“It is very unfair.”
“And if you published that information abroad, it's unfair to Tim. Have you thought of that? He, at least, is perfectly innocent.”
“But, man, it's inconceivable—grotesque!”
“Not at all. I gave Elisabeth Durward my promise, and she has married and borne a son, trusting to that promise. My lips are closed—now and always.”
“But mine are not.”
“They will be, Miles, if I ask it. Don't you see, there's no going back for me now? I can't wipe out the past. I made a bad mistake—a mistake many a youngster similarly circumstanced might have made. And I've been paying for it ever since. I must go on paying to the end—it's my honour that's involved. That's why I ask you not to show those letters.”
Miles looked unconvinced.
“I forged my own fetters, Herrick,” continued Trent. “In a way, I'm responsible for Tim Durward's existence and I can't damn his chances at the outset. After all, he's at the beginning of things. I'm getting towards the end. At least”—wearily—“I hope so.”
Herrick's quick glance took in the immense alteration the last few days had wrought in Trent's appearance. The man had aged visibly, and his face was worn and lined, the eyes burning feverishly in their sockets.
“You're good for another thirty or forty years, bar accidents,” said Herrick at last, deliberately. “Are you going to make those years worse than worthless to you by this crazy decision?”