“A man of the world could infer. These scholars—well—they have blood in them like other mortals. We breathe nothing of it—because of the girl.”
“Barbara?”
My lord nodded.
“The whole tragedy broke something in the child. She was bright and sparkling enough, you remember, though always a little fierce. There is the fear—”
He paused expressively, with his eyes on his son’s face.
“There is the fear of madness. The thing seems to have worn on her, chafed her mind. Anne Purcell and I have done what we can, for God knows—I was Lionel Purcell’s friend. But there is always the chance. She is not like other women.”
My lord spoke as a man who feels an old burden chafe his shoulder. As for the son, he was looking beyond his father at the opposite wall. He recalled the girl as he had seen her in the garden. She had baffled him. Here was the explanation.
“It is well that she should never know,” he said, gravely; “she has enough to haunt her—without that.”
My lord had finished his wine and fruit. He rose from the table, and, catching sight of himself in a Venetian mirror on the wall, turned away with a slight frown.
“You had better amuse yourself choosing some of my clothes,” he said. “I have business to-night with Pembroke, and I may be late. Richards will give you the keys. We are much of a size, Jack, though you are shorter in the shanks. Thank the Lord for one mercy, I have not put on too much fat.”