"I shall perhaps meet you again, then?" said Brian. "I am perhaps going to Italy myself."

The young man smiled and shook his head. "You are scarcely likely to encounter me, monsieur," he answered. "I shall be busy amongst the poor and sick, or at work within the monastery. I shall remember you—but I do not think that we shall meet again."

"By what name should I ask for you if I came across any of your order?" said Brian.

"I am generally known as Dino Vasari, or Brother Dino, at your service, monsieur," replied the Italian, cheerfully. "If, in your goodness, you wished to inquire after me, you should ask at the monastery of San Stefano, where I spend a few weeks every year in retreat. The Prior, Father Cristoforo, is an old friend of mine, and he will always welcome you if you should pass that way. There is good sleeping accommodation for visitors."

Brian took the trouble to make an entry in his note-book to this effect. It turned out to be a singularly useful one. As they were reaching Mainz something prompted Brian to ask a question. "Why did you speak to me this afternoon?" he said, the morbid suspiciousness of a man who is sick in mind as well as body returning full upon him. "You do not know me?"

"No, monsieur, I do not know you." The ecclesiastic's pale brow flushed; he even looked embarrassed. "Monsieur," he said at last, "you had the appearance—you will pardon my saying so—of one who was either ill or bore about with him some unspoken trouble; it is the privilege of the Order to which I hope one day to belong to offer help when help is needed; and for a moment I hoped it might be my special privilege to give some help to you."

"Why did you think so?" Brian asked, hastily. "You did not know my name?"

The Italian cast down his eyes. "Yes, monsieur," he said in a low tone, "I did know your name."

Brian started up. He did not stop to weigh probabilities; he forgot how little likely a young foreign seminarist would be to hear news of an accident in Scotland; he felt foolishly certain that his name—as that of the man who had killed his brother—must be known to all the world! It was the wildest possible delusion, such as could occur only to a man whose mind was off its balance—and even he could not retain it for more than a minute or two; but in that space of time he uttered a few wild words, which caused the young monk to raise his dark eyes to his face with a look of sorrowful compassion.

"Does everyone know my wretched story, then? Do I carry a mark about with me—like Cain?" Brian cried aloud.

"I know nothing of your story, monsieur," said Brother Dino, as he called himself, after a little pause, "When I said that I knew your name, I should more properly have said the name of your family. A gentleman of your name once visited the little town where I was brought up." He paused again and added gently, "I have peculiar reasons for remembering him. He was very good to a member of my family."

Brian had recovered his self-possession before the end of the young priest's speech, and was heartily ashamed of his own weakness.

"I beg your pardon," he said, sinking back into his seat with an air of weariness and discouragement that would have touched the heart of a tender-natured man, such as was Brother Dino of San Stefano. "I must be an utter fool to have spoken as I did. You knew my father, did you? That must be long ago."

"Many years." Brother Dino looked at the Englishman with some expression in his eyes which Brian did not remark at the moment, but which recurred afterwards to his memory as being singular. There was sympathy in it, pity, perhaps, and, above all, an intense curiosity. "Many years ago my friends knew him; not I. The Signor Luttrell—he lives still in your country?"

"No. He died eight years ago."

"And——"

A question evidently trembled on the Italian's lips, but he restrained himself. He could not ask it when he saw the pain and the dread in Brian's face. But Brian answered the question that he had meant to ask.

"My brother is dead, also. My mother is living and well."

Then he wheeled round and looked at the landing-stage, to which they were now very close. The stranger respected his emotion; he glanced once at the band of crape on Brian's arm, and then walked quietly away. When he returned it was only to say good-bye.

"I should like to see you again," Brian said to him. "Perhaps I may find you out and visit you some day. You find your life peaceful and happy, no doubt?"

"Perfectly."

"I envy you," said Brian.

They parted. Brian went away to his hotel, leaving the young seminarist still standing on the deck—a black figure with his pale hands crossed upon his breast in the glow of the evening sunshine, awaiting the arrival of his superior as a soldier waits for his commanding officer. Brian looked back at him once and waved his hand: he had not been so much interested in anyone for what seemed to him almost an eternity of time.

Sitting sadly and alone in the hotel that night, he fell to pondering over some of the words that the young Italian had spoken, and the questions that he had asked. He wondered greatly what was the service that his father had rendered to these Italians, and blamed himself a little for not asking more about the young man's history. He knew well enough that his parents had once spent two or three years abroad—chiefly in Italy; he himself had been born in an Italian town, and had spent almost the whole of the first year of his life in a little village at the foot of the Apennines. Was it not near a place called San Stefano, indeed, that he had been nursed by an Italian peasant woman? Brian determined, in a vague and dreamy way, that at some future time he would visit San Stefano, find out the history of his new acquaintance, and see the place where he had been born at the same time. That is if ever he felt inclined to do anything of the sort again. At present—and especially as the temporary interest inspired by the young Italian died away—he felt as if he cared too little for his future to resolve upon doing anything. There was a letter waiting for him, addressed in Mr. Colquhoun's handwriting. He had not even the heart to open it and see what the lawyer had to say. Something drew him next morning towards that wonderful old building of red stone, which looks as if it were hourly crumbling away, and yet has lasted so many hundred years, the cathedral of Mainz. The service was just over; the organ still murmured soft, harmonious cadences. The incense was wafted to his nostrils as he walked down the echoing nave. There had been a mass for the dead and a funeral that morning; part of the cathedral was draped in black cloth and ornamented by hundreds of wax candles, which flared in the sunlight and dropped wax on the uneven pavement below. There was an oppressiveness in the atmosphere to Brian; everything spoke to him of death and decay in that strange, old city, which might veritably be called a city of the dead. He turned aside into the cloisters, and listened mechanically while an old man discoursed to him in crabbed German concerning Fastrada's tomb and the carved face of the minstrel Frauenlob upon the cloister wall. Presently, however, the guide showed him a little door, and led him out into the pleasant grassy space round which the cloisters had been built. He was conscious of a great feeling of relief. The blue sky was above him again, and his feet were on the soft, green grass. There were tombstones amongst the grass, but they were overgrown with ivy and blossoming rose-trees. Brian sat down with a great sigh upon one of the old blocks of marble that strewed the ground, and told the guide to leave him there awhile. The man thought that he wanted to sketch the place, as many English artists did, and retired peacefully enough. Brian had no intention of sketching: he wanted only to feel himself alone, to watch the gay, little sparrows as they leaped from spray to spray of the monthly rose-trees, the waving of the long grass between the tombstones, and the glimpse of blue sky beyond the mouldering reddish walls on either hand.

As he sat there, almost as though he were waiting for some expected visitor, the cloister doors opened once more, and two or three men in black gowns came out. They were all priests except one, and this one was the young Italian whose acquaintance Brian had made upon the steamer. They were talking rapidly together; one of them seemed to be questioning the young man, and he was replying with the serene yet earnest expression of countenance which had impressed Brian so favourably. At first they stood still; by-and-bye they crossed the quadrangle, and here Brother Dino fell somewhat behind the others. Following a sudden impulse, Brian suddenly rose as he came near, and addressed him.

"Can you speak to me? I want to ask you about my father——"

He spoke in English, but the young priest replied in Italian.

"I cannot speak to you now. Wait till we meet at San Stefano."

The words might be abrupt, but the smile which followed them was so sweet, so benign, that Brian was only struck with a sudden sense of the beauty of the expression upon that keen Italian face. "God be with you!" said Brother Dino, as he passed on. He stretched out his hand; it held one of the faintly-pink, sweet roses, which he had plucked near the cloister door. He almost thrust it into Brian's passive fingers. "God be with you," he said, in his native tongue once more. "Farewell, brother." In another moment he was gone. Brian had the green enclosure, the birds and the roses to himself once more.

He looked down at the little overblown flower in his hand and carried it mechanically to his nostrils. It was very sweet.

"Why does he think that I shall go to San Stefano?" he asked himself. "What is San Stefano to me? Why should I meet him there?"

He sat down again, holding the flower loosely in one hand, and resting his head upon the other. The old langour and sickness of heart were coming back upon him; the momentary excitement had passed away. He would have given a great deal to be able to rouse himself from the depression which had taken such firm hold of his mind; but he failed to discover any means of doing so. He had a vague, morbid fancy that Brother Dino could help him to master his own trouble—he knew not how; but this hope had failed him. He did not even care to go to San Stefano.

After a little time he remembered the letter in his pocket, addressed to him in Mr. Colquhoun's handwriting. He took it out and looked at it for a few minutes. Why should Mr. Colquhoun write to him unless he had something unpleasant to say? Perhaps he was only forwarding some letters. This quiet, grassy quadrangle was a good place in which to read letters, he thought. He would open the envelope and see what Colquhoun had to say.

He opened it very slowly.

Then he started, and his hand began to tremble. The only letter enclosed was one in his mother's handwriting. Upon a slip of blue paper were a few words from the lawyer. "Forwarded to Mr. Brian Luttrell at Mrs. Luttrell's request on the 25th of October, 1877, by James Colquhoun."

Brian opened the letter. It had no formal opening, but it was carefully signed and dated, and ran as follows:—

"They tell me that I have done you an injury by doubting your word, and that I am an unnatural mother in saying—even in my own chamber—what I thought. I have an excuse, which no one knows but myself and James Colquhoun. I think it is well under present circumstances to tell you what it is.

"I am a strong believer in race. I think that the influence of blood is far more powerful than those of training or education, how strong soever they may be. Therefore, I was never astonished although I was grieved, to see that your love for Richard was not so great as that of brothers should have been——"

"It is false!" said Brian, with a groan, crushing the letter in his hand, and letting it fall to his side. "No brother could have loved Richard more than I."

Presently he took up the letter again and read.

"Because I knew," it went on, "though many a woman in my position would not have guessed the truth, that you were not Richard's brother at all: that you were not my son."

Again Brian paused, this time in utter bewilderment.

"Is my mother mad" he said to himself. "I—not her son? Who am I, then?"

"I repeat what I have said,"—so ran Mrs. Luttrell's letter—"with all the emphasis which I can lay upon the words. The matter may not be capable of proof, but the truth remains. You are not my son, not Edward Luttrell's son, not Richard Luttrell's brother—no relation of ours at all; not even of English or Scottish blood. Your parents were Italian peasant-folk; and my son, Brian Luttrell, lies buried in the churchyard of an Italian village at the foot of the Western Apennines. You are a native of San Stefano, and your mother was my nurse."



CHAPTER XI.

ON A MOUNTAIN-SIDE.

"When my child Brian was born we were renting a villa near San Stefano, and were somewhat far removed from any English doctor. My doctor was, therefore, an Italian; and what was worse, he was an Italian monk. I hate foreigners, and I hate monks; so you may imagine for yourself the way in which I looked upon him. No doubt he had a hand in the plot that has ended so miserably for me and mine, so fortunately for you.

"My Brian was nursed by our gardener's wife, a young Italian woman called Vincenza, whose child was about the age of mine. I saw Vincenza's child several times. Its eyes were brown (like yours); my baby's eyes were blue. It was when they were both about two months old that I was seized with a malarious fever, then very prevalent. They kept the children away from me for months. At last I insisted upon seeing them. The baby had been ill, they told me; I must be prepared for a great change in him. Even then my heart misgave me, I knew not why.

"Vincenza brought a child and laid it in my lap, I looked at it, and then I looked at her. She was deadly white, and her eyes were red with tears. I did not know why. Of course I see now that she had enough of the mother's heart in her to be loath to give up her child. For it was her child that she had placed upon my knee. I knew it from the very first.

"'Take this child away and give me my own,' I said. 'This is not mine.'

"The woman threw up her hands and ran out of the room. I thought she had gone to fetch my baby, and I remained with her child—a puny, crying thing—upon my knees. But she did not return. Presently my husband came in, and I appealed to him. 'Tell Vincenza to take her wretched, little baby away,' I said. 'I want my own. This is her child; not mine.'

"My husband looked at me, pityingly, as it seemed to my eyes. Suddenly the truth burst upon me. I sprang to my feet and threw the baby away from me upon the bed. 'My child is dead,' I cried. 'Tell me the truth; my child is dead.' And then I knew no more for days and weeks.

"When I recovered, I found, to my utter horror, that Vincenza and her child had not left the house. My words had been taken for the ravings of a mad woman. Every one believed the story of this wicked Italian woman who declared that it was her child who had died, mine that had lived! I knew better. Could I be mistaken in the features of my own child? Had my Brian those great, dark, brown eyes? I saw how it was. The Italians had plotted to put their child in my Brian's place; they had forgotten that a mother's instinct would know her own amongst a thousand. I accused them openly of their wickedness; and, in spite of their tears and protestations, I saw from their guilty looks that it was true. My own Brian was dead, and I was left with Vincenza's child, and expected to love it as my own.

"For nobody believed me. My husband never believed me. He maintained to the very last that you were his child and mine. I fought like a wild beast for my dead child's rights; but even I was mastered in the end. They threatened me—yes, James Colquhoun, in my husband's name, threatened me—with a madhouse, if I did not put away from me the suspicion that I had conceived. They assured me that Brian was not dead; that it was Vincenza's child that had died; that I was incapable of distinguishing one baby from another—and so on. They said that I should be separated from my own boy—my Richard, whom I tenderly loved—unless I put away from me this 'insane fancy,' and treated that Italian baby as my son. Oh, they were cruel to me—very cruel. But they got their way. I yielded because I could not bear to leave my husband and my boy. I let them place the child in my arms, and I learnt to call it Brian. I buried the secret in my own heart, but I was never once moved from my opinion. My own child was buried at San Stefano, and the boy that I took back with me to England was the gardener's son. You were that boy.

"I was silent about your parentage, but I never loved you, and my husband knew that I did not. For that reason, I suppose, he made you his favourite. He petted you, caressed you more than was reasonable or right. Only once did any conversation on the subject pass between us. He had refused to punish you when you were a boy of ten, and had quarrelled with Richard. 'Mark my words,' I said to him, 'there will be more quarrelling, and with worse results, if you do not put a stop to it now. I should never trust a lad of Italian blood.' He looked at me, turning pale as he looked. 'Have you not forgotten that unhappy delusion, then?' he said. 'It is no delusion,' I answered him, composedly, 'to remind myself sometimes that this boy—Brian, as you call him—is the son of Giovanni Vasari and his wife.' 'Margaret,' he said, 'you are a mad woman!' He went out, shutting the door hastily behind him. But he never misunderstood me again. Do you know what were his last words to me upon his death-bed? 'Don't tell him,' he said, pointing to you with his weak, dying hand, 'If you ever loved me, Margaret, don't tell him.' And then he died, before I had promised not to tell. If I had promised then, I would have kept my word.

"I knew what he meant. I resolved that I would never tell you. And but for Richard's death I would have held my tongue. But to see you in Richard's place, with Richard's money and Richard's lands, is more than I can bear. I will not tell this story to the world, but I refuse to keep you in ignorance any longer. If you like to possess Richard's wealth dishonestly, you are at liberty to do so. Any court of law would give it to you, and say that it was legally yours. There is, I imagine, no proof possible of the truth of my suspicions. Your mother and father are, I believe, both dead. I do not remember the name of the monk who acted as my doctor. There may be relations of your parents at San Stefano, but they are not likely to know the story of Vincenza's child. At any rate, you are not ignorant any longer of the reasons for which I believe it possible that you knew what you were doing when you were guilty of Richard Luttrell's death. There is not a drop of honest Scotch or English blood in your veins. You are an Italian, and I have always seen in your character the faults of the race to which by birth and parentage you belong. If I had not been weak enough to yield to the threats and the entreaties with which my husband and his tools assailed me, you would now be living, as your forefathers lived, a rude and hardy peasant on the North Italian plains; and I—I might have been a happy woman still."

The letter bore the signature "Margaret Luttrell," and that was all.

The custodian of the place wondered what had come to the English gentleman; he sat so still, with his face buried in his hands, and some open sheets of paper at his feet. The old man had a pretty, fair-haired daughter who could speak English a little. He called her and pointed out the stranger's bowed figure from one of the cloister windows.

"He looks as if he had had some bad news," said the girl. "Do you think that he is ill, father? Shall I take him a glass of water, and ask him to walk into the house?"

Brian was aroused from a maze of wretched, confused thought by the touch of Gretchen's light hand upon his arm. She had a glass of water in her hand.

"Would the gentleman not drink?" she asked him, with a look of pity that startled him from his absorption. "The sun was hot that day, and the gentleman had chosen the hottest place to sit in; would he not rather choose the cool cloister, or her father's house, for one little hour or two?"

Brian stammered out some words of thanks, and drank the water eagerly. He would not stay, however; he had bad news which compelled him to move on quickly—as quickly as possible. And then, with a certain whiteness about the lips, and a look of perplexed pain in his eyes, he picked up the papers as they lay strewn upon the grass, bowed to Gretchen with mechanical politeness, and made his way to the door by which he had come in. One thing he forgot; he never thought of it until long afterwards; the sweet, frail rose that Brother Dino had placed within his hand when he bade him God-speed. In less than an hour he was in the train; he hardly knew why or whither he was bound; he knew only that one of his restless fits had seized him and was driving him from the town in the way that it was wont to do.

Mrs. Luttrell's letter was a great shock to him. He never dreamt at first of questioning the truth of her assertions. He thought it very likely that she had been perfectly able to judge, and that her husband had been mistaken in treating the matter as a delusion. At any time, this conviction would have been a sore trouble to him, for he had loved her and her husband and Richard very tenderly, but just now it seemed to him almost more than he could bear. He had divested himself of nearly the whole of what had been considered his inheritance, because he disliked so much the thought of profiting by Richard's death; was he also now to divest himself of the only name that he had known, of the country that he loved, of the nation that he had been proud to call his own? If his mother's story were true, he was, as she had said, the son of an Italian gardener called Vasari; his name then must be Vasari; his baptismal name he did not know. And Brian Luttrell did not exist; or rather, Brian Luttrell had been buried as a baby in the little churchyard of San Stefano. It was a bitter thought to him.

But it could not be true. His whole being rose up in revolt against the suggestion that the father whom he had loved so well had not been his own father; that Richard had been of no kin to him. Surely his mother's mind must have been disordered when she refused to acknowledge him. It could not possibly be true that he was not her son. At any rate, one duty was plain to him. He must go to San Stefano and ascertain, as far as he could, the true history of the Vasari family. And in the meantime he could write to Mr. Colquhoun. He was obliged to go on to Geneva, as he knew that letters and remittances were to await him there. As soon as he had received the answer that Mr. Colquhoun would send to his letter of inquiry, he would proceed to Italy at once.

Some delay in obtaining the expected remittances kept Brian for more than a week at Geneva. And there, in spite of the seclusion in which he chose to live, and his resolute avoidance of all society, it happened that before he had been in the place three days he met an old University acquaintance—a strong, cheery, good-natured fellow called Gunston, whose passion for climbing Swiss mountains seemed to be unappeasable. He tried hard to make Brian accompany him on his next expedition, but failed. Both strength and energy were wanting to him at this time.

Mr. Colquhoun's answers to Brian's communications were short, and, to the young-man's mind, unsatisfactory. "At the time when Mrs. Luttrell first made the statement that she believed you to be Vincenza Vasari's son, her mind was in a very unsettled state. Medical evidence went to show that mothers did at times conceive a violent dislike to one or other of their children. This was probably a case in point. The Vasaris were honest, respectable people, and there was no reason to suppose that any fraud had been perpetrated. At the same time, it was impossible to convince Mrs. Luttrell that her own child had not died; and Mr. Colquhoun was of opinion that she would never acknowledge Brian as her son again, or consent to hold any personal intercourse with him."

"It would be better if I were dead and out of all this uncertainty," said Brian, bitterly, when he had read the letter. Yet, something in it gave him a sort of stimulus. He took several long excursions, late though the season was; and in a few days he again encountered Gunston, who was delighted to welcome him as a companion. Brian was a practised mountaineer; and though his health had lately been impaired, he seemed to regain it in the cold, clear air of the Swiss Alps. Gunston did not find him a genial companion; he was silent and even grim; but he was a daring climber, and exposed his life sometimes with a hardihood which approached temerity.

But a day arrived on which Brian's climbing feats came to an end. They had made an easy ascent, and were descending the mountain on the southern side, when an accident took place. It was one which often occurs, and which can be easily pictured to oneself. They were crossing some loose snow when the whole mass began to move, slowly first, then rapidly, down the slope of the mountain-side.

Brian sank almost immediately up to his waist in the snow. He noticed that the guide had turned his face to the descent and stretched out his arms, and he imitated this action as well as he was able, hoping in that manner to keep them free. But he was too deeply sunk in the snow to be able to turn round, and as he was in the rear of the others he could not see what became of his companions. He heard one shout from Gunston, and that was all—"Good God, Luttrell, we're lost!" And then the avalanche swept them onwards, first with a sharp, hissing sound, and then with a grinding roar as of thunder, and Brian gave himself up for lost, indeed.

He was not sorry. Death was the easiest possible solution of all his difficulties. He had looked for it many times; but he was glad to think that on this day, at least, he had not sought it of his own free will. He thought of his mother—he could not call her otherwise in this last hour—he thought of the father and the brother who had been dear to him in this world, and would not, he believed, be less dear to him in the next; he thought of Angela, who would be a little sorry for him, and Hugo, whom he could no longer help out of his numerous difficulties. All these memories of his old home and friends flashed over his mind in less than a second of time. He even thought of the estate, and of the Miss Murray who would inherit it. And then he tried to say a little prayer, but could not fix his mind sufficiently to put any petition into words.

And at this point he became aware that he was descending less rapidly.

His head and arms were fortunately still free. By a side glance he saw that the snow at some distance before him had stopped sliding altogether. Then it ceased to move at a still higher point, until at the spot where he lay it also became motionless, although above him it was still rushing down as if to bury him in a living grave. He threw his hands up above his head, and made a furious effort to extricate himself before the snow should freeze around him. And in this effort he was more successful than he had even hoped to be. But the pressure of the snow upon him was so great that he thought at first that it would break his ribs. When the motion had ceased, however, this pressure became less powerful; by the help of his ice-axe he managed to free himself, and knew that he was as yet unhurt, if not yet safe.

He looked round for his friend and for the guides. They had all been roped together, but the rope had broken between himself and his companions. He saw only one prostrate form, and, at some little distance, the hand of a man protruding from the white waste of snow.

The thought of affording help to the other members of the party stimulated Brian to efforts which he would not, perhaps, have made on his own account. In a short time he was able to make his way to the man lying face downwards in the snow. He had already recognised him as one of the guides. It needed but a slight examination to convince him that this man was dead—not from suffocation or cold, but from the effects of a wound inflicted in the fall. The hand, sticking out of the snow belonged to the other guide; it was cold and stiff, and with all his efforts Brian could not succeed in extricating the body from the snow in which it was tightly wedged. Of the young Englishman, Gunston, and the other guide, there was absolutely nothing to be seen.

Brian turned sick and faint when the conviction was forced upon him that he would see his friend no more. His limbs failed him; he could not go on. He was born to misfortune, he said to himself; born to bring trouble and sorrow upon his companions and friends. Without him, Gunston would not, perhaps, have attempted this ascent. And how could he carry home to Gunston's family the story of his death?

After all, it was very unlikely that he would reach the bottom of the mountain in safety. He had no guide; he was utterly ignorant of the way. There were pitfalls without number in his path—crevasses, precipices, treacherous ice-bridges, and slippery, loose snow. He would struggle on until the end came, however; better to move, even towards death, than to lie down and perish miserably of cold.

It is said sometimes that providence keeps a special watch over children and drunken men; that is to say, that those who are absolutely incapable of caring for themselves do sometimes, by wonderful good fortune, escape the dangers into which sager persons are apt to fall. So it seemed with Brian Luttrell. For hours he struggled onwards, sore pressed by cold, and fatigue, and pain; but at last, long after night had fallen, he staggered into a little hamlet on the southern side of the mountain, footsore and fainting, indeed, but otherwise unharmed.

Nobody noticed his arrival very much. The villagers took him in, put him to bed, and gave him food and drink, but they did not seem to think that he was one of "the rich Englishmen" who sometimes visited their village, and they did not at all realise what he had done. To make the descent that Brian had done without a guide would have appeared to them little short of miraculous.

Brian had no opportunity of explaining to them how he had come. He was carried insensible into the one small inn that the village contained and put to bed, where he woke up delirious and quite unable to give any account of himself. When his mind was again clear, he remembered that it was his duty to tell the story of the accident on the mountain, but as soon as he uttered a few words on the subject he was met by an animated and circumstantial account of the affair in all its details. Two Englishmen, and two guides, and a porter had been crossing the mountain when the avalanche took place; a guide and a porter had been killed, and their bodies had been recovered. One Englishman had been killed also, and the other——

"Yes, the other," began Brian, hurriedly, but the innkeeper stolidly continued his story. The other had made his way back with the guide to the nearest town. He was there still, and had been making expeditions every day upon the mountain to find the dead body of his friend. But he had given up the search now, and was returning to England on the morrow. He had done all he could, poor gentleman, and it was more than a week since the accident took place.

Brian suddenly put his head down on his pillow and lay still. Here was the chance for which his soul had yearned! If the innkeeper spoke the truth, he—Brian Luttrell—was already numbered amongst the dead. Why should he take the trouble to come back to life?

"Were none of the Englishman's clothes or effects found?" he asked, presently.

"Oh, yes, monsieur. His pocket-book—his hat. They were close to a dangerous crevasse. A guide was lowered down it for fifty, eighty, feet, but nothing of the unfortunate Englishman was to be seen. If he did not fall into the crevasse his body may be recovered in the spring—but hardly before. Yes, his pocket-book and his hat, monsieur." A sudden gleam came into the little innkeeper's eyes, and he spoke somewhat interrogatively—"Monsieur arrived here also without his hat?"

For the first time the possibility occurred to the innkeeper's mind of his guest's identity with the missing Englishman. Brian answered with a certain reluctance; he did not like the part that he would have to play.

"I lost my way in walking from V——," he said, mentioning a town at some distance from the mountain-pass by which he had really come; "and my hat was blown off by a gust of wind. The weather was not good. I lost my way."

"True, monsieur. There was rain and there was wind: doubtless monsieur wandered from the right track," said the innkeeper, accepting the explanation in all good faith.

When he left the room, Brian examined his belongings with care. Nothing in his possession was marked, owing to the fact that his clothes were mostly new ones, purchased with a view to mountaineering requirements. His pocket-book was lost. Mrs. Luttrell's letter and one or two other papers, however, remained with him, and he had sufficient money in his pockets to pay the innkeeper and preserve him from starvation for a time. He wondered that nobody had reported an unknown traveller to be lying ill in the village; but it was plain that his escape had been thought impossible. Even Gunston had given him up for lost. As he learnt afterwards, it was believed that he had not been able to sever the rope, and that he, with one of the guides, had fallen into a crevasse. The rope went straight down into the cleft, and he was believed to be at the end of it. There was not the faintest doubt in the mind of the survivors but that Brian Luttrell was dead. It remained for Brian himself to decide whether he should go back to the town, reclaim his luggage, and take up life again at the point where he seemed to have let it drop—or go forth into the world, penniless and homeless, without a name, without a hope for the future, and without a friend.

Which should he do?



CHAPTER XII.

THE HEIRESS OF STRATHLECKIE.

"Elizabeth an heiress! Elizabeth, with a fortune of her own!" said Mrs. Heron. "It is perfectly incredible."

"It is perfectly true," rejoined her step-son. "And it has been true for the last three days."

"Then Elizabeth does not know it," replied Kitty.

"As to whether she knows it or not," said Percival, sardonically, "I am quite unable to form any opinion. Elizabeth has a talent for keeping secrets."

He was not sorry that the door opened at that moment, and that Elizabeth, entering with little Jack in her arms, must have heard his words. She flashed a quick look at him—it was one that savoured of reproach—and advanced into the middle of the room, where she stood silent, waiting to be accused.

It was twelve o'clock on the morning of a bright, cold November day. Mrs. Heron was lying on the sofa in the dining-room—a shabbily-comfortable, old-fashioned room where most of the business of the house was transacted. Kitty sat on a low chair before the fire, warming her little, cold hands. She had a cat on her lap, and a novel on the floor beside her, and looked very young, very pretty, and very idle. Percival was fidgetting about the room with a glum and sour expression of countenance. He was evidently much out of sorts, both in body and mind, for his face was unusually sallow in tint, and there was a dark, upright line between his brows which his relations knew and—dreaded. The genial, sunshiny individual of a few evenings back had disappeared, and a decidedly bad-tempered young man now took his place.

Mrs. Heron's pretty, pale face wore an unaccustomed flush; and as she looked at Elizabeth the tears came into her blue eyes, and she pressed them mildly with her handkerchief. Elizabeth waited in patience; she was not sure of the side from which the attack would be made, but she was sure that it was coming. Percival, with his hands thrust deep into his pockets, leaned against a sideboard, and looked at her with disfavour. She was paler than usual, and there were dark lines beneath her eyes. What made her look like that! Percival thought to himself. One might fancy that she had been lying awake all night, if the thing were not (under the circumstances) well-nigh impossible! But perhaps it was only her ill-fitting, unbecoming, old, serge gown that made her look so pale. Percival was in the humour to see all her faults and defects that morning.

"Why do you carry that great boy about?" he said, almost harshly. "You know that he is too big to be carried. Do put him down."

"Yes, put him down, Elizabeth," said Mrs. Heron, still pressing her handkerchief to her eye. "I am sure I have no desire to inflict any hardship upon you. If you devoted yourself to my children, I thought that it was from choice and because you had an affection for your uncle's family. But you seem to have had no affection—no respect—no confidence——"

A gentle sob cut short her words.

"What have I done?" said Elizabeth. Her face had turned a shade paler than before, but betrayed no sign of confusion. "Lie still, Jack; I do not mean to put you down just yet. Indeed, I think I had better carry you upstairs again." She left the room swiftly, pausing only at the door to add a few words: "I will be down again directly. I shall be glad if Percival will wait."

There was a short silence, during which Mrs. Heron dried her eyes, and Percival stared uncomfortably at the toe of his left boot.

"Surely Elizabeth has a right to her own secrets," said Kitty, from her station on the hearth. But nobody replied.

Presently Elizabeth came down again, with a couple of letters in her hand. It seemed almost as if she had been upstairs to rub a little life and colour into her face, for her cheeks were carnation when she returned, and her eyes unusually bright.

"Will you tell me what I have done that distresses you?" she said, addressing herself steadily to Mrs. Heron, though she saw Percival glance eagerly, hungrily, towards the letters in her hand.

"Indeed, I have no right to be distressed," replied Mrs. Heron, still, however, in an exceedingly hurt tone. "Your own affairs are your own property, my dear Lizzie, as Kitty has just remarked; but, considering the care and—the—the affection-lavished upon you here——"

She stopped short; Percival's dark eyes were darting their angry lightning upon her.

"A care and affection," he said, "which condemned her to the nursery in order that she might indulge her extreme love for children, and save you the expense of a nursery-maid."

"You have no right to make such a remark, Percival!" exclaimed his step-mother, feebly, but she quailed beneath the sneer instead of resenting it. Elizabeth turned sharply upon her cousin.

"No," she said, "you have no right to make such a remark. As you know very well, I had no friends, no money, no home, when Uncle Alfred brought me here. I was a beggar—I should have starved, perhaps—but for him. I owe him everything—and I do not forget my debt."

"Everything," said Percival, incisively, "except, I suppose, your confidence."

She turned away and walked up to Mrs. Heron's sofa. Here her manner changed, it became soft and womanly; her voice took a gentler tone. "What is it, Aunt Isabel?" she said. "I am ready to give you all the confidence that you wish for. I will have no secrets from you."

"Oh, then, Lizzie, is it true?" said Kitty, upsetting the cat in her haste, and flying across the room to her cousin's side, while Mrs. Heron, taken by surprise, did nothing but sob helplessly and hold Elizabeth's firm, white hand in a feeble grasp. "Is it really true? Have you inherited a great fortune? Are you going to be very rich?"

Elizabeth made a little pause before she answered the question. "Brian Luttrell is dead," she said at last, rather slowly. "And I am very sorry."

"And the Luttrells are your cousins? And you are the heiress after them?"

"Yes."

"But when did you know this first?" said Kitty, anxiously looking up into her tall cousin's face.

"Yes, when did you know it first?" repeated Mrs. Heron, with a weak and sighing attempt at solemnity.

"I knew that I was the Luttrells' cousin all my life," said Elizabeth. There was a touch of perversity in her answer.

"Yes—yes. But when did you know that you were the next heir—or heiress? You cannot have known that all your life," said Mrs. Heron.

"I did not know that until a few days ago. I had a letter from a lawyer when Brian Luttrell went abroad. Mr. Brian Luttrell wished him to communicate with me and to tell me——"

"Well?" said Mrs. Heron, curiously. "To tell you what?"

"That it was probable that the property would come to me," Elizabeth answered, for the first time with some embarrassment, "as he did not intend to marry. And that he wished to settle a certain sum upon me—in case I might be in want of money now."

"And that was a fortnight ago?" said Percival.

"Yes," said Elizabeth, without looking at him, "nearly a fortnight ago."

"This is very interesting," said Mrs. Heron, who was languidly brightening as she heard Elizabeth's story and recognised the fact that substantial advantages were likely to accrue to the household from Elizabeth's good fortune. "And of course you accepted the offer, Lizzie dear? But why did you not tell us at once?"

"I waited until things should be settled. The matter might have fallen through. It did not seem worth while to mention it until it was settled," said Elizabeth.

"How much did he offer you? Mr. Brian Luttrell must have been a very generous man."

"I think he was—very generous," said Elizabeth, looking up warmly. "I considered the matter for some time, and I wished that I could accept his kindness, but——"

"You don't mean to say that you refused it?"

"I did not refuse it altogether," explained Elizabeth, her face glowing. "I told him my circumstances, and all that my uncle had done for me, and that if he chose to place a sum of money at my uncle's disposal—I thought that, perhaps, it would be only right, and that I ought not to place an obstacle in the way. But I could not take anything for myself."

There was a little pause.

"Oh, Lizzie, how good you are!" cried Kitty, softly.

Percival took a step nearer; his face looked very dark.

"And, pray, what did the lawyer say to your proposition?" he inquired.

"He said he must communicate with Mr. Brian Luttrell, but he thought that there would be no objection to it on his part," said Elizabeth. "But he had not time to do so, you see. Brian Luttrell is dead. Here are all the letters about it, Aunt Isabel, if you want to see them. I was going to speak to Uncle Alfred this very day."

"Well, Lizzie," said Mrs. Heron, taking the letters from her niece's hand, "I am glad that we are honoured by your confidence at last. I think it would have been better, however, if you had told us a little earlier of poor Mr. Luttrell's kindness, and then other people could have managed the business for you. Of course, it would have been repugnant to your feelings to accept money for yourself, and another person could have accepted it in your name with a much better grace."

"But that is what I wanted to avoid," said Elizabeth, with a smile. "I would not have taken one penny for myself from Mr. Brian Luttrell, but if he would have repaid my uncle for part of what he has done for me——"

Her sentence came to an abrupt end. Percival had turned aside and flung himself into an arm-chair near the fire. He was the picture of ill-humour; and something in his face took away from Elizabeth the desire to say more. Mrs. Heron read the letters complacently, and Kitty put her arm round her cousin's, waist and tried to draw her towards the hearth-rug for a gossip. But Elizabeth preserved her position near Mrs. Heron's sofa, although she looked down at the girl with a smile.

"I know what Isabel meant—what we all meant," said Kitty, "when we were so disagreeable to you a little time ago, Lizzie. We all felt that we could not for one moment have kept a secret from you, and we resented your superior self-control. Fancy your knowing all this for the last fortnight, and never saying a word about it! Tell me in confidence, Lizzie, now didn't you want to whisper it to me, under solemn vows of secrecy?"

"I'm afraid you would never have kept your vows," said Elizabeth. "I meant to tell you very soon, Kitty."

"And so you are a rich woman, Elizabeth!" observed Mrs. Heron, putting down the letters and smoothing out her dress. "Dear me, how strangely things come round! Who would have dreamt, ten years ago, that you would ever be richer than all of us—richer than your poor uncle, who was then so kind to you! Some people are very fortunate!"

"Some people deserve to be fortunate, Isabel," said Kitty, caressing Elizabeth's hand, in order to soften down the effect of Mrs. Heron's sub-acid speech. But Elizabeth did not seem to be annoyed by it. She was thinking of other things.

"I am sure that if any one deserves it, Elizabeth does," said Mrs. Heron, recovering her usual placidity of demeanour. "She has always been good and kind to everyone around her. I tremble to think of what will become of dear Harry, and Will, and Jack."

"What should become of them?" said Kitty, in a startled tone.

"When Elizabeth leaves us"—Mrs. Heron murmured, applying her handkerchief to her eyes—"the poor children will know the difference."

"But you won't leave us, will you, Elizabeth?" cried Kitty, clinging more closely to her cousin, and looking up to her with tears in her eyes. "You wouldn't go away from us, after living with us all these years, darling? Oh, I thought that you loved us as if you were really our own sister, and that nothing would ever take you away!"

Still Elizabeth did not speak. Kitty's brown head rested on her shoulder, and she stroked it gently with one hand. Her lips were very grave, but her eyes, as she raised them for a moment to Percival's face, had a smile hidden in their hazel depths—a smile which he could not understand, and which, therefore, made him angry. He rose and stood on the hearth-rug with his hands behind him, as he delivered his little homily for Kitty's benefit.

"I suppose you do not expect that Elizabeth will care to sacrifice herself all her life for us and the children," he said. "It would be as unreasonable of you to ask it as it would be foolish of her to do it. Of course, she will now begin to enjoy the world a little. She has had few enough enjoyments, hitherto—we need not grudge them to her now."

But one would have thought that he himself, grudged them to her considerably.

"What do you mean to do, Lizzie?" said Kitty, dolefully, "shall you take a house in town? or will you go and live in Scotland—all that long, long way from us? And shall you"—lifting her face rather wistfully—"shall you keep any horses and dogs?"

Elizabeth laughed; she could not help it, although her laugh brought an additional pucker to the forehead of one of her hearers, who could not detect the tremulousness that lurked behind the clear, ringing tones.

"It is well for you to laugh," he said, gloomily, "and, of course, you have the right, but——"

"How interesting it will be," Mrs. Heron's, pensive voice was understood to murmur, when Percival's gruff speech had come to a sudden conclusion, "to notice the use dear Lizzie makes of her wealth! I wonder what her income will be, and whether the Luttrells' kept up a large establishment."

"Oh," said Elizabeth, suddenly loosening herself from Kitty's arms and standing erect before them with a face that paled and eyes that deepened with emotion, "does it not occur to you through what trouble and misery this 'good fortune,' as you call it, has come to me? Does it not seem wrong to you to plan what pleasure I can get out of it, when you think of that poor mother sitting at home and mourning over her two sons—two young, strong men—dead in the very prime of life? And Miss Vivian, too, with her spoiled life and her shattered hopes—she once expected to be the mistress of the very house that they now call mine! I hate the thought of it. Please never speak to me as if it were a matter for congratulation. I should be heartily glad—heartily thankful—if Brian Luttrell were alive again!"

She sat down, and put her elbows on the table and her hands over her face. The others looked at her in amaze. Percival turned to the fire and stared into it very hard. Mrs. Heron, who was rather afraid of what she called "Elizabeth's high-flown moods," murmured a suggestion to Kitty that she ought to go to the children, and glided languidly away, beckoning her step-daughter to follow her.

Percival did not speak until Elizabeth raised her face, and then he was uncomfortably conscious that she had been crying—at least, that her long eyelashes were wet, and that in other circumstances he might have felt a desire to kiss the tears away. But this desire, if he had it, must now be carefully controlled. He did not look at her, therefore, when he spoke.

"Your feeling is somewhat over-strained, Elizabeth. We are all sorry for the Luttrells' trouble; but it is absurd to say that we must not be glad of your good fortune."

Elizabeth rose up with her eyes ablaze and her cheeks on fire.

"You know that you are not glad!" she said, almost passionately. "You know that you would rather see me poor—see me the nursery-maid, the Cinderella, that you are so fond of calling me!"

"Well," said Percival, with a short laugh, "for my own sake, perhaps, I would."

"And so would I," said Elizabeth.

"But you know, Lizzie, you will get over that feeling in time. You will find pleasure in your riches and your beauty; you will learn what enjoyment means—which you have had small chance of finding out, hitherto, in this comfortable household!" He laughed rather bitterly. "You are in the chrysalis state at present; you don't know what it is to be a butterfly. You will like that better—in time."

"I will never be a butterfly—God helping me!" said Elizabeth. She spoke solemnly, with a noble light in her whole face which made it more than beautiful. Percival turned away his eyes from it; he did not dare to look. "If I have had wealth given me," said the girl, "I will use it for worthy ends. Others shall benefit by it as well as myself."

"Don't squander it, Lizzie," said Percival, with a cynical smile, designed to cover the exceeding sadness and soreness of his heart. "Your philanthropist is not often the wisest person in the world."

"No, but I will try to use it wisely," she said, with a touch of meekness in her voice which made him feel madly inclined to fall down and kiss the very hem of her garment—or rather the lowest flounce of her shabby, dark-blue, serge gown—"and my friends will see that I do not spend it foolishly. You do not think it would be foolish to use it for the good of others, do you, Percival? I suppose I shall be thought very eccentric if I do not take a large house in London, or go much into society; but, indeed, I should not be happy in spending money in those ways——"

"Why, what on earth do you mean to do?" said Percival, sharply. "I see that you have some plan in your head; I should just like to know what it is."

She was standing beside him on the hearth-rug, and she looked up at his face and down again before she answered.

"Yes," she said, seriously, "I have a plan."

"And you mean that I have no right to inquire what it is? You are perfectly correct; I have no right, and I beg your pardon for the liberty that I have taken. I think that I had better go."

His manner was so restless, his voice so uneven and so angry, that Elizabeth lifted her eyes and studied his face a little before she replied.

"Percival," she said at last, "why are you so angry with me?"

"I'm not angry with you."

"With whom or with what, then?"

"With circumstances, I suppose. With life in general," he answered, bitterly, "when it sets up such barriers between you and me."

"What barriers?"

"My dear Elizabeth, you used to have faculties above those of the rest of your sex. Don't let your new position weaken them. I have surely not the least need to tell you what I mean."

"You overrate my faculties," said Elizabeth. "You always did. I never do know what you mean unless you tell me. I am not good at guessing."

"You need not guess then; I'll tell you. Don't you see that I am in a very unfortunate position? I said to you the other night that I—I loved you, that I would teach you to love me; and I could have done it, Elizabeth! I am sure that you would have loved me in time."

"Well?" said Elizabeth, softly. Her lips were slightly tremulous, but they were smiling, too.

"Well!" repeated her cousin. "That's all. There's an end to it. Do you think I should ever have breathed a word into your ear if I had known what I know now?"

"The fact being," said Elizabeth, "that your pride is so much stronger than your love, that you would never tell a woman you loved her if she happened to have a few pounds more than you."

"Exactly so," he answered, stubbornly.

"Then—as a matter of argument only, Percival—I think you are wrong."

"Wrong, am I? Do you think that a man likes to take gifts from his wife's hands? Do you think it is pleasant for me to hear you offer compensation to my father for the trifle that he has spent on you during the last few years, and not to be in a position to render such an offering unnecessary? I tell you it is the most galling thing in the world, and, if for one moment you thought me capable of speaking to you as I did the other night, now that I know you to be a wealthy woman, I could never look you in the face again. If I seem angry you must try to forgive me; you know me of old—I am always detestable when I am in pain—as I am now."

He struck his foot angrily against the fender; his handsome face was drawn and lined with the pain of which he spoke.

"Be patient, Percival," she said, with a smile which seemed to mock him by its very sweetness. "As you say to me, you may think differently in time."

"And what if I do think differently? What good will it be?" he asked her. "I am not patient; I am not resigned to my fate, and I never shall be; does it make the loss of my hopes any easier to bear when you tell me that I shall think differently in time? You might as well try to make a man with a broken leg forget his pain by telling him that in a hundred years' time he will be dead and buried!"

The tears stood in her eyes. She seemed startled by the intense energy with which he spoke; her next words scarcely rose above a whisper. "Percival," she said, "I don't like to see you suffer."

"Then I will leave you," he said, sternly. "For, if I stay, I can't pretend that I do not feel the pain of losing you."

He turned away, but before he had gone two steps a hand was placed upon his arm.

"I can't let you go in this way," she said. "Oh, Percival, you have always been good to me till now. I can't begin a new life by giving you pain. Don't you understand what I want to say?"

He put his hand on her shoulder and looked into her face. The deep colour flushed his own, but hers was white as snow, and she was trembling like a leaf.

"Do you love me, Elizabeth?" he said.

"I don't know," she answered, simply, "but I will marry you, Percival, if you like."

"That is not enough. Do you love me?"

"Too well," she answered, "to let you go."

And so he stayed.



CHAPTER XIII.

SAN STEFANO.

When the vines were stripped of their clusters, and the ploughed fields stood bare and brown in the autumnal sun—when the fig trees lost their leaves, and their white branches took on that peculiarly gaunt appearance which characterises them as soon as the wintry winds begin to blow—a solitary traveller plodded wearily across the Lombardy plains, asking, as he went, for the road that would lead him to the village and monastery of San Stefano.

He arrived at his destination on an evening late in November. It was between five and six o'clock when he came to the little, white village, nestling in a cleft of the hills, with the monastery on a slope behind it. There was a background of mountainous country—green, and grey, and purple—with solemn, white heights behind, stretching far into the crystal clearness of the sky. As the traveller reached the village he looked up to those white forms, and saw them transfigured in the evening light. The sky behind them changed to rose colour, to purple, violet, even to delicate pale green and golden, and, when the daylight had faded, an afterglow tinged the snowy summit with a roseate flush more tenderly ethereal than the tint of an oleander blossom, as transient as a gleam of April sunshine, or the changing light upon a summer sea. Then a dead whiteness succeeded; the day was gone, and, quick as lightning, the stars began to quiver in the blueness of the sky.

The lights in the cottage windows gleamed not inhospitably, but the traveller passed them by. His errand was to the monastery of San Stefano, for there he fancied that he should find a friend. He had no reason to feel sure about it, but he was in a mental region where reason had little sway. He was governed by vague impulses and instincts which he did not care to controvert. He was faint, footsore, and weary, but he would not pause until he had reached the monastery gates.

He rang the bell with a trembling hand. Its clangour startled him, and nearly made him fly from the place. If he had been less weak at that moment he would have turned away; as it was, he leaned against the high, white wall with an intolerable sense of discomfort and fatigue. When the porter came and looked out, it took him several minutes to discern, through the gathering darkness, the worn figure in waiting beside the gate.

"I have come a long distance," stammered the traveller, in answer to the porter's exclamation. "I want rest and food. I was told by one of you—one who was called Brother Dino, I believe—that you gave hospitality to travellers——"

"Come in, amico," said the porter, genially. "No explanations are needed when one comes to San Stefano. So you know our Brother Dino, do you? He is here again now, after two or three years in Paris. A fine scholar, they say, and a credit to the monastery. Come to the guest-room and I will tell him that you are here."

To this monologue the stranger answered not a word. The porter had meanwhile allowed him to enter, and fastened the gate once more. He then led the way up a garden path to a second door, swinging his lantern and jingling his keys as he went. The traveller followed slowly; his battered felt hat was drawn low over his forehead, his garments, torn and travel-stained, gave the porter an impression that his pockets were not too well filled, and that he might even be glad of a little employment on the farm which the Brothers of San Stefano were so successful in cultivating. His tone was nonetheless cheery and polite as he ushered the stranger into a long panelled room, where a single oil-lamp threw a vague, uncertain light upon the tessellated floor and plain oak furniture.

"You would like some polenta?" he said, as the wearied man sank into one of the wooden chairs with an air of complete exhaustion. "Or some of our good red wine? I will see about it directly. The signor can repose here until I return; I will fetch one of the Reverend Fathers by-and-bye, but they are all at Benediction at this moment."

"I want to see Brother Dino," said the stranger, lifting his head. And then the porter changed his mind about the station of the visitor.

That slightly imperious tone, the impatient glance of the dark eye, the unmistakably foreign accent, convinced him that he had to do with one of the tourists—English or American signori—who occasionally paid a visit to San Stefano. The porter himself was a lay-brother, and prided himself on his knowledge of the world. He answered courteously that Brother Dino should be informed, and then withdrew to provide the refreshment of which the stranger evidently stood in need.

Brother Dino was not long in coming. He entered quickly, with a look of subdued expectation upon his face. A flash of joy and recognition leaped into his eyes as he beheld the wayworn figure in one of the antique carved oak chairs. His hands, which had been crossed and hidden in the wide sleeves of the habit that he wore, went out to the stranger with a gesture of welcome and delight.

"Mr. Luttrell!" he exclaimed. "You are here already at San Stefano! We shall welcome you warmly, Mr. Luttrell!"

The name seemed wonderfully familiar to his tongue. Brian, who had risen, held out his hands also, and the young monk caught them in his own; but Brian's gesture was an involuntary one, conveying more of apprehension than of greeting.

"Not that name," he said, breathlessly. "Call me by any other that you please, but not that. Brian Luttrell is dead."

Brother Dino shivered slightly, as if a cold breath of air had passed through the ill-lighted room, but he held Brian's hands with a still warmer pressure, and looked steadily into his haggard, hollow eyes.

"What shall I call you, then, my brother?" he said, gently.

"I have thought of a name," replied Brian, in curiously uncertain, faltering tones; "it will harm nobody to take it, because he is dead, too. Remember, my name is Stretton—John Stretton, an Englishman—and a beggar."

Therewith he loosed his hands from Brother Dino's clasp, uttered a short laugh—it was a moan rather than a laugh, however—and fell like a stone into the Italian's arms. Dino supported him for a moment, then laid him flat upon the floor, and was about to summon help, when, turning, he came face to face with the Prior, Padre Cristoforo.

Thirteen years had passed since Padre Cristoforo brought the friendless boy from Turin to the monastery amongst the pleasant hills. Those thirteen years had apparently transformed the smiling, graceful lad into a pale, grave-faced, young monk, whose every word and action seemed to be subordinated to the authority of the ecclesiastics with whom he lived. Time had thrown into strong relief the keenly intellectual contour of his head and face; it had hollowed his temples and tempered the ardour of those young, brave eyes; but there was more beauty of outline and sweetness of expression than had been visible even in the charming boyish face that had won all hearts when he came to San Stefano at ten years old.

Thirteen years had changed Father Cristoforo but little. His tonsured head showed a fringe of greyer hairs, and his face was a little more blanched and wrinkled than it used to be; but the bland smile, the polished manner, the look of profound sagacity, were all the same. He gave one glance to Dino, one glance to the prostrate form upon the floor, and took in the situation without a moment's delay.

"Fetch Father Paolo," he said, after inspecting Brian's face and lifting his nerveless hand; "and return with him yourself. We may want you."

Father Paolo, the monk who took charge of the infirmary, soon arrived, and gave it as his opinion that the stranger was suffering from no ordinary fainting-fit, but from an affection of the brain. A bed was prepared for him in the infirmary, and a lay-brother appointed to attend upon him. Brian Luttrell could not have fallen ill in a place where he would receive more tender care.

It was not until the sick man was laid in his bed that Father Cristoforo spoke again to Dino, who was standing a little behind him, holding a lamp. The rays of light fell full upon Brian's death-like face, and on the black and white crucifix that hung above his bed on the yellow wall. Dino's face was in deep shadow when the Prior turned and addressed him.

"What was he saying when I came in? That his name was John—John——"

"John Stretton, an Englishman," answered Dino, in an unmoved voice. "An Englishman and a beggar."

Padre Christoforo did an unusual thing. He took the lamp from Brother Dino's hand and threw the light suddenly upon the young man's impassive countenance. Dino raised his great, serious eyes to the Prior's face, and then dropped them to the ground. Otherwise not a muscle of his face moved. He was the living image of submission.

"Have you seen him before?" said Padre Cristoforo.

"Twice, Reverend Father. Once on the boat between Cologne and Mainz; and once, for a moment only, in the quadrangle of the Cathedral at Mainz."

"And then did he bear his present name?"

For a moment Dino's mouth twitched uneasily. A faint colour crept into his cheeks. "Reverend Father," he said, hesitatingly, "I did not ask his name."

The priest raised the lamp to the level of his head, and again looked penetratingly into his pupil's face. There was a touch of wonder, of pity, perhaps also of some displeasure, expressed in this fixed gaze. It lasted so long that Dino turned a little pale, although he did not flinch beneath it. Finally, the Prior lowered the lamp, gave it back to him, and walked away in silence, with his head lowered and his hands behind his back. Dino followed to light him down the dark corridors, and at the door of the Prior's cell, fell on his knees, as the custom was in the monastery, to receive the Prior's blessing. But, either from forgetfulness or some other reason which passed unexplained, Padre Cristoforo entered and closed the door behind him, without noticing the young man's kneeling figure. It was the first time such an omission had occurred since Dino came to San Stefano. Was it merely an omission and not a punishment? Dino had, for the first time in his life, evaded a plain answer to a question, and concealed from Padre Cristoforo something which Padre Cristoforo would certainly have thought that he ought to know. Had Padre Cristoforo divined the truth?

According to the notions current amongst Italians, and particularly amongst many members of their church, Dino felt himself justified in equivocating in a case where absolute truth would not have served his purpose. His conscience did not reproach him for want of truthfulness, but it did for want of confidence in Padre Cristoforo. For he loved Padre Cristoforo; and Padre Cristoforo loved him.

Brian Luttrell's illness was a long and severe one. He lay insensible for some time, and awoke to wild delirium, which lasted for many days. The Brothers of San Stefano nursed him with the greatest care, and it was observable that the Prior himself spent a good deal of time in the patient's room, and showed unusual interest in his progress towards recovery. The Prior understood English; but if he had hoped to gather any information concerning Brian's history from the ravings of his delirium he was mistaken. Brian's mind ran upon the incidents of his childhood, upon the tour that he had made with his father when he was a boy, upon his school-days; not upon the sad and tragic events with which he had been connected. He scarcely ever mentioned the names of his mother or brother. Like Falstaff, when he lay a-dying, be "babbled of green fields," and nothing more.

At one time he grew better: then he had a relapse, and was very near death indeed; but at last the power of youth re-asserted itself, and he came slowly back to life once more. But it was as a man who had been in another world; who had faced the bitterness of death and the darkness of the grave.

He was as much startled when he looked at himself for the first time in a looking-glass as a girl who has lost her beauty after a virulent attack of small-pox. Not that he had ever had much beauty to boast of; but the look of youth and hope which had once brightened his eyes was gone; his cheeks were sunken, his temples hollow, his features drawn and pinched with bodily pain and weakness. And—greatest change perhaps of all—his hair had turned from brown to grey; an alteration so striking and visible that, as he put down the little mirror which had been brought to him, he murmured to himself, with a bitter smile—"My own mother would not know me now." And then he turned his face away from the light, and lay silent and motionless for so long a space of time that the lay-brother who waited on him thought that he was sleeping.

When he rose from his bed and was able to sit in the sunny garden or the cloisters, spring had come in all its tender glow of beauty, and sent a thrill of fresh life through the sick man's veins.

Nature had always been dear to Brian. He loved the sights and sounds of country life. The hills, the waving trees, tranquil skies and running water calmed and refreshed his jaded brain and harrassed nerves. The broad fields, crimsoning with anemones, purpling with hyacinth and auricula; the fresh green of the fig trees, the lovely tendrils of the newly shooting vines even the sight of the oxen with their patient eyes, and the homely, feathered creatures of the farmyard, clucking and strutting at the sandalled feet of the black-robed, silent, lay-brothers who brought them food—all these things acted like an anodyne upon Brian's stricken heart. There was a life beside that of feeling; a life of passive, peaceful repose; the life of "stocks and stones," and happy, unresponsive things, amidst which he could learn to bear his burden patiently.

He saw little of Dino during his illness; but, as soon as he was able to go into the garden, Dino was permitted to accompany him. It was plain from his manner that no unwillingness on his own part kept him away. The English stranger had evidently a great attraction for him; he waited upon his movements and followed him, silently and affectionately, like a dog whose whole heart has been given to its master. Brian felt the charm of this devotion, but was too weak to speculate concerning its cause. He was conscious of the same kind of attraction towards Dino; he knew not why, but he found it pleasant to have Dino at his side, to lean on his arm as they went down the garden path together, to listen to the young Italian's musical accents as he read aloud at the evening hour. But what was the secret of that indefinable mutual attraction, that almost magnetic power, which one seemed to possess over the other, Brian Luttrell could not tell. Perhaps Dino knew.

This friendship did not pass unobserved. It was quietly, gently, fostered by the Prior, whose keen eyes were everywhere, and seemed to see everything at once. He it was who dispensed Dino from his usual duties that he might attend upon the English guest, who smiled benignly when he met them together in the cloister, who dropped a word or two expressive of his pleasure that Dino should have an opportunity of practising his knowledge of the English tongue. Dino could speak English with tolerable fluency, although with a strong foreign accent.

But the quiet state of affairs did not last very long. As Brian's strength returned he grew restless and uneasy; and at length one day he sent a formal request to the Prior that he might speak to him alone. Padre Cristoforo replied by coming at once to the guest-chamber, which Brian occupied in the daytime, and by asking in his usual mild and kindly way what he could do for him.

The guest-room was a bare enough place, but the window commanded a fine view of the wide plain on which the monastery looked down. The blinds were open, for the morning was deliciously cool, and the shadows of the leaves that clustered round the lattice played in the glow of sunshine on the floor. Brian was standing as the Prior entered the room; his wasted figure, worn face, and grey hairs made him a striking sight in that abode of peace and solitary quietness. It was as though some unquiet visitant from another world had strayed into an Italian Arcadia. But, as a matter of fact, Brian was probably less worldly in thought and aspiration at that moment than the serene-browed priest who stood before him and looked him in the face with such benignant friendly, interest.

"You wished to see me, my son?" he began, gently.

"I am ashamed to trouble you," said Brian. "But I felt that I ought to speak to you as soon as possible. I am growing strong enough to continue my journey—and I must not trespass on your hospitality any longer."

"Your strength is not very great as yet," said the Prior, courteously. "Pray take a seat, Mr. Stretton. We are only too pleased to keep you with us as long as you will do us the honour to remain, and I think it is decidedly against your own interests to travel at present."

Brian stammered out an acknowledgment of the Prior's kindness. He was evidently embarrassed, even painfully so; and Padre Cristoforo found himself watching the young man with some surprise and curiosity. What was it that troubled this young Englishman?

Brian at last uttered the words that he had wished to say.

"If I remained here," he said, colouring vividly with a sensitiveness springing from the reduced physical condition to which he had been brought by his long illness; "if I remained here I should ask you whether I could do any work for you—whether I could teach any of your pupils English or music. I am a poor man; I have no prospects. I would as soon live in Italy as in England—at any rate for a time."

The Prior looked at him steadily; his deeply-veined hand grasped the arm of his wooden chair, a slight flush rose to his forehead. It was in a perfectly calm and unconstrained voice, however, that he made answer.

"It is quite possible that we might find work of the kind you mention, signor—if you require it."

There was a subdued accent of inquiry in the last four words. Brian laughed a little, and put his hand in his pocket, whence he drew out four gold pieces and a few little Swiss and Italian coins.

"You see these, Father?" he said, holding them out in the palm of his hand. "They constitute my fortune, and they are due to the institution that has sheltered me so kindly and nursed me back to life and health. I have vowed these coins to your alms-box; when they are given, I shall make a fresh start in the world—as the architect of my own fortunes."

"You will then be penniless!" said the priest, in rather a curious tone.

"Entirely so."

There was a short silence. Brian's fingers played idly with the coins, but he was not thinking about them; his dreamy eyes revealed that his thoughts were very far away. Padre Cristoforo was biting his forefinger and knitting his brows—two signs of unusual perturbation of mind with him. Presently, however, his brow cleared; he smoothed his gown over his knees two or three times, coughed once or twice, and then addressed himself to Brian with all his accustomed urbanity.

"Our Order is a rich one," he said, with a smile, "and one that can well afford to entertain strangers. I will not tell you to make no gifts, for we know that it is very blessed to give—more blessed than to receive. I think it quite possible that we can give you such work as you desire. But before I do so, I think I am justified in asking you with what object you take it?"

"With what object? A very simple one—to earn my daily bread."

"And why," said the priest leaning forward and speaking in a lower voice—"why should your father's son need to earn his daily bread in a little Italian village?"

Again Brian's face changed colour.

"My father's son?" he repeated, vaguely. The coins fell to the ground; he sat up and looked at the Prior suspiciously. "What do you know about my father?" he said. "What do you know about me?"

The Prior pushed back his chair. A little smile played upon his shrewd, yet kindly face. The Englishman was easier to manage than he had expected to find him, and Father Cristoforo was unquestionably relieved in his mind.

"I do not know much about you," he said, "but I have reason to believe that your name is not Stretton—that you were recently travelling under the name of Brian Luttrell, and that you have a special interest in the village of San Stefano. Is that not true, my friend?"

"Yes," said Brian slowly. "It is true."



CHAPTER XIV.

THE PRIOR'S OPINION.

The Prior's face wore an expression of mild triumph. He was evidently prepared to be questioned, and was somewhat surprised when Brian turned to him gravely and addressed him in cold and serious tones.

"Reverend Father," he said, "I am ignorant of the way in which you have possessed yourself of my secret, but, before a word more is spoken, let me tell you at once that it is a secret which must be kept strictly and sacredly between ourselves, unless great trouble is to ensue. It is absolutely necessary now that Brian Luttrell should be—dead."

"What has Brian Luttrell done," asked the Prior, "that he should be ashamed of his own name?"

"Ashamed!" said Brian, haughtily; "I never for one moment said that I was ashamed of it; but——"

He turned in his chair and looked out of the window. A new thought occurred to him. Probably Padre Cristoforo knew the history of every one who had lived in San Stefano during the last few years. Perhaps he might assist Brian in his search for the truth. At any rate, as Padre Cristoforo already knew his name, it would do nobody any harm if he confided in him a little further, and told him something of the story which Mrs. Luttrell had told to him.

Meanwhile, Padre Cristoforo watched him keenly as a cat watches a mouse, though without the malice of a cat. The Prior wished Brian no harm. But, for the good of his Order, he wished very much that he could lay hands, either through Brian or through Dino, upon that fine estate of which he had dreamt for the last thirteen years.

"Father Cristoforo," Brian's haggard, dark eyes looked anxiously into the priest's subtilely twinkling orbs, "will you tell me how you learnt my true name?"

He could not bear to cast a doubt upon Dino's good faith, and the Prior divined his reason for the question.

"Rest assured, my dear sir, that I learnt it accidentally," he said, with a soothing smile. "I happened to be entering the door when our young friend Dino recognised you. I heard you tell him to call you by the name of Stretton; I also heard you say that Brian Luttrell was dead."

"Ah!" sighed Brian, scarcely above his breath. "I thought that Dino could not have betrayed me."

He did not mean the Prior to hear his words; but they were heard and understood. "Signor," said the Padre, with an inflection of hurt feeling in his voice, "Mr. Stretton, or Mr. Luttrell, however you choose to term yourself, Dino is a man of honour, and will never betray a trust reposed in him. I could answer for Dino with my very life."

"I know—I was sure of it!" cried Brian.

"But, signor, do you think it is right or wise to imperil the future and the reputation of a young man like Dino—without friends, without home, without a name, entirely dependent upon us and our provision for him—by making him the depository of secrets which he keeps against his conscience and against the rule of the Order in which he lives? Brother Dino has told me nothing; he even evaded a question which he thought that you would not wish him to answer; but, he has acted wrongly, and will suffer if he is led into further concealment. Need I say more?"

"He shall not suffer through me," said Brian, impetuously. "I ought to have known better. But I was not myself; I don't remember what I said. I was surprised and relieved when I came to myself and found you all calling me Mr. Stretton. I never thought of laying any burden upon Dino."

"You will do well, then," said the Prior, approvingly, "if you do not speak of the matter to him at all. He is bound to mention it if questioned, and I presume you do not want to make it known."

"No, I do not. But I thought that he was bound only to mention matters that concerned himself; not those of other people," said Brian, with more hardihood than the priest had expected of him.

Padre Cristoforo smiled, and made a little motion with his hand, as much as to say that there were many things which an Englishman and a heretic could not be expected to know. "Dino is in a state of pupilage," he said, slightly, finding that Brian seemed to expect an answer; "the rules which bind him are very strict. But—if you will allow me to advert once more to your proposed change of name and residence—I suppose that it is not indiscreet to remark that your friends in England—or Scotland—will doubtless be anxious about your place of abode at present?"

"I do not think so," said Brian, in a low tone. "I believe that they think me dead."

"Why so?"

"Perhaps you did not hear in your quiet monastery, Father, of a party of travellers who perished in an avalanche last November? Two guides, a porter, and an Englishman, whose body was never recovered. I was that Englishman."

"I heard of the accident," said Padre Cristoforo, briefly, nodding his head. "So you escaped, signor? You must have had strong limbs and stout sinews—or else you must have been attended by some special providential care—to escape, when those three skilled mountaineers were lost on the mountain side."

"On ne meurt pas quand la mort est la delivrance," quoted Brian, with a bitter laugh. "You may be quite sure that if I had been at the height of felicity and good fortune, it would have needed but a false step, or a slight chill, or a stray shot—a stray shot! oh, my God! If only some stray shot had come to me—not to my brother—my brother——"

They were the first tears that he had shed since the beginning of his illness. The sudden memory of his brother's fate proved too much for him in his present state of bodily weakness. He bowed his head on his hands and wept.

A curiously soft expression stole into the Prior's face. He looked at Brian once or twice and seemed as if he wished to say some pitying word, but, in point of fact, no word of consolation occurred to him. He was very sorry for Brian, whose story was perfectly familiar to him; but he knew very well that Brian's grief was not one to which words could bring comfort. He waited silently, therefore, until the mood had passed, and the young man lifted up his heavy eyes and quivering lips with a faint attempt at a smile, which was sadder than those passionate sobs had been.

"I must ask pardon," he said, somewhat confusedly. "I did not know that I was so weak. I will go to my room."

"Let me delay you for one moment," said the Prior, confronting him with kindly authority. "It has needed little penetration, signor, to discover that you have lately passed through some great sorrow; I am now more sure of it than ever. I would not intrude upon your confidence, but I ask you to remember that I wish to be your friend—that there are reasons why I should take a special interest in you and your family, and that, humble as I am, I may be of use to you and yours."

Brian stopped short and looked at him. "Me and mine!" he repeated to himself. "Me and mine! What do you know of us?"

"I will be frank with you," said the priest. "Thirteen years ago a document of a rather remarkable nature was placed in my hands affecting the Luttrell family. In this paper the writer declared that she, as the nurse of Mrs. Luttrell's children, had substituted her own child for a boy called Brian Luttrell, and had carried off the true Brian to her mother, a woman named Assunta Naldi. The nurse, Vincenza, died and left this paper in the hands of her mother, who, after much hesitation, confided the secret to me."

Brian took a step nearer to the Prior. "What right have you had to keep this matter secret so long?" he demanded.

"Say, rather, what right had I to disturb an honourable family with an assertion that is incapable of proof?"

"Then why did you tell me now?"

"Because you know it already."

Brian seated himself and leaned back in his chair, with his eyes still fixed upon the Prior's face.

"Why do you think that I know it?" he said.