Austin shrugged his shoulders. “Suicide is not usually associated with reason,” he observed. “But in Robert’s case there is a reason, or so it seems to me. I have not seen him for many years, but during my recent close association with him I was struck by two things: the solitary aloofness of his mind, and his overwhelming pride—pride in the family name. These two traits in his character coloured all his actions. In the first place, he disliked opening his mind to anybody, but the stronger influence, his family pride, overcame his habitual secretiveness when he thought it necessary and desirable to do so in furtherance of his darling ambition—the restoration of this title. Men who lead a solitary, self-contained life, like my brother, become introspective and ultra-sensitive, and face any intimate personal revelation with the utmost reluctance. They will nerve themselves to it when the occasion absolutely requires, but the after effects—the mental self-probings, the agonized self torture that a self-conscious proud man can inflict on himself when he comes to analyze the effects of his disclosure on other minds, are sometimes unendurable.”
Austin put forward this analysis of his brother’s state of mind with a gravity which was in complete contrast with the light airiness of his tea-table gossip, and Barrant felt that he was speaking with sincerity.
“Yes, I can understand that,” he said with a thoughtful nod.
“I think that is what happened in my brother’s case, when he felt called upon to reveal, as he did yesterday, a shameful family secret which hurt him in his strongest point—his family pride.”
“Stop a minute,” interrupted Barrant, in a surprised voice. “I really do not follow you here. What is this shameful secret to which you refer?”
Austin Turold looked surprised in his turn. “It had to do with his marriage and his daughter’s legitimacy,” he slowly replied. “Surely my sister imparted this to the Penzance police inspector, when she besought his assistance?”
“I know nothing about it,” replied Barrant quickly and emphatically. “I shall be glad if you will tell me.”
“Certainly.”
Austin Turold related the story of his brother’s. Again he spoke in careful grave words, and with a manner completely divested of any trace of his habitual flippancy.
“It appears to me that this revelation must have had a very painful effect on Robert’s mind,” he added. “You must remember that he was an abnormal type. An ordinary man would not have made such a disclosure on the day of the funeral of the woman who was supposed to be his wife. But all Robert’s acts hinged on his one great obsession. He allowed nothing to come between him and his one ambition—not even his wife (let us call her so) and child. But it would come home to him afterwards—I mean the normal point of view—the way the world would regard such a disclosure—and I have no doubt that his belated mental anguish and morbid thoughts impelled him to take his life. Understand me, Mr. Barrant, I do not mean that he did this through remorse, but through the blow to his pride. He couldn’t face the racket—the gossip, the notoriety and all the rest of it.”