“I know what you are going to say,” interrupted the elder, “but don’t say it. I sometimes almost regret having told even you my conviction that Ernest Fitzmaurice is the only chance of my rehabilitation. I would not of course—I would die sooner than have had the girls” (afterwards the pathos of his thus speaking of the two poor faded little old maids, whom he could not disassociate from what then must have been a quarter of a century ago, struck me pitifully) “suspect my suspicion, my conviction, I may say. And nothing, Caryll, nothing would ever make me breathe it except to you.”
The cripple sighed a deep sigh.
“I understand,” he said, “and sympathise, especially as the chance of its being any use is so small, so very small.”
“That young fellow,” resumed the elder Mr Grey, “is clever and well-meaning; acute in a remarkable degree, to have discovered that I have a secret on the subject even from his father. But the discussion tortures me, Caryll—yes, tortures me. I would not take any steps in that quarter. He must surely understand now that his persistence is useless, worse than useless.”
“I think he does,” replied the other simply.
“And after all,” he repeated half dreamily, “it is the smallest of chances. He may be dead, or undiscoverable. If what we have been talking of were the case, he would of course have the strongest motives for keeping out of the way.”
“I am not so sure of that,” said the elder Mr Grey, after a moment’s pause. “You forget that no one dreamt of such a thing but myself. He kept perfectly clear. No, he may even be a prominent person by now, for all I know, in one of the colonies—I forget which he was bound for. But one thing is certain, the man who could do what I believe he did, and act with such fearful hypocrisy, must have slain his conscience long ago. There would be no use in tracing him, and even if there were—no! I do not think I could bring upon another, above all for Jessie’s sake I could not, what I have gone through myself.”
This was all I heard distinctly. I do not imagine either of them spoke again for some moments, and by that time they were back close to the conservatory, which they entered, the elder brother closing the door after him. I took this to be a sign that they were not coming out any more.
I cannot of course, at this distance of time, vouch for the perfect accuracy of the words I have quoted, but the sense of it is exact. I was in a state of nervous tension, in which my hearing was almost abnormally quick; then the mention of our own surname had of course startled me into even closer attention, and through all, my original curiosity was still in existence, though to some extent it had become dormant. So when the time came for the question to arise as to whether I was justified in making use of my unintentional eavesdropping, I felt no misgiving as to my capability of reporting it correctly.
But for the moment, as soon as the brothers had disappeared, everything in my mind gave way to the intense wish to make our escape. Would Moore come out? Must I summon him, or should I leave him to his fate and save myself?—for to me, as a lady, the whole situation was far more grave than for a mischievous schoolboy like my brother. I was revolving these alternatives in my mind when my perplexity was set at rest by the glass door opening cautiously, and Moore’s face, somewhat paler than usual and portentously solemn, peering out. I pushed through the bushes so that he could see me, and said his name in the faintest of whispers. He heard me, and was beside me in a moment, not forgetting, however—I must say the boy had plenty of presence of mind—to close the door behind him. I did not speak—I was too angry to have done so in measured tones—so I said nothing, only grasping him by the arm to make sure of no evasion, as the two of us rushed down the tonnelle, till, breathless, I pulled up for a moment or two once I felt ourselves, comparatively speaking, safe, close against the wall and behind the shelter of the bushes bordering it.