Imagine a long, bare-looking apartment with white-washed walls and generally cheerless appearance, in one corner of which had been pushed aside black boards, piles of maps, and other evidences of the school-room. Seated on benches which reached to the entrance door was a very fair sprinkling of the Porlock labourers and tradespeople, whose healthy red faces were shining with soap and expectation, and whose whole appearance denoted a lively and creditable desire to be enlightened on the very important subject which they had come to hear discussed. If any one was interested in the land question surely they were, for they all lived either upon it or by it, except a few whose nautical garb betrayed another occupation, and whose presence was the subject of a great dead of good-humoured chaff before the proceedings opened.
"Eh, Bill," cried one of the land toilers whom I knew well, for he worked at Farmer Smith's up at Bossington, "what dost want know about t'land, eh? This'll noa teach thee to catch fishes."
"Never thee moind aboot that, Joe," was the good-humoured answer, "we want noabody to teach us how to catch fish, we don't. I ha' come t' hear what the bloke from Minehead's got to zay 'bout you poor de'ils o' landsmen just out o' curiosity like."
"Coom, Bill, I like that," returned the first speaker. "Poor de'ils, indeed! Bean't we as well off as you vishers, eh!"
"Noa, of course you bean't. How can yer be when every voot of land yer tread on belongs to your maesters? Why, we can go sailing away vor days on the zea, lads, and we've as much roight theer as any voine gentleman in his steam yacht. T' zea belongs to us zall, yer zee, and we as goes vishing ha' got as much roight theer as any one. I reckon we've got the best o' you landsmen theer, eh, Bill. Ha, ha, ha!"
To my deep regret this interesting discussion was here brought to a sudden termination by the appearance of my father, the lecturer, and the committee upon the platform. Instantly there was a deep silence, for country audiences, in that respect, are far better bred than town ones, in the midst of which my father, in a few kindly, well-chosen words, introduced the lecturer to them.
When he resumed his chair there was a burst of applause (Devonshire men are generous with their hands and feet), at the conclusion of which the lecturer, a retired linen-draper from Minehead, stepped forward. Of course his doing so was the signal for another little round of cheering, during which he stood rustling his papers about, edging down his cuffs, and making desperate efforts to appear at his ease, which he most certainly was not. At last he made a start, and in less than five minutes I found myself devoutly wishing that he would look sharp and finish. The land question may be an immensely interesting one—no doubt it is; but when it consists in having long strings of depressing statistics hurled mercilessly at you by a nervous little ex-vendor of calico, who made a point of dropping his h's, you can very soon have enough of it. Before long I saw my father politely stifle a yawn—a piece of delicacy which I, not being upon the platform, did not think it necessary to imitate. The audience behaved admirably. The painful efforts written on the faces of most of them to appear intelligently interested were quite affecting, and at exactly the proper moments they never failed to bring in a little encouraging applause. I'm quite sure there wasn't one of them who understood a word of what the man was saying, but they were evidently charitably inclined to put this down to their own stupidity rather than to the incompetence of the lecturer.
He had been droning on for about half-an-hour, when a slight commotion caused by the noisy entrance of some late-comers led me to turn my head. Instantly my spirits rose, for I foresaw a row. The new-comers were all Luccombe men, and between the men of Luccombe and the men of Porlock there existed a deadly enmity. They were rivals in sport and also in politics, for whilst Luccombe boasted a Radical club, Porlock was distinctly Conservative. The arrival of these Luccombites, therefore, was most promising, for they certainly had not come out of compliment to their neighbours, and I took an early opportunity of changing my seat for one nearer the back of the room, so as to be in the fun in case there should be any.
It certainly seemed as though something would come of it. There were several strangers amongst the new-comers, and one of them in particular attracted my attention. He was a big, white-faced man, with continually blinking eyes and stupid, vacuous face, and every now and then he gave vent to his feelings by a prolonged animal cry which afforded the most exquisite amusement to his companions, and never failed to produce the utmost consternation in the lecturer's startled face. I don't know why it was so, but I took a violent dislike to that man the moment I saw him. He was so ugly, so like an animal, besides which he was evidently half drunk. He seemed of a different species altogether to the broad-shouldered, ruddy-faced, good-humoured Devonshire men by whom he was surrounded, and a very inferior species too.
After a while my attention was distracted from him to the other Luccombites, who were evidently bent upon breaking up the meeting. The lecturer was by no means the sort of man to defy the uproar, and insist upon finishing what he had to say. After a very mild protest, the meekness of which caused a howl of derision from the peace-breakers, he brought his lecture to an abrupt close and sat down.
Then my father rose, and spoke a few stern reproving words which had an infinitely better effect. But I was too occupied in watching the extraordinary behaviour of the white-faced man from Luccombe to listen to them. He had half risen to his feet, and was leaning over the back of one of the benches with his eyes and mouth wide open, staring with a stupidly-bewildered look at my father. Suddenly he turned round to his companions.
"Say, lads, should you like to see me shut that joker up?"
I felt hot with indignation, but I kept still.
"Ay, Jack, or Thomas, or whatever your name is," answered one of the Luccombites, "give him a cock-a-doodle-do."
The man smiled an ugly, sickly smile.
"I'll do better nor that," he muttered. "Listen, you 'ere," and, leaning forward, he shouted out one word at the top of his voice—"Yah! coward!"
I saw my father reel backwards as though he were shot, and the word he was uttering died away upon his lips. For a moment I hesitated whether to rush to him or at the man who had yelled out that word. But one glance at his ugly, triumphant face decided me. With two rapid strides I was across the room, and my hand was on his collar.
"Come on!" I shouted, "come along!"
He turned his fishy eyes up at me in amazement.
"What d'ye want? What d'ye mean?" he called out. "Let me go, you young cub, you! You're choking me."
"I'll do worse than choke you before I've done," I cried, passionately. "Come outside and fight, you great beast," and I dragged him half across the floor, for he was striving to free himself and shaking like a jelly-fish.
The audience had sat quite still in their places until now, only half realising what was going on. But at my words it seemed suddenly to dawn upon them, and they crowded around us with a full appreciation of my intended action.
"Let him be, Maester Hugh; we'll bring him along," they cried heartily, for there was not one whom I did not know. "We won't let him go, no fear. Who be 'e to call Maester Arbuthnot names?"
The man whom I jealously released shook himself sulkily and slouched along in the middle of the crowd towards the door.
"I don't want to be let go," he sneered. "If the boy wants a whipping I'll give it 'im. Most like he's a coward like his father though, and won't stand up to it."
My blood was boiling, but I would not answer; there were others to speak for me, though.
"You'd best keep that d—— tongue of yours fro' wagging in yer ugly mouth," cried Jim Holmes the blacksmith. "The lad's i' the right to stand up for his father, and, boy or no boy, he's like to make a jelly-bag o' you. Bring him on to the green, lads."
They brought him on to the green, and quickly formed a ring. The policeman, who was present as a delighted spectator, and who never dreamt of interfering, was good enough to hold my coat and waistcoat, whilst my adversary, unable to find any one willing to perform the same kind office for him, had to deposit his on the ground. He seemed in no hurry to declare himself ready, but at last the word was given, and we stood face to face. Even then he held up his hand for a minute's longer grace, and stared at me as though I were a ghost.
"My God!" he muttered to himself, "it's Mr. Herbert's own self! It's just as he looked at me in the tent;" and he stared at me as though frightened, yet fascinated.
Then we began. Of course I am not going to describe the fight. If we had been alone I should probably have killed him. As it was, they held me off by sheer force when they thought that he had had enough, and there was life still in him when I turned away, followed by an enthusiastic little crowd. But not much.
I went straight to the school-room. It was deserted, and the gas was turned down. From one of the loiterers outside I heard that my father had gone home, and hastily bidding good-night to the little crowd who still hung about my heels, I followed in the same direction.
I had thought that I should have overtaken my father, and at every turn of the lane I looked forward to catching sight of him. But I was disappointed, and when I at last reached home without having done so, I began to feel nervously uneasy. I did not at once enter the house, but looked in at the window. My mother and Marian were alone, working. I looked through into the hall. Neither his hat nor coat were there. He could not have yet returned. And when I realised this I stepped back on to the lawn, pale and shivering, for a horrible foreboding had laid hold of me. What could have become of him? Where could he have gone? I could not imagine, I dared not conjecture.
"Maester Hugh!"
I had been leaning against a tree on the lawn, afraid to enter the house, yet knowing that there was nothing else for me to do. At the sound of a voice close to my elbow I turned quickly round, and found myself face to face with our solitary man-servant, a raw country yokel with the garb and manners of a ploughboy.
"Maester Hugh, dost thee want t' master?"
"Ay, William, have you seen him?" I cried.
"That I have, Maester Hugh, and it zeemed to me that he had gone off 'is chump like. He coom down the lane 'bait quater of an hour ago, and insteat o' cooming t' house, blamed if he didna turn in at Varmer Zmith's gate, and be a gone up theer," and the boy pointed to the dark outline of the headland which towered up above us.
I sprang away from him, over the low wall, and up the steep winding path, with a reckless speed which frightened William out of the very few wits with which nature had endowed him, and bereft him of all words. I had but one idea, to get to the top as quickly as possible, and but one hope, that I might find him there when I arrived. I was a trained climber, and I did that night what I had never done before—I forsook the path and clambered right up the precipitous side of the hill, helping myself with hands and feet, heedless that a slip must cost me my life, and between my short, quick gasps for breath faltering out a prayer that I might be in time.
It was granted. As I reached the last ridge, and swung myself on to the summit, grasping with my bleeding hands a friendly heather bush, I saw my father kneeling on the ground close to the edge of the cliff, with his coat and hat thrown on one side, and his arms stretched out to the sea. In a moment I was beside him, and as my hand descended on his shoulder and closed upon him with a firm grasp, I drew a long sigh of relief.
"Father, what does all this mean?" I cried. "What are you doing here? Thank God that I have found you!"
He started as though he were shot, and tried to shrink away from me. But I would have none of it. I dropped on my knees by his side, and locked my arm in his.
"Father, tell me all about it," I pleaded. "Something terrible happened a long while ago, and that man who was there to-night knew about it. Am I not right? Tell me all about it; I am not afraid to hear."
He shivered from head to foot, and his face looked ghastly cold. I reached out my hand for his coat, and made him put it on.
"Hugh, my poor boy, I had meant to tell you this, but I never dreamt that this would come. I thought that I was safe here—away from every one."
"Let me know it," I begged.
"Ay, listen. When I was not much older than you are, I entered the army."
I could not keep back the exclamation which rose to my lips. Had I not always thought that he had been a soldier?
"At my first battle I unwisely deserted my post to save the life of the man whom we saw on Exmoor last night, and whose servant was at the meeting this evening. After the fighting was over I was charged with running away. I thought lightly of it, and appealed at once to the man whose life I had saved to come forward and clear me. He came forward with his servant, but, to my horror, they both deliberately perjured themselves. They swore that they had only seen me running away, and I was found guilty, guilty of cowardice—was cashiered, ruined disgraced for life, and, but for your mother, I should have killed myself."
The tears were swimming in my eyes, and I tightened my grasp upon his arm.
"Father, why did he do it?"
He sprang to his feet, his eyes ablaze with fury and his voice shaking—
"That he might oust me from my home and my father's heart—the cur—and take my position. We were half-brothers, and I was the elder. My father loved me and cared little for Rupert. He was jealous,—ah! I can see it all now,—and seized this opportunity of ruining me and getting rid of me for ever. He succeeded. Every one believed me guilty. My father turned me out of the house, bade me change my name, and forget that I was a—one of a noble family. From, that day to this I have never looked upon his face or seen my old home. Your mother alone believed in me, refused to desert me, and, but for that, I must have died. Oh, God, it has been cruel!"
He covered his face with his hands, and great sobs burst from him. My heart was beating with a passionate pity, but I could not tell how to comfort him.
"Father, you know that I do not believe this thing," I cried. "Tell me the name of the man who has sworn to this wicked lie."
"The same as your own and mine. Devereux. Rupert Devereux. Curse him! On his head be the sin of this thing, if sin there be! Good-bye, my boy; good-bye, Hugh!"
He had made a sudden movement to the edge of the cliff, and it was only by a stupendous effort that I caught hold of him in time.
"Father, what would you do?" I cried. "Are you mad?"
I caught hold of him by the waist, and dragged him back from his perilous position. He submitted without protesting—without speech of any sort. Looking into his face a great fear came upon me. Were my words prophetic, and was he indeed going mad? There was a dreamy, far-away look in his glazed eyes, a look which frightened me more than a wilder one would have done, and his face was like the face of a corpse. Then, with a deep groan, his knees would have given way from under him, but that I still held him up. He was unconscious.
How we reached home that night I could never exactly tell. I know that I half carried, half supported him down the narrow path, and at last managed to reach the door of our house. But it was no easy task, and for some minutes I stood there panting and exhausted before I could bring myself to summon any one. Then my mother, who had been sitting up anxiously, heard us, and came hurrying out full of eager inquiries. But I had no strength left to answer her, and when she saw my father's state she ceased her questioning, for she knew at once what had happened.
For three whole days and nights he was only partially conscious. Then he fell into a heavy sleep, which the doctor whom we had summoned from Minehead assured us was his salvation; and so it turned out, for on the fourth day he recovered consciousness, and within a week he was up, and looked much as usual, save for the worn, troubled look in his eyes, and the deeper lines on his forehead.
On the first afternoon when he was allowed to talk, my mother was alone with him for several hours. Then she came out, and fetched me in from the garden and took me to him.
"Hugh, my boy," he said slowly, looking up from his desk, "we are making our plans for the future. We are going to leave here at once."
I was not surprised, and I was certainly not displeased. For although I loved our country home and the quaint homely people by whom we were surrounded, I could never look upon Bossington Headland again without a shudder, when I remembered how nearly it had witnessed a terrible tragedy.
"Your mother and I thought of travelling abroad for a while," he went on. "I shall never be able to settle down anywhere again. But with you it is different. You ought to go to college and choose a profession. Whether you do so or not must depend upon one thing. I myself shall never resume the name which I am supposed to have disgraced, but if you choose to do so there is nothing to prevent you. You will have to bear a certain amount of odium, but it is not every one who will visit my disgrace upon you. You will be poor, but although my father will never leave either of us a penny he cannot prevent the title coming to me, and eventually to you. The entailed estates which go with the title are very small, and I hear that he has purposely mortgaged them up to the hilt, so that nothing should ever come to me from them. But if you choose to bear your rightful name you will claim a place amongst one of the oldest and most honourable families in the country, you can go to college, and somehow or other we will find the money to start you in one of the professions, but not in the army."
"And if I choose to bear still the name I have always done?"
"Then you will not be able to go to college, or to enter any of the professions," my father answered. "You can do neither under an assumed name."
I walked up and down the room for a minute or two thinking. My mind was soon made up.
"I will not bear any name that you do not," I declared, firmly. "If my grandfather thinks that you are not worthy to bear the name of Devereux, neither will I, unless the time shall come when he and the whole world shall know the truth, and you shall take your name again: I will never call myself anything else but Hugh Arbuthnot."
My father stretched out his hand, and looked up at me with glistening eyes.
"Spoken like a man, Hugh," he said. "God grant that that day may come!"
"Amen!" I added, fervently. "And come it shall!"
But I did not tell him then the resolve which I had grafted into my heart, I did not tell him then that I had sworn to myself that I would roll this cloud away from his name, even if I wrung the confession from my uncle's dying lips, and if success should be denied to me, I would, at least, find some means of bringing down retribution on the head of the man who had wrecked and embittered my father's life. By fair means or foul I would gain my end. At eighteen years old I devoted and consecrated my life to this purpose.
During the next four years of my life there happened to me not one single incident worth recording. Our home had been broken up, and we had left Devonshire for ever. My father and mother were living abroad at a small country town in the south of France, Marian was at a boarding-school at Weymouth, and I—I was articled clerk to a very respectable firm of land agents and surveyors in Exeter.
To say that I was contented would be false, but, on the other hand, I was not absolutely miserable. The out-of-door life suited me, and I did not find the work unpleasant. But apart from that I was by no means satisfied. Day and night I carried with me the pale, unhappy face of my poor father, his proud spirit continually being lashed and mortified by the disgrace which falsely rested upon him. I thought of him wandering about in a foreign country, exiled from his proper place in the world, from the society of his fellows, from all things which men of his kind most esteem. I thought of him bearing always in his mind those cruel words of his father's, "Out of my house and out of my heart," and it seemed to me a disgrace that I should be leading a humdrum life in a quiet country town, instead of throwing all my heart and energies into the task which I had placed before me as a sacred mission. But how was I to commence it? The combined income of my father and mother was barely four hundred a year, out of which I received one hundred, besides a trifling salary, which, however, was soon to be increased. Out of this I had been able to save a little, but not much. Nothing which would be of the slightest service to me in commencing such a task as I had in view. And so I did not see what move I could possibly make in the matter which was nearest to my heart, although my present inaction was irksome, at times almost unbearably irksome, to me.
One night I was working late in my little sitting-room copying some plans, when I heard steps on the stairs and the door was quietly opened. I looked up in some surprise, for I never had visitors, and my landlady would scarcely have entered without knocking. But when I saw who it was standing on the threshold I dropped my compasses and sprang up with an eager, welcoming cry.
"Hugh, my boy!" and our hands were locked in a close grasp. Then all of a sudden the joy of this unexpected meeting was dispelled, and my heart sank cold within me. For from head to foot he was clothed in the deepest mourning, and the tears were standing in his hollow eyes.
"Something has happened!" I exclaimed, in a low voice. "Tell me! Mother——"
"Is dead!"
Then he sank down upon my hard little horsehair sofa, and covered his face with his hands, and I waited patiently, though with an aching heart, for surely his sorrow was greater than mine.
Presently he told me more—told me how she had caught a fever at a poor "ouvrier's" cottage, which had never been looked upon as serious until too late; and how she would not have either Marian or me sent for when she knew that she was dying, but had written us each a dying message, and had made him promise to bring the sad news to us himself, and not trust it to a letter. But all this has little to do with my story, so I pass it briefly over.
He had told me all that there was to tell, and then I ventured to speak to him of the future. I had hoped that he would have settled down in England somewhere with Marian and me, but it was a hope which he very soon dispelled.
"Your mother's death," he said, in a low tone when I first began to hint at my desire, "has left me free. I shall look to you to make a home for Marian, and I shall make over to you for that purpose three-quarters of my income. For myself I can never live in England. There is one place, and one place only, which I could call home, and there I cannot go. My life has been for a long time too sedentary a one to be pleasing to me. I am a man of action, and I can never forget that I was once a soldier. I must go where there is fighting."
His words were a blow to me, and for a moment or two I did not answer him. My heart was too hot for words, full of a burning indignation against the cruel slander which was sapping away his life. Notwithstanding the weary look in his eyes, and his wrinkled brow, he was still the finest-looking man I had ever, or ever have, seen. Handsome after the highest type of the patrician Englishman. He was tall, and though slight, magnificently shaped, with long, firm limbs and stately carriage. His features, though powerful and strongly defined, were delicately carved and of the most refined type, and though his hair and moustache were greyer even than when he had left Devonshire, he was still in the prime of life. There was theje ne sais quoiof a soldier about him, the air of command and military bearing. And yet there was nothing better for him to do with his life than go and throw it away amongst foreigners, fighting in a cause for which he could care nothing, and which glory and patriotism, the highest incentives of the soldier, could never make dear to him.
A curse upon that uncle of mine! I would have uttered it out loud, but for fear of raising a storm which I should not be able to quell. So I breathed it to myself, savagely, and none the less emphatically.
"Let me go with you, father," I begged, "I am sick of this humdrum life, and I cannot bear to think of you going wandering about the world by yourself; I can fight, and could soon learn the drill."
He shook his head—not vigorously, but decisively.
"It is good of you to want to come, Hugh," he said, kindly, "but it is quite out of the question. You have your sister to look after, and besides," he added, with a smile, "I do not think my career as a soldier of fortune will be a long one."
"Father, don't talk like that!" I cried, passionately. "They say that some time or other truth will always out, and I believe it! I believe that the day will come when your innocence will be made clear!"
He shook his head dejectedly, but not without emotion.
"Little hope of that," he said, with a deep sigh. "Two men alone amongst the living know the truth about that day, and, having once perjured themselves, they are not likely to recant."
"And those two are my uncle Rupert and his servant. What was the servant's name?"
"John Hilton, the man who was at the meeting at Porlock," my father answered, with a shudder at the recollection of that terrible night. "There was one other man who might have cleared me; but, as fate would have it, when I appealed for his evidence it was discovered that his name was on the missing list. He was either killed or taken prisoner."
"Who was he?" I asked.
"Sergeant Fenwick. Without doubt he was killed, or he would have been delivered over to us at the peace. No, unless Rupert confesses, and one might as well expect the heavens to fall in, I shall die dishonoured and nameless," my father concluded, bitterly.
I stood up and drew a long breath.
"Father," I cried in a low, intense tone, "have you never felt that you must seek out this hound of a brother of yours, and hold him by the throat until he has confessed, or until the breath is gone out of his body? I should feel like that! I should want to stand face to face with him and wring the truth from his lying lips."
My father's eyes were sparkling, and his whole frame quivering with compressed excitement.
"Ah, Hugh, I have felt like that," he cried, "many and many a time. Do you remember the night when we met him on the moor near Dunkerry? If I had been alone that night I should have killed him. I know that I should. It is for that reason that I dare not seek him out. If I heard him utter that lie again, if I saw in his eyes one gleam of pity for me whose life he has hopelessly wrecked, no power on earth could keep me from strangling him, and so I do not seek to meet him. But if chance throws him in my way again, when we are alone, God have mercy on him and me!"
There was a long silence between us. Then I asked him further questions about his present plans.
"You must not think me unkind, Hugh," he said gently, "but mine is a very flying visit. I cannot breathe in this country. It chokes me! Everything reminds me so of home! To-night, in half-an-hour's time," he added, taking out his watch, "I leave here for Weymouth to see Marian. To-morrow afternoon I leave England, most likely for ever."
I tried entreaties, remonstrances, reproaches, but they were all in vain. He shook his head to all.
"I have called at London on my way here," he said, interrupting me in the midst of my appeal, "and have made over my account at Smith's to you. Here is the pass-book and a cheque-book. Mr. Malcolm, of 18, Bucklersbury, is my solicitor, and will pay you three hundred a year. If at any time you desire to re-invest the capital you can do so, for it stands in your name. Hugh, God knows it is my bitter sorrow that I can leave you nothing better than a tarnished name. But remember this: I believe that if you were to go to your grandfather, and tell him who you were, and that I had left England with a vow never to return, I believe then that he would receive you, and would make you his heir. So that——"
"Father, what do you take me for?" I interrupted, passionately. "I will live and die Hugh Arbuthnot, unless you before me bear the name and title of the Devereuxs. Can you imagine that I would seek out my grandfather and crave his recognition, whilst you were wandering about in miserable exile excluded from it? Father, you cannot think so meanly of me."
He held out his hand without speaking, but the gesture was in itself enough. Then he drew out his watch, and rose.
"Hugh, my boy, good-bye, and God bless you! Where I am going I cannot tell you, for I do not know myself. But I will write, and if at any time you have news for me and do not know my address, put an advertisement in theTimes. Take care of Marian—and—and God bless you."
*****
He was gone, and save a dull, gnawing pain at my heart, and the letter which lay on the table before me, there was nothing to remind me of his recent presence. All through the long hours of the night I sat in my chair with my head buried in my hands, and—I see no shame in confessing it—many passionate tears falling on to my spoilt plans. Then, when the grey streaks of dawn commenced to rise in the eastern sky, and throw a ghastly light into my sitting-room, in which the gas was still burning, I fell into a drowsy sleep. When I awoke the sun was shining in a clear sky, and the cathedral bells were chiming the hour. It was eight o'clock.
I stood up half dazed. Then my eyes fell upon the letter which still lay before me, and I remembered with a cold chill all that had happened. I stretched out my hand for it, and tore it open.
The handwriting was weak and straggling, and the words were few; but I held it reverently, for it was a message from the dead.
"Farewell, my dearest Hugh, for before this reaches you I shall be dead. Take care of Marian always, and be good to her. With my last strength, Hugh, I am tracing these words to lay upon you a solemn charge. Your father is dying slowly of a broken heart. Year after year I have watched him grow more and more unhappy, as the memory of this cruel dishonour seems to grow keener and bitterer. He is pining away for the love of his old home, his father, and the name which he was once so proud to bear. Oh, Hugh, let it be your task, however impossible it may seem, to bring the truth to light, and clear his name and your own. Hugh, this is my dying prayer to you. With my last strength I write these words, and I shall die at peace, because I know that you will bear them ever in your heart, and carry them on with you to the end. Farewell! My strength is going fast, and my eyes are becoming dim. But thank God that I have been able to finish this letter. Farewell, Hugh!—From your loving MOTHER."
Word by word I read it steadfastly through to the end, and then, my heart throbbing with the fire of a great purpose, I threw open the window and looked out. Below me stretched the fair city of Devon, smiling and peaceful, basking in the early morning sunshine, and the air around was still ringing with the music of the cathedral chimes. Little it all matched with my mood, for my whole being was vibrating with an agony of hate, and with the fervour of a great resolution. With the letter clutched in my hands, I stretched them forth to the blue, cloudless sky, and swore an oath so fearful and blasphemous that the memory of it even now makes me shudder. But I kept it, and thank God,without sin.
My first plans were not easy to form. I was like a blind man groping for some object which has slipped from his fingers, and not knowing in which direction to search for it first. I had a great and solemn purpose before me, a purpose which was my first consideration in life, and which nothing but death would cause me to relinquish. But I did not know how to start upon it.
I was in London when the idea occurred to me, save for which this story might never have been written. It was simple enough, and very vague. Nothing more or less than to try to procure employment near the Devereux estates, which I knew were somewhere in Yorkshire.
My idea was no sooner conceived than I put it into operation. I went to the firm of agents to whom my late employers had given me a letter of introduction, and inquired whether they knew of any vacancy in Yorkshire, either in a land agent's office or on an estate. One of the clerks ran through a long list, and shook his head.
"Nothing so far north," he declared, shutting up the book. "Two or three in Leicestershire, if that would do."
I shook my head, and, thanking him, turned away disappointed. At the door he called me back as though a sudden thought had struck him.
"Just wait one moment, will you?" he said, jumping down from his stool. "There was a letter from Yorkshire this morning which I haven't seen yet. I'll fetch it from the governor's room and see what it's about."
I took a seat, and he vanished into the inner office. Presently he reappeared smiling.
"Lucky thing I noticed the postmark of this letter," he remarked. "Strikes me it's just what you want. Listen," and he read it out:
"'Devereux Court, Yorkshire.
"'Colonel Sir Francis Devereux——"
"Hullo! what's the matter with you?" he broke off suddenly.
I mastered myself with a quick effort.
"I'm all right," I answered, a little hoarsely. "It's a trifle hot in here, that's all. Go on."
He began again—
"'Colonel Sir Francis Devereux is in want of a young man to act under his present agent and collaborate with him in the management of his estate. Applicant must have some knowledge of farming and surveying, and must be a gentleman. Credentials and unexceptionable references required. Salary £250 a year and a cottage, rent free.'
"There, Mr. Arbuthnot, how would that do for you?"
"Nothing could suit me better," I exclaimed—so eagerly that the young man looked at me surprised. "To whom have I to apply?"
He consulted the letter again.
"Mr. Benson, solicitor, 19, Bedford Row, has authority to engage you. You had better go and see him, I should think."
I thanked him and hurried out. So nervous was I lest some one else should precede me and secure the better chance that I jumped into a stray hansom and was driven straight to Mr. Benson's office. There I was informed, to my great satisfaction, that Mr. Benson was in, and disengaged, and in a few minutes I was shown into his room.
He was sitting at his desk when I entered, a short, clean-shaven, grey-haired man, with a keen but not unkindly face. He motioned me to a seat, and kept his eyes fixed steadfastly upon me whilst I explained my mission.
When I had finished he took out a bunch of keys from his pocket, and carefully unlocked a small drawer in his desk. For a full minute he seemed to be examining something there, glancing up at me more than once. Then he took it and passed it across the table to me.
"Do you recognise that, Mr. Arbuthnot?" he asked, quietly.
Recognise it? How could I help it? It was a photograph—and the photograph of my father.
I leaned back in my chair, agitated and disappointed. Mr. Benson watched me for awhile in silence.
"I see that you are in mourning, Mr. Devereux," he said suddenly, noticing it for the first time. "Your father is well, I hope?"
I pulled myself together, and answered him—
"I am in mourning for my mother, Mr. Benson. I can't say that my father is well, but he is not ill that I know of."
The lawyer was sitting with his head resting upon his elbow, and his eyes fixed upon the photograph.
"Poor Mr. Herbert—poor Mr. Herbert!" he said to himself, in a low tone.
Something, perhaps his sympathetic tone, prompted me to ask him a question.
"Mr. Benson, you knew my father. Do you believe that he was a coward?"
The lawyer looked up at once.
"I do not," he said, firmly. "I never did, and never will."
The words were the sweetest I had ever heard in my life. I jumped up with tears standing in my eyes, and wrung his hand heartily.
"Thank you for those words, Mr. Benson," I exclaimed, warmly. "I can't tell you how glad I am to hear them. But don't call me by the name of Devereux again, please. I won't hear it, I won't even own it."
He nodded approvingly, but made no direct reply. Then, in answer to his questions, I told him as much of our history as I myself knew.
"And with regard to your application to me, to-day," he remarked, after a short pause, "it seems a strange one under the circumstances."
I hesitated, and then I told him everything—told him of my father's breaking heart, of my mother's last letter to me, and of my vow. He listened patiently, and with every sign of strong interest.
"Yours is a noble purpose," he said, when I had concluded, "and though I fear that it is hopeless, I shall throw no obstacle in your way. What I can do for you I will. You can go to Devereux, and I shall write Sir Francis, telling him that you are admirably suited for the work, and, from my own knowledge, that you are a gentleman. Fortunately Sir Francis is rather near-sighted, and as he obstinately refuses to wear glasses there is not the fear of his recognising you that there would otherwise be. But I'm rather afraid of Mr. Rupert. Fortunately he's not often at Devereux."
"I must chance all that," I declared. "After all, a resemblance is very different from actual recognition. I shall try to hit upon some way of altering my appearance a little."
"You have my best wishes for your success," declared the lawyer, rising. "Write me, Mr. Arbuthnot—Mr. Hugh, I may call you. I shall be always pleased to hear how you are getting on; and if you need advice or a friend at any time, come to me. Good-morning."
I left him feeling almost light-hearted. To have met a man who believed in my father was like a strong invigorating tonic to me. That afternoon I telegraphed to Marian to come to me at once, and set about making the few preparations necessary for our expected move into Yorkshire.
As yet I have said nothing of my sister Marian. It is necessary for me now to do so. They say that a man can never describe or appreciate his own sister, and, on the whole, I am not disinclined to lend some credence to this statement. I know that Marian was beautiful, for many people have told me so, but to give a detailed description of her as she was then I should find an impossible task. I know that her beauty—prettiness always seemed to me the more appropriate term—was of the order evolved by the combination of a trim, shapely figure, good features and complexion, plenty of fair hair, and soft grey eyes (the latter a heritage from her mother), which knew equally well how to gleam with mischief, or to flash with a tenderer and more dangerous light. I feel some diffidence in using the term, but I am bound to here place on record my conviction that when she left school and, in obedience to my telegram, joined me in London, my sister Marian was more or less inclined to be a flirt.
Of the shadow which rested upon my father's name she knew nothing, nor did she know that the name we bore was an assumed one, or anything of the purpose which had induced me to fix our temporary residence in Yorkshire. I judged her to be of too light a nature to be trusted with a great secret—besides, she would doubtless be happier not knowing.
Three days we spent together in London making purchases and superintending the packing up and forwarding of our few belongings. Then there came a note from Colonel Devereux, short but polite, intimating that the sooner I could find it convenient to assume my new position the better. On the next day Marian and I travelled down to Yorkshire.
It was dusk when we arrived at the little wayside station at which we had been directed to alight. Directly I had helped Marian out of the carriage, and we stood together on the platform, a tall, bland-looking man, dressed in the soberest black, hurried up to us and took off his hat.
"Mr. Arbuthnot?"
I admitted that his surmise was correct, and presumed that he had come from Devereux.
"Just so, sir. Colonel Devereux desired me to present his compliments, and if you find that the cottage is not yet habitable, rooms can be prepared for you at the Court."
"Very kind, I'm sure," I answered, watching with satisfaction our last box safely thrown out from the van. "We're quite prepared to rough it for a day or two, however, and I have no doubt that we shall be able to manage. Have you brought anything down for the luggage?"
"Certainly, sir. Bring them this way, John," he added to the porter, and led us through the little booking office out into the road, where a small shapely brougham, drawn by a pair of magnificent dark bays, was waiting.
"I thought it better to bring a brougham, sir," he explained, "as the young lady might find it chilly driving across the moor. Londoners mostly finds it so. There's no need to wait for the luggage, sir. The cart's here for that, and I've given orders for them to bring it on. I'll have to intrude upon you inside, sir, as far as the cottage, as my master's orders is that I don't leave you until I see you in a fair way to be comfortable. I'd have come down on the box, but the Colonel is so mighty particular about little things that it's more than I dare do to let a carriage leave the yard without a man on the box, even at night. This is Knighton, this village, sir. From the top of the next hill you'd be able to see a good part of Devereux Court if it were only light enough."
I let him talk on uninterrupted, for I was too full of a nervous internal excitement to be able to talk. I was amongst the scenes—in a few minutes I should be in sight of the very house—where my father had spent his boyhood. That thought was enough to engross me—to drive every other from my mind, and for once I was devoutly thankful for Marian's ceaseless chatter, which spared me from all necessity of speech.
We dashed through a tiny village, and up a steep hill. "Dashed" is rather a clap-trap word, perhaps, but it is not far from correctly expressing the rate of our progress. The roads were in good order, it was not yet dark; the thoroughbred horses were eager to get home, and quivering with impatience, and the coachman seemed to be of the same mind. And so I could see but very little of the country. A heather-covered moor, varied by occasional patches of pasture land, bordered the road on either side, but in front things seemed to be different. I could just distinguish the dim outline of a low range of hills, and we seemed to be approaching a wood. Suddenly the carriage came to a halt, but it was only for a moment. A pair of great iron gates were rolled open before us, and we proceeded along a smoother road as swiftly as before.
"Are we nearly there?" asked Marian, looking behind at the grey stone, thatched lodges, which were as large as moderate-sized houses.
Colonel Devereux's servant shook his head, and smiled in the light of his superior knowledge.
"Bless you, no, miss; we're only just inside the park. It's six miles from the lodge gates to the House" (the capital may seem superfluous, but I'm quite sure that the man meant it), "and five and a half to the cottage."
Marian's grey eyes were wide open in earnest now.
"Oh, dear me! Did you hear that, Hugh? The park six miles from the house! This must be a very big place."
"Big!" Our companion's face grew quite solemn in its impressiveness. "There ain't such another place in Yorkshire, nor yet in England, barring three. Devereux Court, to my mind, is the finest building I ever set eyes on. Why, it's the show place of the county, and we gets no end of visitors from all parts to look at it."
"Colonel Devereux is a very fortunate man," I remarked.
The man's manner grew a shade more confidential, and I listened with more eagerness than I dared show.
"Well, he should be, sir; but I doubt whether he thinks himself so. You see, his family ain't turned out exactly well. He married twice, and each wife died within two years of her marriage, and, strangely enough, each left him a son. Of course, when they grew up they both wanted to be soldiers. They do say, sir, that every Devereux for twelve generations has been a soldier. A bloodthirsty race they must be! But, as I was saying, they both became soldiers, and went out together in the same regiment for their first campaign. Well, they say that one of 'em, Mr. Herbert his name was, the elder of the two, and the old Colonel's favourite and heir, disgraced himself. Anyway, he was found guilty of cowardice, and turned out of his regiment. It very near killed the Colonel, and he's never been the same man since. He's taken a mortal dislike to his other son, Mr. Rupert, and, though he makes no secret of it that he's left him all his estates and property, he never lets him come down here scarcely."
"But the title! He can't leave that to his second son," I said. "That must go to the one whom you say disgraced himself."
"It just that that's troubling the Colonel more than anything," replied the man. "He says it makes him wild to think that the title of Devereux of Devereux must be borne by a coward, and that his picture gallery and grand old house must go to him, too. At times I have heard him pray that his son may be dead, and have died childless; and yet, hard old man though he is, it's easy to see, from the way he talks about him sometimes, that he's as fond of him as ever, though he'd never confess it. But I'm afraid I'm tiring you, sir. Family histories are not very interesting to strangers."
To strangers! I could scarcely keep a sardonic smile from my lips as I echoed the words in my thoughts.
"Not at all," I answered, as lightly as I could; "but I was going to ask you, who is there living with Sir Francis now?"
"Well, there's no one living regularly with him, sir, except you count old Mrs. Platts, who really ain't much more than a housekeeper, though I believe she's a sort of distant connection. But, just now, there's Miss Maud Devereux, Mr. Rupert's daughter, and a friend of hers stopping here. Here we are at the cottage, Mr. Arbuthnot."
The carriage had pulled up, and a tall footman was standing by the side of the open door. I helped Marian out, and looked around. A little distance in front there was a low wire fencing, and about fifty yards further back, with a dark plantation of fir-trees immediately behind it, was a long, low, grey stone house, with gabled roof and old-fashioned windows. As we approached, the door was thrown open, and two smiling, countrified-looking servants, with neat caps and aprons, stood in a flood of light to welcome us.
We stepped into the hall, and Marian and I looked at one another in astonishment. This was all very different to what I had expected, and my first thought was that the few odds and ends of furniture which I had sent down would be of very little use in such a place as this. But our greatest surprise was to come, for when one of our pleasant-looking servants threw open the door of the dining-room, the room was already furnished, and in a fashion which, made us gaze around in astonishment. Instead of bare boards, which we had half expected, our feet sank into a thick Turkey carpet, and the furniture, solid and handsomely carved, matched the black oak panelling which skirted the walls. A bright fire was burning in a marble grate, and the table, covered with a snow-white cloth, and many things more substantial, was glittering with cut-glass, flowers, and heavy plate, on which were the Devereux arms.
I looked at Colonel Devereux's servant in an amazement which seemed to amuse him immensely.
"What has become of the furniture I sent down?" I asked.
"It is in the lumber room, sir," was the man's quiet reply. "Colonel Devereux's strict orders were that the place should be furnished for you from attic to cellar, and there's furniture enough up at the Court which no one ever sees, enough to furnish a score of such places as this. I hope I may say that you are satisfied, sir?"
"Satisfied? It's quite too lovely," declared Marian, sinking into a low chair. "Isn't it, Hugh?"
"Colonel Devereux has been very kind," I assented, thoughtfully, for I was not too sure that I was altogether pleased.
"And I was to tell you, miss," continued the man, backing towards the door, "that the servants here, and also your man, sir," turning towards me, "receive their wages from the steward. You'll pardon my mentioning this, but it was the housekeeper's strict orders. Good-night, miss; good-night, sir. Colonel Devereux will see you to-morrow morning at eleven, if you'll be so good as to come up to the Court. Good-night, sir."
This time he really went, and we were left for a moment alone. I am obliged to confess that the first thing my madcap sister did was to waltz round the room, and wind up by throwing herself into my arms.
"Isn't this perfectly delightful, Hugh, and isn't the Colonel an old dear? I declare I could kiss him! And I am so hungry, and everything looks so nice. Do ring the bell, Hugh."
There was no need, for before she had finished speaking one of our buxom servants had entered with the tray, and the other was waiting to show us our rooms, which we found no less comfortable. Everything was totally different to what I had expected, and for Marian's sake I was pleased. But for my own I could not help regretting that I should be forced to accept favours from the man who believed my father to be a coward and a liar and whose cruel words "Out of my house and out of my heart for ever," he carried always with him in weary exile.
At six o'clock on the following morning I was up and in the park. I had prepared myself for much, but what I saw exceeded everything. It is not part of myrôleas story-teller to attempt long descriptions. I am not an artist or a descriptive writer, and were I to attempt to play the part of either I should most certainly fail. But the park and mansion of Devereux were one day bound to be mine, even though they brought me pauperdom, and despite the sorrow and bitter grief which were bound up in this recollection, a curious thrill, in which there was something of pleasure, passed through me as I looked upon them for the first time by daylight.
The cottage—such a term was surely a misnomer, for it was three times as large as the habitable part of our Devonshire home—stood at the extremity of the park nearest the house. Only a wire ring-fence separated the gardens from the soft springy turf of the park, which, studded with giant oak-trees, a revelation to me after the comparatively stunted growths of Devonshire, stretched away in one direction as far as I could see. Bordering it on one side, close behind the cottage, and curving round as though to form a fitting background for Devereux Court, was a low range of hills, some crowned with thick plantations of black fir, and others purple with the declining glory of the autumn heather. But the house was the grandest sight of all. A great architect might have learnedly protested against its want of any distinct style and its general want of outline, but he would have admired it all the same. It was one of those houses which no one can describe, save by making use of such adjectives as picturesque, romantic, majestic. It was all these and more. The style of every age seemed represented by the successive enlargements of every century. Every Devereux of Devereux had added something to it, until a century ago, and every one seemed to have had different notions of architecture. There was something in it of the castle, something of the mediæval abbey, something of the Italian villa, and something of the Venetian palace. It was a magnificent medley, a striking mass of architectural incongruity—altogether the finest building that I had ever seen. It excited me to look upon it, and at the same time it depressed me. Its frowning battlements and gloomily majestic weather-beaten towers seemed to breathe out and help me to better understand the spirit which had fired the words of the stern, proud, old soldier, who had bidden my father leave his home for ever, and bear another name than the name of Devereux. For the first time I began to look forward to the inevitable interview with my grandfather with something akin to apprehension.
At breakfast time Marian's lively chatter drove all such thoughts out of my head. And before they had had time to crowd in on me again, a man from the stables was announced, with whom I went to examine the two horses placed at my disposal.
I loved horses, and it seemed as though Sir Francis Devereux was determined to do everythingau prince. Besides a stout useful cob, there was an animal with which I fell in love the moment I saw it. The man uncovered him gingerly, and took particular care to keep out of reach of his heels.
"I was to tell you, sir," he said, confidentially, as he came out of the box, "that if you wished to change this 'ere animal—the Black Prince they call un—for one a wee bit less spirity, that you was to come up to the stables and choose for yourself. There ain't no vice about 'im, but he's got a mouth like iron and the devil's own temper."
"I think I shall manage him," I answered confidently. "Who's been in the habit of riding him?"
"Well, sir, Miss Maud rode him for a bit, but he used to pull her arms out very near, and he gave her one nasty fall, so Sir Francis he's made her leave off."
"I should think so," I answered.
The Black Prince, fine animal though he was, was certainly not a lady's mount.
"Well, she's a rare plucky 'un is Miss Maud, and a fine seat, too," remarked the man, leisurely chewing a wisp of straw. "You think he'll do for you, sir, then?"
"I think so," I answered.
Then, glancing at my watch, and seeing that it was but nine o'clock, it struck me that I might as well give him a trial at once, and in half-an-hour's time I was careering across the park, my spirits rising at every bound the Black Prince made, and my cheeks glowing with the rapid progress through the sharp morning air, and with the strain of keeping him in hand. What pleasure is there within the reach of man so great as a gallop across an open country, with the fresh morning breeze blowing strong in your teeth, and your mount a perfect one? When I got back to the cottage, just before eleven, and after seeing Marian start off for a walk, set out for Devereux Court, all my apprehensions had vanished, and I was only eager to stand face to face with its master.
I had not far to go. Up a steep ascent, across a bridge, through some more iron gates, and I stood upon the open stretch of gravel in front of the main entrance, which was supported by four massive white stone pillars. A man-servant was waiting within the glass doors, which were promptly opened before me, and on telling him my name, I was led across the vast hall, which seemed to me, from its great height, the stained windows, and its size, like the interior of a richly decorated church, into the library. I had never been in such a room before, nor have I ever since, but the man gave me little time to admire it, for, opening the door of a small ante-room at its furthest extremity, which had a far more habitable appearance, he bade me wait whilst he informed Sir Francis of my arrival.
The room seemed to open upon the gardens, for, though the Venetian blinds were drawn, I could hear distinctly the voices of two girls playing tennis just outside.
"Love, love 15, love 30, love 40. Maud, you're a great deal too lazy for tennis this morning!"
The girl's triumphant voice floated into the room so clearly that at first I was surprised. Then, by the gentle swaying to and fro of the blind, I saw that the window was open.
The charge seemed not to be made without foundation, to judge from the languid drawl of the answering voice.
"I believe I am, Olive. It really is too exhausting without some men to look after the balls. Suppose we have a rest for a minute or two."
There was a laughing assent, and then I heard light footsteps coming towards the window. I thought at first that they were going to enter; but just outside they halted and seemed to subside into a seat.
There was a moment's silence, during which I withdrew as far as possible from the window. But I was still within easy reach of their voices, as I very soon learnt, not a little to my discomfort.
"I wonder what the new young man's like at the cottage. Have you seen him, Maud?"
I started, and drew further back into my corner.
"I really don't know," was the very uninterested reply. "By the bye, though, I did see a stranger in the park, yesterday. Perhaps it was he."
"What was he like? Fancy not telling me, when you knew I was dying to hear. Is he tall or short, dark or fair?"
A scornful inflection had crept into the languid drawl of the answering voice. But it was far from an unpleasant voice to listen to:—"I only saw him for a moment, but I remember that he was short, and had red hair, and wore glasses. I don't think even you would flirt with him, Olive."
This was dreadful. I was six foot four, and my eyesight was keener than most men's. She must have mistaken some one else for me! But what was I to do? I tried a nervous little cough, but they took no notice.
"Oh! I'm so disappointed. I had made up my mind that he was good-looking, and would do to flirt with, at any rate, until the shooting brings some men down. Goodness gracious, what was that?"
Rendered desperate by the mention of my name, I had essayed a more determined cough. Now that it had been heard my best course was to reveal myself at once. So I walked to the window and drew up the blind.
Two girls started to their feet at once, and stood looking at me in startled postures, one dark, of medium height, decidedly pretty, and with a gleam of mischief in her large eyes; the other tall and slim, fair, and stately as a young princess, with a cold, questioning look in her blue eyes, and a slight frown on her proud, delicate face. Something told me that this was Rupert Devereux's daughter. And the thought checked the smile which I had found some difficulty in repressing.
"I am afraid I startled you?" I said. "I am waiting in here to see Colonel Devereux, and as I heard my name mentioned I thought it as well to let you know that I was here."
For the life of me I could not meet the laughing gaze of those mischievous black eyes without a smile. They seemed to be looking me over from head to foot, with an air of decided interest, and finally they looked up into mine, as though satisfied with their inspection.
"Did you hear what we were saying, Mr. Arbuthnot?" she asked eagerly, with a bewitching little smile.
"How could I help it? I coughed once before, but you did not hear me."
I glanced for the first time at Maud Devereux, and she inclined her head slightly, as though to intimate that she accepted my explanation.
"It is of no consequence," she said, a little coldly; "we were to blame for talking nonsense. I'm ready for another set now, Olive."
She turned and moved slowly away to the tennis-court without another look at me; but the other girl lingered for a moment.
"I'm so sorry for what I said, Mr. Arbuthnot," she remarked. "Of course I didn't mean it, but it is so dull here that one is bound to talk nonsense sometimes."
I bowed, and I am afraid that there was a decided twinkle in my eyes as I answered, "Pray, don't apologise. You can't imagine how grateful I am for the red hair and other etceteras which are to save me from a broken heart."
She had the grace to blush a little at last, and it made her look uncommonly pretty.
"You're too bad, Mr. Arbuthnot. Good-bye."
And, with a parting glance and smile, she picked up her racket and moved away across the lawn towards Maud Devereux, who had never once looked round.
I let the blind fall again, and turned back towards my chair. I had hardly reached it before the door opened, and I stood face to face with my grandfather, Colonel Sir Francis Devereux.
For a second everything swam before my eyes, and it always seemed to me afterwards a miracle that I recovered myself sufficiently to accept his outstretched hand, and mutter some intelligible response to his courteous speech of greeting. For the stately, white-haired, military-looking man who had entered the room was so like my father that I had very nearly called him by name.
At the sound of my voice he started slightly, and, adjusting an eye-glass, looked at me steadily. Then he, too, seemed to receive something of a shock, for he turned abruptly away towards the window, and I could see that his long white fingers were shaking.
"I must ask your pardon, Mr. Arbuthnot," he said, suddenly looking round and scanning me over again. "The fact is, your appearance recalled some one to my mind whom—whom I have not seen for many years."
I bowed silently. I understood his emotion better than, he imagined, and my heart was warming to him in consequence of it.
"You are welcome to Devereux, sir," he went on, cordially. "I hope you find your quarters fairly comfortable."
I began to thank him for the generosity of his arrangements, but he stopped me at once.
"If you are satisfied, that is well. I hope you will like the place," he went on, after a moment's pause, "for I think that you will suit me. Mr. Andrews will explain what your duties will be on the estate. I don't think you'll find them particularly arduous. You shoot, I hope, and hunt, and fish? H'm, I thought so. I'm glad to hear it. I wanted some one who would be able to show my guests, when I have any, what there is to do about the place, and who won't mind a day amongst the stubble with an old man now and then," he added, pleasantly. "Have you seen anything of the place yet?"
I told him of my early ride, and that all the impressions I had as yet received of the country and its surroundings were pleasant ones. He was delighted to hear it, he told me.
"And your sister. Does she think that she will be able to make herself at home here?"
I assured him that there was very little doubt about that. She had been used to the country all her life.
We talked for awhile of the estate, and the share of its management which would fall to my lot. There was much that wanted doing, he said, and I was glad to hear it, for though I had come here with another ultimate object, I had no desire to spend my time in idleness. We talked for a long while, he seeming anxious to keep me there, and asking many personal questions which I found it not altogether easy to answer. But at last the luncheon bell rang out, and then he let me go.
"I should like to show you round the place myself," he said, as we walked down the hall together. "Be ready at three o'clock, and I will call for you. We will ride, of course."
Just as we passed the foot of the great oak staircase which descended into the centre of the hall, we came face to face with the two girls who had been playing tennis. Sir Francis stopped at once.
"Ah, Maud, dear, let me introduce you to Mr. Arbuthnot. Mr. Arbuthnot, this is my niece, Miss Devereux, and her friend, Lady Olive Parkhurst."
My cousin bowed very slightly, and scarcely paused in her progress across the hall. But Lady Olive lingered to throw a saucy glance at me over her shoulder.
"You two men have wasted a delightful morning gossiping," she said, lightly. "Maud and I have been dying with curiosity to know what it's all been about."
Miss Devereux was standing in one of the doorways a little way off, with the slightest possible frown of impatience on her face, and looking decidedly supercilious at her friend's remark, although she did not take the trouble to contradict it. They had both changed their morning gowns for riding habits, and though Lady Olive, with her trim, dainty figure and coquettish smile, looked sufficiently charming, I could not help my eyes dwelling the longest on Maud Devereux. Fair, proud, and cold, with slim yet perfectly graceful figure, she reminded me of Tennyson's Princess. It was only for a moment that I looked at her, but her eyes chanced to meet mine, and the frown on her statuesque young face deepened, as though to admire her even were a liberty. I turned away at once, and moved a step nearer the door.
"We have wasted a beautiful morning, certainly," Sir Francis remarked; "but we are going to make up for it this afternoon. Mr. Arbuthnot and I are going to ride together on a tour of inspection. Would you young ladies care to join us?"
Lady Olive leaned forward with a beaming smile.
"I should like it immensely," she declared.
"You forget, Olive, that we are going to call on the Annerleys this afternoon," remarked Maud Devereux, in a cold tone of disapprobation. "Luncheon is quite ready, uncle."
Lady Olive gathered up her skirts, and, nodding to me with a comical grimace, took Sir Francis's arm.
"Good-morning, Mr. Arbuthnot. I'm so sorry we can't come. I should like to see how you manage the Black Prince."
"You will have plenty of other opportunities," Sir Francis remarked. "Good-morning, Arbuthnot; be ready about three o'clock."
And so ended my first visit to Devereux Court.