"I am sorry to have displeased you," said Vivian, gravely. "Am I to understand that my warning comes too late?"

There was a moment's pause before she answered coldly:—

"Quite too late."

"Your choice has fallen upon Hugo Luttrell?"

Kitty was stripping the feathers ruthlessly from her fan. She answered with an agitated little laugh:

"That is not a fair question. You had better ask him."

"I think I do not need," said Rupert. Then, in a low and rather ironical tone, he added, "Pray accept my congratulations." She bowed her head with a scornful smile, and let him leave the room without another word. What was the use of speaking? The severance was complete between them now.

They had quarrelled before, but Kitty felt, bitterly enough, that now they were not quarrelling. She had built up a barrier between them which he was the last man to tear down. He would simply turn his back upon her now and go his own way. And she did not know how to call him back. She felt vaguely that her innocent little wiles were lost upon him. She might put on her prettiest dresses, and sing her sweetest songs, but they would never cause him to linger a moment longer by her side than was absolutely necessary. He had given her up.

She felt, too, with a great swelling of heart, that her roused pride had made her imply what was not true. He would always think that she was engaged to Hugo Luttrell. She had, at least, made him understand that she was prepared to accept Hugo when he proposed to her. And all the world knew that Hugo meant to propose—Kitty herself knew it best of all.

The day came on which Rupert was to return to London. Scarcely a word had been interchanged between him and Kitty since the conversation which has been recorded. She thought, as she stole furtive glances towards him from time to time, that he looked harassed, and even depressed, but in manner he was more cheerful than it was his custom to be. When the time came for saying good-bye, he held out his hand to her with a kindly smile.

"Come, Kitty," he said, "let us be friends."

Her heart gave a wild leap which seemed almost to suffocate her; she looked up into his face with changing colour and eager eyes.

"I am sorry," she began, with a little gasp. "I did not mean all I said the other day, and I wanted to tell you——"

To herself it seemed as if these words were a tremendous self-betrayal; to Vivian they were less than nothing—commonplace sentences enough; uttered in a frightened, childish tone.

"Did you not mean it all?" he said, giving her hand a friendly pressure. "Well, never mind; neither did I. We are quits, are we not? I will not obtrude my advice upon you again, and you must forgive me for having already done so. Good-bye, my dear child; I trust you will be happy."

"I shall never be happy," said Kitty, withdrawing her hand from his, "never, never, never!" And then she burst into tears and rushed out of the room.

Vivian looked after her with a slightly puzzled expression, but did not attempt to call her back.

It was not a very favourable day for Hugo's suit, and he was received that afternoon in anything but a sunshiny mood by Miss Heron. For almost the first time she snubbed him unmercifully, but he had been treated with so much graciousness on all previous occasions that the snubs did not produce very much impression upon him. And, finding himself alone with her for a few minutes, he was rash enough to make the venture upon which he had set his heart, without considering whether he had chosen the best moment for the experiment or not. Accordingly, he failed. A few brief words passed between them, but the few were sufficient to convince Hugo Luttrell that he had never won Kitty Heron's heart. To his infinite surprise and mortification, she refused his offer of marriage most decidedly.



CHAPTER XLII.

A FALSE ALARM.

Angela's departure from Netherglen had already taken place. Hugo was not sorry that she was gone. Her gentle words and ways were a restraint upon him: he felt obliged to command himself in her presence. And self-command was becoming more and more a difficult task. What he wanted to say or to do presented itself to him with overmastering force: it seemed foolishly weak to give up, for the sake of a mere scruple of conscience, any design on which he had set his heart. And above all things in life he desired just now to win Kitty Heron for himself.

"She has deceived me," he thought, as he sat alone on the evening of the day on which she had refused to marry him. "She made me believe that she cared for me, the little witch, and then she deliberately threw me over. I suppose she wants to marry Vivian. I'll stop that scheme. I'll tell her something about Vivian which she does not know."

The fire before which he was sitting burnt up brightly, and threw a red glow on the dark panelling of the room, on the brocaded velvet of the old chair against which he leaned his handsome head, on the pale, but finely-chiselled, features of his face. The look of subtlety, of mingled passion and cruelty, was becoming engraved upon that face: in moments of repose its expression was evil and sinister—an expression which told its own tale of his life and thoughts. Once, in London, when he had incautiously given himself up in a public place to rejection upon his plans, an artist said to a friend as they passed him by: "That young fellow has got the very look I want for the fallen angel in my picture. There's a sort of malevolent beauty about his face which one doesn't often meet." Hugo heard the remark, and smoothed his brow, inwardly determining to control his facial muscles better. He did not wish to give people a bad impression of him. To look like a fallen angel was the last thing he desired. In society, therefore, he took pains to appear gentle and agreeable; but the hours of his solitude were stamping his face with ineradicable traces of the vicious habits, the thoughts of crime, the attempts to do evil, in which his life was passed.

The ominous look was strongly marked on his face as he sat by the fire that evening. It was not the firelight only that gave a strange glow to his dark eyes—they were unnaturally luminous, as the eyes of madmen sometimes are, and full of a painful restlessness. The old, dreamy, sensuous languor was seldom seen in their shadowy depths.

"I will win her in spite of herself," he went on, muttering the words half-aloud: "I will make her love me whether she will or no. She may fight and she may struggle, but she shall be mine after all. And before very long. Before the month is out, shall I say? Before Brian and her brother come home at any rate. They are expected in February. Yes—before February. Then, Kitty, you will be my wife."

He smiled as he said the words, but the smile was not a pleasant one.

He did not sleep much that night. He had lately grown very wakeful, and on this night he did not go to bed at all. The servants heard him wandering about the house in the early hours of the morning, opening and shutting doors, pacing the long passages, stealing up and downstairs. One of the maids put her head out of her door, and reported that the house was all lit up as if for a dance—rooms and corridors were illuminated. It was one of Hugo's whims that he could not bear the dark. When he walked the house in this way he always lighted every lamp and candle that he could find. He fancied that strange faces looked at him in the dark.

Confusion and distress reigned next day at Netherglen. Mr. Luttrell had taken upon himself to dismiss one or two of the servants, and this was resented as a liberty by the housekeeper, who had lived there long before he had made his appearance in Scotland at all. He had paid two of the maids a month's wages in advance, and told them to leave the house within four-and-twenty hours. The household had already been considerably reduced, and the indignant housekeeper immediately announced her intention of going to Mr. Colquhoun and inquiring whether young Mr. Luttrell had been legally empowered to manage his aunt's affairs. And seeing that this really was her intention, Hugo smiled and spoke her fair.

"You're a little hard on me, Mrs. Shairp," he said, in dulcet tones. "I was going to speak to you privately about these arrangements. You, of course, ought never to go away from Netherglen, and, whoever goes, you shall not. You must be here to welcome Mr. Brian when he comes home again, and to give my wife a greeting when I bring her to Netherglen—which I hope I shall do very shortly."

"An' wha's the leddy, Maister Hugo?" said the housekeeper, a little mollified by his words. "It'll be Miss Murray, maybe? The mistress liked the glint of her bonny een. 'Jean,' she said to me; the day Miss Murray cam' to pay her respects, 'Jean, yon lassie steps like a princess.' Ye'll be nae sae far wrang, Maister Hugo, if it's Miss Murray that ye mak' your bride."

"It is not Miss Murray," said Hugo, carelessly; "it is her cousin, Miss Heron."

Mrs. Shairp's eyebrows expressed astonishment and contempt, although her lips murmured only—"That wee bit lassie!" But she made no further objection to the plan which Hugo now suggested to her. He wanted her not to leave Mrs. Luttrell's service (or so he said), but to take a few weeks' holiday. She had a sister in Aberdeen—could she not pay this sister a visit? Mrs. Luttrell should have every care during the housekeeper's absence—two trained nurses were with her night and day; and a Miss Corcoran, a cousin of the Luttrell family, was shortly expected. Mr. Colquhoun had spoken to him about the necessity of economy, and for that reason he wished to reduce the number of servants as much as possible. He was going away to London, and there would be no need of more than one servant in the house. In fact, the gardener and his wife could do all that would be required.

"Me leave my mistress to the care o' John Robertson and his wife!" ejaculated the housekeeper, indignantly.

Whereupon Hugo had to convince her that Mrs. Luttrell was perfectly safe in the hands of the two nurses—at any rate for a week. During that week, one or two necessary alterations could be made in the house—there was a water-pipe and a drain that needed attention, in Hugo's opinion—and this could be done while the house was comparatively empty—"before Brian came home." With this formula he never failed to calm Mrs. Shairp's wrath and allay her rising fears.

For she had fears. She did not know why Mr. Hugo seemed to want her out of the way. She fancied that he had secret plans which he could not carry out if the house were full of servants. She tried every possible pretext for staying at home, but she felt herself worsted at all points when it came to matters of argument. She did not like to appeal to Mr. Colquhoun. For she knew, as well as everybody in the county knew, that Mrs. Luttrell had made Hugo the heir to all she had to leave; and that before very long he would probably be the master of Netherglen. As a matter of fact, he was even now virtually the master, and she had gone beyond her duty, she thought, in trying to argue with him. She did not know what to do, and so she succumbed to his more persistent will. After all, she had no reason to fear that anything would go wrong. She said that she would go for a week or ten days, but not for a longer time. "Well, well," said Hugo, in a soothing tone, as if he were making a concession, "come back in a week, if you like, my good Mrs. Shairp. You will find the house very uncomfortable—that is all. I am going to turn painters and decorators loose in the upper rooms; the servants' quarters are in a most dilapidated condition."

"If the penters are coming in, it's just the time that I sud be here, sir," said Mrs. Shairp, firmly, but respectfully. And Hugo smiled an assent.

As a matter of fact he had got all he wanted. He wanted Mrs. Shairp out of the house for a week or ten days. For that space of time he wished to have Netherglen to himself. She announced, after some hesitation, that she would leave for Aberdeen on the twenty-eighth, and that she should stay a week, or at the most, a day or two longer. "She's safe for a fortnight," said Hugo to himself with a triumphant smile. He had other preparations to make, and he set to work to make them steadily.

It was a remark made by Kitty herself at their last interview that had suggested to his mind the whole mad scheme to which he was devoting his mental powers. It all hinged upon the fact that Kitty was going to spend a week with some friends in Edinburgh—friends whom Hugo knew only by name. She went to them on the twenty-seventh. Mrs. Shairp left Netherglen the twenty-eighth. Two hours after Mrs. Shairp had started on her journey the two remaining servants were dismissed. The plumber, who had been severely inspected and cautioned as to his behaviour that morning by Mrs. Shairp, was sent about his business. One of the nurses was also discharged. The only persons left in the house beside Mrs. Luttrell, the solitary nurse, and Hugo himself, were two; a young kitchen-maid, generally supposed to be somewhat deficient in intellect, and a man named Stevens, whom Hugo had employed at various times in various capacities, and characterised (with rather an odd smile) as "a very useful fellow." The nurse who remained, protested vigorously against this state of affairs, but was assured by Hugo in the politest manner, that it would last only for a day or two, that he regretted it as much as she did, that he would telegraph to Edinburgh for another nurse immediately. What could the poor woman do? She was obliged to submit to circumstances. She could no more withstand Hugo's smiling, than she liked to refuse—in despite of all rules—the handsome gratuity that he slid into her hand.

Meanwhile, Kitty was trying to forget her past sorrows in the society of some newly-made friends in Edinburgh. Here, if anywhere, she might forget that Rupert Vivian had despised her, and that Hugo Luttrell accused her of being a heartless coquette. She was not heartless—or, at least, not more so than girls of eighteen usually are—but, perhaps, she was a little bit of a coquette. Of course, she had acted foolishly with respect to Vivian and Hugo Luttrell. But her foolishness brought its own punishment.

It was on the second day of her visit that a telegram was brought to her. She tore it open in some surprise, exclaiming:—

"They must have had news of Percival!"

Then she read the message and turned pale.

"What is it?" said one of her friends, coming to her side.

Kitty held out the paper for her to read.

"Elizabeth Murray, Queen's Hotel, Muirside, to Miss Heron, Merchiston Terrace, Edinburgh. Your father has met with a serious accident, and is not able to move from Muirside. He wishes you to come by the next train, which leaves Edinburgh at four-thirty. You shall be met at the Muirside Station either by Hugo or myself."

"There is time for me to catch the train, is there not?" said Kitty, jumping up, with her eyes full of tears.

"Oh, yes, dear, yes, plenty of time. But who is to go with you?" said Mrs. Baxter, rather nervously. "I am so sorry John is not at home; but there is scarcely time to let him know."

"I can go perfectly well by myself," said Kitty. "You must put me into the train at the station, Mrs. Baxter, under the care of the guard, if you like, and I shall be met at Muirside."

"Where is Muirside?" asked Jessie Baxter, a girl of Kitty's age.

"Five miles from Dunmuir. I suppose papa was sketching or something. Oh! I hope it is not a very bad accident!" said Kitty, turning great, tearful eyes first on Mrs. Baxter, and then on the girls. "What shall we do! I must go and get ready instantly."

They followed her to her room, and anxiously assisted in the preparations for her journey, but even then Mrs. Baxter could not refrain from inquiring:—

"Who is the person who is to meet you? 'Hugo'—do you know him?"

"Oh, yes, he is Elizabeth's cousin, and Elizabeth is my cousin. We are connections you see. I know him very well," said Kitty, with a blush, which Mrs. Baxter remembered afterwards.

"I would go with you myself," she said, "if it were not for the cold, but I am afraid I should be laid up with bronchitis if I went."

"Let Janet go, mamma," cried one of the girls.

"I don't want Janet, indeed, I don't want her," said Kitty, earnestly. "I am much obliged to you, Mrs. Baxter, but, indeed, I can manage quite well by myself. It is quite a short journey, only two-hours-and-a-half; and it would be a pity to take her, especially as she could not get back to-night."

She carried her point, and was allowed to depart without an attendant. Mrs. Baxter went with her to the station, and put her under the care of the guard who promised to look after her.

"You will write to us, Kitty, and tell us how Mr. Heron is," said Mrs. Baxter, before the train moved off.

"Yes, I will telegraph," said Kitty, "as soon as I reach Muirside."

"Do, dear. I hope you will find him better. Take care of yourself," and then the train moved out of the station, and Mrs. Baxter went home.

Kitty's journey was a perfectly uneventful one, and would have been comfortable enough but for the circumstances under which she made it. The telegram lay upon her lap, and she read it over and over again with increasing alarm as she noticed its careful vagueness, which seemed to her the worst sign of all. She was heartily relieved when she found that she was nearing Muirside: the journey had never seemed so long to her before. It was, indeed, longer than usual, for the railway line was in some places partly blocked with snow, and eight o'clock was past before Kitty reached Muirside. She looked anxiously out of the window, and saw Hugo Luttrell on the platform before the train had stopped. He sprang up to the step, and looked at her for a moment without speaking. Kitty had time to think that the expression of his face was odd before he replied to her eager questions about her father.

"Yes, he is a little better; he wants to see you," said Hugo at last.

"But how has he hurt himself? Is he seriously ill? Oh, Hugo, do tell me everything. Anything is better than suspense."

"There is no need for such great anxiety; he is a great deal better, quite out of danger," Hugo answered, with a rather strange smile. "I will tell you more as we go up to the house. Don't be afraid."

And then the guard came up to assure himself of the young lady's safety, and to receive his tip. Hugo made it a large one. Kitty's luggage was already in the hands of a man whom she thought she recognised: she had seen him once or twice with Hugo, and once when she paid a state-call at Netherglen. Just as she was leaving the station, a thought occurred to her, and she turned back.

"I said I would telegraph to Mrs. Baxter as soon as I reached Muirside. Is it too late?"

"The office is shut, I think."

"I am so sorry! She will be anxious."

"Not if you telegraph first thing in the morning," said Hugo, soothingly. "Or—stay: I'll tell you what you can do. Come with me here, into the waiting-room—now you can write your message on a leaf of my pocket-book, and we will leave it with the station-master, to be sent off as soon as possible."

"What shall I say?" said Kitty, sitting down at the painted deal table, which was sparsely adorned with a water-bottle and a tract, and chafing her little cold hands. "Do write it for me, Hugo, please. My fingers are quite numb."

"Poor little fingers! You will be warmer soon," said Hugo, with more of his usual manner. "I will write in your name then. 'Arrived safely and found my father much better, but will write in a day or two and give particulars.' That does not tie you down, you see. You may be too busy to write to-morrow."

"Thank you. It will do very nicely."

She was left for a few minutes, whilst he went to the station-master with the message, and she took the opportunity of looking at herself in the glass above the mantelpiece, partly in order to see whether her bonnet was straight, partly in order to escape the stare of the waiting-room woman, who seemed to take a great deal of interest in her movements. Kitty was rather vexed when Hugo returned, to hear him say, in a very distinct tone:—

"Come, dearest. We shall be late if we don't set off at once."

"Hugo!" she ejaculated, as she met him at the door.

"What is it, dear? What is wrong?"

It seemed to her that he made his words still more purposely distinct. The woman in the waiting-room came to the door, and gazed after them as they moved away towards the carriage which stood in waiting. They made a handsome pair, and Hugo looked particularly lover-like as he gave the girl his arm and bent his head to listen to what she had to say. But Kitty's words were not loving; they were only indignant and distressed.

"You should not speak to me in that way," she said.

But Hugo laughed and pressed her arm as he helped her into the carriage. The man Stevens was already on the box. Hugo entered with her, closed the door and drew up the window. The carriage drove away into the darkness of an unlighted road, and disappeared from the sight of a knot of gazers collected round the station door.

"It's like a wedding," said the woman of the waiting-room, as she turned back to the deal table with the water bottle and the tract. "Just like a wedding."

Mrs. Baxter received her telegram next morning, and was comforted by it. She noticed that the message was dated from Muirside Station, and that she must, therefore, wait until Kitty sent the promised letter before she wrote to Kitty, as she did not know where Mr. Heron might be staying. But as the days passed on and nothing more was heard, she addressed a letter of inquiry to Kitty at Strathleckie. To her amaze it was sent back to Merchiston Terrace, as if the Herons thought that Kitty was still with her, and a batch of letters with the Dunmuir postmark began to accumulate on the Baxters' table. Finally there came a postcard from Elizabeth, which Mrs. Baxter took the liberty of reading.

"Dear Kitty," it ran, "why do you not write to us? When are you coming back? We shall expect you on Saturday, if we hear nothing to the contrary from you. Uncle Alfred will meet you at Dunmuir."

"There is something wrong here," gasped poor Mrs. Baxter.

"What has become of that child if she is not with her friends? What does it mean?"



CHAPTER XLIII.

TRAPPED.

No sooner had the carriage door closed, than Kitty began to question her companion about the accident to her father. Hugo replied with evident reluctance—a reluctance which only increased her alarm. She began, to shed tears at last, and implored him to tell her the whole story, repeating that "anything would be better than suspense."

"I cannot say more than I have done," said Hugo, in a muffled voice. "You will know soon—and, besides, as I have told you, there is nothing for you to be alarmed at; indeed there is not. Do you think I would deceive you in that?"

"I hope not," faltered Kitty. "You are very kind."

"Don't call it kindness. You know that I would do anything for you." Then, noticing that the vehemence of his tone made her shrink away from him, he added more calmly, "you will soon understand why I am acting in this way. Wait for a little while and you will see."

She was silent for a few minutes, and then said in a subdued tone:—

"You frighten me, Hugo, by telling me that I shall know—soon; that I shall see—soon. What are you hiding from me? You make me fancy terrible things. My father is not—not-dying—dead? Hugo, tell me the truth."

"I solemnly assure you, Kitty, that your father is not even in danger."

"Then someone else is ill?"

"No, indeed. Be patient for a little time, and you shall see them all."

Kitty clasped her hands together with a sigh, and resigned herself to her position. She leaned back in the comfortably-cushioned seat for a time, and then roused herself to look out of the window. The night was a dark one: she could see little but vague forms of tall trees on either hand, but she felt by the motion of the carriage that they were going uphill.

"We have not much further to go, have we?" she asked.

"Some distance, I am sorry to say. Your father was removed to a farmhouse four miles from the station—the house nearest the scene of the accident."

"Four miles!" faltered Kitty. "I thought that it was close to the station."

"Is it disagreeable to you to drive so far with me?" said Hugo. "I will get out and sit on the box if you do not want me."

"Oh, no, I should not like you to do that," said Kitty. But in her heart, she wished that she had brought Mrs. Baxter's Janet.

Her next question showed some uneasiness, though of what kind Hugo could not exactly discover.

"Whose brougham is this?"

"Mrs. Luttrell's. I borrowed it for the occasion."

"You are very good. I could easily have come in a fly."

"Don't say you would rather have done so," said Hugo, allowing his voice to fall into a caressing murmur. But either Kitty did not hear, or was displeased by this recurrence to his old habit of saying lover-like things; for she gazed blankly out of the window, and made no reply.

After an hour's drive, the carriage turned in at some white gates, and stopped in a paved courtyard surrounded by high walls. Kitty gazed round her, thinking that she had seen the place before, but she was not allowed to linger. Hugo hurried her through a door into a stone hall, and down some dark passages, cautioning her from time to time to make no noise. Once Kitty tried to draw back. "Where is Elizabeth?" she said. "Is not Isabel here? Why is everything so still?"

Hugo pointed to the end of the corridor in which they stood. A nurse, in white cap and apron, was going from one room to another. She did not look round, but Kitty was reassured by her appearance. "Is papa there?" she said in a whisper. "Is this the farmhouse?"

"Come this way," said Hugo, pointing with his finger to a narrow wooden staircase before them. Kitty obeyed him without a word. Her limbs trembled beneath her with fatigue, and cold, and fear. It seemed to her that Hugo was agitated, too. His face was averted, but his voice had an unnatural sound.

They mounted two flights of stairs and came out upon a narrow landing, where there were three doors: one of them a thick baize door, the others narrow wooden ones. Hugo opened one of the wooden doors and showed a small sitting-room, where a meal was laid, and a fire spread a pleasant glow over the scene. The other door opened upon another narrow flight of stairs, leading, as Kitty afterwards ascertained, to a small bed-room.

"Where is papa?" said Kitty, glancing hurriedly around her. "He cannot be on this floor surely? Please take me to him at once, Mr. Luttrell."

"What have I done that I should be called Mr. Luttrell?" said Hugo, who was pulling off his fur gloves and standing with his back to the door. There was a look of triumph upon his face, which Kitty thought very insolent, and could not understand. "We are cousins after a fashion, are we not? You must eat and drink after your journey before you undergo any agitation. There is a room prepared for you upstairs, I believe. This meal seems to have been made ready for me as well as for you, however. Let me give you a glass of wine."

He walked slowly towards the table as he spoke.

"I do not want anything," said Kitty, impatiently. "I want to see my father. Where are the people of the house?"

"The people of the house? You saw the nurse just now. I will go and ascertain, if you like, whether the patient can be seen or not."

"Let me come with you."

"I think not," said Hugo, slowly. "No, I will not trouble you to do that. I will be back in a moment or two. Excuse me."

He made his exit very rapidly. From the sound that followed, it seemed that he had gone through the baize door. After a moment's hesitation Kitty followed and laid her hand on the brass handle. But she pushed in vain. There was no latch and no key to be seen, but the door resisted her efforts; and, as she stood hesitating, a man came up the narrow stair which she had mounted on her way from the courtyard, and forced her to retreat a step or two. He was carrying her box and hand-bag.

"This door is difficult to open," said Kitty. "Will you please open it for me?"

The man, Hugo's factotum, Stevens, gave her an odd glance as he set down his burden.

"The door won't open from this side unless you have the key, miss," he said.

"Not open from this side? Then I must have the key," said Kitty, decidedly.

"Yes, miss." Steven's tone was perfectly respectful, and yet Kitty felt that he was laughing at her in his sleeve. "Mr. Luttrell, perhaps, can get you the key, miss."

"Yes, I suppose so. Put the box down, please. No, it need not be uncorded until I know whether I shall stay the night."

The man obeyed her somewhat imperiously-uttered commands with an air of careful submission. He then went down the dark stairs. Kitty heard his footsteps for some little distance. Then, came the sound of a closing door, and the click of a key in the lock. Then silence. Was she locked in? She wished that the baize door had not been closed, and she chid herself for nervousness. Hugo had shut it accidentally—it would be all right when he came back. Excited and fearful as she was, she chose to fortify herself against the unknown, by swallowing a biscuit and a draught of black coffee. When this was done she felt stronger in every way—morally as well as physically. She had been faint for want of food.

Would Hugo never come back? He was absent a quarter-of-an-hour, she verified that fact by reference to a little enamelled watch which Elizabeth had given her on her last birthday. She had taken off her hat and cloak, and smoothed her rebellious locks into something like order before he returned.

"Why have you been so long?" she said, rather plaintively, when the door moved at last. "And, oh, please, if I am to stop here at all, will you find out whether I can have the key of that door? The man who brought up my boxes says it will not open from this side, and I cannot bear to feel that I am shut in. May I go to papa, now?"

"You do not like being a prisoner, do you?" said Hugo, totally ignoring, her last question. "So much the better for you—so much the better for me."

Kitty recoiled a little. She did not know what had happened to him, but she saw that his face expressed some mood which she had never seen it express before. It was flushed, and his eyes glittered with an unnatural light. And surely there was a faint odour of brandy in the room which had not been there before his entrance! She recoiled from him, but she was brave enough to show no other sign of fear.

"I don't know what you mean," she said, "but I know that I want to go to my father. Please put an end to this mystery and take me to him at once."

"Yes, I will put an end to the mystery," said Hugo, drawing nearer to her, and putting out his hands as if he wished to take hers. "There is more of a mystery than you can guess, but there shall be one no longer. Ah, Kitty, won't you forgive me when I tell you what I have done? It was for your sake that I have sunk to these depths—or risen to these heights, I hardly know which to call them—for your sake, because I love you, love you as no other woman in the world, Kitty, was ever loved before!"

He threw himself down on his knees before her, in passionate self-abasement, and lifted his ardent eyes pleadingly to her face.

"Kitty, forgive me," he said. "Tell me that you forgive me before I tell you what I have done."

Kitty had turned very pale. "What have you done?" she asked. "How can I forgive you if I do not know what to forgive? Pray get up, Hugo; I cannot bear to see you acting in this way."

"How can I rise till I have confessed?" said Hugo, seizing one of her hands and pressing it to his lips. "Ah, Kitty, remember that it was all because I loved you! You will not be too hard upon me, darling? Tell me that you love me a little, and then I shall not despair."

"But, I do not love you; I told you so before," said Kitty, trying hard to draw away her hand. "And it is wicked of you to say these things to me here and now. Where is my father? Take me to him at once."

"Oh, my dearest, be kind and good to me," entreated Hugo. "Can you not guess?—then how can I tell you?—your father is well—as well as ever he was in his life."

"Well?" cried Kitty. "Then was it a mistake? Was it some one else who was hurt? Who sent the telegram?"

"I sent the telegram. I wanted you here."

"Then it was a trick—a hoax—a lie? How dare you, sir! And why have you brought me here? What is this place?"

"This place, Kitty, is Netherglen."

"Netherglen!" said Kitty, in a relieved tone of voice. "Oh, it is not so very far from home."

Then she turned sharply upon him with a flash in her eye that he had never seen before.

"You must let me go home at once; and you will please understand, Mr. Luttrell, that I wish to have no further intercourse with you of any sort. After the cruel and unkind and useless trick that you have played upon me, you must see that you have put an end to all friendship between yourself and my family. My father will call you to account for it."

Kitty spoke strongly and proudly. Her eyes met his undauntedly: her head was held high, her step was firm as she moved towards the door. If she trembled internally, she showed at least no sign of fear.

"Ah, I knew that you would be angry at first," said Hugo; "but you will listen to me, and you will understand——"

"I will not listen. I do not want to understand," cried Kitty, with a slight stamp of her little foot. "Angry at first! Do you think I shall ever forgive you? I shall never see you nor speak to you again. Let me pass."

Hugo had still been kneeling, but he now rose to his feet and confronted her. The flush was dying out of his face, but his eyes retained their unnatural brightness still.

"You cannot pass that door just yet," he said, with sudden, dangerous calmness. "You must wait until I let you go. You ask if I think you will ever forgive me? Yes, I do. You say you will never see me or speak to me again? I say that you will see me many times, and speak to me in a very different tone before you leave Netherglen."

"Be kind enough to stand out of the way and open the door for me," said Kitty, with supreme contempt. "I do not want to hear any more of this nonsense."

"Nonsense, do you call it? You will give it a very different name before long, my fair Kitty. Do you think I am in play? Do you think I should risk—what I have risked, if I meant to gain nothing by it? I am in sober, solemn earnest, and know very well what I am doing, and what I want to gain."

"What can you gain," said Kitty, boldly facing him, "except disgrace and punishment? What do you think my father will say to you for bringing me away from Edinburgh on false pretences? What will you tell my brother when he comes home?"

"As for your brother," said Hugo, with a sneer, "he is not very likely to come home again at all. His ship has been wrecked, and all lives lost. As for your father——"

He was interrupted by a passionate cry from the girl's pale lips.

"Wrecked! Percival's ship lost! Oh, it cannot be true!"

"It is true enough—at least report says so. It may be a false report!"

"It must be a false report! You would not have the heart to tell me the news so cruelly if it were true! But no, I forgot. You made me believe that my father was dying; you do not mind being cruel. Still, I don't believe you. I shall never again believe a word you say. Oh! Percival, Percival!" And then, to prove how little she believed him, Kitty burst into tears, and pressed her handkerchief to her face. Hugo stood and watched her earnestly, and she, on looking up, found his eyes fixed upon her. The gaze brought back all her ire. "Order the carriage for me at once, and let me go out of your sight," she said. "I cannot bear to look at you!"

Kitty was not dignified in her wrath, but she was so pretty that Hugo's lips curled with a smile of enjoyment. At the same time he felt that he must bring her to a sense of her position. She had not as yet the least notion of what he meant to require of her. And it would be better that she should understand. He folded his arms and leant against the door as he spoke.

"You are not going away just yet," he said. "I have got my pretty bird caged at last, and she may beat her wings against the bars as much as she pleases, but she will not leave her cage until she is a little tamer than she is now. When she can sing to the tune I will teach her, I will let her go."

"What do you mean?" said Kitty. "Stand away from the door, Mr. Luttrell. I want to pass."

"I will stand aside presently and let you go—as far as the doors will let you. But just now you must listen to me."

"I will not listen. I will call the servants," she said, pulling a bell-handle which she had found beside the mantelpiece.

"Ring as much as you please. Nobody will come. The bell-wire has been cut."

"Then I will call. Somebody must hear."

"My man, Stevens, may hear, perhaps. But he will not come unless I summon him."

"But the other servants——"

"There are no other servants in this part of the house. The kitchen-maid and the nurse sleep close to Mrs. Luttrell's room—so far away that not your loudest scream would reach their ears. You are in my power, Kitty. I could kill you if I liked, and nobody could interfere."

What strange light was that within his eyes? Was it the light of madness or of love? For the first time Kitty was seized with positive fear of him. She listened, the colour dying out of her face, and her eyes slowly dilating with terror as she heard what he had to say.

"I will tell you now what I have done," he said, "and then I will ask you, once more, to forgive me. It is your own fault if I love you madly, wildly, as I do. You led me on. You let me tell you that I loved you; you seemed to care for me too, sometimes. By the time that you had made up your mind, to throw me over, Kitty, my love had grown into a passion that must be satisfied. There are two ways in which, it can end, and two only. I might kill you—other men of my race have killed the women who trifled with them and deceived them. I could forgive you for what you have made me suffer, if I saw you lying dead at my feet, child; that is the first way. And the second—be mine—be my wife; that is the better way."

"Never!" said Kitty, firmly, although her white lips quivered with an unspoken fear. "Kill me, if you like. I would rather be killed than be your wife now."

"Ah, but I do not want to kill you!" cried Hugo, his dark face lighting up with a sudden glow, which made it hatefully brilliant and beautiful, even in Kitty's frightened eyes. He left the door and came towards her, holding out his hands and gesticulating as he spoke. "I want you to be my wife, my own sweet flower, my exquisite bird, for whom no cage can be half too fine! I want you to be mine; my own darling——. I would give Heaven and earth for that; I have already risked all that makes life worth living. Men love selfishly; but you shall be loved as no other woman was ever loved. You shall be my queen, my angel, my wife!"

"I will die first," said Kitty. Before he could interpose, she snatched a knife from the table, and held it with the point turned towards him. "Come a step nearer," she cried, "and I shall know how to defend myself."

Hugo stopped short. "You little fool!" he said, angrily. "Put the knife down."

She thought that he was afraid; and, still holding her weapon, she made a rush for the door; but Hugo caught her skilfully by the wrists, disarmed her, and threw the knife to the other end of the room. Then he made her sit down in an arm-chair near the fire, and without relaxing his hold upon her arm, addressed her in cool but forcible tones.

"I don't want to hurt you," he said. "You need not be so frightened or so foolish. I won't come near you, unless you give me leave. I am going to have your full and free consent, my little lady, before I make you my wife. But, this I want you to understand. I have you here—a prisoner; and a prisoner you will remain until you do consent. Nobody knows where you are—nobody will look for you here. You cannot escape; and if you could escape, nobody would believe your story. Do you hear?"

He took away his hand from her arm. But she did not try to move. She was trembling from head to foot. He looked at her silently for a little time, and then withdrew to the door.

"I will leave you now until to-morrow," he said, quietly. "There is a girl—a kitchen-maid—who will bring you your breakfast in the morning. You have this little wing of the house entirely to yourself, but I don't think that you will find any means of getting out of it. Good-night, my darling. You will forgive me yet."



CHAPTER XLIV.

HUGO'S VICTORY.

Kitty remained for some time in the state in which Hugo left her. She was only faintly conscious of his departure. The shutting of the baize door, and of another door beyond it, scarcely penetrated to her brain. She fancied that Hugo was still standing over her with a wild light in his eyes and the sinister smile upon his lips; and she dared not look up to see if the fancy were true. A sick, faint feeling came over her, and made her all the more disinclined to move.

The fire, which had been burning hollow and red, fell in at last with a great crash; and the noise startled her into full consciousness. She sat erect in her chair, and looked about her fearfully. No, Hugo was not there. He had left the door of the room a little way open. With a shuddering desire to protect herself, she staggered to the door, closed it, looked for a key or a bolt, and found none; then sank down again upon a chair, and tried seriously to consider the position in which she found herself.

There was not much comfort to be gained out of the reflections which occurred to her. If she was as much in Hugo's power as he represented her to be, she was in evil case, indeed. She thought over the arrangements which he seemed to have planned so carefully, and she saw that they were all devised so as to make it appear that she had been in the secret, that she had met him and gone away with him willingly. And her disappearance might not be made known for days. Mrs. Baxter would suppose that she was with her relations; her relations would think that she was still in Edinburgh. Inquiries might be made in the course of three or four days; but even if they were made so soon, they would probably be fruitless. The woman at the waiting-room, whose stare Kitty had resented, would perhaps give evidence that the gentleman had called her his "dearest," and taken her away with him in his carriage. She thought it all too likely that Hugo had planned matters so as to make everybody, believe that she had eloped with him of her own free-will.

If escape were only possible! Surely there was some window, some door, by which she could leave the house! She would not mind a little danger. Better a broken bone or two than the fate which would await her as Hugo's wife—or as Hugo's prisoner. She turned to the window with a resolute step, drew aside the curtains, unbarred the shutters, and looked out.

Disappointment awaited her. There was a long space of wall, and then the pointed roofs of some outhouses, which hid the courtyard and the road entirely from her sight. Beyond the roofs she could see the tops of trees, which, it was plain, would entirely conceal any view of her window from passers-by. It would be quite impossible to climb down to those sharp-gabled roofs; and, as if to make assurance doubly sure, the window was protected by strong iron bars, between which nobody could have squeezed more than an arm or foot. Moreover, the sash was nailed down. Kitty dropped the curtain with a despairing sigh.

After a little hesitation, she took a candle and opened the sitting-room door. All was dark in the passage outside; but from the top of the flight of stairs leading to a higher storey, she could distinguish a glimmer of light which seemed to come from a window in the roof. She went up the stairs and found two tiny rooms; one a lumber-room, the other a bed-room. These were just underneath the roof, and had tiny triangular windows, which were decidedly too small to allow of anyone's escaping through them. Kitty peered through them both, and got a good view of the loch, glimmering whitely in the starlight between its black, wooded shores. She retraced her steps, and explored an empty room on the floor with her sitting-room, the window of which was also barred and nailed down. Then she went down the lower flight of steps until she came to a closed door, which had been securely fastened from the outside by the man who brought up her box. She shook it and beat it with her little fists; but all in vain. Nobody seemed to hear her knocks; or, if heard, they were disregarded. She tried the baize door with like ill-success. Hugo had said the truth; she was a prisoner.

At last, tired and disheartened, she crept back to her sitting-room. The fire was nearly out, and the night was a cold one. She muffled herself in her cloak and crouched down upon the sofa, crying bitterly. She thought herself too nervous, too excited, to sleep at all; and she certainly did not sleep for two or three hours. But exhaustion came at last, and, although she still started at the slightest sound, she fell into a doze, and thence into a tolerably sound slumber, which lasted until daylight looked in at the unshuttered window, and the baize door moved upon its hinges to admit the girl who was to act as Miss Heron's maid.

The very sight of a girl—a woman like herself—brought hope to Kitty's mind. She started up, pressing her hands to her brow and pushing back the disordered hair. Then she addressed the girl with eager, persuasive words. But the kitchen-maid only shook her head. "Dinna ye ken that I'm stane-deef?" she said, pointing to her ears with a grin. For a moment Kitty in despair desisted from her efforts. Then she thought of another argument. She produced her purse, and showed the girl some sovereigns, then led her to the door, intimating by signs that she would give her the money if she would but open it. The girl seemed to understand, but laughed again and shook her head. "Na, na," she said. "I daurna lat ye oot sae lang's the maister's here." Hugo's coadjutors were apparently incorruptible.

The kitchen-maid proved herself equal to all the work required of her. She relighted the fire, cleared away the uneaten supper, and brought breakfast and hot water. Kitty discovered that everything she required was handed to the girl through a sliding panel in the door at the bottom of the stairs. There was no chance of escape through any chance opening of the door.

She had no appetite, but she knew that she ought to eat in order to keep up her strength and courage. She therefore drank some coffee, and ate the scones which the maid brought her. The girl then took away the breakfast-things, put fresh fuel on the fire, and departed by the lower door. Kitty would have kept her if she could. Even a deaf kitchen-maid was better than no company at all.

The view from the windows was no more encouraging by day than night. There seemed to be no way of communicating with the outer world. A letter flung from either storey would only reach the slanting roofs below, and lie on the slates until destroyed by snow and rain. Kitty doubted whether her voice would reach the courtyard, even if she raised it to its highest pitch. She tried it from the attic window, but it seemed to die away in the heights, and she could hardly hope that it had been heard by anyone either inside or outside the house.

She was left alone for some time. About noon, as she was standing by her window, straining her eyes to discover some trace of a human being in the distance, whose attention she perhaps might catch if one could only be seen, she heard the door open and close again. She knew the footstep: it was neither that of the deaf girl nor of the man Stevens. It was Hugo Luttrell coming once more to plead his cause or lay his commands upon her.

She turned round unwillingly and glanced at him with a faint hope that the night might have brought him to some change of purpose. But although the excitement of the previous evening had disappeared, there was no sign of relenting in his face. He came up to her and tried to take her hand.

"Nuit porte conseil," he began. "Have you thought better of last night's diversions? Have you arrived at any decision yet?"

"Oh, Hugo," she burst out, clasping her hands, "don't speak to me in that sneering, terrible way. Have a little pity upon me. Let me go home!"

"You shall go home to-morrow, if you will go as my wife, Kitty."

"But you know that can never be," she expostulated. "How can you expect me to be your wife after all that you have made me suffer? Do you think I could ever love you as a wife should do? You would be miserable; and I—I—should break my heart." She burst into tears as she concluded, and wrung her hands together.

"Why did you make me suffer if you want me to pity you now?" said Hugo, in a low, merciless tone. "You used me shamefully: you know you did. I swore then to have my revenge; and I have it now. For every one of the tears you shed now, I have shed drops of my heart's blood. It is nothing to me if you suffer: your pain is nothing to what mine was when you cast me off like an old glove because your fancy had settled on Rupert Vivian. You shall feel your master now: you shall be mine and mine only; not his, nor any other's. I will have my revenge."

"My fancy had settled on Rupert Vivian!" repeated Kitty, with a sudden rush of colour to her face. "Ah, how little you know about it! Rupert Vivian is far above me: he does not care for me. You have no business to speak of him."

"He does not care for you, but you are in love with him," said Hugo, looking at her from between his narrowed eyelids with a long penetrating gaze. "I understand."

Kitty shrank away from him. "No, no!" she cried. "I am not in love with anyone."

"I know better," said Hugo. "I have seen it a long time: seen it in a thousand ways. You made no secret of it, you know. You threw yourself in his way: you did all that you could to attract him; but you failed. He had to tell you to be more careful, had he not?"

"How dare you! How dare you!" cried the girl, starting up with her face aflame. "Never, never!" Then she threw herself down on the sofa and hid her face. Some memory came over her that made her writhe with shame. Hugo smiled to himself.

"Everybody saw what was going on," he continued. "Everybody pitied you. People wondered at your friends for allowing you to manifest an unrequited attachment in that shameless manner. They supposed that you knew no better; but they wondered that Mrs. Heron and Elizabeth Murray did not caution you. Perhaps they did. You were never very good at taking a caution, were you, Kitty?"

The only answer was a moan. He had found the way to torture her now; and he meant to use his power.

"Vivian was a good deal chaffed about it. He used to be a great flirt when he was younger, but not so much of late years, you know. I'll confess now, Kitty, I taxed him one day with his conduct to you. He said he was sorry; he knew that you were head and ears in love with him——"

"It is false," said Kitty, lifting a very pale face from the cushions amongst which she had laid it. "Mr. Vivian never said anything of the kind. He is too much of a gentleman to say a thing like that."

"What do you know of the things that men say to each other when they are alone?" said Hugo, confident in her ignorance of the world, and professedly contemptuous. "He said what I have told you. And he said, too, that marriage was out of the question for him, on account of an unfortunate entanglement in his youth—a private marriage, or something of the kind; his wife is separated from him, but she is living still. He asked me to let you know this as soon and as gently as I could."

"Is it true?" she asked, in a low voice. Her face seemed to have grown ten years older in the last ten minutes: it was perfectly colourless, and the eyes had a dull, strained look, which was not softened even by the bright drops that still hung on her long lashes.

"Perfectly true," said Hugo. "Perhaps this paper will bring you conviction, if my word does not."

He handed her a small slip cut from a newspaper, which had the air of having been in his possession for some time. Kitty took it and read:—

"On the 15th of October, at St. Botolph's Church, Manchester, Rupert, eldest son of the late Gerald Vivian, Esq., of Vivian Court, Devonshire, to Selina Mary Smithson. No cards."

Just a commonplace announcement of marriage like any other. Kitty's eyes travelled to the top of the paper where the date was printed: 1863. "It is a long while ago," she said, pointing to the figures. "His wife may be dead." Her voice sounded hoarse and unnatural, even in her own ears.

"Perhaps so," said Hugo, carelessly. "If he said that she were, I should not be much inclined to believe him. After all these years of secrecy a man will say anything. But he told me last year that she was living."

Kitty laid down the paper with a sort of gasp and shiver. She murmured something to herself—it sounded like a prayer—"God help me!" or words to that effect—but she was quite unconscious of having spoken. Hugo took up the paper, and replaced it carefully in his pocket-book. He had held it in reserve for some time now; but he was not quite sure that it had done all its work.

"And now," he went on, "you see a part—not the whole—of my motives, Kitty. I had been raging in my heart against this fellow's insolence for long enough; I wanted to stop the slanderous tongues of the people who were talking about you; and I hoped—when you were so kind and gracious to me—that you meant to be my wife. Therefore, when I asked you and you refused me, I grew desperate. Believe me, Kitty, or not, as you choose, but my love for you has nearly maddened me. I could not leave you to lay yourself open to the world's contempt and scorn: I was afraid—afraid—lest Vivian should do you harm in the world's eyes, and so I tried to save you, dear, to save you from yourself and him—even against your own will, when I brought you here."

His eyes grew moist, and lost some of their wildness: he drew nearer, and ventured almost timidly to take her hand. She did not repulse him, and from her silence and motionlessness he gathered courage.

"I thought to myself," he said, "that here, at least, was a refuge: here was a man who loved you, and was ready to give you his home and his name, and show the world that he loved you in spite of all. Here was a chance for you, I thought, to show that you had not given your heart where it was not wanted; that you were not that pitiable object, a woman scorned. But you refused me. So then I took the law into my own hands. Was I so very wrong?"

He paused, and she suddenly burst out into wild hysterical sobs and tears.

"Let me go home," she said, between her sobs. "I will give you my answer then.... I will not forget! I will not be thoughtless and foolish any more.... But let me go home first: I must go home. I cannot stay here alone!"

"You cannot go home, Kitty," said Hugo, modulating his voice to one of extreme softness and sweetness. He knelt before her, and took both her hands in his. "You left Mrs. Baxter's yesterday afternoon—to meet me, you said. Where have you been since then?—that will be the first question. You cannot go home without me now: what would the world say? Don't you understand?"

"What does it matter what the world says? My father would know that it was all right," said Kitty, helplessly.

"Would your father take you in?" Hugo whispered. "Would he not rather say that you must have planned it all, that you were not to be trusted, that you had better have married me when I asked you? For, if you leave this house before you are my wife, Kitty, I shall not ask you again to marry me. Are you so simple as not to know why? You would be compromised: that is all. You need not have obliged me to tell you so."

She wrenched her hands away from him and put them before her eyes.

"Oh, I see it all now," she moaned. "I am trapped—trapped. But I will not marry you. I will die rather. Oh, Rupert, Rupert! why do you not come?"

And then she fell into a fit of hysterical shrieking, succeeded by a swoon, from which Hugo found some difficulty in recovering her. He was obliged to call the nurse to his aid, and the nurse and the kitchen-maid between them carried the girl upstairs and placed her on the bed. Here Kitty came to herself by degrees, but it was thought well to leave the kitchen-maid, Elsie, beside her for some time, for as soon as she was left alone the hysterical symptoms reappeared. She saw Hugo no more that day, but on the following morning, when she sat pale and listless over the fire in her sitting-room, he reappeared. He spoke to her gently, but she gave him no answer. She looked at him with blank, languid eyes, and said not a word. He was almost frightened at her passivity. He thought that he had perhaps over-strained matters: that he had sent her out of her mind. But he did not lose hope. Kitty, with weakened powers of body and mind, would still be to him the woman that he loved, and that he had set his heart upon winning for his wife.

That day passed, and the next, with no change in her condition. Hugo began to grow impatient. He resolved to try stronger measures.

But stronger measures were not necessary. On the fifth day, he came to her at eleven o'clock in the morning, with a curious smile upon his lips. He had an opera-glass in his hand.

"I have something to show you, Kitty," he said to her.

He led her to the window, and directed her attention to a distant point in the view where a few yards of the highroad could be discerned. "You see the road," he said. "Now look through the glass for a few minutes."

Languidly enough she did as he desired. The strong glass brought into her sight in a few moments two gentlemen on horseback. Kitty uttered a faint cry. It was her father and Mr. Colquhoun.

"I thought that we should see them in a minute or two," said Hugo, calmly. "They were here a quarter-of-an-hour ago."

"Here! In this house?"

"Yes; making inquiries after you. I think I quite convinced them that I knew nothing about you. They apologised for the trouble they had given me, and went away."

"Oh, father, father!" cried Kitty, stretching out her arms and sobbing wildly, as if she could make him hear: "Oh, father, come back! come back! Am I to die here and never see you again—never again?"

Hugo said nothing more. He had no need. She wept herself into quietness, and then remained silent for a long time, with her head buried in her hands. He left her in this position, and did not return until the evening. And then she spoke to him in a voice which showed that her strength had deserted her, her will had been bent at last.

"Do as you please," she said. "I will be your wife. I see no other way. But I hate you—I hate you—and I will never forgive you for what you have done as long as ever I live."



CHAPTER XLV.

TOO LATE!

Rupert Vivian went to London with a fixed determination not to return to Strathleckie. He told himself that he had been thinking far too much of the whims and vagaries of a silly, pretty girl; and that it would be for his good to put such memories of her bright eyes, and vain, coquettish ways as remained to him, completely out of his mind. He did his best to carry out this resolution, but he was not very successful.

He had some troubles of his own, and a good deal of business to transact; but the weeks did not pass very rapidly, although his time was so fully occupied. He began to be anxious to hear something of his friend, Percival Heron; he searched the newspapers for tidings of the Arizona, he called at Lloyd's to inquire after her; but a mystery seemed to hang over her fate. She had never reached Pernambuco—so much was certain! Had she gone to the bottom, carrying with her passengers and crew? And the Falcon, in which Brian had sailed—also reported missing—what had become of her?

Rupert knew enough of Elizabeth Murray's story to think of her with anxiety—almost with tenderness—at this juncture. He knew of no reason why the marriage with Percival should not take place, for he had not heard a word about her special interest in Brian Luttrell; but he had been told of Brian's reappearance, and of the doubt cast upon his claim to the property. He was anxious, for Percival's sake as well as for hers, that the matter should be satisfactorily adjusted; and he felt a pang of dismay when he first learnt the doubt that hung over the fate of the Arizona.

His anxiety led him one day to stroll with a friend into the office of a shipowner who had some connection with the Arizona. Here he found an old sailor telling a story to which the clerks and the chief himself were listening with evident interest. Vivian inquired who he was. The answer made him start. John Mason, of the good ship Arizona, which I saw with my own eyes go down in eight fathoms o' water off Rocas reef. Me and the mate got off in the boat, by a miracle, as you may say. All lost but us.

And forthwith he told the story of the wreck—as far as he knew it.

Vivian listened with painful eagerness, and sat for some little time in silence when the story was finished, with his hand shading his eyes. Then he rose up and addressed the man.

"I want you to go with me to Scotland," he said, abruptly. "I want you to tell this story to a lady. She was to have been married to the Mr. Heron of whom you speak as soon as he returned. Poor girl! if anything can make it easier for her, it will be to hear of poor Heron's courage in the hour of death."

He set out that night, taking John Mason with him, and gleaning from him many details concerning Percival's popularity on board ship, details which he knew would be precious to the ears of his family by-and-bye. Mason was an honest fellow, and did not exaggerate, even when he saw that exaggeration would be welcome: but Percival had made himself remarked, as he generally did wherever he went, by his ready tongue and flow of animal spirits. Mason had many stories to tell of Mr. Heron's exploits, and he told them well.

Vivian was anxious to see the Herons before any newspaper report should reach them; and he therefore hurried the seaman up to Strathleckie after a hasty breakfast at the hotel. But at Strathleckie, disappointment awaited him. Everybody was out—except the baby and the servants. The whole party had gone to spend a long day at the house of a friend: they would not be back till evening.

Rupert was forced to resign himself to the delay. The man, Mason, was regaled in the servants' hall, and was there regarded as a kind of hero; but Vivian had no such distraction of mind. He had nothing to do: he had reasons of his own for neither walking out nor trying to read. He leaned back in an arm-chair, with his back to the light, and closed his eyes. From time to time he sighed heavily.

He felt himself quite sufficiently at home to ask for anything that he wanted; and the glass of wine and biscuit which formed his luncheon were brought to him in the study, the room that seemed to him best fitted for the communication that he would have to make. He had been there for two or three hours, and the short winter day was already beginning to grow dim, when the door opened, and a footstep made itself heard upon the threshold.

It was a woman's step. It paused, advanced, then paused again as if in doubt. Vivian rose from his chair, and held out both hands. "Kitty," he said. "Kitty, is it you?"

"Yes, it is I," she said. Her voice had lost its ring; there was a tonelessness about it which convinced Rupert that she had already heard what he had come to tell.

"I thought you had gone with the others," he said, "but I am glad to find you here. I can tell you first—alone. I have sad news, Kitty. Why don't you come and shake hands with me, dear, as you always do? I want to have your little hand in mine while I tell you the story."

He was standing near the arm-chair, from which he had risen, with his hand extended still. There was a look of appeal, almost a look of helplessness, about him, which Kitty did not altogether understand. She came forward and touched his hand very lightly, and then would have withdrawn it had his fingers not closed upon it with a firm, yet gentle grasp.

"I think I know what you have come to say," she answered, not struggling to draw her hand away, but surrendering it as if it were not worth while to consider such a trifle. "I read it all in the newspapers this morning. The others do not know."

"You did not tell them?" said Rupert, a little surprised.

"I came to tell them now."

"You have been away? Ah, yes, I heard you talking about a visit to Edinburgh some time ago: you have been there, perhaps? I came to see your father—to see you all, so that you should not learn the story first from the newspapers, but I was too late to shield you, Kitty."

"Yes," she said, with a weary sigh; "too late."

"I have brought the man Mason with me. He will tell you a great deal more than you can read in the newspapers. Would you like to see him now? Or will you wait until your father comes?"

"I will wait, I think," said Kitty, very gently. "They will not be long now. Sit down, Mr. Vivian. I hope you have had all that you want."

"What is the matter, Kitty?" asked Vivian, with (for him) extraordinary abruptness. "Why have you taken away your hand, child? What have I done?"

She made no answer.

"You are in trouble, Kitty. Can I not comfort you a little? I would give a great deal to be able to do it. But the day for that is gone by."

"Yes, it is gone by," echoed Kitty once more in the tones that never used to be so sad.

"It is selfish to talk about myself when you have this great loss to bear," he pursued; "and yet I must tell you what has happened to me lately, so that you may understand what perhaps seems strange to you. Am I altered, Kitty? Do I look changed to your eyes in any way?"

"No," she answered, hesitatingly; "I think not. But people do not change very easily in appearance, do they? Whatever happens, they are the same. I am not at all altered, they tell me, since—since you were here."

"Why should you be?" said Rupert, vaguely touched, he knew not why, by the pathetic quality that had crept into her voice. "Even a great sorrow, like this one, does not change us in a single day. But I have had some weeks in which to think of my loss; small and personal though it may seem to you."

"What loss?" said Kitty.

"Is it no loss to think that I shall never see your face again, Kitty? I am blind."

"Blind!" She said the word again, with a strange thrill in her voice. "Blind!"

"Not quite, just yet," said Rupert, quietly, but with a resolute cheerfulness. "I know that you are standing there, and I can still grope my way amongst the tables and chairs in a room, without making many mistakes: but I cannot see your sweet eyes and mouth, Kitty, and I shall never look upon the purple hills again. Do you remember that we planned to climb Craig Vohr next summer for the sake of the fine view? Not much use my attempting it now, I am afraid—unless you went with me, and told me what you saw."

She did not say a word. He waited a moment, but none came; and he could not see the tears that were in her eyes. Perhaps he divined that they were there.

"It has been coming on for some time," he said, still in the cheerful tone which he had made himself adopt. "I was nearly certain of it when I was here in January; and since then I have seen some famous oculists, and spent a good deal of time in a dark room—with no very good result. Nothing can be done."

"Nothing? Absolutely nothing?"

"Nothing at all. I must bear it as other men have done. I am rather old to frame my life anew, and I shall never equal Mr. Fawcett in energy and power, though I think I shall take him as my model," said Rupert, with a rather sad smile, "but I must do my best, and I dare say I shall get used to it in time. Kitty, I thought—somehow—that I should like to hear you say that you were sorry.... And you have not said it yet."

"I am sorry," said Kitty, in a low voice.

The tears were falling over her pale cheeks, but she did not turn away her head—why should she? He could not see.

"I have been a fool," said Vivian, with the unusual energy of utterance which struck her as something new in him. "I am thirty-eight—twenty years older than you, Kitty—and I have missed half the happiness that I might have got out of my life, and squandered the other half. I will tell you what happened when I was a lad of one-and-twenty—before you were a year old, Kitty: think of that!—I fell in love with a woman some years older than myself. She was a barmaid. Can you fancy me now in love with a barmaid? I find it hard to imagine, myself. I married her, Kitty. Before we had been married six weeks I discovered that she drank. I was tied to a drunken, brawling, foul-mouthed woman of the lower class—for life. At least I thought it was for life."

He paused, and asked with peculiar gentleness:—

"Am I telling you this at a wrong time? Shall I leave my story for another day? You are thinking of him, perhaps: I am not without thoughts of him, too, even in the story that I tell. Shall I stop, or shall I go on?"

"Go on, please. I want to hear. Yes, as well now as any other time. You married. What then?"

Could it be Kitty who was speaking? Rupert scarcely recognised those broken, uneven tones. He went on slowly.

"She left me at last. We agreed to separate. I saw her from time to time, and made her an allowance. She lived in one place: I in another. She died last year."

"Last year?"

"Yes, in the autumn. You heard that I had gone into Wales to see a relation who was dying: that was my wife."

"Did Percival know?" asked Kitty, in a low voice.

"No. I think very few persons knew. I wonder whether I ought to have told the world in general! I did not want to blazon forth my shame."

For a little time they both were silent. Then Rupert said, softly:—

"When she was dead, I remembered the little girl whom I used to know in Gower-street; and I said to myself that I would find her out."

"You found her changed," said Kitty, with a sob.

"Very much changed outwardly; but with the same loving heart at the core. Kitty, I was unjust to you: I have come back to offer reparation."

"For what?"

"For that injustice, dear. When I went away from Strathleckie in January, I was angry and vexed with you. I thought that you were throwing yourself away in promising to marry Hugo Luttrell—" then, as Kitty made a sudden gesture—"oh, I know I had no right to interfere. I was wrong, quite wrong. I must confess to you now, Kitty, that I thought you a vain, frivolous, little creature; and it was not until I began to think over what I had said to you and what you had said to me, that I saw clearly, as I lay in my darkened room, how unjust I had been to you."

"You were not unjust," said Kitty, hurriedly; "and I was wrong. I did not tell you the truth; I let you suppose that I was engaged to Hugo when I was not. But——"

"You were not engaged to him?"

"No."

"Then I may say what I should have said weeks ago if I had not thought that you had promised to marry him?"

"It cannot make much difference what you say now," said Kitty, heavily. "It is too late."

"I suppose it is. I cannot ask any woman—especially any girl of your age—to share the burden of my infirmity."

"It is not that. Anyone would be proud to share such a burden—to be of the least help to you—but I mean—you have not heard——"

She could not go on. If he had seen her face, he might have guessed more quickly what she meant. But he could not see; and her voice, broken as it was, told him only that she was agitated by some strong emotion—he knew not of what kind. He rose and stood beside her, as if he did not like to sit while she was standing. Even at that moment she was struck by the absence of his old airs of superiority; his blindness seemed to have given him back the dependence and simplicity of much earlier days.

"I suppose you mean that you are not free," he said. "And even if you had been free, my dear, it is not at all likely that I should have had a chance. There are certain to be many wooers of a girl possessed of your fresh sweetness and innocent gaiety. I wished only to say to you that I have been punished for any harsh words of mine, by finding out that I could not forget your face for a day, for an hour. I will not say that I cannot live without you; but I will say that life would have the charm that it had in the days of my youth, if I could have hoped that you, Kitty, would have been my wife."

There was a faint melancholy in the last few words that went to Kitty's heart. Rupert heard her sob, and immediately put out his hand with the uncertain action of a man who cannot see.

"Kitty!" he said, ruefully, "I did not mean to make you cry, dear. Don't grieve. There are obstacles on both sides now. I am a blind, helpless old fellow; and you are going to be married. Child, what does this mean?"

Unable to speak, she had seized his hand and guided it to the finger on which she wore a plain gold ring. He felt it: he felt her hand, and then he asked a question.

"Are you married already, Kitty?"

"Yes."

"To whom?"

"To Hugo Luttrell." And then she sank down almost at his feet, sobbing, and her hot tears fell upon the hand which she pressed impulsively to her lips. "Oh, forgive me! forgive me!" she cried. "Indeed, I did not know what to do. I was very wicked and foolish. And now I am miserable. I shall be miserable all my life."

These vague self-accusations conveyed no very clear idea to Vivian's mind; but he was conscious of a sharp sting of pain at the thought that she was not happy in her marriage.

"I did not know. I would not have spoken as I did if I had known," he said.

"No, I know you would not; and yet I could not tell you. You will hear all about it from the others. I cannot bear to tell you. And yet—yet—don't think me quite so foolish, quite so wrong as they will say that I have been. They do not know all. I cannot tell them all. I was driven into it—and now I have to bear the punishment. My whole life is a punishment. I am miserable."

"Life can never be a mere punishment, if it is rightly led," said Vivian, in a low tone. "It is, at any rate, full of duties and they will bring happiness."

"To some, perhaps; not to me," said Kitty, raising herself from her kneeling posture and drying her eyes. "I have no duties but to look nice and make myself agreeable."

"You will find duties if you look for them. There is your husband's happiness, to begin with——"

"My husband," exclaimed Kitty, in a tone of passionate contempt that startled him. But they could say no more, for at that moment the carriage came up to the door, and, from the voices in the hall, it was plain that the family had returned.

A great hush fell upon those merry voices when Mr. Vivian's errand was made known. Mrs. Heron, who was really fond of Percival, was inconsolable, and retired to her own room with the little boys and the baby to weep for him in peace. Mr. Heron, Kitty, and Elizabeth remained with Rupert in the study, listening to the short account which he gave of the wreck of the Arizona, as he had learnt it from Mason's lips. And then it was proposed that Mason should be summoned to tell his own story.

Mason's eyes rested at once upon Elizabeth with a look of respectful admiration. He told his story with a rough, plain eloquence which more than once brought tears to the listeners' eyes; and he dwelt at some length on the presence of mind and cheery courage which Mr. Heron had shown during the few minutes between the striking of the ship and her going down. "Just as bold as a lion, ladies and gentlemen; helping every poor soul along, and never thinking of himself. They told fine tales of one of the men we took aboard from the Falcon; but Mr. Heron beat him and all of us, I'm sure."

"You took on board someone from the Falcon?" said Elizabeth, suddenly.

"Yes, ma'am, three men that were picked up in an open boat, where they had been for five days and nights; the Falcon having been burnt to the water's edge, and very few of the crew saved."

Elizabeth's hands clasped themselves a little more tightly, but she suffered no sign of emotion to escape her.

"Do you remember the names of the men saved from the Falcon?" she said.

"There was Jackson," said the sailor, slowly; "and there was Fall; and there was a steerage passenger—seems to me his name was Smith, but I can't rec'llect exackly."

"It was not Stretton?"

"No, it warn't no name like that, ma'am."

"Then they are both lost," said Elizabeth, rising up with a deadly calm in her fixed eyes and white face; "both lost in the great, wild sea. We shall see them no more—no more." She paused, and then added in a much lower voice, as if speaking to herself: "I shall go to them, but they will not return to me."

Her strength seemed to give way. She walked a few steps unsteadily, threw up her hands as if to save herself, and without a word and without a cry, fell in a dead faint to the ground.



CHAPTER XLVI.

A MERE CHANCE.

Vivian went back to London on the following morning, taking Mason with him. He had heard what made him anxious to leave Strathleckie before any accidental meeting with Hugo Luttrell should take place. The story told of Kitty's marriage was that she had eloped with Hugo; and Mr. Heron, in talking the matter over with his son's friend, declared that an elopement had been not only disgraceful, but utterly unnecessary, since he should never have thought of opposing the marriage. He had been exceedingly angry at first; and now, although he received Kitty at Strathleckie, he treated her with great coldness, and absolutely refused to speak to Hugo at all.

In a man of Mr. Heron's easy temperament, these manifestations of anger were very strong; and Vivian felt even a little surprised that he took the matter so much to heart. He himself was not convinced that the whole truth of the story had been told: he was certain, at any rate, that Hugo Luttrell had dragged Kitty's name through the mire in a most unjustifiable way, and he felt a strong desire to wreak vengeance upon him. For Kitty's sake, therefore, it was better that he should keep out of the way: he did not want to quarrel with her husband, and he knew that Hugo would not be sorry to find a cause of dispute with him.

He could not abandon the hope of some further news of the Arizona and the Falcon. He questioned Mason repeatedly concerning the shipwrecked men who had been taken on board but he obtained little information. And yet he could not be content. It became a regular thing for Vivian to be seen, day after day, in the shipowners' offices, at Lloyd's, at the docks, asking eagerly for news, or, more frequently, turning his sightless eyes and anxious face from one desk to another, as the careless comments of the clerks upon his errand fell upon his ear. Sometimes his secretary came with him: sometimes, but, more seldom, a lady. For Angela was living with him now, and she was as anxious about Brian as he was concerning Percival.

He had been making these inquiries one day, and had turned away with his hand upon Angela's arm, when a burly, red-faced man, with a short, brown beard, whom Angela had seen once or twice before in the office, followed, and addressed himself to Rupert.

"Beg pardon: should like to speak to you for a moment, sir, if agreeable to the lady," he said, touching his cap. "You were asking about the Arizona, wrecked off the Rocas Reef, were you not?"

"Yes, I was," said Vivian, quickly. "Have you any news? Have any survivors of the crew returned?"

"Can't say I know of any, save John Mason and Terry, the mate," said the man, shaking his head. He had a bluff, good-natured manner, which Angela did not dislike; but it seemed somewhat to repel her brother.

"If you have no news," he began in a rather distant tone; but the man interrupted him with a genial laugh.

"I've got no news, sir, but I've got a suggestion, if you'll allow me to make it. No concern of mine, of course, but I heard that you had friends aboard the Arizona, and I took an interest in that vessel because she came to grief at a place which has been the destruction of many a fine ship, and where I was once wrecked myself."

"You! And how did you escape?" said Angela, eagerly.

"Swam ashore, ma'am," said the man, touching his cap. Then, with a shy sort of smile, he added:—"What I did, others may have done, for certain."

"You swam to the reef?" asked Vivian.

"First to the reef and then to the island, sir. There's two islands inside the reef forming the breakwater. More than once the same thing has happened. Men had been there before me, and had been fetched away by passing ships, and men may be there now for aught we know."

"Oh, Rupert!" said Angela, softly.

"How long were you on the island then?" asked Rupert.

"About three weeks, sir. But I have heard of the crew of a ship being there for as many months—and more. You have to take your chance. I was lucky. I'm always pretty lucky, for the matter of that."

"Would it be easy to land on the island?"

"There's an opening big enough for boats in the reef. It ain't a very easy matter to swim the distance. I was only thinking, when I heard you asking questions, that it was just possible that some of the crew and passengers might have got ashore, after all, as I did, and turn up when you're least expecting it. It's a chance, anyway. Good morning, sir."

"Excuse me," said Vivian; "would you mind giving me your name and address?"

The man's name was Somers: he was the captain of a small trading vessel, and was likely to be in London for some weeks.

"But if you have anything more to ask me, sir," he said, "I shall be pleased to come and answer any of your inquiries at your own house, if you wish. It's a long tramp for you to come my way."

"Thank you," said Vivian. "If it is not troubling you too much, I think I had better come to you. Your time is valuable, no doubt, and mine is not."

"You'll find me in between three and five almost any time," said Captain Somers, and with these words they parted.

Rupert fell into a brown study as soon as the captain had left them, and Angela did not interrupt the current of his thoughts. Presently he said:—

"What sort of face had that man, Angela?"

"A very honest face, I think," she said.

"He seemed honest. But one can tell so much from a man's face that does not come out in his manner. This is the sort of interview that makes me feel what a useless log I am."

"You must not think that, Rupert."

"But I do think it. I wish I could find something to do—something that would take me out of myself and these purely personal troubles of mine. At my age a man certainly ought to have a career. But what am I talking about? No career is open to me now." And then he sighed; and she knew without being told that he was thinking of his dead wife and of Kitty Heron, as well as of his blindness.

Little by little he had told her the whole story; or rather she had pieced it together from fragments—stray words and sentences that he let fall; for Rupert was never very ready to make confidences. But at present he was glad of her quiet sympathy; and during the past few weeks she had learnt more about her brother than he had ever allowed her to learn before. But she never alluded to what he called his "purely personal troubles" unless he first made a remark about them of his own accord; and he very seldom indulged himself by referring to them.

He had not informed the Herons of a fact that was of some importance to him at this time. He had never been without fair means of his own; but it had recently happened that a distant relative died and left him a large fortune. He talked at first to Angela about purchasing the old house in Devonshire, which had been sold in the later years of his father's life; but during the last few weeks he had not mentioned this project, and she almost thought that he had given it up.

One result of this accession of wealth was that he took a pleasant house in Kensington, where he and his sister spent their days together. He had a young man to act as his secretary and as a companion in expeditions which would have been beyond Angela's strength; and on his return from the docks, where he met Captain Somers, he seemed to have a good deal to say to this young fellow. He sent him out on an errand which took up a good deal of time. Angela guessed that he was making inquiries about Captain Somers. And she was right.

Vivian went next day to the address which the sea-captain had given him; and he took with him his secretary, Mr. Fane. They found Captain Somers at home, in a neat little room for which he looked too big; a room furnished like the cabin of a ship, and decorated with the various things usually seen in a seaman's dwelling—some emu's eggs, a lump of brain coral, baskets of tamarind seeds, and bunches of blackened seaweed. There were maps and charts on the table, and to one of these Captain Somers directed his guest's attention.

"There, sir," he said. "There's the Rocas Reef; off Pernambuco, as you see. That's the point where the Arizona struck, I'm pretty sure of that."

"Show it to my friend, Mr. Fane," said Vivian, gently pushing the chart away from him. "I can't see. I'm blind."

"Lord!" ejaculated the captain. Then, after an instant of astonished silence, "One would never have guessed it. I'm sure I beg your pardon, sir."

"What for?" said Vivian, smiling. "I am glad to hear that I don't look like a blind man. And now tell me about your shipwreck on the Rocas Reef."

Captain Somers launched at once into his story. He gave a very graphic description of the island, and of the days that he had spent upon it; and he wound up by saying that he had known of two parties of shipwrecked mariners who had made their way to the place, and that, in his opinion, there was no reason why there should not be a third.

"But, mind you, sir," he said, "it's only a strong man and a good swimmer that would have any chance. There wasn't one of us that escaped but could swim like a fish. Was your friend a good swimmer, do you happen to know?"

"Remarkably good."

"Ah, then, he had a chance; you know, after all, the chance is very small."

"But you think," said Vivian, deliberately, "that possibly there are now men on that island, waiting for a ship to come and take them off?"

"Well, sir," said the captain, thrusting his hands into the pockets of his pea-jacket, and settling himself deep into his wooden arm-chair, "it's just a possibility."

"Do ships ever call at the island?"

"They give it as wide a berth as they can, sir. Still, if it was a fine, clear day, and a vessel passed within reasonable distance, the castaways, if there were any, might make a signal. The smoke from a fire can be seen a good way off. Unfortunately, the reef lies low. That's what makes it dangerous."

Vivian sat brooding over this information for some minutes. The captain watched him curiously, and said:—

"It's only fair to remind you, sir, that even if some of the men did get safe to the island, there's no certainty that your friend would be amongst them. In fact, it's ten to one that any of them got to land; and it's a hundred to one that your friend is there. It would need a good deal of pluck, and strength, and skill, too, to save himself in that way, or else a deal of lack. I had the luck," said Captain Somers, modestly, "but I own it's unusual."

"I don't know about the luck," said Vivian, "but if pluck, and strength, and skill could save a man under those circumstances, I think my friend Heron had a good chance."

They had some more conversation, and then Vivian took his leave. He did not talk much when he reached the street, and throughout the rest of the day he was decidedly absent-minded and thoughtful. Angela forebore to question him, but she saw that something lay upon his mind, and she became anxious to hear what it was. Mr. Fane preserved a discreet silence. It was not until after dinner that Rupert seemed to awake to a consciousness of his unwonted silence and abstraction.