Of all the contingencies which had occurred to me, this was one which I had not considered, for only once since I had been its occupant had Sir Francis called at the cottage. But his greeting was even a greater surprise to me.
"Hugh, my boy," he said, rising and holding out his hand, "I have come down to have a chat with you, and Miss Marian has been giving me some tea."
Something in his look, his accent, and his words warned me that the battle of last night would have to be fought over again. But for a while he talked of nothing, save of last night's strange adventure and minor matters connected with the estate, of the turnip prospects, and the timber felling, until Marian left us to change her frock. Then, after opening the door for her with his usual stately courtesy, he returned to the hearthrug, and with the firelight playing round his tall, slim figure, and with a soft, almost appealing light relaxing the hard lines in his face, he commenced speaking.
"Hugh," he said, slowly, "they call me a proud man, but I have come here to beg a great boon from you. Nay, let me go on," for I would have interrupted him. "Let me say outright what I have come to say," he continued, stretching out his hands as though to silence me. "I want to tell you a little of my history.
"You know, perhaps, that I was married twice. To you I do not mind admitting that my last marriage was an unfortunate one. Your grandmother was the only woman I ever loved, and it was her son who took her place in my heart—not Rupert's mother, much less Rupert himself. Perhaps I am much to blame, but none the less it is a fact that the death of my second wife gave me little sorrow, and I have never been able to feel towards Rupert as a father should feel towards his son. And since that day when I knew that it was his evidence (although he was right to give it) which had brought irretrievable disgrace upon the name of Devereux, I have never been able—I say it to my shame—I have never been able to bear the sight of him."
Sir Francis walked restlessly to the other end of the room, and then, returning, took up his old position.
"For twenty years, Hugh, I have been a lonely, unhappy man. Gradually I began to lose all pride and interest in our family name, and even the Court itself, every stone of which was once dear to me. Everything that had made life endurable for me and pleasant had gone. My pride in, and love for, my son who had gone away with my blessing to be where a Devereux should always be, in his country's battles, was suddenly blasted for ever. He disgraced our long line of ancestors, disgraced himself and me, and instead of falling on his sword, as he should have done, came home here, turned out of the army—a Devereux turned out of the army, to beg for my forgiveness!"
My heart was burning, but I judged it wisest to hold my peace. He had thrown his head back, and his eyes were sparkling with anger. His frowning face was as stern and hard as marble, and, old man though he was, he looked terrible.
For a moment there was silence, and then he went on—
"Enough of him! If it had been Rupert I might some day have forgiven him. But Herbert, my eldest son, who at my death must be the head of the Devereuxs—oh, it is a cursed, cruel thing!"
He turned his back upon me, and I heard a sort of gasping sob. I made a pretence of stirring the fire, and when I had finished he was himself again.
"For twenty years," he went on, "I have lived alone with a leaden weight of misery dragging me down almost to the grave. And yet I have struggled against death for the simple reason that the thought of that disgraced man who was once my son calling himself the head of the Devereuxs, and lying down to rest within the walls of Devereux Court, has kept me hanging on to life. My son a coward! To run away from the enemy! My God, what had I done to deserve this?"
"He was not a coward," I interrupted, passionately. "Rupert lied! I know he lied! He was jealous! John Hilton has confessed to me!"
Sir Francis shook his head sorrowfully.
"The word of a servant discharged without a character is worth very little, especially when it is directed against his master," he said. "No, Hugh, my boy, if you had lived as long as I have, and had been a soldier, you would know that a court-martial never errs. It never convicts except on overwhelming evidence, and its judgments are absolute. General Luxton came to see me when he returned to England, and from him I learned the undoubted truth."
I remained silent. One might as well have talked to the Sphinx as to this coldly obstinate, dogmatic old soldier.
"I have come to make you an offer, Hugh," he went on in an altogether different tone of voice, "or rather to make you a request, and I beg you to remember that it is one which lies very near an old man's heart. I am childless and lonely, and weary of seeing none but girls' faces around me. Come and live with me as my grandson! Let that subject on which we can never agree, be buried between us! Why should you go away on a wild-goose chase? Devereux Court is your natural home. Come and live there."
I stood up and faced him. He was very much in earnest, I could see, for the long white hand which rested upon the chimney-piece was shaking, and his eyes were eagerly searching my face for its answer; but what they read there could not have been encouraging, for I never wavered for an instant.
"Sir Francis," I asked, firmly, "does a Devereux ever break his oath or neglect his duty?"
He shook his head.
"Never!"
"Neither will I, then," I answered; "my duty would never urge me to renounce my father, whose innocence I firmly believe in, and if I did I should break my oath, Sir Francis. I feel for you, and I love Devereux. But what you ask I distinctly and absolutely refuse."
He walked to the window, and stood there for a moment gazing across the park, with his hands behind him. Then he turned round suddenly and commenced drawing on his dog-skin gloves. He held himself up in his usual stiff, soldierly manner, but I could see that he was hurt and deeply disappointed.
"More than I have said I cannot say," he remarked, quietly. "Good-bye, Hugh; make my apologies to your sister."
I walked with him to the door, and watched him walk across the park with head bent more than usual, and slow, weary footsteps. Oh, that I could succeed in my life's desire and bring him home the son he loved! What would I not give to attain my end! And yet, save through my Uncle Rupert, how could I possibly succeed? My Uncle Rupert! Was it not strange that Maud's father should be the man whom I hated more than any one or anything on earth!
Mr. Holdern dined with us that evening, and when he and I had the table to ourselves, and little clouds of blue smoke began to curl upwards to the ceiling, he made a sudden request to rue.
"I want you to let me have Marian at once," he said. "Why not let us be married before you go away?"
I raised but few objections, for the plan suited me. But Marian, when we told her, protested that a month was much too soon. Strangely enough, however, when I took her view, and rescinded my consent, she went over to the other side; so I gave in, and it was settled as they wished. An aunt of Mr. Holdern's was written for, and arrived in a few days in a most excited state, with two tin trunks and a box of caps. A dressmaker took up her abode in our other spare room, and peace at the cottage was at an end. Even in my sanctum I was never safe, for Marian would keep waltzing in with her mouth full of pins and her hair all disarranged, to beseech me to give my opinion as to the draping of a gown, or to inquire shyly, with a blushing face, whether I thought Charlie would like this or that! Altogether those few last weeks at the cottage were not quiet ones.
Lady Olive came often and assisted eagerly at the grave consultations. But I saw her only for a moment or two now and then, for there were many things on the estate which needed my attention just then, especially as I was going so soon, and I was out most nights till long after our usual dinner-hour.
Once Maud came, but I did not see her, and I was glad of it. If it had been possible I would have left Devereux without another word with her. But that was not to be.
On the morning before the wedding I saddled Black Prince myself, and took him out for a farewell ride. I would sooner say farewell to a man than a horse any day! The Black Prince had been my chief companion at Devereux, and a very faithful one too. He had never been the same to any one else, they told me; in fact, he had got the name of being a brute, but whenever I entered the stable he would whinny and rub his head against my coat-sleeve, holding it there sometimes, and looking up at me out of his mild, brown eyes as though imploring me to take him out. And now I was riding him for the last time! For the last time I watched him stretch out his legs for a gallop, and felt him bound away under me as he thundered over the turf. For the last time he picked up his legs as clean as a Leicestershire hunter, and flew over the park railings like a bird. And then who should we meet, as though to spoil our ride, but Maud and her father cantering over the moor towards us, Maud with flashing eyes and a colour springing into her soft cheeks as she waved her whip ever so slightly, with a half-imperative gesture. But I would see none of it. What had Black Prince and I to do with them? Nobly he answered my whisper, and cleared the high stone wall which separated us, and left them on their way to the house, whilst he and I flew on towards the desolate moorland, heedless whither we went, so that we were alone.
Three days more and I shall be away—out of temptation, out of Paradise, alone in the world, with my life's work before me. What matter! Banish such thoughts—away with them! Away with that sweet, sad face, with its proud lips and sorrowing eyes! What are these to my Prince and I, whilst we fly across the moorland, over hedges and fences, with the earth skimming beneath and the wind-swept sky clear and bright above! Live the present! Bury the past! Welcome the future! Regrets and haunting memories are the plagues of the devil. The Black Prince and I will have none of them.
Ah! that was a wild ride. The wonder to me now is that we ever reached home safely. But we did, and when we got there I led him into the stable myself, and took the bit out of his mouth, and the saddle from his back. I watched him munch his corn, and daintily thrust his nose into the bucket of chilled water, and when I turned away and walked into the house there was a lump in my throat.
A gentleman was waiting to see me in my study, I was told—and without asking his name, and with very little curiosity, I crossed the hall and entered the room. Then I gave a great start, and my fingers closed upon my riding-whip, for upon the hearthrug, hat in hand, stood my Uncle Rupert.
Had he not been Maud's father I should have taken him by the neck and thrown him from the house. As it was, I stood waiting with the door in my hand and an angry sparkle in my eyes.
"You are not pleased to see me, Mr. Arbuthnot," he began, nervously. "I did not expect that you would be. But my daughter tells me that she has scarcely thanked you for your gallant behaviour the other night, and, as her father, I trusted that I might be permitted to come and offer you my most heartfelt thanks."
And this was my Uncle Rupert! this tall, thin man with the eager eyes and nervous manner, and sad, sweet tone. For, though I hated him, I could not help noticing that I had never heard a man's voice more pleasant to listen to. Whence had come the affected manners and thinly-veiled snobbism of my cousin Francis? Not from his father.
"I fear that Miss Devereux, in her very natural terror, has exaggerated the service I was fortunate enough to be able to render her," I answered icily. "I trust that she has recovered from the shock."
"Quite, thank you. Mr. Arbuthnot, there was another reason which brought me here. All through my life—which has been a most unhappy one—I have constantly been troubled with the reflection that though innocently (that you will not believe, but no matter), I was the cause of poor Herbert's—your father's trouble. If I could render his son even the slightest service it would be a great happiness to me. You are going to London, I hear. You know no one there, and you have no friends. Could you not make my house your home? You will not take the name of Devereux, I hear, but Mr. Arbuthnot would always be a welcome and an honoured guest."
"You have a conscience, then, Rupert Devereux?" I said, quietly.
He looked at me appealingly, flushing to the very roots of his hair.
"I scarcely understand," he began, hesitatingly.
"Let me explain, then," I said, looking at him steadily. "It seems to me that, having wrecked my father's life by a deliberate conspiracy, you are now seeking to expiate that most damnable sin by conferring favours upon his son. It will not do, Rupert Devereux!"
I should have pitied him had he been any other man, for he stood there looking distressed and disappointed. But, remembering who it was, I watched him with a bitter, sneering smile.
"Then there is nothing more to be said, I suppose," he remarked, with a sigh. "I had better go."
"You had better go," I echoed. "The only words I shall ever care to hear from your lips will be a confession of your villainous lie. I cannot believe that you will have the courage to die with that foul sin on your conscience."
He moved his position, and then for the first time I remarked how like he was in the outline of the face and the features to Maud. But the likeness softened me not one whit towards him, whilst it made me feel harder towards her.
He moved towards the door with a dejected gesture.
"You are very hard," he said, in a low tone, "very hard for one so young. But I daresay that, according to your view of the matter, you are right, quite right. If you won't let me help you in any way, you won't. It's only another disappointment in a life of disappointments. I must go, then, Mr. Arbuthnot. But if at any time you should change your mind, come to me. I live in Mayfair, London."
He walked out, and, without answering his farewell, I opened the door, and let him go in silence. This was my first interview with my Uncle Rupert.
On the morrow Marian was married to Mr. Holdern. It was a very quiet wedding down at the village church, but it went off very pleasantly, and Marian looked charming in her plain white satin gown and simple veil. As we were entering the church I had a great surprise. Sir Francis Devereux, in a black frock-coat, and with an orchid in his buttonhole, called me on one side for a moment, and asked for permission to give away the bride. I would have preferred refusing such an unusual request—unusual, at any rate, as it would seem to those who knew us as Mr. and Miss Arbuthnot—but he looked so much in earnest that I could not find it in my heart to hurt his feelings. So, in ignorance of what they were beholding, the villagers of Devereux saw Sir Francis give his granddaughter away, whilst I, his grandson, stood a few yards behind.
A woman once told me that she always felt inclined to cry at weddings and laugh at funerals. I can understand it. There is something in the former exquisitely, though covertly, pathetic; whilst in the latter case tears are so obviously the correct thing, that sometimes they absolutely refuse to come. I feel certain that the tears were not far from Sir Francis's eyes as he shook hands with us in the churchyard. Perhaps they were not far from mine.
There were presents from nearly every one at the Court, and a sealed envelope from Sir Francis, which, when we opened it, contained a cheque for a thousand pounds. I had offered to make over to Marian half of my little income, but Mr. Holdern was resolute, and even peremptory, in his refusal. They would have a good deal more money now than they could spend in their quiet country home, and eventually, feeling that Holdern was sincere in his refusal, I had given way. Money would certainly be useful, nay, necessary, for me in carrying out the course of action on which I had decided. And so I kept it.
One day longer I had to spend at Devereux, and a dreary day it was. All the morning I was busy balancing accounts with the solicitor to the estate, and in the afternoon I finished my packing. In the evening, after dinner, I wrote a note to Sir Francis, bidding him farewell. He would understand, I said, why I did not come to him personally. An oath was not a thing to be broken, and I had sworn that over the threshold of Devereux Court I would not pass, save with my father. So I was compelled to write him instead, but I did my best to make my letter as cordial and grateful as possible, and within an hour an answer came back, short and informal.
"Farewell, Hugh, my boy. God bless you, wherever you may go, and remember always that though you may call yourself Hugh Arbuthnot, you are still a Devereux of Devereux, and this place is your home whenever you care to make it so.—Ever yours,
"FRANCIS DEVEREUX."
Through many lands and many years I carried with me that half-sheet of thick, heavily-crested notepaper. And yellow with age it reposes now in the secret drawer of my cabinet.
I sent no farewell to Maud. It were better not. My Maud she could never be, though never another should take her place. Me she would soon forget; I was not vain enough to think otherwise for a moment. Only yesterday I had seen her riding with that ill-bred prig, Lord Annerley, the son of a lawyer peer, with all his father's innate vulgarity, and never a feather's weight of his brains. Let her have him if she would, him or any other—or let her flirt with him, lead him on by the beauty of her dazzling fair face and the glances of her deep blue eyes. Let her flirt with him, and then throw him over with a light laugh as very likely she would have done me. A fig for all women! An ounce of philosophy would weigh them all down in the scales of reason. But at twenty-four that ounce is hard to get!
Early on the following morning I mounted for the last time into the high dog-cart, which had been kept in the coach-house at the "cottage" for my use, and was driven rapidly away with my back to Devereux Court. It was a grey, misty morning, and a watery sun was shining feebly down from a cloud-strewn sky. It had been raining, and innumerable glistening drops of moisture were hanging and falling from the well-nigh leafless trees. A desolate morning; with a slight vapoury mist rising from the ground and chilling the air. But my thoughts were not of the weather, for I was taking my last lingering farewell of Devereux Court. As we turned the corner and lost sight of it for a while, a stronger ray of sunlight than any which had as yet succeeded in piercing the bank of clouds reached its windows, and transformed its whole appearance. A thousand rays of light seemed to be smiling down at me from the massive stretching front and the frowning towers, all the brighter from the contrast with the black woods above and around. I was young and impressionable to anything in nature, especially with my heart so full as it was then, and, with a sudden start, I rose up and waved my hat in an answering farewell Then I sat down and would not look round again lest the light should have died out from the diamond-framed windows, and the gloom from the threatening clouds reign there instead. I was superstitious, perhaps—but I wanted to carry away with me in my heart the memory of Devereux Court, as I had seen it a moment ago, with its dark grey front softened and its windows sparkling gaily in that chance flickering ray of sunlight. And so I would not look round, even when John slackened at the top of the last hill, and, pointing with his whip, "reckoned that this wur the last I should see of t'ould place, and rare sorry he wur too," he added, with grateful recollections of a piece of gold at that moment reposing snugly in his waistcoat pocket.
But I would not look, and, a little offended, he touched the old hunter with his whip, and before long we reached the station of Devereux.
In six hours I was in London, friendless, and I had well-nigh said, purposeless, for, after I had written out and myself taken to the office of theTimes, a brief but imploring message to my father, I knew not which way to turn or what to do with myself. London disgusted, sickened me, and at every step I took I felt myself longing the more for a strong fresh breeze from a Yorkshire moor, and for the sight of a country lane and a few ruddy-cheeked, good-natured country folk, instead of this never-ceasing stream of pale-faced anxious men and over-dressed artificial women, and this interminable succession of great dirty buildings. I felt awkward, too, and ill at ease, for though in the country there had never seemed to be anything extraordinary in my stature, here, as I walked down the Strand with my hands behind my back, I seemed head and shoulders above everybody else, and people looked up at me wonderingly and made laughing remarks to one another, some of which I could not help but overhear. At last, in despair, it occurred to me that my country costume had something to do with it; so I went to a tailor's in Bond Street, and, with a sigh, abandoned my loose shooting jacket and breeches and brown deer-stalker for a black frock coat, dark grey trousers, and tall hat. The change was an effectual one, however, for though people still stared at me, it was no longer as though I were some wild animal.
One afternoon during the second week of my stay in London I turned with a crowd of other loungers into the Park, and there, to my surprise, I saw Maud. She was sitting in a victoria by herself, leaning back amongst the cushions with pale face and a light in her cold blue eyes which seemed to speak of indifference to everything and everybody around her. As fate would have it there was a block just then, and her carriage, with its pair of restless fuming bays, came almost to a standstill close to where I was leaning over the railing. I would have drawn back, but I could not. I seemed fascinated, and I remained there with my eyes fixed upon hers, and from that moment I was a believer in animal magnetism, for suddenly she looked languidly up, and her eyes rested deliberately upon the little crowd of black-coated loungers of whom I was one. She saw me, she singled me out from the rest in a moment, and instantly the proud, bored look left her face, and she leaned forward in her carriage towards me with her lips parted in a slight smile. I obeyed her imperious little gesture, and, stepping over the railings, stood by her side hat in hand.
She laid an exquisitely gloved little hand in mine for a moment, and then leaned back, looking at me with the old look, half mocking, half tender, altogether bewildering.
"Saul amongst the prophets!" she laughed. "Since when, might I ask, has Mr. Arbuthnot become an acclimatised Londoner? Really you ought to feel flattered that I recognised you," she added, looking at my black coat and hat and the gardenia in my buttonhole; I had bought it only because other men were wearing them, and I wished to look as little singular as possible.
Bandying words with Maud was beyond me. I rested my foot on the step of her carriage, and pretended to be carefully examining it, for into her eyes I dared not look.
"I am only waiting in London until I have news from abroad," I answered. "When did you come from Devereux?"
"Only yesterday. And I had not thought to see you so soon," she said, in an altered tone.
Why was I standing there at Maud's feet? Why had I come into the Park at all? I, who was so little of a man that, amidst all this great crowd of people I was obliged to struggle hard to keep an unmoved countenance and a measured tone. I felt bitterly angry with myself as I answered, with averted face—
"Nor I you. I had forgotten that Devereux was not your home. You live here, do you not?"
She smiled indulgently at my ignorance.
"We are generally here for the season," she said. "We have a house in Mayfair. Will you come and see me?"
I shook my head, and answered bluntly—
"Thank you, no, Miss Devereux."
She leaned forward in her carriage, with a sudden increase of animation in her manner.
"You are a Don Quixote, Hugh," she said, half angrily, half reproachfully. "How can you be so foolish as to believe that rubbish about my father! Wait till you hear how people talk of him, and then you will know how stupidly mistaken you have been. And he likes you so much, too. You might come and see us whenever you liked, if you would only not be so silly."
"How do you do, Miss Devereux?"
She turned round quickly, and saw Lord Annerley, who had ridden up to the other side of the carriage.
"Lord Annerley! Really, how very surprising! I thought that you had gone off to break the bank at Monaco. Francis said so."
"I had meant to go," he began, twirling his little waxen moustache with his small hand, of which he seemed inordinately proud; "but something kept me in London."
He looked down at her boldly in a manner which he, no doubt, considered fascinating. Resisting a strong inclination to throw the little cad, with his irreproachable tailor-like get-up into the mud, I raised my hat to Maud, and turned away. But she called me back.
"You have not answered me, Mr. Arbuthnot. Is it to be no or yes?"
"I am sorry, Miss Devereux, that I have nothing to add to my previous answer," I said stiffly, for her beautiful smiling face seemed to me like the face of a temptress just then.
"Just as you wish, of course," she answered coldly, with a slight haughty inclination of her head. "And now, Lord Annerley," I heard her add, in a very altered tone, "I hear that you have a new team. Do tell me all about them. Are they greys or mixed?"
I walked away, nor did I enter the Park again whilst I was in London.
"It's the book of the day."
"It's decidedly the cleverest thing of its sort I ever read."
"Have you read the review in theAthenæum?"
"And in theSaturday Review."
"They all praise it, even theSpectator."
"Who's the author? Whose initials are R. D.?"
"Why, don't you know? It's Major Rupert Devereux, the man who wrote that awfully clever article in theFortnightlylast month. He's an M.P., and a great man on committees. Sort of practical philanthropist."
I was standing in front of a bookshop leading out of the Strand amongst a little group of other passers-by, who had halted for a moment to turn over the volumes which were out on view, and this was the conversation which I heard being carried on almost at my elbow. I listened eagerly for more, but the speakers had passed on.
My Uncle Rupert was a great man, then, I thought, bitterly. Curse him! I was scarcely surprised, for there was in his pale face all the nervous force of imaginative intellect. What was it he had written? I wondered. I took up theTimes, and glanced through its columns. Ah, there it was—a review two columns long—"Richard Strathdale, novelist," by R.D.
I glanced through the review; it was one long eulogy. A profound metaphysical romance! The most brilliant work of fiction of the age, and so on, and so on. I stopped at a bookseller's, and asked for "Richard Strathdale." They were sold out. I tried another with the same result—there had been a tremendous run on it, they told me. But at last, at a railway bookstall, I was just in time to purchase their last copy, and hurried back with it to my hotel.
I commenced to read, and I read on deeply interested. There was much that I could not understand, much that betrayed an intimate knowledge with schools of philosophic thought the names of which even were unknown to me. But there was a great deal which, despite my prejudice against the writer, seemed to me almost sublime. It was written from a noble, almost an idyllic standpoint. There were no carping pessimisms in it, no Nineteenth Century disputativeness. It seemed to be the work of a man who believed in all that was pure and lofty in nature and in human nature. The spirit of a good, high-minded man seemed to be breathing through it in every line. I laid it down when I was half-way through with a startled little gasp. Could this be my Uncle Rupert! this the man whose life was a living lie? Never had my faith in my father wavered for one moment, but just then everything seemed chaos. I read on until I came to a passage where the hero of the story was speaking of another man:
"An unhappy man! Of course he is an unhappy man! He always will be! Go and ask him what it is he desires. He will tell you a larger fortune, or a peerage, or something of that sort. He is a fool—a blind fool—not to have realised by this time that desires expand with possessions, and the more the one increases the more ravenous the other becomes. Bah! the principle is as simple as ABC. 'Tis the moralists of the earth, be they Christians or Chinese, who win here! Logic and philosophy may knock Christianity into a cocked hat. But Christianity can make a man happy, which is exactly what philosophy won't do. Happiness is internal, not external. It must sit in the heart, and not float in the senses. And what gratification is there which a man can get out of the good things of the world which can strike deeper than the senses? Happiness is a consciousness; it is the consciousness of goodness. Dreadfully common-place talk this, but common-placisms are often truisms!"
I closed the book, and walked up and down the room restlessly. A great bewilderment seemed to be closing in upon me. My faith in my father was never really shaken, and yet this book seemed to me to ring with evidences that it was written by a high-minded, naturally good man. All my ideas were disarranged. A great wave of wondering doubt seemed beating against the prejudice which had grown up in my heart against my Uncle Rupert. At last I could bear it no longer. With the book still in my hand I hurried out into the street. Within ten minutes I stood before Rupert Devereux's house in Mayfair, and almost immediately was ushered by the servant into his study.
He was bending close over his writing-desk with his back to me, writing fast, and sheets of foolscap lay on the floor all around him. He had not heard me announced, and he wrote on without looking up.
I stepped into the middle of the room and spoke to him:
"Rupert Devereux," I cried, "it is I, Herbert Devereux's son. Turn round, for I have something to say to you."
He started to his feet, and turned an eager face towards me. Then he advanced a step or two, half holding out his hand.
"Hugh, you have come to accept my offer. God grant that you have."
I shook my head. "I have come to ask a question of the man who wrote this book," I answered, holding it out. "I have come to ask the man who writes that happiness is the abstract product of a consciousness of right doing, whether he is happy? Rupert Devereux, you know what happiness is. Tell me, are you happy?"
He sank into a chair and covered his face with his hands. My heart grew lighter as I looked upon him.
"They tell me that you are a successful man," I continued, mercilessly. "You are a member of Parliament, and a noted one. You are spoken of as a philanthropist, and a zealous one. You have written a book which any man might be proud of having written. You are rich, you are well spoken of everywhere. And you are a miserable man."
He never answered me, never changed his dejected attitude.
"Out of your own mouth you stand convicted," I cried, stretching out the book towards him. "You are not happy because none of these things can bring you happiness. You are not happy because you have not that consciousness of right doing in your heart! You are miserable because you have wrecked another's life that you might gain his wealth. Fool! Villain!"
Still he did not answer; only he stretched out his hand as though to implore my silence.
"Rupert Devereux," I cried, passionately, "it is not too late to make amends even now. Confess that lie which you uttered so many years ago, and you will be a happier man than you are now! You know it! The man who wrote this book knows it. I will forgive you, my father shall forgive you everything, if you will lift this weight from him which is dragging him down to death. You will lose your name, your wealth, your position. But you will gain something which none of these can give you. Rupert Devereux, as there is a God above us I charge you to speak the truth this night!"
Ghastly pale, with the wild agony of his remorse written into his face, he tottered rather than rose to his feet.
"I admit nothing, I deny nothing," he faltered out in a broken voice. "But supposing circumstances were as you imagine them to be, I have gone too far to retract. There are my children!"
"What of them?" I cried. "This is not a censorious generation, and none would visit on them their father's sin. Francis is one whom money would make happy, and he should have it! Maud! I love Maud, and would make her my wife."
He looked up amazed, and then an eager hope flashed out from his sunken eyes.
"You love Maud!" he repeated. "Then marry her, Hugh; marry her, and I will dower her with every penny I have, and go and live—anywhere. Only let this other matter drop between us. If I have sinned in a mad impulse of folly, I have sinned. What is done cannot be recalled! The best years of Herbert's life have gone, and by this time he will have become resigned. Let me call Maud, or go to her. She is in her room."
I stretched out my hand, but with a great effort withdrew it. What should I gain by striking this man? I made one last appeal to him.
"There is but one thing I want from you," I cried, "and nothing else will I have. All that I want to know is whether you will go down to hell with this lie upon your soul, or whether you will do that which alone can bring you any peace of mind. Answer!"
"I have answered, Hugh," he said, sadly. "What you ask of me I cannot, I will not do. If you will accept nothing else—I am sorry."
"Then curse you for a coward!" I cried, springing up. "A liar and a coward! Live on your false life, fair before men, but black and corrupt within; live it on! But see whether their praises, their admiration or your success will ever lift for one moment from your heart my curse!"
Then I left him, mad and white with anger, and rushed out into the busy streets.
*****
Wearily the days dragged on for me, bringing me no news from abroad, no answer to the passionate entreaty which every morning appeared in the agony column of theTimes. I grew disheartened and dispirited, feeling every day more bitter against my kinsman, whose name seemed to be in every one's mouth, and every day a keener longing to stand face to face with my father, and feel his hand clasped in mine. Fool that I had been to let him wander off alone, bearing in his heart that dead weight of misery! What if he were dead—had fallen in the petty quarrels of some fourth-rate Principality! Had there been war anywhere I should have known where to look for him; but Europe was at peace, and I knew not in which country of the globe to commence my search.
One evening I had taken up a society journal, and as usual Rupert Devereux's name headed one of the paragraphs. He was giving a fancy dress ball to-night, at which Royalty was expected to be present. I threw the paper from me in disgust, and a wild storm of anger laid hold of me. Rupert Devereux, a great man, a leader of society, everywhere quoted as brilliant, talented, and withal kind-hearted; whilst my father, his victim, wandered about in miserable exile, holding his life in his hand! It was the thought that was with me day and night, but that moment it gained such a hold on me as to cry out for action of some sort. But what could I do? All idea of physical punishment which naturally leaped first into my mind revolted me, for he was a weak man, and would have been like a lath in my hands. And what other means had I? Denunciation would make me ridiculous without injuring him; for, when a man stands firm in the world's esteem, they are slow to believe ill of him. I caught up the paper again, and a sudden idea flashed into my mind which I first scouted as ridiculous, then reconsidered, and finally embraced. I called a hansom, and drove to several costumiers. At last I found what I wanted, and returned to the hotel to dress, for I was going to Major Rupert Devereux's fancy dress ball.
*****
A suite of reception rooms, decorated like the rooms of a palace, and the strains of the Hungarian band floating softly on an air heavy with the rich perfume of banks of rare exotics. Distinguished-looking men and beautiful women, in the picturesque garb of all ages and nations, gliding over the smooth floor. Powdered footmen noiselessly passing backwards and forwards over the thick carpets of a succession of satin-draped ante-rooms. Flowers, light, music, and perfume; fair faces and soft words. That night seems like a confused dream of all these to me, save for one brief minute. One brief minute, when the giver of all these, the flattered recipient of endless compliments from noble lips, came face to face with the image of the man on whose misery all these things were built up, came face to face with him, in the very uniform, and with the same fiercely reproachful gaze, which he had worn more than twenty years ago.
"It was the heat—the excitement—the overwork!" his sympathising guests declared, as their host was carried from their midst in a dead faint, with his face like the face of a corpse. But I knew better, and I laughed as I strode into my room at the hotel, and flung myself into an easy chair. Something on the mantelpiece attracted my attention, and I sprang up with a quick cry, and caught hold of a thin foreign envelope. I tore it open with trembling fingers, and read:—"My dear son. Come to me at Palermo, if you will.—Yours affectionately, H. D——"
It had come at last, then! Thank God! Thank God!
"My father! my father!"
We stood on the slope of a wild heath-covered hill, alone, with no human being or sign of habitation in sight. Before us towered a dreary, lofty range of bare mountains—on one side was a fearful precipice, and below us on the other the blue sea. We had met on the road, my father and I!
With both hands clasping his, I looked into his face. Alas, how changed it was! Thin and shrunken, with hollow eyes and furrowed brow, he looked to me what he was, a wreck.
"You have been ill," I cried, with a lump in my throat and the tears springing into my eyes; "where have you been? Why did you not send for me?"
He pointed to a loose piece of rock a few yards off.
"Let us sit down, and I will tell you everything," he said, wearily; "I am tired."
We sat down, and I waited eagerly for him to begin. There was a patch of brilliantly coloured wild-flowers at our feet which filled the air all round with a dreamy, intoxicating odour. It was a perfume which has lingered with me even to this day.
"Ay, I have been ill," he began, slowly, "almost to death, but death would have none of me. I have little, very little to tell you, Hugh, my boy. Since we parted in England I have wandered about in many countries seeking to find an honourable manner of disposing of my life, but in vain. The dead calm of peace which seems to rest all over Europe can be but the hush before a storm, but the storm is long in coming—long in coming.
"I have done nothing save wander about," he added, after a moment's pause, "after the fashion of a tramp, carrying my luggage with me, and calling no place home. A few miles from here, about two months ago, I thought that my release had come. I swooned suddenly in a lonely part of yonder range of mountains, and when I came to I was still lying on the track, but a fever had laid hold of me, and I thought then that surely I must die. I became unconscious again, and when I recovered my senses for the second time I was no longer lying on the ground, but was in a rude sort of a tent, lying on a bed of dried leaves and heath. One of the roughest-looking men I ever saw, dirty, but gaudily dressed, with a brace of pistols stuck in his belt, was sitting by my side, and through the opening of the tent I could see more like him moving backwards and forwards, and shouting to one another in some villainous patois. For a long time I couldn't imagine into whose hands I had fallen, but they were very kind to me, and brought me plenty of everything they could get—grapes, and olives, and wild aloes, and wine. At last one of them, who seemed to be their chief, and who spoke French, came in to talk with me. Then I knew that these men who had taken such care of me were really bandits, brigands. They had taken nothing of mine, and would accept nothing in return for their kindness. They rob the rich only, the chief assured me. I daresay you'll be surprised to hear, Hugh, that when I began to get stronger and able to get about, I felt quite loth to leave the place. I felt that there I was, at any rate, right out of the world, and secure from any casual questioning. And the spot where they have fixed their abode is the most lovely I ever looked upon. So I had a talk with their chief one day—José his name is—and it was arranged that I should pay a small sum to them for the use of the tent, and for supplies of fruit and olives and wine which the peasants bring them in abundance; and, in short, that I should live with them, though not be of them. I have felt at rest there, though at times the weariness of complete inaction is hard to bear. Only a few days ago I travelled into Palermo for the first time. There I bought theTimes, and saw your advertisement, and answered it, and the rest you know. I sent José's son, a quick little fellow he is, into the town to hunt you out, and bring you here. God bless you for coming, Hugh. It has done me good to see you again."
He ceased, and my heart was very heavy. Through every word he uttered, and in his whole appearance, I could trace how thoroughly he had renounced all idea of again mixing with the world, and yet what could his present state of existence be but a state of living death?
"And now for my story, father," I said, as lightly as I could. "First, Marian is married."
"Marian married!" He repeated the words slowly, with a sort of passive wonderment in his tones.
"Yes, Marian is married to a clergyman, and a very good fellow, and I, father—I have been in a situation."
He frowned, and repeated the words slowly to himself, as though displeased with it.
"A situation? What sort of a one?"
"I have had the management of a large estate. It was pleasant work."
"Whereabouts?" he asked.
"Father," I said, holding his arm, "I held it as Mr. Arbuthnot, of course, at Devereux."
He sprang up like a galvanised figure, and looked down at me in eager amazement.
"At Devereux! At Devereux! Oh, my God, at Devereux!"
He sat down again, and covered his face with his hands. Thinking it best to leave him alone, I remained silent for a while. Suddenly he turned round.
"How does the old place look, Hugh? Tell me all about it. And my—my—Sir Francis. Did you see him? Is he well?"
There was such a lingering pathos in his eager questions, that, with an aching heart, I turned away and wept. Then, after a while, I told him everything. Told him of my recognition, of my grandfather's offer, of Hilton's confession, and of my appeal to Rupert Devereux. He listened as though every word were sinking into his heart—listened with an utter absorption which was almost painful to witness. I told him of everything save of Maud.
There was a long silence when I had finished. Then he said quietly—
"You have done wrong, Hugh. You should have accepted your grandfather's offer. You must go back to England, and go to him."
"Father," I answered, "an oath is a sacred thing, and I have sworn before God that I will not do this thing. Whilst your name is Arbuthnot mine will be Arbuthnot. The name of Devereux may die out for all I care! Those who bear the name now are not worthy of it—an obstinate old man, blinded by his military notions and his cursed family pride, and a man who has lived upon a villainous lie, which he refuses to own to! They may rot before I will go near them again, or take their cursed name. You are the only Devereux, father, whom I love and respect, and with you I will stop. I swear it."
His hands were locked in mine, and a wonderful change had softened his face. But by degrees the light seemed to die out of it, and he shook his head anxiously.
"You don't know what you are saying, Hugh. What, you, a young man, with your life all before you, bury yourself with a hermit! Ah, no, it must not be. You must retract that oath, and go back to England. I wish it; nay, I command it!"
There is no need to reproduce the arguments he used, or my stubborn opposition. We talked till the sun sank down, tinging the glass-like sea into which it sank and the clouds in the western horizon with glowing tints of orange and purple and gold. And when the last word had been spoken it was I who was unshaken in my resolve, and he who was yielding. For we had agreed that for a time, at any rate, we would live together.
The shades of evening had fallen with a suddenness which to me seemed strange, but to which my father was accustomed.
"We must part for to-night, at any rate, Hugh," he exclaimed, rising. "It will be dark in half-an-hour. I must call young Pietro to guide you back to the town, unless," he added, hesitatingly, "you would care to come on and rough it with us for a night. I can only offer you a shake-down of dried leaves."
"With you, by all means," I answered, quickly. "One could sleep out of doors in this country."
"Come, then," he said, and, arm-in-arm, we struck over the heath, following no path, for the simple reason that there was none, but aiming for one of the heights of the range of hills before us, and skirting, at a respectable distance, the cleft-like precipice which stretched yawning by our side.
It was a strange, wild, magnificent spot. A deep gorge running inland from the sea, only avoided cutting into the precipice which we were carefully avoiding, by a strip of turf a few yards wide, along which we passed, and by which alone access could be obtained to our destination. It curled in a zig-zag position, sometimes wider, sometimes narrower, towards a low promontory fronting the sea—for the gorge seemed to take a complete circle. As we neared this hill I could see that it was a far more fertile one than most of the country around. Up one side stretched a vineyard, and little knolls of olive and cypress trees were dotted about on the summit, which seemed enclosed by a thick hedge of wild aloes. A keen, piercing whistle greeted our approach, to which my father at once replied. Then there was silence.
We climbed right up the side and passed over the summit of the hill without seeing a sign of any human being or habitation. I looked at my father inquiringly, but he only smiled.
"Follow me carefully, Hugh," he said, walking on as though to descend the promontory on the other side. I did so, along a winding, narrow path covered with loose stones, until suddenly, as we reached a sharp corner, I came to a standstill, and could not repress a cry of admiration. Just below was a wide, natural plateau jutting out until it seemed to stand sheer over the violet sea, and around it at regular distances, close to the side of the hill, and overhung by a luxurious out-growing plantation of cypress-trees, were a number of rudely constructed brown tents. Lying about on the turf were several men dressed in a picturesque medley of bright-hued garments, smoking long cigarettes and drinking wine from horn cups. It reminded me of a scene from theSpanish Student, only it was far more beautiful.
A tall, dark man of swarthy complexion and black eyes, but who was far from ill-looking, came forward languidly to meet us. My father spoke to him rapidly apart for a moment or two, and then he turned towards me.
"This is Monsieur José, Hugh, whose guest I am."
Monsieur José took off his feathered hat, and made me a sweeping bow.
"The son of my friend, the Englishman is very welcome," he said, speaking in French. "You would wish to rest, no doubt? If monsieur will seek his tent, I will order refreshments to be sent."
We entered one of the curiously-shaped habitations, and I glanced wonderingly around. There was a small chest, a gun, a little pile of books, a bed of dried leaves and heath pressed together in a compact form, which gave forth an aromatic, agreeable smell, and very little else.
"Not much furniture, you see," my father remarked. "Now come outside again."
A white cloth had been spread out on the turf, and wooden dishes of olives, aloes, magnificent grapes, and some sort of dried meat had been arranged on it. Two long-necked bottles of wine and a couple of horn mugs were also brought, and then the man who had been making these preparations bowed clumsily and withdrew.
I flung myself on the turf by my father's side, and, for the first time for many years, we ate and drank together. Afterwards we lit long paper cigarettes, of which there seemed to be no lack, and I stretched myself out with a sense of dreamy satisfaction. The warm, balmy air, heavily laden with the exquisite perfume of wild-flowers and the odorous scent of the vineyard, seemed to lull my senses into a sweet, satisfied stupor, and for hours we both lay there, scarcely exchanging half-a-dozen sentences.
"Father," I said, suddenly, "a man might be happy here."
He sighed. "It would not be impossible," he assented.
I thought of London at night, with its endless whirl of excitement and hurry; its flaming gas-lights, its heated theatres, its hurrying, eager crowds, and its hideous vice, and I drew a deep, satisfied breath.
"One is happiest out of the world, I think, after all. How could any man be miserable in a place like this?"
My father smiled sadly.
"A certain amount of philosophy is necessary to appreciate solitude," he said. "You are too young to have imbibed it. You would be longing to be back in the world again before long."
I shook my head.
"Not I. There is nothing in England to compare with this. As for London, the little time I spent there seems like a bad dream. To live in a great city seems to me the greatest mistake a man can make. All the town people I met were artificial in their manners, and in their nature too, I believe. The struggle for existence seems to stunt them, and to check their development."
"Yet contact with one another sharpens their wits and energy," my father remarked.
"I doubt whether it improves them morally," I answered. "But perhaps I am prejudiced. I hate towns, and I love the country."
"Monsieur is very wise."
I turned my head, and saw Monsieur José's tall figure standing out against the sky.
"Monsieur is very wise," he repeated. "I, too, have lived in towns, but I love best the country, else I should not be here. Monsieur is young to have attained to so much wisdom."
I laughed. "Isn't it a matter of taste rather than a matter of wisdom?" I remarked.
He shrugged his shoulders, and leaned forward on the long gun which he was carrying.
"With monsieur's permission," he said, "I will tell him a short story. It is my own."
"Delighted," I murmured, lighting a fresh cigarette, and my father gravely bowed his head.
"I was born and brought up in the country," Monsieur José commenced, "in a small village, about fifty miles south of Paris. When I was sixteen years old my father and mother both died, and I was left alone in the world, in possession of a small farm. I had to work hard, but I loved the place, and I was able to make a good living. I was happy enough, too, until Marie Marteuil came to live in our village, and I fell in love with her. I trust monsieur will never know what it is to be in love with a heartless coquette! It was my lot, and a miserable lot it was! One day she would single me out from all the rest and talk to me only, and at another she would scarcely speak to me at all. It was Paris which had done it. Before she went up there to stay with an aunt for a while, she was as quiet, and simple, and sweet as ever a maiden could be, but when she returned she was, as I say, a confirmed coquette. I bore patiently with all her vagaries, and put up with all her saucy speeches, for more than a year. Then, when I asked her to marry me, she laughed in my face. What, marry a little country farmer! Not she. She would marry no one, she said, who did not live in Paris, or who could not take her there. If I could do that she would have me.
"Well, I sold the farm on which I was born, every field of which I loved, and with a light heart went up to Paris. They call Paris a gay city! I found it a cruel one! I had no idea how to set about making a living there, and gradually my little stock of money dwindled away until it was nearly all gone. But I would succeed, I swore, for was not Marie waiting for me? At last, in despair, I turned blacksmith; I worked night and day until my cheeks lost their colour, and I began to stoop. But I got on very well, and at last I got a forge for myself and took a little house and furnished it. Then I went down to my old home, happy and exultant, to fetch Marie. I went to her house and saw her, but when I would have embraced her she drew back as though she had forgotten me. I was pained, but I thought that she was playing with me, and I commenced to tell her my story, and all that I had done, and how I had worked for her sake, and about the house I had furnished. And when I had told her everything, what do you think she did? She burst out laughing in my face. 'The idea of her marrying a blacksmith!' she exclaimed, tossing her pretty little head. 'It was ridiculous.' Besides, she had changed her mind about living in Paris. I had better get some one else to go and live with me in the house I had furnished; and when I commenced to plead to her, she shut the door in my face. Next week she was married to the man to whom I had sold my farm. Does monsieur wonder that I, too, detest the cities, and love best the country?"
I looked up at him sympathisingly, for though he had told his story lightly, there was a deep vein of sadness underlying his assumed manner, and his dark eyes had a sorrowful look.
"Perhaps it was as well for you that you didn't marry her," I remarked. "She must have been a heartless coquette."
He shrugged his shoulders.
"If our love came from our head, that would be very good consolation. I wish messieurs a very good night," he added, bowing. Then he turned somewhat abruptly upon his heel and walked away to his tent.
One by one the men around us left the central group, and, curling themselves up in their cloaks, threw themselves down to sleep—some inside their tents, some on the threshold, and others where they had been sitting. The golden moon had risen high above the gleaming, sparkling surface of the still sea and shone down upon the strange little scene with a full, soft light. I looked round at the slumbering forms of the brigands in the fantastic dress, and at the dark cypress-trees which stood out in strange shapes against the clear, star-bespangled sky. I watched the fire-flies around the aloe hedge, until my eyes ached with following their erratic course. Then I thought of Maud—wondered whether she was at that moment waltzing with Lord Annerley in some heated London ballroom, wondered whether she ever thought of me, whether she knew that I loved her!
And then I closed my eyes, and the sweet, intoxicating perfume which floated about on the heavy southern air lulled me to sleep.
For a whole week I shared my father's abode in company with this band of robbers, and then, finding me indomitable in my determination to remain with him, he made another proposition. Such a retreat and such company as we were amongst was all very well for him, an outcast from the world; but for me it was different. He did not like the thought of my dwelling amongst proscribed men; there was no necessity for it.
At first I laughed at him. Monsieur José and I were the best of friends, and though with the other men I could not exchange even a casual remark, for their only language was a vile, unintelligible patois, they were all civil enough, and seemed disposed to be friendly. The wild, open life suited me exactly, especially in the mood in which I then was, and I had no wish to change it for any more luxurious method of living. But as my father seemed to have made up his mind upon the matter, I, of course, had little to say about it.
We did not have much difficulty in finding a suitable abode. At the foot of the wild gorge which gives access to the mountains amongst which the convent of San Martino and the Cathedral of Monreale lie hidden, we came across a tumble-down, half-ruined, grey villa, of which several of the rooms were fairly habitable. We took it from its owner, a neighbouring farmer, for a sum which seemed to us ridiculously low. Then, from the little village of Bocca di Falco, we engaged, for wages little above their keep, a man and woman, and with the remainder of the old furniture which was in the place, and a very few additions from Palermo, we were fairly set up in housekeeping.
I am quite sure that that period was not altogether an unhappy one for my father, and, for my part, I found it very far from such. The complete novelty of our surroundings and manner of life was full of interest to me, and it was with the keenest pleasure, too, that I watched the colour come slowly back to my father's cheeks, and his limbs regain their old elasticity and vigour. He could not conceal the change which my coming had brought into his life, and he did not attempt to. Many a time did I feel devoutly thankful that I had held to and carried out my purpose.
Our life was simple enough, but pleasant. Some times we spent the whole day trying to shoot the only bird there is to shoot—a sort of wild duck; at others we took long walks, exploring the coast scenery, and frequently winding up by a visit to our robber friends. Antiquities or sight-seeing we neither of us cared much about, but we paid together more than one visit to the vast palatial convent of San Martino and to the Cathedral of Monreale. Other places of interest we avoided, for my father had lost none of his old dread of meeting any of his fellow-countrymen, although, as I more than once pointed out to him, the probabilities of their ever having heard his story were very far removed.
Sometimes we rode on mules across the rich intervening plain into Palermo, and mingled with the little crowd of priests and soldiers in thecafé, and went down to the Casino to glance through the papers. It was I who read these, however, for my father carefully avoided them, and perhaps it was as well that he did, for more often than not there was some mention of Rupert Devereux's name, either presiding at a meeting or heading a subscription list, or as one of the committee interested in some great philanthropic work. It could not have been pleasant for him to have read such items of news as this, and I was thankful that he chose never to read English papers.
And so our life passed on for more than a year, not at all unpleasantly for either of us. My father, in his previous state of complete solitude, had developed a taste for profound reading, and seemed to find much pleasure in studying abstruse works on Buddhism, the creed of the Mahometans, the Confucian teaching, the religion of the Brahmins and the Fetichists, and the strange, fascinating doctrine of quietism held by so many of the nations of the East. It was a taste which I never pretended to share, the only one of our joint interests in which the other did not participate. I feared it, although in my ignorance I could do nothing to check it. I had dim ideas that to a man circumstanced as my father was, such study must develop any secret leanings towards fatalism, and it was a doctrine which he would have many excuses for embracing. But I was too ignorant to argue with him, so I contented myself with keeping him from his books always in the daytime and often in the evening; for we had improvised in one of the empty rooms a sort of billiard table, on which, I am convinced, we executed some of the most extraordinary strokes that a marker ever gazed upon. Then, too, we played chess often, and I tried, by every means in my power, to keep him from turning bookworm. And, on the whole, I was not dissatisfied with my success.
It was one of those evenings which, to any one acquainted only with our English climate, seem like a foretaste of paradise. I sat before a tiny marble table at one of the open-aircafésat the head of the Marina, listening idly to the music of the band only a few yards off, and gazing over the peaceful, glistening sea which stretched away in front. There were many people passing backwards and forwards, but my thoughts were far away, and I took notice of none of them. With my head resting upon my arm, and my arm upon the low balustrade, I had fallen into a semi-somnolent slumber of thought, and the faces of the people who lounged by chattering and laughing I saw only as figures in a dream. My cigarette even had burnt out between my lips, and the coffee which stood by my side I had not tasted.
The roadway was completely blocked with the carriages of the Palermitan nobility and elite, and the promenade was thronged with a heterogeneous stream of fishermen and natives and visitors. All Palermo flocks on to the Marina at nightfall—as who would not?—to hear the band and breathe in the freshness of the sea, and with other objects very similar to those which attract promenaders on to the esplanades of English watering-places at a similar hour. Often I had amused myself by watching them, and looking out for English visitors; but to-night, early in the evening, I had seen a Sicilian countess who reminded me slightly of Maud, and my thoughts had flashed back to Devereux, and remained there, heedless of my efforts to recall them, hovering around one fair face, which sometimes I feared was more to me than anything else in the world.
What should recall them but the glad, amazed greeting of an English voice! I sprang to my feet, and before me, her face radiant with pleasure, and her little hand stretched out eagerly, stood Lady Olive.
"Of all the strange meetings I ever heard of, Mr. Arbuthnot, this is the most extraordinary!" she exclaimed. "It quite takes my breath away!"
I held her hand in mine forgetful of what I was doing—amazed and admiring. A warm climate evidently suited Lady Olive, for I had never seen her look so charming as she did then in the airy muslin dress which floated gracefully around her slight figure, with a great bunch of light-coloured violets in the bosom of her gown, and with a decided tinge of colour and delighted sparkle in her eyes.
"Mr. Arbuthnot, am I a ghost that you look at me so without speaking? And you really must let go my hand, please."
I dropped it at once.
"Lady Olive," I exclaimed, "I never met any one whom I was so pleased to see! Whatever stroke of good fortune brought you to Sicily?"
"This," she laughed, laying her arm within that of a tall, bearded gentleman who stood wondering by her side. "Papa, this is Mr. Arbuthnot. Mr. Arbuthnot, my father, Lord Parkhurst."
He held out his hand cordially.
"Very glad to meet you, Mr. Arbuthnot. I have heard my daughter speak of you often."
We were blocking up the crowded promenade, and so we all three turned and walked leisurely along amongst the others. In a few minutes I had heard that Lord Parkhurst had brought his daughter and some other friends here from Rome in his yacht, and they were uncertain as to their stay. And in return I had told them that I was living with my father for a while close to Palermo.
Presently we came up with the remainder of their party, and Lord Parkhurst, leaving his daughter in my charge, joined them. A tall, good-humoured-looking boy strolled up to us, looking at me questioningly. Lady Olive introduced me to her brother, who came over to my side, and seemed disposed to stay with us.
"Now, we're not going to have you, Frank," Lady Olive declared, laughing. "Mr. Arbuthnot and I are old friends, and we have a lot to talk about. Go and take care of Cissy, do!"
He laughed good-humouredly, and then, nodding to me, strolled off with his hands in his pockets. Lady Olive rested her little hand upon my arm for a moment, and guided me down towards the winter garden, where the throng was less dense. There we found a low seat, and sat down with our faces to the sea, and our backs to the ever-increasing crowd, the murmur of whose conversation reached us in an incessant subdued hum.
"And now, Mr. Arbuthnot, tell me all the news, please; I want to know everything about yourself," exclaimed Lady Olive, making herself comfortable. "Quick, please; we haven't more than half-an-hour before some one will be looking for me."
"Half-a-minute will suffice to tell you my news," I answered, and I told her the little that had happened to me since Marian's marriage. Told her of my meeting with my father, and of our quiet life together. She listened with more than interest; and very enchanting she looked in the golden light which shone upon her up-turned, piquant face, and in her dark, tender eyes, which had almost filled with compassionate tears when I had finished. For, after all, there was something sad about my story.
"I think it is so good of you, Mr.—Mr. Arbuthnot, to give up your life, as you are doing, to your father," she said softly.
I laughed at the idea.
"Give it up! It is no sacrifice. I like being with him; and life isn't at all unpleasant out here, I can tell you."
"Isn't it a little dull?" she asked, hesitatingly.
"I had not found it so," I told her. "Perhaps I should when she were gone," I added.
She made a mocking face at me, and then suddenly became grave again.
"Mr. Arbuthnot, I wonder whether you will mind," she said, looking at me very earnestly, "but papa knows your real name and all about you. I couldn't help telling him, because I have thought about you so much. You are not angry?"
I smiled down at her reassuringly. Angry! Why should I be? Instead, I must confess that I felt a decided glow of pleasure at her eager words.
"Tell me something about yourself now," I begged, "and some English news, if there is any."
"English news! Well, old Sir Francis is moping worse than ever since you left; Mr. Rupert Devereux has written the novel of the season; Mr. Francis, from all I can hear of him, is going to the bad; and Maud—they say Maud is engaged to that little fop, Lord Annerley. Is that enough news?"
Yes, it was quite enough! Something told me that she was watching for the effect of her words, and a sort of stubborn pride held my features rigid, and enabled me to answer lightly, and to put the words which I had heard away from me.
We talked for a long time in low tones, exchanging reminiscences and speeches, my share of which I have often since repented. But to meet unexpectedly a countrywoman, especially so charming a one as Lady Olive, in a strange country, when you have seen nothing but strange faces for many months, is sufficient excuse for a little more than cordiality creeping into the conversation. And then there was the influence of the scene and of the night, an influence which no one can properly appreciate who does not know what the long summer nights of Southern Europe are like. Everything seemed steeped in a sort of languid, evanescent beauty. The dark mountains stretching out like giant sentinels into the silvery, glistening bay, the twinkling lights from the low, white houses, the softened strains of the band, the musky air heavily laden with the mingled perfume of the orange grove, the hyacinths, and the more distant vineyards, and Lady Olive's beautiful dark eyes so close to mine, and flashing with such a dangerously sweet light—all these seemed leagued together to stir my senses and my heart. If Lady Olive spoke in a lower tone and with a tenderer accent than she need have done, was I to blame, knowing her to be a flirt, if I followed suit? The wonder is that I forbore to answer the mute invitation of her eyes, and press my lips against the archly tender, oval face, which more than once almost touched mine.
But for the thought that, gone from me for ever though she might be, Maud's kiss was the last upon my lips, assuredly I should have yielded to the fascination of that moment.