“It is very mysterious, then,” I replied, “though I shall not feel satisfied that it was not the elder brother till I have seen him for myself on Sunday. Do let me sit where I can have a good view of them, Isabel. I promise you I will peep at them most discreetly.”
Isabel smiled, but seemed nevertheless a little disapproving.
“I hope they won’t occupy your thoughts during the whole of church-time,” she said.
“No, no,” I replied. “Of course I wouldn’t let it be so. Though naturally what has happened this evening makes me more anxious than ever to see them.”
Fortunately for my peace of mind, this day was already Friday. I had not, therefore, long to wait. Millflowers church still belonged to the old order of things. There were two or three square pews, cushioned and curtained, for the “upper ten” of the village, one of which, of course, was appropriated to the Manor-house, and another to Grimsthorpe; and Isabel kindly arranged, not without some conscientious scruples, I fear, however, that I should occupy the corner whence the melancholy quartette could best be seen. She made a little plan of the church and the pews the evening before, for my benefit.
But without anything of this kind—almost, I think, without having been on the look-out for the denizens of the Grim House at all—they would, it seems to me, at once have attracted my attention. Indeed, at the first moment, I felt surprised that every one in the church did not turn round to look at them, forgetting the many years—years more than my whole existence—during which the solemn little procession of the four sad-faced people had, Sunday after Sunday, made their way up the aisle to the gloomy old pew. No—sad I can scarcely call them all, without making one exception. The face of the younger brother was, as Isabel had said, not only sweet, but calm and peaceful in expression, though he appeared pathetically delicate, with large soft eyes and almost colourless complexion.
“He is not the guilty one, if guilty one there is,” I decided. “He is not the cause of the family unhappiness and isolation. I should say he is a sort of saint, happy to bear for the sake of others.”
Then my eyes turned to the elder brother. The sisters I had already glanced at, and found them exactly what I had expected from Isabel’s description—refined, rather insignificant-looking, inexpressibly melancholy; but the face of the senior of the party was in a sense the most interesting of all. He was evidently a strong man, well-made and originally powerful. But his frame was prematurely bent, the lines of his fine features were worn and furrowed. It was a good face, but the expression had become almost fiercely defiant and hard.
I made up my mind on the spot—I think I am naturally gifted with a certain amount of insight into character and idiosyncrasies—I made up my mind on the spot that Isabel was mistaken.
“It is the elder brother,” I mentally ejaculated, “who is at the root of it all! He is the most miserable of the four, because he feels that he has brought their trouble upon them. But nevertheless it would be very difficult to believe that that man has ever done anything mean or dishonourable.” And I felt that the personal sight of the Grey family had to me only deepened the mystery. And then a sudden recollection flashed across my mind—the man I had met, the young man who had lost his pocket-book, was not one of the group in the square pew! Who was he? A ghost, after all?