"Because," said Padre Cristoforo, raising his long forefinger, and emphasising every fresh point with a convincing jerk, "because you have come to San Stefano. You would never have come here unless you wanted to find out the truth. Because you have changed your name. You would have had no reason to abandon the name of Luttrell unless you were not sure of your right to bear it. Because you spoke of Vincenza in your delirium. Do I need more proofs?"

There was another proof which he did not mention. He had found Mrs. Luttrell's letter to Brian amongst the sick man's clothes, and had carefully perused it before locking it up with the rest of the stranger's possessions. It was characteristic of the man that, during the last few years, he had set himself steadily to work to master the English language by the aid of every English book or English-speaking traveller that came in his way. He had succeeded wonderfully well, and no one but himself knew for what purpose that arduous task had been undertaken. He found his accomplishment useful; he had thought it particularly useful when he read Mrs. Luttrell's letter. But naturally he did not say so to Brian.

"You are right," said Brian, in a low voice. "But you say it is incapable of proof. She—my mother—I mean Mrs. Luttrell—says so, too."

"If it were capable of proof," said the Prior, softly, "should you contest the matter?"

"Yes," Brian answered, with an angry flash of his eyes, "if I had been in England, and any such claimant appeared, I would have fought the ground to the last inch! Not for the sake of the estates—I have given those up easily enough—but for my father's sake. I would not lightly give up my claim to call him father; he never doubted once that I was his son."

"He never doubted?"

"I am sure he never did."

"But Mrs. Luttrell——"

"God help me, yes! But she thinks also that I meant to take my brother's life."

It needed but a few words of inquiry to lead Brian to tell the story of his brother's death. The Prior knew it well enough; he had made it his business to ascertain the history of the Luttrell family during the past few years; but he listened with the gentle and sympathetic interest which had often given him so strong a hold over men's hearts and lives. He was a master in the art of influencing younger men; he had the subtle instinct which told him exactly what to say and how far to go, when to speak and when to be silent; and Brian, with no motive for concealment, now that his name was once known, was like a child in the Prior's hands.

In return for his confidence, Padre Cristoforo told him the substance of his interview with old Assunta, and of the confession written by Vincenza. But when Brian asked to see this paper the Prior shook his head.

"I have not got it here," he said. "It was certainly preserved, by the desire of some in authority, but it was not thought to afford sufficient testimony."

"What was wanting?"

"I cannot tell you precisely what was wanting; but, amongst other matters, there is the fact that this Vincenza made a directly opposite statement, which counterbalances this one."

"Then you have two written statements, contradicting each other? You might as well throw them both into the fire," said Brian, with some irritation. "Who is the 'authority' who preserves them? Can I not present myself to him and demand a sight of the documents?"

"Under what name, and for what reason, would you ask to see them?"

Brian winced; he had for the moment forgotten what his own hand had done.

"I could still prove my identity," he said, looking down. "But, no; I will not. I did not lose myself upon the mountain-side because of this mystery about my birth, but because I wanted to escape my mother's reproaches and the burden of Richard's inheritance. Nothing will induce me to go back to Scotland. To all intents and purposes, I am dead."

"Then," said the Prior, "since that is your resolution—your wise resolution, let me say—I will tell you frankly what my reading of the riddle has been, and what, I think, Vincenza did. It is my belief that Mrs. Luttrell's child died, and was buried under the name of Vincenza's child."

"You, too, then—you believe that I am not a Luttrell?"

"If the truth could ever be ascertained, which I do not think it will be, I believe that this would turn out to be the case. The key of the whole matter lies in the fact that Vincenza had twins. One of these children was sent to the grandmother in the country; one was nursed in the village of San Stefano. A fever had broken out in the village, and Vincenza's charge—the little Brian Luttrell—died. She immediately changed the dead child for her own, being wishful to escape the blame of carelessness, and retain her place; also to gain for her own child the advantages of wealth and position. The two boys, who have now grown to manhood, are brothers; children, of one mother; and Brian Luttrell—a baby boy of some four months old—sleeps, as his mother declares, in the graveyard of San Stefano."

"Why did the nurse confess only a half-truth, then?"

"She wanted to get absolution; and yet she did not want to injure the prospects of her child, I suppose. At the worst, she thought that one boy would be substituted for another. The woman was foolish—and wicked," said the Prior, with a grain of impatient contempt in his tone; "and the more foolish that she did not observe that she was outwitting herself—trying to cheat God as well as man."

"Then—you think—that I——"

"That you are the son of an Italian gardener and his wife. Courage, my son; it might have been worse. But I know nothing positively; I have constructed a theory out of Vincenza's self-contradictions; it may be true; it may be false. Of one thing I would remind you; that as you have given up your position in England and Scotland, you have no responsibility in the matter. You have done exactly what the law would have required you to do had it been proved that you were Vincenza's son."

"But the other child—the boy who was sent to his grandmother? What became of him?"

The Prior looked at him in silence for a little time before he spoke. "How do you feel towards him?" he said, finally. "Are you prepared to treat him as a brother or not?"

Brian averted his face. "I have had but one brother," he said, shortly. "I cannot expect to find another—especially when I am not sure that he is of my blood or I of his."

"In any case he is your foster-brother. I should like you to meet him."

"Does he know the story?"

"He does."

"And is prepared to welcome me as a brother?" said Brian, with a bitter but agitated laugh. "Where is he? I will see him if you like."

He had risen to his feet, and stood with his arms crossed, his brow knitted, his mouth firmly set. There was something hard in his face, something defiant in his attitude, which caused the Prior to add a word of remonstrance. "It is not his fault," he said, "any more than it is yours. You need not be enemies; it is my object to make you friends."

"Let me see him," repeated Brian gloomily. "I do not wish to be his enemy. I do not promise to be his friend."

"I will send him to you," said the Prior. "Wait here till he comes."

He left Brian alone; and the young man, thinking it likely that he would be undisturbed for sometime to come, bent his face upon his hands, and tried to [missing word] his position. The strange tangle of circumstances in which he found himself involved would never be easy of adjustment; he wished with all his heart that he had refused the Prior's offer to make his foster-brother known to him, but it was too late now. Was it too late? Could he not send for Padre Cristoforo, and beg him to leave the Italian peasant in his own quiet home, ignorant of Brian's visit to the place where he was born? He would do it; and then he would leave San Stefano for ever; it was not yet too late.

He lifted up his head and rose to his feet. He was not alone in the room. To his surprise he saw before him his friend, Dino.

"You have come from Padre Cristoforo, have you?" said Brian, quickly and impetuously. He took no notice of the young man's manifest agitation and discomfort, which would have been clear to anybody less pre-occupied than Brian, at that moment. "Tell him from me that there is no need for me to see the man that he spoke of—that I do not wish to meet him. He will understand what I mean."

A change, like that produced by a sudden electric shock, passed over Dino's face. His hands fell to his sides. They had been outstretched before, as if in greeting.

"You do not want to see him?" he repeated.

"I will not see him," said Brian, harshly, almost violently. "Weak as I am, I'll go straight out of the house and village sooner than meet him. Why does he want to see me? I have nothing to give him now."

Long afterwards he remembered the look on Dino's face. Pain, regret, yearning affection, seemed to struggle for the mastery; his eyes were filled with tears, his lips were pale. But he said nothing. He went away from the room, and took the message that had been given him to the Prior.

Brian felt that he had perhaps been selfish, but he consoled himself with the thought that the peasant lad would gain nothing by a meeting with him, and that such an embarrassing interview, as it must necessarily be, would be a pain to them both.

But he did not know that the foster-brother (brother or foster-brother, which could it be?) was sobbing on the floor of the Prior's cell, in a passion of vehement grief at Brian's rejection of Padre Cristoforo's proposition. He would scarcely have understood that grief if he had seen it. He would have found it difficult to realise that the boy, Dino, had grown from childhood with a strong but suppressed belief in his mother's strange story, and yet, that, as soon as he saw Brian Luttrell, his heart had gone out to him with the passionate tenderness that he had waited all his life to bestow upon a brother.

"Take it not so much to heart, Dino," said the Prior, looking down at him compassionately. "It was not to be expected that he would welcome the news. Thou art a fool, little one, to grieve over his coldness. Come, these are a girl's tears, and thou should'st be a man by now."

The words were caressingly spoken, but they failed of their effect. Dino did not look up.

"For one reason," said the Prior, in a colder tone, half to himself and half to the novice, "I am glad that he has not seen you. Your course will, perhaps, be the easier. Because, Dino, although I may believe my theory to be the correct one, and that you and our guest are both the children of Vincenza Vasari, yet it is a theory which is as difficult to prove as any other; and our good friend, the Cardinal, who was here last week, you know, chooses to take the other view."

"What other view, Reverend Father?" said Dino.

"The view that you are, indeed, Brian Luttrell, and not Vincenza's son."

"But—you said—that it was impossible to prove——"

"I think so, my dear son. But the Cardinal does not agree with me. We shall hear from him further. I believe it is the general opinion at Rome that you ought to be sent to Scotland in order to claim your position and the Luttrell estates. The case might at any rate be tried."

Dino rose now, pale and trembling.

"I do not want a position. I do not want to claim anything. I want to be a monk," he said.

"You are not a monk yet," returned the Prior, calmly. "And it may not be your vocation to take the vows upon you. Now, do you see why you have been prevented from taking them hitherto? You may be called upon to act as a layman: to claim the estates, fight the battle with these Scotch heretics and come back to us a wealthy man! And in that case, you will act as a pious layman should do, and devote a portion of your wealth to Holy Church. But I do not say you would be successful; I think myself that you have little chance of success. Only let us feel that you are our obedient child, as you used to be."

"I will do anything you wish," cried Dino, passionately, "so long as I bring no unhappiness upon others. I do not wish to be rich at Brian's expense."

"He has renounced his birthright," said the Prior. "You will not have to fight him, my tender-hearted Dino. You will have a much harder foe—a woman. The estate has passed into the hands of a Miss Elizabeth Murray."



CHAPTER XV.

THE VILLA VENTURI.

An elderly English artist, with carefully-trimmed grey hair, a gold-rimmed eye-glass, and a velvet coat which was a little too hot as well as a little too picturesque for the occasion, had got into difficulties with his sketching apparatus on the banks of a lovely little river in North Italy. He had been followed for some distance by several children, who had never once ceased to whine for alms; and he had tried all arts in the hope of getting rid of them, and all in vain. He had thrown small coins to them; they had picked them up and clamoured only the more loudly; he had threatened them with his sketching umbrella, whereat they had screamed and run away, only to return in the space of five seconds with derisive laughter and hands outstretched more greedily than ever. When he reached the spot where he intended to make a sketch, his tormentors felt that they had him at their mercy. They swarmed round him, they peeped under his umbrella, they even threw one or two small stones at his back; and when, in desperation, their victim sprang up and turned upon them, they made a wild dash at his umbrella, which sent it into the stream, far beyond the worthy artist's reach. Then they took to their heels, leaving the good man to contemplate wofully the fate of his umbrella. It had drifted to the middle of the stream, had there been caught by a stone and a tuft of weed, and seemed destined to complete destruction. He tried to arrest its course, but could not reach it, and nearly over-balanced himself in the attempt; then he sat down upon the bank and gave vent to an ejaculation of mild impatience—"Oh, dear, dear, dear me! I wish Elizabeth were here."

It was so small a catastrophe, after all, and yet it called up a look of each unmistakable vexation to that naturally tranquil and abstracted countenance, that a spectator of the scene repressed a smile which had risen to his lips and came to the rescue.

"Can I be of any assistance to you, sir?" he said.

The artist gave a violent start. He had not previously seen the speaker, who had been lying on the grass at a few yards' distance, screened from sight by an intervening clump of brushwood. He came forward and stood by the water, looking at the opened umbrella.

"I think I could get it," he said. "The water is very shallow."

"But—my dear sir—pray do not trouble yourself; it is entirely unnecessary. I do not wish to give the slightest inconvenience," stammered the Englishman, secretly relieved, but very much embarrassed at the same time. "Pray, be careful—it's very wet. Good Heaven!" The last exclamation was caused by the fact that the new-comer had calmly divested himself of his boots and socks and was stepping into the water. "Indeed, it's scarcely worth the trouble that you are taking."

"It is not much trouble to wade for a minute or two in this deliciously cool water," said the stranger, with a smile, as he returned from his expedition, umbrella in hand. "There, I think you will find it uninjured. It's a wonder that it was not broken. You would have been inconvenienced without it on this hot day."

He raised his hat slightly as he spoke and moved away. The artist received another shock. This young man—for he moved with the strength and lightness of one still young, and his face was a young face, too—this young man had grey hair—perfectly grey. There was not a black thread amongst it. For one moment the artist was so much astonished that he nearly forgot to thank the stranger for the service that he had rendered him.

"One moment," he said, hurriedly. "Pray allow me to thank you. I am very much obliged to you. You don't know how great a service you have done me. If I can be of any use to you in any way——"

"It was a very trifling service," said the young man, courteously. "I wish it had been my good fortune to do you a greater one. This was nothing."

"Foreign!" murmured the artist to himself, as the stranger returned to his lair behind the thicket, where he seemed to be occupying himself in putting on his socks and boots once more. "No Englishman would have answered in that way. I wish he had not disappeared so quickly. I should like to have made a sketch of his head. Hum! I shall not sketch much to-day, I fancy."

He shut up his paint-box with an air of resolution, and walked leisurely to the spot where the young man was completing his toilet. "I ought perhaps to explain," he began, with an air which he fancied was Machiavellian in its simplicity, "that the loss of that umbrella would have been a serious matter to me. It might have entailed another and more serious loss—the loss of my liberty."

The young man looked up with a puzzled and slightly doubtful expression. "I beg your pardon," he said. "The loss of——"

"The loss of my liberty," said the Englishman, in a louder and rather triumphant tone of voice. "The fact is, my dear sir, that I have a very tender and careful wife, and an equally tender and careful daughter and niece, who have so little confidence in my power of caring for my own safety that they have at various times threatened to accompany me in all my sketching expeditions. Now, if I came home to them and confessed that I had been attacked by a troop of savage Italian children, who tossed my umbrella into the river, do you think I should ever be allowed to venture out alone again?"

The young man smiled, with a look of comprehension.

"Can I be of any further use to you?" he said. "Can I walk back to the town with you, or carry any of your things?"

"You can be of very great use to me, indeed," said the gentleman, opening his sketch-book in a great hurry, and then producing a card from some concealed pocket in his velvet coat. "I'm an artist—allow me to introduce myself—my name is Heron; you would be of the very greatest use to me if you would allow me to—to make a sketch of your head for a picture that I am doing just now. It is the very thing—if you will excuse the liberty that I am taking——"

He had his pencil ready, but he faltered a little as he saw the sudden change which came over his new acquaintance's face at the sound of his proposition. The young man flushed to his temples, and then turned suddenly pale. He did not speak, but Mr. Heron inferred offence from his silence, and became exceedingly profuse in his apologies.

"It is of no consequence," said the stranger, breaking in upon Mr. Heron's incoherent sentences with some abruptness. "I was merely surprised for the moment; and, after all—I think I must ask you to excuse me; I have a great dislike—a sort of nervous dislike—to sitting for a portrait. I would rather that you did not sketch me, if you please."

"Oh, certainly, certainly; I am only sorry that I mentioned it," said Mr. Heron, more formally than usual. He was a little vexed at his own precipitation, and also by the way in which his request had been received. For a few moments there was a somewhat awkward silence, during which the young man stood with his eyes cast down, apparently absorbed in thought. "A striking face," thought Mr. Heron to himself, being greatly attracted by the appearance of his new friend; "all the more picturesque on account of that curious grey hair. I wonder what his history has been." Then he spoke aloud and in a kindlier tone. "I will accept your offer of help," he said, "and ask you to walk back with me to the town, if you are going that way. I came by a short cut, which I am quite sure that I shall never remember."

The young man awoke from his apparently sad meditations; his fine, dark eyes were lightened by a grateful smile as he looked at Mr. Heron. It seemed as though he were glad that something had been suggested that he could do. But the smile was succeeded by a still more settled look of gloom.

"I must introduce myself," he said. "I have no card with me—perhaps this will do as well." He held out the book that he had been reading; it was a copy of Horace's Odes, bound in vellum. On the fly-leaf, a name had been scrawled in pencil—John Stretton. Mr. Heron glanced at it through his eye-glass, nodded pleasantly, and regarded his new friend with increased respect.

"You're a scholar, I see," he said, good-humouredly, as they strolled leisurely towards the little town in which he had told John Stretton that he was staying; "or else you would not bring Horace out with you into the fields on a sunshiny day like this. I have forgotten almost all my classical lore. To tell the truth, Mr. Stretton, I never found it very much good to me; but I suppose all boys have got to have a certain amount of it drilled into them——?" He stopped short in an interrogative manner.

"I suppose so," said Stretton, without a smile. His eyes were bent on the ground; there was a joyless contraction of his delicate, dark brows. It was with an evident effort that he suddenly looked up and spoke. "I have an interest in such subjects. I am trying to find pupils myself—or, at least, I hope to find some when I return to England in a week or two. I think," he added with a half-laugh, "that I am a pretty good classic—good enough, at least, to teach small boys!"

"I dare say, I dare say," said Mr. Heron, hastily. He looked as if he would like to put another question or two, then turned away, muttered something inaudible, and started off upon a totally different subject, about which he laid down the law with unaccustomed volubility and decision. Stretton listened, assented now and then, but took care to say little in reply. A sudden turn in the road brought them close to a fine, old building, grey with age, but stately still, at the sight of which Mr. Heron became silent and slackened his pace.

"A magnificent old place," said Stretton, looking up at it as his companion paused before the gateway.

"Picturesque, but not very waterproof," said Mr. Heron, with a dismal air of conviction. "It is what they call the Villa Venturi. There are some charming bits of colour about it, but I am not sure that it is the best possible residence."

"You are residing here?"

"For the present—yes. You must come in and see the banqueting-hall and the terrace; you must, indeed. My wife will be delighted to thank you herself—for the rescue of the umbrella!" and Mr. Heron laughed quietly below his breath. "Yes, yes"—as Stretton showed symptoms of refusing—"I can take no denial. After your long, hot walk with me, you must come in and rest, if it is but for half-an-hour. You do not know what pleasure it gives me to have a chat with some one like yourself, who can properly appreciate the influence of the Renaissance upon Italian art."

Stretton yielded rather than listen to any more of such gross and open flattery. He followed Mr. Heron under the gateway into a paved courtyard, flanked on three sides by out-buildings and a clock tower, and on the fourth by the house itself. Mr. Heron led the way through some dark, cool passages, expatiating as he went upon the architecture of the building; finally they entered a small but pleasant little room, where he offered his guest a seat, and ordered refreshments to be set before him.

"I am afraid that everyone is out," Mr. Heron said, after opening and shutting the doors of two or three rooms in succession, and returning to Stretton with rather a discomfited countenance. "The afternoon is growing cool, you see, and they have gone for a drive. However, you can have a look at the terrace and the banqueting-hall while it's still light, and we shall hope for the pleasure of your company at some other time when my wife is at home, Mr. Stretton, if you are staying near us."

"You are very kind," murmured Stretton. "But I fear that I must proceed with my journey to-morrow. I ought not to stay—I must not——"

He broke off abruptly. Mr. Heron forgot his good manners, and stared at him in surprise. There was something a little odd about this grey-haired young man after all. But, after a pause, the stranger seemed to recover his self-possession, and repeated his excuses more intelligibly. Mr. Heron was sorry to hear of his probable departure.

They wandered round the garden together. It was a pleasant place, with terraced walks and shady alcoves, so quaint and trim that it might well have passed for that fair garden to which Boccaccio's fine ladies and gallant cavaliers fled when the plague raged in Florence, or for the scene on which the hapless Francesca looked when she read the story of Lancelot that led to her own undoing. Some such fancies as these passed through the crannies of Stretton's mind while he seemed to be listening to Mr. Heron's mildly-pedantic allocutions, and absorbed in the consideration of mediaeval art. Mr. Heron was in raptures with his listener.

"Oh, by-the-bye," said the artist, suddenly, as they paused beside one of the windows on the terrace, "if I may trouble you to wait here a minute, I will go and fetch the sketch I have made of the garden from this point. You will excuse me for a moment. Won't you go inside the house? The window is open—go in, if you like."

He disappeared into another portion of the house, leaving Stretton somewhat amused by his host's unceremonious demeanour. He did not accept the invitation; he leaned against the wall rather languidly, as though fatigued by his long walk, and tried to make friends with a beautiful peacock which seemed to expect him to feed it, and yet was half-afraid to approach.

As he waited, a gentle sound, of which he had been conscious ever since he halted close to the window, rose more distinctly upon his ear. It was the sound of a voice engaged in some sort of monotonous reading or reciting, and it seemed first to advance to the window near which he stood and then to recede. He soon discovered that it was accompanied by a soft but regular footfall. It was plain that somebody—some woman, evidently—was pacing the floor of the room to which this window belonged, and that she was repeating poetry, either to herself or to some silent listener. As she came near the window, Stretton heard the words of an old ballad with which he was himself familiar—

"I saw the new moon, late yestreen, Wi' the old moon in her arm: And if we gang to sea, master, I fear we'd come to harm."

The voice died away as it travelled down the space of the long room. Presently it came nearer; the verses were still going on—

"Oh, lang, lang may the ladies sit, With their fans into their hand, Before they see Sir Patrick Spens Come sailing to the strand.

And lang lang may the maidens sit, With their gowd combs in their hair, A' waiting for their ain dear loves, For them they'll see nae mair."

"Betty," said a feeble little voice—a child's voice, apparently quite close to the window now—"I want you to say those two verses over again; I like them. And the one about the old moon with the new moon in her arms; isn't that pretty?"

"You like that, do you, my little Jack?" said the woman's voice; a rich, low voice, so melodious in its loving tones that Stretton positively started when he heard it, for it had been carefully subdued to monotony during the recitation, and he had not realised its full sweetness. "Do you know, darling, I thought that you were asleep?"

"Asleep, Betty? I never go to sleep when you are saying poetry to me. Aren't you tired of carrying me?"

"I am never tired of carrying you, Jack."

"My own dear, sweet Queen Bess!" There was the sound of a long, loving kiss; and then the slow pacing up and down and the recitation re-commenced.

Stretton had thought that morning that nothing could induce him to interest himself again in the world's affairs; but at that moment he was conscious of the strongest possible feeling of curiosity to see the owner of so sweet a voice. The slightest movement on his part, the slightest possible push given to the window, which opened into the room like a door and was already ajar, would have enabled him to see the speakers. But he would not do this. He told himself that he ought to move away from the window, but self-government failed him a little at that point. He could not lose the opportunity of hearing that beautiful voice again. "It ought to belong to a beautiful woman," he thought, with a half smile, "but, unfortunately, Nature's gifts are distributed very sparingly sometimes. This girl, whosoever she may be—for I know she is young—has a lovely voice, and probably a crooked figure or a squint. I suppose she is Mr. Heron's daughter. Ah, here he comes!"

The artist's flying grey beard and loose velvet coat were seen upon the terrace at this moment. "I cannot find the sketch," he cried, dolorously. "The servants have been tidying the place whilst I was out—confound them! You must positively stop over to-morrow and see it. This is the banqueting-room—why didn't you go in?" And he pushed wide the window which the young man had refrained from opening a single inch.

A flood of light fell on a yard or two of polished oak flooring; but at first Stretton could see nothing more, for the rest of the room seemed to be in complete darkness to his dazzled eyed. The blinds of the numerous windows were all drawn down, and some minutes elapsed before he could distinguish any particular object in the soft gloom of the apartments. And then he saw that Mr. Heron was speaking to a lady in white, and he discovered at once, with a curious quickening of his pulses, that the reciter of the ballad stood before him with a child in her arms.

She was beautiful, after all! That was Stretton's first thought. She was as stately as a queen, with a natural crown of golden-brown hair upon her well-poised head; the grand lines of her figure were emphasized by the plainness of her soft, white dress, which fell to her feet in folds that a sculptor might have envied. The only ornament she wore was a string of Venetian beads round the milky whiteness of her throat, but her beauty was not of a kind that required adornment. It was like that of a flower—perfect in itself, and quite independent of exterior aid. In fact, she was not unlike some tall and stately blossom, or so Stretton thought, no exotic flower, but something as strong and hardy as it was at the same time delicately beautiful. Her eyes had the colouring that one sees in the iris-lily sometimes—a tint which is almost grey, but merges into purple; eyes, as the poet says—

"Too expressive to be blue. Too lovely to be grey."

In her arms she carried little Jack Heron, and by the way in which she held him, it was plain that she was well accustomed to the burden, and that his light weight did not tire her well-knit, vigorous limbs. His pale, little face looked wistfully at the stranger; it was a curious contrast to the glowing yet delicate beauty and perfect health presented by the countenance of his cousin Elizabeth.

Meanwhile, Mr. Heron was introducing the stranger, which he did with a note of apology in his voice, which Stretton was not slow to remark. But Elizabeth—he did not catch her name, and still thought her to be a Miss Heron—soon put him at his ease. She accompanied the artist and his friend round the banqueting-hall, as they inspected the fine, old pictures with which it was hung; she walked with them on the terrace—little Jack still cradled in her arms; and wheresoever she went, it seemed to Stretton that he had never in all his life seen any woman half so fair.

He did not leave the house, after all, until late that night. He dined with the Herons; he saw Mrs. Heron, and Kitty, and the boys; but he had no eyes nor ears for anyone but Elizabeth. He did not know why she charmed him; he knew only that it was a pleasure to him to see and hear her slightest word and movement; and he put this down to the fact that she had a sympathetic voice, and a face of undoubted beauty. But in very truth, John Stretton—alias Brian Luttrell—returned to his inn that night in the brilliant Italian moonlight, having (for the first time in his life, be it observed) fallen desperately, passionately in love. And the woman that he loved was the heiress of the Luttrell estates; the last person in the world whom he would have dreamt of loving, had he but known her name.



CHAPTER XVI.

"WITHOUT A REFERENCE."

Brian—or to avoid confusion, let us call him by the name that he had adopted, Stretton—rose early, drank a cup of coffee, and was sitting in the little verandah outside the inn, looking dreamily out towards a distant view of the sea, and thinking (must the truth be told?) of Elizabeth, when a visitor was announced. He looked round, and, to his surprise, beheld Mr. Heron.

The artist was graver in manner and also a little more nervous than usual. After the first greetings were over he sank into an embarrassed silence, played with his watch-chain and his eye-glass, and, at last, burst somewhat abruptly into the subject upon which he had really come to speak.

"Mr. Stretton," he said, "I trust that you will excuse me if I am taking a liberty; but the fact is, you mentioned to me yesterday that you thought of taking pupils——"

"Yes," Stretton answered, simply. "I should be very glad if I could find any."

"We think that we could find you some, Mr. Stretton."

The young man's pale face flushed; but he did not speak. He only looked anxiously at the artist, who was pulling his pointed grey beard in a meditative fashion, and seemed uncertain how to proceed with his proposition.

"I have two boys running wild for want of a tutor," he said at last. "We shall be here some weeks longer, and we don't know what to do with them. My wife says they are too much for her. Elizabeth has devoted herself to poor little Jack (something sadly wrong with his spine, I'm afraid, Mr. Stretton). Kitty—well, Kitty is only a child herself. The point is—would it be a waste of your time, Mr. Stretton, to ask you to spend a few weeks in this neighbourhood, and give these boys two or three hours a day? We thought that you might find it worth your while."

Stretton was standing, with his shoulder against one of the vine-clad posts that supported the verandah. Mr. Heron wondered at his discomposure; for his colour changed from red to white and from white to red as sensitively as a girl's, and it was with evident difficulty that he brought himself to speak. But when he spoke the mystery seemed, in Mr. Heron's eyes, to be partly solved.

"I had better mention one thing from the very first," said the young man, quietly. "I have no references. I am afraid the lack of them will be a fatal drawback with most people."

"No references!" stammered Mr. Heron, evidently much taken aback. "But—my dear young friend—how do you propose to get a tutor's work without them?"

"I don't know," said Stretton, with a smile in which a touch of sternness made itself felt rather than seen. "I don't suppose that I shall get very much work at all. But I hope to earn my bread in one way or another."

"I—I—well, I really don't know what to say," remarked Mr. Heron, getting up, and buttoning his yellow gloves reflectively. "I should have no objection. I judge for myself, don't you know, by the face and the manner and all that sort of thing; but it's a different thing when it comes to dealing with women, you know. They are so particular——"

"I am afraid I should not suit Mrs. Heron's requirements," said Stretton, in a very quiet tone.

"It isn't that exactly," said Mr. Heron, hesitating; "and yet—well, of course, you know it isn't the usual thing to be met with the plain statement that you have no references! Not that I might even have thought of asking for them; ten to one that it would ever have occurred to me—but my wife——. Come, you don't mean it literally? You have friends in England, no doubt, but you don't want to apply to them."

"Excuse me, Mr. Heron; I spoke the literal truth. I have no references to give either as to character, attainments, or birth. I have no friends. And I agree with you and Mrs. Heron that I should not be a fit person to teach your boys their Latin accidence—that's all."

"Not so fast, if you please," said Mr. Heron, more impressed by Stretton's tone of cold independence than he would have been by sheaves of testimonials to his abilities; "not so fast, my good fellow. Now, will you do me a favour? Let me think the matter over for half-an-hour, and come to you again. Then we will decide the matter, one way or the other."

"I should prefer to consider the matter decided now," said Stretton.

"Nonsense, my dear sir, you must not be hasty. In half-an-hour I shall see you again," cried the artist, as he turned his back on the young man, and walked off towards the Villa Venturi, swinging his stick jauntily in his hand. Stretton watched him, and bit his lip.

"I was a fool to say that I wanted work," he said to himself, "and perhaps a greater fool to blurt out the fact that I had no respectable references so easily. However, I've done for myself in that quarter. The British dragon, Mrs. Grundy, would never admit a man as tutor to her boys under these mysterious circumstances. All the better, perhaps. I should be looked upon with suspicion, as a man 'under a cloud.' And I should not like that, especially in the case of that beautiful Miss Heron, whose clear eyes seem to rebuke any want of candour or courage by their calm fearlessness of gaze. Well, I shall not meet her under false pretences now, at any rate." And then he gave vent to a short, impatient sigh, and resumed the seat that he had vacated for Mr. Heron's benefit.

He tried to read; but found, to his disgust, that he could not fix his mind on the printed page. He kept wondering what report Mr. Heron was giving to his wife and family of the interview that he had had with the English tutor "without references."

"Perhaps they think that I was civil to the father because I hoped to get something out of them," said Stretton to himself, frowning anxiously at the line of blue sea in the distance. "Perhaps they are accusing me of being a rank impostor. What if they do? What else have I been all my life? What a fool I am!"

In despair he flung aside his book, went up to his bed-room, and began to pack the modest knapsack which contained all his worldly wealth. In half-an-hour—when he had had that five minutes' decisive conversation with Mr. Heron—he would be on his way to Naples.

He had all but finished his packing when the landlord shuffled upstairs to speak to him. There was a messenger from the Villa Venturi. There was also a note. Stretton opened it and read:—

"Dear Mr. Stretton,—Will you do me the favour to come up to the villa as soon as you receive this note? I am sorry to trouble you, but I think I can explain my motive when we meet.

"Yours truly,

"Alfred Heron."

Stretton crumpled the note up in his hand, and let it drop to the floor. He glanced at his knapsack. Had he packed it too soon or not?

He followed the servant, whom he found in waiting for him—a stolid, impenetrable-looking Englishman, who led the way to an entrance into the garden of the villa—an entrance which Stretton did not know.

"Is your master in the garden? Does he wish me to come this way?" he asked, rather sharply.

The stolid servant bowed his head.

"My master desired me to take you to the lower terrace, sir, if you didn't find it too 'ot," he said, solemnly. And Stretton said nothing more. The lower terrace? It was not the terrace by the house; it was one at the further end of the garden, and, as he soon saw, it was upon a cliff overlooking the sea. It was overshadowed by the foliage of some great trees, and commanded a magnificent view of the coast, broken here and there into inlets and tiny bays, beyond which stretched "the deep sapphire of the sea." A slight haze hung over the distance, through which the forms of mountain peaks and tiny islets could yet be clearly seen. The wash of the water at the foot of the cliff, the chirp of the cicadas, were the only sounds to be heard. And here, on a low, wooden bench, in the deepest and coolest shade afforded by the trees, Stretton found—not Mr. Heron, as he had expected, but—Elizabeth.

He bowed, hesitating and confused for the moment, but she gave him her white hand with a friendly look which set him at his ease, just as it had done upon his entrance to the villa on the previous evening.

"Sit down, Mr. Stretton," she said, "will you not? My uncle has gone up to the house for a paper, or a book, or something, and I undertook to entertain you until he came back. Have we not a lovely view? And one is always cool here under the trees, now that the heats of summer are past. I think you will find it a good place to read in when you are tired of giving lessons—that is, if you are going to be so kind as to give lessons to our troublesome boys."

She had looked at him once, and in that glance she read what would have taken Mr. Heron's obtuse male intellect weeks to comprehend. She saw the young man's slight embarrassment and the touch of pride mingling with it; she noticed the spareness of outline and the varying colour which suggested recent illness, or delicacy of health; above all, she observed the expression of his face, high, noble, refined, as it had always been, but darkened by some inexplicable shadow from the past, some trace of sorrow which could never be altogether swept away. Seeing all these things, she knew instinctively that the calmest and quietest way of speaking would suit him best, and she felt that she was right when he answered, in rather low and shaken tones—

"Pardon me. It is for Mr. Heron to decide; not for me."

"I think my uncle has decided," said Elizabeth. "He asked me to ascertain when you would be willing to give the boys their first lesson."

"He said that, now? Since he saw me?" cried Stretton, as if in uncontrollable surprise.

Elizabeth's lips straightened themselves for a moment. Then she turned her face towards the young man, with the look of mingled dignity and candour which had already impressed him so deeply, and said, gently—

"Is there anything to be surprised at in that?"

"Yes," said Stretton, hanging his head, and absently pulling forward a long spray of clematis which grew beside him. "It is a very surprising thing to me that Mr. Heron should take me on trust—a man without recommendation, or influence, or friends." He plucked the spray as he spoke, and played restlessly with the leaves. Elizabeth watched his fingers; she saw that the movement was intended to disguise the fact that they were trembling. "As it is," he went on, "even though your father—I beg pardon, your uncle—admits me to this house, I doubt whether I do well to come. I think it would be better in many ways that I should decline this situation."

He let the leaves fall from his hand and rose to his feet. "Will you tell Mr. Heron what I say?" he asked, in an agitated voice. "Tell him I will not take advantage of his kindness. I will go on to Naples—this afternoon."

Elizabeth was puzzled. This was a specimen of humanity the like of which she had never met before. It interested her; though she hardly wished to interfere in the affairs of a man who was so much of a riddle to her. That he was a stranger and that he was young—not much older than herself, very probably—were facts that did not enter her mind with any deterrent force.

But as Stretton lifted his hat and turned to leave her, she noticed how white and wan he looked.

"Mr. Stretton," she said, imperiously, "please to sit down. You are not to attempt that long, hot walk again just now. Besides, you must wait to see my uncle. Sit down, please. Now, tell me, you have been ill lately, have you not?"

"Yes," said Stretton, seating himself as she bade him, and answering meekly. "I had brain fever more than a year ago at the monastery of San Stefano, and my recovery was a slow one."

"I know the Prior of San Stefano—Padre Cristoforo. Do you remember him?"

"Yes. He was very good to me. I was there for twelve months or more. He gave me work to do in the school."

"Will you mention that to my uncle? He is very fond of Padre Cristoforo."

"I thought," said Stretton, colouring a little, and almost as though he were excusing himself, "that it would be useless to give the name of a Romanist Prior as a referee to Mr. Heron. Most people would think it an objection in itself?"

"Why not give English names, then?" said Elizabeth.

"Because I have no English friends."

There was a little silence. Stretton was leaning back in his seat, looking quietly out to sea; Elizabeth was sitting erect, with her hands crossed on her lap. Presently she spoke, but without turning her head.

"Mr. Stretton, I do not want you to think my remarks impertinent or uncalled for. I must tell you first that I am in a somewhat unusual position. My aunt is an invalid, and does not like to be troubled about the children; my uncle hates to decide anything for himself. They have fallen into the habit—the unlucky habit for me—of referring many practical matters to my decision, and, therefore, you will understand that my uncle came to me on his return from the inn this morning and told me what you had said. I want to explain all this, so that you may see how it is that I have heard it so quickly. No one else knows."

"You are very good," said Stretton, feeling his whole heart strengthened and warmed by this frank explanation. "I think you must see how great a drawback my absence of recommendations is likely to be to me."

"Yes," said Elizabeth, seriously, "I do. But if you cannot overcome it in this case, how are you going to overcome it at all?"

"I don't know, Miss Heron."

"You said that you wished to take pupils," Elizabeth went on, too much interested in the subject to notice the mistake made in her name; "you told my uncle so, I believe. Will you get them more easily in England than here?"

"I shall no doubt find somebody who will forego the advantages of a 'character' for the sake of a little scholarship," said Stretton, rather bitterly. "Some schoolmaster, who wants his drudgery done cheap."

"Drudgery, indeed!" said Elizabeth, softly. Then, after a pause—"That seems a great pity. And you are an Oxford man, too!"

Stretton looked up, "How do you know that?" he said, almost sharply.

"You talked of Balliol last night as if you knew it."

"You have a good memory, Miss Heron. Yes, I was at Balliol; but you will not identify me there. The truth will out, you see; I was not at Oxford under my present name."

He thought he should read a look of shocked surprise upon her face; but he was mistaken. She seemed merely to be studying him with grave, womanly watchfulness; not to be easily biassed, nor lightly turned aside.

"That is your own affair, of course," she said. "You have a right to change your name if you choose. In your own name, I dare say you would have plenty of friends."

"I had," he answered, gravely, but not, as she noticed, as if he were ashamed of having lost them.

"And you have none now?"

"Absolutely none."

"Through your own fault?" She wondered afterwards how she had the courage to ask the question; but, at the moment, it came naturally to her lips, and he answered it as simply as it was asked.

"No. Through my misfortune. Pray ask me nothing more."

"I beg your pardon," she said. "I ought not to have asked anything. But I was anxious—for the children's sakes—and there was nobody to speak but myself. I will say nothing more."

"I shall beg of you," said Stretton, trying to speak in as even a tone as hers, although the muscles round his lips quivered once or twice and made utterance somewhat difficult, "I shall beg of you to tell what I have said to Mr. Heron only; you and he will perhaps kindly guard my secret. I wish I could be more frank; but it is impossible. I trust that, when I find employment, my employers will be as kind, as generous, as you have been to-day. You will tell your uncle?"

"What am I to tell him?" she said, turning her eyes upon him with a kindly smile in their serene depths. "That you will be here to-morrow at nine o'clock—or eight, before the day grows hot? Eight will be best, because the boys get so terribly sleepy and cross, you know, in the middle of the day; and you will be able to breakfast here at half-past ten as we do."

He looked at her, scarcely believing the testimony of his own ears. She saw his doubt, and continued quietly enough, though still with that lurking smile in her sweet eyes. "You must not find fault with them if they are badly grounded; or rather you must find fault with me, for I have taught them nearly everything they know. They are good boys, if they are a little unruly now and then. Here is my uncle coming from the house. You had really better wait and see him, will you not, Mr. Stretton? I will leave you to talk business together."

She rose and moved away. Stretton stood like a statue, passionately desiring to speak, yet scarcely knowing what to say. It was only when she gave him a slight, parting smile over her shoulder that he found his voice.

"I can't thank you," he said, hoarsely. She paused for a moment, and he spoke again, with long gaps between the sentences. "You don't know what you have done for me.... I have something to live for now.... God bless you."

He turned abruptly towards the sea, and Elizabeth, after hesitating for a moment, went silently to meet her uncle. She was more touched than she liked to acknowledge to herself by the young man's emotion; and she felt all the pleasurable glow that usually accompanies the doing of a good deed.

"Perhaps we have saved him from great misery—poverty and starvation," she mused to herself. "I am sure that he is good; he has such a fine face, and he speaks so frankly about his troubles. Of course, as my uncle says, he may be an adventurer; but I do not think he is. We shall soon be able to judge of his character."

"Well, Betty," said Mr. Heron, as he came up to her, "what success? Have you dismissed the young man in disgrace, or are we to let him try to instruct these noisy lads every morning?"

"I think you had better try him, uncle."

"My dear Elizabeth, it is not for me to decide the question. You know very well that I could not do what you insist upon doing for us all——"

"Don't tell Mr. Stretton that, please, uncle."

Mr. Heron stopped short, and looked at her almost piteously.

"Dear child, how can I go on pretending to be the master of this house, and hiring tutors for my children, when the expense comes out of your purse and not out of mine?"

"My purse is wide enough," said Elizabeth, laughing. "Dear uncle, I should hate this money if I might not use it in the way I please. What good would it be to me if you could not all share it? Besides, I do not want to be gossiped about and stared at, as is the lot of most young women who happen to be heiresses. I am your orphan niece—that is all that the outside world need know. What does it matter which of us really owns the money?"

"There are very few people of your opinion, my dear," said her uncle. "But you are a good, kind, generous girl, and we are more grateful to you than we can say. And now, shall I talk to this young man? Have you asked him any questions?"

"Yes. I do not think that we need reject him because he has no references, uncle."

"Very well, Elizabeth. I quite agree with you. But, on the whole, we won't mention the fact of his having no references to the rest of the family."

"Just what I was about to say, Uncle Alfred."

Thereupon she betook herself to the house, and Mr. Heron proceeded to the bench on the cliff, where he held a long and apparently satisfactory colloquy with his visitor. And at the end of the conversation it was decided that Mr. John Stretton, as he called himself, should give three or four hours daily of his valuable time to the instruction of the more youthful members of the Heron family.



CHAPTER XVII.

PERCIVAL'S HOLIDAY.

"Hey for the South, the sunny South!" said Percival Heron, striding into his friend Vivian's room with a lighted cigar between his teeth and a letter in his hand. "I'm off to Italy to-morrow."

"I wish to Heaven that I were off, too!" returned Rupert, leaning back in a lounging-chair with a look of lazy discontent. "The fogs last all the year round in London. This is May; I don't know why I am in town at all."

"Nor I," said his friend, briskly. "Especially when you have the cash to take you out of town as often as you like, and whenever you like, while I have to wait on the tender mercies of publishers and editors before I can put fifty pounds in my pocket and go for a holiday."

"You're in luck just now, then, I am to understand?"

"Very much so. Look at that, my boy." And he flourished a piece of thin paper in Vivian's face. "A cheque for a hundred. I am going to squander it on railway lines as soon as possible."

"You are going to join your family?"

"Yes, I am going to join my family. What a sweetly domestic sound! I don't care a rap for my family. I am going to see the woman I love best in the world, and, if she were not in Italy, I doubt whether wild horses would ever draw me from this vast, tumultuous, smoky, beloved city of mine—Alma Mater, indeed, to me, and to scores of men who are your brothers and mine——"

"Now, look here, Percival," said Rupert, in a slightly wearied tone, "if you are going to rant and rave, I'll go out. My room is quite at your disposal, but I am not. I've got a headache. Why don't you go to a theatre or a music hall, and work off your superfluous energy there by clapping and shouting applause?"

Percival laughed, but seated himself and spoke in a gentler tone.

"I'll remember your susceptibilities, my friend. Let me stay and smoke, that's all. Throw a book at my head if I grow too noisy. Or hand me that 'Review' at your elbow. I'll read it and hold my tongue."

He was as good as his word. He read so long and so quietly that Vivian turned his head at last and addressed him of his own accord.

"What makes your people stay so long abroad?" he said. "Are they going to stop there all the summer? I never heard that a summer in Italy was a desirable thing."

"It's Elizabeth's doing," answered Percival, coolly. "She and my father between them got up an Italian craze; and off they went as soon as ever she came into that property, dragging the family behind them, all laden with books on Italian art, and quoting Augustus Hare, Symonds, and Ruskin indiscriminately. I don't suppose Kitty will have a brain left to stand on when she comes back again—if ever she does come back."

"What do you mean?" said Rupert, with a sudden deep change of voice.

"I mean—nothing. I mean, if she does not marry an Italian count or an English adventurer, or catch malaria and die in a swamp."

"Good Heavens, Percival! how can you talk so coolly? One would think that it was a joke!"

Vivian had risen from his chair, and was standing erect, with a decided frown upon his brow. Percival glanced at him, and answered lightly.

"Don't make such a pother about nothing. She's all right. They're in a very healthy place; a little seaside village, where it has been quite cool, they say, so far. And they will return before long, because they mean to spend the autumn in Scotland. Yes, they say it is 'quite cool' at present. Don't see how it can be cool myself; but that's their look out. They've all been very well, and there's no immediate prospect of the marriage of either of the girls with an Italian or an English adventurer; not even of Miss Murray with your humble servant."

Rupert threw himself back into his chair again as if relieved, and a half-smile crossed his countenance.

"How is Miss Murray?" he asked, rather maliciously.

"Very well, as far as I know," said Percival, turning over a page and smoothing out the "Review" upon his knee. He read on for two or three minutes more, then suddenly tossed the book from him, gave it a contemptuous kick, and discovered that his cigar had gone out. He got up, walked to the mantelpiece, found a match, and lighted it, and then said, deliberately—

"They've done a devilish imprudent thing out there."

"What?"

"Hired a fellow as tutor to the boys without references or recommendations, solely because he was good-looking, as far as I can make out."

"Who told you?"

"My father."

"Did he do it?"

"He and Elizabeth between them. Kitty sings his praises in every letter. He teaches the girls Italian."

Rupert said nothing.

"So I am going to Italy chiefly to see what the fellow is like. I can't make out whether he is young or old. Kitty calls him divinely handsome; and my father speaks of his grey hairs."

"And Miss Murray?"

"Miss Murray," said Percival, rather slowly, "doesn't speak of him at all." Then, he added, in quicker tones—"Doubtless he isn't worth her notice. Elizabeth can be a very grand lady when she likes. Upon my word, Vivian, there are times when I wonder that she ever deigned to bestow a word or look even upon me!"

"You are modest," said Rupert, drily.

"Modesty's my foible; it always was. So, Hey for the sunny South, as I said before.

'O, swallow, swallow, flying, flying South, Fly to her, and fall upon her gilded eaves, And tell her, tell her, what I tell to thee.'

Any message for the swallow, sir?" touching an imaginary cap. "Shall I say that 'Dark and true and tender is the North,' and 'Fierce and false and fickle is the South,' or any similar statement?"

"I have no message," said Rupert.

"So be it. Do you know anything of young Luttrell—Hugo Luttrell—by-the-bye?"

"Very little. My sister is interested in him."

"He is going to the bad at an uncommonly swift pace—that is all."

"Old Mrs. Luttrell talks of making him her heir," said Vivian. "She asked him down last winter but he wouldn't go."

"I don't wonder at it. She must be a very tough old lady if she thinks that he could shoot there with much pleasure after his cousin's accident."

"I don't suppose that Mrs. Luttrell asked him with any such notion," returned Rupert. "She merely wanted him to spend a few days with her at Netherglen."

"Has she much to leave? I thought the estates were entailed," said Percival.

"She has a rather large private fortune. I expected to find that you knew all about it," said Rupert, with a smile.

"It's the last thing that I should concern myself about," said Percival, superbly. And Vivian was almost sorry that he had made the remark, for it overset all the remains of his friend's good temper, and brought into ugly prominence the upright, black mark upon his forehead caused by his too frequent frown.

Matters were not mended when Rupert asked, by way of changing the conversation, whether Percival's marriage were to take place on Miss Murray's return to England.

"Marriage? No! What are you thinking of?" said he, starting up impatiently. "Don't you know that our engagement—such, as it is—is a profound secret from the world in general? You are nearly the only person who knows anything about it outside our own family; and even there it isn't talked about. Marriage! I only wish there was a chance of it. But she is in no hurry to give up her liberty; and I can't press her."

And then he took his departure, with an injured feeling that Rupert had not been very sympathetic.

"I've a good mind to offer to go with him," said Mr. Vivian to himself when his friend was gone. "I should like to see them all again; I should like to enjoy the Italian sunshine and the fresh, sweet air with Kitty, and hear her innocent little comments on the remains of mediaeval art that her father is sure to be raving about. But it is better not. I might forget myself some day. I might say what could not be unsaid. And then, poor, little Kitty, it would be hard both for you and for me. No, I won't go. Stay in Italy and get married, Kitty: that is the best thing for us both. You will have forgotten your old friend by the time you come back to London; and I shall drag on at the old round, with the same weary, clanking chain at my heels which nobody suspects. Good God!" cried Rupert, with a sudden burst of passion which would have startled the friends who had seen in him nothing but the perfectly self-possessed, cold-natured, well-mannered man of the world, "what a fool a man can make of himself in his youth, and repent it all his life afterwards in sackcloth and ashes—yet repent it in vain—in vain!"

Percival Heron did not choose to announce his coming to his friends. He travelled furiously, as it was his fashion to travel when he went abroad, and arrived at the little village, on the outskirts of which stood the Villa Venturi, so late in the evening that he preferred to take a bed at the inn, and sup there, rather than disturb his own people until morning. He enjoyed the night at the inn. It was a place much frequented by fishermen, who came to fill their bottles before going out at night, or to talk over the events of the previous day's fishing. There was a garden behind the house—a garden full of orange and I lemon trees—from which sweet breaths of fragrance were wafted to the nostrils of the guests as they sat within the little hostelry. Percival could speak Italian well, and understood the patois of the fishermen. He had a wonderful gift for languages; and it pleased him to sit up half the night, drinking the rough wine of the country, smoking innumerable cigarettes, and laughing heartily at the stories of the fisher-folk, until the simple-minded Italians were filled with admiration and astonishment at this Inglese who was so much more like one of themselves than any of the Inglesi that they had ever met.

Owing to these late hours and the amount of talking, perhaps, that he had got through, Percival slept late next morning, and it was not until eleven o'clock that he started, regardless of the heat, for the Villa Venturi. He had not very far to go, and it was with a light heart that he strode along holding a great, white umbrella above his head, glancing keenly at the view of sea and land which made the glory of the place, turning up his nose fastidiously at the smells of the village, and wondering in his heart what induced his relations to stay so long out of London. He rang the bell at the gateway with great decision, and told the servant to inform Mr. Heron that "an English gentleman" wished to speak to him. He was ushered into a little ante-room, requested to wait there until Mr. Heron was found, and left alone.

But he was not content to wait very patiently. He was sure that he heard voices in the next room. Being quite without the scruples which had made Stretton, not long before, refuse to push open a door one single inch in order to see what was not meant to meet his eyes, he calmly advanced to an archway screened by long and heavy curtains, parted them with his fingers, and looked in.

It was an innocent scene, and a pretty scene enough, on which his eyes rested, and yet it was one that gave Percival little pleasure. The room was not very light, and such sunshine as entered it fell through the coloured panes of a stained-glass window high in the wall. At an old oak table, black and polished with age, sat two persons—a master and a pupil. They had one book between them, and the pupil was reading from it. Papers, dictionaries, and copybooks strewed the table; it was evident that other pupils had been there before, but that they had abandoned the scene. Percival set his teeth, and the brightness went out of his eyes. If only the pupil had not been Elizabeth!

It was not that she showed any other feeling than that of interest in the book that she was reading. Her eyes were fixed upon the printed page; her lips opened only to pronounce slowly and carefully the unfamiliar syllables before her. The tutor was quiet, grave, reserved; but Percival noticed, quickly and jealously, that he once or twice raised his eyes as if to observe the expression of Elizabeth's fair face; and, free from all offence as that glance certainly was, it made a wild and unreasoning fury rise up in the lover's heart. He looked, he heard an interchange of quiet question and answer, he saw a smile on her face, a curiously wistful look on his; then came a scraping sound, as the chairs were pushed back over the marble floor, and master and pupil rose. The lesson was over. Percival dropped the curtain.

He was so pale when Elizabeth came to him in the little ante-room that she was startled.

"Are you not well, Percival?" she asked, as she laid her hand in his. She did not allow him to kiss her; she did not allow him to announce her engagement; and, as he stood looking down into her eyes, he felt that the present state of things was very unsatisfactory.

"I shall be better if you administer the cure," he said. "Give me a kiss, Elizabeth; just one. Remember that I have not seen you for nearly eight months."

"I thought we made a compact," she began, trying to withdraw her hand from his; but he interrupted her.

"That I should not kiss you—often; not that I should never kiss you at all, Elizabeth. And as I have come all the way from England, and have not seen you for so long, you might as well show me whether you are glad or not."

"I am very glad to see you," said Elizabeth, quietly.

"Are you? Then kiss me, my darling,—only once!"

He put one arm round her. His face was very near her own, and his breath came thick and fast, but he waited for her permission still. In his own heart he made this kiss the crucial test of her faithfulness to him. But Elizabeth drew herself away. It seemed as though she found his eagerness distasteful.

"Then you don't care for me? You find that you don't love me!" said Percival, almost too sharply for a lover. "I may go back to England as soon as I like? I came only to see you. Tell me that my journey has been a useless one, and I'll go."

She smiled as she looked at him. "You have not forgotten how to be tyrannical," she said. "I hardly knew you when I first came in, because you looked so quiet and gentle. Don't be foolish, Percival."

"Oh, of course, it is folly for a man to love you," groaned Percival, releasing her hands and taking a step or two away from her. "You have mercy on every kind of folly but that. Well, I'll go back."

"No, you will not," said Elizabeth, calmly. "You will stay here and enjoy yourself, and go for a sail in the boat with us this evening, and eat oranges fresh from the trees, and play with the children. We are all going to take holiday whilst you are here, and you must not disappoint us."

"Then you must kiss me once, Elizabeth." But Percival's face was melting, and his voice had a half-laughing tone. "I must be bribed to do nothing."

"Very well, you shall be bribed," she answered, but with a rather heightened colour upon her cheek. And then she lifted up her face; but, as Percival perceived with a vague feeling of irritation, she merely suffered him to kiss her, and did not kiss him in return.

His next proceeding was to put his father through a searching catechism upon the antecedents and abilities of the tutor, Mr. John Stretton, who was by this time almost domiciled at the Villa Venturi. Mr. Heron's replies to his son's questions were so confused, and finished so invariably by a reference to Elizabeth, that Percival at last determined to see what he could extract from her. He waited for a day or two before opening the subject. He waited and watched. He certainly discovered nothing to justify the almost insane dislike and jealousy which he entertained with respect to Mr. Stretton; when he reasoned with himself he knew that he was prejudiced and unreasonable; but then he had a habit of considering that his prejudices should be attended to. He examined the children, hoping to find that the new tutor's scholarship might give him a loophole for criticism; but he could find nothing to blame. In fact, he was driven reluctantly to admit that the tutor's knowledge was far wider and deeper than his own, although Percival was really no mean classical scholar, and valued himself upon a thorough acquaintance with modern literature of every kind. He was foiled there, and was therefore driven back upon the subject of the tutor's antecedents.

"Who is this man Stretton, Elizabeth?" he asked one day. "My father says you know all about him."

"I?" said Elizabeth, opening her eyes. "I know nothing more than Uncle Alfred does."

"Indeed. Then you engaged him with remarkably little prudence, as it appears to me."

"Prudence is not quite the highest virtue in the world."

"Now, my dear Queen Bess, as Jack calls you, don't be didactic. Where did you pick up this starveling tutor? Was he fainting by the roadside?"

"Mr. Stretton teaches very well, and is much liked by the boys, Percival. You heard Aunt Isabel tell the story of his first meeting with Uncle Alfred."

"Ah, yes; the rescue of the umbrella. Well, what else? Of course, he got somebody to introduce him in proper form after that?"

"No," said Elizabeth.

"No! Then you had friends in common? You knew his family?"

"No."

"Then how, in Heaven's name, Elizabeth, did he make good his footing here?"

There was a silence. The two were sitting upon the low bench on the cliff. It was evening, and the sun was sinking to rest over the golden waters; the air was silent and serene, Percival had been smoking, but he flung his cigar away, and looked full into Elizabeth's face as he asked the question.

She spoke at last, tranquilly as ever.

"He was poor, Percival, and we wanted to help him. You and I are not likely to think the worse of a man for being poor, are we? He had been ill; he seemed to be in trouble, and we were sorry for him; and I do not think that my uncle made a mistake in taking him."

"And I," said Percival, with an edge in his voice, "think that he made a very great mistake."

"Why?"

"Why?" he repeated, with a short, savage laugh. "I shall not tell you why."

"Do you know anything against Mr. Stretton?"

"Yes."

"What, Percival?" Her tone was indignant; the colour was flaming in her cheeks.

"I know that Stretton is not his name. My father told me so." There was a pause, and then Percival went on, in a low voice, but with a gathering intensity which made it more impressive than his louder tones. "I'll tell you what I should do if I were my father. I should say to this fellow—'Now, you may be in trouble through no fault of your own, but that is no matter to me. If you cannot bear your own name, you have no business to live in an honest man's house under false pretences; you may, therefore, either tell me your whole story, and let me judge whether it is a disgraceful one or not, or you may go—the quicker the better.' That's what I should say to Mr. Stretton; and the sooner it is said to him the more I shall be pleased."

"Fortunately," said Elizabeth, "the decision does not rest in your hands." She rose, and drew herself to her full height; her cheeks were crimson, her eyes gleamed with indignation. "Mr. Stretton is a gentleman; as long as he is in my employment—mine, if you please; not yours, nor your father's, after all—he shall be treated as one. You could not have shown yourself more ungenerous, more poor-spirited, Percival, than by what you have said to-day."

And then she walked with a firm, resolute step and head erect, towards the house. Percival did not attempt to follow her. He watched her until she was out of sight, then he re-seated himself, and sank into deep meditation. It was night before he roused himself, and struck a blow with his hand upon the arm of the seat, which sent the rotten woodwork flying, as he gave utterance to his conclusion.

"I was right after all. My father will live to own it some day. He has made a devil of a mistake."

Then he rose and took the path to the house. Before he entered it, however, he looked vengefully in the direction in which the twinkling lights of the little village inn could be seen.

"If you have a secret," he said, slowly and resolutely, from between his clenched teeth, "I'll find it out. If you have a disgraceful story in your life, I'll unmask it. If you have another name you want to hide, I'll publish it to the world. So help me, God! Because you have come, or you are coming, between me and the woman that I love. And if I ever get a chance to do you a bad turn, Mr. John Stretton, I'll do it."



CHAPTER XVIII.

THE MISTRESS OF NETHERGLEN.

"Shall I go, or shall I not go?" meditated Hugo Luttrell.

He was lying on a broad, comfortable-looking lounge in one of the luxurious rooms which he usually occupied when he stayed for any length of time in London. He had been smoking a dainty, perfumed cigarette—he very seldom smoked anything except cigarettes—but he held it absently between his fingers, and finally let it drop, while he read and re-read a letter which his servant had just brought to him.

Nearly two years had passed since Richard Luttrell's death; years which had left their mark upon Hugo in many ways. The lines of his delicately beautiful, dark face had grown harder and sharper; and, perhaps on this account, he had a distinctly older look than was warranted by his two-and-twenty years. There were worn lines about his eyes, and a decided increase of that subtlety of expression which gave something of an Oriental character to his appearance. He had lost the youthful, almost boyish, look which had characterised him two years ago; he was a man now, but hardly a man whom one would have found it easy to trust.

The letter was from Angela Vivian. She had written, at Mrs. Luttrell's request, to ask Hugo to pay them a visit. Mrs. Luttrell still occupied the house at Netherglen, and she seemed anxious for an interview with her nephew. Hugo had not seen her for many months; he had left Scotland almost immediately after Brian's departure, with the full intention of setting foot in it no more. But he had then considered himself tolerably prosperous. Brian's death had thrown a shade over his prospects. He could no longer count upon a successful application to Mr. Colquhoun if he were in difficulties, and Brian's six thousand pounds melted before his requirements like snow before an April sun. He had already squandered the greater part of it; he was deeply in debt; and he had no relation upon whom he could rely for assistance—unless it were Mrs. Luttrell, and Hugo had a definite dislike to the thought of asking Mrs. Luttrell for money.

It was no more than a dislike, however. It was an unpleasant thing to do, perhaps, but not a thing that he would refrain from doing, if necessary. Why should not Mrs. Luttrell be generous to her nephew? Possibly she wished to make him her heir; possibly she would offer to pay his debts; at any rate, he could not afford to decline her help. So he must start for Netherglen next day.

"Netherglen! They are still there," he said to himself, as he stared moodily at the sheet of black-edged note-paper, on which the name of the house was stamped in small, black letters. "I wonder that they did not leave the place. I should have done so if I had been Aunt Margaret. I would give a great deal to get out of going to it myself!"

A sombre look stole over his face; his hand clenched itself over the paper that he held; in spite of the luxurious warmth of the room, he gave a little shiver. Then he rose and bestirred himself; his nature was not one that impelled him to dwell for very long upon any painful or disturbing thought.

He gave his orders about the journey for the following day, then dressed and went out, remembering that he had two or three engagements for the evening. The season was nearly over, and many people had left London, but there seemed little diminution in the number of guests who were struggling up and down the wide staircase of a house at which Hugo presented himself about twelve o'clock that night, and he missed very few familiar faces amongst the crowd as he nodded greetings to his numerous acquaintances.

"Ah, Luttrell," said a voice at his ear, "I was wondering if I should see you. I thought you might be off to Scotland already."

"Who told you I was going to Scotland?" said Hugo.

The dark shadow had crossed his face again; if there was a man in England whom at that time he cordially disliked, it was this man—Angela's brother—Rupert Vivian. He did not know why, but he always had a presage of disaster when he saw that high-bred, impassive face beside him, or heard the modulation of Vivian's quiet, musical voice. Hugo was superstitious, and he firmly believed that Rupert Vivian's presence brought him ill luck.

"Angela wrote to me that Mrs. Luttrell was inviting you to Netherglen. I was going there myself, but I have been prevented. A relation of mine in Wales is dying, and has sent for me, so I may not be able to get to Scotland for some weeks."

"Sorry not to see you. I shall be gone by the time you reach Scotland, then," responded Hugo, amiably.

"Yes." Rupert looked down with a reflective air. "Come here, will you?" he said, drawing Hugo aside into a small curtained recess, with a seat just wide enough for two, which happened at that moment to be empty. "I have something to ask you; there is something that you can do for me if you will."

"Happy to do anything in my power," murmured Hugo. He did not like to be asked to help other people, but there was a want of assurance in Vivian's usually self-contained demeanour which roused his curiosity. "What is it?"

"Well, to begin with, you know the Herons and Miss Murray, do you not?"

"I know them by name. I have met Percival Heron sometimes."

"Do you know that they have returned rather unexpectedly from Italy and gone to Strathleckie, the house on the other side of the property—about six miles from Netherglen?"

"How's that?"

"I suppose that Miss Murray thinks she may as well take possession of her estate," replied Rupert, rather shortly. "May I ask whether you are going to call?"

"Oh, yes, I shall certainly call."

"Then, look here, Luttrell, I want you to do something for me," said Vivian, falling into a more friendly and confidential strain than he usually employed with Hugo. "Will you mention—in an incidental sort of way—to Mrs. Heron the reason why I have not come to Scotland—the claim that my relation in Wales has on me, and all that sort of thing? It is hardly worth while writing about it, perhaps; still, if it came in your way, you might do me a service."

Hugo was so much relieved to find nothing more difficult required of him that he gave vent to a light laugh.

"Why don't you write?" he said.

"There's nothing to write about. I do not correspond with them," said Rupert, actually colouring a little beneath Hugo's long, satirical gaze. "But I fancy they may think me neglectful. I promised some time ago that I would run down; and I don't see how I can—until November, at the earliest. And, if you are there, you may as well mention the reason for my going to Wales, or, you see, it will look like a positive slight."

"I'm to say all this to Mrs. Heron, am I? And to no one beside?"

"That will be quite sufficient." There was a slight touch of hauteur in Vivian's tone. "And, if I may trouble you with something else——"

"No trouble at all. Another message?"

"Not exactly. If you would take care of this little packet for me I should be glad. I am afraid of its being crushed or lost in the post. It is for Miss Heron."

He produced a little parcel, carefully sealed and addressed. It looked like a small, square box. Hugo smiled as he took it in his hand.

"Perishable?" he asked, carelessly.

"Not exactly. The contents are fully a hundred years old already. It is something for Miss Heron's birthday. She is a great favourite of mine—a nice little girl."

"Quite a child, I suppose?"

"Oh, of course. One won't be able to send her presents by-and-bye," said Rupert, with rather an uneasy laugh. "What a pity it is that some children ever grow up! Well, thanks, Hugo; I shall be very much obliged to you. Are you going now?"

"Must be moving on, I suppose. I saw old Colquhoun the other day and he began telling me about Miss Murray, and all the wonders she was doing for the Herons. Makes believe that the money is theirs, not her own, doesn't she?"

"Yes."

"Odd idea. She must be a curiosity. They brought a tutor with them from Italy, I believe; some fellow they picked up in the streets."

"He has turned out a very satisfactory one," Rupert answered, coldly. "They say that he makes a capital tutor for the little boys. I think he is a favourite with all of them; he teaches Miss Heron Italian."

His voice had taken a curiously formal tone. It sounded as though he was displeased at something which had occurred to him.

Hugo thought of that tone and of the conversation many times before he left London next evening. He was rather an adept at the discovery of small mysteries; he liked to draw conclusions from a series of small events, and to ferret out other people's secrets. He thought that he was now upon the track of some design of Vivian's, and he became exceedingly curious about it. If it had been possible to open the box without disturbing the seals upon it, he would certainly have done so; but, this being out of the question, he contented himself with resolving to be present when it was opened, and to observe with care the effect produced by Vivian's message on the faces of Mrs. Heron, Miss Heron, and Miss Murray.

He reached Dunmuir (where the nearest station to his aunt's house was situated) at eleven o'clock in the morning. Mrs. Luttrell had sent the mail-phaeton for him. As Hugo took the reins and glanced at the shining harness and the lustrous coats of the beautiful bays, he could not help remembering the day when the mail-phaeton had last been sent to bring him from the station. Richard had then sat in the place that he now occupied, with Angela beside him; and Brian and Hugo laughed and talked in the back seat, and were as merry as they well could be. Nearly two years ago! What changes had been seen since then.

The bays were fidgetty and would not start at once. Hugo was just shouting a hasty direction to the groom at their heads when he happened to glance aside towards the station door where two or three persons were standing. The groom had cause to wonder what was the matter. Hugo gave the reins a tremendous jerk, which brought the horses nearly upon their haunches, and then let them go at such a pace that it seemed as if he had entirely lost control over them. But he was a very good whip, and soon mastered the fiery creatures, reducing their mad speed by degrees to a gentle trot, which enabled the groom to overtake them, panting and red in the face, indeed, as he swung himself up behind. The groom was inclined to think that Mr. Hugo had lost his nerve for a few moments; for "his face turned as white," honest John remarked afterwards, "as if he had seen a ghost."

"John," said Hugo, after driving for a good two miles in silence, "who was that gentleman at the station door?"

"Gentleman, sir?"

"A young man—at least, he seemed young—in a great-coat."

"Oh!—I don't think that's a young gentleman, exactly; least-ways he's got grey hair. That's the gentleman that teaches at Mr. Heron's, sir; Mr. Heron, the uncle to Miss Murray that has the property now. His name's Mr. Stretton, sir. I asked Mr. Heron's coachman."

"What made you ask?"

The groom hesitated and shuffled; but, upon being kept sharply to the point, avowed that it was because the gentleman "seen from behind" looked so much like Mr. Brian Luttrell. "Of course, his face is quite different from Mr. Brian's, sir," he said, hastily, noting a shadow upon Hugo's brow; "and he has grey hair and a beard, and all that; but his walk was a little like poor Mr. Brian's, sir, I thought."

Hugo was silent. He had not noticed the man's gait, but, in spite of the grey hair, the tanned complexion, the brown beard—which had lately been allowed to cover the lower part of Mr. Stretton's face, and had changed it very greatly—in spite of all these things he had noticed, and been startled by, the expression of a pair of grave, brown eyes—graver and sadder than Brian's eyes used to be, but full of the tenderness and the sweetness that Hugo had never seen in the face of any other man. Full, also, of recognition; there was the rub. A man who knows you cannot look at you in the same way as one who knows you not, and it was this look of knowledge which had unnerved Hugo, and make him doubt the evidence of his own senses.

He was still silent and absorbed when he arrived at Netherglen, and felt glad to hear that he was not to see his aunt until later in the day. Angela came to meet him at the door; she was pale, and her black dress made her look very slender and fragile, but she had the old, sweet smile and pleasant words of welcome for him, and could not understand why his face was so gloomy, and his eyes so obstinately averted from her own.

It was four o'clock in the afternoon when Hugo was admitted to Mrs. Luttrell's sitting-room. He had scarcely seen her since the death of her eldest son, and was manifestly startled and shocked to see her looking so much more aged and worn than she had been two years ago. She greeted him much after her usual fashion, however; she allowed him to touch her smooth, cold cheek with his lips, and take her stiff hand into his own, but she showed no trace of any softening emotion.

"Sit down, Hugo," she said. "I am sorry to have brought you away from your friends."

"Oh, I was glad to come," said Hugo, confusedly. "I was not with friends; I was in town. It was late for town, but I—I had business."

"This house is no longer a cheerful one," continued Mrs. Luttrell, in a cold, monotonous voice. "There are no attractions for young men now. It has been a house of mourning. I could not expect you to visit me."

"Indeed, Aunt Margaret, I would have come if I had known that you wanted me," said Hugo, wondering whether his tardiness would entail the loss of Mrs. Luttrell's money.

He recovered his self-possession and his fluency at this thought; if danger were near, it behoved him to be on the alert.

"I have wanted you," said Mrs. Luttrell. "But I could wait. I knew that you would come in time. Now, listen to what I have to say."

Hugo held his breath. What could she say that needed all this preamble?

"Hugo Luttrell," his aunt began, very deliberately, "you are a poor man and an extravagant one."

Hugo smiled, and bowed his head.

"But you are only extravagant. You are not vicious. You have never done a dishonourable thing—one for which you need blush or fear to meet the eye of an honest man? Answer me that, Hugo. I may know what you will say, but I want to hear it from your own lips."

Hugo did not flinch. His face assumed the boyish innocence of expression which had often stood him in good stead. His great, dark eyes looked boldly into hers.

"That is all true, Aunt Margaret. I may have done foolish things, but nothing worse. I have been extravagant, as you say, but I have not been dishonourable."

He could not have dared to say so much if Richard or Brian had been alive to contradict him; but they were safely out of the way and he could say what he chose.

"Then I can trust you, Hugo."

"I will try to be worthy of your trust, Aunt Margaret."

He bent down to kiss her hand in his graceful, foreign fashion; but she drew it somewhat hastily away.

"No. None of your Sicilian ways for me, Hugo. That foreign drop in your blood is just what I hate. But you're the only Luttrell left; and I hope I know my duty. I want to have a talk with you about the house, and the property, and so on."

"I shall be glad if I can do anything to help you," said Hugo, smoothly. His cheek was beginning to flush; he wished that his aunt would come to the point. Suspense was very trying! But Mrs. Luttrell seemed to be in no hurry.

"You know, perhaps," she said, "that I am a tolerably rich woman still. The land, the farms, and the moors, and all that part of the property passed to Miss Murray upon my sons' deaths; but this house and the grounds (though not the loch nor the woods) are still mine, and I have a fair income with which to keep them up. I should like to know that one of my husband's name was to come after me. I should like to know that there would be Luttrells of Netherglen for many years to come."

She paused a few minutes, but Hugo made no reply.

"I have a proposition to make to you," she went on presently. "I don't make it without conditions. You shall hear what they are by-and-bye. I should like to make you my heir. I can leave my money and my house to anyone I choose. I have about fifteen-hundred a-year, and then there's the house and the garden. Should you think it worth having?"

"I think," said Hugo, with a wily avoidance of any direct answer, "that it is very painful to hear you talk of leaving your property to anyone."

"That is mere sentimental nonsense," replied his aunt, with a perceptible increase in the coldness of her manner. "The question is, will you agree to the conditions on which I leave my money to you?"

"I will do anything in my power," murmured Hugo.

"I want you, then, to arrange to spend at least half the year with me here. You can leave the army; I do not think that it is a profession that suits you. Live here, and fill the place of a son to me. I have no sons left. Be as like one of them as it is in your power to be."

In spite of himself Hugo's face fell. Leave the army, leave England, bury himself for half the year with an old woman in a secluded spot, which, although beautiful in summer and autumn, was unspeakably dreary in winter? She had not required so much of Richard or Brian; why should she ask for such a sacrifice from him?

Mrs. Luttrell watched his face, and read pretty clearly the meaning of the various expressions which chased each other across it.

"It seems a hard thing to you at first, no doubt," she said, composedly. "But you would find interests and amusements in course of time. You would have six months of the year in which to go abroad, or to divert yourself in London. You should have a sufficient income. And my other condition is that you marry as soon as you can find a suitable wife."

"Marry?" said Hugo, in dismay. "I never thought of marriage!"

"You will think of it some time, I presume. An early marriage is good for young men. I should like to see you married, and have your children growing up about me."

"Perhaps you have thought of a suitable lady?" said Hugo, with a half-sneer. The prospect that had seemed so desirable at first was now very much lowered in his estimation, and he did not disguise the sullen anger that he felt. But he hardly expected Mrs. Luttrell's answer.

"Yes, I have."

"Indeed! Who is it?"

"Miss Murray. Elizabeth Murray, to whom your cousins' estates have gone."

"What sort of a person is she?"

"Young, beautiful, rich. A little older than yourself, but not much. You would make a fine couple, Hugo. She came to see me the other day, and you would have thought she was a princess."

"I should like to see her," said Hugo, thoughtfully.

"Well, you must just go and call. And then you can think the matter over and let me know. I'm in no hurry for a decision."

"You are very good, Aunt Margaret."

"No. I am only endeavouring to be just. I should like to see you prosperous and happy. And, while you are here, you will oblige me by considering yourself the master of the house, Hugo. Give your own orders, and invite your own friends."

Hugo murmured some slight objection.

"It will not affect my comfort in the least. I kept some of the horses, and one or two vehicles that I thought you would like. Use them all. You will not expect to see very much of me; I seldom come downstairs, so the house will be free for you and your friends. When you have decided what you mean to do, let me know."

Hugo thanked her and retired. He did not see her again until the following evening, when she met him with a question.

"Have you seen Miss Murray yet?"

"Yes," said Hugo, lowering his eyes.

"And have you come to any decision?"

"Yes."

"I should like to know what it is," said Mrs. Luttrell.

Her hands, which were crossed before her on her knee, trembled a little as she said the words.

Hugo hesitated for a moment.

"I have made my decision," he said at last, in a firm voice, "and it is one that I know I shall never have cause to repent. Aunt Margaret, I accept your kind—your generous—offer, and I will be to you as a son."

He had prepared his little speech so carefully that it scarcely sounded artificial when it issued from those curved, beautiful lips, and was emphasised by the liquid softness of his Southern eyes.



CHAPTER XIX.

A LOST LETTER.

Hugo's visit to the Herons was paid rather late in the afternoon, and he, therefore, had the full benefit of the whole family party, as each member of it dropped in to tea. Mrs. Heron's old habits still re-asserted themselves, in spite of the slight check imposed on her by the remembrance that the house belonged to Elizabeth, that the many new luxuries and comforts, including freedom from debt, had come from Elizabeth's purse, and that Elizabeth, although she chose to abdicate her power, was really the sovereign of Strathleckie. But Elizabeth arrogated so little to herself, and was so wonderfully content to be second in the house, that Mrs. Heron was apt to forget the facts of the case, and to act as if she were mistress as much as she had ever been in the untidy dwelling in Gower-street.

As regarded the matter of tidiness, Elizabeth had made reforms. There were now many more servants than there had been in Gower-street, and the drawing-room could not present quite the same look of chaos as had formerly prevailed there. But Elizabeth knew the ways of the household too well to expect that Mr. Heron's paint-brushes, Mrs. Heron's novels, and the children's toys would not be found in every quarter of the house; it was as much as she could do to select rooms that were intended to fill the purposes of studio, boudoir, and nursery; she could not make her relations confine themselves and their occupations to their respective apartments.