The words fell heavily, and when they were spoken, there was a silence in the library. Major Edward broke it. "You are determined, and I waste no breath in challenging the inevitable. So be it! The child will come home to us, Dick."
The elder brother walked the length of the room and paused before the picture of Henry Churchill. When at last he turned, his ruddy face was pale, his eyes wet. "Henry was a proud man. We grow old, and we grow to be thankful that the dead are dead! Well, Edward, well! we've weathered much—I reckon we can weather more." He halted at the glass door and stared out into the flowering garden. "My little Jack!" he muttered, and drew his hand across his eyes.
Cary spoke from where he yet stood beside the table. "I am aware—how can I be other than aware?—of the sorrow and anxiety which I bring upon this house. As regards myself, you have but to indicate your wishes, sir. I will come no more to Fontenoy, if my coming is unwelcome. One interest here I confidently entrust to your generosity. For the rest I will bow to your decision. If you tell me so, sir, I will come no more—though Fontenoy is well nigh as dear to me as Greenwood, and though I love and honour every inmate here."
His voice broke a little. There was a silence, then Colonel Dick swung around from the glass door. "Don't talk damned nonsense, Fair," he said gruffly.
Major Edward spoke from the old green chair. "We'll bring no unnecessary factors into this business, Fairfax. I don't conceive that it is necessary for us to quarrel. It is not you who have wrought the harm—that burden rests elsewhere. Have you seen Unity?"
"No, sir."
"Then we had better send for her." The Major rose and pulled the bell-rope. "Some one must go to Roselands. When do you propose to act?"
"Very soon, sir. Almost at once. I anticipate no resistance and no flight. I'll give him his due. He is bold and he is ready, and the court room is his chosen field, where his gods fight for him. He'll give battle."
The last of the Greenwood Carys moved from his place, walked to the window, and stood there in the light from the north. "Before Unity comes, sir, there is something I would like to say. It pertains to myself. You have known me, both of you, all my life, and you knew my father before me. You know what my brother was to me—brother, guardian, friend. You two have lived your life together; think, each of you, how bitter now would be the other's loss. What if all was yet youth and fire and promise—and a villain struck one down, put out life at a blow, and denied the deed! Denied! went on with trumpets to place and honour! What would you do, Colonel Churchill, or you, Major Edward? You would do as I have done, and you would weigh no circumstance, as I have weighed none. Moreover, right is right, and law and justice must not curtsy even to pity for the innocent and tenderness for those who suffer! It is right that this man should feel the hand of Justice. And I can see it as no other than right that I—when all her paid soldiers failed—should have taken it on myself to bring him there, before her bar. It is this which I shall do, and the end is not with me, but with right and law and order, with the weal of society, yes, and with the man's own proper reaping of the harvest which he sowed! Else he also is monstrous, and there is nothing not awry." He paused, made a slight and dignified gesture with his hands, and went on. "I have done that which I had to do. I abide the consequences. But it is hard to bring trouble on you here, and to bring great trouble on—on one other. I wish you to know that, though I go my way, I go with a pained and heavy heart."
He broke off, and stood with his eyes upon the younger of the two brothers; then, after a moment and with a note of appeal in his voice, "Major Edward—"