The hint given in the Prior's letter concerning Brian's reasons for continuing to teach in the Heron family, together with Hugo's own quickness of perception, had enabled that astute young man to hit upon something very like the exact truth. He had exaggerated it in his conversation with Dino: he had attributed motives to Brian which certainly never entered Brian's mind; but this was done for his own purposes. He thought that Brian's love for Elizabeth Murray might prove a useful weapon in the struggle between Dino's sense of his rights and the romantic affection that he entertained for the man who had taken his place in the world—an affection which Hugo understood so little and despised so much, that he fancied himself sure of an easy victory over Dino's resolution to fight for his rightful position. It was greatly to his surprise that he found so keen a sense of justice and resentment at the little trust that Brian had reposed in him present in Dino's mind: the young man had been irritatingly firm in his determination to possess the Strathleckie estate; he knew precisely what he wanted, and what he meant to do. And although he was inclined to be generous to Brian and to Miss Murray, there seemed no reason to expect that he would be equally generous to Hugo. Therefore Hugo had felt himself obliged to use what he called "strong measures."
He did not like strong measures. They were disagreeable to him. But they were less disagreeable than the thought of being poor. Hugo made little account of human life and human suffering so long as the suffering did not actually touch himself. He seemed to be born with as little heart as a beast of prey, which strikes when it is angry, or when it wants food, with no remorse and no regret. "A disagreeable necessity," Hugo called his evil deed, but he considered that the law of self-preservation justified him in what he did.
And Brian Luttrell? What reason was it that made him fling prudence to the winds, and follow the Herons to the neighbourhood of a place where he had resolved never to show his face again?
There was one great, overmastering reason—so great that it made him attempt what was well-nigh impossible. His love for Elizabeth Murray had taken full possession of him: he dreamed of her, he worshipped the very ground she trod upon; he would have sacrificed life itself for the chance of a gentle word from her.
Life, but not honour. Much as he loved her, he would have fled to the very ends of the earth if he had known, if he had for one moment suspected, that she was the Miss Murray who owned the landed estate which once went with the house and grounds of Netherglen.
It seemed almost incredible that he should not have had this fact forced from the first upon his knowledge; but such at present was the case. They had remained in Italy for the first three months of his engagement, and, during that time, he had not lived in the Villa Venturi, but simply given his lessons and taken his departure. Sometimes he breakfasted or lunched with the family party, but at such times no business affairs were discussed. And Elizabeth had made it a special request that Mr. Stretton should not be informed of the fact that it was she who furnished money for the expenses of the household. She had taken care that his salary should be as large as she could make it without attracting remark, but she had an impression that Mr. Stretton would rather be paid by Mr. Heron than by her. And, as she wished for silence on the subject of her lately-inherited wealth, and as the Herons were of that peculiarly happy-go-lucky disposition that did not consider the possession of wealth a very important circumstance, Mr. Stretton passed the time of his sojourn in Italy in utter ignorance of the fact that Elizabeth was the provider of villa, gardens, servants, and most of the other luxuries with which the Herons were well supplied. Percival, in his outspoken dislike of the arrangement, would probably have enlightened him if they had been on friendly terms; but Percival showed so decided and unmistakable an aversion to the tutor, that he scarcely spoke to him during his stay, and, indeed, made his visit a short one, chiefly on account of Mr. Stretton's presence.
The change from Italy to Scotland was made at the doctor's suggestion. The children's health flagged a little in the heat, and it was thought better that they should try a more bracing air. When the matter was decided, and Mr. Colquhoun had written to them that Strathleckie was vacant, and would be a convenient house for Miss Murray's purposes in all respects—then, and not till then, was Mr. Stretton informed of the proposed change of residence, and asked whether he would accompany the family to Scotland.
Brian hesitated. He knew well enough the exact locality of the house to which they were going: he had visited it himself in other days. But it was several miles from Netherglen: he would be allowed, he knew, to absent himself from the drawing-room or the dinner-table whenever he chose, he need not come in contact with the people whom he used to know. Besides, he was changed beyond recognition. And probably the two women at Netherglen led so retired a life that neither of them was likely to be encountered—not even at church; for, although the tenants of Netherglen and Strathleckie went to the same town for divine worship on Sunday mornings, yet Mrs. Luttrell and Angela attended the Established Church, while the Herons were certain to go to the Episcopal. And Hugo was away. There was really small chance of his being seen or recognised. He thought that he should be safe. And, while he still hesitated, he looked up and saw that the eyes of Miss Murray were bent upon him with so kindly an inquiry, so gracious a friendliness in their blue depths, that his fears and doubts suddenly took wing, and he thought of nothing but that he should still be with her.
He consented. And then, for the first time, it crossed his mind to wonder whether she was a connection of the Murrays to whom his estate had passed, and from whom he believed that Mr. Heron was renting the Strathleckie house.
He had left England without ascertaining what members of the Murray family were living; and the letter in which Mr. Colquhoun detailed the facts of Elizabeth's existence and circumstances, had reached Geneva after his departure upon the expedition which was supposed to have resulted in his death. He had never heard of the Herons. He imagined Gordon Murray to be still living—probably with a large family and a wife. He knew that they could not live at Netherglen, and he wondered vaguely whether he should meet them in the neighbourhood to which he was going. Murray was such an ordinary name that in itself it told him nothing at all. Elizabeth Murray! Why, there might be a dozen Elizabeth Murrays within twenty miles of Netherglen: there was no reason at all to suppose that this Elizabeth Murray was a connection of the Gordon Murrays who were cousins of his own—no, not of his own: he had forgotten that never more could he claim that relationship for himself. They were cousins of some unknown Brian Luttrell, brought up under a false name in a small Italian village. What had become of that true Brian, whom he had refused to meet at San Stefano? And had Father Cristoforo succeeded in finding the woman whom he sought, and supplying the missing links in the evidence? In that case, the Murrays would soon hear of the claimant to their estate, and there would be a law-suit. Brian began to feel interested in the matter again. He had lost all care for it in the period following upon his illness. He now foresaw, with something almost like pleasure, that he could easily obtain information about the Murrays if he went with the Herons to Strathleckie. And he should certainly take the first opportunity of making inquiries. Even if he himself were no Luttrell, there was no reason why he should not take the deepest interest in the Luttrells of Netherglen. He wanted particularly to know whether the Italian claimant had come forward.
He was perfectly ignorant of the fact of which Father Cristoforo's letter would have informed him, that this possible Italian claimant was no other than his friend, Dino Vasari.
Of course, he could not be long at Strathleckie without finding out the truth about Elizabeth. If he had lived much with the Herons, he would have found it out in the course of the first twenty-four hours. Elizabeth's property was naturally referred to by name: the visitors who came to the house called upon her rather than upon the Herons: it was quite impossible that the secrecy upon which Elizabeth had insisted in Italy could be maintained in Scotland. The only wonder was that he should live, as he did live, for five whole days at Strathleckie without discovering the truth. Perhaps Elizabeth took pains to keep it from him!
She had been determined to keep another secret, even if she could not hide the fact, that she was a rich woman. She would not have her engagement to Percival made public. For two whole years, she said, she would wait: for two whole years neither she nor her cousin should consider each other as bound. But that she herself considered the engagement morally binding might be inferred from the fact of her allowing Percival to kiss her—she surely would not have permitted that kiss if she had not meant to marry him! So Percival himself understood it; so Elizabeth knew that he understood.
She was not quite like herself in the first days of her residence in Scotland. She was graver and more reticent than usual: little inclined to talk, and much occupied with the business that her new position entailed upon her. Mr. Colquhoun, her solicitor, was astonished at her clear-headedness; Stewart, the factor, was amazed at the attention she bestowed upon every detail; even the Herons were surprised at the methodical way in which she parcelled out her days and devoted herself to a full understanding of her position. She seemed to shrink less than heretofore from the responsibilities that wealth would bring her, and perhaps the added seriousness of her lip and brow was due to her resolve to bear the burden that providence meant her to bear instead of trying to lay it upon other people's shoulders.
A great deal of this necessary business had been transacted before Mr. Stretton made his appearance at Strathleckie. He had been offered a fortnight's holiday, and had accepted it, seeing that his absence was to some extent desired by Mrs. Heron, who was always afraid lest her dear children should be overworked by their tutor. Thus it happened that he did not reach Strathleckie until the very day on which Hugo also arrived on his way to Netherglen. They had seen each other at the station, where Brian incautiously appeared without the blue spectacles which he relied upon as part of his disguise. From the white, startled horror which overcast Hugo's face, this young man saw that he had been almost, if not quite, recognised; and he expected to be sought out and questioned as to his identity. But Hugo made no effort to question him: in fact, he did not see the tutor again until the day when he came to restore a fragment of the letter which Brian had carelessly dropped in the road before he read it. During this interview he betrayed no suspicion, and Brian comforted himself with the thought that Hugo had, at any rate, not read the sheet that he returned to him.
A dog-cart was sent for him and his luggage on the day of his arrival. He had a five miles' drive before he reached Strathleckie, where he received a tumultuous welcome from the boys, a smiling one from Mrs. Heron and Kitty, a hearty shake of the hands from Mr. Heron. But where was Elizabeth? He did not dare to ask.
She was out, he learnt afterwards: she had driven over to the town to lunch with the Colquhouns. For a moment he did think this strange; then he put aside the thought and remembered it no more.
There was a long afternoon to be dragged through: then there was a school-room tea, nominally at six, really not until nearly seven, according to the lax and unpunctual fashion of the Heron family. Mr. Stretton had heard that there were to be guests at dinner, and, keeping up his character as a shy man, declined to be present. He was sitting in a great arm-chair by the cheerful, little fire, which was very acceptable even on an August evening: the clock on the mantelpiece had just chimed a quarter-past seven, and he was beginning to wonder where the boys could possibly be, when the door opened and Elizabeth came in. He rose to his feet.
"They told me that you had come," she said, extending her hand to him with quiet friendliness. "I hope you had a pleasant journey, Mr. Stretton."
"Very pleasant, thank you."
He could not say more: he was engaged in devouring with his eyes every feature of her fair face, and thinking in his heart that he had underrated the power of her beauty. In the fortnight that he had been away from her he had pictured her to himself as not half so fair. She had taken off her out-door things, and was dressed in a very plain, brown gown, which fitted closely to her figure. At her throat she wore a little bunch of sweet autumn violets, with one little green leaf, fastened into her dress by a gold brooch. It was the very ostentation of simplicity, yet, with that noble carriage of her head and shoulders, and those massive coils of golden-brown hair, nobody could have failed to remark the distinction of her appearance, nor to recognise the fact that there is a kind of beauty which needs no ornament.
Brian took off the ugly, blue spectacles which he had adopted of late, and laid them upon the mantelshelf. He did not need them in the flickering firelight, which alone illumined the dimness of the room.
Elizabeth laid her shapely arm upon the mantelpiece and looked into the fire. He stood beside her, looking down at her—for he was a little taller than herself—but she seemed unconscious of his gaze. She spoke presently in rather low tones.
"The boys are late. I hope they do not often keep you waiting in this way."
"They have never done it before. I do not mind."
"They were very anxious to have you back. They missed you very much."
Had she missed him, too? He could not venture to ask that question.
"You will find things changed," she went on, restlessly lifting a little vase upon the mantelpiece and setting it down again; "you will find us much busier than we used to be—much more absorbed in our own pursuits. Scotland is not like Italy."
"No. I wish it were."
"And I——" Her voice broke, as if some emotion troubled her; there came a swift, short sigh, and then she spoke more calmly. "I wish sometimes that one had no duties, no responsibilities; but life would not be worth having if one shirked them, after all."
"There is a charm in life without them—at least, so far without them as that pleasant life in Italy used to be," said he, rather eagerly.
"Yes, but that is all over."
"All over?"
She bowed her head.
"Is there nothing left?" said Brian, approaching her a little more nearly. Then, as she was silent, he continued in a hurried, low voice, "I knew that life must be different here, but I thought that some of the pleasantest hours might be repeated—even in Scotland—although we are without those sunny skies and groves of orange trees. Even if the clouds are grey, and the winds howl without, we might still read Dante's 'Paradiso' and Petrarca's 'Sonnets,' as we used to do at the Villa Venturi."
"Yes," said Elizabeth, gently, "we might. But here I shall not have time."
"Why not? Why should you sacrifice yourself for others in the way you do? It is not right."
"I—sacrifice myself?" she said, lifting her eyes for a moment to his face. "What do you mean?"
"I mean," he said, "that I have watched you for the last three months, and I have seen you day after day give up your own pleasure and your own profit for others, until I longed to ask them what right they had to claim your whole life and leave you nothing—nothing—for yourself——"
"You mistake," she interrupted him quickly. "They leave me all I want; and they were kind to me when I came amongst them—a penniless child——"
"What does it matter if you were penniless?" said Brian. "Have you not paid them a thousand times for all that they did for you?" Then, as she looked at him with rather a singular expression in her eyes, he hastened to explain. "I mean that you have given them your love, your care, your time, in a way that no sister, no daughter, ever could have done! You have taught the children all they know; you have sympathised with the cares of every one in turn—I have watched you and seen it day by day! And I say that even if you are penniless, as you say, you have repaid them a thousand times for all that they have done; and that you are wrong to let them take your time and your care, to the exclusion of your own interests. I beg your pardon; I have said too much," he said, breaking off suddenly, as the singular expression deepened upon her musing face.
"No," she said, with a smile, "I like to hear it: go on. What ought I to do?"
"Ah, that I cannot tell you. But I think you give yourself almost too much to others. Surely, no one could object if you took a little time from the interests of the rest of the family for your own pleasure, for your studies, your amusements?"
"No," she answered, quietly, "I do not suppose they would."
She stood and looked into the fire, and the smile again crossed her face.
"I have said more than I ought to have done," repeated Brian. "Forgive me."
"I will forgive you for everything," she said, "except for thinking that one can do too much for the people that one loves. I am sure that you do not act upon that principle, Mr. Stretton."
"It can be carried to an extreme, like any other," said Mr. Stretton, wisely.
"And you think I carry it to an extreme? Oh, no. I only do what it is a pleasure to me to do. Think of the situation: an orphaned, penniless girl—that is what you have said to yourself is it not——?"
"Yes," said Brian, wondering a little at the keen inquiry in her eyes as she paused for the reply. The questioning look was lost in a lovely smile as she proceeded; she cast down her eyes to hide the expression of pleasure and amusement that his words had caused.
"An orphaned, penniless girl, then, cast on the charity of friends who were then not very well able to support her, educated by them, loved by them—does she not owe them a great debt, Mr. Stretton? What would have become of me without my uncle's care? And, now that I am able to repay them a little—in various ways"—she hesitated as she spoke—"ought I not to do my best to please them? Ought I not to give them as much of myself as they want? Make a generous answer, and tell me that I am right."
"You are always right—too right!" he said, half-impatiently. "If you could be a little less generous——"
"What then?" said Elizabeth.
"Why, then, you would be—more human, perhaps, more like ourselves—but less than what we have always taken you for," said Mr. Stretton, smiling.
Elizabeth laughed. "You have spoilt the effect of your lecture," she said, turning away.
"I beg your pardon. I ought not to have said what I did," said Brian, sensitively alive to her slightest change of tone. "Miss Murray, tell me at least that I have not offended you before you go."
"You have not offended me," she said. He could not see her face.
"You are quite sure?" he said, anxiously. "For, indeed, I had forgotten that it was not my part to offer any opinion upon your conduct, and I am afraid that I have given it with impertinent bluntness. You will forgive me?"
She turned round and looked at him with a smile. There was a colour in her cheek, a softness in her eye, that he did not often see. "Indeed, Mr. Stretton," she said, gently, "I have nothing to forgive. I am very much obliged to you."
He took a step towards her as if there was something else that he would have gladly said; but at that moment the sound of the boys' voices echoed through the hall.
"There is no time for more," said Brian, with some annoyance.
"No," she answered. "And yet I have something else to say to you. Will you remember that some other day?"
"Indeed, I shall remember," he said, fervently. And then the boys burst into the room, and in the hubbub of their arrival Elizabeth escaped.
Her violets had fallen out of her brooch. Brian found them upon the floor when she had gone; henceforth he kept them amongst his treasures.
Hugo's first call at Strathleckie was made on the day following Mr. Stretton's arrival. Father Cristoforo's letter had been delivered by that morning's post, and it was during a stroll, in which, to tell the truth, Brian was more absorbed by the thought of Elizabeth than by any remembrance of his own position or of the Prior's views, that he dropped the letter of which the contents had so important a bearing on his future life. In justice to Brian, it must be urged that he had no idea that the Prior's letter was likely to be of any importance. Ever since he left San Stefano, the Prior had corresponded with him; but his letters were generally on very trivial subjects, or filled with advice upon moral and doctrinal points, which Brian could not find interesting. The severe animadversions upon his folly in returning to Scotland under an assumed name, which filled the first sheet, did not rouse in him any lively desire to read the rest of the letter. It was not likely to contain anything that he ought to know; and, at any rate, he could explain the loss and apologise for it in his next note to Padre Cristoforo.
The meeting between him and Elizabeth in the garden, which had been such a revelation to Hugo's mind, was purely accidental and led to no great result. She had been begged by the children to ask Mr. Stretton for a holiday. They wanted to go to a Wishing Well in the neighbourhood, and to have a picnic in honour of Kitty's birthday. Mr. Stretton was sure not to refuse them they said—if Elizabeth asked. And Mr. Stretton did not refuse.
His love for Elizabeth—that love which had sprung into being almost as soon as he beheld her, and which had grown with every hour spent in her company—was one of those deep and overmastering passions which a man can feel but once in a lifetime, and which many men never feel at all. If Brian had lived his life in London and at Netherglen with no great shock, no terrible grief, no overthrow of all his hopes, he might not have experienced this glow and thrill of passionate emotion; he might have walked quietly into love, made a suitable marriage, and remained ignorant to his life's end of the capabilities for emotion which existed within him. But, as often happens immediately after the occurrence of a great sorrow or recovery from a serious illness, his whole being seemed to undergo a change. When the strain of anxiety and prolonged anguish of mind was relaxed, the claims of youth re-asserted themselves. With returning health and strength there came an almost passionate determination to enjoy as much as remained to be enjoyed in life. The sunshine, the wind, the sea, the common objects of Nature,
"To him were opening Paradise."
"To him were opening Paradise."
And when, for the first time, Love also entered into his life, the world seemed to be transfigured. Although he had suffered much and lost much, he found it possible to dream of a future in which he might make for himself a home, and know once more the meaning of happiness. Was he selfish in hoping that life still contained a true joy for him, in spite of the sorrows that fate had heaped upon his head, as if she meant to overwhelm him altogether? At least, the hope was a natural one, and showed courage and resolution. He clung to it desperately, fiercely; he felt that after all he had lost he could not bear to let it go. The hope was too sweet—the chance of happiness too beautiful—to be lost. He felt as if he had a right to this one blessing. He had lost all beside. But, perhaps, this was a presumptuous mood, destined to rebuke and disappointment.
The fourth day after his arrival dawned, and he had not yet perceived, in his blindness of heart, the difference of position between the Elizabeth of his dreams and the Elizabeth of reality. Could the crisis be averted very much longer?
He fancied that Elizabeth was colder to him after that little scene in the study than she had ever been before. She looked pale and dispirited, and seemed to avoid speaking to him or meeting his eye. At breakfast-time that morning he noticed that she allowed a letter that had been brought to her to lie unopened beside her plate "It's from Percival, isn't it?" said Kitty, thoughtlessly. "You don't seem to be very anxious to read it." Elizabeth made no answer, but the colour rose to her cheek and then spread to the very roots of her golden-brown hair. Brian noticed the blush, and for the first time felt his heart contract with a bitter pang of jealousy. What right had Percival Heron to write letters to Elizabeth? Why did she blush when she was asked a question about a letter from him?
The whole party set off soon after ten o'clock for an expedition to a little loch amongst the hills. They intended to lunch beside the loch, then to enjoy themselves in different ways: Mr. Heron meant to sketch; Mrs. Heron took a novel to read; the others proposed to visit a spring at some little distance known as "The Wishing Well." This programme was satisfactorily carried out; but it chanced that Kitty and the boys reached the well before the others, and then wandered away to reach a further height, so that Brian and Elizabeth found themselves alone together beside the Wishing Well.
It was a lonely spot from which nothing but stretches of barren moor and rugged hills could be discerned. One solitary patch of verdure marked the place where the rising spring had fertilised the land; but around this patch of green the ground was rich only in purple heather. Not even a hardy pine or fir tree broke the monotony of the horizon. Yet, the scene was not without its charm. There was grandeur in the sweep of the mountain-lines; there was a wonderful stillness in the sunny air, broken only by the buzz of a wandering bee and the trickle of the stream; there was the great arch of blue above the moor, and the magical tints of purple and red that blossoming heather always brings out upon the mountain-sides. The bareness of the land was forgotten in its wealth of colouring; and perhaps Brian and Elizabeth were not wrong when they said to each other that Italy had never shown them a scene that was half so fair.
The water of the spring fell into a carved stone basin, which, tradition said, had once been the font of an old Roman Catholic chapel, of which only a few scattered stones remained. People from the surrounding districts still believed in the efficacy of its waters for the cure of certain diseases; and the practice of "wishing," which gave the well its name, was resorted to in sober earnest by many a village boy and girl. Elizabeth and Brian, who had hitherto behaved in a curiously grave and reserved manner to each other, laughed a little as they stood beside the spring and spoke of the superstition.
"We must try it," said Elizabeth, looking down into the sparkling water. "A crooked pin must be thrown in, and then we must silently wish for anything we especially desire, and, of course, we shall obtain it."
"Quite worth trying, if that is the case," said Brian. "But—I have tried the experiment before."
"Here?"
"Yes, here."
"I did not know that you had been to Dunmuir before."
"My wish did not come to pass," remarked Brian; "but there is no reason why you should not be more successful than I was, Miss Murray. And I feel a certain sort of desire to try once again."
"Here is a crooked pin," said Elizabeth. "Drop it into the water."
"Are you going to try?" he asked, when the ceremony had been performed.
"There is nothing that I wish for very greatly."
"Nothing? Ah, I have one wish—only one."
"I am unfortunate in that I have none," said Elizabeth.
"Then give me the benefit of your wishes. Wish that my wish may be fulfilled," said Brian.
She hesitated for a moment, then smiled, and threw a crooked pin into the water.
"I have wished," she said, as she watched it sink, "but I must not say what I wish: that breaks the charm."
"Sit down and rest," said Brian, persuasively, as she turned away. "There is a little shade here; and the others will no doubt join us by-and-bye. You must be tired."
"I am not tired, but I will sit down for a little while," said Elizabeth.
She seated herself on a stone beside the well; and Brian also sat down, but rather below her, so that he seemed to be sitting at her feet, and could look up into her face when he spoke. He kept silence at first, but said at last, with gentle deference of tone:—
"Miss Murray, there was something that you said you would tell me when you had the opportunity."
She paused before she answered.
"Not just now," he understood her to say at last, but her words were low and indistinct.
"Then—may I tell you something?"
She spoke more clearly in reply.
"I think not."
"Forgive me for saying so, but you must hear it some time. Why not now?"
She did not speak. Her colour varied a little, and her brows contracted with a slight look of pain.
"I do not know how to be silent any longer," he said, raising his eyes to her face, with a grave and manly resolve in their brown depths. "I have thought a great deal about it—about you; and it seems to me that there is no real reason why I should not speak. You are of age; you can do as you please; and I could work for both—because—Elizabeth—I love you."
It was brokenly, awkwardly said, after all; but more completely uttered, perhaps, than if he had told his tale at greater length, for then he would have been stopped before he reached the end. As it was, Elizabeth's look of terror and dismay brought him to a sudden pause.
"Oh, no!" she said, "no; you don't mean that. Take back what you have said, Mr. Stretton."
"I cannot take it back," he said, quickly, "and I would not if I could; because you love me, too."
The conviction of his words made her turn pale. She darted a distressed look at him, half-rose from her seat, and then sat down again. Twice she tried to speak and failed, for her tongue clove to the roof of her mouth. But at last she found her voice.
"You do not know," she said, hurriedly and hoarsely, "that I am engaged to my cousin Percival."
He rose to his feet, and withdrew two or three paces, looking down on her in silent consternation. She did not lift her eyes, but she felt that his gaze was upon her. It seemed to pierce to the very marrow of her bones, to the bottom of her heart.
"Is this true?" he said at last, in a voice as changed as her own had been—hoarse and broken almost beyond recognition. "And you never told me?"
"Why should I have told you? Only my uncle knows. It was a secret," she answered, in a clearer and colder tone. "I am sorry you did not know."
"So am I. God knows that I am sorry," said the young man, turning away to hide the look of bitter despair and disappointment, which he could not help but feel was too visibly imprinted on his face. "For if I had known, I might never have dared to love you. If I had known, I should never have dreamt of you as my wife."
At the sound of these two words, a shiver ran through her frame, as if a cold wind had blown over her from the mountain-heights above. She did not speak, however, and Brian went on in the low, difficult voice which told the intensity of his feelings more clearly than his words.
"I have been blind—mad, perhaps—but I thought that there was a hope for me. I fancied that you cared for me a little, that you guessed what I felt—that you, perhaps, felt it also. Oh, you need not tell me that I have been presumptuous. I see it now. But it was my one hope in life—I had nothing left; and I loved you."
His voice sank; he still stood with his face averted; a bitter silence fell upon him. For the moment he thought of the many losses and sorrows that he had experienced, and it seemed to him that this was the bitterest one of all. Elizabeth sat like a statue; her face was pale, her under-lip bitten, her hands tightly clasped together. At the end of some minutes' silence she roused herself to speak. There was an accent of hurt pride in her voice, but there was a tremor, too.
"I gave you no reason to think so, Mr. Stretton," she said.
"No," he answered, still without turning round. "I see now; I made a mistake."
"That you should ever have made the mistake," said Elizabeth, slowly, "seems to me——"
She did not finish the sentence. She spoke so slowly that Brian found it easy to interrupt her. He turned and broke impetuously into the middle of her phrase.
"It seems an insult—I understand. But I do not mean it as an insult. I mean it only as a tribute to your exquisite goodness, your sweetness, which would not let me pass upon my way without a word of kindly greeting—and yet what can I say, for I did not misunderstand that kindliness. I was not such a fool as to do that! No, I never really hoped; I never thought that you could for a moment look at me; believe me when I say that, even in my wildest dreams, I knew myself to be far, infinitely far, below you, utterly unworthy of your love, Elizabeth."
"No, no," she murmured, "you must not say that."
"But I do say it, and I mean it. I only ask to be forgiven for that wild dream—it lasted but for a moment, and there was nothing in it that could have offended even you, I think; nothing but the love itself. And I believe in a man's right to love the woman who is the best, the most beautiful, the noblest on earth for him, even if she were the Queen herself! If you think that I hoped where I ought to have despaired, forgive me; but don't say you forgive me for merely loving you; I had the right, to do that."
She altered her attitude as he spoke. Her hands were now before her face, and he saw that the tears were trickling between her fingers. All the generosity of the man's nature was stirred at the sight.
"I am very sorry that I have distressed you," he said. "I am sorry that I spoke so roughly—so hastily—at first. Trust me when I say that I will not offend in the same way again."
She lifted her face a little, and tried to wipe away her tears. "I am not offended, Mr. Stretton," she said. "You mistake me—I am only sorry—deeply sorry—that I—if I—have misled you in any way."
"Oh, you did not mislead me, Miss Murray," replied Brian, gently; "it was my own folly that was to blame. But since I have spoken, may I say something more? I should like, if possible, to justify myself a little in your eyes."
She bowed her head. "Will you not sit down?" she said, softly. "Say what you like; or, at least, what you think best."
He did not sit down exactly, but he came back to the stone on which he had been sitting at her feet, and dropped on one knee upon it.
"Let me speak to you in this way, as a culprit should speak," he said, with a faint smile which had in it a gleam of some slightly ironical feeling, "and then you can pardon or condemn me as you choose."
"If you feel like a culprit you condemn yourself," said Elizabeth, lifting her eyes to his.
"I do not feel like a culprit, Miss Murray. I have, as I said before, a perfect right to love you if I choose——" Elizabeth's eyes fell, and the colour stole into her cheeks—"I would maintain that right against all the world. But I want you to be merciful: I want you to listen for a little while——"
"Not to anything that I ought not to hear, Mr. Stretton."
"No: to nothing that would wrong Mr. Percival Heron even by a thought. Only—it is a selfish wish of mine; but I have been misjudged a good deal in my life, and I do not want you to misjudge me—I should like you to understand how it was that I dared—yes, I dared—to love you. May I speak?"
"I don't know whether I ought to listen. I think I ought to go," said Elizabeth, with an irrepressible little sob. "No, do not speak—I cannot bear it."
"But in justice to me you ought to listen," said Brian, gently, and yet firmly. He laid one hand upon hers, and prevented her from rising. "A few words only," he said, in pleading tones. "Forgive me if I say I must go on. Forgive me if I say you must listen. It is for the last—and the only—time."
With a great sigh she sank back upon the stone seat from which she had tried to rise. Brian still held her hand. She did not draw it away. The lines of her face were all soft and relaxed; her usual clearness of purpose had deserted her. She did not know what to do.
"If you had loved me, Elizabeth—let me call you Elizabeth just for once; I will not ask to do it again—or if you had even been free—I would have told you my whole history from beginning to end, and let you judge how far I was justified in taking another name and living the life I do. But I won't lay that burden upon you now. It would not be fair. I think that you would have agreed with me—but it is not worth while to tell you now."
"I am sure that you would not have acted as you did without a good and honourable motive," said Elizabeth, trembling, though she did not know why.
"I acted more on impulse than on principle, I am afraid,", he answered. "I was in great trouble, and it seemed easier—but I saw no reason afterwards to change my decision. Elizabeth, my friends think me dead, and I want them to think so still. I had been accused of a crime which I did not commit—not publicly accused, but accused in my own home by one—one who ought to have known me better; and I had inadvertently—by pure accident, remember—brought great misery and sorrow upon my house. In all this—I could swear it to you, Elizabeth—I was not to blame. Can you believe my word?"
"I can, I do."
"God bless you for saying so, my love—the one love of my life—Elizabeth! Forgive me: I will not say it again. To add to my troubles, then, I found reason to believe that I had no right to the name I bore, that I was of a different family, a different race, altogether; that it would simplify the disposal of certain property if I were dead; and so—I died. I disappeared. I can never again take the name that once was mine."
He said all this, but no suspicion of the truth crossed Elizabeth's mind. That she was the person who had benefited by his disappearance was as far from her thoughts as from Brian's at that moment. That he was the Brian Luttrell of whom she had so often heard, whose death in the Alps had seemed so certain that even the law courts had been satisfied that she might rightfully inherit his possessions, that he—John Stretton, the boys' tutor—could be this dead cousin of her's, was too incredible a thought ever to occur to her. She felt nothing but sorrow for his past troubles, and a conviction that he was perfectly in the right.
"But you are deceiving your friends," she said.
"For their good, as I firmly believe," answered Brian, sorrowfully. "If I went back to them, I should cause a great deal of confusion and distress: I should make my so-called heirs uncomfortable and unhappy, and, as far as I can see, I should have no right to the property that they would not consent to retain if I were living."
"Yes—if I am dead, and if no one else appears to claim it. It is a complicated business, and one that would take some time to explain. Let it suffice that I was utterly hopeless, utterly miserable, when I cast away what had always seemed to me to be my birthright; that I was then for many months very ill; and that, when you met me in Italy, I was just winning my way back to health, and repose of mind and body. And then—do you remember how you looked and spoke to me? Of course, you do not know. You were good, and sweet, and kind: you stretched out your hand to aid a fallen man, for I was poorer and more friendless than you knew; and from the moment when you said you trusted me, as we sat together on the bench upon the cliffs my whole soul went out to you, Elizabeth, and I loved you as I never had loved before—as I never shall love again."
"In time," she murmured, "you will learn to care for someone else, in time you will forget me."
"Forget you! I can never forget you, Elizabeth. Your trust in me—an unknown, friendless man, your goodness to me, your sweet pity for me, will never be forgotten. Can you wonder if I loved you, and if I thought that my love must surely have betrayed itself? I fancied that you guessed it——"
"No, no," she said, hurriedly. "I did not guess. I did not think. I only knew that you were a kind friend to me, and taught me and helped me in many ways. I have been often very lonely—I never had a friend."
"Is Percival Heron, then, no friend to you?" he asked, with something of indignant sternness in his voice.
"Ah, yes, he is a friend; but not—not—I cannot tell you what he is——"
"But you love him?" cried Brian, the sternness changing to anguish, as the doubt first presented itself to him. "Elizabeth, do not tell me that you have promised yourself to a man that you do not love! I may be miserable; but do not let me think that you will be miserable, too."
He caught both her hands in his and looked her steadily in the face. "I have heard them say that you never told a lie in all your life," he went on. "Speak the truth still, Elizabeth, and tell me whether you love Percival Heron as a woman should love a man! Tell me the truth."
She shrank a little at first, and tried to take her hands away. But when she found that Brian's clasp was firm, she drew herself up and looked him in the face with eyes that were full of an unutterable sadness, but also of a resolution which nothing on earth could shake.
"You have no right to ask me the question," she said; "and I have no right to give you any answer."
But something in her troubled face told him what that answer would have been.
"I see," he said, dropping her hands and turning away with a heavy sigh. "I was too late."
"Don't misunderstand me," said Elizabeth, with an effort. "I shall be very happy. I owe a debt to my uncle and my cousins which scarcely anything can repay."
"Give them anything but yourself" he said, gravely. "It is not right—I do not speak for myself now, but for you—it is not right to marry a man whom you do not love."
"But I did not say that I do not love him," she cried, trying to shield herself behind this barrier of silence. "I said only that you had no right to ask the question."
Brian looked at her and paused.
"You are wrong," he said at last, but so gently that she could not take offence. "Surely one who cares for you as I do may know whether or not you love the man that you are going to marry. It is no unreasonable question, I think, Elizabeth. And if you do not love him, then again I say that you are wrong and that it is not like your brave and honest self to be silent."
"I cannot help it," she said, faintly. "I must keep my word."
"You are the best judge of that," he answered. But there was a little coldness in his tone.
"Yes, I am the best judge," she went on more firmly. "I have promised; and I will not break the promise that I have made. I told you before how much I consider that I owe to them. Now that I have the chance of doing a thing that will benefit, not only Percival, but all of them—from a worldly point of view, I mean—I cannot bear to think of drawing back from what I said I would do."
"How will it benefit them?"
"In a very small way, no doubt," she said, looking aside, so that she might not see the mute protest of his face; "because worldly prosperity is a small thing after all; but if you had seen, as I have, what it was to my uncle to live in a poverty-stricken, sordid way, hampered with duns and debts, and Percival harassing himself with vain endeavours to set things straight, and the children feeling the sting of poverty more and more as they grew older—and then to know that one has the power in one's hands of remedying everything, without giving pain or hurting any one's pride, or——"
"I am sorry," said Brian, as she hesitated for a word. "But I do not understand."
"Why not!"
"How can you set things straight? And how is it that things want setting straight? Mr. Heron is—surely—a rich man."
She laughed; even in the midst of her agitation, she laughed a soft, pleasant, little laugh.
"Oh, I forgot," she said, suddenly. "You do not know. I found out on the day you came that you did not know."
"Did not know—what?"
She raised her eyes to his face, and spoke with gravity, but great sweetness.
"Nobody meant to deceive you," she said; "in fact, I scarcely know how it is that you have not learnt the truth—partly; I suppose, because in Italy I begged them not to tell anybody the true state of the case; but, really, my uncle is not rich at all. He is a poor man. And Percival is poor, too—very poor," she added, with a lingering sigh over the last two words.
"Poor! But—how could a poor man travel in Italy, and rent the Villa Venturi, say nothing of Strathleckie?"
"He did not rent it. They were my guests."
"Your guests? And what are they now, then?"
"My guests still."
Brian rose to his feet.
"Then you are a rich woman?"
"Yes."
"It is you, perhaps, who have paid me for teaching these boys?"
"There is no disgrace in being paid for work that is worth doing and that is done well," said Elizabeth, flashing an indignant look at him.
He bowed his head to the rebuke.
"You are right, Miss Murray. But you will, I hope, do me the justice to see that I was perfectly ignorant of the state of affairs; that I was blind—foolishly blind——"
"Not foolishly. You could not help it."
"I might have seen. I might have known. I took you for——" And there Brian stopped, actually colouring at the thought of his mistake.
"For the poor relation; the penniless cousin. But it was most natural that you should, and two years ago it would have been perfectly true. I have not been a rich woman for very many months, and I do not love my riches very much."
"If I had known," began Brian; and then he burst out with a sudden change of tone. "Give them your riches, since they value them and you do not, and give yourself to me, Elizabeth. Surely your debt to them would then be paid."
"What! by recompensing kindness with treachery?" she said, glancing at him mournfully. "No, that plan would not answer. The money is a small part of what I owe them. But I do sometimes wish that it had gone to anybody but me; especially when I remember the sad circumstances under which it became mine. When I think of poor Mrs. Luttrell of Netherglen, I have never felt as if it were right to spend her sons' inheritance in what gave pleasure to myself alone."
"Mrs. Luttrell of —— But what have you to do with her?" said Brian, with a sudden fixity of feature and harshness of voice that alarmed Elizabeth. "Mrs. Luttrell of Netherglen! Good Heaven! It is not you—you—who inherited that property? The Luttrell-Murrays——"
"I am the only Luttrell-Murray living," said Elizabeth.
He stared at her dumbly, as if he could not believe his ears.
"And you have the Luttrell estate?" he said at last.
"I have."
"I am glad of it," he answered; and then he put his hand over his eyes for a second or two, as if to shut out the light of day. "Yes, I am very glad."
"What do you mean, Mr. Stretton?" said Elizabeth, who was watching him intently. "Do you know anything of my family? Do you know anything of the Luttrells?"
"I have met some of them," he answered, slowly. His face was paler than usual, and his eyes, after one hasty glance at her, fell to the ground. "It was a long time ago. I do not know them now."
"You said you had been here before. You——"
"Miss Murray, don't question me as to how I knew them. You cannot guess what a painful subject it is to me. I would rather not discuss it."
"But, Mr. Stretton——"
"Let me tell you something else," he said, hastily, as if anxious to change the subject. "Let me ask you—as you are the arbitress of my destiny, my employer, I may call you—when you will let me go. Could the boys do without me at once, do you think? You would soon find another tutor."
"Mr. Stretton! Why should you go? Do you mean to leave us?" exclaimed Elizabeth. "Oh, surely it is not necessary to do that!"
"Do you think it would be so easy for me, then, to take money from your hands after what has passed between us?"
"Money is a small thing," said she.
"Money! yes; but there are other things in the world beside money. And it is better that I should go away from you now. It is not for my peace to see you every day, and know that you are to marry Percival Heron. Cannot you guess what pain it is to me?"
"But the children: you have no love for them, then. I thought that you did love our little Jack—and they are so fond of you."
"Don't try to keep me," he said, hoarsely. "It is hard enough to say good-bye without having to refuse you anything. The one thing now for which I could almost thank God is that you never loved me, Elizabeth."
She shivered, and drew a long, sobbing breath. Her face looked pale and cold: her voice did not sound like itself as she murmured—
"Why?"
"Because—no, I can't tell you why. Think for yourself of a reason. It is not that I love you less; and yet—yet—not for the world would I marry you now that I know what I know."
"You would not marry me because I am rich: that is it, is it not?" she asked him. "I knew that some men were proud; but I did not think that you would be so proud."
"What does it signify? There is no chance of your marrying me; you are going to marry another man—whom you do not love; we may scarcely ever see each other again after to-day. It is better so."
"If I were free," she said, slowly, "and if—if—I loved you, you would be doing wrong to leave me because—only because—I was a little richer than you. I do not think that that is your only motive. It is since you heard that I was one of the Luttrell-Murrays that you have spoken in this way."
"What if it were? The fact remains," he said, gloomily. "You do not care for me; and I—I would give my very soul for you, Elizabeth. I had better go. Think of me kindly when I am away—that is all. I see Miss Heron and the boys on the brow of the hill signalling to us. Will you excuse me if I say good-bye to you now, and walk back towards Strathleckie?"
"Must it be now?" she said, scarcely knowing what the words implied. She turned her face towards him with a look that he never forgot—a look of inexpressible regret, of yearning sweetness, of something only too like the love that he thought he had failed to win. It caused him to turn back and to lean over her with a half-whispered question—
"Would it have been possible, Elizabeth, if we had met earlier, do you think that you ever could have loved me?"
"Do you think you ought to ask me?"
"Ah, give me one word of comfort before I go. Remember that I go for ever. It will do no one any harm. Could you have loved me, Elizabeth?"
"I think I could," she murmured in so low a tone that he could hardly hear the words. He seized her hands and pressed them closely in his own; he could do no more, for the Herons were very near. "Good-bye, my love, my own darling!" were the last words she heard. They rang in her ears as if they had been as loud as a trumpet-call; she could hardly believe that they had not re-echoed far and wide across the moor. She felt giddy and sick. The last sight of his face was lost in a strange, momentary darkness. When she saw clearly again he was walking away from her with long, hasty strides, and her cousins were close at hand. She watched him eagerly, but he did not turn round. She knew instinctively that he had resolved that she should never see his face again.
"What is the matter, Betty?" cried one of the children. "You look so white! And where is Mr. Stretton going? Mr. Stretton! Wait for us!"
"Don't call Mr. Stretton," said Elizabeth, collecting her forces, and speaking as nearly as possible in her ordinary tone. "He wants to get back to Strathleckie as quickly as possible. I am rather tired and am resting."
"You are not usually tired with so short a walk," said Kitty, glancing sharply at her cousin's pallid cheeks. "Are you not well?"
"Yes, I am quite well," Elizabeth answered. "But I am very, very tired."
And then she rose and made her way back to the loch-side, where Mr. and Mrs. Heron were still reposing. But her steps lagged, and her face did not recover its usual colour as she went home, for, as she had said, she was tired—strangely and unnaturally tired—and it was with a feeling of relief that she locked herself into her own room at Strathleckie, and gave way to the gathering tears which she had hitherto striven to restrain. She would willingly have stayed away from the dinner-table, but she was afraid of exciting remark. Her pale face and heavy eyelids excited remark as much as her absence would have done; but she did not think of that. Mr. Stretton, who usually dined with them, sent an excuse to Mrs. Heron. He had a headache, and preferred to remain in his own room.
"It must have been the sun," said Mrs. Heron. "Elizabeth has a headache, too. Have you a headache, Kitty?"
"Not at all, thank you," said Kitty.
There was something peculiar in her tone, thought Elizabeth. Or was it only that her conscience was guilty, and that she was becoming apt to suspect hidden meanings in words and tones that used to be harmless and innocent enough? The idea was a degrading one to her mind. She hated the notion of having anything to conceal—anything, at least, beyond what was lawful and right. Her inheritance, her engagement to Percival, had been to some extent kept secret; but not, as she now said passionately to herself, not because she was ashamed of them. Now, indeed, she was ashamed of her secret, and there was nothing on earth from which she shrank so much as the thought of its being discovered.
She went to bed early, but she could not sleep. The words that Brian had said to her, the answers that she had made to him, were rehearsed one after the other, turned over in her mind, commented on, and repeated again and again all through the night. She hardly knew the meaning of her own excitement of feeling, nor of the intense desire that possessed her to see him again and listen once more to his voice. She only knew that her brain was in a turmoil and that her heart seemed to be on fire. Sleep! She could not think of sleep. His face was before her, his voice was sounding in her ears, until the cock crew and the morning sunlight flooded all the room. And then for a little while, indeed, she slept, and dreamt of him.
She awoke late and unrefreshed. She dressed leisurely, wondering somewhat at the vehemence of last night's emotion, but not mistress enough of herself to understand its danger. In that last moment of her interview with Brian she had given way far more than he knew. If he had understood and taken advantage of that moment of weakness, she would not have been able to refuse him anything. At a word she would have given up all for him—friends, home, riches, even her promise to Percival—and gone forth into the world with the man she loved, happier in her poverty than she had ever been in wealth. "Ask me no more, for at a touch I yield," was the silent cry of her inmost soul. But Brian had not understood. He did not dream that with Elizabeth, as with most women, the very weakest time is that which immediately follows the moment of greatest apparent strength. She had refused to listen to him at all—and after that refusal she was not strong, but weak in heart and will as a wearied child.
Realising this, Elizabeth felt a sensation of relief and safety. She had escaped a great gulf—and yet—and yet—she had not reached that point of reasonableness and moderation at which she could be exactly glad that she had escaped.
She made her way downstairs, and reached the dining-room to find that everyone but herself had breakfasted and gone out. She was too feverish to do more than swallow a cup of coffee and a little toast, and she had scarcely concluded her scanty meal before Mr. Heron entered the room with a disconcerted expression upon his face.
"Do you know the reason of this freak of Stretton's, Elizabeth?" he asked almost immediately.
"What do you mean, Uncle Alfred?"
"I mean—has he taken a dislike to Strathleckie, or has anybody offended him? I can't understand it. Just when we were settling down so nicely, and found him such an excellent tutor for the boys! To run away after this fashion! It is too bad!"
"Does Mr. Stretton think of leaving Strathleckie?" said Elizabeth, with her eyes bent steadfastly upon the table-cloth.
"Think of leaving! My dear Lizzie, he has left! Gone: went this morning before any of us were down. Spoke to me last night about it; I tried to dissuade him, but his mind was quite made up."
"What reason did he give?"
"Well, he would not tell me the exact reason. I tried to find out, but he was as close as—as—wax," said Mr. Heron, trying to find a suitable simile. "He said he was much obliged to us all for our kindness to him; had no fault to find with anything or anybody; liked the place; but, all the same, he wanted to go, and go he must. I offered him double the salary—at least, I hinted as much: I knew you would not object, Lizzie dear, but it was no use. Partly family affairs; partly private reasons: that was all I could get out of him."
Mr. Heron's long speech left Elizabeth the time to consider what to say.
"It does not matter very much," she answered at length, indifferently: "we can find someone who will teach the boys quite as well, I have no doubt."
"Do you think so?" asked Mr. Heron. "Well, perhaps so. But, you see, it is not always easy to get a tutor at this time of the year, Elizabeth; and, besides, we shall not find one, perhaps, so ready to read Italian with you, as Mr. Stretton used to do——"
Oh, those Italian readings! How well she remembered them! How the interest which Mr. Stretton had from the first inspired in her had grown and strengthened in the hours that they spent together, with heads bent over the same page, and hearts throbbing in unison over the lines that spoke of Dante's Beatrice, or Petrarca's Laura! She shuddered at the remembrance, now fraught to her with keenest pain.
"I shall not want to read Italian again," she said, rising from the table. "We had better advertise for a tutor, Uncle Alfred, unless you think the boys might run wild for a little while, or unless Percival can find us one."
"Shall you be writing to Percival to-day, my dear?"
"I don't know."
"Because you might mention that Mr. Stretton has left us. I am afraid that Percival will be glad," said Mr. Heron, with a little laugh; "he had an unaccountable dislike to poor Stretton."
"Yes, Percival will be glad," said Elizabeth, turning mechanically to leave the room. At the door she paused. "Mr. Stretton left an address, I suppose?"
"No, he did not. He said he would write to me when his plans were settled. And I'm sorry to say he would not take a cheque. I pressed it upon him, and finally left it on the table for him—where I found it again this morning. He said that he had no right to it, leaving as suddenly as he did—some crochet of that kind. I should think that Stretton could be very Quixotic if he chose."
"When he writes," said Elizabeth, "you will send him the cheque, will you not, Uncle Alfred? I do not think that he is very well off; and it seems a pity that he should be in want of money for the sake of—of—a scruple."
She did not wait for a reply, but closed the door behind her, and stood for a few moments in the hall, silently wondering what to do and where to go. Finally she put on her garden hat and went out into the grounds. She felt that she must be alone.
A sort of numbness came over her. He had gone, without a word, without making any effort to see her again. His "Good-bye" had been spoken in solemn earnest. He had been stronger than Elizabeth; although in ordinary matters it might be thought that her nature was the stronger of the two. There was nothing, therefore, for her to say or do; she could not write to him, she could not call him back. If she could have done so she would. She had never known before what it was to hunger for the sight of a beloved face, to think of the words that she might have said, and long to say them. She did not as yet know by what name to call her misery. Only, little by little she woke up to the fact that it was what people meant when they spoke of love. Then she began to understand her position. She had promised to marry Percival Heron, but her heart was given to the penniless tutor who called himself John Stretton.