He lifted a white face. His eyes were streaming now, his whole body trembling pitifully. "Oh, what'll I do!" he cried. "What'll I do!" He tottered to the chair that Farvel had shoved aside, dropped into it, and covered his face with both hands.
"My boy! My boy!"
"Don't act like a baby!" Clare came to him, and gave him a smart slap on the shoulder. "Cut it out! You haven't done anything."
"Just a moment," interrupted Farvel. He shoved her out of the way as impersonally as he had the chair. Then, "What do you mean by 'What'll do'?" he demanded. And to Clare, pulling at his arm, "Let me alone, I tell you. I'm going to know what's back of this!—Wallace Milo!"
Slowly Wallace got up. His cheeks were wet. His mouth was distorted, like the mouth of a woeful small boy. His throat worked spasmodically, so that the cords stood out above his collar.
Clare defended him fiercely. "What've you got into your head?" she asked Farvel. "You're wrong! You're dead wrong!—Wallace, tell him he's wrong!"
Wallace shook his head. "No," he said, striving to speak evenly; "no, I won't. All these years I've suffered, too. I've wanted to make a clean breast of it a million times—to get it off my conscience. Now, I can. I"—he braced himself to go on—"I was at the Rectory so much, Alan. I think that's how—it started. And—and she was nice to me, and I—I liked her. And we were almost the same age. So——" He could go no further. With a gesture of agonized appeal, he sank to his knees. "Oh, Alan, forgive me!" he sobbed. "Forgive——"
There could be no doubt of his meaning—of the character of his confession. Farvel bent over him, seizing an arm. "Get on your feet!" he shouted. "Get up! Get up, I tell you! I'm going to knock you down!"
"Oh, help! Help!" wept Mrs. Milo, appealing to Balcome, who came forward promptly.
"Farvel!" he admonished. He got between the two men.