THE STRAIGHT PATH
"Mr. Clinton has had to go to Bathgate, ma'am. He told me to say he
would dine at the club and might be late home. He partic'ly asked that
you and Miss Joan--Miss Clinton--shouldn't sit up for him."
The old butler gave his message as if there was more behind it than
appeared from his words. Mrs. Clinton, standing in the hall, in her
travelling cloak, looked puzzled and a little anxious. It was unlike
her husband not to be at home to meet her, especially when she and Joan
were returning from so comparatively long a visit--and there was
something so very interesting to talk about. And, although he
frequently lunched at the County Club in Bathgate, he had not dined
there half a dozen times since their marriage.
"Is Mr. Clinton quite well?" she asked, preparing to move away.
"Well, ma'am, I don't think he is quite well. We've all noticed it.
Or it seems more as if he was worried about something. But he's not
eating well, ma'am, and not sleeping well."
"Poor father!" said Joan, standing by her mother. "We've been too long
away from him. We'll cheer him up, and soon put him right, mother."
Mrs. Clinton went to bed at half-past ten, as usual. The Squire came
home at eleven o'clock. It was the hour when he expected her to have
her light out, if he should come up then.
He went straight to her room. It was in darkness. "Well, Nina," he
said from the door, "you're back safely. Sorry I had to be out when
you arrived. I'll come to you in a few minutes."
He went along to his dressing-room. Just outside it, in the broad
carpeted corridor was Joan. She was in a white dressing-gown, her hair
in a thick plait down her back. She looked hardly older than the child
she had been five years before.
"Father dear!" she said. "How naughty of you to be away when we came
home! Have you heard about it?"
Her beautiful eyes, swimming with tender happiness, looked up into his.
She had come close for his embrace.
"My dear child!" he said, kissing her. "My little Joan!"
"I thought you'd be glad," she said, nestling to him. "I'm so
frightfully happy, father."
"Well, run along to bed now," he said. "We'll talk about it to-morrow.
You ought to have been in bed long ago."
"I know. But I had to stop up and tell you. Good-night, father."
He strained her to him. "Good-night, my darling!"
He was not a man of endearments; he had not called her that since she
was a tiny child. She flitted along the passage, and he went into his
room and shut the door.
The old butler came up to put out the lamps in the corridor. He had
performed this duty nightly since he had been a very young butler, and
had often thought, as he passed the closed doors, of those who were
behind them. For many years there had been somebody behind most of the
doors, except in the rooms reserved for visitors. Now there were only
three left out of all the big family in whose service he had grown old.
He had seen all the children, who had crowded the nursery wing, with
their nurses and governess, grow up and leave the nest one by one. It
had been such a warm, protected nest for them. He had always liked to
go up to the floor on which the nurseries were, and think of all the
little white-robed sleepers behind those doors as he passed them. They
were so safe, tucked up for the night, and so well-off in that great
guarded house, where nothing that might affright other less fortunate
children could touch them.
The nursery wing was empty now. Joan had come down to another room on
the first floor; he only had one broad passage to see to upstairs. And
soon she would have flown. He thought of her with the affection of an
old servant as he put out the light outside her room. Little Miss
Joan! She was in there with her happiness. He smiled as he turned
from that door.
Outside his master's dressing-room his face became solicitous. Mr.
Clinton was not well--worried-like. Well, he was apt to worry
over-much about trifles. The old butler knew him by this time. He had
seen him weather many storms, and they had never, after all, been more
than mere breezes. Whatever was going on behind the door of that room
couldn't be very serious. Its occupant was shielded from all real
worries, except those he made for himself. He was one of the lucky
ones.
Outside the big room of state, in which so many generations of Clintons
had been born to the easy lot awaiting them, and so many heads of that
fortunate house had died after enjoying their appointed years of honour
and invulnerable well-being, his face cleared. Mrs. Clinton had come
home; she would put right whatever little thing was wrong. His master
couldn't really do without her, though he thought he could. Behind
that door she was lying, waiting for him. He put out the lamp.
The house was now dark and silent, though behind two of the three doors
there were lights.
The Squire went along the passage in his dressing-gown, carrying his
bedroom candlestick. He blew out the light directly he got inside the
room.
When he had given his wife greeting, he said, "I'm tired to-night. We
must talk over this affair of Joan's to-morrow."
"You are pleased, Edward, are you not?" she asked. "He is such a dear
boy; and they are very much in love with one another."
"I must hear all about it to-morrow," he said, composing himself for
sleep. His usual habit was to go to sleep the moment he got into bed;
but he was always ready to talk, if there was anything he wanted to
talk about. He would freely express irritation if he was upset about
anything, and it sometimes seemed as if he were ready to talk all
night. But he would suddenly leave off and say, "Well, good night,
Nina. God bless you!" and be fast asleep five minutes later. He never
omitted this nightly benediction. Until he said "God bless you, Nina,"
it was permitted to her to speak to him. When he had said it, he was
officially asleep, and not to be disturbed.
He did not say it to-night after his postponement of discussion, but
his movement showed that "good-night" was considered to have been said.
The omission was ominous.
For a very long time there was complete silence. Then the Squire
turned in bed, with a sound that might have been a half-stifled groan,
but also an involuntary murmur. Again there was a long silence. Mrs.
Clinton lay quite still, in the darkness. Then he turned again,
gently, so as not to wake her if she were asleep, and moaned.
Her voice, fully awake, broke through the silence, "Edward, you are not
asleep. Porter said you were not well."
He made no reply for a moment. Then he turned towards her and said,
"Inverell--he is coming to see me here?"
"Yes. He is coming on Friday."
"You must put him off, Nina. You must put off the whole thing for a
time."
He must have expected an expression of surprise, or a question. But
none came.
"There are reasons why I can't consider it for the present," he said.
"What to say to him I don't quite know. By and by, perhaps. Joan is
very young yet.... I don't know what to say; we must think it over."
"Edward," she said, after a pause, "if there is trouble hanging over
us, let me know of it. Let me be prepared."
This reply, so different from any that he could have expected, kept him
silent for a time. Then he took her hand in his and said, "I don't
know why you say that; I had meant to keep it to myself till the
trouble came; but I suppose you can always see through me. Nina, there
is dreadful trouble coming to us. I hardly know how to tell you about
it--how to begin. There is such trouble as I sometimes think nobody
ever had to bear before. Oh, my God! how shall I break it to you!"
It was a cry of agony, the first cry he had uttered. It rang through
the room. Joan caught the echo of it, and lifted her head from the
pillow, but dropped it again and closed her eyes on her happy thoughts.
"Oh, Edward!" Mrs. Clinton cried, clinging to him, "I can't bear to see
you suffer like this. My dear husband, there is no need to break
anything to me. I know."
"What!" His voice was low and alarmed. "She has already----"
"Poor Susan told me," she said. "She told me on her death-bed."
He sighed momentary relief. "You have known for all these weeks!" he
said. "Oh, why didn't you speak?"
"What could I have said? How could I have helped matters? What was
there to do?" Her usually calm, slow speech was agitated, and told him
more of what she had gone through than words could have done. "I saw
you anxious and troubled, and I longed for you to confide in me; but
until you did----"
"I couldn't," he said. "I gave Humphrey my promise. He had his
reasons, but whether he ought to have----"
"Oh, I am glad you have told me that," she said in a calmer voice.
"No, I think he was wrong--to ask that I should be shut out. I can
help you--I have helped you--sometimes, Edward."
He pressed her hand, which was lying in his. "My dear," he said, "I
want your help now very much."
"We needn't talk more about the past," she said. "It is known now, is
it? You have heard something while I have been away."
He told her, up to the point where Mrs. Amberley had left him. His
story was often interrupted by exclamations of pain and disgust, as the
intolerable things that had been said to him through that long
drawn-out hour of his torture were brought to light. He went off into
by-paths of explanation, of self-justification, of appeal.
She soothed him, helped him to tell his story, was patient and loving
with him, while all the time almost insupportably anxious to come to
the end of it, and know the best or the worst. But when he came to
Mrs. Amberley's plea for help, stumbling through the specious arguments
she had used, as if for the thousandth time he were balancing them,
defending them, inclining towards them, she kept silence. She
trembled, as she followed the workings of his mind, groping towards a
decision, with so little light to help him, or rather with lights so
crossed that none shone out clearly above the rest. She thought--she
hoped--she knew what his decision had been. But he must tell her of it
himself. She could not cut him short with a question. The decision
was his. Whatever it had been, he had already made it. If it had been
right, a question from her must have expressed doubt; if wrong,
censure, or at least criticism.
"I think, when she had left me," he said quietly, "I felt no doubt
about what I was going to do. Everything she had said seemed to be
true. It seems to be true now, when I repeat it. She _had_ suffered
wrongfully, and would, to the end of her days. If I had let it be kept
dark before, and thought myself right, it wouldn't be less right to
keep it dark now. I could pay Sedbergh his money, which was the only
thing that had worried me badly, after the rest had been done, and not
done by me. The disgrace would be sharper still if it came out,
because it had been hidden before, and certain things might have been
misunderstood, or misrepresented. I knew she would do the worst she
could, and wouldn't stick at lies. There was this marriage of Joan's
to make or mar---- Oh, I don't know; I can't think straight about it
even now. I thought it over for two days and nights. I prayed to God
about it. Before Him, I don't know whether I've done right or wrong.
I'm bringing misery on you, and everybody I love in the world. I'm
dragging the name of Clinton, that has stood high for five hundred
years, down in the dust. But I couldn't do it, Nina. I couldn't do
it."
She threw herself on his breast weeping. He had never known her weep.
"Oh, Edward, my dear, dear husband," she cried, "I love you and honour
you more than I have ever done. Our feet are on the straight path.
God will surely guide them."