hat
desk. Now, write out a list of the loans made you by Neergard. . . .
Every cent, if you please. . . . And the exact amount you placed to Mrs.
Ruthven's credit. . . . Have you written that? Let me see it."

The boy handed him the paper. He studied it without the slightest change
of expression--knowing all the while what it meant to him; knowing that
this burden must be assumed by himself because Austin would never
assume it.

And he sat there staring at space over the top of the pencilled sheet of
paper, striving to find some help in the matter. But he knew Austin; he
knew what would happen to Gerald if, after the late reconciliation with
his ex-guardian, he came once more to him with such a confession of debt
and disgrace.

No; Austin must be left out; there were three things to do: One of them
was to pay Neergard; another to sever Gerald's connection with him for
ever; and the third thing to be done was something which did not concern
Gerald or Austin--perhaps, not even Ruthven. It was to be done, no
matter what the cost. But the thought of the cost sent a shiver over
him, and left his careworn face gray.

His head sank; he fixed his narrowing eyes on the floor and held them
there, silent, unmoved, while within the tempests of terror, temptation,
and doubt assailed him, dragging at the soul of him, where it clung
blindly to its anchorage. And it held fast--raging, despairing in the
bitterness of renunciation, but still held on through the most dreadful
tempest that ever swept him. Courage, duty, reparation--the words
drummed in his brain, stupefying him with their dull clamour; but he
understood and listened, knowing the end--knowing that the end must
always be the same for him. It was the revolt of instinct against
drilled and ingrained training, inherited and re-schooled--the insurgent
clamour of desire opposed to that stern self-repression characteristic
of generations of Selwyns, who had held duty important enough to follow,
even when their bodies died in its wake.

And it were easier for him, perhaps, if his body died.

He rose and walked to the window. Over the Bay of Shoals the fog was
lifting; and he saw the long gray pier jutting northward--the pier where
the troopships landed their dead and dying when the Spanish war was
ended.

And he looked at the hill where the field hospital had once been. His
brother died there--in the wake of that same duty which no Selwyn could
ignore.

After a moment he