Clinton was not well—worried-like. Well, he was apt to worry +over-much about trifles. The old butler knew him by this time. He had +seen him weather many storms, and they had never, after all, been more +than mere breezes. Whatever was going on behind the door of that room +couldn't be very serious. Its occupant was shielded from all real +worries, except those he made for himself. He was one of the lucky +ones. +</p> + +<p> +Outside the big room of state, in which so many generations of Clintons +had been born to the easy lot awaiting them, and so many heads of that +fortunate house had died after enjoying their appointed years of honour +and invulnerable well-being, his face cleared. Mrs. Clinton had come +home; she would put right whatever little thing was wrong. His master +couldn't really do without her, though he thought he could. Behind +that door she was lying, waiting for him. He put out the lamp. +</p> + +<p> +The house was now dark and silent, though behind two of the three doors +there were lights. +</p> + +<p> +The Squire went along the passage in his dressing-gown, carrying his +bedroom candlestick. He blew out the light directly he got inside the +room. +</p> + +<p> +When he had given his wife greeting, he said, "I'm tired to-night. We +must talk over this affair of Joan's to-morrow." +</p> + +<p> +"You are pleased, Edward, are you not?" she asked. "He is such a dear +boy; and they are very much in love with one another." +</p> + +<p> +"I must hear all about it to-morrow," he said, composing himself for +sleep. His usual habit was to go to sleep the moment he got into bed; +but he was always ready to talk, if there was anything he wanted to +talk about. He would freely express irritation if he was upset about +anything, and it sometimes seemed as if he were ready to talk all +night. But he would suddenly leave off and say, "Well, good night, +Nina. God bless you!" and be fast asleep five minutes later. He never +omitted this nightly benediction. Until he said "God bless you, Nina," +it was permitted to her to speak to him. When he had said it, he was +officially asleep, and not to be disturbed. +</p> + +<p> +He did not say it to-night after his postponement of discussion, but +his movement showed that "good-night" was considered to have been said. +The omission was ominous. +</p> + +<p> +For a very long time there was complete silence. Then the Squire +turned in bed, with a sound that might have been a half-stifled groan, +but also an involuntary murmur. Again there was a long silence. Mrs. +Clinton lay quite still, in the darkness. Then he turned again, +gently, so as not to wake her if she were asleep, and moaned. +</p> + +<p> +Her voice, fully awake, broke through the silence, "Edward, you are not +asleep. Porter said you were not well." +</p> + +<p> +He made no reply for a moment. Then he turned towards her and said, +"Inverell—he is coming to see me here?" +</p> + +<p> +"Yes. He is coming on Friday." +</p> + +<p> +"You must put him off, Nina. You must put off the whole thing for a +time." +</p> + +<p> +He must have expected an expression of surprise, or a question. But +none came. +</p> + +<p> +"There are reasons why I can't consider it for the present," he said. +"What to say to him I don't quite know. By and by, perhaps. Joan is +very young yet.... I don't know what to say; we must think it over." +</p> + +<p> +"Edward," she said, after a pause, "if there is trouble hanging over +us, let me know of it. Let me be prepared." +</p> + +<p> +This reply, so different from any that he could have expected, kept him +silent for a time. Then he took her hand in his and said, "I don't +know why you say that; I had meant to keep it to myself till the +trouble came; but I suppose you can always see through me. Nina, there +is dreadful trouble coming to us. I hardly know how to tell you about +it—how to begin. There is such trouble as I sometimes think nobody +ever had to bear before. Oh, my God! how shall I break it to you!" +</p> + +<p> +It was a cry of agony, the first cry he had uttered. It rang through +the room. Joan caught the echo of it, and lifted her head from the +pillow, but dropped it again and closed her eyes on her happy thoughts. +</p> + +<p> +"Oh, Edward!" Mrs. Clinton cried, clinging to him, "I can't bear to see +you suffer like this. My dear husband, there is no need to break +anything to me. I know." +</p> + +<p> +"What!" His voice was low and alarmed. "She has already——" +</p> + +<p> +"Poor Susan told me," she said. "She told me on her death-bed." +</p> + +<p> +He sighed momentary relief. "You have known for all these weeks!" he +said. "Oh, why didn't you speak?" +</p> + +<p> +"What could I have said? How could I have helped matters? What was +there to do?" Her usually calm, slow speech was agitated, and told him +more of what she had gone through than words could have done. "I saw +you anxious and troubled, and I longed for you to confide in me; but +until you did——" +</p> + +<p> +"I couldn't," he said. "I gave Humphrey my promise. He had his +reasons, but whether he ought to have——" +</p> + +<p> +"Oh, I am glad you have told me that," she said in a calmer voice. +"No, I think he was wrong—to ask that I should be shut out. I can +help you—I have helped you—sometimes, Edward." +</p> + +<p> +He pressed her hand, which was lying in his. "My dear," he said, "I +want your help now very much." +</p> + +<p> +"We needn't talk more about the past," she said. "It is known now, is +it? You have heard something while I have been away." +</p> + +<p> +He told her, up to the point where Mrs. Amberley had left him. His +story was often interrupted by exclamations of pain and disgust, as the +intolerable things that had been said to him through that long +drawn-out hour of his torture were brought to light. He went off into +by-paths of explanation, of self-justification, of appeal. +</p> + +<p> +She soothed him, helped him to tell his story, was patient and loving +with him, while all the time almost insupportably anxious to come to +the end of it, and know the best or the worst. But when he came to +Mrs. Amberley's plea for help, stumbling through the specious arguments +she had used, as if for the thousandth time he were balancing them, +defending them, inclining towards them, she kept silence. She +trembled, as she followed the workings of his mind, groping towards a +decision, with so little light to help him, or rather with lights so +crossed that none shone out clearly above the rest. She thought—she +hoped—she knew what his decision had been. But he must tell her of it +himself. She could not cut him short with a question. The decision +was his. Whatever it had been, he had already made it. If it had been +right, a question from her must have expressed doubt; if wrong, +censure, or at least criticism. +</p> + +<p> +"I think, when she had left me," he said quietly, "I felt no doubt +about what I was going to do. Everything she had said seemed to be +true. It seems to be true now, when I repeat it. She <i>had</i> suffered +wrongfully, and would, to the end of her days. If I had let it be kept +dark before, and thought myself right, it wouldn't be less right to +keep it dark now. I could pay Sedbergh his money, which was the only +thing that had worried me badly, after the rest had been done, and not +done by me. The disgrace would be sharper still if it came out, +because it had been hidden before, and certain things might have been +misunderstood, or misrepresented. I knew she would do the worst she +could, and wouldn't stick at lies. There was this marriage of Joan's +to make or mar—— Oh, I don't know; I can't think straight about it +even now. I thought it over for two days and nights. I prayed to God +about it. Before Him, I don't know whether I've done right or wrong. +I'm bringing misery on you, and everybody I love in the world. I'm +dragging the name of Clinton, that has stood high for five hundred +years, down in the dust. But I couldn't do it, Nina. I couldn't do +it." +</p> + +<p> +She threw herself on his breast weeping. He had never known her weep. +"Oh, Edward, my dear, dear husband," she cried, "I love you and honour +you more than I have ever done. Our feet are on the straight path. +God will surely guide them." +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap0404"></a></p> + +<h3> +CHAPTER IV +</h3> + +<h4> +A CONCLAVE +</h4> + +<p> +"Good heavens! What on earth can be the meaning of this?" +</p> + +<p> +Dick was standing in his pyjamas at the window of Virginia's bedroom. +They were in a country house on the Yorkshire coast, to which they had +come for a few days on their way from Scotland. Letters had just been +brought up to them with their morning tea. +</p> + +<p> +"What is it, Dick?" said Virginia from the bed. "Give it to me." +</p> + +<p> +He hesitated for a moment, and then crossed the room to give her the +letter he had been reading. As he did so he looked through the other +envelopes he held in his hand. "Here is one from the Governor," he +said, "which may explain it." +</p> + +<p> +The two letters ran as follows: +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p class="noindent"> +DEAR CAPTAIN CLINTON, +</p> + +<p> +I suppose your father has told you of the conversation he and I had +together a few days ago, and of his refusal to entertain the request I +made of him, to which I had understood him to assent. This is just a +friendly note of advice to you to help him to see how absurd his +refusal is, and what it will entail, not only to him but to you and all +your family. I shall not take any steps for a day or two, so that you +may have time to bring him to reason. But if that cannot be done, I +shall take the steps of which I warned him. +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +Yours sincerely,<br /> + RACHEL AMBERLEY.<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p class="noindent"> +MY DEAR DICK, +</p> + +<p> +I want you to come home at once. A very serious trouble has arisen +with regard to an action of poor Susan's, of which I have known for +some time, but which I was unable to talk to you about. I had thought +we should hear no more about it, but I am afraid it must now be known. +I wish to consult you about any steps that can be taken; but I fear +that none can. In any case I want you to hear the whole story. Your +mother sends her love, and wants you and Virginia here. She would like +me to tell you the story, but I feel I cannot write it. You must wait +until I see you. +</p> + +<p> +Love to Virginia. +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +Your affectionate father,<br /> + EDWARD CLINTON.<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p> +Dick's face was grave enough when he looked up from this missive, and +handed it, without a word, to Virginia. +</p> + +<p> +"Rachel Amberley!" she exclaimed. +</p> + +<p> +"Yes—and Susan," said Dick. "Trouble indeed! Trouble and mystery! I +wish the Governor had told me what it is. Just like him to keep us on +tenterhooks for hours! We shall have to start early, Virginia." +</p> + +<p> +Virginia was frightened. "But, Dick dear, what does it mean?" she +cried. +</p> + +<p> +He went and stood at the window, looking out over the sea. His face +was very grave. "It means," he said slowly, "that Susan was concerned, +somehow, in that Amberley business; and she has found it out, and is +asking for money to keep it dark." +</p> + +<p> +"But how could she have been concerned in it? Oh, how dreadful, Dick!" +</p> + +<p> +"She was at Brummels at the time." He pieced his thoughts together +slowly. "Perhaps she knew, and took money to hold her tongue. She +wanted money almost as much as the other woman. She did something she +ought not to have done; the Governor says so. Something that she could +have been punished for, or this Amberley woman wouldn't have any +grounds to go on. <i>She</i> has been punished, and can't be punished any +more—for that. She could for blackmail, though. She says the +Governor gave way to her. That would have been extraordinarily +foolish. He refused afterwards, though—seems to have told her to go +to the devil. I'm glad he did that. Lord, how he must have been +rushed! I wish I'd been there to lend him a hand." +</p> + +<p> +"Oh, poor Mr. Clinton! But what can she do, Dick, this woman?" +</p> + +<p> +"If Susan had known——!" He paused. "She can't have been in it...." +</p> + +<p> +"Oh no, Dick!" Virginia said in a frightened whisper. +</p> + +<p> +"No, the Amberley woman would have given her away. I don't think she +has found out anything. I think she has waited until she was free of +everything herself, and now proposes to let out what she knew all the +time about Susan, unless she is paid to keep it to herself. That would +be it, or something like it. Well, we shan't know, if we cudgel our +brains all day. I must go and dress; and you must get up. I'll tell +Finch to look up trains. Don't worry about it, Virginia." +</p> + +<p> +They arrived at Kencote in the late afternoon. Joan was on the +platform. Her face was troubled. Virginia kissed her warmly. "What +is it, darling?" she asked. +</p> + +<p> +"I don't know," said Joan, as they walked out of the station together. +"It is something about Ronald. He is not to come here yet. Oh, what +can it be?" +</p> + +<p> +"It isn't anything about Ronald," Virginia said. "We know that much. +But it is some great trouble, and I suppose your father has asked him +not to come for the present." +</p> + +<p> +"Yes," said Joan. "Mother said she would tell me more after they had +talked to you and Dick. Father has been indoors all day. I believe he +is ill. Oh, Virginia, I am sure something dreadful is going to happen." +</p> + +<p> +They drove straight to the house, and Dick went in at once to his +father's room. The Squire was sitting in his chair, doing nothing. He +looked aged and grey. +</p> + +<p> +"Well, Dick," he said, looking up, without a smile. "This is a black +home-coming. Ask your mother and Virginia to come in. Virginia must +know. I'll tell you the story at once." +</p> + +<p> +He told his story, without the circumlocutions he had used to Mrs. +Clinton. His voice was tired as he told it, and his narrative was +almost bald. "There it is," he ended up. "I don't know whether I'm +right or not. Your dear mother says I am. I hope I am. It means +untold misery and disgrace. But I shan't pay her a penny, directly or +indirectly." +</p> + +<p> +Virginia looked anxiously at Dick, who had been sitting with downcast +eyes, and now looked up at his father. +</p> + +<p> +"You needn't worry yourself about that, father," he said. +</p> + +<p> +The Squire's face brightened a little. +</p> + +<p> +"You mean that you think I'm right," he said. "I suppose I am. But I +can't be certain of it." +</p> + +<p> +"I can," said Dick. "She can disguise it as she likes; but it's +blackmail. We don't pay blackmail." +</p> + +<p> +There were visible signs of relief at this uncompromising statement. +The Squire began to argue against it, not because he was not glad it +had been made, but to justify his doubts. +</p> + +<p> +"I know it's a difficult case," said Dick. "It's a most +extraordinarily difficult case. The only way through it is to act on a +broad principle, and stick to it through thick and thin. That's what +you've done, and I'm very glad of it. You couldn't have done anything +else, really, though you may think you could. Under no circumstances +do we pay money to anybody to keep anything dark." +</p> + +<p> +"Money <i>was</i> paid," said the Squire. +</p> + +<p> +"I had no idea whatever," said Virginia, with frightened eyes. +</p> + +<p> +"Oh, of course not," said Dick. "It wasn't your fault." +</p> + +<p> +His face was clouded. "I can't blame Humphrey," the Squire said, with +his eyes on him. +</p> + +<p> +Dick made no reply. +</p> + +<p> +"He came on purpose to ask you," said Virginia. "He didn't try to keep +it from you." +</p> + +<p> +"He did keep it from me," said Dick. "I ought to have known." +</p> + +<p> +"What should you have done?" asked the Squire. +</p> + +<p> +Dick did not answer. Mrs. Clinton broke in. "Let us leave that +alone," she said. "Humphrey had poor Susan to consider. We have no +right to blame him for what he did." +</p> + +<p> +"I say nothing about that, for the present," said Dick. "I must think +it over. If I had been there he would not have got the money." +</p> + +<p> +"He wouldn't have told you why he wanted it," Virginia said. "I think +you would have paid it—to Gotch—as I did." +</p> + +<p> +"You see how difficult it all is, Dick," said Mrs. Clinton. "At every +moment there have been difficulties. Do not think harshly of poor +Humphrey." +</p> + +<p> +"He is out of it," said Dick, "at the other side of the world. See +what comes of his actions. We couldn't be touched if it were not for +that—in any way that will harm us. Susan is dead. Nobody else had +done anything they could have been accused of, or made sorry for, up +till that time." +</p> + +<p> +"Susan had," said Mrs. Clinton. "She was alive then; and she was +Humphrey's wife. And wouldn't it have been terrible for us then if she +had been punished?" +</p> + +<p> +Dick's face was hard. +</p> + +<p> +"Dick, supposing it had been me!" said Virginia. +</p> + +<p> +"Oh, my dear!" he exclaimed impatiently. +</p> + +<p> +"No, but you must think of it in that way. He stood by her. He +<i>couldn't</i> let that happen to her." +</p> + +<p> +"Well," said Dick unwillingly, "when you've said that at every stage it +has been a difficult question, perhaps you have said all that can be +said. The trouble is that it is that payment to Gotch that is coming +home to us. That's why, even if father had thought it right, +otherwise, to pay her this money now, it would have been the most +foolish thing he could have done. He would have been endorsing that +transaction. As it is, he can say quite truly that he refused to do +it, and we, who did do it, had no idea what it was done for." +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, I see that," said the Squire, "and I never thought of it before. +The two things would have hung together." +</p> + +<p> +"She would have made further demands," said Dick. "We should have been +under her thumb." +</p> + +<p> +"She said she would satisfy me of that," said the Squire. +</p> + +<p> +"She may have said so. She would have been too clever for you. She +would have drawn us in, until we should have had to do something +downright dishonourable—that there couldn't have been any doubt +about—or defy her and take the consequences, as we've got to do now. +We should have been living under the sword, perhaps for years, never +knowing when it was going to fall, shelling out money all the time. +Oh, it doesn't do to think about! And no better off at the end of it +than we are now." +</p> + +<p> +"It's true," said the Squire. "I wish I'd had you to show it all so +clearly to me while I was going through that awful time, making up my +mind. Oh, Lord!" He wiped his brow, damp with the horror of thinking +of it. +</p> + +<p> +"You made up your mind without seeing clearly," said Mrs. Clinton. +"You did what was right because it was right." +</p> + +<p> +"And now we've got to take our punishment for it," said the poor +Squire, with a wry smile. +</p> + +<p> +"That is what we'd better talk about," said Dick. "The other is all +over. We can talk about that later." +</p> + +<p> +"Herbert Birkett is coming down to-morrow," said the Squire. "I wrote +and told him he must, and he sent me a wire. He is playing golf at +North Berwick. It is her threat of an action for conspiracy that I +want to ask him about." +</p> + +<p> +"That's bluff," said Dick. "Who conspired to do what? Humphrey is out +of the country. He had better stay there. She can't get at him. +Everybody else is blameless. You refused, and you were the only one +besides him who knew anything about it." +</p> + +<p> +"I can't prove that, and she won't stick at lies." +</p> + +<p> +"That's true enough. But you <i>can</i> prove it. She will have to get the +Gotches over to prove anything at all, and his evidence will clear you. +Besides, you refused her the second time." +</p> + +<p> +"I <i>can't</i> prove that. There were only she and I." +</p> + +<p> +"By Jove!" Dick felt in his breast pocket. "She's given herself away +there. I've got a letter from her. She says you refused. She isn't +as clever as I thought she was." +</p> + +<p> +"It's all bluff," said Dick contemptuously, when the letter had been +read. "I don't think she could get the Gotches over, for one thing. +And supposing she did succeed in bringing it before a court, you could +tell your story in the most public way. Nobody would have a word of +blame for you, or for any of us. I'm not certain it wouldn't be the +best possible thing that could happen for us." +</p> + +<p> +"I shouldn't like it to come to that," said the Squire. +</p> + +<p> +"Well, I don't think it will. We've got other things to face—perhaps +worse things. I shan't answer her letter, though I'll take good care +to keep it. When she sees that nothing is coming she'll begin to +spread reports. That's when we shall have to be on the lookout." +</p> + +<p> +"We have done nothing wrong," said Mrs. Clinton. "She will only be +attacking poor Susan; and anybody whose opinion of us we should value +will think that a wicked thing to do, now that Susan is dead." +</p> + +<p> +"But ought we not to defend Susan's memory?" Virginia asked. +</p> + +<p> +All three of them were silent. Dick was the first to speak. +</p> + +<p> +"We have to think straight about it," he said. "You can't defend +Susan, alive or dead. It was shielding her that has put us in the +wrong, where we are in the wrong. All that we can do is not to admit +anything, not to deny anything; let people think what they will. Keep +quiet. That's a good deal to do, for if we liked to take the offensive +we could clear ourselves once and for all." +</p> + +<p> +"How could we do that?" +</p> + +<p> +"Have her up for slander." +</p> + +<p> +"But what she will say about Susan will be true." +</p> + +<p> +"Do you think she will stick to that? No, she will try to blacken us +in every way she can. She'll tell lies about us. It's no good saying +people won't believe them. They <i>will</i> believe them, if we don't +defend ourselves. We may have to have her up for slander, after all." +</p> + +<p> +"What can she get out of it all?" asked Virginia in a voice of pain. +"It will be horrible. Every right-thinking person must abhor her." +</p> + +<p> +"She will have a right to try and clear herself," said Mrs. Clinton. +"It is true that she was accused of doing what Susan really did, and +the accusation has never been cleared up." +</p> + +<p> +"That <i>is</i> true," said Dick, "and if she confines herself to truth, we +have no right to try and stop her. Under all the circumstances—her +trying to get money for her silence, and so on—I don't see that we are +under the smallest obligation—of honour or anything else—to help her. +If we come out into the open we shan't be able to keep Susan's guilt +dark. That's why I think she will drag us into attacking her. We +shall see what Herbert Birkett says. All we have to do in the meantime +is to live on quietly here as usual, and wait for what comes." +</p> + +<p> +"There are the others to be thought of," said Mrs. Clinton. "Jim and +Cicely, Walter and Muriel, Frank, all of them. They must be prepared." +</p> + +<p> +"Yes," said Dick unwillingly. "They are bound to hear of it. We must +tell them. Get them down here as soon as possible. I will go over and +tell Jim and Cicely to-morrow." +</p> + +<p> +The Squire had been sitting in a blessed state of quiescence. He had +done his part. Dick had a clearer head than he. In his bruised state, +he was only too ready to let Dick take the lead in whatever had to be +done. +</p> + +<p> +"There is my poor little Joan to think of," he said. "Young +Inverell—I have put him off. Joan must be told why." +</p> + +<p> +"I will tell her," Mrs. Clinton said. "Poor child, it is hardest for +her, just now. But he will not give her up—I am sure of it." +</p> + +<p> +"I don't know," said the Squire. "If the whole country is going to +ring with our name—— His stands high. But I won't have him here +until the worst has happened that can happen; and then only if he comes +of his own accord. We stand on what honour is left to us. It won't be +much. We've been talking as if we could all clear ourselves at Susan's +expense, if everything comes out. We can't. She was one of us, poor +girl. We suffer for her sins." +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap0405"></a></p> + +<h3> +CHAPTER V +</h3> + +<h4> +WAITING +</h4> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p class="noindent"> +Brummels,<br /> + Carchester, Sept. 26th, 19—.<br /> +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +MY DEAR EDWARD, +</p> + +<p> +I have to thank you for your second letter, and for your cheque for +£7,000, which I cannot now refuse, but which, upon my soul, I don't +know what to do with. If I buy another necklace with it, I publish to +the world—or to such part of it as will see the pearls upon my wife's +neck—what I intend to keep even from the partner of my joys and +sorrows herself. If only a certain young woman had been able to bring +herself to consent to the proposal made to her, the difficulty might +have been got over by adding to <i>her</i> stock of trinkets. But it is of +no use to cry over that, and my little friend Joan will assuredly have +considered herself justified in her refusal by the somewhat startling +suddenness with which the illustrious Robert consoled himself for her +loss. These affairs move too quickly for me in my old age. The young +woman whom I now have the honour to call daughter-in-law is all that +could be wished from the point of view of health and high spirits, and +I have nothing against her. But I do not feel impelled to hang an +extra seven thousand pounds' worth of pearls round her neck. If that +is a criticism on her, so be it. But she is not Joan. She is very far +from being Joan. +</p> + +<p> +I have much news for you, my dear Edward, which only my inveterate +habit of procrastination has caused to be left till now. +</p> + +<p> +The woman fastened upon Mary at Harrogate. This must have been after +she had given up all idea of getting anything out of you. No doubt she +followed her to that invigorating resort, and it is unfortunate that my +poor wife should not be able to drink her waters of bitterness without +being frightened out of her five wits by <i>that</i> resurrection. +Fortunately I was within hail, and arrived on the scene in time to deal +with the situation. I gathered from her account of her interview with +you—my poor friend, what you must have gone through!—that you had +very loyally exonerated me from all possibility of blame or +misunderstanding, and I was pleased to be able in some sort to repay +that loyalty. I did not lie, Edward—at least not to her. What fine +adjustments of veracity one may have made later, in connubial intimacy, +let no man presume to sit in judgment upon. I had received your first +letter. I said neither yea nor nay, but rang the changes upon a +monotonous charge of her having tried to extort money from you. It was +the first line of defence, and I had no other. But she never got +behind it. There is a bland but dogged persistency in my nature which +ought to have carried me far. It carried me to the point of driving +her to uncontrollable rage, which is something of a triumph in itself. +To Mary I said before her, "This lady may not have stolen your +necklace. You have her word for it. I have the word of my friend, +Edward Clinton, that she asked him for money to stop her from spreading +the report that his daughter-in-law stole it. She is dead and cannot +defend herself. Also, Edward Clinton refused to give her any money. +These two facts are enough for me. I recognise this lady's existence +for the last time. I do not presume to dictate your actions, but if +you are wise I think you will do the same." +</p> + +<p> +We got rid of her, and she left Harrogate the next morning. I let her +know, by the bye, that you held a letter from her admitting the fact +that she had made demands on you and that you had refused them; and you +may tell your son that she probably regrets having written that letter +as much as any she ever wrote. It is a master weapon. +</p> + +<p> +Well, that is the attitude I shall take up—my wife too, although she +will talk a great deal, and be swayed by whatever opinion may be held +by whatever person she talks to. There is <i>bound</i> to be talk, and a +great deal of talk. You cannot help that. But it will die down. Deny +nothing, admit nothing, except that you refused to pay her money. That +is my advice to you. +</p> + +<p> +They say that Colne is going to marry her. Birds of a feather! He is, +at any rate, hot—spirituously so—in his defence of her, and in his +offence against you and yours. I met him passing through London; for +the sins of my youth I still belong to the Bit and Bridle Club, and I +went there for the first time for I should think twenty years, and fell +upon him imbibing. Rather, he fell upon me, and <i>I</i> fell upon my +parrot-cry. "If you have any influence over that lady," I said to him, +"I should advise you to advise her to keep quiet. She <i>would</i> have +kept quiet—for money. It is known that she asked for it, and the less +it has cause to be stated, the better for what reputation she has." +</p> + +<p> +I left my lord in the maudlin stage, crying out upon the world's +iniquity, of which he has considerable first-hand knowledge; but when +he comes to what senses he still possesses he will, I hope, remember my +advice. Let him marry the lady, by all means. She will have what +protection she deserves, and there will be some who will accept her. +They will cross neither my path nor yours, for our orbits and those of +Colne do not intersect. +</p> + +<p> +Finally, my old friend, set your teeth against what must come, and +never lose sight of the fact that it will pass. You have been +remarkably tried, and have escaped more pit-falls than could have been +expected of any fallible mortal. There are no more in front of you, +and all you have to do is to walk straight on with your usual stride. +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +Ever very sincerely yours,<br /> + SEDBERGH.<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p> +This letter gave the Squire some comfort. It contained almost the +first definite news he had had. He had been living in that +uncomfortable state in which the mind is wrought up to meet trouble +which is bound to come, and the trouble tarries. Every morning he had +arisen with the anticipation of the storm breaking; every night he had +lain down, having lived through such a day as he might have lived at +this season of the year for the last forty years. The storm had not +broken yet. +</p> + +<p> +Was it too much to hope that it would, after all, pass over? +</p> + +<p> +He looked up from the letter with that enquiry in his mind. But his +face soon clouded again. Though not in the full downpour, he was +already caught by it. +</p> + +<p> +Poor little Joan! She knew. She was going about the house, trying +hard to be as bright as usual. Sometimes he heard her singing. That +was when she passed the door behind which he was sitting. She came in +to him much more freely than she had ever done, and sat and talked to +him. His daughters had never done that, nor his sons very frequently, +with the exception of Dick. It was an empty house now. He and Joan +and Mrs. Clinton were a good deal together. Joan had even persuaded +him to take her out cubbing. None of the Clinton girls had ever been +allowed to ride to hounds; but there were so many horses in the stable, +and so few people to ride them now, that he had given way. But he had +only been out cubbing twice himself this season. He was getting too +old, he said. He had never said that of himself before, about +anything, which was why Joan had pressed him to take her. But three +times it had happened that she had risen at dawn, and Mrs. Clinton had +come in to her and said that her father had not slept all night, but +was sleeping now, and had better be allowed to sleep on. +</p> + +<p> +Joan had heard nothing from her young lover since the letter had been +written asking him to postpone his visit. She said nothing to anybody +about him, but went about the house as usual, singing sometimes. +</p> + +<p> +There had been one day amongst the young birds, in which Sir Herbert +Birkett, Jim Graham, and Walter only had assisted from outside Kencote. +The Squire could not bring himself to ask his neighbours to shoot, nor +to shoot with them. The strain was too great. On his tall horse by +the covert-side, in those early meets of the hounds, he had always been +on the look-out for suspicion and avoidance, and fancied them when they +had not been there. But the news might come at any moment, filtering +through any one of a score of channels to this retired backwater of +meadow and wood and stream, and darkening it, to him whose whole life +had been spent in its pleasant ways, with shameful rumour. +</p> + +<p> +It had been settled that life was to go on as usual at Kencote. But he +had lost the spring of his courage. Even if no one outside knew of his +dishonour, he knew of it himself. When the trouble came he would face +it with what courage he could. In the meantime he kept more and more +to the house, where he sat in his room, over the fire, reading the +papers, or doing nothing. +</p> + +<p> +His half-brother, the Rector, came often to see him. He was some years +the younger of the two, but for years had looked the older, until now. +The Squire was ageing under his trial. He had lost his confident, +upright bearing, shambled just a very little when he walked, and +carried his head a trifle forward. His face was beginning to lose its +healthy ruddiness, and his beard was whiter, or seemed so. +</p> + +<p> +The two men had always been good friends, but were as unlike in +character and pursuits as possible. The Rector was gentle and +retiring, a little bit of a scholar, a little bit of a naturalist, +gardener, musician, artist. He had no sporting tastes, but liked the +country and lived all the year round in his comfortable Rectory. He +was not a Clinton, but had been so long in their atmosphere that their +interests were largely his. He had been one of the first to be told of +the catastrophe. He had made no comments on it, but had shown his +sympathy by many kind but unobtrusive words and acts. +</p> + +<p> +He came in as the Squire was sitting with Lord Sedbergh's letter in his +hand. +</p> + +<p> +"Well, my dear Edward," he said, "it is such a lovely morning that I +was tempted out of my study. It is my sermon morning, and I shall have +a good one to preach to you on Sunday. I was in the vein. I shall go +back to it with renewed interest." +</p> + +<p> +"I've had a letter that may interest you," said the Squire. "In a way +it seems to shed a gleam of light. But I don't know. Things are black +enough. It's this waiting for the blow to fall that is so wretched. I +had rather, almost, that everyone knew." +</p> + +<p> +The Rector read through the letter carefully and handed it back. +</p> + +<p> +"If nothing but the truth is to be told...!" he said. +</p> + +<p> +"You mean that won't be so bad for us. It does look as if there might +be a chance of her not telling more than the truth, for her own sake. +If she is going to marry that creature! Colne! Bah! What mud we're +mixed up with! To think it rests with a man like that to keep her +quiet!" +</p> + +<p> +"Is he so bad?" enquired the Rector. +</p> + +<p> +"Bad! The sort of man that makes his order a by-word, for all the +world to spit upon. I should think even you must have some knowledge +of him. His first wife divorced him; his second died because he +ill-treated her." +</p> + +<p> +"Is that known?" +</p> + +<p> +"Yes. In the way these things <i>are</i> known." +</p> + +<p> +"He was Hubert Legrange, wasn't he? He was in my tutor's house at +Eton—after your time. He wasn't bad then—high-spirited, troublesome, +perhaps—that was all. But warm-hearted—merry. I liked him." +</p> + +<p> +"Ah, my dear Tom! That's the sad thing, when you get to our age. To +see the men you've known as boys—how some of them turn out! I've +sometimes thought lately that I ought to have been more grateful to God +Almighty for keeping me free from a good many temptations I might have +had. I married young; I settled down here; it was what suited me. But +I see now that those tastes were given to me for my good. If it hadn't +been for that I might have gone wrong just as well as another. I had +money from the moment I came of age. I could have done what I liked. +Money's a great temptation to a young fellow." +</p> + +<p> +The Rector hardly knew whether to be pleased or sorry at this vein of +moralising that had lately come over his brother. It showed his mind +working as he might have wished to see it work, towards humility and a +more lively faith; but it also showed him deeply affected by the waves +that were passing over his head; and the waves were black and heavy. +</p> + +<p> +"What you say is very true," he said. "God keep us all faithful, as He +kept you, Edward. You were tempted, and you were upheld. You see that +now, I think." +</p> + +<p> +"I thought," said the poor Squire after a pause, "that God was working +to avert this disgrace from me. Everything seemed to have been +ordered, in a way that was almost miraculous, to that end. It was just +when I was shaking off the last uncomfortable thoughts about it, when +everything seemed most bright for the future, that the blow fell. +Well, I suppose it was to be, and it will come right for us all in the +end; though I don't think I shall know a happy moment again as long as +I live. I was living in a fool's paradise. I don't quite understand +it, Tom." +</p> + +<p> +The Rector thought he did. A fool's paradise is a paradise that the +fool makes for himself, and when he is driven out of it blames a higher +power. He was not inclined to think his brother the worse off, in all +that really mattered, for having been driven out of his paradise. But +it was a little difficult to tell him so. +</p> + +<p> +The necessity was spared him for the moment. Dick came in, and was +shown the letter. +</p> + +<p> +"I think that is the way things will work," he said. "She will be +repulsed by decent people, and she will come to see that whatever mud +she stirs up, more than half of it will stick to her. If she marries +Colne—or even if she only clings on to him as her champion—he'll come +to see, if he has any sense, that the less she talks the better." +</p> + +<p> +"He would want to see her cleared," said the Rector. +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, and that's our difficulty. Sedbergh is very good; but I don't +like it, all the same." +</p> + +<p> +"Don't like what?" asked the Squire. +</p> + +<p> +"I wish to God we could come out into the open." He spoke with strong +impatience. "She's in the wrong. Yes. Scandalously in the wrong—a +blackmailer, everything you like to say of her. But she's also in the +right, and that's just where she can hurt us—where she <i>is</i> hurting +us." +</p> + +<p> +"Has anything happened?" asked the Squire anxiously. +</p> + +<p> +"Yes. It's reached us at last. It's creeping like a blight all over +the country—above ground, underground. It will crop up where you +never could have expected. And what satisfactory answer can we give, +without telling the truth, and the whole truth?" +</p> + +<p> +"Tell us what has happened," said the Squire. +</p> + +<p> +"I went into Bathgate, to Brooks, the saddler. I always have a talk +with the <i>old</i> man, if he's in the shop; and he was there alone. He +hummed and ha'd a lot, and said there was a story going about that he +thought I ought to know of. And what do you think the story was? +Humphrey stole the necklace and gave it to Mrs. Amberley. Susan found +it out and it killed her. You gave Humphrey money on condition he +never showed his face in England again. That's the sort of thing we +are up against." +</p> + +<p> +The Squire's face was a sight to see. The Rector relieved the tension +by laughing, but not very merrily. +</p> + +<p> +"That story won't hurt us," he said. +</p> + +<p> +"That's all very well, Tom," said Dick. "It wouldn't hurt us if there +was nothing behind. But what can you say? It's a lie. Yes. And you +say so. What do you look like, when you say it? Brooks didn't believe +it, of course. But he knew well enough there was <i>something</i>, or he +wouldn't have told me. How did it come? Who knows? He heard it in +the 'George.' They were talking of us. They'll be talking of us all +over Bathgate; then all over the country. Trace that story back, and +you'll get something nearer the truth. That will spread into another +story. There will be many different stories." +</p> + +<p> +"They will contradict one another," said the Rector. +</p> + +<p> +"Yes. And everyone who hears or tells us of them will want to know +exactly where the truth lies. It will all go on behind our backs; but +every now and then somebody, out of real consideration to us, as I +think old Brooks told me, or out of impudent curiosity, will bring it +to our notice. Then what are we to say? Oh, why can't we tell the +truth?" +</p> + +<p> +"We can't," said the Squire, rousing himself. "We can only contradict +the lies. Well, now it has come, I am ready for it. I'll go to +Brooks. I'll talk to him. I'll go and sit on the Bench. I've been +sitting here doing nothing—shirking. I'm glad it has come at last." +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap0406"></a></p> + +<h3> +CHAPTER VI +</h3> + +<h4> +THE POWER OF THE STORM +</h4> + +<p> +The rumours grew, and spread everywhere. The story was discussed in +all the clubs, in all the drawing-rooms, in every country house. +Allusions, carefully calculated to escape the law of libel by the +narrowest margin, appeared in many newspapers. All about peaceful +Kencote it buzzed hotly, assuming many shapes, showing itself in +awkward withholding of eyes, that bore the look of the cut direct, or +in still more awkward geniality. It peered out at the Squire wherever +he went, and he now went everywhere within the orbit in which he had +moved, a respected, honoured figure, all the days of his life. +</p> + +<p> +He fought gamely; his head was once more erect, his step firm. But he +fought a losing battle. Dick, with his clear sight, had seen the weak +spot from the first. There was no answer to make. +</p> + +<p> +There was, indeed, nothing to answer. In the first flush of his +determination to take the field, he had been for going straight to old +Brooks the saddler, with whom he had had friendly dealings ever since +his schooldays, and asking him, in effect, what he meant by it. But +cool-headed Dick had restrained him. +</p> + +<p> +"What can you do more than I did? I laughed, and said, 'That's a +pretty story to have told about you'; and he said, 'Yes, Captain, you +ought to stop it. I'll tell everybody exactly what you tell me to tell +them,' and waited with his head on one side for my version. What's +your version going to be when you've told him the story he heard is a +lie, which he knows well enough already?" +</p> + +<p> +So the Squire went to Brooks, the saddler, because he always did go in +to have a chat with him at the commencement of the hunting season, but +said nothing to him at all of what they were both thinking about. The +chat was lively on both sides, but when he went out of the shop he knew +that Brooks knew why he had come. To brazen it out. +</p> + +<p> +No need to go through the places he went to, and the people he talked +to. He went everywhere he had been accustomed to go, and he talked to +everybody he had been accustomed to talk to. And because he was unused +to playing a part, he overdid this one. He had been a hearty man with +his equals. Now he was almost noisy. He had been a cordially +condescending man with his inferiors. Now he was effusively +patronising. He would have done better to sulk in his tent until the +storm of rumour had died down. And he felt every curious look, every +unasked question. +</p> + +<p> +It was ominous that none of his friends—for he had many lifelong +friends amongst his country neighbours, though no very intimate +ones—said to him that ugly rumours were going about, and that they +thought he ought to know of them so that he could contradict them. It +was obvious that he knew of them, and that they thought he could not +contradict them, or they would have spoken. Nobody could tell anybody +else that he had heard the truth of these absurd stories from Clinton +himself, and it was so and so. Nobody cut him, nobody even avoided +him; it was, indeed, difficult to do so, he was so ubiquitous; but the +unasked, unanswered questions behind all the surface sociality poisoned +the air. The Squire was in torment in all his comings and goings. +</p> + +<p> +Dick fared better, because he took things more naturally. But nobody +asked him questions either. He was not an easy man to ask questions +of. If they had done so, he would have been ready with his answer: "I +can't tell you the truth of the story, because it's a family matter. +But I'll tell you this much: Mrs. Amberley tried to blackmail my +father, and he told her to go to the devil." It would not have +answered much, but it would have made some impression. +</p> + +<p> +But the trouble was, and Dick felt it deeply, that he could take no +steps of his own. He could go to nobody and say, "I know there are +ugly rumours going about against us. Tell me, as a friend, what they +are, and I'll answer them." The answer, in that case, would have had +to be different, and must have contained the truth of the story, if it +were to be satisfying. +</p> + +<p> +The Squire grew thinner and older, almost noticeably so, every day. +Mrs. Clinton was in the deepest distress about him, but could do +nothing. He would come home, from hunting, or from Petty Sessions, +which he now attended regularly, and keep miserable silence, all his +spirit gone. She and Joan were companionable with him, as far as he +would let them be, and he liked to have them with him; but he would not +talk, or if he roused himself to do so, it was with such painful effort +that it was plain that it was only to please them, and brought no +relief to himself. He would have no one asked to the house. He was +afraid of refusals. +</p> + +<p> +One morning a letter came to him with the stamp of a Government office, +franked by the Minister at the head of that office. He opened it in +surprise. It ran as follows: +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p class="noindent"> +DEAR MR. CLINTON, +</p> + +<p> +My nephew, Inverell, has made a communication to me concerning which I +should like to have a conversation with you. If you will do me the +honour of calling on me when you are next in London I will do my best +to meet you at any hour you may arrange for. But as my time is apt to +be occupied a good deal ahead, if you can make it convenient to see me +here at 12 o'clock next Tuesday morning, I shall run no risk of +disappointment. +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +Yours very truly,<br /> + CHEVIOT.<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p> +"Now I shall have something to take hold of," said the Squire, +brightening. +</p> + +<p> +He dressed that morning in better spirits than he had shown for some +time. Poor little Joan! It had hurt him terribly that her happy love +story had been cut off short, snuffed out altogether, as it had seemed, +by the postponement of her young lover's visit. He had made no sign, +and it was now a month ago and more since the letter had been written +to him. Joan must have given up hope by this time. She must be sick +at heart, poor child! Yet she never showed it. She was tender of +<i>his</i> wounds, anxious to brighten his life. But what did his life, now +almost within sight of its end—broken, dishonoured—matter beside her +young life, just opening into full flower, only to be stricken by the +same blight of dishonour? He would have given anything—life +itself—to lift the weight off her, so tender had his conscience become +under the pummelling of fate, so big his heart for those to whom he +owed love and shelter. As bitter as death itself it was to feel that +he who had surrounded his dear ones—dear all through, though +subjugated to his whims and prejudices—with everything that wealth and +ease could provide for refuge, should see them stripped of his succour, +and himself powerless to protect them. +</p> + +<p> +He shaved himself by the window looking out on to his broad, well-treed +park, where his horses were being exercised. He looked at them with +some stirring of interest. Somehow, he had not cared to look at them +of late, whether it was that the mirth of the stable-lads, subdued by +reason of their being in sight of the windows of the house, but none +the less patent in its youthful irresponsibility, jarred on his sombre +mood; or that such signs of his own wealth as a string of little-used +hunters, kept on because he had always kept them, hurt him because of +the futility of his wealth to help in the present distress. +</p> + +<p> +What, after all, could young Inverell have done? Mrs. Clinton's letter +had, on instructions, been entirely non-committal. He had been asked +to postpone his visit. No reason had been given; no future time +suggested. He could only have waited—in surprise and dismay—for a +renewal of the invitation. He could not, after that letter, have +written to Joan. Perhaps he might, after a week or two had elapsed, +have written to the Squire himself. But by that time the blight had +begun to spread. It must have reached his ears pretty quickly. The +higher the rank the fresher the gossip; and the name of Clinton would +not have passed him by, if it had been whispered ever so lightly. +</p> + +<p> +Well, what then? The Squire, sensitive now to the very marrow, drooped +again. He had held aloof. There was no gainsaying that. Five weeks +had passed, and Joan had been left unhappy, to lose some little shred +of hope every day. It was natural perhaps. He was almost a young +prince—not one of those of his rank who marry lightly to please their +fancy of the moment. He would be right to wait for a time if the house +from which he had chosen his bride was under a cloud, to see what that +cloud was and whether it would pass. If it continued to hang black and +threatening over those who made no effort to lift it, he might come to +ask himself in time whether he could not snatch his lady from under its +dark canopy; but he would not ask it until time had been given for its +removal. Oh, the bitterness of the thought that it was Kencote, of all +houses, over which the cloud lay thick and heavy—Kencote, which had +basked in the mild sunshine of honour and dignity for as long as, or +longer than his own house had attracted its more radiant beams! +</p> + +<p> +But now he had moved. This letter must mean that a chance was to be +given for the head of the house to clear himself. Whatever came of it, +it was the first chance that the Squire had had, and he was eager to +take it. +</p> + +<p> +He regarded the letter from all points of view, and was inclined to +think favourably of it. It bore a great name—that of a man of the +highest honour in the counsels of the nation, known to everyone. It +was courteously written. "Dear Mr. Clinton." The Squire could not +remember ever having met him. He was of a younger generation than the +great men he had foregathered with in his youth and theirs. Dick would +probably have some slight acquaintance with him, but even Dick, who had +been so much in the swim, had not habitually consorted with Cabinet +Ministers of the first rank. The Squire would know many of his friends +and relations, of course. His own name would be known to the great +man—Clinton of Kencote—there was still virtue in it. It was not as +if the young man had gone to his guardian and told him that he wanted +to marry the daughter of this or that country gentleman whose status +would have to be explained and examined. This was a letter to an +equal. It was nothing that he was asked to go up and present himself +before the writer. The Squire was quite ready to pay due deference to +a man whose claim to deference was founded on distinction of a sort +that he did not claim himself. It was hardly to be expected that a +Secretary of State in the middle of an Autumn Session should wait upon +him. Nothing more could have been desired than that he should put his +request with courtesy, which he had done. +</p> + +<p> +Dick, when he showed him the letter, was not so sure. "Of course you +would have to go to London to meet him," he said. "But it's really no +less than a summons, for a time and place that he doesn't consult you +about. However, we won't worry ourselves about that. What are you +going to say to him?" +</p> + +<p> +The Squire hadn't thought that out yet. He should know when he got +there, and heard what Lord Cheviot wanted of him. +</p> + +<p> +"I think it's pretty plain what he wants," said Dick. "You've got to +show my lord that you're a fit and proper person to form an alliance +with. That's what we're brought to. It's the most humiliating thing +that has happened yet. If it weren't for poor little Joan I should say +chuck his letter into the fire, and don't answer it, and don't go." +</p> + +<p> +It was significant of the change that had been wrought in the Squire +that it was Dick who should be expressing angry resentment at the hint +of a slight to the Kencote dignity, and he who should say, "I don't +take it in that way. And in any case I would sink my own feelings for +the sake of Joan." +</p> + +<p> +"You'll have to be careful," said Dick. "He will want to overawe you +with his position. That's why you are to go and see him at his office. +Why couldn't he have asked you to his house or his club, or called on +you at yours? This is a private matter, and privately we're as good as +he is; or, at any rate, we want nothing from him." +</p> + +<p> +"But we do," said the Squire. "We want Joan's happiness." +</p> + +<p> +"If Inverell wants Joan, he will take her. She's good enough for him, +or anybody, not only in herself but in her family." +</p> + +<p> +"She would be if we were not under this cloud." +</p> + +<p> +"She is in any case. Don't lose sight of that when you are talking to +him. He has a sort of cold air of immense dignity about him; he is +polite and superior at the same time." +</p> + +<p> +"Do you know him?" +</p> + +<p> +"No. At least I've been to his house. We nod in the street. He knows +who I am. He came down to Kemsale some years ago. He was a friend of +old Cousin Humphrey's. Didn't you meet him then?" +</p> + +<p> +"Perhaps I did," said the Squire. "I don't remember. Ah, if poor old +Humphrey Meadshire had been alive, a lot of this wouldn't be happening." +</p> + +<p> +Lord Meadshire, a kinsman of the Squire's, had been Lord Lieutenant of +the county, and the leading light in it, for very many years. But he +had died, a very old man, two years before, and the grandson who had +succeeded him was "no good to anybody." +</p> + +<p> +"Don't let him overawe you," was Dick's final advice, significant +enough, as addressed to the Squire, of what had been wrought in him. +</p> + +<p> +There was no attempt made to overawe him, unless by the ceremony that +hedges round a great Secretary of State in his inner sanctuary, when +the Squire presented himself at the time appointed. +</p> + +<p> +Lord Cheviot rose from his seat and came forward to meet him. "It is +good of you, Mr. Clinton," he said, shaking hands, "to come to me here. +If you had been in London I should have called on you." +</p> + +<p> +He was a tall, severe-looking man who seldom smiled, and did not smile +now. He was so much in the public eye, and had for years played a part +of such dignity, that it was impossible for the Squire, bucolic as he +was, not to be somewhat impressed, now that he was in his presence. +</p> + +<p> +But his greeting had removed any feeling that had been aroused by +Dick's criticism of his letter, and he put the Squire still more at his +ease by saying as he took his seat again, "I had the pleasure of +meeting you some years ago at Lord Meadshire's. I think he was a +relation of yours." +</p> + +<p> +"Yes," said the Squire. "Poor old man, we miss him a great deal in my +part of the world." +</p> + +<p> +Lord Cheviot bowed his head. He had finished with the subject of Lord +Meadshire. +</p> + +<p> +"As you know, Mr. Clinton," he said, "I was guardian to my nephew +during his minority. He was brought up as a member of my own family; I +stand as a father to him, more than is the case with most guardians. +That will excuse me to you, I hope, for interfering in a matter with +which, otherwise, I should have had no concern." +</p> + +<p> +The Squire did not quite like the word "interfering," and made no reply. +</p> + +<p> +"He has told me that he wishes to marry your daughter, that she is +everything, in herself, that could be desired as a wife for him, which +I have no sort of hesitation in accepting—in believing." +</p> + +<p> +"In herself!" Again the Squire kept silence, though invited by a +slight pause to speak. +</p> + +<p> +"He tells me that it was understood that he should go to you +immediately after he and this very charming young lady had parted in +Scotland, that he had Mrs. Clinton's invitation, and that it was +withdrawn, and has not since been renewed." +</p> + +<p> +The Squire had to speak now. He made a gulp at it. "There were +reasons," he said, "why I wished the proposal deferred for a time. I +needn't say," he added hurriedly, "that they had nothing to do +with—with your nephew himself." +</p> + +<p> +"You mean that you would not object to a marriage between him and your +daughter?" +</p> + +<p> +Was there a trace of satire in this speech? None was apparent in the +tone in which it was uttered, or in Lord Cheviot's face as he uttered +it, sitting with his finger tips together, looking straight at his +visitor. +</p> + +<p> +If there was satire its sting was removed by the Squire answering +simply: "Such a marriage could only have been gratifying to me"; and +perhaps it was rebuked by his adding, "I have never met your nephew, +but he bears such a character that any father must have been gratified +for his daughter's sake." +</p> + +<p> +This gave the word to Lord Cheviot, whose attitude had been that of one +waiting for an explanation. +</p> + +<p> +He changed his position, and bent forward. "I think, under the +circumstances, Mr. Clinton, we are entitled to ask why you wished the +proposal—otherwise gratifying—to be deferred." +</p> + +<p> +There was a tiny prick in each of his speeches. The Squire was made +more uncomfortable by them than was due even from the general +discomfort of the situation. +</p> + +<p> +He raised troubled eyes to those of his questioner. "I suppose you are +not ignorant," he said, "of what is being said of us?" +</p> + +<p> +"Of 'us'?" queried Lord Cheviot. +</p> + +<p> +"Of me and my family. All the world seems to be talking of us." +</p> + +<p> +Lord Cheviot dropped his eyes. He may not have liked to be put into +the position of questioned, instead of questioner. +</p> + +<p> +"I am not ignorant of it," he said. +</p> + +<p> +"It was for him," said the Squire, "to come or to keep away. As long +as my name was being bandied about in the wicked way it has been, I +would not ask him to my house. I have my pride, Lord Cheviot. If your +nephew marries my daughter, he marries her as an equal. My family has +been before the world as long as his, or your lordship's. It has not +reached the distinction, of late, of either; but that is a personal +matter. If Lord Inverell takes a bride from Kencote he takes her from +a house where men as high in the world as he have taken brides for many +generations past." +</p> + +<p> +Dick, if he had heard this speech, might have been relieved of his fear +that the Squire would be overawed by the Cabinet Minister. He might +also have felt that as an assertion of dignity it would have been more +effective if postponed to a point in the conversation when that dignity +should have been affronted. +</p> + +<p> +"If that were not so, Mr. Clinton," said Lord Cheviot, "I should not +have done myself the honour of seeking an interview with you. Let us +come to the point—as equals—and as men of honour. You have said that +your name is being bandied about in a wicked way. I take that to mean +that accusations are being made which have no truth in them." +</p> + +<p> +"Many accusations are being made," said the Squire, "which have no word +of truth in them. They will not be believed by anybody who knows +me—who knows where I stand. But mud sticks. Many people do not know +me—most people, I may say, who have heard these stories; for they have +spread everywhere. I stand as a mark. I shelter myself behind nobody; +I draw in nobody, if I can help it. That is why I asked your nephew to +put off his visit to my house, and why I have not renewed it since." +</p> + +<p> +"It was the right way to act," said Lord Cheviot, "and I thank you for +acting so. But, for my nephew, it does not settle the question; it +only postpones it. He loves your daughter, and she, I am assured, +loves him. I will not disguise anything from you, Mr. Clinton. +Personally, I should prefer that this marriage should not take place. +But I cannot dictate, I can only advise. I advised my nephew to wait +awhile. He did so. And he is willing to wait no longer. Mr. Clinton, +when slanders are circulated, there are ways of stopping them." +</p> + +<p> +"What are they?" cried the Squire. "The slander takes many forms. +None of them are brought before me. I know they are being circulated; +that is all. I know where they spring from, but I can't trace them +back. There is cunning at work, Lord Cheviot, as well as wickedness. +There is nothing to take hold of." +</p> + +<p> +"If you had something definite to take hold of, you could meet it; you +could disperse these slanders?" +</p> + +<p> +"Yes," said the Squire boldly. +</p> + +<p> +"Then I can be of service to you. I have a letter from Lord Colne, in +which he makes certain accusations. It was written in answer to one +from me. I had heard that he had been making free with my nephew's +name in connection with yours, and I wrote on his behalf for definite +statements, which could be acted on. Here is his letter." +</p> + +<p> +The Squire took, and read it. +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p class="noindent"> +MY LORD, +</p> + +<p> +In answer to your letter, my accusation against Mr. Clinton is that the +theft of a pearl necklace of which Mrs. Amberley was accused last year +was committed by a member of his family, that he knew of this, and +allowed money to be paid to keep the secret; also that he offered Lord +Sedbergh the price of the pearls, which offer was refused. +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +I am,<br /> + Your Lordship's Obedient Servant,<br /> + COLNE.<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p> +It was overwhelming. Here was the truth, and nothing but the truth. +That it was not the whole truth helped the Squire not at all. +</p> + +<p> +"That letter," said Lord Cheviot, when he had given him time to read +it, and his eyes were still bent on the page, "is the strongest +possible ground for an action for libel. It is evidently meant to be +taken so. Lord Colne has constituted himself Mrs. Amberley's champion. +It is to him—or to her through him—that the slanders to which you +have referred can be traced back." +</p> + +<p> +"May I take this letter?" asked the Squire. "It is what I have +wanted—something tangible to go upon." +</p> + +<p> +"Certainly, Mr. Clinton. I am glad to have done you the +service—incidentally." +</p> + +<p> +Again the little prick. It was not on the Squire's behalf that the +fire had been drawn. +</p> + +<p> +The prick was left to work in. Lord Cheviot sat and waited. +</p> + +<p> +"This is a most infamous woman," the Squire broke out. "She came +herself and tried to trap me. I refused to give her money. This is +her revenge." +</p> + +<p> +Still Lord Cheviot waited. +</p> + +<p> +The Squire began to feel that if he had escaped one trap, he was even +now in the teeth of another. He wanted time to think it over; he +wanted Dick to advise him. But he had no time, and he was alone under +the gaze of the cold eyes of the man who was waiting for him to speak. +</p> + +<p> +"I can't decide now exactly what steps I can take about this," he said, +speaking hurriedly. "But I suppose you won't be satisfied to wait +until I do take steps." +</p> + +<p> +"I shall be quite satisfied, Mr. Clinton," said the chilly voice, "if +you tell me that there is no truth in that letter." +</p> + +<p> +Now he was caught in the teeth. He could not think clearly; he had not +time to think at all. He could only cling to one determination, that +he had not known until now was in his mind. With Humphrey on the other +side of the world, and Susan in her grave, he would not exonerate +himself by inculpating them. +</p> + +<p> +He rose unsteadily from his chair. "I can only tell you this, my +lord," he said. "I have been tried very terribly, and in whatever I +have done or left undone, I have followed the path of honour. I can +say no more than that now, and I can see that that is not enough. So I +will wish you good-morning." +</p> + +<p> +He did not raise his head, or he might have seen the cold, watchful +look in Lord Cheviot's eyes after a little fade into a look that was +not unsympathetic. +</p> + +<p> +But there was little softening in the voice in which he said, "I must +tell my nephew that I have given you the opportunity of denying, not a +rumour that cannot be pinned down, but a categorical charge, and that +you have not denied it." +</p> + +<p> +The Squire made no reply. Lord Cheviot came forward, as if he would +have accompanied him to the door; but he went out without a word, and +shut it behind him. +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap0407"></a></p> + +<h3> +CHAPTER VII +</h3> + +<h4> +THINKING IT OUT +</h4> + +<p> +The Squire went home in the afternoon. When he reached the junction at +Ganton, where trains were changed for Kencote, he walked across the +platform to send a telegram. The station-master, with whom he always +exchanged a hearty word, touched his hat to him, and looked after him +with concern on his face. He had taken no notice of the salutation, +although he had seen it. He walked like an old and broken man. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Clinton met him at Kencote with a brougham. He had wired for her +to do so. For the first time in all the over forty years of their +marriage he was not driving himself from the station. He stepped into +the carriage, without so much as a glance at his horses, and took her +hand. He had come home to her; not to his little kingdom. +</p> + +<p> +He went straight up to bed. He had no spirit even for the unexacting +routine of his own home. He kissed Joan, who met him in the hall, but +without a word, and she went away, after a glance at his face. He +would not see Dick when he came. +</p> + +<p> +He slept through the evening, awoke to take some food and drink, but +took very little, and slept again. If ever a man was ill, with whom no +doctor could have found anything the matter, he was ill. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Clinton hoped that he would sleep through the night, but soon +after she laid herself down beside him, in the silence of the night, he +awoke. The heavy sleep that had drugged him into insensibility for a +time had also refreshed and strengthened him, and for succeeding hours +he cried aloud his despair. +</p> + +<p> +"What have I done?" That was the burden of his cry. "Where have I +been wrong? Why am I so beaten down by punishment?" +</p> + +<p> +But by and by, spent with beating against the bars, he began to speak +calmly and reasonably, as if he were discussing the case of someone +else, searching for the truth of things, impartially. +</p> + +<p> +"When Humphrey came and asked me to do what I might very well have done +for Gotch on my own account, I refused. I was right there. When he +told me that Virginia had given him the money, what was I to do? It +was too late to get it back. I had no right to. I might have told +Virginia, perhaps, why the money had been wanted. No, I couldn't do +that. I had promised Humphrey. I do think he ought not to have asked +me for that promise. But it was given. What <i>could</i> I have done, +Nina, at that stage? I knew about it, that devilish letter says. I +allowed money to be paid to keep it secret. Was I to publish it +abroad, directly Humphrey told me? Is there a man living who would +have done that under the circumstances? Would Cheviot have done it +himself? It might just as well have happened to him as to me. Nina, +was I bound, by any law of God or man, to do that?" +</p> + +<p> +"Edward dear, you have done no wrong——" +</p> + +<p> +"No, but answer my question. If it had been you instead of me—that +might <i>very</i> well have happened. Would <i>you</i> have said—after you had +been told under a promise of secrecy, mind—Susan must be shown up? +Even that wouldn't have been enough; Humphrey wouldn't have shown her +up. You would have had to do it yourself. And how could you have done +it? Can you really seriously say it was my duty, when Humphrey told me +that story, to go and give information to the police?" +</p> + +<p> +"Oh no, no, Edward." +</p> + +<p> +"But what's the alternative? Upon my soul, Nina, I can't see any +half-way house between that and what I did. I kept silence, they say. +That was Cheviot's charge, and because I couldn't deny it, I stood +condemned before him. I wish I could have put the question to <i>him</i>, +as to what he would have expected of me. Confound him, and his +supercilious way! Nina, you haven't answered me. What would <i>you</i> +have done?" +</p> + +<p> +"Exactly what you did, Edward dear. I am not sure that I should even +have had the strength to refuse Humphrey's plea, as you so honourably +did, without counting the cost in any way. You were ready to take any +consequences, to yourself. Oh, you could not have done more." +</p> + +<p> +"But then, why am I put in the wrong? Those are the charges against +me. Those, and that I offered Sedbergh the price of the +necklace—which he refused. Yes, he did refuse it, and made me feel, +too, that I ought not to have asked him to accept it. Why did I feel +that? It isn't that he was wrong. He was right, and I should have +acted as he did if I had been in his place. But why did I feel ashamed +of having offered it to him? What was the alternative? To say nothing +about it to him, when Susan had spent thousands of pounds belonging to +him, and I knew of it? Can anyone seriously say that that was a more +honourable course to take than the one I did take? Nina, help me. +Tell me where I was wrong. I <i>must</i> have been wrong there, because I +felt ashamed." +</p> + +<p> +"It is easy enough now to mark down little errors. In the main, Edward +dear, you were right all through—nobly right." +</p> + +<p> +"Little errors! What error was there there? I either offered him the +money, or kept from him the fact that a member of my family had spent +it. There was no alternative. <i>Was</i> there? Do tell me, Nina, if you +can see anything that I can't see." +</p> + +<p> +"I think the better way would have been to tell Lord Sedbergh of what +had been done, and leave it to him to take steps if he wished to. He +would have taken none. You would have been justified. You could not +justify yourself any more by paying him back what had been stolen." +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, that is what he said. He would not bear my burden. Why should +he have? Yes. I see that, Nina. I was wrong there. I think I was +very wrong there." +</p> + +<p> +Oh, how it rent her heart to hear him, who had been so ready with his +dictatorial censure of all dependent on him, so impervious to every +shaft of censure that might have been attracted to himself, thus baring +his breast to blame, accepting it, welcoming it, if it would only help +to clear away his bewilderment. +</p> + +<p> +"It came to the same thing, dear, in the end," she reminded him. "You +had told Lord Sedbergh." +</p> + +<p> +"Ah, but it wasn't quite the same. I can see that now. If I had gone +to him as you said, I could have denied the statement that I kept +silence. I should have told the one man that perhaps it was right that +I should have told. I am beginning to see a little light, Nina. +Nothing more could have been expected of me than that. I should have +had a complete answer. Oh, why did I make that mistake? It looked to +me, afterwards, such a small one. Sedbergh set me right over +it—snubbed me really, though in the kindest possible way—and I +deserved it. But that didn't end it. That mistake put everything else +wrong. I am beginning to see it. But, oh, how difficult it all is!" +</p> + +<p> +"Edward, you <i>had</i> told Lord Sedbergh. You told him before you made +any suggestion as to payment. He had thought the matter was ended when +he had said you were right to tell him, and there was nothing more to +be done. You have told me that whenever you have gone over the +conversation you had with him." +</p> + +<p> +He thought over this. His slow-moving mind was made preternaturally +acute by long dwelling on the one interminable subject. "Should I have +told him anything?" he asked, "if I hadn't wanted to get the debt off +my shoulders? No, I think not. Humphrey would not have consented for +one thing, and I had given him my word. I suppose I was wrong there +too. I ought never to have given him my word. Yet he would not have +told me if I had not." +</p> + +<p> +"That is Humphrey's blame. He asked you to keep dishonourable silence. +You trusted him there. You would not have promised that." +</p> + +<p> +"Then my silence was dishonourable?" +</p> + +<p> +"You told Lord Sedbergh. I think you would have told him in any case. +I think that you would have seen that you must. You would have +insisted with Humphrey; and you must have had your way. You have acted +so honourably where you did see clearly, that I have no doubt you would +have seen clearly here. You had no time to think. You were under the +influence of the sudden shock. You went up to London to see Lord +Sedbergh the very next morning." +</p> + +<p> +"It was pride," he said slowly. "The wrong pride. I have been very +blind to my faults, Nina. Pride of place, pride of wealth, pride of +birth! What are they in a crisis like this? I was humiliated to the +dust before that man this morning. Oh, I have seen myself in a wrong +light all my life. God has sent me this trial to show me how little +worth I was in His sight. My pride led me wrong. Why was I thinking +then about the money at all? Sedbergh was right. That woman was +right, there. It was a base thought, and I have been very heavily +punished for it." +</p> + +<p> +She lay by his side, comforting him. She thought that he would now +cease his self-examination, since it had led him to a conclusion +damaging to himself, but healing too, if he saw a fault and repented of +it. But presently he returned to it again. +</p> + +<p> +"Why did I feel beaten and ashamed before Cheviot? Why has he the +right to say those damning words to his nephew, 'I shall tell him that +I brought you a definite charge made against your honour, and you did +not deny it'?" +</p> + +<p> +"Edward dear, you might have denied it, but for one thing. The charge +against you was not true." +</p> + +<p> +"But it was true. I knew of Susan's guilt, and money was paid to keep +it secret—money that I knew had been paid." +</p> + +<p> +"That you allowed to be paid," she corrected him. "You did not allow +it. It was not paid to keep the secret. Virginia paid it, on behalf +of Dick, and paid it with quite a different intention." +</p> + +<p> +"Isn't that a mere quibble?" +</p> + +<p> +"No, it is not. A quibble is a half-truth that obscures a whole one. +This is not like that. It is because the whole truth is so difficult +to disengage here that it looked like the half-truth. I say nothing of +Humphrey; but as regards you it is the whole truth. It is not true—it +is a lie—to say that you allowed money to be paid to conceal what you +knew. You refused to pay money yourself, because you knew it would +have the indirect effect of concealing the truth. It was not in your +power to stop the money being paid with an innocent object. And when +it is said that you knew of Susan's guilt, if that is in itself a +charge of keeping silence, the answer is that you did not keep silence. +You told Lord Sedbergh. That you offered him the money afterwards is +nothing—would, I mean, be considered nothing against you, as coming +afterwards. As it is put in that letter it is as untrue as the rest; +for it is intended there to look as if you had offered that money too +in order to buy silence." +</p> + +<p> +"My dear," he said, "you have a very clever head. I wonder if you are +right. That would exonerate me of everything." +</p> + +<p> +"You <i>are</i> to be exonerated of everything," she said quietly, "except +the mistake of thinking it more important that Lord Sedbergh should be +told because of the debt that lay heavy on you than because it was +right that he should be told in any case. You did tell him, which is +all that anyone inclined to criticise you is concerned with, and <i>I</i> +know well enough that you would have told him if there were no question +of payment. My dear husband, you have been so cast down by the blows +you have received that you are inclined to blame yourself, knowing +everything, as others are inclined to blame you, knowing nothing." +</p> + +<p> +This was sweet balm to him, and he lay comforting himself with it for +some time. But his doubts came back to him. +</p> + +<p> +"Then why did I feel so ashamed before Cheviot?" +</p> + +<p> +She was ready with her answer at once. "For a reason that does you +more honour than anything else. You took the sins of others upon you. +You took shame before him, not for your own faults, but for theirs. If +you could have told him everything, he would have seen what even you +couldn't see at the time—that the apparent truth in that letter was +not the truth. The only true thing in it was that Susan was guilty." +</p> + +<p> +"And that I knew it." +</p> + +<p> +"There was no shame in that, to you, unless you kept silence, which you +did not do." +</p> + +<p> +"I can't see that quite straight yet, Nina, though I should like to. +Why are you so sure that I should have told Sedbergh in any case, or +insisted upon Humphrey telling him?" +</p> + +<p> +"Because I see so plainly how your mind has worked all along. It never +did work on that point, because you took the right course at once—we +will say, if you like, for not quite the right reason—and it was never +a matter to be fought out with yourself. It had been done." +</p> + +<p> +"You are very comforting to me, my dearest. I do believe you are +right. I say it in all humility; I think I should not have been +allowed to go wrong there." +</p> + +<p> +"I am sure you would not; quite sure. Even with your pride to guide +you, as you say it did, you could not have consented long to hold back +the truth from Lord Sedbergh. Him, at least, you must have told—as +you did." +</p> + +<p> +"Well, I give in, Nina. You give me great comfort." +</p> + +<p> +"And I give you great honour too, Edward. You have taken the burden +and the shame on yourself when a word would have removed it." +</p> + +<p> +"Not only on myself, Nina. You share it. We all share it; our poor +little Joan more heavily than any of us." +</p> + +<p> +"I cannot but think that Joan will win her happiness in time. He would +not be what he is if he allowed this to keep him from her. The talk +will die down. No one will blame her—can blame her—even now, when it +is at its loudest. We must wait in patience for what will come. Dear +Joan will be all the happier when her trial is over, and the stronger. +She is bearing it bravely. I am proud of my girl." +</p> + +<p> +The Squire lay for a long time silent. Then he said, "Well, we have +thought it out together, my dear. I can face what must come now. We +face it together. We live on quietly here, as we have always lived. I +ask no one, from now, to stand and deliver. I do my duty amongst my +neighbours, and those dependent on me, and they think of me what they +please. You who know me, love and trust me, and that shall be enough. +We have our quiet home, and our children, and their children, and the +friends who have stood by us. And we have our religion—our God, Who +has helped us, and will help us. We have our burden too, but He will +make it light for us. I feel at peace about it now, Nina—almost +happy. I think I shall sleep to-night. Good night, Nina. God bless +you. May God bless you, my dear wife!" +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap0408"></a></p> + +<h3> +CHAPTER VIII +</h3> + +<h4> +SKIES CLEARING +</h4> + +<p> +The Squire had slept late. Mrs. Clinton had stood by his bed when the +breakfast gong had sounded, and looked down upon his face, older +without a doubt than it had been a month before, more lined and +furrowed, less firm of flesh, less ruddy of skin, but peaceful now, in +its deep slumber. She had touched with her hand, lightly and tenderly, +his grey head, and then gone downstairs to take the place which he had +so seldom missed taking during all the years of their married life. +</p> + +<p> +He got up at once when he awoke, shocked at finding himself so late. +The horses had gone back to the stables when he went into his +dressing-room, but he stood for a moment or two looking out over the +park, and then opened the window. Unconsciously he was taking stock of +his surroundings once more, breathing in with the mild autumn air that +sense both of space and retirement which was the note of his much-loved +home. It was his once more, to enjoy and to take pride in. Lately it +had seemed not to be his at all. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Clinton sat with him over his late breakfast. He had hardly begun +it when Dick came in. +</p> + +<p> +"Well, my boy," said the Squire cheerfully. "Sorry I couldn't see you +last night. I was done up. I'm all right now, ready for anything. +Your dear mother and I have talked it all over. There's nothing to be +done but bide our time. It will pass over." +</p> + +<p> +There was a distinct change in his attitude towards his eldest son. He +was accustomed to greet his other sons with that fatherly, "Well, my +boy!" but not Dick. Dick had the master-head. He never presumed on it +to set up authority where it would be hurtful to his father's +self-complacency, but he was accustomed to rule, none the less, and the +Squire to rely on him to decide in every difficulty. But now he had +decided for himself. Dick was his much-admired and trusted son, but +not, in this matter, his director, nor even his adviser. +</p> + +<p> +"He got the better of you, I suppose," said Dick, seating himself at +the table. +</p> + +<p> +"I suppose he did. I don't know. Is that how you would put it, Nina?" +</p> + +<p> +"Your father saw," said Mrs. Clinton, "when it came to the point, that +it meant, if he was to clear himself, he must heap all the blame upon +Susan, and in a lesser degree on Humphrey. If he had done that he must +have satisfied Lord Cheviot. But he would not do it." +</p> + +<p> +"Rather rough on Joan," said Dick with a slight frown. +</p> + +<p> +"I have told Joan everything," said Mrs. Clinton, "and she sees it as +we do. She is content to wait." +</p> + +<p> +"Read that," said the Squire, taking the fateful letter from his +pocket. "That is what we have to face. I didn't see my way to deny +it, so I left his Lordship to attend to the affairs of the nation." +</p> + +<p> +"But it isn't true!" said Dick, when he had read it. "It looks like +the truth, but it isn't. You could have denied every word of it, +except the first statement—about Susan." +</p> + +<p> +The Squire looked at his wife with a smile. "Dick sees it at once," he +said. "It took you and me half the night to get at it, Nina; and I +should never have got at it by myself. Well, it isn't true, Dick, as +far as it puts blame on me which I don't deserve. But it's true about +Susan. I couldn't tell him the story; so I came away." +</p> + +<p> +"And he will tell Inverell that he showed you this letter and you could +make no reply to it." +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, I suppose so." +</p> + +<p> +Dick looked deeply disturbed. "I wish I had been there," he said. +</p> + +<p> +"If you had been there, Dick," said Mrs. Clinton, "I think you would +have done just the same as your father did. Have you ever faced the +necessity of bringing the charge against Susan with your own lips? I +don't think you could do it, if it came to the point." +</p> + +<p> +Dick rose and went to the window. "We could not deny it if they +brought us to the point," he said. "No; but that is different." +</p> + +<p> +He thought for a moment, swinging the tassel of the blind. "It seems +to me," he said, "to have come to the point where Humphrey ought to +speak—ought to be sent for. <i>We</i> can't do it. No; perhaps you are +right; until we are pushed to a point where we shall have to do it. +But he could; and it ought to be done. Why should father be made to +suffer these indignities? Why should poor little Joan lose her +happiness in this way? I'm not sure that it isn't our duty to speak +out, even now, however much we should dislike having to." +</p> + +<p> +"I can't see it in that way, Dick," said the Squire. "As I said to you +once before, Susan was one of us. We should have had to share her +disgrace, as a family, if she had been alive; and a very terrible +disgrace it would have been, though we might have been shown to be free +of blame ourselves. We can't cut ourselves off from her now she is +dead. To put it on the lowest ground, it wouldn't do us any good. +Nobody would respect us more for it. They would say that we could keep +silence about it to save our own skins, but put it all on to her +directly it became known. I wouldn't mind what they said, if I didn't +feel the same myself. I am not going to mind for the future what +anybody says. Let them say what they like. We know that we have done +nothing wrong—or very little—and that must be enough for us." +</p> + +<p> +Dick returned to the letter in his hand. "They want us to go for +them," he said. "Cheviot must have seen that." +</p> + +<p> +"He did," said the Squire. "I told him I should consider what was to +be done." +</p> + +<p> +"Have you considered it?" Dick looked at him as if ready to hear a +decision, not to advise on one. +</p> + +<p> +"Your mother and I think we had better take no steps, for the reason I +have already given." +</p> + +<p> +"It's plain enough what it means," said Dick. "They want the story +out. They think they will gain, even though it also comes out that she +asked you for money. We put too much faith in that weapon. She would +give the same reasons that she gave to you. They would sound plausible +enough. They have chosen their ground well. I thought they would have +spread lies, which we couldn't have proved to be lies, without taking +action. I've no doubt that Colne thinks this is the truth, and finds +it serves their purpose best. It has certainly served it here." +</p> + +<p> +"For the time," said Mrs. Clinton. +</p> + +<p> +"Well, say you take no notice of this. Are they going to stop at this? +On these lines they can force us to take action, sooner or later, if +that is what they want. We ought to be prepared for it." +</p> + +<p> +"We must take each occasion as it comes," said the Squire. +</p> + +<p> +"I think that Humphrey ought to be written to. I don't think it will +be possible to avoid taking action, if they press us. We can stand +this. We don't know that we shall be able to stand the next move, or +the one after. It is he who has got us into this—he, even more than +poor Susan, as it turns out. He ought to come home and face it with +us. You ought to write to him by this mail, father; or I will, if you +like." +</p> + +<p> +"Wait a little, Dick," said the Squire. "I must think it out. Your +mother and I must think it out together." +</p> + +<p> +He was glad enough, a few days later, that Humphrey had not been +written to by that mail. For there was a letter from him, from +Australia. It was written from the Union Club in Sydney, and ran as +follows: +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p class="noindent"> +MY DEAR FATHER, +</p> + +<p> +I did not write to you by the last mail, because there was something I +wanted to say, and was not quite ready. On the voyage out here I +thought constantly of what had happened at home before Susan's death, +and asked myself if there was anything I could do in the way of +reparation. The money part of it we settled together before I left +England; but I think there is something else that I ought to do. +Supposing the story were to come out in some way, and I were out of +England, it might be very awkward for you. Mrs. Amberley would be sure +to hear of it, and she would be sure to come down on you. You might +not feel inclined to tell the whole story, to clear yourself of any +complicity in what I did, and it might be weeks or months before you +could get at me. +</p> + +<p> +So I have put down exactly what happened, in the form of an affidavit, +which I am sending you under another cover. You can keep it by you, to +use if the occasion should ever arise. I am not at all sure that if +Mrs. Amberley ever comes back to England and makes any attempt to +reinstate herself, it ought not to be sent to her; but I cannot bring +myself to ask you to do that. I only say that if you think it ought to +be done, I shall accept your decision. I should do again what I did to +save Susan, and of course it would be great pain to me to have her name +brought forward now; but she was so sincerely sorry for what she had +done before she died, that I believe she would have been glad for me to +take any steps to put the wrong right as far as possible. But, as I +say, it is too hard to make up my mind to take what I suppose would be +the only step that could really put everything right as far as we are +concerned. You might tell mother and Dick about it now, and I will +leave it in your hands. +</p> + +<p> +I have made up my mind to stay out here for a year or two, and possibly +for good. I like the country, and I like the people. I have made a +good many friends already, especially here in Sydney. I am staying in +this club, and it is like being amongst one's friends at home, except +that everybody seems to have something to do. I have been up country, +and I like that better still. In a month or so I am going on to a +sheep station to learn the job, and if I find it suits me I shall ask +you to help me buy one of my own. One gets a great deal of open-air +life, and the work is interesting, and not too arduous. I mean that +one could get down here, and to the other cities, and go home on a +visit every few years. I shouldn't know what to do in England now, and +I'm tired of doing nothing. Here I should have plenty to do, and could +forget a good deal of the past, which has been so painful to all of us. +</p> + +<p> +Give my love to mother, and all of them. I will write to her by the +next mail. +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +Your affectionate son,<br /> + HUMPHREY.<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p> +The paper to which Humphrey had referred was in a long envelope among +the Squire's other letters. He opened it, and read a plain, +straightforward account of everything that had happened within +Humphrey's knowledge. +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p> +"I went to my father on May 29th," part of it ran, "and asked him to +pay this sum to Gotch. When he refused, I told him under a promise of +secrecy of my wife's action, and told him that a concession to Gotch +would have the indirect effect of keeping this from being known, and +save himself and my family, as well as my wife, from the disgrace of an +exposure. He told me that if that was the only way in which silence +could be kept, matters must take their course, and refused to do +anything. I then went to my sister-in-law, Mrs. Richard Clinton, and +persuaded her to let Gotch have the money, which she did, knowing +nothing of why I wanted it paid to him.... +</p> + +<p> +"My father advised me to tell Lord Sedbergh of what had happened, or to +allow him to tell him, and if possible to get him to accept the price +of the necklace that had been stolen.... +</p> + +<p> +"Just before her death, my wife asked me to do what I could to put +right the wrong that she had done, and I sign this account of what she +told me, and of what happened afterwards within my knowledge, in the +firm belief that she would have wished me to do it...." +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p> +So there was the exoneration of the Squire, of everything that he had +done, in his hands, to use as he pleased. +</p> + +<p> +His thoughts were tender towards the son who had given him so much +trouble, but now seemed to be in such a fair way of making up for the +mistakes of his past life. As he sat and thought about him, it was +not, at first, the relief that he had so honourably sent, little +knowing how pat to the occasion it would come, that filled his +thoughts, but the decision that Humphrey had come to with regard to his +own future. +</p> + +<p> +It seemed to the Squire an eminently right one. Humphrey was going on +to the land, on which every man, according to his view, had the best +chance of making the most of his life, and escaping the perils that +beset the town-dweller. That it was in that great new country, where +the land meant so much more even than it did in England, where there +were still fields to conquer, still room in the great pastoral or +agricultural armies, that Humphrey was going to make himself a place, +was an added fitness. He would be entering on a new life in a new +land. He was young yet. He would forget the past, but he would not +forget the lessons he had learnt from it. He might even marry again; +the Squire's vision broadened to embrace a new branch of the Clinton +tree, to flourish in years to come on the fertile soil of that Britain +overseas. Life on the land—it was the same in essence wherever it was +lived, healthy, useful, and honourable. Thank God that Humphrey had +embraced it! Thank God for one Clinton more to live it, in honour and +well-being! +</p> + +<p> +When he came to consider the document that Humphrey had put into his +hands, he could not quite make up his mind what to do with it. He +thought he would go down to the Dower House and consult Dick; but went +to find his wife instead. +</p> + +<p> +"I am glad that Humphrey has done this," she said, "very glad indeed. +I think it is plain what use he thinks should be made of it, although +he cannot bring himself to say so." +</p> + +<p> +"You think that it ought to be sent to Mrs. Amberley?" +</p> + +<p> +"I think that if that is done, and you write and tell him so, he will +recognise that it was that feeling that directed him to write it. It +will be full restitution. No need for us to balance her guilt and her +punishment. She was wronged there, whether she was actually punished +for it or not. Poor Susan's last cry to me was, 'If I could only do +something to put it right before I die!' This will put it right, as +far as any sin can be put right. It has been the one thing lacking. +And it comes from Humphrey—from her, through Humphrey." +</p> + +<p> +"I will send a copy to her lawyers," said the Squire, "through mine. +She will make what use she likes of it. We have to face her making a +use of it that will hurt us. She may publish it in the papers. There +would be nothing to prevent her." +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Clinton looked serious. +</p> + +<p> +"Well, we'll risk that," said the Squire. "I think it would be a +wicked thing to do; but she's a wicked woman. I haven't changed my +mind about that, at any rate. We can only take the right course, and +put up with the consequences." +</p> + +<p> +"I think you would be justified," said Mrs. Clinton, "in saying, when +you write to your lawyers, that she may use this document to clear +herself, in any way she pleases, and that you will take no steps if she +uses it privately; but that if she publishes it, you will publish the +fact that she asked you for money, and her letter to Dick. I think she +will not publish it. She can clear herself of so little. It is only +as a weapon that she has been able to make use of her discovery. In +spite of that letter of Lord Colne's, she must have used it to create +the impression that she was innocent of everything. By publishing +this, she will fasten on herself the guilt of what she was actually +punished for, and remind the world of it. She would gain nothing; and +if the fact of her having come to you for money is published as well, +she will lose." +</p> + +<p> +"My dear," said the Squire, "I think you have the clearest head of all +of us. No, they won't let her use it in any way that can hurt us, for +she will hurt herself as well. This is the end of it, thank God; and +the talk will die down." +</p> + +<p> +That afternoon the Squire sat in his room. Mrs. Clinton and Joan were +driving. He had been out with a gun, with Dick, had come in and +changed his boots, and was just beginning to nod, as he sat before the +fire, with the "Times" on his knee. +</p> + +<p> +The door was opened, and Lord Inverell was announced. +</p> + +<p> +The young man, tall, fair, and open-faced, came forward with a smile. +"Mr. Clinton," he said, as the door was shut behind him, "I hope you +will give me a welcome. I have seen my uncle, and heard what he had to +say. Now I have come to say what I want to say myself, and I hope you +will listen to it." +</p> + +<p> +The Squire was somewhat overcome. The memory of his interview with +Lord Cheviot still rankled. +</p> + +<p> +The young man took the seat to which he was motioned. He still smiled. +He had a very frank and pleasing expression of face, and was handsome +besides, with his crisp hair, that curled as much as it was permitted +to, his grey eyes, and white, even teeth. "Mr. Clinton," he said, "I +have come to ask you for Joan. Will you give her to me?" +</p> + +<p> +The Squire experienced a strong and agreeable feeling of everything +having come right all at once. It was so strong that it was almost too +much for him. He hardly knew what he was saying as he stammered: "You +want my little Joan? She's the last one I have left." +</p> + +<p> +"I know. I should have taken her from you before. But I waited, after +Mrs. Clinton's letter. I wish I hadn't. But I didn't know for some +time why it had been written. When I did know, I waited a little +longer; and then my uncle heard—what I wanted, you know—and talked to +me. He has a way with him—my uncle, Mr. Clinton. When he says a +thing, you are inclined to give in to him—at first." +</p> + +<p> +His smile was inviting here. "He told you to wait a little longer, I +suppose," said the Squire. +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, that was it. He kept me hanging on. There couldn't be any +hurry, he said. Then he seems to have written letters. He is rather +fond of writing letters; they'll go into his biography by and by, you +know. But not the one he wrote to Colne. <i>I</i> didn't ask him to write +that. I wish he hadn't." +</p> + +<p> +"The answer he got was a very awkward one for me," said the Squire. "I +couldn't deal with it at the time to Lord Cheviot's satisfaction. +Fortunately, I can now." +</p> + +<p> +"I'm glad of that, Mr. Clinton. But it's not necessary, as far as I am +concerned, you know. Still, I shouldn't object to your squaring my +uncle, if you can, without putting yourself out. I don't want to +quarrel with him, if it can be helped." +</p> + +<p> +"Why have you come here, after what he told you?" +</p> + +<p> +"Because I made him tell me everything. Rather a triumph for me, that! +He told me that you had said you had been through a horrible time, and +hadn't done anything that you were sorry for. I said, 'Thanks, uncle, +that's good enough for me. There are a lot of stories going about, and +you can believe which of them you like. I choose to believe the one +that Joan's father tells, and I'm off there this afternoon. Wish me +luck!'" +</p> + +<p> +"He let you come, without any further discussion?" +</p> + +<p> +"Oh no; not a bit. That was three or four days ago. He argued with +me. I said, 'Well, what do you want me to do?' He said, 'Find out +what truth there is in this story, before you go any further. There's +<i>some</i> truth in it.' Then a bright idea struck me. I said, 'Old +Sedbergh ought to know something about it. Will it satisfy you if I go +to him?'" +</p> + +<p> +"Ah! I never thought of that. Did it satisfy him?" +</p> + +<p> +"He had to say that it would. So I went. I couldn't get hold of the +old man till this morning. But when I did, he looked at me in a funny, +kind sort of way, and said, 'If you can get Joan Clinton for your wife, +you'll be the luckiest young man in the world. Go and get her. +There's no reason why you shouldn't. I know what I'm saying.' Well, +that put the lid on, Mr. Clinton. I sent a note to my uncle; I'd +promised to do that before I came; and here I am." +</p> + +<p> +The Squire breathed a deep sigh of relief. "You have come at the right +time," he said, "and I am very glad you have come as you have—knowing +nothing more than you do. It's a thing that I shall think of with +pleasure all my life. But, as I told your uncle, I wouldn't ask you +here as long as my name was under a cloud. Perhaps the name of Clinton +will be under a cloud some little time longer. But, thank God, the +cloud no longer rests on this house. I can tell you everything that +has happened, feeling that I am wronging nobody. I couldn't have told +Lord Cheviot, and I couldn't have told <i>you</i> yesterday. Read this. It +is a paper I received from my son, Humphrey, from Australia, this +morning." +</p> + +<p> +"I'm satisfied for myself," he said. "Can I tell my uncle what's in +it?" +</p> + +<p> +"You can tell anyone you like," said the Squire. +</p> + +<p> +As he was reading it, the door opened and Joan came in, in her furs. +It was beginning to get dusk. When she saw that there was somebody +with her father, she would have withdrawn. When she saw who it was, +her hand went to her heart; but her lover turned and saw her at that +moment. +</p> + +<p> +A little later he confessed, with a happy laugh, that he had brought +down a bag, and left it at the station. The Squire went out of the +room to procure somebody to fetch it, which he could very well have +done by ringing the bell. +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap0409"></a></p> + +<h3> +CHAPTER IX +</h3> + +<h4> +SKIES CLEAR +</h4> + +<p> +We began with the train, and will end with the train. It was the +material link by which Kencote, standing as it had done through so many +centuries remote and aside from the turmoil of life, had been drawn +into the centre of troublous events. It had brought Joan home from her +fateful visit to Brummels, Humphrey to tell his terrible story, Susan +to her sad resting-place, Mrs. Amberley to demand satisfaction and +threaten vengeance, and latterly the young lover whose coming had +brought joy in place of sorrow. +</p> + +<p> +Now it was to bring, within a few days, enough guests to fill all the +spare rooms of Kencote for Joan's wedding; and it was bringing, this +afternoon, one of the most valued of them all. +</p> + +<p> +This was Miss Bird, affectionately known to the Clinton family as "the +old starling," who had first taught Dick his letters nearly forty years +before, and had gone on teaching letters, and other things, to all the +young Clintons in turn, until the twins had reached the ripe age of +fifteen, six years before. Then she had left, much regretted, partly +because the twins had to be "finished," and she could not undertake +suitably to finish them, partly because duty had called her from the +spacious comforts of Kencote to share the narrow home of a widowed +sister. +</p> + +<p> +The twins were at the station to meet her—tall, beautiful, stately +young women to the outward eye, but, for this occasion, children again +at heart, and mischievous children at that. +</p> + +<p> +"Oh, what fun it is!" said Nancy, with a shiver of pleasure, as the +train came into the station. "I don't feel a day older than fourteen. +There she is, Joan—the sweet old lamb!" +</p> + +<p> +It must be confessed that the years had robbed Miss Bird of such +sweetness as she may at one time have presented to the impartial view. +She was a diminutive, somewhat withered, elderly woman, but still +sprightly in speech and movement, and of breathless volubility. +</p> + +<p> +She flung herself out of the carriage, almost before it had come to a +standstill, and was enveloped in a warm, not to say undignified embrace +by both the twins at once. +</p> + +<p> +"Oh, my darlings," she cried, flinging to the winds all the stops in +the language, "to see you both standing there just as it used to be +though one married and the other going to be and such a <i>grand</i> +marriage too as sweet as ever my bonnet Nancy darling and everything +the same here but a new station-master I see oh it is <i>too</i> much." +</p> + +<p> +Joan and Nancy marched her out of the station to the carriage, all +three laughing and talking at once, and made her sit between them, +which was just possible, as she took up very little room. +</p> + +<p> +She wiped away an unaffected tear, and broke out again. +</p> + +<p> +"This is one of the happiest days of my life and to think of <i>me</i> being +an honoured guest and amongst all the lords and ladies I hope I shall +know how to behave myself and one of the first you wrote to darling +Joan as you said and Mr. Clinton saying whoever else was left out <i>I</i> +must be asked and how is dear Mrs. Clinton well I hope I'm sure the +kindness I have received in this house I never can forget and never +shall forget darling Nancy my bonnet." +</p> + +<p> +"Isn't she too sweet for words, Joan?" said Nancy. "She hasn't altered +a bit. Starling darling, you are the most priceless treasure. We +didn't value you nearly enough when we had you with us." +</p> + +<p> +"Now my pet that is not a thing to say," said Miss Bird, "two dearer +and more affectionate children you might roam the world over and never +find troublesome sometimes I do not say you were not but never really +naughty no one could say it and now grown up quite and one a married +woman it doesn't seem possible." +</p> + +<p> +"I was very hurt that you didn't come to my wedding," said Nancy. "I +know why it is. Joan is going to be a Countess, and I am only plain +Mrs." +</p> + +<p> +"The idea of such a thing," said Miss Bird in horror, "never so much as +entered my head how can you say it Nancy I'm sure if Joan had been +going to marry a crossing-sweeper not that I don't think she would +adorn <i>any</i> position and much more suitable as it is I should have come +<i>just</i> the same and you know quite well why I couldn't come to your +wedding Nancy and almost cried my eyes out but an infectious illness +you would not have liked to be brought you should not say such things." +</p> + +<p> +"I'll forgive you," said Nancy, "if you promise to love John. He is +here, you know. But we wouldn't let anybody come to the station with +us. We wanted you to ourselves." +</p> + +<p> +"Pets!" said Miss Bird affectionately. +</p> + +<p> +"Ronald is here too, but I wouldn't let him come either," said Joan. +</p> + +<p> +"What is he like tell me about him," said Miss Bird. +</p> + +<p> +Joan cast a quick glance at Nancy, over the rather disordered bonnet. +It was the look that had meant in their childhood, "Let's have her on." +</p> + +<p> +"He is most awfully <i>good</i>," she said in rather an apologetic voice. +"Starling dear, I wanted to say something to you before you saw him. +You don't think—if you love anybody very much, and they are really +good—it matters about their looks, do you?" +</p> + +<p> +"Oh, but I consider him <i>most</i> handsome," said Miss Bird, "my sister +gave me that illustrated paper with his photograph and yours in a full +page to each I wrote and told you so and pleased and proud I was to +have it and over my mantelpiece it is hanging now." +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, I know you wrote, darling, and it was very sweet of you. I +couldn't bring myself to answer your letter. You know papers <i>will</i> +make mistakes sometimes." +</p> + +<p> +"What do you mean what mistake?" asked Miss Bird. "It said plainly +beneath the photographs 'The Earl of Inverell' and 'Miss Joan Clinton.'" +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, I know it did, and it was me all right. Oh, Starling darling, +can't you guess? Ronald is very good and very sweet, and I love him +dearly; but——" +</p> + +<p> +"But he is no beauty," said Nancy. "You can't expect us both to marry +handsome men." +</p> + +<p> +"I shouldn't call him <i>scrubby</i>, exactly, should you, Nancy?" enquired +Joan. +</p> + +<p> +"Not to his face," replied Nancy. +</p> + +<p> +Joan gave a little gurgle, which she turned into a cough. "Starling +darling, you don't mind beards in a young man, do you?" she asked. +</p> + +<p> +"Oh, you will get him to shave that off," said Nancy, "after you are +married. I shouldn't worry about that. And I don't think a <i>very</i> +slight squint really matters. You can always call it a cast in the +eye, and some people like it." +</p> + +<p> +"You see, Starling darling, I wanted you to be prepared," said Joan. +"I couldn't let you see him without saying something first, when you +thought he was that good-looking young man in the picture. He is much +better, really, and his looks don't put <i>me</i> off in the least. I don't +think about them. But if I hadn't told you, you might have been so +surprised that you would have said something that would have hurt his +feelings." +</p> + +<p> +"As if I should or could," exclaimed Miss Bird indignantly, "there was +no occasion to say a single word Joan and a good kind heart is <i>far</i> +better than good looks as I have often told you you do me a great +injustice." +</p> + +<p> +"I knew she wouldn't really mind, Nancy," said Joan. "But I am glad to +have warned her. She will get used to the beard." +</p> + +<p> +"And the cast in the eye," added Nancy. +</p> + +<p> +"Indeed," said Miss Bird, "I should never notice such things a beard is +a sign of manly vigour your father has a beard." +</p> + +<p> +"Ah, but it isn't a beard like father's," said Joan. "It is more tufty +and fluffy. I suppose you thought that young man in the picture <i>very</i> +handsome, didn't you, Starling darling?" +</p> + +<p> +"Indeed no such thing," said Miss Bird, "I said to my sister and she +will bear witness good-looking yes but <i>not</i> a match in looks for my +darling Joan and glad I am now that I said it." +</p> + +<p> +Joan burst into a laugh, and embraced her warmly. "Oh, you're too +sweet and precious for words," she said. "That <i>was</i> Ronald, and I +shall tell him you don't think he is very handsome." +</p> + +<p> +"What a donkey you are, Joan!" said Nancy. "Why didn't you let her +meet him in the hall?" +</p> + +<p> +"Now that is <i>too</i> bad Joan 'n' Nancy," said Miss Bird, quite in her +old style of reproof, "a little piece of fun I can understand but you +might have made it <i>most</i> awkward for me Joan my bonnet well there I +suppose I must say nothing more you <i>will</i> have your joke and neither +of you have altered at all you are very naughty girls and I was just +going to say if you did not behave I should tell Mrs. Clinton pets I +love you more than ever." +</p> + +<p> +Miss Bird was almost overcome with emotion when she arrived at the +house. The story was immediately told against her, and provoked +laughter, especially from the Squire, who said, "The young monkeys! +They want husbands to keep them in order, both of them. 'Pon my word, +with you here, Miss Bird, I feel inclined to pack them off to the +schoolroom, to get them out of the way. It makes me feel young again +to see you here, Miss Bird. You seem to belong to Kencote, and I'm +very pleased to see you here again, very pleased indeed." +</p> + +<p> +Miss Bird's heart was full, as she was taken up to her old bedroom by +Joan and Nancy. Such a welcome! And from the Squire too, of whom she +had always stood much in awe, but to whom she looked up as the type and +perfection of manhood! +</p> + +<p> +But how he had aged! When she was left alone, she looked out on to the +spring green of the park, and the daffodils growing under the trees, +and thought of how many years it was since she had first looked out on +to that familiar scene, and how unchanged it was, although the children +she had taught, and loved, had all grown up, and most of them were +married. She thought of herself as a young, timid girl, for the first +time away from her home, and of the Squire as a splendid young man, +bluff and hearty even then. She had spent the best part of her life at +Kencote, and had slept more nights in this room than in any other. +Kencote had been her home, and she had grown old in it. If the Squire, +who had always been so vigorous that the years had passed over him +imperceptibly, was also at last growing old, it was in the place he +loved above all others. She liked to think of him and dear Mrs. +Clinton still living here, she hoped for many years to come, with +nothing changed about them, but only an added peace and quietness, to +suit the evening of their lives. +</p> + +<p> +Later in the evening, before dinner, the Squire paid a long-deferred +visit to his cellars. The house would soon be filled from top to +bottom with guests, and he wished to put the best he had before them, +or before such of them as could appreciate it; also to take stock +generally of the supply of wines in ordinary use, which he did +regularly, but had not done for many months past. He was accompanied +by his old butler with the cellar-book, and a footman with a candle, +and spent nearly an hour among the bins and cobwebs. +</p> + +<p> +At the end of the inspection, some slight trouble arose. The old +butler had been fetching up claret which the Squire had intended should +be kept for a time. He did not drink claret himself, and had not +noticed the change. +</p> + +<p> +"If we had used the other lot up you ought to have come and told me, +Porter," he said. "I never meant this wine to be used every day. You +come down here without a with-your-leave or a by-your-leave, and act as +if you were master. You've been with me for a number of years, and +have come to think you can do what you like. But you can't. I won't +have it, Porter." +</p> + +<p> +He marched off between the bins, and up the cellar steps. The old +butler looked after him with a smile on his face, of which the +attendant footman mistook the source, remarking, "He do give it you, +don't he?" +</p> + +<p> +"They're the best words I've had from him for a long time," said the +old man. "He's got back to himself again." +</p> + +<p> +But if the Squire had got back to himself, it was not entirely to his +old habits. It had never before been Mrs. Clinton's custom to sit with +him in his room, as he now liked her to do, and as she did that +evening, while the younger members of the party, including Miss Bird, +were disporting themselves in the billiard-room. +</p> + +<p> +"This will be the last of it, Nina," he was saying. "When Frank +marries it won't be from this house. They call it a quiet wedding, +but, 'pon my word, I don't know how we could very well have found room +for any more than are coming. I'm rather dreading it in a way, Nina. +I feel I'm getting too old for all this bustle." +</p> + +<p> +"We shall be very quiet when it is all over," said Mrs. Clinton. +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, my dear," he said. "You and I will be quiet together for the +rest of our lives. We shall have our children with us often, and our +grandchildren; but for the most of the time we shall just be by +ourselves. We've had a long life together, my dear. We've had a great +deal of happiness in it, and have been through some very deep trouble. +But the skies are clear now, and, please God, they'll keep clear. +Nina, my dear, we've got a great deal to thank Him for." +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p class="finis"> +THE END +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<hr /> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap05"></a></p> + +<p class="noindent"> + BY THE SAME AUTHOR +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES<br /> +EXTON MANOR<br /> +THE ELDEST SON<br /> +THE SQUIRE'S DAUGHTER<br /> +THE HONOUR OF THE CLINTONS<br /> +THE GREATEST OF THESE<br /> +THE OLD ORDER CHANGETH<br /> +WATERMEADS<br /> +UPSIDONIA<br /> +ABINGTON ABBEY<br /> +THE GRAFTONS<br /> +RICHARD BALDOCK<br /> +THE CLINTONS AND OTHERS<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /><br /></p> + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's The Honour of the Clintons, by Archibald Marshall + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE HONOUR OF THE CLINTONS *** + +***** This file should be named 38647-h.htm or 38647-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/3/8/6/4/38647/ + +Produced by Al Haines + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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