‘But how could he have concealed it since? Why should my mother have never told us that his father wrote?’
‘Because she felt that I should have been pained to think that Rex had received something and I nothing. It is as clear as day. It explains many things. No one but a brother could have acted as he did all through my illness. I have often seen him looking at me strangely, and I never understood what it meant until now. He knew, and I did not. Besides—’
‘What?’ asked Hilda, as he stopped short.
‘Well, it would explain, too, why he was so anxious that you and I should be married. If he knew—and he did, I am sure—he saw that if I persisted he would have to tell me the truth, in order that you should have the fortune. I used to wonder why he pressed me so.’ ‘Do you think that was it?’
‘What else could he do? He must have ruined me, his brother, if the marriage had not taken place.’
‘Would he have done that?’ asked Hilda.
‘Rex believes in nothing but honour,’ Greif answered thoughtfully. ‘There is nothing in heaven or earth which could keep him from doing what he thinks honourable. He would ruin me or himself with perfect indifference rather than see an injustice done by the fault of either.’
‘He is a strange man.’
‘He is a grand man, noble in every part of him, splendidly unselfish, magnificently brave—I wish I were like him.’
‘I should not love you. He is cold as stone, though he may be all that you say, and though I am very fond of him.’