Not till more than two hours later did Ronnie break his silence. He
would have tramped the hills all night above the flooded valley, but
Baring would not suffer it. He dragged him almost forcibly away from
the scene of desolation, where the water still flowed strongly, carrying
trees and all manner of wreckage on its course. And, though he was
almost beside himself, the boy yielded at last. For Baring compelled
obedience that night. He took Ronnie back to his own quarters, but on
the threshold Ronnie drew back.
"I can't come in with you," he said.
Baring's hand was on his shoulder.
"You must," he answered quietly.
"I can't," Ronnie persisted, with an effort. "I can't! I'm a cur; I'm
worse. You wouldn't ask me if you knew."
Baring paused, then, with a strange, unwonted gentleness, he took the
boy's arm and led him in. "Never mind!" he said.
Ronnie went with him, but in Baring's room he faced him with the courage
of despair.
"You'll have to know it," he said jerkily. "It was my doing that
you--and she--parted as you did. She was going to tell you the truth. I
prevented her--for my own sake--not hers. I--I came between you."
Baring's hand fell, but neither his face nor his tone varied as he made
steady reply.
"I guessed it might be that--afterwards. I was on my way to tell her so
when the dam went."
"That isn't all," Ronnie went on feverishly. "I'm worse than that, worse
even than she knew. I engaged to ride Hyde's horse to--to discharge a
debt I owed him. I told her it was a debt of honour. It wasn't. It was
to cover theft. I swindled him once, and he found out. I hated riding
his horse, but it would have meant open disgrace if I hadn't. She knew
it was urgent. And then at the last moment I was thirsty; I overdid it.
No; confound it, I'll tell you the truth! I went home drunk, too drunk
to sit a horse. And so she--she sent me to bed, and went in my place.
That's the thing she wouldn't tell you, the thing Hyde knew. She always
hated the man--always. She only endured him for my sake." He broke off.
Baring was looking at him as if he thought that he were raving. After a
moment Ronnie realized this. "It's the truth," he said. "I've told you
the truth. I never won the cup. I didn't know anything more about it
till it was over and she told me. I don't wonder you find it hard to
believe. But I swear it's the truth. Now let me go--and shoot myself!"
He flung round distractedly, but Baring stopped him. There was no longer
any hardness about him, only compassionate kindness, as he made him sit
down, and gravely shut the door. When he spoke, it was not to utter a
word of reproach or blame.
"No, don't go, boy!" he said, in a tone that Ronnie never forgot. "We'll
face this thing together. May God help us both!"
And Ronnie, yielding once more, leaned his head in his hands, and burst
into anguished tears.