Part 35 (1/2)

”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 anything about Ronald,” Virginia said. ”We know that much.

But it is some great trouble, and I suppose your father has asked him not to come for the present.”

”Yes,” said Joan. ”Mother said she would tell me more after they had talked to you and d.i.c.k. 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 d.i.c.k went in at once to his father's room. The Squire was sitting in his chair, doing nothing. He looked aged and grey.

”Well, d.i.c.k,” he said, looking up, without a smile. ”This is a black home-coming. Ask your mother and Virginia to come in. Virginia must know. I'll tell you the story at once.”

He told his story, without the circ.u.mlocutions 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 d.i.c.k, 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 d.i.c.k. ”She can disguise it as she likes; but it's blackmail. We don't pay blackmail.”

There were visible signs of relief at this uncompromising statement.

The Squire began to argue against it, not because he was not glad it had been made, but to justify his doubts.

”I know it's a difficult case,” said d.i.c.k. ”It's a most extraordinarily difficult case. The only way through it is to act on a broad principle, and stick to it through thick and thin. That's what you've done, and I'm very glad of it. You couldn't have done anything else, really, though you may think you could. Under no circ.u.mstances 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 d.i.c.k. ”It wasn't your fault.”

His face was clouded. ”I can't blame Humphrey,” the Squire said, with his eyes on him.

d.i.c.k 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 d.i.c.k. ”I ought to have known.”

”What should you have done?” asked the Squire.

d.i.c.k 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 d.i.c.k. ”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.”