"Dear God!" her heart prayed as she watched him. His dull impassiveness
frightened her more than any madness of rebellion; he meant this--it was
no idle boast. Had she only delayed, not prevented, the contemplated
tragedy of the night before? Tightly she buckled on her armor of
mother-love. She must fight--fight him--the world, if necessary, but
she must win. She put all the sickening hurt and broken courage behind
her. She must obtain help--from whom? In the mean time she must
distract and arouse him from this awful apathy of resignation to his
disgrace. While these thoughts were flashing through her brain she
answered:
"If--" she paused, she could not say the word. "If--_that_--" she half
whispered, "would cover up the shame--but it wouldn't. No; no Earl of
Kerhill must go into history as a--"
"Thief!" Henry supplied the word. It was a relief to speak it. "You
might as well say it--no one else will hesitate to do so."
His voice shook, but he still maintained his stoicism.
"You had no intention to do wrong, my poor boy, I know it, but no one
will believe that but your mother. It's my fault too in some way, I
suppose." The agonized mother's consciousness of failure in shaping her
child's character broke from her. "I'd willingly take the blame on my
shoulders if I could."
He held her hands tighter. She knelt beside him.
"Let's see. No one has had anything to do with the Fund except you,
Chiswick, and Jim"---the thought of Jim brought reassurance. Jim
perhaps could help them in some way to evade discovery. "Jim--Jim," she
reiterated.