The Honour of the Clintons Part 42

"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.

There's no reason why you shouldn't. I know what I'm saying.' Well, that put the lid on, Mr. Clinton. I sent a note to my uncle; I'd promised to do that before I came; and here I am."

The Squire breathed a deep sigh of relief. "You have come at the right time," he said, "and I am very glad you have come as you have--knowing nothing more than you do. It's a thing that I shall think of with pleasure all my life. But, as I told your uncle, I wouldn't ask you here as long as my name was under a cloud. Perhaps the name of Clinton will be under a cloud some little time longer. But, thank G.o.d, the cloud no longer rests on this house. I can tell you everything that has happened, feeling that I am wronging n.o.body. I couldn't have told Lord Cheviot, and I couldn't have told _you_ yesterday. Read this. It is a paper I received from my son, Humphrey, from Australia, this morning."

"I'm satisfied for myself," he said. "Can I tell my uncle what's in it?"

"You can tell anyone you like," said the Squire.

As he was reading it, the door opened and Joan came in, in her furs.

It was beginning to get dusk. When she saw that there was somebody with her father, she would have withdrawn. When she saw who it was, her hand went to her heart; but her lover turned and saw her at that moment.

A little later he confessed, with a happy laugh, that he had brought down a bag, and left it at the station. The Squire went out of the room to procure somebody to fetch it, which he could very well have done by ringing the bell.

CHAPTER IX

SKIES CLEAR

We began with the train, and will end with the train. It was the material link by which Kencote, standing as it had done through so many centuries remote and aside from the turmoil of life, had been drawn into the centre of troublous events. It had brought Joan home from her fateful visit to Brummels, Humphrey to tell his terrible story, Susan to her sad resting-place, Mrs. Amberley to demand satisfaction and threaten vengeance, and latterly the young lover whose coming had brought joy in place of sorrow.

Now it was to bring, within a few days, enough guests to fill all the spare rooms of Kencote for Joan's wedding; and it was bringing, this afternoon, one of the most valued of them all.

This was Miss Bird, affectionately known to the Clinton family as "the old starling," who had first taught d.i.c.k his letters nearly forty years before, and had gone on teaching letters, and other things, to all the young Clintons in turn, until the twins had reached the ripe age of fifteen, six years before. Then she had left, much regretted, partly because the twins had to be "finished," and she could not undertake suitably to finish them, partly because duty had called her from the s.p.a.cious comforts of Kencote to share the narrow home of a widowed sister.

The twins were at the station to meet her--tall, beautiful, stately young women to the outward eye, but, for this occasion, children again at heart, and mischievous children at that.

"Oh, what fun it is!" said Nancy, with a s.h.i.+ver of pleasure, as the train came into the station. "I don't feel a day older than fourteen.

There she is, Joan--the sweet old lamb!"

It must be confessed that the years had robbed Miss Bird of such sweetness as she may at one time have presented to the impartial view.

She was a diminutive, somewhat withered, elderly woman, but still sprightly in speech and movement, and of breathless volubility.

She flung herself out of the carriage, almost before it had come to a standstill, and was enveloped in a warm, not to say undignified embrace by both the twins at once.

"Oh, my darlings," she cried, flinging to the winds all the stops in the language, "to see you both standing there just as it used to be though one married and the other going to be and such a _grand_ marriage too as sweet as ever my bonnet Nancy darling and everything the same here but a new station-master I see oh it is _too_ much."

Joan and Nancy marched her out of the station to the carriage, all three laughing and talking at once, and made her sit between them, which was just possible, as she took up very little room.

She wiped away an unaffected tear, and broke out again.

"This is one of the happiest days of my life and to think of _me_ being an honoured guest and amongst all the lords and ladies I hope I shall know how to behave myself and one of the first you wrote to darling Joan as you said and Mr. Clinton saying whoever else was left out _I_ must be asked and how is dear Mrs. Clinton well I hope I'm sure the kindness I have received in this house I never can forget and never shall forget darling Nancy my bonnet."

"Isn't she too sweet for words, Joan?" said Nancy. "She hasn't altered a bit. Starling darling, you are the most priceless treasure. We didn't value you nearly enough when we had you with us."

"Now my pet that is not a thing to say," said Miss Bird, "two dearer and more affectionate children you might roam the world over and never find troublesome sometimes I do not say you were not but never really naughty no one could say it and now grown up quite and one a married woman it doesn't seem possible."

"I was very hurt that you didn't come to my wedding," said Nancy. "I know why it is. Joan is going to be a Countess, and I am only plain Mrs."

"The idea of such a thing," said Miss Bird in horror, "never so much as entered my head how can you say it Nancy I'm sure if Joan had been going to marry a crossing-sweeper not that I don't think she would adorn _any_ position and much more suitable as it is I should have come _just_ the same and you know quite well why I couldn't come to your wedding Nancy and almost cried my eyes out but an infectious illness you would not have liked to be brought you should not say such things."