Gerald was conscious of some shame and of pity for his father, whom he must humble; but his fears for his own safety outweighed everything else.
"I want you to listen, sir. There's something you must know."
"Very well," said Mowbray. "It is not good news; your voice tells me that."
It was a desperately hard confession, and Mowbray sat strangely still, a rigid, shadowy figure against the fading window, until the story was finished. Then he turned to his son, who had drawn back as far as possible into the gloom.
"You cur!" There was intense bitterness in his tone. "I can't trust myself to speak of what I feel. And I know, to my sorrow, how little it would affect you. But, having done this thing, why do you slink home to bring disgrace on your mother and sister? Could you not hide your shame across the frontier?"
It was a relief to Gerald that he could, at least, answer this.
"If you will think for a moment, sir, you will see the reason. I don't want to hide here, but it's plain that, for all our sakes, I must meet this note. If it's dishonored, the holder will come to you; and, although I might escape to the boundary, you would be forced to find the money." Gerald hesitated before he added: "It would be the only way to save the family honor."
"Stop!" cried Mowbray. "Our honor is a subject you have lost all right to speak about!"
For a moment or two he struggled to preserve his self-control, and then went on in a stern, cold voice:
"Still, there is some reason in what you urge. It shows the selfish cunning that has been your ruin."