leaning back, his face
resting in his hand, thought deeply. He saw again that scene in his tent
when the wind was howling outside and the rain falling, falling; he
recalled George's white face, the madness that came over him when he
fired at Alec, the humility of his submission. The earth covered the
boy, his crime, and his weakness. It was not easy to save one's self at
a dead man's expense. And he knew that George's strength and courage had
meant more than her life to Lucy. How could he cause her the bitter
pain? How could he tell her that her brother died because he was a
coward and a rogue? How could he tell her the pitiful story of the boy's
failure to redeem the good name that was so dear to her? And what proof
could he offer of anything he said? Walker had been killed on the same
night as George, poor Walker with his cheerfulness in difficulties and
his buoyant spirits: his death too must be laid to the charge of George
Allerton; Adamson had died of fever. Those two alone had any inkling of
the truth; they could have told a story that would at least have thrown
grave doubts upon Macinnery's. But Alec set his teeth; he did not want
their testimony. Finally there was the promise. He had given his solemn
oath, and the place and the moment made it seem more binding, that he
would utter no word that should lead Lucy to suspect even for an instant
that her brother had been untrue to the trust she had laid upon him.
Alec was a man of scrupulous truthfulness, not from deliberately moral
motives but from mere taste, and he could not have broken his promise
for the great discomfort it would have caused him. But it was the least
of the motives which influenced him. Even if George had exacted nothing,
he would have kept silence. And then, at the bottom of his heart, was a
fierce pride. He was conscious of the honesty of his motives, and he
expected that Lucy should share his consciousness. She must believe what
he said to her because he said it. He could not suffer the humiliation
of defending himself, and he felt that her love could not be very great
if she could really doubt him. And because he was very proud perhaps he
was unjust. He did not know that he was putting upon her a trial which
he should have asked no one to bear.

He stood up and faced Lucy.

'What is it precisely you want me to do?' he asked.

'I want you to have mercy on me because I love you. Don't tell the world
if you choose not to. But tell me the trut