The Honour of the Clintons Part 39

"It was for him," said the Squire, "to come or to keep away. As long as my name was being bandied about in the wicked way it has been, I would not ask him to my house. I have my pride, Lord Cheviot. If your nephew marries my daughter, he marries her as an equal. My family has been before the world as long as his, or your lordship's. It has not reached the distinction, of late, of either; but that is a personal matter. If Lord Inverell takes a bride from Kencote he takes her from a house where men as high in the world as he have taken brides for many generations past."

d.i.c.k, 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 a.s.sertion 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 n.o.body; I draw in n.o.body, 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, it does not settle the question; it only postpones it. He loves your daughter, and she, I am a.s.sured, loves him. I will not disguise anything from you, Mr. Clinton.

Personally, I should prefer that this marriage should not take place.

But I cannot dictate, I can only advise. I advised my nephew to wait awhile. He did so. And he is willing to wait no longer. Mr. Clinton, when slanders are circulated, there are ways of stopping them."

"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 accusations. It was written in answer to one from me. I had heard that he had been making free with my nephew's name in connection with yours, and I wrote on his behalf for definite statements, which could be acted on. Here is his letter."

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 which Mrs. Amberley was accused last year was committed by a member of his family, that he knew of this, and allowed money to be paid to keep the secret; also that he offered Lord Sedbergh the price of the pearls, which offer was refused.

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 const.i.tuted himself Mrs. Amberley's champion.

It is to him--or to her through him--that the slanders to which you have referred can be traced back."

"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 p.r.i.c.k. It was not on the Squire's behalf that the fire had been drawn.

The p.r.i.c.k 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."

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 d.i.c.k 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 suppose 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 you 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 forward, 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 d.i.c.k 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.

Mrs. Clinton hoped that he would sleep through the night, but soon after she laid herself down beside him, in the silence of the night, he awoke. The heavy sleep that had drugged him into insensibility for a time had also refreshed and strengthened him, and for succeeding hours he cried aloud his despair.

"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 Humphrey came and asked me to do what I might very well have done for Gotch on my own account, I refused. I was right there. When he told me that Virginia had given him the money, what was I to do? It was too late to get it back. I had no right to. I might have told Virginia, perhaps, why the money had been wanted. No, I couldn't do that. I had promised Humphrey. I do think he ought not to have asked me for that promise. But it was given. What _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 circ.u.mstances? 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 G.o.d or man, to do that?"

"Edward dear, you 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 Humphrey 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 condemned before him. I wish I could have put the question 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, without counting the cost in any way. You were ready to take any consequences, to yourself. Oh, you could not have done more."