Part 42 (1/2)

”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 doc.u.ment 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 d.i.c.k. 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 publis.h.i.+ng this, she will fasten on herself the guilt of what she was actually punished for, and remind the world of it. She would 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 herself as well. This is the end of it, thank G.o.d; 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 d.i.c.k, 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 forward with a smile.

”Mr. Clinton,” he said, as the door was shut behind him, ”I hope you will give me a welcome. 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 feeling 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.”

”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. _I_ 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 necessary, as far as I am concerned, you know. Still, I shouldn't object to your squaring my uncle, if you 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 me 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, 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 world. Go and get her.