would have
been somehow--more endurable."

Again he became silent, and suddenly to the squire sitting frowning at
the table there came a flash of intuition that told him he could not
continue. He got up sharply, went to Dick, still frowning, and laid an
impulsive arm across his shoulders.

"I'm sorry, my lad," he said.

Dick made a slight movement as if the caress were not wholly welcome,
but after a moment he reached up and grasped the squire's hand.

"It hit me pretty hard," he said in a low voice, not lifting his hand.
"Juliet just made it bearable. I shall get over it, of course. But--I
never want to see Jack again."

Again for a space he stopped, then with a sudden fierce impatience
jerked on.

"You may remember saying to me once--no; a hundred times over--that I
should never get anywhere so long as I kept my boy with me--never find
success--or happiness--never marry--all that sort of rot. It was rot. I
always knew it was. I've proved it. She would have come to me in any
case. And as for success--it doesn't depend on things of that sort. I've
proved that too. But he--Jack--got hold of the same infernal parrot-cry.
Oh, I'm sorry, sir," he glanced upwards for a second with working lips.
"I can't dress this up in polite language. Jack said to my boy Robin what
you had said to me. And he--believed it--and so--made an end."

He drew his breath hard between his teeth and straightened himself,
putting Fielding's arm quietly from his.

"Good God!" said Fielding. "But the boy was mad! He never was normal. You
can't say--"

"Oh, no, sir." With grim bitterness Dick interrupted. "He just took the
shortest way out, that's all. He wasn't mad."

"Committed suicide!" ejaculated the squire.

Dick's hands were clenched. "Do you call it that," he said, "when a man
lays down his life for his friends?"

He turned away with the words as if he could endure no more, and walked
to the end of the room.

Fielding stood and watched him dumbly, more moved than he cared to show.
At length, as Dick remained standing before a bookcase in heavy silence,
he spoke, his tone an odd mixture of peremptoriness and persuasion.

"Dick!"

Dick jerked his head without turning or speaking.

"Are you blaming me for this?" the squire asked.

Dick turned. His face was pale, his eyes fiercely bright. "You, sir! Do
you think I'd have sat at your table if I did?"

"I don't know," the squire said sombrely. "You're fond of telling me I
have n