less at Penarrow.

Sir Oliver was moody and silent in those days, given to sit for long
hours staring into the heart of the fire and repeating to himself again
and again every word of his interview with Rosamund, now in a mood of
bitter resentment against her for having so readily believed his guilt,
now in a gentler sorrowing humour which made full allowance for the
strength of the appearances against him.

His half-brother moved softly about the house now in a sort of
self-effacement, never daring to intrude upon Sir Oliver's abstractions.
He was well acquainted with their cause. He knew what had happened at
Godolphin Court, knew that Rosamund had dismissed Sir Oliver for all
time, and his heart smote him to think that he should leave his brother
to bear this burden that rightly belonged to his own shoulders.

The thing preyed so much upon his mind that in an expansive moment one
evening he gave it tongue.

"Noll," he said, standing beside his brother's chair in the firelit
gloom, and resting a hand upon his brother's shoulder, "were it not best
to tell the truth?"

Sir Oliver looked up quickly, frowning. "Art mad? quoth he. "The truth
would hang thee, Lal."

"It might not. And in any case you are suffering something worse than
hanging. Oh, I have watched you every hour this past week, and I know
the pain that abides in you. It is not just." And he insisted--"We had
best tell the truth."