Martin gazed with mildness upon John’s savage and defiant face. His brother’s expression and demeanour by no means chimed with the judicial moderation of his speech. Then the antiquary perused the letter, and there fell no sound upon the silence, except that of a spluttering pen as John Grimbal addressed an envelope.
Presently Martin dropped the letter on the desk before him, and his face was very white, his voice tremulous as he spoke.
“This thing happened more than ten years ago.”
“It did; but don’t imagine I have known it ten years.”
“God forbid! I think better of you. Yet, if only for my sake, reflect before you send this letter. Once done, you have ruined a life. I have seen Will several times since I came home, and now I understand the terrific change in him. He must have known that you know this. It was the last straw. He seems quite broken on the wheel of the world, and no wonder. To one of his nature, the past, since you discovered this terrible secret, must have been sheer torment.”
John Grimbal doubled up the letter and thrust it into the envelope, while Martin continued:
“What do you reap? You’re not a man to do an action of this sort and live afterwards as though you had not done it. I warn you, you intend a terribly dangerous thing. This may be the wreck of another soul besides Blanchard’s. I know your real nature, though you’ve hidden it so close of late years. Post that letter, and your life’s bitter for all time. Look into your heart, and don’t pretend to deceive yourself.”
His brother lighted a match, burnt red wax, and sealed the letter with a signet ring.
“Duty is duty,” he said.
“Yes, yes; right shall be done and this extraordinary thing made known in the right quarter. But don’t let it come out through you; don’t darken your future by such an act. Your personal relations with the man, John,—it’s impossible you should do this after all these years.”