"Yes, dear."
"How much?"
Humility kept a small account-book in the work-box beside her. She
opened the pages, but, seeing his outstretched hand, gave it obediently
to Taffy, who took it to the window.
"Almost two hundred pounds." He knit his brows and began to drum with
his fingers on the window-pane. "And we must put the interest at five
per cent.... With my first in moderations I might find some post as an
usher in a small school.... There's an agency which puts you in the way
of such things; I must look up the address.... We will leave this house,
of course."
"Must we?"
"Why, of course, we must. We are living here by _her_ favor. A cottage
will do—only it must have four rooms, because of grandmother.... I will
step over and talk with Mendarva. He may be able to give me a job. It
will keep me going, at any rate, until I hear from the agency."
"You forget that I have over forty pounds a year—or, rather, mother has.
The capital came from the sale of her farm, years ago."
"Did it?" said Taffy, grimly. "You forget that I have never been told.
Well, that's good, so far as it goes. But now I'll step over and see
Mendarva. If only I could catch this cowardly lie somewhere, on my way!"
He kissed his mother, caught up his cap, and flung out of the house.
The sea-breeze came humming across the sandhills. He opened his lungs
to it, and it was wine to his blood; he felt fit and strong enough to
slay dragons. "But who could the liar be? Not Lizzie herself, surely?
Not—"
He pulled up short, in a hollow of the towans.
"Not—George?"
Treachery is a hideous thing, and to youth so incomprehensibly hideous
that it darkens the sun. Yet every trusting man must be betrayed. That
was one of the lessons of Christ's life on earth. It is the last and
severest test; it kills many, morally, and no man who has once met and
looked it in the face departs the same man, though he may be a stronger
one.
"Not _George_?"
Taffy stood there so still that the rabbits crept out and, catching
sight of him, paused in the mouths of their burrows. When at length he
moved on, it was to take, not the path which wound inland to Mendarva's,
but the one which led straight over the higher moors to Carwithiel.
It was between one and two o'clock when he reached the house and asked
to see Mr. or Mrs. George Vyell. They were not at home, the footman
said; had left for Falmouth, the evening before, to join some friends
on a yachting cruise. Sir Harry was at home; was, indeed, lunching at
that moment; but would no doubt be pleased to see Mr. Raymond.
Sir Harry had finished his lunch and sat sipping his claret and tossing
scraps of biscuit to the dogs.
"Hullo, Raymond!—thought you were in Oxford. Sit down, my boy; delighted
to see you. Thomas, a knife and fork for Mr. Raymond. The cutlets are
cold, I'm afraid, but I can recommend the cold saddle, and the ham—it's
a York ham. Go to the sideboard and forage for yourself. I wanted
company. My boy and Honoria are at Falmouth, yachting, and have left me
alone. What, you won't eat? A glass of claret then, at any rate."
"To tell the truth, Sir Harry," Taffy began, awkwardly, "I've come on
a disagreeable business."
Sir Harry's face fell. He hated disagreeable business. He flipped a
piece of biscuit at his spaniel's nose and sat back, crossing his legs.
"Won't it keep?"
"To me it's important."
"Oh, fire away then; only help yourself to the claret first."
"A girl—Lizzie Pezzack, living over at Langona—has had a child born—"
"Stop a moment. Do I know her?—Ah, to be sure—daughter of old Pezzack,
the light-keeper—a brown-colored girl with her hair over her eyes. Well,
I'm not surprised. Wants money, I suppose? Who's the father?"
"I don't know."
"Well, but—damn it all!—somebody knows." Sir Harry reached for the
bottle and refilled his glass.
"The one thing I know is that Honoria—Mrs. George, I mean—has heard
about it, and suspects me."
Sir Harry lifted his glass and glanced at him over the rim. "That's the
devil. Does she, now?" He sipped. "She hasn't been herself for a day or
two—this explains it. I thought it was change of air she wanted. She's
in the deuce of a rage, you bet."
"She is," said Taffy, grimly.
"There's no prude like your young married woman. But it'll blow over,
my boy. My advice to you is to keep out of the way for a while."
"But—but it's a lie!" broke in the indignant Taffy. "As far as I am
concerned there's not a grain of truth in it!"
"Oh—I beg your pardon, I'm sure." Here Honoria's terrier (the one
which George had bought for her at Plymouth) interrupted by begging
for a biscuit, and Sir Harry balanced one carefully on its nose. "On
trust—good dog! What does the girl say herself?"
"I don't know. I've not seen her."
"Then, my dear fellow—it's awkward, I admit—but I'm dashed if I see what
you expect me to do." The baronet pulled out a handkerchief and began
flicking the crumbs off his knees.
Taffy watched him for a minute in silence. He was asking himself why
he had come. Well, he had come in a hot fit of indignation, meaning to
face Honoria and force her to take back the insult of her suspicion.
But after all—suppose George were at the bottom of it? Clearly Sir Harry
knew nothing, and in any case could not be asked to expose his own son.
And Honoria? Let be that she would never believe—that he had no proof,
no evidence even—this were a pretty way of beginning to discharge his
debt to her! The terrier thrust a cold muzzle against his hand. The room
was very still. Sir Harry poured out another glassful and held out the
decanter. "Come, you must drink; I insist!"