The Argosy — page 53: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

The Mystery of Allan Grale. 23 Allan must have received his box and her telegram. If so, then surely she might infer that he was only carrying out some plans of his own staying away, and that he would come back some time. The hardest part of it all was, that he did not write. So Mr. and Mrs. Grale sat together at their fireside, each nursing an inward trouble, which they concealed from the other. It was impossible to say what Mr. Grale knew of his son, whether anything or nothing, and what he suspected or did not suspect. He had never sought an interview with Edgar Vivian—as Dr. Palmer had suggested. “Why do you not do it?” Dr. Palmer enquired of Mr. Grale, meeting him one day in a Jane, shortly after his own interview with Edgar had taken place; and Mr. Grale’s face had darkened at the question. “It would be of no use,” he answered. “ I know human nature. He would deceive me where he could. And where he could not tell what facts I had on my side, he would take refuge behind dead silence, in the name of his own honour and his loyalty to his absent friend. Honour! Loyalty !” Mr. Grale repeated each word with intense con- tempt and bitterness. “ Look here, Doctor—it might bring danger if he spoke,” went on Mr. Grale, dropping his voice to a low whisper and glancing over his shoulder to make sure they were alone. ‘‘ Danger for himself and for Allan. He won't speak, and Allan keeps away for fear he should be made to do so.” Dr. Palmer wondered if this were true. It had struck him that, had he been in Edgar Vivian’s place he should have sought out Mr. Grale of his own accord. As for the family at Dering Court, their existence was full of monotony. General Vivian was out of present danger, but he was a decrepit old man now. He had ceased to chide his nephews for not making due stand and mark in life. He only clung to them, liking them about him. It was a satisfaction to him to know they were in the same house with himself. Certainly Edgar gave him little other satisfaction, for he shut himself into the library and buned himself among his books with a diligence that must have brought honourable results, had he exercised it during his college career. But George was very good to his uncle—good with that tenderness which in sweet, weak natures is often the growth of a too tardy self-reproach. But, when the General was able to walk about the house again and to sun himself on the terrace, George began to hint that he should like to take a little change of scene—a sea-breeze, a mountain scramble. But the General objected; and he entreated George piteously, almost tearfully, not to leave him—he was a poor old man—and nobody knew what a day might bring forth for such as he—and he could not trouble anybody long. George yielded without a murmur. “J only wish you were settled in life, my boy,” said the General, GOMMGIO@ S — e