“That clenches it, then,” he cried. “That settles the whole thing,” and, swift as thought, the next moment the expression faded. “No, no, Arthur,” he cried, with the most intense earnestness, “we can’t; don’t you see we can’t? See what would happen. There’d be the devil and all to pay. Rose might not marry you, even. You know how proud she is. It isn’t a question of what I ought to do myself, Arthur. It’s a question of the family honor. It mustn’t be known; it shan’t. We’ll tell the same story. No one else knows, man. No one that would tell. It’s the only way. Give me your word, Arthur; give me your word.”
In silence Vaughan stood and looked at him. These were the same temptations that had beset him the long night through; against which his instinctive feeling of justice had struggled well-nigh in vain. And yet, while gropingly and half-unconsciously he had felt that for him there might be some excuse, somehow now, the frank cowardice of the plea, coming from the man himself, jarred strangely upon him. And yet—was it cowardice? Was there not more than a grain of truth in all that Carleton had said? Would it not, after all, be for the best? For there, on the other hand, lay the scandal to be faced; the notoriety of it all, scarcely endurable; the hordes of prying reporters; the vulgar crowd of eager seekers after mystery who would make of Eversley a very Mecca—from all this he shrank, as he could see that Carleton shrank, and yet, in spite of all, from the other alternative he shrank as well.
“What do you want me to say?” he asked, and his tone was grudging; his eyes this time did not seek Jack’s face.
Carleton drew a sigh of evident relief. “Say?” he echoed eagerly. “What should you want to say? You were abed and asleep the whole time. You went straight up-stairs and slept soundly all night. That’s simple enough, isn’t it? Of course Henry’ll swear that you told him that’s what you were going to do. Swear to it, and stick to it. That’s all.”
Slowly Vaughan nodded. “And you the same?” he asked.
“Of course,” Carleton answered eagerly, and at his manner Vaughan found himself all at once marveling. Whatever else of emotion he might feel in the medley of sensations which swept over him, above everything else he was conscious of a stinging disappointment, an open shame, for this man—his friend. He turned away, his voice as he answered, sounding dully in his own ears. “All right,” he said. Then suddenly a new difficulty struck him with stunning force. “But what’s the use, Jack?” he cried, “Mrs. Satterlee—”
Carleton took one quick step forward. “Everything’s the use,” he said, almost menacingly. “Do as I tell you, for God’s sake! Don’t worry about the woman. Her testimony will be the same as ours. Nobody knows anything. Can’t you see? Or don’t you know what sort of woman—”
Across the lawn Rose Carleton’s voice sounded, vibrant with anxiety. “Arthur, Cousin Jack,” she called, “you’re wanted at once. The medical examiner is here.”
The Columbian reporter, jotting down a note or two, rose from his seat at the examiner’s desk. “I’m very much obliged, sir,” he said. “That clears that matter up. You’ve told me exactly what I wanted to know. And on this last case that came in to-day, the coachman out at the Carleton place, you say there won’t be anything doing?”