Was a corner of the veil here lifted? Hardly enough for Brion to gather more than a faint surmise of what lay behind. Yet the whole truth, if revealed, had seemed a pitiful enough thing to be clothed in such a giant’s robe of artifice. It turned upon one, grown old as his time judged age, and by reason of his years, perhaps, and their disqualifying ravages, become sensible of a loosened hold on those royal affections he had once commanded. It turned upon the thought of an infidelity committed in long past days, and never suspected by her who, thinking their then mutual faith inviolable, would bitterly resent that lost illusion, and visit his deception on his head in terms of final estrangement, finding therein a pretext for ridding herself of what, one might suspect, already a little irked her. It turned upon this pretty witness to his faithlessness—never, indeed, lost wholly sight of—and how at a late day his sin had come home to roost in him, and how it might be used by designing enemies to bring about his ruin. It turned upon all such considerations far more than upon any real suspicion that a vengeful spirit in this young victim of his wrongdoing nursed designs upon his life; though that thought, too, had been weighed and balanced. And now—was he reassured? He believed so. The boy’s scornful repudiation of him was the best evidence in his favour, and it was for that very reason that he had suffered his young defiance and forgiven him his insolence. Had it been otherwise, had his suspicion been in any way confirmed, he would have disposed of him as ruthlessly and remorselessly as he would of any alien conspirator snared into his hands. But now, being reassured, and at liberty to consider him for himself, and not for his imagined designs, a certain emotion, weak and obscure, strange even to himself, but quite genuine in its nature, allowed itself a little room in his breast for play. The eyes which had scorned him, the spirit which had defied, became notes for admiration. They reflected credit on himself; he felt a pride in them; he had a sudden wish to stand well with the boy.
And Brion? He neither guessed, nor was ever to know, the secret motives which had underlain this interrogation. That this man suspected him of scheming in some diabolical way against his life and fortunes was the one apparent thing; and with that explanation of a mystery he must rest content. He had no heart or wish, indeed, to inquire further; he wanted only, as he had himself truthfully declared, to put him for ever out of his mind.
A long time Leicester sat gazing into the young undaunted face, as if striving to recall some memory from it. At length he sighed and spoke:—
‘Shall I believe thee? Well, sith thy truth unflatters me, I will believe it truth. Yet fain would I learn what brought thee to London, and in that company?’
‘I shall not tell you what.’
‘Rash and headstrong! Bethink you what you say.’
‘I do, and say it. I shall not tell you. What brought me was no thought of you, nor anything concerning you. Have I not said it? I am not so proud of this connexion that I wish to vaunt it. To deny it, rather, since I had no voice in it. Be assured of that. It shall never be betrayed for me.’
‘Nor shall word to living soul of this interview—eh—an I let thee free?’
‘That follows—though I give my promise, if you will.’
‘Ah!’ He put his hands on the elbow of his chair, preparing to rise. ‘Well, thou hast been in peril—believe me. That thou hast escaped it, thank her whose trustful spirit looks from out thine eyes. For thy rash insolence—I forgive it.’ He got heavily to his feet, went forth and back once or twice in a narrow space, and stopped before the young man.