Fewer and fewer became our words, until at last we ceased talking altogether, and remained silent, drinking in the exquisite enjoyment of our surroundings.
At last Lady Olive rose reluctantly.
"Mr. Arbuthnot, we must really go. They'll be coming to look for us directly, and, really, if it hadn't been too ridiculous, people might almost imagine that we'd been spooning, mightn't they?"
She blushed as she smoothed down the folds of her white dress, and waited whilst I lit a cigarette. Certainly, if people had entertained that very ridiculous notion there would have been some excuse for them, for our hands had been very close together—very close indeed—and there was a soft light in Lady Olive's lustrous eyes which, to any one who had not known that she was a flirt, and could command them at will, might have suggested love-making. Ourtête-à-tête, such as it was, was over for the present, at any rate, for we had scarcely gone a dozen yards when we came upon Lord Parkhurst, with Miss Cissy, who, I found out afterwards, was Lady Olive's youngest sister, and Master Frank, and a tall, sandy-haired man, with bushy eyebrows and an intelligent forehead, whom Lord Parkhurst introduced to me as Mr. Burton Leigh.
We all walked up the promenade together, but presently Lord Parkhurst took an opportunity to draw me a little behind the others.
"My dear fellow," he said kindly, "my daughter told me all your sad history when she came to rue from England. Do you know, I should like to know your father, Mr. Devereux, very much. My cousin was in his regiment, and always swore that there was something wrong about that court-martial. Do you think that he would mind my calling on him?"
I hesitated, at a loss how to decide.
"Well, well, let it be until you have asked him," Lord Parkhurst went on, good-humouredly. "We shall be here for a week or two, at any rate, and I hope that we shall see a good deal of you. We thought of going to see the convent at San Martino to-morrow. Will you join us?"
"The convent of San Martino?" I exclaimed. "Why, you will pass our house."
"Indeed! Then we will look in and see your father on our way back, if he has no objection. You'll come in for an hour?"
We had reached the entrance to the hotel, and Lady Olive was looking behind to see that I was following. But I shook my head.
"I have a six-mile ride over a rough country," I said, "and though the patience of mules is supposed to be inexhaustible, experience has taught me that that idea is a popular delusion. I've kept mine waiting four hours already, and I really must go."
"If you must, then," Lord Parkhurst said, holding out his hand, "where shall we see you to-morrow?"
"I'll come and meet you if you'll tell me what time you'll start."
They consulted, and fixed upon an hour. Then I shook hands with Lady Olive and the rest of the party, and walked back along the now nearly deserted Marina to the inn where I had left my mule.
Jacko was a faithful beast and sure of foot. But he was slow, and by the time we had reached home it was past midnight. My father was sitting up for me, poring over a musty old volume, which he laid down, as I entered.
"Hugh, my boy, I thought you were lost. Disgraceful hour, sir," he added, with a mild attempt at facetiousness.
I laughed, and throwing my whip into a corner, poured myself out a cup of coffee.
"Father, what do you think has happened?" I explained. "I have met some English friends in Palermo."
"Who are they?" he asked nervously.
"Lord Parkhurst and his daughter. Lady Olive is a friend of Miss Devereux's, and a very jolly little girl she is."
My father nodded.
"Glad you've been enjoying yourself," he remarked. "I hope they are going to stay for a time. They'll be company for you."
"And you too, father," I added quickly. "Lord Parkhurst wants to call and see you. He knows all about us, and he seems very anxious to make your acquaintance. Do you mind?"
My father considered for some time before he answered. I could see that the idea half pleased him, although he could not quite make up his mind to break through his old habit.
"I don't think I should mind much, Hugh," he said at last. "But there's no one else, is there?"
"Only a son, and two daughters. Lady Olive is quite as anxious to know you as her father. Oh! and there's a fellow called Burton Leigh."
"Burton Leigh!" repeated my father. "Burton Leigh! There is no man whom I should like to meet more if it's the same Burton Leigh who wrote this treatise on Modern Mahometanism."
"Same fellow," I declared, without hesitation. "He looks beastly clever, and Lady Olive said that he'd lived for years in Egypt with a tribe of Arabs. Same fellow for certain."
"How strange! When are they coming, Hugh?"
"To-morrow," I answered, invoking secret blessings on the head of Mr. Burton Leigh. "They are coming this way to San Martino, and I was to let them know whether they might call."
My father and I were sitting at breakfast on the following morning, out of doors, on the wooden balcony, when I again recurred to the visit which we were to receive.
Below us stretched a wild, neglected garden, picturesque but overgrown, and further away was a flourishing vineyard and a bare stretch of heath, only redeemed from absolute ugliness by the brilliant patches of wild-flowers and frequent groups of olive-trees. Although it was early morning the warm air was already laden with the languid, almost oppressive, scent of wild hyacinths and other odorous plants, and there seemed to be every promise of a scorching hot day. As usual, our breakfast consisted almost entirely of different sorts of fruits and the wine of the country, and until we had nearly finished and my father had leaned back in his low wicker chair, with the blue smoke from a cigarette curling around him, we scarcely interchanged a word.
"I wonder if there's anything in the house for lunch?" I remarked, rather abruptly.
My father looked at me with a mild astonishment, for we seldom asked one another questions of that sort, leaving almost everything to our housekeeper.
"I haven't the faintest idea," he acknowledged, languidly fanning himself with his hat. "Better ask Marie. Why this premature curiosity?"
I shrugged my shoulders. "We may have company," I remarked.
My father arched his eyebrows, and looked at me incredulously.
"Company, nonsense! You haven't asked your friends to luncheon, have you?"
I shook my head. "Haven't asked them, but I shouldn't wonder if they weren't here all the same. They are going to San Martino, and it occurs to me that by the time they reach here they may be glad of a rest. It's going to be a warmish day."
Marie had come out to take away the remains of our breakfast, and I appealed to her. She shrugged her massive shoulders discouragingly, and held up her hands. We were not often home for lunch, and she had provided nothing.
We looked at one another helplessly, my father and I, and then simultaneously broke into a short laugh.
"Let us hope your friends will have had a good breakfast, Hugh," my father said. "But, Marie," he added, "surely there were chickens?"
"Ah, surely, there were chickens, so many that they were becoming a nuisance! Pietro should kill some at once, that they might be cooked and cold by luncheon time."
"And omelettes, Marie; you can make omelettes?" I suggested.
She was half indignant at the idea of there being any doubt about it! Omelettes there could be, surely! Were not her omelettes equal to any one's? And if the signers were expecting visitors, they need have no fear! They might make their minds quite at rest. Lunch there should be, fit for any one.
We both breathed more freely, and decided that Marie was a treasure. Then I lounged off into the garden on a very womanish errand—namely, to gather some flowers to decorate the table with, and finally, having seen all things in a state of preparation, I mounted Jacko and rode off towards Palermo, leaving my father vastly amused at the orders I had given.
Just outside the city I met them in a heavy native carriage, and, turning round, I rode by their side. Frank and Mr. Leigh were also on mules, but Lady Olive, in a cream-coloured costume, and with a bunch of hyacinths, which I had given her the night before, in her bosom, was sitting in the carriage by her father's side. She welcomed me with the most becoming blush, and, as I touched her hand, I could not help thinking how fresh, and cool, and English-like she appeared. Perhaps my eyes told her something of my admiration, for she turned hers quickly away, and seemed eager to commence a conversation.
"Mr. Arbuthnot, how strange you look on that animal after the Black Prince! Aren't you afraid of your feet touching the ground?"
"Jacko is not to be despised," I assured her. "I'm afraid the Black Prince's knees would suffer in this country. Ever ridden one of these animals before?" I asked Mr. Leigh, who was by my side.
He smiled at the question.
"In very many countries," he answered. "I've crossed the Pyrenees, and cantered into Jerusalem on one. They're sure-footed beasts."
I looked at him with interest. Evidently he had been a traveller, and he was doubtless the man whom my father desired to meet.
There was not much opportunity for conversation, for the road was such that it took all our attention to remain safely in our saddles. Our progress, too, or rather the progress of the carriage, was slow, and long before we had arrived at the villa Lord Parkhurst began to look hot and Lady Olive a little bored. Only Frank seemed to be thoroughly enjoying himself, with that indifference to the weather which a hardy school-boy generally displays, galloping round in circles, and urging his animal, a respectable and highly disgusted old mule, into the most extraordinary antics. At last the ruined front of the villa, half hidden amongst the grove of orange-trees which stretched behind it, came in sight.
"What a dear old place!" remarked Lady Olive. "Who lives there, Mr. Arbuthnot?"
"At present we do," I said, riding up to the side of the carriage. "If you would really like to make my father's acquaintance, Lord Parkhurst, we should find him at home now, and he would be pleased to see you."
Lord Parkhurst seized upon the idea with avidity.
"I should like it above all things," he declared, "and a change from this beastly rackety machine and this broiling sun will be very welcome. What do you say, Olive?"
Lady Olive was quite of her father's opinion, and so in a few minutes a halt was made at the rusty iron gates supported by tottering grey stone pillars, and we all trooped up the grass-grown avenue.
My father met us at the door, and welcomed our guests with an air of dignified courtesy of which many years of seclusion had not robbed him. He brought up the rear, exchanging affable common-placisms with Lord Parkhurst, whilst I, with Lady Olive and the rest of the party, crossed the marble floor of the entrance-hall, stained and discoloured by age, and entered the larger of the two rooms which we had made some attempt at furnishing. The close-drawn blinds had kept out the burning sun, and after the fierce heat outside the room seemed cool and pleasant enough, although its decorations were faded and its walls in places dilapidated. Lady Olive, stretched in my father's easy chair, pronounced her firm intention of remaining where she was until the sun had lost some of its fierceness, and Lord Parkhurst, who was fanning himself with an air of great contentment, seemed by no means reluctant. So we sat there, a merry, chattering party, my father and Mr. Leigh deep in the discussion of some vexed point in the latter's book—a discussion in which Lord Parkhurst seemed also interested—and we younger ones talking in a somewhat lighter vein.
Presently Marie threw open the folding doors and announced luncheon, and my father, with Lady Olive on his arm—how many years was it, I wonder, since he had performed a like ceremony?—led the way out into the wide shaded balcony where lunch had been prepared. We were quite out of the sun, and the air here was fresh and cool, and laden with sweet scents from the orange-grove close at hand.
"I call this perfectly delicious," Lady Olive declared, sinking into her bamboo chair at the bottom end of the table. "Mr. Arbuthnot, your house is an enchanted one! I was just thinking how nice a bunch of grapes would be, and—behold!"
There were certainly plenty of grapes, and, with a snowy white cloth and the flowers which were intermingled with the fruit, and strewn all over it, the table looked very well for a bachelor abode. My father made a dignified but courteous host, and several times I found myself admiring his easy, natural manners, whilst Lady Olive, opposite to him, looked charming and bright, and kept us all talking and amused. After lunch was over my father and Mr. Leigh again became absorbed in atête-à-tête, and, as Lord Parkhurst showed decided symptoms of indulging in a siesta, Lady Olive and I, with her brother Frank and the younger sister following, strolled down the steps into the neglected and luxuriantly overgrown but picturesque old garden. I am afraid we talked a good many soft nothings that afternoon, Lady Olive and I, my share in which I have often bitterly repented. But then, how many excuses there were! Lady Olive had openly professed herself to be a flirt, and as such I always regarded her, light-hearted, gay, and with winning manners, but a thorough-paced coquette. Her tender looks, and the soft light which so often shone in her dark eyes, had never been dangerous to me, for I had never believed in their sincerity. They had been very pleasant to respond to, and the occasional pressure of her small white fingers had been pleasant enough to feel. But I had always responded to these with a half-laughing acquiescence, feeling that I was playing my part in a game dangerous to neither of us. Experience has taught me that danger is an element never absent from such mocking interchanges of assumed affection, and that flirting, even in the most innocent manner, and even with one who calls herself a flirt, is better left alone.
Soon after four o'clock Lord Parkhurst suddenly woke up, and remembered that the convent of San Martino was still unvisited. We were recalled from the garden, and after a hasty afternoon tea—à l'Anglaise—the mules were brought round, and we prepared to make a start. At the last moment Mr. Leigh, whose conversation with my father had never flagged, begged to be left behind and called for on our return, a proposition to which Lord Parkhurst at once good-humouredly assented.
"I'm sure we have to thank you heartily for your hospitality, Mr. Arbuthnot," his lordship remarked, as he bade my father farewell. "We came to call on you for a few minutes, and have quartered ourselves upon you for the day. I do hope you'll return our visit. I've taken the Palazzo Pericilo, in Palermo, for a month. Your son'll soon be able to show you where it is, I hope," he added, turning to me.
My father made some courteous but indefinite reply as he walked down the hall with his departing guests. To have looked at the two men, any one would certainly have supposed the positions reversed, and that my father had been the distinguished diplomatist and peer, whose visit was an honour, and Lord Parkhurst the man without a name.
"Your father is a veritable grand seigneur," Lady Olive said to me as we stood at the gate prepared to start. "I never saw a more distinguished-looking man." And, though I only laughed at her, I was pleased.
The ride to San Martino was a delightful one. We entered at once, after leaving the villa, into a narrow, rugged glen, which led us higher and higher, until at last Palermo, with its marvellously beautiful plain, and the blue water of the Mediterranean sweeping into its bay, lay stretched out behind us like a beautiful panorama. Though we were high up in the mountains, we were still surrounded by the most luxuriant vegetation, and a sudden turn in the road showed us, thousands of feet below, a beautifully-cultivated valley, in the bed of which were dense groves of orange-trees, while its sides were laid out as vineyards and wheatfields. But perhaps the most beautiful sight of all was the huge façade of the convent of San Martino, which we came upon unexpectedly, and which seemed to be heaved out of the earth by some caprice of nature.
More than an hour we spent wandering about its vast open corridors and magnificent staircases, and, melancholy and silent though it was, its grandeur and solemnity, and, above all, the silence which reigned throughout the enormous building, made a strong impression upon us. Even Lady Olive forbore to chatter, and we none of us felt inclined to speak above a whisper. For my part I was not sorry when our tour of inspection was over, for the place seemed to me depressing in its vast emptiness, and I think the others were of the same opinion, for we all gave a simultaneous gesture of relief when we stood again in the open air.
"We'll go back now, I think," said Lord Parkhurst, yawning. "What do you say, Olive? Had enough sight-seeing?"
Lady Olive was content to do anything, so I handed her into the carriage, and we started homewards, with the fresh breeze from the Mediterranean blowing in our faces, and the glorious prospect of Palermo at the edge of the most luxurious plain of Southern Europe before our eyes.
In about an hour we reached the villa, and found my father and Mr. Leigh, with a pile of books before them, still eagerly conversing. I had promised Lady Olive in a weak moment to return and dine with them, but when Lord Parkhurst cordially extended the invitation to my father, I could scarcely believe my ears when I heard him, after a moment's indecision, accept. But he did so, and after a few very minutes' delay we all set out together for Palermo.
That was a very pleasant day—so pleasant that I felt almost inclined to echo Lady Olive's words whispered to me as we lounged about on the Marina, pretending to listen to the band, and call it one of the happiest of my life. I had never seen my father so thoroughly interested as he was with Mr. Leigh, and as we rode home together in the moonlight I asked him about it.
"I never met a man to whom I took such a liking, or in whom I was more interested," my father declared. "He has lived for a long time amongst the Arabs, and seems to have been much impressed by them. He is a disciple of a very curious Calvinistic doctrine of fatalism, which has a good deal of resemblance to the creed of the nomad Arabs. I don't think it ever struck him till I pointed it out."
"He is going back to Egypt, isn't he?" I asked.
"He is. There is a storm brewing there, and he is going to try and see what he can do to prevent mischief. He has asked me to go with him, Hugh," my father added, quietly.
"But you won't go?" I cried.
He looked at me with one of his old sweet smiles, which it filled me with joy to see again, and he rested his arm for a moment on my shoulder.
"Hugh, I have promised to think it over. Before I decide, we will have a talk about it; but not to-night."
It must have been a little before six o'clock on the following morning, when I was suddenly aroused from sleep, and, opening my eyes, saw my father, half-dressed, bending over me with his hand on my shoulder.
"Wake up, Hugh!" he cried, "wake up!"
I sat up in bed, bewildered and amazed. My father, with an anxious face, was rapidly putting on his boots.
"What has happened?" I asked, springing out of bed. "Is there anything wrong?"
"Dress yourself quick, and follow me. I am going to José's. Pietro has just come, and says that there was some desperate fighting last night between the brigands and some travellers on their way to Palermo. Two of the brigands were killed, but they have captured the man who killed them. Pietro thinks he was an Englishman. They will hang him this morning unless we can prevent it. Hurry, Hugh, and come after me. You don't know what those fellows are if they can lay their hands on any one who has killed one of their band. Sure as fate they'll hang him. I fear that we may be too late now. I shall take the mountain road."
All the time my father had been talking he had been completing a hasty toilet, and, now he had finished, he hurried from the room, and directly afterwards I heard Jacko cantering down the avenue. In a very few minutes I too was dressed and following him on foot.
Our villa was about four miles and a half from the hill on which Monsieur José and his friends had pitched their habitation, and it was uphill all the way, and a very rough road. The path—it was a mere mountain track—was covered with loose stones, and in many places was but a few feet wide. Below sloped, with the abruptness of a precipice, the green hillside, dotted with olive-trees and aloe shrubs, and above the vegetation grew more and more stunted, and great masses of rock jutted out and lay about the barren brown summit. I was running towards the sea, and the soft invigorating breeze which blew steadily in my teeth seemed to lend me an added vigour, for when I caught my father up, close to our destination, I was as fresh as at the start. Side by side we reached the chasm-like gorge which separated the range of hills which we had been traversing from the solitary one behind which was the brigands' dwelling-place. Here we halted, and my father, dismounting, put two of his fingers in his mouth and whistled a peculiar screech-like whistle, which I had often vainly tried to imitate.
At first there was no answer, save the echoes which came mockingly back again and again. Again he gave the signal, and this time one of the band made a cautious appearance from behind a knoll of trees, and, seeing who we were, came forward and threw a rough bridge, formed from the trunk of a tree, across the chasm. We were on the other side in a moment, and I hurried up the steep hillside, whilst my father remained behind to exchange a few sentences with the man whose vile patois I could not pretend to understand. He caught me up at the summit, and, without stopping, ran down the green footpath, calling out to me—
"Quick, Hugh, we shall only be just in time. They are going to hang him!"
Below us stretched the deep blue waters of the Mediterranean, gleaming and sparkling in the morning's sun, and though we were within a couple of hundred yards of our destination, not a sound broke the dead silence, nor was there any sign of human life anywhere about. We reached the edge of the cliff and half-fearfully looked down below. Instantly the whole view burst upon us, and we saw that we were but barely in time. As we looked upon the little scene, with its picturesque grouping, it seemed hard to believe that it was not some elaborate tableau which met our horrified eyes, rather than a grim, ghastly reality. Standing about on the smooth, velvety little stretch of turf, which seemed to hang right over the sea like a suspended platform, were the brigands, most of them with folded arms, and all with eyes fixed upon the little grove of cypresses. Foremost amongst them stood José, with a long cigarette between his thin lips, and a fierce, satisfied look upon his dark face. Simultaneously our eyes followed theirs, and a sickening horror crept over me, for, dangling from the boughs of one of the trees, was the struggling, quivering body of a man, whose feet, only a few inches from the ground, were making spasmodic but vain efforts to reach it. It was a fearful sight.
With a cry which rang out like the angry roar of a lion, my father sprang forward. For a moment he balanced himself on the edge of the cliff, and then with a single bound, which turned my heart sick to see, he leaped on to the plateau below. With fascinated eyes I watched him rush to the tree with the gleaming blade of a knife in his hand, and in a second the rope was severed, and the man lay in a heap on the ground, and then with a wild cry and a look on his face which no mortal painter could have depicted and no words describe, my father threw his hands up towards the heavens, and staggered backwards.
I rushed down the narrow path and stood by his side. His whole frame was shaking as though with a great horror; but his face, white to the lips, was rigid as solid marble. As he felt my touch upon his arm, he pointed with quivering finger to the man who lay doubled up upon the ground, although no sound came from them. With a new horror my eyes followed his gesture, and the man was my Uncle Rupert.
The momentary torpor into which my father's sudden appearance and action had thrown the little company of brigands had passed away, and with an angry exclamation José sprung forward.
"Mille diable!what did the Monsieur Anglais mean by this interference! How dared he thus presume to interfere with a simple act of justice!"
"Carlo! Paulato! String the fellow up again at once," he added, turning rapidly round.
My father seemed to have recovered himself; but, to my surprise, he stood stock still.
"Father, they will hang him again," I cried; but he never moved.
I looked into his face, and shrunk back terrified. The passionate hatred of a lifetime was convulsing and blackening his features, and flashing fiercely from his blazing eyes.
"Let them," he muttered, "let them. A dog's death is fittest for him!"
One swift thought saved him. He was Maud's father. I hastened forward and wrenched the rope from the hands of the men who were binding it together.
"Monsieur José," I cried, "tell me for what you hang this man? What has he done?"
"Killed two of my best comrades," was the prompt reply, "and by heaven he shall swing for it."
The rope was wrenched from my hands and adjusted round Rupert Devereux's neck. He was conscious now, but half dazed, and unable to make any resistance. Seizing him by the collar, I released him from the men's grasp, and dragged him with me to the side of the hill, against which I set my back. They sprang after me, but started back with a quick exclamation, for they looked into the black muzzle of my father's revolver.
"You are right, Hugh," he cried, "I was mad! Monsieur José, listen to me," he added quickly. "This man is an Englishman, and you know very well what that means! To take his life would be to compass your own extermination. He is a man of great position, and if you killed him, sure as there is a heaven above us you would be hunted out and hanged, every man of you."
"Who is to tell of his death?" José answered.
"I shall," was the firm reply. "And if you kill us, your fate is all the surer, for we too are English, and it is known that we have come here. Be sensible, José. Why kill him? What good will that do you? Why not a ransom?"
The battle was won, but Monsieur José did not yield all at once.
"He has killed two of my best fellows," he said sullenly.
"What of that? It was done in fair fight, I suppose? He did not attack them."
Monsieur José retired and consulted with his men. Presently he reappeared, smiling.
"Monsieur Arbuthnot," he said, "we are anxious to oblige a friend whom we value so much as you, but, at the same time, we feel the loss of two such well-beloved comrades as Pintro and Salino deeply; so deeply, in fact, that we cannot see our way to fix the ransom at less than two thousand pounds English."
"They shall have it," groaned Rupert Devereux, lifting his head.
"Good! Where is the money to be got?" inquired José, with twinkling eyes.
"There is as much in Rothschild's bank at Rome. Send one of your men to Palermo with a telegram, and let him wait till the money is wired to my credit. If you will give me something to write with, I will give him authority to draw it."
It was done, and then, whilst José withdrew to consult with his followers as to who should be the messenger, my Uncle Rupert turned slowly round and looked into my father's face.
It was a strange meeting. Full of a great throbbing hope, I glanced from one to another of their faces. My father's was white and set and stern. My Uncle Rupert's was ghastly pale, sad, and expressionless.
"I owe my life to you and your son," he said, slowly. "Would to God it had been to any other man!"
"You speak well," my father answered. "You owe your life to the man whose life you have made a living hell. Strange things have happened, but none stranger than this! Why, I have prayed with a sinking heart, Rupert Devereux, that if chance should bring us face to face I might not kill you. And I have saved your life. How came you here?"
"Bound to Palermo with a letter for Lord Parkhurst from England. They told me at Rome that he was here, so I followed."
There was a dead silence save for the hum of clamorous voices from the little group of brigands. My father's eyes were fixed upon Rupert Devereux's white, anguish-smitten face, full of stern expectation. But neither spoke for many minutes.
"I am waiting to hear what you have to say to me," my father said at last. "I have saved your life. 'Tis a deed which most men would deem deserving of reward. I ask no reward, but I demand justice of you, Rupert Devereux. For the long, weary years of my wasted life you can return me—nothing. But you can give me back my name to die under and to leave to my son. Speak."
Like a man who is torn asunder by a passionate indecision, Rupert Devereux hid his face in his hands, and rocked himself to and fro.
"Herbert," he moaned, "would to God you had let me die! Oh, how can I do this thing, how can I? It is not for myself I care, but for my son, for my daughter. They would never speak to me again. They would hate me."
"That they should do so would be a just punishment," was my father's stern reply. "You have built up your life upon a lie, and this is your reward. Rupert Devereux, I demand that you make a full confession, and restore to me my honour! If you have one single spark of conscience left, you cannot deny me. You shall not deny me!"
He turned away again and groaned. Almost I could have pitied him.
"I cannot do it. I cannot do it," he moaned. "Oh! think what it means! To cut myself off from life and the world. To make myself an object of contempt for all men. To forfeit everything that I have won. To endure the everlasting scorn of my children. Oh! Herbert, will you really ask me to do all this?"
"Ask! No! I demand it!" my father thundered. "Think of my sufferings; think of my five-and-twenty years, the best part of my life, hidden away in a secret corner of the earth, never setting eyes on my country or the home I love—a stranger to my children and a stranger to my father. What can you suffer more than this? Speak, Rupert Devereux, and quickly, or I shall kill you where you stand."
He turned around white and resolute.
"Kill me, then. I wish for nothing else. There is not a more miserable man than I on earth. You talk of your wasted years and weary exile, and yet you have not suffered as I have. You have had a clear conscience; I have had a guilty one. Everything I have won, every success, every joy I have stretched out my hand for has tasted like ashes between my teeth. Yours has been a passive sorrow—my life has been one long hell of remorse. But I will not do this thing. I will not pull down with my own hand what it has taken so many years to build up. I will not make my children hate me. Go your way, Herbert, or kill me if you like—I am indifferent."
I saw my father's arm lifted to strike him, but the blow never fell. Instead, his arm sank to his side and he turned away.
"Hugh," he said to me in a low hollow voice, "let us go. Let us go now. God keep him and me apart. I thought I saw him at that moment dead! murdered by me. I will not kill him! I will not kill him!"
José came hurrying out to us.
"Messieurs," he said anxiously, "I must ask of you for a pledge before you go. Not to a soul will you mention the presence of thatgentilhomme lâin our tents, and you will attempt no rescue, or to interfere with the ransom. You must swear this."
"Ay, I swear it," said my father, and I echoed his words.
"It is good," José declared, smiling and twirling his long black moustachios. "Messieurs will oblige me by accepting a cigarette. No? Very good. Monsieur will allow me, at any rate, to render him my most hearty thanks for having prevented us from committing an act of great folly. This ransom will be a gift from heaven. It will enable me to leave this country, and seek a more stirring life. Life here is dull—very dull."
My father nodded, and passed on.
"Good-day, Monsieur José," he said briefly, and then we strode away to where Jacko was still patiently waiting. He mounted and rode on, leaving me far behind, for the sun was high in the heavens, and the heat was great. When I reached home he had gone to his room, and on trying the door softly I found it locked. So I stole away again down-stairs and waited.
Hour after hour passed, but still he did not come down. At last, to my inexpressible relief, I heard the door of his room open, and he slowly descended. He opened the door and stood before me, gaunt and hollow-eyed, but with an air of resolution about him which struck me with a chill foreboding.
I greeted him cheerfully, and asked whether I should have some lunch brought in for him, but he took no notice.
"Hugh," he said quietly, "I wonder whether you would mind riding into Palermo with this letter and bringing me an answer."
I rose up and took it at once, glancing nervously at the address. As I had feared, it was directed to Burton Leigh, Esq.
"I will go, father," I said; and with a heavy heart I saddled Jacko and started off. In the grounds of Lord Parkhurst's villa, fast asleep in a miniature kiosk, I came upon Mr. Leigh. I woke him and gave him the note.
He read it through, and when he had finished smiled as though well pleased.
"Tell your father," he said, "that I will breakfast with him to-morrow morning. You are coming up to the villa?"
But I shook my head and turned away. I was in no mood for Lord Parkhurst's kindly talk or Lady Olive's merry chatter. Already I began to see that a great trouble was looming before me.
The whole of the following morning my father spent with Mr. Leigh, who arrived in answer to his invitation soon after nine o'clock. When I returned to lunch he was still there, and it was not until evening that I found myself alone with my father.
"Hugh, I have something to say to you," he began gravely, "something important."
I waited in silence, preparing to do battle with a sinking heart. But as I looked into his worn, sad face, I saw there was a change in it which favoured little the chances of my opposition. The vacuity of hopeless weariness had gone, and in its place shone the light of a great resolution. How should I hope to bend it!
"Hugh, my boy," my father began, "I owe to you a greater debt than father ever owed son."
I would have interrupted him, but he held up his hand with an imperative gesture, which I could not choose but to obey. And so I listened in silence.
"I am not going to speak of this black cloud, which fate seems to have decreed should never be rolled away from my head," he went on. "What would be the use? Twelve months ago I tasted the very bottom-most depths of misery. It seemed to me then that I must either go mad or take my life. It was your letter, Hugh, which saved me from either fate. God bless you for it!"
He turned away as though to watch the sun shoot down its parting rays on the brown hillside. But I knew that he had another reason for looking away, and a womanish longing came over me to seize his hands and breathe out fond words. But somehow I could not. I don't know how others find it, but it always seems to me to be as difficult for a man to give vent to his feelings as it is for women to conceal them. Between man and man there is always a curious shrinking from the displayal of any emotion, more especially when it takes the form of affection. To me, at any rate, it has always seemed so, and, though my heart was full of a wild sympathy, and there was a great lump in my throat, I said nothing.
"From the moment when you came to me, Hugh," my father proceeded, "life began to be endurable. The months which we have spent together here have been by far the brightest I have ever known since we were all together in Devonshire. But we cannot go on for ever like this."
"Why not?" I dissented. "Life is very pleasant here to me, at any rate. Where could we find a better dwelling-place?"
He shook his head.
"Life is not given to us to drone away," he answered. "A man's life should include a career, should be always shaping itself towards a definite end. It is a crime against nature, against our great destiny, for a young man like you to live as we are doing; and it must not be."
"What would you have me do?" I cried; "cannot we do something together?"
He shook his head with a sad yet pleased smile.
"I have already decided," he said gravely; "chance has been kind to me, and has thrown in my way the man most likely to be of use to me. I will tell you more of this presently. For me the field of choice has not been large—for you it is illimitable. Hugh, this is what I chiefly want to say to you. It is my wish, my strong, heartfelt wish, that you should accept your grandfather's offer and take your rightful name and position."
I looked at him, incredulous, bewildered, hurt. Of all things I had least expected this.
"Yes," he went on, speaking more rapidly, and with a deep earnestness in his tone and manner, "it is my great wish. Do not think, Hugh, my boy, that I have not appreciated your chivalrous renunciation of it. The thought has been very dear to me, that my son has preferred poverty and obscurity out of mere resentment for my bitter wrongs. But of late I have seen this matter in a different light. Between my father and I, Hugh, there has been no injustice. He was hard, but he is a soldier, bred and born with all a soldier's instincts. He has honestly believed me guilty, and I bear him no resentment. He too must have suffered, Hugh, for I was his favourite son."
Suffered! Aye, I knew that he had suffered; but what were all his sufferings to me compared with my father's!
"Hugh, it has become a bitter thought to me that, innocent as I am of all offence against him, I am keeping away from him by keeping you with me—a great consolation; and not only that, but I am keeping you away from a great name, and a great position. It has grown upon me, Hugh, this bitter thought, and now I pray you, I command you as my son, that when you leave me, as leave me you must, you go to him."
"Why must I leave you, father?" I asked. "Let me go with you where you are going."
He shook his head.
"It is absolutely impossible. I am going, Hugh, with Mr. Leigh to travel in Northern Egypt. There is no race in the world in whom I have felt more interest, and Mr. Leigh has strengthened it. He has spent long years with them, living with a tribe of Arabs in a tent, and sharing their life. He knows their language and their customs. He has been as one of themselves, and, save in the forms of their religion, he has become one of them, and now he has had disquieting news of his favourite race. False prophets are working upon their imagination, and stirring them up to no good end, striving to incite them to rise against their best friends the English! Matters are fast coming to a crisis, and Mr. Leigh is going back to his old tribe to try and regain his former influence with them, and to keep them, at any rate, out of the troubles which are fast arising. He has asked me to go with him, Hugh, and I have consented. It is the sort of enterprise which I most desired. There is a little danger, it is true, but if the worst should happen I shall end my days not by my own hand, as one day I had feared that I should, but sword in hand with a clear conscience. Could a soldier wish for anything better?"
"I will go with you," I cried passionately. "Father, you shall not leave me thus!"
He left his chair, and, coming to me, laid his hand upon my shoulder. He had drawn himself up to his full height, and stood looking there every inch a soldier, stately, imperious, and commanding.
"Hugh," he said firmly, "you have been the best son to me a father ever had, and you will not thwart me now. Go with me to Egypt you cannot. I forbid it. Command you to take your rightful name, I cannot; but I desire it above all things. Take a day to think it over, and let me know your decision to-morrow. Shall we leave it like that?"
Sorrowfully I bowed my head, and then I left the room, wandering aimlessly out into the twilight, I cared not whither. Down the grass-grown avenue I went, and out on to the white road, with a great weight of grief upon my heart, and a dull despair numbing my senses. It seemed to me that the crisis of my life had come at last, and whichever way I looked black clouds were looming before me. Almost I wished that I might die.
What led me there I cannot imagine, save it was a wild desire to escape for a brief while from the thoughts that were tormenting me, but an hour or two later I was on the Marina, mixing with gay throngs of merry pleasure-seekers, stalking amongst them like a Banquo at a feast. And whom should I meet there but Lady Olive! Lady Olive alone, for her brother and sister had left her for a moment to buy bonbons.
She greeted me with some laughing speech, but her face grew grave as she looked into my face.
"Something has happened, Mr. Arbuthnot?" she said quickly; and then, as I made no answer, she placed her hand in my arm, and led me away from the people down towards the seat on which we had sat the first evening of our meeting there.
It was a night which mocks description. The sweet, subtle perfumes with which the soft night breeze was laden, the dark boughs of the cypress-trees over our heads, the glittering, sparkling sea stretching away before us to the horizon, the picturesque town with its white villas and rows of houses standing out clear and distinct in the brilliant moonlight—all these had a softening effect upon me. I looked into Lady Olive's dark expressive eyes, and I felt as though I must weep.
I do not believe that there lives a man who has not, at some time or other of his existence, felt a longing for a woman's sympathy. There is an art and a tact in its bestowal which only a woman properly understands. A man may speak words of comfort in a rough, hearty sort of way; but the chances are that he will strike the wrong vein and leave unsaid the words which would have been most efficient. He has not the keen, fine perceptions which a woman has in such matters, and which have made it her peculiar province to play the part of comforter.
I was not then, or at any other time, in love with Lady Olive. But as I looked into her dark, eager eyes as we sat side by side on the seat under the cypress-trees, I could not help thinking that it would be very pleasant to win from her a few kind words and the sympathy which I knew was there waiting to be kindled, and so, when she asked me again what was the matter, I hesitated only for a moment and then told her.
She knew most of my history; why should she not know all? And so I told her, and she listened with all the gaiety gone from her face, and her eyes growing sadder and sadder. When I had finished there were great tears in them.
"What can I say to comfort you?" she whispered, softly. "Tell me, and I will say it—anything!"
My sorrow had blunted my senses, or I must have seen whither we were drifting; but I was blind, blind with the selfishness of a great grief, and I caught at her sympathy like a drowning man at a straw.
"I am alone in the world, Lady Olive, or I shall be in a week or two's time," I said. "Tell me what to do with myself."
"How can I tell you?" she answered with streaming eyes. "But you must not say that you are alone in the world. My father would be your friend if you would let him—and so would I."
I took her hand, which yielded itself readily to mine, and raised it to my lips. I felt just then as though I dare not speak, lest my voice should be unsteady. I looked instead into her face gratefully, and it seemed to me that a change had come over it, a change which puzzled me. The lips were quivering, and out of her soft, tender eyes the laughing sparkle seemed to have gone. It was another Lady Olive, surely, this grave, sweet-faced, tremulous woman, with her eyes cast down, and a faint pink glow in her cheeks! Nothing of the gay, light-hearted, chattering little flirt, with her arch looks and piquant attitude, seemed left. I was puzzled. Was she indeed so tender-hearted?
"And do you really mean," she whispered, stealing a glance up at me, "that if your father goes away, there is nothing left in the world which could give you any pleasure? Nothing you would wish for?"
I thought of Maud—when was I not thinking of her?—and sighed bitterly.
"Only one thing," I said, "and that I cannot have."
"Won't you tell me what it is?" she asked, hesitatingly, with her eyes fixed upon the ground.
I shook my head. "I think not. No, it would be better not."
There was a short silence. Then she lifted her beautiful eyes to mine for a moment, and dropped them again, instantly, with a deep blush: I was puzzled. There was something in them which I could not read, something inviting, beseeching, tender. Knowing what I know now, it seems to me that I must have been a blind, senseless fool. But it is easy to be wise afterwards, and my own sorrows were absorbing every sense.
"Will you tell me this?" she asked. "Does this one thing include somebody else?"
She had read my secret, then; she knew that I loved Maud. Well, it was not very strange that she should have guessed it after all!
"Yes, you have guessed it, Lady Olive," I said quietly, with my eyes fixed upon the line of the horizon where a star-bespangled sky seemed to touch the glistening, dancing sea. "You have guessed it; but remember, I never told you."
I felt a soft breath on my cheek, and before I could move a pair of white arms were thrown around my neck, and a tear-stained, half-blushing, half-smiling face, with a mass of ruffled hair, was lying on my shoulder.
"Wh—why have you made me guess, Hugh? Why could you not tell me? You know that—that I—I love you."
*****
"Father, I have decided."
I stood before him dishevelled and weary, for I had been out all night, seeking to ease my heart of its pain by physical fatigue.
He turned and looked at me in surprise—a surprise which changed into a look of grave sorrow as his eyes dwelt upon me.
"Hugh, you have been up all night," he said, reprovingly; "you will be ill!"
I laughed recklessly.
"What matters? Do men die of a broken heart, I wonder? I would that they did."
He came to me and laid his hands upon my shoulders.
"Hugh, my boy, do you want to break mine?"
I turned away, and buried my face in my hands. This last sorrow, which had come to me filling me with shame, with self-reproach, with pity, had been the filling of my cup.
Lady Olive's white, horror-struck face, as my blundering words had told her the truth, had been before me all the night, and like a haunting, reproachful shadow, seemed as though it would never leave me. I was unnerved and weak, and before I well knew what was going to happen, the hot tears were streaming from my eyes.
I was the better for them. When I stood before my father again I felt more like myself.
"I have decided," I said calmly. "I have prayed you to let me go with you, and you have refused. God knows I would rather go with you; but, if you will not have me, I must stay behind. I will take the name of Devereux, since you wish it, and since you say that my taking it will make you happier. But into Devereux Court I will not go. I have sworn it before heaven, and I will not break my oath!"
"But you will see your grandfather?"
"I will see him anywhere else but at Devereux. I shall write him and tell him so. And as to my future, I have but one desire—to enter the army."
A look almost of peace came into my father's face.
"You have made me very glad, Hugh," he said simply. "But about our home? Supposing your grandfather and I both die, and you became Sir Hugh Devereux?"
"Then my oath ceases, and I shall go there. But whilst he holds out his hand to me, and not to you, I will not take it. That will I not depart from."
My father said never another word; but I knew that he was satisfied.
"Colonel Sir Francis Devereux to see you, sir."
I turned away from the window of my room, whence I had been gazing idly into the dreary barrack square below, and advanced to greet the stately, grey-headed old man who stood in the doorway.
"Surprised to see me, Hugh, eh?" he asked, sinking into my one easy chair.
"I didn't expect you in town again so soon," I acknowledged. "But I'm very glad to see you. You know that."
"Are you?" he said shortly. "Then why the devil can't you come and see me sometimes? A nice thing to bring an old man over seventy years of age a couple of hundred miles whenever he wants to have a word or two with his grandson! Damn it, sir, you're as obstinate as a mule!"
I did not answer him. He knew very well why I would not go to Devereux. What was the use of treading all over the old ground again?
"More rumours in theTimesthis morning, I see, about Burton Leigh and Mr. Arbuthnot," he remarked, after a short silence. "They say they've been handed over to the Mahdi now. Don't believe a word of it!"
"I hope to God that it's not true," I groaned; "but in any case they must be in terrible danger. The Mahdi is gaining fresh followers every day, and they must be in the very centre of the most perilous district. Why on earth the Government doesn't make a decided move, I can't imagine!"
Sir Francis looked at me for a moment, half sadly, with an expression on his face which I scarcely understood. Then he sighed.
"I have brought you news, Hugh," he said slowly.
"News!" I repeated; and then a sudden light flashed in upon me. "Tell me quick," I cried. "You have been with Lord Cannington?"
My grandfather nodded.
"I left him only a quarter of an hour ago, at Whitehall, and came down here as fast as a hansom could bring me. The 17th, 19th, and 21st are ordered out. 'Twill be in to-night's Gazette."
I could have shouted, done any mad thing, in my great joy. But I sat quite still in my chair, grasping its sides, and struggling to conceal my excitement.
"Thank God!" I murmured fervently, "this is what I have prayed for. I am sick of playing at being a soldier, of lounging about here, whilst he—others—were in such mortal peril."
He sat looking at me, nodding his head slowly.
"He! others! Ah, well. But I have more news for you, Hugh. Who do you think is appointed to the colonelcy of the 18th?"
"Utterson? Haigh?"
He shook his head.
"Your Uncle Rupert."
I was not surprised, for I had heard rumours that it might be so. But it seemed very strange when I thought it over. Were we three to meet again? I wondered.
"Yes," my grandfather went on with a shade of sadness in his tone, "I am to be left quite alone again, you see."
"Miss Devereux will be with you, I suppose?"
"Maud! Oh, yes, Maud will be with me. What's come to her I don't know. She's refused Lord Annerley and Captain Bryant, and I don't know how many others, and seems settling down into an old maid. Hugh, I'm getting a nervous old man, I think, but I shall have no peace till you get back again. When I think that if anything happened to you—which God forbid—that dissipated, low young cub of a nephew of mine would be my heir, it makes me feel sick. I'd burn Devereux Court above my head rather than that should be."
"It is not likely that anything will happen to me, grandfather," I said, bitterly. "There is one who should be dearer to you than I, who stands in greater peril."
He shook his head sadly.
"He is nothing to me—nothing. He is your father, Hugh, and I have never blamed you for——"
"And he is your son," I interrupted.
Sir Francis looked at me sternly.
"He is nothing to me. I disowned him."
"Ay, disowned him! I know that. You disowned him. You believed that accursed lie against your own son's words."
"I believed in the decision of the court-martial," he said, with all his old severity of tone and manner. "And if the same thing were to happen over again with you, Hugh, I should do exactly the same. I would never look upon your face again."
"I am in no danger," I answered bitterly. "I have no younger brother who would gain a fortune by my ruin."
"What do you mean, sir?"
"What I say. 'Tis simple enough! I tell you now, what I have told you before, that your son Rupert forged that lie against my father that he might take his place as your heir. It was done in a mad impulse of jealousy, and thank God his conscience has punished him for it! Look at his life! Can't you see that there is something amiss with it? Has he not always seemed like a man haunted by some guilty shadow? From one career he has passed to another, never satisfied, never happy. He made two great speeches in Parliament, and then resigned his seat to travel abroad. He became famous as a writer and a novelist, and now never touches a pen. Can't you see it written into his face—a guilty conscience? Why, if it had not been for that, I should have killed him, on my word and honour, grandfather. I have heard him with his own lips acknowledge it, and in my desk there is the confession of John Hilton, whom he bribed. Grandfather, chance may bring him and me together before long. You know in your heart that the man who is braving all the worst terrors of death amongst a fanatical people to save them from bloodshed and to urge them against a hopeless struggle, you know that this man is not a coward! Go into the clubs and listen to what they are saying about these two Englishmen who have pushed their way alone into an unknown country amongst a savage people. Say that you believe Burton Leigh's companion to be a coward, and you will be ridiculed. Grandfather, if he escapes—they say that escape is almost impossible for them—but if fate does bring us together again, may I take him a message from you—one word?"
"You may not."
The words came with a hard and cutting distinctness. I drew back chilled and bitterly disappointed.
"You are blinded, Hugh, by your love for your father. I do not blame you for it, but I am sorry that you re-opened this subject. When a court-martial shall reverse the decision of five-and-twenty years ago, then and then only will I crave my son's pardon, and welcome him back to Devereux. Enough of the subject."
Proud, obstinate old soldier. For a moment my heart leaped with anger, but it died away again almost immediately. Surely it was more his misfortune than his fault that his military training and instincts should have made him a soldier first and a father afterwards, and I thought of his long, cheerless life, and of the agony under which he had writhed because of the blot upon the name which he loved, and I pitied him.
"Will you dine with me at the Army and Navy, Hugh?" he asked, in an altered tone. "I must see as much as I can of you now."
I shook my head.
"Dine away from mess to-night? Why, not a man will do that with this glorious news to talk about! You must mess with us, sir!"
He smiled grimly.
"Glorious news, indeed! Because you're going out to cut a lot of half-naked savages to pieces! Well, well, perhaps it's a good thing it's nothing more serious. The more chance of seeing you home safe and sound. Yes, I'll mess with you if you like, and if your mess will not mind an old fogie like me."
He spoke lightly, for no one knew better than he that Colonel Devereux, V.C., would have been a welcome and an honoured guest at the table of any regiment in Great Britain.
"Give me your arm down these infernal stairs, Hugh," he said, rising and making his way to the door. "I have some commissions to do for Maud, and I want to see my lawyer, so I must be off. I'll be back before seven."
I watched him cross the square, with his head thrown back and his shoulders very slightly stooped, notwithstanding his seventy-five years. Then I returned to my rooms to think over the great news.
In three days we were to leave England. In three days I should be started upon the journey which would lead me into the land where, above all others, I desired to be. And where was I? Standing on a Yorkshire moor, with a wild west wind blowing in my face and singing in my ears, a wind that came booming up the hollows and across the open country towards me like the sound of a cannonade within the earth. But what cared I for the wind, for was it not bearing towards me on its bosom her whom I had come to see?
On she came like a phantom shadow out of the twilight, for her horse's hoofs sank noiselessly into the soddened earth. On she came with her golden hair streaming in the wind, and her habit flying wildly around her. Fair and proud as ever was her exquisite face, and blue as ever her flashing eyes. But it seemed to me that she was pale and thin, and my heart leaped with a sudden joy, and then stood still.
Maud! my princess! my beloved! Would she see me? Would she pass me without a word, with only a tightening of those proud lips, and a haughty flash from those beautiful eyes?
I had meant to look upon her and come away. There may be men who could have done it. I could not. As she came upon me, I stood out from the shadows upon the dark moor, and right in her path.
Fool that I was! Back on his haunches reared the Black Prince, trembling with fright, and she—she must have fallen, but that I sprung forward and caught her. The Black Prince galloped away into the darkness, and she, my Maud, lay in my arms.
A great madness came upon me. Every thought save one was blotted out from my memory. Maud was in my arms, with her face close to mine, and bending down, our lips met in one long passionate kiss.
"Hugh!"
"Maud!"
No sound but the sound of Black Prince's furious gallop as he tore across the country moor! No one in sight, no one near. I was alone with Maud, my Maud, by the colour which had chased the ivory pallor from her cheeks, and the love-light which shone in her eyes.
"Why have you kept away so long?" she whispered softly.
Why had I come at all! His daughter in my arms yielding herself to my embrace, and her lips to my wild kiss! Oh, it was madness! I was a traitor.
"I should not have come," I groaned, "but to bid you farewell. We sail for Egypt in three days. I struggled hard to keep away, but I could not."
"Why should you wish to, Hugh?" she whispered, burying her face on my shoulder. "Do you hate me so much?"
"Hate you!" I drew her unresistingly into my arms again, and again my traitorous lips touched hers. Never a thought of a miserable exile dwelling amongst a strange people in deadly peril under a scorching sun, or of a hermit sybarite with the blast of fame in his ears, and all the luxuries of wealth ready to his touch, and a black lie burning in his heart! Never a thought of any save of her! Weak traitor that I was.
What is there so maddeningly sweet as to love and be loved again! The world died away from me and time ceased, whilst Maud, with her lovely face wet with tears, and happy with smiles, stood clasped in my arms on the wild open moor. The wind howled around us, and the driving rain and mist beat in our faces, and the twilight deepened into darkness; but what did we care! The only light I looked for was the gleam in her soft eyes, and the only touch I felt was the beating of her heart against mine. But the time came when memory swept again into my mind, and I trembled.
She saw the change pass over my face, and with a woman's marvellous quickness she divined what had caused it. But she clung the closer to me.
"Hugh, is this to be the end of it?" she cried. "When you leave me, will you never come back?" and I turned away with a great sob.
"Oh, that you were another man's daughter, Maud!" and she was answered.
Black clouds were driving across the sky, and a black cloud settled upon my heart. The words rang in my ears. Never come back! Never come back! Never come back!
A dark shape stole up to us, and stood by our side. Then there was a glad neigh and a prolonged snort. The Black Prince had recognised me, and was rubbing his nose against my coat-sleeve.
"I must go, Hugh!" Slowly I lifted her into the saddle, and stood by her side in silence because I could not speak.
"Hugh, kiss me once more!"
She stooped down and held a white, strained face close to mine. One clinging kiss I pressed upon her quivering lips, and then I drew aside. But as she rode away into the darkness, she called to me a wild sobbing cry which the wind clashed into my ears.
"Come back to me, Hugh, my love. You will come back to me," and scarce knowing what I did I answered her passionately—
"I will! I will!"
*****
We were together on H.M.S.Orontes, eastward bound, her father and I, but though we sat opposite one another at the Captain's table, we never spoke. Sometimes I caught him looking at me wistfully, and then I remembered that I had saved his life. But I wanted no thanks for it, and from him I would receive none.
"Queer lot those Devereux," I heard one of my brother officers remark, unconscious of my presence. "Uncle and nephew, and don't speak! Must be something wrong, I should think."
"Looks like it. If the Colonel hadn't written that tremendously clever book, I should think he was a bit cracked."
"Might be further from the mark, I think. The young 'un isn't such a bad sort, only he's so confoundedly proud and close. Most unsociable fellow we ever had in the regiment!"
"He's a bit of a prig, I must say, but I don't dislike him. Splendid family, you know, and rolling in money. By the bye," dropping his voice a little, "wasn't there something queer about one of 'em? This one's father, I believe?"
"Hush! Yes, I'll tell you all about it presently;" and then they strolled up the deck and I heard no more.
Something queer about one of them! I turned away with the old pain at my heart. Would the something queer ever be made right? Yes, and the time was not far distant.