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Under False Pretences: A Novel

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Title: Under False Pretences: A Novel

Author: Adeline Sergeant


        
Release date: February 23, 2010 [eBook #31375]

Language: English

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UNDER FALSE PRETENCES

A Novel.

by

ADELINE SERGEANT

Author of _Jacobi's Wife, Beyond Recall, An Open Foe, etc._







Entered according to the Act of the Parliament of Canada in the year one
thousand eight hundred and eighty-nine by William Bryce, in the office
of the Minister of Agriculture.

Toronto;
William Bryce, Publisher.




UNDER FALSE PRETENCES.


CONTENTS

   CHAPTER I.       Prologue to the Story
   CHAPTER II.      BY THE LOCH.
   CHAPTER III.     HUGO LUTTRELL.
   CHAPTER IV.      IN THE TWILIGHT.
   CHAPTER V.       THE DEAD MAN'S TESTIMONY.
   CHAPTER VI.      MOTHER AND SON.
   CHAPTER VII.     A FAREWELL.
   CHAPTER VIII.    IN GOWER-STREET.
   CHAPTER IX.      ELIZABETH'S WOOING.
   CHAPTER X.       BROTHER DINO.
   CHAPTER XI.      ON A MOUNTAIN-SIDE.
   CHAPTER XII.     THE HEIRESS OF STRATHLECKIE.
   CHAPTER XIII.    SAN STEFANO.
   CHAPTER XIV.     THE PRIOR'S OPINION.
   CHAPTER XV.      THE VILLA VENTURI.
   CHAPTER XVI.     "WITHOUT A REFERENCE."
   CHAPTER XVII.    PERCIVAL'S HOLIDAY.
   CHAPTER XVIII.   THE MISTRESS OF NETHERGLEN.
   CHAPTER XIX.     A LOST LETTER.
   CHAPTER XX.      "MISCHIEF, THOU ART AFOOT."
   CHAPTER XXI.     A FLASK OF ITALIAN WINE.
   CHAPTER XXII.    BRIAN'S WELCOME.
   CHAPTER XXIII.   THE WISHING WELL.
   CHAPTER XXIV.    "GOOD-BYE."
   CHAPTER XXV.     A COVENANT.
   CHAPTER XXVI.    ELIZABETH'S CONFESSION.
   CHAPTER XXVII.   PERCIVAL'S OWN WAY.
   CHAPTER XXVIII.  A REVELATION.
   CHAPTER XXIX.    CHAPTER XXIX.
   CHAPTER XXX.     FRIENDS AND BROTHERS.
   CHAPTER XXXI.    ACCUSER AND ACCUSED.
   CHAPTER XXXII.   RETRIBUTION.
   CHAPTER XXXIII.  WHAT PERCIVAL KNEW.
   CHAPTER XXXIV.   PERCIVAL'S ATONEMENT.
   CHAPTER XXXV.    DINO'S HOME-COMING.
   CHAPTER XXXVI.   BY LAND AND SEA.
   CHAPTER XXXVII.  WRECKED.
   CHAPTER XXXVIII. ON THE ROCAS REEF.
   CHAPTER XXXIX.   BETWEEN LIFE AND DEATH.
   CHAPTER XL.      KITTY.
   CHAPTER XLI.     KITTY'S FRIENDS.
   CHAPTER XLII.    A FALSE ALARM.
   CHAPTER XLIII.   TRAPPED.
   CHAPTER XLIV.    HUGO'S VICTORY.
   CHAPTER XLV.     TOO LATE!
   CHAPTER XLVI.    A MERE CHANCE.
   CHAPTER XLVII.   FOUND.
   CHAPTER XLVIII.  ANGELA.
   CHAPTER XLIX.    KITTY'S WARNING.
   CHAPTER L.       MRS. LUTTRELL'S ROOM.
   CHAPTER LI.      A LAST CONFESSION.
   CHAPTER LII.     "THE END CROWNS ALL, AND THAT IS YET TO COME."



CHAPTER I.

Prologue to the Story.

In Two Parts.


I.

It was in the year 1854 that an English gentleman named Edward Luttrell
took up his abode in a white-walled, green-shuttered villa on the slopes
of the western Apennines. He was accompanied by his wife (a Scotchwoman
and an heiress), his son (a fine little fellow, five years old), and a
couple of English servants. The party had been travelling in Italy for
some months, and it was the heat of the approaching summer, as well as
the delicate state of health in which Mrs. Luttrell found herself, that
induced Mr. Luttrell to seek out some pleasant house amongst the hills
where his wife and child might enjoy cool breezes and perfect repose.
For he had lately had reason to be seriously concerned about Mrs.
Luttrell's health.

The husband and wife were as unlike each other as they well could be.
Edward Luttrell was a broad-shouldered, genial, hearty man, warmly
affectionate, hasty in word, generous in deed. Mrs. Luttrell was a woman
of peculiarly cold manners; but she was capable, as many members of her
household knew, of violent fits of temper and also of implacable
resentment. She was not an easy woman to get on with, and if her husband
had not been a man of very sweet and pliable nature, he might not have
lived with her on such peaceful terms as was generally the case. She had
inherited a great Scotch estate from her father, and Edward Luttrell was
almost entirely dependent upon her; but it was not a dependence which
seemed to gall him in the very least. Perhaps he would have been
unreasonable if it had done so; for his wife, in spite of all her
faults, was tenderly attached to him, and never loved him better than
when he asserted his authority over her and her possessions.

Mr. and Mrs. Luttrell had not been at their pretty white villa for more
than two months when a second son was born to them. He was baptized
almost immediately by an English clergyman then passing through the
place, and received the name of Brian. He was a delicate-looking baby,
but seemed likely to live and do well. Mrs. Luttrell's recovery was
unusually rapid; the soft Italian air suited her constitution, and she
declared her intention of nursing the child herself.

Edward Luttrell was in high spirits. He had been decidedly nervous
before the event took place, but now that it was safely over he was like
a boy in his joyous sense of security. He romped with his little son, he
talked _patois_ with the inhabitants of the neighbouring village of San
Stefano, he gossiped with the monks of the Benedictine foundation, whose
settlement occupied a delightful site on the hillside, and no
premonition of coming evil disturbed his heart. He thought himself the
most fortunate of men. He adored his wife; he worshipped the baby. His
whole heart was bound up in his handsome little Dick, who, at five years
old, was as nearly the image of his father as a child could be. What had
he left to wish for?

There had been a good deal of fever at San Stefano throughout the
summer. When the little Brian was barely six weeks old, it became only
too evident that Mrs. Luttrell was sickening of some illness--probably
the same fever that had caused so much mortality in the village. The
baby was hastily taken away from her, and a nurse provided. This nurse
was a healthy young woman with very thick, black eyebrows and a bright
colour; handsome, perhaps, but not prepossessing. She was the wife of a
gardener employed at the villa, and had been recommended by one of the
Fathers at the monastery--a certain Padre Cristoforo, who seemed to know
the history of every man, woman and child in San Stefano. She was the
mother of twins, but this was a fact which the Luttrells did not know.

This woman, Vincenza Vasari by name, was at first domiciled in the villa
itself with her charge; but as more dangerous symptoms declared
themselves in Mrs. Luttrell's case, it was thought better that she
should take the baby to her own home, which was a fairly clean and
respectable cottage close to the gates of the villa. Here Mr. Luttrell
could visit the child from time to time; but as his wife's illness
became more serious he saw less and less of the baby, and left it more
than ever to Vincenza's care.

Vincenza's own children were with their grandmother at a hamlet three
miles from San Stefano. The grandmother, generally known as old Assunta,
used to bring one or another of them sometimes to see Vincenza. Perhaps
they took the infection of fever in the course of these visits; at any
rate one of them was soon reported to be seriously ill, and Vincenza was
cautioned against taking the Luttrells' baby into the village. It was
the little Lippo Vasari who was ill; his twin-brother Dino was reported
perfectly well.

Some days afterwards Mr. Luttrell, on calling at the cottage as usual,
noticed that Vincenza's eyes were red, and her manner odd and abrupt.
Old Assunta was there, with the baby upon her knee. Mr. Luttrell asked
what was the matter. Vincenza turned away and burst into tears.

"She has lost her baby, signor," the old woman explained. "The little
one died last night at the village, and Vincenza could not see it. The
doctor will tell you about it all," she said, nodding significantly, and
lowering her voice. "He knows."

Mr. Luttrell questioned the doctor, and received his assurance that
Vincenza's child (one of the twins) had been kept strictly apart from
the little Brian Luttrell; and that there could be no danger of
infection. In which assurance the doctor was perfectly sincere, not
knowing that Vincenza's habit had been to spend a portion of almost
every evening at her mother's house, in order to see her own children,
to whom, however, she did not seem to be passionately attached.

It is to be noted that the Luttrells still learned nothing of the
existence of the other baby; they fancied that all Vincenza's children
were dead. Vincenza had thought that the English lady would be
prejudiced against her if she knew that she was the mother of twins, and
had left them both to old Assunta's care; so, even when Lippo was laid
to rest in the churchyard at San Stefano, the little Dino was carefully
kept in the background and not suffered to appear. Neither Mr. Luttrell
nor Mrs. Luttrell (until long afterwards) knew that Vincenza had another
child.

Two months passed before Mrs. Luttrell was sufficiently restored to
health to be able to see her children. The day came at last when little
Richard was summoned to her room to kiss a pale woman with great, dark
eyes, at whom he gazed solemnly, wonderingly, but with a profound
conviction that his own mamma had gone away and left her place to be
filled up by somebody else. In point of fact, Mrs. Luttrell's expression
was curiously changed; and the boy's instinct discovered the change at
once. There was a restless, wandering look in her large, dark eyes which
had never been visible in them before her illness, except in moments of
strong excitement. She did not look like herself.

"I want the baby," she said, when she had kissed little Richard and
talked to him for a few moments. "Where is my baby?"

Mr. Luttrell came up to her side and answered her.

"The baby is coming, Margaret; Vincenza is bringing him." Then, after a
pause--"Baby has been ill," he said. "You must be prepared to see a
great change in him."

She looked at him as if she did not understand.

"What change shall I see?" she said. "Tell Vincenza to make haste,
Edward. I must see my baby at once; the doctor said I might see him
to-day."

"Don't excite yourself, Margaret; I'll fetch them," said Mr. Luttrell,
easily. "Come along, Dick; let us find Vincenza and little brother
Brian."

He quitted the room, with Dick at his heels. Mrs. Luttrell was left
alone. But she had not long to wait. Vincenza entered, made a low
reverence, uttered two or three sentences of congratulation on the
English signora's recovery, and then placed the baby on Mrs. Luttrell's
lap.

What happened next nobody ever precisely knew. But in another moment
Vincenza fled from the room, with her hands to her ears, and her face as
white as death.

"The signora is mad--mad!" she gasped, as she met Mr. Luttrell in the
corridor. "She does not know her own child! She says that she will kill
it! I dare not go to her; she says that her baby is dead, and that that
one is mine! Mine! mine! Oh, Holy Virgin in Heaven! she says that the
child is mine!"

Wherewith Vincenza went into strong hysterics, and Mr. Luttrell strode
hastily towards his wife's room, from which the cries of a child could
be heard. He found Mrs. Luttrell sitting with the baby on her knee, but
although the poor little thing was screaming with all its might, she
vouchsafed it no attention.

"Tell Vincenza to take her wretched child away," she said. "I want my
own. This is her child; not mine."

Edward Luttrell stood aghast.

"Margaret, what do you mean?" he ejaculated. "Vincenza's child is dead.
This is our little Brian. You are dreaming."

He did not know whether she understood him or not, but a wild light
suddenly flashed into her great, dark eyes. She dashed the child down
upon the bed with the fury of a mad woman.

"You are deceiving me," she cried; "I know that my child is dead. Tell
me the truth; my child is dead!"

"No such, thing, Margaret," cried Mr. Luttrell, almost angrily; "how can
you utter such folly?"

But his remonstrance passed unheeded. Mrs. Luttrell had, sunk insensible
to the floor; and her swoon was followed by a long and serious relapse,
during which it seemed very unlikely that she would ever awake again to
consciousness.

The crisis approached. She passed it safely and recovered. Then came the
tug of war. The little Brian was brought back to the house, with
Vincenza as his nurse; but Mrs. Luttrell refused to see him. Doctors
declared her dislike of the child to be a form of mania; her husband
certainly believed it to be so. But the one fact remained. She would not
acknowledge the child to be her own, and she would not consent to its
being brought up as Edward Luttrell's son. Nothing would convince her
that her own baby still lived, or that this child was not the offspring
of the Vasari household. Mr. Luttrell expostulated. Vincenza protested
and shed floods of tears, the doctor, the monks, the English nurse were
all employed by turn, in the endeavour to soften her heart; but every
effort was useless. Mrs. Luttrell declared that the baby which Vincenza
had brought her was not her child, and that she should live and die in
this conviction.

Was she mad? Or was some wonderful instinct of mother's love at the
bottom of this obstinate adherence to her opinion?

Mr. Luttrell honestly thought that she was mad. And then, mild man as he
was, he rose up and claimed his right as her husband to do as he thought
fit. He sent for his solicitor, a Mr. Colquhoun, through whom he went so
far even as to threaten his wife with severe measures if she did not
yield. He would not live with her, he said--or Mr. Colquhoun reported
that he said--unless she chose to bury her foolish fancy in oblivion.
There was no doubt in his mind that the child was Brian Luttrell, not
Lippo Vasari, whose name was recorded on a rough wooden cross in the
churchyard of San Stefano. And he insisted upon it that his wife should
receive the child as her own.

It was a long fight, but in the end Mrs. Luttrell had to yield. She
dismissed Vincenza, and she returned to Scotland with the two children.
Her husband exacted from her a promise that she would never again speak
of the wild suspicion that had entered her mind; that under no
circumstances would she ever let the poor little boy know of the painful
doubt that had been thrown on his identity. Mrs. Luttrell promised, and
for three-and-twenty years she kept her word. Perhaps she would not have
broken it then but for a certain great trouble which fell upon her, and
which caused a temporary revival of the strange madness which had led
her to hate the child placed in her arms at San Stefano.

It was not to be wondered at that Edward Luttrell made a favourite of
his second son in after life. A sense of the injustice done him by his
mother made the father especially tender to the little Brian; he walked
with him, talked with him, made a companion of him in every possible
way. Mrs. Luttrell regained by degrees the cold composure of manner that
had distinguished her in earlier life: but she could not command herself
so far as to make a show of affection for her younger son. Brian was a
very small boy indeed when he found that out. "Mother doesn't love me,"
he said once to his father, with grieving lips and tear-filled eyes; "I
wonder why." What could his father do but press him passionately to his
broad breast and assure him in words of tenderest affection that he
loved his boy; and that if Brian were good, and true, and brave, his
mother would love him too! "I will be very good then," said Brian,
nestling close up to his father's shoulder--for he was a child with
exceedingly winning ways and a very affectionate disposition--and
putting one arm round Mr. Luttrell's neck. "But you know she loves
Richard always--even when he is naughty. And you love me when I'm
naughty, too." What could Mr. Luttrell say to that?

He died when Brian was fifteen years old; and the last words upon his
tongue were an entreaty that his wife would never tell the boy of the
suspicion that had turned her love to him into bitterness. He died, and
part of the sting of his death to Mrs. Luttrell lay in the fact that he
died thinking her mad on that one point. The doctors had called her
conviction "a case of mania," and he had implicitly believed them.

But suppose she had not been mad all the time!


II.

In San Stefano life went on tranquilly from month to month and year to
year. In 1867, Padre Cristoforo of the Benedictine Monastery, looked
scarcely older than when he picked out a nurse for the Luttrell family
in 1854. He was a tall man, with a stooping gait and a prominent,
sagacious chin; deep-set, meditative, dark eyes, and a somewhat fine and
subtle sort of smile which flickered for a moment at the corner of his
thin-lipped mouth, and disappeared before you were fully conscience of
its presence. He was summoned one day from the monastery (where he now
filled the office of sub-Prior) at the earnest request of an old woman
who lived in a neighbouring village. She had known him many years
before, and thought that it would be easier to tell her story to him
than to a complete stranger. He had received her communication, and
stood by her pallet with evident concern and astonishment depicted upon
his face. He held a paper in his hand, at which he glanced from time to
time as the woman spoke.

"It was not my doing," moaned the old crone. "It was my daughter's. I
have but told you what she said to me five years ago. She said that she
did change the children; it was Lippo, indeed, who died, but the child
whom the English lady took to England with her was Vincenza's little
Dino; and the boy whom we know as Dino is really the English child. I
know not whether it is true! Santa Vergine! what more can I say?"

"Why did you not reveal the facts five years ago?" said the Father, with
some severity of tone.

"I will tell you, Reverend Father. Because Vincenza came to me next day
and said that she had lied--that the child, Dino, was her own, after
all, and that she had only wanted to see how much I would believe. What
was I to do? I do not know which story to believe; that is why I tell
both stories to you before I die."

"She denied it, then, next day?"

"Yes, Father; but her husband believed it, as you will see by that
paper. He wrote it down--he could write and read a little, which I could
never do; and he told me what he had written:--'I, Giovanni Vasari, have
heard my wife, Vincenza, say that she stole an English gentleman's
child, and put her own child in its place. I do not know whether this is
true; but I leave my written word that I was innocent of any such crime,
and humbly pray to Heaven that she may be forgiven if she committed it.'
Is that right, Reverend Father? And then his name, and the day and the
year."

"Quite right," said Padre Cristoforo. "It was written just before
Giovanni died. The matter cannot possibly be proved without further
testimony. Where is Vincenza?"'

"Alas, Father, I do not know. Dead, I think, or she would have come back
to me before now. I have not heard of her since she took a situation as
maid to a lady in Turin four years ago."

"Why have you told me so useless a story at all, then?" said the father,
again with some sternness of voice and manner. "Evidently Vincenza was
fond of romancing; and, probably--probably----" He did not finish his
sentence; but he was thinking--"Probably the mad fancy of that English
lady about her child--which I well remember--suggested the story to
Vincenza as a means of getting money. I wish I had her here."

"I have told you the story, Reverend Father," said the old woman, whose
voice was growing very weak, "because I know that I am dying, and that
the boy will be left alone in the world, which is a sad fate for any
boy, Father, whether he is Vincenza's child or the son of the English
lady. He is a good lad, Reverend Father, strong, and obedient, and
patient; if the good Fathers would but take charge of him, and see that
he is taught a trade, or put to some useful work! He would be no burden
to you, my poor, little Dino!"

For a moment the Benedictine's eyes flashed with a quick fire; then he
looked down and stood perfectly still, with his hands folded and his
head bent. A new idea had darted across his mind. Did the story that he
had just heard offer him no opportunity of advancing the interests of
his Order and of his Church?

He turned as if to ask another question, but he was too late. Old
Assunta was fast falling into the stupor that is but the precursor of
death. He called her attendant, and waited for a time to see whether
consciousness was likely to return. But he waited in vain. Assunta said
nothing more.

The boy of whom she had spoken came and wept at her bed-side, and Padre
Cristoforo observed him curiously. He was well worthy of the monk's
gaze. He was light and supple in figure, perfectly formed, with a clear
brown skin and a face such as one sees in early Italian paintings of
angelic singing-boys--a face with broad, serious brows, soft, oval
cheeks, curved lips, and delightfully dimpled chin. He had large, brown
eyes and a mass of tangled, curling hair. The priest noted that his
slender limbs were graceful as those of a young fawn, that his hands and
feet were small and well shaped, and that his appearance betokened
perfect health--a slight spareness and sharpness of outline being the
only trace which poverty seemed to have left upon him.

The sub-Prior of San Stefano saw these things; and meditated upon
certain possibilities in the future. He went next day to old Assunta's
funeral, and laid his hand on Dino's shoulder as the boy was turning
disconsolately from his grandmother's grave.

"My child," he said, gently, "you are alone."

"Yes, Father," said Dino, with a stifled sob.

"Will you come with me to the monastery? I think we can find you a home.
You have nowhere to go, poor child, and you will be weary and hungry
before long. Will you come?"

"There is nothing in the world that I should like so well!" cried the
boy, ardently.

"Come then," said the Padre, with one of his subtle smiles. "We will go
together."

He held out his hand, in which Dino gladly laid his hot and trembling
fingers. Then the monk and the boy set out on the three miles walk which
lay between them and the monastery.

On their arrival, Padre Cristoforo left the boy in the cool cloisters
whilst he sought the Prior--a dignitary whose permission would be needed
before Dino would be allowed to stay. There was a school in connection
with the monastery, but it was devoted chiefly to the training of young
priests, and it was not probable that a peasant like Dino Vasari would
be admitted to the ranks of these budding ecclesiastics. The Prior
thought that old Assunta's grandchild would make a good helper for
Giacomo, the dresser of the vines.

"Does that not satisfy you?" said Padre Cristoforo, in a rather peculiar
tone, when he had carried this proposal to Dino, and seen the boy's face
suddenly fall, and his eyes fill with tears.

"The Reverend Fathers are very good," said Dino, in a somewhat
embarrassed fashion, "and I will do all that I can to serve them, and,
if I could also learn to read and write--and listen to the music in the
chapel sometimes--I would work for them all the days of my life."

Padre Cristoforo smiled.

"You shall have your wish, my child," he said, kindly. "You shall go to
the school--not to the vine-dressers. You shall be our son now."

But Dino looked up at him timidly.

"And not the English lady's?" he said.

"What do you know about an English lady, my son?"

"My grandmother talked to me of her. Is it true? She said that I might,
turn out to be an Englishman, after all. She said that Vincenza told her
that I did not belong to her."

"My child," said the monk, calmly but firmly, "put these thoughts away
from your mind. They are idle and vain imaginations. Assunta knew
nothing; Vincenza did not always speak the truth. In any case, it is
impossible to prove the truth of her story. It is a sin to let your mind
dwell on the impossible. Your name is Bernardino Vasari, and you are to
be brought up in the monastery of San Stefano by wise and pious men. Is
that not happiness enough for you?"

"Oh, yes, yes, indeed; I wish for nothing else," said Dino, throwing
himself at Padre Cristoforo's feet, and pressing his lips to the monk's
black gown, while the tears poured down his smooth, olive cheeks.
"Indeed I am not ungrateful, Reverend Father, and I will never wish to
be anything but what you want me to be."

"Better so," soliloquised the Father, when he had comforted Dino with
kind words, and led him away to join the companions that would
henceforth be his; "better that he should not wish to rise above the
station in which he has been brought up! We shall never prove Vincenza's
story. If we could do that, we should be abundantly recompensed for
training this lad in the doctrines of the Church--but it will never be.
Unless, indeed, the woman Vincenza could be found and urged to
confession. But that," said the monk, with a regretful sigh, "that is
not likely to occur. And, therefore, the boy will be Dino Vasari, as far
as I can see, to his life's end. And Vincenza's child is living in the
midst of a rich English family under the name of Brian Luttrell. I must
not forget the name. In days to come who knows whether the positions of
these two boys may not be reversed?"

Thus mused Father Cristoforo, and then he smiled and shook his head.

"Vincenza was always a liar," he said to himself. "It is the most
unlikely thing in the world that her story should be true."

END OF THE PROLOGUE.




CHAPTER II.

BY THE LOCH.


"It is you who have been the thief, then?"

The question was uttered in tones of withering contempt. The criminal,
standing before his judge with downcast face and nervously-twitching
fingers, found not a word to reply.

"Answer me," said Richard Luttrell, imperatively. "Tell me the
truth--or, by Heaven, I'll thrash you within an inch of your life, and
make you speak! Did you, or did you not, take this money out of my
strong-box?"

"I meant to put it back," faltered the culprit. He was a slender lad of
twenty, with the olive skin, the curling jet-black hair, the
liquid-brown eyes, which marked his descent from a southern race. The
face was one of singular beauty. The curved lips, the broad brow on
which the dusky hair grew low, the oval cheek and rounded chin might
well have served for the impersonation of some Spanish beggar-boy or
Neapolitan fisher-lad. They were of the subtilely sensuous type,
expressive of passion rather than of intellect or will. At present, with
the usual rich, ripe colour vanished from cheek and lips, with eyes
downcast, and trembling hands dropped to his sides, he was a picture of
embodied shame and fear which his cousin and guardian, Richard Luttrell,
regarded with unmitigated disgust.

Luttrell himself was a man of very different fibre. Tall, strong,
fiercely indignant, he towered over the youth as if he could willingly
have smitten him to the earth. He was a fine-looking, broad-shouldered
man of twenty-eight, with strongly-marked features, browned by exposure
to the sun and wind. The lower part of his face was almost hidden by a
crisp chestnut beard and moustache, whilst his eyes were of the reddish
hazel tint which often denotes heat of temper. The fire which now shot
from beneath the severely knitted brows might indeed have dismayed a
person of stouter heart than Hugo Luttrell. The youth showed no signs of
penitence; he was thoroughly dismayed and alarmed by the position in
which he found himself, but that was all.

The scene of their interview was hardly in accordance with its painful
character. The three men--for there was another whom we have not
attempted to describe--stood on the border of a small loch, the tranquil
waters of which came lapping almost to their feet as they spoke
together. The grassy shores were fringed with alder and rowan-trees.
Above the heads of the speakers waved the branches of a great Scotch
fir, the outpost and sentinel, as it were, of an army of its brethren,
standing discreetly a few yards away from the banks of the loch. Richard
Luttrell's house, though not far distant, was out of sight; and the one
little, grey-stone cottage which could be seen had no windows fronting
the water. It was a spot, therefore, in which a prolonged conversation
could be carried on without much fear of disturbance. Beyond the trees,
and on each side of the loch, were ranged the silent hills; their higher
crags purple in the sunlight, brown and violet in shadow. The tints of
the heather were beginning to glow upon the moors; on the lower-lying
slopes a mass of foliage showed its first autumnal colouring; here and
there a field of yellow stubble gave a dash of almost dazzling
brightness to the landscape, under the cloudless azure of a September
sky. Hills, woods, and firmament were alike reflected with mirror-like
distinctness in the smooth bosom of the loch, where little, brown ducks
swam placidly amongst the weeds, and swallows skimmed and dipped and
flew in happy ignorance of the ruin that guilt and misery can work in
the lives of men.

Richard Luttrell stood with his back towards the open door of a large
wooden shed used as a boat-house, the interior of which looked densely
black by contrast with the brilliant sunlight on the green grass and
trees outside it. An open box or two, a heap, of fishing tackle, a
broken oar, could be seen but dimly from without. It was in one of these
boxes that Richard Luttrell had made, early in the day, a startling
discovery. He had come across a pocket-book which had been abstracted
from his strong-box in a most mysterious way about a week before. On
opening it, he found, not only certain bank-notes which he had missed,
but some marked coins and a cornelian seal which had disappeared on
previous occasions, proving that a system of robbery had been carried on
by one and the same person--evidently a member of the Luttrell
household. The spoil was concealed with great care in a locked box on a
shelf, and but for an accidental stumble by which Luttrell had brought
down the whole shelf and broken the box itself, it would probably have
remained there undisturbed. No one would ever have dreamt of seeking for
Luttrell's pocket-book in a box in the boat-house.

"How did this get here? Who keeps the second key of the boat-house?"
demanded Richard in the first moment of his discovery.

And Brian, his younger brother, answered carelessly--

"Hugo has had it for the last week or two."

Then, disturbed by his brother's tone, he came to Richard's side and
looked at the fragments of the box by which Richard was still kneeling.
With an exclamation of surprise he took up the lid of the box and
examined it carefully. The name of its owner had been printed in ink on
the smooth, brown surface--Hugo Luttrell. And the stolen property was
hidden in that little wooden box.

The exclamations of the two brothers were characteristic. Richard raised
himself with the pocket-book in his hand, and said vehemently--

"The young scoundrel! He shall rue it!"

While Brian, looking shocked and grieved, sat down on the stump of a
tree and muttered, "Poor lad!" between his teeth, as he contemplated the
miserable fragments on the ground.

The sound of a bell came faintly to their ears through the clear morning
air. Richard spoke sharply.

"We must leave the matter for the present. Don't say anything about it.
Lock up the boat-house, Brian, and keep the key. We'll have Hugo down
here after breakfast, and see whether he'll make a clean breast of it."

"He may know nothing at all about it," suggested Brian, rising from his
seat.

"It is to be hoped so," said Luttrell, curtly. He walked out of the
boat-house with frowning brows and sparkling eyes. "I know one thing--my
roof won't shelter him any longer if he is guilty." And then he marched
away to the house, leaving Brian to lock the door and follow at his
ease.

That morning's breakfast was long remembered in the Luttrells' house as
a period of vague and curious discomfort. The reddish light in Richard's
eyes was well known for a danger signal; a storm was in the air when he
wore that expression of suppressed emotion. Brian, a good deal disturbed
by what had occurred, scarcely spoke at all; he sat with his eyes fixed
on the table, forgetting to eat, and glancing only from time to time at
Hugo's young, beautiful, laughing face, as the lad talked gaily to a
visitor, or fed the dogs--privileged inmates of the dining-room--with
morsels from his own plate. It was impossible to think that this
handsome boy, just entering on the world, fresh from a military college,
with a commission in the Lancers, should have chosen to rob the very man
who had been his benefactor and friend, whose house had sheltered him
for the last ten years of his life. What could he have wanted with this
money? Luttrell made him a handsome allowance, had paid his bills more
than once, provided his outfit, put all the resources of his home at
Hugo's disposal, as if he had been a son of the house instead of a
penniless dependent--had, in short, behaved to him with a generosity
which Brian might have resented had he been of a resentful disposition,
seeing that he himself had been much less liberally treated. But Brian
never concerned himself about that view of the matter; only now, when he
suspected Hugo of dishonesty and ingratitude, did he run over in his
mind a list of the benefits which the boy had received for many years
from the master of the house, and grow indignant at the enumeration. Was
it possible that Hugo could be guilty? He had not been truthful as a
schoolboy, Brian remembered; once or twice he had narrowly escaped
public disgrace for some dishonourable act--dishonourable in the eyes of
his companions, as well as of his masters--a fact which was not to
Hugo's credit. Perhaps, however, there was now some mistake--perhaps the
matter might be cleared up. Appearances were against him, but Hugo might
yet vindicate his integrity----

Brian's meditations were interrupted at this point. His brother had
risen from the breakfast-table and was addressing Hugo, with a great
show of courtesy, but with the stern light in his eyes which always made
those who knew him best be on their guard with Richard Luttrell. "If you
are at liberty," he said, "I want you down at the boat-house. I am going
there now."

Brian, who was watching his cousin, saw a sudden change in his face. His
lips turned white, his eyes moved uneasily in their sockets. It seemed
almost as if he glanced backwards and forwards in order to look for a
way of escape. But no escape was possible. Richard stood waiting,
severe, inflexible, with that ominous gleam in his eyes. Hugo rose and
followed like a dog at his master's call. From the moment that Brian
marked his sullen, hang-dog expression and drooping head, he gave up his
hope of proving Hugo's innocence. He would gladly have absented himself
from the interview, but Richard summoned him in a voice that admitted of
no delay.

The lad's own face and words betrayed him when he was shown the
pocket-book and the broken box. He stammered out excuses, prevaricated,
lied; until at last Luttrell lost all patience, and insisted upon a
definite reply to his question. And then Hugo muttered his last
desperate self-justification--that he had "meant to put it back!"

Richard's stalwart figure, the darkness of his brow, the strong hand in
which he was swinging a heavy hunting-crop--caught up, as he left the
house, for no decided purpose, but disagreeably significant in Hugo's
eyes--became doubly terrible to the lad during the interval of silence
that followed his avowal. He glanced supplicatingly at Brian; but Brian
had no aid to give him now. And, when Brian's help failed him, Hugo felt
that all was lost.

Meanwhile, Brian himself, a little in the back ground, leaned against
the trunk of a tree which grew close to the shallow water's edge, bent
his eyes upon the ground and tried to see the boy's face as little as
possible. His affection for Hugo had given him an influence over the lad
which Richard had certainly never possessed. For, generous as Richard
might be, he was not fond of his young cousin; and Hugo, being aware of
this fact, regarded him with instinctive aversion. In his own fashion he
did love Brian--a little bit!

Brian Luttrell was at this time barely three-and-twenty. He had rooms in
London, where he was supposed to be reading for the bar, but his tastes
were musical and literary, and he had not yet made much progress in his
legal studies. He had a handsome, intellectual face of a very refined
type, thoughtful dark eyes, a long, brown moustache, and small pointed
beard of the same colour. He was slighter, less muscular, than Richard;
and the comment often made upon him was that he had the look of a
dreamer, perhaps of an artist--not of a very practical man--and that he
was extremely unlike his brother. There was, indeed, a touch of unusual
and almost morbid sensitiveness in Brian's nature, which, betraying
itself, as it did, from time to time, only by a look, a word, a gesture,
yet proved his unlikeness to Richard Luttrell more than any
dissimilarity of feature could have done.

"You meant to put it back, sir!" thundered Richard, after that moment's
pause, which seemed like an eternity to Hugo. "And where did you mean to
get the money from? Steal it from some one else? Folly! lies! And for
what disgraceful reason did you take it at all? You are in debt, I
presume?"

Hugo's white lips signified assent.

"You have been gambling again?"

He bowed his head.

"I thought so. I told you three months ago that I had paid your gambling
debts for the last time. I make one exception. I will pay them once
again--with the money you have stolen, which you may keep. Much good may
it do you!" He flung the pocket-book on the turf at Hugo's feet as he
spoke. "Take it. You have paid dearly enough for it, God knows. For the
future, sir, manage your own affairs; my house is no longer open to
you."

"Don't be hard on him, Richard," said Brian, in a voice too low to reach
Hugo's ears. "Forgive him this time; he is only a boy, after all--and a
boy with a bad training."

"Will you be so good as to mind your own business, Brian?" said the
elder brother, peremptorily. The severity of his tone increased as he
addressed himself again to Hugo. "You will leave Netherglen to-day. Your
luggage can be sent after you; give your own directions about it. I
suppose you will rejoin your regiment? I neither know nor care what you
mean to do. If we meet again, we meet as strangers."

"Willingly," said Hugo, lifting his eyes for one instant to his cousin's
face, with an expression so full of brooding hatred and defiance that
even Richard Luttrell was amazed.

"For Heaven's sake don't say that, Hugo," began the second brother, with
a hasty desire to pave the way for reconciliation.

"Why not?" said Hugo.

The look of abject fear was dying out of his face. The worst, he
thought, was over. He drew himself up, crossed his arms, and tried to
meet Brian's reproachful eyes with confidence, but in this attempt he
was not successful. In spite of himself, the eyelids dropped until the
long, black lashes almost touched the smooth, olive cheek, across which
passed a transient flush of shame. This sign of feeling touched Brian;
the lad was surely not hopelessly bad if he could blush for his sins.
But Richard went on ruthlessly.

"You need expect no further help from me. I own you as a relation no
longer. You have disgraced the name you bear. Don't let me see you again
in my house." He was too indignant, too much excited, to speak in
anything but short, sharp sentences, each of which seemed more bitter
than the last. Richard Luttrell was little concerned for Hugo's welfare,
much for the honour of the family. "Go," he said, "at once, and I will
not publish your shameful conduct to the world. If you return to my
house, if you seek to establish any communication with members of my
family, I shall not keep your secret."

"Speak for yourself, Richard," said his brother, warmly, "not for me. I
hope that Hugo will do better in time; and I don't mean to give him up.
You must make an exception for me when you speak of separating him from
the family."

"I make no exception," said Richard.

Brian drew nearer to his brother, and uttered his next words in a lower
tone.

"Think what you are doing," he said. "You will drive him to desperation,
and, after all, he is only a boy of nineteen. Quite young enough to
repent and reform, if we are not too hard upon him now. Do as you think
fit for yourself and your own household, but you must not stand in the
way of what I can do for him, little though that may be."

"I stand to what I have said," answered Richard, harshly. "I will have
no communication between him and you." Then, folding his arms, he looked
grimly and sardonically into Brian's face. "I trust neither of you," he
said. "We all know that you are only too easily led by those whom you
like to be led by, and he is a young reprobate. Choose for yourself, of
course; I have no claim to control you, only, if you choose to be
friendly with him, I shall cut off the supplies to you as well as to
him, and I shall expose him publicly."

Brian took away the hand which, in the ardour of his pleading, he had
laid upon Richard's arm. Had it not been for Hugo's sake, he would have
quitted the spot in dudgeon. He knew in his heart that it was useless to
argue with Richard in his present state of passion. But for Hugo's sake
he swallowed his resentment, and made one more trial.

"If he repents----" he began doubtfully, and never finished the
sentence.

"I don't repent," said Hugo.

His voice was hoarse and broken, but insolently defiant. By a great
effort of will he fixed his haggard eyes full on Richard Luttrell's face
as he spoke. Richard shrugged his shoulders.

"You hear?" he said, briefly to his brother.

"I hear," Brian answered, in a low, pained tone.

With an air of bravado Hugo stooped and picked up the pocket-book which
still lay at his feet. He weighed it in his hand, and then laughed
aloud, though not very steadily.

"It is full still," he said. "It will be useful, no doubt. I am much
obliged to you, Cousin Richard."

The action, and the words accompanying it, shocked even Richard, who
professed to think nothing too bad for Hugo's powers. He tossed his head
back and turned away with a contemptuous "Good Heavens!" Brian walked
for a few paces distance, and then stood still, with his back to his
cousin. Hugo glanced from one to the other with uneasiness, which he
tried to veil by an assumption of disdain, and dropped the purse
furtively into his pocket. He was ill-pleased to see Richard turn back
with lowered eyebrows, and a look of stern determination upon his
bearded face.

"Brian," said Luttrell, more quietly than he had yet spoken, "I think I
see mother coming down the road. Will you meet her and lead her away
from the loch, without telling her the reason? I don't wish her to meet
this--this gentleman--again."

The intonation of his voice, the look that he bestowed upon Hugo at the
words that he emphasised, made the lad quiver from head to foot with
rage. Brian walked away without turning to bestow another glance or word
on Hugo. It was a significant action, and one which the young fellow
felt, with a throb of mingled shame and hatred, that he could
understand. He clenched his hands until the dent of the nails brought
blood, without knowing what he did; then made a step or two in another
direction, as if to leave the place. Richard's commanding voice made him
pause.

"Stop!" said Luttrell. "Wait until I give you leave to go."

Hugo waited, with his face turned towards the shining waters of the
loch. The purple mist amongst the distant hills, the golden light upon
the rippling water, the reddening foliage of the trees, had never been
more beautiful than they were that morning. But their beauty was lost
upon Hugo, whose mind was filled with hard and angry protests against
the treatment that he was receiving, and a great dread of the somewhat
desolate future.

Richard Luttrell moved about restlessly, stopping short, now and then,
to watch the figure in black which he had discerned upon the road near
the house. He saw Brian meet it; the two stood and spoke together for a
few minutes; then Brian gave his arm to his mother and led her back to
the house. When they were quite out of sight, Luttrell turned back to
his cousin and spoke again.

"Now that I have got Brian out of the way," he said, as he laid an iron
hand on Hugo's arm, "I am free to punish you as I choose. Mind, I would
have spared you this if you had not had the insufferable insolence to
pick up that pocket-book in my presence. Since you were shameless enough
for that, it is plain what sort of chastisement you deserve. Take
that--and that--and that!"

He lifted his hunting-crop as he spoke, and brought it down heavily on
the lad's shoulders. Hugo uttered a cry like that of a wild animal in
pain, and fought with hands, feet, teeth even, against the infliction of
the stinging blows; but he fought in vain. His cousin's superior
strength mastered him from the beginning; he felt like an infant in
Richard's powerful grasp. Not until the storm of furious imprecations in
which the lad at first vented his impotent rage had died away into
stifled moans and sobs of pain, did Richard's vengeance come to an end.
He flung the boy from him, broke the whip between his strong hands, and
hurled the fragments far into the water, then walked away to the house,
leaving Hugo to sob his heart out, like a passionate child, with face
down in the short, green grass.




CHAPTER III.

HUGO LUTTRELL.


Hugo's Sicilian mother had transmitted to him a nature at once fierce
and affectionate, passionate and cunning. Half-child, half-savage, he
seemed to be bound by none of the restraints that civilised men early
learn to place upon their instincts. He expressed his anger, his sorrow,
his love, with all the abandon that characterised the natives of those
sunny shores where the first years of his life were spent. Profoundly
simple in his modes of feeling, he was yet dominated by the habits of
slyness and trickery which seem to be inherent in the truly savage
breast. He had the savage's love of secrecy and instinctive suspicion of
his fellow-creatures, the savage's swift passions and vindictiveness,
the savage's innate difficulty in comprehending the laws of honour and
morality. It is possible to believe that, with good training from his
infancy, Hugo Luttrell might have developed into a trustworthy and
straightforward man, shrinking from dishonesty and cowardice as infamy
worse than death; but his early education had been of a kind likely to
foster every vice that he possessed. His father, a cousin of the
Luttrells of Netherglen, after marrying a lovely Palermitan, and living
for three years with her in her native land, had at last tired of her
transports of love and jealousy, and started upon an exploring
expedition in South Africa. Hugo was brought up by a mother who adored
him and taught him to loathe the English race. He was surrounded by
flatterers and sycophants from his babyhood, and treated as if he were
born to a kingdom. When he was twelve years old, however, his mother
died; and his father, on learning her death some months afterwards, made
it his business to fetch the boy away from Sicily and bring him to
England. But Hugh Luttrell, the father, was already a dying man. The
seeds of disease had been developed during his many journeyings; he was
far gone in consumption before he even reached the English shores. His
own money was nearly spent. There was a law-suit about the estates
belonging to his wife's father, and it was scarcely probable that they
would devolve upon Hugo, who had cousins older than himself and dearer
to the Sicilian grandfather's heart. The dying man turned in his
extremity to the young head of the house, Richard Luttrell, then only
twenty-one years of age, and did not turn in vain. Richard Luttrell
undertook the charge of the boy, and as soon as the father was laid in
the grave, he took Hugo home with him to Netherglen.

Richard Luttrell could hardly have treated Hugo more generously than he
did, but it must be confessed that he never liked the boy. The faults
which were evident from the first day of his entrance into the
Luttrells' home, were such as disgusted and repelled the somewhat
austere young ruler of the household. Hugo pilfered, lied, cringed,
stormed, in turn, like a veritable savage. He was sent to school, and
learned the wisdom of keeping his tongue silent, and his evil deeds
concealed, but he did not learn to amend his ways. In spite of his
frequent misconduct, he had some qualities which endeared him to the
hearts of those whom he cared to conciliate. His _naïvete_, his
caressing ways, his beautiful, delicate face and appealing eyes, were
not without effect even upon the severest of his judges. Owing, perhaps,
to these attributes rather than to any positive merit of his own, he
scrambled through life at school, at a tutor's, at a military college,
without any irreparable disgrace, his aptitude for getting into scrapes
being equalled only by his cleverness in getting out of them. Richard,
indeed, had at times received reports of his conduct which made him
speak angrily and threaten condign punishment, but not until this day,
when the discovery of the lost bank-notes in Hugo's possession betokened
an absence of principle transcending even Richard's darkest
anticipations, had any serious breach occurred between the cousins. With
some men, the fact that it was the first grave offence would have had
weight, and inclined them to be merciful to the offender, but Richard
Luttrell was not a merciful man. When he discovered wrong-doing, he
punished it with the utmost severity, and never trusted the culprit
again. He had been known to say, in boasting accents, that he did not
understand what forgiveness meant. Forgiveness of injuries? Weakness of
mind: that was his opinion.

Hugo Luttrell's nature was also not a forgiving one. He lay upon the
grass, writhing, sobbing, tearing at the ground in an access of passion
equally composed of rage and shame. He had almost lost the remembrance
of his own offence in resentment of its punishment. He had been struck;
he had been insulted; he, a Sicilian gentleman! (Hugo never thought of
himself as an Englishman.) He loathed Richard Luttrell; he muttered
curses upon him as he lay on the earth, with every bone aching from his
cousin's blows; he wished that he could wipe out the memory of the
affront in Richard's blood. Richard would laugh at a challenge; a duel
was not the English method of settling quarrels. "I will punish him in
another way; it is a _vendetta_!" said Hugo to himself, choking down his
passionate, childish sobs. "He is a brute--a great, savage brute; he
does not deserve to live!"

He was too much absorbed in his reflections to notice a footstep on the
grass beside him, and the rustle of a woman's dress. Some one had drawn
near, and was looking pityingly, wonderingly, down upon the slight,
boyish form that still shook and quivered with irrepressible emotion. A
woman's voice sounded in his ear. "Hugo!" it said; "Hugo, what is the
matter?"

With a start he lifted his head, showed a flushed, tear-swollen
countenance for one moment, and then hid it once more in his hands. "Oh,
Angela, Angela!" he cried; and then the hysterical passion mastered him
once more. He could not speak for sobs.

She knelt down beside him and placed one hand soothingly upon his
ruffled, black locks. For a few minutes she also did not speak. She knew
that he could not hear.

The world was not wrong when it called Angela Vivian a beautiful woman,
although superfine critics objected that her features were not perfect,
and that her hair, her eyes, her complexion, were all too colourless for
beauty. But her great charm lay in the harmonious character of her
appearance. To deepen the tint of that soft, pale hair--almost
ash-coloured, with a touch of gold in the heavy coils--to redden her
beautifully-shaped mouth, and her narrow, oval face, to imagine those
sweet, calm, grey eyes of any more definite shade would have been to
make her no longer the Angela Vivian that so many people knew and loved.
But if fault were found with her face, no exception could be taken to
her figure and the grace with which she moved. There, at least, she was
perfect.

Angela Vivian was twenty-three, and still unmarried. It was said that
she had been difficult to please. But her choice was made at last. She
was to be married to Richard Luttrell before the end of the year. They
had been playmates in childhood, and their parents had been old friends.
Angela was now visiting Mrs. Luttrell, who was proud of her son's
choice, and made much of her as a guest at Netherglen.

She spoke to Hugo as a sister might have done.

"What is it, dear?" she asked him, smoothing out his short, dark curls,
as she spoke. "Can't you tell me? Is it some great trouble?"

For answer he dragged himself a little closer to her, and bowed his hot
forehead on one of her hands, which she was resting on the ground, while
she stroked his hair with the other. The action touched her; she did not
know why. His sobs were quietening. He was by no means very manly, as
English people understand manliness, but even he was ashamed to be found
crying like a baby over his woes.

"Dear Hugo, can you not tell me what is wrong?" said Angela, more
seriously alarmed by his silence than by his tears. She had a right to
question him, for he had previously given her as much of his confidence
as he ever gave to anybody, and she had been a very good friend to him.
"Are you in some great trouble?"

"Yes," he said, in a voice so choked that she could hardly hear the
word.

"And you have been in some scuffle surely. Your clothes are torn--you
are hurt!" said she, sympathetically. "Why, Hugo, you must have been
fighting!" Then, as he gave her no answer, she resumed in a voice of
tender concern, "You are not really hurt, are you, dear boy? You can
move--you can get up? Shall I fetch anyone to help you?"

"No, no, no!" he cried, clutching at her dress, as though to stay her
going. "Don't leave me. I am not hurt--at least, I can walk and stand
easily enough, though I have been hurt--set upon, and treated like--like
a dog by him----"

"By whom, Hugo?" said Angela, startled by the tenor of his incoherent
sentences. "Who has set upon you and ill-treated you?"

But Hugo hid his face. "I won't tell you," he said, sullenly.

There was a silence. "Can I do anything for you?" Angela asked at
length, very gently.

"No."

She waited a little longer, and, as he made no further sign, she tried
to rise. "Shall I go, Hugo?" she said.

"Yes--if you like." Then he burst out passionately, "Of course, you will
go. You are like everybody else. You are like Richard Luttrell. You will
do what he tells you. I am abandoned by everybody. You all hate me; and
I hate you all!"

Little as Angela understood his words, there was something in them that
made her seat herself beside him on the grass, instead of leaving him
alone. "Dear Hugo," she said, "I have never hated you."

"But you will soon."

"I see," said she, softly. "I understand you now. You are in
trouble--you have been doing something wrong, and you think that we
shall be angry with you. Listen, Hugo, Richard maybe angry at first, but
he is kind as well as just. He will forgive you, and we shall love you
as much as ever. I will tell him that you are sorry for whatever it is,
and then he will not refuse his pardon."

"I don't want it," said Hugo, hoarsely. "I hate him."

"Hugo!"

"I hate him--I loathe him. You would hate him, too, if you knew him as
well as I do. You are going to marry him! Well, you will be miserable
all your life long, and then you will remember what I say."

"I should be angry with you if I did not know how little you meant
this," said Angela, in an unruffled voice, although the faint colour had
risen to her cheeks, and her eyes looked feverishly bright. "But you are
not like yourself, Hugo; you are distressed about something. You know,
at least, that we do not hate you, and you do not hate us."

"I do not hate you," said Hugo, with emphasis.

He seized a fold of her dress and pressed it to his lips. But he said
nothing more, and by-and-bye, when she gently disengaged her gown from
his hold, he made no opposition to her going. She left him with
reluctance, but she knew that Mrs. Luttrell would want her at that hour,
and did not like to be kept waiting. She glanced back when she reached
the bend in the road that would hide him from her sight. She saw that he
had resumed his former position, with his head bent upon his arms, and
his face hidden.

"Poor Hugo!" she said to herself, as she turned towards the house.

Netherglen was a quaint-looking, irregular building of grey, stone, not
very large, but considerably larger than its appearance led one to
conjecture, from the fact that a wing had been added at the back of the
house, where it was not immediately apparent. The peculiarity of this
wing was that, although built close to the house, it did not actually
touch it except at certain points where communication with the main part
was necessary; the rooms on the outer wing ran parallel for some
distance with those in the house, but were separated by an interval of
one or two feet. This was a precaution taken, it was said, in order to
deaden the noise made by the children when they were in the nurseries
situated in this part of the house. It had certainly been an effectual
one; it was difficult to hear any sound proceeding from these rooms,
even when one stood in the large central hall from which the
sitting-rooms opened.

Angela was anxious to find Richard and ascertain whether or not he was
really seriously incensed against his cousin, but he was not to be
found. A party of guests had arrived unexpectedly for luncheon; Mrs.
Luttrell and Brian were both busily engaged in entertaining them. Angela
glanced at Brian; it struck her that he was not in his usual good
spirits. But she had no chance of asking him if anything were amiss.

The master of the house arrived in time to take his place at the head of
the table, and from the moment of his arrival, Angela was certain that
he had been, if he were not still, seriously annoyed by some occurrence
of the day. She knew his face very well, and she knew the meaning of the
gleam of his eye underneath the lowered eyebrows, the twitching nostril,
and the grim setting of his mouth. He spoke very little, and did not
smile even when he glanced at her. These were ominous signs.

"Where is Hugo?" demanded Mrs. Luttrell as they seated themselves at the
table. "Have you seen him, Brian?"

"Yes, I saw him down by the loch this morning," said Brian, but without
raising his eyes.

"The bell had better be rung outside the house," said Mrs. Luttrell. "It
can be heard quite well on the loch."

"It is unnecessary, mother," said Richard, promptly. "Hugo is not coming
in to lunch."

There was a momentary flash of his eye as he spoke, which convinced
Angela that Hugo's disgrace was to be no transient one. Her heart sank;
she did not find that Richard's wrath was easy to appease when once
thoroughly aroused. Again she looked at Brian, and it seemed to her that
his face was paler and more sombre than she had ever seen it before.

The brothers were usually on such pleasant terms that their silence to
each other during the meal became a matter of remark to others beside
Angela and Mrs. Luttrell. Had they quarrelled? There was an evident
coolness between them; for, on the only occasion on which they addressed
each other, Richard contemptuously contradicted his brother with
insulting directness, and Brian replied with what for him was decided
warmth. But the matter dropped--perhaps each was ashamed of having
manifested his annoyance in public--and only their silence to each other
betrayed that anything was wrong.

The party separated into three portions after luncheon. Mrs. Luttrell
and a lady of her own age agreed to remain indoors, or to stroll quietly
round the garden. Angela and two or three other young people meant to
get out the boat and fish the loch for pike. Richard and a couple of his
friends were going to shoot in the neighbouring woods. And, while these
arrangements were making, and everybody was standing about the hall, or
in the wide porch which opened out into the garden, Hugo's name was
again mentioned.

"What has become of that boy?" said Mrs. Luttrell. "He is not generally
so late. Richard, do you know?"

"I'll tell you afterwards, mother," answered her son, in a low tone.
"Don't say anything more about him just now."

"Is there anything wrong?" said his mother, also lowering her voice. But
he had turned away.

"Brian, what is it?" she asked, impatiently.

"For Heaven's sake, don't ask Brian," said Richard, looking back over
his shoulder, "there is no knowing what he may not require you to
believe. Leave the story to me."

"I've no desire to tell it," replied Brian, moving away.

Luttrell's friends were already outside the hall door, lighting their
cigars and playing with the dogs. A keeper stood in the background,
waiting until the party should start.

"Aren't you coming, Brian?" said one of the young men.

"I'll join you presently," said Brian. "I am going down to the loch
first to get out the boat."

"What a splendid gun that is of yours!" said Archie Grant, the younger
of the two men. "It is yours, is it not? I saw it in the corner of the
hall as I came in. You had it the other day at the Duke's."

"It was not mine. It belongs to Hugo."

"Let me have a look at it again; it's an awfully fine one."

"Are you ready, Grant?" said Richard Luttrell, coming forward. "What are
you looking for?"

"Oh, nothing; a gun," said the young fellow. "I see it's gone. I thought
it was there when I first came in; it's of no consequence."

"Not your own gun, I suppose?"

"No, no; I have my own. It was Hugo's."

"Yes; rather a fine one," said Richard, indifferently. "You're not
coming, then?"--to Brian--"well, perhaps it's as well." And he marched
away without deigning to bestow another look or word upon his brother.

Five minutes afterwards, Mrs. Luttrell and Angela encountered each other
in a passage leading to one of the upper rooms. No one was near. Mrs.
Luttrell--she was a tall, handsome woman, strikingly like Richard, in
spite of her snow-white hair--laid her hand gently on Angela's shoulder.

"Why do you look so pale, Angela?" she said. "Your eyes are red, child.
Have you been crying because those ill-bred lads of mine could not keep
a still tongue in their heads at the luncheon-table, but must needs
wrangle together as they used to when they were just babies? Never you
mind, my dear; it's not Richard's fault, and Brian was always a
troublesome lad. It will be better for us all when he's away at his
books in London."

She patted Angela's shoulder and passed on, leaving the girl more vexed
than comforted. She was sorry to see Mrs. Luttrell show the partiality
for Richard which everyone accused her of feeling. In the mother's eyes,
Richard was always right and Brian wrong. Angela was just enough to be
troubled at times by this difference in the treatment of the brothers.

Brian went down to the loch ostensibly to get out the boat. In reality
he wanted to see whether Hugo was still there. Richard had told him of
the punishment to which he had subjected the lad; and Brian had been
frankly indignant about it. The two had come to high words; thus there
had, indeed, been some foundation for the visitors' suspicions of a
previous quarrel.

Hugo had disappeared; only the broken brushwood and the crushed bracken
told of the struggle that had taken place, and of the boy's agony of
grief and rage. Brian resolved to follow and find him. He did not like
the thought of leaving him to bear his shame alone. Besides, he
understood Hugo's nature, and he was afraid--though he scarcely knew
what he feared.

But he searched in vain. Hugo was not to be found. He did not seem to
have quitted the place altogether, for he had given no orders about his
luggage, nor been seen on the road to the nearest town, and Brian knew
that it would be almost impossible to find him in a short space of time
if he did not wish to be discovered. It was possible that he had gone
into the woods; he was as fond of them as a wild animal of his lair.
Brian took his gun from the rack, as an excuse for an expedition, then
sallied forth, scarcely hoping, however, to be successful in his search.

He had not gone very far when he saw a man's form at some little
distance from him, amongst the trees. He stopped short and
reconnoitered. No, it was not Hugo. That brown shooting-coat and those
stalwart limbs belonged rather to Richard Luttrell. Brian looked,
shrugged his shoulders to himself, and then turned back. He did not want
to meet his brother then.

But Richard had heard the footstep and glanced round. After a moment of
evident hesitation, he quitted his position and tramped over the soft,
uneven ground to his brother, who, seeing that he had been observed,
awaited his brother's coming with some uncertainty of feeling.

Richard's face had wonderfully cleared since the morning, and his voice
was almost cordial.

"You've come? That's right," he said.

"Got anything?"

"Nothing much. I never saw young Grant shoot so wild. And my hand's not
very steady--after this morning's work." He laughed a little awkwardly
and looked away. "That fellow deserved all he got, Brian. But if you
choose to see him now and then and be friendly with him, it's your own
look out. I don't wish to interfere."

It was a great concession from Richard--almost as much as an apology.
Brian involuntarily put out his hand, which Richard grasped heartily if
roughly. Neither of them found it necessary to say more. The mutual
understanding was complete, and each hastily changed the subject, as
though desirous that nothing farther should be said about it.

If only some one had been by to witness that tacit reconciliation!




CHAPTER IV.

IN THE TWILIGHT.


It was already dusk under the thick branches of the wood, although the
setting sun shone brilliantly upon the loch. Luttrell's friends were to
dine with him, and as dinner was not until eight o'clock, they made
rather a long circuit, and had some distance to return. Brian had joined
Archie Grant; the second visitor was behind them with the keeper;
Richard Luttrell had been accidentally separated from the others, and
was supposed to be in front. Archie was laughing and talking gaily;
Brian, whose mind ran much upon Hugo, was somewhat silent. But even he
was no proof against Archie's enthusiasm, when the young fellow suddenly
seized him by the arm, and pointed out a fine capercailzie which the
dogs had just put up.

Brian gave a quick glance to his companion, who, however, had handed his
gun to the keeper a short time before, and shook his head deprecatingly.
Brian lifted his gun. It seemed to him that something was moving amongst
the branches beyond the bird, and for a moment he hesitated--then pulled
the trigger. And just as he touched it, Archie sprang forward with a
cry.

"Don't fire! Are you blind? Don't you see what you are doing!"

But it was too late.

The bird flew away unharmed, but the shot seemed to have found another
mark. There was the sound of a sudden, heavy fall. To Brian's horror and
dismay he saw that a man had been standing amongst the brushwood and
smaller trees just beyond the ridge of rising ground towards which his
gun had been directed. The head only of this man could have been visible
from the side of the bank on which Brian was standing; and even the head
could be seen very indistinctly. As Brian fired, it seemed to him,
curiously enough, as if another report rang in his ears beside that of
his own gun. Was any one else shooting in the wood? Or had his senses
played him false in the horror of the moment, and caused him to mistake
an echo for another shot? He had not time to settle the question. For a
moment he stood transfixed; then he rushed forward, but Archie had been
before him. The young man was kneeling by the prostrate form and as
Brian advanced, he looked up with a face as white as death.

"Keep back," he cried, scarcely knowing what he said. "Don't look--don't
look, for a moment; perhaps he'll open his eyes: perhaps he is not dead.
Keep back!"

Dead! Brian never forgot the sick feeling of dread which then came over
him. What had he done? He did not hear Archie's excited words; he came
hurriedly to the side of the man, who lay lifeless upon the ground with
his head on the young fellow's knee. Archie looked up at him with
dilated terrified eyes. And Brian stood stock still.

It was Richard who lay before him, dead as a stone. He had dropped
without a cry, perhaps even without a pang. There was a little purple
mark upon his temple, from which a drop of black blood had oozed. A
half-smile still lingered on his mouth; his face had scarcely changed
colour, his attitude was natural, and yet the spectators felt that Death
had set his imprint on that tranquil brow. Richard Luttrell's day was
over; he had gone to a world where he might perhaps stand in need of
that mercy which he had been only too ready to deny to others who had
erred.

Archie's elder brother, Donald Grant, and the keeper were hurrying to
the spot. They found Brian on his knees beside the body, feeling with
trembling hands for the pulse that beat no longer. His face was the
colour of ashes, but as yet he had not uttered a single word. Donald
Grant spoke first, with an anxious glance towards his brother.

"How----" he began, and then stopped short, for Archie had silenced him
with an almost imperceptible sign towards Brian Luttrell.

"We heard two shots," muttered Donald, as he also bent over the
prostrate form.

"Only one, I think," said Archie.

His brother pulled him aside.

"I tell you I heard two," he said in a hushed voice. "You didn't fire?"

"I had no gun."

"Was it Brian?"

"Yes. He shot straight at--at Richard; didn't see him a bit. He was
always short-sighted."

Donald gave his brother a look, and then turned to the keeper, whose
face was working with unwonted emotion at the sight before him.

"We must get help," he said, gravely. "He must be carried home, and some
one must go to Dunmuir. Brian, shall I send to the village for you?"

He touched Brian's shoulder as he spoke. The young man rose, and turned
his pale face and lack-lustre eyes towards his friend as though he could
not understand the question. Donald, repeated it, changing the form a
little.

"Shall I send for the men?" he said.

Brian pressed his hand to his forehead.

"The men?" he said, vaguely.

"To carry--him to the house."

Donald was compassionate, but he was uncomprehending of his friend's
apparent want of emotion. He wanted to stir him up to a more definite
show of feeling. And to some extent he got his wish.

A look of horror came into Brian's eyes; a shudder ran through his
frame.

"Oh, my God!" he whispered, hoarsely, "is it I who have done this
thing?"

And then he threw up his hands as though to screen his eyes from the
sight of the dead face, staggered a few steps away from the little
group, and fell fainting to the ground.

It was a sad procession that wound its way through the woodland paths at
last, and stopped at the gate of Netherglen. Brian had recovered
sufficiently to walk like a mourner behind the covered stretcher on
which his brother's form was laid; but he paid little attention to the
whispers that were exchanged from time to time between the Grants and
the men who carried that melancholy burden to the Luttrells' door. On
coming to himself after his swoon he wept like a child for a little
time, but had then collected himself and become sadly quiet and calm.
Still, he was scarcely awake to anything but the mere fact of his great
misfortune, and it was not until the question was actually put to him,
that he asked himself whether he could bear to take the news to his
mother of the death of her eldest son.

Brave as he was, he shrank from the task. "No, no!" he said, looking
wildly into Donald's face. "Not I. I am not the one to tell her, that
I--that I-----"

A great sob burst from him in spite of his usual self-control. Donald
Grant turned aside; he did not know how to bear the spectacle of grief
such as this. And there were others to be thought of beside Mrs.
Luttrell. Miss Vivian--Richard Luttrell's promised wife--was in the
house; Donald Grant's own sisters were still waiting for him and Archie.
It was impossible to go up to the house without preparing its tenants
for the blow that had fallen upon them. Yet who would prepare them?

"Here is the doctor," said Archie, turning towards the road. "He will
tell them."

Doctor Muir had long been a trusted friend of the Luttrell family. He
had liked Richard rather less than any other member of the household,
but he was sincerely grieved and shocked by the news which had greeted
him as he went upon his rounds. The Grants drew him aside and gave him
their account of the accident before he spoke to Brian. The doctor had
tears in his eyes when they had finished. He went up to Brian and
pressed his unresponsive hand.

"My boy--my boy!" he said; "don't be cast down. It was the will of God."
He pulled out a handkerchief and rubbed away a tear from his eyes as he
spoke. "Shall I just see your poor mother? I'll step up to the house,
and ye'll wait here till my return. Eh, but it's awful, awful!" The old
man uttered the last words more to himself than to Brian, whose hand he
again shook mechanically before he turned away.

Brian followed him closely. "Doctor," he said, in a low, husky voice,
"I'll go with you."

"You'll do nothing of the sort," said Dr. Muir, sharply. "Why, man, your
face would be enough to tell the news, in all conscience. You may walk
to the door with me--the back door, if you please--but further you shall
not come until I have seen Mistress Luttrell. Here, give me your arm;
you're not fit to go alone with that white face. And how did it happen,
my poor lad?"

"I don't know--I can't tell," said Brian, slowly. "I saw the bird rise
from the bank--and then I saw something moving--but I thought I must be
mistaken; and I fired, and he--he fell! By my hand, too! Oh, Doctor, is
there a God in Heaven to let such things be?"

"Hut, tut, tut, but we'll have no such words as these, my bairn. If the
Lord lets these things happen, we'll maybe find that He's had some good
reason for't. He's always in the right. And ye must just learn to bow
yourself, Brian, to the will of the Almighty, for there's no denying but
He's laid a sore trial upon ye, my poor lad, and one that will be hard
to bear."

"I shall never bear it," said Brian, who caught but imperfectly the
drift of the doctor's simple words of comfort. "It is too hard--too hard
to bear."

They had reached the back door, by which Dr. Muir preferred to make his
entrance. He uttered a few words to the servants about the accident that
had occurred, and then sent a message asking to speak alone with Mrs.
Luttrell. The answer came back that Mrs. Luttrell would see him in the
study. And thither the doctor went, leaving Brian in one of the cold,
stone corridors that divided the kitchens and offices from the
living-rooms of the house. Meanwhile, the body of Richard Luttrell was
silently carried into one of the lower rooms until another place could
be prepared for its reception.

How long Brian waited, with his forehead, pressed against the wall, deaf
and blind to everything but an overmastering dread of his mother's agony
which had taken complete possession of him, he did not know. He only
knew that after a certain time--an eternity it seemed to him--a bitter,
wailing cry came to his ears; a cry that pierced through the thick walls
and echoed down the dark passages, although it was neither loud nor
long. But there was something in the intensity of the grief that it
expressed which seemed to give it a peculiarly penetrating quality. Ah,
it was this sound that Brian now knew he had been dreading; this sound
that cut him to the heart.

Dr. Muir, on coming hurriedly out from the study, found Brian in the
corridor with his hands pressed to his ears as if to keep out the sound
of that one fearful cry.

"Come away, my boy," he said, pitifully. "We can do no good here. Where
is Miss Vivian?"

Brian's hands dropped to his sides. He kept his eyes fixed on the
doctor's face as if he would read his very soul. And for the moment
Doctor Muir could not meet that piercing gaze. He tried to pass on, but
Brian laid his hand on his arm.

"Tell me all," he said. "What does my mother say? Has it killed her?"

"Killed her? People are not so easily killed by grief, my dear Mr.
Brian," said the doctor. "Come away, come away. Your mother is not just
herself, and speaks wildly, as mothers are wont to do when they lose
their first-born son. We'll not mind what she says just now. Where is
Miss Vivian? It is she that I want to see."

"I understand," said Brian, taking away his hands from the doctor's arm
and hiding his face with them, "my mother will not see me; she will not
forgive my--my--accursed carelessness----"

"Worse than that!" muttered the doctor to himself, but, fortunately,
Brian did not hear. And at that moment a slender woman's figure appeared
at the end of the corridor; it hesitated, moved slowly forward, and then
approached them hastily.

"Is Mrs. Luttrell ill?" asked Angela.

She had a candle in her hand, and the beams fell full upon her soft,
white dress and the Eucharis lily in her hair. She had twisted a string
of pearls three times round her neck--it was an heirloom of great value.
The other ornaments were all Richard's gifts; two broad bands of gold
set with pearls and diamonds upon her arms, and the diamond ring which
had been the pledge of her betrothal. She was very pale, and her eyes
were large with anxiety as she asked her question of the two men, whom
her appearance had struck with dumbness. Brian turned away with a
half-audible groan. Doctor Muir looked at her intently from beneath his
shaggy, grey eyebrows, and did not speak.

"I know there is something wrong, or you would not stand like this
outside Mrs. Luttrell's door," said Angela, with a quiver in her sweet
voice. "And Richard is not here! Where is Richard?"

There was silence.

"Something has happened to Richard? Some accident--some----"

She stopped, looked at Brian's averted face, and shivered as if an icy
wind had passed over her. Doctor Muir took the candle from her hand,
then opened his lips to speak. But she stopped him. "Don't tell me," she
said. "I am going to his mother. I shall learn it in a moment from her
face. Besides--I know--I know."

The delicate tinting had left her cheeks and lips; her eyes were
distended, her limbs trembled as she moved. Doctor Muir stood aside,
giving her the benefit of keen professional scrutiny as she passed; but
he was satisfied. She was not a woman who would either faint or scream
in an emergency. She might suffer, but she would suffer in silence
rather than add by word or deed one iota to the burden of suffering that
another might have to bear. Therefore, Doctor Muir let her enter the
room in which the widowed mother wept, and prayed in his heart that
Angela Vivian might receive the news of her bereavement in a different
spirit from that shown by Mrs. Luttrell.

The noise of shuffling feet, of muffled voices, of stifled sobs, reached
the ears of the watchers in the corridor from another part of the house.
Doctor Muir had sent a messenger to bid the men advance with their sad
burden to a side door which opened into a sitting-room not very
generally used. The housekeeper, an old and faithful servant of the
family, had already prepared it, according to the doctor's orders, for
the reception of the dead. The visitors hurriedly took their departure;
Donald Grant's wagonette had been at the door some little time, and, as
soon as he had seen poor Richard Luttrell's remains laid upon a long
table in the sitting-room, he drove silently away, with Archie on the
box-seat beside him, and the three girls in the seats behind, crying
over the troubles of their friends.

Doctor Muir and Brian Luttrell remained for some time in the passage
outside the study door. The doctor tried several times to persuade his
companion to leave his post, but Brian refused to do so.

"I must wait; I must see my mother," he repeated, when the doctor
pressed him to come away. "Oh, I know that she will not want to see me;
she will never wish to look on my face again, but I must see her and
remind her that--that--she has one son left--who loves her still." And
then Brian's voice broke and he said no more. Doctor Muir shook his
head. He did not believe that Mrs. Luttrell would be much comforted by
his reminder. She had never seemed to love her second son.

"Where is Hugo?" the doctor asked, in an undertone, when the silence had
lasted some time.

"I do not know."

"He will be home to-night?"

"I do not know."

All this time no sound had reached them from the interior of the room
where the two women sat together. Their voices must have been very low,
their sobs subdued. Angela had not cried out as Mrs. Luttrell had done
when she received the fatal news. No movement, no sign of grief was to
be heard.

Brian lifted up his grief-stricken eyes at last, and fixed them on the
doctor's face.

"Are they dead?" he muttered, strangely. "Will they never speak again?"

Doctor Muir did not immediately reply. He had placed the candle on a
wooden bracket in the wall, and its flickering beams lighted, the dark
corridor so feebly that until now he had scarcely caught a glimpse of
the young man's haggard looks. They frightened him a little. He himself
took life so easily--fretted so little against the inevitable--that he
scarcely understood the look of anguish which an hour or two of trouble
had imprinted upon Brian Luttrell's face. It was the kind of sorrow
which has been known to turn a man's hair from black to white in a
single night.

"I will knock at the door," said the doctor. But before he could carry
out his intention, footsteps were heard, and the handle of the door was
turned. Both men drew back involuntarily into the shadow as Mrs.
Luttrell and Angela came forth.

Angela had been weeping, but there were no signs of tears upon the elder
woman's face. Rigid, white, and hard, it looked almost as if it were
carved in stone; a mute image of misery too deep for tears. There were
lines upon her brow that had never been seen there before; her lips were
tightly compressed; her eyes fiercely bright. She had thrown a black
shawl over her head on coming away from the drawing-room into the
draughty corridors. This shawl, which she had forgotten to remove,
together with the dead blackness of her dress, gave her pale face a
strangely spectral appearance. Clinging to her, and yet guiding her,
came Angela, with the white flower crushed and drooping from her hair.
She also was ashy pale, but there was a more natural and tender look of
grief to be read in her wet eyes and on her trembling lips than in the
stony tranquility of Richard Luttrell's mother.

Brian could not contain himself. He rushed forward and threw himself on
the ground at his mother's feet. Mrs. Luttrell shrank back a little and
clutched Angela's arm fiercely with her thin, white fingers.

"Mother, speak to me; tell me that you--mother, only speak!"

His voice died away in irrepressible sobs which shook him from head to
foot. He dared not utter the word "forgiveness" yet. Unintentional as
the harm might be that his hand had done, it was sadly irreparable, too.

Mrs. Luttrell looked at him with scarcely a change of feature, and tried
to withdraw some stray fold of her garments from his grasp. He resisted;
he would not let her go. His heart was aching with his own trouble, and
with the consciousness of her loss--Angela's loss--all the suffering
that Richard's death would inflict upon these two women who had loved
him so devotedly. He yearned for one little word of comfort and
affection, which even in that terrible moment, a mother should have
known so well how to give. But he lay at that mother's feet in vain.

It was Angela who spoke first.

"Speak to him, mother," she said, tremblingly. "See how he suffers. It
was not his fault."

The tears ran down her pale cheeks unnoticed as she spoke. It was only
natural to Angela that her first words should be words of consolation to
another, not of sorrow for her own great loss. But Mrs. Luttrell did not
unclose her lips.

"Ye'll not be hard upon him, madam," said the old doctor, deprecatingly.
"Your own lad, and a lad that kneels to you for a gentle word, and will
be heartbroken if you say him nay."

"And is my heart not broken?" asked the mother, lifting her head and
looking away into the darkness of the long corridor. "The son that I
loved is dead; the boy that came to me like a little angel in the spring
of my youth--they say that he is dead and cold. I am going to look at
his face again. Come, Angela. Perhaps they have spoken falsely, and he
is alive--not murdered, after all."

"Murdered? Mother!"

Brian raised himself a little and repeated the word with shuddering
emphasis.

"Murdered!" said Mrs. Luttrell, steadily, as she turned her burning eyes
full upon the countenance of her younger son; as if to watch the
workings of his agitated features. "If not by the laws of man, by God's
laws you are guilty. You had quarrelled with him that day; and you took
your revenge. I tell you, James Muir, and you, Angela Vivian, that Brian
Luttrell took his brother's life by no mistake--that he is Richard's
murderer----"

"No; I swear it by the God who made me--no!" cried Brian, springing to
his feet.

But his mother had turned away.




CHAPTER V.

THE DEAD MAN'S TESTIMONY.


About ten o'clock at night Hugo Luttrell was seen entering the courtyard
at the back of the house, where keepers, grooms, and indoor servants
were collected in a group, discussing in low tones the event of the day.
Seeing these persons, he seemed inclined to go back by the way that he
had come; but the butler--an old Englishman who had been in the Luttrell
family before Edward Luttrell ever thought of marrying a Scotch heiress
and settling for the greater part of every year at Netherglen--this said
butler, whose name was William Whale, caught sight of the young fellow
and accosted him by name.

"Mr. Hugo, sir, there's been many inquiries after you," he began in a
lugubrious tone of voice.

"After me, William?" Hugo looked frightened and uneasy. "What for?"

"You won't have heard of the calamity that has come upon the house,"
said William, shaking his head solemnly; "and it will be a great shock
to you, no doubt, sir; a terrible shock. Stand back, you men, there; let
Mr. Hugo pass. Come into the housekeeper's room, sir. There's a fire in
it; the night has turned chilly. Go softly, if you please, sir."

Hugo followed the old man without another question. He looked haggard
and wearied; his clothes were wet, torn and soiled; his very hair was
damp, and his boots were soaked and burst as though from a long day's
tramp. Mrs. Shairp, the housekeeper, with whom he was a favourite,
uttered a startled exclamation at his appearance.

"Guid guide us, sirs! and whaur hae ye been hidin' yoursel' a' this day
an' nicht, Mr. Hugo? We've baen sair trouble i' th' hoose, and naebody
kent your whaurabouts. Bairn! but ye're just droukit! Whaur hae you
hidden yoursel' then?"

"Hidden!" Hugo repeated, catching at one of the good woman's words and
ignoring the others. "I've not hidden anywhere. I've been over the hills
a bit--that's all. What is the matter?"

He seated himself in the old woman's cushioned chair, and leaned forward
to warm himself at the fire as he spoke, holding out first one hand and
then the other to the leaping blaze.

"How will I tell you?" said Mrs. Shairp, relapsing into the tears she
had been shedding for the last two hours or more. "Is it possible that
ye've heard naething ava? The laird--Netherglen himsel'--oor
maister--and have you heard naething aboot him as you cam doun by the
muir? I'd hae thocht shame to let you gang hame unkent, if I had been
Jenny Burns at the lodge."

"I did not come that way," said Hugo, impatiently. "What is the matter
with the laird?"

"Maitter?--maitter wi' the laird? The laird's deid, laddie, and a gude
freend was he to me and mine, and to your ain sei' forbye, and the hale
kintra side will be at the buryin'," said the housekeeper, shaking her
head solemnly. "An' if that were na enow for my poor mistress there's a
waur thing to follow. The laird's fa'en by his ain brither's han's. Mr.
Brian shot him this verra nicht, as they cam' thro' the wud."

"By mistake, Mrs. Shairp, by mistake," murmured William Whale. But Hugo
lifted his haggard face, which looked very pale in the glow of the
firelight.

"You can't mean what you are saying," he said, in a hoarse, unnatural
voice. "Richard? Richard--dead! Oh, it must be impossible!"

"True, sir, as gospel," said Mrs. Shairp, touched by the ring of pain
that came into the young man's voice as he spoke. "At half-past eight,
by the clock, they brought the laird hame stiff and stark, cauld as a
stane a'ready. The mistress is clean daft wi' sorrow; an' I doot but Mr.
Brian will hae a sair time o't wi' her and the bonny young leddy that's
left ahent."

Hugo dropped his face into his hands and did not answer. A shudder ran
through his frame more than once. Mrs. Shairp thought that he was
shedding tears, and motioned to William Whale, who had been standing
near the door with a napkin over his arm, to leave the room. William
retired shutting the door softly behind him.

Presently Hugo spoke. "Tell me about it," he said. And Mrs. Shairp was
only too happy to pour into his ears the whole story as she had learned
it from the keeper who had come upon the scene just after the firing of
the fatal shot. He listened almost in silence, but did not uncover his
face.

"And his mother?" he asked at length.

Mrs. Shairp could say little about the laird's mother. It was Dr. Muir
who had told her the truth, she said, and the whole house had heard her
cry out as if she had been struck. Then Miss Vivian had gone to her, and
had received the news from Mrs. Luttrell's own lips. They had gone
together to look at Richard's face, and then Miss Vivian had fainted,
and had been carried into Mrs. Luttrell's own room, where she was to
spend the night. So much Mrs. Shairp knew, and nothing more.

"And where is Brian?"

"Whaur should he be?" demanded the old woman, with some asperity. "Whaur
but in's ain room, sair cast doun for the ill he has dune."

"It was not his fault," said Hugo, quickly.

"Maybe no," replied Mrs. Shairp, with reserve. "Maybe ay, maybe no; it's
just the question--though I wadna like to think that the lad meant to
harm his brother."

"Who does think so?"

"I'm no saying that onybody thinks sae. Mr. Brian was aye a kind-hearted
lad an' a bonny, but never a lucky ane, sae lang as I hae kent him,
which will be twenty years gane at Marti'mas. I cam' at the term."

Hugo scarcely listened to her. He rose up with a strange, scared look
upon his face, and walked unsteadily out of the room, without a word of
thanks to Mrs. Shairp for her communications. Before she had recovered
from her astonishment, he was far down the corridor on his way to the
other portion of the house.

In which room had they laid Richard Luttrell? Hugo remembered with a
shiver that he had not asked. He glanced round the hall with a thrill of
nervous apprehension. The drawing-room and dining-room doors stood open;
they were in darkness. The little morning-room door was also slightly
ajar, but a dim light seemed to be burning inside. It must be in that
room, Hugo decided, that Richard Luttrell lay. Should he go in? No, he
dare not. He could not look upon Richard Luttrell's dead face. And yet
he hesitated, drawn by a curious fascination towards that half-open
door.

While he waited, the door was slowly opened from the inside, and a hand
appeared clasping the edge of the door. A horrible fancy seized Hugo
that Richard had risen from his bed and was coming out into the hall;
that Richard's fingers were bent round the edge of the open door. He
longed to fly, but his knees trembled; he could not move. He stood
rooted to the spot with unreasoning terror, until the door opened still
more widely, and the person who had been standing in the room came out.
It was no ghostly Richard, sallying forth to upbraid Hugo for his
misdeeds. It was Brian Luttrell who turned his pale face towards the boy
as he passed through the hall.

Hugo cowered before him. He sank down on the lower steps of the wide
staircase and hid his face in his hands. Brian, who had been passing him
by without remark, seemed suddenly to recollect himself, and stopped
short before his cousin. The lad's shrinking attitude touched him with
pity.

"You are right to come back," he said, in a voice which, although
abstracted, was strangely calm. "He told you to leave the house for
ever, did he not? But I think that--now--he would rather that you
stayed. He told me that I might do for you what I chose."

The lad's head was bent still lower. He did not say a word.

"So," said Brian, leaning against the great oak bannisters as if he were
utterly exhausted by fatigue, "so--if you stay--you will only be
doing--what, perhaps, he wishes now. You need not be afraid."

"You are the master--now," murmured Hugo from between his fingers.

It was the last speech that Brian would have expected to hear from his
cousin's lips. It cut him to the heart.

"Don't say so!" he cried, in a stifled voice. "Good God! to think that
I--I--should profit by my brother's death!" And Hugo, lifting up his
head, saw that the young man's frame was shaken by shuddering horror
from head to foot. "I shall never be master here," he said.

Hugo raised his head with a look of wonder. Brian's feeling was quite
incomprehensible to him.

"He was always a good brother to me," Brian went on in a shaken voice,
more to himself than to his cousin, "and a kind friend to you so long as
you kept straight and did not disgrace us by your conduct. You had no
right to complain, whatever he might do or say to you. You ought to
mourn for him--you ought to regret him bitterly--bitterly--while
I--I----"

"Do not you mourn for him, then?" said Hugo, when the pause that
followed Brian's speech had become insupportable to him.

"If I were only in his place I should be happy," said Brian,
passionately. Then he turned upon Hugo with something like fierceness,
but it was the fierceness of a prolonged and half-suppressed agony of
pain. "Do you feel nothing? Do you come into his house, knowing that he
is dead, and have not a word of sorrow for your own behaviour to him
while he lived? Come with me and look at him--look at his face, and
remember what he did for you when you were a boy--what he has done for
you during the last eight years."

He seized Hugo by the arm and compelled him to rise; but the lad, with a
face blanched by terror, absolutely refused to move from the spot.

"Not to-night--I can't--I can't!" he said, his dark eyes dilating, and
his very lips turning white with fear. "To-morrow, Brian--not to-night."

But Brian briefly answered, "Come," and tightened his grasp on the lad's
arm. And Hugo, though trembling like an aspen leaf, yielded to that iron
pressure, and followed him to the room where lay all that was mortal of
Richard Luttrell.

Once inside the door, Brian dropped his cousin's arm, and seemed to
forget his presence. He slowly removed the covering from the dead face
and placed a candle so that the light fell upon it. Then he walked to
the foot of the table, which served the purpose of a bier, and looked
long and earnestly at the marble features, so changed, so passionless
and calm in the repose of death! Terrible, indeed, was the sight to one
who had sincerely loved Richard Luttrell--the strong man, full of lusty
health and vigour, desirous of life, fortunate in the possession, of all
that makes life worth living only a few short hours before; now silent,
motionless for ever struck down in the hey-day of youth and strength,
and by a brother's hand! Brian had but spoken the truth when he said
that he would gladly change his own fate for that of his brother
Richard. He forgot Hugo and the reason for which he had brought him to
that room, he forgot everything except his own unavailing sorrow, his
inextinguishable regret.

Hugo remained where his cousin had left him, leaning against the wall,
seemingly incapable of speech or motion, overcome by a superstitious
terror of death, which Brian was as far from suspecting as of
comprehending. In the utter silence of the house they could hear the
distant stable-clock strike eleven. The wind was rising, and blew in
fitful gusts, rustling the branches of the trees, and causing a loose
rose-branch to tap carelessly against the window panes. It sounded like
the knock of someone anxious to come in. The candles flickered and
guttered in the draught; the wavering light cast strange shadows over
the dead man's face. You might have thought that his features moved from
time to time; that now he frowned at the intruders, and now he smiled at
them--a terrible, ghastly smile.

There was a footstep at the door. It was Mrs. Luttrell who came gliding
in with her pale face, and her long black robes, to take her place at
her dead son's side. She had thought that she must come and assure
herself once more that he was really gone from her. She meant to look at
him for a little while, to kiss his cold forehead, and then to go back
to Angela and try to sleep. She took no notice of Brian, nor of Hugo;
she drew a chair close to the long table upon which the still, white
form was stretched, seated herself, and looked steadfastly at the
uncovered face. Brian started at the sight of his mother; he glanced at
her pleadingly, as if he would have spoken; but the rigidity of her face
repelled him. He hung his head and turned a little from her, as though
to steal away.

Suddenly a terrible voice rang through the room. "Look!" cried the
mother, pointing with one finger to the lifeless form, and raising her
eyes for the first time to Brian's face--"look there!"

Brian looked, and flinched from the sight he saw. For a strange thing
had happened. Although not actually unusual, it had never before come
within the experience of any of these watchers of the dead, and thus it
suggested to them nothing but the old superstition which in old times
caused a supposed murderer to be brought face to face with the man he
was accused of having killed.

A drop of blood was trickling from the nostril of the dead man, and
losing itself in the thick, black moustache upon his upper lip. It was
followed by another or two, and then it stayed.

The mother did not speak again. Her hand sank; her eyes were riveted
upon Brian's face with a mute reproach. And Brian, although he knew well
enough in his sober senses that the phenomenon they had just seen was
merely caused by the breaking of some small blood-vessel in the brain,
such as often occurs after death, was so far dominated by the impression
of the moment that he walked out of the room, not daring to justify
himself in his mother's eyes, not daring to raise his head. After him
crept Hugo whose teeth chattered as though he were suffering from an
ague; but Brian took no more notice of his cousin. He went straight to
his own room and locked himself in, to bear his lonely sorrow as best he
might.

No formal inquiry was made into the cause of Richard Luttrell's death.
Archie Grant's testimony completely exonerated Brian, even of
carelessness, and the general opinion was that no positive blame could
be attached to anybody for the sad occurrence, and that Mr. Brian
Luttrell had the full sympathy and respect of all who knew him and had
known his lamented brother, Richard Luttrell of Netherglen.

So the matter ended. But idle tongues still wagged, and wise heads were
shaken over the circumstances attending Richard Luttrell's death.

It was partly Mrs. Luttrell's fault. In the first hours of her
bereavement she had spoken wildly and bitterly of the share which Brian
had had in causing Richard's death. She had spoken to Doctor Muir, to
Angela, to Mrs. Shairp--a few words only to each, but enough to show in
what direction her thoughts were tending. With the first two her words
were sacred, but Mrs. Shairp, though kindly enough, was not so
trustworthy. Before the good woman realised what she was doing, the
whole household, nay, the whole country-side, had learned that Mrs.
Luttrell believed her second son to have fired that fatal shot with the
intention of killing, or at least of maiming, his brother Richard.

The Grants, who had spent the day of the accident at Netherglen, were,
of course, eagerly questioned by inquisitive acquaintances. The girls
were ready enough to chatter. They confided to their intimate friends in
mysterious whispers that the brothers had certainly not been on good
terms; they had glowered at one another, and caught each other up and
been positively rude to each other; and they would not go out together;
and poor Mr. Luttrell looked so worried, so unlike himself! Then the
brothers were interrogated, but proved less easy to "draw." Archie flew
into a rage at the notion of sinister intentions on Brian's part. Donald
looked "dour," and flatly refused to discuss the subject.

But his refusal was thought vastly suspicious by the many wiseacres who
knew the business of everybody better than their own. And the rumour
waxed and spread.

During the days before the funeral Brian scarcely saw anyone. He lived
shut up in his own room, as his mother did in hers, and had interviews
only with his lawyer and men who came on business. It was a sad and
melancholy house in those days. Angela was invisible: whether it was she
or Mrs. Luttrell who was ill nobody could exactly say. Hugo wandered
about the lonely rooms, or shut himself up after the fashion of the
other members of the family, and looked like a ghost. After the first
two days, Angela's only near relation, her brother Rupert, was present
in the house; but his society seemed not to be very acceptable to Hugo,
and, finding that he was of no use, even to his sister, Mr. Vivian went
back to England, and the house seemed quieter than it had been before.

The funeral took place at last. When it was over, Brian came home, said
farewell to the guests, had a long interview with Mr. Colquhoun, the
solicitor, and then seated himself in the study with the air of a man
who was resolved to take up the burden of his duties in a befitting
spirit. His air was melancholy, but calm; he seemed aged by ten years
since his brother's death. He dined with Hugo, Mr. Colquhoun and Dr.
Muir, and exerted himself to talk of current topics with courtesy and
interest. But his weary face, his saddened eyes, and the long pauses
that occurred between his intervals of speech, produced a depressing
effect upon his guests. Hugo was no more cheerful than his cousin. He
watched Brian furtively from time to time, yet seemed afraid to meet his
eye. His silence and depression were so marked that the doctor
afterwards remarked it to Mr. Colquhoun. "I did not think that Mr. Hugo
would take his cousin's death so much to heart," he said.

"Do you think he does?" asked Mr. Colquhoun, drily. "I don't believe
he's got a heart, the young scamp. I found him myself in the wood,
examining the bark of the tree near which the accident took place, you
know, on the morning after Richard's death, as cool as a cucumber. 'I
was trying to make out how it happened,' he said to me, when I came up.
'Brian must have shot very straight.' I told him to go home and mind his
own business."

"Do you think what they say about Brian's intentions had any
foundation?" asked the doctor.

"Not a bit. Brian's too tender-hearted for a thing of that sort. But the
mother's very bitter about it. She's as hard as flint. It's a bad look
out for Brian. He's a ruined man."

"Not from a pecuniary point of view. The property goes to him."

"Yes, but he hasn't the strength to put up with the slights and the
scandal which will go with it. He has the pluck, but not the physique.
It's men like him that go out of their minds, or commit suicide, or die
of heart-break--which you doctors call by some other name, of
course--when the world's against them. He'll never stand it. Mark my
words--Brian Luttrell won't be to the fore this time next year."

"Where will he be, Colquhoun? Come, come, Brian's a fellow with brains.
He won't do anything rash."

"He'll be in his grave," said the lawyer, gloomily.

"Hell be enjoying himself in the metropolis," said the doctor. "He'll
have a fine house and a pretty wife, and he'll laugh in our faces if we
hint at your prophecies, Colquhoun. I should have had no respect at all
for Brian Luttrell if he threw away his own life because he had
accidentally taken that of another man."

"We shall see," said the lawyer.




CHAPTER VI.

MOTHER AND SON.


Early on the following morning Brian received a message from his mother.
It was the first communication that she had vouchsafed to him since the
day of her eldest son's death. "Would he come to her dressing-room at
eleven o'clock? She wished to consult him upon special business." Brian
sent word that he would be with her at that hour, and then fell into
anxious meditation as he sat at breakfast, with Hugo at the other end of
the table.

"Don't go far away from the house, Hugo," he said at last, as he rose to
leave the room. "I may want you in the course of the morning."

Hugo looked up at him without answering. The lad had been studying a
newspaper, with his head supported by his left hand, while his right
played with his coffee cup or the morsels of food upon his plate. He did
not seem to have much appetite. His great, dark eyes looked larger than
usual, and were ringed with purple shadow; his lips were tremulous. "It
was wonderful," as people said, "to see how that poor young fellow felt
his cousin's death."

Perhaps Brian thought so too, for he added, very gently--though when did
he not speak gently?--

"There is nothing wrong. I only want to make some arrangements with you
for your future. Think a little about it before I speak to you."

And then he went out of the room, and Hugo was left to his meditations,
which were not of the most agreeable character, in spite of Brian's
reassuring words.

He pushed his plate and newspaper away from him impatiently; a frown
showed itself on his beautiful, low brows.

"What will he do for me? Anything definite, I wonder? Poor beggar, I'm
sorry for him, but my position has been decidedly improved since that
unlucky shot at Richard. Did he want him out of the way, I wonder? The
gloomy look with which he goes makes about one imagine that he did. What
a fool he must be!"

Hugo pushed back his chair and rose: a cynical smile curled his lips for
a moment, but it changed by degrees into an expression of somewhat
sullen discontent.

"I wish I could sleep at nights," he said, moving slowly towards the
window. "I've never been so wretchedly wakeful in all my life." Then he
gazed out into the garden, but without seeing much of the scene that he
gazed upon, for his thoughts were far away, and his whole soul was
possessed by fear of what Brian would do or say.

At eleven o'clock Brian made his way to his mother's dressing-room, an
apartment which, although bearing that name, was more like an ordinary
sitting-room than a dressing-room. He knocked, and was answered by his
mother's voice.

"Come in," she said. "Is it you, Brian?"

"Yes, it is I," Brian said, as he closed the door behind him.

He walked quietly to the hearth-rug, where he stood with one hand
resting on the mantelpiece. It was a convenient attitude, and one which
exposed him to no rebuffs. He was too wise to offer hand or cheek to his
mother by way of greeting.

Mrs. Luttrell was sitting on a sofa, with her back to the light. Brian
thought that she looked older and more worn; there were fresh wrinkles
upon her forehead, and marks of weeping and sleeplessness about her
eyes, but her figure was erect as ever, as rigidly upright as if her
backbone were made of iron. She was in the deepest possible mourning;
even the handkerchief that she held in her hand was edged with two or
three inches of black. Brian looked round for Angela; he had expected to
find her with his mother, but she was not there. The door into Mrs.
Luttrell's bed-room was partly open.

"How is Angela?" he asked.

"Angela is not well. Could you expect her to be well after the terrible
trial that has overtaken her?"

Brian winced. He could make no reply to such a question. Mrs. Luttrell
scored a triumph, and continued in her hard, incisive way:--

"She is probably as well as she can hope to be under the circumstances.
Her health has suffered--as mine also has suffered--under the painful
dispensation which has been meted out to us. We do not repine. Hearts
that are broken, that have no hopes, no joys, no pleasures in store for
them in this life, are not eager to exhibit their sufferings. If I speak
as I speak now, it is for the last and only time. It is right that you
should hear me once."

"I will hear anything you choose to say," answered Brian, heavily. "But,
mother, be merciful. I have suffered, too."

"We will pass over the amount of your suffering," said Mrs. Luttrell,
"if you please. I have no doubt that it is very great, but I think that
it will soon be assuaged. I think that you will soon begin to remember
the many things that you gain by your brother's death--the social
position, the assured income, the estate in Scotland which I brought to
your father, as well as his own house of Netherglen--all the things for
which men are only too ready to sell their souls."

"All these things are nothing to me," sighed Brian.

"They are a great deal in the world's eyes. You will soon find out how
differently it receives you now from the way it received you a year--a
month--a week--ago. You are a rich man. I wish you joy of your wealth.
Everything goes to you except Netherglen itself; that is left in my
hands."

"Mother, are you mad?" said her son, passionately. "Why do you talk to
me in this way? I swear to you that I would give every hope and every
joy that I ever possessed--I would give my life--to have Richard back
again! Do you think I ever wanted to be rich through his death?"

"I do not know what you wanted," said Mrs. Luttrell, sternly. "I have no
means of guessing."

"Is this what you wished me to say?" said Brian, whose voice was hoarse
and changed. "I said that I would listen--but, you might spare me these
taunts, at least."

"I do not taunt you. I wish only to draw attention to the difference
between your position and my own. Richard's death brings wealth, ease,
comfort to you; to me nothing but desolation. I am willing to allow the
house of which I have been the mistress for so many years, of which I am
legally the mistress still, to pass into your hands. I have lost my home
as well as my sons. I am desolate."

"Your sons! You have not lost both your sons, mother," pleaded Brian,
with a note of bitter pain in his voice, as he came closer to her and
tried in vain to take her icy hand. "Why do you think that you are no
longer mistress of this house? You are as much mistress as you were in
my father's time--in Richard's time. Why should there be a difference
now?"

"There is this difference," said Mrs. Luttrell, coldly, "that I do not
care to live in any house with you. It would be painful to me; that is
all. If you desire to stay, I will go."

Brian staggered back as if she had struck him in the face.

"Do you mean to cast me off?" he almost whispered, for he could not find
strength to speak aloud. "Am I not your son, too?"

"You fill the place that a son should occupy," said Mrs. Luttrell,
letting her hand rise and fall upon her lap, and looking away from
Brian. "I can say no more. My son--my own son--the son that I
loved"--(she paused, and seemed to recollect herself before she
continued in a lower voice)--"the son that I loved--is dead."

There was a silence. Brian seated himself and bowed his head upon his
hands. "God help me!" she heard him mutter. But she did not relent.

Presently he looked up and fixed his haggard eyes upon her.

"Mother," he said, in hoarse and unnatural tones, "you have had your
say; now let me have mine. I know too well what you believe. You think,
because of a slight dispute which arose between us on that day, that I
had some grudge against my brother. I solemnly declare to you that that
is not true. Richard and I had differed; but we met--in the wood"--(he
drew his breath painfully)--"a few minutes only before that terrible
mistake of mine; and we were friends again. Mother, do you know me so
ill as to think that I could ever have lifted my hand against Richard,
who was always a friend to me, always far kinder than I deserved? It was
a mistake--a mistake that I'll never, never forgive myself for, and that
you, perhaps, never will forgive--but, at any rate, do me the justice to
believe that it was a mistake, and not--not--that I was Richard's
murderer!"

Mrs. Luttrell sat silent, motionless, her white hands crossed before her
on the crape of her black gown. Brian threw himself impetuously on his
knees before her and looked up into her face.

"Mother, mother!" he said, "do you not believe me?"

It seemed to him a long time--it was, in reality, not more than ten or
twelve seconds--before Mrs. Luttrell answered his question. "Do you not
believe me?" he had said. And she answered--

"No."

The shock of finding his passionate appeal so utterly disregarded
restored to Brian the composure which had failed him before. He rose to
his feet, pale, stricken, indeed, but calm. For a moment or two he
averted his face from the woman who judged him so harshly, so
pitilessly; but when he turned to her again, he had gained a certain
pride of bearing which compelled her unwilling respect.

"If that is your final answer," he said, "I can say nothing more.
Perhaps the day will come when you will understand me better. In the
meantime, I shall be glad to hear whether you have any plans which I can
assist you in carrying out."

"None in which I require your assistance," said Mrs. Luttrell, stonily.
"I have my jointure; I can live upon that. I will leave Netherglen to
you. I will take a cottage for myself--and Angela."

"And Angela?"

"Angela remains with me. You may remember that she has no home, except
with friends who are not always as kind to her as they might be. Her
brother is not a wealthy man, and has no house of his own. Under these
circumstances, and considering what she has lost, it would be mere
justice if I offered her a home. Henceforth she is my daughter."

"You have asked her to stay, and she has consented?"

"I have."

"And you thought--you think--of taking a home for yourselves?"

"Yes."

"I suppose you do not object," said Brian, slowly, "to the gossip to
which such a step on your part is sure to give rise?"

"I have not considered the matter. Gossip will not touch me."

"No." Brian would not for worlds have said that the step she
contemplated taking would be disastrous for him. Yet for one moment, he
could not banish the consciousness that all the world would now have
good reason to believe that his mother held him guilty of his brother's
death. He did not know that the world suspected him already.

It was with an unmoved front that he presently continued.

"I, myself, had a proposition to make which would perhaps render it
needless for you to leave Netherglen, which, as you say, is legally your
own. You may not have considered that I am hardly likely to have much
love for the place after what has occurred in it. You know that neither
you nor I can sell any portion of the property--even you would not care
to let it, I suppose, to strangers for the present. I think of going
abroad--probably probably for some years. I have always wanted to
travel. The house on the Strathleckie side of the property can be let;
and as for Netherglen, it would be an advantage for the place if you
made it your home for as many months in the year as you chose. I don't
see why you should not do so. I shall not return to this neighbourhood."

"It does not seem to occur to you," said Mrs. Luttrell, in measured
tones, "that Angela and I may also have an objection to residing in a
place which will henceforth have so many painful memories attached to
it."

"If that is the case," said Brian, after a little pause, "there is no
more to be said."

"I will ask Angela," said Mrs. Luttrell, stretching out her hand to a
little handbell which stood upon the table at her side.

Brian started. "Then I will come to you again," he said, moving hastily
to the door. "I will see you after lunch."

"Pray do not go," said his mother, giving two very decisive strokes of
the bell by means of a pressure of her firm, white fingers. "Let us
settle the matter while we are about it. There will be no need of a
second interview."

"But Angela will not want to see me."

"Angela----Ask Miss Vivian to come to me at once if she can" (to the
maid who appeared at the door)--"Angela expressed a wish to see you this
morning."

Brian stood erect by the mantelpiece, biting his lips under his soft,
brown moustache, and very much disposed to take the matter into his own
hands, and walk straight out of the room. But some time or other Angela
must be faced; perhaps as well now as at any other time. He waited,
therefore, in silence, until the door opened and Angela appeared.

"Brian!" said the soft voice, in as kind and sisterly a tone as he had
ever heard from her.

"Brian!"

She was close to him, but he dared not look up until she took his
unresisting hand in hers and held it tenderly. Then he raised his head a
very little and looked at her.

She had always been pale, but now she was snow-white, and the extreme
delicacy and even fragility of her appearance were thrown into strong
relief by the dead black of her mourning gown. Her eyes were full of
tears, and her lips were quivering; but Brian knew in a moment, by
instinct, that she at least believed in the innocence of his heart,
although his hand had taken his brother's life. He stooped down and
kissed the hand that held his own, so humbly, so sorrowfully, that
Angela's heart yearned over him. She understood him, and she had room,
even in her great grief, to be sorry for him too. And when he withdrew
his hand and turned away from her with one deep sob that he did not know
how to repress, she tried to comfort him.

"Dear Brian," she said, "I know--I understand. Poor fellow! it is very
hard for you. It is hard for us all; but I think it is hardest of all
for you."

"I would have given my life for his, Angela," said Brian, in a smothered
voice.

"I know you would. I know you loved him," said Angela, the tears
streaming now down her pale cheeks. "There is only one thing for us to
say, Brian--It was God's will that he should go."

"How you must hate the sight of me," groaned Brian. He had almost
forgotten the presence of Mrs. Luttrell, whose hard, watchful eyes were
taking notice of every detail of the scene.

"I will not trouble you long; I am going to leave Scotland; I will go
far away; you shall never see my face again."

"But I should be sorry for that," said Angela's soft, caressing voice,
into which a tremor stole from time to time that made it doubly sweet.
"I shall want to see you again. Promise me that you will come back,
Brian--some day."

"Some day?" he repeated, mournfully. "Well, some day, Angela, when you
can look on me without so much pain as you must needs feel now, any day
when you have need of me. But, as I am going so very soon, will you tell
me yourself whether Netherglen is a place that you hold in utter
abhorrence now? Would it hurt you to make Netherglen your home? Could
you and my mother find happiness--or at least peace--if you lived here
together? or would it be too great a trial for you to bear?"

"It rests with you to decide, Angela," said Mrs. Luttrell from her sofa.
"I have no choice; it signifies little to me whether I go or stay. If it
would pain you to live at Netherglen, say so; and we will choose another
home."

"Pain me?" said Angela. "To stay here--in Richard's home?"

"Would you dislike it?" asked Mrs. Luttrell.

The girl came to her side, and put her arms round the mother's neck.
Mrs. Luttrell's face softened curiously as she did so; she laid one of
her hands upon Angela's shining hair with a caressing movement.

"Dislike it? It would be my only happiness," said Angela. She stopped,
and then went on with soft vehemence--"To think that I was in his house,
that I looked on the things that he used to see every day, that I could
sometimes do the thing that he would have liked to see me doing--it is
all I could wish for, all that life could give me now! Yes, yes, let us
stay."

"It's perhaps not so good for you as one might wish," said Mrs.
Luttrell, regarding her tenderly. "You had perhaps better have a change
for a time; there is no reason why you should live for ever in the past,
like an old woman, Angela. The day will come when you may wish to make
new ties for yourself--new interests----"

Angela's whisper reached her ear alone.

"'Intreat me not to leave thee, or to return from following after
thee,'" she murmured in the words of the widowed Moabitess, "'for
whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge; thy
people shall be my people, and thy God my God...'"

Mrs. Luttrell clasped her in her arms and kissed her forehead. Then
after a little pause she said to Brian--

"We will stay."

Brian bowed his head.

"I will make all necessary arrangements with Mr. Colquhoun, and send him
to you," he said. "I think there is nothing else about which we have to
speak?"

"Nothing," said Mrs. Luttrell, steadily.

"Except Hugo. As I am going away from home for so long I think it would
be better if I settled a certain sum in the Funds upon him, so that he
might have a moderate income as well as his pay. Does that meet with
your approval?"

"My approval matters very little, but you can do as you choose with your
own money. I suppose you wish that this house should be kept open for
him?"

"That is as you please. He would be better for a home. May I ask what
Angela thinks?"

"Oh, yes," said Angela, lifting her face slowly from Mrs. Luttrell's
shoulder. "He must not feel that he has lost a home, must he, mother?"
She pronounced the title which Mrs. Luttrell had begged her to bestow,
still with a certain diffidence and hesitancy; but Mrs. Luttrell's brow
smoothed when she heard it.

"We will do what we can for him," she said.

"He has not been very steady of late," Brian went on slowly, wondering
whether he was right to conceal Hugo's misdeeds and evil tendencies. "I
hope he will improve; you will have patience with him if he is not very
wise. And now, will you let me say good-bye to you? I shall leave
Netherglen to-morrow."

"To-morrow?" said Angela, wonderingly. "Why should you go so soon?"

"It is better so," Brian answered.

"But we shall know where you are. You will write?"

His eyes sought his mother's face. She would not look at him. He spoke
in an unnaturally quiet voice, "I do not know."

"Mother, will you not tell him to write to you?" said Angela.

The mother sat silent, unresponsive. It was plain that she cared for no
letter from this son of hers.

"I will leave my address with Mr. Colquhoun, Angela," said Brian,
forcing a slight, sad smile. "If there is business for me to transact,
he will be able to let me know. I shall hear from him how you all are,
from time to time."

"Will you not write to me, then?" said Angela.

Brian darted an inquiring glance at her. Oh, what divine pity, what
sublime forgetfulness of self, gleamed out of those tender,
tear-reddened eyes!

"Will you let me?" he said, almost timidly.

"I should like you to write. I shall look for your letters, Brian. Don't
forget that I shall be anxious for news of you."

Almost without knowing what he did, he sank down on his knees before
her, and touched her hand reverently with his lips. She bent forward and
kissed his forehead as a sister might have done.

"God bless you, Angela!" he said. He could not utter another word.

"Mother," said the girl, taking in hers the passive hand of the woman,
who had sat with face averted--perhaps so that she should not meet the
eyes of the man whom she could not forgive--"mother, speak to him; say
good-bye to him before he goes."

The mother's hand trembled and tried to withdraw itself, but Angela
would not let it go.

"One kind word to him, mother," she said. "See, he is kneeling before
you. Only look at him and you will see how he has suffered! Don't let
him go away from you without one word."

She guided Mrs. Luttrell's hand to Brian's head; and there for a moment
it rested heavily. Then she spoke.

"If I have been unjust, may God forgive me!" she said.

Then she withdrew her hand and rose from her seat. She did not even look
behind her as she walked to the bed-room door, pushed it open, entered,
and closed it, and turned the key in the old-fashioned lock. She had
said all that she meant to say: no power, human or divine, should wrest
another word from her just then. But in her heart she was crying over
and over again the words that had been upon her lips a hundred times to
say.

"He is no son of mine--no son of mine--this man by whose hand Richard
Luttrell fell. I am childless. Both my sons are dead."




CHAPTER VII.

A FAREWELL.


There was a little, sunny, green walk opposite the dining-room windows,
edged on either side by masses of white and crimson phlox and a row of
sunflowers, where the gentlemen of the house were in the habit of taking
their morning stroll and smoking their first cigar. It was here that
Hugo was slowly pacing up and down when Brian Luttrell came out of the
house in search of him.

Hugo gave him a searching glance as he approached, and was not
reassured. Brian's face wore a curiously restrained expression, which
gave it a look of sternness. Hugo's heart beat fast; he threw away the
end of his cigar, and advanced to meet his cousin with an air of
unconcern which was evidently assumed for the occasion. It passed
unremarked, however. Brian was in no mood for considering Hugo's
expression of countenance.

They took two or three turns up and down the garden walk without
uttering a word. Brian was absorbed in thought, and Hugo had his own
reasons for being afraid to open his mouth. It was Brian who spoke at
last.

"Come away from the house," he said. "I want to speak to you, and we
can't talk easily underneath all these windows. We'll go down to the
loch."

"Not to the loch," said Hugo, hastily.

Brian considered a moment. "You are right," he said, in a low tone, "we
won't go there. Come this way." For the moment he had forgotten that
painful scene at the boat-house, which no doubt made Hugo shrink
sensitively from the sight of the place. He was sorry that he had
suggested it.

The day was calm and mild, but not brilliant. The leaves of the trees
had taken on an additional tinge of autumnal yellow and red since Brian
last looked at them with an observant eye. For the past week he had
thought of nothing but of the intolerable grief and pain that had come
upon him. But now the peace and quiet of the day stole upon him
unawares; there was a restfulness in the sight of the steadfast hills,
of the waving trees--a sense of tranquility even in the fall of the
yellowing leaves and the flight of the migrating song-birds overhead.
His eye grew calmer, his brow more smooth, as he walked silently onward;
he drew a long breath, almost like one of relief; then he stopped short,
and leaned against the trunk of a tall fir tree, looking absently before
him, as though he had forgotten the reason for his proposed interview
with his cousin. Hugo grew impatient. They had left the garden, and were
walking down a grassy little-trodden lane between two tracks of wooded
ground; it led to the tiny hamlet at the head of the loch, and thence to
the high road. Hugo wondered whether the conversation were to be held
upon the public highway or in the lane. If it had to do with his own
private affairs, he felt that he would prefer the lane. But he dared not
precipitate matters by speaking.

Brian recollected his purpose at last, however. After a short interval
of silence he turned his eyes upon Hugo, who was standing near him, and
said, gently--

"Sit down, won't you?--then we can talk."

There was a fallen log on the ground. Hugo took his seat on it meekly
enough, but continued his former occupation of digging up, with the
point of a stick that he was carrying, the roots of all the plants
within his reach. He was so much absorbed by this pursuit that he seemed
hardly to attend to the next words that Brian spoke.

"I ought, perhaps, to have had a talk with you before," he said.
"Matters have been in a very unsettled state, as you well know. But
there are one or two points that ought to be settled without delay."

Hugo ceased his work of destruction; and apparently disposed himself to
listen.

"First, your own affairs. You have hitherto had an allowance, I
believe--how much?"

"Two hundred," said Hugo, sulkily, "since I joined."

"And your pay. And you could not make that sufficient?"

Hugo's face flushed, he did not answer. He sat still, looking sullenly
at the ground. Brian waited for a little while, and then went on.

"I don't want to preach, old fellow, but you know I can't help thinking
that, by a little decent care and forethought, you ought to have made
that do. Still, it's no good my saying so, is it? What is done cannot be
undone--would God it could!"

He stopped short again: his voice had grown hoarse. Hugo, with the dusky
red still tingeing his delicate, dark face, hung his head and made no
reply.

"One can but try to do better for the future," said Brian, somewhat
unsteadily, after that moment's pause. "Hugo, dear boy, will you promise
that, at least?"

He put his hand on his cousin's shoulder. Hugo tried to shrink away,
then, finding this impossible, averted his face and partly hid it with
his hands.

"It's no good making vague promises," he said by-and-bye. "What do you
mean? If you want me to promise to live on my pay or anything of that
sort----"

"Nothing of that sort," Brian interrupted him. "Only, that you will act
honourably and straightforwardly--that you will not touch what is not
your own----"

Hugo shook off the kindly hand and started up with something like an
oath upon his lips. "Why are you always talking about that affair! I
thought it was past and done with," he said, turning his back upon his
cousin, and switching the grass savagely with his cane.

"Always talking about it! Be reasonable, Hugo."

"It was only because I was at my wits' end for money," said the lad,
irritably. "And that came in my way, and--I had never taken any
before----"

"And never will again," said Brian. "That's what I want to hear you
say."

But Hugo would say nothing. He stood, the impersonation of silent
obstinacy, digging the end of his stick into the earth, or striking at
the blue bells and the brambles within reach, resolved to utter no word
which Brian could twist into any sort of promise for the future. He knew
that his silence might injure his prospects, by lowering him in Brian's
estimation--Brian being now the arbiter of his fate--but for all that he
could not bring himself to make submission or to profess penitence.
Something made the words stick in his throat; no power on earth would at
that moment have forced him to speak.

"Well," said Brian at last, in a tone which showed deep disappointment,
"I am sorry that you won't go so far, Hugo. I hope you will do well,
however, without professions. Still, I should have been better satisfied
to have your word for it--before I left Netherglen."

"Where are you going?" said Hugo, suddenly facing him.

"I don't quite know."

"To London?"

"No, Abroad."

"Abroad?" repeated Hugo, with a wondering accent. "Why should you go
abroad?"

"That's my own business."

"But--but--" said the lad, flushing and paling, and stammering with
eagerness, "I thought that you would stay here, and that Netherglen and
everything would belong to you, and--and----"

"And that I should shoot, and fish, and ride, and disport myself gaily
over my brother's inheritance--that my own hand deprived him of!" cried
Brian, with angry bitterness. "It is so likely! Is it you who have no
feeling, or do you fancy that I have none?"

"But the place is yours," faltered Hugo, with a guilty look,
"Strathleckie is yours, if Netherglen is not."

"Mine! Yes, it is mine after a fashion," said Brian, while a hot, red
flush crept up to his forehead, and his brows contracted painfully over
his sad, dark eyes. "It is mine by law; mine by my father's will; and if
it had come into my hands by any other way--if my brother had not died
through my own carelessness--I suppose that I might have learnt to enjoy
it like any other man. But as it is--I wish that every acre of it were
at the bottom of the loch, and I there, too, for the matter of that! I
have made up my mind that I will not benefit by Richard's death. Others
may have the use of his wealth, but I am the last that should touch it.
I will have the two or three hundred a year that he used to give me, and
I will have nothing more."

Hugo's face had grown pale. He looked more dismayed by this utterance
than by anything that Brian as yet had said. He opened his lips once or
twice before he could find his voice, and it was in curiously rough and
broken tones that he at length asked a question.

"Is this because of what people say about--about you--and--Richard?"

He seemed to find it difficult to pronounce the dead man's name. Brian
lifted up his face.

"What do people say about me and Richard, then?" he said.

Hugo retreated a little.

"If you don't know," he said, looking down miserably, "I can't tell
you."

Brian's eyes blazed with sudden wrath.

"You have said too little or too much," he said. "I must know the rest.
What is it that people say?"

"Don't you know?"

"No, I do not know. Out with it."

"I can't tell you," said Hugo, biting his lips. "Don't ask me, ask
someone else. Anyone."

"Is 'anyone' sure to know? I will hear it from you, and from no one
else. What do people say?"

Hugo looked up at him and then down again. The struggle that was waging
between the powers of good and evil in his soul had its effect even on
his outer man. His very lips turned white as he considered what he
should say.

Brian noted this change of colour, and was moved by it, thinking that he
understood Hugo's reluctance to give him pain. He subdued his own
impatience, and spoke in a lower, quieter voice.

"Don't take it to heart, Hugo, whatever it may be. It cannot be worse
than the thing I have heard already--from my mother. I don't suppose I
shall mind it much. They say, perhaps, that I--that I shot my
brother"--(in spite of himself, Brian's voice trembled with passionate
indignation)--"that I killed Richard purposely--knowing what I did--in
order to possess myself of this miserable estate of his--is that what
they say?"

Hugo answered by a bare little monosyllable--

"Yes."

"And who says this?"

"Everyone. The whole country side."

"Then--if this is believed so generally--why have no steps been taken to
prove my guilt? Good God, my guilt! Why should I not be prosecuted at
once for murder?"

"There would be no evidence, they say." Hugo murmured, uneasily. "It is
simply a matter of assertion; you say you shot at a bird, not seeing
him, and they say that you must have known that he was there. That is
all."

"A matter of assertion! Well, they are right so far. If they don't
believe my word, there is no more to be said," replied Brian, sadly, his
excitement suddenly forsaking him. "Only I never thought that my word
would even be asked for on such a subject by people who had known me all
my life. You don't doubt me, do you, Hugo?"

"How could I?" said Hugo, in a voice so low and shaken that Brian could
scarcely hear the words. But he felt instinctively that the lad's trust
in him, on that one point, at least, had not wavered, and with a warm
thrill of affection and gratitude he held out his hand. It gave him a
rude shock to see that Hugo drew back and would not take it.

"What! you don't trust me after all?" he said, quickly.

"I--I do," cried Hugo, "but--what does it matter what I think? I'm not
fit to take your hand--I cannot--I cannot----"

His emotion was so genuine that Brian felt some surprise, and also some
compunction for having distrusted him before.

"Dear Hugo," he said, gently, "I shall know you better now. We have
always been friends; don't forget that we are friends still, although I
may be on the other side of the world. I'm going to try and lose myself
in some out-of-the-way place, and live where nobody will ever know my
story, but I shall be rather glad to think sometimes that, at any rate,
you understand what I felt about poor Richard--that you never once
misjudged me--I won't forget it, Hugo, I assure you."

He pressed Hugo's still reluctant hand, and then made him sit down
beside him upon the fallen tree.

"We must talk business now," he said, more cheerfully--though it was a
sad kind of cheerfulness after all--"for we have not much time left. I
hear the luncheon-bell already. Shall we finish our talk first? You
don't care for luncheon? No more do I. Where had we got to? Only to the
initial step--that I was going abroad. I have several other things to
explain to you."

His eyes looked out into the distance as he spoke; his voice lost its
forced cheerfulness, and became immeasurably grave and sad. Hugo
listened with hidden face. He did not care to turn his gloomy brows and
anxiously-twitching lips towards the speaker.

"I shall never come back to Scotland," said Brian, slowly. "To England I
may come some day, but it will be after many years. My mother has the
management of Strathleckie; as well as of Netherglen, which belongs to
her. She will live here, and use the house and dispose of the revenues
as she pleases. Angela remains with her."

"But if you marry----"

"I shall never marry. My life is spoilt--ruined. I could not ask any
woman to share it with me. I shall be a wanderer on the face of the
earth--like Cain."

"No, no!" cried Hugo, passionately. "Not like Cain. There is no curse on
you----"

"Not even my mother's curse? I am not sure," said Brian. "I shall be a
wanderer, at any rate; so much is certain: living on my three hundred a
year, very comfortably, no doubt; until this life is over, and I come
out clear on the other side----"

Hugo lifted his face. "You don't mean," he whispered, with a look of
terrified suspicion, "that you would ever lay hands on yourself, and
shorten your life in that way?"

"Why, no. What makes you think that I should choose such a course? I
hope I am not a coward," said Brian, simply. "No, I shall live out my
days somewhere--somehow; but there is no harm in wishing that they were
over."

There was a pause. The dreamy expression of Brian's eyes seemed to
betoken that his thoughts were far away. Hugo moved his stick nervously
through the grass at his feet. He could not look up.

"What else have you to tell me?" he said at last.

"Do you know the way in which Strathleckie was settled?" said Brian,
quietly, coming down to earth from some high vision of other worlds and
other lives than ours. "Do you know that my grandfather made a curious
will about it?"

"No," said Hugo. It was false, for he knew the terms of the will quite
well; but he thought it more becoming to profess ignorance.

"This place belonged to my mother's father. It was left to her children
and their direct heirs; failing heirs, it reverts to a member of her
family, a man of the name of Gordon Murray. We have no power to alienate
any portion of it. The rents are ours, the house and lands are ours, for
our lives only. If we die, you see, without children, the property goes
to these Murrays."

"Cousins of yours, are they?"

"Second cousins. I have never troubled myself about the exact degree of
relationship until within the last day or two. I find that Gordon Murray
would be my second cousin once removed, and that his child or
children--he has more than one, I believe--would, therefore, be my third
cousins. A little while ago I should have thought it highly improbable
that any of the Gordon Murrays would ever come into possession of
Strathleckie, but it is not at all improbable now."

"Where do these Murrays live?"

"In London, I think. I am not sure. I have asked Colquhoun to find out
all that he can about them. If there is a young fellow in the family, it
might be well to let him know his prospects and invite him down. I could
settle an income on him if he were poor. Then the estate would benefit
somebody."

"You can do as you like with the income," said Hugo.

The words escaped him half against his will. He stole a glance at Brian
when they were uttered, as if anxious to ascertain whether or no his
cousin had divined his own grudging, envious thoughts. He heartily
wished that Richard's money had come to him. In Brian's place it would
never have crossed his mind that he should throw away the good fortune
that had fallen to his lot. If only he were in this lucky young Murray's
shoes!

Brian did not guess the thoughts that passed through Hugo's mind, but
that murmured speech reminded him of another point which he wished to
make quite clear.

"Yes, I can do what I like with the income," he said, "and also with a
sum of money that my father invested many years ago which nobody has
touched at present. There are twelve thousand pounds in the Funds, part
of which I propose to settle upon you so as to make you more independent
of my help in the future."

Hugo stammered out something a little incoherent; it was a proposition
which took him completely by surprise. Brian continued quietly--

"Of course, I might continue the allowance that you have had hitherto,
but then, in the event of my death, it would cease, for I cannot leave
it to you by will. I have thought that it would be better, therefore, to
transfer to you six thousand pounds, Hugo, over which you have complete
control. All I ask is that you won't squander it. Colquhoun says that he
can safely get you five per cent for it. I would put it in his hands, if
I were you. It will then bring you in three hundred a year."

"Brian, you are too good to me," said Hugo. There were tears in his
eyes; his voice trembled and his cheek flushed as he spoke "You don't
know----"

Then he stopped and covered his face with his hands. A very unwonted
feeling of shame and regret overpowered him; it was as much as he could
do to refrain from crying like a child. "I can't thank you," he said,
with a sob which made Brian smile a little, and lay his hand
affectionately on his shoulder.

"Don't thank me, dear boy," he said. "It's very little to do for you;
but it will perhaps help to keep you out of difficulties. And if you are
in any trouble, go to Colquhoun. I will tell him how far he may go on
helping you, and you can trust him. He shall not even tell me what you
say to him, if you don't wish me to know. But, for Heaven's sake, Hugo,
try to keep straight, and bring no disgrace upon our name. I have done
what I could for you--I may do more, if necessary; but there are
circumstances in which I should not be able to help you at all, and you
know what those are."

He thought that he understood Hugo's impulsive disposition, but even he
was not prepared for the burst of passionate remorse and affection with
which the boy threw himself almost at his feet, kissing his hands and
sobbing out promises of amendment with all the abandonment of his
Southern nature. Brian was inclined to be displeased with this want of
self-control; he spoke sharply at last and told him to command himself.
But some time elapsed before Hugo regained his calmness. And when Brian
returned to the house, he could not induce his cousin to return with
him; the young fellow wandered away through the woods with drooping head
and dejected mien, and was seen no more till late at night.

He came back to the house too late to say good-bye to Brian, who had
left a few lines of farewell for him. His absence, perhaps, added a pang
to the keen pain with which Brian left his home; but if so, no trace of
it was discernible in the kindly words which he had addressed to his
cousin. He saw neither his mother nor Angela before he went; indeed, he
avoided any formal parting from the household in general, and let it be
thought that he was likely to return in a short time. But as he took
from his groom the reins of the dog-cart in which he was about to drive
down to the station, he looked round him sadly and lingeringly, with a
firm conviction at his heart that never again would his eyes rest upon
the shining loch, the purple hills, and the ivy-grown, grey walls of
Netherglen. Never again. He had said his last farewell. He had no home
now!




CHAPTER VIII.

IN GOWER-STREET.


Angela Vivian's brother Rupert was, perhaps, not unlike her in feature
and colouring, but there was a curious dissimilarity of expression
between the two. Angela's dark, grey eyes had a sweetness in which
Rupert's were lacking; the straight, regular features, which with her
were brightened by a tender play of emotion, were, with him, cold and
grave. The mouth was a fastidious one; the bearing of the man, though
full of distinction, could sometimes be almost repellantly haughty. The
merest sketch of him would not be complete unless we added that his
dress was faultless, and that he was apt to bestow a somewhat finical
care upon the minor details of his toilet.

It was in October, when "everybody" was still supposed to be out of
town, that Rupert Vivian walked composedly down Gower-street meditating
on the news which the latest post had brought him. In sheer absence of
mind he almost passed the house at which he had been intending to call,
and he stood for a minute or two upon the steps, as if not quite sure
whether or no he would enter. Finally, however, he knocked at the door
and rang the bell, then prepared himself, with a resigned air, to wait
until it should be opened. He had never yet found that a first summons
gained him admittance to that house.

After waiting five minutes and knocking twice, a slatternly maid
appeared and asked him to walk upstairs. Rupert followed her leisurely;
he knew very well what sort of reception to expect, and was not
surprised when she merely opened the drawing-room door, and left him to
announce himself. "No ceremony" was the rule in the Herons' household,
and very objectionable Rupert Vivian sometimes found it.

The day had been foggy and dark, and a bright fire threw a cheerful
light over the scene which presented itself to Rupert's eyes. A pleasant
clinking of spoons and cups and saucers met his ear. He stood at the
door for a moment unobserved, listening and looking on. He was a
privileged person in that house, and considered himself quite at liberty
to look and listen if he chose.

The room had an air of comfort verging upon luxury, but if was untidy to
a degree which Rupert thought disgraceful. For the rich hues of the
curtains, the artistic character of the Japanese screens and Oriental
embroideries, the exquisite landscape-paintings on the walls, were
compatible with grave deficiencies in the list of more ordinary articles
of furniture. There were two or three picturesque, high-backed chairs,
made of rosewood (black with age) and embossed leather, but the rest of
the seats consisted of divans, improvised by ingenious fingers out of
packing-boxes and cushions covered with Morris chintzes; or brown
Windsor chairs, evidently imported straight from the kitchen. A battered
old writing-desk had an incongruous look when placed next to a costly
buhl clock on a table inlaid indeed with mother-of-pearl, but wanting in
one leg; and so no valuable blue china was apt to pass unobserved upon
the mantelpiece because it was generally found in company with a child's
mug, a plate of crusts, or a painting-rag. A grand piano stood open, and
was strewn with sheets of music; two sketching portfolios conspicuously
adorned the hearth-rug. A tea-table was drawn up near the fire, and the
firelight was reflected pleasantly in the gleaming silver and porcelain
of the tea-service.

The human elements of the scene were very diverse. Mrs. Heron, a
languid-looking, fair-haired woman, lay at full length on one of the
divans. Her step-daughter, Kitty, sat at the tea-table, and Kitty's
elder brother, Percival, a tall, broad-shouldered young man of
eight-and-twenty, was leaning against the mantelpiece. A girl, who
looked about twenty-one years of age was sitting in the deepest shadow
of the room. The firelight played upon her hands, which lay quietly
folded before her in her lap, but it did not touch her face. Two or
three children were playing about the floor with their toys and a white
fox-terrier. The young man was talking very fast, two at least of the
ladies were laughing, the children were squabbling and shouting. It was
a Babel. As Rupert stood at the door he caught the sense of Percival's
last rapid sentences.

"No right nor wrong in the case. You must allow me to say that you take
an exclusively feminine view of the matter, which, of course, is narrow.
I have as much right to sell my brains to the highest bidder as my
friend Vivian has to sell his pictures when he gets the chance--which
isn't often."

"There is nothing like the candour of an impartial friend," said Rupert,
good-humouredly, as he advanced into the room. "Allow me to tell you
that I sold my last painting this morning. How do you do, Mrs. Heron?"

His appearance produced a lull in the storm. Percival ceased to talk and
looked slightly--very slightly--disconcerted. Mrs. Heron half rose;
Kitty made a raid upon the children's toys, and carried some of them to
the other end of the room, whither the tribe followed her, lamenting.
Then, Percival laughed aloud.

"Where did you come from?" he said, in a round, mellow, genial voice,
which was singularly pleasant to the ear. "'Listeners hear no good of
themselves.' You've proved the proverb."

"Not for the first time when you are the speaker. I have found that out.
How are you, Kitty? Good evening, Miss Murray."

"How good of you to come to see us, Mr. Vivian!" said Mrs. Heron, in a
low, sweetly-modulated voice, as she held out one long, white hand to
her visitor. She re-arranged her draperies a little, and lay back
gracefully when she had spoken. Rupert had never seen her do anything
but lie on sofas in graceful attitudes since he first made her
acquaintance. It was her _métier_. Nobody expected anything else from
her except vague, theoretic talk, which she called philosophy. She had
been Kitty's governess in days gone by. Mr. Heron, an artist of some
repute, married her when he had been a widower for twelve months only.
Since that time she had become the mother of three handsome, but
decidedly noisy, children, and had lapsed by degrees into the life of a
useless, fine lady, to whom household cares and the duties of a mother
were mere drudgery, and were left to fall as much as possible on the
shoulders of other people. Nevertheless, Mrs. Heron's selfishness was of
a gentle and even loveable type. She was seldom out of humour, rarely
worried or fretful; she was only persistently idle, and determined to
consider herself in feeble health.

Vivian's acquaintance with the Herons dated from his first arrival in
London, six years ago, when he boarded with them for a few months. The
disorder of the household had proved too great a trial to his fastidious
tastes to be borne for a longer space of time. He had, however, formed a
firm friendship with the whole family, especially with Percival; and for
the last three or four years the two young men had occupied rooms in the
same house and virtually lived together. To anyone who knew the
characters of the friends, their friendship was somewhat remarkable.
Vivian's fault was an excess of polish and refinement; he attached
unusual value to matters of mere taste and culture. Possibly this was
the link which really attached him to Percival Heron, who was a man of
considerable intellectual power, although possessed sometimes by a sort
of irrepressible brusqueness and roughness of manner, with which he
could make himself exceedingly disagreeable even to his friends.
Percival was taller, stronger, broader about the shoulders, deeper in
the chest, than Vivian--in fact, a handsomer man in all respects.
Well-cut features, pale, but healthy-looking; brilliant, restless, dark
eyes; thick brown hair and moustache; a well-knit, vigorous frame, which
gave no sign as yet of the stoutness to which it inclined in later
years, these were points that made his appearance undeniably striking
and attractive. A physiognomist might, however, have found something to
blame as well as to praise in his features. There was an ominous upright
line between the dark brows, which surely told of a variable temper; the
curl of the laughing lips, and the fall of the heavy moustache only half
concealed a curious over-sensitiveness in the lines of the too mobile
mouth. It was not the face of a great thinker nor of a great saint, but
of a humorous, quick-witted, impatient man, of wide intelligence, and
very irritable nervous organisation.

The air of genial hilarity which he could sometimes wear was doubtless
attractive to a man of Vivian's reserved temperament. Percival's
features beamed with good humour--he laughed with his whole heart when
anything amused him. Vivian used to look at him in wonder sometimes, and
think that Percival was more like a great overgrown boy than a man of
eight-and-twenty. On the other hand, Percival said that Vivian was a
prig.

Kitty, sitting at the tea-table, did not think so. She loved her brother
very much, but she considered Mr. Vivian a hero, a demigod, something a
little lower, perhaps, than the angels, but not very much. Kitty was
only sixteen, which accounts, possibly, for her delusion on this
subject. She was slim, and round, and white, with none of the usual
awkwardness of her age about her. She had a well-set, graceful little
head, and small, piquant features; her complexion had not much colour,
but her pretty lips showed the smallest and pearliest of teeth when she
smiled, and her dark eyes sparkled and danced under the thin, dark curve
of her eyebrows and the shade of her long, curling lashes. Then her hair
would not on any account lie straight, but disposed itself in dainty
tendrils and love-locks over her forehead, which gave her almost a
childish look, and was a serious trouble to Miss Kitty herself, who
preferred her step-mother's abundant flaxen plaits, and did not know the
charm that those soft rings of curling hair lent to her irregular,
little face.

Vivian took a cup of tea from her with an indulgent smile, He liked
Kitty extremely well. He lent her books sometimes, which she did not
always read. I am afraid that he tried to form her mind. Kitty had a
mind of her own, which did not want forming. Perhaps Percival Heron, was
right when he said that Vivian was a prig. He certainly liked to lecture
Kitty; and she used to look up at him with great, grave eyes when he was
lecturing, and pretend to understand what he was saying. She very often
did not understand a word; but Rupert never suspected that. He thought
that Kitty was a very simple-minded little person.

"There was quite an argument going on when you appeared, Mr. Vivian,"
said Mrs. Heron, languidly. "It is sometimes a most difficult matter to
decide what is right and what is wrong. I think you must decide for us."

"I am not skilled in casuistry," said Vivian, smiling. "Is Percival
giving forth some of his heresies?"

"I was never less heretical in my life," cried Percival. "State your
case, Bess; I'll give you the precedence."

Vivian turned towards the dark corner.

"It is Miss Murray's difficulty, is it?" he said, with a look of some
interest. "I shall be glad to hear it."

The girl in the dark corner stirred a little uneasily, but she spoke
with no trepidation of manner, and her voice was clear and cool.

"The question," she said, "is whether a man may write articles in a
daily paper, advocating views which are not his own, simply because they
are the views of the editor. I call it dishonesty."

"So do I," said Kitty, warmly.

"Dishonesty? Not a bit of it," rejoined Percival. "The writer is the
mouthpiece of the paper, which advocates certain views; he sinks his
individuality; he does not profess to explain his own opinions. Besides,
after all, what is dishonesty? Why should people erect honesty into such
a great virtue? It is like truth-telling and--peaches; nobody wants them
out of their proper season; they are never good when they are forced."

"I don't see any analogy between truth-telling and peaches," said the
calm voice from the corner.

"You tell the truth all the year round, don't you, Bess?" said Kitty,
with a little malice.

"But we are mortal, and don't attempt to practice exotic virtues," said
Percival, mockingly. "I see no reason why I should not flourish upon
what is called dishonesty, just as I see no reason why I should not tell
lies. It is only the diseased sensibility of modern times which condemns
either."

"Modern times?" said Vivian. "I have heard of a commandment----"

"Good Heavens!" said Percival, throwing back his handsome head, "Vivian
is going to be didactic! I think this conversation has lasted quite long
enough. Elizabeth, consider yourself worsted in the argument, and
contest the point no longer."

"There has been no argument," said Elizabeth. "There has been assertion
on your part, and indignation on ours; that is all."

"Then am I to consider myself worsted?" asked Percival. But he got no
answer. Presently, however, he burst out with renewed vigour.

"Right and wrong! What does it mean? I hate the very sound of the words.
What is right to me is wrong to you, and _vice versa_. It's all a matter
of convention. 'Now, who shall arbitrate? as Browning says--

      'Now, who shall arbitrate?
      Ten men love what I hate,
    Shun what I follow, slight what I receive;
      Ten, who in ears and eyes
      Match me; we all surmise,
    They, this thing, and I, that; whom shall my soul believe?"

The lines rang out boldly upon the listeners' ears. Percival was one of
the few men who can venture to recite poetry without making themselves
ridiculous. He continued hotly--

"There is neither truth nor falsehood in the world, and those who aver
that there is are either impostors or dupes."

"Ah," said Vivian, "you remind me of Bacon's celebrated sentence--'Many
there be that say with jesting Pilate, What is truth? but do not wait
for an answer.'"

"I think you have both quoted quite enough," said Kitty, lightly. "You
forget how little I understand of these deep subjects. I don't know how
it is, but Percival always says the things most calculated to annoy
people; he never visits papa's studio without abusing modern art, or
meets a doctor without sneering at the medical profession, or loses an
opportunity of telling Elizabeth, who loves truth for its own sake, that
he enjoys trickery and falsehood, and thinks it clever to tell lies."

"Very well put, Kitty," said Percival, approvingly. "You have hit off
your brother's amiable character to the life. Like the child in the
story, I could never tell why people loved me so, but now I know."

There was a general laugh, and also a discordant clatter at the other
end of the room, where the children, hitherto unnoticed, had come to
blows over a broken toy.

"What a noise they make!" said Percival, with a frown.

"Perhaps they had better go away," murmured Mrs. Heron, gently. "Dear
Lizzy, will you look after them a little? They are always good with
you."

The girl rose and went silently towards the three children, who at once
clustered round her to pour their woes into her ear. She bent down and
spoke to them lovingly, as it seemed, and finally quitted the room with
one child clinging round her neck, and the others hanging to her gown.
Percival gave vent to a sudden, impatient sigh.

"Miss Murray is fond of children," said Vivian, looking after her
pleasantly.

"And I am not," snapped Kitty, with something of her brother's love of
opposition in her tone. "I hate children."

"You! You are only a child yourself," said he, turning towards her with
a kindly look in his grave eyes, and an unwonted smile. But Kitty's
wrath was appeased by neither look nor smile.

"Then I had better join my compeers," she said, tartly. "I shall at
least get the benefit of Elizabeth's affection for children."

Vivian's chair was close to hers, and the tea-table partly hid them from
Percival's lynx eyes. Mrs. Heron was half asleep. So there was nothing
to hinder Mr. Rupert Vivian from putting out his hand and taking Kitty's
soft fingers for a moment soothingly in his own. He did not mean
anything but an elderly-brotherly, patronising sort of affection by it;
but Kitty was "thrilled through every nerve" by that tender pressure,
and sat mute as a mouse, while Vivian turned to her step-mother and
began to speak.

"I had some news this morning of my sister," he said. "You heard of the
sad termination to her engagement?"

"No; what was that?"

"She was to be married before Christmas to a Mr. Luttrell; but Mr.
Luttrell was killed a short time ago by a shot from his brother's gun
when they were out shooting together."

"How very sad!"

"The brother has gone--or is going--abroad; report says that he takes
the matter very much to heart. And Angela is going to live with Mrs.
Luttrell, the mother of these two men. I thought these details might be
interesting to you," said Vivian, looking round half-questioningly,
"because I understand that the Luttrells are related to your young
friend--or cousin--Miss Murray."

"Indeed? I never heard her mention the name," said Mrs. Heron.

Vivian thought of something that he had recently heard in connection
with Miss Murray and the Luttrell family, and wondered whether she knew
that if Brian Luttrell died unmarried she would succeed, to a great
Scotch estate. But he said nothing more.

"Where is Elizabeth?" said Percival, restlessly. "She is a great deal
too much with these children--they drag the very life out of her. I
shall go and find her."

He marched away, noting as he went, with much dissatisfaction, that Mrs.
Heron was inviting Vivian to dinner, and that he was accepting the
invitation.

He went to the top of the house, where he knew that a room was
appropriated to the use of the younger children. Here he found Elizabeth
for once without the three little Herons. She was standing in the middle
of the room, engaged in the prosaic occupation of folding up a
table-cloth.

He stood in the doorway looking at her for a minute or two before he
spoke. She was a tall girl, with fine shoulders, and beautiful arms and
hands. He noticed them particularly as she held up the cloth, shook it
out, and folded it. A clear, fine-grained skin, with a colour like that
of a June rose in her cheeks, well-opened, calm-looking, grey-blue eyes,
a mass of golden hair, almost too heavy for her head; a well-cut
profile, and rather stately bearing, made Elizabeth Murray a noticeable
person even amongst women more strictly beautiful than herself. She was
poorly and plainly dressed, but poverty and plainness became her,
throwing into strong relief the beauty of her rose-tints and
finely-moulded figure. She did not start when she saw Percival at the
door; she smiled at him frankly, and asked why he had come.

"Do you know anything of the Luttrells?" he asked, abruptly.

"The Luttrells of Netherglen? They are my third cousins."

"You never speak of them."

"I never saw them."

"Do you know what has happened to one of them."

"Yes. He shot his brother by mistake a few days ago."

"I was thinking rather of the one who was killed," said Percival. "Where
did you see the account? In the newspaper?"

"Yes." Then she hesitated a little. "And I had a letter, too."

"From the Luttrells themselves?"

"From their lawyer."

"And you held your tongue about it?"

"There was nothing to say," said Elizabeth, with a smile.

Percival shrugged his shoulders, and went back to the drawing-room.




CHAPTER IX.

ELIZABETH'S WOOING.


Percival and his friend dined with the Herons that evening. Mr. Heron
was an artist by profession; he was a fair, abstracted-looking man, with
gold eye-glasses, which he was always sticking ineffectually upon the
bridge of his nose and nervously feeling for when they tumbled down
again. He had painted several good pictures in his time, and was in the
habit of earning a fairly good income; but owing to some want of
management, either on his part or his wife's, his income never seemed
quite large enough for the needs of the household. The servants' wages
were usually in arrear; the fittings of the house were broken and never
repaired; there were wonderful gaps in the furniture and the china,
which nobody ever appeared to think of filling up. Rupert remembered the
ways of the house when he had boarded there, and was not surprised to
find himself dining upon mutton half-burnt and half-raw, potatoes more
like bullets than vegetables, and a partially cooked rice-pudding,
served upon the remains of at least three dinner-services, accompanied
by sour beer and very indifferent claret. Percival did not even pretend
to eat; he sat back in his chair and declared, with an air of polite
disgust, that he was not hungry. Rupert made up for his deficiencies,
however; he swallowed what was set before him and conversed with his
hostess, who was quite unconscious that anything was amiss. Mrs. Heron
had a vague taste for metaphysics and political economy; she had
beautiful theories of education, which she was always intending, at some
future time, to put into practice for the benefit of her three little
boys, Harry, Willy, and Jack. She spoke of these theories, with her blue
eyes fixed on vacancy and her fork poised gracefully in the air, while
Vivian laboured distastefully through his dinner, and Percival frowned
in silence at the table-cloth.

"I have always thought," Mrs. Heron was saying sweetly, "that children
ought not to be too much controlled. Their development should be
perfectly free. My children grow up like young plants, with plenty of
sun and air; they play as they like; they work when they feel that they
can work best; and, if at times they are a little noisy, at any rate
their noise never develops into riot."

Percival did not, perhaps, intend her to hear him, but, below his
breath, he burst into a sardonic, little laugh and an aside to his
sister Kitty.

"Never into riot! I never heard them stop short of it!"

Mrs. Heron looked at him uncertainly, and took pains to explain herself.

"Up to a certain point, I was going to say, Percival, dear. At the
proper age, I think, that discipline, entire and perfect discipline,
ought to begin."

"And what is the proper age?" said Percival, ironically. "For it seems
to me that the boys are now quite old enough to endure a little
discipline."

"Oh, at present," said Mrs. Heron, with undisturbed composure, "they are
in Elizabeth's hands. I leave them entirely to her. I trust Elizabeth
perfectly."

"Is that the reason why Elizabeth does not dine with us?" said Percival,
looking at his step-mother with an expression of deep hostility. But
Mrs. Heron's placidity was of a kind which would not be ruffled.

"Elizabeth is so kind," she said. "She teaches them, and does everything
for them; but, of course, they must go to school by-and-bye. Dear papa
will not let me teach them myself. He tells me to forget that ever I was
a governess; but, indeed"--with a faint, pensive smile--"my instincts
are too strong for me sometimes, and I long to have my pupils back
again. Do I not, Kitty, darling?"

"I was not a pupil of yours very long, Isabel," said Kitty, who never
brought herself to the point of calling Mrs. Heron by anything but her
Christian name.

"Not long," sighed Mrs. Heron. "Too short a time for me."

At this point Mr. Heron, who noticed very little of what was going on
around him, turned to his son with a question about the politics of the
day. Percival, with his nose in the air, hardly deigned at first to
answer; but upon Vivian's quietly propounding some strongly Conservative
views, which always acted on the younger Heron as a red rag is supposed
to act upon a bull, he waxed impatient and then argumentative, until at
last he talked himself into a good humour, and made everybody else good
humoured.

When they returned to the untidy but pleasant-looking drawing-room, they
found Elizabeth engaged in picking up the children's toys, straightening
the sheets of music on the piano, and otherwise making herself generally
useful; She had changed her dress, and put on a long, plain gown of
white cashmere, which suited her admirably, although it was at least
three years old, undeniably tight for her across the shoulders, and
short at the wrists, having shrunk by repeated washings since the days
when it first was made. She wore no trimmings and no ornaments, whereas
Kitty, in her red frock, sported half-a-dozen trumpery bracelets, a
silver necklace, and a little bunch of autumn flowers; and Mrs. Heron's
pale-blue draperies were adorned with dozens of yards of cheap
cream-coloured lace. Vivian looked at Elizabeth and wondered, almost for
the first time, why she differed so greatly from the Herons. He had
often seen her before; but, being now particularly interested by what he
had heard about her, he observed her more than usual.

Mrs. Heron sat down at the piano; she played well, and was rather fond
of exhibiting her musical proficiency. Percival and Kitty were engaged
in an animated, low-toned conversation. Rupert approached Elizabeth, who
was arranging some sketches in a portfolio with the diligence of a
housemaid. She was standing just within the studio, which was separated
from the drawing-room by a velvet curtain now partially drawn aside.

"Do you sketch? are these your drawings?" he asked her.

"No, they are Uncle Alfred's. I cannot draw."

"You are musical, I suppose," said Rupert, carelessly.

He took it for granted that, if a girl did not draw, she must needs play
the piano. But her next words undeceived him.

"No, I can't play. I have no accomplishments."

"What do you mean by accomplishments?" asked Vivian, smiling.

"I mean that I know nothing about French and German, or music and
drawing," said Elizabeth, calmly. "I never had any systematic education.
I should make rather a good housemaid, I believe, but my friends won't
allow me to take a housemaid's situation."

"I should think not," ejaculated Vivian.

"But it is all that I am fit for," she continued, quietly. "And I think
it is rather a pity that I am not allowed to be happy in my own way."

There was a little silence. Vivian felt himself scarcely equal to the
occasion. Presently she said, with more quickness of speech than
usual:--

"You have been in Scotland lately, have you not?"

"I was there a short time ago, but for two days only."

"Ah, yes, you went to Netherglen?"

"I did. The Luttrells are connections of yours, are they not, Miss
Murray?"

"Very distant ones," said Elizabeth.

"You know that Brian Luttrell has gone abroad?"

"I have heard so."

There was very little to be got out of Miss Murray. Vivian was almost
glad when Percival joined them, and he was able to slip back to Kitty,
with whom he had no difficulty in carrying on a conversation.

The studio was dimly lighted, and Percival, either by accident or
design, allowed the curtain to fall entirely over the aperture between
the two rooms. He looked round him. Mr. Heron was absent, and they had
the room to themselves. Several unfinished canvasses were leaning
against the walls; the portrait of an exceedingly cadaverous-looking old
man was conspicuous upon the artist's easel; the lay figure was draped
like a monk, and had a cowl drawn over its stiff, wooden head. Percival
shrugged his shoulders.

"My father's studio isn't an attractive-looking place," he said, with a
growl of disgust in his voice.

"Why did you come into it?" said Elizabeth.

"I had a good reason," he answered, looking at her.

If she understood the meaning that he wished to convey, it certainly did
not embarrass or distress her in the least. She gave him a very
friendly, but serious, kind of smile, and went on calmly with her work
of sorting the papers and sketches that lay scattered around her.

"Elizabeth," he said, "I am offended with you."

"That happens so often," she replied, "that I am never greatly surprised
nor greatly concerned at hearing it."

"It is of little consequence to you, no doubt," said Percival, rather
huffily; "but I am--for once--perfectly serious, Elizabeth. Why could
you not come down to dinner to-night when Rupert and I were here?"

"I very seldom come down to dinner. I was with the children."

"The children are not your business."

"Indeed they are. Mrs. Heron has given them into my charge, and I am
glad of it. Not that I care for all children," said Elizabeth, with the
cool impartiality that was wont to drive Percival to the very verge of
distraction. "I dislike some children very much, indeed, but, you see, I
happen--fortunately for myself--to be fond of Harry, Willie, and Jack."

"Fortunately, for yourself, do you say? Fortunately for them! You must
be fond of them, indeed. You can have their society all day and every
day; and yet you could not spare a single hour to come and dine with us
like a rational being. Vivian will think they make a nursery-maid of
you, and I verily believe they do!"

"What does it signify to us what Mr. Vivian thinks? I don't mind being
taken for a nursery-maid at all, if I am only doing my proper work. But
I would have come down, Percival, indeed, I would, if little Jack had
not seemed so fretful and unwell. I am afraid something really is the
matter with his back; he complains so much of pain in it, and cannot
sleep at night. I could not leave him while he was crying and in pain,
could I?"

"What did you do with him?" asked Percival, after a moment's pause.

"I walked up and down the room. He went to sleep in my arms."

"Of course, you tired yourself out with that great, heavy boy!"

"You don't know how light little Jack is; you cannot have taken him in
your arms for a long time, Percival," said she, in a hurt tone; "and I
am very strong. My hands ought to be of some use to me, if my brain is
not."

"Your brain is strong enough, and your will is strong enough for
anything, but your hands----"

"Are they to be useless?"

"Yes, they are to be useless," he said, "and somebody else must work for
you."

"That arrangement would not suit me. I like to work for myself," she
answered, smiling.

They were standing on opposite sides of a small table on which the
portfolio of drawings rested. Percival was holding up one side of the
portfolio, and she was placing the sketches one by one upon each other.

"Do you know what you look like?" said Percival, suddenly. There was a
thrill of pleasurable excitement in his tone, a glow of ardour in his
dark eyes. "You look like a tall, white lily to-night, with your white
dress and your gleaming hair. The pure white of the petals and the
golden heart of the lily have found their match."

"I am recompensed for the trouble I took in changing my dress this
evening," said Elizabeth, glancing down at it complacently. "I did not
expect that it would bring me so poetic a compliment. Thank you,
Percival."

"'Consider the lilies; they toil not, neither do they spin,'" quoted
Percival, recklessly. "Why should you toil and spin?--a more beautiful
lily than any one of them. If Solomon in all his glory was not equal to
those Judean lilies, then I may safely say that the Queen of Sheba would
be beaten outright by our Queen Elizabeth, with her white dress and her
golden locks!"

"Mrs. Heron would say you were profane," said Elizabeth, tranquilly.
"These comparisons of yours don't please me exactly, Percival; they
always remind me of the flowery leaders in some of the evening papers,
and make me remember that you are a journalist. They have a professional
air."

"A professional air!" repeated Percival, in disgust. He let the lid of
the portfolio fall with a bang upon the table. Several of the sketches
flew wildly over the floor, and Elizabeth turned to him with a
reproachful look, but she had no time to protest, for in that moment he
had seized her hands and drawn her aside with him to a sofa that stood
on one side of the room.

"You shall not answer me in that way," he said, half-irritated,
half-amused, and wholly determined to have his way. "You shall sit down
there and listen to me in a serious spirit, if you can. No, don't shake
your head and look at me so mockingly. It is time that we understood
each other, and I don't mean another night to pass over our heads
without some decision being arrived at. Elizabeth, you must know that
you have my happiness in your hands. I can't live without you. I can't
bear to see you making yourself a slave to everybody, with no one to
love you, no one to work for you and save you from anxiety and care. Let
me work for you, now, dearest; be my wife, and I will see that you have
your proper place, and that you are tended and cared for as a woman
ought to be."

Elizabeth had withdrawn her hands from his; she even turned a little
pale. He fancied that the tears stood in her eyes.

"Oh," she said, "I wish you had not said this to me, Percival."

It was easy for him to slip down from his low seat to a footstool, and
there, on one knee, to look full into her face, and let his handsome,
dark eyes plead for him.

"Why should I not have said it?" he breathed, softly. "Has it not been
the dream of my life for months?--I might almost say for years? I loved
you ever since you first came amongst us, Elizabeth, years ago."

"Did you, indeed?" said Elizabeth. A light of humour showed itself
through the tears that had come into her eyes. An amused, reluctant
smile curved the corners of her mouth. "What, when I was an awkward,
clumsy, ignorant schoolgirl, as I remember your calling me one day after
I had done something exceptionally stupid? And when you played practical
jokes upon me--hung my doll up by its hair, and made me believe that
there was a ghost in the attics--did you care for me then? Oh, no,
Percival, you forget! and probably you exaggerate the amount of your
feeling as much as you do the length of time it has lasted."

"It's no laughing matter, I assure you, Elizabeth," said Percival,
laughing a little himself at these recollections, but looking vexed at
the same time. "I am perfectly serious now, and very much in earnest;
and I can't believe that my stupid jokes, when I was a mere boy, have
had such an effect upon your mind as to prevent you from caring for me
now."

"No," said Elizabeth. "They make no difference; but--I'm very sorry,
Percival--I really don't think that it would do."

"What would not do? what do you mean?" said Percival, frowning.

"This arrangement; this--this--proposition of yours. Nobody would like
it."

"Nobody could object. I have a perfect right to marry if I choose, and
whom I choose. I am independent of my father."

"You could not marry yet, Percival," she said, in rather a chiding tone.

"I could--if you would not mind sharing my poverty with me. If you loved
me, Elizabeth, you would not mind."

"I am afraid I do not love you--in that way," said Elizabeth,
meditatively. "No, it would never do. I never dreamt of such a thing."

"Nobody expects you to have dreamt of it," rejoined Percival, with a
short laugh. "The dreaming can be left to me. The question is rather
whether you will think of it now--consider it a little, I mean. It seems
to be a new idea to you--though I must say I wonder that you have not
seen how much I loved you, Elizabeth! I am willing to wait until you
have grown used to it. I cannot believe that you do not care for me! You
would not be so cruel; you must love me a little--just a very little,
Elizabeth."

"Well, I do," said Elizabeth, smiling at his vehemence. "I do love
you--more than a little--as I love you all. You have been so good to me
that I could not help caring for you--in spite of the doll and the ghost
in the attic." Her smile grew gravely mischievous as she finished the
sentence.

"Oh, that is not what I want," cried Percival, starting up from his
lowly position at her feet. "That is not the kind of love that I am
asking for at all."

"I am afraid you will get no other," said Elizabeth, with a ring of
sincerity in her voice that left no room for coquetry. "I am sorry, but
I cannot help it, Percival."

"Your love is not given to anyone else?" he demanded, fiercely.

"You have no right to ask. But if it is a satisfaction to you, I can
assure you that I have never cared for anyone in that way. I do not know
what it means," said Elizabeth, looking directly before her. "I have
never been able to understand."

"Let me make you understand," murmured Percival, his momentary anger
melting before the complete candour of her eyes. "Let me teach you to
love, Elizabeth."

She was silent--irresolute, as it appeared to him.

"You would learn very easily," said he. "Try--let me try."

"I don't think I could be taught," she answered, slowly. "And really I
am not sure that I care to learn."

"That is simply because you do not know your own heart," said Percival,
dogmatically. "Trust me, and wait awhile. I will have no answer now,
Elizabeth. I will ask you again."

"And suppose my answer is the same?"

"It won't be the same," said Percival, in a masterful sort of way. "You
will understand by-and-bye."

She did not see the fire in his eyes, nor the look of passionate
yearning that crossed his face as he stood beside her, or she would
scarcely have been surprised when he bent down suddenly and pressed his
lips to her forehead. She started to her feet, colouring vividly and
angrily. "How dare you, Percival!----" she began. But she could not
finish the sentence. Kitty called her from the other room. Kitty's face
appeared; and the curtain was drawn aside by an unseen hand with a great
clatter of rings upon the pole.

"Where have you been all this time?" said she. "Isabel wants you,
Lizzie. Percival, Mr. Vivian talks of going."

Elizabeth vanished through the curtain. Percival had not even time to
breathe into her ear the "Forgive me" with which he meant to propitiate
her. He was not very penitent for his offence. He thought that he was
sure of Elizabeth's pardon, because he thought himself sure of
Elizabeth's love. But, as a matter of fact, that stolen kiss did not at
all advance his cause with Elizabeth Murray.

He did not see her again that night--a fact which sent him back to his
lodging in an ill-satisfied frame of mind. He and Vivian shared a
sitting-room between them; and, on their return from Mr. Heron's, they
disposed themselves for their usual smoke and chat. But neither of them
seemed inclined for conversation. Rupert lay back in a long
lounging-chair; Percival turned over the leaves of a new publication
which had been sent to him for review, and uttered disparaging comments
upon it from time to time.

"I hope all critics are not so hypercritical as you are," said Vivian at
last, when the volume had finally been tossed to the other end of the
room with an exclamation of disgust.

"Pah! why will people write such abominable stuff?" said Percival.
"Reach me down that volume of Bacon's Essays behind you; I must have
something to take the taste out of my mouth before I begin to write."

Vivian handed him the book, and watched him with some interest as he
read. The frown died away from his forehead, and the mouth gradually
assumed a gentler expression before he had turned the first page. In
five minutes he was so much absorbed that he did not hear the question
which Vivian addressed to him.

"What position," said Rupert, deliberately, "does Miss Murray hold in
your father's house?"

"Eh? What? What position?" Away went Percival's book to the floor; he
raised himself in his chair, and began to light his pipe, which had gone
out. "What do you mean?" he said.

"Is she a ward of your father's? Is she a relation of yours?"

"Yes, of course, she is," said Percival, rather resentfully. "She is a
cousin. Let me see. Her father, Gordon Murray, was my mother's brother.
She is my first cousin. And Cinderella in general to the household," he
added, grimly.

"Oh, Gordon Murray was her father? So I supposed. Then if poor Richard
Luttrell had not died I suppose she would have been a sort of connection
of my sister's. I remember Angela wondered whether Gordon Murray had
left any family."

"Why?"

"Why? You know the degree of relationship and the terms of the will made
by Mrs. Luttrell's father, don't you?"

"Not I."

"Gordon Murray--this Miss Murray's father--was next heir after the two
Luttrells, if they died childless. Of course, Brian is still living; but
if he died, Miss Murray would inherit, I understand."

"There's not much chance," said Percival, lightly.

"Not much," responded Vivian.

They were interrupted by a knock at the door. The landlady, with many
apologies, brought them a telegram which had been left at the house
during their absence, and which she had forgotten to deliver. It was
addressed to Vivian, who tore it open, read it twice, and then passed it
on to Percival without a word.

It was from Angela Vivian, and contained these words only--

"Brian Luttrell is dead."




CHAPTER X.

BROTHER DINO.


When Brian Luttrell left England he had no very clear idea of the places
that he meant to visit, or the things that he wished to do. He wished
only to leave old associations behind him--to forget, and, if possible
to be forgotten.

He was conscious of a curious lack of interest in life; it seemed to him
as though the very springs of his being were dried up at their source.
As a matter of fact, he was thoroughly out of health, as well as out of
spirits; he had been over-working himself in London, and was scarcely
out of the doctor's hands before he went to Scotland; then the shock of
his brother's death and the harshness of his mother toward him had
contributed their share to the utter disorganisation of his faculties.
In short, Brian was not himself at all; it might even be said that he
was out of his right mind. He had attacks of headache, generally
terminating in a kind of stupor rather than sleep, during which he could
scarcely be held responsible for the things he said or did. At other
times, a feverish restlessness came upon him; he could not sleep, and he
could not eat; he would then go out and walk for miles and miles, until
he was thoroughly exhausted. It was a wonder that his mind did not give
way altogether. His sanity hung upon a thread.

It was in this state that he found himself one day upon a Rhine boat,
bound for Mainz. He had a very vague notion of how he had managed to get
there; he had no notion at all of his reason for travelling in that
direction. It dawned upon him by degrees that he had chosen the very
same route, and made the same stoppages, as he had done when he was a
mere boy, travelling with his father upon the Continent. Richard and his
mother had not been there; Brian and Mr. Luttrell had spent a
particularly happy time together, and the remembrance of it soothed his
troubled brain, and caused his eye to rest with a sort of dreamy
pleasure upon the scene around him.

It was rather late for a Rhine expedition, and the boat was not at all
full. Brian rather thought that the journey with his father had been
taken at about the same time of the year--perhaps even a little later.
He had a special memory of the wealth of Virginian creeper which covered
the buildings near Coblentz. He looked out for it when the boat stopped
at the landing-stage, and thought of the time when he had wandered
hand-in-hand with his father in the pleasant Anlagen on the river banks,
and gathered a scarlet trail of leaves from the castle walls. The leaves
were in their full autumnal glory now; he must have been there at about
the same season when he was a boy.

After determining this fact to his satisfaction, Brian went back to the
seat that he had found for himself at the end of the boat, and began
once more to watch the gliding panorama of "castled crag" and vine-clad
slope, which was hardly as familiar to him as it is to most of us. But,
after all, Drachenfels and Ehrenbreitstein had no great interest for
him. He had no great interest in anything. Perhaps the little excitement
and bustle at the landing-places pleased him more than the scenery
itself--the peasants shouting to each other from the banks, the baskets
of grapes handed in one after another, the patient oxen waiting in the
roads between the shafts; these were sights which made no great claim
upon his attention and were curiously soothing to his jaded nerves. He
watched them languidly, but was not sorry from time to time to close his
eyes and shut out his surroundings altogether.

The worst of it was, that when he had closed his eyes for a little time,
the scene in the wood always came back to him with terrible
distinctness, or else there rose up before his eyes a picture of that
darkened room, with Richard's white face upon the pillow and his
mother's dark form and outstretched hand. These were the memories that
would not let him sleep at night or take his ease in the world by day.
He could not forget the past.

There was another passenger on the boat who passed and repassed Brian
several times, and looked at him with curious attention. Brian's face
was one which was always apt to excite interest. It had grown thin and
pallid during the past fortnight; the eyes were set in deep hollows, and
wore a painfully sad expression. He looked as if he had passed through
some period of illness or sorrow of which the traces could never be
wholly obliterated. There was a pathetic hopelessness in his face which
was somewhat remarkable in so young a man.

The passenger who regarded him with so much interest was also a young
man, not more than Brian's own age, but apparently not an Englishman. He
spoke English a little, though with a foreign accent, but his French was
remarkably good and pure. He stopped short at last in front of Brian and
eyed him attentively, evidently believing that the young man was asleep.
But Brian was not asleep; he knew that the regular footstep of his
travelling companion had ceased, and was hardly surprised, when he
opened his eyes, to find the Frenchman--if such he were--standing before
him.

Brian looked at him attentively for a moment, and recognised the fact
that the young foreigner wore an ecclesiastical habit, a black _soutane_
or cassock, such as is worn in Roman Catholic seminaries, not
necessarily denoting that the person who wears it has taken priest's
vows upon him. Brian was not sufficiently well versed in the subject to
know what grade was signified by the dress of the young ecclesiastic,
but he conjectured (chiefly from its plainness and extreme shabbiness)
that it was not a very high one. The young man's face pleased him. It
was intellectual and refined in contour, rather of the ascetic type;
with that faint redness about the heavy eyelids which suggests an
insufficiency of sleep or a too great amount of study; large,
penetrating, dark eyes, underneath a broad, white brow; a firm mouth and
chin. There was something about his face which seemed vaguely familiar
to Brian; and yet he could not in the least remember where he had seen
it before, or what associations it called up in his mind.

The young man courteously raised his broad, felt hat.

"Pardon me," he said, "you are ill--suffering--can I do nothing for
you?"

"I am not ill, thank you. You are very good, but I want nothing," said
Brian, with a feeling of annoyance which showed itself in the coldness
of his manner. And yet he was attracted rather than repelled by the
stranger's voice and manner. The voice was musical, the manner decidedly
prepossessing. He was not sorry that the young ecclesiastic did not seem
ready to accept the rebuff, but took a seat on the bench by his side,
and made a remark upon the scenery through which they were passing.
Brian responded slightly enough, but with less coldness; and in a few
minutes--he did not know how it happened--he was talking to the stranger
more freely than he had done to anyone since he left England. Their
conversation was certainly confined to trivial topics; but there was a
frankness and a delicacy of perception about the young foreigner which
made him a very attractive companion. He gave Brian in a few words an
outline of the chief events of his life, and seemed to expect no
confidence from Brian in return. He had been brought up in a Roman
Catholic seminary, and was destined to become a Benedictine monk. He was
on his way to join an elder priest in Mainz; thence he expected to
proceed to Italy, but was not sure of his destination.

"I shall perhaps meet you again, then?" said Brian. "I am perhaps going
to Italy myself."

The young man smiled and shook his head. "You are scarcely likely to
encounter me, monsieur," he answered. "I shall be busy amongst the poor
and sick, or at work within the monastery. I shall remember you--but I
do not think that we shall meet again."

"By what name should I ask for you if I came across any of your order?"
said Brian.

"I am generally known as Dino Vasari, or Brother Dino, at your service,
monsieur," replied the Italian, cheerfully. "If, in your goodness, you
wished to inquire after me, you should ask at the monastery of San
Stefano, where I spend a few weeks every year in retreat. The Prior,
Father Cristoforo, is an old friend of mine, and he will always welcome
you if you should pass that way. There is good sleeping accommodation
for visitors."

Brian took the trouble to make an entry in his note-book to this effect.
It turned out to be a singularly useful one. As they were reaching Mainz
something prompted Brian to ask a question. "Why did you speak to me
this afternoon?" he said, the morbid suspiciousness of a man who is sick
in mind as well as body returning full upon him. "You do not know me?"

"No, monsieur, I do not know you." The ecclesiastic's pale brow flushed;
he even looked embarrassed. "Monsieur," he said at last, "you had the
appearance--you will pardon my saying so--of one who was either ill or
bore about with him some unspoken trouble; it is the privilege of the
Order to which I hope one day to belong to offer help when help is
needed; and for a moment I hoped it might be my special privilege to
give some help to you."

"Why did you think so?" Brian asked, hastily. "You did not know my
name?"

The Italian cast down his eyes. "Yes, monsieur," he said in a low tone,
"I did know your name."

Brian started up. He did not stop to weigh probabilities; he forgot how
little likely a young foreign seminarist would be to hear news of an
accident in Scotland; he felt foolishly certain that his name--as that
of the man who had killed his brother--must be known to all the world!
It was the wildest possible delusion, such as could occur only to a man
whose mind was off its balance--and even he could not retain it for more
than a minute or two; but in that space of time he uttered a few wild
words, which caused the young monk to raise his dark eyes to his face
with a look of sorrowful compassion.

"Does everyone know my wretched story, then? Do I carry a mark about
with me--like Cain?" Brian cried aloud.

"I know nothing of your story, monsieur," said Brother Dino, as he
called himself, after a little pause, "When I said that I knew your
name, I should more properly have said the name of your family. A
gentleman of your name once visited the little town where I was brought
up." He paused again and added gently, "I have peculiar reasons for
remembering him. He was very good to a member of my family."

Brian had recovered his self-possession before the end of the young
priest's speech, and was heartily ashamed of his own weakness.

"I beg your pardon," he said, sinking back into his seat with an air of
weariness and discouragement that would have touched the heart of a
tender-natured man, such as was Brother Dino of San Stefano. "I must be
an utter fool to have spoken as I did. You knew my father, did you? That
must be long ago."

"Many years." Brother Dino looked at the Englishman with some expression
in his eyes which Brian did not remark at the moment, but which recurred
afterwards to his memory as being singular. There was sympathy in it,
pity, perhaps, and, above all, an intense curiosity. "Many years ago my
friends knew him; not I. The Signor Luttrell--he lives still in your
country?"

"No. He died eight years ago."

"And----"

A question evidently trembled on the Italian's lips, but he restrained
himself. He could not ask it when he saw the pain and the dread in
Brian's face. But Brian answered the question that he had meant to ask.

"My brother is dead, also. My mother is living and well."

Then he wheeled round and looked at the landing-stage, to which they
were now very close. The stranger respected his emotion; he glanced once
at the band of crape on Brian's arm, and then walked quietly away. When
he returned it was only to say good-bye.

"I should like to see you again," Brian said to him. "Perhaps I may find
you out and visit you some day. You find your life peaceful and happy,
no doubt?"

"Perfectly."

"I envy you," said Brian.

They parted. Brian went

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