Janet went upon no more expeditions with Tom. His lie struck her like a shot, going through all her defences. She had almost lied for him, according to Charlie Blackmore’s instructions; lied, or at least suppressed the truth, giving her mother to understand that there was no purpose at all in their ride, but only that they had gone too far--to save him, that he might not be blamed. But when Tom arrived with his lie all ready, in which there was no hesitation, Janet, standing aghast looking on, too much startled to contradict him or say a word, felt as if he had suddenly landed a blow at her, flung an arrow like the savages she had read of--which went through and through, cutting not only to her heart, but to the last refuge of her intelligence, the recesses of her not too lively brain. It was not only pain, but a painful desire to understand, which moved her. Why did he do it? What did he mean by it? It seemed almost impossible to believe that it was only the familiar childish effort to clear himself by blaming her. ‘It’s Janet--it’s not me.’ She had said herself in the nursery days, ‘It’s not me--it’s Tom,’ in the sudden shock of a fault found out. Was that all he meant, or was it something more? Tom’s explanation afterwards did not mend matters. ‘Well!’ he said, ‘it _was_ you--you know you wanted to see the mare. I told you you weren’t game for it, but you swore you were. And whose fault was it but yours for breaking down and letting it all out?--spoiling my fun in every way. For the Blackmores are as proud as the devil----’ ‘Don’t speak like that,’ cried Janet with a shudder. ‘They are though, just as proud as the devil, though they’re nothing but horse-coupers. I knew I was done for when I said that I had given my word. The old man fired up like a rocket, and I’ll never be able to go there any more, which is all your fault.’ ‘But, Tom; if you gave your word----’ ‘Don’t be silly,’ cried Tom, ‘that’s not like giving your honour between you and another man. What’s Beau? he’s like one of the masters in school. They know you don’t mean it; they know you’ll get out of it if you can, and they’re always on the watch. Not the least like another fellow of your own sort that you give your honour to. Of course I should keep that. But mother or Beau is quite different. You’re forced to do that, and they know you never mean to keep it all the time.’