The servants had withdrawn. A shaded lamp threw a circle of brilliance upon the table, and brought out its distinctive features with singular distinctness against a background of olive-green wall and velvet curtain. Its covering of glossy white damask, its ornaments of Venetian glass, the delicate yet vivid colours of the hothouse flowers and fruit in the dishes, the gem-like tints of the wines, the very texture and the hues of the Bulgarian embroidery upon the d'oyleys, formed a study in colour which an artist would have loved to paint. The faces and figures of the persons present harmonised well enough with the artistic surroundings. Angela's pale, spiritual loveliness was not impaired by the sombreness of her garments; she almost always wore black now, but it was black velvet, and she had a knot of violets in her bosom. Rupert's musing face, with its high-bred look of distinction, was turned thoughtfully to the fire. Arthur Fane had the sleek, fair head, straight features, and good-humouredly intelligent expression, characteristic of a very pleasant type of young Englishman. The beautiful deerhound which sat with its long nose on Rupert's knee, and its melancholy eyes lifted affectionately from time to time to Rupert's face, was a not unworthy addition to the group.

Vivian spoke at last with a smile. "I am very unsociable to-night," he said, tuning his face to the place where he knew Angela sat. "I have been making a decision."

Fane looked up sharply; Angela said "Yes?" in an inquiring tone.

But Rupert did not at once mention the nature of his decision. He began to repeat Captain Somer's story; he told her what kind of a place the Rocas Reef was like; he even begged Fane to fetch an atlas from the study and show her the spot where the Arizona had been wrecked.

"You must please not mention this matter to the Herons when you are writing, you know, Angela," he continued, "or to Miss Murray. It is a mere chance—the smallest chance in the world—and it would not be fair to excite their hopes."

"But it is a chance, is it not, Rupert?"

"Yes, dear, it is a chance."

"Then can nothing be done?"

"I think something must be done," said he, quietly. There was a purpose in his tone, a hopeful light in his face, which she could not but remark.

"What will you do, Rupert?"

"I think, dear," he said, smiling, "that the easiest plan would be for me to go out to the Rocas Reef myself."

"You, Rupert!"

"Yes, I, myself. That is if Fane will go with me."

"I shall be delighted," said Fane, whose grey eyes danced with pleasure at the idea.

"You must take me, too," said Angela.

It was Rupert's turn now to ejaculate. "You, Angela! My dear child, you are joking."

"I'm not joking at all. You would be much more comfortable if I went, too. And I think that Aunt Alice would go with us, if we asked her. Why not? You want to travel, and I have nothing to keep me in England. Let us go together."

Rupert smiled. "I want to lose no time," he said. "I must travel fast."

"I am fond of travelling. And I shall be so lonely while you are away."

That argument was a strong one. Rupert conceded the point. Angela should go with him on condition that Aunt Alice—usually known as Mrs. Norman—should go too. They would travel with all reasonable swiftness, and if—as was to be feared—their expedition should prove unsuccessful, they could loiter a little as they came back, and make themselves acquainted with various pleasant and interesting places on their way. They spent the rest of the evening in discussing their route.

Rupert was rich enough to carry out his whim—if whim it could be called—in the pleasantest and speediest way. Before long he was the temporary owner of a fine little schooner, in which he proposed to scour the seas in search of his missing friend. To his great satisfaction, Captain Somers consented to act as his skipper: a crew of picked men was obtained; and the world in general received the information that Mr. Vivian and his sister were going on a yachting expedition for the good of their health, and would probably not return to England for many months.

Rupert's spirits rose perceptibly at the prospect of the voyage. He was tired of inaction, and welcomed the opportunity of a complete change. He had not much hope of finding Percival, but he was resolved, at any rate, to explore the Rocas Reef, and discover any existing traces of the Arizona. "And who knows but what there may be some other poor fellows on that desolate reef?" he said to his secretary, Fane, who was wild with impatience to set off. "We can but go and see. If we are unsuccessful we will go round Cape Horn and up to Fiji. I always had a hankering after those lovely Pacific islands. If you are going down Pall Mall, Fane, you might step into Harrison's and order those books by Miss Bird and Miss Gordon Cumming—you know the ones I mean. They will make capital reading on board."

Angela had been making some purchases in Kensington one afternoon, and was thinking that it was time to return home, when she came unexpectedly face to face with an acquaintance. It was Elizabeth Murray.

Angela knew her slightly, but had always liked her. A great wave of sympathy rose in her heart as her eyes rested upon the face of a woman who had, perhaps, lost her lover, even as Angela had lost hers. Elizabeth's face had parted with its beautiful bloom; it was pale and worn, and the eyelids looked red and heavy, as though from sleepless nights and many tears. The two clasped hands warmly. Angela's lips quivered, and her eyes filled with tears, but Elizabeth's face was rigidly set in an enforced quietude.

"I am glad I have met you," she said. "I was wondering where to find you. I did not know your address."

"Come and see me now," said Angela, by a sudden impulse.

"Thank you. I will."

A few minutes' walking brought them to the old house which Rupert had lately taken. It was in a state of some confusion: boxes stood in the passages, parcels were lying about the floor. Angela coloured a little as she saw Elizabeth's eye fall on some of these.

"We are going away," she said, hurriedly, "on a sea-voyage. The doctors have been recommending it to Rupert for some time."

This was strictly true.

"I knew you were going away," said Elizabeth, in a low tone.

She was standing beside a table in the drawing-room: her left hand rested upon it, her eyes were fixed absently upon the muff which she carried in her right hand. Angela asked her to sit down. But Elizabeth did not seem to hear. She began to speak with a nervous tremor in her voice which made Angela feel nervous, too.

"I have heard a strange thing," she said. "I have heard it rumoured that you are going to cross the Atlantic—that you mean to visit the Rocas Reef. Tell me, please, if it is true or not."

Angela did not know what to say.

"We are going to South America," she murmured, with a somewhat embarrassed smile. "We may pass the Rocas Reef."

"Ah, speak to me frankly," said Elizabeth, putting down her muff and moving forward with a slight gesture of supplication. "Mr. Vivian was Percival's friend. Does he really mean to go and look for him? Do they think that some of the crew and passengers may be living upon the island still?"

"There is just a chance," said Angela, quoting her brother. "He means to go and see. We did not tell you: we were afraid you might be too—too—hopeful."

"I will not be too hopeful. I will be prudent and calm. But you must tell me all about it. Do you really think there is any chance? Oh, you are happy: you can go and see for yourself, and I can do nothing—nothing—nothing! And it was my doing that he went!"

Her voice sank into a low moan. She clasped her hands together and wrung them a little beneath her cloak. Angela, looking at her with wet, sympathetic eyes, had a sudden inspiration. She held out her hand.

"Come with us," she said, gently. "Why should you not? We will take care of you. What would I not have given to do something for the man I loved! If Mr. Heron is living, you shall help us to find him."

Elizabeth's face turned white. "I cannot go with you under false pretences," she said. "You will think me base—wicked; you cannot think too ill of me—but——It was not Percival Heron whom I loved. And he knew it—and loved me still. You—you—have been true in your heart to your promised husband; but I—in my heart—was false."

She covered her face and burst into passionate weeping as she spoke. But Angela did not hesitate.

"If that is the case," she said, very softly and sweetly, "if you are anxious to repair any wrong that you have done to him, help us to find him now. You have nothing to keep you in England! My brother will say what I say—Come with us."



CHAPTER XLVII.

FOUND.

"As far as I can calculate," said Percival, "this is the end of March. Confound it! I wish I had some tobacco."

"Don't begin to wish," remarked Brian, lazily, "or you will never end."

"I haven't your philosophy. I am wishing all day long—and for nothing so much as the sight of a sail on yonder horizon."

In justice to Percival, it must be observed that he never spoke in this way except when alone with Brian, and very seldom even then. There had been a marked change in their relations to each other since the night when Heron had made what he called "his confession." They had never again mentioned the subject then discussed, but there had been a steady growth of friendship and confidence between them. If it was ever interrupted, it was only when Percival had now and then a moody fit, during which he would keep a sort of sullen silence. Brian respected these moods, and thought that he understood them. But he found in the end that he had been as much mistaken about their origin as Percival had once been mistaken in attributing motives of a mercenary kind to him. And when the cloud passed, Percival would be friendlier and more genial than ever.

"Of course," said Heron, presently, "if a vessel saw our signal—and hove to, we should have to send out one of our ingeniously constructed small boats and state our case. Jackson and I would be the best men for the purpose, I suppose. Then they would send for the rest of you. A good opportunity for leaving you behind, Brian, eh?"

"A hermit's life would not suit me badly," said Brian, who was lying on his back on a patch of sand in the shade, with a hat of cocoa-nut fibre tilted over his eyes. "I think I could easily let you go back without me."

"I shall not do that, you know."

"It is foolish, perhaps, to let our minds dwell on the future," said Brian, after a moment's pause; "but the more I think of it the more I wonder that your mind is so set upon dragging me back to England. You know that I don't want to go. You know that that business could be settled just as well without me as with me; better, in fact. I shall have to stultify myself; to repudiate my own actions; to write myself down an ass."

"Good for you," said Percival, with an ironical smile.

"Possibly; but I don't see what you gain by it."

"Love of dominion, my dear fellow. I want to drag you as a captive at my chariot-wheels, of course. We will have a military band at the Dunmuir Station, and it shall play 'See the conquering hero comes.'"

"Very well. I don't mind assisting at your triumph."

"Hum! My triumph? Wait till that day arrives, and we shall see. What's that fellow making frantic signs about from that biggest palm-tree? It looks as if——Good Heavens, Brian, it's a sail!"

He dashed the net that he had been making to the ground, and rushed off at the top of his speed to the place where a pile of wood and seaweed had been heaped to make a bonfire. Brian followed with almost equal swiftness. The others had already collected at the spot, and in a few minutes a thin, wavering line of smoke rose up into the air, and flashes of fire began to creep amongst the carefully-dried fuel.

For a time they all watched the sail in silence. Others had been seen before; others had faded away into the blue distance, and left their hearts sick and sore. Would this one vanish like the others? Was their column of smoke, now rising thick and black towards the cloudless sky, big enough to be seen by the man on the look-out? And, if it was seen—what then? Why, even then, they might choose to avoid that perilous reef, and pass it by.

"It's coming nearer," said Jackson, at last, in a loud whisper.

Brian looked at Percival, then turned away and fixed his eyes once more upon the distant sail. There was something in Percival's face which he hardly cared to see. The veins on his forehead were swollen, his lips were nearly bitten through, his eyes were strained with that passionate longing for deliverance to which he seldom gave vent in words. If this vessel brought no succour, Brian trembled to think of the force of the reaction from that intense desire. For himself, Brian had little care: he was astonished to find how slightly the suspense of waiting told upon him, except for others' sake. He had no prospects: no future. But Percival had everything in the world that heart could wish for: home, happiness, success. It was natural that his impatience should have something in it that was fierce and bitter. If this ship failed them, the disappointment would almost break his heart.

"They've seen us," Jackson repeated, hoarsely. "They're making for the island. Thank God!"

"Don't be too sure," said Percival, in a harsh voice. Then, in a few minutes, he added:—"The boats had better be seen to. I think you are right."

Fenwick and the boy went off immediately to the place where the two little boats were moored—boats which they had all laboured to manufacture out of driftwood and rusty iron nails. Jackson remained to throw fuel on the fire, and Percival, suddenly laying a hand on Brian's arm, led him apart and turned his back upon the glittering expanse of sea.

"I'm as bad as a woman," he said, tightening his grasp till it seemed like one of steel on Brian's arm. "It turns me sick to look. Do you think it is coming or not!"

"Of course it is coming. Don't break down at the last moment, Heron."

"I'm not such a fool," said Percival, gruffly. "But—good God! think of the months we have gone through. I say," with a sudden and complete change of tone, "you're not going to back out of our arrangements, are you? You're coming to England with me?"

"If you wish it."

"I do wish it."

"Very well. I will come."

They clasped hands for a moment in silence and then separated. Brian went to the hut to collect the scanty belongings of the party: Percival made his way down to the boats.

There was no mistake about the vessel now. She was making steadily for the Rocas Reef. About a mile-and-a-half from it she hove to; and a boat was lowered. By this time Heron and Jackson had rowed to the one gap in the barrier reef that surrounded the island; they met the ship's boat half-way between the reef and the ship itself. A young, fair, pleasant-looking man in the ship's boat attracted Percival's attention at once: he seemed to be in some position of authority, although it was evident that he was not one of the ship's officers. As soon as they were within speaking distance of each other, questions and answers were exchanged. Percival was struck by the brightness of the young man's face as he gave the information required. After a little parley, the boat went its way to the schooner; the officer in charge declaring with an odd smile that the castaways had better make known their condition to the captain, before returning for the others on the island. Percival was in no mood to demur: he and Jackson stepped into the ship's boat, and their own tiny craft was towed behind it as a curiosity in boatbuilding.

There was a good deal of crowding at the ship's sides to look at the new-comers: and, as Percival sprang on board, with a sense of almost overpowering relief and joy at the sight of his country-men, a broad, red-faced man with a black beard, came up, and, as soon as he learnt his name, shook him heartily by the hand.

"So you're Mr. Heron," he said, giving him an oddly interested and approving look. "Well, sir, we've come a good way for you, and I hope you're glad to see us. You'll find some acquaintances of yours below."

"Acquaintances?" said Heron, staring.

"There's one, at any rate," said the captain, pushing forward a seaman who was standing at his elbow, with a broad grin upon his face. "Remember Mason of the Arizona, Mr. Heron? Ah, well! if you go into the cabin, you'll find someone you remember better." And then the captain laughed, and Heron saw a smile on the faces round him, which confused him a little, and made him fancy that something was going wrong. But he had not much time for reflection. He was half-led, half-pushed, down the companion ladder, but in such a good-humoured, friendly way that he did not know how to resist; and then the fair-haired young man opened a door and said, "He's here, sir!" in a tone of triumph, which was certainly not ill bestowed. And then there arose some sort of confusion, and Percival heard familiar voices, and felt that his hand was half-shaken off, and that somebody had kissed his cheek.

But for the moment he saw no one but Elizabeth.

They had known for some little time that their quest had been successful, that Percival was safe. They had seen him as he rowed from the island, as he entered the other boat, as he set his foot upon the schooner; and then they had withdrawn into the cabin, so that they might not meet him under the inquisitive, if friendly, eyes of the captain and his crew. Perhaps they had hardly made enough allowance for the shock of surprise and joy which their appearance was certain to cause Percival. His illness and long residence on the island had weakened his physical force. In almost the first time in his life he felt a sensation of faintness, which made him turn pale and stagger, as he recognised the faces of the two persons whom he loved better than any other in the world—his friend and his betrothed. A thought of Brian, too, embittered this his first meeting with Elizabeth. Only one person noticed that momentary paleness and unsteadiness of step; it was natural that Angela, a sympathetic spectator in the background, should see more than even Elizabeth, whose eyes were dim with emotions which she could not have defined.

Explanations were hurriedly given, or deferred till a future time. It was proposed that the whole party should go on shore, as everyone was anxious to see the place where Percival had spent so long a time. Even Rupert talked gleefully of "seeing" it. Percival had never seen his friend so exultant, so triumphant. And then, without knowing exactly how it happened, he found himself for a moment alone with Elizabeth, with whom he had hitherto exchanged only a hurried, word or two of greeting. But her hand was still in his when he turned to speak to her alone.

"How beautiful you look!" he said. "If you knew what it is to me to see you again, Elizabeth!"

But it was not pure joy that sparkled in his eyes.

"Dear Percival! I am glad to see you, so glad to know that you are safe."

"You were sorry when you heard——"

"Oh," she said, "sorry is not the word. I could not forgive myself! I can never thank God enough that we have found you."

"Yes," said he, in a low tone. "I think you are glad that I am safe. I don't deserve that you should be, but——Well, never mind all that. Won't you give me one kiss, Elizabeth, my darling?" Then, in a more cheerful voice, "Come and see this wretched hole in which we have passed the last four months. It is an interesting place."

"Oh, Percival, it is just like yourself to say so!" said Elizabeth, smiling, but with tearful eyes. "And how pale and thin you are."

"You should have seen me a couple of months ago. I was a skeleton then," said Percival, as he opened the door for her. "A shell-fish diet is not one which I should recommend to an invalid."

He was conscious of a question in her eyes which he did not mean to answer: he even found time to whisper a word to Jackson before they got into the boat. "Not a word about Luttrell," he whispered. "Say it was a steerage passenger who gave his name as Mackay. And don't say anything unless they ask you point blank." Jackson stared, but nodded an assent. He had a good deal of faith in Mr. Heron's wisdom.

Pale and gaunt as Percival undoubtedly was, Elizabeth thought that he looked very like his old self, as he stood frowning and biting his moustache in the bows, and looking shorewards as though he were afraid of something that he might see. This familiar expression—something between anxiety and annoyance—made Elizabeth smile to herself in spite of her agitation. Percival was not much changed.

She was sitting near him, and she longed to ask the question which was uppermost in her mind; but it was a difficult question to ask, seeing that he did not mention Brian Luttrell of his own accord. With an effort that made her turn pale, she bent forward at last, and said, fixing her eyes steadily upon him:—

"What news of the Falcon?"

He looked at her and hesitated, "Don't ask me now," he said, averting his face.

She was silent. He heard a little sigh, and glancing at her again, saw a look of heart-sick resignation in her white face which told him that she thought Brian must be dead. He felt a pang of compunction, and a desire to tell her all, then he restrained himself. "She will not have to wait long," he thought, with a rather bitter smile.

When they landed, he quietly took her hand in his, and led her a little apart from the others. Angela and Rupert, Mrs. Norman and Mr. Fane, were, however, close behind. They followed Percival's footsteps as he showed the way to one of the huts which the men had occupied during their stay on the island. When they were near it, he turned and spoke to Rupert and Angela. "I am obliged to be very rude," he said. "Let me go into the hut with Miss Murray first of all. There is something I want her to see—something I must say. I will come back directly."

They saw that he was agitated, although he tried to speak as if nothing were the matter; and they drew back, respecting his emotion. As for Elizabeth, she waited: she could do nothing else. A little while ago she had said to herself that Percival was not changed: she thought differently now. He was changed; and yet she did not know how or why.

He stopped at the door, and turned to her. He still held her hand in a close, warm grasp. "Don't be startled," he said, gently. "I am going to surprise you very much. There is a friend of mine here: remember, I say, a friend of mine. He was saved from the wreck of the Falcon—do you understand whom I mean?"

And then he opened the door. "Brian," he said, in a voice that seemed strange to Elizabeth, because of its measured quietness, "come here."

Elizabeth was trembling from head to foot. "Don't be afraid, child," he said, with more of an approach to his old tones and looks than she had yet heard or seen; "nobody will hurt you. Here he is—and I think I may fairly say that I have kept my word."

Brian Luttrell had been collecting the possessions which he thought that his comrades might wish to take with them as mementoes of their stay upon the island. He sprang up quickly at the first sound of Percival's voice, and then stood, as if turned to stone, looking at Elizabeth. The healthy colour faded from his face, leaving it nearly as pale as hers; he set his lips, and Percival could see that he clenched his hands. Elizabeth did not look up at all.

"Is this all the thanks I get," said Percival, in an ironical tone, "for introducing one cousin to another? I have taken a good deal of trouble for you both; I think that now you have met you might be civil to each other."

There was a perceptible pause. Elizabeth was the first to recover herself. She made a step forward and put out her hand, which Brian instantly took in his. But neither of them spoke. Percival, with his back against the door, and his arms folded, observed them with a slightly humorous smile.

"You are surprised," he said to Elizabeth, "and I don't wonder. The last thing you expected was to find me on good terms with Brian Luttrell, was it not? And we have been on fairly good terms, have we not, Luttrell?"

"He saved my life twice," said Brian.

"And he nursed me through a fever," interposed Percival, with a huge laugh, "so we are quits. Oh, we have both played our parts in a highly creditable manner as long as we were on a desert island; but the island is inhabited now, and I think it's time that we returned to the habits of civilised life. As a matter of fact, I consider Brian Luttrell my deadliest enemy."

"You do nothing of the kind," said Brian, unable to repress a smile, although it hardly altered the look of pain that had come into his eyes. "Don't believe him, Miss Murray: I am glad to say that we are good friends."

"Idyllic simplicity! Don't you know that I did but dissemble, like the man in the play? How can we be friends when we both——" he stopped short, looked at Elizabeth, and then back at Brian, and finished his sentence—"both want to marry the same woman?"

"Heron, you are going too far. Don't make these allusions; they are unsuitable," said Brian.

Elizabeth had winced as if she had received a blow. Percival laughed in their faces.

"Out of taste, isn't it?" he said. "I ought to ignore the circumstances under which we meet, and talk as if we were in a drawing-room. I'm not such a fool. Look here, you two: let us talk sensibly. I have surely a right to demand something of you both, have I not?"

"Yes, yes, indeed," they answered.

"Then, for Heaven's sake, speak the truth! Here have I been chasing Brian half over the world, getting myself shipwrecked and thrown on desert islands, and what not, all because I wanted you, Elizabeth, to acknowledge that I was not such a mean and selfish wretch as you concluded me to be. Have I cleared myself? or, perhaps I should say, have I expiated the crime that I did commit?"

"It was no crime," said Brian, warmly. "No one who knows you could think you capable of meanness."

"I was not speaking to you, Mr. Luttrell," said Percival. "You're not in it at all. I am having a little conversation with my cousin. Well, Elizabeth, what do you say?"

"I think you have been most kind and generous," she said.

"Then I may retire with a good character? And, to come back to what I said before, as we both wish——"

"You are not generous now, Heron," said Brian, quickly.

"No! But I will be—sometime. You seem very anxious to repudiate all desire to marry my cousin. Have you changed your mind?"

"Percival, I will not listen. Have you brought me here only to insult me?" cried Elizabeth, passionately.

Percival smiled. "I am waiting for Brian Luttrell's answer," he replied, looking at him steadily.

"I do not know what answer you expect," said Brian, "unless you want me to say the truth—that I loved Elizabeth Murray with all my heart and soul, before I knew that she had promised to be your wife; and that as I loved her then, I love her still. It is my misfortune—or my privilege—to do so; I scarcely know which. And for that reason, as you know, I have earnestly wished never to cross her path again, lest I should trouble her or distress her in any way."

"Fate has been against you," said Percival, grimly. "You seem destined to cross her path in one way or another—and mine, too. It is time all this came to an end. You think I am saying disagreeable things for the mere pleasure of saying them; but it is not so. I will beg your pardon afterwards if I hurt you. What I want to say is this: I withdraw all my claims, if I had any, to Miss Murray's hand. I release her from any promise that she ever made to me. She is as free to choose as—as you are yourself, or as I am. We have both offered ourselves to Miss Murray at different times. It is for her to say which of us she prefers."

There was a silence. Elizabeth's face changed from white to red, from red to white again. At last she looked up, and looked at Brian. He came to her side at once, as if he saw that she wanted help.

"Percival," he said, "you are very generous in act: be generous in word as well. Let the matter rest. It is cruel to ask her to decide."

"It seems to me that she has decided," said Percival, with a sharp, short laugh, "seeing that she lets you speak for her."

"Oh, Percival, forgive me," murmured Elizabeth.

A spasm of pain seemed to pass over his face as he turned towards her: then it grew strangely gentle. "My dear," he said, "I never pretended to be anything but a very selfish fellow; but if I can secure your happiness, I shall feel that I have accomplished one, at least, of the ends of my life. There!"—with a laugh: "I think that's well said. Haven't I known for months that I should be obliged to give you up to Luttrell in the long run? And the worst is, that I haven't the satisfaction of hating him through it all, because we have managed—I don't know how—to fight our way to a sort of friendship. Eh, Brian? And now I'll leave you to yourself for a few minutes, and you can settle the matter while you have the opportunity."

He walked out of the hut before they could protest. But the smile died away from his lips when he had left them, and was succeeded for a few minutes by an expression of intense pain. He stood and looked at the sea; perhaps it was the dazzling reflection of the sun upon the waters which made his eyes so dim. After five minutes' reflection, he shrugged his shoulders and turned away.

"There's one great consolation in returning to civilised life," he said, strolling up to the group of friends as they returned from a walk round the island. "That is—tobacco! Fate can't do much harm to the man who smokes." And he accepted a cigarette from Mr. Fane. "Now," he continued, "fortune may buffet me as she pleases; I do not care. I have not smoked for four months. Consequently I am as happy as a king."

He smoked with evident satisfaction; but Angela thought that she discerned a look of trouble upon his face.



CHAPTER XLVIII.

ANGELA.

"So it was not you after all, sir," said Captain Somers, surveying Heron with some surprise, and then glancing towards a secluded corner, where Brian and Elizabeth were absorbed in an apparently very interesting conversation. "Well, I must have made a mistake. I didn't know anything about the other gentleman."

"Oh, we kept him dark," returned Percival, lightly. "My cousin didn't want her affairs talked about. They make a nice couple, don't they?"

"Ay, sir, they do. Mr. Vivian made a mistake, too, perhaps," said Captain Somers, with some curiosity.

"We're all liable to make mistakes at times," replied Percival, smiling. "I don't think they've made one now, at any rate."

And then he left Captain Somers, and seated himself on a chair, which happened to be close to the one occupied by Angela Vivian. Brian and Elizabeth were still within the range of his vision: although he was not watching them he was perfectly conscious of their movements. He saw Brian take Elizabeth's hand in his and raise it gently to his lips. The two did not know that they could be seen. Percival stifled a sigh, and twisted his chair round a little, so as to turn his back to them. This manoeuvre brought him face to face with Angela.

"They look very happy and comfortable over there, don't they?" he said.

"I think they will be very happy," she answered.

"I shouldn't wonder." He moved restlessly in his chair, and looked towards the sea. "You know the story," he said. "I suppose you mean she will be happier with him than with me?"

"She loves him," said Angela scarcely above her breath.

"I suppose so," he answered, dryly. Then, after a pause—"Love is a mighty queer matter, it seems to me. Here have I been trying to win her heart for the last five years, and, just when I think I am succeeding, in steps a fellow whom she has never seen before, who does in a month or two what I failed to do in years."

"They have a great deal to thank you for," said Angela.

Percival shook his head.

"That's a mere delusion of their generous hearts," he said. "I've been a selfish brute: that's all."

It seemed easier to him, after this, to discuss the matter with Angela from every possible point of view. He told her more than he had told anyone in the world of the secret workings of his mind; she alone had any true idea of what it had cost him to give Elizabeth up. He took a great deal of pleasure in dissecting his own character, and it soothed and flattered him that she should listen with so much interest. He was always in a better temper when he had been talking to Angela. He did most of the talking—it must be owned that he liked to hear himself talk—and she made a perfect listener. He, in turn, amused and interested her very much. She had never come across a man of his type before. His trenchant criticisms of literature, his keen delight in politics, his lively argumentativeness, were charming to her. He had always had the knack of quarrelling with Elizabeth, even when he was most devoted to her; but he did not quarrel with Angela. She quieted him; he hardly knew how to be irritable in her presence.

The story of Kitty's marriage excited his deepest ire. He was indignant with his sister, disgusted with Hugo Luttrell. He himself told it, with some rather strong expressions of anger, to Brian, who listened in perfect silence.

"What can you say for your cousin?" said Percival, turning upon him fiercely. "What sort of a fellow is he? Do you consider him fit to marry my sister?"

"No, I don't," Brian answered. "I am sorry to say so, but I don't think Hugo is in the least to be relied on. I have been fond of him, but——"

"A screw loose somewhere, is there? I thought as much."

"He may do better now that he is married," said Brian. But he felt that it was poor comfort.

They went straight back to England, and it was curious to observe how naturally and continuously a certain division of the party was always taking place. Brian and Elizabeth were, of course, a great deal together; it seemed equally inevitable that Percival should pair off with Angela, and that Mrs. Norman, Rupert Vivian, and Mr. Fane should be left to entertain each other.

It was on the last day of the voyage that Brian sought out Percival and took him by the arm. "Look here, Heron," he said. "I have never thanked you for what you have done for me."

Percival was smoking. He took his pipe out of his mouth, and said, "Don't," very curtly, and then replaced the meerschaum, and puffed at it energetically.

"But I must."

"Stop," said Heron. "Don't go on till you've heard me speak." He took his pipe in his hand and knocked it meditatively against the bulwarks. "There's a great deal that might be said on both sides. Do you think that any of us have acted wisely or rightly throughout this business?"

"I don't think I have. I think Elizabeth has."

"Oh, Elizabeth. Well, she's a woman. Women have a strange sort of pleasure in acting properly. But I don't think that even your Elizabeth was quite perfect. Now, don't knock me down; she's my cousin, and I knew her years before you did. She's your cousin, too, by the way; but that does not signify. What I wanted to say was this:—We have all been more or less idiotic. I made a confounded fool of myself once or twice, and, begging your pardon, Brian, I think you did, too."

"I think I did," said Brian, reflectively.

"Elizabeth will take care of you now, and see that you have your due complement of commonsense," said Percival. "Well, look here. I've been wrong and I've been right at times; so have you. I have something to thank you for, and perhaps you feel the same sort of thing towards me. I think it is a pity to make a sort of profit and loss calculation as to which of the two has been the more wronged, or has the more need to be grateful. Let bygones be bygones. I want you and Elizabeth to promise me not to speak or think of those old days again. We can't be friends if you do. I was very hard on you both sometimes: and—well, you know the rest. If you forgive, you must also forget."

Brian looked at him for a moment. "Upon my word, Percival," he said, warmly, "I can't imagine why she did not prefer you to me. You're quite the most large-hearted man I ever knew."

"Oh, come, that's too strong," said Heron, carelessly. "You're a cut above me, you know, in every way. You will suit her admirably. As for me, I'm a rough, coarse sort of a fellow—a newspaper correspondent, a useful literary hack—that's all. I never quite understood until—until lately—what my position was in the eyes of the world."

"Why, I thought you considered your profession a very high one," said Brian.

"So I do. Only I'm at the bottom of the tree, and I want to be at the top."

There was a pause. A little doubt was visible upon Brian's face: Percival saw it and understood.

"There's one thing you needn't do," he said, with a sort of haughty abruptness. "Don't offer me help of any kind. I won't stand it. I don't want charity. If I could be glad that I was not going to marry Elizabeth, it would be because she is a rich woman. I wonder, by-the-bye, what Dino Vasari is going to do."

They had not heard of Dino's death when Percival left England.

"If I were you," Percival went on, "I should not stand on ceremony. I should get a special licence in London and marry her at once. You'll have a bother about settlements and provisions and compromises without end, if you don't."

Brian smiled, and even coloured a little at the proposition. "I could not ask her to do it," he said.

"Then I'll ask her," said Percival with his inimitable sang-froid. "In the very nick of time, here she comes. Mademoiselle, I was talking about you."

Elizabeth smiled. The colour had come back to her cheeks, the brightness to her eyes. She was the incarnation of splendid health and happiness. Percival looked from her to Brian, remarking silently the gravity and nobleness of his expression and the singular refinement of his features, which could be seen so much more plainly, now that he had returned to his old fashion of wearing a moustache and small pointed beard, instead of the disfiguring mass of hair with which he had once striven to disguise his face. Percival was clean shaven, except for the heavy, black moustache, which he fingered as he spoke.

"You are my children by adoption," he said, cheerfully, "and I am going to speak to you as a grandfather might. Elizabeth, my opinion is, that if you want to avoid vexatious delays, you had better get married to this gentleman here before you present yourself in Scotland at all. You have no idea how much it would simplify matters. Brian won't suggest such a thing; he is afraid you will think that he wants to make ducks and drakes of your money——"

"His money," said Elizabeth.

"Well, his or yours, or that Italian fellow's—I don't see that it matters much. Why don't you stop in London, get a special licence, and be married from Vivian's house? I know he would be delighted."

"It is easy to make the suggestion," said Brian, "but perhaps Elizabeth would not like such haste."

"I will do what you like," said Elizabeth.

"Let me congratulate you," remarked Percival to Brian; "you are about to marry that treasure amongst wives—a woman who tries to please you and not herself. Well, I have broken the ice, settle the matter as you please."

"No, Percival, don't go," said Elizabeth. But he laughed, shook his head, and left them to themselves.

As usual he went to Angela, and allowed himself to look as gloomy as he chose. She asked him what was the matter.

"I have been playing the heavy father, and giving away the bride," he said. And then he told her what he had advised.

"You want to have it over," she said, looking at him with her soft, serious eyes.

"To tell the truth, I believe I do."

"It is hard on you, now."

"Not a bit," said Percival, taking a seat beside her. "I ought not to mind. If I were Luttrell, I probably should glory in self-sacrifice, and say I didn't mind. Unfortunately I do. But nothing will drive me to say that it is hard. All's fair in love and war. Brian has proved himself the better man."

"Not the stronger man," said Angela, almost involuntarily.

"You think not? I don't think I have been strong! I have been wretchedly weak sometimes. Ah, there they come; they have settled it between them. They look bright, don't they?"

Angela made no answer, she felt a little indignant with Brian and Elizabeth for looking bright. It was decidedly inconsiderate towards Percival.

But Percival made no show of his wound to anybody except Angela. He seemed heartily glad when he heard that Elizabeth had consented to the speedy marriage in London, he was as cheerful in manner as usual, he held his head high, and ate and drank and laughed in his accustomed way. Even Elizabeth was deceived, and thought he was cured of his love for her. But the restless gleam of his eye and the dark fold between his brow, in spite of his merriment, told a different tale to the two who understood him best—Brian and Angela.

The marriage took place from Rupert's house, according to Percival's suggestion. It was a quiet wedding, and the guests were very various in quality. Mr. Heron came from Scotland for the occasion, Rupert and his sister, Mrs. Norman, Captain Somers and the two seamen—Jackson and Mason, were all present. Percival alone did not come. He had said nothing about his intention of staying away, but sent a note of excuse at the last moment. He had resumed his newspaper work, and a sudden call upon him required instant attention. Elizabeth was deeply disappointed. She had looked upon his presence at her wedding as the last assurance of his forgiveness, and she and Brian both felt that something was lacking from their felicity when Percival did not come.

They started for Scotland as soon as the wedding was over, and it was not until the following week that Brian received a bulky letter which had been waiting for him at the place where he had directed Dino Vasari to address his letters. He opened it eagerly, expecting to find a long letter from Dino himself. He took out only the announcement of his death.

There was, however, a very lengthy document from Padre Cristoforo, which Brian and Elizabeth read with burning hearts and tearful or indignant eyes. In this letter, Padre Cristoforo set forth, calmly and dispassionately, what he knew of poor Dino's story, and there were many things in it which Brian learnt now for the first time. But the Prior said nothing about Elizabeth. When Brian had read the letter, he leaned over the table, and took his wife's hand as he spoke.

"Did you ever see him?" he asked.

"I saw a young man with Mr. Colquhoun on the day when he came to Netherglen. But I hardly remember his face."

"You would have loved him?"

"Yes," she said, "for your sake."

"And now, what shall we do? Now we are on our guard against Hugo. To think that any man should be so vile!"

"Our poor little Kitty!" murmured Elizabeth. "Surely she has found out her mistake. I could never understand that marriage. She looked very unhappy afterwards. But we were all unhappy then."

"I had forgotten what happiness was like until I saw your face again," said Brian.

"But about Hugo, love?" she said, replying to his glance with a smile, which showed that for her at least the fullest earthly bliss had been attained. "Can we not go to Netherglen and send him away? I do not like to think that he is with your mother."

"Nor I," said Brian. "Let us go and see."

That very evening they set out for Netherglen.

* * * * *

Meanwhile, Percival Heron was calling at the Vivians' house in Kensington. Angela, who had hitherto seen him in very rough and ready costume, was a little surprised when he appeared one afternoon attired in clothes of the most faultless cut, and looking as handsome and idle as if he had never done anything in his life but pay morning calls. He had come, perhaps by accident, perhaps by design, on the day when she was at home to visitors from three to six; and, although she had not been very long in London, her drawing-room was crowded with visitors. The story of the expedition to the Rocas Reef had made a sensation in London society; everybody was anxious to see the heroes and heroines of the story, and Percival soon found himself as much a centre of attraction as Angela herself.

She watched him keenly, wondering whether he would be annoyed by the attention he was receiving; but his face wore a tranquil smile of amusement which reassured her. Once he made a movement as if to go, but she managed to say to him in passing:—

"Do not go yet unless you are obliged. Rupert is out with Mr. Fane."

"I did not come to see Rupert," said Percival, with a laugh in his brilliant eyes.

"I have something to say to you, too," she went on seriously.

"Really? Then I will wait."

He had to wait some time before the room was cleared of guests. When at last they found themselves alone, the day was closing in, and the wood fire cast strange flickering lights and shadows over the walls. The room was full of the scent of violets and white hyacinths. Percival leaned back in an easy chair, with an air of luxurious enjoyment. And yet he was not quite as much at his ease as he looked.

"You had something to say to me," he began, boldly. "I know perfectly well what it is. You think I ought to have come to the wedding, and you want to tell me so."

"Your conscience seems to say more than I should venture to," said Angela, smiling.

"I had an engagement, as I wrote in my letter."

"One that could not be broken?"

"To tell the truth, I was not in an amiable mood. If I had come I should probably have hurt their feelings more than by staying away. I should have said something savage. Well,"—as he saw her lips move—"what were you going to say?"

"Something very severe."

"Say it by all means."

"That you are trying to excuse your own selfishness by the plea of want of self-control. The excuse is worse than the action itself."

"I am very selfish, I know," said Percival, complacently. "I'm not at all ashamed of it. Why should I not consult my own comfort?"

"Why should you add one drop to the bitterness of Brian's cup?"

"I like that," said Percival, in an ironical tone. "It shows the extent of a woman's sense of justice. I beg your pardon, Miss Vivian, for saying so. But in my opinion Brian is a lucky fellow."

"You forget——"

"What do I forget? This business about his identity is all happily over, and he is married to the woman of his choice. I wish I had half his luck!"

"You have forgotten, Mr. Heron," said Angela, in a tone that showed how deeply she was moved, "that Brian has had a great sorrow—a great loss. I do not think life can ever be the same to him again—as it can never be the same to me—since—Richard—died."

Her voice sank and faltered. For an instant there was a silence, in which Percival felt shocked and embarrassed at his own want of thought. He had forgotten. He had been thinking solely of Brian's relations with Elizabeth. It had not occurred to him for a long time that Angela had once been on the point of marriage with the man—the brother—whom Brian Luttrell had shot dead at Netherglen.

He said, "I beg your pardon," in a constrained, reluctant voice, and sat in silence, feeling that he ought to go, yet not liking to tear himself away. For the first time he was struck by the beauty of Angela's patience. How she must have suffered! he thought to himself, as he remembered her sisterly care of Brian, her silence about her own great loss, her quiet acceptance of the inevitable. And he had prosed by the hour to this woman about his own griefs and love-troubles! What an egotist she must think him! What a fool! Percival felt hot about the ears with self-contempt. He rose to go, feeling that he should not venture to present himself to her again very easily. He did not even like to say that he was ashamed of his lapse of memory.

Angela rose, too. She would have spoken sooner, but she had been swallowing down the rising tears. She very seldom mentioned Richard Luttrell now.

They were standing, still silent, in this attitude of expectancy—each thinking that the other would speak first—when the door opened, and Mr. Vivian came in. Percival hailed his arrival with a feeling between impatience and relief. Rupert wanted him to stay, but he said that he must go at once; business called him away.

"There is a letter for you, Angela," said Vivian. "It was on the hall-table. Fane gave it me. I hope my sister has been scolding you for not coming to the wedding, Heron. It went off very well, but we wanted you. Have you heard the latest news from Egypt?"

And then they launched into a discussion of politics, from which they were presently diverted by a remark made by Angela as she laid her hand gently on Rupert's arm.

"Excuse me," she said. "I think I had better show both you and Mr. Heron this letter. It is from Mrs. Hugo Luttrell."

"From Kitty!" said the brother. Rupert's face changed a little, but he did not speak. Angela handed the letter first to Percival.

"Dear Miss Vivian," Kitty's letter began, "I am sorry to trouble you, but I want to know whether you will give a message for me to Mr. Brian Luttrell. Mrs. Luttrell is a little better, and is able to say one or two words. She calls for 'Brian' almost incessantly. I should be so glad if he would come, and Elizabeth too. If you know where they are, will you tell them so? But they must not say that I have written to you. And please do not answer this letter. If they cannot come, could not you? It is asking a great deal, I know; but Mrs. Luttrell would be happier if you were with her, and I should be so glad, too. I have nobody here whom I can trust, and I do not know what to do. I think you would help me if you knew all.—Yours very truly,

"Catherine Luttrell."

Percival read it through aloud, then laid it down in silence. "What does she mean?" he said, perplexedly.

"It means that there is something wrong," answered Rupert. "Are your people at Strathleckie now, Percival?"

"No, they are in London."

"Why don't you go down? You have not seen her since her marriage?"

"Hum. I haven't time."

"Then I will go."

"And I with you," said Angela, quickly. But Rupert shook his head.

"No, dear, not you. We will write for Brian and Elizabeth. And, excuse me, Percival, but if your sister is in any difficulty, I think it would be only kind if you went to her assistance."

"Yes, Mr. Heron," said Angela. "Do go. Do help her if you can."

And this time Percival did not refuse.



CHAPTER XLIX.

KITTY'S WARNING.

"It's an odd thing," said Percival, with a puzzled look, "that Kitty won't see me."

"Won't see you?" ejaculated Rupert.

They had arrived at Dunmuir the previous day, and located themselves at the hotel. Arthur Fane had come with them, but he was at present in the smoking-room, and the two friends had their parlour to themselves.

"Exactly. Sent word she was ill."

"Through whom?"

"A servant. A man whom I have seen with Luttrell several times. Stevens, they call him."

"Did you see Hugo Luttrell?"

"No. I heard his voice."

"He was in the house then?"

"Yes. I suppose he did not care to see me."

"You are curiously unsuspicious for a man of your experience," said Vivian, resting his head on one hand with a sort of sigh.

Percival started to his feet. "You think that it was a blind?" he cried.

"No doubt of it. He does not want you to see your sister."

"What for? Good Heavens! you don't mean to insinuate that he does not treat her well?"

"No. I don't mean to insinuate anything."

"Then tell me in plain English what you do mean."

"I can't, Percival. I have vague suspicions, that is all."

"It was a love-match," said Percival, after a moment's pause. "They ought to be happy together."

Rupert was silent a moment; then he said, in a low voice—

"I doubt whether it was a love-match exactly."

"What in Heaven or earth do you mean?" said Percival, staring. "What else could it be?"

But before Vivian could make any response, young Fane entered the room with the air of one who has had good news.

"Mr. Colquhoun asks me to tell you that he has just had a letter from Mr. Brian Luttrell, sir. He is to meet Mr. and Mrs. Luttrell at the station at nine o'clock, but their arrival is not to be made generally known. Only hearing that you were here, he thought it better to let you know."

"They could not have got Angela's letter," said Rupert. "I wonder why they are coming. It is very opportune."

"If you don't mind," remarked Percival, "I'll go and see Mr. Colquhoun. I want to know what he thinks of our adventures. And he may tell me something about affairs at Netherglen."

He departed on his errand, whistling as he went; but the whistle died on his lips as soon as he was out of Rupert's hearing. He resumed his geniality of bearing, however, when he stood in Mr. Colquhoun's office.

"Well, Mr. Colquhoun," he said, "I think we have all taken you by surprise now."

The old man looked at him keenly over his spectacles.

"I won't say but what you have," he said, with an emphasis on the pronoun. Percival laughed cheerily.

"Thanks. That's a compliment."

"It's just the truth. You've done a very right thing, and a generous one, Mr. Heron; and I shall esteem it an honour to shake hands with you." And Mr. Colquhoun got up from his office-chair, and held out his hand with a look of congratulation. Percival gave it a good grip, and resumed, in an airier tone than ever.

"You do me proud, as a Yankee would say, Mr. Colquhoun. I'm sure I don't see what I've done to merit this mark of approval. Popular report says that I jilted Miss Murray in the most atrocious manner; but then you always wanted me to do that, I remember."

"Lad, lad," said the old man, reprovingly, "what is all this bluster and swagger about? Take the credit of having made a sacrifice for once in your life, and don't be too ready to say it cost you nothing. Man, didn't I see you on the street just now, with your hands in your pockets and your face as black as my shoe? You hadn't those wrinkles in your brow when you started for Pernambuco six months ago. It's pure childishness to pretend that you feel nothing and care for nothing, when we all know that you've had a sore trouble and a hard fight of it. But you've conquered, Mr. Heron, as I thought you would."

Percival sat perfectly still. His face wore at first an expression of great surprise. Then it relaxed, and became intently grave and even sad, but the defiant bitterness disappeared.

"I think you're right," he said, after a long pause. "Of course, I've—I've been hit pretty hard. But I don't want people to know. I don't want her to know. And I don't mean either to snivel or to sulk. But I see what you mean; and I think you may be right."

Mr. Colquhoun made some figures on his blotting-pad, and did not look up for a few minutes. He was glad that his visitor had dropped his sneering tone. And, indeed, Percival dropped it for the remainder of his visit, and, although he talked of scarcely anything but trivial topics, he went away feeling as if Mr. Colquhoun was no longer an enemy, but a confidential friend. On his return to the hotel, he found that Vivian had gone out with Arthur Fane. He occupied himself with strolling idly about Dunmuir till they came back.

Vivian had ordered a dog-cart, and got Fane to drive him up to Netherglen. He thought it possible that he might gain admittance, although Percival had not done so. But he was mistaken. He was assured by the impassive Stevens that Mrs. Hugo Luttrell was too unwell to see visitors, and that Mr. Luttrell was not at home. Vivian was forced to drive away, baffled and impatient.

"Drive me round by the loch," he said to Fane. "There is a road running close to the water. I should like to go that way. What does the loch look like to-day, Fane? Is it bright?"

"Yes, very bright."

"And the sky is clear?"

"Clear in the south and east. There are clouds coming up from the north-west; we shall have rain to-night."

They drove on silently, until at last Fane said, in rather a hesitating tone:—

"There is a lady making signs to us to turn round to wait, sir. She is a little way behind us."

"A lady? Stop then; stop at once. Is she near? What is she like? Is she young?"

"Very young, very slight. She is close to us now," said Fane, as he checked his horse.

Rupert bent forward with a look of eager expectation. He heard a footstep on the road; surely he knew it? He knew the voice well enough as it spoke his name.

"Mr. Vivian!"

"Kitty!" he said, eagerly. Then, in a soberer tone: "I beg your pardon, Mrs. Luttrell, I have just been calling at Netherglen and heard that you were ill."

"I am not ill, but I do not see visitors," said Kitty, in a constrained voice. "I wanted to speak to you; I saw you from the garden. I thought I should never make you hear."

"Will you wait one moment until I get down from my high perch? Fane will help me; I feel rather helpless at present."

"Can you turn back with me for a few minutes?"

"Certainly."

They walked for a few steps side by side, he with his hand resting on her arm for the sake of guidance. The soft spring breezes played upon their faces; the scent of wild flowers came to their nostrils, the song of building birds to their ears. But they noted none of these things.

Vivian stopped short at last, and spoke authoritatively.

"Now, Kitty, what does this mean? Why can you not see your brother and me when we call upon you?"

"My husband does not wish it," she said, faintly.

"Why not?"

"I don't know." Then, in a more decided tone: "He likes to thwart my wishes, that is all."

"That was why you warned Angela not to answer your letter?"

"Yes." Then, under her breath:—"I was afraid."

"But, my child, what are you afraid of?"

She uttered a short, stifled sob.

"I can't tell you," she said.

"Surely," said Rupert, "he would not hurt you?"

"No," she said, "perhaps not. I do not know."

There was a dreariness in her tone which went to Rupert's heart.

"Take courage," he said. "Brian and Elizabeth will be in Dunmuir to-night. Shall they come to see you?"

"Oh, yes, yes, yes!" cried Kitty. "Let them come at once—at once, tell them. You will see them, will you not?" She had forgotten Rupert's blindness. "If they come, I shall be prevented from meeting them, perhaps; I know I shall not be allowed to talk to them alone. Tell Mr. Luttrell to come and live at Netherglen. Tell him to turn us out. I shall be thankful to him all my life if he turns us out. I want to go!"

"You want to leave Netherglen?"

"Yes, yes, as quick as possible. Tell him that Mrs. Luttrell wants him—that she is sorry for having been so harsh to him. I know it. I can see it in her eyes. I tell her everything that I hear about him, and I know she likes it. She is pleased that he has married Elizabeth. Tell him to come to-night."

"To-night?" said Rupert. He began to fear that her troubles had affected her brain.

"Yes, to-night. Remember to tell him so. To-morrow may be too late. Now, go, go. He may come home at any moment; and if he saw you"—she caught her breath with a sob—"if he saw you here, I think that he would kill me."

"Kitty, Kitty! It cannot be so bad as this."

"Indeed, it is—and worse than you know," she said, bitterly. "Now let me lead you back. Thank you for coming. And tell Brian—be sure you tell Brian to come home to-night. It is his right, nobody can keep him out. But not alone. Tell him not to come alone."

It was with these words ringing in his ears that Rupert was driven back to Dunmuir.

Brian and his wife arrived about nine o'clock in the evening, as they had said in the letter which Mr. Colquhoun had received. Vivian, wrought up by this time to a high pitch of excitement, did not wait five minutes before pouring the whole of his story into Brian's ear. Brian's eyes flashed, his face looked stern as he listened to Kitty's message.

"The hound!" he said. "The cur! I expected almost as much. I know now what I never dreamt of before. He is a cowardly villain, and I will expose him this very night."

"Remember poor Kitty," said Elizabeth.

"I will spare her as much as possible, but I will not spare him. Do you know, Vivian, that he tried to murder Dino Vasari? There is not a blacker villain on the face of the earth. And to think that all this time my mother has been at his mercy!"

"His mother!" ejaculated Mr. Colquhoun in Percival's ear, with a chuckle of extreme satisfaction, "I'm glad he's come back to that nomenclature. Blood's thicker than water; and I'll stand to it, as I always have done, that this Brian's the right one after all."

"It's the only one there is, now," said Percival, "Vasari is dead."

"Poor laddie! Well, he was just too good for this wicked world," said the lawyer, with great cheerfulness, "and it would be a pity to grudge him to another. And what are you after now, Brian?"

"I'm going up to Netherglen."

"Without your dinner?"

"What do I care for dinner when my mother's life may be in danger?" said Brian.

"Tut, tut! Why should it be in danger to-night of all nights in the year?" said Mr. Colquhoun, testily.

"Why? Can you ask? Have you not told me yourself that my mother made a will before her illness, leaving all that she possessed to Hugo? Depend upon it, he is anxious to get Netherglen. When he hears that I have come back he will be afraid. He knows that I can expose him most thoroughly. He is quite capable of trying to put an end to my mother's life to-night. And that is what your sister meant."

"Don't forget her warning. Don't go alone," said Vivian.

"You'll come with me, Percival," said Brian. "And you, Fane."

"If Fane and Percival go, you must let me go, too," remarked Vivian, but Brian shook his head, and Elizabeth interposed.

"Will you stay with us, Mr. Vivian? Do not leave Mr. Colquhoun and me alone."

"I'll not be left behind," said Mr. Colquhoun, smartly; "you may depend upon that, Mrs. Brian. You and Mr. Vivian must take care of my wife; but I shall go, because it strikes me that I shall be needed. Four of us, that'll fill the brougham. And we'll put the constable, Macpherson, on the box."

"I must resign myself to be useless," said Vivian, with a smile which had some pain in it.

"Useless, my dear fellow? We should never have been warned but for you," answered Brian, giving him a warm grasp of the hand before he hurried off.

In a very short time the carriage was ready. The gentlemen had hastily swallowed some refreshment, and were eager to start. Brian turned back for a moment to bid his wife farewell, and received a whispered caution with the kiss that she pressed upon his face.

"Spare Kitty as much as you can, love. And take care of your dear self"

Then they set out for Netherglen.

The drive was almost a silent one. Each member of the party was more or less absorbed in his own thoughts, and Brian's face wore a look of stern determination which seemed to impose quietude upon the others. It was he who took command of the expedition, as naturally as Percival had taken command of the sailors upon the Rocas Reef.

"We will not drive up to the house," he said, as they came in sight of the white gates of Netherglen. "We should only be refused admittance. I have told the driver where to stop."

"It's a blustering night," said Mr. Colquhoun.

"All the better for us," replied Brian. "We are not so likely to be overheard."

"Why, you don't think that they would keep us out, do you, Brian, my lad? Hugo hasn't the right to do that, you know. He's never said me nay to my face as yet."

"Depend upon it, he won't show," said Percival, contemptuously. "He'll pretend to be asleep, or away from home, or something of the sort."

"I am sure that he will try to keep us out, if he can," said Brian, "and, therefore, I am not going to give him the chance. I think I can get into the house by a side door."

The carriage had drawn up in the shade of some overhanging beech trees whilst they were speaking. The four men got out, and stood for a moment in the road. The night was a rough one, as Mr. Colquhoun had said; the wind blew in fierce but fitful gusts; the sky was covered with heavy, scurrying clouds.

Every now and then the wind sent a great dash of rain into their faces, it seemed as if a tempest were preparing, and the elements were about to be let loose.

"We are like thieves," said Heron, shrugging his shoulders. "I don't care for this style of work. I should walk boldly up to the door and give a thundering peal with the knocker."

"You don't know Hugo as well as I do," responded Brian.

"Thank Heaven, no. Are you armed, Fane?"

"I've got a stick," said Fane, with gusto.

"And I've got a revolver. Now for the fray."

"We shall not want arms of that kind," said Brian. "If you are ready, please follow me."

He led the way through the gates and down the drive, then turned off at right angles and pursued his way along a narrow path, across which the wet laurels almost touched, and had to be pushed back. They reached at last the side entrance of which Brian had spoken. He tried the handle, and gently shook the door; but it did not move. He tried it a second time—with no result.

"Locked!" said Percival, significantly.

"That does not matter," responded Brian. "Look here; but do not speak."

He felt in the darkness for one of the panels of the door. Evidently he knew that there was some hidden spring. The panel suddenly flew back, leaving a space of two feet square, through which it was easy for Brian to insert his hand and arm, draw back a bolt, and turn the key which had been left in the lock. It was a door which he and Richard had known of old. They had kept the secret, however, to themselves; and it was possible that Hugo had never learned it. Even Mr. Colquhoun uttered a faint inarticulate murmur of surprise.

The door was open before them, but they were still standing outside in the wet shrubbery, their feet on the damp grass, the evergreens trickling water in their faces, when an unexpected sound fell upon their ears.

Somewhere, in another part of the building—probably in the front of the house—one of the upper windows was thrown violently open. Then a woman's voice, raised in shrill tones of fear or pain, rang out between the fitful gusts of wind and rain.

"Help! Help! Help!"

There was no time to lose. The four men threw caution to the winds, and dashed headlong into the winding passages of the dark old house.

* * * * *

When Rupert Vivian drove away from Netherglen, Kitty stood for some time in the lane where they had been walking, and gazed after him with painful, anxious interest. The dog-cart was well out of sight before she turned, with a heavy sigh, preparing herself to walk back to the house. And then, for the first time, she became aware that her husband was standing at some little distance from her, and was coolly watching her, with folded arms and an evil smile upon his face.

"I have been wondering how long you meant to stand there, watching Vivian drive away," he said, advancing slowly to meet her. "Did you ask him about his wife?"

Kitty thought of her conversation with Rupert at Strathleckie—a conversation of which she had kept Hugo in ignorance—and coloured vividly.

"His wife is dead," she said, in a smothered tone.

"Oh, then, you did ask him?" said Hugo, looking at her. "Is that what he came to tell you?"

Kitty did not reply. She had thrown a shawl over her head before coming out, and she stood drawing the edges of it closer across her bosom with nervous, twitching fingers and averted face.

"Why did you come out in that way?" queried her husband. "You look like a madwoman in that shawl. You looked more like one than ever when you ran after that dog-cart, waving your hands for Vivian to stop. He did not want to see you or to be forced into an interview."

"Then you have been watching me?"

"I always watch you. Women are such fools that they require watching. What did you want to speak to Vivian about?"

"I will not tell you," said Kitty, suddenly growing pale.

"Then it is something that you ought not to have said. I understand your ways by this time. Come here, close to me." She came like a frightened child. "Look at me, kiss me." She obeyed, after some faint show of reluctance. He put his arm round her and kissed her several times, on cheek and brow and lips. "You don't like that," he said, releasing her at last with a smile. "That is why I do it. You are mine now, remember, not Vivian's. Now tell me what you said to him."

"Never!" said Kitty, with a gasp.

A change passed over Hugo's face.

"Who is with Vivian and your brother?" he demanded "Has Brian Luttrell come back?"

But he could not make her answer him. His hand was no longer on her arm, and with a desperate effort of will, she fled with sudden swiftness from him towards the house. He stood and watched her, with a look of sullen anger darkening his face. "She is not to be trusted," he muttered to himself. "I must finish my work to-night."



CHAPTER L.

MRS. LUTTRELL'S ROOM.

Kitty made her way to her own room, and was not surprised to find that in a few moments Hugo followed her thither. She was sitting in a low chair, striving to command her agitated thoughts, and school herself into some semblance of tranquility, when he entered. She fully expected that he would try again to force from her the history of her interview with Vivian, but he did nothing of the kind. He threw himself into a chair opposite to her, and looked at her in silence, while she tried her best not to see his face at all. Those long, lustrous eyes, that low brow and perfectly-modelled mouth and chin, had grown hideous in her sight.

But when he spoke he took her completely by surprise.

"You had better begin to pack up your things," he said. "We shall go to the South of France either this week or next."

"And leave Mrs. Luttrell?" breathed Kitty.

His lips stretched themselves into something meant for a smile, but it was a very joyless smile.

"And leave Mrs. Luttrell," he repeated.

"But, Hugo, what will people say?"

"They won't find fault," he answered. "The matter will be simple enough when the time comes. Pack your boxes, and leave the rest to me."

"She is much better, certainly," hesitated Kitty, "but I do not like leaving her to servants."

"She is no better," said Hugo, rising, and turning a malevolent look upon her. "She is worse. Don't let me hear you say again that she is better. She is dying."

With these words he left the room. Kitty leaned back in her chair, for she was seized with a fit of trembling that made her unable to rise or speak. Something in the tone of Hugo's speech had frightened her. She was unreasonably suspicious, perhaps, but she had developed a great fear of Hugo's evil designs. He had shown her plainly enough that he had no principle, no conscience, no sense of shame. And she feared for Mrs. Luttrell.

Her fears did not go very far. She thought that Hugo was capable of sending away the nurse, or of depriving Mrs. Luttrell of care and comfort to such an extent as to shorten her life. She could not suspect Hugo of an intention to commit actual, flagrant crime. Yet some undefined terror of him had made her beg Vivian to tell Brian and his wife to come home as soon as possible. She did not know what might happen. She was afraid; and at any rate she wanted to secure her husband against temptation. He might thank her for it afterwards, perhaps, though Kitty did not think that he ever would.

She went upstairs after dinner to sit with Mrs. Luttrell, as she usually did at that hour. The poor woman was perceptibly better. The look of recognition in her eyes was not so painfully beseeching as it had been hitherto; the hand which Kitty took in hers gently returned her pressure. She muttered the only word that her lips seemed able to speak:—"Brian! Brian!"

"He is coming," said Kitty, bending her head so that her lips almost touched the withered cheek. "He is coming—coming soon."

A wonderful light of satisfaction stole into the melancholy eyes. Again she pressed Kitty's hand. She was content.

The nurse generally returned to Mrs. Luttrell's room after her supper; and Kitty waited for some time, wondering why she was so long in coming. She rang the bell at last and enquired for her. The maid replied that Mrs. Samson, the nurse, had been taken ill and had gone to bed. Kitty then asked for the housekeeper, and the maid went away to summon her.

Again Kitty waited; but no housekeeper came.

She was about to ring the bell a second time, when her husband entered the room. "What do you want with the housekeeper at this time of night?" he asked, carelessly.

Kitty explained. Hugo raised his eyebrows. "Oh, is that all?" he said. "Really, Kitty, you make too much fuss about my aunt. She will do well enough. I won't have poor old Shairp called up from her bed to sit here till morning."

"But somebody must stay," said Kitty, whom her husband had drawn into the little dressing-room. "Mrs. Luttrell must not be left alone."

"She shall not be left alone, my dear; I'll take care of that. I have seen Samson, hearing that she was ill, and find that it is only a fit of sickness, which is passing off. She will be here in half-an-hour; or, if not, Shairp can be called."

"Then I will stay here until one of them comes," said Kitty.

"You will do nothing of the kind. You will go to bed at once. It is ten o'clock, and I don't want you to spoil that charming complexion of yours by late hours." He spoke with a sort of sneer, but immediately passed his finger down her delicate cheek with a tenderly caressing gesture, as if to make up for the previous hardness of his tone. Kitty shrank away from him, but he only smiled and continued softly: "Those pretty eyes must not be dimmed by want of sleep. Go to bed, ma belle, and dream of me."

"Let me stay for a little while," entreated Kitty. "If Mrs. Samson comes in half-an-hour I shall not be tired. Just till then, Hugo."

"Not at all, my little darling." His tone was growing quite playful, and he even imprinted a light kiss upon her cheek as he went on. "I will wait here myself until Samson comes, and if she is not better I will summon Mrs. Shairp. Will that not satisfy you?"

"Why should you stay?" said Kitty, in a whisper. A look of dread had come into her eyes.

"Why should I not?" smiled Hugo. "Aunt Margaret likes to have me with her, and she is not likely to want anything just now. Run away, my fair Kitty. I will call you if I really need help."

What did Kitty suspect? She turned white and suddenly put her arms round her husband's neck, bringing his beautiful dark face down to her own.

"Let me stay," she murmured in his ear. "I am afraid. I don't know exactly what I am afraid of; but I want to stay. I can't leave her to-night."

He put her away from him almost roughly. A sinister look crossed his face.

"You are a little fool: you always were," he said; fiercely. Then he tried to regain the old smoothness of tongue which so seldom failed him; but this time he found it difficult. "You are nervous," he said. "You have been sitting in a sick-room too long: I must not let you over-tire yourself. You will be better when we leave Netherglen. Go and dream of blue skies and sunny shores: we will see my native land together, Kitty, and forget this desert of a place. There, go now. I will take care of Aunt Margaret."

He put her out at the door, still with the silky, caressing manner that she distrusted, still with the false smile stereotyped upon his face. Then he went back into the dressing-room and closed the door.

Kitty went to her own room, and changed her evening dress for a dressing-gown of soft, dark red cashmere which did not rustle as she moved. She was resolved against going to bed, at any rate until Hugo had left Mrs. Luttrell's room. She sat down and waited.

The clock struck eleven. She could bear the suspense no longer. She went out into the passage and listened at the door of Mrs. Luttrell's room. Not a sound: not a movement to be heard.

She stole away to the room which the nurse occupied. Mrs. Samson was lying on her bed, breathing heavily: she seemed to be in a sound sleep. Kitty shook her by the arm; but the woman only moaned and moved uneasily, then snored more stertorously than before. The thought crossed Kitty's mind that, perhaps, Hugo had not wanted Mrs. Samson to be awake.

She made up her mind to go to the housekeeper's room. It was situated in that wing of the house which Kitty had once learnt to know only too well. For some reason or other Hugo had insisted lately upon the servants taking up their sleeping quarters in this wing; and although Mrs. Shairp, who had returned to Netherglen upon his marriage, protested that it was very inconvenient—"because no sound from the other side of the house could reach their ears"—(how well Kitty remembered her saying this!) yet even she had been obliged to give way to Hugo's will.

Kitty went to the door that communicated with the wing. She turned the handle: it would not open. She shook it, and even knocked, but she dared not make much noise. It was not a door that could be fastened or unfastened from inside. Someone in the main part of the house, therefore, must necessarily have turned the key and taken it away. One thing was evident: the servants had been locked into their own rooms, and it was quite impossible for Mrs. Shairp to come to her mistress's room, unless the person who fastened the door came and unfastened it again.

"I wonder that he did not lock me in," said Kitty to herself, wringing her little hands as she came hopelessly down the great staircase into the hall, and then up again to her own room. She had no doubt but that it was Hugo who had done this thing for some end of his own. "What does he mean? What is it that he does not want us to know?"

She reached her own room as she asked this question of herself. The door resisted her hand as the door of the servants' wing had done. It was locked, too. Hugo—or someone else—had turned the key, thinking that she was safe in her own room, and wishing to keep her a prisoner until morning.

Kitty's blood ran cold. Something was wrong: some dark intention must be in Hugo's mind, or he would not have planned so carefully to keep the household out of Mrs. Luttrell's room. She remembered that she had seen a light in a bed-room near Hugo's own—the room where Stevens usually slept. Should she rouse him and ask for his assistance? No: she knew that this man was a mere tool of Hugo's; she could not trust him to help her against her husband's will. There was nothing for it but to do what she could, without help from anyone. She would be brave for Mrs. Luttrell's sake, although she had not been brave for her own.

Oh, why had she not made her warning to Vivian a little stronger? Why had Brian Luttrell not come home that night to Netherglen? It was too late to expect him now.

Her heart beat fast and her hands trembled, but she went resolutely enough to the dressing-room from which Hugo had done his best to exclude her. The door was slightly ajar: oh wonderful good fortune! and the fire was out. The room was in darkness; and the door leading into Mrs. Luttrell's apartment stood open—she had a full view of its warmly lighted space.

She remained motionless for a few minutes: then seeing her opportunity, she glided behind the thick curtain that screened the window. Here she could see the great white bed with its heavy hangings of crimson damask, and the head of the sick woman in its frilled cap lying on the pillows: she could see also her husband's face and figure, as he stood beside the little table on which Mrs. Luttrell's medicine bottles were usually kept, and she shivered at the sight.

His face wore its craftiest and most sinister expression. His eyes were narrowed like those of a cat about to spring: the lines of his face were set in a look of cruel malice, which Kitty had learned to know. What was he doing? He had a tumbler in one hand, and a tiny phial in the other: he was measuring out some drops of a fluid into the glass.

He set down the little bottle on the table, and held up the tumbler to the light. Then he took a carafe and poured a tea-spoonful of water on the liquid. Kitty could see the phial on the table very distinctly. It bore in red letters the inscription: "Poison." And again she asked herself: what was Hugo going to do?

Breathlessly she watched. He smiled a little to himself, smelt the liquid, and held it once more towards the light, as if to judge with his narrowed eyes of the quantity required. Then, with a noiseless foot and watchful eye, he moved towards the bed, still holding the tumbler in his hand. He looked down for a moment at the pale and wrinkled face upon the pillow; then he spoke in a peculiarly smooth and ingratiating tone of voice.

"Aunt Margaret," he said, "I have brought you something to make you sleep."

He had placed the glass to her lips, when a movement in the next room made him start and lift his eyes. In another moment his wife's hands were on his arm, and her eyes were blazing into his own. The liquor in the glass was spilt upon the bed. Hugo turned deadly pale.

"What do you mean? What do you want?" he said, with a look of mingled rage and terror. "What are you doing here?"

"I have come to save her—from you." She was not afraid, now that the words were said, now that she had seen the guilty look upon his face. She confronted him steadily; she placed herself between him and the bed. Hugo uttered a low but emphatic malediction on her "meddlesome folly."

"Why are you not in your room?" he said. "I locked you in."

"I was not there. Thank God that I was not."

"And why should you thank God?" said Hugo, who stood looking at her with an ugly expression of baffled cunning on his face. "I was doing no harm. I was giving her a sleeping-draught."

"Would she ever have waked?" asked Kitty, in a whisper.

She looked into her husband's eyes as she spoke, and she knew from that moment that the accusation was based on no idle fancy of her own. In heart, at least, he was a murderer.

But the question called forth his worst passions. He cursed her again—bitterly, blasphemously—then raised his hand and struck her with his closed fist between the eyes. He knew what he was doing: she fell to the ground, stunned and bleeding. He thrust her out of his way; she lay on the floor between the bed and the window, moaning a little, but for a time utterly unconscious of all that went on around her.

Hugo's preparations had been spoilt. He was obliged to begin them over again. But this time his nerve was shaken: he blundered a little once or twice. Kitty's low moan was in his ears: the paralysed woman upon the bed was regarding him with a look of frozen horror in her wide-open eyes. She could not move: she could not speak, but she could understand.

He turned his back upon the two, and measured out the drops once more into the glass. His hand shook as he did so. He was longer about his work than he had been before. So long that Kitty came to herself a little, and watched him with a horrible fascination. First the drops: then the water; then the sleeping-draught, from which the sleeper was not to awake, would be ready.

Kitty did not know how she found strength or courage to do at that moment what she did. It seemed to her that fear, sickness, pain, all passed away, and left her only the determination to make one desperate effort to defeat her husband's ends.

She knew that the window by which she lay was unshuttered. She rose from the ground, she reached the window-sill and threw up the sash, almost before Hugo knew what she was doing. Then she sent forth that terrible, agonised cry for help, which reached the ears of the four men who were even at that moment waiting and listening at the garden door.

Hugo dropped the glass. It was shivered to pieces on the floor, and its contents stained the rug on which it fell. He strode to the window and stopped his wife's mouth with his hands, then dragged her away from it, and spoke some bitter furious words.

"Do you want to hang me?" he said. "Keep quiet, or I'll make you repent your night's work——"

And then he paused. He had heard the sound of opening doors, of heavy steps and strange voices upon the stairs. He turned hastily to the dressing-room, and he was confronted on the threshold by the determined face and flashing eyes of his cousin, Brian Luttrell. He cast a hurried glance beyond and around him; but he saw no help at hand. Kitty had sunk fainting to the ground: there were other faces—severe and menacing enough—behind Brian's: he felt that he was caught like a wild beast in a trap. His only course was to brazen out the matter as best he could; and this, in the face of Brian Luttrell, of Percival Heron, of old Mr. Colquhoun, it was hard to do. In spite of himself his face turned pale, and his knees shook as he spoke in a hoarse and grating tone.

"What does this disturbance mean?" he said. "Why do you come rushing into Mrs. Luttrell's room at this hour of the night?"

"Because," said Brian, taking him by the shoulder, "your wife has called for help, and we believe that she needs it. Because we know that you are one of the greatest scoundrels that ever trod the face of the earth. Because we are going to bring you to justice. That is why!"

"These are very fine accusations," said Hugo, with a pale sneer, "but I think you will find a difficulty in proving them, Mr.—Vasari."

"I shall have at least no difficulty in proving that you stole money and forged my brother's name three years ago," said Brian, in a voice that was terrible in its icy scorn. "I shall have no difficulty in proving to the world's satisfaction that you shamefully cheated Dino Vasari, and that you twice—yes, twice—tried to murder him, in order to gain your own ends. Hugo Luttrell, you are a coward, a thief, a would-be murderer; and unless you can prove that you were in my mother's room with no evil intent (which I believe to be impossible) you shall be branded with all these names in the world's face."

"There is no proof—there is no legal proof," cried Hugo, boldly. But his lips were white.

"But there is plenty of moral proof, young man," said Mr. Colquhoun's dry voice. "Quite enough to blast your reputation. And what does this empty bottle mean and this broken glass? Perhaps your wife can tell us that."

There was a momentary silence. Mr. Colquhoun held up the little bottle, and pointed with raised eyebrows to the label upon it. Heron was supporting his sister in his arms and trying to revive her: Fane and the impassive constable barred the way between Hugo and the door.

In that pause, a strange, choked sound came from the bed. For the first time for many months Mrs. Luttrell had slightly raised her hand. She said the name that had been upon her lips so many times during the last few weeks, and her eyes were fixed upon the man whom for a lifetime she had called her son.

"Brian!" she said, "Brian!"

And he, suddenly turning pale, relaxed his hold upon Hugo's arm and walked to the bed-side. "Mother," he said, leaning over her, "did you call me? Did you speak to me?"

She looked at him with wistful eyes: her nerveless fingers tried to press his hand. "Brian," she murmured. Then, with a great spasmodic effort: "My son!"

The attention of the others had been concentrated upon this little scene; and for the moment both Fane and Mr. Colquhoun drew nearer to the bed, leaving the door of Mrs. Luttrell's bed-room unguarded. The constable was standing in the dressing-room. It was then that Hugo saw his chance, although it was one which a sane man would scarcely have thought of taking. He made a rush for the bed-room door.

Whither should he go? The front door was bolted and barred; but he supposed that the back door would be open. He never thought of the entrance to the garden by which Brian Luttrell had got into the house. He dashed down the staircase; he was nimbler and lighter-footed than Fane, who was immediately behind him, and he knew the tortuous ways and winding passages of the house, as Fane did not. He gained on his pursuer. Down the dark stone passages he fled: the door into the back premises stood wide open. There was a flight of steep stone steps, which led straight to a kitchen and thence into the yard. He would have time to unbolt the kitchen door, even if it were not already open, for Fane was far, far behind.

But there was no light, and there was a sudden turn in the steps which he had forgotten. Fane reached the head of the staircase in time to hear a cry, a heavy crashing fall, a groan. Then all was still.



CHAPTER LI.

A LAST CONFESSION.

They carried him upstairs again, handling him gently, and trying to discover the extent of his injuries; but they did not guess—until, in the earliest hours of the day, a doctor came from Dunmuir to Netherglen—that Hugo Luttrell's hours on earth were numbered. He had broken his back, and although he might linger in agony for a short time, the inevitable end was near. As the dawn came creeping into the room in which he lay, he opened his eyes, and the watchers saw that he shuddered as he looked round.

"Why have they brought me here?" he said.

No one knew why. It was the nearest and most convenient room for the purpose. Brian had not been by to interpose, or he might have chosen another place. For it was the room to which Richard Luttrell had been carried when they brought him back to Netherglen.

Kitty was beside him, and, with her, Elizabeth, who had come from Dunmuir on hearing of the accident. These two women, knowing as they did the many evil deeds which he had committed, did not refuse him their gentle ministry. When they saw the pain that he suffered, their hearts bled for him. They could, not love him: they could not forgive him for all that he had done; but they pitied him. And most of all they pitied him when they knew that the fiat had gone forth that he must die.

He knew it, too. He knew it from their faces: he had no need to ask. The hopelessness upon his face, the pathetic look of suffering in his eyes, touched even Kitty's heart. She asked him once if she could do anything to help him. They were alone together, and the answer was as unexpected as it was brief: "I want Angela."

They telegraphed for her, although they hardly thought that she would reach the house before he died. But the fact that she was coming seemed to buoy him up: he lingered throughout the day, turning his eyes from time to time to the clock upon the mantelpiece, or towards the opening door. At night he grew restless and uneasy: he murmured piteously that she would not come, or that he should die before she came.

Brian, although in the house, held aloof from the injured man's room. Merciful as he was by nature, Hugo's offences had transcended the bounds even of his tolerance; and his anger was more implacable than that of a harsher man. Although he had been told that Hugo was dying, he found it hard to be pitiful. He knew more than Hugo imagined. Mrs. Luttrell had recovered speech sufficiently to tell her son the history of the previous night, and Brian was certain that Kitty's cry for help had come only just in time.

It was early in the evening when Hugo spoke, almost for the first time of his own accord, to his wife. "Kitty," he said, imperiously, "come here."

She came, trembling a little, and stood beside him, scarcely bearing to meet the gaze of those darkly-burning eyes.

"Kitty," he said, looking at her strangely, "I suppose you hate me."

"No," she answered. "No, indeed, Hugo."

"Is that mark on your forehead from the blow I gave you?"

"Yes."

"I did not mean to hurt you," he said, "but I think I was mad just then. However, it doesn't matter; I am going to die, and you can be happy in your own way. I suppose you will marry Vivian?"

"Don't talk so, Hugo," she said, laying her hand upon his brow.

"Why not? I do not care. Better to die than lie here—here, where Richard Luttrell lay. Kitty, they say I cannot be moved while I live; but if—if you believe that I ever loved you, see that they carry me out of this room as soon as I am dead. Promise me that."

"I promise."

"That is all I want. Marry Vivian, and forget me as soon as you please. He will never love you as much as I did, Kitty. If I had lived, you would have loved me, too, in time. But it's no use now."

The voice was faint, but sullen. Kitty's heart yearned over him.

"Oh, Hugo," she said, "won't you think of other things? Ask God to forgive you for what you have done: He will forgive you if you repent: He will, indeed."

"Don't talk to me of forgiveness," said Hugo, closing his eyes. "No one forgives: God least of all."

"We forgive you, Hugo," said Kitty, with brimming eyes, "and is God less merciful than ourselves?"

"I will wait till Angela comes," he answered. "I will listen to her. To nobody but her."

And then he relapsed into a half-conscious state, from which she dared not arouse him.

Angela came at night; and she was led almost instantly to the room in which he lay. He opened his eyes as soon as she entered, and fixed them eagerly upon her.

"So you have come," he said. There was a touch of satisfaction in his tone. She knelt down beside him and took his hand. "Talk to me," he murmured.

Kitty and Brian, who had entered with Angela, marvelled at the request. They marvelled more when she complied with it in a curiously undoubting way. It seemed as if she understood his needs, his peculiarities, even his sins, exactly. She spoke of the holiest things in a simple, direct way, which evidently appealed to something within him; for, though he did not respond, he lay with his eyes fixed upon her face, and gave no sign of discontent.

At last he sighed, and bade her stop.

"It's all wrong," he said, wearily. "I had forgotten. I ought to have a priest."

"There is one waiting downstairs," said Brian.

Hugo started at the voice.

"So you are there?" he said. "Oh, it's no use. No priest would absolve me until—until——"

"Yes: until what?" said Angela. But he made no answer.

Presently, however, he pressed her hand, and murmured:—

"You were always good to me."

"Dear Hugo!"

"And I loved you—a little—not in the way I loved Kitty—but as a saint—an angel. Do you think you could forgive me if I had wronged you!"

"Yes, dear, I believe so."

"If you forgive me, I shall think that there is some hope. But I don't know. Brian is there still, is he not? I have something to say to him."

Brian came forward, a little reluctantly. Hugo looked at him with those melancholy, sunken eyes, in which a sort of fire seemed to smoulder still.

"Brian will never forgive me," he said.

"Yes, Hugo, he will," said Angela.

Brian gave an inarticulate murmur, whether of assent or dissent they could not tell. But he did not look at Hugo's face.

"I know," said Hugo. "It doesn't matter. I don't care. I was justified in what I did."

"You hear," said Brian to Angela, in a very low voice.

But Hugo went on without noticing.

"Justified—except in one thing. And I want to tell you about that."

"You need not," said Brian, quietly. "If it is anything fresh, I do not wish to hear."

"Brian," said Angela, "you are hard."

"No, he is not too hard," Hugo interposed, in a dreamy voice, more as if he were talking to himself than to them. "He was always good to me: he did more for me than anybody else. More than Richard. I always hated Richard. I wished that he was dead." He stopped, and then resumed, with a firmer intonation. "Is Mr. Colquhoun in the house? Fetch him here, and Vivian too, if he is at hand. I have something to say to them."

They did his bidding, and presently the persons for whom he asked stood at his bed-side.

"Are they all here? My eyes are getting dim; it is time I spoke," said Hugo, feebly. "Mr. Colquhoun, I shall want you to take down what I say. You may make it as public as you like. Angela——"

He felt for her hand. She gave it to him, and let him lean upon her shoulder as he spoke. He looked up in her eyes with a sort of smile.

"Kiss me, Angela," he said, "for the last time. You will never do it again.... Are you all listening? I wish you and everyone to know that it was I—I—who shot Richard Luttrell in the wood; not Brian. We fired at the same moment. It was not Brian; do you hear?"

There was a dead silence. Then Brian staggered as if he would have fallen, and caught at Percival's arm. But the weakness was only for a moment. He said, simply, "I thank God," and stood erect again. Mr. Colquhoun put on his spectacles and stared at him. Angela, pale to the lips, did not move; Hugo's head was still resting against her shoulder. It was Brian's voice that broke the silence, and there was pity and kindliness in its tone.