Percival started from his chair. His first exclamation was a rather profane one, for which the monk immediately reproved him. He did not take much notice of the reproof: he stared hard at the young man for a minute or two, unconsciously repeated the objectionable expression, and then took one or two turns up and down the room. After which he came to a standstill, thrust his hands into his pockets, and allowed his features to relax into a sardonically-triumphant smile.
"You couldn't tell me a thing which I should be better pleased to hear," he said. "But I don't believe it's true."
This was rude, but the visitor was not disconcerted. He looked at Percival's masterful face with interest, and a little suspicion, and answered quietly:—
"I do not know exactly what evidence will satisfy you, sir. Of course, you will require evidence. I, myself, Bernardino Vasari of San Stefano, can testify that I saw Brian Luttrell in our monastery on the 27th day of November, some days after his reputed death. I can account for all his time after that date, and I can tell you where he is to be found at present. His cousin, Hugo Luttrell, has already recognised him, and, although he is much changed, I fancy that there would be small doubt about his identification."
"But why, in Heaven's name, did he allow himself to be thought dead?" cried Percival.
"You know, probably, the circumstances attending his brother's death?" said Dino, gently. "These, and a cruel letter from Mrs. Luttrell, made him resolve to take advantage of an accident in which his companions were killed. He made his way to a little inn on the southern side of the Alps, and thence to our monastery, where I recognised him as the gentleman whom I had previously seen travelling in Germany. I had had some conversation with him, and he had interested me—I remembered him well."
"Did he give his name as Brian Luttrell then?"
"I accosted him by it, and he begged me at once not to do so, but to give him another name."
"What name?"
"I will tell you the name presently, Mr. Heron. He remained in the monastery for some months: first ill of a fever on the brain, then, after his recovery, as a teacher to our young pupils. When he grew stronger he became tired of our peaceful life; he left the monastery and wandered from place to place in Italy. But he had no money: he began to think of work. He was learned: he could teach: he thought that he might be a tutor. Shall I go on?"
"Good God!" said Percival, below his breath. He had actually turned pale, and was biting his moustache savagely. "Go on, sir!" he thundered, looking at Dino from beneath his knitted brows. "Tell me the rest as quickly as you can."
"He met with an English family," Dino continued, watching with keen interest the effect of his words. "They were kind to him: they took him, without character, without recommendations, and allowed him to teach their children. He did not know who they were: he thought that they were rich people, and that the young lady who was so dutiful to them, and cared so tenderly for their children, was poor like himself, a dependent like himself. He dared, therefore——"
"He lies and you lie!" Percival burst out, furiously. "How dare you come to me with a tale of this sort? He must have known! It was simply a base deception in order to get back his estate. If I had him here——"
"If you had him here you would listen to him, Mr. Heron," said Dino, in a perfectly unmoved voice, "as you will listen to me when the first shock of your surprise is over."
"Your garb, I suppose, protects you," said Percival, sharply. "Else I would throw you out of the window to join your accomplice outside. I daresay he is there. I don't believe a word of your story. May I trouble you to go?"
"This conduct is unworthy of you, sir," said Dino. "Brian Luttrell's identity will not be disproved by bluster. There is not the least doubt about it. Mr. Brian Luttrell is alive and has been teaching in your father's family for the last few months under the name of John Stretton."
"Then he is a scoundrel," said Percival. He threw himself into his chair again, with his feet stretched out before him, and his hands still thrust deep into his trousers' pockets. His face was white with rage. "I always thought that he was a rogue; and, if this story is true, he has proved himself one."
"How?" said Dino, quietly. "By living in poverty when he might have been rich? By allowing others to take what was legally his own, because he had a scruple about his moral right to it? If you knew all Brian Luttrell's story you would know that his only fault has been that of over-conscientiousness, over-scrupulousness. But you do not know the story, perhaps you never will, and, therefore, you cannot judge."
"I do not want to judge. I have nothing to do with Mr. Stretton and his story," said Percival.
"I will tell you——"
"I will not hear. You are impostors, the pair of you."
Dino's eyes flashed and his lips compressed themselves. His face, thin from his late illness, assumed a wonderful sternness of expression.
"This is folly," he said, with a cold serenity of tone which impressed Percival in spite of himself. "You will have to hear part of his story sooner or later, Mr. Heron; for your own sake, for Miss Murray's sake, you had better hear it now."
"Look here, my good man," said Percival, sitting up, and regarding his visitor with contemptuous disgust, "don't go bringing Miss Murray's name into this business, for, if you do, I'll call a policeman and give you in charge for trying to extort money on false pretences, and you may thank your priest's dress, or whatever it is, that I don't kick you out of the house. Do you hear?"
"Sir," said Dino, mildly, but with great dignity, "have I asked you for a single penny?"
Heron looked at him as if he would like to carry out the latter part of his threat, but the young man was so frail, so thin, so feeble, that he felt suddenly ashamed of having threatened him. He rose, planted his back firmly against the mantelpiece, and pointed significantly to the door. "Go!" he said, briefly. "And don't come back."
"If I go," said Dino, rising from his chair, "I shall take the express train to Scotland at eight o'clock to-night, and I shall see Miss Murray to-morrow morning."
The shot told. A sort of quiver passed over Percival's set face. He muttered an angry ejaculation. "I'll see you d——d first," he said. "You'll do nothing of the kind."
"Then will you hear my story?"
Heron paused. He could have ground his teeth with fury; but he was quite alive to the difficulties of the situation. If this young monk went with his story to Elizabeth, and Elizabeth believed it, what would become of her fidelity to him? With his habitual cynicism, he told himself that no woman would keep her word, if by doing so she lost a fortune and a lover both. He must hear this story, if only to prevent its being told to her.
"Well," he said at last, taking his pipe from the mantelshelf, "I'll listen. Be so good as to make your story short. I have no time to waste." And then he rammed the tobacco into the bowl with his thumb in a suggestively decisive manner, lighted it, and proceeded to puff at his pipe with a sort of savage vigour. He sent out great clouds of smoke, which speedily filled the air and rendered speaking difficult to Dino, whose lungs had become delicate in consequence of his wound. But Percival was rather pleased than otherwise to inconvenience him.
"There are several reasons," the young man began, "why Brian Luttrell wished to be thought dead. He had killed his brother by accident, and Mrs. Luttrell thought that there had been malice as well as carelessness in the deed. That was one reason. His mother's harshness preyed upon his mind and drove him almost to melancholy madness. Mrs. Luttrell made another statement, and made it in a way that convinced him that she had reasons for making it——"
"Can't you cut it short?" said Percival. "It's all very interesting, no doubt: but as I don't care a hang what Brian Luttrell said, or thought, or did, I should prefer to have as little of it as possible."
"I am sorry to inconvenience you, but I must tell my story in my own way," answered Dino. The flash of his eye and the increased colour in his cheek showed that Heron's words irritated him, but his voice was carefully calm and cool. "Mrs. Luttrell's statement was this: that Brian Luttrell was not her son at all. I have in my possession the letter that she wrote to him on the subject, assuring him confidently that he was the child of her Italian nurse, Vincenza Vasari, and that her own child had died in infancy, and was buried in the churchyard of San Stefano. Here is the letter, if you like to assure yourself that what I have said is true."
Percival made a satirical little bow of refusal. But a look of attention had come into his eyes.
"Brian believed this story absolutely, although he had then no proof of its truth," continued Dino. "She told him that the Vasari family lived at San Stefano——"
"Vasari! Relations of your own, I presume," interposed Percival, with ironical politeness.
"And to San Stefano, therefore, he was making his way when the accident on the mountain occurred," said Dino, utterly disregarding the interruption. "There were inquiries made about him at San Stefano soon after the news of his supposed death arrived in England, for Mrs. Luttrell guessed that he would go thither if he were still living; but he had not then appeared at the monastery. He did not arrive at San Stefano, as I said before, until a fortnight after the date of the accident; he had been ill, and was footsore and weary. When he recovered from the brain-fever which prostrated him as soon as he reached the monastery, he told his whole story to the Prior, Padre Cristoforo of San Stefano, a man whose character is far beyond suspicion. I have also Padre Cristoforo's statement, if you would like to see it."
Percival shook his head. But his pipe had gone out; he was listening now with interest.
"As it happened," the narrator went on, "Padre Cristoforo was already interested in the matter, because the mother of Mrs. Luttrell's nurse, Vincenza, had, before her death, confided to him her suspicions, and those of Vincenza's husband concerning the child that she had nursed. There was a child living in the village of San Stefano, a child who had been brought up as Vincenza's child, but Vincenza had told her this boy was the true Brian Luttrell, and that her son had been taken back to Scotland as Mrs. Luttrell's child."
"I see your drift now," remarked Percival, quietly re-lighting his pipe. "Where is this Italian Brian Luttrell to be found?"
"Need I tell you? Should I come here with this story if I were not the man?"
He asked the question almost sadly, but with a simplicity of manner which showed him to be free from any desire to produce any theatrical effect. He waited for a moment, looking steadily at Percival, whose darkening brow and kindling eyes displayed rapidly-rising anger.
"I was called Dino Vasari at San Stefano," he continued, "but I believe that my rightful name is Brian Luttrell, and that Vincenza Vasari changed the children during an illness of Mrs. Luttrell's."
"And that, therefore," said Percival, slowly, "you are the owner of the Strathleckie property—or, as it is generally called, the Luttrell property—now possessed by Miss Murray?"
Dino bowed his head.
Percival puffed away at his pipe for a minute or two, and surveyed him from head to foot with angry, contemptuous eyes. The only thing that prevented him from letting loose a storm of rage upon Dino's head was the young man's air of grave simplicity and good faith. He did not look like an intentional impostor, such as Percival Heron would gladly have believed him to be.
"Do you know," inquired Heron, after a momentary pause, "what the penalties are for attempting to extort money, or for passing yourself off under a false name in order to get property? Did you ever hear of the Claimant and Portland Prison? I would advise you to acquaint yourself with these details before you come to me again. You may be more fool than knave; but you may carry your foolery or your knavery elsewhere."
Dino smiled.
"You had better hear the rest of my story before you indulge in these idle threats, Mr. Heron. I know perfectly well what I am doing."
There was a tone of lofty assurance, almost of superiority, in Dino's calm voice, which galled Percival, because he felt that it had the power of subduing him a little. Before he had thought of a rejoinder, the young Benedictine resumed his story.
"You will say rightly enough that these were not proofs. So Padre Cristoforo said when he kept me in the monastery until I came to years of discretion. So he told Brian Luttrell when he came to San Stefano. But since that day new witnesses have arisen. Vincenza Vasari was not dead: she had only disappeared for a time. She is now found, and she is prepared to swear to the truth of the story that I have told you. Mrs. Luttrell's suspicions, the statement made by Vincenza's husband and mother, the confession of another woman who was Vincenza's accomplice, all form corroborative evidence which will, I think, be quite sufficient to prove the case. So, at least, Messrs. Brett and Grattan assure me, and they have gone carefully into the matter, and have the original papers in their possession."
"Brett and Grattan!" repeated Percival. He knew the names. "Do you say that Brett and Grattan have taken it up? You must have managed matters cleverly: Brett and Grattan are a respectable firm."
"You are at liberty, of course, to question them. You may, perhaps, credit their statement."
"I will certainly go to them and expose this imposture," said Percival, haughtily. "I suppose you have no objection," with a hardly-concealed sneer, "to go with me to them at once?"
"Not in the least. I am quite ready."
Percival was rather staggered by his willingness to accompany him. He laid down his pipe, which he had been holding mechanically for some time in his hand, and made a step towards the door. But as he reached it Dino spoke again.
"I wish, Mr. Heron, that before you go to these lawyers you would listen to me a little longer. If for a moment or two you would divest yourself of your suspicions, if you would for a moment or two assume (only for the sake of argument) the truth of my story, I could tell you then why I came. As yet, I have scarcely approached the object of my errand."
"Money, I suppose!" said Percival. "Truth will out, sooner or later."
"Mr. Heron," said Dino, "are we to approach this subject as gentlemen or not? When I ask you for money, you will be at liberty to insult me, not before."
Again that tone of quiet superiority! Percival broke out angrily:—
"I will listen to nothing more from you. If you like to go with me to Brett and Grattan, we will go now; if not, you are a liar and an impostor, and I shall be happy to kick you out into the street."
Dino raised his head; a quick, involuntary movement ran through his frame, as if it thrilled with anger at the insulting words. Then his head sank; he quietly folded his arms across his breast, and stood as he used to stand when awaiting an order or an admonition from the Prior—tranquil, submissive, silent, but neither ill-humoured nor depressed. The very silence and submission enraged Percival the more.
"If you were of Scotch or English blood," he said, sharply, pausing as he crossed the room to look over his shoulder at the motionless figure in the black robe, with folded arms and bent head, "you would resent the words I have hastily used. That you don't do so is proof positive to my mind that you are no Luttrell."
"If I am a Luttrell, I trust that I am a Christian, too," said Dino, tranquilly. "It is a monk's duty—a monk's privilege—to bear insult."
"Detestable hypocrisy!" growled Percival to himself, as he stepped to the door and ostentatiously locked it, putting the key into his pocket, before he went into the adjoining bed-room to change his coat. "We'll soon see what Brett and Grattan say to him. Confound the fellow! Who would think that that smooth saintly face covered so much insolence! I should like to give him a good hiding. I should, indeed."
He returned to the sitting-room, unlocked the door, and ordered a servant to fetch a hansom-cab. Then he occupied himself by setting some of the books straight on the shelves, humming a tune to himself meanwhile, as if nobody else were in the room.
"Mr. Heron," Dino said at last, "I came to propose a compromise. Will you listen to it yet?"
"No," said Percival, drily. "I'll listen to nothing until I have seen Brett. If your case is as good as you declare it is, he will convince me; and then you can talk about compromises. I'm not in the humour for compromises just now."
He noticed that Dino's eyes were fixed earnestly upon something on his writing-table. He drew near enough to see that it was a cabinet photograph of Elizabeth Murray in a brass frame—a likeness which had just been taken, and which was considered remarkably good. The head and shoulders only were seen: the stately pose of the head, the slightly upturned profile, the rippling mass of hair resting on the fine shoulders, round which a shawl had been loosely draped—these constituted the chief points of a portrait which some people said was "idealised," but which, in the opinion of the Herons, only showed Elizabeth at her best. Percival coolly took up the photograph and marched away with it to another table, on which he laid it face downwards. He did not choose to have the Italian impostor scrutinising Elizabeth Murray's face. Dino understood the action, and liked him for it better than he had done as yet.
The drive to Messrs. Brett and Grattan's office was accomplished in perfect silence. The office was just closing, but Mr. Brett—the partner with whom Percival happened to be acquainted—was there, and received the visitors very civilly.
"You seem to know this—this gentleman, Mr. Brett?" began Percival, somewhat stiffly.
"I think I have that pleasure," said Mr. Brett, who was a big, red-faced, genial-looking man, as much unlike the typical lawyer of the novel and the stage, as a fox-hunting squire would have been. But Mr. Brett's reputation was assured. "I think I have that pleasure," he repeated, rubbing his hands, and looking as though he was enjoying the interview very much. "I have seen him before once or twice, have I not? eh, Mr.—er—Mr.——"
"Ah, that is just the point," said Percival. "Will you have the goodness to tell me the name of this—this person?"
Mr. Brett stopped rubbing his hands, and looked from Dino to Percival, and back again to Dino. The look said plainly enough, "What shall I tell him? How much does he know?"
"I wish to have no secrets from Mr. Heron," said Dino, simply. "He is the gentleman who is going to marry Miss Elizabeth Murray, and, of course, he is interested in the matter."
"Ah, of course, of course. I don't know that you ought to have brought him here," said Mr. Brett, shaking his head waggishly at Dino. "Against rules, you know: against custom: against precedent. But I believe you want to arrange matters pleasantly amongst yourselves. Well, Mr. Heron, I don't often like to commit myself to a statement, but, under the circumstances, I have no hesitation in saying that I believe this gentleman now before you, who called himself Vasari in Italy, is in reality——"
"Well?" said Percival, feeling his heart sink within him and speaking more impatiently than usual in consequence, "Well, Mr. Brett?"
"Is in reality," said Mr. Brett, with great deliberation and emphasis, "the second son of Edward and Margaret Luttrell, stolen from them in infancy—Brian Luttrell."
Dino turned away. He would not see the discomfiture plainly depicted upon Percival's face. Mr. Brett smiled pleasantly, and rubbed his hands.
"I see that it's a shock to you, Mr. Heron," he said. "Well, we can understand that. It's natural. Of course you thought Miss Murray a rich woman, as we all did, and it is a little disappointing——"
"Your remarks are offensive, sir, most offensive," said Percival, whose ire was thoroughly roused by this address. "I will bid you and your client good-evening. I have no more to say."
He made for the door, but Dino interposed.
"It is my turn now, I think, Mr. Heron. You insisted upon my coming here: I must insist now upon your seeing the documents I have to show you, and hearing what I have to say." And with a sharp click he turned the key in the lock, and stood with his back against the door.
"Tut, tut, tut!" said Mr. Brett; "there is no need to lock the door, no need of violence, Mr. Luttrell." In spite of himself, Percival started when he heard that name applied to the young monk before him. "Let the matter be settled amicably, by all means. You come from the young lady; you have authority to act for her, have you, Mr. Heron?"
"No," said Percival, sullenly. "She knows nothing about it."
"This is an informal interview," said Dino. "Mr. Heron refused to believe that you had undertaken my case, Mr. Brett, until he heard the fact from your own lips. I trust that he is now satisfied on that point, at any rate."
"Mr. Brett is an old acquaintance of mine. I have no reason to doubt his sincerity," said Percival, shortly and stiffly.
If Dino had hoped for anything like an apology, he was much mistaken. Percival's temper was rampant still.
"Then," said Dino, quitting the door, with the key in his hand, "we may as well proceed to look at those papers of mine, Mr. Brett. There can be no objection to Mr. Heron's seeing them, I suppose?"
The lawyer made some objections, but ended by producing from a black box, a bundle of papers, amongst which were the signed and witnessed confessions of Vincenza Vasari and a woman named Rosa Naldi, who had helped in the exchange of the children. Mr. Brett would not allow these papers to go out of his own hands, but he showed them to Percival, expounded their contents, and made comments upon the evidence, remarking amongst other things that Vincenza Vasari herself was expected in England in a week or two, Padre Cristoforo having taken charge of her, and undertaken to produce her at the fitting time.
"The evidence seems to be very conclusive," said Mr. Brett, with a pleasant smile. "In fact, Miss Murray has no case at all, and I dare say her legal adviser will know what advice to give her, Mr. Heron. Is there any question that you would like to ask?"
"No," said Percival, rising from his chair and glancing at Dino, who had stood by without speaking, throughout the lawyer's exposition of the papers. Then, very ungraciously: "I suppose I owe this gentleman in ecclesiastical attire—I hardly know what to call him—some sort of apology. I see that I was mistaken in what I said."
"My dear sir, I am sure Mr. Luttrell will make allowance for words spoken in the heat of the moment. No doubt it was a shock to you," said Mr. Brett, with ready sympathy, for which Percival hated him in his heart. His brow contracted, and he might have said something uncivil had Dino not come forward with a few quiet words, which diverted him from his purpose.
"If Mr. Heron thinks that he was mistaken," he said, "he will not refuse now to hear what I wished to say before we left his house. It will be simple justice to listen to me."
"Very well," answered Percival, frowning and looking down. "I will listen."
"Could we, for a few moments only, have a private room?" said Dino to Mr. Brett, with some embarrassment.
"You won't want me again?" said that cheerful gentleman, locking his desk. "Then, if you won't think me uncivil, I'll leave you altogether. My clerk is in the outer room, if you require him. I have a dinner engagement at eight o'clock which I should like to keep. Good-bye, Mr. Heron; sorry for your disappointment. Good-bye, Mr. Luttrell; I wish you wouldn't don that monkish dress of yours. It makes you look so un-English, you know. And, after all, you are not a monk, and never will be."
"Do not be too sure of that," said Dino, smiling.
Mr. Brett departed, and the two young men were left together. Percival was standing, vexation and impatience visible in every line of his handsome features. He gave his shoulders a shrug as the door closed behind Mr. Brett, and turned to the fire.
"And now, Mr. Heron," said Dino, "will you listen to my proposition?" He spoke in Italian, not English, and Percival replied in the same language.
"I have said I would listen."
"It refers to Brian Luttrell—the man who has borne that name so long that I think he should still be called by it."
"Ah! You have proved to me that Mr. Brett believes your story, and you have shown me that your case is a plausible one; but you have not proved to me that the man Stretton is identical with Brian Luttrell."
"It is not necessary that that should be proved just now. It can be proved; but we will pass over that point, if you please. I am sorry that what I have to say trenches somewhat on your private and personal affairs, Mr. Heron. I can only entreat your patience for a little time. Your marriage with Miss Murray——"
"Need that be dragged into the discussion?"
"It is exactly the point on which I wish to speak."
"Indeed." Percival pulled the lawyer's arm-chair towards him, seated himself, and pulled his moustache. "I understand. You are Mr. Stretton's emissary!"
"His emissary! No." The denial was sharply spoken. It was with a softening touch of emotion that Dino added—"I doubt whether he will easily forgive me. I have betrayed him. He does not dream that I would tell his secret."
"Are you friendly with him, then?"
"We are as brothers."
"Where is he?"
"In London."
"Not gone to America then?"
"Not yet. He starts in a few days, if not delayed. I am trying to keep him back."
"I knew that his pretence of going was a lie!" muttered Percival. "Of course, he never intended to leave the country!"
"Pardon me," said Dino, who had heard more than was quite meant for his ears. "The word 'lie' should never be uttered in connection with any of Brian's words or actions. He is the soul of honour."
Percival sneered bitterly. "As is shown——" he began, and then stopped short. But Dino understood.
"As is shown," he said, steadily, "by the fact that when he learnt, almost in the same moment, that Miss Murray was the person who had inherited his property, and that she was promised in marriage to yourself, he left the house in which she lived, and resolved to see her face no more. Was there no sense of honour shown in this? For he loved her as his own soul."
"Upon my word," explained Percival, with unconcealed annoyance, "you seem to know a great deal about Miss Murray's affairs and mine, Mr.—Mr.—Vasari. I am flattered by the interest they excite; but I don't see exactly what good is to come of it. I knew of Mr. Stretton's proposal long ago: a very insolent one, I considered it."
"Let me ask you a plain question, Mr. Heron. You love Miss Murray, do you not?"
"If I do," said Heron, haughtily, "it is not a question that I am disposed to answer at present."
"You love Miss Murray," said Dino, as if the question had been answered in the affirmative, "and there is nothing on earth so dear to me as my friend Brian Luttrell. It may seem strange to you that it should be so; but it is true. I have no wish to take his place in Scotland——"
"Then what are you doing in Mr. Brett's office?" asked Percival, bluntly.
For the first time Dino showed some embarrassment.
"I have been to blame," he said, hanging his head. "I was forced into this position—by others; and I had not the strength to free myself. But I will not wrong Brian any longer."
"If your story is proved, it will not be wronging Brian or anybody else to claim your rights. Take the Luttrell property, by all means, if it belongs to you. We shall do very well without it."
"Yes," said Dino, almost in a whisper, "you will do very well without it, if you are sure that she loves you."
Percival sat erect in his chair and looked Dino in the face with an expression which, for the first time, was devoid of scorn or anger. It was almost one of dread; it was certainly the look of one who prepares himself to receive a shock.
"What have you to tell me?" he said, in an unusually quiet voice. "Is she deceiving me? Is she corresponding with him? Have they made you their confidant?"
"No, no," cried Dino, earnestly. "How can you think so of a woman with a face like hers, of a man with a soul like Brian's? Even he has told me little; but he has told me more than he knows—and I have guessed the rest. If I had not known before, your face would have told me all."
"Tricked!" said Percival, falling back in his chair with a gesture of disgust. "I might have known as much. Well, sir, you are wrong. And Miss Murray's feelings are not to be canvassed in this way."
"You are right," said Dino; "we will not speak of her. We will speak of Brian, of my friend. He is not happy. He is very brave, but he is unhappy, too. Are we to rob him of both the things which might make his happiness? Are you to marry the woman that he loves, and am I to take to myself his inheritance?"
"Hardly to be called his inheritance, I think," said Percival, in a parenthetic way, "if he was the child of one Vincenza Vasari, and not of the Luttrells."
"I have my proposals to make," said Dino again lowering his voice. A nervous flush crept up to his forehead: his lips twitched behind the thin fingers with which he had partly covered them: the fingers trembled, too. Percival noted these signs of emotion without seeming to do so: he waited with some curiosity for the proposition. It startled him when it came. "I have been thinking that it would be better," said Dino, so simply and naturally that one would never have supposed that he was indicating a path of stern self-sacrifice, "if I were to withdraw all my claims to the estate, and you to relinquish Miss Murray's hand to Brian, then things would fall into their proper places, and he would not go to America."
Percival stared at him for a full minute before he seemed quite to understand all that was implied in this proposal; then he burst into a fit of scornful laughter.
"This is too absurd!" he cried. "Am I to give her up tamely because Mr. Brian Luttrell, as you call him, wishes to marry her? I am not so anxious to secure Mr. Brian Luttrell's happiness."
"But you wish to secure Miss Murray's, do you not?"
Percival became suddenly silent. Dino went on persuasively.
"I care little for the money and the lands which they say would be mine. My greatest wish in life is to become a monk. That is why I put on the gown that I used to wear, although I have taken no vows upon me yet, but I came to you in the spirit of one to whom earthly things are dead. Let me give up this estate to Brian, and make him happy with the woman that he loves. When he is married to Elizabeth you shall never see my face again."
"This is your proposition?" said Percival, after a little pause.
"Yes."
"If I give up Elizabeth"—he forgot that he had not meant to call her by her Christian name in Dino Vasari's presence—"you will give up your claim to the property?"
"Yes."
"And if I refuse, what will you do?"
"Fight the matter out by the help of the lawyers," said Dino, with an irrepressible flash of his dark eyes. And then there was another pause, during which Percival knitted his brows and gazed into the fire, and Dino never took his eyes from the other's face.
"Well, I refuse," said Percival at last, getting up and walking about the room, with an air of being more angry than he really was. "I will have none of your crooked Italian ways. Fair play is the best way of managing this matter. I refuse to carry out my share of this 'amicable arrangement,' as Brett would call it. Let us fight it out. Every man for himself, and the devil take the hindmost."
The last sentence was an English one.
"But what satisfaction will the fight give to anybody?" said Dino, earnestly. "For myself—I may gain the estate—I probably shall do so—and what use shall I make of it? I might give it, perhaps, to Brian, but what pleasure would it be to him if she married you? Miss Murray will be left in poverty."
"And do you think she will care for that? Do you think I should care?"
"Money is a good thing: it is not well to despise it," said Dino. "Think what you are doing. If you refuse my proposition you deprive Miss Murray of her estate, and—I leave you to decide whether you deprive her of her happiness."
"Miss Murray can refuse me if she chooses," said Percival, shortly. "I should be a great fool if I handed her over at your recommendation to a man that I know nothing about. Besides, you could not do it. This Italian friend of yours, this Prior of San Stefano, would not let the matter fall through. He and Brett would bring forward the witnesses——"
Dino turned his eyes slowly upon him with a curiously subtle look.
"No," he said. "I have received news to-day which puts the matter completely in my own hands. Vincenza Vasari is dead: Rosa Naldi is dying. They were in a train when a railway accident took place. They will never be able to appear as witnesses."
"But they made depositions——"
"Yes. I believe these depositions would establish the case. But depositions are written upon paper, and hearsay evidence is not admitted. Nobody could prove it, if I did not wish it to be proved."
"I doubt whether it could be proved at all," said Percival, hesitatingly. "Of course, it would make Miss Murray uncomfortable. And if that other Brian Luttrell is living still, the money would go back to him. Would he divide it with you, do you think, if he got it, even as you would share it all with him?"
"I believe so," answered Dino. "But I should not want it—unless it were to give to the monastery; and San Stefano is already rich. A monk has no wants."
"But I am not a monk. There lies the unfairness of your proposal. You give up what you care for very little: I am to give up what is dearer than the whole world to me. No; I won't do it. It's absurd."
"Is this your answer, Mr. Heron?" said Dino. "Will you sacrifice Brian's happiness—I say nothing of her's, for you understand her best—for your own?"
"Yes, I will," Percival declared, roundly. "No man is called upon to give up his life for another without good reason. Your friend is nothing to me. I'll get what I can out of the world for myself. It is little enough, but I cannot be expected to surrender it for some ridiculous notion of unselfishness. I never professed to be unselfish in my life. Mr. Stretton is a man to whom I owe a grudge. I acknowledge it."
Dino sighed heavily. The shade of disappointment upon his face was so deep that Heron felt some pity for him—all the more because he believed that the monk was destined to deeper disappointment still. He turned to him with almost a friendly look.
"You can't expect extraordinary motives from an ordinary man like me," he said. "I must say in all fairness that you have made a generous proposal. If I spoke too violently and hastily, I hope you will overlook it. I was rather beside myself with rage—though not with the sort of regret which Mr. Brett kindly attributes to me."
"I understood that," said Dino.
By a sudden impulse Percival held out his hand. It was a strong testimony to Dino's earnestness and simplicity of character that the two parted friends after such a stormy interview.
As they went out of the office together Percival said, abruptly:—
"Where are you staying?"
Dino named the place.
"With the man you call Brian Luttrell?"
"With Brian Luttrell."
"What is the next thing you mean to do?"
"I must tell Brian that I have betrayed his secret."
"Oh, he won't be very angry with you for that!" laughed Percival.
Dino shook his head. He was not so sure.
As soon as they had separated, Percival went off at a swinging pace for a long walk. It was his usual way of getting rid of annoyance or excitement; and he was vexed to find that he could not easily shake off the effects that his conversation with Dino Vasari had produced upon his mind. The unselfishness, the devotion, of this man—younger than himself, with a brilliant future before him if only he chose to take advantage of it—appealed powerfully to his imagination. He tried to laugh at it: he called Dino hard names—"Quixotic fool," "dreamer," and "enthusiast"—but he could not forget that an ideal of conduct had been presented to his eyes, which was far higher than any which he should have thought possible for himself, and by a man upon whose profession of faith and calling he looked with profound contempt.
He tried to disbelieve the story that he had been told. He tried hard to think that the man whom Elizabeth loved could not be Brian Luttrell. He strove to convince himself that Elizabeth would be happier with him than with the man she loved. Last of all he struggled desperately with the conviction that it was his highest duty to tell her the whole story, set her free, and let Brian marry her if he chose. With the respective claims of Dino, Brian, and Elizabeth to the estate, he felt that he had no need to interfere. They must settle it amongst themselves.
Of one thing he wanted to make sure. Was the tutor who had come with the Herons from Italy indeed Brian Luttrell? How could he ascertain?
Chance favoured him, he thought. On the following morning he met Hugo Luttrell in town, and accosted him with unusual eagerness.
"I've an odd question to ask you," he said, "but I have a strong reason for it. You saw the tutor at Strathleckie when you were in Scotland?"
"Yes," said Hugo, looking at him restlessly out of his long, dark eyes.
"Had you any idea that Stretton was not his real name?"
Hugo paused before he replied.
"It is rather an odd question, certainly," he said, with a temporising smile. "May I ask what you want to know for?"
"I was told that he came to the house under a feigned name: that's all."
"Who told you so?"
"Oh, a person who knew him."
"An Italian? A priest?"
Hugo was thinking of the possibility of Father Christoforo's having made his way to England.
"Yes," said Percival, dubiously. "A Benedictine monk, I believe. He hinted that you knew Stretton's real name."
"Quite a mistake," said Hugo. "I know nothing about him. But your priest sounds romantic. An old fellow, isn't he, with grey hair?"
"Not at all: young and slight, with dark eyes and rather a finely-cut face. Calls himself Dino Vasari or some such name."
Hugo started: a yellowish pallor overspread his face. For a moment he stopped short in the street: then hurried on so fast that Percival was left a few steps behind.
"What's the matter? So you know him?" said Heron, overtaking him by a few vigorous strides.
"A little. He's the biggest scoundrel I ever met," replied Hugo, slackening his pace and trying to speak easily. "I was surprised at his being in England, that was all. Do you know where he lives, that I may avoid the street!" he added, laughing.
Percival told him, wondering at his evident agitation.
"Then you can't tell me anything about Stretton?" he said, as they came to a building which he was about to enter.
"Nothing. Wish I could," said Hugo, turning away.
"So he escaped, after all!" he murmured to himself, as he walked down the street, with an occasional nervous glance to the right and left. "I thought I had done my work effectually: I did not know I was such a bungler. Does he guess who attacked him, I wonder? I suppose not, or I should have heard of the matter before now. Fortunate that I took the precaution of drugging him first. What an escape! And he has got hold of Heron! I shall have to make sure of the old lady pretty soon, or I foresee that Netherglen—and Kitty—never will be mine."
In a little room on the second-floor of a London lodging-house near Manchester-square, Brian Luttrell was packing a box, with the few scanty possessions that he called his own. He had little light to see by, for the slender, tallow candle burnt with a very uncertain flame: the glare of the gas lamps in the street gave almost a better light. The floor was uncarpeted, the furniture scanty and poor: the fire in the grate smouldered miserably, and languished for want of fuel. But there was a contented look on Brian's face. He even whistled and hummed to himself as he packed his box, and though the tune broke down, and ended with a sigh, it showed a mind more at ease than Brian's had been for many a long day.
"Heigho!" he said, rising from his task, and giving the box a shove with his foot into a corner, "I wonder where Dino is? He ought not to be out so late with that cough of his. I suppose he has gone to Brett and Grattan's. I am glad the dear fellow has put himself into their hands. Right ought to be done: she would have said so herself, and I know Dino will be generous. It would suit him very well to take a money compensation, and let her continue to reign, with glories somewhat shorn, however, at Strathleckie. I am afraid he will do nothing but enrich San Stefano with his inheritance. He certainly will not settle down at Netherglen as a country squire.
"What will my mother say? Pooh! I must get out of that habit of calling her my mother. She is no relation of mine, as she herself told me. Mrs. Luttrell!—it sounds a little odd. Odder, too, to think that I must never sign myself Brian Luttrell any more. Bernardino Vasari! I think I might as well stick to the plain John Stretton, which I adopted on the spur of the moment at San Stefano. I suppose I shall soon have to meet the woman who calls herself—who is—my mother. I will say nothing harsh or unkind to her, poor thing! She has done herself a greater injury than she has done me."
So he meditated, with his face bent over his folded arms upon the mantelpiece. A slow step on the stair roused him, he poked the fire vigorously, lighted another candle, and then opened the door.
"Is that you, Dino?" he said. "Where have you been for the last three hours?"
Dino it was. He came in without speaking, and dropped into a chair, as if exhausted with fatigue. Brian repeated his question, but when Dino tried to answer it, a fit of coughing choked his words. It lasted several minutes, and left him panting, with the perspiration standing in great beads upon his brow.
With a grave and anxious face Brian brought him some water, wrapped a cloak round his shaking shoulders, and stood by him, waiting for the paroxysm of coughing to abate. Dino's cough was seldom more than the little hacking one, which the wound in his side seemed to have left, but it was always apt to grow worse in cold or foggy weather, and at times increased to positive violence. Brian, who had visited him regularly while he was in hospital, and nursed him with a woman's tenderness as soon as he was discharged from it, had never known it to be so bad as it was on this occasion.
"You've been overdoing yourself, old fellow," he said, affectionately, when Dino was able to look up and smile. "You have been out too late. And this den of mine is not the place for you. You must clear out of it as soon as you can."
"Not as long as you are here," said Dino.
"That was all very well as long as we could remain unknown. But now that Brett and Grattan consent to take up your case, as I knew they would all along, they will want to see you: your friends and relations will want to visit you; and you must not be found here with me. I'll settle you in new lodgings before I sail. There's a comfortable place in Piccadilly that I used to know, with a landlady who is honest and kind."
"Too expensive for me," Dino murmured, with a pleasant light in his eyes, as Brian made preparations for their evening meal, with a skill acquired by recent practice.
"You forget that your expenses will be paid out of the estate," said Brian, "in the long run. Did not Brett offer to advance you funds if you wanted them?"
"Yes, and I declined them. I had enough from Father Christoforo," answered Dino, rather faintly. "I did not like to run the risk of spending what I might not be able to repay."
"Brett would not have offered you money if he did not feel very sure of his case. There can be no doubt of that," said Brian, as he set two cracked tea-cups on the table, and produced a couple of chops and a frying-pan from a cupboard. "You need not be afraid."
For some minutes the sound of hissing and spluttering that came from the frying-pan effectually prevented any further attempts at conversation. When the cooking was over, Dino again addressed his friend.
"Do you want to know what I have been doing?"
"Yes, I mean you to give an account of yourself. But not until you have had some food. Eat and drink first; then talk."
Dino smiled and came to the table. But he had no appetite: he swallowed a few mouthfuls, evidently to please Brian only; then went back to the solitary arm-chair by the fire, and closed his eyes.
Brian did not disturb him. It was plain that Dino, not yet strong after his accident, had wearied himself out. He was glad, however, when the young man roused himself from a light and fitful doze, and said in his naturally tranquil voice:—
"I am ready to give an account of myself, as you call it, now."
"Then tell me," said Brian, leaning his elbow on the mantelpiece, and looking down upon the pale, somewhat emaciated countenance, with a tender smile, "what you mean by going about London in a dress which I thought that you had renounced for ever?"
"It only means," said Dino, returning the smile, "that you were mistaken. I had not renounced it, and I think that I shall keep to it now."
"You can hardly do that in your position," said Brian, quietly.
"My position! What is that to me? 'I had rather be a door-keeper in the house of the Lord'—you know what I mean: I have said it all to you before. If I go back to Italy, Brian, and the case falls through, as it may do through lack of witnesses, will you not take your own again?"
"And turn out Miss Murray? Certainly not." Then, after a pause, Brian asked, rather sternly, "What do you mean by the lack of witnesses? There are plenty of witnesses. There is—my—my mother—for one."
"No. She is dead."
"Dead. Vincenza Vasari dead?"
Dino recounted to him briefly enough the details of the catastrophe, but acknowledged, in reply to his quick questions, that there was no necessity for his claim to be given up on account of the death of these two persons. Mr. Brett, with whom he had conferred before visiting Percival Heron, had assured him that there could be no doubt of his identity with the child whom Mrs. Luttrell had given Vincenza to nurse; and, knowing the circumstances, he thought it probable that the law-suit would be an amicable one, and that Miss Murray would consent to a compromise. All this, Dino repeated, though with some reluctance, to his friend.
"You see, Brian," he continued, "there will be no reason for your hiding yourself if my case is proved. You would not be turning out Miss Murray or anybody else. You would be my friend, my brother, my helper. Will you not stay in England and be all this to me? I ask you, as I have asked you many times before, but I ask it now for the last time. Stay with me, and let it be no secret that you are living still."
"I can't do it, Dino. I must go. You promised not to ask it of me again, dear old fellow."
"Let me come with you, then. We will both leave Miss Murray to enjoy her inheritance in peace."
"No, that would not be just."
"Just! What do I care for justice?" said Dino, indignantly, while his eyes grew dark and his cheeks crimson with passionate feeling. "I care for you, for her, for the happiness of you both. Can I do nothing towards it?"
"Nothing, I think, Dino mio."
"But you will stay with me until you go? You will not cast me off as you have cast off your other friends? Promise me."
"I promise you, Dino," said Brian, laying his hand soothingly on the other's shoulder. It seemed to him that Dino must be suffering from fever; that he was taking a morbidly exaggerated view of matters. But his next words showed that his excitement proceeded from no merely physical cause.
"I have done you no harm, at any rate," he said, rising and holding Brian's hand between his own. "I have made up my mind. I will have none of this inheritance. It shall either be yours or hers. I do not want it. And I have taken the first step towards ridding myself of it."
"What have you done?" said Brian.
"Will you ever forgive me?" asked Dino, looking half-sadly, half-doubtfully, into his face. "I am not sure that you ever will. I have betrayed you. I have said that you were alive."
Brian's face first turned red, then deathly pale. He withdrew his hand from Dino's grasp, and took a backward step.
"You!" he said, in a stifled voice. "You! whom I thought to be my friend!"
"I am your friend still," said Dino.
Brian resumed his place by the mantelpiece, and played mechanically with the ornaments upon it. His face was pale still, but a little smile had begun to curve his lips.
"So," he said, slowly, "my deep-laid plans are frustrated, it seems. I did not think you would have done this, Dino. I took a good deal of trouble with my arrangements."
The tone of gentle satire went to Dino's heart. He looked appealingly at Brian, but did not speak.
"You have made me look like a very big fool," said Brian, quietly, "and all to no purpose. You can't make me stay in England, you know, or present myself to be recognised by Mrs. Luttrell, and old Colquhoun. I shall vanish to South America under another name, and leave no trace behind, and the only result of your communication will be to disturb people's minds a little, and to make them suppose that I had repented of my very harmless deception, and was trying to get money out of you and Miss Murray."
"Nobody would think so who knows you."
"Who does know me? Not even you, Dino, if you think I would take advantage of what you have said to-night. Go to-morrow, and tell Brett that you were mistaken. It is Brett you have told, of course."
"It is not Brett."
"Who then?"
"Mr. Percival Heron," said Dino, looking him steadily in the face.
Brian drew himself up into an upright posture, with an ejaculation of astonishment. "Good Heavens, Dino! What have you been doing?"
"My duty," answered Dino.
"Your duty! Good Heavens!—unpardonable interference I should call it from any one but you. You don't understand the ways of the world! How should you, fresh from a Romish seminary? But you should understand that it is wiser, safer, not to meddle with the affairs of other people."
"Your affairs are mine," said Dino, with his eyes on the ground.
Brian laughed bitterly. "Hardly, I think. I have given no one any authority to act for me. I may manage my affairs badly, but on the whole I must manage them for myself."
"I knew that I should have to bear your reproaches," said Dino, with folded arms and downcast eyes. Then, after a pause, during which Brian walked up and down the room impatiently, he added in a lower tone, "But I did not think that they would have been so bitter."
Brian stopped short and looked at him, then came and laid his hand gently on his shoulder. "Poor Dino!" he said, "I ought to remember how unlike all the rest of the world you are. Forgive me. I did not mean to hurt you. No doubt you thought that you were acting for the best."
Dino looked up, and met the somewhat melancholy kindness of Brian's gaze. His heart was already full: his impulsive nature was longing to assert itself: with one great sob he threw his arms round Brian's neck, and fell weeping upon his shoulder.
"But, my dear Dino," said Brian, when the storm (the reason of which he understood very imperfectly) had subsided, "you must see that this communication of my secret to Mr. Heron will make a difference in my plans."
"What difference?"
"I must start to-morrow instead of next week."
"No, Brian, no."
"I must, indeed. Heron will tell your story to Brett, to Colquhoun, to Mrs. Luttrell, to Miss Murray. He may have telegraphed it already. It is very important to him, because, you see," said Brian, with a sad half-smile, "he is going to marry Miss Murray, and, unless he knows your history, he will think that my existence will deprive her of her fortune."
"I do not believe he will tell your story to anyone."
"Dino, caro mio! Heron is a man of honour. He can do nothing less, unfortunately."
"I think he will do less. I think that no word of what I have told him will pass his lips."
"It would be impossible for him to keep silence," remarked Brian, coldly, and Dino said nothing more.
It was after a long silence, when the candle had died out, and the fire had grown so dim that they could not see each other's faces, that Brian said in a low, but quiet tone—
"Did you tell him why I left Strathleckie?"
"Yes, I did."
Brian suppressed a vexed exclamation. It was no use trying to make Dino understand his position.
"What did he say?" he asked.
"He knew already."
"Ah! Yes. So I should have supposed." And there the conversation ended.
Long after Dino was tranquilly sleeping, Brian Luttrell sat by the ricketty round table in the middle of the room labouring at the composition of one or two letters, which seemed very difficult to write. Sheet after sheet was torn up and thrown aside. The grey dawn was creeping in at the window before the last word was written, and the letters placed within their respective envelopes. Slowly and carefully he wrote the address of the longest letter—wrote it, as he thought, for the last time—Mrs. Luttrell, Netherglen, Dunmuir. Then he stole quietly out of the house, and slipped it into the nearest pillar-box. The other letter—a few lines merely—he put in his pocket, unaddressed. On his return he entered the tiny slip of a room which Dino occupied, fearing lest his movements should have disturbed the sleeper. But Dino had not stirred. Brian stood and looked at him for a little while, thinking of the circumstances in which they had first met, of the strange bond which subsisted between them, and lastly of the curious betrayal of his confidence, so unlike Dino's usual conduct, which Brian charitably set down to ignorance of English customs and absence of English reserve. He guessed no finer motive, and his mouth curled with an irrepressible, if somewhat mournful, smile, as he turned away, murmuring to himself:—
"I have had my revenge."
He did not leave England next day. Dino's entreaties weighed with him; and he knew also that he himself had acted in a way which was likely to nullify his friend's endeavours to reinstate him in his old position. He waited with more curiosity than apprehension for the letter, the telegram, the visit, that would assure him of Percival's uprightness. For Brian had no doubt in his own mind as to what Percival Heron ought to do. If he learnt that Brian Luttrell was still living, he ought to communicate the fact to Mr. Colquhoun at least. And if Mr. Colquhoun were the kindly old man that he used to be, he would probably hasten to London to shake hands once more with the boy that he had known and loved in early days. Brian was so certain of this that he caught himself listening for the door-bell, and rehearsing the sentences with which he should excuse his conduct to his kind, old friend.
But two days passed away, and he watched in vain. No message, no visitor, came to show him that Percival Heron had told the story. Perhaps, however, he had written it in a letter. Brian silently calculated the time that a letter and its answer would take. He found that by post it was not possible to get a reply until an hour after the time at which he was to start.
In those two days Dino had an interview with Mr. Brett, from which he returned looking anxious and uneasy. He told Brian, however, nothing of its import, and Brian did not choose to ask. The day and the hour of Brian's departure came without further conversation between them on the subject which was, perhaps, nearer than any other to their hearts. Dino wanted to accompany his friend to the ship by which he was to sail: but Brian steadily refused to let him do so. It was strange to see the relation between these two. In spite of his youth, Dino usually inspired a feeling of respect in the minds of other men: his peculiarly grave and tranquil manner made him appear older and more experienced than he really was. But with Brian, he fell naturally into the position of a younger brother: he seemed to take a delight in leaning upon Brian's judgment, and surrendering his own will. He had been brought up to depend upon others in this way all through his life; but Brian saw clearly enough that the habit was contrary to his native temperament, and that, when once freed from the leading-strings in which he had hitherto been kept, he would certainly prove himself a man of remarkably strong and clear judgment. It was this conviction that caused Brian to persist in his intention of going to South America: Dino would do better when left to himself, than when leaning upon Brian, as his affection led him to do.
"You will come back," said Dino, in a tone that admitted of no contradiction. "I know you will come back."
"Dino mio, you will come to see me some day, perhaps," said Brian. "Listen. I leave their future in your care. Do you understand? Make it possible for them to be happy."
"I will do what is possible to bring you home again."
"Caro mio, that is not possible," said Brian. "Do not try. You see this letter? Keep it until I have been an hour gone; then open it. Will you promise me that?"
"I promise."
"And now good-bye. Success and good fortune to you," said Brian, trying to smile. "When we meet again——"
"Shall we ever meet again?" said Dino, with one arm round Brian's neck, with his eyes looking straight into Brian's, with a look of pathetic longing which his friend never could forget. "Or is it a last farewell? Brother—my brother—God bless thee, and bring thee home at last." But it was of no earthly home that Dino thought.
And then they parted.
It was more than an hour before Dino thought of opening the letter which Brian had left with him. It ran as follows:—
"Dino mio, pardon me if I have done wrongly. You told my story and I have told yours. I feared lest you, in your generosity, should hide the truth, and therefore I have written fully to your mother. Go to her if she sends for you, and remember that she has suffered much. I have told her that you have the proofs: show them to her, and she will be convinced. God bless you, my only friend and brother."
Dino's head dropped upon his hands. Were all his efforts vain to free himself from the burden of a wealth which he did not desire? The Prior of San Stefano had forced him into the position of a claimant to the estate. With his long-formed habits of obedience it seemed impossible to gainsay the Prior's will. Here, in England, it was easier. And Dino was more and more resolved to take his own way.
A letter was brought to him at that moment. He opened it, and let his eyes run mechanically down the sheet. Then he started violently, and read it again with more attention. It contained one sentence and a signature:—
"If Dino Vasari of San Stefano will visit me at Netherglen, I will hear what he has to say.