CHAPTER XIV.

THE PARTING OF THE WAYS.

The words Sir Reginald had spoken to John Dale when he visited him at Charing Cross hospital after the trial, returned fairly frequently to his mind for many hours afterwards when he reached his own home on Dartmoor.

"This thing might have happened to my boy." He recalled, too, the old yeoman's reply when he reminded Sir Reginald that his son was a gentleman--and therefore could not do a mean thing.

The Dales came of old yeoman stock; they could trace their family back as far, probably further, than the Crichtons. Old Dale was a gentleman right enough, and Crichton knew it would be impossible for him to do anything mean, much less dishonourable. Indeed, he had been the first to warn Sir Reginald that his daughter must never meet the baronet's son again.

Sir Reginald did not find it easy to believe that Jim had fallen in love with Marjorie Dale. He had to presume, like all parents, that he had been blind. His boy had never been in the habit of keeping anything from him.

Since Jim had grown up and become a man, their relationship had been that of brothers or dear comrades rather than father and son. Jim had always bluntly confessed to the few scrapes and peccadilloes into which he had got, and his tendency had been to exaggerate rather than diminish the few mistakes he had made in life.

Probably he had not considered falling in love a mistake. But it is--a grievous one, to the elderly, or to those who have fallen in, been half-drowned, and crawled out again.

Even had this terrible tragedy of the altering of the cheque never occurred, Sir Reginald knew he would have found it very difficult to agree to any engagement between his son and the daughter of John Dale.

First of all, Jim was much too young to think of marriage. Secondly, when he did marry, it would be some one in his own cast, occupying the same rank in life or a higher one than he. For though Crichton kept his youth, he had already forgotten that he married for love, and, _mirabile dictu_, had been happy. Thirdly, Jim had apparently been wedded to his profession. He had already done excellent work in the Flying Corps, and his name was down for early promotion. He had received both public and official recognition for the services he had rendered to aerial navigation.

Sir Reginald had meant to tackle him at once on his return home and tell him, what he felt sure Jim would have already realised, that it would be impossible for him to see Marjorie again, and, in future, they could not even be friends, much less lovers. He thought the task would be quite an easy one. Of course, he would be sorry for the girl, but she was still young, and would easily find a suitable husband later on in her own class; for Crichton was old-fashioned enough to still believe that marriage was the only suitable profession for a respectable female.

But directly he saw Jim he realised that Rupert Dale's conviction had been a serious blow to him. As in duty bound, he walked across to Blackthorn Farm to sympathise with Marjorie, to give her the latest news of her father, and reassure her in case she should be feeling anxious as to his health. He knew as little about women as he did about the Bible. One had brought him into the world, and he believed the other kept him there; but he had never thought it necessary to go deeper into the subject. Both women and Bibles were necessary to the State. The place for both was the home and the church, and he had a good Protestant's profound distrust of the man who had too close an intimacy with, or quoted, either, except in the secret precincts of his own castle or the local cathedral.

So, to his surprise, Marjorie greeted him calmly, with a smile, and gave him a cool, steady hand. He said the conventional thing in a conventional tone of voice, but she showed no signs of hysteria, neither did tears once rise to her eyes.

"I expect your father will be back in two or three days at the latest," he said. "Mr. Despard--one of--er--your brother's friends, is going to bring him down."

He had nearly said one of your late brother's friends, but he checked himself in time. Of course, it would have been far better if Rupert had died, and Sir Reginald secretly hoped he would never live to come out of prison.

"Why is Mr. Despard bringing father home?" Marjorie asked. "Perhaps he was one of Rupert's friends, but he is practically a stranger to us both."

"He has been exceedingly kind," Sir Reginald explained. "He is the only man your father knows in London at present. And I may say that he has given practical proof of his kindness and sympathy. He has done something I should like to have done myself--I won't say anything more about it now, but I will only hint that as long as you choose to remain at Blackthorn Farm no one will disturb you.... The property is your own again--for the mortgage will be redeemed."

Marjorie said nothing, but Sir Reginald noticed that a frown puckered her forehead.

"I think Mr. Despard was very glad of the excuse your father's accident gave him to come down here again." He was trying to be tactful, and failing.

With a woman's quick instinct Marjorie divined the hidden meaning of what he said. "Mr. Despard is not a man whose acquaintance I care to continue. I don't think father was impressed with him, either."

"One can't always judge from appearances. When I first saw him I was certainly not prepossessed in his favour. But he is showing great solicitude for your father in his hour of trial. He is an exceedingly kind-hearted man, and--I know he is looking forward to seeing you again, Miss Dale."

It was a feeble effort, and Sir Reginald felt ashamed of it directly afterwards. He held out his hand.

"If I can be of any service to you please let me know. I'm afraid you may find your position here a little difficult--but I'm sure we shall do our best to help you to forget the--er--the sorrow that has fallen upon you."

Marjorie took his hand and held it. Then, raising her head, she looked straight into his eyes. "Tell me, please, do you believe my brother guilty?"

Sir Reginald cleared his throat. It was an extraordinary, a stupid question. Had he not felt so sorry for the girl, he would have been irritated.

"Naturally, you haven't read the newspapers--the evidence. I'm afraid his guilt was proved beyond doubt. Of course, he must have been sorely tempted. The jury would not have found him guilty, my dear young lady, if they had not been absolutely certain of the justice of their verdict."

"I'm not asking you what the jury thought. I want to know what you think. For I know that he's innocent. He did not do it."

Sir Reginald pressed her hand tightly. He did not know what to say. That was the worst of women, they were so illogical. Rupert Dale had been found guilty by a jury of his own countrymen, therefore, of course, he was guilty.

"Why do you say you know he's innocent? You can't have proof. If you had----"

A curious smile parted Marjorie's lips. She looked at Sir Reginald with sorrow in her eyes, almost pity.

"How strange men are! They only use their reason, never their instinct. Evidence has hanged many an innocent man, Sir Reginald, hasn't it? Instinct--which for some reason women have cultivated and men have neglected--tells me that my brother is innocent. I know. You will never know."

Sir Reginald shrugged his shoulders. It was impossible to say anything. Argument would be useless and unkind. He pressed her hand again and was turning away when she stopped him.

"I also know why you came over to see me to-day."

Sir Reginald flushed. "I came to----"

"To tell me that you will not allow an engagement between myself and Jim. He has told you, or you have found out, that we love one another."

Sir Reginald dropped her hand. His body stiffened. He looked at her sternly. "Your father told me. My boy has said nothing. This is the first time in his life he has ever had a secret from me. I suppose you wished it kept a secret?"

She shook her head.

"I haven't spoken to him yet," Sir Reginald continued, his voice hardening. "But, of course, as I hope you will realise, it's impossible, utterly impossible, that there can be any engagement between you. You must not see each other again. I'm very sorry, Miss Dale; but leaving this unfortunate affair of your brother's out of the question altogether, I should have looked with strong disapproval on any engagement of marriage, however remote. Jim is much too young----"

"To love?" she interjected quickly. "Surely youth is the time for love!" Then she gave a bitter laugh. "But, of course, you've forgotten."

"My boy has his future to consider, his profession. He has only just started in life. Surely you must see, Miss Dale, that any alliance between you would ruin his career for ever."

She bowed her head. "To be married to a girl whose brother is a convict. To marry the sister of the man who robbed her husband's father. Yes, I quite see it's impossible."

She looked at him proudly and there was defiance in her eyes. "I am sure my father would never permit it, Sir Reginald, and as I am his only daughter and not yet of age, I suppose I should have to obey him. Yet, surely, it's for Jim to say what he'll do. You haven't spoken to him yet?"

"Not yet. I haven't had an opportunity."

Sir Reginald was beginning to feel uncomfortable. "Has he said anything to you--since the result of the trial, I mean?"

"As to our future? Not a word," she replied. "But it's for him to decide. I shall not try to persuade him either way, though if I thought it would be better for him were we never to meet again, I might be persuaded to give way even in opposition to his wishes. I can't say yet. I haven't had time to think.... I've suffered, Sir Reginald. Rupert and I were more to each other than most brothers and sisters, perhaps. But Jim is more to me than father or mother. He's all the world to me."

"Yes, yes, of course. But----"

"It's for he and me to decide," Marjorie said again. "This blow that has fallen, this shame, which I suppose attaches to my name, affects only him and me. Not you nor my father, not you nor anyone else in the world. We two must settle it, no one else."

She bowed gravely, and Sir Reginald turned away without speaking again. There was nothing more to be said. He did not go straight home, he took a long walk. His wishes had never been opposed, and he had not expected opposition now.

What would his son say?

Directly after luncheon he broached the subject by asking when his leave was up.

"In about a week's time, guv'nor! Why, are you in a hurry to get rid of me?"

Sir Reginald stood with his back to the great oak fireplace in the large panel dining-room, and with fingers that were not quite steady lit a cigar.

"When I bid Dale good-bye at Charing Cross Hospital before leaving London he told me your secret, Jim. I was sorry to hear it from a stranger's lips. You've never kept anything from me before."

Jim nodded. "I'm sorry, sir. It was a secret I'll admit. Love is different--to other things, and I wanted to be sure of myself and sure of her."

"That's all right. But this unfortunate affair has, of course, altered everything. I saw Marjorie this morning. I went over to sympathise with her and see if we could do anything to help her. She broached the subject."

"About our marriage?"

Sir Reginald looked at the end of his cigar. "There can be no question of marriage now."

"Why not?"

"My boy!"

There was a long silence. Father and son looked into one another's eyes. The father was the first to lower his gaze.

"I love her, sir."

"Yes, of course." Sir Reginald coughed. "I'm sorry for you. But you're young. You--you don't know your own mind."

Again a short silence. "Has anything I ever did at school or after I left school, at Sandhurst or at home or since I joined the Flying Corps, suggested to you that I don't know my own mind? That I am fickle or changeable?"

"No." Sir Reginald was not used to being questioned by his son. He was off his guard.

"I've never shown myself a coward in any way, father?"

The old man started, came a step nearer to his boy and looked at him again. And his eyes lighted as he smiled. "Good heavens, Jim, you a coward! My dear boy!"

"I don't mean just physically," Jim continued. "No normal, healthy man's afraid, of course. I suppose it's the danger of my job that gives it a zest. I've never shown myself to be the other sort of coward, either, I hope?"

Sir Reginald just held out his hand.

"Wouldn't it be cowardly, then, to desert the woman I love just at the moment she most wants me? I don't mean that she just wants my love, but she wants my protection. The protection my name can give her. We have a clean record, we Crichtons, haven't we? I shall be smirching it if I desert the woman I promised to marry just because her brother's turned out a bad egg."

"A convict. A felon."

"Yes, yes, but it would make no difference had he been a murderer."

Sir Reginald turned away. His cigar fell into the grate, he leaned his arms on the mantelshelf and buried his face between his hands.

"What do you propose to do?" he asked eventually.

"To announce our engagement at once. Or, if that decision does not meet with her or your approval, to wait a little while and then announce it. I've given her my word, and I'm going to keep it. I'm sorry, father, if it hurts you, but you must see that I'm right."

"I don't see it!" Sir Reginald cried fiercely. Then, after a few moments' silence, "Do you know what it means if you persist in marrying her? It means your career will be ended. You will have to send in your papers."

"I don't think so."

Sir Reginald turned round. "There can be no question. Do you mean to say if you married a convict's sister you would be tolerated in any regiment, in any decent society?"

Jim sighed. "I don't know. Perhaps you're right. After all, aviation is not confined to the army. I can still do my job. The world's a big place, father."

He stood by Sir Reginald's side and laid his hand on his shoulder.

"I'm sorry if I've hurt you, dad. But, leaving my feelings out of the question, putting aside society, even love, I feel it's my duty to keep my word, my duty to protect the woman who loves me."

Sir Reginald nodded his head. He looked at his son through a mist. "Have you thought of your duty to me? Your duty to society, then--to the State?"

"The fact that I love will not prevent me doing all three. The woman I love is straight, clean, honourable. She has done nothing of which to be ashamed. If because of this woman you and society and the State refuse my services"--he shrugged his shoulders--"as I said, the world is large, father. I'm young, and I can fight."

The old man held out his arms. "You're young and you'll forget. She'll forget, too, Jim. My boy, you don't know what you're doing. Why, she's only a girl. Inside of a year, she'll forget it. There are lots of men----" He stopped, hesitated, and looked at his son again. "Why, that fellow, Mr. Despard, who was down here a little while ago, I know he's in love with her----"

Jim stopped him with a gesture. "Don't say any more, father. I don't think you quite understand. I've made up my mind. I've given my word and I'm going to keep it. I'll do everything in my power not to hurt you. But nothing, no one, will come between the woman I love and me."

Sir Reginald Crichton dropped into a chair and sat huddled up, staring across the room. Jim stood by his side and put his arm around his shoulder. A long time they waited, but neither of them spoke. Each knew there was nothing more to be said.

Youth and age had travelled side by side for a long time, until at last they had reached the inevitable barrier, the place where the road divided.

The parting of the ways. To try to go on together meant destruction, yet the old man would not believe it. The young man, whose sight was clearer and whose heart was bolder, knew.