"What do you mean?" I asked, turning round and facing him.
He hesitated, and then answered slowly—
"I have just heard that young Francis Devereux, your cousin, is expected down here for Christmas."
It wanted but three days to Christmas, and it had been a frost. Upon the bare fields and the shivering landscape had fallen a hand of iron—no gentle hoar-frost, making the fields and country look like a glittering panorama, but a stern, merciless black frost which had come in with the east wind, and lay upon the land like a cruel blight. Agricultural work of all sort was at a standstill, and hunting was impossible. The only thing to be done out of doors was to skate, and that every one who owned a pair of skates was doing.
There was a large party at Devereux Court, but I had contrived to see very little of them. Two of Lady Olive's sisters, some former schoolfellows of Maud Devereux's, Francis Devereux, and some town friends, were all stopping there, and Maud was playing hostess while Sir Francis kept himself partially shut up. Once or twice I had come across them in the park, a laughing, chattering group, but I had passed with a bow, and had chosen not to see Lady Olive's mute command to stop. I had seen him, my cousin, and I hated him. What freak of nature had made him the brother of such a sister?—this pale, effeminate-looking man, with leaden eyes and insolent stare, and the manners of a fop. "What did Sir Francis think of him," I wonder, "as the future head of the family of Devereux?" Bah! It was a profitless thought.
Early in the morning I sallied out with Mr. Holdern and Marian for an hour or two's skating; there was nothing else for me to do. There were two lakes, and we chose the smaller that we might have it all to ourselves. No sooner had we our skates on than the inevitable happened. Hand in hand Marian and Holdern swept away together to the farther end where the bulrushes were many and the ice was bad, and I was left alone.
I commenced to make the best of it by selecting a smooth piece of ice and setting myself an impossible task in figure skating. Far away on the other lake I could hear the hum of many skates and the sound of merry voices, and it made me feel lonely and discontented. I would like to have been with them, skating hand in hand with Maud—Maud whom I had not spoken a single word to since our last ride home together; Maud whose face was seldom absent from my thoughts; Maud whom, alas! I loved.
With an aching heart I left off my futile attempt to cut impossible figures, and, lighting my pipe, commenced to make the circuit of the lake, with long, swift strides. There was something exhilarating in the rapid motion, in the desperate hastening over the smooth black ice, and as I came round for the second time my cheeks began to glow and my heart to grow lighter. Then suddenly it bounded with an unthinking joy, for close above me was a chorus of gay, chattering tongues, and one amongst them I could distinguish in a moment, although it was the lowest of all.
I struck away for the middle of the lake, meaning to make my escape, but I was just a second or two too late. Lady Olive was calling to me, and I was obliged to turn round.
The whole group was standing on the bank, some carrying chairs, and some sledges, and all, except Francis Devereux, skates. Lady Olive was calling to me, so I was obliged to skate up to them.
"Fancy your being here all by yourself, Mr. Arbuthnot! Do you know, we were coming down to call on you, the whole lot of us, if we hadn't seen you soon? Is it good ice? And come in closer, do; I want to introduce you to my sisters."
There was nothing for me to do but obey, and in a moment I found myself being chatted to by two girls not very unlike Lady Olive herself; and my hand had touched Maud's for a moment, and my eyes looked into hers. Then some one introduced me to Mr. Francis Devereux, and I found myself bowing slightly (I had kept my hands behind me, all the time anticipating this, for God forbid that I should place the hand of Rupert Devereux's son within my own) to my cousin, who looked out at me superciliously from the depths of a fur coat, which had the appearance of having been made for the Arctic regions. It was too cold to stand still, and we all trooped on to the ice. There were many more men than girls in the party, I was pleased to see, and very soon they were scattered all over the lake in couples, and I, glad enough of it, was left to myself. Maud alone had delayed putting on her skates, and was sitting on a stump close to where I was standing filling my pipe, the centre of a little group of men, amongst whom was Lord Annerley. As I threw the match down, and turned round to start away again, my eyes met hers for a moment, and she smiled slightly. Did she expect me, I wonder, to join the little group of her admirers, and vie with them in making pretty speeches, and compete with them for the privilege of putting her skates on? Bah! not I. If she thought that I was her slave, to be made happy or miserable by a glance from her blue eyes or a kind word from her lips, I would show her that she was mistaken. If she was proud, so was I; and drawing on my glove again, I skated over to the other side of the lake, out of hearing and sight of her little court.
Soon Lady Olive came skating up to me alone, with her hands stuck coquettishly into the pockets of her short fur-trimmed jacket, and her bright little face glowing with pleasure and warmth.
"Mr. Arbuthnot, I think you're the most unsociable man I ever knew!" she exclaimed. "My sisters are dying to skate with you, but you won't ask them, and—and—so am I," she added, with a bewitching smile up at me.
Of course I could do nothing but take her little hands into mine and skate away with her at once. We passed Maud again and again skating with Lord Annerley, and the proud cold light in her eyes as she glanced at us in passing half maddened me. Whenever we met her, Lady Olive, out of wanton mischief, forced me to look down into her laughing upturned face and bright eyes, and to do so without an answering smile was impossible; and yet Lady Olive's brilliant chatter and mocking speeches were very pleasant to hear and to respond to, reckless little flirt though she was.
She left me at last to skate with Lord Annerley's brother, who had just driven up in a dog-cart with some more men, and then I went to look for Marian and Holdern. Instead, I came face to face round a sharp corner with Maud leaning back in a sledge and gazing idly into the bulrushes, where one of her brother's friends was busy with a penknife. She motioned me languidly to stop, and I obeyed her.
"What have you done with Lady Olive?" she inquired, coldly.
"Resigned her to a more fortunate man," I answered, circling round her chair.
"More fortunate! You haven't much to grumble at! You've been skating with her more than an hour, haven't you?"
"Really I don't know," I answered, lightly. "I took little notice of the time."
"It passed too pleasantly, I suppose?"
"Perhaps so! I so seldom have any one to talk to," I could not help answering.
"It is your own fault. You have been avoiding us deliberately for the last three weeks."
I folded my arms and looked steadily away from her.
"And if I have," I said, slowly, "I think you might congratulate me on my wisdom and strength of mind."
She laughed a little hesitating laugh, and, with her head thrown back on the cushion of the sledge, fixed her eyes upon me.
"Lady Olive is dangerous, is she?"
I looked at her for a full minute without answering. From underneath her sealskin turban hat her blue eyes were looking full into mine, and a mocking smile was playing around her delicate lips. Surely she was beautiful enough to drive any man mad.
"No, Lady Olive is not dangerous to me," I answered, deliberately; "you are."
A curious change came over her face as she uttered the word. The mocking smile became almost a tender one, and a delicate flush tinged her soft cheeks. But the greatest change was in her eyes. For a moment they flashed into mine with a light shining out of their blue depths which I had never dreamt of seeing there, a soft, warm, almost a loving light.
"You are a silly boy," she said, in a low tone, and the colour deepening all the while in her cheeks. "How dare you talk to me like this?"
Ah, how dared I? She might well have asked that if she had only known.
"I don't know," I said, recklessly. "I shall say more if I stay here any longer."
"You? Ah, Captain Hasleton, how beautiful! However did you manage to find so many?"
Captain Hasleton shut up his penknife and commenced tying the bundle of bulrushes together.
"Ah, you may well ask that, Miss Devereux," he said, laughing; "it would take too long to narrate all the horrors I have faced in collecting them. First of all, endless frogs resented my intrusion by jumping up and croaking all round me. Then I stood in constant peril of a ducking. You should have heard the ice crack! And last, but by no means least, I've cut my finger. Nothing but half-a-dozen waltzes to-night will repay me."
Maud laughed gaily.
"Half-a-dozen? How grasping! I'll promise you two. That reminds me, Mr. Arbuthnot," she added, leaning forward on her muff and looking up at me, "we're going to dance to-night, and I've persuaded your sister and Mr. Holdern to come up to dinner. You will come, won't you?"
I said something conventional to the effect that I should be delighted, and, raising my cap, was about to turn away. But she called me back.
"How dreadfully tall you are, Mr. Arbuthnot! I have a private message for your sister. Do you think that you could bring yourself within whispering distance?"
I stooped down till my heart beat to feel her soft breath on my cheek, and I felt a wild longing to seize hold of the slender, shapely hand that rested on my coat-sleeve. And these were the words which she whispered into my ear, half mischievously, half tenderly—
"Faint heart never won—anything, did it? Don't, you silly boy! Captain Hasleton will see you."
And then she drew herself up and nodded, and with the hot colour burning my cheeks, and with leaping heart, I watched Captain Hasleton seize hold of the light hand-sledge and send it flying along the smooth surface of the lake round the sharp corner and out of sight. Then I turned and skated away in the opposite direction with those words ringing in my ears and a wild joy in my heart. The cold east wind seemed to me like the balmiest summer breeze, and the bare, desolate landscape stretching away in front seemed bathed in a softening golden light. For Maud loved me—or she was a flirt. Maud was a flirt—or she loved me.
If any one had told me that evening, as Marian and Holdern and I drew near to the great entrance of Devereux Court, that I was entering it for the last time for many years, I should probably have thought them mad. And yet so it was, for that night was a fateful one to me. Into foreign lands and far-away places I carried with me the memory of the stately greystone front, the majestic towers, the half-ruined battlements, the ivy-covered, ruined chapel, with its stained-glass windows, and the vast hall towering up to the vaulted roof. Of Devereux Court, of all these, I have said but little, for my story is rather a chronicle of events than a descriptive one. But they had made a great impression upon me, as was only natural; for would they not some day, if I chose to claim them, be mine?
We arrived rather early, and leaving Marian and Mr. Holdern in the drawing-room with a few of the other guests who had already assembled, I made use of my knowledge of the house to go and look for Maud, and I found her—alone, in the conservatory, leading out of her little morning-room.
Surely God's earth had never held a more lovely woman. I stood looking at her for a full minute without speaking. A rich ivory satin dress hung in simple but perfectly graceful folds about her slim, exquisite figure, and bands of wide, creamy old point lace filled in her square bodice right up to her white throat. She wore no ornaments, no flowers, save a single sprig of heliotrope nearly buried amongst the lace. Her deep blue, almost violet, eyes had lost their cold, disdainful gleam, and looked into mine kindly; but there was still the half-mocking smile playing around her slightly parted lips.
"And, pray, what right have you to come into my sanctum without knocking, sir?" she asked, with a soft laugh, which did not seem to me to speak of much anger; "and now that you are here, why do you stand staring at me like a great stupid?"
I drew a long breath, and took a step forward.
"I came to beg for a flower, and——"
"Well, there are plenty in the conservatory," she said, pointing to it. "You may help yourself."
I stood close to her, so close that the faint perfume from the morsel of lace which she was holding in her hand reached me.
"Only one flower will satisfy me," I said. "That sprig of heliotrope. May I have it?"
She laughed again, a low musical laugh, and the tinge of pink in her cheeks grew deeper.
"If nothing else will satisfy you I suppose you must."
She unfastened it from the bosom of her dress, and her little white fingers busied themselves for a moment with my buttonhole. So close was her head, with its many coils of dazzlingly fair hair, to mine, that, irresistibly tempted, I let my fingers rest upon it for a second with a caressing touch. She looked up at me with a mock frown, which her eyes contradicted.
She did not speak, neither did I. But a sweet subtle intoxication seemed to be creeping over my senses, and slowly, scarce knowing what I did, I drew her into my arms, and her head rested upon my shoulder. Then my lips touched hers in one long quivering kiss, which she not only suffered, but faintly returned, and it seemed to me that life could hold nothing sweeter than this.
Only for a moment she lingered in my arms. Then, as though suddenly galvanised into life and recollection, she gently disengaged herself, and stood apart from me.
Maud blushing—my princess blushing! I had pictured her to myself often with a thousand different expressions dwelling in her cold, fair face, but never thus! Yet how could she have looked more lovely!
"Now I wonder what my father would have said if he had come in just then!" she exclaimed, holding her fan in front of her face, and looking at me with laughingly reproachful eyes over the top of its wavy feathers. "Mind, you must be on your very best behaviour this evening, and not attempt to talk to me too much. He hasn't seen me for five years, and I don't want him to think me frivolous."
"Your father! My God! is he here?" I gasped, leaning back against the table, and clutching hold of it with nervous fingers. The room seemed swimming round with me, and Maud's face alone remained distinct.
"He's coming to-night," she said, looking at me in amazement. "What difference can it make to you? Why, Mr. Ar—— Hugh, you are ill!" she exclaimed, shutting up her fan and moving to my side.
I held out my hand to keep her away. God forbid that Rupert Devereux's daughter should rest in my arms again.
"Coming here!" I muttered. "Coming here to-night!" The idea seemed almost too much for me to realise. How could I sit at the same table with him? How breathe the same air without letting him know of my hate? And this was his daughter Maud—my Maud, my princess. The idea seemed almost to choke me.
The second dinner gong boomed out, and I raised myself at once.
"I'm afraid I frightened you, M—— Miss Devereux. I won't stop to explain now. They will be wanting you in the drawing-room."
I opened the door for her, and she swept out and across the polished oak and rug-strewn floor of the hall, lifting her eyes to mine for one moment as she passed, full of a strange, sweet light. For a brief while I lingered behind; then, with a great efforts regaining my calmness, I followed her.
I sat between Lady Olive and her younger sister at dinner, and I have no doubt that both found me very stupid and inattentive. I could neither eat nor drink, talk nor laugh. Even Lady Olive gave me up at last, and devoted her attention to Captain Hasleton, her neighbour on the other side. It was not until dinner was nearly over that I was able to rouse myself in the slightest degree, and by that time Lady Olive had quite lost her temper with me.
"Skating doesn't agree with you, Mr. Arbuthnot," she whispered, when at last Maud had given the signal to rise. "I never knew any one so provokingly stupid in all my life."
I shrugged my shoulders deprecatingly.
"I'm sorry, Lady Olive," I said, grimly, "but if you felt as I do for five minutes you'd forgive me," which was perfectly true.
She looked up at me with a pitying glance, and I suppose something in my expression told her that I was suffering, for her piquant little face clouded over at once.
"I'm so sorry, Mr. Arbuthnot. You look as though you had a very bad headache. Come to me in the drawing-room as soon as you can, and I'll give you some sal volatile."
I thanked her a little absently—perhaps without sufficient gratitude, for she was a kind-hearted little woman, although she was such a terrible flirt. But I was eager to watch Maud go by—eager even to be brushed by her garments as she passed.
She half stopped as she reached me.
"I won't allow you to flirt with Lady Olive," she whispered, with a bewitching littlemoue; then added out loud: "Come to us as soon as ever you can, Mr. Arbuthnot. We want to commence dancing in good time."
I bowed, and letting fall the curtain, turned back to the table. Sir Francis motioned me to take the vacant place by his side, and filled my glass himself from the decanter which stood at his elbow.
"Hugh, my boy," he said, slowly—he had got into the habit of calling me Hugh lately—"I'm upset!"
I looked into his handsome old face, and saw that it was clouded over, and there was a heavy frown on his brow.
"I'm sorry, sir," I ventured to say.
"Thanks. I knew you would be. I don't suppose a man ought to be sorry because his son's coming to see him, ought he?"
It depended upon the son, I thought.
"Ay, it depends upon the son, of course," he said, thoughtfully, stroking his long grey moustache. "There is nothing against Maud's father, nothing at all. He's nothing like that young cub of his down there," he went on, jerking his head to where Francis Devereux was talking very loudly and drinking a good deal of champagne. "And yet I don't want him here. I can't bear to see him in the place. It's a damned funny thing."
"If you feel like that, sir," I said, keeping my eyes fixed upon the tablecloth, "depend upon it, it's your son's fault. He's done something to deserve it."
Sir Francis sat silent for a while, toying with his glasses.
"He has done nothing," he said, half to himself, "and yet I hate the sight of him, and he of me. It is twelve years since he set foot within Devereux Court. Twelve years! I wonder what his fancy is for coming now. Would to God he had stopped away!"
"Sir Francis," exclaimed a voice from the lower end of the table, "a promise to ladies is sacred. We were told that ten minutes was as long as we could be allowed this evening, and we have pledged our words. Have we your permission?"
"Certainly, gentlemen."
Sir Francis rose, and there was a general draining of glasses and a stretching of masculine forms. Then we followed him across the hall into the blue drawing-room.
I should have made my way at once to Maud but a look in her eyes checked me, and I turned aside and sat down in an empty recess. I had scarcely commenced to turn over the pages of a book of engravings which I had carelessly taken up, when I heard a voice at my elbow.
"As usual, Mr. Arbuthnot, you make me come to you. It's too bad of you."
I put down the book with a start, and stood up. Lady Olive was at my elbow.
"Now, sit down again, and tell me how the headache is," she exclaimed, sinking herself into the cushioned recess, and drawing her skirts aside to make room for me. "See, I've brought you my favourite smelling-salts, and I have some sal volatile in my pocket. I mustn't doctor you before all these people, though! And now for the question I'm dying to ask. Shall you be able to waltz?"
"Come and see," I said, rising and offering her my arm, for an exodus was already taking place from the room. "It's awfully good of you, Lady Olive, to remember my headache," I added, gratefully.
She tapped my fingers with her fan.
"Don't make speeches, sir. What a grand old place this is, isn't it?"
We were to dance in the armour gallery, and the whole party were making their way there now. The magnificent staircase, bordered with massive black oak balustrades, up which we were passing, descended into the middle of the hall, and was supported by solid black marble pillars; and the corridor, which ran at right angles to it, was lighted by stained-glass windows, in front of each of which armoured knights were grimly keeping watch. One corridor led into another, all of noble dimensions, with high oriel windows, and lined by a silent ghostly guard of steel-clad warriors and polished marble statues. A strange contrast they seemed to the gay laughing procession of girls, in their low-necked dinner dresses and flashing diamonds, and men in their mess jackets and evening coats. Maud alone, moving with the slow, stately grace of a princess of former days, seemed in keeping with our surroundings.
Soon the sound of violins reached us, and, pushing aside the heavy curtains, we descended two steps and stood in the armour gallery. Maud's imagination and many nimble fingers had been busy here, and at first I scarcely knew the place. Fairy lights with various coloured shades hung from the mailed gloves of many generations of Devereux, and the black oak floor was shining with a polish beyond its own. But no fairy lights or bracketed candles could dispel the gloom which hung about the long lofty gallery, with its vaulted roof black with age, and its panelled walls hung with the martial trophies of every age and every land. And yet it was a gloom which seemed in keeping with the place, and no one found it oppressive.
I danced with Lady Olive, and then, as we stood talking in the shade of one of my armoured forefathers, Captain Hasleton came up and claimed her, and I was left alone. Nearly opposite me was Maud, standing like an exquisite picture in the softened light of one of the stained-glass windows. But I did not go to her at once. Several men were talking to her, and she was answering them with the languid air of one who finds it hard to be amused, and her blue eyes more than once travelled past them and looked into mine indifferently, but still with a meaning in them. At last I crossed the room and stood before her.
"You promised me a waltz, I think, Miss Devereux. Will not this one do?"
She hesitated for a moment, and then she laid her hand on my coat-sleeve, and we moved away. Without a word I passed my arm around her waist, and we floated slowly up the room. It was one of Waldteufel's wild, sad waltzes, now bursting into a loud flood of music, now dying away into a few faint melodious chords. For many years afterwards I never heard it played without longing to rush away into solitude and recall those few minutes of exquisite happiness in that strange, dimly-lit ball-room.
All things come to an end, and so did that waltz. Maud promised me the next but one, and was led away by Lord Annerley, and, to while away the time, I took a lamp from a bracket on the wall, and, pushing aside the heavy curtains, stepped into the picture gallery to look at my father's portrait.
It was not the first time by many that I had done so, for when I had been shown over the court soon after my arrival my first visit had been here. Bitterly indignant had I felt when, after I had looked for long in vain for my father's picture, I had found it—with its face turned against the wall. I had turned it round again during a moment or two when Groves, the portly house-steward, had been otherwise engaged, and since then it had not been disturbed, for Sir Francis no longer made this his favourite lounging-place; indeed, he seldom came here at all.
The sound of the music and of voices—some fresh ones I fancied—came to me in a faint, indistinct hum through the drawn curtains, and for a while I forgot all about them. I seemed in another world, amongst these long rows of my frowning ancestors, beruffed ladies in quilted gowns and dresses of strange device, armed knights, and beaux of a later and more peaceful age with perukes, knee-breeches, and snuff-boxes. But though I walked the whole length of the gallery, and glanced leisurely at all of them, it was my father's picture at which I lingered longest, and before which I was standing absorbed when the drawing of the curtain and the sound of voices and feet entering the gallery made me start round and very nearly drop the candle which I held in my hand.
"Why, Arbuthnot, what are you doing moping in here?" exclaimed Sir Francis, in a tone of astonishment. "Why don't you go and dance?"
I turned round with some excuse on my lips, but it died away when I saw who were his companions. Walking by his side was a tall dark man, with iron-grey hair, and pale, delicate face. On his arm was Maud, and, glancing from one to another, I knew that this was her father, my Uncle Rupert. Behind was my cousin Francis, with Lady Olive on his arm. It was a strange meeting.
"This is Mr. Arbuthnot, Rupert, whom I was telling you about just now," Sir Francis went on, without appearing to notice my start, "Arbuthnot, this is my son, Mr. Rupert Devereux."
I bowed slightly, and my Uncle Rupert did the same, withdrawing the hand which I had affected not to see. God forbid that my hand should touch his, even in the most casual fashion.
"Well, Arbuthnot, we——"
Sir Francis broke off in his pleasant speech, with his eyes riveted on the wall behind me. Slowly his face grew rigid with anger, and his thick eyebrows were contracted in a stern frown.
"Who has touched that picture?" he asked, in a cold, measured tone, which I had never heard from him before.
Rupert Devereux's eyes followed his father's shaking forefinger, and I saw a change pass over his face also. His dark eyes filled with a troubled, fearful light, and he shrank back a pace, as though to escape from the sight of the handsome boyish face which laughed down on him from the massive frame. To my eyes, inspired by knowledge, guilt was written in his pale face as plainly as nature could write, and a passionate anger which had lain sleeping within me for many weary months leapt out, burning and fierce, kindled by his presence. I forgot that I was Mr. Arbuthnot, the land agent; I forgot Maud's presence; I forgot everything save that I stood face to face with the man who had blighted my father's name and honour. That one maddening thought alone held me, and it was only by a great effort that I restrained myself from flying at his throat like a mad bull-dog.
I don't think that Sir Francis noticed my agitation. In fact, I am sure that he did not; for I was standing just outside the streak of light which the moon, shining softly in through the diamond-paned window, was casting upon the polished floor.
"Mr. Arbuthnot," he said, firmly, "might I trouble you—or Francis, you are nearest! Be so good as to turn that picture with its face to the wall."
Francis Devereux dropped Lady Olive's arm, and advancing, laid his hands upon the frame. Then the devil broke loose within me, and seizing him by the collar as though he had been a baby, I threw him on his back upon the floor.
"Dare to lay a finger upon that picture, you or any one else here," I cried, passionately, "and I will kill you!"
It is strange that, although so many years have passed, that scene remains as though written with letters of fire into my memory—vivid and clear. Word for word, I can remember every sentence that was spoken; and the different expressions on the face of each I could, if I were a painter, faithfully reproduce. Sir Francis gazed at me speechless in a sort of helpless apathy, Maud and Lady Olive looked horrified and thunderstruck, and my Uncle Rupert, with face as pale as death, was shaking from head to foot, with eyes riveted upon me in a sort of fascinated bewilderment, as though I were one risen from the dead. Sir Francis seemed to be the first to recover himself.
"Arbuthnot! Arbuthnot!" he exclaimed; "what does this mean?"
I pointed to my uncle, and he seemed to shrink back from my outstretched hand.
"Cannot you see?" he faltered, in a hollow tone. "Look at him and at the picture."
I had moved a step forward unconsciously, and was standing in the centre of the broad stretch, of moonlight which was streaming in from the high window. Sir Francis looked at me, and then gave a great start.
"My God! Arbuthnot, boy! Who are you? Speak!"
"Hugh Arbuthnot, son of Herbert Arbuthnot, who once called himself Devereux," I answered, proudly, looking Sir Francis steadily in the face; "and who would be a Devereux still," I added, "but for that man's villainous lie."
Rupert Devereux turned his head away, as though unable to meet the fire which blazed from my eyes. Maud had sunk, half fainting, upon an ottoman, and Lady Olive was by her side. Sir Francis stood gazing fixedly at me, as though in a dream.
"It can't be!" he muttered, hoarsely. "He could never have had such a son as you. He was a coward!"
"It's a lie!" I thundered—so vehemently that Sir Francis staggered back aghast. "Rupert Devereux!" I cried, taking a quick stride to his side, "can you, dare you look me in the face and tell me that my father was a coward? You, who bribed John Hilton, your servant, into a shameful conspiracy that you might step into his place! You, you—speak, man, and tell me! Was Herbert Devereux a coward?"
He was white to the lips with a fear not merely physical. His senses seemed stupefied; and though I waited amidst a deathlike silence for a full minute, he made me no answer. I turned my back upon him contemptuously.
"Sir Francis!" I cried. "He could lie to strangers and to you, but to me he dare not. Before heaven, I swear that my father is an innocent man, shamefully sinned against by him"—I pointed to my uncle. "Out of a mean jealousy, and for the sake of being your heir, he did it—he perjured himself. He to call himself a Devereux, and my father robbed of his name and honour by such treacherous villainy! Don't you wonder that I don't kill you?" I cried, turning round, a very tempest of passion surging up within me. "God knows why I don't do it! Sir Francis, I appeal to you. John Hilton has confessed to me that his story was a lie. My father is as brave a soldier and a gentleman as ever Devereux was. Tell me that you believe it. Let us make that man confess, aye, even though we have to tear his guilty secret from his heart!"
Sir Francis had recovered himself entirely, and was again the aristocratic immovable soldier.
"Hugh, my boy, I believe you," he said, kindly. "Be my grandson, and I shall thank God for it, and be proud of you. But you are mistaken about your father. A court-martial never errs."
The hope which had sprung up in my heart died away, and in its place had leaped up a bitter hatred—hatred of Rupert Devereux, hatred of my grandfather, hatred of Maud, of every one who refused to believe in my father's innocence. I drew back from Sir Francis's outstretched hand, and looked at him proudly.
"Never, Sir Francis. I will not call myself your grandson, or take the name of Devereux, until my father bears it too. I would sooner live and die Hugh Arbuthnot."
Then, without another look at one of them, without even a glance into Maud's white face, I turned, and walked slowly out of the gallery and out of the house.
Like a man in a dream, I walked with unsteady footsteps down the avenue, through the shrubbery, and across the park to the cottage. I had forgotten my latch-key, and the servant who answered my ring welcomed me with a little cry of relief.
"John was just a-coming up to the house for you, sir," she exclaimed, shutting the door again. "There's a strange woman wants to see you most particular. She's been here more than an hour, a-fretting ever so because you wasn't here."
"Where is she?" I asked.
"In your study, sir. I see'd as there was nothink about as she could lay 'er 'ands on before I let her in."
I had no doubt but that it was the wife of one of the tenants on the estate, though why she should choose such a strange time for her visit I could not imagine. But when I walked into the study I saw at once that she was a stranger to me. And yet, no. I had seen her face before somewhere.
She rose nervously when I entered, and pulled her shawl closer around her.
"You'll excuse the liberty I've taken in coming, sir," she began, hurriedly. "I 'a come to do yer a service. You doan't seem to recollect me. I'm John Hilton's wife; him as you comed to see t'other week."
I recognised her at once, and became more interested.
"You see, sir, it's like this," she went on. "My Jack, he's had one o' his drinking fits on, and he's always mortal mischievous after one of 'em. He seems to 'a got a powerful sort o' a grudge agin' you, and there's that piece o' paper as you wrote out, and he put 'is name to. He says as 'ow he might get lagged for that if you showed it."
"Well, has he sent you to try and get it away again?" I asked.
"Not he! If he know'd as I'd come 'ere at all he'd half kill me."
"Well, what is it, then?" I asked.
"Well, it's just like this," she answered, slowly; "he's a-coming himself to try and get it back agin."
"Indeed! And when may I expect him?" I inquired, becoming suddenly interested.
"To-night."
I leaned back in my chair, and laughed dryly. The woman must be mad.
"'Tain't no laughing matter, master," she said, sullenly. "You'd 'a laughed t'other side o' your mouth, I can tell 'e, if I hadn' 'a chosen ter come and tell 'e. He ain't a-coming to ask you for it. He's a-coming to take it, and to pay yer back something as yer gave 'im at our cottage—him and a mate."
I began to see what it all meant now, and to understand why the woman had come.
"And you've come here to put me on my guard, is that it?" I remarked.
"Yes. Yer gave me money when I was starving, and I felt sort 'er grateful. And when I 'eard them two blackguards a-planning how they'd settle you I thought as they just shouldn't. If you puts a bullet in that 'long Jem,' which is my man's pal, I shall thank yer for it. Jack's bad enough, specially when he's just getting round from a spell o' drinking, which he is now; but he's a sight worse. Cuss him. He's always a-leading my Jack into something."
"What time are they coming?" I asked, thoughtfully.
"I 'eerd 'em say as they'd meet at Cop't Oak, which is a mile from here, as soon as it were dark, and hide until you was all a-gone to bed. I'm mortal afeard of their seeing me, although I shall go 'ome t'other way."
I pressed her to stay at the cottage for the night, but she stubbornly refused. Her Jack would kill her if he found out that she had been here, she declared. But before she went I made her drink a glass of wine, and fill her pockets with the bread and food which I had ordered in.
This promised to be an exciting night for me altogether, I thought, as I drew out my revolver from the cupboard and carefully loaded it. I was not inclined altogether to believe or altogether to disbelieve this woman's story, but at any rate there was no harm in being prepared. If I had gone to bed, there would have been little sleep for me with my head still throbbing with the vivid recollection of that terrible scene in the picture gallery. I dared not think of it, I dared not let my thoughts dwell for an instant on the inevitable consequences of what had happened. The excitement of what might shortly take place kept me from the full sickening realisation of the change which that evening's events must make in my life, but underneath it all there was a dull aching pain in my heart, for had I not lost Maud?
Presently Marian and Mr. Holdern arrived. I had forgotten their very existence, and directly the latter had taken his leave, Marian was full of eager, agitated questions. Why had I left so suddenly? Had I quarrelled with Sir Francis Devereux? What did it all mean? Maud had gone to her room with white face and looking like a ghost, and Lady Olive had not again entered the dancing-room. Sir Francis had apologised to his guests with the agitation of one who had received a great shock, and Rupert Devereux none of them had seen again; and I was mixed up in it. What did it all mean?
She threw herself into my arms, and when I saw the gathering tears in her soft grey eyes, and her anxious, troubled look, I shrunk from the task before me.
"Not now, Marian; I will tell you to-morrow; wait until then," I begged. But she would not wait.
Then, with a great effort, I braced myself up, and told her everything. She listened with ever-growing astonishment, and when I had finished she slipped down from my knee and sank upon the hearthrug.
"Poor papa!" she sobbed. "No wonder you hate that Rupert! Beast! Oh, Hugh, Hugh, why could you not tell me before? I ought to have known," she added, reproachfully.
"It could have done no good," I answered.
A wave of sudden anxiety passed across her face.
"Oh, Hugh!" she sobbed. "Char—— Mr. Hold——"
"Mr. Holdern knows all about it," I interrupted. "I thought it right to tell him when he asked me for you."
A great relief brightened her face, and she smiled through her tears. Even a woman is selfish when she is in love.
"I am glad he knows," she whispered, looking into the fire. "How strange it all seems! Why our name is Devereux; you will be Sir Hugh Devereux. Why, Hugh, Devereux Court will be yours some day!"
"Never!" I answered, firmly; "until Sir Francis asks my father's pardon, and receives him as a son, I shall never take the name of Devereux or enter the Court. I have sworn it, Marian."
"And it was noble of you to swear it, Hugh," she whispered, coming over and kissing me. "They say truth always comes out some time or other. Perhaps this will all come right some day."
"For our father's sake, pray that it may do, Marian dear," I answered, gravely. "And now run along to bed, I have some writing to do."
She lingered by my side.
"Hugh, what are you going to do now? You will leave here, I suppose?"
"I must, Marian. Unless Sir Francis desires otherwise, I shall remain here until he has found some one else to take my place, though it will be as Hugh Arbuthnot, his agent, only, and into Devereux Court I will not go again. It will be well for Rupert Devereux, too, that he keeps out of my way," I added to myself. "When does Mr. Holdern want to marry you, Marian?" I asked her suddenly, changing the subject.
She blushed up to her eyes, and looked at me half pleased, half reproachfully.
"Hugh! How could you ask me like that? I—I don't quite know."
"Because you'll have to go away with me, you know," I continued. "I can't leave you behind."
She looked serious enough now.
"Of course you can't, Hugh. I don't think I ought to leave you at all. You'll be alone if I do, with no one to look after you."
I pretended to look serious, as though considering the matter, but her piteous expression and quivering lips were irresistible, and I broke into a reassuring laugh.
"Not I, Marian! It is the best thing that could possibly have happened. When I have no longer you to look after I shall go abroad, wherever our father is, and share his lot. Country life is beginning to get wearisome to me. I was meant to be a soldier, I think. Now, Marian, you must really go to bed. I want to be alone."
It was past twelve, and I was beginning to get anxious. But she still lingered for a moment.
"Hugh, I had almost forgotten, I have something for you, and a message."
I bent over my desk, lest she should see the light which sprung into my face. I did not wish even Marian to know my secret.
"What is it?" I asked. "Be quick."
"Why, she came to me like I've never seen her before, as lifeless and sorrowful as anything, and said—'Tell your brother that I think he is behaving nobly, and that I hope we shall always be friends.'"
"She said that!" I exclaimed, starting round, "Maud said that!"
My sister looked at me amazed.
"Maud! I didn't say anything about Maud! She didn't even speak to me. It was Lady Olive, and she sent you this."
I stretched out my hand for the gold-topped cut-glass little smelling-salts, which Marian was holding out for me and laid it down before me. Disappointed though I was, it was a kindly act of Lady Olive's, and I was just in that mood when a man appreciates such a one. For a moment or two I felt very tenderly towards Lady Olive; for, reckless little flirt though she was, she was generous and warm-hearted, or she would never have done this.
"It is very kind of her," I said, huskily. "Good-night, Marian!"
"Good-night, Hughie. Don't sit up late, dear, and don't fret. It makes me feel so selfish, Hugh, to think that I can't help being happy because—because of Charlie, but I can't help it. I do love him so, and he is so good to me."
Then at last she went, and I was left alone. First of all I put a heavy shade upon the lamp and placed it so that no one could possibly see it from outside. Then I finished loading my revolver, and put a life-preserver in my breast pocket. Going out on tip-toe into the hall, I opened the passage door, and also left my own wide open, so that if any one should attempt to enter the house from any room I must hear them. This seemed to me to be all that I could do, and drawing my easy chair into the corner of the room which faced both door and windows, I sat down and waited patiently with my revolver on my knee.
At first the time did not seem long. I had come to a crisis in my life, and there was much for me to think about. In the twenties, however dark and doubtful the future may be, there is always a certain fascination connected with it—possibilities, however remote, which the sanguine spirit of youth loves to peer into and investigate. And so I sat and thought, and considered, and longed, without ever getting sleepy, or feeling the spell of weariness.
Two o'clock struck, and of a sudden a curious change came over me. I became so violently restless that I could sit no longer in my chair. Sober-minded people may scoff at such a statement, but I declare that some irresistible impulse compelled me to go to the nearest window and look cautiously out.
The window was not one of the front ones, but was one which looked sideways over a strip of garden, a thick privet hedge, into a dark black fir plantation, through which ran a private pathway into the gardens of the Court. At first I could see nothing; then suddenly the blood died out from my cheeks, even from my lips, and I stood transfixed, rooted to the spot—my limbs numbed and helpless as though under the spell of some hideous nightmare.
What my eyes looked upon my reason refused to credit. Turning from the hand-gate of the plantation, without a hat, and with a wealth of golden hair streaming down upon a swan's-down cloak, was—Maud! It was impossible—it was ridiculous—it was beyond all credence. And yet my straining, riveted eyes watched her walk slowly, with her usual stately, even tread, down the grass-grown path between the plantation and the hedge of the cottage garden, and disappear from sight.
Though an earthquake had yawned at my feet I could not have moved. Nothing but sound can break up such a spell as this sudden shock had laid upon me. And the sound came, for suddenly there broke upon the stillness of the night such a cry as I had never heard before—the thrilling, agonised shriek of a woman in mortal fear.
Like the shock from a galvanic battery did that sound breathe life into my frozen limbs. Holding a chair before my face I literally burst through the high French windows, crashing the glass and splintering the framework into a thousand pieces. With the cry of a wild beast I dashed across the lawn and leaped over the privet hedge. Maud, my Maud, was scarcely a dozen yards from me, struggling in the grasp of the man who had come to rob me of his confession, with his great hand pressed against her wild, beautiful face to stop her cries.
They heard me coming, and he half released her, and with his other hand pointed a revolver at me. But passion must have lent me wings, for before he could pull the trigger I had dashed it into the air, where it exploded harmlessly, and with my clenched fist I struck him such a blow as I had never struck before or since. He was a powerful man, with a thick, bullet-shaped head, but he went down like a log, and well-nigh never rose again. His companion, without a word, turned and ran across the park like a hare, and I let him go.
Maud was in my arms, sobbing hysterically, Maud with the moon shining down on her blanched but exquisite face, and her white arms thrown around my neck. If she were the daughter of a prince of hell she was still the woman I loved; and I stooped and covered her cold face and lips with passionate kisses. Then I caught her up in my arms, for she was shivering, and ran with her to the house.
Every one had been roused by the sound of my exit, and the report of the revolver. Marian, with her dressing-gown loosely wrapped around her, was standing trembling at the head of the stairs, and behind her were the servants more frightened even than she. When she saw me cross the hall with Maud's lifeless form (for her faint seemed almost the faint of death) in my arms, she gave vent to one cry of blank amazement and horror, and then hurried down to us.
"Hugh, Hugh," she whispered, clinging to me as I laid my burden down on the sofa, and fell on my knees by its side. "Maud here! Maud out in the park at this time of night! What has happened, Hugh? What does it all mean?"
"Can't you see?" I muttered hoarsely, never withdrawing my eyes from the white, cold face. "She has had a fright, and has fainted!"
"But what on earth has brought her here—out at this time of night? And in her slippers, too!"
I was on the point of saying that I knew no more than she, but suddenly the truth flashed into my mind. Maud had walked out in her sleep! I had heard her say that for a long time she had been obliged to have her maid in her room at night, and sleep with locked doors; and that when Sir Francis lay dangerously ill not many years ago, nearly every night when she had gone to bed thinking of him, she had risen in her sleep and tried to make her way to his room. Then she must have been thinking of me! A sudden thrill of joy passed through me at the thought, and Marian looked at me in stupefied bewilderment to see the smile which for a moment parted my lips.
"She must have come out in her sleep, Marian," I whispered. "There were some men hanging about outside—poachers I suppose—and they have frightened her. Get some brandy, quick! and tell one of the girls to light a fire. We must have some hot water."
She hurried away, and the door had scarcely closed when Maud changed her position slightly, and her lips moved. I bent my ear close over her, and this is what I heard:
"Hugh! Hugh!"
My heart throbbed with a great joy. Suddenly I stooped down and kissed her half-open lips passionately. Then I drew back and stood upright, for I saw that she was fast recovering consciousness.
First her breathing became deeper and less fitful. Then, with a little sigh, she opened her eyes and raised herself a little on her elbow.
She looked around in blank bewilderment. Then her eyes fell upon me, and the hot colour rushed into her cheeks.
"Mr. Arbuthnot! Why, where am I? How did I come here? and those men," she added, with a shudder, "those fearful men; was it all a dream?" She raised her hand to her forehead and looked at me appealingly. I hardened my voice as much as possible, and avoided meeting her eyes.
"I think I can explain to you what has happened," I said. "You must have got up in your sleep, and walked down through the copse. There were some men outside; I believe they were going to try and break in here, and one of them must have caught hold of you, for when I heard your scream and ran out, you were struggling in his grasp. I knocked him down, and the other one ran away. Then I carried you here, and here you are. Marian has just gone out to fetch some brandy."
Womanlike, her first thought was of her appearance, and she sat up and looked at herself eagerly. Evidently she had fallen asleep before preparing to retire, for the only change in her dress since the evening was that she had exchanged her dinner-gown for a long white dressing-robe, and let down her hair. Nevertheless, she blushed as she sat up, and looked at me, pushing back the waves of hair from her face.
"I remember falling asleep in the easy chair," she said, slowly, "and after that everything seems like a horrid dream. Those men's fearful faces, and you—oh, how fierce you looked! But it all seems very indistinct."
Then Marian came in, and she turned to her smiling.
"Miss Arbuthnot, I'm afraid you'll think this a very unceremonious morning call. You didn't know I was a sleep-walker, did you?"
Marian put down the decanter she was carrying with a little cry of relief.
"Oh, dear, I'm so glad to see you all right again. What an awful adventure you've had!"
Maud smiled placidly. She was her old self again, stately and composed.
"It might have been a great deal worse but for your brother," she acknowledged; "I wonder if they've found out at the Court. They'll be getting a little anxious if they have."
"Unless I'm very much mistaken they've found out," I answered. "Listen."
I went out and threw open the hall door. Clearly enough we could hear the alarm bell at the Court clanging out with shrill, quick strokes, and the whole of the park seemed dotted with men carrying lanterns, looking like will-o'-the-wisps, and making the soft night air echo with their hoarse shouts. Two figures were rapidly approaching the cottage, and I hailed them.
"Have you seen anything of Miss Devereux?" called out Groves, the head butler. "She's out in the park somewhere a-walking in her sleep."
"She is here," I answered, and then I went in and told Maud that they had come for her.
Marian left us to find a warmer cloak and thicker shoes, and for a moment we were together. She turned to me at once with a sweet, sad smile on her lips, and a look of regret shining out of the azure depths of her dim eyes.
"Mr. Arbuthnot, I had quite forgotten, in all this excitement, what happened in the picture gallery. We are cousins, are we not?"
I shook my head.
"It is not a relationship which I shall claim," I answered, slowly. "If I should see you again before I go, Miss Devereux, it will be as Mr. Arbuthnot."
Her eyes were speaking to me—speaking words which her lips could not utter, but I avoided them.
Eager voices were hurrying through the garden, and Maud held out her hand with a hurried gesture.
"At any rate, you will let me thank you for your timely aid this evening. But for you I don't know what might not have happened."
I took her hand and raised it to my lips. Then I let it drop, and moved towards the door.
"I think I ought to thank you rather," I answered, with a pretence at a laugh, "for giving me the alarm. If those fellows had got into the house and taken me by surprise, things might have been worse for me, at any rate."
I opened the door and admitted Groves and several of the other servants. Francis Devereux was there, too, but he stood on the pathway outside, without offering to enter, neither did I invite him. Maud went out to him at once, and then I explained to the gaping little crowd what had happened.
"What became of the one you knocked over, sir?" asked Groves, after the little chorus of wondering exclamations had subsided.
"There now, most likely," I answered, with a start. "I'd forgotten all about him."
We all trooped over to the spot, and there he lay, doubled up in the underwood, his face drawn with pain, and still unconscious. To say that I was sorry for him would have been a lie; nay, if Rupert Devereux had lain by his side I should have been only the better pleased. But he lay so still and motionless that I stooped over him anxiously, and felt his heart. It was beating, though faintly, and I felt distinctly relieved when I looked up again.
"He's alive," I declared, "but only just. Better get him some brandy."
They brought him some from the house, and I poured it between his lips. He revived at once.
"We'd a best take him up to the Court, sir," remarked Groves. "You won't want him down here with only yourself in the house."
So they took him away, and as the long streaks of red light in the east slowly deepened until the autumn sun rose up from behind the pine-trees like a ball of glowing fire, I threw myself down on the couch and slept.
By ten o'clock in the morning I had written a letter which had caused me a good deal of trouble and anxiety. It was to Sir Francis Devereux:—
"THE COTTAGE, DEVEREUX,"Wednesday morning.
"DEAR SIR FRANCIS DEVEREUX,—You will, I am sure, agree with me that the revelation of last evening renders it imperative on my part to leave Devereux at once, or as soon as possible. I must ask you, therefore, to accept this note as an intimation of my desire to do so as soon as is convenient to yourself.
"No one could regret more than I do the necessity which has arisen, and I am deeply sensible of all your kindness to myself and to my sister. But, under the circumstances, it would be, of course, quite impossible for me to remain here as your agent, nor I am sure would you wish it. As to the other offer which you were generous enough to make, the answer which I gave you at the time is absolutely irrevocable.
"With regard to the attempted burglary here last night and assault upon Miss Devereux, I shall be prepared to give evidence when the man is charged. There are several matters connected with the estate with which I will not now trouble you, but which I shall be glad to lay before you or Mr. Benson before I go. My books I am prepared to hand over to my successor or to Mr. Benson at any moment.
"Thanking you again for the uniform and, I fear, undeserved kindness which I have always received from you,
"I remain, yours obediently,"HUGH ARBUTHNOT."To Colonel Sir Francis Devereux, Bart."
Having despatched this, I ordered Black Prince, and rode away to a distant part of the estate to superintend the felling of some timber. As usual, when going any distance, I took some lunch in my pocket, and ate it on a stile whilst the men knocked off for dinner. Just as I had lit my pipe and was preparing to start work again—for I was not afraid of using my hands, and used to take a pleasure in getting through as much as any of the men—I heard the sound of horses' hoofs on the smooth, wide, velvet sward, and glancing up quickly saw that the whole party from the Court were close upon me, all except Maud and the elders.
I drew back indifferently to let them pass, and bowed to Lady Olive, who was riding by the side of Francis Devereux. She started when she saw me, and, detaching herself from the rest of the party, rode over to me.
"Fancy coming upon you, Mr. Arbuthnot, and hard at work too! What are you doing?"
"Cutting down trees, Lady Olive."
"Well, you look in a nice mess," she declared, frankly. "What do you want to work yourself for? It's a shame that you should."
I laughed at her indignation, thinking only that her flushed cheeks made her look uncommonly pretty.
"I like working," I answered. "What would you have me do? Shack about with my hands in my pockets all day?"
"I don't know," she said, hotly. "But when I think of that idle, lazy young Francis dawdling his life away, doing nothing except ape a man about town, and then think of you working hard every day, and remember who you are, it makes me feel angry. Do you know, I longed just now to push him out of his saddle. It wouldn't take much, I don't think."
I laughed outright, but Lady Olive remained serious enough.
"Well, perhaps you'll be pleased to hear that I am going to give up working—here, at any rate," I said. "Of course I can't stop now."
She looked steadily between her horse's ears, growing a shade paler, and I leaned against the stump of an oak-tree wondering how a riding-habit could have been made to fit so well, and admiring her dainty little figure.
"When are you going?" she asked, suddenly.
I shrugged my shoulders.
"As soon as Sir Francis will let me. I have 'given warning.'"
She looked down at me, and spoke a little hurriedly, but with a frank, sincere look in her flushed face.
"Mr. Arbuthnot—I suppose I must call you Mr. Arbuthnot—I think yours is the saddest story I have ever heard. I want you to let me tell you that I feel for you, as much as any one possibly could do, and I think you are behaving splendidly, just as I would have my own brother behave if he were in the same position."
I felt more moved even than I should have cared to own, for I was just in that mood when kind words are sweet, and I had always liked Lady Olive.
"You are very good," I said, warmly. "Believe me, it is a great pleasure to me to hear you say this."
"Have you any idea yet where you are going?" she asked, "or what you are going to do?"
I shook my head.
"To London, first, and then I shall try and discover my father, and get him to let me throw in my lot with his. Somehow I think that I shall end by being a soldier. It's in the blood, I suppose."
"Mr. Arbuthnot," she said, frankly, stretching out her hand, "may we not be friends? I have never asked so much of a man before, but—but——"
I took her little hand, and did not at once release it.
"I shall be always glad to think of you as such," I said, warmly; "but I'm afraid it isn't very likely that we shall meet again after I leave here. My life and yours will lie very far apart."
"I'm not so sure of that," she answered, with an attempt at gaiety. "I'm going to travel about a good deal next year; and—and, Mr. Arbuthnot," she added, colouring a little deeper, "I know you'll forgive me for saying it, but my father—he's ambassador at Rome now, you know—has a good deal of influence in London, and especially at the Foreign Office, and if there was anything we could do for you—oh, you know what I want to say," she broke off, suddenly, and looking away that I might not see the tears in her eyes. "You may want to try and get some appointment abroad or something, or even if you decided to go into the army, he might be useful to you, and he would do anything I asked him. He is very kind, and—and it would make me very happy to feel that we were helping you a little."
Was it so great a sin that for a moment I longed to draw that tearful little face down to mine and kiss it? I had never been in the least danger of falling in love with Lady Olive, bright and fascinating though she was, but at that moment it occurred to me that the man who won her would be a very fortunate man indeed.
"Lady Olive," I said, earnestly, "I scarcely know how to thank you. I cannot tell you how much I feel your kindness. I shall take you at your word, and write you if ever I need any help, and if I do not I shall always like to think of your offer."
She smiled down at me beamingly.
"I am so glad you're not offended. Of course I shall see you again before you go, and I will bring you down a card with my address in London. Good-bye. No,au revoir."
She touched her horse with the whip and galloped away after the others, and the bright winter's day seemed to me less bright when she had gone. I watched her out of sight, and at the bend of the grassy road she turned round in her saddle and waved her whip. I returned her farewell with my hat, then, when she disappeared, I went back to my place amongst the men, and worked till the perspiration streamed down my face, and I was obliged to take off my coat and hang it on a branch of a fallen tree. But I felt all the better for it, for it has always seemed to me, as it did then, that hard physical labour is the most magnificent relaxation for an over-wrought mind. When the sun set and our day's work was over, I was stiff and my arms were sore, but my heart was lighter than it had been since this crisis had come. I stood filling my pipe and chatting to the foreman whilst one of the labourers had gone for my horse, until he, too, followed the others, and I was left alone.
At least I thought so, but I was mistaken. A voice, croaking and weak, almost at my shoulder, suddenly startled me, and I turned round to find an old woman, bent double, leaning on her stick, with her bead-like eyes fixed upon me.
"Who be'st you?" she said. "Be you him as they call the agent?"
I acknowledged that it was so, and that my name was Arbuthnot.
"It's a loi," she answered, deliberately. "Dost think that Sarah Milsham knaw'st not a Devereux when she seest one? Be'st thou Muster Herbert's son? God bless him."
I looked around anxiously, but there was not a soul in sight.
"Thou be'st a son o' my Mr. Herbert," she muttered. "I knaw'st thou be'st so like him that I thought thee was a ghost, boy. What be'st thou a doing here? Wheres't thy father?"
"Abroad, mother, since you know me. Who are you?"
"Who be I?" she laughed, a mirthless, unpleasant laugh. "Why, thee hasna heard of Sarah Milsham? I nursed your father when he were a baby. What be'st a doing here, boy? Hast come to kill Rupert Devereux?"
"He deserves it," I cried, hotly.
"So afore God he does," cried the old hag tremulously, "and die he will, for I ha' seen the mark o' death upon his forehead. But it'll be no by your hand, no by your hand, boy. What be'st a doing here? Go to thy father, boy! Why hast left him alone?"
"I am going," I answered. "Please God I shall be with him before many months."
"Ay, go, boy, go," she quivered out, "and tell him this from me. Tell him that sure as Devereux Court is built upon a rock, I, Sarah Milsham, shall live to see him here again. Sure as that limb of hell, Rupert Devereux, bears the seal of death upon his forehead, so sure the day will come when the whole country shall welcome him home again, and old Sir Francis shall be proud t' own him for his son. Tell him Sarah Milsham said so."
She hobbled away into the wood and commenced picking up sticks. I would have followed her, but she held out her hand to prevent me, and would not answer me when I spoke. So I mounted Black Prince and galloped away homewards.
When I entered Marian's room I saw that she had a visitor. Sir Francis Devereux was leaning back in my easy chair, laughing at one of my sister's quaint speeches, and she was handing him a cup of tea.