She had had a great struggle with her uncle before the present state of affairs came about. He had roused himself sufficiently to protest against making use of her money and not giving her, as he said, her proper position; but Elizabeth's determined will overcame all his objections. "I never wanted this money," she said to him; "I think it a burden. The only way in which I can enjoy it is by making life a little easier to other people. And you have the first claim—you and my cousins; because you took me in and were good to me when I was a little, friendless orphan of twelve years old. So, now that I have the chance, you must come and stay with me in my house and keep me from feeling lonely, and then I shall be able to think that my wealth is doing good to somebody beside myself. You make me feel as if I were a stranger, and not one of yourselves, when you object to my doing things for you. Would you mind taking gifts from Kitty? And am I so much less dear to you than Kitty? You used to tell me that I was like a daughter to you. Let me be your daughter still."

Mr. Heron found it difficult to make protests in the face of these arguments; and Mrs. Heron slid gracefully into the arrangement without any protest at all. Kitty's objections were easily overcome; and the children thought it perfectly natural that their cousin should share her good gifts with them, in the same way that, when she was younger, she divided with them the toys and sweeties that kind friends bestowed upon her.

Therefore, when Hugo called at Strathleckie, he was struck with the fact that it was Mrs. Heron, and not Elizabeth, who acted as his hostess. It needed all his knowledge of the circumstances and history of the family to convince himself that the house did not belong to Alfred Heron, the artist, and that the stately girl in a plain, black dress, who poured out the tea, was the real mistress of the house. She acted very much as though she were a dependent, or at most an elder daughter, in the same position as little Kitty, who assumed no airs of authority over anybody or anything.

Hugo admired Elizabeth, as he admired beautiful women everywhere; but he was not interested in her. Mentally he called her fool for not adopting her right station and spending her money in her own way. She was too grave for him. He was more at his ease with Kitty.

Rupert Vivian's message—if it could be called a message—was given lightly and carelessly enough, but Hugo had the satisfaction of seeing the colour flash all over Miss Heron's little mignonne face as he listened to Mrs. Heron's languid reply.

"Dear me! and is that old relative in Wales really dying? Mr. Vivian has always made periodical excursions into Wales ever since I knew him. Well, I wondered why he did not write to say that he was coming. It was an understood thing that he should stay with us as soon as we returned from Italy, and I was surprised to hear nothing from him. Were not you, Kitty?"

"No, I was not at all surprised," said Kitty, rather sharply.

"I had a commission to execute for my friend," said Hugo, turning a little towards her. "Mr. Vivian asked me to take charge of a parcel, and to place it in your own hands; he was afraid that it would be broken if it went by post. He told me that it was a little birthday remembrance."

He laid the parcel on a table beside the girl. He noticed that her colour varied, but that she did not speak. Mrs. Heron's voice filled the pause.

"How kind of you to bring it, Mr. Luttrell! Mr. Vivian always remembers our birthdays; especially Kitty's. Does he not, Kitty?"

"Not mine especially," said Kitty, frowning. She looked at the box as if she did not care to open it.

"Do let us see what it is," pursued Mrs. Heron. "Mr. Vivian has such exquisite taste! Shall we open the box, Kitty?"

"If you like," returned Kitty. "Here is a pair of scissors."

"Oh, we could not think of opening your box for you; open it yourself, dear. Make haste; we are all quite curious, are we not, Mr. Luttrell?"

Mr. Luttrell smiled a little, and toyed with his tea-spoon; his eyes were fixed questioningly on Kitty's mutinous face, with its down-dropped, curling lashes and pouting rose-leaf lips. He felt more curiosity respecting the contents of that little box than he cared to show.

She opened it at last, slowly and reluctantly, as it seemed to him, and took out of a nest of pink cotton-wool a string of filagree silver beads. They were very delicately worked, and there was some ground for Vivian's fear that they might get injured in the post, for their beauty was very great. Mrs. Heron went into ecstasies over the gift. It was accompanied merely by a card, on which a few words were written: "For Miss Heron's birthday, with compliments and good wishes from Rupert Vivian." Kitty read the inscription; her lip curled, but she still kept silence. Hugo thought that her eye rested with some complacency upon the silver beads; but she did not express a tithe of the pleasure and surprise which flowed so readily from Mrs. Heron's fluent tongue.

"Don't you like them, Kitty?" asked an inconvenient younger brother who had entered the room.

"They are very pretty," said Kitty.

"Not so pretty as the ornament he sent you last year," said Harry. "But it's very jolly of him to send such nice things every birthday, ain't it?"

"Yes, he is very kind," Kitty answered, with a shy sort of stiffness, which seemed to show that she could well dispense with his kindness. Hugo laughed to himself, and pictured Vivian's discomfiture if he had seen the reception of his present. He changed the subject.

"Have you been long in Scotland, Miss Murray?"

"For a fortnight only. We came rather suddenly, hearing that the tenant had left this house. We expected him to stay for some time longer."

"It is fortunate for us that Strathleckie happened to fall vacant," said Hugo, gravely.

"Do you know, Betty," said one of the boys at that moment, "that Mr. Stretton says he has been in Scotland before, and knows this part of the country very well?"

"Yes, he told me so."

"Mr. Stretton is our tutor," said Harry, kindly explaining his remark to the visitor. "He only came yesterday morning. He had a holiday when we came here; and so had we."

"I presume that you like holidays," said Hugo, caressing the silky moustache that was just covering his upper lip, and smiling at the child, with a notion that he was making himself pleasant to the ladies of the party by doing so.

"I liked holidays before Mr. Stretton came to us," said Harry. "But I don't mind lessons half so much now. He teaches in such a jolly sort of way."

"Mr. Stretton is a favourite," remarked Hugo, looking at the mother.

"Such a clever man!" sighed Mrs. Heron. "So kind to the children! We met him in Italy."

"I think I saw him at the station yesterday. He has grey hair?"

"Yes, but he's quite young," interposed Harry, indignantly. "He isn't thirty; I asked him. He had a brain fever, and it turned his hair grey; he told me so."

"It has a very striking effect," said Mrs. Heron, languidly. "He has a fine face—my husband says a beautiful face—and framed in that grey hair——I wish you could see him, Mr. Luttrell, but he is so shy that it seems impossible to drag him out of his own particular den."

"So very shy, is he?" thought Hugo to himself. "I wonder where I have seen him. I am sure I have seen him before, and I am sure that he knew me. Well, I must wait. I suppose I shall meet him again in the course of time."

He took his leave, remembering that he had already out-stayed the conventional limits of a call; and he was pleased when Mrs. Heron showed some warmth of interest in his future movements, and expressed a wish to see him again very soon. Her words showed either ignorance or languid neglect of the usages of society, but they did not offend him. He wanted to come again. He wanted to see more of Kitty.

He had ridden from Strathleckie to Netherglen, and he paced his horse slowly along the solitary road which he had to traverse on his way homewards. The beautiful autumn tints and the golden haze that filled the air had no attractions for him. But it was pleasant to him to be away from Mrs. Luttrell; and he wanted a little space of time in which to meditate upon his future course of action. He had seen the woman whom his aunt wished him to marry. Well, she was handsome enough; she was rich; she would look well at the head of his table, ruling over his household, managing his affairs and her own. But he would rather that it had been Kitty.

At this point he brought his horse to a sudden standstill. Before him, leaning over a gate with his back to the road, he saw a man whom he recognised at once. It was Mr. Stretton, the tutor. He had taken off his hat, and his grey hair looked very remarkable upon his youthful figure. Hugo walked his horse slowly forward, but the beat of the animal's feet on the hard road aroused the tutor from his reverie. He glanced round, saw Hugo approaching, and then, without haste, but without hesitation, quietly opened the gate, and made his way into the field.

Hugo stopped again, and watched him as he crossed the field. He was very curious concerning this stranger. He felt as if he ought to recognise him, and he could not imagine why.

Mr. Stretton was almost out of sight, and Hugo was just turning away, when his eye fell upon a piece of white paper on the ground beside the gate. It looked like a letter. Had the tutor dropped it as he loitered in the road? Hugo was off his horse instantly, and had the paper in his hand. It was a letter written on thin, foreign paper, in a small, neat, foreign hand; it was addressed to Mr. John Stretton, and it was written in Italian.

To Hugo, Italian was as familiar as English, and a momentary glance showed him that this letter contained information that might be valuable to him. He could not read it on the road; the owner of the letter might discover his loss and turn back at any moment to look for it. He put it carefully into his pocket, mounted his horse again, and made the best of his way to Netherglen.

He was so late in arriving that he had little time to devote to the letter before dinner. But when Mrs. Luttrell had kissed him and said good-night, when he, with filial courtesy, had conducted her to the door of her bed-room, and taken his final leave of her and of Angela on the landing, then he made his way to the library, rang for more lights, more coal, spirits and hot water, and prepared to devote a little time to the deciphering of the letter which Mr. John Stretton had been careless enough to lose.

He was not fond of the library. It was next to the room in which they had laid Richard Luttrell when they brought him home after the "accident." It looked out on the same stretch of garden; the rose trees that had tapped mournfully at that other window, when Hugo was compelled by Brian to pay a last visit to the room where the dead man lay, had sent out long shoots that reached the panes of the library window, too. When there was any breeze, those branches would go on tap, tapping against the glass like the sound of a human hand. Hugo hated the noise of that ghostly tapping: he hated the room itself, and the long, dark corridor upon which it opened, but it was the most convenient place in the house for his purpose, and he therefore made use of it.

"San Stefano!" he murmured to himself, as he looked at the name of the place from which the letter had been dated. "Why, I have heard my uncle mention San Stefano as the place where Brian was born. They lived there for some months. My aunt had an illness there, which nobody ever liked to talk about. Hum! What connection has Mr. John Stretton with San Stefano, I wonder? Let me see."

He spread the letter carefully out before him, turned up the lamp, and began to read. As he read, his face turned somewhat pale; he read certain passages twice, and then remained for a time in the same position, with his elbows upon the table and his face supported between his hands. He found matter for thought in that letter.

It ran as follows:—

"My Dear Mr. Stretton,—I will continue to address you by this name as you desire me to do, although I am at a loss to understand your motive in assuming it. You will excuse my making this remark; the confidence that you have hitherto reposed in me leads me to utter a criticism which might otherwise be deemed an impertinence. But it seems to me a pity that you either did not retain your old name and the advantages that this name placed in your way, or that you did not take up the appellation which, as I fear I must repeat, is the only one to which you have any legal right. If your name is not Luttrell, it is Vasari. If you object to retaining the name of Luttrell, why not adopt Vasari? Why complicate matters by taking a name (like that of Stretton) which has no meaning, no importance, no distinction? All unnecessary concealment of truth is foolish; and this is an unnecessary concealment.

"Secondly, may I ask why you propose to accompany your English friends to a place so near your old home? If you wish it to be thought that you are dead, why, in Heaven's name, do you go to a spot which is not ten miles from the house where you were brought up? True, your appearance is altered; your hair is grey and your beard has grown. But your voice: have you thought how easily your voice may betray you? And I have known cases where the eyes alone have revealed a person's identity. If you wish to keep your secret, let me entreat you not to go to Strathleckie. If you wish to undo all that you have succeeded in doing, if you wish to deprive the lady who has inherited the Strathleckie property of her inheritance, then, indeed, you will go to Scotland, but in so doing you show a want of judgment and resolution which I cannot understand.

"You were at the monastery with us after your illness for many months. We learned to know you well and to regard you with affection. We were sorry when you grew restless and wandered away from us to seek fresh work amongst English people—English and Protestant—for the sake of old associations and habit. But we did not think—or at least I did not think—that you were so illogical and so weak as your present conduct drives me to consider you.

"There is only one explanation possible. You risk discovery, you follow these people to Scotland because one of the ladies of the family has given you, or you hope that she will give you, some special marks of favour. In plain words, you are in love. I have partially gathered that from your letters. Perhaps she also is in love with you. There is a Miss Heron, who is said to be beautiful; there is also Miss Murray. Is it on account of either of these ladies that you have returned to Scotland?

"I speak very frankly, because I conceive that I have a certain claim upon your confidence. I do not merely allude to the kindness shown to you by the Brothers of San Stefano, which probably saved your life. I claim your regard because I know that you were born in this village, baptised by one of ourselves, that you are of Italian parentage, and that you have never had any right to the name that you have borne for four-and-twenty years. This was suspicion when I saw you last; it is certainty now. We have found the woman Vincenza, who is your mother. She has told us her story, and it is one which even your English courts of law will find it difficult to disprove. She acknowledges that she changed the two children; that, when one of her twins died, she thought that she could benefit the other by putting it in the place of the English child. Her own baby, Bernardino, was brought up by the Luttrell family and called Brian Luttrell. That was yourself.

"How about the English boy, the real heir to the property? I told you about him when you were with us; I offered to let you see him: I wanted you to know him. You declined; I think you were wrong. You did see him many a time; you were friendly with him, although you did not know the connection that existed between you. I believe that you will remember him when I tell you that he was known in the monastery as Brother Dino. Dino Vasari was the name by which he had been known; but I think that you never learnt his surname. He had a romantic affection for you, and was grieved when you refused to meet the man who had so curious a claim upon your notice. I sent him away from the monastery in a few days, as you will perhaps remember; I knew that if he saw much of you, not even my authority, my influence, would induce him to keep the secret of his birth—from you. You are rivals, certainly; you might be enemies; and, just because that cause of rivalry and enmity subsists, Dino Vasari loves you with his whole soul. If you stood in your old position, even I could not persuade him to dispossess you; but you have voluntarily given it up. Your property has gone to your cousin, and Dino has now no scruple about claiming his rights. Now that Vincenza Vasari's evidence has been obtained, it is thought well that he should make the story public, and try to get his position acknowledged. Therefore he is starting for England, where he will arrive on the eighteenth of the month. He has his orders, and he will obey them. It is perhaps well that you should know what they are. He is to proceed at once to Scotland, and obtain interviews as soon as possible with Mr. Colquhoun and Mrs. Luttrell. He will submit his claims to them, and ascertain the line that they will take. After that, he will put the law in motion, and take steps towards dispossessing Miss Murray.

"I write all this to you at Dino's own request. I grieve to say that he is occasionally headstrong to a degree which gives us pain and anxiety. He refused to take any steps in the matter until I had communicated with you, because he says that if you intend to make yourself known by your former name, and take back the property which accrued to you upon Mr. Richard Luttrell's death, he will not stand in your way. I have pointed out to him, as I now point out to you, that this line of action would be dishonest, and practically impossible, because, in his interests, we should then take the matter up and make the facts public, but he insists upon my mentioning the proposal. I mention it in full confidence that your generosity and sense of honour will alike prevent you from putting obstacles in the way of my pupil's recognition by his mother and succession to his inheritance.

"If you wish that Dino (as for the sake of convenience I will still call him) should be restored to his rights, and if you desire to show that you have no ill-feeling towards him on account of this proposed endeavour to recover what is really his own, he begs you to meet him on his arrival in London on the 18th of August. He will be in lodgings kept by a good Catholic friend of ours at No. 14, Tarragon-street, Russell-square, and you will inquire for him by the name of Mr. Vasari, as he will not assume the name of Brian Luttrell until he has seen you. He will, of course, be in secular dress.

"I have now made you master of all necessary facts. If I have done so under protest, it is no concern of yours. I earnestly recommend you to give up your residence in Scotland, and to return, at any rate until this matter is settled, to San Stefano. I need hardly say that Brian Luttrell will never let you know the necessity of such drudgery as that in which you have lately been engaged.

"With earnest wishes for your welfare, and above all for your speedy return to the bosom of the true Catholic Church in which you were baptised, and of which I hope to see you one day account yourself a faithful child, I remain, my dear son,

"Your faithful friend and father, "Cristoforo Donaldi, "Prior of the Monastery of San Stefano."



CHAPTER XX.

"MISCHIEF, THOU ART AFOOT."

Hugo's meditations were long and deep. More than an hour elapsed before he roused himself from the thoughtful attitude which he had assumed at the close of his first perusal of this letter. When he lifted his face from his hands, his lips were white, although they were twisted into the semblance of a smile.

"So that is why I fancied I knew his face," he said, half aloud. "Who would have thought it? Brian alive, after all! What a fool he must be! What an unmitigated, egregious fool!"

He poured out some brandy for himself with rather a shaky hand, and drank it off without water. He shivered a little, and drew closer to the fire. "It's a very cold night," he muttered, holding his hands out to the leaping flame, and resting his forehead upon the marble mantelpiece. "It's a cold night, and —— it all, are my wits going? I can't think clearly; I can hardly see out of my eyes. It's the shock; that's what it is. The shock? Yes, Dio mio, and it is a shock, in all conscience! Whoever would have believed that Brian could possibly be alive all this time! Poor devil! I suppose that little 'accident' to Richard preyed upon his mind. He must be mad to have given up his property from a scruple of that sort. I never should have thought that a man could be such a fool. It's an awful complication."

He threw himself into an arm-chair, and leaned back with his dark, delicately-beautiful face slanted reflectively towards the ceiling. He was too much disturbed in mind to afford himself the solace of a cigar.

"This old fellow—the Prior—seems to know the family affairs very intimately," he went on thinking. "This is another extraordinary occurrence. Brian alive is nothing to the fact that Brian is the son of some Italian woman—a peasant-woman probably. Did Aunt Margaret suspect it? She always hated Brian; every one could see that. When she said once, 'He is not my son,' did she mean the words literally? Quite possible."

"And the real Brian Luttrell is now to appear on the scene! What is his name? Dino—Bernardino—Vasari. Of course, there was little use in his coming forward as long as Richard Luttrell was alive. Now that he is gone and Brian is heir to the property, this young fellow, whom the priests have got hold of, becomes important. No doubt this is what they have hoped for all along. He will have the property and he is a devout son of the Church, and will employ it to Catholic ends. I know the jargon—I heard enough of it in Sicily. They have the proofs, no doubt—they could easily manufacture them if they were wanting; and they will oust Elizabeth Murray and set their pet pupil in her place, and manage the land and the money and everything else for him. And what will Mrs. Luttrell say?"

He paused, and changed his position uneasily. His brows contracted; his eye grew restless as he continued to reflect.

"It's my belief," he said at last, "that Mrs. Luttrell will be enchanted. And then what will become of me?"

He rose from his chair and began to pace up and down the room. "What will become of me?" he repeated. "What will become of the fifteen-hundred a-year, and the house and grounds, and all the rest of the good things that she promised to give me? They will go, no doubt, to the son and heir. Did she ever propose to give me anything while Richard and Brian had to be provided for? Not she! She notices me now only because she thinks that I am the only Luttrell in existence. When she knows that there is a son of her's still living, I shall go to the wall. I shall be ruined. There will be no Netherglen for me, no marriage with an heiress, no love-making with pretty little Kitty. I shall have to disappear from the scene. I cannot hold my ground against a son—a son of the house! Curses on him! Why isn't he dead?"

Hugo bestowed a few choice Sicilian epithets of a maledictory character upon Dino Vasari and Brian Luttrell both; then he returned to the table and studied the latter pages of Father Cristoforo's letter.

"Meet him in London. I should like to meet Dino Vasari, too. I wonder whether Brian had read this letter when he dropped it. These instructions come at the very end. If he has not read these sentences, I might find a way of outwitting them all yet. I think I could prevent Dino Vasari from ever setting foot in Scotland. How can I find out?"

"And what an extraordinary thing for Brian to do—to take a tutorship in the very family where Elizabeth Murray is living. What has he done it for? Is he in love with one of those girls? Or does he hope to retrieve his mistake by persuading Elizabeth Murray to marry him? A very round-about way of getting back his fortune, unless he means to induce Dino Vasari to hold his tongue. If Dino Vasari were out of the way, and Brian felt his title to the estate rather shaky, of course, it would be very clever of him to make love to Elizabeth. But he's too great a fool for that. What was his motive, I wonder? Is it possible that he did not know who she was?"

But he rejected this suggestion as an entirely incredible one.

After a little further thought, another idea occurred to him. Father Cristoforo's letter consisted of three closely-written sheets of paper. He separated the first sheet from the others; the last words on the sheet ran as follows:—

"Is it on account of either of these ladies that you have returned to England?"

This sheet he folded and enclosed in an envelope, which he carefully sealed and addressed to John Stretton, Esquire. He placed the other sheets in his own pocket-book, and then went peacefully to bed. He could do nothing more, he told himself, and, although his excitable disposition prevented his sleeping until dawn grew red in the eastern sky, he would not waste his powers unnecessarily by sitting up to brood over the resolution that he had taken.

Before ten o'clock next morning he was riding to Strathleckie. On reaching the house he asked at once if he could see Mr. Stretton. The maid-servant who answered the door looked surprised, hesitated a moment, and then asked him to walk in. He followed her, and was not surprised to find that she was conducting him straight to the school-room, which was on the ground-floor. He had thought that she looked stupid; now he was sure of it. But it was a stupidity so much to his advantage that he mentally vowed to reward it by the gift of half-a-crown when he had the opportunity.

The boys were at their lessons; their tutor sat at the head of the table, with his back towards the light. When he saw Hugo enter, he calmly took a pair of blue spectacles from the table and fixed them upon his nose. Hugo admired the coolness of the action. The blue spectacles were even a better disguise than the grey hair and the beard; if Mr. Stretton had worn them when he was standing at the railway station door, Hugo would never have been haunted by that look of recognition in his eyes.

"Mary has made a mistake," said Mr. Stretton to one of the boys, in a curiously-muffled voice. "Take this gentleman up to the drawing-room, Harry."

"There is no mistake," said Hugo, suavely. "I called to see Mr. Stretton on business; it will not take me a moment to explain. Mr. Stretton, may I ask whether you have lost any paper—a letter, I think—during the last few days?"

"Yes. I lost a letter yesterday afternoon."

"On the high road, I think. Then I was not mistaken in supposing that a paper that the wind blew to my feet this morning, as I was strolling down the road, belonged to yourself. Will you kindly open this envelope and tell me whether the paper contained in it is yours?"

Mr. Stretton took the envelope and opened it without a word. He looked at the sheet, saw that one only was there, and then replied.

"I am much obliged to you for your kindness. Yes, this is part of the letter that I lost."

"Only part? Indeed, I am sorry for that," said Hugo, with every appearance of genuine interest. "I was first attracted towards it because it looked like a foreign letter, and I saw that it was written in Italian. On taking it up, I observed that it was addressed to a Mr. Stretton, and I could think of no other Mr. Stretton in the neighbourhood but yourself."

"I am much obliged to you," Mr. Stretton repeated.

"I hope you will find the rest of the letter," said Hugo, with rather a mocking look in his beautiful eyes. "It is awkward sometimes to drop one's correspondence. I need hardly say that it was safe in my hands——"

"I am sure of that," said Mr. Stretton, mechanically.

"But others might have found it—and read it. I hope it was not an important letter."

"I hope not," Mr. Stretton answered, recovering himself a little; "but the fact is that I had read only the first page or two when I was interrupted, and I must have dropped it instead of putting it into my pocket."

"That was unfortunate," said Hugo. "I hope it contained no very important communication. Good morning, Mr. Stretton; good morning to you," he added, with a smile for the children. "I must not interrupt you any longer."

He withdrew, with a feeling of contemptuous wonder at the carelessness of a man who could lose a letter that he had never read. It was not the kind of carelessness that he practised.

He did not leave the house without encountering Mrs. Heron and Kitty. He was easily persuaded to stay for a little time. It cost him no effort to make himself agreeable. He was like one of those sleek-coated animals of the panther tribe, sufficiently tamed or tameable to like caresses; and very few people recognised the latent ferocity that lay beneath the velvet softness of those dreamy eyes. He could bask in the sunshine like a cat; but he was only half-tamed after all.

Elizabeth distrusted him; Kitty thought her unjust, and therefore acted as though she liked him better than she really did. She was a child still in her love of mischief, and she soon found a sort of pleasure in alternately vexing and pleasing her new admirer. But she was not in earnest. What did it matter to her if Hugo Luttrell's eyes glowed when she spoke a kind word to him, or his brow grew black as thunder if she neglected him for someone else? It never occurred to her to question whether it was wise to trifle with passions which might be of truly Southern vehemence and intensity.

Hugo did not leave the house without making—or thinking that he had made—a discovery. Mr. Stretton did not appear at luncheon, but Hugo caught sight of him afterwards in the garden—with Elizabeth. To Hugo's mind, the very attitude assumed by the tutor in speaking to Miss Murray was a revelation. He was as sure as he was of his own existence that Mr. Stretton was "in love." Whether the affection was returned by Miss Murray or not he could not feel so sure.

He made his way, after his visit to the Herons, to Mr. Colquhoun's office, and was fortunate in finding that gentleman at home.

"Well, Hugo, and how are you?" asked the lawyer, who did not regard Mrs. Luttrell's nephew with any particular degree of favour. "What brings you to this part of the world again?"

"My aunt's invitation," said Hugo.

"Ah, yes; your aunt has a hankering after anybody of the name of Luttrell, at present. It won't last. Don't trust to it, Hugo."

"I cannot say that I know what you mean, Mr. Colquhoun. I suppose I am at liberty to accept my aunt's repeated and pressing invitation? I came here to ask you a question. I will not trespass on your time longer than I can help."

"Ask away, lad," said the old lawyer, not much impressed by Hugo's stateliness of demeanour. "Ask away. You'll get no lies, at any rate. And what is it you're wanting now?"

"Have you any reason to suppose that my cousin Brian is not dead?"

"No," said Mr. Colquhoun, shortly. "I haven't. I wish I had. Have you?"

Without replying to this question, Hugo asked another.

"You have no reason to think that there is any other man who would call himself by that name?"

"No," said Mr. Colquhoun again, "I haven't. And I don't wish I had. But have you?"

"Yes," said Hugo.

"Come, come, come," said the lawyer, restlessly; "you are joking, young man. Don't carry a joke too far. What do you mean?"

Again Hugo replied by a question. "Did you ever hear of a place called San Stefano?" he said, gently.

Old Mr. Colquhoun bounded in his seat. "Good God!" he said, although he was not a man given to the use of such ejaculations. And then he stared fixedly at Hugo.

"I can't think how it has been kept quiet so long," said Hugo, tentatively. He was feeling his way. But this remark roused Mr. Colquhoun's ire.

"Kept quiet? There was nothing to be kept quiet. Nothing except Mrs. Luttrell's own delusion on the subject; nobody wanted it to be known that she was as mad as a March hare on the subject. The nurse was as honest as the day. I saw her and questioned her myself."

"But my aunt never believed——"

"She never believed Brian to be her son. So much I may tell you without any breach of confidence, now that they are both in their graves, poor lads!" And then Mr. Colquhoun launched out upon the story of Mrs. Luttrell's illness and (so-called) delusion, to all of which Hugo listened with serious attention. But at the close of the narrative, the lawyer remembered Hugo's opening question. "And how did you come to know anything about it?" he said.

Hugo's answer was ready. "I met a queer sort of man in the town this morning who was making inquiries that set me on the alert. I got hold of him—walked along the road with him for some distance—and heard a long story. He was a priest, I think—sent from San Stefano to investigate. I got a good deal out of him."

"Eh?" said Mr. Colquhoun, slowly. "And where might he be staying, yon priest?"

"Didn't ask," replied Hugo. "I told him to come to you for information. So you can look out. There's something in the wind, I'm sure. I thought you might have heard of it. Thank you for your readiness to enlighten me, Mr. Colquhoun. I've learnt a good deal to-day. Good morning."

"Now what did he mean by that?" said the lawyer, when he was left alone. "It's hard to tell when he's telling the truth and when he's lying just for the pleasure of it, so to speak. As for his priest—I'm not so sure that I believe in his priest. I'll send down to the hotel and inquire."

He sent to every hotel in the place, and from every hotel he received the same answer. They had no foreign visitor, and had had none for the last three weeks. There was apparently not a priest in the place. "It'll just be one of Master Hugo's lies," said Mr. Colquhoun, grimly. "There's a rod in pickle for that young man one of these days, and I should like well to have the applying of it to his shoulders. He's an awful scamp, is Hugo."

There was a triumphant smile upon Hugo's face as he rode away from the lawyer's office. Twice in that day had his generalship been successful, and his success disposed him to think rather meanly of his fellow-creatures' intellects. It was surely very easy, and decidedly pleasant, to outwit one's neighbours! He had made both Brian and Mr. Colquhoun give him information which they would have certainly withheld had they known the object for which it had been asked. He was proud of his own dexterity.

On his arrival at Netherglen he found that Mrs. Luttrell and Angela had gone for a drive. He was glad of it. He wanted a little time to himself in Brian's old room. He had already noticed that an old-fashioned davenport which stood in this room had never been emptied of its contents, and in this davenport he found two or three papers which were of service to him. He took them away to his bed-room, where he practised a certain kind of handwriting for two or three hours with tolerable success. He tried it again after dinner, when everybody was in bed, and he tried it again next day. It was rather a difficult hand to imitate well, but he was not easily discouraged.

"I am afraid, dear aunt, that I must run up to town for a day or two," he said to Mrs. Luttrell that evening, with engaging frankness. "I have business to transact. But I will be back in three or four days at most, if you will permit me."

"Do as you please, Hugo," said Mrs. Luttrell, in her stoniest manner. "I have no wish to impose any kind of trammels upon you."

"Dear Aunt Margaret, the only trammels that you impose are those of love!" said Hugo, in his silkiest undertone.

Angela looked up. For the moment she was puzzled. To her, Hugo's speech sounded insincere. But the glance of the eye that she encountered was so caressing, the curves of his mouth were so sweetly infantine, that she accused herself of harsh judgment, and remembered Hugo's foreign blood and Continental training, which had given him the habit, she supposed, of saying "pretty things." She could not doubt his sincerity when she looked at the peach-like bloom of that oval face, the impenetrable softness of those velvet eyes. Hugo's physical beauty always stood him in good stead.

"You are an affectionate, warm-hearted boy, I believe, Hugo," said Mrs. Luttrell. Then, after a short pause, she added, with no visible link of connection, "I have written instructions to Colquhoun. I expect him here to-morrow."

Hugo looked innocent and attentive, but made no comment. His aunt kissed him with more warmth than usual when she said good-night. She had seldom kissed her sons after they reached manhood; but she caressed Hugo very frequently. She was softer in her manner with him than she had been even with Richard.

"Take care of yourself in London," she said to him. "Do you want any money?"

"No, thank you, Aunt Margaret. I shall be back in three days if I start to-morrow—at least, I think so. I'll telegraph if I am detained."

"Yes, do so. To-morrow is the seventeenth. You will be back by the twentieth?"

"If my business is done," said Hugo. And then he went back to his little experiments in caligraphy.

It was not until the afternoon of the 18th of August that he found himself at the door of No. 14, Tarragon-street. It was a dingy-looking house in a dismal-looking street. Hugo shivered a little as he pulled the tarnished bell-handle. "How can people live in streets like this?" he said to himself, with a slight contemptuous shrug of his shoulders.

"Mr. Vasari?" he said, interrogatively, as a downcast-looking woman came to the door.

"Yes, sir. What name, sir, if you please?"

"Say that a gentleman from Scotland wishes to see him."

The woman gave him a keen look, as if she knew something of the errand upon which Dino Vasari had come to her house; but said nothing, and ushered him at once into a sitting-room on the ground-floor. The room was curtained so heavily that it seemed nearly dark. Hugo could not see whether it was tenanted by more than one person; of one he was sure, because that one person came to meet him with outstretched hands and eager words of greeting.

"Mr. Luttrell! You have come, then; you have come—I knew you would!"

"I beg your pardon," said Hugo, and at the sound of his voice the first speaker fell back amazed; "but I am Hugo Luttrell—not Brian. I come from him."

"A thousand pardons; this English darkness is to blame," said the other, in fluent English speech, though with a slightly foreign accent. "Let us have lights; then we can know each other. I am—Dino Vasari."

He said the name with a certain hesitation, as though not sure whether or no he ought to call himself by it. The light of a candle fell suddenly upon the two faces—which were turned towards one another in some curiosity. The two had a kind of superficial likeness of feature, but a total dissimilarity of expression. The subtlety of Hugo's eyes and mouth was never shown more clearly than when contrasted with the noble gravity that marked every line of Dino's traits. They stood and looked at each other for a moment—Dino, wrapped in admiration; Hugo, lost in a thought of dark significance.

"So you are the man!" he was saying to himself. "You call yourself my cousin, do you? And you want the Strathleckie and the Luttrell estates? Be warned and go back to Italy, my good cousin, while you have time; you will never reach Scotland alive, I promise you. I shall kill you first, as I should kill a snake lying in my path. Never in your life, Mr. Dino Vasari, were you in greater danger than you are just now."



CHAPTER XXI.

A FLASK OF ITALIAN WINE.

"I am Brian Luttrell's cousin," said Hugo, quietly, "and I come from him."

"Then you know—you know——" Dino stammered, and he looked eagerly into Hugo's face.

"I know all."

"You know where he is now?"

"I do. I have brought you a letter from him—a sort of introduction," said Hugo, with a faint smile. "I trust that you will find it satisfactory."

"No introduction is necessary," was Dino's polite reply. "I have heard him speak of you."

Hugo's eyes flashed an interrogation. What had Brian said of him? But Dino's tones were so courteous, his face so calmly impassive, that Hugo was reassured. He bowed slightly, and placed a card and a letter on the table. Dino made an apology for opening the letter, and moved away from the table whilst he read it.

There was a pause. Hugo's face flushed, his hands twitched a little. He was actually nervous about the success of his scheme. Suppose Dino were to doubt the genuineness of that letter!

It consisted of a few words only, and they were Italian:—

"Dino mio," it began, "the bearer of this letter is my cousin Hugo, who knows all the circumstances and will explain to you what are my views. I am ill, and cannot come to London. Burn this note.

"Brian Luttrell."

Dino read it twice, and then handed it to Hugo, who perused it with as profound attention as though he had never seen the document before. When he gave it back, he was almost surprised to see Dino take it at once to the grate, deposit it amongst the coals, and wait until it was consumed to ashes before he spoke. There was a slight sternness of aspect, a compression of the lips, and a contraction of the brow, which impressed Hugo unfavourably during the performance of this action. It seemed to show that Dino Vasari might not be a man so easy to deal with as Brian Luttrell.

"I have done what I was asked to do," he said, drawing himself up to his full height, and turning round with folded arms and darkening brow. "I have burnt his letter, and I should now be glad, Mr. Luttrell, to hear the views which you were to explain to me."

"My cousin Brian——" began Hugo, with some deliberation; but he was not allowed to finish his sentence. Quick as thought, Dino Vasari interrupted him.

"Pardon me, would it not be as well—under the circumstances—to speak of the gentleman in question as Mr. Stretton?"

Hugo shrugged his shoulders.

"I have no objection," he said, "so long as you do not take my calling him by that name to be the expression of my opinion concerning the subject under consideration."

This was so elaborate a sentence that Dino took some little time to consider it.

"I see," he said at last, with a questioning look; "you mean that you are not convinced that he is the son of Vincenza Vasari?"

"Neither is he," said Hugo.

"But if we have proof——"

"Mr. Vasari, you cannot imagine that my cousin will give up his rights without a struggle?"

"But he has given them up," said Dino, vehemently. "He refuses to be called by his own name; he has let the estates pass away from him——"

"But he means to claim his rights again," said Hugo.

"Oh." Then there was a long silence. Dino sat down in a chair facing that of Hugo, and confronted him steadily. "I understood," he said at last, "when I was in Italy, that he had resolved to give up all claim to his name, or to his estate. He had disagreeable associations with both. He determined to let himself be thought dead, and to earn his own living under the name of John Stretton."

"He did do so," said Hugo, softly; "but he has changed his mind."

"And why?"

"If I tell you why, may I ask you to keep what I say a profound secret?"

Dino hesitated. Then he said firmly, "I will keep it secret so long as he desires me to do so."

"Then listen. The reason of his change of mind is this. He has fallen in love. You will ask—with whom? With the woman to whom his estate has passed—Miss Murray. He means to marry her, and in that way to get back the estate which, by his own mad folly, he has forfeited."

"Is this true?" said Dino, slowly. He fixed his penetrating dark eyes upon Hugo as he spoke, and turned a little pale. "And does this lady—this Miss Murray—know who he is? For I hear that he calls himself Stretton in her house. Does she know?"

Hugo deliberated a little. "No," he answered, "I am sure that she does not."

Dino rose to his feet. "It is impossible," he said, with an indignant flash of his dark eyes, which startled Hugo; "Brian would never be so base."

"My only wonder is," murmured Hugo, reflectively, "that Brian should be so clever."

"You call it clever?" said Dino, still more indignantly. "You call it clever to deceive a woman, to marry her for her money, to mislead her about one's name? Are these your English fashions? Is it clever to break your word, to throw away the love and the help that is offered you, to show yourself selfish, and designing, and false? This is what you tell me about the man whom you call your cousin, and then you ask me to admire his behaviour? Oh, no, I do not admire it. I call it mean, and base, and vile. And that is why he would not come to see me himself; that is why he sent you as an emissary. He could not look me in the face and tell me the things that you have told me!"

He sat down again. The fire died out of his eyes, the hectic colour from his cheek. "But I do not believe it!" he said, more sorrowfully than angrily; and in a much lower voice; "I do not believe that he means to do this thing. He was always good and always true."

Hugo watched him, and spoke after a little pause. "You had his letter," he said. "He told you to believe what I said to you. I could explain his views."

"Ah, but look you, perhaps you do not understand," said Dino, turning towards him with renewed vivacity. "It is a hard position, this of mine. Ever since I was a little child, it was hinted to me that I had English parents, that I did not belong to the Vasari family. When I grew older, the whole story of Vincenza's change of the children was told to me, and I used to think of the Italian boy who had taken my place, and wonder whether he would be sorry to exchange it for mine. I was not sorry; I loved my own life in the monastery. I wanted to be a priest. But I thought of the boy who bore my name; I wove fancies about him night and day; I wished with all my heart to see him. I used to think that the day would come when I should say to him—'Let us know each other; let us keep our secret, but love each other nevertheless. You can be Brian Luttrell, and I will be Dino Vasari, as long as the world lasts. We will not change. But we will be friends.'"

His voice grew husky; he leaned his head upon his hands for a few moments, and did not speak. Hugo still watched him curiously. He was interested in the revelation of a nature so different from his own; interested, but contemptuous of it, too.

"I could dream in this way," said Dino at last, "so long as no land—no money—was concerned. While Brian Luttrell was the second son the exchange of children was, after all, of very little consequence. When Richard Luttrell died, the position of things was changed. If he had lived, you would never have heard of Vincenza Vasari's dishonesty. The priests knew that there would be little to be gained by it. But when he died my life became a burden to me, because they were always saying—'Go and claim your inheritance. Go to Scotland and dispossess the man who lords it over your lands, and spends your revenues. Take your rights.'"

"And then you met Brian?" said Hugo, as the narrator paused again.

"I met him and I loved him. I was sorry for his unhappiness. He learnt the story that I had known for so many years, and it galled him. He refused to see the man who really ought to have borne his name. He knew me well enough, but he never suspected that I was Mr. Luttrell's son. We parted at San Stefano with friendly words; he did not suspect that I was leaving the place because I could not bear to see him day by day brooding over his grief, and never tell him that I did not wish to take his place."

"But why did you not tell him?"

"I was ordered to keep silence. The Prior said that he would tell him the whole story in good time. They sent me away, and, after a time, I heard from Father Cristoforo that he was gone, and had found a tutorship in an English family, that he vowed never to bear the name of Luttrell any more, and that the way was open for me to claim my own rights, as the woman Vincenza Vasari had been found and made confession."

"So you came to England with that object?"

"With the object, first," said Dino, lifting his face from his crossed arms, "of seeing him and asking him whether he was resolved to despoil himself of his name and fortune. I would not have raised a hand to do either, but, if he himself did it, I thought that I might pick up what he threw away. Not for myself, but for the Church to which I belong. The Church should have it all."

"Would you give it away?" cried Hugo.

"I am to be a monk. A monk has no property," was Dino's answer. "I wanted to be sure that he did not repent of his decision before I moved a finger."

"You seem to have no scruple about despoiling Miss Murray of her goods," said Hugo, drily.

A fresh gleam shot from the young man's eyes.

"Miss Murray is a woman," he said, briefly. "She does not need an estate. She will marry."

"Marry Brian Luttrell, perhaps."

"If she marries him as Mr. Stretton, she must take the consequences."

"Well," said Hugo, "I must confess, Mr. Vasari, that I do not understand you. In one breath you say you would not injure Brian by a hair's-breadth; in another you propose to leave him and his wife in poverty if he marries Miss Murray."

"No, pardon me, you mistake," replied Dino, gently. "I will never injure him whom you call, Brian, but if he keeps the name of Stretton I shall claim the rights which he has given up. And, when the estate is mine, I will give him and his wife what they want; I will give them half, if they desire it, but I will have what is my own, first of all, and in spite of all."

"You say, in fact, that you will not injure Brian, but that you do not care how much you injure Miss Murray."

"That is not it," cried Dino, his dark eye lighting up and his form positively trembling with excitement. "I say that, if Brian himself had come to me and asked me to spare him, or the woman he loved, for his sake I would have yielded and gone back to San Stefano to-morrow; I would have destroyed the evidence; I would have given up all, most willingly; but when he treats me harshly, coldly—when he will not, now that he knows who I am, make one little journey to see me and tell me what he wishes; when he even tries to deceive me, and to deceive this lady of whom you speak—why, then, I stand upon my rights; and I will not yield one jot of my claim to the Luttrell estate and the Luttrell name."

"You will not?"

"I will fight to the death for it."

Hugo smiled slightly.

"There will be very little fighting necessary, if you have your evidence ready. You have it with you, I presume?"

"I have copies; the original depositions are with my lawyer."

"Ah. And he is——"

"A Mr. Grattan; there is his address," said Dino, placing a card before his visitor. "I suppose that all further business will be transacted through him?"

"I suppose so. Then you have made your decision?"

"Yes. One moment, Mr. Luttrell. Excuse me for mentioning it; but you have made two statements, one of which seems to me to contradict the other." Dino had recovered all his usual coolness, and fixed his keen gaze upon Hugo in a way which that young man found a little embarrassing. "You told me that Brian—as we may still call him—intended to claim his old name once more. Then you said that he meant to marry Miss Murray under the name of Stretton. You will remark that these two intentions are incompatible; he cannot do both these things."

Hugo felt that he had blundered.

"I spoke hastily," he said, with an affectation of ingenuous frankness, which sat very well upon his youthful face. "I believe that his intentions are to preserve the name of Stretton, and to marry Miss Murray under it."

"Then I will tell Mr. Grattan to take the necessary steps to-morrow," said Dino, rising, as if to hint that the interview had now come to an end.

Hugo looked at him with surprised, incredulous eyes.

"Oh, Mr. Vasari," he said, naively, "don't let us part on these unfriendly terms. Perhaps you will think better of the matter, and more kindly of Brian, if we talk it over a little more."

"At the present moment, I think talk will do more harm than good, Mr. Luttrell."

"Won't you write yourself to Brian?" faltered Hugo, as if he hardly dared to make the suggestion.

"No, I think not. You will tell him my decision."

"I'm afraid I have been a bad ambassador," said Hugo, with an air of boyish simplicity, "and that I have offended you."

"Not at all." Dino held out his hand. "You have spoken very wisely, I think. Do not let me lose your esteem if I claim what I believe to be my rights."

Hugo sighed. "I suppose we ought to be enemies—I don't know," he said. "I don't like making enemies—won't you come and dine with me to-night, just to show that you do not bear me any malice. I have rooms in town; we can be there in a few minutes. Come back with me and have dinner."

Dino tried to evade the invitation. He would much rather have been alone; but Hugo would take no denial. The two went out together without summoning the landlady: Hugo took his companion by the arm, and walked for a little way down the street, then summoned a hansom from the door of a public-house, and gave an address which Dino did not hear. They drove for some distance. Dino thought that his new friend's lodgings were situated in a rather obscure quarter of London; but he made no remark in words, for he knew his own ignorance of the world, and he had never been in England before. Hugo's lodgings appeared to be on the second-floor of a gloomy-looking house, of which the ground-floor was occupied by a public bar and refreshment-room. The waiters were German or French, and the cookery was distinctly foreign in flavour. There was a touch of garlic in every dish, which Dino found acceptable, and which was not without its charm for Hugo Luttrell.

Dessert was placed upon the table, and with it a flask of some old Italian wine, which looked to Dino as if it had come straight from the cellars of the monastery at San Stefano. "It is our wine," he said, with a smile. "It looks like an old friend."

"I thought that you would appreciate it," said Hugo, with a laugh, as he rose and poured the red wine carelessly into Dino's glass. "It is too rough for me; but I was sure that you would like it."

He poured out some for himself and raised the glass, but he scarcely touched it with his lips. His eyes were fixed upon his guest.

Dino smiled, praised his host's thoughtfulness, and swallowed a mouthful or two of the wine; then set down his glass.

"There is something wrong with the flavour," he said: "something a little bitter."

"Try it again," said Hugo, averting his eyes. "I thought it very good. At any rate, it is harmless: one may drink any amount of it without doing oneself an injury."

"Yes, but this is curiously coarse in flavour," persisted Dino. "One would think that it was mixed with some other spirit or cordial. But I must try it again."

He drained his glass. Hugo refilled it immediately, but soon perceived that it was needless to offer his guest a second draught. Dino raised his hand to his brow with a puzzled gesture, and then spoke confusedly.

"I do not know how it is," he said. "I am quite dizzy—I cannot see—I——"

His eyes grew dim: his hands fell to his sides, and his head upon his breast. He muttered a few incoherent words, and then sank into silence, broken only by the sound of his heavy breathing and something like an occasional groan. Hugo watched him carefully, and smiled to himself now and then. In a short time he rose, emptied the remainder of the wine in the flask into Dino's glass, rinsed out the flask with clear water, then poured the dregs, as well as the wine in the glasses, into the mould of a large flower-pot that stood in a corner of the room. "Nobody can tell any tales now, I think," said Hugo, with a triumphant, disagreeable smile. And then he called the waiter and paid his bill—as if he were a temporary visitor instead of having lodgings in the house, as he had led Dino to believe.

The waiter glanced once or twice at the figure on the chair. "Gentleman had a leetle moche to drink," he said, nodding towards poor Dino.

"A little too much," said Hugo, carelessly. "He'll be better soon." Then he went and shook the young man by the arm. "Come," he said, "it's time for us to go. Wake up; I'll see you home. That wine was a little too strong for you, was it not?"

Dino opened his eyes, half-rose, muttered something, and then sank back in his chair.

"Gentleman want a cab, perhaps?" said the waiter.

"Well, really, I don't know," said Hugo, looking quite puzzled and distressed. "If he can't walk we must have a cab; but if he can, I'd rather not; his lodgings are not far from here. Come, Jack, can't you try?"

Dino, addressed as Jack for the edification of the waiter, rose, and with Hugo's help staggered a few steps. Hugo was somewhat disconcerted. He had not counted upon Dino's small experience of intoxicating liquors when he prepared that beverage for him beforehand. He had meant Dino to be wild and noisy: and, behold, he presented all the appearance of a man who was dead drunk, and could hardly walk or stand.

They managed to get him downstairs, and there, revived by the fresh air, he seemed able to walk to the lodgings which, as Hugo said, were close at hand. The landlord and the waiters laughed to each other when the two gentlemen were out of sight. "He must have taken a good deal to make him like that," said one of them. "The other was sober enough. Who were they?" The landlord shook his head. "Never saw either of them before yesterday," he said. "They paid, at any rate: I wish all my customers did as much." And he went back to the little parlour which he had quitted for a few moments in order to observe the departure of the gentleman who had got so drunk upon a flask of heady Italian wine.

Meanwhile, Hugo was leading his victim through a labyrinth of dark streets and lanes. Dino was hard to conduct in this manner; he leaned heavily upon his guide, he staggered at times, and nearly fell. The night was dark and foggy; more than once Hugo almost lost his bearings and turned in a wrong direction. But he had a reason for all the devious windings and turnings which he took; he was afraid of being spied upon, followed, tracked. It was not until he came at last to a dark lane, between rows of warehouses, where not a light twinkled in the rooms, nor a solitary pedestrian loitered about the pavement, that he seemed inclined to pause. "This is the place," he said to himself, tightening his grasp upon the young man's arm. "This is the place I chose."

He led Dino down the lane, looking carefully about him until he came to a narrow archway on his left hand. This archway opened on a flagged passage, at the end of which a flight of steps led up to one of the empty warehouses. It was a lonely, deserted spot.

He dragged his companion into this entry; the steps of the two men echoed upon the flags for a little way, and then were still. There was the sound of a fall, a groan, then silence. And after five minutes of that silence, Hugo Luttrell crept slowly back to the lane, and stood there alone. He cast one fearful glance around him: nobody was in sight, nobody seemed to have heard the sounds that he had heard. With a quick step and resolute mien he plunged again into the network of little streets, reached a crowded thoroughfare at last, and took a cab for the Strand. He had a ticket for a theatre in his pocket. He went to the theatre.



CHAPTER XXII.

BRIAN'S WELCOME.

The hint given in the Prior's letter concerning Brian's reasons for continuing to teach in the Heron family, together with Hugo's own quickness of perception, had enabled that astute young man to hit upon something very like the exact truth. He had exaggerated it in his conversation with Dino: he had attributed motives to Brian which certainly never entered Brian's mind; but this was done for his own purposes. He thought that Brian's love for Elizabeth Murray might prove a useful weapon in the struggle between Dino's sense of his rights and the romantic affection that he entertained for the man who had taken his place in the world—an affection which Hugo understood so little and despised so much, that he fancied himself sure of an easy victory over Dino's resolution to fight for his rightful position. It was greatly to his surprise that he found so keen a sense of justice and resentment at the little trust that Brian had reposed in him present in Dino's mind: the young man had been irritatingly firm in his determination to possess the Strathleckie estate; he knew precisely what he wanted, and what he meant to do. And although he was inclined to be generous to Brian and to Miss Murray, there seemed no reason to expect that he would be equally generous to Hugo. Therefore Hugo had felt himself obliged to use what he called "strong measures."

He did not like strong measures. They were disagreeable to him. But they were less disagreeable than the thought of being poor. Hugo made little account of human life and human suffering so long as the suffering did not actually touch himself. He seemed to be born with as little heart as a beast of prey, which strikes when it is angry, or when it wants food, with no remorse and no regret. "A disagreeable necessity," Hugo called his evil deed, but he considered that the law of self-preservation justified him in what he did.

And Brian Luttrell? What reason was it that made him fling prudence to the winds, and follow the Herons to the neighbourhood of a place where he had resolved never to show his face again?

There was one great, overmastering reason—so great that it made him attempt what was well-nigh impossible. His love for Elizabeth Murray had taken full possession of him: he dreamed of her, he worshipped the very ground she trod upon; he would have sacrificed life itself for the chance of a gentle word from her.

Life, but not honour. Much as he loved her, he would have fled to the very ends of the earth if he had known, if he had for one moment suspected, that she was the Miss Murray who owned the landed estate which once went with the house and grounds of Netherglen.

It seemed almost incredible that he should not have had this fact forced from the first upon his knowledge; but such at present was the case. They had remained in Italy for the first three months of his engagement, and, during that time, he had not lived in the Villa Venturi, but simply given his lessons and taken his departure. Sometimes he breakfasted or lunched with the family party, but at such times no business affairs were discussed. And Elizabeth had made it a special request that Mr. Stretton should not be informed of the fact that it was she who furnished money for the expenses of the household. She had taken care that his salary should be as large as she could make it without attracting remark, but she had an impression that Mr. Stretton would rather be paid by Mr. Heron than by her. And, as she wished for silence on the subject of her lately-inherited wealth, and as the Herons were of that peculiarly happy-go-lucky disposition that did not consider the possession of wealth a very important circumstance, Mr. Stretton passed the time of his sojourn in Italy in utter ignorance of the fact that Elizabeth was the provider of villa, gardens, servants, and most of the other luxuries with which the Herons were well supplied. Percival, in his outspoken dislike of the arrangement, would probably have enlightened him if they had been on friendly terms; but Percival showed so decided and unmistakable an aversion to the tutor, that he scarcely spoke to him during his stay, and, indeed, made his visit a short one, chiefly on account of Mr. Stretton's presence.

The change from Italy to Scotland was made at the doctor's suggestion. The children's health flagged a little in the heat, and it was thought better that they should try a more bracing air. When the matter was decided, and Mr. Colquhoun had written to them that Strathleckie was vacant, and would be a convenient house for Miss Murray's purposes in all respects—then, and not till then, was Mr. Stretton informed of the proposed change of residence, and asked whether he would accompany the family to Scotland.

Brian hesitated. He knew well enough the exact locality of the house to which they were going: he had visited it himself in other days. But it was several miles from Netherglen: he would be allowed, he knew, to absent himself from the drawing-room or the dinner-table whenever he chose, he need not come in contact with the people whom he used to know. Besides, he was changed beyond recognition. And probably the two women at Netherglen led so retired a life that neither of them was likely to be encountered—not even at church; for, although the tenants of Netherglen and Strathleckie went to the same town for divine worship on Sunday mornings, yet Mrs. Luttrell and Angela attended the Established Church, while the Herons were certain to go to the Episcopal. And Hugo was away. There was really small chance of his being seen or recognised. He thought that he should be safe. And, while he still hesitated, he looked up and saw that the eyes of Miss Murray were bent upon him with so kindly an inquiry, so gracious a friendliness in their blue depths, that his fears and doubts suddenly took wing, and he thought of nothing but that he should still be with her.

He consented. And then, for the first time, it crossed his mind to wonder whether she was a connection of the Murrays to whom his estate had passed, and from whom he believed that Mr. Heron was renting the Strathleckie house.

He had left England without ascertaining what members of the Murray family were living; and the letter in which Mr. Colquhoun detailed the facts of Elizabeth's existence and circumstances, had reached Geneva after his departure upon the expedition which was supposed to have resulted in his death. He had never heard of the Herons. He imagined Gordon Murray to be still living—probably with a large family and a wife. He knew that they could not live at Netherglen, and he wondered vaguely whether he should meet them in the neighbourhood to which he was going. Murray was such an ordinary name that in itself it told him nothing at all. Elizabeth Murray! Why, there might be a dozen Elizabeth Murrays within twenty miles of Netherglen: there was no reason at all to suppose that this Elizabeth Murray was a connection of the Gordon Murrays who were cousins of his own—no, not of his own: he had forgotten that never more could he claim that relationship for himself. They were cousins of some unknown Brian Luttrell, brought up under a false name in a small Italian village. What had become of that true Brian, whom he had refused to meet at San Stefano? And had Father Cristoforo succeeded in finding the woman whom he sought, and supplying the missing links in the evidence? In that case, the Murrays would soon hear of the claimant to their estate, and there would be a law-suit. Brian began to feel interested in the matter again. He had lost all care for it in the period following upon his illness. He now foresaw, with something almost like pleasure, that he could easily obtain information about the Murrays if he went with the Herons to Strathleckie. And he should certainly take the first opportunity of making inquiries. Even if he himself were no Luttrell, there was no reason why he should not take the deepest interest in the Luttrells of Netherglen. He wanted particularly to know whether the Italian claimant had come forward.

He was perfectly ignorant of the fact of which Father Cristoforo's letter would have informed him, that this possible Italian claimant was no other than his friend, Dino Vasari.

Of course, he could not be long at Strathleckie without finding out the truth about Elizabeth. If he had lived much with the Herons, he would have found it out in the course of the first twenty-four hours. Elizabeth's property was naturally referred to by name: the visitors who came to the house called upon her rather than upon the Herons: it was quite impossible that the secrecy upon which Elizabeth had insisted in Italy could be maintained in Scotland. The only wonder was that he should live, as he did live, for five whole days at Strathleckie without discovering the truth. Perhaps Elizabeth took pains to keep it from him!

She had been determined to keep another secret, even if she could not hide the fact, that she was a rich woman. She would not have her engagement to Percival made public. For two whole years, she said, she would wait: for two whole years neither she nor her cousin should consider each other as bound. But that she herself considered the engagement morally binding might be inferred from the fact of her allowing Percival to kiss her—she surely would not have permitted that kiss if she had not meant to marry him! So Percival himself understood it; so Elizabeth knew that he understood.

She was not quite like herself in the first days of her residence in Scotland. She was graver and more reticent than usual: little inclined to talk, and much occupied with the business that her new position entailed upon her. Mr. Colquhoun, her solicitor, was astonished at her clear-headedness; Stewart, the factor, was amazed at the attention she bestowed upon every detail; even the Herons were surprised at the methodical way in which she parcelled out her days and devoted herself to a full understanding of her position. She seemed to shrink less than heretofore from the responsibilities that wealth would bring her, and perhaps the added seriousness of her lip and brow was due to her resolve to bear the burden that providence meant her to bear instead of trying to lay it upon other people's shoulders.

A great deal of this necessary business had been transacted before Mr. Stretton made his appearance at Strathleckie. He had been offered a fortnight's holiday, and had accepted it, seeing that his absence was to some extent desired by Mrs. Heron, who was always afraid lest her dear children should be overworked by their tutor. Thus it happened that he did not reach Strathleckie until the very day on which Hugo also arrived on his way to Netherglen. They had seen each other at the station, where Brian incautiously appeared without the blue spectacles which he relied upon as part of his disguise. From the white, startled horror which overcast Hugo's face, this young man saw that he had been almost, if not quite, recognised; and he expected to be sought out and questioned as to his identity. But Hugo made no effort to question him: in fact, he did not see the tutor again until the day when he came to restore a fragment of the letter which Brian had carelessly dropped in the road before he read it. During this interview he betrayed no suspicion, and Brian comforted himself with the thought that Hugo had, at any rate, not read the sheet that he returned to him.

A dog-cart was sent for him and his luggage on the day of his arrival. He had a five miles' drive before he reached Strathleckie, where he received a tumultuous welcome from the boys, a smiling one from Mrs. Heron and Kitty, a hearty shake of the hands from Mr. Heron. But where was Elizabeth? He did not dare to ask.

She was out, he learnt afterwards: she had driven over to the town to lunch with the Colquhouns. For a moment he did think this strange; then he put aside the thought and remembered it no more.

There was a long afternoon to be dragged through: then there was a school-room tea, nominally at six, really not until nearly seven, according to the lax and unpunctual fashion of the Heron family. Mr. Stretton had heard that there were to be guests at dinner, and, keeping up his character as a shy man, declined to be present. He was sitting in a great arm-chair by the cheerful, little fire, which was very acceptable even on an August evening: the clock on the mantelpiece had just chimed a quarter-past seven, and he was beginning to wonder where the boys could possibly be, when the door opened and Elizabeth came in. He rose to his feet.

"They told me that you had come," she said, extending her hand to him with quiet friendliness. "I hope you had a pleasant journey, Mr. Stretton."

"Very pleasant, thank you."

He could not say more: he was engaged in devouring with his eyes every feature of her fair face, and thinking in his heart that he had underrated the power of her beauty. In the fortnight that he had been away from her he had pictured her to himself as not half so fair. She had taken off her out-door things, and was dressed in a very plain, brown gown, which fitted closely to her figure. At her throat she wore a little bunch of sweet autumn violets, with one little green leaf, fastened into her dress by a gold brooch. It was the very ostentation of simplicity, yet, with that noble carriage of her head and shoulders, and those massive coils of golden-brown hair, nobody could have failed to remark the distinction of her appearance, nor to recognise the fact that there is a kind of beauty which needs no ornament.

Brian took off the ugly, blue spectacles which he had adopted of late, and laid them upon the mantelshelf. He did not need them in the flickering firelight, which alone illumined the dimness of the room.

Elizabeth laid her shapely arm upon the mantelpiece and looked into the fire. He stood beside her, looking down at her—for he was a little taller than herself—but she seemed unconscious of his gaze. She spoke presently in rather low tones.

"The boys are late. I hope they do not often keep you waiting in this way."

"They have never done it before. I do not mind."

"They were very anxious to have you back. They missed you very much."

Had she missed him, too? He could not venture to ask that question.

"You will find things changed," she went on, restlessly lifting a little vase upon the mantelpiece and setting it down again; "you will find us much busier than we used to be—much more absorbed in our own pursuits. Scotland is not like Italy."

"No. I wish it were."

"And I——" Her voice broke, as if some emotion troubled her; there came a swift, short sigh, and then she spoke more calmly. "I wish sometimes that one had no duties, no responsibilities; but life would not be worth having if one shirked them, after all."

"There is a charm in life without them—at least, so far without them as that pleasant life in Italy used to be," said he, rather eagerly.

"Yes, but that is all over."

"All over?"

She bowed her head.

"Is there nothing left?" said Brian, approaching her a little more nearly. Then, as she was silent, he continued in a hurried, low voice, "I knew that life must be different here, but I thought that some of the pleasantest hours might be repeated—even in Scotland—although we are without those sunny skies and groves of orange trees. Even if the clouds are grey, and the winds howl without, we might still read Dante's 'Paradiso' and Petrarca's 'Sonnets,' as we used to do at the Villa Venturi."

"Yes," said Elizabeth, gently, "we might. But here I shall not have time."

"Why not? Why should you sacrifice yourself for others in the way you do? It is not right."

"I—sacrifice myself?" she said, lifting her eyes for a moment to his face. "What do you mean?"

"I mean," he said, "that I have watched you for the last three months, and I have seen you day after day give up your own pleasure and your own profit for others, until I longed to ask them what right they had to claim your whole life and leave you nothing—nothing—for yourself——"

"You mistake," she interrupted him quickly. "They leave me all I want; and they were kind to me when I came amongst them—a penniless child——"

"What does it matter if you were penniless?" said Brian. "Have you not paid them a thousand times for all that they did for you?" Then, as she looked at him with rather a singular expression in her eyes, he hastened to explain. "I mean that you have given them your love, your care, your time, in a way that no sister, no daughter, ever could have done! You have taught the children all they know; you have sympathised with the cares of every one in turn—I have watched you and seen it day by day! And I say that even if you are penniless, as you say, you have repaid them a thousand times for all that they have done; and that you are wrong to let them take your time and your care, to the exclusion of your own interests. I beg your pardon; I have said too much," he said, breaking off suddenly, as the singular expression deepened upon her musing face.

"No," she said, with a smile, "I like to hear it: go on. What ought I to do?"

"Ah, that I cannot tell you. But I think you give yourself almost too much to others. Surely, no one could object if you took a little time from the interests of the rest of the family for your own pleasure, for your studies, your amusements?"

"No," she answered, quietly, "I do not suppose they would."

She stood and looked into the fire, and the smile again crossed her face.

"I have said more than I ought to have done," repeated Brian. "Forgive me."

"I will forgive you for everything," she said, "except for thinking that one can do too much for the people that one loves. I am sure that you do not act upon that principle, Mr. Stretton."

"It can be carried to an extreme, like any other," said Mr. Stretton, wisely.

"And you think I carry it to an extreme? Oh, no. I only do what it is a pleasure to me to do. Think of the situation: an orphaned, penniless girl—that is what you have said to yourself is it not——?"

"Yes," said Brian, wondering a little at the keen inquiry in her eyes as she paused for the reply. The questioning look was lost in a lovely smile as she proceeded; she cast down her eyes to hide the expression of pleasure and amusement that his words had caused.

"An orphaned, penniless girl, then, cast on the charity of friends who were then not very well able to support her, educated by them, loved by them—does she not owe them a great debt, Mr. Stretton? What would have become of me without my uncle's care? And, now that I am able to repay them a little—in various ways"—she hesitated as she spoke—"ought I not to do my best to please them? Ought I not to give them as much of myself as they want? Make a generous answer, and tell me that I am right."

"You are always right—too right!" he said, half-impatiently. "If you could be a little less generous——"

"What then?" said Elizabeth.

"Why, then, you would be—more human, perhaps, more like ourselves—but less than what we have always taken you for," said Mr. Stretton, smiling.

Elizabeth laughed. "You have spoilt the effect of your lecture," she said, turning away.

"I beg your pardon. I ought not to have said what I did," said Brian, sensitively alive to her slightest change of tone. "Miss Murray, tell me at least that I have not offended you before you go."

"You have not offended me," she said. He could not see her face.

"You are quite sure?" he said, anxiously. "For, indeed, I had forgotten that it was not my part to offer any opinion upon your conduct, and I am afraid that I have given it with impertinent bluntness. You will forgive me?"

She turned round and looked at him with a smile. There was a colour in her cheek, a softness in her eye, that he did not often see. "Indeed, Mr. Stretton," she said, gently, "I have nothing to forgive. I am very much obliged to you."

He took a step towards her as if there was something else that he would have gladly said; but at that moment the sound of the boys' voices echoed through the hall.

"There is no time for more," said Brian, with some annoyance.

"No," she answered. "And yet I have something else to say to you. Will you remember that some other day?"

"Indeed, I shall remember," he said, fervently. And then the boys burst into the room, and in the hubbub of their arrival Elizabeth escaped.

Her violets had fallen out of her brooch. Brian found them upon the floor when she had gone; henceforth he kept them amongst his treasures.



CHAPTER XXIII.

THE WISHING WELL.

Hugo's first call at Strathleckie was made on the day following Mr. Stretton's arrival. Father Cristoforo's letter had been delivered by that morning's post, and it was during a stroll, in which, to tell the truth, Brian was more absorbed by the thought of Elizabeth than by any remembrance of his own position or of the Prior's views, that he dropped the letter of which the contents had so important a bearing on his future life. In justice to Brian, it must be urged that he had no idea that the Prior's letter was likely to be of any importance. Ever since he left San Stefano, the Prior had corresponded with him; but his letters were generally on very trivial subjects, or filled with advice upon moral and doctrinal points, which Brian could not find interesting. The severe animadversions upon his folly in returning to Scotland under an assumed name, which filled the first sheet, did not rouse in him any lively desire to read the rest of the letter. It was not likely to contain anything that he ought to know; and, at any rate, he could explain the loss and apologise for it in his next note to Padre Cristoforo.

The meeting between him and Elizabeth in the garden, which had been such a revelation to Hugo's mind, was purely accidental and led to no great result. She had been begged by the children to ask Mr. Stretton for a holiday. They wanted to go to a Wishing Well in the neighbourhood, and to have a picnic in honour of Kitty's birthday. Mr. Stretton was sure not to refuse them they said—if Elizabeth asked. And Mr. Stretton did not refuse.

His love for Elizabeth—that love which had sprung into being almost as soon as he beheld her, and which had grown with every hour spent in her company—was one of those deep and overmastering passions which a man can feel but once in a lifetime, and which many men never feel at all. If Brian had lived his life in London and at Netherglen with no great shock, no terrible grief, no overthrow of all his hopes, he might not have experienced this glow and thrill of passionate emotion; he might have walked quietly into love, made a suitable marriage, and remained ignorant to his life's end of the capabilities for emotion which existed within him. But, as often happens immediately after the occurrence of a great sorrow or recovery from a serious illness, his whole being seemed to undergo a change. When the strain of anxiety and prolonged anguish of mind was relaxed, the claims of youth re-asserted themselves. With returning health and strength there came an almost passionate determination to enjoy as much as remained to be enjoyed in life. The sunshine, the wind, the sea, the common objects of Nature,

"To him were opening Paradise."

And when, for the first time, Love also entered into his life, the world seemed to be transfigured. Although he had suffered much and lost much, he found it possible to dream of a future in which he might make for himself a home, and know once more the meaning of happiness. Was he selfish in hoping that life still contained a true joy for him, in spite of the sorrows that fate had heaped upon his head, as if she meant to overwhelm him altogether? At least, the hope was a natural one, and showed courage and resolution. He clung to it desperately, fiercely; he felt that after all he had lost he could not bear to let it go. The hope was too sweet—the chance of happiness too beautiful—to be lost. He felt as if he had a right to this one blessing. He had lost all beside. But, perhaps, this was a presumptuous mood, destined to rebuke and disappointment.

The fourth day after his arrival dawned, and he had not yet perceived, in his blindness of heart, the difference of position between the Elizabeth of his dreams and the Elizabeth of reality. Could the crisis be averted very much longer?

He fancied that Elizabeth was colder to him after that little scene in the study than she had ever been before. She looked pale and dispirited, and seemed to avoid speaking to him or meeting his eye. At breakfast-time that morning he noticed that she allowed a letter that had been brought to her to lie unopened beside her plate "It's from Percival, isn't it?" said Kitty, thoughtlessly. "You don't seem to be very anxious to read it." Elizabeth made no answer, but the colour rose to her cheek and then spread to the very roots of her golden-brown hair. Brian noticed the blush, and for the first time felt his heart contract with a bitter pang of jealousy. What right had Percival Heron to write letters to Elizabeth? Why did she blush when she was asked a question about a letter from him?

The whole party set off soon after ten o'clock for an expedition to a little loch amongst the hills. They intended to lunch beside the loch, then to enjoy themselves in different ways: Mr. Heron meant to sketch; Mrs. Heron took a novel to read; the others proposed to visit a spring at some little distance known as "The Wishing Well." This programme was satisfactorily carried out; but it chanced that Kitty and the boys reached the well before the others, and then wandered away to reach a further height, so that Brian and Elizabeth found themselves alone together beside the Wishing Well.

It was a lonely spot from which nothing but stretches of barren moor and rugged hills could be discerned. One solitary patch of verdure marked the place where the rising spring had fertilised the land; but around this patch of green the ground was rich only in purple heather. Not even a hardy pine or fir tree broke the monotony of the horizon. Yet, the scene was not without its charm. There was grandeur in the sweep of the mountain-lines; there was a wonderful stillness in the sunny air, broken only by the buzz of a wandering bee and the trickle of the stream; there was the great arch of blue above the moor, and the magical tints of purple and red that blossoming heather always brings out upon the mountain-sides. The bareness of the land was forgotten in its wealth of colouring; and perhaps Brian and Elizabeth were not wrong when they said to each other that Italy had never shown them a scene that was half so fair.

The water of the spring fell into a carved stone basin, which, tradition said, had once been the font of an old Roman Catholic chapel, of which only a few scattered stones remained. People from the surrounding districts still believed in the efficacy of its waters for the cure of certain diseases; and the practice of "wishing," which gave the well its name, was resorted to in sober earnest by many a village boy and girl. Elizabeth and Brian, who had hitherto behaved in a curiously grave and reserved manner to each other, laughed a little as they stood beside the spring and spoke of the superstition.

"We must try it," said Elizabeth, looking down into the sparkling water. "A crooked pin must be thrown in, and then we must silently wish for anything we especially desire, and, of course, we shall obtain it."

"Quite worth trying, if that is the case," said Brian. "But—I have tried the experiment before."

"Here?"

"Yes, here."

"I did not know that you had been to Dunmuir before."

"My wish did not come to pass," remarked Brian; "but there is no reason why you should not be more successful than I was, Miss Murray. And I feel a certain sort of desire to try once again."

"Here is a crooked pin," said Elizabeth. "Drop it into the water."

"Are you going to try?" he asked, when the ceremony had been performed.

"There is nothing that I wish for very greatly."

"Nothing? Ah, I have one wish—only one."

"I am unfortunate in that I have none," said Elizabeth.

"Then give me the benefit of your wishes. Wish that my wish may be fulfilled," said Brian.

She hesitated for a moment, then smiled, and threw a crooked pin into the water.

"I have wished," she said, as she watched it sink, "but I must not say what I wish: that breaks the charm."

"Sit down and rest," said Brian, persuasively, as she turned away. "There is a little shade here; and the others will no doubt join us by-and-bye. You must be tired."

"I am not tired, but I will sit down for a little while," said Elizabeth.

She seated herself on a stone beside the well; and Brian also sat down, but rather below her, so that he seemed to be sitting at her feet, and could look up into her face when he spoke. He kept silence at first, but said at last, with gentle deference of tone:—

"Miss Murray, there was something that you said you would tell me when you had the opportunity."

She paused before she answered.

"Not just now," he understood her to say at last, but her words were low and indistinct.

"Then—may I tell you something?"

She spoke more clearly in reply.

"I think not."

"Forgive me for saying so, but you must hear it some time. Why not now?"

She did not speak. Her colour varied a little, and her brows contracted with a slight look of pain.

"I do not know how to be silent any longer," he said, raising his eyes to her face, with a grave and manly resolve in their brown depths. "I have thought a great deal about it—about you; and it seems to me that there is no real reason why I should not speak. You are of age; you can do as you please; and I could work for both—because—Elizabeth—I love you."

It was brokenly, awkwardly said, after all; but more completely uttered, perhaps, than if he had told his tale at greater length, for then he would have been stopped before he reached the end. As it was, Elizabeth's look of terror and dismay brought him to a sudden pause.

"Oh, no!" she said, "no; you don't mean that. Take back what you have said, Mr. Stretton."

"I cannot take it back," he said, quickly, "and I would not if I could; because you love me, too."

The conviction of his words made her turn pale. She darted a distressed look at him, half-rose from her seat, and then sat down again. Twice she tried to speak and failed, for her tongue clove to the roof of her mouth. But at last she found her voice.

"You do not know," she said, hurriedly and hoarsely, "that I am engaged to my cousin Percival."

He rose to his feet, and withdrew two or three paces, looking down on her in silent consternation. She did not lift her eyes, but she felt that his gaze was upon her. It seemed to pierce to the very marrow of her bones, to the bottom of her heart.

"Is this true?" he said at last, in a voice as changed as her own had been—hoarse and broken almost beyond recognition. "And you never told me?"

"Why should I have told you? Only my uncle knows. It was a secret," she answered, in a clearer and colder tone. "I am sorry you did not know."

"So am I. God knows that I am sorry," said the young man, turning away to hide the look of bitter despair and disappointment, which he could not help but feel was too visibly imprinted on his face. "For if I had known, I might never have dared to love you. If I had known, I should never have dreamt of you as my wife."

At the sound of these two words, a shiver ran through her frame, as if a cold wind had blown over her from the mountain-heights above. She did not speak, however, and Brian went on in the low, difficult voice which told the intensity of his feelings more clearly than his words.

"I have been blind—mad, perhaps—but I thought that there was a hope for me. I fancied that you cared for me a little, that you guessed what I felt—that you, perhaps, felt it also. Oh, you need not tell me that I have been presumptuous. I see it now. But it was my one hope in life—I had nothing left; and I loved you."

His voice sank; he still stood with his face averted; a bitter silence fell upon him. For the moment he thought of the many losses and sorrows that he had experienced, and it seemed to him that this was the bitterest one of all. Elizabeth sat like a statue; her face was pale, her under-lip bitten, her hands tightly clasped together. At the end of some minutes' silence she roused herself to speak. There was an accent of hurt pride in her voice, but there was a tremor, too.

"I gave you no reason to think so, Mr. Stretton," she said.

"No," he answered, still without turning round. "I see now; I made a mistake."

"That you should ever have made the mistake," said Elizabeth, slowly, "seems to me——"

She did not finish the sentence. She spoke so slowly that Brian found it easy to interrupt her. He turned and broke impetuously into the middle of her phrase.

"It seems an insult—I understand. But I do not mean it as an insult. I mean it only as a tribute to your exquisite goodness, your sweetness, which would not let me pass upon my way without a word of kindly greeting—and yet what can I say, for I did not misunderstand that kindliness. I was not such a fool as to do that! No, I never really hoped; I never thought that you could for a moment look at me; believe me when I say that, even in my wildest dreams, I knew myself to be far, infinitely far, below you, utterly unworthy of your love, Elizabeth."