"You don"t understand what a wretched sc.r.a.pe I"m in--"
"I don"t yet; but you"re going to tell me--"
"Philip, I can"t--I simply cannot. It"s so contemptible--and you warned me--and I owe you already so much--"
"You owe me a little money," observed Selwyn with a careless smile, "and you"ve a lifetime to pay it in. What is the trouble now; do you need more? I haven"t an awful lot, old fellow--worse luck!--but what I have is at your call--as you know perfectly well. Is that all that is worrying you?"
"No--not all. I--Neergard has lent me money--done things--placed me under obligations... . I liked him, you know; I trusted him... .
People he desired to know I made him known to. He was a--a trifle peremptory at times--as though my obligations to him left me no choice but to take him to such people as he desired to meet... . We--we had trouble--recently."
"What sort?"
"Personal. I felt--began to feel--the pressure on me. There was, at moments, something almost of menace in his requests and suggestions--an importunity I did not exactly understand... . And then he said something to me--"
"Go on; what?"
"He"d been hinting at it before; and even when I found him jolliest and most amusing and companionable I never thought of him as a--a social possibility--I mean among those who really count--like my own people--"
"Oh! he asked you to introduce him into your own family circle?"
"Yes--I didn"t understand it at first--until somehow I began to feel the pressure of it--the vague but constant importunity... . He was a good fellow--at least I thought so; I hated to hurt him--to a.s.sume any att.i.tude that might wound him. But, good heavens!--he couldn"t seem to understand that n.o.body in our family would receive him--although he had a certain footing with the Fanes and Harmons and a few others--like the Siowitha people--or at least the men of those families. Don"t you see, Philip?"
"Yes, my boy, I see. Go on! When did he ask to be presented to--your sister?"
"W-who told you that?" asked the boy with an angry flush.
"You did--almost. You were going to, anyway. So that was it, was it?
That was when you realised a few things--understood one or two things; was it not? ... And how did you reply? Arrogantly, I suppose."
"Yes."
"With--a--some little show of--a--contempt?"
"Yes, I suppose so."
"Exactly. And Neergard--was put out--slightly?"
"Yes," said the boy, losing some of his colour. "I--a moment afterward I was sorry I had spoken so plainly; but I need not have been... . He was very ugly about it."
"Threats of calling loans?" asked Selwyn, smiling.
"Hints; not exactly threats. I was in a bad way, too--" The boy winced and swallowed hard; then, with sudden white desperation stamped on his drawn face: "Oh, Philip--it--it is disgraceful enough--but how am I going to tell you the rest?--how can I speak of this matter to you--"
"What matter?"
"A--about--about Mrs. Ruthven--"
"_What_ matter?" repeated Selwyn. His voice rang a little, but the colour had fled from his face.
"She was--Jack Ruthven charged her with--and me--charged me with--"
"_You_!"
"Yes."
"Well--it was a lie, wasn"t it?" Selwyn"s ashy lips scarcely moved, but his eyes were narrowing to a glimmer. "It was a lie, wasn"t it?" he repeated.
"Yes--a lie. I"d say it, anyway, you understand--but it really was a lie."
Selwyn quietly leaned back in his chair; a little colour returned to his cheeks.
"All right--old fellow"--his voice scarcely quivered--"all right; go on.
I knew, of course, that Ruthven lied, but it was part of the story to hear you say so. Go on. What did Ruthven do?"
"There has been a separation," said the boy in a low voice. "He behaved like a dirty cad--she had no resources--no means of support--" He hesitated, moistening his dry lips with his tongue. "Mrs. Ruthven has been very, very kind to me. I was--I am fond of her; oh, I know well enough I never had any business to meet her; I behaved abominably toward you--and the family. But it was done; I knew her, and liked her tremendously. She was the only one who was decent to me--who tried to keep me from acting like a fool about cards--"
_Did_ she try?"
"Yes--indeed, yes! ... and, Phil--she--I don"t know how to say it--but she--when she spoke of--of you--begged me to try to be like you... .
And it is a lie what people say about her!--what gossip says. I know; I have known her so well--and--I was like other men--charmed and fascinated by her; but the women of that set are a pack of cats, and the men--well, none of them ever ventured to say anything to me! ... And that is all, Philip. I was horribly in debt to Neergard; then Ruthven turned on me--and on her; and I borrowed more from Neergard and went to her bank and deposited it to the credit of her account--but she doesn"t know it was from me--she supposes Jack Ruthven did it out of ordinary decency, for she said so to me. And that is how matters stand; Neergard is ugly, and grows more threatening about those loans--and I haven"t any money, and Mrs. Ruthven will require more very soon--"
"Is that _all_?" demanded Selwyn sharply.
"Yes--all... . I know I have behaved shamefully--"
"I"ve seen," observed Selwyn in a dry, hard voice, "worse behaviour than yours... . Have you a pencil, Gerald? Get a sheet of paper from that desk. Now, write out a list of the loans made you by Neergard... .
Every cent, if you please... . And the exact amount you placed to Mrs.
Ruthven"s credit... . Have you written that? Let me see it."
The boy handed him the paper. He studied it without the slightest change of expression--knowing all the while what it meant to him; knowing that this burden must be a.s.sumed by himself because Austin would never a.s.sume it.
And he sat there staring at s.p.a.ce over the top of the pencilled sheet of paper, striving to find some help in the matter. But he knew Austin; he knew what would happen to Gerald if, after the late reconciliation with his ex-guardian, he came once more to him with such a confession of debt and disgrace.
No; Austin must be left out; there were three things to do: One of them was to pay Neergard; another to sever Gerald"s connection with him for ever; and the third thing to be done was something which did not concern Gerald or Austin--perhaps, not even Ruthven. It was to be done, no matter what the cost. But the thought of the cost sent a shiver over him, and left his careworn face gray.
His head sank; he fixed his narrowing eyes on the floor and held them there, silent, unmoved, while within the tempests of terror, temptation, and doubt a.s.sailed him, dragging at the soul of him, where it clung blindly to its anchorage. And it held fast--raging, despairing in the bitterness of renunciation, but still held on through the most dreadful tempest that ever swept him. Courage, duty, reparation--the words drummed in his brain, stupefying him with their dull clamour; but he understood and listened, knowing the end--knowing that the end must always be the same for him. It was the revolt of instinct against drilled and ingrained training, inherited and re-schooled--the insurgent clamour of desire opposed to that stern self-repression characteristic of generations of Selwyns, who had held duty important enough to follow, even when their bodies died in its wake.
And it were easier for him, perhaps, if his body died.
He rose and walked to the window. Over the Bay of Shoals the fog was lifting; and he saw the long gray pier jutting northward--the pier where the troopships landed their dead and dying when the Spanish war was ended.
And he looked at the hill where the field hospital had once been. His brother died there--in the wake of that same duty which no Selwyn could ignore.
After a moment he turned to Gerald, a smile on his colourless face:
"It will be all right, my boy. You are not to worry--do you understand me? Go to bed, now; you need the sleep. Go to bed, I tell you--I"ll stand by you. You must begin all over again, Gerald--and so must I; and so must I."