;?>' ^-J' kr
"t
a*^'"'
•A
'MMMSih
f* < . j-1.
mmm^i
The Honour of the Chntons
BY THE SAME AUTHOR
THE HOUSE OP MERRILEES
RICHARD BALDOCK
EXTON MANOR
THE SQUIRE S DAUGHTER
THE ELDEST SON
THE HONOUR OF THE CLINTONS
THE GREATEST OF THESE
THE OLD ORDER CHANGETH
WATERMEADS
UPSIDONIA
ABINGTON ABBEY
THE GRAFTONS
THE CLINTONS, AND OTHERS
SIR HARRY
The
Honour of the Clintons
By
Archibald Marshall
Author of
"Exton Manor," "The Squire's Daughter,*
"The Eldest Son," etc.
New York
Dodd, Mead and Company
1919
Copyright, 1913, by
DODD. MEAD AND COMPANY
• * • • 1. « •
• . ■« • u , ^
• • • • • «
f^
I ^ I
To
ARTHUR MARWOOD
A "^j f\ ^"^ ' r^
CONTENTS
BOOK I
CHAPTEa
PAGE
I
A HoME-CoMING 3
II
A Vulgar Theft
18
III
The Squike Is Drawx In
S2
IV
Joan Gives Her Evidence
43
V
A Quiet Talk .
62
VI
The Young Birds .
75
VII
The Verdict
BOOK II
84
I Bobby Trench Is Asked to Kencote
II Joan and Nancy
III Humphrey and Susan
IV Coming Home from the Ball
V Robert Recumbent
VI Joan Rebellious
VII Disappointments
VIII Proposals ....
97
110
123
134
142
155
169
186
BOOK III
I The Squire Confronted
II A Very Present Help .
vii
205
223
viii Contents
CHAPTER
III The Burpen
IV This Our Sister
PAGE
247
BOOK IV
I A Return
II Payment .
III The Straight Path
IV A Conclave
V Waiting
VI The Power of the
VII Thinking It Out
VIII Skies Clearing
IX Skies Clear
Storm
26S
281
291
300
312
324
341
351
366
BOOK I
CHAPTER I
A HOME-COMING
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.
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 brook-
side, as much in keeping with the scene as the wisps
of cloud that made delicate the blue of the fresh spring
sky.
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 hur-
ried to the carriage from which she had seen looking
out a face exactly like her own. By the time she had
•'4l-.' \/,:liUe Hcjuouv of the Clintons
reached it her twin sister, Joan, had alighted, and was
ready with her greeting.
" Hullo, old girl ! "
" You're nearly ten minutes late."
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.
More was, in fact, said by the maid who stood at
the carriage door with Joan's dressing-bag in her
hand.
" Good-afternoon, Miss Nancy. Lor, you are look-
ing 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."
" Hullo, Hannah ! " said Nancy. " As talkative as
ever! Come along, Joan. She can look after the
things."
The two girls went out through the booking-office,
at the door of which the station-master expressed re-
spectful 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 alsa
the young coachman on the box.
" I seem to be more popular than ever," said Joan
A Ilome-Coming 5
as she got into the carriage. " Why aren't we allowed
a footman? "
" 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."
" What's the trouble ? " enquired Joan. " My going
to Brummels for the week-end? "
" Yes. Without a rc^f/i-your-leave or bz/-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 did you all go in such a hurry? You didn't say
anything about it when you wrote on Friday."
" Because it was arranged all in a hurry. Lady Sed-
bergh is going through a month's rest cure at Brum-
mels, 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."
"Joan, is Bobby Trench paying you attentions?
You never told me anything in your letters, but he
seems to have been always about."
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? "
" I don't think so. But she said Humphrey and
Susan ought not to have taken you there without ask-
ing."
6 The Honour of the Clintons
" 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."
"Well, how do they?"
" It really is what Frank calls * chaude etoffeJ* 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 w^e could find — and she
came down as the Brummels ghost in a sort of night-
gown with her hair down her back and her face whit-
ened. She looked a positive idiot sitting at the head of
the table. She must be at least fifty and the ghost was
only seventeen."
"What did you wear.?"
" Oh, I borrowed Hannah's cap and apron ; and
Susan's maid lent me a black dress. I was much ad-
mired. 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 Morn-
ing. He looked the most respectable of all the men, ex-
cept 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
A Home-Coming 7
back. All their manners are delightfully free and nat-
ural."
"Well, you seem to have enjoyed yourself."
" 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."
"A judgment is certainly going to fall on you, my
dear. Father will seize you the moment you get into
the house and ask you what you mean by it."
" Dear father ! " said Joan affectionately. " It is
jolly to be home again, Nancy. How lovely the chest-
nuts are looking ! Dear peaceful old Kencote ! "
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.
" I've got som.ething to say to you. Miss Joan. Come
into my room."
He turned his back and marched off to the library, in
which he spent most of his time when he was indoors.
Joan, after another hug and kiss, followed him. It
may or may not have been a sign of the deterioration
8 The Honour of the Clintons
in manner, wrought by her visit to Brummels,
that she winked at Nancy over her shoulder as she
did so.
"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."
The face that she lifted up to him could not pos-
sibly have been resisted by any man who had not the
privilege of close relationship. The Squire, however,
successfully resisted it.
" I don't want to kiss you," he said. " I'm very dis-
pleased 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-y our-leave .^^ And what do
you mean by going to places where you knew perfectly
well you wouldn't be allowed to go.^^ "
" But, father darling," expostulated Joan, with an
expression of puzzled innocence, " I knew Lord Sed-
bergh was an old friend of yours. I didn't think you
could possibly 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 ^ "
" 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."
A Home-Coming 9
" Well, I'm sorry, father dear. I won't do it again.
Now give me a kiss."
But the Squire was not yet ready for endearments.
" 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 mis-
chief you'll stop at home."
" I don't want anything better," replied Joan tact-
fully. " I didn't know how ripping Kencote was till I
drove home just now. Everything is looking lovely.
How are the young birds doing .'^ "
" 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.'^ "
Joan was obliged to confess that they did.
"Of course! Did t^ou play.? Did Humphrey and
Susan play? "
" Oh no, father ; I don't know how to play and I
wouldn't think of it," replied Joan hurriedly, to the
first question.
"Did you go to church?"
" Oh yes, father. I went with Lord Sedbergh. He
is a dear old man, and hates cards now."
10 The Honour of the Clintons
" 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."
" Oh, but he talked a lot about you, father. He told
me all sorts of stories about when you were at Cam-
bridge together. He said once you began to play cards
after dinner and didn't leave off until breakfast time
the next morning."
" 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 Sed-
bergh go to church on Sundaj''? "
Joan was obliged to confess that they had been the
only attendants.
" Well, there it is ! " said the Squire. " Out of all
that household, only two willing to do their duty to-
wards 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."
" 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."
A Home-Coming 11
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 3'ou'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 / can to make my chil-
dren 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."
When Joan had left him the Squire went to find his
wife.
" 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."
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.
" 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 them-
selves, and not be kept always shut up at home."
" Shut up ! " repeated the Squire. " That's a fool-
ish way of talking. Home is the best place for 3^oung
girls ; and who could wish for a better home than Ken-
12 The Honour of the Clintons
cote? The fact is tliat this London life is getting
looser and more immoral every day. Look what an
effect it is having on Humphrej^ and Susan! What
with all that money that old Aunt Laura left them, and
the allowance I make to Humphrey, and the few hun-
dreds 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
spK?nd twice as much money as Dick, w ho^ is i musldest
son^ and is quite content to live here quietly in the
f 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 dis-
appointment — 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 mis-
chief, especially if they've got the tastes that
Humphrey and Susan have, and enough money to
gratify them. Nina, I hate this set of people that the}^
make their friends of. Did you know that that Mrs.
Amberley was staying at Brummels.^ "
" I saw her name in the paper," said Mrs. Clinton.
" A nice sort of woman for a young girl like Joan
to be asked to meet ! She's a notoriously loose char-
acter ; and a good many other members of the party
are no better than they should be. Lady Sedbergh her-
self 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
A Home'Coming 13
know when I've seen a young fellow I object to more.
I believe Sedbergh himself has the remains of decency
and digiiity : 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."
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 mar-
ried, 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.
" Frank and I have started schoolroom tea again,"
said Nancy, as she and Joan went up to their bedroom
14 The Honour of the Clintons
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."
" Jolly ! " said Joan. " Where is Frank.? "
"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.?"
" 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
them expect you to treat them as if they were your
own age, whether they are married or not."
" You seem to have gone through some eye-opening
experiences."
" I have. I feel that I know the world now."
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.
" Tell me about Bobby Trench."
Joan laughed, with a ringing note of amusement.
" Of course you know why we were all given such a sud-
A Home-Coming 15
den and pressing invitation to Brummels," she said.
Nancy jumped the implied question and answer.
" Well, it was bound to come sooner or later," she said.
" With both 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.'^ "
"Oh, he is just as silly and conceited as ever; but
love has softened him."
" I shouldn't want him softened, myself. He'd be
sillier than ever. Tell me all about it, Joan. How did
he behave.'^ "
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 re-
garded the antics of the attracted male, and found them
only absurd. But she had not put a stop to them.
" 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 is rather nice to feel that one
is grown up at last."
" The fact of the matter is, you have been flirting
with Bobby Trench," said Nancy ; " and you ou^t to
be ashamed of yourself."
But Joan indignantly denied this. "What I did,"
she said, " was to prevent his flirting with me."
16 Tlie Honour of the Clintons
There was a moment's pause. Then Nancy said un-
concernedly, " I suppose I told you that John Spence
came here."
Joan turned round sharply, and looked at her. " No,
you didn't," she said.
After another moment's pause, she said, " You know
you didn't."
Then came the question : " Why didn't you ? "
" He was only here for two nights," said Nancy.
" At the Dower House, of course. If I didn't tell you,
I meant to."
Joan scrutinised her closely, and then turned away.
" He was awfully sorry to miss you," Nancy said.
" He told me to give you his love."
" Thank you," said Joan, rather stiffly.
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
A Home-Coining 17
thoughts which thej had not shared, had made no men-
tion of it between them.
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.
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 know^ledge could not be ignored.
"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."
" I don't see why you shouldn't have told me that
he had come," said Joan.
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.
CHAPTER II
A VULGAR THEFT
In the great square dining-room at Kencote the Squire
was sitting over his wine, with his eldest and youngest
sons.
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 ar-
tists. There were some good pictures at Kencote, but
nobody ever took much notice of them, except a visitor
now and then.
Yet their presence had its effect on these latest
members of a healthy, ancient line. No family por-
traits went back further than two hundred years, be-
cause Elizabethan Kencote, with nearly all its treasures
of art and antiquity, had been burnt down, and Geor-
gian Kencote built in its place. Even Georgian Kencote
had suffered at the beginning of the nineteenth cen-
tury, 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 some-
18
A Vulgar Theft 19
thing 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 proto-
types were as well-known by name and character to
their descendants as if they had been known in the
flesh.
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 modem 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?
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
20 The Honour of the Clintons
huno; 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 else-
where, 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.
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 dis-
possessed owner whose land alone will no longer support
liis state. What that counts for in inherited benevo-
lence 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
A Vulgar Theft • 21
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 dis-
like of all change.
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 ther^
is anything in it all, or whether we are merely in the
company of a man to whom chance has given the oppor-
tunity of ordering his life on obviously opulent lines,
like many another with no forebears that he knows any-
thing of.
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
22 The Honour of the Clintons
in London, well primed with the interests of their
former associates.
" Have jou heard about this business at Brummels ? "
he said, as he passed the decanter.
The Squire frowned at the mention of Brummels.
" No. What business?" he asked.
" 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."
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 1
And there's hardly one of the whole lot that wouldn't
be capable of it."
" 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."
"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."
Frank laughed suddenly. He was accustomed to
suck amusement out of the most unlikely sources, and
A Vulgar Theft 23
his father, whether unlikely or not, was one of them.
" Why does she think Mrs. Amberley found it? " he
asked.
" Because she showed her the hiding-place in a mo-
ment 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 cup-
board itself. Only Sedbergh and his wife knew of it.
It's a secret that has been handed down ; and well
kept."
" Then why on earth did she tell a woman like Mrs.
Amberley about it.^^ " enquired the Squire.
" I don't know; though it's just like her to do it. I
think Mrs. Amberley was at school with her, or some-
thing 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."
" So, whoever the thief was, she had a month's
start," said Frank.
" 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."
The Squire snorted.
" Rachel Amberley bluffed it out. She said she
would have them up for scandal if they breathed a word
of suspicion anyvrhere. They have been breathing a
good many. In fact, it's all over the place. And
24 The Honour of the Clintons
nothing has happened yet. Everybody is wondering
who will make the first move."
" She 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?"
" Yes. That's when it happened."
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."
" 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."
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."
" You can't keep her shut up for ever," said Dick ;
but his father pressed more insistently for silence. " I
A Vulgar Theft 25
don't want it mentioned," he said irritably. " Please
don't say anything to her — or you either, Frank."
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?
" Oh, Fm 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."
" Kencote is the j oiliest place in the world," said
Frank. " You and Nancy are always running it down."
" It may be the j oiliest 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 are here. It
is pretty slow for Joan and me, boxed up here all the
year round."
" Well, never mind about that," said Frank, " I
want to know how the notorious Mrs. Amberley struck
you, Joan."
" 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."
" Did you talk to her at all.?"
" 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
26 The Honour of the Clintoris
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."
" 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."
" 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."
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. iThere 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 holi-
days had brought him during his schooldays. At
twenty-six, with ten years of the sea and the responsi-
bilities of his profession behind him, he had stepped
straight back into his boyhood. He was not reflective
A Vulgar Theft 27
enough to realise that time would not stand still for
him in this way for ever. It seemed to him that, what-
ever 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.
But his sisters had other ideas. Their wing-feathers
were growing, and they were already beginning to
flutter them. Perhaps in after years, whatever happi-
ness 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
agam.
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
vouncf man in a screen 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 sl topped, and a cheerful voice called out,
28 The Honour of the Clintons
" Hullo, Miss Joan ! Here's a piece of luck ! I was
just on my way to see you."
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.
" What remarkable powers of observation you
have ! " observed Joan, rallying her forces.
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 ? "
" No, I haven't," said Joan.
" 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? "
" At home at Kencote," replied Joan. " You don't
think I brought the necklace away with me, do
you ^ "
Bobby Trench grinned again. " We were talking it
over last night," he said. " I think we have seen every-
body that was in the house at the time except you, and
I said, ' By Jove ! I wonder whether Miss Joan noticed
anything .f^ ' We don't want to leave any stone un-
turned, so I said I would run down and look you all up.
A Vulgar Theft 29
It must be years since I came to Kencote. You were
both jolly littie kids then."
" I beg your pardon," said Nancy, " we were fifteen.
We weren't kids at all."
" 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."
" I think you had better do that first," said Joan.
Bobby Trench then told them the story, and when he
came to describe the hiding-place Joan gave an
exclamation.
" Is it just where that little Dutch picture hangs? "
she asked. " The one with the old woman cleaning a
copper pot ? "
" Yes. That's the place," said Bobby. " Why? Do
you know anything about it ? "
Joan's face was serious. "Are you quite sure that
Mrs. Amberley took the necklace? " she asked.
" 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? "
Joan did not reply for a moment. Nancy looked at
her with some excitement on her face. " What did you
see? " she asked.
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
30 The Honour of the Clintons
well that it Ccin 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."
Joan raised her eyes to his. " I went into the morn-
ing-room," she said, " and Mrs. Amberley was standing
with her back to me by the fireplace."
" By Jove ! " exclaimed Bobby Trench, staring at her
as if fascinated.
" She turned sharp round when I came in," said Joan,
" and then she asked me if I didn't love old Dutch pic-
tures, and showed me that one. That is why I remem-
bered about it."
" Was she actually looking at it when you came
in.?"
"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."
"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.?"
Joan thought for a moment. " No, I didn't," she
said decidedly.
A Vulgar Theft 81
" Had she got anything in her hand? "
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."
Bobby Trench, with growing excitement, asked h<?r
further questions — as to the time at which this had
happened, as to the exact words that Mrs. Amberley
had said.
" 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."
*' I should think he would be delighted," said Nancy
drily. " Will Joan have to give evidence at a trial? "
" 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."
, CHAPTER III
THE SQUIRE IS DRAWN IN\
If Bobby Trench really felt the pleasure he had ex-
pressed 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.
Some few years before, Humphrey CHnton 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 dis-
turbed 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 admi-
rable and best worth preserving in the body politic.
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
33
The Sqidre Is Drawn In 38
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.
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.
"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 Brum-
mels 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.^ "
The Squire had somewhat recovered from his sur-
prise 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.
" 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."
Bobby Trench laughed good-humouredly. " Well,
it's true we are 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
34 Tlie Honour of the Clintons
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."
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 pat-
terns of bright-coloured flowers; and she was also
allowed a say in the arrangement of the summer bed-
ding, 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.
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 inunensely 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 noth-
ing 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
The Squire Is Dratun In So
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 gar-
dening involves? If his great grandfather, who had
called in an eighteenth century innovator to sweep
away the old formal gardens of the Elizabethan Ken-
cote, 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.
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."
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.
" 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."
" Well, then, come into my room when you have had
your tea," said the Squire. " One of the girls will
show you the way."
"Well, it's about Miss Joan I wanted to talk to
you," persisted Bobby. " Of course, you've heard of
36 The Honour of the Clintons
that unfortunate business at Brummels when she was
there a few weeks ago — my mother's necklace being
stolen, I mean."
The Squire's face showed rising temper. " I did hear
of it," he said. " Dick told me, and I asked him par-
ticularly 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? "
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."
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 "
" 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.
The Squire Is Drawn In 37
She and my mother were friends as girls, and, of course,
her people are all right. We couldn't tell that "
" 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 v.hat has hap-
pened, and I don't want the subject mentioned again."
" 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 es-
caped seeing her take out what was in it. She '
"What's this.? " exclaimed the Squire terrifically.
Joan met his gaze unflinchingly. The state of her
conscience being serene, she was in truth rather enjoymg
herself, and her father's asperities had long ceased to
terrify either her or Nancy. " I told Mr. Trench what
38 The Honour of the Clintons
I saw," she said. " Of course I hadn't thought about it
before, because I knew nothing of what had happened."
" What did you see? " enquired the Squire.
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."
" 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? "
"Yes," said Joan. "It was just like that. And
she blushed scarlet, and then ran away suddenly."
" 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."
" 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."
" 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."
He rose from his seat again, as if the subject was
The Squire Is Drawn In 39
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 evi-
dence is of the greatest possible importance to us. I'm
bound to tell my people. Besides, surely 3'ou 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, ray mother
may get some of the pearls back. We've already traced
some of them, and know that she has been disposing
of them separatel3^"
" 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."
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.
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.
" 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 ! "
He transferred his glare upon Bobby, who felt un-
40 TJie Honour of the Clintons
comfortable. " 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
aesthetic 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 Ken-
cote. 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.
" 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."
" You won't see her there," said the Squire deci-
sively. " But you'll excuse my saying that it won't mat-
ter 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."
The last statement was not in the least true, but was
drawn from liim by the contest going on in his mind be-
tween his strong dislike of Bobby Trench and his sense
of what was required of him towards a guest. He com-
pelled 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.
The Squire Is Drawn In 41
There was a pause when he had disappeared through
the windows of the Hbrarj, and then Mrs. Chnton asked
quietly, " Do you think there is any chance of Joan not
being required to give evidence at the trial? "
" 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."
" Will she be charged with the theft? "
" That's not quite settled on. She threatened to
bring an action against us if we talked about it. And,
of course, we have 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
42 The Honour of the Clintons
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.^^"
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.
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 pos-
sible to make things easy for her, and the affair would
soon blow over.
The Squire, raging inwardly and outwardlj^ 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 after-
noon.
CHAPTER IV
JOAN GIVES HER EVIDENCE
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.
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 seed}'^ 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.
Joan sat between her father and mother, outwardly
subdued, inwardly deeply interested. Behind the nat-
ural 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
jhaving a tooth stopped, and that prospect had never
43
44 The Honour of the Clintons
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.
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 diplo-
matically refrained from asserting her innocence, to
avoid still further arraignment. She had been inun-
dated 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 under-
going 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
Joan Gives Her Evidence 45
father's fussy attempts to blame and direct her at the
same time, and able to turn her mind to the interests
at hand.
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.
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 em-
braced 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 comet
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 em-
barked on reminiscences which would have shed con-
siderable 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.
" 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
46 The Honour of the Clintons
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."
The Squire was soothed by the expression of this
very proper spirit, and after a little further conversa-
tion 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, what-
ever might be said of his family and their associates.
" 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."
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 expres-
sion 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 liad wrought little change
between them. But at this moment the curtain rang
up for the play, and his attention was diverted.
Joan Gives Her Evidence 47
There was something of a sensation when Mrs. Am-
berky 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 indig-
nant protest against her situation, when he had expected
to see some sort of haggard siren in an attitude com-
bined 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 dis-
gust 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.
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
48 The Honour of the Clintons
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 pro-
duction, whatever share it may have had now in pre-
serving 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.
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.
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
Joan Gives Her Evidence 49
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 dis-
covered 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 recep-
tacle was disclosed. No one had known of this but
herself and husband, until she had told Mrs. Amberley.
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.
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.
Amberle}^ 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.
" Have you any questions to ask of the witness ? "
"Yes."
50 The Honour of the Clintons
Mrs. Amberley spoke in a low-pitched vibrating
voice. She was completely at her ease, and the con-
temptuous tone in which she asked her questions, and
the significant pauses which she made after each con-
fused 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.
" We have been intimate friends all our lives, you and
I, haven't we ? "
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.
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.
" What was the first thing that I said to you when
you had shown me the cupboard, and shut it up
again? "
It needed more than one intervention on the part
of the magistrate before it was elicited that Mrs. Am-
berley 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.
" But isn't it true that if I had stolen your necklace
Joan Gives Her Evidence 51
I should have known positively that you would have
suspected me at once?"
No volubility would disguise the truth of that, and
it had what weight it deserved.
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 hus-
band'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.
Joan, standing up bravely in her fresh girlhood to
tell her story, was far more damaging. Between Mrs.
52 The Honour of the Clintons
Amberlejj completely self-possessed, and showing indig-
nation 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 ac-cused. She had
no such foil in the frank bearing of the 3'Oung girl,
whose delicate bloom contrasted w^ith 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.
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 nervous-
ness 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? "
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
Joan Gives Her Evidence 53
told us both of what you were suspected"; and Mrs.
Amberley let the answer pass, with an air of not findinjL^
it worth while to take further notice of such a childish
person.
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 ques-
tion 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 interaiittently when she
remembered what had been said to her.
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 for-
ward to show that Mrs. Amberley had been in Paris
on each of those dates.
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. Am-
54 The Honour of the Clintons
berlej'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. Am-
berley'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.
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.
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 forthcom-
ing. 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
roue, 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 hearinsj when she
Joan Gives Her Evidence 55
thanked her other sponsor remarked that he did not
seem Hkely to get much change out of his liability of
two thousand pounds.
The Squire, with his wife and daughter, lunched at
the extremel}' private hotel which he had patronised all
his life, and left London for Kencote by an early after-
noon 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.
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 un-
burdening his mind both to Humplirey 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.
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."
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
56 The Honour of the Clintons
if he chose to make it so. This was added to by the
determination to make the visit anything but an occa-
sion of dehght, and the anticipation of having some-
body fresh on whom to wreak his anger ; the satisfaction
of relieving his feelings by censure of Joan having now
begun to wear rather thin.
If Plumphrey was bent on smoothing out the situa-
tion, 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 im-
proved 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.
" 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."
" We've left the cook and the housemaid behind,"
said Humphrey, outwardly undisturbed. " Here, Grant,
take these things into your carriage."
Joan Gives Her Evidence 57
The Squire turned his back and went up to the com-
partment at which his wife was standing with her daugh-
ter-in-law and Joan. " Better get in. Better get in,"
he said. " We don't want to be left behind. How are
jou, Susan .^ We've just had a pleasant result from
your taking Joan into the company of people like 3'our
precious Mrs. Amberley."
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 ^.n American, of no ancestry
58 The Honour of the Clintons
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.
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."
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.
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.
Joan Gives Her Evidence 59
The end of it was rather surprising. He was getting
along swimmingl}', on a high note of displeasure, when
he was brought to a sudden stop by Lady Susan burst-
ing into tears.
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 capitu-
lation ; 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.
" 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."
But Susan still continued to sob freely, and Hum-
phrey 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."
" 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, you won't be called as a witness. You'^ve
GO The Honour of the Clintons
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. JMy dear child,
what is the n^atter? "
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."
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 Lera-
borough. I think this train stops there."
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."
" Well, I don't think you need waste much sympathy
on /?-^r," 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."
" 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."
The Squire did privately think that most of them,
except Humphrey and Susan themselves, and Lord Sed-
bergh, and of course Joan, would have been capable of
Joan Gives Her Evidence 61
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."
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.
CHAPTER V
A QUIET TALK
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 greet-
ing, 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.
" Well, young people," was his hearty greeting, " I
hope you haven't been up to any pranks while we've been
away."
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.
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
62
A Quiet Talk 63
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 satisfac-
tion, and swung himself actively up on to his seat, but
not before he had settled exactly who was to ride in
which carriage.
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 exer-
cise to his sense of fitness, and Joan, Nancy, and Frank
set out to walk the short mile that lay between the
64 The Honour of the Clintons
station and the house, well pleased to find themselves
alone together.
The Squire had completely recovered his equanimity
for the time being, and his satisfaction at finding him-
self at home again translated itself into an impulse of
good will towards his wife, sitting by his side.
With her soft white hair and comely face, Mrs.
Clinton looked a fitting helpmate for a country gentle-
man 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 mis-
alliance. 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 understand-
ing fitted her, and unconsciously belittled that under-
standing 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 acknowl-
A Quiet Talk 65
edging 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.
Now, with her own thoughts about what had hap-
pened 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.
"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.
Susan's tears ! They had moved him. " I think
she's all right at heart," he said. " She's had a shock."
66 The Honour of the Clintons
" Yes," said Mrs. Clinton. " I am glad that she is
to be with us for a day or two."
The Squire considered this. Without any remarkable
powers of discernment, he was yet not entirely incapable
of interpreting his wife's sober judgments.
" 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."
Mrs. Clinton left him to make his own decision. " I
shall certainly have a talk with Humphrey," he said,
rather grudgingly.
"Yes, Edward. If you have a quiet talk with him,
I feel sure that he will respond. He is in the mood
for it."
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 oiF
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 satisfac-
tion of rubbing it in.
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 tliird in the expedi-
A Quiet Talk G7
tion, 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 satisfactor}' talk all the
same, and the Squire was pleased, and a little surprised,
at his own kindly reasonableness.
" 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."
" Oh yes. She took it to heart all right. The whole
business has given her a bit of a shock."
" Exactly what I said to your mother. She's had a
shock. Well, it isn't a bad thing to have a shock some-
times. 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 worrj^ and unpleasant-
ness 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."
" 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.
The Squire, however, could not altogether dispense
with some sort of a handle, although he was prepared
to grasp it softly.
"You feel that yourself, eh.?" he said. "You do
recognise that you've been going wrong, what.'^ "
68 The Honour of the Clintons
"Oh yes," said Humphrey readily. "We've been
spending too much money, and I'm sick of it. It isn't
good enough."
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.
" 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 Sun-
day. 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."
" Well, it depends on what you mean by pleasure."
A Quiet Talk 69
"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 ;
..lever "
" Is that what you would call pleasure? "
"What / should call pleasure? No, thank God, it
isn't. I'd sooner break stones on the road than live a
life like that."
" Well, there you are, you see. What you would
really call pleasure is something quite different. I sup-
pose it would be to live quietly at home in the country,
just as you are doing. There's nothing dangerous in
that."
"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."
Gotch's bill for meal, and the welfare of the young
birds under his charge having been duly discussed, the
walk and the quiiet talk were resumed.
" Well, as I was saying — what was it I was saying? "
" You were pointing out that a big landowner had
70 The Honour of the Clintons
a jolly good time, but that he would have to give an
ciccount of all the fun he'd had by and by."
"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 hfe. 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."
" 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."
"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."
" I'm not sure of that. We might for a time, but
we should miss a lot of things. You can amuse your-
self in the country well enough half the year, but
not all the year round ; and we couldn't afford both."
A Quiet Talk 71
" 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."
"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."
" 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."
" 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."
" 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
72 The Honour of the Clintons
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
Athenaeum Club, and all that sort of thing. And
George Senhouse, with his Parliament and his com-
mittees and so on. That's a different thing. They've
got their work to do. But don't tell me jon 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 Ms friends, even now. But, anyhow,
they're not the sort that would make a bosom friend
of a woman like that Mrs. Amberley."
" 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."
" " My dear boy, you are surely not going to stand
up for a woman convicted of a vulgar theft ! "
" 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
A Quiet Talk 73
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."
The Squire's upper lip went down. "Flagrant dis-
honesty 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."
" It is all a question of how you are situated. It
would be impossible to think of you, for instance, steal-
ing anything. You wouldn't have the smallest tempta-
tion to. But you might do something else that would
be just as bad."
" / might do something just as bad — something dis-
honourable ! "
" You never know. You might have a sudden tempta-
tion. Of course, it wouldn't come in any way you
expected ! You might act on the spur of the moment."
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.^ "
74 TJie Honour of the Clintons
Humphrey walked on, and the Squire walked with
him.
" I say you don't know what you'd do if an unex-
pected temptation came. You don't know how strong
your principles are till they are tried."
"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."
" It depends on how much he is tried," said
Humphrey. " I say you never know."
CHAPTER VI
THE YOUNG BIRDS
" It's a horrid thing for a young girl to have to go
through."
John Spence fitted two wahiuts 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.
The dark-panelled dining-room of the Dower House
framed a warm picture of two men and two women sit-
ting 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..
Jphn 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
75
76 The Honour of the Clintons
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.
" 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.
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.
The party at the dinner-table was discussing Mrs.
Amberley's trial, which was to come on in the follow-
ing month.
"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."
" 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."
" It was a piece of bluff," said Dick. " Still, she
ought to have her neck wrung for it."
" A cat ! " said Miss Dexter, Virginia's friend, square-
faced and square-figured. "A spiteful, pilfering
cat ! "
" Poor darling little Joan ! " said Virginia. " She
hates the very name of Bobby Trench now, and she
The Young Birds 77
used to make all sorts of fun of liim and his love-
making before."
" Oh, he made love to her, did he? " asked Spence.
" Don't talk such nonsense, Virginia," said Dick
maritally. " He knew the twins when they were chil-
dren ; looks on them as children now. So they are.
He's years older than Joan."
" Still, she's a very pretty girl," said John Spence.
" And so is Nancy."
Virginia laughed. " It's the same thing," she said.
"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."
Virginia laughed again. " Tell Mr. Clinton that,"
she said. " He will think you one of the most sensible
of men."
" 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."
" Mr. Clinton might not insist upon the brains,"
said Miss Dexter,
78 The Honour of the Clintons
Virginia held up her finger. " Toby ! " she said
warningly, " we don't criticise our relations-in-
law."
Dick grinned indulgently at his neighbour. " How
you'll let us have it when you go away from here ! "
he said.
" I always do let you have it," she replied uncom-
promisingly. " 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."
" 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 j oiliest pair. Lord, how
they made me laugh when they were kids, and I first
came down here ! "
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 Brum-
mels," he said, with a return to seriousness. " I don't
believe Nancy would have cared about it."
"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."
John Spence received this charge with an "Oh, I
The Young Birds 79
say ! " But he added, " All the same, I wish It hadn't
happened."
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 par-
tridges.
The twins and Lady Senhouse were of the party,
and Virginia and Miss Dexter. It was a family occa-
sion, 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.
Joan and Nancy, in workmanlike tweeds, gave him
smiling welcome. Previously, when he had shot at Ken-
cote, 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.
" Well, Joan," he said, when they were ready to
move off, " are you going to keep me company? "
" Yes," said Nancy instantly. " I am going with
Uncle Herbert."
80 The Honour of the Clintons
" But you will come with me after lunck," said John
Spence, with a trifle of anxiety.
" All right," she threw over her shoulder.
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 ? "
" Not that I know of. Why.? "
" Oh, I don't know. I thought she seen^ed as if she
didn't much want to come with me."
" 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."
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.
He looked down at her wdth 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.
Joan was conscious of pleasure and some relief as
she met liis 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
The Young Birds 81
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.
" It may be sad," she said. " But it isn't rot. We
are grown up, and there is no getting over it."
A shadow came over his face. " They've been teach-
ing you things," he said. " When I came down here
last, and you were away in London — and at Brum-
mels — Nancy was just the same as she had always been.
I don't see any reason why you should alter."
" Dear old Jonathan ! We'll never alter — to you,"
said Joan affectionately. But she was conscious of a
little pang.
The birds began to come over. John Spence ac-
counted for his due share of them. " I wish I'd got
another gun," he said. " You've done well with them
this year."
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.'' "
" No, not at all," said Joan. " He has been lectur-
ing me. He is getting old; he is just like father. I
will gladly change with you."
Nancy stared, but said nothing. She and Joan were
accustomed to criticise everybody. But they had never
yet criticised John Spence.
82 The Honour of the Clintons
" Well, mj dear Joan," said the Judge, as she took
her place bj 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 .f* Is it a genuine love of sport, or
mere vanity? "
" 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."
" It is true that I do think of other things occa-
sionally. But where does the vanity come in? En-
lighten me for my good."
" 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."
" 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 ! "
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.
" More coming. I shall be ready for them next
Tlie Young Birds 83
time," he said, hastily ramming cartridges into his
breach.
More came — and most of them went. He had been
in the best place, and had only killed three birds.
" 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."
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 Her-
bert can shoot or not. It is much more amusing to
be with him than with any of the others."
" Jonathan said you weren't half as keen on sport
as you used to be," said Nancy. "He thinks you are
becoming fashionable."
" Idiot ! " said Joan. Then she suddenly felt as if
she wanted to cry, but terror at the idea of doing any-
thing 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."
CHAPTER VII
THE VERDICT
The Squire rang his bell violently, with a loud ex-
clamation 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.
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."
" He was just a-coming into the yard when your
bell rang, sir," replied the man.
"Well, then, why ? Ah, here they are at last.
Give them to me. Porter."
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.
THE SOCIETY TRIAL. FULL REPORT.
VERDICT.
It filled a whole page, and a column besides.
The Squire read steadily; his face, set to a frown-
ing censure, showed gleams of surprise, and every now
84
The Verdict 85
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 tlie 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.
" Ah, my dear Tom ! " said the Squire. " You had
Nina's telegram, I suppose. I sent it down to you
directly it came."
" Yes," said the Rector. " I was surprised that it
should all have been over so quickly. How is your
foot this morning, Edward.^ "
" 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 ! "
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 irri-
tate him.
" I don't quite understand, Edward," he said, when he
86 The Honour of the Clintons
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."
" 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."
The Rector returned to the newspaper, but his air
of bewilderment remained.
" 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."
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.
" 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? "
The Verdict 87
" I hope not," said the Rector gravely.
" 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 thou-
sands ! 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. How-
ever, 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, ex-
cept 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."
" 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."
"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
88 The Honour of the Clintons
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 proved. It isn't
only circumstantial evidence, it's damning proof. And
she's got far less than her deserts. A year's imprison-
ment ! She ought to have had ten years' hard labour."
" They seem to have convicted her on the theft of
the diamond star alone."
" 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
affain."
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."
" 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 canH stomach. I'm glad to think that this
woman is one of them. We shall hear no more of Mrs.
Amberley."
The Verdict 89
" 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.'^"
" Oh, my dear Tom ! " said the Squire. " You live
in the clouds. A woman like that hasn't got a soul."
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 suffer-
ing. It was all over now, and he didn't want to hear
another word about it. In fact, it was not to be men-
tioned 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.'*
Joan said that she quite understood it, and went off
to give Nancy a full account of her experiences.
" M}^ 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,
90 The Honour of the Clintons
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."
"But she couldn't say anything, could she? I
thought the counsel did it all."
" 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."
" 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."
" I don't know much either. Directly I had given
my evidence mother took me away."
" We'll get hold of a paper."
" No, we mustn't. Mother asked me not to."
" What a bore ! What was it like, giving your
evidence ? Were you alarmed "? "
" No, not much. It wasn't worse than the other
place. It wasn't so bad. Sir Edward Logan, the Sed-
berghs' counsel, was awfully sweet. He made me say
exactly what I had seen, and when Sir Herbert Jessop —
that was her man — tried to worry me into saying that
Bobby Trench had put it all into my head, he got up
and objected."
" Did he try to "
" No. He was quite nice about it, really. I sup-
pose h€ had to try and make it out diflFerent, somehow.
He left off directly our counsel objected, and the old
TJie Verdict 91
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."
" You didn't hear what anybody else said.'' "
" Not a word. Except when I was in the witness-
box myself, I might just as well have been at home."
" I wonder what the papers said about you. I wish
we could see them."
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 evi-
dence clearly and modestly. Some of them said that
she was prett}^, 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 w^hat was known as the higher
circles, brought to light by these proceedings. The
Squire had read this comment with a snort of indigna-
tion. 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 im-
pertinent reflection upon himself and his order.
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
92 The Honour of the Clintons
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.'' "
" The other was dead certain," said Dick.
" Ah, that's what I thought. But people don't
think — er "
" He did 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."
" Then it's true about "
" About him.^ Of course it is."
" Oh ! I thought she had made it up, shamelessly,
because she knew it couldn't be contradicted."
" It could have been contradicted easily enough if
it hadn't been true. Everybody has known about it
for years."
" But she told the maid the pearls were sham ones."
" I dare say she did. But they weren't."
" Then there is really a doubt whether she did steal
the necklace ^ "
"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."
The Verdict 93
" But she may have taken the star, and not
have had time to find the necklace, when Joan came
in."
" 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.? No-
body else knew."
" Oh, it's plain enough, of course. I haven't a doubt
about it. But I thought you meant that there was
some doubt."
" 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 that quarter a couple of years
ago, or more."
" Did she make any attempt to get her story
backed up ^ "
" 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."
" Well, it's a most unsavoury story altogether," said
94 The Honour of the Clintons
the Squire. " The woman's in prison now, and she
richly deserves it."
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.
BOOK II
CHAPTER I
BOBBY TRENCH IS ASKED TO KENCOTE
" Well, old fellow, I think you might."
It was Bobby Trench who spoke, in a voice of injured
pleading.
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."
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 Northampton-
shire, at which Bobby Trench was a frequent visitor.
He was being asked by his friend to repeat the invita-
tion he had given him some years before, to stay at
Kencote for some country balls, and he was kindly but
firmly resisting the request.
" I suppose you know what I want to go there for.'' "
" Well, I can form a rough guess. As far as I'm
concerned, I should welcome the idea; but I won't dis-
guise it from you that the Governor wouldn't."
" 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.
91
98 The Honour of the Clintons
I'm an only son, and all that sort of thing. I don't
see how he could expect to get anybody better."
"Do you really mean business, Bobby?"
" 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."
" Have you said anything to him .^ "
" 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 like being run after.
It puts him oif . That's human nature. Well, I needn't
tell you 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 ? "
Humphrey laughed. He remembered a few of the
things that Joan had said to him about his friend.
" She looks on you as a stupendous joke so far," he
said. " Still, she's hardly more than a kid."
" 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 ttie same in a couple of years'
Bobbij Trench Is Asked to Kencote 99
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."
" 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 you; 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 an3^body
else would. It wouldn't go all the way with him, but
it would go some of the way."
" 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."
" 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
100 The Honour of the Clintons
the Governor. My young sister is good enough for
any fellow."
"I know that. I should consider myself jolly lucky
if she took me. You needn't get shirty. It's just be-
cause she is the girl I want that I'm not going to lose
any of the fun of winning off my own bat."
" 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."
" 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."
" 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."
Bobby Trench Is Asked to' Kencote 101
" Not a bit ; and with your sister tiiet^ it wiil be like
heaven. Oh, you've got to get me asked, Humphrey."
" I'll do what I can. By the by, don't say a word
about the Amberlcy business at Kencote. He doesn't
like that mentioned."
" Doesn't he.^ Righto! It was the way your young
sister showed up in that that cHnched 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."
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.
" Look here, father, I've got something rather in-
teresting 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."
" What ! " The Squire's expression was a mixture
of disgust and incredulity.
" 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 every-
thing else."
" Oh, a good match ! " exclaimed the Squire impa-
tiently. " 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
1Q2 . The Honour of the Clintons
years! ' And Ivh^ri the time comes I hope it will bring
somebody as unlike Master Trench as possible."
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.
" I know he annoyed you when he came here before,"
he said. " I told him that, and said I wasn't surprised
at it."
" 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? "
" He said he was sorry he had offended you. But it
was a good many years ago, and he was a foci in those
days."
" 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 his particular
Trenches were pettifogging tradesmen in Yorkshire,
Bohhij Trench Is Asked to Kencote 103
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.?"
" No. But Bobby says that he'll be as pleased as
possiblco He took a great fancy to Joan. He said
she had been better brought up than any girl he knew."
" 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 w^as at his age, and not likely to be.
I suppose he hasn't had the impudence to say anything
to Joan yet.? "
" Oh no. She doesn't know anything about it. In
fact, he's not in the least sure about his chances wdth
her. He only wants an opportunity of what I believe
is called preferring his suit."
" 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."
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.
The Squire spoke to his wife about it. WTiat non-
sense was this about something between Joan and that
104 The Honour of the Clintons
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 mean-
time 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.
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 ? "
" 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.
Bobby Trench Is Asked to Kencote 105
They will grow out of that. She doesn't know anything
about tliis, and I don't want it mentioned to her. Younsr
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."
" 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."
" 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."
" 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 w^ish him to be."
" 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."
"But he is not, is he.^ You have always objected
to him."
106 The Honour of the Cliritons
" 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 you object
to in him ? "
" 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."
" 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."
Mrs. Clinton looked down and said nothing, but her
heart was rather heavy.
" Joan hasn't said anything about him, has she ?
Nothing to show that she is aware that he — what shall
I say — ^admires her ? "
" 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 pos-
sibly to Joan."
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
Bohhif Trench Is Asked to Kencote 107
anylliing to deserve it, but women are like that. They
take au idea into their heads and nothing will get it
out."
" 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."
"Did you? Well, perhaps I am. I must say that
lie 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."
" Do you want him to marry Joan, then? "
"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? "
" No more than what's on the surface. If he married
Joan, I shouldn't want to live hand in glove with him."
"You wouldn't object to the marriage if it came
about?"
Dick did not reply at once.
'* It would be a good enough match from the worldly
point of view," said the Squire.
108 The Honour of the Clintons
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."
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."
" 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."
"You think it's a matter for her to decide.'^ "
" It isn't a matter for me to decide."
^ " She can't very well decide unless she sees him."
" 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."
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.
"I will write to Mr. Trench," said Mrs. Clinton.
Bobby Trench Is Asked to Kencote 109
" But I am sorry that you have decided to ask him
here."
The Squire went away vaguely dissatisfied with him-
self, but took comfort in the thought that women didn't
understand these things.
CHAPTER II
JOAN AND NANCY
" My sweet old Joan, tell me all about it."
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.
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 intona-
tion.
" I'm such a fool," said Joan. " I don't know what
I want. I don't want anything."
She dried her eyes, but still kept her head on Vir-
ginia'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.
" It's about John Spence, isn't it, dear.^^ " Virginia
asked.
" I'm a fool," said Joan again. " I don't like him as
much as I used to."
" Is that why you're a fool.^^ " asked Virginia with a
little laugh.
" 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
110
Joan and Nancy 111
used to be very happy together. We always talked
about everything, it didn't matter what it was."
"And now you don't. You don't talk about John
Spence."
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."
" Oh, my darling girl ! I think I understand it all
better than you do yourself. You are unhappy, and
you don't know why."
" Then tell me why."
" Well, to begin with, you are just a httle jealous."
" Oh, Virginia ! And you said you understood ! "
" You are jealous, just as you would be if Dick were
suddenly to show that he liked Nancy better than
you."
" 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."
112 The Honour of the Clintons
" Can't you see, little girl, that it couldn't always go
on as it used to ? "
"Why not?"
" How can a man fall in love with two girls at once?
He must choose one of them, or neither."
" 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."
" 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 be-
haved well about it."
" What ! " exclaimed Joan, sitting up sharply.
Virginia smiled, and drew her back to her. " You
haven't been kind to Nancy, you know," she said.
Joan did not resist her, but said rather stiffly, " It's
she who hasn't been kind to me."
"How?"
" 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 is in love with her; and if he is, whether she
Joan and Nancy 113
knows it. She acts exactly as we always used to with
him, and as I did, until I saw he didn't want me to."
" And then you became offended, and rather ostenta-
tiously left them together whenever he came on the
scene."
" Well, if he wanted Nancy, and didn't want me, I
wasn't going to push myself forward."
" Poor John Spence ! " said Virginia. " He is very
disturbed about you. 1 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
icandid 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."
" 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 ! "
" 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! "
Joan put her handkerchief to her eyes. " If it hadn't
begun as it did I should have done everything I could
114 The Honour of the Clintons
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 mc, 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."
" 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."
" If I thought that ! "
" 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?"
"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."
" You wouldn't feel the change so much if you and
Nancy were what vou have always been to each other.
Joan and Nancy 115
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."
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."
" 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."
" Dear old Nancy ! " said Joan softly. " I have been
rather a pig to her. But I won't be any more."
There was a long silence. Then Joan said, " There
is something else, Virginia. Why has Bobby Trench
been asked to come here to-morrow .f^ "
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? "
" 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
^uss he made when I went to Brummels, and when
116 The Honour of the Clintons
Bobbj Trench came here about that Amberley affair.
He said he shouldn't be let in if he came again."
" Well, my dear, you know what your father is. He
could no more act inhospitably to anybody than -"
" Oh, Virginia, that's nonsense. He was quite rude
to him when he came. Besides, it's a different thing
altogether, asking him to come. He needn't have done
that. Wiiy did he do it.? "
"Isn't Lord Sedbergh an old friend of his.''"
" Virginia, I believe you are in the conspiracy against
me. I hate 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 ine, 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."
" What did he say to you.'* "
" Oh, something about him, 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 can 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 com-
pletely round."
" 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
Joan and Nancy 117
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."
" I don't believe that anything is fixed. Anyone
would have said that he had a real 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, you know
it all by heart. And then, just as one is beginning
to think there is something in it, and that we luive been
very happy living quietly here, one finds that he, of all
people, wants something else."
"What does he want.?"
" What does he w^ant for me? Does he want Bobby
Trench, Virginia.? There! You don't say anything.
You are in the conspiracy. I won't. Nothing will
make me."
" My dear child, there is no conspiracy. And if
there were, I shouldn't be in it. / 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."
" Doesn't mother want to keep me? Does she want
Bobby Trench for me?"
" No, I am quite sure she doesn't."
118 The Honour of the Clintons
"Then what is it all about? Oh, I am very un-
happy, 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.?"
" Dearest Joan, you are making too much of it.
You talk as if you were going to be forced into some-
thing you don't like."
" 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."
" 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 him. You don't, and that
is all there is to say about it."
" 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 cliild 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.^^ "
" Well, my dear, as a product of a country where
Joan and Nancy 119
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."
" 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
an3'body else's. If he were to lose all his money, for
instance — I think he would feel that more than any-
thing in the world. He would be stripped of almost
everything. No-one would know him."
" Oh, Joan darling, you mustn't say things like that.
It isn't like you."
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 dis-
coveries.
" It does make me feel rather bitter," she said through
her tears. " But I don't want to be."
As she and Nancy were dressing for dinner, she said
lightl}', but with a strained look in her e3'es, " The
conquering Bobby Trench will be here by this time
to-morrow. Nancy, you are not to go leaving me alone
with him."
Nancy looked up at her sharply, but her face was
hidden, and she did not see the look in it, the look
120 The Honour of the Clintons
which hoped for a warm return to their old habit of
discussing everything and everybody together.
" I suppose you would like me to take him off your
hands so that you can devote yourself to John Spence? "
she said.
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?
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."
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.
" 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."
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 outspoken-
ness 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.
Joan and Nancy 121
" Perhaps I have been rather a pig," she said. " I
haven't meant to be ; and I shan't be any more."
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 hap-
pening to her, and she had to keep them uncomfortably
locked up in her own breast.
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.
" Well, you have 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."
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."
Nancy wavered for a moment. Then the memory of
122 The Honour of the Clintons
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
read}^ 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."
CHAPTER III
HUMPHREY AND SUSAN
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."
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 an}^ 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 occasionall}' to the swell-
ing 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.
123
124 The Honour of the Clintons
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, pad-
docks, 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.
" 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."
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.
" My dear girl," he said, " it is a great piece of luck.
You are 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
Humijlirey and Susan 125
come just to point out the way in which you ought to
enjoy your good fortune. The place produces noth-
ing — well, that can't he 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."
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.
" 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 country-
woman. 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."
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.
126 The Honour of the Clintons
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."
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."
" I should think you would be able to amuse yourself
there all right," said Dick. " You'll save three hun-
dred 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."
" 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."
" 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.
Humphreij and Susan 127
You'll have to watch it a bit after the first month
or two."
" 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."
More seemed to be coming, and Dick waited for it
to come, after saying rather perfunctorily, " Susan
seems to like the idea too."
" 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."
Still Dick waited for more.
"We ought 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 mj^self 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."
128 The Honour of the Clintons
" You won't find it such an unpleasant change."
" 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."
" Well, you've neither of you got what you might
call a passion for economy."
" 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."
" 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."
" 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."
" 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."
Humphrey, understanding quite well the source of
this decisive speech, flushed. " I'm not in debt," he
said shortly.
" Oh ! " Dick was rather taken aback.
"I suppose when you've once played the fool, every-
Humphrey and Susan 129
body you talk to about money thinks you must be try-
ing 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, j^ou might disabuse his mind of it. I
don't say I don't owe a bill or two, but they are nothing
to count."
" 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 3^our 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
sa}' I can manage to let you have it. Pleased to."
" Thanks, Dick, it's awfully good of you." Hum-
phrey 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."
" Right you are, old chap. We'll go into it, and I'll
let you know what I can do."
" Thanks. It will make things a good deal easier.
I'm a reformed character. I hate not seeing my way,
now."
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
130 The Honour of the Clintons
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.
" How has it gone wrong .^^ " he asked, with more
interest than he had shown hitherto.
" 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."
" Oh, come now ! Only the two of you ! You ought
not to have to go without much."
" 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 must 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.
Humphrey and Susan 131
instead of a little clog'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."
" She must spend a tremendous lot on clothes."
" 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 beHeve 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 allow-
ance and put the rest into doing up the house."
" 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."
" It's going to," said Humphrey. " I'll see to that."
Dick told Virginia something of the conversation
between himself and Humphrey, and what he had offered
to do for him.
" 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."
132 The Honour' of the Clintons
" It's what I meant," he said, smiling at her quick
generosity. " But I don't think I will — not until later."
" Oh, why not.? I can spare it, if you can't."
" 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."
" So is Susan, isn't she.? She seems a different
creature. As if a load were lifted off her mind."
" 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 expendi-
ture 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."
" 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."
Dick pinched her chin between his thumb and fore-
finger. 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."
A shadow fell across her bright face. " Poor
Humphrey and Susan 133
woman ! " she said. " Oh, poor, poor woman ! Here we
are, all of us together, happj- at Christmas-time; and
she ! Oh, Dick — ' for all prisoners and captives ' !
I thought of her in church this morning. The loneli-
ness — the cold ! I think we ought to pray to be for-
given, as well as she."
Dick kissed her gently. " You don't want to think
too much about her," he said. " She's paying the
price."
CHAPTER IV
COMING HOME FROM THE BALL
" This is where we are going to shoot to-morrow.
We've kept this side entirely until now. We ought to
do pretty well."
Bobby Trench, muffled up to the cigar he was smok-
ing, 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.
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 oppor-
tunities 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
134
Comijig Home from the Ball 135
him, had sliown herself, indeed, determined to find
occasions for snubbing him ; for he was agile in skip-
ping 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.
Snubs, or attempted snubs, received with no diminu-
tion of self-assurance or good-temper, at both of which
the}^ 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 treat-
ment 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.
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
136 The Honour of the Clintons
not be welcome, she might safely return to the chaffing
intimacy which had hitherto been the note of their inter-
course, 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.
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 com-
ment. 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 quiet-
ness 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.
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,
Coming Home from the Ball 137
Walter's wife. In the absence of Bouby Trench, the
eight of them inside the omnibus were of such family
intimacy tliat 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 pro-
gression 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 apprecia-
tion 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.
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 i^i 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 friend-
liness of the twins, when he had first known them as girls
138 The Honour of the Clintons
of fifteen, had attracted him dchghtfully, and he had
been surprised to find that the attraction had changed
its quaHty ; 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 con-
fidence 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.
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.
" 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."
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
Coining Home from the Ball 139
indistinguishable hollow. With a tightening of traces
and no more than the stroke of a wliip-lash they pulled
the omnibus through, leaving shai-p 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.^ "
" Somebody shouted," said Frank, standing up be-
hind them ; and had no sooner spoken when the silence
of the woods was sharply broken by a gun-shot.
" Poachers, by Jove ! " said Dick. " We shall catch
them." He drove quickly on towards the point from
which the report had come.
Suddenly there were shouts of men, and another
report from a gun ; then more shouting, and the crack-
ing of trampled twigs quite near to them.
" The keepers are out. Good boys ! " cried Dick, in
excitement, reining in his horses.
Frank and Bobby Trench were down and off into
the covert. Humphre}^, 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.
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,
140 The Honour of the Clintons
and the appeal, not of Susan's frightened cries, but of
Nancy's silent call for protection.
" 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 nfen are there."
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.
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.
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.
" All right, sir, coming ! "
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.
Dick had him by the neck, and was screwing his
knuckles into the throat. He gulped, put hands like
Coming Home from the Ball 141
vices on to his sleeves, and kicked with a great iron-
shod boot. Dick felt his shin peel through his tliin
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, ycu got me. You can give over now."
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? "
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.
" He shot at him," said Humphre3\ " I was just
behind. He got it in the shoulder. Look here; all
torn; he'll bleed to death."
Dick set up a shout. The wood was still now of the
louder clamour. The mimic battle was over.
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
" Hold your tongue, you swine ! " said Gotch, hitting
him on the nwuth, 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."
CHAPTER V
ROBEET RECUMBENT
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 weak-
ness, he was himself again, and prepared to take up
his affairs at the point at which they had been inter-
rupted by what had befallen him.
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 rela-
tions.
" 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."
The nurse permitted herself a smile. " You're to
be kept quiet for a day or two. Doctor's orders."
"Doctor's orders! Walter Clinton! What sort of
a Bob Sawyer is he, to give orders? You know much
143
Robert Recumbent 143
more about things than he dogs, don't you now? You
want to keep me to yourself, that's what it is."
" 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."
" You think so, Mrs. Gamp.? "
" Yes, I do. It was lucky for you that he was there
when you were shot."
" 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?"
" Oh, everybody, of course. You will have plenty of
visitors when you are well enough to receive them."
** 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? "
" I think you are getting light-headed. You have
talked quite enough for the present. Would you like
some jelly? "
" 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?"
The conversation was interrupted at this point by the
arrival of Walter Clinton, whose knickerbockered home-
spuns only served to heighten the effect of his cool
professional manner.
" Well, nurse, how's your patient? "
" Going on well, doctor ; but you must please tell
144 The Honoiir of the Clintons
him that lie must keep quiet for the present. He wants
to see everybodj^ in the house."
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."
" 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."
" Don't you believe what he says, doctor. He's full
of his nonsense."
"How's Humphrey?" asked Bobby.
" 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 cus-
tomers, 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."
" I'm ready now. Ask him to step up."
" To-morrow — if you get a good night."
"What are they all doing downstairs .^^ "
" Slacking, and playing with my kiddies. They all
sent messages to you."
" They must have got a pretty good shock. You
turned them out of the bus, didn't you? I don't re-
member much of what happened."
Robert Recumbent 145
" 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."
" I suppose she was — upset about it all? Pretty
funking to see a fellow brought along in the state I
was in ! "
" Oh, they all took it very well. Susan was the
worst, but of course Humphrey looked worse than he
really was — luckily."
Bobby Trench, an incurable optimist, allowed him-
self 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, sense-
less 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 wring-
ing 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.
But her indisposition had caused some lessening of
the tension between herself and Nancy, who, possibly
14G The Honour of the Clintons
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 par-
ticipated had formed a skin over the wounds that each
had dealt the other, and they could behave with some
approach to former freedom.
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.
The Squire came in, bringing with him a breath of
the now frosty outer air, but treading Agag-like on
complimentary slippers.
" 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? "
" You wouldn't think it to look at her, but she's a
bully, Mr. Clinton. If you get ill you send for some-
body else."
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
Robert liecumbent 147
shall make a lot of you when you come downstairs. You
did well ; and I've written to tell your father so."
Bobby Trench felt that a few torn muscles and splin-
tered 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 concilia-
tory than he had previously shown him. Bobby Trench,
on reflection, had attributed his invitation to Hum-
phrey'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.
" 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? "
" Well, yes, he does. We shall be pleased to see
him — and her ladyship too, if she cares about
it."
"Oh, save us from her ladyship!" said Bobby,
unfilially. " She'd be hopeless in a sick-room ; and this
148 The Honour of the Clintons
is a real keep-jour-distance, Sundays-only sick-room,
ain't it, Sarah Gamp ? "
" 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 vvell 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 any-
thing 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 dis-
tance — 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
generall}' is, and they've never been nabbed. Fortu-
nately 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 provi-
Robert Recumbent 149
dcntial all round — the keepers being there, and you
coming just in the nick of time to reinforce tliem.
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."
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.
" 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."
" 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 brand3^ You want
to keep a cool head on these occasions."
" The ladies were pretty much upset, eh.^ "
" Oh, I soon stopped their fuss. ' Look here, yoiCre
not hurt,' I said. ' You'd better all swallow something
hot, and then tuck j^ourselves up in your blankets,'
150 The Honour of the Clintons
I packed them all off, except Virginia and Miss Dexter —
oh, and Susan, who wouldn't go till she'd seen Hum-
phrey safe ; and Nancy was helping her mother ; she's
turning into a useful girl, that — didn't turn a hair."
" Then Miss Joan was the only one who went up? "
" 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.'^ "
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 inspec-
tion 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.
" 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 j^ou've got to
be laid up."
" My grandfather died in this room," said the Squire,
by way of adding to its impression of cheerfulness.
" Had it before Ms father died and never would shift
downstairs. It was done up later, but I see there are
Robert Recumbent 151
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."
He had got up to examine one or two of the old
sporting prints on the walls, which he did with informa-
tive 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? "
" Yes, I have," said Bobby, stretching the truth not
unduly, for the two volumes of Colonel Clinton of Ken-
cote'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."
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
152 The Honour of the Clintons
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, in-
stead of spending the money they get from them else-
where."
" 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 home 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, some-
thing to shoot, and all that sort of thing, and your
family and relations coming dowm to liven you up — oh,
it's life, that's what it is. All the rest is footle, com-
pared with it."
A Daniel come to judgment! Saul among the
prophets ! Never had the shining example of Kencote,
Robert Recumbent 153
where wealth and ancestry adorned but did not over-
power 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.
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.
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.
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,
154 The Honour of the Clintons
who, on already intimate terms with him, promised to
do what she could to make things " easy all round."
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 in-
difference, 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.
This positive praise, after a long course of un-
measured 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 in-
subordination, and would have been better omitted.
But what lover can eschew the use of weapons so
ready to hand as the good nature of uninterested par-
ties, 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.
CHAPTER VI
JOAN REBELLIOUS
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.
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 affec-
tion, " Surely, you're not both going to desert j^our 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.
Walter had taken his wife and children back to
London, leaving Bobby Trench in the care of the local
155
156 The Honour of the Clintons
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.
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.
" Well, my girl," he said paternally. " The house
seems so empty that I thought I'd come up for a little
chat."
It was the hour when Mrs. Clinton visited her recum-
bent guest, leaving the nurse free for an airing. Joan
had occasionally accompanied her in her w^alks, 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 con-
fidence. 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.
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
Joan Rebellious 157
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.
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.
" Well, we shall have our invalid downstairs to-mor-
row," he made his clumsy opening. '* Wonderful re-
covery ! '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."
" 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."
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.
158 The Honour of the Clintons
" 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."
Joan shuddered at the staring picture, and felt her-
self convicted of brutal callousness.
" However," proceeded her father, who might advan-
tageously 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."
Then her mother was 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.
" 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."
Joa?i Rebellious 159
" Well, she wouldn't be likely to say that, if you didn't
want to," said the Squire, determined to keep the inter-
view on a note of mild reasonableness, in spite of provo-
cation. "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."
" 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."
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.
" 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."
" How could I have helped it, father? "
" 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."
" 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."
160 The Honour of the Clintons
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."
" I was six months younger — that's all."
" 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."
" Then you don't think that Mr. Trench was really a
young cub, after all? "
" I wish you wouldn't keep on repeating those words.
They are not words for you to say, whatever / 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 cer-
tain 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 \\G has naturally high spirits, which are not a bad
thing to have when you are young."
" But he isn't so very young. He must be at least
Joan Rebellious 161
thirty-five. / think his way is a very silly way, and he
is quite old enough to know better."
It was a choice of repeating her words, " You
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 in-
clination to upbraid, without seriously impairing his
efficacy for reasoning with her. He chose the latter
course.
" 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."
" But I thought one of your objections to him was
that he lived too much in London."
He waved the interruption aside. " Even people
who live for the most part in London — work there,
perhaps — w^ell, 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 ! "
" What a good idea ! " said Joan, brightening to an
opportunity of diverting the conversation. " I think
162 The Honour of the Clintons
stories about people in the eighteenth century are aw-
fully interesting. Father, you have books of reminis-
cences about them in the library, haven't you? "
" 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."
" 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."
" 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."
" But they would like to keep them if they could.
You don't want to lose me, father, do you? "
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
Joan Rebellious 163
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 laugh-
able 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?
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.
" 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
164 The Honour of the Clintons .
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 marry-
ing and settling down, I just want to say a word to
you which you mustn't misunderstand, or think I'm
tr3ang 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 considera-
tion herself — it wouldn't be advisable that she should.
In short — well, now we are on the subject — this very
young man — young Trench, whom we've been discuss-
ing, 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 he^d like to
marry and settle down with, and — er "
" But wasn't that exactly what you came upstairs
to say to me, father .f^" 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.
He stared at her. " What ! " he exclaimed. " You
have had it in your mind all along? "
" You put it there, father," she retorted. " I'm
grown up now. I've got eyes in my head. I knew
there must be some reason for your making mother ask
Joan Rebellious 165
him here, when she dislikes him just as much as I do,
and after you had always said that you disliked him
just as much, or more."
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 not 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
166 The Honour of the Clintons
way. You'll find when you come to talk to young
Trench — when he comes down to-morrow — that "
" I'm not going to talk to him," Joan interrupted.
" I don't like him."
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.^
" Are you going to listen to what I have to say, or
not? " he asked impatiently. " Or do you want to
be ? "
" 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."
" You are naughty. You are laying yourself out
to annoy me. There is no question of my making 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 ? "
" Oh no, father. Of course I shall be polite. I
didn't know that was all you wanted."
"Yes, it is 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.
Joan Rebellious 167
You see how outrageous it sounds when you put it
plainly."
" Yes, I know it docs ; but I thought it was what
you meant."
" Well, then, it is not 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."
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.
" 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."
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,
168 The Honour of the Clintons
and Nancy too, when she comes home. Now do you
quite understand that? "
"Oh yes, father," said Joan. " I quite understand
that."
" Very well, then. Mind you do it."
With which words the Squire left the room with an
air of victory.
CHAPTER VII
DISAPPOINTMENTS
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.
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.
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.
She was, to tell the truth, not unsympathetically
shocked at his appearance when she first gave him greet-
ing. Although his speech was as fluent and lively as
ever, his face was pale and thin, and there was no ignor-
ing 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 preju-
169
170 The Honour of the Clintons
dice against him, which, indeed, had hardly existed until
he had been presented to her mind as an encouraged
wooer.
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.
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 ho.ur or two hours
together, during which time their intimacy appeared to
be founded on a complete and happy communit}^ of
taste ; but at a word or hint of love-making she would
freeze, and if it was persisted in, she would leave
him.
The poor man was in tonnents, 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
Disappointments 171
designs she knew him to be cherishing no longer troubled
her at all.
But how was he to escape the perpetual hope that
Jier 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 mischievous-
ness, 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.
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 possess-
ing 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
172 The Honour of the Clintons
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.
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.
Bobby Trench could never have said that Mrs. Clin-
ton 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.
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 w^hich 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
Disappointments 173
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 him-
self to her he would commend himself to Joan.
None but a shallow brain could have judged of Mrs.
Clinton as a nonentity, when opportunities for observ-
ing 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 fol-
lowed 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.
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 sub-
jects 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.
174 The Honour of the Clintons
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 them-
selves 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 him, 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.
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
Disappointments 175
ignorance. He would have been tried by other tests,
and come through them.
It was by these other tests that Bobby Trench stood
or fell with Mrs. Clinton, not by his lack of intellectual
interests.
What did he ask of life for himself.?
A good time.
How did he stand with regard to the wealth and posi-
tion which were the unacknowledged cause of his being
where he was.? Were they to be held as opportunities?
Yes, for giving him a good time.
What had he to bestow on others?
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 patronis-
ing 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.
What did he demand from those of whom he made his
friends ?
Assistance in the great aim of having a good time,
which cannot be enjoyed alone. Nothing be^^ond that;
no steadfastness in friendship, no character; only the
power to amuse or to share amusement.
That was Bobby Trench, as he revealed himself from
day to day to the woman whom he treated w4th almost
patronising attention, and considered a nonentity.
Whether he so revealed himself to Joan there was noth-
ing yet to show ; but it was unlikely that she would have
so clear a vision, or indeed that a good time, if he could
176 The Honour of the Clintons
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.
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.
" How did you enjoy yourself .^^ " she asked.
" 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.?"
The bald sentences marked the gulf that had opened
between them. And there had not been a word of John
Spence.
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 Provi-
dence 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.
Disapj^oint ments 177
The landed interest, thougli, had to keep a look-out
on its own account, if those responsible were to be
properh- 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.
The under-keeper, Gotch, who had come to Hum-
phrey'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 con-
sidered, and in due course certainly made.
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 serv^ants ; he was accus-
tomed 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.
Gotch came to see him, on summons, in his business
room. He was a fine specimen of country-bred man-
hood, 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.
" Well, Gotch," said the Squire, taking up his usual
178 The Honour of the Clintons
position in front of the fire. " I hear you've been
making love, what? "
" Yes, sir," said Gotch, dropping his eyes for a
moment.
" Clark, eh? Lady Susan Clinton's maid. Well, she
seems a very respectable j^oung 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."
" Yes, sir."
"When do you want to get married? "
The question was asked wuth business-like curtness,
and was answered as shortly. " Soon as possible, sir."
" 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 any-
body 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."
" Thank you, sir," said Gotch, as there came a pause
in the flow of eloquence.
" Very well, then. You want to get married. In the
ordinary way you couldn't just yet, because there isn't
Disappointments 179
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 Bath-
gate 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 put-
ting you into his cottage, but decided not. Now what
have you got to say, Gotch .^ Will that meet your
views ? "
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."
180 TJie Honour of the Clintons
" 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 do something special."
It was not, in fact, anything remarkably self-sacrific-
ing that the Squire intended to do. There was a dearth
of cottages at Kencote, as there is on so many other-
wise 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 out-
side 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, w^orse
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 g,rticle 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 was
overcrowding, though not to any serious extent ; and
there was a dearth of cottage accommodation.
Disajopointments 181
" Much better build a few, and stop their mouths,"
said Dick.
" It doesn't pay to build cottages," said the Squire.
" It can't pay, with these ridiculous bye-laws."
"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."
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 con-
sidered "
" 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 our time. There hasn't been a brick laid on
the place for fifty years or more, except at the home
fai*m 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."
182 The Honour of the Clintons
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.
" Well, sir," said Gotch, " if I was thinking of keep-
ing 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."
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.
" Canada ! " he echoed impatiently. " I think you
fellows think that the soil is made of gold in Canada.
What do youy 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."
Disappoin tments 183
" Well, jou 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 w ell-to-do
man, and he wasn't no better than me when he went over
there ten years ago."
" 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.f^ "
" Yes, sir, I should like it better than anything,
if "
"If what.?"
" Well, I hope you won't take it amiss what I says,
sir; but every man what's w^orth anything likes to be
his own master, sir. It don't mean that he's any com-
plaint 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."
" Oh, you're not misunderstood," said the Squire, un-
softened by this straightforward speech. " The fact
is that you've got some pestilent socialistic notion in
184< The Honour of the Clintons
jour 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."
" I'm sure I shouldn't wish to be that, sir."
" 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 out-
side it."
" 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."
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
Disappointinents 185
country when I think it's phiinly pointed out by Provi-
dence 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."
He turned towards his w^riting table. Gotch, after a
pause as if he were going to say something more,
glanced at the profile presented to him, said, " Thank
jou, sir," and went out.
CHAPTER VIII
PROPOSALS
" Well, my dear, everybody seems to be busily em-
ployed except you and me. It's a fine morning. Sup-
posing we go for a walk together ! "
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 v/ere cronies already, and took delight
in reminiscences of their bright youth, which seemed to
come nearer to them at every story told.
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 must do for
another hour or so," he said ; " but we could go up to the
186
Proposals 187
home farm at eleven o'clock if tliat suited you ; and the
papers will be here in half-an-hour."
" 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."
Lord Sedbergh liad 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 entertain-
ment, and no more.
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.
" 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."
" Why did you give it up? " asked Joan.
" 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
188 The Honour of the Clintons
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 3^oung 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."
" I should love to go abroad," said Joan. " I have
never been out of England, and very seldom away from
Kencote."
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 ^ "
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."
He withdrew his eyes from her face. " Well, I sup-
pose it is rather impertinent of me to ask such a ques-
tion," 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,
Proposals 189
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."
" You are not old," said Joan in a turmoil.
" 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 our-
selves 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."
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.
He looked at her with kind eyes. " You do like him,
little Joan, don't you .? " he asked.
" Yes," she said, " but — oh, not in that way." Again
her muff went to her face.
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
190 The Honour of the Clintons
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 you there. I'd do it up for you from top to
toe, exactly as you liked it. And I'd give you a motor-
car 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 our-
selves 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
Proposals 191
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."
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 exalta-
tion 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 adven-
turous 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 begin-
ning 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.
If only Bobby Trench were not included in the bright
picture ! And yet she liked him now, and his society was
never irksome.
" You are awfully kind to me," she fluttered.
" But "
" Oh, I know, my dear," he soothed her. " You
192 The Honour of the Clintons
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,
yoii 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."
This was flattery of a searching kind, and it did seem
to Joan tha't 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.
But her secret did not support her long; she was
made of stuff too tender. A few hours after her exalta-
tion 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.
Proposals 193
" 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."
Lord Sedbergli 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.
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 him-
self. 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 resentmcrt against him for being the
past cause of her present troubles, and remorseful
gratitude for his unconquerable fidelity.
She had been unusually fractious with him on the
194 The Honour of the Clintons
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 exceed-
ingly. She and Bobby were sitting in front of the fire
in the morning-room.
" 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.? "
" Oh, I don't know," said Joan. " Everything is so
dull, and everybody is so horrid."
" You're not such good pals with Nancy as you used
to be, are you? " he asked after a pause.
" That has nothing to do with you," she said, follow-
ing her mood of snappish domination over him.
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 "^ "
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.
" 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 under-
stand that; but why you should turn round upon me,
Proposals 195.
when I've laid myself out to be agreeable to you — and
haven't worried you either — I don't understand. I call
it devilish unfair."
Joan felt that it K-as 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.
" 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? "
" No, we won't play bezique. We'll talk. Look
here, you know quite well what I want of you. I've
been "
" I don't want to talk about that."
" 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."
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.
" 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? "
" No," said Joan. " And I shan't listen to you if
you do."
" All right. I'm not going to. But there's another
way of looking at things. We do get on well together,
196 The Honour of the Clintons
and you do like me a bit better than you used to, don't
you? Now answer straight."
" I don't like you any better in the way I suppose
you want me to, if that's what you mean."
" No, it isn't what I mean. I've said that. I mean,
we are 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? "
" Yes, I think so."
" 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 our 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 our-
selves out to do it. You won't find me such a bad fellow
to live with, Joan. We are pals, you know, already;
you've said so. Can't you give it a chance? "
Dispossessed of its emotional constituents, the pro-
posal was not without its allure; and, so dispossessed,
could be faced, or at least glanced at, without undue
confusion of face.
Proposals 197
Joan glanced at it, and said, " Lord Sedbcrgh is very
sweet to me."
" Well, he's sweet on you, you know," said Bobby with
a grin. " Do say yes, Joan. It'll make him the hap-
piest man in the world — except me. I know 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 Hkely 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."
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."
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. / love you; and that rzill have
to do for both of us."
She looked at him with a smile. " That would be
rather a one-sided bargain, wouldn't it r "
'• / don't think so. It's as a pal I should want you
chiefly, and you would be that. You are already."
198 The Honour of the Clintons
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 tlmt plea.?
He waited for her to speak, putting strong constraint
on himself.
" Oh, I can't," she said at last.
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."
She let her hand remain in his for a moment, and
then sprang up. " Oh, they're coming in," she cried.
He swore under his breath, but rose too, and said, as
voices were heard approaching, " Think over it, and
tell me to-morrow."
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.
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 her 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 oppor-
tunity came, she discovered that she did not want to
Proposals 199
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.
Should she — should she not?
She had not quite made up her mind when she dropped
off to sleep.
She was awakened by Nancy coming into the room,
with Hannah, both of them speaking softly. She pre-
tended not to have been awakened, but through her
lashes sought for signs in Nancy's face.
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.
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.
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
200 The Honour of the Clintons
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 dress-
ing-table.
" Hullo ! " she said. " Are you feeling better? "
" Yes, thanks," said Joan, choking her emotion.
" Have you enjoyed yourself.? "
" Yes, thanks. I wish you'd been there. The band
was ripping, and the floor was perfect."
She talked on a little longer, and Joan began to think
nothing had happened after all. Then she said sud-
denly, "By the by, I'm engaged to John Spence. I
thought you'd like to know."
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 ! "
She did not look at Joan as she turned away from
the window, but blew out the lights and got into
bed.
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.
There was another long silence.
" Nancy, are you awake.? " came in a voice that shook
a little.
" Yes."
" I'm m-most awfully glad."
" Then what are you crying for? "
Proposals 201
" Because I'm sorry I've been sucli a pig ; and I d-do
so want to be friends again ; and you won't."
" Oh, I will, darling old Joan."
Nancy was out of bed, and had thrown herself on
Joan's neck. They were mingling tears and kisses to-
gether, 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.
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."
BOOK III
CHAPTER I
THE SQUIRE CONFRONTED
The lilacs in the station-yard at Kencote were blos-
soming 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.
" Hullo ! " she said brightly. " They've sent the
luo-o-ao-e-cart. I thouf^ht you'd like to walk."
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."
" How's Susan?" Joan asked as they set out.
" All right," said Humphrey shortly. " She's gone
to her people."
He cleared the preoccupation from his face, and
looked at his sister. "You look blooming," he said.
" Do you miss Nancy? "
" Yes, awfully," she said, " but I'm going to stay with
tliem the moment they get back. I hear from her every
day. They're having a gorgeous time. They are
o'oina: to take me abroad with them next year. I shall
love it."
'• I've got a piece of news for you," said Humphrey
after a pause. " Bobby Trench is engaged to be mar-
ried."
A flush crept over her face and died away again be-
205
206 The Honour of the Clintons
fore she said, "That's rather sudden, isn't it? Who is
he going to marry? "
" 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."
" Oh, well," said Joan, with an embarrassed laugh,
" it shows I was right."
" 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 is rather a rotter. I think you're
pretty well out of it, Joan."
" I'm sure I am," she said. " But you didn't say so
at the time."
" 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?"
" I didn't," said Joan indignantly. " I always said I
wouldn't have him."
" Well, he told me himself that you would have said
' yes ' one evening if somebody hadn't come in."
She was silent.
" It's true then? " he said, with a glance at her.
" Oh, I don't know. I might have done, but I should
have been very sorry for it afterwards."
" You'd have had a topping good time."
" I suppose that is what tempted me, just a little.
But it would be horrid to marry for that."
" What made you change ? He was most awfully in
The Squire Confronted 207
love with you, to do him justice, though he seems to
have got over it pretty quickly."
" 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."
" It was when Nancy fixed up her little affair that
you sent Bobby about his business."
" Yes. Don't let's talk about it any more. I'm sick
of Bobby Trench."
" Governor been at you about him.? "
" He has never forgiven me. Perhaps he will now.
But I know mother was glad, so I don't much care."
" How is the Governor .^^ " asked Humphrey, rather
gloomily. " Fairly amiable ^ "
" Fairly. I think he misses Nancy ; but of course he
is glad she married John. He is so well off."
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.
" Well, my boy," said the Squire. " What good wind
blows you here.'' I thought you were moving down to
Hampshire this week."
" 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."
" Yes, well ! " The Squire was a little suspicious.
He didn't want to part with any money for the moment.
" 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."
208 The Honour of the Clintons
" 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."
" 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."
" 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 v/ashed my hands of Mr. Gotch
altogether."
" 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 "
" Then let him put down his few hundred pounds.
I've no objection."
" 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."
" Now, look here, Humphrey. I'm not going to do
The Squire Confronted 209
it, and that's Hat. 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. Sup-
posing 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. / stick here and do my duty in
my sphere ; I don't want to go rushing off to Canada ;
and I expect others in their 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."
Humphrey did not seem to have been listening very
closely to this speech. He did not reply to it.
" Something very disagreeable has happened," he said.
" I don't want to tell 3^ou the details of it. But it is
important that Clark should be got out of the country
as soon as possible."
The Squire stared at him, and marked for the first
time his serious face. " What do you mean .f'" he asked.
" Wliat has happened.'^ "
" 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 she who wants to go to Canada.
I think if Gotch had been left to himself he would have
210 The Honour of the Clintons
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."
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."
A stormy gleam of light had broken over the Squire's
puzzled features. " Do 3^ou mean to tell me that you're
in disgrace — with this woman ? " he asked.
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 must do it, father."
He had become agitated again ; and it was the rarest
thing for him to show agitation.
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
The Squire Confronted 211
woman 1ms got hold of — if you've done nothing, as
you say ? "
" 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 must 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."
" I shan't tell a soul."
" Can't you just trust me, and think no more about
it.?"
" No, I can't, Humphrey. You must tell me what
it's all about. I can't act in the dark."
Humphrey sat silent, looking on the ground, while
the Squire, with a troubled look on his face, waited for
him to speak.
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."
" Why not.? Neither of them would breathe a word."
" 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 must tell somebody, and get advice, as well as
money."
" 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 whj
212 The Honour of the Clintons
neither of those two shall be told. I think they ought
to be, if it's a question of disgrace, and a way of avert-
ing it. I shouldn't like to trust myself to give you the
right advice, without consulting them — or at any rate,
Dick."
Humphrey considered again. " No, I won't risk it,"
he said. " Yes ; there is a special reason. It is not to
be a matter of consultation, except between you and
me."
" Very well," said the Squire unwillingly, " I will tell
nobody."
" Not even if they see something is wrong, and press
you ? "
" You have my word, Humphrey," said the Squire
simply.
Humphrey wrung his hands together nervously.
" Oh, it's a miserable story," he said. " Clark accuses
Susan of stealing that necklace from Brummels."
" What ! " exclaimed the Squire, horrified.
" She's prepared to swear to it, and says she will go
and lay information, unless we do what they w^ant —
help Gotch to settle in Canada."
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 scan-
dalous 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 that to myself ! What can
The Squire Confronted 213
you be tliiiiking of? I've not much difficulty in advis-
ing 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 that 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."
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.
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. Punish her for it."
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 ! "
His frame was shaken by a great sob. He leant
forward and buried his face in his hands.
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
214 The Honour of the Clintons
sold them, at her trial ! Aren't you allowing this woman
to bluff you, Humphrey? "
His voice had taken a note of confidence. Humphrey
sat up, his face white and hard.
" 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."
" But Joan ! — seeing her at the very cupboard
itself!"
" She may have wanted to steal them. She did steal
the diamond star."
The Squire drooped. " Still, it may be bluff," he
said weakly. " How did Clark know of it? "
" Oh, don't turn the knife round, father," said Hum-
phrey. " It isn't Clark ; it's Susan. She told me her-
self."
" She told you she was a thief ! " The Squire's voice
had changed, and was harder.
" Yes. It's a wretched story. Don't make it harder
for me to tell."
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.
The Squire's face softened. " Go on, my boy," he
said. " Tell me everything. I'll help you if I
can." <
" I taxed her with it. She's frightened to death. I
could only get at it by degrees ; and there are some
The Squire Confronted 215
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."
"Where is she.?"
" With her mother. She doesn't know anything. She
thinks we've had a row."
" Well, tell me."
" 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."
" Sixpenny points 1 " repeated the Squire.
" 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
216 The Honour of the Clintons
not sure it Isn't as well for her, and for me, that she
did get the money in the way she did."
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 "
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."
" Go on, my dear boy," said the Squire very kindly.
" It's soon told. She heard Lady Sedbergh and
Mrs. Amberley talking about the hiding-place."
" Was she in the room ? "
" She was just outside. The door was open."
" She listened? "
" 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."
" Did she get rid of all the pearls ? "
Tlie Squire Confronted 217
" 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 every-
thino' ; 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 gun-
powder. Clark knew all along; or almost from the
first."
" Did she help her.? "
" Oh no. She was fond of her ; she was the daughter
of one of their gardeners."
"Are you sure she didn't help her.? What do you
mean — she was fond of her? "
" I mean that she might have given her away."
" She knew at the time of the trial.? "
" Yes."
" Did she threaten Susan, then.? "
" 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."
" But you say she threatened you. She must be a
bad woman."
218 The Honour of the Clintons
" 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."
" 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."
His face was grey. His very tranquillity showed how
deeply he had been hit.
" 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 w^e were not treating Gotch well in refusing
him what he asked, after what he had done, and the
promises we had made him. He''ll never know anything
The Squire Confronted 219
about it. Have him in and tell him that you will lend
him the money he wants. That cuts the whole horrible
knot."
The Squire made no answer to this. " She is more
guilty than the other woman," he went on, as if Hum-
phrey had not spoken. " She stood by and saw an
innocent woman suffer. Humphrey, it was very base."
" Mrs. Amberley wasn't innocent," said Humphrey.
" She went to steal the necklace, and found it gone.
She did 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."
" 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."
" Dick shall not 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 im-
possible position. I've made up my mind absolutely
about that, and you gave me your word."
" Susan down here ! " repeated the Squire, in a tone
that made Humphrey wince.
220 The Honour of the Clintons
" 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 busi-
ness — 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."
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? "
" 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 "
" Oh ! " The Squire glared at him, looking more
like himself than he had done since Humphrey's dis-
closure. " 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 ! "
The Squire Confronted 221
" 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."
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.?"
" I won't. And you've got to think of what will
happen. The name of Clinton horribly disgraced — held
up to the most public scorn — not a corner to hide your-
self in. It will last all your 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."
"Oh, that's enough," said the Squire, seating him-
self again.
He turned sharply round again. " What do you
want me to do? " he asked angrily.
" 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."
" I'm to say I've changed my mind.? "
222 The Honour of the Clintons
" Yes, of course. You don't want to set him wcnder-
'5
ing.
" Then he will let this woman, Clark, know "
He began to speak more slowly.
" Yes. I shall go back to-morrow morning and see
her. I shall have a hold over her, and she will cer-
tainly keep quiet, for her own sake."
" She will be liable to prosecution if the truth be-
comes known from any other source."
" It won't be. She is the only person who knows
anything."
" And / shall have compounded a felony too, if it
becomes known."
" No. That isn't so. You will have nothing to do
with her at all. You will never see her."
" That's true. But she will know why I pay this
money."
" 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."
The Squire rose from his seat, and went to the empty
fireplace, where he took his stand, facing his son.
He looked at him steadily, and said in a quiet but
firm voice, " I won't do it, Humphrey."
CHAPTER II
A VERY PRESENT HELP
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.
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.
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
223
224 The Honour of the Clintons
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.
She gave a little cry of pleasure. " Why, Hum-
phre}^ ! " 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."
The disappointment was so keen that his taut-
stretched nerves gave way for a moment, and he felt
physically ill.
" Why, what's the matter "^ " she said. " Is there
any bad news.^^ You look dreadful, Humphrey."
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.^^"
" To morrow afternoon. But isn't there anything
that I can do? Do tell me, Humphrey. Dick has no
secrets from me, you know."
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 he could possibly raise the money."
" Oh, but, Humphrey — easily — if it isn't too much.
What do they want?"
" 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
A Very Present Help 225
waiting for him over there. He ouglit 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 could raise it, but it would
take time. I want to go back to-morrow and tell Clark
that it is all settled."
" 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."
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.
" My dear Virginia," he said, " you are generosity
itself; but I shouldn't like to take it from you without
Dick knowing of it."
" Oh, I shall tell him, of course. But he won't mind.
Why should he.?"
" I don't know how he feels about Gotch going.
The Governor is up in arms at his wanting to leave
Kencote at all. Dick may feel the same, for all I
know."
She laughed. " Oh, I see," she said. " We are up
against the dear old feudal system. I am always for-
getting about that ; and I do try so hard to be British,
Hum.phrey."
226 The Honour of the Clintons
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."
Virginia's face showed mock horror. " But, Hum-
phrey ! " she said, " this is rank Radicalism ! What!
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 ovn master!
To think that I should hear such words from a
Clinton ! "
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 ungrate-
ful of him to want to go, and won't help in any
way. The question is whether Dick won't feel the
same."
" 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 want 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
A Very Present Help 227
been very patient with me, and I love you all dearly,
but I shall never 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? "
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.
" Wait a minute," he said. " Let's get it right in
our minds. Gotch doesn't want charity."
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."
" 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."
She smiled up at him, standing over her, her mo-
mentary offence gone. "Why, of course," she said.
"We must help him without putting him under any
obligation. How shall we do it.? "
"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 Ken-
cote 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 acknowl-
edgment of what he did in coming to my rescue."
228 The Honour of the Clintons
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.
"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."
He breathed deeply. " Are you sure Dick won't
mind ? " he asked.
" Quite sare. He said the other day that Gotch
ought to be allowed to go if he wanted to."
" Did he really say that, Virginia? "
" 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 "
"He objects to helping him to go. I told him I
should ask Dick."
"What did he say?"
" He said he should w^ash his hands of it."
" 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."
" Virginia," said Humphrey devoutly, " you are an
angel."
That night Humphrey and his father sat up late
together.
The Squire had gone through a terrible time since
A Very Present Help 229
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 mocker}^
as applied to this great one. He was stricken dumb
by it.
The night was black all around him. There was no
light to guide his steps. Even the one he had alread}^
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 must be found, somewhere or other, he had hoped
that Dick would consent ; and this troubled him.
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 increas-
ngly, as he sat and thought downstairs, that prayer
i^as the only thing that would help him; but he could
230 The Honour of the Clintons
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.
At dinner he was a good deal silent, but not per-
ceptibly brooding over disclosures made to him, as Hum-
phi^ey had feared of him. He even smiled once or
twice, and spoke courteously to his wife and affec-
tionately 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 inno-
cence, and the tranquillity of his home, that had
prompted the caress.
" Dick has gone up to London," he said, raising his
eyes, when Humphrey had shut the door and come
back to the table.
" Yes," said Humphrey. " But Virginia had the
A Very Present Help 231
money, and said that Dick would like her to give it. He
had told her that Gotch ought to be helped to go
away."
" 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.
" 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."
" 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."
" I shouldn't care if they were lies," said Humphrey.
" I'm long past caring about that."
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."
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 w^ho 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
232 The Honour of the Clintons
a subject of prayer when Walter had so annoyed hirn
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
}iis otherwise equable, prosperous life, and he saw
for the first time how little he had really had to com-
plain of.
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 sus-
tained 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.
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, what-
ever 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
A Very Present Help 233
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 humilia-
tion.
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."
" 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 has been done."
" 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."
" Oh, I'll take the responsibility," said Humphrey
234 The Honour of the Clintons
with a shade of contempt. " It won't trouble my con-
science much."
" 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."
" Very well," said Humphrey shortly. " I'll shoulder
that, with the rest."
The Squire looked at him. " What are you going
to do? " he asked.
"What do you mean.? With her?"
" Yes. How are you going to live together, after
this?"
" 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."
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
A Very Present Help 235
will be able to work on her ; and nobody else could.
Perhaps, later on — I don't know — I might bring my-
self "
" I don't know that you need. I am going to take
her away for some time — for some years, perhaps."
"What ! You're not going to live in your new house.''"
" 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."
" 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."
Humphrey was silent.
"I don't know — perhaps I was rather hasty, just
now, when I said I couldn't have Susan here. I couldn't,
236 The Honour of the Clintons
now. But later on Oli, my boy, I don't want to
make it harder for you than it is abeady. 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."
" Thank 3^ou, father. You've been very good."
" If you want any money "
" Oh no. We shan't be spending much — not for a
long time."
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 "
" 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."
" Oh, you've thought of that."
" 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."
" Oh no, no, my boy. Only — well, it didn't occur
to me for some time. But how could 3^ou do it — if it
were left to you.'' How could you send money by
degrees ? "
" I haven't thought much about how to do it. Per-
haps 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."
A Very Present Help 237
The Squire spoke after a thoughtful pause. " I
don't like that, Humphrey."
" Well, there is plenty of time to think out a way.
I haven't got a penny of it yet."
" No ; and it can't wait until yow 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."
" 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 mone^^ at once. I wish
you hadn't made old Aunt Laura put that clause into
her will."
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.
" 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 3'our 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."
" You are very good, father. But how can you do
it without Dick's knowing? "
" Dick doesn't take part in all my affairs ; only in
matters that have to do with the land. I can raise
238 The Honour of the Clintons
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."
At any other time Humphrey would have been in-
terested 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.
" 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."
" Yes, I can do it, and I will, as soon as possible.
But, Humphrey, my boy, this money can't be sent
anonymously."
"Why not?"
" 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."
Humphrey thought for a time. " What do you
suggest.'^ " he asked.
" Either you or I must make a clean breast of it to
Sedbergh ! "
" Oh, father ! "
" 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
A Very Present Help 239
part, as you did. Certainl}- 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."
" Isn't he annoyed with us — about Joan? "
" 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."
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.
"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 my-
self. He will take the view I do, whatever it is. You
had better let me see him, Humphrey. He'll keep what-
ever I tell him to himself."
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.
" 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 \^11, if you ask Him."
CHAPTER III
THE BURDEN
(C
My dear Edward, I am deeply sorry for you."
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.
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.
But the Squire's cura9oa 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.
" I appreciate your courage in coming to tell me
this ; it must have cost you a deal. But I almost wish
you hadn't."
340
The Burden 241
The Squire sat forward again, and drank his liqueur
at a gulp.
" I couldn't leave it as it was," he said.
" Perhaps not ; though most men in your case would
have been inclined to do so. Have another cig^r,
Edward. That one hasn't lighted well."
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.
" 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, hy
somebody who knows nothing about it, is in any, way
hush-money."
Whether you could or not. Lord Sedbergh was not
prepared to say it. " No, no," he said comfortabl}^
" 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 .^^ "
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,
242 The Honour of the Clintons
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.
" 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.? "
" Oh no, no. Good heavens, no ! What you have
told me shall be kept absolutely sacred, Edward. 1
shouldn't breathe a word, or a hint, to any living soul."
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."
" Oh, of course, I feel it. It mustn't happen. It
won't happen. It needn't happen."
" Thank you, Jim," said the Squire simply. " You
were always a good friend of mine."
" 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
The Burden 243
done nothing wrong, at any rate. Why shouldn't wc
sustain ourselves with another "
" There's a detail that has to be settled between us,"
interrupted the Squire, " before we can put it aside.
Wliat did you value that necklace at? Seven thousand
pounds, wasn't it? I have been to my people this morn-
ing. I can let you have it within a week or ten days."
" 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."
" 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."
" 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."
" Well, I don't want the money ; and I'm glad to be
in the position of being able to say so. WJiat 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."
" 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
244 The Honour of the Clintons
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."
" I'm afraid you can't put it right," said Lord Sed-
bergh, 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."
" What do 3^ou mean ? " asked the Squire.
Lord Sedbergh did not speak for a moment. Then
he looked up and asked, " What about Mrs. Amber-
ley?"
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.
" 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."
Lord Sedbergh waited for him to explain the light
in which he saw it.
" 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
The Burden 245
prison. It was on account of the other thing ; and that
she did steal."
" 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."
"Well, then, what's the difficulty?"
" 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."
" Justice ! " echoed the Squire. " There's no ques-
tion 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 injus-
tice is done to her at all. Can't you see that.'' "
" Well, do you think she would, if she were asked.'' "
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."
246 The Honour^ of the Clintons
" Yes, I know that ; and it's just what I want to do —
put things right wherever I can."
" 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 disagree-
able difficulties ; and that, with all the good will in the
world towards you, my dear Edward, I won't do."
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.
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? "
" It never will come out now."
" That's your risk, Edward. I may be a monster of
selfishness, but I won't make it mine."
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.
CHAPTER IV
THIS OUR SISTER
" Clinton. On the 16th inst. the Lady
Susan Clinton, aged 28."
How could such an announcement, to the Squire read-
ing it in the obituary column of his paper, cause any
emotion stronger than the feeling that all was for the
best?
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 suc-
cumbed 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.
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 had died seemed to make her state
in the hereafter secure. For her it was well.
And not less so for those whom she had, in the
phrase that came readily to his lips, left behind. Hum-
phrey — poor Humphrey — who was overwhelmed with
grief, as it was only natural he should be, would come
248 Tlie Honour of the Clintons
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 — quixotic-
ally, 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.
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 w^as 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.
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
This Our Sister 249
then he could take up his life as before. When time
liad 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 Hum-
phrey, all was for the best.
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 Sed-
bergh; 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.
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
250 The Honour of the Clintons
burden, whose weight his old friend had made him com-
pute 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.
And her death made him less vulnerable. He per-
ceived 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.
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.
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 dis-
This Our Sister 251
tant ancestors among them, but none within Hving
memory who had not lived out the full tale of their
years. Her body v>ouJd 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, includ-
ing some members of her own family, all of whom the
Squire disliked or was prepared to disHkc. 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 trail-
ing 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.
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 suc-
cessive 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
252 The Honour of the Clintons
ago had fallen on the rest laid up for it ; there had
been no occasion to feign deep sorrow.
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.
" Did you hear from mother this morning? " asked
Dick, when they had disposed of the details he had
come to discuss.
" 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 him-
self."
" 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 imme-
diately, " 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."
"Why do you think that.^ " asked the Squire with
undiplomatic directness.
" 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."
What a good son this was — safe, level-headed, coolly
and responsibly generous ! The Squire would have
Tfiis Our Sister 253
given a good deal to have been released from his
promise, and able to take him into full confidence then
and there.
" Well," he said, " there was 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."
He mentally patted himself on the back for this
masterpiece of statement, transgressing the strict truth
by no more than perfectly allowable omission.
" 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."
" Why did you think that? " asked the Squire, with
the sensation of treading on very thin ice.
" Oh, it was common talk of how she was going on —
had been, I should sa^^, 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
254 Tlie Honour of the Clintons
might find ourselves involved in some bad scandal before
we were much older."
" 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."
" 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."
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.
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
This Our Sister 255
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 b}^ 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 trans-
lucent 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.
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
256 The Honour of the Clintons
also to that sense of common human Hfe, 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 occa-
sion 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.
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 cen-
turies 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.
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
This Our Sister 257
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.
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.
When they had returned to the house Nancy w^ent
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.
" How odd it looks ! " said Nancy. " Do you miss
me, my precious old Joan? "
" Of course I do," said Joan. " I had to make them
take your bed out. It made me feel so horribly lonely."
" If John is ever unkind to me," said Nancy, " I
shall come here and have it put back."
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
258 The Honour of the Clintons
and Joan the death of someone not much older than
themselves was a startling thing; and the death of any-
one so close to them, in their inexperience of death,
would have subdued them for a time.
" Let's go and talk in the schoolroom," Nancy said.
" Nobody will come there."
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.
Now the}^ put aside for a time their own affairs of
the past and future, and talked about the immediate
present.
" Did you speak to Humphrey ? " Joan asked. " I
didn't ; but I thought he looked awful."
" 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 ! "
" 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
This Our Sister 259
lying there all alone in the church. You know, Uncle
Tom wanted to have tapers and somebody to watch ; but
father wouldn't."
"No; I didn't know that. Why? "
" 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."
" Lady Aldeburgh cried."
" She pretended to. Her eyes were quite dry."
" I liked Susan. So did you."
" Yes, in a way. Perhaps not very much, I wish I
had liked her more, now. I am sorry, of course. But
I feel much more glad at having you again, than sorry
because she is dead."
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 ! "
" Yes," said Joan seriously. " I hope Humphrey
is thinking about that."
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,
260 The Honour of the Clintons
but only glanced over it, standing up. He made occa-
sion to go to the Rectory, and to the Dower House,
and spent some little time at each ; and the hour came
round.
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.
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.
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.
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 slow^ly. And then, after
a pause, " Poor dear girl ! "
This satisfied him, and he went briskly to the table
where the newspapers were laid in order.
BOOK IV
CHAPTER I
A RETURN
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.
He had been to see Virginia, and she had given him
the news that had caused this elation.
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 ^^ears 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.
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 —
263
264 The Honour of the Clintons
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.
The attraction? Joan.
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.
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.
How providentially things worked out ! Young
Inverell was a 'parti 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.
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
A Return 265
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.
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.
Why hadn't his wife written about it.?
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.
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 overrulins:
everything for our good. A few months ago there had
been that terrible affair, now buried and forgotten
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
266 The Honour of the Clintons
at nights, when sleep tarried, which fortunately hap-
pened seldom. But time was adjusting the burden. It
would not be felt much longer.
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 noth-
ing, had satisfied his honour. An obligation to so old
a friend as Sedbergh need not weigh on any man.
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 that 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, car-
ried out by perfectly innocent people — facts surely
beyond coincidence, and of themselves demanding belief
in an oven^uling 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.
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-f^ It would be churlish now not to throw oflP all
disagreeable thoughts of the past, and not to take full
pleasure in the brightness of present and future.
A Return 267
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.
He stopped short with a gasp of dismay. It was
Mrs. Amberlej.
" Mr. Clinton," she said, " J 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."
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 con-
sciousness 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 with-
hold from her.
He stared at her open-mouthed, unable for the mo-
ment either to speak or think.
268 The Honour of the Clintons
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."
" No," he said quickly, reacting to his immediate
impulse. " You will not enter my house."
She looked at him with careful insolence. " Shall
we go into the churchyard.'^ " she said, " and talk over
Susan Clinton's grave ? "
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.
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."
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.
" Very well," she said. " That will suit me very
well — for a first conversation — as long as it is not too
far, and I am not expected to race there."
He turned his back on her and went on again, but
at a slower pace. They went through a thick shrub-
bery and out on to a little sloping lawn at the edge of
the lake, which was entirely surrounded by great rhodo- '
dendrons. There was a boat-house here, and a garden
seat, to which he motioned her.
She sat down, and looked up at him. " I am not
A Return 269
going to talk to you standing over mc like that," she
said. " It will be giving you an unfair advantage."
He sat down on the same seat, as far away from her
as possible.
"Well, what have you got to say for yourself?"
she asked him, in much the same tone as a school-
master might have asked the question of an errant
schoolboy.
He said nothing. He had nothing to say. His
thoughts were still in a turmoil.
Perhaps silence was the best retort to her air of
insolence. She had to find another opening.
"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."
" It's a lie," he said. " I paid no money. I refused
to pay money."
" 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."
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? "
" 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."
It had been his own phrase. Her chance lighting
270 The Honour of the Clintons
on it seemed to make her uncannil}^ aware of everything
that had passed. How had she got hold of her informa-
tion? He had not had time to think about that yet.
" I refused to pay anything," he repeated. " Noth-
ing was paid to anybody who had anything to do with
you. I refuse to discuss these affairs with you."
" Oh, do you ? " she taunted him. " Will you refuse
to discuss them when you are brought up on a charge
of conspiracy .P 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 my-
self. But it will suit you. You can shelter behind
him. You seem rather good at that."
" What do you want ? " he asked her again. " What
have you come here for.^^ "
" 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 knew 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-
A Return 271
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 tliink,
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."
Again the uncanny cognisance of his very thoughts !
But this was only a very clever woman, who knew her
man, and his type.
" 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 un-
deceive 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."
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."
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
272 The Honour of the Clintons
a straight sense of right and wrong in honourable
men must be pardoned for being a little slow in follow-
ing 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 my woman about it — the one who committed
perjury at my trial, and is now going to suffer for it,
if I can find her."
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.
" 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."
" Yes, she gave you away," said the Squire, more
quick-witted than ordinarily.
" Lied about me, I ought to have said," she cor-
rected 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 ju«t heard of Susan's death and wanted to
A Return 273
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 Hum-
phrey was in — a nice young man that — came to my
trial, I believe, jingling the stolen money in his
pocket."
" That's not true," said the Squire. " He knew
nothing of it whatever."
" He may have told you so. But six or seven thou-
sand pounds ! To repeat your own words : ' That's a
likely story, isn't it.?'"
" He didn't know. You can go on."
** 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 tele-
graphed to the woman, ' Blackmail will be paid,' I
suppose, ' on condition do not say from father.' "
She laughed at her jest. The Squire kept miserable
silence.
" 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
274 The Honour of the Clintons
cowards much, when they can once assure themselves
they won't be found out."
In the turbulent confusion of his mind, the Squire
still cluner 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.
But she was dragging from him all his armour, piece
by piece. He let it go, and clung to his naked man-
hood.
" You may say what j^ou like," he said, squaring
himself arid 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 "
" Free ! Yes. They had let me out of prison, that's
quite true. Would you consider yourself free with that
taint hanging over you.'' Was I free to come back
A Return 275
to my friends? Was I free even to settle down any-
where where my story was known? Susan, the thief,
was to be sheltered, because she bore the honoured name
of Clinton. She was to go free. Yes. But /, who
had taken her punishment, was to be left to bear the
bitter results of it all my life. What meanness ! What
base cowardice ! "
He hardened himself, but said nothing.
" Susan had stolen this necklace, worth thousands
of pounds," she went on. " She had "
" But not the jewel that you were imprisoned for
stealing," he put in again.
" I have already told you that she did ; and I can
prove it by that woman's evidence."
He wavered, but stuck to his point. " I don't be-
lieve it," he said, " and you can leave it out."
" I will, because it doesn't reall}^ matter whether
you believe it or not. You will believe it when you
see her in the witness-box."
" You won't get her into the witness-box, to swear
to that."
" 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."
" I have already said," he interposed quietly, " that
Humphrey knew nothing of it."
" And I have already said, ' That's a likely story ! '
276 The Honour of the Clintons
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."
He knew he was giving himself into her hands, but
he could not help himself. " That's not true," he
said.
She looked at him, her lip curling. " Oh ! you sent
it back — anonymously perhaps. You did have that
much honesty."
" You can make what use of the admission you like,"
he said. " I told Lord Sedbergh the story, and offered
him the money."
This set her a little aback. " He knows the truth,
then," she exclaimed. " Another man of honour ! He
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 cer-
tain that he's not worse than you are."
He struggled with himself, but only for a
moment, and then said, " He refused to take the
money."
She was quick to take that up. " Oh ! I see. Dear
me, how I should have enjoyed being present at that
A Return 277
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 txvo 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 yo\i. Did he tell you what
he really thought of you, or only hint it? "
" Oh, let's have an end of this," he said, with agonised
impatience. "What have you come here for.^ What
do you want.^ "
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 snivel-
ling 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 you pay — to the last rag of reputa-
tion you've got left."
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.
" I can't touch Susan," she went on. " If I could,
278 The Honour of the Clintons
I'd drag lier out of her grave and set her up for all
the world to mock at."
The intensity with which she said this affected him
not merely to liorror. 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.
" I will 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 then, and see what's thought of you ! Some of
them may get off — but you won't. You'll go w^here 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 ! "
Her voice had risen almost to a shriek. He looked
A Return 279
round him, in fear that it would bring someone to the
scene. But the lake was retired, and seldom visited.
They were quite alone.
" Yes, I suppose you would like to move away," she
siiid 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 your-
self. 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 / 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 name you've blackened. Clinton will mean thief,
and conspirator, and everything that's vile long after
you are dead."
He had heard enough. He got up, tunied 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.
She had to call to him. " Where are you going .^ "
He turned at once, and the look on his face might
have made her pity him, if she had had any pity in her.
28-0 The Honour of the Clintons
" You must, do what jou will," he said. " There is
nothing more to be said."
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.
CHAPTER II
PAYMENT
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."
He took no notice of her, but went on.
She sprang up, a look of alarm on her face, and took
a few quick steps across the grass.
" Mr. Clinton ! " she said. " Mr. Clinton ! I have a
proposal to make to you."
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.
She lifted her face, that some men, but not he, would
have called beautiful, to his, and smiled.
" It needn't happen, you know," she said.
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 kt us
see what can be done."
A slight gleam of hope came to him. Perhaps — now
Susan was dead — she would see . . . she could
gain nothing. . .
381
282 The Honour of the Clintons
He followed her to the seat obediently, and sat
down.
" 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 ouglit to be punished."
" 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."
" Quite so," she said coolly. " I am glad you realise
that. I meant you to."
" It would be inhuman," he went on. " You would
never be forgiven for it — in this world or the next."
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.^ "
He could hardly believe his ears. " You would do
that? " he cried.
" I think perhaps I might be persuaded to. I am
not unreasonable."
Payment 283
" 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 "
" 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."
The light died slowly out of his face as he listened
to her.
" 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 dis-
agreer.ble 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. Nov/ you
can lend it to me — I will pay you back some day — and
a few thousands more. Let me have ten tliousand
pounds, Mr. Clinton. You can ease your conscience
of the wrong you have done me, and save your inno-
cents at the same time — yourself, who are not innocent,
into the bargain."
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 ov/n skin,
knowing that it would be paid elsewhere; in which case
nothing in this proposal would shock him. Or per-
haps she relied overmuch on having frightened him
284 The Honour of the Clintons
into acquiescence with any proposal. Otherwise, with
all her powers of finesse, she would hardly have plumped
out her demand in this careless fashion.
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 you. It's an impudent proposal ; and I
refuse it."
She was quick to see her error. If he wanted his
susceptibilities soothed, she was quite ready to do that.
" 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 under-
stand it."
Poor man ! How could he help listening to her, with
so much at stake !
" 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 bacjv — 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
Payment 285
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 hfe to a woman hke me, who
has spent that in a year.^^ I have something of my own,
but not much. Tliis would make me secure against
that horrible wolf at the door, which frightens me
more than anything."
He was about to speak, but she silenced him with a
lift of the hand, and said, "Let me go on, please.
Why should you 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
cigainst me. Sedbergh thinks 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 noth-
ing — except out of kindness to an old friend whom
they had done injustice to."
" If you want me to listen to you in patience," said
the Squire angrily, " you'll drop that impudent pre-
tence 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."
" Shall I drop it } " she asked. " I think perhaps I
286 The Honour of the Clintons
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."
" 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."
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 you who will be standing in
the dock, for an offence into which the question of the
star wouldn't come."
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 Ifttle from that
frightful picture.
" 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 3^ou 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."
Ah ! That was a sharper pang than she knew. Oh,
for the sunny satisfaction of that walk across the park
Payment 287
back again! And the sun shining now en his black
misery had only shifted a point or two.
" And the other one," went on the cool voice, " who
was married the other day. Their father in the dock !
in prison ! "
He rallied again. " You can drop that nonsense
too," he said. " It's a bogy that doesn't frighten me."
" Not the dock? I admit that you might escape the
prison — though Humphrey couldn't very well."
" 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."
" 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 ? "
This was so true that he showed his sense of it in
his face.
" Oh, my dear good man, how can you be so foolish
as to run the risk of it? Look here, Mr. Clinton, sup-
posing I admit the theft of the star, and say that I
have deserved what I got for that, do I really 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?"
She waited for his answer, which was slow in com-
ing. He fought hard against his inclination to give
an evasive one. " Yes — it might — it would," he said.
288 The Honour of the Clintons
" Then I bear it, and save her name, noAV she is
dead ; and your name. I save the honour of you
CHntons, 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 some of them back, you know, if it were
known that that, at least, wasn't true of me."
Her voice was pleading. It affected him no more
than by the sense of the words it carried. Perhaps if
this I' ad been her tone from the first it might have
done so.
But the words themselves did affect him. They were
true. If it could be regarded as only help that she
wanted !
" This time," she said, " you wouldn't be doing
injury to a living soul. You would only be doing some-
thing 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."
" I could pay Sedbergh his money," he said slowly.
" Yes, you could do that," she took him up eagerl3^
" 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.
They couldn't blame you. And who else could .^^ "
The Squire knitted his brows hard, and tried to think,
Payment 289
but couldn't. He could only feci. Release might be
in view from the chains that already seemed to have
besun to rust on him.
I can't see my way," he said. " I must tJiink it
-B'
over."
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 ivoiild have time, whatever she might say ;
he was that sort of man.
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. Clin-
ton, 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 something out of that."
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."
" Ver}^ well," she said. " If you accept, as of course
you will, for it is 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
290 The Honour of the Clintons
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."
She gave him an address.
" Now I will go," she said. " Show me a way out
without my passing the house."
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."
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."
CHAPTER III
THE STRAIGHT PATH
" 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 — ^fiss Clinton — shouldn't sit up for him."
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 travelhng cloak, looked
puzzled and a little anxious. It was unlike her hus-
band 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.
" Is Mr. Clinton quite well.? " she asked, preparing to
move away.
" 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."
" 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."
Mrs. Clinton went to bed at half-past ten, as usual.
291
292 The Honour of the Clintons
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.
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."
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.
" Father dear ! " she said. " How naughty of you
to be away when we came home ! Have you heard
about it.?"
Her beautiful eyes, swimming with tender happiness,
looked up into his. She had come close for his embrace.
"My dear child!" he said, kissing her. "My httle
Joan ! "
" I thought you'd be glad," she said, nestling to him.
" I'm so frightfully happy, father."
" Well, run along to bed now," he said. " We'll talk
about it to-morrow. You ought to have been in bed
long ago."
" I know. But I had to stop up and tell you.
Good-night, father."
He strained her to him. " Good-night, my dar-
ling!"
He was not a man of endearments ; he had not called
her that since she was a tiny child. She flitted along
The Straight Path 203
the passage, and he went into his room and abut the
door.
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 be-
hind 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 £^o
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.
The nursery w^ing 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 affec-
tion 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.
Outside his master's dressing-room his face became
solicitous. Mr. Clinton was not well — worried-like.
294 The Honour of the Clintons
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 wor-
ries, except those he made for himself. He was one of
the lucky ones.
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 what-
ever little thing was wrong. His master couldn't reall}^
do without her, though he thought he could. Behind
that door she was lying, waiting for him. He put out
the lamp.
The house was now dark and silent, though behind
two of the three doors there were lights.
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.
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."
"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."
" I must hear all about it to-morrow," he said, com-
The Straight Path 295
posing 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.
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 omis-
sion was ominous.
For a very long time there w^as complete silen<?e.
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. Clin-
ton lay quite still, in the darkness. Then he turned
again, gently, so as not to wake her if she were asleep,
and moaned.
Her voice, fully awake, broke through the silence,
" Edward, you are not asleep. Porter said you were
not well."
He made no reply for a moment. Then he turned
towards her and said, " Inverell — he is coming to see
me here? "
" Yes. He is coming on Friday."
296 The Honour of the Clintons
" You must put him off, Nina. You must put off the
whole thing for a time."
He must have expected an expression of surprise, or
a question. But none came.
" Tliere 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."
" Edward," she said, after a pause, " if there is
trouble hanging over us, let me know of it. Let me be
prepared."
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 mea,nt 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 ! "
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.
" 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."
TJie StraicjJit Path 297
" What ! " His voice was low and alarmed. " She
has already "
" Poor Susan told me," she said. " She told me on
her death-bed."
He sighed momentary relief. " You have l^nown for
all these weeks ! " he said. " Oh, why didn't you
speak?"
" 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 "
" I couldn't," he said. " I gave Humphrey my
promise. He had his reasons, but whether he ought to
have "
" 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."
He pressed her hand, which was lying in his. "My
dear," he said, " I want your help now very much."
" 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."
He told her, up to the point where ^Irs. 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.
298 The Honour of the Clintons
He went off into by-paths of explanation, of self-
justification, of appeal.
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 thou-
sandth 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.
" I think, when she had left me," he said quietly, " I
felt no doubt about what I was going to do. Every-
thing she had said seemed to be true. It seems to be
true now, when I repeat it. She had suffered wrong-
fully, 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
The Straight Path 299
if it came out, because it had been hidden before, and
certain things might have been misunderstood, or mis-
represented. 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 3'ou, 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."
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."
CHAPTER IV
A CONCLAVE
" Good heavens ! What on earth can be the meaning
of this?"
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.
"What is it, Dick?" said Virginia from the bed.
" Give it to me."
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."
The two letters ran as follows :
Dear Captain Clinton,
I suppose your father has told you of the conversa-
tion 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
300
A Conclave 301
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.
Yours sincerely,
Rachel Amberley.
My Dear Dick,
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.
Love to Virginia.
Your affectionate father,
Edward Clinton.
Dick's face was grave enough when he looked up from
this missive, and handed it, without a word, to Vir-
ginia.
" Rachel Amberley ! " she exclaimed.
"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."
302 The Honour of the Clintons
Virginia was frightened. " But, Dick dear, what
does it mean ? " she cried.
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."
" But how could she have been concerned in it ? Oh,
how dreadful, Dick ! "
" 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. She 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."
" Oh, poor Mr. Clinton ! But what can she do, Dick,
this woman ? "
" If Susan had known ! " He paused. " She
can't have been in it. ..."
" Oh no, Dick ! " Virginia said in a frightened
whisper.
" No, the Amberley woman would have given her
A Conclave 303
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."
They arrived at Kencote in the late afternoon. Joan
was on the platform. Her face was troubled. Vir-
ginia kissed her warmly. "What is it, darling.'^" she
asked.
" 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? "
" It isn't an3^thing 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."
" 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."
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.
" Well, Dick," he said, looking up, without a smile.
" This is a black home-coming. Ask your mother and
304 The Honour of the Clintons
Virginia to come in. Virginia must know. I'll tell you
the storj at once."
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."
Virginia looked anxiously at Dick, who had been
sitting with downcast eyes, and now looked up at his
father.
" You needn't worry yourself about that, father,"
he said.
The Squire's face brightened a little.
" You mean that you think I'm right," he said. " I
suppose I am. But I can't be certain of it."
" I can," said Dick. " She can disguise it as
she likes ; but it's blackmail. We don't pay black-
mail."
There were visible signs of relief at this uncom-
promising statement. The Squire began to argue
against it, not because he was not glad it had been
made, but to justify his doubts.
" I know it's a difficult case," said Dick. " It's a
most extraordinarily difficult case. The only w^ay
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 any-
thing else, really, though you may think you could.
A Conclave 305
Under no circumstances do we pay money to anybody
to keep anything dark."
" Money was paid," said the Squire.
" I had no idea whatever," said Virginia, with
frightened eyes.
" Oh, of course not," said Dick. " It wasn't your
fault."
His face was clouded. " I can't blame Humphrey,"
the Squire said, with his eyes on him.
Dick made no reply.
" He came on purpose to ask you," said Virginia.
" He didn't try to keep it from you."
" He did keep it from me," said Dick. " I ought
to liave known."
" What should you have done ? " asked the Squire.
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."
" 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."
" He wouldn't have told you why he wanted it,"
Virginia said. " I think you would have paid it — to
Gotch— as I did."
"You see how difficult it all is, Dick," said Mrs.
Clinton. " At every moment there have been difficul-
ties. Do not think harshly of poor Humphrey."
" He is out of it," said Dick, " at the other side of
the world. See what comes of his actions. We couldn't
306 The Honour of the Clintons
be touched if it were not for that — in any way that
will harm us. Susan is dead. Nobody else had done
anytliing they could have been accused of, or made
st-rry for, up till that time."
'* 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.? "
Dick's face was hard.
" Dick, supposing it had been me ! " said Virginia.
" Oh, my dear ! " he exclaimed impatiently.
" No, but you must think of it in that way. He
stood by her. He couldnH let that happen to her."
" 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 wh}^, 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."
" Yes, I see that," said the Squire, " and I never
thought of it before. The two things would have hung
together."
" She would have made further demands," said Dick.
" We should have been under her thumb."
" She said she would satisfy me of that,* said the
Squire.
A Conclave 307
" 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 dishonour-
able — 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."
" 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.
" You made up your mind without seeing clearly,"
said Mrs. Clinton. " You did what was right because
it was right."
" And now we've got to take our punishment for it,"
said the poor Squire, with a wry smile.
" That is what we'd better talk about," said Dick.
" The other is all over. We can talk about that later."
" 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."
" 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
808 The Honour of the Clintons
else is blameless. You refused, and you were the only
one besides him who knew anything about it."
" I can't prove that, and she won't stick at lies."
" That's true enough. But you can 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."
" I can't prove that. There were only she and I."
" 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."
" 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."
" I shouldn't like it to come to , that," said the
Squire.
" 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 look-
out."
" We have done nothing wrong," said Mrs. Clinton.
" She will only be attacking poor Susan ; and anybody
A Conclave 300
whose opinion of us wc should value will think that a
wicked thing to do, now that Susan is dead."
"But ought wc not to defend Susan's memory?"
Virginia asked.
All three of them were silent. Dick was the first to
speak.
" We have to think straight about it," he said.
" You can't defend Susan, alive or dead. It was shield-
ing her that has put us in the wrong, where we are In
the wrong. All that we can do is not to admit any-
thing, 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."
" How could we do that? "
" Have her up for slander."
" But what she will say about Susan will be true."
"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 will believe them, if we don't defend our-
selves. We may have to have her up for . slander,
after all."
"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."
" She will have a right to try and clear herself," said
Mrs. Clinton. " It Is time that she was accused of
doing what Susan really did, and the accusation has
never been cleared up."
310 The Honour of the Clintons
" That is true," said Dick, " and if she confines her-
self 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
Plerbert Birkett says. All we have to do in the mean-
time is to live on quietly here as usual, and wait for
what comes."
" 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."
" 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."
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.
" There is my poor little Joan to think of," he said.
" Young Inverell — I have put him off. Joan must
be told why."
" 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."
"I don't know," said the Squire, "If the whole
A Conclave 311
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
talkincr 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."
CHAPTER V
WAITING
Brummels,
Carchester, Sept. 26th, 19 — .
My Dear Edward,
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 her 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
312
Waiting 313
on her, so be it. But she is not Joan. She is very far
from being Joan.
I have much news for you, my dear Edward, which
only m}' inveterate habit of procrastination has caused
to be left till now.
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 that 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 mis-
understanding, and I was pleased to be able in some
sojt to repay that loyalty. I did not lie, Edward — at
lea-it 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
m}' 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
314 The Honour of the Clintons
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."
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.
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 houiid 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.
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
Waiting 315
think twenty years, and fell upon him Imbibing.
Rather, he fell upon me, and / fell upon my parrot-cry.
" If you have any Irilucnce over that lad}'," I said
to him, " I should {idvise you to advise her to keep
quiet. She xeould 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."
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 inter-
sect.
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 dq is to walk straight on
with your usual stride.
Ever very sincerely yours,
Sedbergh.
This letter gave the Squire some comfort. It con-
tained 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
316 The Honour of the Clintons
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.
Was it too much to hope that it would, after all,
pass over?
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.
Poor little Joan ! She knew. She was going about
the house, trying hard to be as bright as usual. Some-
times 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 Avere 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 lier and said that
Waiting 317
her father had not slept all night, but was sleeping
now, and had better be allowed to sleep on.
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.
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.
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,
...ver the fire, reading the papers, or doing nothing.
His half-brother, the Rector, came often to see him.
lie was some years the younger of the two, but for
years had looked the older, until now. The Squire was
• igeing under his trial. He had lost his confident,
318 The Ilonoiir of the Clintons
upright bearing, shambled just a very httle 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.
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.
He came in as the Squire was sitting with Lord
Sedbergh's letter in his hand.
" 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."
" 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."
The Rector read through the letter carefully and
handed it back.
Waiting 319
" If nothing but the truth is to be told ... ! "
he said.
" 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 ! "
" Is he so bad.^ " enquired the Rector.
" 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."
"Is that known.?"
" Yes. In the way these things are known."
"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."
" 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
320 The Honour of the Clintons
came of age. I could have done what I liked. Money's
a great temptation to a young fellow."
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.
" 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."
" 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."
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.
Waiting 321
Tlic necessity was spared him for the moment. Dick
came in, and was shown the letter.
" 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."
" He would want to see her cleared," said the Rector.
"Yes, and that's our difficulty. Sedbergh is very
good; but I don't like it, all the same."
"Don't like what?" asked the Squire.
" 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 black-
mailer, 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 is hurting us."
" Has anything happened.^ " asked the Squire
anxiously.
" Yes. It's reached us at last. It's creeping like
a blight all over the country — above ground, under-
ground. 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.? "
" Tell us what has happened," said the Squire.
" I went into Baths^ate, to Brooks, the saddler. I
always have a talk with the old man, if he's in the shop ;
and he was there alone. He hummed and ha'd a lot,
322 The Honour of the Clintons
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 Humphre3^ money on condition he never showed
his face in England again. That's the sort of thing
we are up against."
The Squire's face was a sight to see. The Rector
relieved the tension by laughing, but not very merrily.
" That story won't hurt us," he said.
"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 something, 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
stor}^ back, and you'll get something nearer the truth.
That will spread into another story. There will be
many different stories."
" They will contradict one another," said the Rector.
" 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 ? "
Wmting 323
" We can't," said the Squire, rousing himself. " We
Cixn 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."
CHAPTER VI
' THE POWER OF THE STORM
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, show-
ing 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.
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.
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.
" What can you do more than I did.^ I laughed, and
said, ' That's a pretty story to have told about you ' ;
324
The Power of the Storm 325
and he said, ' Yes, Captain, you ought to stop It. I'll
toll everybody exactly what 3^ou 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 ? "
So the Squire went to Brooks, the saddler, because he
always did go in to have a chat with him at the com-
mencement 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.
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.
It was ominous that none of his friends — for he
had many lifelong friends amongst his country neigh-
bours, 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
326 The Honour of the Clintons
thej 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, diffi-
cult 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.
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 vrith 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.
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 tliem." 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.
The Squire grew thinner and older, almost noticeably
so, every day. Mrs. Clinton was in the deepest dis-
tress about him, but could do nothing. He would come
home, from hunting, or from Petty Sessions, which he
now atlended regularl}^, and keep miserable silence, all
The Poxoer of the Storm 327
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.
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 :
Dear Mr. Clinton,
My nephew, Inverell, has made a communication
to me concerning which I should like to have a con-
versation 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.
Yours very truly,
Cheviot.
" Now I shall have something to take hold of," said
the Squire, brightening.
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
328 The Honour of the Clintons
cut off short, snufFcd 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 tlie 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 his wounds, anxious to brighten his
life. But what did his life, now almost within sisht
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 ever3'^thing that wealth and ease could
provide for refuge, should see them stripped of his
succour, and himself powerless to protect them.
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 stirrina* 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 win-
dows of the house, but none the less patent in its youth-
ful 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
The Power of the Storm 329
him because of the futility of his wealth to help in the
present distress.
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 sug-
gested. 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
prett}^ 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 lightl3\
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 riglit to wait for a time if the
house from which he had chosen his bnde 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,
330 The Honour of the Clintons
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 !
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.
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 ac-
quaintance with him, but even Dick, who had
been so much in the swim, had not habitually con-
sorted 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
The Power of the Storm 331
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.
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.^^ "
The Squire hadn't thought that out yet. He should
know when he got there, and heard what Lord Cheviot
wanted of him.
" 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
answ^er it, and don't go."
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."
332 The Honour of the Clintons
" 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."
" But we do," said the Squire. " We want Joan's
happiness."
" If Inverell wants Joan, he will take her. She's
good enough for him, or anybody, not only in herself
but in her family."
" She would be if we were not under this cloud."
" 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."
" Do you know him ? "
" 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.^"
" Perhaps I did," said the Squire. " I don't re-
member. Ah, if poor old Humphrey Meadshire had
been alive, a lot of this wouldn't be happening."
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."
The Poxfoer of the Storm 333
" Don't let hiiii overawe you," was Dick's final
advice, significant enough, as addressed to the Squire,
of what had been wrought In him.
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 pre-
sented himself at the time appointed.
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."
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.
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 Meadshlre's. I think he
was a relation of yours."
" Yes," said the Squire. " Poor old man, we miss
him a great deal in my part of the world."
Lord Cheviot bowed his head. He had finished with
the subject of Lord Meadshlre.
" As you know, Mr. Clinton," he said, " I was
guardian to my nephew during his mlnorltj'. He was
brought up as a member of my own family; I stand
334 The Honour of the Clintons
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."
The Squire did not quite like the word " interfer-
ing," and made no reply.
" 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."
" In herself ! " Again the Squire kept silence,
though invited b}^ a slight pause to speak.
" 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."
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."
" You mean that you would not object to a marriage
between him and your daughter.'' "
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.
If there was satire its sting was removed by the
Squire answering simply : " Such a marriage could only
The Foicer of the Storm 335
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."
This gave the word to Lord Cheviot, whose attitude
had been that of one waiting for an explanation.
He changed his position, and bent forward. " I
think, under the circumstances, Mr. Chnton, we are
entitled to ask why you wished the proposal — otherwise
gratifying — to be deferred."
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.
He raised troubled eyes to those of his questioner.
" I suppose you are not ignorant," he said, " of what
is being said of us ? "
" Of ' us '.^ " queried Lord Cheviot.
" Of me and my family. All the world seems to be
talking of us."
Lord Cheviot dropped his eyes. He may not have
liked to be put into the position of questioned, instead
of questioner.
" I am not ignorant of it," he said.
" 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
336 The Honour of the Clintons
distinction, of late, of either; but tliat is a personal
matter. If Lord Inverell takes a bride from Ken-
cote he takes her from a house where men as high in
the world as he have taken brides for many genera-
tions past."
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.
" 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."
" 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."
" It was the right way to act," said Lord Cheviot,
" and I thank you for acting so. But, for my nephew,
The Power of the Storm 337
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 mar-
riage 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."
" 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."
" If you had something definite to take hold of, you
could meet it ; you could disperse these slanders ^ "
" Yes," said the Squire boldly.
" Then I can be of service to you. I have a letter
from Lord Colne, in which he makes certain accusa-
tions. 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."
The Squire took, and read it.
My Lord,
In answer to your letter, my accusation against
Mr. Clinton is that the theft of a pearl necklace of
338 The Honour of the Clintons
which Mrs. Amberley was accused last year was com-
mitted 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.
I am,
Your Lordship's Obedient Servant,
COLNE.
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.
" 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 cham-
pion. It is to him — or to her through him — that the
slanders to which you have referred can be traced back."
"May I take this letter.?" asked the Squire. "It
is what I have wanted — something tangible to go upon."
" Certainly, Mr. Clinton. I am glad to have done
you the service — incidentally."
Again the little prick. It was not on the Squire's
behalf that the fire had been drawn.
The prick was left to work in. Lord Cheviot sat
and waited.
" 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."
The Power of the Storm 339
Still Lord Cheviot waited.
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.
" I can't decide now exactly what steps I can take
about this," he said, speaking hurriedly. " But I sup-
pose you won't be satisfied to wait until I do take steps."
" I shall be quite satisfied, Mr. Clinton," said the
chilly voice, " if you tell me that there is no truth in
that letter."
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.
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."
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.
But there was little softening in the voice in which
he said, " I must tell my nephew that I have given
340 The Honour of the Clintons
jou the opportunity of denying, not a rumour that
cannot be pinned down, but a categorical charge, and
that you have not denied it."
The Squire made no reply. Lord Cheviot came for-
ward, as if he would have accompanied him to the
door; but he went out without a word, and shut it
behind him.
CHAPTER VII
THINKING IT OUT
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.
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.
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.
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.
341
342 Tlie Honour of the Clintons
Mrs. Clinton hoped that he would sleep through the
night, but soon after she laid herself dov/n 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 succeed-
ing hours he cried aloud his despair.
" What have I done .^ " That was the burden of his
cry. " Where have I been wrong? Why am I so
beaten down by punishment.'^ "
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.
" When Humphre}^ 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 could 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? "
Thinking It Out 343
" Edward dear, jou have done no wrong "
" No, but answer my question. If it had been you
instead of me — that might very well have happened.
Would you 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 Hum-
phrey told me that story, to go and give information
to the police? "
" Oh no, no, Edward."
"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 con-
demned before him. I wish I could have put the ques-
tion to him, as to what he would have expected of me.
Confound him, and his supercilious way ! Nina, you
haven't answered me. What would you have done? "
" 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, w^ithout
counting the cost in any way. You were ready to take
any consequences, to yourself. Oh, you could not have
done more."
" But then, why am I put in the wrong? Those are
the charges against me. Those, and that I offered
Sedbcrgh the price of the necklace — which he refused.
Yes, he did refuse it, and made me feel, too, that I ought
344 The Honour of the Clintons
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 any-
one 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 miist have been
wrong there, because I felt ashamed."
" It is easy enough now to mark down little errors.
In the main, Edward dear, you were right all through —
nobly right."
"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. Was there? Do tell me, Nina, if
you can see anything that I can't see."
" 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."
" 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."
Qki^ how it rent her heart to hear him, who had been
Thinking It Out 345
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.
" It came to the same thing, dear, in the end," she
reminded him. "You had told Lord Sedbergh."
*' 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, after-
wards, 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 ! "
" Edward, you had 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."
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
346 The Honour of the Clintons
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."
" That is Humphrey's blame. He asked you to keep
dishonourable silence. You trusted him there. You
would not have promised that."
"Then my silence was dishonourable.^"
" 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."
" 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."
She lay by his side, comforting him. She thought
Thinking It Out 347
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,
" 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'?"
" Edward dear, you might have denied it, but for one
thing. The charge against you was not true."
" 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."
" 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."
" Isn't that a mere quibble ? "
" 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 v/hole 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 '»v'hen it is said that you
348 The Honour of the Clintons
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 after-
wards. 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."
" My dear," he said, " you have a very clever head.
I wonder if you are right. That would exonerate me
of everything."
" You are to be exonerated of everything," she said
quietly, " except the mistake of thinking it more im-
portant 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 / 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 your-
self, knowing everything, as others are inclined to blame
you, knowing nothing."
This was sweet balm to him, and he lay comforting
himself with it for some time. But his doubts came
back to him.
" Then why did I feel so ashamed before Cheviot? "
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
Thinking It Out 349
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."
" And that I knew it."
" There was no shame in that, to you, unless you
kept silence, which you did not do."
" 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 Hum-
phrey telling him?"
" Because I see so plainly how your mind has worked
all along. It never did work on that point, because
3'ou 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."
" 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."
" 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."
"Well, I give in, Nina. You give me great com-
fort."
" And I give you great honour too, Edward. You
350 The Honour of the Clintons
have taken the burden and the shame on yourself when
a word would have removed it."
" Not only on myself, Nina. You share it. We all
share it ; our poor little Joan more heavily than any
of us."
" 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."
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
vvill 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 ! "
CHAPTER VIII
SKIES CLEARING
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.
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.
Mrs. Clinton sat with him over his late breakfast.
He had hardl}^ begun it when Dick came in.
" Well, my boy," said the Squire cheerfully. " Sorry
I couldn't see you last night. I was done up. I'm all
851
352 The Honour of the Clintons
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."
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 w^ould 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.
" He got the better of you, I suppose," said Dick,
seating himself at the table.
" I suppose he did. I don't know. Is that how you
would put it, Nina.? "
" 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."
" Rather rough on Joan," said Dick with a slight
frown.
" I have told Joan everything," said Mrs. Clinton,
" and she sees it as we do. She is content to wait."
"Read that," said the Squire, taking the fateful
letter from his pocket. " That is what we have to face.
sides Clearing 353
I didn't see my way to deny it, so I left his Lordship
to attend to the affairs of the nation."
" 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 state-
ment — about Susan."
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."
" And he will tell Inverell that he showed you
this ktter and you could make no reply to it."
" Yes, I suppose so."
Dick looked deeply disturbed. " I wish I had been
there," he said.
" 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 bring-
ing the charge against Susan with your own lips? I
don't think you could do it, if it came to the point."
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."
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. We can't do it. No; perhaps you are
''354 The Honour of the Clintons
right ; until wc arc 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."
" 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 oiir 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."
Dick returned to the letter in his hand. " They
want us to go for them," he said. " Cheviot must have
seen that."
" He did," said the Squire. " I told him I should
consider what was to be done."
"Have you considered it?" Dick looked at him as
if ready to hear a decision, not to advise on one.
Skies Clearing 355
" Your mother and I think we had better take no
steps, for the reason I have already given."
" 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."
" For the time," said Mrs. Clinton.
" 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."
" We must take each occasion as it comes," said the
Squire.
" 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."
"Wait a little, Dick," said the Squire. "I must
356 The Honour of the Clintons
tliink it out. Your mother and I must think it out
together."
He was glad enough, a few days later, that Hum-
phrey 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 :
My Dear Father,
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 con-
stantly 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.
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
SJdcs Clearing 357
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.
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 stay-
ing 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
358 The Honour of the Clintons
forget a good deal of the past, which has been so
painful to all of us.
Give my love to mother, and all of them. I wilj
write to her by the next mail.
Your affectionate son,
Humphrey.
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.
" 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. . . .
" 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.
Skies Clearing 359
•' Just before her death, mj wife asked me to do what
I could to put right tlie wrong that she had done, and
I sicrn 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. . . ."
So there was the exoneration of the Squire, of every-
thing that he had done, in his hands, to use as he
pleased.
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 Hum-
phrey had come to with regard to his own future.
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 con-
quer, 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
360 The Honour of the Clintons
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 Clin-
ton more to live it, in honour and well-being !
When he came to consider the document that Hum-
phrey 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.
" 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."
" You think that it ought to be sent to Mrs. Am-
berley.?"
" 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 restitu-
tion. 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."
Skies Clearing 361
" 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."
Mrs. Clinton looked serious.
" 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."
" 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 w^ould gain nothing;
and if the fact of her having come to you for money
is published as well, she will lose."
" 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
362 The Honour of the Clintons
herself as well. This is the end of it, thank God; and
the talk will die down."
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.
The door was opened, and Lord Inverell was
announced.
The young man, tall, fair, and open-faced, came for-
ward with a smile. " Mr. Clinton," he said, as the door
was shut behind him, " I hope you will give me a wel-
come. 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."
The Squire was somewhat overcome. The memory
of his interview with Lord Cheviot still rankled.
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.^^ "
The Squire experienced a strong and agreeable feel-
ing 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."
Skies Clearing 363
" 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."
His smile was inviting here. " He told you to wait
a little longer, I suppose," said the Squire.
" 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. / didn't
ask him to write that. I wish he hadn't."
" 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."
" I'm glad of that, Mr. Clinton. But it's not neces-
sary, as far as I am concerned, you know. Still, I
shouldn't object to your squaring my uncle, if j-ou can,
without putting yourself out. I don't want to quarrel
with him, if it can be helped."
" Why have you come here, after what he told you? "
" Because I made him tell mc 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,
364 The Honour of the Clintons
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 ! ' "
" He let you come, without any further discussion.'^ "
" 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
some 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? ' "
" Ah ! I never thought of that. Did it satisfy
him.?"
"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 worlds
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."
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
Skies Clearing 365
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 wrong-
ing nobody. I couldn't have told Lord Cheviot, and
I couldn't have told you yesterday. Read this. It is
a paper I received from my son, Humphrey, from
Australia, this morning."
" I'm satisfied for myself," he said. " Can I tell my
uncle what's in it.'' "
" You can tell anyone you like," said the Squire.
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.
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 ring-
ing the bell.
CHAPTER IX
SKIES CLEAR
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 venge-
ance, and latterly the young lover whose coming had
brought joy in place of sorrow.
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.
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
366
Skies Clear 367
the spacious comforts of Kcncote to share the narrow
home of a widowed sister.
The twins were at the station to meet her — tall,
beautiful, stately 3'oung women to the outward eye,
but, for this occasion, children again at heart, and
mischievous children at that.
" 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 ! "
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.
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.
"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 grand 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
too much."
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.
368 The Honour of the Clintons
She wiped away an unaffected tear, and broke out
again.
" This is one of the happiest days of my life and
to think of me 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 / 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."
" 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
nearl}^ enough when vre had you with us."
" Now my pet that is not a thing to say," said Miss
Bird, "two dearer and more affectionate children you
mia:ht 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."
" I was very hurt that you didn't come to my wed-
ding," said Nancy. " I know why it is. Joan is going
to be a Countess, and I am only plain Mrs."
" 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 any position and much more suitable as it is I
should have come just the same and you know quite well
Skies Clear 369
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."
" 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."
" Pets ! " said Miss Bird affectionately.
"Ronald is here too, but I wouldn't let him come
either," said Joan.
" What is he like tell me about him," said Miss Bird.
Joan cast a quick glance at Nanc}', over the rather
disordered bonnet. It was the look that had meant in
their childhood, " Let's have her on."
" He is most awfully good,'' 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.? "
" Oh, but I consider him most 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."
" 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 zcill make mistakes some-
times."
"What do you mean what mistake .'^ " asked Miss
370 The Honour of the Clintons
Bird. '• It said plainly beneath the photographs ' The
Earl of Inverell ' and ' Miss Joan Clinton.' "
" 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 "
" But he is no beauty," said Nancy. " You can't
expect us both to marry handsome men."
" I shouldn't call him scrubby, exactly, should you,
Nancy?" enquired Joan.
" Not to his face," replied Nancy.
Joan gave a little gurgle, which she turned into a
cough. " Starling darling, you don't mind beards in
a young man, do j^ou.'^ " she asked.
" 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 very slight squint really matters.
You can always call it a cast in the eye, and some
people like it."
" 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 me
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."
" 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 far better than
Skies Clear 371
good looks as I have often told you you do me a great
injustice."
" 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."
" And the cast in the eye," added Nancy.
" Indeed," said Miss Bird, " I should never notice
such things a beard is a sign of manly vigour your
father has a beard."
" 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 veri^ handsome, didn't
you, Starling darhng? "
" Indeed no such thing," said Miss Bird, " I said to
my sister and she will bear witness good-looking yes
but not a match in looks for my darling Joan and glad
I am now that I said it."
Joan burst into a laugh, and embraced her warmly.
" Oh, you're too sweet and precious for words," she
said. " That was Ronald, and I shall tell him you don't
think he is very handsome."
" Wliat a donkey you are, Joan!" said Nancy.
" Why didn't you let her meet him in the hall ? "
" Now that is too 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 most
awkward for me Joan my bonnet well there I suppose
I must say nothing more you will 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
372 TJie Honour of the Clintons
I should tell Mrs. Clinton pets I love you more than
ever."
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."
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 !
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
sides Clear 373
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.
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.
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.
" 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
jiumber of years, and have come to think you can
374 The Honour of the Clintons
do what you like. But you can't. I won't have it,
Porter."
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.?"
"They're the best words I've had from him for a
long time," said the old man. " He's got back to him-
self again."
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.
"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."
" We shall be very quiet when it is all over," said
Mrs. Clinton.
" 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.
Skies Clear 375
We've had a long life together, mj 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."
THE END
DAY AND TO $, oo VI ^ ^'^ "^^E FOURTH
OVERDUE. *'°° °N THE SEVENTH dIy
LD21-i00m-7,'39(402s)