The Honour of the Clintons Part 34

"There are reasons why I can't consider it for the present," he said.

"What to say to him I don't quite know. By and by, perhaps. Joan is very young yet.... I don't know what to say; we must think it over."

"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 meant to keep it to myself till the trouble came; but I suppose you can always see through me. Nina, there is dreadful trouble coming to us. I hardly know how to tell you about it--how to begin. There is such trouble as I sometimes think n.o.body ever had to bear before. Oh, my G.o.d! 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."

"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 known 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 Mrs. Amberley had left him. His story was often interrupted by exclamations of pain and disgust, as the intolerable things that had been said to him through that long drawn-out hour of his torture were brought to light. He went off into by-paths of explanation, of self-justification, of appeal.

She soothed him, helped him to tell his story, was patient and loving with him, while all the time almost insupportably anxious to come to the end of it, and know the best or the worst. But when he came to Mrs. Amberley's plea for help, stumbling through the specious arguments she had used, as if for the thousandth time he were balancing them, defending them, inclining towards them, she kept silence. She trembled, as she followed the workings of his mind, groping towards a decision, with so little light to help him, or rather with lights so crossed that none shone out clearly above the rest. She thought--she hoped--she knew what his decision had been. But he must tell her of it himself. She could not cut him short with a question. The decision was his. Whatever it had been, he had already made it. If it had been right, a question from her must have expressed doubt; if wrong, censure, or at least criticism.

"I think, when she had left me," he said quietly, "I felt no doubt about what I was going to do. Everything she had said seemed to be true. It seems to be true now, when I repeat it. She _had_ suffered wrongfully, and would, to the end of her days. If I had let it be kept dark before, and thought myself right, it wouldn't be less right to keep it dark now. I could pay Sedbergh his money, which was the only thing that had worried me badly, after the rest had been done, and not done by me. The disgrace would be sharper still if it came out, because it had been hidden before, and certain things might have been misunderstood, or misrepresented. I knew she would do the worst she could, and wouldn't stick at lies. There was this marriage of Joan's to make or mar---- Oh, I don't know; I can't think straight about it even now. I thought it over for two days and nights. I prayed to G.o.d about it. Before Him, I don't know whether I've done right or wrong.

I'm bringing misery on you, and everybody I love in the world. I'm dragging the name of Clinton, that has stood high for five hundred years, down in the dust. But I couldn't do it, Nina. I couldn't do it."

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.

G.o.d will surely guide them."

CHAPTER IV

A CONCLAVE

"Good heavens! What on earth can be the meaning of this?"

d.i.c.k 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, d.i.c.k?" 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 conversation he and I had together a few days ago, and of his refusal to entertain the request I made of him, to which I had understood him to a.s.sent. This is just a friendly note of advice to you to help him to see how absurd his refusal is, and what it will entail, not only to him but to you and all your family. I shall not take any steps for a day or two, so that you may have time to bring him to reason. But if that cannot be done, I shall take the steps of which I warned him.

Yours sincerely, RACHEL AMBERLEY.

MY DEAR d.i.c.k,

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.

d.i.c.k's face was grave enough when he looked up from this missive, and handed it, without a word, to Virginia.

"Rachel Amberley!" she exclaimed.

"Yes--and Susan," said d.i.c.k. "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."

Virginia was frightened. "But, d.i.c.k 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, d.i.c.k!"

"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, d.i.c.k, this woman?"

"If Susan had known----!" He paused. "She can't have been in it...."

"Oh no, d.i.c.k!" Virginia said in a frightened whisper.

"No, the Amberley woman would have given her away. I don't think she has found out anything. I think she has waited until she was free of everything herself, and now proposes to let out what she knew all the time about Susan, unless she is paid to keep it to herself. That would be it, or something like it. Well, we shan't know, if we cudgel our brains all day. I must go and dress; and you must get up. I'll tell Finch to look up trains. Don't worry about it, Virginia."

They arrived at Kencote in the late afternoon. Joan was on the platform. Her face was troubled. Virginia kissed her warmly. "What is it, darling?" she asked.