Before a month had passed I began to feel quite settled at the cottage. My duties, though many, lay within my capacity, and were such as I found pleasure in undertaking. It was impossible for me not to see that Sir Francis Devereux had taken a great and, to others, an unaccountable fancy to me; and occasionally he made such demands upon my time that I found it hard to get through my work. But I never grudged him an hour that I could honestly spare, for every day the prejudice which I had felt against him grew less, and I began to heartily like and pity him. Perhaps this change in my feelings towards him arose chiefly from the fact that he was obviously an unhappy man. The sorrow which was embittering my father's life and clouding mine had laid its hand with almost equal bitterness upon him. And was it not natural? For more than twenty years he had never looked upon the face or heard of the son whom he had loved better than any one else in the world. The heir of Devereux, for all he knew, might have sunk to the lowest depths of vice and degradation, and yet for all that, he must bear the title and, if he chose, take up his abode in the home where his ancestors had lived with honour for many centuries, and at the very best there was a deep blot which nothing could ever efface. The descendant of a long race of mighty soldiers had been publicly pronounced a coward; and yet some day or other, by the inevitable law of nature, he would become the representative of his family. To the stern old soldier I knew well that the thought was agony, and I longed to reassure and comfort him, as I most certainly could have done. But the time was not yet come.
Naturally I saw a good deal of Maud Devereux and Lady Olive, much more of the latter than the former, for she appeared to have taken a violent fancy for Marian, and was often at the cottage. Conceit was never amongst my failings, but of course I could not help noticing that the times she chose for coming were those on which I was most likely to be at home, and generally when I returned from my day's work I found Marian and her gossiping over the fire, or if I was early, indulging in afternoon tea. She seemed determined to flirt with me, and I, willing to be amused, let her have her own way. We were both perfectly aware that the other was not in earnest, and we both—I particularly—took care not to lapse into the sentimental stage. On the whole we managed to amuse one another very well.
With Maud Devereux I made but little progress—in fact I feared sometimes that she even disliked me. She was always the same—cold, unbending, and apparently proud. It seemed impossible to win even a smile from her, and the more friendly Lady Olive and I became the more she seemed to stand aloof. Once or twice, when I had found myself riding by her side, or alone with her for a minute, I had fancied that her manner was changing a little. But before I could be sure of it, Lady Olive would bear down upon us and challenge me to a race, or make some mocking speech.
Why should it matter to me? I could not tell; yet always at such times I knew that I wished Lady Olive a little further away. Cold and disdainful though she was, a minute with her was more to me than hours with Lady Olive. And yet she was the daughter of the man whom I hated more than any living thing, and on whom I had sworn to be revenged should I fail in the great object of my life.
One evening, when, tired and dusty and stiff, after many hours' riding, I walked into Marian's little drawing-room to beg for a cup of tea before changing my things, I had a great surprise. Instead of Lady Olive, Maud Devereux was leaning back in an easy chair opposite my sister. Maud, with the proud wearied look gone from her cold blue eyes, and actually laughing a soft, pleasant laugh at one of my sister's queer speeches. I stepped forward eagerly, and there was actually a shade of something very like embarrassment in her face as she leaned forward and held out her hand.
"You are surprised to see me, Mr. Arbuthnot," she said; "I wanted Olive, and thought this the most likely place to find her."
"We haven't seen her to-day, have we, Hugh?" Marian remarked.
I assented silently, and spoke of something else. I did not want to talk about Lady Olive just then.
For more than half-an-hour we sat there sipping our tea, and chatting about the new schools which Sir Francis was building in the village, the weather, and the close approach of cub-hunting. I could scarcely believe that it was indeed Maud Devereux who sat there in my easy chair, looking so thoroughly at home and talking so pleasantly. As a rule, the only words I had been able to win from her were cold monosyllables, and the only looks half-impatient, half-contemptuous ones.
At last she rose to go, and I walked with her to the gate. It was almost dusk, and I felt that under the circumstances I might offer to walk up to the house with her. But I felt absolutely timid about proposing what with Lady Olive would have been a matter of course.
I did propose it, however, and was not a little disappointed at the passive indifference with which my escort was accepted. But what I should have resented from Lady Olive I accepted humbly from her.
Side by side we walked through the park, and I could think of nothing to say to her, nothing that I dared say. With Lady Olive there would have been a thousand light nothings to bandy backwards and forwards, but what man living would have dared to speak them to Maud Devereux? Not I, at any rate.
Once she spoke; carelessly as though for the sake of speaking.
"What spell holds Mr. Arbuthnot silent so long? A penny for your thoughts!" and I answered thoughtlessly.
"They are worth more, Miss Devereux, for they are of you. I was thinking that this was the first time I had walked alone with you."
"I am not Lady Olive," she said, coldly. "Be so good, Mr. Arbuthnot, as to reserve such speech for her."
She quickened her pace a little, and I could have bitten my tongue out for my folly. But she was not angry for long, for at the gate which led from the park into the ground she paused.
Devereux Court, with its lofty battlements and huge stacks of chimneys, towered above us—every window a burnished sheet of red fire, for the setting sun was lingering around it, and bathing it with its last parting rays as though loth to go.
"What a grand old place it is!" I said, half to myself; "I shall be sorry to leave it."
She turned round quickly, and there was actually a shade of interest in her tone.
"You are not thinking of going away, are you, Mr. Arbuthnot? I thought you got on so well with my uncle."
"Ay, too well," I answered bitterly, for I was thinking of my father and hers. "There is a great work which lies before me, Miss Devereux, and I fear that I shall do little towards it down here. Life is too pleasant altogether—dangerously pleasant."
"And yet you work hard, my uncle says," she observed; "too hard, he says, sometimes. You look tired to-night."
I might well, for I had ridden over thirty miles without a rest; but I would have ridden another thirty to have won another such glance from her sweet blue eyes.
"A moment's pleasure is worth a day's work," I said, recklessly, "and I have had nearly an hour's."
She opened the gate and passed through at once with a gesture of contempt.
"If you cannot remember, Mr. Arbuthnot, that I am not Lady Olive, and that such speeches only appear ridiculous to me, I think you had better go home," she said, coldly.
I looked down—tall though I was, it was not far to stoop—into her slightly flushed face, and through the dusky twilight I could see her eyes sparkling with a gleam of indignation. She was right to say that I had better go home—nay, I had better never have started. What had come over me that I should find my heart throbbing with pleasure to be alone with the daughter of the man whom I hated? It was treachery to my father, and, as the thought of him wandering about in his weary exile rushed into my mind, a sudden shame laid hold of me. I drew myself up, and strode along in silence, speaking never another word until we reached the gate leading on to the lawn. Then I opened it, and raising my cap with a half-mechanical gesture, stood aside to let her pass.
"Good-evening, Mr. Arbuthnot."
"Good-evening, Miss Devereux."
It might have been merely a fancy, but it seemed to me that she lingered for a second, as though expecting me to say something else. And though I was gazing fixedly over her head, I knew well that her eyes were raised to mine. But I stood silent and frowning, waiting only for her to pass on, and so she went without another word.
I watched her, fair and stately, walking with swift, graceful steps along the gravel path. Then I turned my back upon the spot where she had vanished, and, leaning against the low iron gate, let my face fall upon my folded arms.
Of all the mental tortures which a man can undergo, what is there worse than the agony of self-reproach? To be condemned by another's judgment may seem to us comparatively a light thing—but to be condemned by our own, what escape or chance of escape can there be from that! And it seemed to me as though I were arraigned before the tribunal of my own conscience. As clearly as though indeed he stood there, I saw before me the bowed form, and unhappy face of my poor father, looking steadfastly at me out of his sad blue eyes, with the story of his weary suffering life written with deep lines into his furrowed face. And then I saw myself standing at the window of my rooms in Exeter, with an oath ringing from my lips, and a passionate purpose stirring my heart, and last of all I saw myself only a few minutes ago walking by her side with stirred pulses and bounding heart—by her side, whose father, curse him! was the man above all others whom I should hate—for was it not his lying word which had driven Herbert Devereux from his home, and blasted a life more precious to me than my own! At that moment a passionate longing came upon me to stand face to face with him, the man whom we had met in the moonlight on Exmoor, and tear the truth from his lying throat.
"Mr. Arbuthnot!"
I started violently and turned round pale and agitated with the rage which was burning within me. Maud Devereux stood before me—Maud, with the pride gone out from her exquisite face, and the warming light of a kindly sympathy shining out of her glorious eyes.
"I startled you, Mr. Arbuthnot?"
"I must confess that you did, Miss Devereux. I thought that I was alone."
I had drawn myself up to my full height, and was looking steadily at her, determined that neither by word nor look, would I yield to the charm of her altered manner. It was I now who was proud and cold; she who was eager and a little nervous.
"I had a message to deliver to you, and I forgot it," she said, hurriedly. "I was to ask you to dine with us to-night."
"Does Sir Francis particularly wish it?" I asked. "Because, if not, as I have had a long day, and am rather tired——"
She interrupted me, speaking with a sudden hauteur, and with all the coldness of her former manner.
"I don't know that he particularly wishes it, but he has brought Lord Annerley home with him to talk over the Oadby Common matter, so you had better come."
Lord Annerley was the eldest son of a neighbouring landowner between whom and myself, as the agent of Sir Francis Devereux, there had arisen a friendly dispute as to the right of way over a certain common, and I knew at once that I must not miss the opportunity of meeting him.
"Very good, Miss Devereux," I answered, "I will go home and change my things at once."
"Without speaking to me?"
I turned abruptly round. Lady Olive had come softly over the smooth turf, and was looking up into my face with a mischievous smile.
"How cross you both look!" she exclaimed; "have you been quarrelling?"
"Quarrelling! Scarcely," I answered, laughing lightly. "Miss Devereux and I have no subject in common which we should be likely to discuss, far less to quarrel about. Wherever did you get such beautiful chrysanthemums, Lady Olive?"
She buried her piquant little face in the mass of white and bronze blooms, and then divided them.
"From the south garden. Aren't they lovely! See, Mr. Arbuthnot, I want you to take half of them to your sister if you don't mind. I don't think you have any cut yet, and the colours of these are so exquisite. Which do you like the better, Maud, the white or the bronze?"
"The white, of course," she answered, scarcely looking at them. "I don't care for the other colour at all."
"And I prefer it," Lady Olive went on, filling my outstretched hands. "Mr. Arbuthnot, did I gather correctly from what you were saying when I came up that you dine with us to-night?"
"I am to have that happiness, Lady Olive," I answered; "and, if I don't hurry off now, I'm afraid I shall be late."
"Then don't stop another moment," she laughed. "But, Mr. Arbuthnot——"
I halted resignedly and turned round.
"Well?"
"Oh, nothing, only Maud and I expect you to show us this evening whose taste you choose to follow."
"In what respect?" I asked.
"Why, chrysanthemums, of course! Maud has chosen white, I have chosen bronze. We shall both look out eagerly to see whose colours you wear in your buttonhole to-night, If you wear a white one, I sha'n't speak to you all the evening. Mind, I warn you."
"What nonsense you talk, Olive!" said Maud, carelessly, but with a slight flush rising into her cheeks. "As if it could make the slightest possible difference to me which colour Mr. Arbuthnot prefers in chrysanthemums!"
There was a distinct vein of contempt in her concluding sentence, and Lady Olive, noticing it, looked at us both in surprise.
"It is my positive conviction," she declared, with mock seriousness, "that, notwithstanding Mr. Arbuthnot's high-flown repudiation, you two have been quarrelling."
Maud Devereux turned impatiently away, with a scornful shrug of her shoulders, and walked slowly towards the house. Lady Olive started to follow her, but at the gate she paused.
"Mr. Arbuthnot, come here, I want to speak to you."
I retraced my steps, of course, and stood by her side.
"Well?"
She stood on tiptoe and whispered—quite an unnecessary proceeding, for Maud was a dozen yards away.
"Mr. Arbuthnot, what have you and Maud been quarrelling about?"
I turned round so abruptly that our heads knocked together and my moustache brushed her cheek.
"Mr. Arbuthnot!"
"It wasn't my fault," I assured her, truthfully.
"Sure!"
She was looking up at me with a half-coquettish, altogether inviting smile.
"Quite. Shall I show you how it happened?" I asked, stooping down till my face was very close to hers.
"What colour chrysanthemum are you going to wear this evening, Mr. Arbuthnot?" she asked, rather irrelevantly.
"Can you ask? Bronze, of course."
"Well, then—yes—I think you may show me—just so that it sha'n't happen again, you know," she added, with laughing eyes.
And so I showed her, just as a matter of precaution, and received for my reward a not very hard box on the ears, and a saucy, mock-angry backward glance as she broke away from, me and hurried after Maud. Then I strode across the park, angry with myself, yet fiercely exultant, for I knew that Maud had been lingering in the shrubbery alone, and had seen us. She would know now, if she did not before, that the grief which she must have read in my face when she had returned so unexpectedly was none of her causing, else had I never let my lips rest for a second on Lady Olive's cheek.
In less than an hour I was back at Devereux Court. The gong was booming through the hall as I reached the drawing-room, and the little party had already risen to their feet. Maud's hand was resting on the coat-sleeve of a man scarcely as tall as herself, with a fair, insipid-looking face and weak eyes—whom I knew at once must be Lord Annerley. Sir Francis, who was suffering from a bad attack of gout, was leaning half on his stick, half on Lady Olive's bare, white shoulder; but, at my entrance, he withdrew his hand, and she stepped back, rubbing her arm with a comical air of relief.
"Just in time, Arbuthnot! Come and give me your arm, there's a good fellow. Annerley, this is Mr. Arbuthnot, my agent."
Lord Annerley returned my greeting with a slightly patronising air, and then we walked across the hall to the dining-room, Sir Francis leaning heavily on my shoulder.
Maud had noticed me only by the merest inclination of her stately head, and during dinner-time she never addressed a single observation to me, her attention seeming wholly absorbed by her companion. Lady Olive, although at first she rattled on in her usual style, seemed always watching for an opportunity to join in their conversation, and when at last she found it seemed almost to forget my existence. They talked of people whom I did not know, and subjects in which I had no interest, but I was well content to be left alone. I was in no mood for talking, and to answer Sir Francis's few inquiries was quite enough for me.
We were about half-way through dinner when suddenly Sir Francis held up his finger and cried "Hush!"
Every one stopped talking, and I who had also heard the sound sprung to my feet. It came again in a second or two, three sharp reports from the direction of the park.
"Poachers, by G—d!" exclaimed Sir Francis, angrily, "and in the home spinneys, too! The cheeky rascals!"
I was half-way across the room before he had finished speaking.
"Take care of yourself, my boy," he called out earnestly. "You'll find my revolver in the top drawer of my cabinet in the library. See that it's loaded. By Jove, I wish my foot was right! Annerley, I don't know whether you care about a row as much as I did when I was a youngster; but if you do, pray go with Arbuthnot. My niece will excuse you."
Lord Annerley did not seem to find that keen prospect of pleasure in the affray, which was doubtless proceeding, that Sir Francis would certainly have done, for as I hurried from the room I heard him mutter something about his boots being rather thin. An irresistible impulse made me glance for a moment into Maud's face whilst he was elaborately excusing himself, and I was satisfied. A slight but distinctly contemptuous expression had stolen into it.
I was scarcely a moment in the library, for the revolver was in its place and loaded. As I hurried down the hall, Sir Francis hobbled out of the drawing-room.
"Arbuthnot," he called out anxiously after me, "I've just remembered Atkins and Crooks are both away to-night; I gave 'em a holiday; so old Heggs and his son must be alone in the home spinneys. Those damned rascals must have known of it. I'll send the men after you, but run, or you'll be too late!"
There was no need to tell me to run. Holding my revolver clenched in my right hand, I dashed across the gardens toward the park, leaping over the flower-beds, and using my left hand to vault over locked gates and fences. I had scarcely reached the park when I heard the almost simultaneous report of three or four guns, and immediately afterwards, the moon shining in a cloudless sky showed me the figure of a man leap from one of the dark belts of plantation at the head of the slope, and make for the open country. My first impulse was to strike off to the right hand and intercept him; but before I had gone half-a-dozen yards out of my way, I changed my intention, for from the interior of the plantation came a hoarse, despairing cry for help, followed by another gunshot.
I was a good runner, and I strained every nerve to reach the spinneys. But when at last, panting but eager, I dashed up the slope, and leaped over the low stone wall, a fear came upon me that I was too late.
At first it was too dark to see anything, for the moon's light could not penetrate through the thickly-growing black fir-trees. But close in front of me I could hear the sound of muttered curses and the trampling of feet upon the dried leaves and snapping twigs. A dozen hasty strides forward, and I burst through the bushes into a small clearing, and found myself in the thick of the struggle.
On the ground, only a few feet from me, lay Heggs, groaning heavily, with his leg doubled up under him. Close by his son was struggling desperately with two powerfully-built, villainous-looking men, and on the ground were stretched the forms of two others, one, an under-keeper, writhing about in pain, and the other, whose face was unknown to me, lying quite still, and evidently insensible. Two other men were hastily filling a bag with their spoil, one holding it open, and the other collecting the birds from a broken net on the ground and throwing them in.
The sound of my rapid approach naturally changed the situation. The two men struggling with young Heggs relapsed their grasp for a moment to look round, and with a great effort he wrenched himself free, and stood back panting. The others who were filling the bag started up as though to run, but seeing I was alone hesitated, and one of them snatching up a gun commenced hastily to load. But his companion, who appeared to be the leader, yelled to him with an oath to put it down.
"Put your barker down, you fool!" he shouted. "We shall have the whole blooming lot down here if we got using them any more. It's only one of the fine birds from the Court! We'll soon settle him."
One of the men who had been filling the bag sprang up, and, holding his gun by the barrel, rushed at me. Suddenly he stopped and cowered back, for he looked full into the dark muzzle of my revolver. I would have spared him, but the odds were too desperate. There was a sharp report, and the arm which held his weapon sunk helplessly to his side. He staggered back with a howl of pain, and then, turning away, bounded into the thicket.
"You are at my mercy," I cried to the others. "Stay where you are, or I shall fire."
An oath was the only answer, and then two of the men rushed at me, whilst another, turning away to escape, was seized by young Heggs, who had been leaning, panting, against a tree. The desperate struggle which followed I could never describe in detail. One of my assailants I should certainly have shot through the heart,but that in the sudden shock of recognising himmy hand swerved and the bullet only grazed his cheek. Backwards and forwards, amongst the bushes and on the ground, we struggled and fought. But for my Devonshire training in boxing and wrestling, I must have been overpowered at once, for the men who had attacked me were fighting like wild beasts for their liberty—biting, kicking, and dealing out sledge-hammer blows, any one of which had it struck me would have sent me down like a log. Heggs could render me no assistance, for, wearied with his long struggle, he was overmatched himself, and in desperate straits. Suddenly there came the sound of voices, and feet clambering over the low stone wall. With a giant effort the taller of the two men with whom I had been struggling flung me backwards amongst the bushes, and bounded away, leaping the wall and scudding away across the park. But in my fall I never relaxed my grasp upon the other man, and together we rolled over and over in a fierce embrace, his teeth almost meeting in my hand, which held him firmly by the throat.
It was all over, for help had come. Nearly dozen of the servants and stablemen from the Court poured into the enclosure, some taking up the pursuit, some making preparations to carry Heggs and the other wounded man up to the house, some tying together the hands, and zealously guarding my prisoner, and all plying me with eager questions. My recollection of all that directly followed is obscure. I remember staggering across the park up to the Court, and meeting Sir Francis, anxious yet thankful, in the courtyard. Then faint and giddy, the blood pouring from a wound in my head down my shirt-front, and my clothes torn and soiled, I sank down upon a couch in the hall, whilst Sir Francis, with his own hand, strove to force some brandy down my throat. A deadly, sickening unconsciousness was creeping over me; there was a singing in my cars, and a buzzing in my head. But although every one and everything around me seemed to my reeling senses confused and chaotic, one person I saw as vividly as my eyes could show her to me. First standing in the open doorway, then close to my side. I saw her with white, pitying face, and an agony of terror in her dimmed blue eyes, gazing at my shirt-front soaked with blood, and asking eagerly, with quivering lips, where I was hurt. And my last effort was to force a ghastly smile and to utter reassuring words, which died away half-uttered and altogether incomprehensible upon my lips. Then black darkness surged in upon me, blotting her out from my sight, and I swooned.
For three days and nights I lay at Devereux Court in danger of my life, but at the end of that time the concussion of the brain from which I was suffering suddenly abated, and I commenced to make rapid strides towards recovery. Everything that skill and kindness could do for me was done. Marian was my principal nurse, but often in the afternoons Lady Olive and Maud would come and sit with me, whilst more than once I woke up to find Sir Francis Devereux himself by my side.
As soon as I was well enough to talk I asked eagerly whether any of the other poachers had been taken. Sir Francis shook his head, and looked severe.
"Not one of them," he declared in a vexed tone. "I scarcely have patience to speak about it at the police-office, it seems so scandalous. A thick-head set of muffs they must be!"
How surprised he would have been if any one had told him his answer was a great relief to me—and yet it was so. There was one man among that gang of poachers whom I did not wish to be caught.
"And was Heggs much hurt?" I asked.
Sir Francis shook his head.
"The old man was cut about a bit, but not seriously injured. Richard—that's the son, you know—came off very easily, and was able to tell us all about it. Can't say much about it, Arbuthnot, my boy, for the doctor has given orders that there's to be no talking; but you behaved splendidly, just as I should like my own son to have behaved," he added, in a somewhat husky tone.
"What's become of the man they caught?" I asked.
"Remanded without bail until you can give evidence, which you won't be able to do just yet," was the reply. "And now you're not to talk any more. Not another word, sir," he added, sharply, in a tone of command which he often used, and which came naturally from him, as it does from any born soldier. And, of course, I obeyed.
The short period of my illness was made as pleasant for me as kindness and every luxury could make it. Marian was given a room close to mine, and Sir Francis had also insisted upon sending for a trained nurse from York Infirmary. All night she sat up with me, although it was quite unnecessary, for all symptoms of the brain fever, which the doctor had feared was impending, had disappeared, and I invariably slept well. And all day Marian was with me, whilst Lady Olive and, more rarely, Maud Devereux paid me occasional visits. My most regular daily visitor, though, was Sir Francis himself. Every afternoon I woke up from my doze to see his tall, stately figure moving softly about the room, or sitting in the high-backed chair by my side. And sometimes I found him with his eyes fixed upon me, watching me with a half-curious, half-tender light softening his fine, stern face. Then I knew that he was thinking of my father, and I found it hard to refrain from clasping his hand and telling him who I was, and the whole truth about that miserable day so many years ago. But I remembered that he had heard it from my father, and called him a liar. I remembered that to his soldierly notion the court-martial was a court infallible, a tribunal which could not err, and I kept my mouth closed.
To others, the obvious fancy which Sir Francis had taken for me seemed inexplicable. I alone could guess—nay, knew, the reason. Marian and Lady Olive sometimes jested with me about it, but Maud never referred to it. In those days of my convalescence it seemed to me almost as though her wild face, when I had lain fainting in the hall, must have been a dream. She was kind, but in a proud, languid way; she talked to me, but in a monotonous, measured manner, and with a cold gleam in her deep blue eyes. She moved about my room with the stately grace of a princess, but of a princess who is stooping to perform a conscientious duty which she finds very wearisome. And yet, when she was there all was glaring light, and my heart was beating with the pleasure of her presence, and, when she was gone, the room seemed dark, and cold, and cheerless, and the light went out of my eyes and from my heart.
During those long days of forced inaction many thoughts troubled me. Not a single line had I heard from my father since our parting at Exeter, and his worn, suffering face haunted me day and night, and filled me with a vague self-reproach. True, little time had gone by yet, and I had already moved one step forward towards the accomplishment of my sworn purpose. But—Maud Devereux was she not the daughter of the man whom we had met on Exmoor, the daughter of my Uncle Rupert, the man who had blasted my father's life, and thrown a long shadow over my own! It was a thought which made me toss about restless and uneasy, and filled me with a vague discontent. I never asked myself why—I doubt whether I knew, but all the same the feeling was there.
One afternoon, just as I was getting a little stronger and able to move about, Sir Francis Devereux gave me the opportunity which I had often coveted. He alluded indirectly to his son. Summoning up all my courage I asked him a question.
"Will your son—Mr. Rupert Devereux, isn't it—be down before the shooting is all over, Sir Francis?" I asked.
His face changed at once. From the courteous, sympathising friend he became the stiff, dignified aristocrat. His lips were set firmly together, and there was a decided contraction of his black-grey eyebrows. Altogether he looked as though he had suddenly remembered that I was a comparative stranger, and only his land agent, from whom a personal question of any sort was a decided impertinence.
"Certainly not," he answered, curtly; "my son never visits Devereux."
"And yet it will be his some day," I could not help remarking.
"It will not be his some day. Devereux Court, at my death, will pass into the hands of another son of mine, or his heir. Would to God it could crumble into dust first!" the old man added, with a sudden burst of bitterness.
I could not tell what answer to make, so I remained silent. But I suppose my face must have told him that I was eager to hear more. He rose, and walked up and down the room several times, my eyes anxiously following every movement. How like he was to my father! Age had wonderfully little bent his figure. There was the same grace of limb and carriage that I had often admired in my father when we had been striding side by side across the heather-covered moors, the same long, finely-carved features, and the same look of trouble stamped on the brow. But in my father's case it was developed somewhat differently. It had filled his eyes with a weary, long-suffering look, which seemed to speak of absolute despair, and unvarying, hopeless grief. There was more of bitterness and concentrated irritation in Sir Francis's face. It seemed as though the sorrow would not settle into his being, but was continually lashing him into acute and active wretchedness. Which was the harder to bear, I wonder?
Suddenly Sir Francis stopped short in the middle of the room, and turned round to me.
"Arbuthnot, my boy," he said, kindly, "I'll tell you about my two sons if you care to hear the story, in a few words."
"There is nothing I should like so well to hear, Sir Francis," I answered, in a low tone. He drew near to me and sat down.
"I've taken a strange fancy to you, Arbuthnot," he said, slowly; "I feel that I should like you to know an old man's sorrow."
His voice was very low indeed, and it seemed to me that his eyes were dim. Then he began speaking in short sentences, as was his wont, but with less than his usual curtness.
"I have been married twice, and by each wife I had a son. Herbert was the name of the elder, Rupert of the younger. Herbert's mother was the daughter of an English nobleman, and he grew up as fine a young Englishman as ever walked on God's earth, and a Devereux to the backbone. Rupert's mother was a Spanish lady, and he resembled her rather than me. Perhaps you will not be surprised when I tell you that, although I concealed it as much as possible, Herbert was the son I loved.
"I made them both enter the army directly they were old enough. Ours is a fighting family, and from the days of the Conqueror there has always been a Devereux ready to fight for his country. There, in the picture gallery, you may see them all, a magnificent race—ay, though I call them so—of knights and cavaliers and generals. Never has there been a battle fought in English history but a Devereux has borne arms in it. I myself was at Inkermann, and led my regiment on into Sebastopol. A glorious time it was."
He stopped for a moment with sparkling eyes, and a pleased smile on his lips, as though enjoying keenly the recollection. Then his face clouded over again, and his head drooped. The change was so complete and such a sad one that my heart ached for him, and I turned my head away. He continued in an altered tone.
"Well, I made them both soldiers, and when the time come for them to go abroad and see active service I parted with them without a pang. In less than six months Herbert, my eldest son, Herbert Devereux, returned, disgraced, turned out of his regiment—a coward."
Never had I heard anything so pathetic as the pang with which he seemed to part with this last word. His voice was shaking, and there was a hot colour in his checks. Suddenly he turned his back upon me, and I heard a sob.
"Did you believe it?" I asked, excitedly. "Was it proved? Was there no shadow of doubt?"
He shook his head. "None. My oldest friend was bound to pronounce him guilty in open court-martial. It was the bitterest duty he ever performed, he told me long afterwards. But a soldier's duty stands high above all personal feelings. Had I been in his place I should have pronounced the same verdict that he did, though my heart had snapped in two."
"On whose evidence was he convicted?" I asked.
Sir Francis groaned.
"On his own brother's. It was Rupert's word which convicted him, Rupert's word which has pulled down into the dust the name which through centuries and centuries has stood as high in honour and chivalry as any name in Europe. God forgive him! He only did his duty, but I cannot bear to look upon his face. Not that he wants to come here! He is a foreigner, and he lives in a foreign country. He is only half my son! It is Herbert whom I loved."
"And where is he—Herbert?" I asked, fearfully.
"Dead, I hope," he answered, sternly. "Since the day when I heard of this disgrace I have never looked upon his face. I never wish to look upon it again. For five-and-twenty years no one has dared to mention his name in my presence. I have cursed him."
"But if he lives, he is your eldest son, Devereux will be his?"
A passionate fire leaped into Sir Francis's face.
"Never. If I thought that he lived and would come here when I died, I would fire Devereux Court, though I perished in it. I would cram it full to the windows with dynamite, and leave not one stone standing upon another, sooner than he should enter its doors the head of the Devereuxs. You don't understand this feeling perhaps, Arbuthnot," he went on, in a lower voice, which was still, however, vibrating with an intense passion; "some day I will take you into the picture gallery with me, and then perhaps you will understand it a little better."
"I understand it now, Sir Francis," I told him: "but—but you are sure that your son Herbert was guilty? Think of the difference which his disgrace made to Rupert. It made him your heir, virtually your only son. If he was of a jealous disposition—Spanish people are, they say—the opportunity of getting rid of Herbert for ever and taking his place might have tempted him."
I am convinced that the idea which I falteringly suggested to Sir Francis Devereux had never in the vaguest way presented itself to him before. Nor was this wonderful. Courteous and polished man of the world though he was, his nature had preserved all the innate and magnificent simplicity of the ideal soldier. Falsehood and meanness were so utterly beneath him that he never looked for them in others. They represented qualities of which he knew nothing. Any one could have cheated him, but if by chance detected, the crime would have seemed to him unpardonable, and from him they would never have won forgiveness. Herbert, the son whom he loved, had told him a lie—a court-martial of his fellow-soldiers had determined that it was so—and the crime had seemed to him scarcely less black than the cowardice. He had never doubted it for one reason, because the decision of a court-martial was to him infallible, and for another, because the idea of falsehood in connection with his other son had never been suggested to him, and save from another's lips could never have entered into his mind.
I watched the lightning change in his face eagerly. A ray of sudden startling hope chased the first look of astonishment from his face, but it was replaced in its turn by a heavy frown and a tightening of the lips.
"We are not a race of liars," he began, sternly.
"But, if Rupert lied, Herbert was neither liar nor coward," I interrupted.
He looked at me in such a way that I could say no more.
"There was another witness beside Rupert——"
"Rupert's servant," I faltered, but he took no notice.
"And I should never dream of doubting the court-martial's decision. I've told you this story, Arbuthnot—I don't know why exactly; but I forbid you ever to mention it to me again. Ah, Miss Marian, you see I have been keeping your brother company for a long while this afternoon."
He had risen to his feet with old-fashioned courtesy as my sister entered the room, and had held a chair for her by my sofa. Then, after a few more pleasant words, he nodded kindly to me and went. If he had stayed five minutes longer I might have told him all.
Before a month had passed I was able to get about, and was soon as well and strong as ever. I gave my evidence before a full bench of the county magistrates, identified the man in custody, and gave descriptions in all cases but one sufficiently clear of the men who were still at large. The local papers had made a great stir about the whole affair, and when the court was over most of the magistrates came up to shake hands with me, and I found myself quite a celebrity. For a full month afterwards invitations to dinner and shooting parties came pouring in upon me, and Lady Olive was never tired of chaffing me about my reputed achievements. But the more friendly Lady Olive became, both with Marian and myself, the less we saw of Maud Devereux. I told myself that I was glad of it, but I was a hypocrite. More than once lately I had reined in my cob, and from a distance watched her riding home from a day's hunting, with Lord Annerley by her side, and had cursed him under my breath for an insolent puppy. Since the night when he had dined at Devereux Court he seemed to have taken a strong dislike to me. I had met him afterwards and nodded, and in return had received an insolent stare. At first I had been tempted to lay my riding-whip across his face, but I quoted Tennyson to myself instead and laughed—
"Scorn'd, to be scorn'd by one that I scorn,Is that a matter to make me fret?That a calamity hard to be borne?Well, he may live to hate me yet."
And Lord Annerley did live to hate me, and before very long too, for one afternoon as I was riding home in the dusk I met Maud and him face to face at one of the entrances to the park. She bowed to me coldly, but Lord Annerley looked straight between his horse's ears without even acknowledging my salutation. Instantly she turned round to me.
"Mr. Arbuthnot."
I pulled the Black Prince on his haunches, and brought him round to her side.
"Are you not going our way? It is a long way round by the road unless you want to call in the village!"
I was too surprised to think of any excuse, so I turned my horse's head.
"Yes, I suppose the park's the shorter way. I ought to have remembered it for the Black Prince's sake," I remarked. "I'm afraid he's rather done up."
"I thought that you two had met," she said, turning to her companion. "Lord Annerley, you know Mr. Arbuthnot, do you not?"
He turned stiffly round towards me, with an angry flush on his cheek.
"Oh—ah—yes. How d'ye do, Arbuthnot?"
I sat bolt upright in my saddle, and looked steadily at Lord Annerley without returning his insolent greeting.
"My name is Arbuthnot, certainly," I said, coldly, "but your lordship will pardon my observing that I am not accustomed to hear it taken such liberties with."
I raised my hat to Miss Devereux, and digging spurs into Black Prince's side rode on ahead. But I had scarcely gone a quarter of a mile before I heard a single horse's hoofs close behind, and looking round saw Maud riding up to me alone. I reined in at once and waited for her.
She joined me without a word, and we walked our horses side by side in silence. There was a change in her face which puzzled me; a faint tinge of pink was colouring her cheeks, and a peculiar smile, half of amusement, half of satisfaction, parted slightly her lips. Her eyes she kept averted from me.
"Where is Lord Annerley?" I asked, suddenly.
"Gone home," she answered, demurely.
"I'm afraid I've spoilt your ride," I said. "I'm sorry."
"Not at all," she answered, still without looking at me. "You spoilt his, I think."
I answered nothing. I dared not. I felt that there was safety for me only in silence. And so we rode on, our horses' feet sinking silently into the short, green turf as we cantered slowly through the park. From behind the dark plantations on our right the moon had risen into a clear sky, and every now and then the Black Prince started and shied slightly at the grotesque shadows cast by the giant oak-trees under which we rode. Where they were thickest a few bats flew out and wheeled for a minute or two round our heads before disappearing in the opposite thickets.
"Are you afraid to talk to me, Mr. Arbuthnot, or can't you think of anything to say?" Maud suddenly asked.
The words which I intended to speak died away on my lips. A subtle power seemed to be struggling with my will and intoxicating my senses. I answered blindly—
"I am afraid to talk to you, Miss Devereux, because I have too much to say."
She turned round and looked at me, her deep blue eyes full of a half-inviting, half-mocking light which nearly drove me mad. She, at any rate, was quite at her case.
"Are you going to try and flirt with me, Mr. Arbuthnot?" she asked, lightly. "I am not Lady Olive."
Just then the Black Prince shied as we rode across the shadow of a gigantic oak-tree, and we were so close together that our horses' heads nearly touched. One of her shapely hands was hanging carelessly down, toying with her whip, and, scarcely knowing what I did, I caught hold of it and held it to my lips. She drew it away, but she might have drawn it away a second sooner had she chosen.
"You are a presumptuous boy," she said, looking at me with a curious, half-puzzled light in her glorious eyes. "If you don't behave yourself I shall begin to be sorry that I sent Lord Annerley away. He wouldn't have done such a stupid thing as that, I'm sure."
"He'd better not," I said, fiercely. She laughed mockingly. I would have given anything to have been able to keep back the words which were fast rising from my swelling heart to my lips, but I seemed to have lost all control over myself. A fatal, irresistible impulse was luring me on. "Maud——"
"Mr.Arbuthnot," with a stress upon the Mr.
I leaned over to her, and strove to look into her face, but she kept it turned from me. "Maud, dearest!"
She turned round suddenly, with a curious contradiction of expressions in her face. Her eyes still seemed to mock me with a delusive tenderness, but her lips were close set, and her head thrown proudly back.
"That is quite enough, Mr. Arbuthnot! Must I remind you again that I am not Lady Olive? I have never studied the art of flirting, and I don't think I'll begin with you. You're far too accomplished."
In vain I tried to analyse the look she threw me as she struck her horse sharply, and rode away from me. It was contemptuous and tender, angry and laughing, serious and mocking. I dug spurs into Black Prince's side; but he was done up, whilst she was on her second horse. It was not until we were actually in the shrubbery grounds that I caught her up.
"One word, Miss Devereux," I begged, riding up to her side, "you are not angry with me?"
She looked into my eager face and laughed a low mocking laugh, which maddened me to listen to. The moon was shining full upon her loose coils of fair hair and exquisite profile, bathing her in its silvery light, and making her look like a marvellous piece of statuary, perfectly beautiful, but cold as marble. My heart sank as I looked into her face, and I turned away in despair.
"Maud, you are a flirt," I cried.
"Mr. Arbuthnot," she replied, impressively, "people who live in glass houses shouldn't throw stones."
The sun had gone down behind a bank of angry, leaden-coloured clouds, which were fast spreading over the whole surface of the sky. Only here and there a stunted, half-grown, and leafless oak-tree stretched out its naked branches towards the darkening sky, and within a yard or two of me there was a miserable apology for a cottage.
No one, save they had known otherwise, would have taken it for anything but a cowshed of the rudest form. It was built of boards dipped in black tar, windowless, chimneyless, save for a hole in the roof through which a small piece of dilapidated stove piping had been thrust, and without the merest pretence of a garden. It stood, or rather leaned, against one side of a sharp slope in the moor, and fifty yards from the rude sheep-track which did duty as a road, and even in the daytime there was no other human habitation within sight, or any sign of one.
With my arm in the bridle of the Black Prince, I led him down the slope, and, grasping my riding-whip by the stock, knocked sharply at what I concluded to be the door. I heard the quick sound of a man's startled curse, and then there was a dead silence. I knocked again, but no one answered. Then I kicked at the loose planks till the place seemed as though it would tumble down like a pack of cards.
"What d'ye want?" a woman's shrill voice cried through the open chinks. "Who be you?"
"I want your husband," I answered.
"Well, he bean't here, 'e bean't coom home."
"It's a lie!" I shouted back. "Tell him I shall not go away until I have seen him, though I kick this place about your ears. Is he afraid? Tell him I am alone."
She withdrew muttering, and I fastened Black Prince as securely as I could against the wall. Suddenly the door was opened, and stooping low, with my heavy riding-whip grasped firmly in my right hand, I stepped inside.
At first I could see nothing, but just as I was cautiously feeling in my pockets for a match, the red flames of a wood fire, which was smouldering on the hearth, leaped up and showed me the bare walls and miserable interior of the tumble-down hovel, showed me, too, the figure of a tall, evil-looking man grasping a thick cudgel in his hand, and peering through the gloom at me with a sort of threatening inquisitiveness.
"What d'ye want wi' me?" the man began, suspiciously. Then suddenly he dropped his cudgel and staggered back against the frail wall, with his arms stretched out as though to keep me off.
"God, it's Muster Herbert! It's Muster Herbert's ghost. What d'ye want? What d'ye want? What d'ye want here wi' me? Speak, can't you!" he cried out in a tone of hysterical dread.
"Don't be a fool, John Hilton," I said, contemptuously. "I am Hugh Devereux, son of the man against whom you swore a lie twenty-five years ago, and I have come here to ask you a few questions."
He kept his eyes fixed upon me in a sort of sullen fascinated stare.
"First tell me why you swore that lie? It was Rupert Devereux who made you."
The man's brute courage was returning to him slowly. He picked up his cudgel and began to beat the side of his legs with it.
"You know how to command, young sir," he said, sneeringly. "Suppose I say I won't answer your d—d questions?"
"I don't think you'll be so foolish," I said. "If you don't want to find yourself in gaol for poaching, before the week's out, you'll do exactly as I tell you."
He swore savagely, and turned his ugly face full upon me.
"So you was the d—d young swell that came busting in upon us when we was just a-settling things off nice and comfortable t'other night, was you! I've a good mind——"
He had advanced a step or two towards me, and his fingers had closed firmly round his cudgel.
"Put that piece of timber down, John Hilton," I said, firmly; "you've tried conclusions with me once at Porlock, and you got the worst of it. So you will again if you try the same game. Drop it. Do you hear?"
I took a quick step forward, and raised my riding-whip. He hesitated, and then threw it savagely down.
"Curse it, what d'ye want to know?"
"It was Rupert Devereux who made you tell that lie before the court-martial?"
"Ay, 'twas him, right enough. I'll tell yer all about it. Muster Rupert Devereux ain't nothink to me! He comes to me that morning t' moment the bugle had sounded, and we was in the tents. 'Hilton,' he said to me, 'would yer tell a lie to be made a rich man for the rest of your life?' 'In coors I would,' said I. 'Then when you're summoned before General Luxton to-morrow,' says he, 'tell him that you saw nothing of my brother during the fight. Forget that he ran out to help us against those two black varmint. Do that, and I'll allow you two hundred pounds a year as long as you live.' 'I'm your man,' said I. 'That's right,' says he, and turns on his heel and walks back again. That were 'ow it war," he wound up defiantly.
I had hard work to keep my hands off him, but I did.
"And your two hundred pounds a year?" I asked, glancing around and at the bold-looking, slatternly woman who sat crouched on a stool watching us. "What's become of that? I presume you don't live here from choice?"
He broke into a volley of horrible curses.
"I should think I don't," he broke out. "I'll tell 'e how that —— served me. I was maybe a bit of a fool; anyways, I was a bit strong-headed, and when we got back to England I would live wi' 'im as his servant, though he didn't like it, and said I was too rough and clumsy, and so I war. But I got into his ways a bit, and live wi' 'im I would, for I didn't nohow feel safe about getting the coin, he war always moving about so. Often we had rows, and he used to say as he'd send me a-packing; but I only laughed at 'im. But that 'ere night, down at Porlock, yer remember it, he got to hear what I'd done, and he sent for me. 'Hilton,' he said, 'here's a month's wages, and you can go to the devil. I've done wi' you.' ''Ow about our little secret, mister?' I said, for I didn't think as he was noways in earnest, and he says, 'You're a fool. Hilton. You think you've got me in your power, but it's the stupidest mistake you ever made in your life. You can go and tell your secret to any one you like, and I wish you joy of those who'll believe yer.' And I saw then as I wor done, for of coors no one would believe me. They all said as it wor a bit o' spite because he'd given me the sack and so I went down, down, down, and here I am."
"A poacher," I remarked.
"I didn't say nowt about that," he answered, sullenly. "Wot more do yer want wi' me?"
"A little family history, that's all. Whom did your master marry?"
"Miss Saville, or some such name. She war a clergyman's daughter, and she died soon after the second child were born."
"The second child! There is a daughter living at Devereux Court now—is the other one a son?"
The man nodded sullenly.
"And where is he?"
"How the devil should I know! He war at college when I left Muster Rupert; ain't 'eard of 'im since!
"Or of Rupert Devereux?"
"No, I ain't 'eard of 'im. D'ye think I reads the sassiety papers down 'ere to know where all the fine folks is, 'cos I don't."
I was silent for a few minutes, thinking. Of what use was this fellow's confession to me now that I had got it? Who would believe the word of such a disreputable vagabond against the word of Rupert Devereux? Still, I would have his confession—some day it might be useful.
"Have you a candle?" I asked.
The woman rose from her seat for the first time, and after groping about for a moment or two produced a few inches of tallow dip I struck a match, and, righting it, thrust it in the neck of a black bottle which she silently handed me. Then, in as few words as possible, I wrote down the substance of Hilton's confession and handed it to him, with the pencil, to sign.
"If it only does 'im the harm I wish it will," he muttered, "it'll do. Now, mister," he went on, turning towards me half threateningly, half whiningly, "wot I wants to know is this—Be yer going to peach on me for that poaching job, and how in thunder's name did yer know where to find me?"
"By accident, the latter," I answered. I saw you come out of this den months ago, when I was riding across the moor to Silverbridge. I thought it was a chance resemblance then, but when I saw you in the wood I knew you. John Hilton, I am not going to denounce you as one of that gang of poachers; on the other hand, I have purposely refrained from handing in your description. But you have an account to settle with me.
He grasped his cudgel again.
"What do you mean?" he muttered.
"I shall show you," I answered. I turned aside to the woman, who sat watching us with a weary, indifferent stare.
"How long is it since you had anything to eat?" I asked.
"Yester forenoon," she moaned. "Him there"—she pointed to her husband—"he daredna go owt, and I ain't got no money, nor nowt to sell. We be starving."
I put my hand in my pocket and gave her half-a-sovereign.
"Take that, and go and get something at once," I said.
She started to her feet, and her fingers closed eagerly over the coin. Then she drew her shawl around her and hurried to the door.
"I'll be back inside o' an hour, Jack," she called out to her husband. "We'll 'a some supper to-night; I'll go to Jones's"—and she hurried away.
I turned to the man, who stood looking hungrily after his wife.
"John Hilton, I said that I had an account to settle with you. I have. It is through your damnable conspiracy and lying that my father is wandering about in a foreign land a miserable man; that I am here compelled to bear a false name and occupy a false position. If you think that I have forgiven you this because I gave your wife money and do not cause you to be arrested as a poacher, you are mistaken. I don't want your miserable life. I wouldn't take it if I had the chance. But I am going to give you the soundest horsewhipping you ever had in your life."
He shrunk back. He was a coward at heart, but he had plenty of bravado.
"Now, look 'ere, young mister," he said, savagely, "you've given my missus money when we wanted it, lad, and I don't want to hurt you. But you're only a stripling, and if you lay 'ands on me I sha'n't take it quiet, I can tell you. Now keep off."
He was a tall man, but I was a taller; and though I was slim, my out-of-door life had hardened my muscles till they were like iron. But had I been less his superior in strength, the passionate hatred and disgust which leaped up within me when I remembered what this man had done would have helped me to have gained my end. As it was, he was utterly helpless in my grasp, and I had wrenched his cudgel from him in a moment. All round the little room he struggled and writhed; whilst holding him by the collar with one hand I dealt him fierce, quick blows with my thonged riding-whip. Then, throwing him from me, panting and helpless, into the furthest corner of the room, I strode out of the shaking tenement to where my horse was neighing impatiently outside. He made no attempt to follow me, and in a few minutes I had given Black Prince the rein, and we were flying across the moor homewards.
It was eighteen miles from John Hilton's hut to the park gates, across a wild country, and I had had two hours' hard riding when, splashed with bog mud from head to foot, I walked into Marian's little sitting-room, which, it seemed to me, after the dark moor, had never looked so cheerful and cosy. Marian herself was there, lounging in a low wicker chair, with her fair hair scarcely so tidy as usual, and a soft, pleased light in her grey eyes, and opposite her was a visitor—our curate. She sprang up as I entered.
"Hugh, how late you are! I waited dinner nearly two hours. Where have you been?"
I was tired, and hungry, and cold; and I shook hands with our visitor without a superabundance of cordiality before dropping into an easy chair in front of the fire.
"A little business, that's all. Did you keep any dinner back?"
"Of course I did."
She rang the bell, and I sat still for a minute or two, expecting Mr. Holdern to take his leave. But he did nothing of the sort. Presently I rose.
"I'll change my things, and have a wash, I think. You'll excuse me for a few minutes," I said to Mr. Holdern, curtly.
He consented readily, without making any movement to go. When I descended into our little dining-room, about half-an-hour afterwards, Marian was not there, though she came in almost directly.
"That fellow Holdern not gone yet?" I asked, surprised.
"N—no, Hugh, he's not gone yet," Marian answered, a little consciously. "Now, I do hope that partridge isn't done up to nothing. And how's the bread sauce? Rather thick, isn't it?"
I couldn't quite make Marian out. She seemed almost nervous, and after she had waited upon me, and poured out a glass of the claret which Sir Francis had insisted upon sending down from the house, she stood by my side with her arm round my neck, and looking uncommonly pretty.
"Hadn't you better go in and talk with that fellow Holdern, if he won't go?" I asked; "won't do to leave him in there all by himself."
"Oh, he won't hurt," she answered, stroking my hair caressingly; "he's been here ever since afternoon tea."
"The deuce he has!" I exclaimed, setting down my glass, and looking up at her surprised. "What does he want? A subscription?"
"N—no. I don't think so, Hughie."
Something of the truth commenced to dawn upon me, and, sitting back in my chair, I caught Marian by the arms, and looked into her face.
"Marian, you don't mean to say that the fellow's been making love to you!"
She was blushing all over her delicate little face, and she held up her hands as though to hide it from me.
"I—I'm afraid he has, Hughie, and—and——"
"And what?"
"And I've been letting him."
"Oh, indeed!" I exclaimed, feebly.
It wasn't a very impressive thing to say, but I was bewildered.
Suddenly she threw herself into my arms and hid her face on my shoulder.
"Oh, Hugh, you won't be angry, will you? say that you won't! He is so nice, and I'm so happy."
I don't know how most men would have felt in my position, but I must confess that my first impulse was to go and punch Mr. Holdern's head. But when I began to think the matter over a little it occurred to me that this was scarcely the proper course to pursue—at any rate, it was not the usual one. The more I thought of it the more natural it seemed to me. I remembered now how often I had found Mr. Holdern sitting at afternoon tea with Marian when I had come home about that time, and what an interest she had been taking in parish matters lately. As far as the man himself was concerned there was nothing against him; in fact, I rather liked him. But to give him—a stranger—Marian, my little sister, who had only just begun to keep house for me, the idea was certainly not a pleasant one, and yet if she wished it, how could I refuse her?
"You're too young, you know, for anything of this sort, Marian," I began, with an attempt at severity, which I'm sure she saw through.
"I'm eighteen," came a piteous voice from the vicinity of my waistcoat. "Lots of girls are engaged before they're eighteen."
This was unanswerable. I tried another line.
"And you want to leave me, then, Marian, already?" I said, with a plaintiveness that was not all affected.
The arms that were round my neck tightened their grasp, and a tear-stained, dishevelled face was lifted piteously to mine.
"I don't, Hugh! You know I don't. We only want to be engaged. We don't want to be married."
"Well, I suppose it's all right," I said, with a sigh. "Look here, Marian, you run along in to Mr. Holdern, and leave me to think about it while I finish my dinner."
She unclasped her arms and looked at me radiantly.
"Dear old Hugh! I knew you'd say yes."
"But I haven't said anything of the sort," I protested, severely. "Don't you run away with that idea, young lady. I shall have to hear what Mr. Holdern's got to say for himself first," I added, frowning, and assuming an air of paternal authority. But she saw through it, and with a final kiss ran away laughing.
Being a somewhat matter-of-fact young man, and keenly conscious of an as yet unsatisfied hunger, I finished my dinner before I commenced to think seriously over this unexpected incident. Then I leaned back in my chair and considered it, and in a very few minutes I had come to the conclusion that it was about the most fortunate thing that could have happened. I had never intended my stay here to be a permanent one, and whilst there were now no reasons why I should remain, there were several strong ones why I should go. First, I could attain no nearer now, by stopping, to the great object of my life; on the other hand, every day I stayed here and remained under the fascination of Maud Devereux's presence I stood in greater risk of forgetting my oath. Then whilst here I had no opportunity of meeting Rupert Devereux, my uncle, the man from, whom, if it came at all, must come my father's justification. My father!
I thought of him in his weary exile, and my heart ached. Not a line had I heard from him since our parting, nor had I even the least idea in what country of the world he was. If Marian left me, what was there to prevent my finding him out and throwing in my lot with his? Together we might accomplish what singly each might fail in. The more I thought about it the more I liked the idea.
Leave Devereux I must, though I had grown to love the place, and to feel a strange affection for my stern old grandfather. Yet how could I go on living here to feel every day the subtle fascination of Maud Devereux's presence gaining a stronger hold upon me—Maud Devereux, the daughter of the man who had wrecked my father's life and mine, the man whom I had cursed in my heart? It seemed to me almost like treachery towards him whom I loved so well, and whose wrongs I so bitterly resented, that a glance from her blue eyes could madden or elate me, and that the sound of her voice could set all my senses quivering. I must go, I must turn my back upon her for ever and take up the work of my life wherever it might lead me. This thing which had happened to Marian made the way clear before me.
I crossed over to our little drawing-room, and, entering without the ceremony of knocking, found Marian and Mr. Holdern seated on chairs a long way from one another, apparently engaged in a minute examination of the ceiling. Marian took up her work and left us with a blushing face, and Mr. Holdern, without any beating about the bush, stood up on the hearthrug and began his tale.
He was a pleasant-faced, agreeable young fellow, and there was an honest look about his eyes and a straightforward manner which I liked, and which convinced me of his sincerity. He had a private income, he told me, and had recently been offered a very comfortable living about twelve miles away. "Of course," he added, hesitatingly, "he felt some diffidence in proposing to take Marian away from me, and thus leaving me to live by myself—but, but, the long and short of it was, he wanted to get married as soon as I could possibly spare her. They would not be far away; indeed, if my prospective loneliness was an objection, I could take up my abode with them. Anything so that I would give him Marian, and give him her soon."
I did not waste any time in affecting to consider the matter, but, pledging him first to secrecy, I told him our history, what was our rightful name, and my reasons for not bearing it. If I had had any doubt before, I knew by his behaviour when I had finished my story that he was a good fellow. He held out his hand and grasped mine, with the tears standing in his eyes.
"Mr. Devereux," he said, emphatically, "I don't know how to express my sympathy for you. I heard of this sad affair when I was a very little boy, and I have heard my father say many a time that he would never believe Herbert Devereux to be a coward. I hope to God that you will succeed in your quest."
"I hope so," I echoed, fervently. "Marian knows nothing of this, Mr. Holdern."
"Nor need she ever," he answered. "I think you have been quite right to keep it from her! There would have been no object gained in her knowing, and women do not understand these things like men."
"Do you know anything of Rupert Devereux?" I asked.
He shook his head. "Very little. I have seen him once—a tall, dark man, handsome, but very unlike the Devereuxs. I have heard him spoken of as a Sybarite and a pleasure-seeker. He is seldom in England, I believe."
A Sybarite! A pleasure-seeker! I thought of him wandering at will through the countries of the world, steeping his senses in every luxury that money could buy, and living at ease and in comfort, and I thought of my father, also a wanderer on the face of the earth, seeking neither comfort nor pleasure nor ease, at war with the world and with himself, with no joy in the present or hope for the future, seeking only for a chance to throw his life away in the miserable quarrels of any pettifogging country who would accept his sword! Mr. Holdern watched me in silence while I walked up and down the room for a few minutes almost beside myself with compressed passion. Then he walked up to me and laid a hand on my shoulder. "Devereux," he said, earnestly, "I can understand your feeling like this, but you must try and keep it under control, or I'm afraid there will be trouble soon."