Part 31 (1/2)

”That's not true,” said the Squire. ”He knew nothing of it whatever.”

”He may have told you so. But six or seven thousand pounds! To repeat your own words: 'That's a likely story, isn't it?'”

”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 telegraphed 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 cowards much, when they can once a.s.sure themselves they won't be found out.”

In the turbulent confusion of his mind, the Squire still clung to certain fixities. He had acted for the best; he had acted so that the innocent should not suffer; and if he himself had been amongst the innocent who were to escape suffering, his own safety had not been his chief thought. And if his actions, or his refraining from action, had added to the burden justly borne by the guilty, that had been inevitable if the innocent were to be saved; in any case it had added so little that he could not be blamed for ignoring it. Cowardice at least, he had thought, was no crime that could ever be laid to his charge, and he had not shown it when he had braved all consequences in refusing to lift a finger to avert the disaster that was now, in spite of all, threatening him.

But she was dragging from him all his armour, piece by piece. He let it go, and clung to his naked manhood.

”You may say what you like,” he said, squaring himself and looking out over the water in front of him. ”I simply stood aside. What could you--no, not you, what could anyone--have expected me to do? Publish the truth--overwhelm the innocent with the guilty; and all for what?

For nothing. You were free. You----”

”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 to my friends? Was I free even to settle down anywhere where my story was known? Susan, the thief, was to be sheltered, because she bore the honoured name of Clinton. _She_ was to go free. Yes. But _I_, who had taken her punishment, was to be left to bear the bitter results of it all my life. What meanness! What base cowardice!”

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 believe it,” he said, ”and you can leave it out.”

”I will, because it doesn't really matter whether you believe it or not. You will believe it when you see her in the witness-box.”

”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 p.a.w.ning, 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!' 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 certain that he's not worse than you are.”