His father sighed.
"Yes," he said. "I don't wonder you refused my hand, lad; yet there's more excuse than you know of. I can't tell you all now, but I will—one day."
Michael was twisting the stems of a little bunch of primroses between nervous fingers.
"Ralph Conyers is dead also," he replied unsteadily.
Stephen Berrington looked up sharply.
"I know," he answered. "Ah yes! Of course that story has been drummed well into you. A moment's weakness, and a man's whole lifetime to be cursed for it."
"It cost his friends more."
"Oh, aye; I know. But what of it? If I had not spoken we should have all been strung up in a row. I could not have saved Pryor and Farquhar. No, nor Conyers either, for that matter. As it was I saved my own skin, and never really hurt theirs. What blame?"
"Need a gentleman ask that question?"
"Tra, la, la! Sir Henry always was a good schoolmaster there. A trifle out of date, though, my son, as you will find. Why, even Morry himself took my word for it and shook hands afterwards."