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Some of these remedies may afford tem- porary relief but none have ever been known to eSeot a permanent cnie. The reason for this la that these ao-ealled cures do not reaeh the aeat of the diaeaae. To eure eatarrh you must reach the root of the dlaease and remove the original cause of the trouble. NASAL BALM la the only remedy yet discovered that will do this. It never fails, and in even the most a|;gravated casea a cure is certain if NASAL BALM ia persistently naed. It is a well-known fact that catarrh in ninety-nine cases out of •very hundred originated from a cold in the head, whieh the sufferer Beglected. NASAL BALM afforda immediate relief when used fer oeld in the head. It is easy to use, requiring no douche or instrument, and Is soothing^, cleansing and healing. As positive evidence that eatarrh can be cured by the use of NASAL BALM, we submit the fol- lowing testimoniala from among hundreds similar in our possession : — Mr. Horatio Collier, Woollen Manu- facturer, Camerontown, Ont., states: Nasal Balm is the only positive remedy for catarrh that I aver u&ed. Miss Addle Howison, Brockvllla, Ont says : I had catarrh ior years, my head was so stopped up I could not breathe through my nostrils. My breath ^was very impure and continually so. Noth- ing I could gat cava me any reliai until esmg Nasal Balm. From the very first it gave me relief and in a very short time had removed the accumulation so tkat I could breathe freely through the nostrils. Its effect on my breath was truly wonderful, purifying and removing everv vestige of the unpleasant odor, wbicn never returned. D. S. McDonald, Mabou, C.B. writee : Nasal Balm has helped my catarrh very much. It ia the best remedy I aver Dsed. P. H. Munro, Parry Sound, says :— Nasal Balm has no equal as a remedy for cold in the head. It is both speedy and effective in its results. Mr. John Foster, Raymond, Oat., writes : Nasal Balm acts like a charm for my catarrh. I have only used it a short time and now feel better than at any period during the last seven yoare. In fact I am sure of a cure and at very small expense. ^ D. Derbyshire, president of the Onta^. rio Creamery Association, says : Nasal Balm beats the world for catarrh and cold in the head. In my own ease it affected relief from the first applicatioa. Mr John R. Wright, representing Messrs. Evans, Sons stud Mason, whole' sale druggists, Montreal, says:— Nasal Balm cured me of a long standing case of eatarrh after aaay other remedies falling. BEWARE of IMITATIONSJi?K5t; NASAL BALM from its wonderful curative properties has induced certain un- scrupulous parties to place imitations on sale, closely resembling the style of bur package, and with names similar in sound. Beware of all preparations styled Nasal Cream, Nasal Balsam, ete., they are iraudulaat imitations. Ask for Nasal Balm and see that you get it. If you cannot obtain NASAL BALM from your dealer it will be seat pest-paid en receipt ef price, se eeata and $i, by addressinf, FULFORD &C0., BROCKVILLE, ONT, Our passphlet " Gaus sf WiseeM " sent free en applieatien. I 8T In Tone In Touch In Sweetness In Durability In Workmanship Hold* more Gold Medals and Awards than any other Piano in Canada. WARRANTED IN EVERY RESPECT. Five Years' Guarantee with Each Instru- ment. LOWlir..»IQift. EASY TERMS. Toronto Temple of Music J. S. POWLEY & CO. 68 Kinff St. W. - Toronto, Ont. U m^am^ UNDER FALSE PRETENCES A NOVEL. By ADELINE SERGEANT, AUTHOR OF JacohVs Wife, Beyond Recall, An Open Foe, etc. Entered according to the Act of the Parliament of Canada in the year one thousand eight hundred and eighty-nine by William Bit^cB, in the office of the Minister of Agi-iculture. TORONTO ; WILLIAM BRYCE, PUBLISHER. M Tlieir Wt in ML ^ Dr. Morse's Indian Root Pills. Dr. Morse's Indian Root Pills. Dr. Morse's Indian Root Pills. Dr. Morses Indian Root Pills. Dr. Morse's Indian Root Pills. Dr. Morse's Indian Root Pills. Dr. Morse's Indian Root Pills. Dr. Morse's Indian Root Pills. Dr. Morse's Indian Root Pills. Dr. Morse's Indian Root Pills Cured of Indigestion and Headache. St. Andrew's, Que.,— March 31, 18S7. W. II. COMSTOrK. Dear Sir,— Morse's Indiapc Root Pii-LS have benefited me wonderfully. For months I suffered from Indigestion and headuche, was restless at nig^ht and hiul a bad tiste in my mouth every morning, after taking one box of tlie Pills, an these troubles disappeared, my food digested well and my sleep was refreshing^. My health is now good. Daniel Horan. What Morse's Pills are thought of at Riverbank, Ont. Riverbank, Jan. 31, 18S7. Mr. Comstock. Dear Sir,— I write to tell you in this section of the country Dr. Morse's Indian Root Pills have a good name. I will {jive you the names of one or two persons who have used them and are loud in their praises. Mr. Robt. Smith who has been an invalid for many years has tried many medicines for regulating the bowels, but none suited him till he tried Morsk's Indian Root Pills. He .siiys that there was no unplcasanteffects after taking them, the action beir^ mild and free from pain. Mrs. Jas. Gilmour, the motlier of a large family, speaks in high terms of the benefit she and her family derived from their use. Mrs. Jas. Hamilton said to me, "I thank you very much for tlie box of Morse's Pills you recom- mended me to try when I was so sick. They have made a new woman of rae." Yours Respectful, Mrs. Mary Hollis, Agent. 13" To save Doctor's Bills use Dr. Morse's Indian Root Pills. The Best Family Pill in use. • PRICE 25c. PER BOX. For Sale by all Dealers. W. H. COMSTOCK. Sole Proprietor, BROOKVILLB, - - - ONTAMO. 1 »► UNDER FALSE PRETENCES. CHAPTER I. proloauc to tbe Stori?. In Two Parts. I. It was ia the year 1854 that an English geutleman named Edward Luttrcli took up his abode in a white- walled, green, shuttered villa on the slopes of the western Apennines. He was accompanied by his wife (a Scotchwoman and an heiress), his son (a fine, little fellow, ftve years old), and a couple of English servants. The party had been travelling in Italy for some months, and it was the heat of the approaching summer, as well as the delicate state of health in which Mrs. Luttrell found herself, that induced Mr. Luttrell to seek out some pleasiint house amongst the hills where his wife and child might eujoy cool breezes and perfect repose. For he had lately had reason to be seriously concerned about Mrs. Luttrell's health. The husband and wife were as unlike each other as they well could be. Edward Luttrell was a broad-shouldered, genial, hearty man, warmly affectionate, hasty in word, generous in deed. Mrs. Luttrell was a woman of peculiarly cold manners ; but she was capable, as many members of her house- hold knew, of violent fits of temper and also of implacable resentment. She was not an easy woman to get on with, and if her husband had not been a man of very svveet and pliable nature, he might not have lived with her on such peaceful terms as was generally the case. She had inherited a great Scotch estate from her father, and Edward Luttrell was almost entirely depen- iiSi rt tTNDKn FAt.Si: PHlCI'KNTrS. lU'iit upon her ; but it wnsnotn depeiulenco wlilcli seemed to pcall liim ill Uie verylcnst. PoiljapH he would have been unrenuonable if it Imd done so; for liln wife, in spile of all her faults, was tenderly atlached to him, and never loved him better than when he asserted his authority over her and her possessions. Mr. and Mrs. Luttrell had not been at their pretty white villa for more than two months when a second son was born to them. He Avas baptized almost immediately by an English clergyman then paasinp; through the place, and received the name of Brian. He was a delicate-looking baby, but seemed likely to live and do well. Mrs. Luttrcll's recovery was unusually rapid ; the soft Italian air suited her constilution, and she declared her intention of nursing the child herself. Edward Lutlrell was in high spirits. He had been decidedly nervous before (he event look place, but now that it was safely over he was like a boy in his joyous sense of security. He romped with his little son, he talked patois with the inhabitants of the neighbouring village of San Stefano, he gossiped with the monks of the Benedictine foundation, whose settlement occupied a delightful site on the hillside, and no premonition of coming evil disturbed his heart. Ho thought himself the most fortunate of men. He adored his wife ; he worshipped the baby. His whole heart was bound up in his handsome little Dick, who, at Ave years old, Avas as nearly the image of his father as a child could be. "What had he left to wish for? ' . There had been a good deal of fever at San Stefano throughout the summer. When the little Brian was barely six weeks old, it became only too evident that Mrs. TiUttrell was sickening of some illness— probably the same fever that had caused so mm-h mortality in tlie village. The baby was hastily taken away from her, and a nurse provided. This nurse was a healthy young woman with very thick, black eyebrows and a bright colour; liandsome, perhaps, but not prepossessing. She was the wife of a gardener employed at the villa, and had been recommended by one of the Fathers at the monastery— a certain Padre Cristoforo, who seemed to know the history of every raau, woman and child in San Stefano. She was the mother of twfns, but this was a fact which the Luttrells did not know. This woman, Vincenza Vasari by name, was at flist domiciled in the villa itself with lier charge ; but as more dangerous symptoms declared themselves in Mrs. Luttrell's case, it was thought better that she should take the baby to her own home, « which was a fairly clean and respectable cottage close to the gates of the villa. Here Mr. Luttrell could visit the child from time to time ; but as his wife's illness became more serious be PllOLOaUR. eaw less and less of tho baby, and left It more than ever to Vincpnza'a caro. Vlncenza's own children were with ihelr prandmothpr at a hamlet three miles from San Stefano. Tho grandmother, generally known as old Assunta, used to bring one or another of them sometimes to see Vincenza. Perhaps they took tho infection of fever in the course of these visits ; at any rate one of them was soon reported to bo seriously ill, and Vincenza was cautioner against taking the Luttrells' baby into the village. It was the little LIppo Vasari who was ill ; his twin-brother Dino was reported perfectly well. Some days afterwards Mr. Luttrell, on calling at the cottage as usual, noticed that Vinccnza's eyes were red, and her manner odd and abrupt. Old Assunta was there, with the baby upon her knee. Mr. Luttrell asked what was the matter. Vincenza turned away and burst into tears. " She has lost her baby, signor," the old woman explained. " The little one died last night at the village, and Vincenza could not see it. The doctor will tell you al)out it all," sho said, nodding significantly, and lowering her voice "He knows." Mr. Luttrell questioned the doctor, and received his assurance that Vinccnza*s child (one of t'no twins) had been kept strictly apart from the little Brian Luttrell ; and that there could be no danger of infection. In which assurance tho doctor was perfectly sincere, not knowing that Vlncenza's habit had been to spend a portion of almost every evening at her mother's house, in order to see her own children, to whom, however, sho did not seem to be passionately attached. It is to be noted that tho Luttrells still learned nothing of the existence of the other baby; tJicy fancied that all Vincenza's children were dead. Vincenza had thought that the English lady would be prejudiced against her if she knew that sho was the mother of twins, and had left them both to old Assunta's care ; so, even when Lippo was laid to rest in tho churchyard at San Stefano, the little Dino was carefully kept in the background and not suffered to appear. Neither Mr. Luttrell nor Mrs. Luttrell (until long afterwards) knew that Vincenza had another child. Two months passed before Mrs. Luttrell was suflficiently restored to health to be able to see her children. The day came at last when little Richard was summoned to her room to kiss a pale woman with great, dark eyes, at whom he gazed solemnly, wonderlugly, but with a profound conviction that his own mamma had gone away and left her place to be filled up by some- body else. In point of fact, Mrs. Liittrell's expression was I i 9 . UNDKR FALSE I'HKTKNCKS. curiouRly changed ; uud tho boy'u instinct diucovored Ihc clian^^e at onco. Tlicre was a restless, wandering look In her largo, dark eyes wliich had never been visible in tliem before her illiiesH, except in monu'nts of strong excilen»ent. She did not look like herself. " I want :hc baby," she said, when she had kissed little Richard and talked to him for a ffw moments. " Where is my baby?" Mr. Lutlrell came up to her side and answered her. "The baby is coming, Margaret; VInconza Is bringing hinj." Then, after a pause— "13aby has been ill," ho said. •' You must be prepared to see a great change in him." She looked at liim as if she did not understand. *' Wliat change shall I see?" she said. " Tell Vlnccnza to make haste, Edward. I must see my baby at once ; the doctor said I might see him today." "Don't excite yourself, Margaret ; I'll fetch tliem," said Mr. Luttrell, easily. "Come along, Dick; let us find Vincenza and little brother Brian." He quitted the room, with Dick at his heels. Mrs. Luttrell was left alone. But she had not long to wait. Vincenza entered, made a low reverence, uttered two or three sentences of con- ' gratulation on the English signora's recovery, and then placed the baby on Mrs. Luttrell's lap. What happened next nobody ever precisely knew. But in another monient Vincenzu fled from the room, with her hands to her ears, and her face as white as death. "The signora is mad— mad !" she gasped, as she met Mr. Luttrell in the corridor. " She does not know her own child I She says that she will kill it! I dare not go to her; she says that her' baby is dead, and that that one is mine ! Mine t mine ! Oh, Holy Virgin in Heaven I she says tl.at the child is mine I" Wherewith Vincenza went into strong hysterics, and Mr. Luttrell strode hastily towards his wife's room, from which tho cries of a child could be heard. He found Mrs. Luttrell sitting with the baby on her knee, but although the poor little thing was screaming with all its might, she vouchsafed it no attention. " Tell Vincenza to take her wretched child away," she said. " I want my own. This is her child ; not mine." Edward Luttrell stood aghast. "Margaret, what do you mean?" he ejaculated. " Vincenza's child is dead. This is our little Brian. You are dreaming." He did not know whether she understood him or not, but a wild light suddenly flashed into her great, dark eyes. She dashed the child down upon the bed with the fury of a mad woman. " pnoLonuE. «» "You are deccl.ing me," she cried; *• I know that my child in dead. Tell me the truth ; my child is d(;ad I" •' No such thing, Marg.vret," criod Mr. Luttrell, iilmont angrily ; " how can you utter »uch folly V But his remonstrance passed unheeded Mrs. Luttrell had sunk Insensible to the floor; and her swoon was followed by a long and serious relapse, during which It seemed very unlikely that she would ever awake aKaIn to consciousness. ' The crisis approached. She passed it safely and recovcrel. Then came the tug of war. The little Brian was brought ij uk to the house, with Vincenzii as his nurse ; but Mrs. Luttrell refused to see him. Doctors declared her dislike of the child to he a form of mania; her husband certainly believed it to be so. But the one fact remained. She would not acknowledge the child to be her own, and she would not consent to Its being brought upas Edward Luttrell's son. Nothing would convince her that her own baby still lived, or that this child was not the offspring of the Vasari household. Mr. Luttrell expostulated. Vincenza protested and shed floods of tears, the doctor, the monks, Ih". English nurse were all employed by turn, in tlie endeavour to soften her heart; but every effort was useless. Mrs. Luttrell declared that the baby which Vincenza had brought her was not her child, and that she should live and die in this conviction. Was she mad? Or was some wonderful instinct of mother's love at thebottO)n oi this obstinate adherence to her opinion i Mr. Luttrell honestly ihought that she was mad. And then, mild man as he was, he rose up and claimed his right as her hush ind to do as he tlioUght Ht, He sent for his solicitor, a Mr. Colquhoun, through whom he went so far even as to threaten his wife with severe measures if she did not yield. He would not live with her, he .said— or Mr. Colquhoun reported that he said— unless she chose to bury her foolish fancy in oblivion. There was no doubt in his mind that the child vvas Brian Luttrell, not Lippo Vasari, whose name was recorded on a rough wooden cross in (he churchyard of San Stefano And he insisted upon it that his wife should receive the child as her own. It was a long fight, but in the end Mrs. Luttrell had to yield. She dismissed Vincenza, and she returned to Scotland with the two children. Her husband exacted from her a promise that she would never again speak of the wild suspicion that had entered her min^d ; that under no circumstances would she ever let the poor little boy know of the painful doubt that had been thrown on his identity. Mrs. Luttrell promised, and for three-and-twenty years she kept her word. Perhaps she would not have broken it then but for a certain great trouble which fell upon her, and 10 TJNDKR FALSE PRETIiXCES. I which caused a temporary revival of the strange madness which had led her to hate the child placed in her arms at San Stefano. It was not to be wondered at that Edward Luttrell made a favourite of his second son in after life. A sense of the injustice done him by his mother made the father especially tender to the little Brian ; he walked with liim, talked with him, made a companion of him in every possible way. Mrs. Luttrell regained by dea;rees the cold composure of manner that had distinguished her in earlier life : but .she could not comjnand herself so far as to make a show of afTection for her younger son. Brian was a '/ery small boy indeed when he found that out. *' Mother doesn't I0V.3 me," he said once to his lather, with grieving lips and tear- filled eyes ; "I wonder why." Wliat could I'.is father do but press him passionately to his broad breast and assure him in words of tenderest aftucfciou that lie loved his boy; and that if Brian were good, and true, and brave, his mother would love him too 1 "I will bo very good tlien," said Brian, nestling close up to his fa her's shouUier — for he was a child with exceedingly winning ways and a very aflectionatc disposition— and putting one arm round Mi'. Luttrell's neck. " But you know she loves Richard always- even when he is nauf;hty. And you love me when I'm naughty, too." What could Mr. Luttrell say to that? He died v.heu Ih'ian was fifteen years old ; and the last words upon his tongue were an entreaty that his wife would never tell the boy of the suspicion that had turned her love to him into bitterness. He died, and part of the sting of his death to Mr.^. Luttrell lay in (he fact that he died thinking her mad on that one point. The doctors had called her conviction "a case of mania," and he had implicitly believed them. But suppose she had not been mad all the time I IL Jn San Stefano life went on tranquilly from month to month and year to yeai\ In 1867, Padre Cristoforo of the Benedictine Monastery, looked scarcely older than when he picked out a nurse for the Luttrell family In 1854. He was a tall man, with a stooping gait and a prominent, sagacious chin ; deep-set, medita- tive, dark e> !S, and a somewhat fine and subtle sort of smilo which flickerod for a moment at the corner of his thin-lipped jnouth, and disappeared before you were fully conscience of its presence. Ho was summoned one day from the monastery'(where he now filled the ofiice of sub-Prior) at the earnest request of an old woman who lived in a neighbouring village. She had known him many years before, and thought that it would be easier to • *— •■ »-~— . imiwm n i» t» tmKn^ \_A^ PROLOGUE. 11 tell her story to hiin than to a complete stranger. He had received her communication, and stood by her pallet with evident concern and astonishment depicted upon his face. He held a paper in his hand, at which he planced from time to time as the woman sfjoke. "It was not my doing," moaned the old crone. "It was my daughter's. I have but told you what she said to me five years ago. She said that she did change the children; it was Lippo, indeed, who died, but the child whom the English lady took to England with her was Vincenza's little Dino ; and the boy whom we know as Dino is really the English child. I know not whtther it is true 1 Santa Vergina ! what more can I say ?" "Why did you not reveal the facts five years ago?" said the Father, with some severity of tone. "I will tell you. Reverend Father. Because Vincenza came to me next day and said that she had lied— that the child, Dino, was her own, after all, and tLat she had only wanted to see how much I would believe. What was I to do? I do not know which story to believe ; that is wliy I tell both stories to you before I die." " She denied it, then, next day ?" " Yes, Father ; but her husband believed it, as you will see by that paper. He wrote it down— he could write and read a little, which I could never do ; and he told me what he had written:— ' I, Giovanni Vasari, have heard ray wife, Vincenza, say that she stole an English gentleman's child, and put her own child in its place. I do not know whether this is true ; but I leave my Avritteu word that I was innocent of any such crime, and humbly pray to Heaven that she may be forgiven if she connnitted it.' Is that right, Reverend Father? And then his name, and the day and the year," "Quite right," said Padre Cristoforo. "It was written just before Giovanni died. The matter cannot possibly be proved without further testimony. Where is Vincenza?" "Alas, Father, I do not know. Dead, I think, or she would have come back to me before now. I have not hcax'd of her since she took a situation as maid to a lady in Turin four years ago." "Why have you told me so useless a story at all, then?" said the father, again with some sternness of voice and manner. " Evidently Vincenza was fond of romancing ; and, probably — probably " He did not finish his sentence ; but he was think- ing-" Probably the mad fancy of that English lady about her child— which I well remember— suggested the story to Vincenza as a means of getting money. I wish I had her here." "I have told you the story, Reverend Father," said the old 12 UNDER FALSE PRETENCES. woman, whose voice was growing very weak, " because I know that I am dying, and that the boy will be left alone in the world, which is a sad fate for any boy, Father, whether he is Vincenza's child or the son of the English lady. He is a good lad, Reverend Father, strong, and obedient, and patient; 11 the good Fathers would but take charge of him, and see that he is taught a trade, or put to some useful wo'-k ! He would be no burden to you, my poor, little Dino 1" For a moment the Benedictine's eyes flashed with a quick fire ; then he lookeii. down and stood perfectly still, with his hands folded and his head bent. A new idea had darted across his mind. Did the story that he had just heard offer him no oppor- tunity of advancing the interests of his Order and of his Church? He turned as if to ask another question, but he was too late. Old Assunta war. fast falling into the stupor that is but the precursor of death. He called her attendant, and waited for a time to see whether consciousness was likely to return. But ho waited in vain. Assunta said nothing more. Tlie boy of whom she had spoken came and wept at her bedside, and Padre Cristoforo observed him curiously. He was well worthy of the monk's gaze. He was light and supple in figure, perfectly teamed, with a clear brown skin and a face such as one sees in early Italian paintings of angelic singing-boys— a face with broad, serious brows, soft, oval cheeks, curved lips, and delightfully-dimpled chin. He had large, brown eyes and a mass of tangledj curling hair. The priest noted that his slender limbs were graceful as those of a young fawn, that his hands and feet were small and well shaped, and that his appearance betokened perfect itealth—a slight spareness and sharpness of outline being the only trace which poverty seemed to have left upon liim. The sub-Prior of San Stefano saw these things, and meditated upon certain possibilities in the future. He went -.ext day to old Assunta's funeral, and laid his hand on Dino'a shoulder as the boy was turning disconsolately from his grandmother's grave. " My child," he said, gently. " you are alone." " Yes, Father," said Dino, with a stifled sob. "Will you come with me to the monas<^ery? I think we can find you a home. You have nowhere to go, poor jhild, and you will be weary and hungry before long. Will you cojie?" "There is nothing in the world that I should liice so welll" cried the boy, ardently. "Come then," said the Padre, with one of his subtle smiles. " We W'.il go together, * He htld out his J;and, in which Dino gladly laid his hot and PROLOGUE. 18 trembling fingers. Then the monk and the boy set out on the three miles' walk which lay between them and the monastery. On their arrival, Padre Cristofoi'o left the boy in the cool cloisterb whilst he sought the Prior — a uignitary whose per- t.ission would be needed before Dino would be allowed to stay. There was a school in connection with the monastery, but it was devoted chiefly to the training of young priests, and it was not probable that a peasant like Dino Vasari would be admitted to the ranks of these budding ecclesiastics. The Prior thought that old Assunta's grandchild would make a good helper for Giacomo, the dresser of the vines. " Does that not satisfy you?" said Padrp Cristoforo, in a rather peculiar tone, when he had carried this proposal to Dino, and seen the boy's face suddenly fall, and his eyes fill with tears. " The Reverend Fathers are very good," said Dino, in a some- what embarrassed fashion, " and I will do all that I can to serve them, and, if I could also learn to read and write— and listen to the music in the ch:.pel sometimes— I would work for them all the days of my life." Padre Cristoforo smiled. " You shah have your wish, my child," he said, kindly. " You shall go to the school— not to the vine-dressers. You shall be our son now." But Dino looked up at him timidly. • " And not the English lady's ?" he said. "What do you know about ai English lady, my son?" " My grandmother talked to me of her. Is it true ? She said that I might turn out to be an Englishman, after all. She said that Vinceuza told her that I did not belong to her." "My child," said the monk, ca.mly but firmly, "put these thoughts away from your mind. They are idle and vain imagi- nations. Assunta knew nothing ; Vincenza did not always speak the truth. In any case, it is impossible to prove the (ruth of her stcry. It la a sin to let your mind dwell on the im- possible. Your name is Bernardino Vasari, and you are to be brought up in the monastery of San Stefano by wise aud pious men. Is that not happiness enough for you?" "Oh, yes, yes, indeed; I wish for nothing else," said Dino, throwing himself at Padre Cristoforo's feet, and pressing his lips to the monk's black gown, while the tears poured down his smooth, olive cheeks. " Indeed I am not ungrateful. Reverend Father, and I will never wish to be anything but what you want me to be. ' "Better so," soliloquised the Father, when ho had comforted Dino with kind words, and led him away to join the companions -iill 14 UNDER FALSE PRETENCES. that would henceforth be his ; " better that he should not wish to rise above the station in which he lias been brought up ! We shall never prove Vincenza's story. If we could do that, we should be abundantly recompensed for training this lad in the doctrines of the Church— but it will never be. Unless, indeed, the woman Vincenza could be found And urged to confession. But that," said the monk, Avith a regretful sigli, "that is not likely to occur. And, therefore, the boy will be Dino Vasari, as far as I can see, to his life's end. And Vincenza's child i.s living in the midst of a rich English family under the name of Brian Luttrell. I must not forget the name. In days to come who knows whetJier the positions of tliese two boys may not be reversed ?" Thus mused Father Cristoforo, and then he smiled and shook his head. " Vinconza was always a liar," he said to himself. " It is the most unlikely thing in the world that her story should be true." END OF THE PROLOGUE, CHAPTER II. BY THE LOCH. •' It is you who have been tlie thief, then ?" The question was uttered in tones of withering contempt. The criminal, standing before his judge with downcast face and nervously-twitching fingers, found not a word to reply. "Answer me," said Richard Luttrell, imperatively. " Tell me the truth— or, by Heaven, I'll thrash you within an inch of your life, and make you speak ! Did you, or did you not, take this money out of my strong-box ?" " I meant to put it back," faltered the culprit. He was a slender lad of twenty, with the olive skin, the curling jet-black hair, the liquid-brown eyes, which marker' his descent from a southern race. The face was one of singular beauty. The curved lips, the broad brow on which the dusky hair grew low, the oval cheek and rounded cliin might well have served for the impersonation of some Spanish beggar-boy or Neapolitan fisher-lad. They were of the subtilely sensuous type, expressive of passion ratber than of intellect or will. At present, with the usual rich, ripe colour vanished from cheek and lips, with eyes downcast, and trembling hands dropped to his sides, he was a picture of embodied shame and fear which his cousin and guardian, Richard Luttrell, re- garded with unmitigated disgust. Luttrell himself was a man of veiy different fibre. Tall, strong, fiercely indigtiant, he towered over the youth as if he could il PROT.OGUE, 18 i and shook t face and x.iUln^ily liavo smitten him (o liie earth. He was a fine-looking, bioad-shouldered man of twenty-eiglit, witli sliongly-marked features, browned bj' exposiire to tlie sun and wind. The lower part of his face was almost hidden by a crisp chestnut beard and moustache, whilst his 'eyes were of the reddish hazel tint which often denotes heat o[ temper. The lire which now shot from beneath the severely knitted brows might indeed have dis- mayed a person of stouter heart than Hugo Lut(i*ell. The youth showed no signs of penitence ; he was thoroughly dismayed and alarmed by the position in which he found himself, but that was all. The scene of their interview was hardly in accordance with its painful character. The three men— for there was another whom we have not attempted to describe— stood on the border of a small loch, the tranquil waters of which came lapping almost to their feet as they spoke together. The grassy shores were fringed with alder and rowan-trees. " Above the hearls of the speakers waved the branches of a great Scotch flif, the outpost and sentinel, as it were, of an army of its brethren, standing discreetly a few yards away from the banks of the loch. Itichard Luttrell's house, though not far distant, was out of sight ; and the one little, grey-stone cottage which could be seen had no windows fronting the water. It was a spot, there- fore, in which a prolonged conversation could be carried on with- out much fear of disturbance. Beyond the trees, and on each side of the loch, were ranged the silent hills ; their higher craj^s purple in the sunlight, brown and violet in shadow. The tints of the heather were beginning to glow upon the moors; on the lo^ver-lying slopes a mass of foliage showed its first autumnal colouring; here and there a field of yellow stubble gave a dash of ahnost dazzling brightness to the landscape, under the cloud- less azure of a September sky. Hills, woods, and firmament were alike reflected "^ith mirror-like distinctness in the smooth bosom of the loch, vhere little, brown ducks swam placidly amongst the weeds, and swallows skimmed and dipped and flew in happy ignorance of the ruin that guilt and misery can work in the lives of men. Richard Luttrell stood with his back towards the open door of a large wooden shed used as a boat-house, the interior of which looked densely black by contrast with the brilliant sun- light on the green grass and trees outside it. An open box or two, a heap of fishing tackle, a broken oar, could be seen but ilimly from without. It was in one of these boxes that Richard liUttrell had made, early in the day, a startling discovery. He had come across a pocket-book which had been abstracted from 10 UNDER FALSE PRETENCES. - his strong-box in a most mysterious way about a week before. On opening it, he found, not only certain banknotes which he had missed, but some marked coins and a cornelian seal which had disappecared on previous occasions, proving that a system of robbery had been carried on by one and the same person — evidently a member of the Luttrell household. The spoil was concealed with gi*eat care in a locked box on a shelf, and but for an accidental stumble by which Luttrell had brought down the whole shelf and broken the box itself, it would pi'obably have remained there undisturbed. No one would ever have dreamt of seeking for Luttrell's pocket-book in a box in the boat-house. "How did this get here? Who keeps the second key of the boat-house?" demanded Richard in the first moment of his discovery. And Brian, his younger brother, answered carelessly— " Hugo has had it for the last week or two." Then, disturbed by his brother's tone, he came to Richard's side aiul looked at (he fragments of the box by which Richard was Still kneeling. With an exclamation of surprise he took up the lid of the box and examined it carefully. The name of its owner had been printed in ink on the smooth, brown surface— Hugo Luttrell. And the stolen property was hidden in that little wooden box. The exclamations of 1-he two brothers were characteristic. Richard raised himself with the pocket-book in his hand, and said vehement) J' — " The young scoundrel I He shall rue it 1" While Brian, looking shocked and grieved, sat down on the stump of a tree and muttered, "Poor lad 1" between his teeth, as he contemplated the miserable fragments on the ground. The sound of a bell came faintly to their ears through the clear morning air. Richard spoke sharply. "We must leave the matter for the present. Don't say any thing about it. Lock up the boat-house, Brian, and keep the key. We'll have Hugo down here after breakfast, and see whether he'll make a clean breast of it." " He may know nothing at all about it," suggested Brian, rising from his seat. " It is to be hoped so," said Luttrell, curtly. He walked out of the boat-house with frowning brows and sparkling eyes. " I know one thing — my roof won't shelter him any longer if he is guilty.'' And then he marched away to the house, leaving Brian to lock the door and follow at his ease. That morning's breakfast was long remembered in the Luttrells* house as a period of vague and curious discomfort. The reddish I tT TRK LOriT. 17 ]L>;lit in Riclmrd's eyes was well known for a danger signal ; a storm was in the air Avhen he wore that expression of suppressed emotion. Brian, a good deal disturbed by what had occurred, scarcely spoke at all ; he sat with his eyes fixed on the table, forgetting to ea(, and glancing only from time to time at Hugo's young, beautiful, laughing face, as the lad talked gaily to a visitor, or fed the dogs— privileged inmates of the dining-room— with morsels from his own plate. It was impossible to think that this handsome boy, just entering on the world, fresh froni a military college, with a commission in the Lancers, should have chosen to rob the very man who had been his benefactor and friend, whose house had sheltered him for the last ten years of his life. What could he have wanted with this money? liUttrell made him a handsome allowance, had paid his bills more ihan once,, provided his outfit, put all the resources of hia home at Hugo's disposal, as if he had been a son of the house instead of a penniless dependent— had, in short, behaved to him w^ith a generosity which Brian might have resented had he been of a resentful disposition, seeing that he himself had been much less liberally treated. But Brian never concerned himself about that view of the matter ; only now, when he suspected Hugo of dis- honesty and ingratitude, did he run over in his mind a list of the benefits which the boy had received for many years from the master of the house, and grow indignant at the enumeration. Was it possible that Hugo ':culd be guilty? He had .not been truthful as a schoolboy, Brian remembered; once or twice he had narrowly escaped public disgrace for some dishonourable act — dishonourable in the eyes of his companions, as well as of his masters— a fact which was not to Huj^d's credit. Perhaps, how- ever, there was now some mistake — perhaps the matter might be cleared up. Appearances were against him, but Hugo might yet vindicate his integrity " Brian's meditations were interrupted at this point. His bi'other had risen from the breakfast-table and was addressing Hugo, Avith a great show of courtesy, but with the stern light in his eyes which always made those who knew him best be on their guard with Richard Luttrell. "If you are at liberty," he said, "I want you down at the boat-house. I om going there now." Brian, Avho was watching his cousin, saw a sudden change in his face. His lips turned white, his eyes moved uneasily in their sockets. It seemed almost as if he glanced backwards and forwards in order to look for a way of escape. But no escape Avas possible. Richard stood wailing, severe, inflexible, with that ominous gleam in his eyes. Hugo rose and followed like a dog at his mastei-'s call. Fi'om the moment that Brian marked Ifl UNDKR FALSE PKKTK.VCES. lii« sullen, hang-dog expression and drooping head, ho gave up Ills hope of proving lingo's innocence. IJe would gladly have absented himself from the interview, but Richard summoned him in a voice that admitted of no delay. The lad's own face and words betrayed him when he was shown the pocket-book and I he broken box. He stammered out excuses, prevaricated, lied ; until at last LxitLrcll lost all patience, and insisted upen a dcliiiite reply to his question. And then Hugo muttered his last desperate sdf-justiflcaUon— that he had " meant to put it back !" Richard's stalwart figure, the darkness of his brow, the strong hand in which he was swinging a heavy hunting-crop— caught up, as he left the house, for no decided purpose, but disagreeably significant in Hugo's eye*— bcc;ime dimbly terrible to the lad during the interval of silence that followed his avowal. He glanced snpplicatingly at Brian; but Brian had no aid to give him now. And, when Brian's help failed him, Hugo felt that all was lost. Meanwhile, Brian hiinself, a little in the back ground, leaned against the trunk of a tree which grew close to the shallow ■water's edge, bent his eyes upon the ground and tried to see the boy's face as little as possible. His afFeclion for Hugo had given him an influence over the lad which Richard had certainly never possessed. For, generous as Richfird might be, he was not fond of his young cousin; and Hugo, being aware of this fact, regarded him with instinctive aversion. In his own fashion he did love Brian — a little bit ! Brian Luttrell was at this time barely three-and-twenty. He had rooms in London, where he was supposed to be reading for the bar, but his tastes were musical and literary, and he had not yet made much progress in his legal studies. He had a handsome, intellectual face of a very refined type, thoughtful dark eyes, a long, brown moustache, and small pointed beard of the same colour. He was slighter, less muscular, than Richard ; and the comment often made upon him was that he had the look of a dreamer, perhaps of an artist— not of a very practical man— and that he was extremely unlike his brother. There was, indeed, a touch of unusual and almost morbid sensitiveness in Brian's nature, which, betraying itself, as it did, from time to time, only by a look, a word, a gesture, yet proved his unlikeness to Richard Luttrell more than any dissimilarity of feature could have done. "You meant to put it back, sir!" thundered Richard, after that moment's pause, which seemed like an eternity to Hugo. " And where did you mean to get the money from ? Steal it from 11 BY THE LOCH. 10 some one eke? Folly 1 lies I And for what disj^raccful reason ilid you tako it at all ? You are In debt, I presume?" Hugo's white lips signified assent. "You have been gnnibling again?" He bowed his head. "I thought so. I told you three months ago that i had paid your gambling debts for the last time. I make one exception. I will pay them once again— with the money you have stolen, which you may keep. Much good may it do you!" He flung the pocket-book on the turf at Hugo's feet as he spoke. "Take it. You have paid dearly enough for it, God knows. For the futuie, sir, manjige your own affairs , my house is no longer open to you." "Don't be hard on him, Richard," said Brian, in a voice too low to reach Hugo's ears. "Forgive him this time; he is only a boy, after all— and a boy Avith a bad training." " Will you be so good as to mind your own business, Brian?" said the elder brother, peremptorily. The severity of his tone Increased as he addressed himself again to Hugo. " You will leave Netherglen to-day. Your luggage can be sent after you; give your own directions about it. I suppose you will rejoin your regiment? I neither know nor care what you mean to do. If we meet again, we meet as strangers.' "Willingly," said Hugo, lilting his eyes for one instant to his cousin's face, with an expression so full of brooding hatred and defiance that even Richard Luttrell was amazed. "For Heaven's sake don't say that, Hugo," began the second brother, with a hasty desire to pave the way for reconciliation. "Why not?" said Hugo. The look of abject fear was dying out of his tace. The worst, he thought, was over. He drew himself up, crossed his arms, and tried to meet Brian's reproachful eyes with confidence, but in this attempt he was not successful. In spite of himself, the eyelids dropped until the long, black lashes almost touched the smooth, olive cheek, across which passed a transient flush of shame. This sign of feeling touched Brian; the lad was surely not hopelessly bad if he could blush for jiis sins. But Richard went on ruthlessly. "You need expect no further help from rae. I own you as a relation no longer. You have disgraced the name you bear. Don't let me see you again in my house." He was too indignant, too much excited, to speak in anything but short, sharp sentences, each of which seemed more bitter than the last. Richard Luttrell was Itttle concerned for Hugo's welfare, much for the honour of the family. " Go," he said, " at once, and I will not publish your II" ) 20 UNDKU FALSI') PRKTENCES. shameful conduct to llic world. If you return to my house, if you seek to establish any coniniunictitlon with members of my family, I wliall not keep your secret." " Speak for yourself, llichard," said liis brother, warmly, " not forme. I hope that lingo will do better in time ; and I don't mean to ^ive him up. You must make an exception for me when you speak of separating him from the family." •* I make no exception," said Richard. Brian drew nearer to his brother, and uttered his next words in a lower tone. "Think what you are doiiiK," he said. "You will drive him to desperation, and, after all, he is only a boy of nineteen. Quite young enough to repent and reform, if we are not too hard upon him now. Do as you think fit for yourself and your own house- Ijold, but you must not stand in the way of what I can do for him, little though that may be." "I stand to what I have said," answered Richard, harshly. "I will have no communication between him and you." Then, folding his arms, he looked grimly and. sardonically *ato Brian's face. " I trust neitlier of you," he said. " We all know that you are only too easily led by those whom you like to be led by, and l»e is a young reprobate. Choose for yourself, of course ; I have no claim to control you, only, if you choose to be friendly with liim, I shall cut off the supplies to you as well as to liim, and I shall expose him publicly." Brian took away the hand which, in the ardour of his pleading, he had laid upon Richard's arm. Had it not been for Hugo's sake, he would have quitted the spot in dudgeon. He knew in his heart that it was useless to argue with Richard in his present state of passion. But for Hugo's sake he swallowed his resent- ment, and made one more trial. " If he repents " he began doubtfully, and never iiuished the sentence. "I don't repent," said Hugo. His voice wae hoarse and broken, but insolently defiant. By a great cITort of will he fixed his haggard eyes full on Richard Luttrell's face as he spoke. Richard shrugged his shoulders. " You hear?" he said, briefly to his brother. "I hear," Brian answered, in a low, pained tone. With an air of bravado Hugo stooped and picked up the pocket- book which still lay at his feet. He weigned it in his hand, and then laughed aloud, though not very steadily. "It is full still," he said. " It will be usefui, no doubt. I am much obliged to you, Cousin Richard." The action, and the words accompanying it, shocked eyeu iUlm BY IHK LOCH. 21 liy, " not 1 I don't I for me Richard, who professed to think notliing too bad for Hugo's powers. He tossed his head l)ack and turned awuy with a con* temptuous "Good Heavens I" Brian walked for a few paces distance, and then stood still, with his back to his couHin. Hugo glanced from one to the other with uneasiness, wliich h tried to veil by an assumption of disdain, and dropped the purse furtively Into his pocket. He was ill-pleased to see Jlichard turn back with lowered eyebrows, and a look of stern determination upon his bearded face. "Brian," said Luttrell, more quietly than he had yet spoken, *• I think I see mother coming down the road. Will you meet her and lead her away from the loch, without telling her the reason ? I don't wish her to meet this— this gentleman— ajr Wtt8 laid in the grave, he took Hugo home with him to Netherglen. Richard Luttrell could hardly have treated Hugo more generously than he did, but it must be confessed that lie never liked the boy. The faults which were evident from the Mist day of his entrance into the Luttrells' liome, were such as dis- gusted and repelled the somewhat austere young ruler of the household. Hugo pilfered, lied, ciiiigod, .stormed, in turn, like a veritable savage. He was sent to school, and learned the wisdom of keeping his tongue silent, and his evil deeds concealed, but he did not learn to amend his ways. In spite of his frequent misconduct, he liad some qualities which endeared him to the hearts of those whom he cared to conciliate. His nct'ivdc, his caressing ways, his beautiful, delicate face and ajipealing eyes, were not without etrect even upon the severest of his judges. Owing, perhaps, to these attributes rather than to any positive merit of his own, he scrambled through life at school, at a tutor's, at a military college, without any irreparable disgrace, his apti- tude for getting into scrapes being equalled only by his cleverness in getting out of them. Richard, indeed, had at limes received rejjorts of his condiiet which made liim speak angrily and threaten condign punishment, but not until this day, when the discovery of the lost bank-notes in Hugo's possession betokened an absence of principle transcending even Richard's darkest anticipations, had any serious breach occurred between the cousins. With some men, the ("act that it was the first grave ofVence would have had weight, and inclined them to be mer- ciful to the oflender, but Richard Luttrell was not a merciful man. When he discovered wrong-doing, he punished it with the utmost severity, and never trusted the culprit again. He had been known to say, in boasting accents, that he did not under- stand what forgiveness meant. Forgiveness of injuries? Weak- ness of mind ; that was his opinion. 24 tJNDER FALSE PRETENCES. • I Hugo Luttrell's nature was also not a forgiving one. He lay upon the p^ass, writhing, sobbing, tearing at the ground in an access of passion equally composed of rage and shame. He had almost lost the remembrance of his own offence in resentment of its punisliment. He had been struck ; he had been insulted ; he, a Sicilian gentleman! (Hugo never thought of himself as an Englishman.) He loathed Richard Luttrell ; he muttered curses upon him as he loy on the earth, with every bone aching from his cousin's blows ; he wished that he could wipe out the memory of the affront in Richard's blood. Richard would laugh at a challenge ; a duel was not the English method of settling quarrels. "I will punish him in another way; it is a vendettaf' said Hugo to himself, choking down his passionate, childish sobs. "He is a brute— a great, savage brute ; he does not deserve to livel" He was too much absorbed in his reflections to notice a footstep on the grass beside him, and the rustle of a woman's dress. Some one had drawn near, and was looking pityingly, wonder- ingly, down upon the slight, boyish form that still shook and quivered with irrepressible emotion. A woman's voice sounded in his ear. " Hugo !" it said ;' " Hugo, what is the matter ? " With a start he lifted his head, sliowed a flushed, tear-swollen countenance for one moment, and then hid it once more in his hands. " Oh, Angela, Angela!" he cried ; and then the hysterical passion mastered him once more. He could not speak for sobs. She knelt down beside him and placed one hand soothingly upon his ruffled, black locks. For a few minutes she also did not speak. She knew that he could not hear. The world was not wrong when it called Angela Vivian a beautiful woman, although superfine critics objected that her features were not perfect, and that her hair, her eyes, her com- plexion, were all too colourless for beauty. But her great charm lay in the harmonious character of her appearance. To deepen the tint of that sofc, pale hair— almost ash-coloured, with a touch of gold in the heavy coils— to redden her beautifully-shaped mouth, and her narrow, oval face, to imagine those sweet, calm, grey eyes of any more definite shade would have been to make her no longer the Angela Vivian that so many people knew and loved. But if fault were found with her iu^e, no exception could be taken to her figure and the grace with which she moved. There, at least, she was perfect. Angela Vivian was twenty-three, and still unmarried. It was said that she had been difficult to please. But her choice was made at last. She was to be married to Richard Luttrell before the end of the year. They had been playmates in childhood, and HUGO LUTTRELL. 23 their parents had been old friends. Ak'.gela was now visiting Mrs. Luttrell, who was proud of her son's choice, and made much of her as a guest at Netherglen. She spoke to Hugo as a sister might have done. " What is it, dear ?" she asked liim, smoothing out liis short, dark curls, as she spoke. " Can't you tell me ? Is it some great trouble ?" For answer he dragged himself a little closer to her, and bowed his hot forehead on one of her hands, which she was resting ou the ground, while she stroked his hair with the other. The action touched her; she did not know why. His sobs were quietening. He was by no means very manly, as English people understand manliness, but even he was ashamed to be found crying like a baby over his woes. "Dear Hugo, can you not tell me what is wrong?" said Angela, more seriously aiarmed by his silence than by his tears. She had a right to question him, for he had previously given her as much of his conSdence as he ever gave to anybody, and she had been a very good friend to him. " Are you in some great trouble 1" " Yes," he said, in a voice so choked that she could hardly hear the word. " And you have been in some scuffle surely. Your clothes are torn— you are hurt !" said she. sympathetically. " Why, Hugo, you must have been fighting 1" Then, as he gave her no answer, she resumed in a voice of terder concern, "You are not really hurt, are you, dear boy? You can move— you can get up? Shall I fetch anyone to help vou ?" " No, no, no !" he cried, clutching at her dress, as though to stay her going. "Don't leave me. I am not hurt— at least, I can walk and stand easily enough, though I have been hurt — set upon, and treated like— like a dog by him " "By whom, Hugo?" said Angela, startled by the tenor of his incoherent sentences. " Who has set upon you and ill-treated your But Hugo hid his face. " I won't tell you," he said, sullenly. There was a silence. "Can I do anything for you?" Angela asked at length, very gently. " No." She waited a little longer, and, as he made no further sign, she tried to rise. "Shall I go, Hugo?" she said. "Yes— if you like." Then he burst out passionately, "Of course, you win go. You are like everybody else. You are like Richard Luttrell. You will do what he tells you. I am abandoned by everybody. You all hate me ; and I hate you all !" ! 20 UNDER FALSK PRETKNCES. Little as Angela vindcrstood his words, there was somethinc; iu them that made her seat herself beside him on the grass, instead of leaving him alone. "Dear Hugo," she said, "I have never haled yon." "But you will soon." " I see," said she, softly. " I understand you now. You are in trouble— you have been doing sometliing wi-ong, and you ihink that we shall be an^;ry witli you. Listen, nup;o, Kichard maybe angry at first, but lie is l fested his annoyance in public— and only their silence to each other betrayed that anything was wrong. r ^ tTNDER FAtSE PRETENCES. The party separated into three portions after luncheon. Mrs. Luttrell and a lady of her own a^e agreed to remain indoors, or to stroll quietly round the garden. Angela and two or three other young people meant to get out the boat and fish the loch for pike. Richard and a couple of his friends were going to shoot in the neighbouring woods. And, while these arrangements were making, and everybody was standing about the hall, or in the wide porch which opened out into the pjarden, Hugo's name was again mentioned. '• What has become of that boy ? " said Mrs. Luttrell. *' He is not generally so late. Richard, do you know ?" " I'll tell you afterwards, mother," answered her son, in a low tone. " Don't say anything more about him just now.' "Is there anything wrong?" said his mother, also lowering hor voice. But he had turned away. " Brian, what is it?" she asked, impatiently. " r Heaven's sake, don't ask Brian," said Richard, looking back over his shoulder, "there is no knowing what he may not require you to believe. Leave the story to me." "I've no desire to tell it," replied Brian, moving away. Luttrell's friends were already outside the hall door, lighting their cigars and playing with the dogs. A keeper stood in the background, waiting until the party should start. " Aren't you coming, Brian ? " said one of the young men. " I'll join you presently." said Brian. '* I am going down to the loch first to get out the boat." ''What a splendid gun that is of yours !" said Archie Grant, the younger of the two men. " It is yours, is it not? I saw it in the corner of the hall as I came in. Ton had it the other day at the Duke's." " It was not mine. It belongs to Hugo." •* Let me have a look at it again ; it's an awfully fine one." " Are you ready, Grant?" said Ricliard Luttrell, coming forward. " What are you looking for ? " " Oh, nothing ; a gun," said the young fellow. " I see it's gone. I thought it was there when I first came in; it's of no •consequence." ** Not your own gun, I suppose ?" *' No, no ; I have my own. It was Hugo's.** *' Yes ; rather a fine one," said Richard, indiflferently. * You're not coming, then?"— to Brian— "well, perhaps it's as well." And he marched away without deigning to bestow another look or word upon his brother. Five minutes afterwards, Mrs. Luttrell and Angela en- countered each other in a passage leading to one of the upper HUGO LUTTRELT,. 29 rooms. No one was near. Mrs. Luttrell -she was a tall, hand- some woman, strikingly like Richard, in spite of her snow- white hair— laid her hand gently on Angela's shoulder. ••Why do you look so pale, Angela?" she said. "Your eyes are red, child. Have you been crying because those ill-bred lads of mine could not keep a still tongue in their heads at the luncheon-table, but must needs wrangle together as they used to when they were just babies ? Never you mind, my dear ; it's not Richard's fault, and Brian was always a troublesome lad. It will be better for us all when he's away at his books in London." She patted Angela's shoulder and passed on, leaving the girl more vexed than comforted. She v^as sorry to see Mrs. Luttrell show the partiality for Richai'd which everyone accused her of feeling. In the mother's eyes, Richard was always right and Brian wrong. Angela was just enough to be troubled at times by this difference in the treatment of the brothers. Brian went down to the loch os*:eusibly to get out the boat. In reality he wanted to see whether Hugo were still there. Richard had told him of the punishment to which he had subjected the lad ; and Brian had been frankly indignant about it. The two had come to high words; thus thei'e had, indeed, been some foundation for the visitors' suspicions of a previous quarrel. Hugo had disappeared ; only the broken brushwood and the crushed bracken told of the struggle that had taken place, and o£ the boy's agony of grief and rage. Brian resolved to follow and And him. He did not like the thought of leaving him to bear his shame alone. Besides, he understood Hugo's nature, and he was afraid— though he scarcely knew what he feared. But he searched in vain. Hugo was not to be found. He did not seem to have quitted the place altogether, for he had given no orders about his luggage, nor been seen on the road to the nearest town, and Brian knew that it would be almost impossible to find him in a short space of time if he did not wish to be dis- covered. It was possible that he had gone into the woods ; he was as fond of them as a wild animal of his lair. Brian took his gun from the rack, as an excuse for an expedition, then sallied forth, scarcely hoping, however, to be successful in his search. He had not gone very far when he saw a man's form at some little distance from him, amongst the trees. He stopped short and reconnoitered. No, it was not Hugo. That brown shooting- coat and those stalwart limbs belonged rather to Richard Luttrell. Brian looked, shrugged his shoulders to himself, and then turned back. He did not waul to meet his brother then. But Richard had heard the footstep and glanced round. After a moment of evident hesitation, he quitted his position and -~-_:~™'^'ir..- ao tJNDER FALSE PRETENCES. tramped ovei- the soft, uneven ground to his brother, who, seeing that he had been observed, awaited his brother's coming witli some uncertainty of feeling. Richards face had wonderfully cleared since the morning, and his voice was almost cordial. " You've come ? That's right," he said. "Got anything?" •• Nothing much. I never saw young Grant shoot so wild. And my hand's not very steady— after this morning's work." He laughed a little awkwardly and looked away. " That fellow deserved all he got, Brian. But if you choose to see him now and then and be friendly with him, it's your own look out. I don't wish to interfere." It was a great concession from Richard— almost as much as an apology. Brian involuntarily put out his hand, which Richard grasped lieartily if I'oughly. Neither of them found it necessary to say more. The mutual understanding was complete, and each hastily changed the subject, as though desirous that nothing further should be said about it. If only some one had been by to witness that tacit reconciliation ! CHAPT3R IV. IN THE TWILIGHT. It was already dusk under the thick branches of the wood, although the setting sun shone brilliantly upon the loch. Luttrell's friends were to dine with him, and as dinner was not until eight o'clock, they made rather a long circuit, and had some distance to return. Brian had joined Archie Grant ; the second visitor was behind them with the keeper ; Richard Luttrell had been accidentally separated from the others, and was supposed to be in front. Archie was laughing and talking gaily ; Brian, whose mind ran much upon Hugo, was somewhat silent. But even he was no proof against Archie's enthusiasm, when tlie young fellow suddenly seized him by the arm, and pointed out a fine capercailzie which the dogs had just put up. Brian gave a quick glance to his companion, who, however, had handed his gun to the keeper a short time before, and shook his head deprecatingly. Brian lifted his gun. It seemed to him that something was moving amongst the branches beyond the bird, and for a moment he hesitated— then pulled the trigger. And just as he touched it, Archie sprang forward witli a cry. " Don't fire I Are you blind ? Don't you see what you are doing?" But it was too late. SSBH IN THK TWIJ-IGIIT. 81 The bird flew f way unhavni^U, but the shot seemed to have found another mark. There was the sound of a sudden, heavy fall. To Brian's horror and dismay he saw that a man had been standing amongst the brushwood and smaller trees just beyond the ridge of rising ground towards which his gun had been directed. The head only of this man could have been visible from the side of the bank on which Brian was standing ; and even the head could be seen very indistinctly. As Brian fired, it seemed to him, curiously enough, as if another report rang in his ears beside that of his own gun. Was any one else shooting in the wood? Or had his senses played him false in the hoi'vor of the moment, and caused him to mistake an echo for another shot ? lie had not time to settle the question. For a moment he stood transfixed ; then he rushed forward, but Archie had been before him". The young man was kneeling by the prostrate form and as Brian advanced, he looked up with a face as white as death. " Keep back," he cried, scarcely knowing v. hat he said. " Don't look— don't look, for a moment ; perhaps he'll open his eyes : perhaps he is not dead. Keep back ! " Dead I Brian never forgot the sick feeling of dread which then came over him. What had he done 'i He did not hear Archie's excited words ; he came hurriedly to the side of the man, who lay lifeless upon the ground, with his head on the young fellow's kuee. Archie looked up at him with dilated, terrified eyes. And Brian stood stock still. It was Richard who lay before him, dead as a stone. He had dropped without a cry, perhaps even without a pang. There was a little purple mark upon his temple, from which a drop of black blood had oozed. A half-smile still lingered on his mouth ; his face had scarcely changed colour, his attitude was natural, and yet the spectators felt that Death had set his imprint on that tranquil brow. Richard Luttrell's day was over ; he had gone to a world where he might perhaps stand in need of that mercy which he had been only too ready to deny to others who had eri'ed. Archie's elder brother, Donald Grant, aiid the keeper were hurrying to the spot. They found Brian on his knees beside the body, feeliro; with trembling hands for the pulse that beat no longer. His face was the colour of ashes, but as yet he had not uttered a single word. Donald Gi'unt spoke first, with an anxious glance towards his brother. " How " he began, and then stopped short, for Archie had silenced him with an almost imperceptible sign towards Brian Luttrell. UNDER falsi: pretknces. '• He must be carried Brian, shall I send *' We heard two sliots," muttered Donald, as he also bent over the prostrate form. " Only one, I think," said Arcbie. His brother pulled him aside. "I tell you I heard two," he said in a hushed voice. "You didn't fire?" " I had no gun." "Was it Brian?" " Yes. He shot straight at— at Richard ; didn't see him a bit. He was always 8hort-sip;hte(l." Donald gave his brother a look, and then turned to the keeper, whose face was working with unwonted emotion at the sight before him. • " We must get help," he said, gravely, home, and some one must go to Dunmuir to the village for you ? " He touched Brian's shoulder as he spoke. The young man rose, and turned his pale face and lack-lustre eyes towards his friend as though he could not understand the question. Donald re- peated it, changing the form a little. " Shall I send for the men?" he said. Brian pressed his hand to his ioiehead. " The men ?" he said, vaguely. " To carry— hiiu to the house." Donald was compassionate, but he was uncomprehending of his friend's apparent want of emotion. He wanted to stir him up to a more definite show of feeling. And lo some extent he got his wish. A look of horror came into Brian's eyes ; a shudder ran through his frame. " Oh, my God I" he whispered, hoarsely, " is it I who have done this thing?" And then he threw up his hands as though to screen his eyes from the sight of the dead face, staggered a lew e teps away from the little group, and fell fainting to the ground. It was a sad procession that wound its way through the woodland paths at last, and stopped at the gate of Netherglen. Brian had recovered sufficiently to walk like a mourner behind the covered stretcher on which his brother s form was laid ; but he paid little attention to the whispers that were exchanged from time to time between the Grants and the men who carried that melancholy burden to the Luttrelis' door. On coming to himself after his swoon he wept like a child for a little time, but had then collected himself and become sadly quiet and calm. Still, he was scarcely awake Lo anything but the mere fact of hia l8o bent over olce. " You ie him a bit. • the keeper, it the sight t be carried iliall I send g man rose, i liis friend JDonaid re- lending of stir Jjiui extent he through have done his eyes way from >ugh the therglen. sr beliind aid; but changed carried ming to me, but d calm. tof his IN THE TWIT-TO IIT. W great misfortune, and it was not until the (juestion was actually put to him, that ho asked liinisolf wliethrT lie could bear to take the news to his mother of (he death of hov eldest son. Brave as he was, he shrank from the task. " No, no 1" he said, looking wildly into Donald's face. " Not I. 1 am not the one to tell her, that I— that I " A great sob burst from him in spite ofl)is\isnal self-control. Donald Grant turned aside ; he did not know how to bear the spectacle of grief such as this. And there were others to be thought of beside Mrs. Luttroll. Miss Vivian -Richarc' Luttrell's promised wife— was in the house ; Donald Grant's own sisters were still waiting for liirn Mid Archie. It was impossible to go up to the house without preparing its tenants for the blow that had fallen upon them. Yet who would prepare them? "Here is the doctor," said Archie, turning towards the road. " He will tell them." Doctor Muir had long been a trusted friend of the Luttrell family. He bad liked Richard rather less than any other member of the household, but lie was sincerely grieved and shocked by the news which had greeted him as he went upon his rounds. The Grants drew him aside and gave bim their account of the acci- dent before he spoke to Brian. The doctor bad tears in his ejes wlien they had finished. He went up to Brian and pressed liis unresponsive hand. "My boy— my boy I" he said; "don't be cast down. It was the will of God." He pulled out a liandkerchief and rubbed away a tear from his eyes as he spoke. "Shall I just see your poor mother? I'll step up to the house, and ye'll wait here till my return. Eh, but it's awful, awful !" The old man uttered the last words more to himself than to Brian, whose hand he again shook mechanically before he turned away. Brian followed him closely. "Doctor," Ixe said, in a low, liusky voice, " I'll go with you." "You'll do nothing of the sort," said Dr. Muir, sharply. " Why, man, your face would be enough to tell the news, in all conscience. You may walk to the door with me— the back door, if you please— but further you shall not coine until I have seen Mistress Luttrell. . Here, give me your arm ; you'ie not fit to go alone with that white face. And how did it happen, my poor lad?" "I don't know— I can't tel', said Brian, slowly. "I saw the bird rise from the bank— and tlien I saw something moving— but I thought I must be mistaken ; and I fired, and ho— he fell ! By my hand, tool Oh, Doctor, is there a God in Heaven to let such things be ?" I M m <■: - 5^ M UNDKR falsi: PlUlTI.i^CKS. "Hut, tut, tut, but we'll have no such words as these, my bairn. If the Lord lets these things happen, we'll maybe find that He's had some good reason for't. He's always in the rljarht. And ye must just learn to bow yourself, Brian, to the will of the Almighty, for there's no denying but lie's laid a sore trial upon ye, my poor lad, and one that will be hard to bear." " I shall never bear it," said Brian, who caught but imperfectly the drift of (he doctor's simple words of comfort. "It is too hard— too hard to bear." They had reached the back door, by which Dr. Muii- preferred to make his entrance. Be ultc^d a few words to the servants about the accident that had occurred, and then sent a message asking to speak alone with Mrs. Luttrell. The answer camn back that Mrs. Luttrell would see him in the study. And thither the doctor went^ leaving Brian in one of the cold, stone corridors that divided the kitchens and offices from the living-romis of the house. Meanwhile, the body of Richard Luttrell was silently carried into one of the lower rooms until another place could bo prepared for its reception. How long Bxvan waited, with his foreh iad, pressed against the wall, deaf and blind to everything but an overmastering dread of his mother's agony which had taken complete possession of him, he did not know. He only knew that after a certain time— an eternity it seemed to him —a bitter, wailing cry came to his ears ; a cry that pierced thi'ough the thick walls and echoel down the dark passages, although it was neither loud nor long. But there was something in the intensity of the grief that it ex- pressed which seemed to give it a peculiarly penetrating quality. Ah, it was this sound that Brian now knew he had been dreading ; this sound that cut him to the heart. Dr. Muir, on coming hurriedly out from the study, found Brian iu thf corridor with his hands pressed lO his ears as if to keep out the sound of that one fearful cry. "Come away, my boy," he said, pitifully. " We can do no good here. Where is Miss Vivi.-fli?" Brian's hands dropped to his Bides. He kept his eyes fixed oji the doctor's face as if he would read his very soul. And for the moment Doctor Muir could not meet that piercing gaze. He tried to pass on, but Brian laid his hand on his arm. "Tell me all," he said. "What does my mother say? Has it killed her ? " "Killed her? People are not so easily killed by grief, my dear Mr. Brian," said the doctor. " Come away, come away. Your mother is not just herself, and speaks wildly, as mothers are wont to do when they lose their first-born son, We'U upt niind IN THE TWIT.IOnT. 3A :an do no good what she says just now. Whore is Miss Vivian? It Is she tliat I want to see." "I understand," said Brian, taking away his liands from the doctor's arm and hiding his face with them, " my mother will not see me; she will not forgive my — my — accursed care- "Worsethan that r muttered the doctor to h-.nself, but, for tunately, Brian did not hear. And at that moment a slender woman's figure appeared at the end of the corridor ; it hesitated, moved slowly forward, and then approached them hastily. "Is Mrs. Luttrell ill?" asked Angela. She had a candle in her hand, and the beams fell full upon her soft, white dress and the Eucharis lily in her hair. She had twisted a string of pearls three times round her neck- it was an heirloom of great value. The other ornaments were all Richard's gifts ; two broad bands of gold set with pearls and diamonds upon her arms, and the diamond ring which had been the pledge of her betrothal. She was very pale, and her eyes were large with anxiety as she asked her question of the two men, whom her appearance had struck with dumbness. Brian turned away with a half-audible groan. Doctor Muir looked at her intently from beneath his shaggy, grey eyebrows, and did not speak. "I know there is something wrong, or you would not stand like this outside Mrs. Luttrell's door," said Angela, with a quiver in her sweet voice. "AndRichard is not here! Where s Richard?" There was silence. " Something has happened to Richard ? Some accident- gome " She stopped, lookelr sad hurdt-ii to a side door which opened into a siltinR-room not very f;;('niMally nHcd. The liousekeeper, an old and faithful servant of the family, had already prepared it, accoi'ding to the doctor'H onlcrH, for tlie reception of the dead. The visitors hurriedly took their departure; Donald Grant's wa^ionette had been at the door some little time, and, as soon as lie had seen poor Richard LnltreH's remains laid upon a long table in the sitting-room, he drove silently away, with Archie on the box-seat beside him, and the three girls In the seats behind, crying over the troubles of their friends. Doctor Muir and Brian Luttrell remained for some time In the passage outside the study door. The doctor tried several times to persuade his companion to leave his post, but Brian efused to do so. " I must wait ; I must see my mother," he repeated, when the doctor pressed him to come away. "Oh, I know that she will not want to see me; she will never wish to look on my face again, but I must see her and remind her that— that— she has oi>e son left— who loves her still." And then Brian's voice broke and he said no more. Doctor Muir shook bis head. He did not believe that Mrs. Luttrell would be much comforted by his reminder. She had never seemed to love her second son. " Where is Hugo?" the doctor asked, in an undertone, when the silence had lasted some time. " I do not know." " He will be home to-night ?" " I do not know." All this time no sound had reat.ied them from the interior of the room Avhere the two women sat together. Their voices must have been very low, their sobs subdued. Angela had not cried out as Mrs. Luttrell had done when she received the fatal news. No movement, no sign of grief was to be heard. Brian lifted up his grief-stricken eyes at last, and fixed them on the doctor's face. •' Are they dead ?" he muttered, strangely. " Will they never speak again?" Doctor Muir did not immediately reply. He had placed the candle on a wooden bracket in the wall, and its flickering beams lighted the dark con idor so feebly that until no%he had scarcely caught a glimpse of the young man's haggard looks. They frightened him a little. He himself took life so easily— fretted BO little against the inevitable— that he scarcely understood the tN xnr TwiT.Tfjnt. in one, when the id fixed them ill they never look of nnRuirth whUli an liour or two of trouhle had iiuprlutcd upon Uriim JiUHrt«irs fuoo. It was the kind of Horrow which han been known to turn a iima'a hair from black to white in a Hingle nigiit. "I will knock at the door, said the doctor. But before ho could carry out his intention, footstup-s were heard, and (he handle of (ho door was turned. Both men drew l)ack involun- tarily into the shadow as Mrs. Luttrell and Angela came forth. Angela had been weeping, but there were no signs of tears upon the elder woman's face. Rigid, white, and hard, it looked almost as if it were carved in stone ; a mute image of misery too deep for tears. There were lines upon her brow that had never been seen there before; her lips were tightly compressed; her eyes fiercely bright. Slie had thrown a black shawl over her head on coming away from the drawing-room into the draughty corridors. This shawl, which she had forgotten to remove, to- gether with the dead blackness of lier dress, gave her pale face a strangely spectral appearance. Clinging to her, and yet guiding her, came Angela, wiih the white tlower crushed and drooping from her liair. She also was ashy pale, but there was a more natural and tender look of grief to bo read in her wet eyes and on her trembling lips than in the stony tranquility of Richard Luttrell's mother. Brian could not contain himself. He rushed forward and threw himself on the ground at his mother's feet. Mrs. Luttrell shrank back a little and clutched Angela's arm fiercely with her thin, white fingers. " Mother, speak to me ; tell me that you— mother, only speak 1" His voice died away In Irrepressible sobs which shook him from head to foot. He dared not utter the word "forgiveness" yet. Unintentional as the harm might be that his hand had done, it was sadly irreparable, too. Mrs. Luttrell looked at him with scarcely a change of feature, and tried to withdraw some stray fold of her garments from his grasp. He resisted ; he would not let her go. His heart was achijig with his own trouble, and with the consciousness of her loss— Angela's loss— all the suffering that Richard's death would Inflict upon these two women who had loved him so devotedly. He yearned for one little word of comfort and afll'ection, which even in that terrible moment, a mother shovild have known so well how to give. But he lay at that mother's f jet In vain. It was Anglila who spoke first. "Speak to him, mother," she said, tremblingly. "See how he suffers. It was not his fault." The tears ran down her pale cheeks unnoticed as she spoke. It 3» UNDLH FALSE PKETENtES. was only uatural to Angela that her first words should be words of consolation to another, not of sorrow for her own great loss. But Mrs. Luttrell did not unclose her lips. " Ye'll not be hard upon him, madam," said the old doctor, deprecatiugly. " Your own lad, and a lad that kneels to you for a gentle word, and will be heartbroken if you say him nay." "And is my heart not broken?" asked the mother, lifting her head and looking away into the darkness of the long corridor. "The son that I loved is dead ; the boy that came to me like a little angel in the spring of my youlh— they say that he is dead and cold. I am going to look at his face again. Come, Angela. Perhaps they have spoken falsely, and he is alive— not murdered, after all." "Murdered? Mother 1 Brian raised himself a little and repeated the word with shuddering emphasis. "Murdered!" said Mrs. Luttrell, steadily, as she turned her burning eyes full upon the countenance of her younger son, as if to watch tlie workings of his agitated features. "If not by the laws of man, by God's laws you are guilty. You had quarrelled with him that day ; and you took your revenge. I tell you, James Muir, and you, Angela Vivian, that Biian Luttrell took his brother's life by no mistake— that he is Ricliard's murderer " "No; I swear it by the God who made me— nol" cried Brian. springing to liis feet. But his mother had turned away. CHAPTER V. THE DEAD man's TESTIMONY. About ten o'clock at night Hugo Luttrell -was seen entering liie courtyard at the back of the house, where keepers, grooms, aud indoor servants were collected in a group, discussing in low tones the event of the day. Seeing these persons, he seemed inclined to go back by the way that he had come ; but the butler — an old Englishman who had been in the Luttrell family before Edward Luttrell ever thought of marrying a Scotch heiress and settling for the greater part of every year at Netherglen— this said butler, whose name was William Whale, caught sight of the young fellow and accosted him by name. "Mr. Hugo, sir, there's been many inquiries after you, he began in a lugubrious tone of voice. "After me, William?" Hugo looked Mj^litened and uneasy. "What for?" "You won't have beard of the calamily that has come upon i be woi'cla iijreat loss. (Id doctor, to you for aay." lifting her ; corridor, me like a he is dead le, Angela. murdered, ivord with burned her jr son, as if not by the [ quarrelled you, James 11 took his 'derer "' •led Brian. entering s, grooms, sing in low le seemed he butler- ail y before h heiress ■glen— this t sight of you, he Id uneasy. come upon A DKAD man's TESTIMONY, 39 Come into the the night has question. H« "wet, torn and the house," said William, shaking hi^ head solenmly ; " and it will be a great shock to you, no aoubt, sir ; a terrible shock. Stand back, you men, there ; let Mr. Hugo pass, housekeeper's room, sir. There's a fire in it ; turned chilly. Go softly, if you please, sir." Hugo followed the old man without another looked haggard and wearied ; his clothes were soiled ; his vex-y hair was damp, and his boots were soaked and burst as though from a long day's tramp. Mrs. Shairp, Ihe house- keeper, with whom he .vas a favourite, uttered a startled ex- clamation at his appearance. " Guid guide us, sirs ! and whaur hae ye been hidin' yoursel a' this day an' nicht, Mr. Hugo ? We've haen sair trouble i' th' hoose, and naebody kent your whaurabouts. Bairn ! but ye're just droukit ! Whaur hae you hidden yoursel' then?" "Hidden!" Huf>;o repeated, catching at one of the good woman's words and ignoring the others. "I've not hidden anywhere. I've been over the hills a bit— that's all. What is the matter?" He seated himself in the old woman's cushioned chair, and leaned forward to A/arm himself at the fire as he spoke, holding ou'u first one hand and then the other (o the leapinj^- blaze. "How will I tell you?" said Mrs. Shair]), relapsing into the tears she had been shedding for the last two hours or more. " Is it possible that ye've heard uaething ava? The laird — Xetliergleu himscl'— oor maister— and have you heard naething aboot him as you cam doun by the muir? I'd hae thocht shame to let you gang hame unkent, if I had been .Jenny Burns at the lod^^e." " I did not come that way," said Hugo, impatiently. " What is the matter with tlie laird i " " Maitter ?— maitter wi' the laird? The laird's deid, laddie, and a gude freend was he to me and mine, and to your ain sei' forbye, and the hale kintra side will be at the bui} in'," said the housekeeper, shaking her head solemnly. "An' if tliat were na enow for my poor mistress there's a waui" thing to follow. Tho laird's fa'en by his ain brither's ban's. Mr. Brian shot him this verra nicht, as they cam' thro' the wud.' "By mistake, Mrs. Shairp, by mistake," murmured William Whale. But Hugo lifted his haggard face, which looked very pale in the glow of the firelight. "You can't mean what you are saying," he said, in a hoarse unnatural voiqe. "Richard? Richard - dead 1 Oh, it must be impossible 1 " " True, sir, as gospel,'' .aid Mrs. Shairp, touched by the ring of pain that came into the young man's voice as he spoke. "At 40 UiSUER FALSE PKETDNCKS. ? i half-past eight, by the clock, they brought the laud hame stiff and stark, cauld as a stane a'ready. Tlie mistress is clean daft wi' sorrow ; au' I doot but Mr. Brian will hae a sair time o't wi' her and the bonny young leddy that's left ahent." Hugo dropped his face into his hands and did not answer. A shudder ran through his frame more than once. Mrs. Shairp thought that he was shedding tears, and motioned to William Whale, who had been standing near the door with a napkin over his arm, to leave the room. William retired shutting the door s:)!t]y behind him. Presently Hugo spoke. "Tell me about it," he said. And Mrs. Shairp was only too happy to pour into his ears the whole story as she had learned it from the keeper who had conic upon the scene just after the firing of the fatal shot. He listened almost in silence, but did not uncover his face. " And his mother?" he asked at length. Mrs. Shairp could say little about the laird's mother. It was Dr. Muir who had told her the truth, she said, and the whole house had heard her c?y out as if she had been struck. Then Miss Vivian had gone to her, and had received the news from Mrs. Luttrell's own lips. They had gone together to look at Richard's face, and then Miss Vivian had fainted, and had been carried into Mrs. Luttrell's own room, v/here she was to spend the night. So much Mrs. Shairpknew, and nothing more. " And where is Brian ?" " Whaur should he be?" demanded the old woman, with some asperity. " Whaur but in's ain room, sair cast doun for the ill he has dune." " It was not his fault," said Hugo, quickly. "Maybe no," replied Mrs. Shairp, with reserve. "Maybe ay, maybe no ; it's just the question— though I wadua like to think that the lad meant to harm his brother." " Who does think so ?" " I'm no saying that onybody thinks sae. Mr. Brian was aye a kind-hearted lad an' a bonny, but never a lucky ane, sae lang as I hae kent him, which will be twenty years gane at Marti'mas. I cam' at the term."' Hugo scarcely listened to her. He rose up with a strange, scared look upon his face, and walked unsteadily out of the room, without a word of thanks to Mrs. Sliairp for her com- munications. Before she had recovered from her astonishment, he was far down the corridor on his way to the other portion of the house. In which room had they laid Richard Luttrell ? Hugo remem- bered with a shiver that he had not asked. He glanced round m-m A DEAD man's testimony. 41 tlie liall with a lluill oC nervous appreiicrislon. The drawing- room and diniii,ii;-room doors stood open ; they were in darkness. The little morning-room door was also slightly ajar, but a dim light seemed to be burning inside. It must be in that room, Hugo decided, that Richard Luttrell lay. Should he go in? No, he dare not. He could not look upon Richard Luttrell's dead face. And yet he hesitated, drawn by a curious fascination towards that half-open door. While he waited, the door was slowly opened from the inside, and a hand appeared clasping the edge of the door. A hoi lible fancy seized Hugo that KloUard had risen from his bed and was coming out into the hall ; that Richard's fingers were bent round the edge of the open door. He longed to fly, but his knees trembled ; he could not move. He stood rooted to the spot with unreasoning terror, until the door opened still more widely, and the person who had been standing in the room came out. It was no ghostly Richard, sallying forth to upbraid Hugo for his mis- deeds. It was Brian Luttrell who turned his pale face towards the boy as he passed through the hall. Hugo cowered before him. He sank down on the lower steps of the wide staircase and hid his face in his hands. Brian, who had been passing him by without ''eniark, seemed suddenly to recollect himself, and stopped short before his cousin. The lad's shrinking attitude touched him with pity. " You are right to come back," he said, in a voice which, -".Ithough abstracted, was strangely calm. " He told you to leave V e house for ever, did he not? But I think that — now— he would rather that you stayed. He told me that I might do for you what I chose." The lad's head was bent still lower. He did not say a word. "So," said Brian, leaning against the great oak bannisters as if he were utterly exhausted by fatigue, " so— if you stay— you vill only be doing -what, perhaps, he wishes now. You need not be afraid." "You are the master— now," murmured Hugo from between his fingers. It was the last speech that Brian world have expected to hear from his cousin's lips. It cut him to the heart. "Don't say sol" he cried, in a stifled voice. "Good God I to think that I— I— should profit by my brother's death I" And Hugo, lifting up his head, saw that the young man's frame was shaken by shuddering horror from head to foot. " I shall never be master here," he said. Hugo raised his head with a look of wouder. Brian's feeling was quite incomprehensible to him. 'im m i M i 42 UNDER FALSE PRETENCES. "He was always a good brother to me," Brian went on in a shaken voice, more to himself than to hiti cousin, " and a kind friend to you so long as you kept straight and did not disgrace us by your conduct. You had no right to complain, wliatever he might do or say to you. You ought to mourn for him— you ouglit to regret him bitterly— bitterly — whilp I— I " "Do not you mourn for him, then?" said Hugo, when the pause that follower' Brian's speech had become insupportable to him. "If I were only in his place I should be happy," said Brian, passionately. Then he turned upon Hugo with something like fierceness, but it was (he fierceness of a prolonged and half- suppressed agony of pain. " Do you feel nothing? Do you come into his house, linovving that lie is dead, and have not a word of sorrow for your own behaviour to him while he lived? Come with me and look at him— look at his face and remember what he did for you when you were a boy- -what he has done for you during the last eight years." He seized Hugo by the arm and compelled him to rise ; but the lad, with a face blanched by terror, absolutely refused to move from the spot. "Not to-night -I can't— 1 can't !" he said, his dark eyes dilating, and his very lips turning white wiili fear. " To-morrow, Brian— not to-night." But Brian briefly answered, " Come," and tightened his grasp on the lad's arm. And Hugo, though trembling like an aspen leaf, yielded to that iron pressure, and followed him to the room v\ here lay ail that was mortal of Richard Luttrell. Once, inside the door, Brian dropped his cousin's arm, and seemed to forget his presence. He slowly removed the covering from the dead face and placed a caudle so that the light fell upon it. Then he walked to the foot of the table, which served tlie purpoHC of a bier, and looked long and earnestly at the marble features, so changed, so passionless and calm in the repose of death I Terrible, indeed, was the sight to one who had sincerely loved liichard Luttrell— the strong man, full of lusty health and vigoui', desirous of life, fortunate in the possession, of all that makes life worth living only a few short hours before ; now silent, motionless for ever, struck down in the hey-day of youth and strength, and by a brother's hand 1 Brian had but spoken the truth when he said that he would gladly change his own fate for that of his brother R'chard. He forgot Hugo and the reason for which he had brought him to that room, he forgot every- thing except his own unavailing sorrow, his inextinguishable regret. A DEAD MAN S TDSTIMON V. 48 lit on in a nd a kind lisgiace us liatever he liira— you when the (portable to said Brian, etliing like 1 and half- o you come not a word v(&6. 1 Come ember what a,s done for Hugo remained where his cousin had left him, leaning against the wall, seemingly incapable of speech or motion, ovei'come by a superstitious terror of death, which Brian was as far from sus- pecting as of comprehending. In the utter silence of the house they could hear tlie distant stable-clock strike eleven. The wind was rising, and blew in fitful gusts, rustling the branches of the trees, and causing a loose rose-branch to tap carelessly against the window panes. It sounded like the knock of some- one anxious to come in. The candles flickered and guttered in the draught; the wavering light cast strange shadows over the dead man's face. You might have thought that his features moved from time to Jme ; that now he frowned at the intruders, and now he smiled at them— a terrible, ghastly smile. There was a footstep at the door. It was Mrs Luttrell who came gliding in with her pale face, and her long black robes, to take her place at her dead son's side. She had thought that she must come and assure herself once more that he was really gone from her. She meant to look at him for a little while, to kiss his cold forehead, and tlien to go back to Angela and try to sleep. She took no notice of Brian, nor of Hugo ; she drew a chair close to the long table upon which the still, white form was stretched, seated herself, and looked steadfastly at the uncovered face. Brian started at the sight of his mother ; he glanced at her pleadingly, as if he would have spoken ; but the rigidity of her face repelled him. He hung his head and turned a little from her, as though to steal away. Suddenly a terrible voice rang through the room. " Look !" cried the mother, pointing with one finger to the lifeless iorm, and raising her eyes for the first time to Brian's face— "look there 1" Brian looked, and flinched from the sight he saw. For a strange thing had happened. Although not actually unusual, it had never before come within the experience of any of these watchers of the dead, and thus it suggested to them nothing but the old superstition which in old times caused a supposed murderer to be brought face to face with the man he was accused of having killed. A drop of blood was trickling from the nostril of the dead man, and losing itself in the thick, black moustache upon his upper lip. It was followed by another or two, and then it stayed. The Tiiother did not speak again. Her hand sank ; her eyes were riveted upon Brian's face with a mute reproach. And Brian, although he knew well enough in liis sober senses that the phenomenon they had just seen was merely caused by the breaking of some small bloodvessel in the brain, such as often 44 UNDER FALSE PEiiTEKCES. i - / ^ ? occurs after death, was so far dominated by the impreasjon of the momeut that he walked out of the room, not daring to ju.stify himself in his mother's eyes, not daring to raise hio head. After him crept Hugo, whose teetli chattered as though he were suffering from an ague ; bat Brian took no more notice of his cousin. He went straight to his owv "oom and locked himself in, to bear liis lonely sorrow as best he might. No formal inquiry was made into the cause of Richard Luttrell's death. Archie Grant's testimony completely exonerated Brian, even of carelessness, and the general opinion was that no positive blame could be attached to anybody for the sad occurrence, and that Mr. Brian Luttrell had the full sympathy and respect of all who knew him and had known his lamented brother, Hichard Luttrell of Netherglen. So the matter ended. But idle tongues still wagged, and wise heads were shaken over the circumt^tances attending Richard Luttrell's death. It was partly Mrs. Luttrell's fault. In the first hours of her bereavement she had spoken wildly and bitterly of the share which Brian had had in causing Richard's death. She had spoken to Doctor Muir, to Angela, to Mrs. Shaix'p- a few words only to each, but enough to show in what direction her thoughts were tending. With the first two her words were sacred, but Mrs. Shairp, though kindly enough, was not so trustworthy. Before the good woman realised what she was doing, the Avhole house- hold, nay, the whole country-side, had learned that Mrs. Luttrell believed her second son to have fired that fatal shot with the intention of killing, or at least of maiming, his brother Richard. The Grants, who had spent the day of the accident at Nether- glen, were, of course, eagerly questioned by inquisitive acquaint- ances. The girls were ready enough to chatter. They confided to their intimate friends iu mysterious whispers that the brothers had certainly not been on good terras ; they had glowered at one another, and caught each other up and been positively rude to each other ; and they would not go out together ; and poor Mr. Luttrell looked so worried, so unlike himself 1 Then the brothers were interrogated, but proved less easy to " draw." Archie flew into a rage at the notion of sinister intentions on Brian's part. Donald looked " dour," and flatly refused to discuss the subject. But his refusal was thought vastly suspicious by the many wiseacres who knew the business of everybody better than their own. And the rumour waxed and spread. During the days before the funeral Brian scarcely saw anyone. Hs lived shut up in his own room, as his mother did in hers, and had interviews only with his lawyer and men who came on A 1)EAT> MAN S TESilMONT. 4;. Lu.4;iness. It "vvas a sacl and melancholj' house In those days. Angela was invisible : Avhetlier it was slic or Mrs. L\itliell who was ill nobody could exactly say. Hugo wandered about the lonely rooms, or shut himself up after the fashion of the other members of the family, and looked like a ghost. After the first two days, Angela's only near relation, her brother Rupert, was present in the house; but his society seemed not to bo very acceptable to Hugo, and, finding that he was of no use, even to his sister, Mr. Vivian went back to England, and the houHe seemed quieter than it had been before. The funeral took place at last. When it was over, Brian came home, said farew ell to the guests, had a long interview with Mr. Colquhoun, the solicitor, and then seated liimself in the study with the air of a man who was resolved to take up the burden oE his duties in a befitting spirit. His air was melancholy, but calm; he seemed aged by ten years since his brother's death. He dined with Hugo, Mr. Colquhoun and Dr. Muir, and exerted himself to talk of current topics with courtesy and interest. But his weary face, his saddened eyes, and the long pauses that occurred between his intervals of speech, produced a depressing eflfect upon his guests. Hugo was no more cheerful than his cousin. He watched Brian furtively from time to time, yet seemed afraid to meet his eye. His sllenc'> and depression were so marked that the doctor afterwards remarked it to Mr. CoUiuhoun. "I did not think that Mr. Hugo would take his cousin's death so much to heart," he said. "Do you think he does ?" asked Mr. Colquhoun, drily. "I don't believe he's got a heart, the young scamp. I found him myself in the wood, examining the bark of the tree near which the accident took place, you know, on tlie morning after Richard's death, as cool as a cucumber. ' I was trying to make out how it happened,' he said to me, when I came up. ' Brian must have shot very straight.' I told him to go home and mind liis own business." "Do you think what they say about/ Brian's intentions ha-' any foundation?" asked the doctor. "Not a bit. Brian's too tender-hearted for a thing of that sort. But the motiier's very bitter about it. She's as hard as flint. It's a bad look out for Brian. He's a ruined man." "Not from a pecuniary point of view. The property goes to him." " Yes, but he hasn't the strength to put up with the slights and the scandal which will go with it. He has the pluck, but not tiK physique. It's men like him that go out of their minds, or commit suicide, or die of heart-break -which you doctors call by 46 UNDKR FALSE PRETENCES. some other name, ot course— when the world's against them. He'll never stand it. Mark my words— Brian Liittrell won't be to the fore this time next year." "Where will he be, Colquhonn? Come, come, Briaii's a fellow with brains. He won't do anything rash." *' He'll be in his grave," said the lawyer, gloomily. •* He'll be enjoying himself in the metropolis," said the doctor. '* He'll have a line house and a pretty wife, and he'll laugh in our faces if we hint at your prophecies, Colquhoun. I should have had no respect at all for Brian Luttrell if he threw away his own life because he had accidentally taken that oi. another man." " We shall see," said the lawyer. f. 'St! C H A P T E R V I . MOTHER AND SON. Early on the following morning Brian received a message from his mother. It was the first communication that she had vouch- safed to him since the day of her eldest son's death. " Would become to her dressing-i'oom at eleven o'clock? She wished to consult him upon special business." Brian sent word that he would be with her at that hour, and then fell into anxious medi- tation as he sat at breakfast, with Hugo at the other end of the table. " Don't go far away from the house, Hugo," he said at last, as he rose to leave the room. " I may want you in the course of the morning." Hugo looked up at him without answering. The lad had been studying a newspaper, with his head supported by his left hand, while his right played with his coffee cup or the morsels of food upon his plate. He did not seem to have much appetite. His great, dai'k eyes looked larger than usual, and were ringed with purple shadow ; his lips were tremulous. " It was wonderful," as people said, "to see how that poor young fellow felt his cousin's death." Perhaps Brian thought so too, for he added, very gently— though when did he not speak gently? — " There is nothing wrong. I only want to make some arrange- ments with you for your future. Think a little about it before I speak to you." And then he went out of the room, and Hugo was left to his meditations, which were not of the most agreeable character, in spite of Brian's reassuring words. He pushed his plate and newspaper away from him im patiently ; a frown showed itself on his beautiful, low browji. MOTHI'R AND SON. «7 li's a fellow sry gently— ♦' What will he do foi' nic? Anything- deflni T wonder ? Poor beggar, I'm sori'y for him, but my position ij.is been decidedly inkproved since that unlucky shot at Richard. Did he want him out of the way, I wonder? The gloomy look with which he goes makes about one imagine that he did. What a fool he must bel" Hugo pushed back his chair and rose ; a cynical smile curled his lips for a moment, but it changed by degrees into an ex- pression of somewhat sullen discontent. "I wish I could sleep at nights," he said, moving slowly towards the window. "I've never been so wretchedly wakeful in all my life." Tlien he gazfd out Into the garden, but without seeing much of the scene that he gazed upon, for his thoughts were far away, and his whole soul v.'as possessed by fear of what Brian would do or say. At eleven o'clock Brian made his way to his mother's dressing- room, an apartment which, although bearing that name, was more like an ordinary sitting-room than a dressing-room. Ho knocked, and was answered by his mother's voice. "Come In," she said. " Is it you, Brian?" "Yes, it is I," Brian said, as he closed the door behind him. He walked quietly to the hearthrug, where lie stood with one liand resting on the mantelpiece. It was a convenient attitude, and one which exposed him to no I'ebuffs. He was too wise to offer hand or cheek to his mother by way of greeting. Mrs. Luttrell was sitting on a sofa, with her back to the light. Brian thought that she looked older and more worn ; there were fresh wrinkles upon her forehead, and marks of weeping and sleeplessness about her eyes, but her figure was erect as ever, as rigidly upright as if her backbone v. ere niade of iron. She was in the deepest possible mourning; even the handkerchief that she held in her hand was edged with two or three inches of black. Brian looked round for Angela ; he had expected to find her with his mother, but she was not there. The door into Mrs. Luttrell's bed-room was partly open. " How is Angela ?" he asked. " Angela is not well. Could you expect her to be well after the terrible trial that has overtaken her ?" Brian winced. He could make no reply to such a question. IMrs. Luttrell scored a triumph, and continued in her hard, incisive way : — "She is probably as well as she can hope to be under the cir- cumstances. Her health has sufFered— as mine also has sufTered— under the painful dispensation which has been meted out tons. We do not repine. Hearts that are broken, that have no hopes, ■■; !;: <-\!: ■'I :| 48 TJNPKR FALSK PRKTKNTES. no joys, no pleasures in store for tlieiu in Ihis life, arc not eager to exliil)it (lu'ir snderings. If I apeak as 1 speak now, it is lor tlie last and only time. It is right (liat you should hear nic once." "I will hear anything;; you clioose to say," answered Brian, lieavily. "But, niotiier, be merciful. I have suftered, too." "We will pass over the amount of your su/rering," said Mi'.s. Liiltrell, "if you please. I have no doubt that it is very great, i»ut I tliink lliatit will soon l)e assua'^od. I tliink tliat you will soon begin to reoiember the many things that you gain by your lirother's death -tlie social position, the assured income, tlie ■estate in Scotland which I brunglit to your fatlier, as well as his own house of Netlieiglen — all the things for which nwn are only loo ready to sell their souls." " All these things are nothing to me," sighed Brian. "They are a great deal in the world's eyes. You will soon And out how diirerentiy it receives you now from the way it received you a year a month— a week— ago. You are a rich man. I wish you joy of your wealth. p]very thing goes to you except Nether- glen itself ; that is left in my hands." "Mother, are you mad?" said her son, passionately. " Why do you talk to me in this way? I swear to you that I would give every hope and every joy that 1 ever possessed —I would give my life— to have Richard back again I Do you think I ever wanted to be rich through his death?" "I do not know what you wanted," said Mrs. Luttrell, sternly. " I have no means of guessing." " Is this what you wished me to say ?" said Brian, whose voice was hoarse and changed. " I said that I would listen— but you might spare me these taunts, at least." " I do not taunt you. I wish only to draw attention to the difference ^between your position and my own. Rich? rd's death brings wealth, ease, comfort to you ; to lae nothing but desola- tion. I am willing to allow the house of which I have been the mistress for so many years, of which I am legally the mistress still, to pass into your hands. I have lost my home as well as ray sons. I am desolate." "Your sons! You have not lost both your sons, mother," pleaded Brian, with a note of bitter pain in his voice, as he came closer to her and tried in vain to take her icy hand. "Why do you think that you are no longer mistress of this house? You are as much mistress as you were in my father's time— in Richard's time. Why should there be a difTeronce now ?" "There is this difiTorencc," said Mrs. Lullioll, col.liv, "that I do not care to live in any huuse with you. It a\ . aid .^v. ^xiitiful to me ; that is all. If you desire to stay, I will go." MOTITKn AND SOTT. 40 rs. Luttrell, Bi'Inn sf nrrccorod hnv.\i ns i. she liau slnick lilni In llic fivcc. •'Do you mean to cast me otl'V lie almost wliispcvetl, for he coulfl not find strength to speak aloud. "Ami not your sou, too ?" "You fill the place Hint a sou should occupy," said Mrs. Luttrell, letting her hand rise and fall upon hor lap, and looking away from IJrian. " I can say no more. My sun -my own son — the sou that I loved"— (she paused, and seemed to recollect her- self hefore she continued in a lower voice)—" the son that I loved— is dead." Thera was a silence. Brian seated himself and howed his liead upon his hands. "God help me!" she heard him mutter. But she did not relent. Presently he loolcr:l up and fixed his haggard eyes upon her. "Mother," he said, in hoarse and unnatural tones, "you have had your say ; now let me have mine. I know too well what you believe. You think, because of a slight dispute whicli arose between us on that day, that I had some grudge against my brother. I solemnly declare to you that that is not true. Kichard and 1 had differed; but we met—in the wood"— (he drew his breath painfully)— "a few minutes only before that terrible mistake of mine; and we were friends again. Mother, do you know me so ill as to think that I could ever have lifted my hand against Richard, who was always .a friend to me, always far kinder than I deserved? It was a mistake -a mistake that I'll never, never forgive myself for, and that you, perhaps, never will forgive — but, at any rate, do me the justice to believe that it was a mistake, and not— not— that I was Richard's murderer 1" Mrs. Luttrell sat silent, motionless, her white hands ci'ossed before her on the crape of her black gown. Brian threw himself impetuously on his knees before her and looked up into her face. "Mother, mother!" he said, "do you not believe me?" It seemed to him a long tinii'— i' was, in reality, not more than ten or twelve seconds — before Mrs. Luttrell answered Ills question. "Do you not believe me?" he bad said. And she answered— "xVo." The shock of finding his passionate appeal so utterly dis- regarded restored to Brian the composure which had failed him before. He rose to his feet, pale, stricken, indeed, but calm. For a moment or two he averted his face from tlie woman who judged him so harshly, so pitilessly; but when he turned to her again, he had gained a certain pride of bearing which com- pelled her unwilling respect. •' If that is your final answer," he said, " I can say nothing 50 UNDIOR KALMi; PHKTENt^KS. I more. Perhaps the day w lil co> \c w1)f n you will understand me better. In the mcauliino, I slinll be glad to hear whether you have any plans wliich I can assiHt you in corrying out." "None in wltich I require your asslKlance," said Mrs. Luttrell, stonily. *' I have my jointure ; I can live upon tliat. I will leave Netherglen to you. I will take a cottage for myself— and Angela." "And Angela?" "Angela remains with me. You may remember that she has no home, except with friends who are not always as kind to her as they might be. Her brother is not a wealthy man, and has no liouso of his own. Under these circumstances, and considering what she has lost, it would be mere justice if I ottered her a home. Henceforth slie is my daughter." " You have asked her to stay, and she has consented?" "I have." " And you thought— you think— of takhig a home for your- selves?" "Yes." * "I suppose you do not object," said Brian, slowly, '* to the gossip to which such a step on your part is sure to give rise?" " I have not considered the matter. Gossip will not touch me." "No." Brian would not for worlds have said that the step she contemi»lated taking would be disastrous for him. Yet for one moment he could not banish the consciousness that all the world would now have good reason to believe that his mothk. • lield him guilty of his brother's death. He did not know that the world suspected him already. It was with an unmoved front that he presently con- tinued. " I, myself, had a proposition to malie which would perhaps render it needless for you to leave Netherglen, which, as you say, is legally your own. You may not have considered that I am hardly likely to have nmrh love for the place after what has occurred In it. You know that neither you nor I can sell any portion of the property— oven you would not care to let it, I suppose, to strangers for the present. I think of going abroad —probably for some years. I have alw^ays wanted to travel. The liouse on the Strathleckie side of the property can be let ; and as for Netherglen, it would be an advantage for the place if you made it your home for as many months in the year as you chose. I don't see why you should not do so. I shall not return to this neighbourhood." "It does not seem to occur to you," said Mrs. Luttrell, in / MOTHICR AND SON. 61 measured tones, " that Angela and I nwjy also have an objoctlon to residing in a place which will henceforth have so many painful memories attached to it." " If that is the case," said Brlon, after a little pause, " there is no more to ho said." "I will ask Angela," said Mrs. Lntlrell, stretching out her hand to a liltlo handbell which stood upon the table at her side. Brian started. "Then I will couu\ lO you again," he said, moving hastily to the door. "I will see you after lunch." "Pray do not go," said his mother, giving two very decisive strokes of the bell by means of a pressure of her firm, white lingers. " Let us settle the matter while we are about it. There will be no need of a second interview." " But Angela will not want to see me." "Angela Ask Miss Vivian to come to mo at once if she can" (to the maid who appeared at the door) — " Angela ex- pressed a wish to see you this morning." Brian stood erect by the mantelpiece, biting his lips under his soft, brown moustache, and very much disposed to take the matter into his own ands, and walk straight out of the room. But some time or otlier Angela must be faced; perhaps as well now as at any other time. He wailed, therefore, in silence, until the door opened and Angela appeared. "Brian!" said the soft voice, in as kind and sisterly a tone as he had ever heard from her. " Brian !" She was close to him, but he dared not look up until she took Ills unresisting hand in hers and held it tenderly. Then he raised his head a very little and looked at her. She had always been pale, but now she was snow-white, and the extreme delicacy and even fragility of her appearance were thrown into strong relief by the dead black of her mourning gown. Her eyes were full of tears, and her lips were quivering; but Brian knew in a moment, by instinct, that she at least believed in the innocence of his heart, although his hand had taken his brother's life. He stooped down and kissed the hand that held his own, so humbly, so sorrowfully, that Angela's heart yearned over him.' She under- stood him, and she had room, even in her great grief, to be sorry for him too. And when he withdrew his hand and turned away from her with one deep sob that he did not know how to repress, she tried to comfort him. "Dear Brian," she said, "I know — I understand. Poor fellow I it is very hard for you. It is hard for us all ; but I think it is hardest of all for you," ■■^M'^^'^iHtmmgnM-^'. ■-m, fl. 52 UNDER FALSE PRKTENCES. " I would have given my life for his, Angela," said Brian, in a smothered voice. "I know you would. I know you loved him,"' said Angela, the tears streaming now down her pale cheeks. "There is only one thing for us to say, Brian— It was God's will that he should go." " How you must hate the sight of me," groaned Brian. He had almost forgotten the presence of Mrs, Luttrell, whose hard, watchful eyes were taking notice of every detail of the scene. "I will not trouble you long ; I am going to leave Scotland; I will go far away; you shall never see my face again." " But I should be sorry for that," said Angela's soft, caressing voice, into whjfli a tremor stole from time to time that made it doubly sweet. "I shall want to see you again. Promise me that you will con:© back, JJriiiu— some day." "Someday?" he repeated, mournfully. "Well, some day, Angela, when you caix look on me without so much pain as you must needs feel now, any day when you have need of me. but, as I am going so very soon, will you tell me yourself whether Netherglen is. a place that you hold in utter abhor- rence now ? Would it hurt you to make Netherglen your home ? Could you and my mother find happiness— or at least peace — if you lived here together ? or would it be too great a trial for you to bear ?" " It rests with you to decide, Angela," said Mrs. Luttrell from her sofa. "I have no choice ; it signities little tome whether I go or stay. If it would pain you to live at Netherglen, say so ; and we will chooise anoiber home." "Pain me?" said Angela. "To stay here — iu Eichard's home 'i" " Would you dislike it?" asked Mrs. Luttrell. The girl came to her side, and put her arms round the mother's neck. Mrs. Luttrell's face softened curiously as she did so ; she laid one of her hands upon Angela's shining hair with acaressing movement. "Dislike it? It would be my only happiness," said Angela. She stopped, and then Avent on with soft vehemence — " To think that I was in his house, that I looked on the things that he used to see every day, that I could sometimes do the thing that he would have liked to see me doing— it is all I could wish for, all that life could give me now I Yes, yes, let us stay." "It's perhaps not so good for you as one might wish," said Mrs. Luttrell, regarding her tenderly. " You had perhaps better have a change for a time; there is no reason 'why yoti should live for ever iu the past, like an old woman, Angela. The day IK^ T^~ MOTHER AND SON. GH will come when you may wish to make new ties for yourself— new interests " Angela's whisper reached her ear alone. "'Intreab me not to leave thee, or to return from following after thee,' " she murmured in the words of the widowed Moabitess, " 'for whither thou goest, I will go ; and Avhere thou lodgest, I will lodge ; thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God. . .'" Mrs. Luttrell clasped her in her arms and kissed her forehead. Then after a little pause she said to Brian— " We will stay." Brian bowed his head. "I will make all necessary arrangements with Mr. Colquhoun, and send him to you," he said. "I think there is notliing else about which we have to speak T' " Nothing," said Mrs. Luttrell, steadily. " Except Hugo. As I am going away fiom home for so I'ng. I think it would be l^ptter if I settled a certain sum in the "''uuds upon him, so that he might have a moderate income as well as his pay. Does that meet with your approval ?" "My approval matters very little, but you can do as you choose with your own money. I suppose you wish that this house shonld be kept open for him?" " That is as you please. He would be better for a home. May I ask what Angela thinks?" " Oh, yec," said Angela, lifting her face slowly from Mrs. Luttrell's shoulder. "He must not feel that he has lost a home, must he, mother?" She pronounced the title which Mrs. Lut- trell had begged her to bestow, still with a certain diffidence and hesitancy ; but Mrs. LuttrelFs brow smoothed when she heard it. " We will do what we can for him," she said. " He has not been very steady of late," Brian went on slowly, wondering whether he was right to conceal Hugo's misdeeds and evil tendencies. "I hope he will improve; you will have patience with him if he is not very wise. And now, will you let me say good-bye to you ? I shall leave Netherglen to-morrow." "To-morrow?" said Angela, wonderingly. "Why should you go so soon ?" "It is better so," Brian answered. "But we shall know where you are. You will write?" His eyes sought his mother's face. She would not look at him. He spoke in an unnaturally quiet voice, " I do not know." "Mother, will you not tell him to write to you ?" said Angela. The mother sat silent, unresponsive. It was plain that she cared for no letter from this son of hers, a li i ' 11 .1 ^ !a 54 UNDER FALSE PRETENCES. "I will leave my address with Mr. Colquhoun, Angiela, said Brian, forcing a sliglit, sad smile. "If there is business for me to transact, he will be able to let me know. I shall hear from him how you all are, from time to time." " Will you not write to me, then?" said Angela. Brian darted an inquiring glance at her. Oh, what divine pity, what sublime forgetfulness of self, gleamed out of those tender, tear-reddened eyes ! , "Will you let me?" he said, almost timidly. "I should like you to write. I shall look for your letters, Brian. Don't forget that I shall be anxious for news of you." Almost without knowing what he did, he sank down on his knees before her, and touched her hand reverently with iiis lips. She bent forward and kissed his forehead as a sister might have done. "God bless you, Angela 1" he said. He could not utter another word. "Mother," said the girl, taking in hers the passive hand of the woman, who had sat with face averted — perhaps so that she should not meet the eyes of the man whom she could not forgive — " mother, speak to him ; say good-bye to him before he goes." The mother's hand trembled and tried to withdraw itself, but Angela would not let it go. " One kind word to him, mother," she said. " See, he is kneel- ing before you. Only look at him and you will see how he has suflfered ! Don't let him go away from you without one word. She guided Mrs. Luttrell's hand to Brian's head ; and there for a moment it rested heavily. Then she spoke. " If I have been unjust, may God forgive me !" she said. Then she withdrew her hand and rose from her seat. She did not even look behind her as she walked to the bed-room door, pushed it open, entered, and closed it, and turned the key in the old-fashioned lock. She had said all that she meant to say : no power, human or divine, should wrest another word from her just then. But in her heart she was crying over and over again the words that had been upon her lips a hundred times to say. " He is no son of mine —no son of mine— this man by whose hand Richard Luttrell fell. I am childless. Both my sons are dead." CHAPTER V IT . A FAREWELL. There was a little, sunny, green walk opposite the dining-room windows, edged on either side by masses of white and crimson -- yr:; A FAREWELL. 55 Ishe did door, in the jay : no [om her |r again say. whose mn are ^g-rcom primaon phlox and a row of suuliovvers, where the gentlemen of the house were in the habit of taking their morning stroll and smoking their first cigar. It was here that Hugo was slowly pacing up and down when Brian Luttrell came out of the house in search of him. Hugo gave him a searching glance as he approached, and was not reassured. Brian's face wore a curiously restrained expres- sion, Avhich gave it a look of sternness. Hugo's heart beat fast ; he threw away the end of his cigar, and advanced to meet his cousin with an air of unconcern which was evidently assumed for the occasion. It passed unremarked, however. Brian was in no mood for considering Hugo's expression of countenance. They took two or three turns up and down the garden walk without uttering a word. Brian was absorbed in thought, and Hugo had his own reasons for being afraid to open his mouth. It was Brian who spoke at last. "Come away from the house, he said. "I want to speak to you, and we can't talk easily underneath all these windows. We'll go down to the loch." "Not to the loch," said Hugo, hastily. Brian considered a moment. " You are right," he said, in a low tone, " we won't go there. Come this way." For tlie moment he had forgotten that painful scene at the boat-house, which no doubt made Hugo shrink sensitively from the sight of the place. He was sorry that he had suggested it. The day was calm and mild, but not brilliant. The leaves of the trees had taken on an additional tinge of autumnal yellow and red since Brian last looked at them with an observant eye. For the past w-eek he had thought of nothing but of the in- tolerable grief and pain that had come upon him. But now the peace and quiet of the day stole upon him unawares ; there was a restfuiness in the sight of the steadfast hills, of the waving trees— a sense of tranquility even in the fall of the yellowing leaves and the flight of the migrating song-birds overhead. His eye grew calmer, his brow more smooth, as he walked silently onward ; he drew a long breath, almost like one of relief ; then he stopped short, and leaned against the trunk of a tall fir tree^ looliing absently before him, as though he had forgotten the reason for his proposed interview with his cousin. Hugo grew impatient. They had left the garden, and were walking down a grassy little-trodden lane between two tracks of wooded ground ; it led to the tiny hamlet at the head of the loch, and thence to the high road. Hugo wondered whether the conversa- tion were to be held upon the public highway or in the lane. If it had to do with his own private affairs, he felt that he would 56 UNDER FALSE PRF;TEN0E8. prefer the lane. But he dared not precipitate matters by speaking. Brian recollected his purpose at last, however. After a short interval of silence he turned his eyes upon Hugo, who was stand- ing near hitn, and said, gently — '' Sit down, won't you?— then we can talk." There was a fallen log on the {.ground. Hugo took his seat on it meekly enough, but continued his former occupation of digging up, with the point of a stick that he was carrying, the roots of all the plants within his reach. He wan so much absorbed by this pursuit that he seemed hardly to attend to the next words that Brian spoke. " I ought, perhaps, to have had a talk with you before," he said. "Matters have been in a very unsettled state, as you well knov. But there are one or two points that ought to be settled without delay." Hugo ceased his work oC destruction," and apparently disposed himselfito listen. " First, your own affairs. You have hitherto had an allowance, I believe— how muoli?" "Two hundred," said Hugo, sulkily, since 1 .loined." " And your pay. And you could not make that sufiicient?" Hugo's face iiushcd , he did not answer. He sat still, looking sullenly at the ground. Brian waited for a little while, and then went on. " I don't want to preach, old fellow • bvit you know I can't help thinking that, by a little decent care and forethought, you ought to have made that do. Still, it's no good my saying so, is it? What is done cannot be undone— would God it could !" He stopped short again : his voice had grown hoarse. Hugo, with the dusky red still tingeing his delicate, dark face, hung his head and made no reply. " One can but try to do better for the future, ' said Brian, some- what unsteadily, after that moment's pause. "Hugo, dear boy will you promise that, at least?" He put his hand on his cousin's shoulder. Hugo tried to shrink away, then, finding Miis impossible; averted his face and partly hid it with his hards. "It's no good making vague promises, he said by-and-bye. " What do you mean ? If you want me to promise to live on my pay or anything of that sort " "Nothing of that sort," Brian interrupted him. "Only, that you will act honourably and straightforwardly— that you will not touch what is not your own " Hugo shook off the kindly hand and started up with something t) A FAREWELL. 67 m [«go, xgbi8 Isoine- |r boy, Lhriiit [partly Id-bye. m my tbat lu will lelbing like an oath upon his lips. "Why are you always tallying about that affair? I thought it was past and done with,' he said, turning his back upon his cousin, and switching the grass savagely with his cane. " Always talking about it I Be reasonable, Hugo." " It was only because I was at my wits' end for money," said the lad, irritably. " And that came in my way, and— I had never taken any before " " And never will again, said Brian. "That's what I want to hear you say." But Hugo would say nothing. He stood, the impersonation of silent obstinacy, digging the end of his stick into the earth, or striking at the blue bells and the brambles within reach, resolved to utter no word which Brian could twist into any sort of promise for the future. He knew that his silence might injure his prospects, by lowering him in Brian's estimation — Brian being now the arbiter of his fate— but for all that he could not bring himself to make submission or to profess penitence. Sometliing n)ade the words stick in his throat ; no power on earth would at that moment have forced him to speak. "Well," said Brian at last, in a tone which showed deep dis- appointment, "I am sorry that you won't go so far, Hugo. I hope you will do well, however, without professions. Still, I should have been better satisfied to have your word for it— before I left Netherglen." " Where are you going?" said Hugo, suddenly facing him. " I don't quite know." "To London?" "No. Abroad." "Abroad?" repeated Hugo, with a wondering accent. "Why should you go abroad ?" " That's my own business." " But— but— " said the lad, flushing and paling, and stammering with eagerness, " I thought that you would stay here, and that Netherglen and everything would belong to you, and— and " "And that I should shoot, and fish, and ride, and disport myself gaily over my brother's inheritance— that my own hand deprived him of I" cried Brian, with angry bitterness. " It is so likely ! Is it you who have no feeling, or do you fancy that I have none?" " But the place is yours," faltered Hugo, with a guilty look, " Strathleckie is yours, if Netherglen is not." "Mine! Yes, it is mine after a fashion," said Brian, while a hot, red flush crept up to his forehead, and his brows contracted painfully over his sad, dark eyes. "It is mine by law ; mine by my father's will ; and if il had come into my hands by any other :i ' 'A 58 UNDER FALSE PRETENCES. way— if my brother had not died through my own carelessness— I suppose that I might have learnt to enjoy it like any other man. But as it is— I wish that every acre of it were at the bottom of the loch, and I there, too, for the matter of thatl I have made up my mind that I will not benefit by Bichard's death. Others may have the use of his wealth, but I am the last that should touch it. I will have the two or three hundred a-year that he used to give me, and I will have nothing more." Hugo's face had grown pale. He looked more dismayed by this utterance than by anything that Brian as yet had said. He opened his lips once or twice before he could find his voice, and it was in curiously rough and broken tones that he at length asked a question. " Is this because of what people say about-about you— and— Richard ?" He seemed to find it diflScult to pronounce the dead man's name. Brian lifted up his face. " What do people say about me and Richard, then?" he said. Hugo retreated a little. " If you don't know," he said, looking down miserably, " 1 can't tell you." Brian's eyes blazed with sudden wrath. " You have said too little or too much," he said. " I must know the rest. What is it that people say?" " Don't you know ?" " No, I do not know. Out with it." "I can't tell you," said Hugo, biting his lips. "Don't ask me , ask someone else. Anyone." "Is 'anyone' sure to know? I will hear it from you, and from no one else. What do people say?" Hugo looked up at him and then down again. The struggle that was waging between the powers of good and evil in his soul had its effect even on his outer man. His very lips turned white MS he considered what he should say. Brian noted this change of colour, and was moved by it, iliinking that he understood Hugo's reluctance to give him pain. He subdued his own impatience, and spoke in a lower, quieter voice. "Don't take it to heart, Hugo, whatever it may be. It cannot be worse than the thing I have heard already— from my motlier. I don't 8upi)ose I shall mind it much. They say, perhaps, that I— that I shot my brother "—(in spite of himself, Brian's voice trembled with passionate indignation) -" that I killed Richard purposely— knowing - hat I did— in order to possess myself 0/ lliis miserable estate of his— is that what they sav?" ! •! y it. pain, lieter innot ^tUer. I, that 1 voice chard Bit of A. FAREWELL. tSn Hugo answered by a bare little monosyllable— " Yes." " And who says this ? " " Everyone. The whole country side.* '•Then— if this is believed so generally— why have no steps b(!en taken to prove my guilt? Good God, my guilt 1 Why should I not be prosecuted at once for murder?" "There would be no evidence, they say," Hugo murmured, uneasily. " It is simply a matter of assertion ; you say you shot at a bird, not seeing him, and they say that you nmst have known that he vv^as there. That is all." " A matter of assertion ! Well, they are right so far. Tf they don't believe my word, there is no more to be said," replied Brian, sadly, his excitement suddenly forsaking him. " Only I never thought that my word would even be asked for on such a subject by people who had known me all my life. You don't doubt me, do you, Hugo?" "How could I?" said Hugo, in a voice so low and shaken that Brian could scarely hear the words. But he felt instinctively that the lad's trust in him, on that one point, at least, had not wavered, and with a warm thrill of affection and gratitude he held out his hand. It gave him a rude shock to see that Hugo drew back and would not take it. " What ! you don't trust me after all ?" he said, quickly. "I— I do," cried Hugo, "but— what does it matter what I think? I'm not fit to take your hand— 1 cannot— I cannot " His emotion was so genuine that Brian felt some surprise, and also some compunction for having distrusted him before. "Dear Hugo," he said, gently, "I shall know you better now. We have always been friends ; don't forget that we are friends still, although I may be on the other side of the world. I'm going to try and lose myself in some out-of-the-way place, and live where nobody will ever know my story, but I shall be rather glad to think sometimes that, at any rate, you understand what I felt about poor Richard— that you never once misjudged me— I won't forget it, Hugo, I assure you." He pressed Hugo's still reluctant hand, and then made him sit down beside him upon the fallen tree. "We must talk business now," he said, more cheerfully— though it was a sad kind of cheerfulness after all—" for we have not much time left. I hear the luncheon-bell already. Shall we finish our talk first ? You don't care for luncheon ? No more do I. Where had we got to? Oxily to the initial step— that I was going abroad. I have several other things to explain to you. His eyes looked out into the distance as he spoke ; his voice i. ^^i •**!"««•# «0M *<».«,«.-. »*» I no UNDEU FALSE PRETENCES. loat its forced cheerfulness, and became immeasurably fi^rave and sad. Hugo listened with hidden face. He did not care to turn his gloomy brows and anxiously-twitching lips towards the speaker. "I shall never come back lo Scotland, said Brian, slowly. "To liiigland I may come some day, but it will be after many years. My mother has the management of Strathleckie, as well as o£ Nethcrglen, which belongs to her. She will live here, and use the house and dispose of the revenues as she pleases. Angela remains with her." "But if you marry " "I shall never marry. My life is spoilt -ruined. I could not ask any woman to share it with me. I shall be a wanderer on the face of the earth— like Cain." "No, no!" cried Hugo, passionately. "Not like Cain. There is no curse on you " "Not even my mother's curse? I am not sure, said Brian. " I shall be a wanderer, at any rate ; so much is certain : living on my three hundred a year, very comforlably, no doubt; until this life is over, and I come out clear on the other side " Hugo lifted his face. " You don't mean," he Avhispered, with a look of terrified suspicion, "that yon would ever lay hands on yourself, and shorten your life in that way ?" " Why, no. What makes you think that I should choose such a course? I hope I am not a coward," said Brian, simply. "No, I shall live out my days somewhere— somehow ; but there is no harm in wishing that they were over." There was a pause. The dreamy expression of Brian's eyes seemed to betoken that his thoughts were far away. Hugo moved his stick nervously through the grass at his feet. He could not look up. " Wliat else have you to tell me?" he said at last. "Do you know the way in which Strathleckie was settled?" said Brian, quietly, coming down to earth from some high vision of other worlds and other lives than ours. " Do you know that my grandfather made a curious will about it?" "No," said Hugo. It was false, for he knew the terms of the will quite well ; but he thought it more becoming to profess ignorance. " This place belonged to my mother's father. It was left to her children and their direct heirs ; failing heirs, it reverts to a member of her family, a man of the name of Gordon Murray. We have no power to alienate any portion of it. The rents are ours, the house and lands are ours, for our lives only. If we die, you see, without children, the property goes to these Murrays." It i A FA RK WELL. 01 eyes [ugo He bled?" nsion that 5£ the Irofess *y8. Cousins of youva, n,.- J'my ." "Second cousins. I liavo never lioubled myself about \he exact degree of relalionship until within the last day or two. I find that Gordon ]\Iurray would be my second cousin once removed, and that his child or children— he has more than one, I believe— would, therefore, be my third cousins. A little while ago I should have thought it highly improbable that any of tbe Gordon Murraya would ever come into possession of Strathleckie, but it is not at all improbable now." *' Where do these Murrays live?" *' In London, I think. I am not sure. I have asked Colquhouu to find out all that he can about them. If there is a young fellow in tbe family, it might be well to let him know his prospects and invite him down. I could settle an income on him if he were poor. Then the estate would benefit somebody." " You can do as you like with the income," said Hugo. The words escaped him half against his will. He stole a glance at Brian when they were uttered, as if anxious to ascertain wlietlier or no his cousin had divined his own grudging, envious thoughts. He heartily wished that Richard's money had come to him. In Brian's place it would never have crossed his mind that he should throw away the good fortune that had fallen to his lot. If only he were in this lucky young Murray's shoes I Brian did not guess the thoughts that passed through Hugo's mind, but that murmured speech reminded him of another point which he wished to make quite clear. " Yes, I can do what I like with the income," he said, " and also with a sum of money that my father invested many years ago which nobody has touched at present. There are twelve thousand pounds in the Funds, part of which I propose to settle upon, you so as to make you more independent of my help in the future." Hugo stammered out something a little incoherent ; it was a proposition which took him completely by surprise. Brian con- tinued quietly — "Of course, I might continue the allowance that you have had hitherto, but then, in the event of my death, it would cease, for I cannot leave it to you by will. I have thought that it would be better, therefore, to transfer to you six thousand pounds, Hugo, over which you have complete control. All I ask is that you won't squander it. Colquhoan says that he can safely get you five per cent, for it. I would put it in his hands, if I were you. It will then bring you in three hundred a year." " Brian, you are too good to me," said Hugo. There were tears •'!■! fla UNDKR FAI,SK rRETfcNCES. in his eyes ; his voice trembled and Ills cheek flushed as he spoke "You don't Icnow " Tlieu he stopped and covered his face with his hands. A very unwonted feeling of shame and regret overpowered him ; it was as much as ho could do to refrain from crying like a child. "I can't thank you," he said, with a sob which made Brian smile a little, and lay his hand affectionately on his sljoulder. " Don't thank me, dear boy," he said. " It's very little to do for you ; but it will perhaps help to keep you out of difiQculties. And if you are in any trouble, go to Colquhoun. I will tell him Jiovv far he may go on helping you, and you can trust him. He shall not even tell me what you say to him, if you don't wish me to know. But, for Heaven's sake, Hugo, try to keep straight, and bring no disgrace upon our name. I have done what I could for you — I may do more, if necessary ; but there are circumstances in which I should not be able to help you at all, and you know what those are." He thought that he understood Hugo's impulsive disposition, but even he was not prepared for the burst of passionate remorse and affection with which the boy Ihrew himself almost at his feet, kissing his hands and sobbing out promises of amend- ment with all the abandonment of his Southern nature. Brian was inclined to be displeased with this want of self-control ; he spoke sharply at last, and told him to command himself. But some time elapsed before Hugo regained his calmness. And when Brian returned to the house, he could not induce his cousin to return Avith him ; the young fellow wandered away through the woods with drooping head and dejected mien, and was seen no mox'e till late at night. He came back to the house too late to say good-bye to Brian, who had left a few lines of farewell for him. His absence, perhaps, added a pang to the keen pain with which Brian left his home ; but if so, no trace of it was discernible in the kindly words which he had addressed to his cousin. He saw neither his mother nor Angela before he went ; indeed, he avoided any formal parting from the household in general, and let it be thought that he was likely to return in a short time. But as he took from his groom the reins of the dog-cart in which he was about to drive down to the station, he looked round him sadly and lingeringly, with a firm conviction at his heart that never again would his eyes rest upon the shining loch, the purple hills, and the ivy-grown, grey walls of Netuerglen. Never again. He had said his last farewell. He had no home nowl A 1 AHlCWiil.L. 01 CHAPTER VIII. IN GOWUU-STnEET. Angela Vivian's brother Rupert was, perhaps, not unlike her In feature and colouring;, but there was a curious tlissinillarity of expression betvveen the two. Angela's dark, grey eyes had a sweetness In which Rupert's were lacking ; the straight, regular features, which with her were brightened by a tender play of emotion, were, with him, cold and grave. The mouth was a fastidious one ; the bearing of the man, thougli full of distlnclion, could sometimes be almost repellantly haughty. The merest sketch of hiai would not be complete unless we added that hia dress was faultless, and that he was apt to bestow a somewhat finical care upon the minor details of his toilet. It was in October, when " everybody" was still supposed to be out of town, that Rupert Vivian walked composedly down Gowei*- street meditating on the news which the latest post had brought him. In sheer absence of mind he almost passed the house at which he had been intending to call, and he stood for a minute or two upon the steps, as If not quite sure whether or no he would enter. Finally, however, he knocked at the door and rang the bell, then prepared himself, with a resigned air, to wait until it should be opened. He had never yet found that a first summons gained him admittance to that house. After waiting five minutes and knocking twice, a slatternly maid aiipeared and asked him to walk upstairs. Kupcrt followed her leisurely ; he knew very well what sort of reception to expect, and was not surprised when she merely opened the drawing-room door, and left him to announce himself. "No ceremony" was the rule in the Herons' household, and very objectionable Rupert Vivian sometimes found it. The day had been foggy and dark, and a bright fire tlirew a cheerful light over the scene which presented itself to Rupert's eyes. A pleasant clinking of spoons and cups and saucers mei hia ear. He stood at the door for a moment unobserved, lislenin^i, and looking on. He was a privileged person In that house, and considered himself quite at liberty to look and listen If he chose. The room had an air of comfort verging upon luxury, but 1/ was untidy to a degree which Rupert thought disgraceful. For the rich hues of the curtains, the artistic character of the Japanese sci'eens and Oriental embroideries, the exquisite landscape- paintings on the walls, w^ere compatible wLh grave deficiencies iu the list of more ordinary articles of furniture. There were two or three picturesque, high-backed chairs, made of rosewood 0>lack with age) and embossed leather, but tho rest oi the seats 64 UNDER FALSE I'RETENCiiS. conslutod of divans, improvised by ingenious Angers out of paclcing-boxes and cuslilons cpveiecl witli Morris clilnlzes; or brown Windsor cliairs, evidently Imported stralglit from the kitchen. A battered old wrRing-doHk liad nn incongruous look wlien placed next to a costly buhl clock on i\ «b'''. inlaid indeed with mother-of-pearl, but wanting in one le;^ ; and ho m" valuablf blue china was apt to pass unolwerved ui)oii ilie man Ipici because it. was generally found in company with a ciuil's m i>;, ii plate of crusts, or a painting-rag. A grand piano stood open, and was strewn with sheets of music; two sketching i)ortfolios con- spicuously adorned the liearlhrug. A tea-table was drawn u{) near the lire, and the firelight wus rellected pleasantly in the gleaming silver and porcelain of tlie tea-service. The liuman elements of the scene were very diverse. Mrs. Heron, a lanj^uid-looking, lair-hnired woman, lay at full length on one of the divans. Her step-daugliter, Kitty, sat at tlio tea- tal)le, and Kitty's elder brother, i'ercival, a tall, broad-shouldered young man of eight-and-twenty, was leaning against the mantel- piece. A girl, who looked about tvv*^nty-one years of age, was sitting in tlie deepest shadow of the room. The flre-llght played upon lier hands, which lay (luietly folded before lier in lier lap, but it did not toucli her face. Two or three children were playing about the floor with their toys and a white fox-terrier. Tlie young man was talking very fast, two at least of tlie ladies were laugliing, tlie children were squabbling and shouting. It was a Babel. As Rupert stood at the door he caught the sense of Percival's last rapid sentences. " No right nor wrong in the case. You must allow me to say that you take an exclusively feminine view of the matter, which, of course, is narrow. J have as much right to sell my brains to the highest bidder as my friend Vivian has to sell his pictures when he gets the chance— n'hich isn't often." " There is nothing like the candour of an impartial friend," said Rupert, good-humouredly, as he advanced into the room. "Allow me to tell you that I sold my last painting this morning. How do you do, Mrs. Heron ?" His appearance produced a lull in the storm. Percival ceased to talk and looked slightly— very slightly— disconcerted. Mrs. Heron half rose ; Kitiy made a raid upon tlie children's toys, and carried some of them to the other end of the room, whither the tribe toUowed her, lamenting. Then Percival laughed aloud. "Where did you come from?" he said, in a round, mellow, genial voice, which was singularly pleasant to the eax'. '* 'Listeners hear no good of theniselvei?.' Ybjx've proved the proverb." TH aOW2R-STRKST. 06 sed ra. md the the •• ^!ot fo? the first time when you are the spealcer. i have found that out. How are you, Kitty? Good eveniuK, Miss Murray." "How good of you to come to see us, Mr. Vivian !" said Mrs. Heron, in a low, sweetly-modulated voice, as slie lield out one long, white hand to her visitor. She re-arranged her draperies a little, and lay back gracefully when she had spoken. Rupert had never seen her do anything but lie on sofas in graceful atti- tudes since he first made her acquaintance. It was her viHier. Nobody expected anything else from her except vaftue, theoretic talk, which she called philosophy. She had been Kitty's governess in days gone by. Mr. Heron, an artist of some repute, married her when he hr v! been a widower for twelve months only. Since that time she had become the mother of tliree hand- some, but decidedly noisy, children, and had lapsed by degrees into the life of a useless, fine lady, to whom household cares and the duties of a mother were mere drudgery, and were left to fall as much as possil)1e on the shoulders of other people. Never- theless, Mrs. Heron's selfishness was o£ a gentle and oven lovcable type. She was seldom out of humour, rarely worried or fretful ; she was only persistently idle, and determined to consider her- self in feeble liealth. Vivian's acquaintance with the Herons dated from his first arrival in London, six years ago, wlien he boarded with them for a few months. The disorder of the household had proved too great a trial to his fastidious tastes to be borne for a longer space of time. He had, however, formed a firm friendship with the whole family, especially witli Percival ; and for tlie last three or four years the two young men had occupied rooms in the same liouse and virtually lived together. To anyone wIjo knew the characters of the friends, their friendship was somewhat remarkable. Vivian's fault was an excess of polish and refine- ment; he attached unusual value to matters of mere taste and culture. Possibly this was the link wliich really attached him to Percival Heron, who was a man of considerable intellectual power, although possessed sometimes by a sort of irrepressible brusqueness and roughness of manner, with which he could make himself exceedingly disagreeable even to his friends. Percival was taller, stronger, broader about the shoulders, deeper in the chest, than Vivian— in fact, a handsomer man in all respects. Well-cut features, pale, but healthy-looking ; brilliant, restless, dark eyes; thick brown hair and moustache; a well-knit, vigorous frame, which gave no sign as yet of the stoutness to which it inclined in later years , these were points that made his appear- ance undeniably striking and attractive, A physiognomist might, (til 'W UKDER FALSE PKETENCKS. however, have found something to blame as well as to praise in his features. There was an omhious upright line between the dark brows, which surely told of a variable temper ; the curl of the laughing lips, and the fall of the heavy moustache only half concealed a curious over-L nsiliveiu-s.s in the lines of the too mobile mouth. It was not the face of a great thinker nor of a great saint, but of a humorous, quick-witted, impatient man, of ^vide intelligence, and very irritable nervous organisation. The air of genial hilarity which he could sometimes wear was doubtless attractive to a man of Vivian's reserved temperament. Percival's features beamed with good humour— he laughed with his whole heart ■ ,hen anything amused him. Vivian used to look at him in wonder sometimes, and think that Percival was more like a great overgrown boy than a man of eight - and - twenty. On the other hand, Percival said that Vivian was a prig. Kitty, sitting at the tea-table, did not think so. She loved her brother very much, but she considered Mr. Vivian a hero, a demi- god, something a little lower, perlmps, than the angels, but not very much. Kitly was only sixteen, which accounts, possibly, for her delusion on this subject. She was slim, and round, and white, with none of the usual awkwardness of her age about her. She had a well-set, graceful little head, and small, piquant features; her complexion had not much colour, but her pretty lips showed the smallest and pearliest of teeth when she smiled, and her dark eyes sparkled and danced under the thin, dark curve of her eyebrows and the shade of her long, curling lashes. Then her hair would not on any account lie straight, but disposed itself in dainty tendrils and love-locks over her forehead, which gave her almost a childish look, and was a serious trouble to Miss Kitty herself, who preferred her stepmother's abundant flaxen plaits, and did not know the charm that those soft rings of curling hair lent to her irregular, little face. Vivian took a cup of tea from her with an indulgent smile, He liked Kitty extremely well. He lent her books sometimes, which she did not always read. I am afraid that he tried to foi*m her mind. Kitty had a mind of her own, which did not want forming. Perhaps Fercival Heron was right when he said that Vivian was a prlo- He certainly liked to lecture Kitty; and she used to look up at him with great, sjrave eyes when he was lecturing, and pretend to understand what he was saying. She very often did not understand a word ; but Rupert never suspected that. He thought tnat Kitty was a very simple-minded little person. "There was quit« an argument going on when you appeai'ed, Mr. Vivian," said Mrs. Heron, languidly. "It is sometimes a IN CJOWKR-STHERT. 67 smile, times, ried to id not le said Kitty ; len lie saying, never oainded most difficult matter to decide what is right and what is wrong. I think you must decide for us." "I am not skilled in casuistry, said Vivian, smiling. "Is Percival giving forth some of his heresies ?" "I was never less heretical in my life," cried Percival. " State your case, Bess; I'll give you the precedence." Vivian turned towards the dark corner. "It is Miss Murray's difficulty, is it?" he said, with a look oi some interest. " I shall be glad to hear it." The girl in the dark corner stirred a little uneasily, but she spoke with no trepidation of manner, and her voice was clear and cool. " The question," she said, " is whether a man may write articles in a daily paper, advocating views which are not his own, simply because they are the views of the editor. I call it dishonesty." "So do I," said Kitty, warmly. " Dishonesty ? Not a bit of it," rejoined Percival. " The writer is the mouthpiece of the paper, which advocates certain views ; he sinks his individuality ; he does not profess to explain his own opinions. Besides, after all, what is di'sbonesty? Why should people erect honesty into such a great virtue? It is like truth- telling and— peaches ; nobody wants them out of their proper season ; they are never good when they are forced." " I don't see any analogy between truth-telling and peaches,' said the calm voice from the corner. "You tell the truth all the year round, don't yoit, Bess?" said Kitty, with a little malice. "But we are mortal, and don't attempt to practice exotic virtues," said Percival, mockingly. "I see no reason why I should not flourish upon what is called dishonesty, just as I see no reason why I should not tell lies. It is only the diseased sensibility of modern times which condemns either." "Modern times?" said Vivian. " I have heai'd of a command- ment " "Good Heavens!" said Percival, throwing back his handsome head, " Vivian is going to be didactic ! I think this conversation has lasted quite long enough. Elizabeth, consider yourself worsted in the argument, and contest the point no longer." "There has been no argument," said Elizabeth. " There has been assertion on your part, and indignation on ours ; that is all." " Then am I to consider myself worsted?" asked Percival. But he got uo answer. Presently, however, he burst out with renewed vigour. "Right and wrong! What does it mean? I hate the very isound of the words. What is right to me is wrong to you, and m f^Q 08 UNDER FALSE PBETENOES. vice versa. It's all a matter of convention. ' Now, who shall arbitrate V as Browning says— 'Now, who shall aibitratet Ten men love what I hate. Shun what I follow, slight whit I reoeire; Ten, who in ears and ej'es Match me ; we all surmise, They, this thinar, anil 1, that ; whom shall my soul believe T '' The lines rang out boldly upon the listeners' ears. Percival was one of the few men who can venture to recite poetry without making themselves ridiculous. He continued hotly— "There is neither truth nor falsehood in the world, and those who aver that there is are either impostors or dupes." "Ah,'" said Vivian, "you remind me of Bacon's celebrated sentence—' Many there be that say with jesting Pilate, "What is truth? but do not wait for an answer.' " "I think you have both quoted quite enough, said Kitty, lightly. "You forget how little I understand of these deep subjects. T don't know how it is, but Percival always says the things most ci-'culated to annoy people ; he never visits papa's studio without abusing modern art, or meets a doctor without sneering at the medical profession, or loses an opportunity of telling Elizabeth, who loves truth for its own sake, that he enjoys trickery and falsehood, and thinks it clever to tell lies." "Very well put, Kitty," said Percival, approvingly. "You have hit off your brother's amiable character to the life. Like the child in the story, I could never tell why people loved me so, but now I know.' There was a general laugh, and also a discordant clatter at the other end of the room, where the children, hitherto unnoticed, had come to blows over a broken toy. " What a noise they make 1" said Percival, with a frown. "Perhaps they hud better go away," murmured Mrs. Heron, gently. "Dear Lizzy, will you look after them a little? They are always good with you." The girl rose and went silently towards the three children, who at once clustered round her to pour their woes into her ear. She bent down and spoke to them lovingly, as it seemed, and finally quitted the room with one child clinging round her neck, and the others hanging to her gown. Percival gave vent to a sudden, impatient sigh. "Miss Murray is fond of children,' said Vivian, looking after her pleasantly. , "And I am not, snapped Kitty, with something of her brother's love of opposition in her tone. " I hate children." tij (SOWEn-STRBlSf. tiO ill yal out lose ited Eitis Itty, deep \ the apa's ;hout ty of njoys 'You ;e the but it the ticecl, [eron, They who She Inally and idden, after |>f her an. "You! You are only a child youvbelf," said ho, turuin,':; towards her with a kindly look in his grave eyes, and an un- wonted smile. But Kitty's wrath was appeased by neither look nor smile. "Then I had better join my compears, she said, tai'tly. "I shall at least get the beneflt of Elizabeth's affection for children." Vivian's chair was close to hers, and the tea-table partly hid them from Percival's lynx eyes. Mrs. Heron was half asleep. So there was nothing to hinder Mr. R\ipert Vivian from putting out his hand and taking Kitty's soft fingers for a moment soothingly in his own. He did not mean anything but an elderly- brotherly, patronising sort of affection by it ; but Kitty was "thrilled through every nerve" by that tender pressure, and sat mute as a mouse, while Vivian turned to her step-mother and began to speak. *' I had some news this morning of my sister," he said. " You heard of the sad termination to her engagement?" "No ; what was that?" " She was to be married before Christmas to a Mr. Luttrell ; but Mr. Luttrell was killed a short time ago by a shot from Ills brother's grn when they were out shooting together." " How very sad 1" " The brother has gone— or is going—abroad ; report says that he takes the matter very much to lieart. And Angela is going to live with Mrs. Luttrell, the mother of these two men. T thought these details might be interesting to you," said Vivian, looking round half-questioningly, "because I understand that the Luttrells are related to your young friend— or cousin— Miss Murray." "Indeed? I never heard her mention the name,' said Mrs. Heron. Vivian thought of something that he had recently heard in connection with Miss Murray and the Luttrell family, and wondered whether she knew that if Brian Luttrell died un- married she would succeed to a great Scotch estate. But he said nothing more. "Where is Elizabeth?" said Percival, restlessly. "She is a great deal too much with these children— they drag the very life out of her. I shall go and Lnd her." He marched away, noting as he went, with much dissatis- faction, that Mrs. Heron was inviting Vivian to dinner, and that he was accepting the invitation. He went to the top of the house, where he knew that a room was appropriated to the use of the younger children. Here he found Elizab«th for once without the three little Herons. She 'i1 70 tTNDER FALSK PRETENCES. was atanding lu Uie middle of the room, engaged in the prosaic occupation of folding up a table-cloth. He stood in the doorway looking at her for a minute or two before he spoke. She was a tall girl, with fine shoulders, and beautiful arms and hands. He noticed them particularly as she held up the cloth, shook it out, and folded it. A clear, fine- grained skin, with a colour like that of a June rose in her cheeks, Avell-opened, calm-looking, grey -blue eyes, a mass of golden hair, almost too heavy for her head ; a well-cut profile, and rather stately bearing, made Elizabeth Murray a noticeable person even amongst women more strictly beautiful than hei'self. She was poorly and plainly dressed, but poverty and plainness became her, throwing into strong relief the beauty of her rose-l ints and finely-moulded iigure. She did not start when she saw Percival at the door; she smiled at him frankly, and asked why he had come. '' Do you know anything of the Luttrells ?" he asked, abruptly. " The Luttrells of Netherglen ? They are my third cousins." " You never speak of them," " I never saw them.' "Do you know what has happened to one of them. " Yes. He shot his brother by mistake a few days ago." "I was thinking rather of the one who was killed," said Percival. "Where did you see the account? In the newspaper ?" "Yes." Then she hesitated a little. "And I had a letter. too." "From the Luttrells themselves 1" " From their lawyer." " And you held your tongue about it V* " There was nothing to say," said Elizabeth, with a smile. Percival shrugged his shoulders, and went back to thedrawijig- loom. CHAPTER IX. blizabeth's wooing. PifiRCiVAL and his friend dined with the Herons that evening. Mr. Heron was an artist by profession ; ho. was a fair, abstracted- looking man, with gold eye-glasses, which he was always sticking incflTectually upon the bridge of his nose and nervously feeling for when they tumbled down again. He had painted several good pictures in his time, and was in the habit of earning a fairly good income ; but owing to some want of management, either on his part or his wife's, his income never seemed quite large enough Cor the needs of the household. The servants' waires wero usualijir posi h«r. "II Percl ELIZABETH'S WOOTNO. 71 icted- cking good 1 fairly ler Oil lougb Igually iu aiTear; the fittings of the Louse were broken and never repaired ; there were wonderful gaps in the furniture and the china, which nobody ever appeared to think of filling up. Rupert remembered the ways of the house when he had boarded there, and was not surprised to find himself dining upon mutton half- burnt and half-raw, potatoes more like bullets than vegetables, and a partially cooked rice-pudding, served upon the remains ot at least three dinner-services, accompanied by sour beer and very indifferent claret. Percival did not even pretend to eat ; he sat back in his chair and declared. Avith an air of polite disgust, that he was not hungry. Kupert made up for his deficiencies, how ever ; he swallowed what was set before him and conversed witli his Iiostess, who was quite unconscious that anything was amiss. Mrs. Heron had a vague ta^te for metaphysics and political economy; she had beautiful tbeories of education, which she was always intending, at some future time, to put into practice for the benefit of her three little boys, Harry, Willy, and Jack. She spoke of these theories, with her blue eyes fixed on vacancy and her fork poised gracefully in the air, while Vivian laboured dis- tastefully through his dinner, and Percival frowned in silence at the table-cloth. "I have always thought, ' Mrs. Heron was saying sweetly, "that children ought not to be too much controlled. Their development should be perfectly free. My children grow up like young plants, with plenty of sun and air; they play as they like; they woi'k when they feel that they can '.. ,^rk best; and, it at times they are a little noisy, at any rate V-Av noise never develops into riot." Percival did not, perhaps, intend her to hear him, but, below his breath, he burst into a sardonic, little laugh and an aside to his sister Kitty. "Never into riot 1 I never heard them stop short of itl" . Mrs. Heron looked at him uncertainly, and took pains to explain herself. "Up to a certain point, I was going to say, Percival, dear. At the proper age, I think, that discipline, entire and perfect di •cipline, ought to begin." -'And what is the proper agel" said Percival, ironically. " For it seems to me that the boys are now quite old enough to endure a little discipline." "Oh, at present," said Mrs. Heron, with undisturbed com- posure, " they are iu Elizabeth's hands. I leave them entirely to h«r. I trust Elizabeth perfectly." " Is that the reason why Elizabeth does not dine with usi" said Percival, looking at his step-mother with an expression of deep U ■ 'I '^I'f 711 rNDBR FALSE PRETIDNCEg. hostility. But Mrs. Heron's placidity was of a kind wliidi would not be ruffled. "Elizabeth is so kind," she isaid. "She teaches them, and does everything for them ; but, of course, they must go to school by-and-bye. Dear papa will not let me teach them myself. He tells me to forget that ever I was a governess; but, indeed" — with a faint, pensive smile—" my instincts are too strong for me sometimes, and I long to have my pupils back again. Do I not, Kitty, darling?" "I was not a pupil of yours vei'y long, Isabel/' said Kitty, who never brought herself to the point of calling Mrs. Heron by any- thing but her Christian name. "Not lone?," sighed Mrs. Heron. "Too short a time for me." At this point Mr. Heron, who noticed very little of what was going on around him, turned to his son with a question about the politics of the day. Percival, with his nose in the air, hardly deigned at first to answer ; but upon Vivian's quietly propound- ing some strongly Conservative views, which always acted on the younger Heron as a red rag is supposed to act upon a bull, he waxed impatient and then argumentative, until at last he talked himself into a good humour, and made everybody else good humoured. When they returned to tue untidy but pleasant-looking drawing- room, they found Elizabeth engaged in picking up the children's toys, straightening the sheets of music on the piano, and other- wise making herself generally useful. She hal changed her dress, and put on a long, plain gown of white cashmere, which suited her admirably, although it was at least three years old, undeniably tight for her across the shculders, and short at the M-rists, having shrunk by repeated washings since the days v/hen it first was made. She wore no trimmings and no ornaments, whereas Kitty, in her red frock, sported lialf-a-dozen trumpery bracelets, a silver necklace, and a little bunch of autunni Ilowers ; and Mrs. Heron's pale-blue draperies were adorned with dozens of yards of cheap cream-coloured lace. Vivian looked at Eiizabei h and wondered, almost for the first time, why she diflered so greatly from the Herons. He had often seen her before ; but, being now particularly interested by what he had heard about her, he observed her more than usual. Mrs. Heron sat down at the piano; she played well, and was rather fond of exhibiting her musical proficiency. Percival and Kitty were engaged in an animated, low-toned conversation. Bupert approached Elizabeth, who was arranging some sketches in a portfolio with the diligence of a housemaid. She was stand- i\I or bet' abs( can exc( ELIZABETHS WOOING. 7.1 was aud ition. Itand- mg just within the studio, which was separated from the diaw- mg-room by a velvet curtain now partially drawn aside. " Do you sketch ? are these your drawings ?" he asked her. " No, they are Uncle Alfred's. I cannot draw." " You are musical, I suppose," said Rupert, carelessly. He took it for granted that, if a girl did not draw, she must needs play the piano. But her next words undeceived him. ' " No, I can't play. I have no accomplishments." "What do you mean by accomplishments?" asked Vivian, smiling. " I mean that I know nothing about French and German, or music aud drawing," said Elizabeth, calmly. " I never had any systematic education. I should make rather a good housemaid, I believe, but my friends won't allow me to take a houfiemaid's situation." " I should think not," ejaculated Vivian. " But it is all that I am fit for," she continued, quietly. '* And I think it is rather a pity that I am not allowed to be happy in my own way." There was a little silence. Vivian felt himself scarcely equal to the occasion. Presently she said, with more quickness of speech than usual : — " You have been in Scotland lately, have you not?" " I was there a short time ago, but for two days only." , '* Ah, yes, you went to Netherglen ?" "I did. The Luttrells are connections of yours, are they not. Miss Murray ?" "Very distant ones," said Elizabeth. " You know that Brian Luttrell has gone abroad f " I have heard so." There was very little to be got out of Miss Miirray. Vivian was almost glad when Percival joined them, and he was able to slip back to Kitty, with whom he had no difficulty in carrying on a conversation. The studio was dimly lighted, and Percival, either by accident or design, allowed the curtain to fall entirely over the aperture between the two rooms. He looked round him. Mr. Heron was absent, and they had the room to themselves. Several unfinished canvasses were leaning against the walls ; the portrait of an exceedingly cadaverous-looking old man was conspicuous upon the artist's easel ; the lay figure was draped like a monk, and had a cowl drawn over its stiff, wooden head. Percival shrugged his shoulders. '* My father's studio isn't an attractive-looking place," he said, with a growl of disgust in his voice. i'ii 74 rXDEE FALSE rRETENCEfl. "Elizabeth," L mk' " That happens so w of ardour in his dark eyes. "You look like a tall, white li' 'o- night, with your white dress and your gleaming hair. The ^ uj'e white of the petals and the golden heart of the lily '^vt found their match." " I am recompensed for the trouble I took in changing iiiy dress this evening," said Elizabeth, glancing down at it r ^pVxently. "I did not expect that it would bring me so poetic a ji'.pliment. Thank you, Percival." " 'Consider the lilies; they toil not, neither do they spin,'" quoted Percival, recklessly. "Why should 7011 toil and spin?— a more beautiful lily than any one of tiiem. If Solomon in all his glory was not equal to those Judean lilies, then I may safely say that the Queen of Sheba would be beaten outright by our Queen Elizabeth, with her white dress and her golden locks I" "Mrs. Heron would say you were profane," said Elizabeth, tranquilly. "These comparisons of yours don't please me exactly, Percival ; they always remind me of the flowery leaders in some of the evening papers, and make me remember that you are a journalist. They have a professional air." " A professional air 1" repeated Percival, in disgust. He let the lid of the portfolio fall with a bang upon the table. Several of the sketches flew wildly over the floor, and Elizabeth turned to him with a reproachful look, but she had no time to protest, for in that moment he had seized her hands and drawn her aside with him to a sofa that stood on one side of the room. " You shall not answer me in that way," he said, half-irritated, half-amused, and wholly determined to have his way. "You shall sit down there and listen to me in a serious spirit, if you can. No, don't shake your head and look at me so mockingly. It is time that we understood each other, and I don't mean another night to pass over our heads without some decision being arrived at. Elizabeth, you must know that you have my •a; iMr 78 VNOSR FA LIS PRBTENOEf. happiness In your hands. I can't live without you. I can't bear to see you making yourself a slave to everybody, with no one to love you, no one to work for you and save you from anxiety and care. Let me work for you, now, dearest ; be my wife, nnd I will see that you have your proper place, and that you are tended and cared for as a woman ought to be." Elizabeth had withdrawn her hands from his ; she even turned a little pale. He fancied that tlie tears stood in her eyes. **0h," she said, " I wish you had not said this to me, Percival." It was easy for him to slip down from liis low seat to a footstool, and there, on one knee, to look full into her face, and let his hand- some, dark eyes plead for him. " Why should I not have said it?" he breathed, softly. " Has it not been the dream of my life for months?— I might almost say for years ? I loved you ever since you first came amongst us, Elizabeth, years ago." " Did you, indeed?" said Elizabeth. A light of humour showed itself through the tears that ':ad come into her eyes. An amused, reluctant smile curved the corners of her mouth. " What, when I was an awkward, clumsy, ignorant schoolgirl, as I remember your calling me one day after I had done something exceptionally stupid? And when you played practical jokes upon me— hung ray doll up by its hair, and made me believe that there was a ghost in the attics— did you care for me then? Oh, no, Percival, you forget ! and probably you exaggerate the amount of your feeling as much as you do the length of time it has lasted." "It's no laughing matter, I assure you, lUizabeth," said Percival, laughing a little himself at these recollections, but looking vexed at the same time. "I am perfectly serious now, and very much in earnest ; and I can't believe that my stupid Jokes, when I was a mere boy, have had such an effect upon your mind as to prevent you from caring for me now." " No," said Elizabeth. '* Tliey make no difference ; but— I'm very sorry, Percival— I really don't think that it would do." "What would not do? what do you mean?" said Percival, frowning. " This arrangement ; this— this— proposition of yours. Nobody « ould like it." " Nobody could object. I have a perfect right to marry if I choose, and whom I choose. I am independent of my father." " You could not marry yet, Percival," she said, in rather a chiding tone. " I could— if you would not mind sharing my poverty with me. If you loved me, Elizabeth, you would not mind." "I am afraid I do not love you—in that way," said Elizabeth, ^*". ■; jL.. ' r ?5 f if I a le. bth, ■LIZABKTH'S WOOINflf. 1 meditatively. ' No, it would never do. I never dreamt of auch a thiuK." " Nobody expects you to have dreamt of it," rejoined Percival, with a sh laugh. "Tlio dreaming can bo left to me. Tlie question is rather wliether you wili think of it now— consider it a little, I mean. It seems to be a new idea to you— though I must say I wonder that you have not seen how much I loved you, Elizabeth 1 I am willing to wait until you liave grown used to it. I cannot believe that you do not care for me ! You would not be so cruel; you must love me a little—just a very little, Elizal)eth." " Well, I do," said Elizabeth, smiling at his vehemence. •' I do love you— more than a little— as I love you all. You have been so good to me that I could not help caring for you— in spite of the doll and the ghost in the attic." Her smile grew gravely mischievous as slie finished the sentence. '* Oh, that is not what I want," cried Percival, starting up from his lowly position at her feet. " That is not tlie kind of love that I am asking for at all." "lam afraid you will get no other," said Elizabeth, with a ring of sincerity in her voice that left no room for coquetry. ** I am sorry, but I cannot help it, Percival." " Your love is not given to anyone else ?" he demanded, fiercely. •' You have no right to ask. But if it is a satisfaction to you, I can assure you that I have never cared for anyone in that way. I do not know what it means," said Elizabeth, looking directly before her. *' I have never been able to understand." "Let me make you understand," murmured Percival, his momentary anger melting before the complete candour of her eyes. " Let me teach you to love, Elizabeth." She was silent — irresolute, as it appeared to him. " You would learn very easily," said he. " Try— let me try." " I don't think I could be tauglit," she answered, slowly. " And really I am not sure that I care to learn." "That is simply because you do not know your own heart," said Percival, dogmatically. "Trust me, and wait awhile. 1 will have no answer now, Elizabeth. I will ask you again." " And suppose my answer is the same ?" "It won't be the same," said Percival, in a masterful sort of way. " You will understand by-and-bye." She did not see the fire in his eyes, nor the look of passionate yearning tliat crossed his face as he stood beside her, or she would scarcely have been surprised when he bent down suddenly and pressed his lips to her forehead. She started to her feet, colouring vividly and angrily. " How darei'ou, Percival 1 " she ni nhi i I riii.i'l ! 78 UNDER FALSK PRETBNCKS*. began. But she could uot flnish the Houtcncc. Kilty calluil her from the other room. Kitty's face appeared ; and tlie curtain was drawn aside by an unseen hand witli a great clatter of rings upon the pole. "Where liave you been all this lin)e?" said she. "Isabel wants you, Lizzie. Percival, Mr. Vivian tallcs of goiuK." Elizabeth vanislied tlirough tlie curtain. Percival had not even time to breathe into her ear the "Forgive nio" with which ho meant to propitiate her. He was not very penitent for his offence. He liionght that lie was sure of Elizabeths pardon, because he (houKht himself sure of Elizabeth's love, liul, as a matter of fact, that stolen kiss did not at all advance his c:uisc with Elizabeth Murray. He did not see her again that )iiglit— a fact which sent liiin back to his lodging in an ill-fiatisfled frame of mind. He and Vivian shared a sitting-voom. between them; and, on their return from Mr. Heron's, they disposed themselves for their usual smoke and chat. But neither of them seemed inclined for conversation. Rupert lay back In a I'^ng lounging -chair ; Percival turned over the leaves of a>new publication which had been sent to him for review, and uttered disparaging com- ments upon '.t from time to time. "I hope all critics are not so hypercritical as you arc," said Vivian at last, when the volume had finally been tossed to the other end of the room with an exclamation of di.sgust. " Pah ! why will people write such abominable stuff?" said Percival. "Reach me down that volume of Bacon's Essays behind you ; I must have something to take the taste out pf my mouth before I begin to write." Vivian handed him the book, and watched him with some interest as he read. The frown died away from his forehead, and the mouth gradually assumed a gentler expression before he had turned the first page. In five minutes he was so much absorbed that he did not hear the question which Vivian addressed to him. " What position," said Rupert, deliberately, " does Miss Murray hold in your father's house 1" "Eh? What? What position?" Away went Percival's book to the floor ; he raised liimself in his chair, and began to light his pipe, which had gone out. " What do you mean ?" he said. " Is she a ward of your father's ? Is she a relation of yours ?" " Yes, of course, she is," said Percival, rather resentfully. " She is a cousin. Let mo see. Her father, Gordon Murray, was my mother's brother. She is my first cousin. And Cinderella m general to the household," he added, grimly. i.-Ti',T ""*"?a- nnoTUKu omo. 71) "Oil, Goirloii Munay wisher fuilier? So I .HUpposcd. Then if poor Jlicliiud Lultrell had not died I suppose she would liave been a Hort of connection of my siHter's. I renicnibe- Angela wondi red whether Gordon Murray had left any family." "Why J" "Why? You know the dogreo of velatlonsidp and the terms of the will made by Mrs. LuttroH's father, don't you? " Not I." "Gordon "Miirrny— this Mlsa ^Murray's father— was next heir after tlu; two Luttrells, If (hey dlod childless. Of course, Brian is still Uvlnp; ; but If he died, Miss Murray would Inherit, I under- Bland." " There's not much chance," said Perclval, lightly. "Not mnch," responded Vivian. Tliey were Interrupted by a knock at the door. The landlady, with many apologies, brought them a telegram which had been left at the house during iheir absence, and which she had for- gotten to deliver. It was addressed to Vivian, who tore it open, read it twice, and then passed it on to Percival without a word. It was from Angela Vivian, and contained these words only— "Brian Lultrell Is dead." lu CHAPTER X. BROTHER DINO. When Brian Luttrell left England he had no very clear idea of the places that he meant to visit, or the things that he wished to do. He wished only to leave old associations behind him— to forget, and, if possible to be forgotten. He was conscious of a curious lack of interest in life ; it seemed to him as though the very springs of liis being were dried up at their source. As a matter of fact, lie was thoroughly out of health, as well as out of spirits ; he had been over-working himself In London, and was sc.ircely out of the doctor's hands before he went to Scotland ; then the shock of his brother's death and he harshnes» of his mother toward him had con- tributed thei- share to the utter disorganisation of his faculties. In short, Brian was not iilmself at all ; it might even be said that he was out of liis right mind. He had attacks of headache, generally terminating in a kind of stupor rather than sleep during which he could scarcely be held responsible for the things he said or did. At other times, a feverish restlessness came ujion him ; lie could not sleep, and he could not eat ; he would then go out and walk for miles and miles, until be was tboroughiy ex- 80 tJNDER FALSE PRETENCES. bausted. It was a wonder that his mind did not give way altogether. His sanity hung upon a thread. It was in this state that lie found himself one day upon a Rhine boat, bound for Mainz. He had a very vague notion of how he had managed to get there ; he had no notion at all of his reason for travelling in that direction. It dawned upon him by degrees that he had chosen the very same route, and made the same stoppages, as he had done when he was a mere boy, travel- ling with his father upon the Continent. Richard and his mother had not l)een there ; Brian and Mr. Luttrell had spent a particu- larly happy time together, and the remem brance of it soothed his troubled brain, and caused his eye to rest with a sort of dreamy pleasure upon tlie scene around him. It was rather late for a Rhine expedition, and the boat was not at all full. Brian rather thought that the journey with his father hail been taken at about the same time of the year — per- liaps even a lit! le later. He had a special memory of the wealth of Vii'ginian creeper w])icli covered the buildings near Coblentz. He looked out for it wlieu tlie boat stopped at the landing-stage, and thoiiglit of the time when he had wandered hand-in-hand with l)is father in the pleasant Anla^en on the river banks, and galliered a scarlet trail of leaves from the castle walls. The leaves were in their full autumnal glory now ; he must have been there at about the same season when he was a boy. After determining this fact to his satisfaction, Brian went back to the seat that he had found for himself at the end of the boat, and began once more to watch the gliding panorama of " castled crag" and vine-clad slope, which was hardly as familiar to him as it is to most of us. But, after all, Drachenfels and Ehren- breitstein had no great interest for him. He had no great interesL in anything. Perhaps the little excitement and bustle at the landing-places pleased him more than the scenery itself — the peasants shouting to each other from the banks, the baskets of grapes handed in one after another, the patient oxen waiting in the roads between the shafts ; these were sights which made no great claim upon his attention and were curiously soothing to his jaded nerves. He watched them languidly, but was not sorry from time to time to close his eyes and shut out his surroundings altogether. Tlie worst of it was, that when he had closed his eyes for a little time, the scene in the wood always came back to him with terrible distinctness, or else there rose up before his eyes a picture of that darkened room, with Richard's white face upon the pillow and his mother's dark form and outstretched hand. These were the memories that would not let him sleep at night BRnrrrnT! dino. 81 or lal-e his ease in the world by day. He coultl not forget the past. • There was another passenger on the boat who passed and re- passed Brian several times, and looked at him with curious atten- tion. Brian's face was one which was always apt to excite interest. It had pfjwn thin and pallid during the past fort- night ; the eyes v ere set in deep hollows, and wore a painfully sad expression. Hj looked as if he had passed through some period of illness or sorrow of which the traces could never be wholly obliterated. Thex'e was a pathetic hopelessness in his face which was somewhat remai'kable in so young a man. The passenger who regarded him with so much interest was also a young man, not more than Brian's own age, but apparently no» an Englishman. He spoke English a little, though with a forfcign accent, but his French was remarkably good and pure. He stopped short at last in front of Brian and eyed him atten- tively, evidently believing that the young man was asleep. But Brian was not asleep; he knew that the regular ioolstep of his? travelling companion had ceased, and was hardly surprised, when he opened his eyes, to find the Frenchman— if such he were— standing before him. Brian looked at him attentively for a moment, and recognised the fact that the young foreigner wore an ecclesiastical habit, a black soutane or cassock, such as is worn in Roman Catholic seminaries, not necessarily denoting that the person who wears it has taken priest's vows upon him. Brian was not sufficiently well versed in the subject to know what grade was signified by the dress of the young ecclesiastic, but he conjectured (chiefly from its plainness and extreme shahbiness) that it was not a very high one. The young man's face pleased him. It was intellectual and refined in contour, rather of the ascetic type ; with that faint red- ness about the heavy eyelids which suggests an insufficiency of sleep or a too great amount of study ; large, penetrating, dark eyes, underneath a broad, white brow ; a firm mouth and chin. There was something about his face which seemed vaguely familiar to Brian ; and yet lie could not in the least femember where he had seen it before, or what associations it called up in his miii'J. The young man courteously raised his broad, felt hat. " Pardon me," he said, " you are ill—suflering— can I do nothing for you?" ^'I am not ill, thank you. You are very good, but I want nothing," said Brian, with a feelin 2; of '".nnoj'ance vvliich showed itself in the coldness of his mannex'. And yet he was attracted rather than repelled by the stranger's voice and manner. The *-«*".'~V„. 82 UNDER FALSE PRETENCES. vcice was musical, the manner decidedly prepossessing. He was not sorry that the young ecclesiastic did not seem ready to accept the rebuff, but took a seat on (he bench by his side, and made a remark upon the scenery through w])ich they were passing. Brian responded slightly enough, but with less cold- nt3s; and in a few minutes— he did not know how it happened— he was talking to the stranger more freely than he had done to anyone since he left England. Their conversation was certainly confined to trivial topics ; but there was a frankness and a delicacy of perception about the young foi'eigner which made him a very attractive companion. He gave Brian in a few words an outline of the chief events of his life, and seemed to expect no confidence from Brian in return. He had been brought up in a Boman Catholic seminary, and was destined to become a Benedictine monk. He was on his way to join an elder priest in Mainz; thence he expected to proceed to Italy, but was not sure of his destination. "I shall perhaps meet you ngf^in, then?" said Brian. "I am perhaps going to Italy myself." The yor.ng man smiled and shook his head. " You are scarcely likely to encounter me, niou.sicur," he answered. " I s^ all be busy amongst the poor and sick, or at work within the monastery. I shall remember you— but I do not think that we shall meet again." " By Y.hat name should I ask for you if I came across any of your order? " said Brian. "I am generally known as Dino Vasari, or Brother Dino, at your service, monsieur," replied the Italian, cheerfully. " If, in your goodness, you wished to inquire after me, you should ask at the monastery of San Stefano, Avhere I spend a few weeks every year in retreat. The Prior, Father Cristoforo, is an old friend of mine, and he will always welcome you if you should pass that way. There is good sleeping accommodation for visitors." Brian took the trouble to make an entry in his note-book to this elfect. It tui-ned out to be a singularly useful one. As they were reaching Mainz something prompted Brian to ask a question. "Why did you speak to me this afternoon?" he said, the morbid suspiciousness of a man who is sick in mind as well as body returning full upon him. " You do not know me?" . " No, monsieur, I do not know you." The ecclesiastid^s pale brow flushed; he even looked embarrassed. "Monsieur," he said at Ifist, "you had the appearance— you will pai-don my saying so— o^ one who was either ill cr bore about with him ising. He jcem ready )y his side, 1 they were li less cold- happened— had done to as certainly iiess and n tvhich made a few words id to expect brought up to become a elder priest bvit was not Man. "I am 1 are scarcely si all be busy iionaalery. 1 e shall meet across any of ther Dino, at illy. "If, in [u should ask a few weeks jro, is an old If you should nodation for note-book to Lne. As they In to ask a lernoon?" lie sick in mind do not know ecclesiastis, and the glimpse of blue sky beyond the mouldering reddish walls on either hand. As he sat there, almohit as though he were waiting for some expected visitor, the cloister doors opened once more, and two or three men in black govvns came out. They were all pri sts ex- cept one, and this one was the young Italian whose acqu itance Brian had made upon the steamer. They were talkin? apidly together ; one of them seemed to be questioning the young man, and he was replying with the serene yet earnest expi ''ssion of countenance w' ich had impi-essed Brian so favourably. At first they stood still ; by-and-bye they crossed the quadrangle, and heVe Brother Dino fell somewhat behind the others. oi lowing a sudden impulse, Brian suddenly rose as he came near, and addressed him. " Can you speak to me ? I want to ask you about my father " He spoke in English, but the young priest replied in Italian. •'I cannot speak to you now. Wait till we meet at San Stefano." The words might be abrupt, but the smile which follov d them was so sweet, so benign, that Brian was only struck wit i a sud- a ■-."V^^JI'L. 86 UNDER FALSE PRETENCES. ,!«, den sense of the beauty of the expression upon that keen Italian face. "God be with you 1" said Brother Dino, as he passed on. He stretched out his hand ; it held one of the faintly-pink, sweet roses, which he had plucked near the cloister door. He almost thrust it into Brian's passive fingers. " God be with you," he said, in his native tongue once more. " Farewell, brother." In another moment he was gone. Brian had the green en<;losure, the birds and the roses to himself once more. He looked down at the little overblown flower in his hand and carried it mechanically to his nostrils. It was very sweet. " Why does he think that I shall go to San Stefano?" he asked himself. " What is San Stefano to me? Why should I meet him there?" He sat down again, holding the flower loosely in one band, and resting his head upon the other. The old langour and sickness of heart were coming back upon him ; the momentary excitement had passed away. He would have given a great deal to be able to rouse himseli from the depreS)Sion which had taken such firm hold of his mind ; but he failed to discover any means of doing so. He had a vague, morbid fancy that Brother Dino could help him to master his own trouble— he knew not how ; but this hope had failed him. He did not even care to go to San Stefr,no. After a jittle time he remembered the letter in his pocket, addressed to him in Mr. Coiquhoun's handwriting. He took it out and looked at it for a few minutes. Why should Mr. Colquhoun write to him unless he had something unpleasant to say ? Perhaps he was only forwarding some lettem. This quiet, grassy quadrangle was a good place in which to read letters, he though . He would open the er^velope and see what Golquhonn Ijad to say. He opened it very slowly. Then he started, and his hand began to tremble The only letter enclosed a; as one in his mother's handwriting. Upon a slip of blue Peeper were a few words from the lawyer. " For- warded to J Tr. Br:'an Luttrell at Mrs- Luttrell's request on the 25th of jcf. o'jer, 1 .577, by James Colquhoun." Brian ope^'^d the i..' ter. It had no formal opening, but it was carefull 1 yi:^ned a>\d dt ^ ^.d, and ran as follows : — "They teil me tliat i have done you an injury by doubting your word, an ' inat T am an unnatural mother In saying- even in my owi i amber— what I thouglit. I have an excuse, which no one kii;. .s but myself and Ja.'nes Colquhoun. I think it is wi ii under pi ''exit circumstances to tell you what it is. "I tm a strong oeliever in race. I think that the influence o£ b^ ^od is far more powerful than those of training or educatioui ON A MOUNTAIN SIDE. 87 was never your love should as- for have how strong soeve" thej' may be. Therefore, I tonished although I was grieved, to see that Richard was not so great as that of brothers been: " " It is false 1*' said Brian, with a groan, crushing the letter in his hand, and letting it fall to his side. "No brother could have loved Richard more than I." Presently he took up the letter again and read. "Because I knew," it went on, "though many a woman in my position would not have guessed the truth, that you were not Richard's brother at all : that you were not my son." Again Brian paused, this time in utter bewilderment. "Is my mother mad?" he said to himself. " I— not her son? Who am I, then ?" "I repeat what I have said,"— so ran Mrs. Luttrell's letter— " with all the emphasis which I can lay upon the words. The matter may not be capable of proof, but the truth remains. You are not my son, not Edward Luttrell's son, not Richard Luttrell's brother— no relation of ours at all; not even of English or Scottish blood. Your parents were Italian peasant-folk ; and my son, Brian Luttrell, lies buried in the churchyard of an Italian village at the foot of the Western Apennines. You are a native of San Stefano, and your mother was my nurse." CHAPTER XL ON A MOUNTAIN-SIDE. "When my child Brian was born we were renting a villa near San Stefano, and were somewhat far removed from any English doctor. My doctor was, therefore, an Italian ; and what was worse, he was an Italian monk. I hate foreigners, and I hate monks; so you may imagine for yourself the way in which I looked upon him. No doubt he had a hand in the plot that has ended so miserably for me and mine, so fortunately for you. " My Brian was nursed by our gardener's wife, a young Italian woman called Vincenza, whose child was about the age of mine. I saw Vincenza's child several times. Its eyes were brown (like yours) ; my baby's eyes were blue. It was when they were both about two months old that I was seized with a malarious fever, then very prevalent. They kept the children away from me for months. At last I insisted upon seeing them. The baby had been ill, they told me ; I must be prepared for a great change in him. Even then my heart misgave me, I knew not why. " Vincenza brought a ctiild and laid it in my lap. I looked at it, and then I looked at her. She was deadlv white, and her eves 88 UNDER rALSE PRETKKCKr". were red with tears. I did not know why. Of course I see now that she had enougli of the motlier's heart in lier to be loath to give up her child. For it was her cliild that she had placed upon my knee. I Icnew it from the very first. "'Take this child away and give me my own,' I said. 'This is not mine.' " The woman threw up her hands and ran out of tlie room. I thought she had gone to fetch my baby, and I remained with her child— a puny, crying tbing— upon my knees. J3nt sbo did ot return. Presently my husband came in, and I appealed to him. 'Tell Vincenza to take her wretched, little baby away,' I said. 'I want my own. This is her child ; not mine.' "My husband looked at me, pityingly, as it seemed to my eyes. Suddenly the truth burst upon me. I sjjrang to my feet and threw the baby away fi-om me upon the bed. ' My child is dead,' I cried. 'Tell me the truth; my child is dead.' And then I knew no more for days and weeks. " When I recovered, I found, lo my utter horror, thai Vincenza and her child had not left the house. My words had been taken for the ravings of a mad woman. Every one believed the story of this wicked Italisin woman, who declared that it was her child who had died, mine that had lived! I knew better. Could I be mistaken in the features of my own child? Had niy Brian those great, dark, brown eyes? I saw liow it M'as. 'Jlu> Jtalians had plotted to put their child in my Brian's place; they had forgotten that a mother's instinct would know her own amongst i thousand. I accused them openly of their wicked, ness ; and, in spite of their tears and protestations, I saw from their guilty looks that it was true. My own Brian was dead, and I was left with Vincenza's child, and expected to love it as my own. "For nobody believed me. My husband never believed me. He maintained to the very last that you were his child and mine. I fought like a wild beast for my dead child's rights ; but even I was mastered in the end. They threatened me — yes, James Colquhoun, in my husband's name, tbreatened me~with a mad- house, if I did not put away from me the suspicion that I had conceived. They assured me that Brian was not dead ; that it was Vincenza's child that had died ; that 1 was incapable of distinguishing one baby from another— and so on. They said that I should be separated from my own boy— my Richard, whom I tenderly loved — unless I put away from me this ' insane fancy,' and treated that Italian baby as my son. Oh, they were cruel to me— very cruel. But they got their way. I yielded becauss I could not bear to leave my husband and my boy. I let story ON A MOTTNTAINSIDE. 80 tJiem place tbe cliilcl in my arms, and I learnt to call it Brian. I buried the secret in my own heart, but I was never once moved from my opinion. My own cliild was buried at Sau Stefano, and tlie boy tliat I toolc baclc witli me to England was the gardenei's sou. You were that boy. *' I was silent about your parentage, but I never loved you, and my husband kneAV that I did not. For that reason, I suppose, he made you his favourite. He petted you, caressed you more than was reasonable or right. Only once did any conver- sation on the subject pass between us. He had refused to punish you when you were a boy of ten, and had quarrelled with Richard. ' Mark my words,' I said to him, * there will be more quarrelling, and with worse results, if you do not put a stop to it now. I should never trust a lad of Italian blood.' He looked at me, turning pale as he looked. ' Have you not forgotten that unhappy delusion, thei^l' he said. ' It is no delusion,' I answered him, composedly, ' to remind myself sometimes that this boy- Brian, as you call him— is the son of Giovanni Vasari and his wife.' 'Margaret,' he said, 'you are a mad woman!' He went out, shutting the door hastily behind him. But he never misunderstood me again. Do you know what were his last words to me upon his death-bed ? ' Don't tell him,' he said, pointing to you with his weak, dving hand, 'If you ever loved me, Margaret, don't tell him.' And then he died, before I had promised not to tell. If I had promised then, I would have kopt my word. " I knew what he meant. I resolved that I would never tell you. And but for Richard's death I would have held my tongue. But to see you in Richard's place, with Richard's money and Ricliard's lands, is more than I can bear. I will not tell this story to the Avorld, but I refuse to keep you in ignorance any longer. If you like to possess Richard's wealth dishonestly, you are at liberty to do so. Any cetlrt of law would give it to you, and say that it a\ as legally yours. There is, I imagine, no proof possible of the truth of my suspicions. Your mother and father are, I believe, both dead. I do not remember the name of the monk who acted as my doctor. There may be relations of your parents at San Stefano, but they are not likely to know the story of Vincenza's child. At any rate, you are not ignorant any longer of the reasons for which I believe it possible that you knew what you were doing when you were guilty of Richard Lutirell's death. There is not a drop of honest Scotch or English blood in your veins. You are an Itaaian, and I have always seen in your character the faults of the race to which by birth and parentage you belong. If I had not been weak enough to yield to 90 UNDER FAL8K PRETF.NCKS. the threats and the outrcaties with which my husband and liis tools assailed me, you would now be living, as your forefallier.i lived, a rude and liai'dy peasant on the North Italiim plains ; and I— I migl t have been a happy woman slill." The letter bore the signature "Margaret LuttrcU," and that was all. The custodian of the place wondered what had come to the English gentleman ; he sat so still, with his face buried in his hands, and some open sheets of paper at his feet. The old man had a pretty, fair-haired daughter who could speak English a little. He called her and pointed out the stranger's bowed figure from one of the cloister windows. " He looks as if he had had some bad news," said the girl. " Do you thiuk that he is ill, father? Shall I take him a glass of water, and ask liim to walk into the house ?" Brian was aroused from a maze of wretthed, confused thought; by the touch of Gretehen's light hand upon his arm. She had a glass of water in her hand. " Would the gentleman not drink ?" she asked him, with a look of pity that startled him from his absorption. "The sun was hot that day, and the gentleman had chosen the hottest place to sit in; would he not rather choose the cool cloister, or her father's house, for one little hour or two?" Brian stammered out some words of thanks, and drank the water eagerly. He would not stay, however ; he had bad news which compelled him to move on quickly— as quickly as possible. And then, with a certain whiteness about the lips, and a look of perplexed pain in his eyes, he picked up the papers as they lay strewn upon the grass, bowed to Gretchen with mechanical politeness, and made his way to the door by which he had come in. One thing he forgot ; he never thought of it until long after- wards ; the sweet, frail rose that Brother Dinoliad placed within his hand wlren he bade him God-speed. In less than an hour he was in the train ; he hardly knew why or whither he was bound ; he knew only that one of his restless fits had t,eizcd him and was driving him from the town in the way that it was wont to do. Mrs. Luttrell's letter was a great shock to him. He never dreamt at first of questioning the truth of her assertions. He thought it very likely that she had been perfectly able to judge, and that her husband had been mistaken in treating the matter as a delusion. At any time, this conviction would have been a sore trouble to him, for he had loved her and her husband and Richard very tenderly, but just now it seemed to him almost more than he could bear. He had divested himself of nearly the ON A MOUNTATN SIDK. ni whole of what had been considered liis inlit'iliuii'i", I>fciau:->c he disliked so much the thought of profiting \>y Jlitliard's death; was he also now to divest himself of the only name that he ha" /. 92 tJNDEB FALSE PRETEKC^ES. " It would be better if I were dead and out of all this uncer- tainty," said Brian, bitterly, when he had read the letter. Yet, something in it gave him a sort of stimulus. He took several iong excursions, late though the season was ; and in a few days he again encountered Gunston, who was delighted to welcome liim as a companion. Brian was a practised mountaineer ; and though his health had lately been impaired, he seemed to regain it in the cold, clear air of the Swiss Alps. Gunston did not find him a genial companion ; he was silent and even grim ; but he was a daring climber, and exposed his life sometimes with a hardihood which approached temerity. But a day arrived on which Brian's climbing feats came to an end. They had made an easy ascent, and were descending the mountain on the southern side, when an accident toolc place. It was one which often occurs, and which can be easily pictured to oneself. Tliey were crossing some loose snow when the whole mass began to move, slowly first, then rapidlyj down the slope of the mountain-side. Brian sank almost immediately up to his waist in the snow. He noticed that the guide had tuimed his face to the descent and stretched out his arms, and he imitated this action as well as he was able, hoping in that manner to keep them free. But he was too deeply sunk in the snow to be able to turn round, and as he was in the rear of the others he could not see what became of his companions. He heard one shout from Gunston, and that was all—" Good God, Luttrell, we're lost 1" And then the avalanche swept them onwards, first with a sharp, hissing sound, and then with a grinding roar as of thunder, and Brian gave himself up for lost, indeed. He was not sorry. Death was the easiest possible solution of all his difficulties. He had looked for it many times ; but he was glad to think that on this day, at least, he had not sought it of his own free will. He thought of his mother— lie could not call her otherwise in this last hour— he thought of the father and the brother who had been dear to him in this world, and would not, he believed, be less dear to him in the next ; he thought of Angela, who would be a little sorry for him, and Hugo, whom he could no longer help out of his numerous difficulties. All these memories of his old home and friends flashed over his mind in « less than a second of time. He even thought of the estate, and of the Miss Murray who would inherit it. And then he tried to say a little prayer, but could not fix his mind sufficiently to put any petition Into words. And at this point he became aware that he was descending less rapidly. OJf A MOUNTAIN-SIDIS. 03 less His head and arms were fortunately still free. By a side glance Le saw that the snow at some distance before him had stopped sliding altogether. Then it ceased to move at a still higher point, until at the spot where he lay it also became motionless, although above him it was still rushing down as if to bury him in a living grave. He threw his hands up above his head, and made a furious effort to extricate himself before the snow should freeze around him. And in this effort he was more successful than he had even hoped to be. But the pressure of the snow upon him was so great that he thought at first that it would break his ribs. When the motion had ceased, however, this pressure became less powerful ; by the help of his ice-axe he managed to free himself, and knew that he was as yet unhurt, if not yet safe. He looked round for his friend and for the guides. They had all been roped together, but the rope had broken between himself and his companions. He saw only one prostrate form, and, at some little distance, the hand of a man protruding from the white waste of snoT/. The thought of afTording help to the other members of the party stimulated Brian to efforts which he would not, perhaps, have made on his own account. In a short time he was able to make his way to the man lying face downwards in the snow. He had already recognised him as one of the guides. It needed but a slight examination to convince him that this man was dead— not from suffocation or cold, but from the effects of a wound inflicted in the fall. The hand sticking out of the snow belonged to the other guide ; it was cold and stiff, and with all his efforts Brian could not succeed in extricating the body from the snow in which it was tightly wedged. Of the young Englishman, Gunston, and the other guide, there was absolutely nothing to be seen. Brian turned sick and faint when the conviction was forced upon him that he would see his friend no more. His limbs failed him ; he could not go on. He was born to misfortune, he said to himself ; born to bring trouble and sorrow upon his companions and friends. Without him, Gunston would not, perhaps, have attempted this ascent. And how could he carry home to Gunston's family the story of his death? After all, it was very unlikely that he would reach the bottom of the mountain in safety. He had no guide; he was utterly ignorant of the way. There were pitfalls without number in his path— crevasses, precipices, treacherous ice-bridges, and slippery, loose snow. He would struggle on until the end came, however ; better to move, even towards death, than to li3 down and perish miserably of cold. It is said sometimes chat providence keeps a special watch ov«r 04 UNDER FALSE PRETENCES. children and drunken men ; that is to say, that those who are absolutely incapable of caring for themselves do sometimes, by wonderful good fortune, escape the dangers into which sager persons are apt to fall. So it seemed with Brian Luttrell. For hours he struggled on vards, sore pressed by cold, and fatigue, and pain ; but at last, long after night had fallen, he staggered into a little hamlet on the southern side of the mountain, footsore and fainting, indeed, but otherwise unharmed. Nobody noticed his arrival very much. The villagers took him in, put him to bed, and gave him food and drink, but they did not seem to think that he was one of "the rich Englishmen" who sometimes visited their village, and they did not at all realise what he had done. To make the descent that Brian had done without a guide would have appeared to them little short of miraculous. Brian had-no opportunity of explaining to them how he had come. He was carried insensible into the one small inn that the village contained and put to bed, where he woke up delirious and quite unable to give any account of himself. When his mind was again clear, he remembered that it was his duty to tell the story of the accident on the mountain, but as soon as he uttered a few words on the subject he Avas met by an animated and circumstantial account of the affair in all its details. Two Englishmen, and two guides, and a porter had been crossing the mountain when the avalanche took place ; a guide and a porter had been killed, and their bodies had been recovered. One Englishman had been killed also, and the other "Yes, the other," began Brian, hurriedly, but the innkeeper stolidly continued his story. The other had made his way back with the guide to the nearest town. He was there still, and had been making expeditions every day upon the mountain to find the dead body of his friend. But he had given up the search now, and was returning to England on the morrow. He had done all he could, poor gentleman, and it was more than a week since the accident took place. Brian suddenly put his head down on his pillow and lay still. Here was the chance for which his soul had yearned! If the innkeeper spoke the truth, he — Brian Luttrell — was already numbered amongst the dead. Why should he take the trouble to come back to life ? "Wore none of the Englishman's clothes or effects found?" he asked, presently. "Oh, yes, monsieur. His pocket-book— his hat. They were close to a dangerous crevasse. A guide was lowered down it f jr fifty, eighty, feet, but nothing of the unfortunate EnglishniRU sal THB HEIRESS OF STRATHLECKIE. M lore I still. the Iready ale to was to be seen. If he did not fall into the crevasse his body may be recovered in the spring— but hardly before. Yes, his pocket- book and his hat, monsieur." A sudden gleam came into the little innkeeper's eyes, and he spoke somewhat interrogatively— "Monsieur arrived here also without his hat?" For the first time the possibility occurred to the innkeeper's mind of his guest's identity with the missing Englishman. Brian answered with a certain reluctance ; he did not like the part th^t he would have to play. " I lost my way in walking from V ," he said, mentioning a town at some distance from the mountain-pass by which he had really come ; "and my hat was blown off by a gust of wind. The weather was not good. I lost my way." " True, monsieur. There was rain and there was wind ; doubtless monsieur wandered from the right track," said the innkeeper, accepting the explanation in all good faith. When he left the room, Brian examined his belongings with care. Nothing in his possession was marked, owing to the fact that his clothes were mostly new ones, purchased with a view to mountaineering requirements. His pocket-book was lost. Mrs. Luttrell's letter and one or two other papers, however, remained with him, and he had sufficient money in his pockets to pay the innkeeper and preserve him from starvation for a time. He wondered that nobody had reported an unknown traveller to be lying ill in the village ; but it was plain that his escape had been tliought impossible. Even Gunston had given him up for lost. As he learnt afterwards, it was believed that he had not been able to sever the rope, and that he, with one of the guides, had fallen into a crevasse. The rope went straight down into the cleft, and he was believed to be at the end of it. Tliere was not the faintest doubt in the mind of the survivors but that Brian Luttrell was dead. It remained for Brian him- self to decide whether he should go back to the town, reclaim his luggage, and take up life again at the point where he seemed to have let it drop— or go forth into the world, penniless ami homeless, without a name, without a hope for the future, and without a friend. Which should he do ? m Ud?" I were it t'JT iman CHAPTER XII. THE HEIRESS OF STRATHLECEDB* " Elizabeth an heiress 1 Elizabeth with a fortune of her own 1" said Mrs. Heron. " It is perfectly incredible." M VNDBR FALSX FRETENOSI. "It is perfectly true," rejoined her step-son. "And it has been true for the last three days." "Then Elizabeth does not know it," replied Kitty. " As to whether she knows it or not," said Fercival, sar donically, "I am quite unable to form any opinion. Elizabeth has a talent for keeping secrets." He was not sorry that the door opened at that moment, and that Elizabeth, entering witli little Jack in her arms, must have heard his words. She flashed a quick look at him— it was one that savoured of reproach— and advanced into the middle of the room, where she stood silent, waiting to be accused. It was twelve o'clock on the morning c2 a bright, cold November day. Mrs. Heron was lying on the sofa in the dining-room— a shabbily-comfortable, old-fashioned room where most of the busi- ness of the house was transacted. Kitty sat on a low chair before the fix'e, warming her little, cold hands. She had a cat on her lap, and a novel on the floor beside her, and looked very young, very pretty, and very idle. Percival was fidgetting about the room with a glum and sour expression of countenance. He was evidently much out of sorts, both in body and mind, for his face was unusually sallow in tint, and there was a dark, upright line between his brows whicli his relations knew and— dreaded. The genial, sunshiny individual of a few evenings back had disap- peared, and a decidedly bad-tempered young man now took his place. Mrs. Heron's pretty, pale face wore an unaccustomed flush ; and as she looked at Elizabeth the tears came into her blue eyes, and she pressed them mildly with her handkerchief. Elizabeth waited in patience ; she was not sure of the side from which the attack would be made, but she was sure that it was coming. Fercival, with his hands thrust deep into his pockets, leaned against a sideboard, and looked at her with disfavour. She was paler than usual, and there were dark lines beneath her eyes. What made her look like that? Percival thought to himself. One might fancy that she had been lying awake all night, if the thing were not (under the circumstances) well-nigh impossible ! But perhaps it was only her ill-fitting, un- becoming, old, serge gown that made her look so pale. Fercival was in the humour to see all her faults and defects that morning. "Why do you carry that great boy about?" h« said, almost harshly. "You know that he Is too big to be carried. Do put him down." " Tes, put him down, Elizabeth," said Mrs. Heron, etill pressing her handkerchief to her eyes. " I am sure I hare no desire to inflict any har'dship upon you. If you devoted yourself to my THE BEIRESS O' STRATHLECKIE. 07 Ising re to my cliildren, I thought that it was from choice and because you haJ an afTection for your uncle's family. But you seera to have had no affection— no respect— no confidence " A gentle sob cut short her words. " What have I done ?" said Elizabeth. Her face had turned a shade paler than before, but betrayed no sign of confusion. " Lie still, Jack ; I do not mean to put you down just yet. Indeed, I think I had better carry you upstairs again." She left the room swiftly, pausing only at the door to add a few words : " I will be down again directly. I shall be glad if Percival will wait." There was a short silence, during which Mrs. Heron dried her eyes, and Percival stared uncomfortably at the toe of his left boot. "Surely Elizabeth has a right to her own secrets," said Kitty, from her station on the hearth. But nobody replied. Presently Elizabeth came down again, with a couple of letters in her hand. It seemed almost as if she had been upstairs to rub a little life and colour into her face, for her cheeks were carnation when she returned, and her eyes unusually bright. *' Will you tell me what I have done that distrcvsses you?" she said, addressing herself steadily to Mrs. Heron, though she saw Percival glance eagerly, hungrily, towards the letters in her hand. "Indeed, I have no right to be distressed," replied Mrs. Heron, still, however, in an exceedingly hurt tone. " Yotir own affairs are your own property, my dear Lizzie, as Kitty has just re- marked ; but, considering the care and— the— the affection- lavished upon you here " She stopped short; Percival's dark eyes were darting their angry lightning upon her "A care and affection," he said, "which condemned her to the nursery in order that she might indulge her extreme love for children, and save you the expense of a nursery-maid." " Tou have no right to make such a remark, Percival I" ex- claimed his step-mother, feebly, but she quailed beneath the sneer instead of resenting it. Elizabeth turned sharply upon her cousin. "No," she said, "you have no right to make such a remark. As you know very well, I had no friends, no money, no home, when Uncle Alfred brought me here. I was a beggar— I should have starved, perhaps— but for him. I owe him everything— and I do not forget my debt.' "Everything," said Percival, incisively, "except, I suppose, your confldence,' 08 UNDKn FAT.si; I'JUJTICNCES. She turned away and walked up to Mrs. Heron's sofa. Here her manner changed, it became soft and womanly ; her voice took a gentler tone. '* What is It, Aunt Isabel?" she said. " I am ready to give you all the confidence that you wish for. I will have no secrets from you." "Oh, then, Lizzie, is it true?" said Kilty, upsetting the cat in ber haste, and flying across the room to her cousin's side, while Mrs. Heron, taken by surpi'isc, did nothing but sob helplessly and hold Elizabeth's firm, white hand in a feeble grasp. "Is it really true? Have you inherited a great fortune? Are you going to be very rich ? Elizabeth made a little pause before she answered the question. "Brian Luttrell is dead," she said at last, rather slowly. "And I am very sorry." " And the Luttrells are your cousins ? And you are the heiress fifterthem?" "Yes." "But when did you know this first?" said Kitty, anxiously looking up into her tall cousin's face. "Yes, when did you know it first?" repeated Mrs. Heron, with a weak and sighing attempt at solemnity. " I knew that I was the Luttrells' cousin all my life," said Elizabeth. There was a touch of perversity in her answer. " Yes— yes. But when did you kiiow that you were the next heir— or heiress ? You cannot have known that all your life," said Mrs. Heron. " I did not know that until a few days ago. I had a letter from a lawyer when Brian Luttrell went abroad. Mr. Brian Luttrell wished him to communicate with me and to tell me " " Well ?" said Mrs. Heron, curiously. " To tell you what ?" " That it was probable tliat the property would come to me," Elizabeth ansfVered, for the first time with some embarrassment, " as he did not intend to marry. And that he wished to settle a certain sum upon me— in case I might be in want of money now." " And that was a fortnight ago?" said Fercival. " Yes," said Elizabeth, without looking at him, " nearly a fort- night ago." " This is very interesting," said Mrs. Heron, who was languidly brightening as she heard Elizabeth's story and recognised the fact that substantial advantages were likely to accrue to the household from Elizabeth's good fortune. " And of course you accepted the ofter, Lizzie dear ? But why did you not tell us at once?" "I waited until things should be settled. The matter might THE HEIRESS OF STKATIILECKIE. 00 [ere ;ook . am wlU tX In BvhUe lessly "la •e you Bstion. "And heUess ixlottsly on, with fe," said r. , he next a letter Ir. Brian d to teU batr „ le to me, rassment, to settle a >ney »ow. arly a ^^^^' have fallen through. It did not seem worth while to mention it until it was settled," said Elizabeth. •* How much did he offer you ? Mr. Brian Luttrell must have been a very generous man." "I think he was— very generous." said Elizabeth, looking up warmly. " I considered the matter for some time, and I wished that I could accept his kindness, but " " You don't mean to say that you refused it?" " I did not refuse it altogether," explained Elizabeth, her face glowing. " I told him my circumstances, and all that my uncle had done for me, and that if he chose to place a sum of money at my uncle's disposal— I thought that, perhaps, it would be only right, and that I ought not to place an obstacle In the way. But I could not take anything for myself." There was a little pause. *' Oh, Lizzie, how good you are 1" cried Kitty, softly. Fercival took a step nearer ; his face looked very dark. "And, pray, what did the lawyer say to your proposition?" he Inquired. " He said he must communicate with Mr. Brian Luttrell, but he thought that there would be no objection to it r Ms part," said Elizabeth. " But he had not time to do so, you see. Brian Luttrell is dead. Here are all the letters about It, Aunt Isabel, If you want to see them. I was going to speak to Uncle Alfred this very day." "Well, Lizzie," said Mrs. Heron, taking the letters from her niece's hand, "1 am glad that we are honoured by your confi- dence at last. I think it would have been better, however, if you had told us a little earlier of poor Mr. Luttrell's kindness, and then other people could have managed the business for you. Of course, it would have been repugnant to your feelings to accept money for yourself, and another person could have accepted it in your name with a much better grace." " But that is what I wanted to avoid," said Elizabeth, with a smile. " I would not have taken one penny for myself from Mr. Brian Luttrell, but if he would have repaid my uncle for part of what he has done for me " Her sentence came to an abrupt end. Fercival had turned aside aud flung himself into an arm-chair near the fire. He was the picture of ill-humour ; and something In his face took away from Elizabeth the desire to say more. Mrs. Heron read the letters complacently, and Kitty put her arm round her cousin's waist and tried to draw her towards the hearth-rug for a gossip. But Elizabeth preserved her position near Mrs. Heron's sofa, although she looked down at the girl with a smile, Hi m 100 UNDER VALSB PRETENCES. " I know what Isabel meant— what we all meant," said Kilty, " when we were 80 disagreeable to you a little time ago, Lizzie. We all felt that we could not for one moment have kept a secret from you, and we resented your superior self-control. Fancy your knowing all this for the last fortnight, and never saying a word about it! Tell me in confidence, Lizzie, now didn't you want to whisper it to me, under solemn vows of secrecy ?" " I'm afraid you would never have kept your vows," said Eliza* beth. " I meant to tell you very soon, Kitty." "And so you are a rich woman, Elizabeth!" observed Mrs. Heron, putting down the letters and smoothing out her dress. "Dear me, how strangely things come round I Who would have dreamt, ten years ago, that you would ever be richer than all of us— richer than your poor uncle, who was then so kind to you I Some people are very fortunate 1" "Some people deserve to be fortunate, Isabel," said Kitty, caressing Elizabeth's hand, in order to soften down the effect of Mrs. Heron's sub-acid speech. But Elizabeth did not seem to be annoyed by it. She was thinking of other things. "I am sure that if any one deserves it, Elizabeth does," said Mrs. Heron, recovering her usual placidity of demeanour. " She has always been good and kind to everyone around her. I tremble to think of what will become of dear Harry, and Will, and Jack." " What should become of them?" said Kitty, in a startled tone. " When Elizabeth leaves us"— Mrs. Heron murmured, applying her handkerchief to her eyes—" the poor children will know the difiference." "But you won't leave us, will you, Elizabeth?" cried Kitty, clinging more closely to her cousin, and looking up to her with tears in her eyes. " You wouldn't go away from us, after living with us all these years, darling ? Oh, I thought that you loved us as if you were reaPy our own sister, and that nothing would ever take you away !" Still Elizabeth did not speak. Kitty's brown head rested on her shoulder, and she stroked it gently with one hand. Her lips were very grave, but her eyes, as she raised them for a moment to Fercival's face, had a smile hidden in their hazel depths— a smile which he could not understand, and which, therefore, made him angry. He rose and stood on the hearth-rug with his hands behind him, as he delivered his little homily for Kitty's benefit. " I suppose you do not expect that Elizabeth will care to sacri< flee herself all her life for us and the children," he said. " It would be as unreasonable of you to ask it as it would be foolish tllK HEIRESS Op STRATirLFCKlit. lOl ty. cie. b a xo\. Bver now rs ot Sliza- Mrs. Iress. hate taUol > you I Kitiy, ffect of ^ nitobe 8," said •'She her. I id "WW, led tone. fcpplylnj? Inow the kd Kitty, [her with ^er living ^ott loved ig -would begin lo enjoy hitherto the lid of her to do it. Of course, she will n a little. She has had few enough -enjoy mcntt not grudge them to her now." But one would have thought that he himself, grudged them ti> her considerably. "What do you mean to do, Lizzie?" said Kitty, dolefully, "shall you take a house in town? or will you go and live in Scotland— all that long, long way from us? And shall you" - lifting her face rather wistfully— " shall you keep any horses and dogs ?" Elizabeth laughed ; nhc could not help it, although her laugh brought an additional pucker to the forehead of one of her hearers, who could not detect the tremulousness that lurked behind the clear, ringing tones. "It is well for you to laugh," he said, gloomily, "and, of course, you have the right, but " "How interesting it will be," Mrs. Heron's pensive voice was understc^d to murmur, when Percival's gruff speech had come to a sudden conclusion, " to tnotice the use dear Lizzie makes of her wealth I I wonder what her income will be, and whether the Luttrells' kept up a large establishment." " Oh," said Elizabeth, suddenly loosening herself from Kitty's arms and standing erect before them with a face (hat paled and eyes that deepened with emotion, "docs it not occur to you through what trouble and misery this ' good fortune,' as you call It, has come to me ? Does it not seem wrong to you to plan what pleasure I can get out of it, when you think of that poor mother sitting at home and mourning over her two sons— two young, strong men— dead in the very prime of life? And Miss Vivian, too, with her spoiled life and her shattered hopes— she once expected to be the mistress of the very house that they now call mine 1 I hate the thought of it. Please never speak to me a:* if it were a matter for congratulation. I should be heartily glad— heartily thankful— if Brian Luttrell were alive again I" She sat down, and put her elbows on the table and her hands over her face. The others looked at her in amaze. Fercival turned to the fire and stared into it very hard. Mrs. Heron, who was rather afraid of what she called "Elizabeth's high-flown moods," murmured a suggestion to Kitty that she ought to gq to the children, and glided languidly away, beckoning her step- daughter to follow her. Percival did not speak until Elizabeth raised her face, and then he was uncomfortably conscious that she had been crying— at least, that her long eyelashes were wet, and that in other circum- stances he might have felt a desire to kiss the tears away. But log UNDER ¥XtAK PRETKNCE^. thU Ucuire, if lie had it, must now bo carefully controlled, ttf did not look at her, therefore, when he 8poke. ** Your feeling in somewhat overstrained, Elizabeth. We ar« all sorry for the Luttrells' trouble; but it is absurd to say that VfQ must not be glad of your good fortune." Elizabeth rose up with her eyes abla/e and her cheeks on Are. "You know that you are not glad I" she said, almost passion- ately. " You know that you would rather see me poor— see me tLe nursery-maid, the Cinderella, that you are so fond of calling nie r ** Welt," said Fercival, with a short laugh, " for my own sake, perhaps, 1 would." " And so would I," said Elizabeth. ** But you Imow, Lizzie, you will get over that feeling in time. You will find pleasure in your riches and your beauty ; you will learn what enjoyment means— which you have had small chance of finding out, hitherto, in this comfortable household 1" He laughed rather bitterly. *' You are in tlie chrysalis state at present ; you don't know what it is to be a butterfly. You will like that better— in time." " I will never be a butleifly— God helping me 1" said Elizabeth. She spoke solemnly, with a noble light in her whole face which made it more than beautiful. Fercival turned away his eyes from it ; he did not dare to look. " If I have had wealth given me," said the girl, "I will use it for worthy ends. Others shall benefit by it as well as myself." " Don't squander it, Lizzie," said Fercival, with a cynical smile, designed to cover the exceeding sadness and soreness of bis Iieart. " Your philanthropist is not often the wisest person in the world." " No, but I will try to use It wisely," she said, with a touch of meekness in her voice which made him feel madly inclined to fall down and kiss the very hem of her garment— or rather the lowest flounce of her shabby, dark-blue, serge gown—" and my friends will see that I do not spend it foolishly. You do not think it would be foolish to use it for the good of others, do you, Fercival? I suppose I shall be thought very eccentric if I do not take a large house in London, or go much into society ; but, indeed, I should not be happy in spending money in those ways " "Why, what on earth do you mean to do?" said sharply. " I see that you have some plan in your head ; just like to know what it is." She was standing beside him on the hearth-rug, and she looked up at hifl face and down again before she answered. Fercival, ; I should TUE HEIRBSS OF BTRATHLKCKIE. loa li- ne ng ke, me. win ftttce He te at I will kbetb. wblcli from me, sbaU l&mlle* ol bl8 kon In [ercWftli sbottW '* Tes," she said, seriously, " S have a plan." "And you mean that I have no rigbl to inquire what it is) You are perfectly correct; I have no right, and I beg your pardon for the liberty that I have taken. I think that I had better go." His manner was so restless, his voice so uneven and so angry, that Elizabeth lifted her eyes and studied his face a little before she replied. *' Perclval," she said at last, " why are you so angry with me?" •Tm not angry with you." •'With whom or with what, then?" "With circumstances, I suppose. With life in general," he answered, bitterly, " when it sets up such barriers between you and me." "What barriers r "My dear Elizabeth, you used to have faculties above those of the rest of your sex. Don't let your new position weaken them. I have surely not the least need to tell you what I mean." "You overrate my faculties," said Elizabeth. " You always did. "I never do know what you mean unless you tell me. I am not good at guessing." " You need not guess then ; I'll tell you, Don't you see that I am in a very unfortunate position ? I said to you the other night that I— I loved you, that I would teach you to love me ; and I could have done it, Elizabeth 1 I am sure that you would have loved me in time." "Well?" said Elizabeth, softly. Her lips were slightly tremulous, but they were smiling, too. "Weill" repeated her cousin. "That's all. There's an end to it. Do you think I should ever have breathed a word into your ear if I had known what I know now ?" " The fact being," said Elizabeth, *' that your pride is so much stronger than your love, that you would never tell a woman you loved her if she happened to have a few pounds more than you." "Exactly so," he answered, stubbornly. "Then— a? a matter of argument only, Perclval— I think you are wrong." "Wrong, am I? Do you think that a man likes to take gifts from his wife's hands ? Do you think it is pleasanL for me to hear you offer compensation to my father for the trifle that he has spent on you during the last few years, and not to be in a position to render such an oiTering unnecessary? I tell you it is the most galling thing in the world, and, if for one moment you thought me capable of speaking to you as I did the other night, now that I know you to be a wealthy woman, I could never look Ml V- 104 UNDER FALSE PRETENCES. you in the face again. If I seem anp;i-y you must try to forgive me ; you know me of old— I am always detestable when I am in pain— as I am now." Ue struck his foot angrily against the fender ; his handsome face was drawn and lined with the pain of wliich he spoke. " Be patient, Percival," she said, with a smile which seemed to mock him by its very sweetness. '* A9 you say to me, you may think differently in Lime." " And what if I do think differently? What good will it be?" he asked her. "lam not patient; I am not resigned to my fate, and I never shall be ; does it make the loss of my hopes any easier to bear when you tell me that I shall think differently in time ? You might as well try to make a man with a brolsen leg forget his pain by telling him that in a hundred years' time be will be dead and buried I" The tears stood in her eyes. She seemed startled by the intense energy with which he spoke ; her next words scarcely rose above a whisper. "Percival," she said, "I don't like t<» see you suffer." " Then I will leave you," he said, sternly. " For, if I stay, I can't pretend that I do not feel the pain of losing you." He turned away, but before he had gone two steps a hand was placed upon his arm. " I can't let you go in this way," she said. " Oh, Percival, you have always been good to me till now. I can't be?;in anew life by giving you pain. Don't you understand what I want to say?" He put his hand on her shoulder and looked into her face. The deep colour flushed his own, but hers was white as ^ncw, and she was trembling like a leaf. " Do you love me, Elizabeth?" he said. "I don't know," she answered, simply, " but I will marry you, rercival, if you like." " That is not enough. Do you love me?" " Too well," she ; nswered, " to let you go.** And so he stayed. CHAPTER XIII, SAN STFrANO. When the vines were stripped of their clusters, and the ploughed fiei<3« stood bar* and brown in the autumral sun- when the flg trees lost their leaves, and their white bianche* took on that peculiarly gaunt appenrance which characterises them as soon as the wintry winds begin to blow— a solitary SAN STlfr\N<>> traveiTer pJocMe,^ wearfly across t'«, f^ , , '^' ".ounuinous country -Jel Tj" ''"' * ""^K.oul" „,' l^e ooked up to those wWte foL ''^'L'"'' ''^'^'^^ the vi I^t but.«.„„,, J«'^ Hew ,„. ^^^^^^^^w^^^^^ ^rough the g^ie^i:!^^^^^^- -v-a, -ill^IS: o^^! r beside tue gate. "^ikness, the worn figure in woV- * "I hiv "b"ie in waitinj? are needed when on« i ^'°'"^®''' genially. ««No pvnu .. Brother Dino Hn """^^^^^^es to San Stefano <,^° ^"^P/^^at'ons tJreeyearsTparr A «' ^^ ^^ ^^afn" now^ X '7" °"^ themonasterv rl "? ^^^ scholar, thev sav n^I ^"^"^ °'' h^ ' J 106 UNDER FALSE PRETENCES. To tills monologue tlie strane^er answered not a word. The porter had meanwhile allowed him to enter, and fastened the p;ate once more. He then led the way up a garden path to a second door, swinging his lantern and jingling his keys as he went. The traveller followed slowly ; his battered felt hat was drawn low over his forehead, his garments, torn and travel- stained, gave the porter an impression that his pockets were not too well filled, and lliat he might even be glad of a little employment on the farm which the Brothers of San Stefano were so successful in cultivating. His tone was non? the less cheery and polite as he ushered the stranger into a long panelled room, where a single oil-lamp threw a \ague, unceitain light upon the tessellated floor and plain oak furniture. *' You would like some polenta?" he said, as the wearied man sank into one of the wooden chairs with an air of complete exhaustion. " Or some of our good red wine? I will see about it directly. The signor can repose here until I return ; I will fetch one of the Reverend Fathers by-and-bye, but they are all at Benediction at this moment." "I want to see Brother Dino," said the stranger, lifting his head. And then the porter changed his mind about the station of the visitor. That slightly imperious tone, the impatient glance of the >lark eye, the unmistakably foreign accent, convinced him that he had to do with one of the tourists— English or American signorl— who occasionally paid a visit to San Stefano. The porter himself was a lay-brother, and prided himself on his knowledge of the world. He answered courteously that Brother Dino should be informed, and hen withdrew to provide the refreshment of which the stranger evidently stood in need. Brother Dino was not long in coming. He entered quickly, %v:th a look of subdued expectation upon his face. A flash of joy and recognition leaped into his eyes as he btLold tLe wayworn ligure in one of the antique oarved oak chairs. His hands, which had been crossed and bidder in the wide sleeves of the habit that he wore, went out to th? stranger with a gesture of welcome and delight. *'Mr. Luttreii 1" be exclaimed. " You are here already at San Glefano ! We shall welcome you warmly, Mr. Luttreii I" The name seemed wonderfully familiar to his tongue. Brian, who had risen, held out his hands also, and the young monk caught them in his own ; but Brian's gesture was an involuntary one, conveying more of apprehension than of greetinji. "Not that name," he said, breathlessly. "Call me by any other that you please, but not that. Brian Lutlrell is dead." le SAN SXEFANO. Brother Diuc shiverp.i on^u^. ^W ^•Kgard hXr'"''' P^««««»-«. and looked : ?'/"^'« ^^"^« '' I hare tho4h' 0^"' *'''"' "^^ ^^-^^herr he said . h -pporte^ ,i°:' , *: »„,^'- into Che" u:'ii:*t^» :-«>.. W. and Was Ahni,^ i. '"oiiient, then laid hitvi a i. '**"•''• JJino Thirteen jea^h.'n "'''''' Crisloforo. "' ''* "^""n^ '«« to tonsured he^J^h^^^.tS ""?'"'' ^''-'"'-o but little H- ' Cristofor. spoke ««.in to l^X ^rftlSi''' '^^ "-""^ath r ' ° "^^ standing « uttie behind 108 UNDER FALSE PRETENCES. him, holding a lamp. The rays of light fell full upon Brian's deathlike face, and on the black and white ci*uciflx that hung above his bed on the yellow wall. Diuo'j face was in deep shadow when the Prior turned and addressed him. "What was he saying when I came in? That his name was John— John " *' John Stretton, an Englishman," answered Dino, in an un- moved voice. " An Englishman and a beggar." Padre Christoforo did an unusual thing. He took the lamp from Brother Dino's hand and threw the light suddenly upon the young man's impassive countenance. Dino raised his great, serious eyes to the Prior's face, and then dropped them to the ground. Otherwise not a muscle of his face moved. He was the living image of submission. " Have you seen him before ?" said Padre Cristoforo. " Twice, Reverend Father. Once on the boat between Cologne and Mainz ; and once, for a moment only, in the quadrangle of the Cathedral at Mainz." *' And then did he bear his present name V For a moment Dino's mouth twitched uneasily. A faint colour crept into his cheeks. " Reverend Father," he said, hesitatingly, *' I did not ask his name," The priest raised the lamp to the level of his head, and again looked penetratingly into his pupil's face. There was a touch of wonder, of pity, perhaps also of some displeasure, expressed in this fixed gaze. It lasted so long that Dino turned a little pale, although he did not flinch beneath it. Finally, the Prior lowered th6 lamp, gave it back to him, and walked away in silence, with his head lowered and his hands behind his back. Dino followed to light him down the dark corridors, and at the door of the Prior's cell, fell on his knees, as the custom was in the monastery, to receive the Prior's blessing. But, either from forgetfulness or some other reason which passed unexplained. Padre Cristoforo entered and closed the door behind him, without noticing the young man's kneeling figure. It was the first time such an omission had occurred since Dino came to San Stefano. Was it merely an omisetion and not a punishment? Dino had, for the first time in his life, evaded a plain answer to a question, and concealed from Padre Cristoforo something which Padre Cristoforo would certainly have thought that he ought to know. Had Padre Cristoforo divined the truth ? According tu the notions current amongst Italians, and particu- larly amongst many members of their church, Dino felt himself justified in equivocating in a case where absolute truth would not have served his purpose. His conscience did not reproach him for BAN STEFANO. 109 ling low •was . un- lamp upon jreat, 10 the B was ologne igle o£ ; colour itingly, Id again a touch pressed a little le Prior iway iT» Ls back. I at the (,s in the er from plained, ■ " hitn, id was the 5 to San Ishment? tswer to ,jg which [ought to particu- hiniself ^ould not ii him for want of truthfulness, but it did for want of confidence in Padre Cristoforo. For he loved Padre Cristoforo ; and ^^adre Ciistoforo loved him. Brian Luttrell's illness was a long and severe one. He lay in- sensible for some time, and awoke to wild delirium, which lasted for many days. The Brothers of San Stefano nursed him with the greatest care, and it was observable that the Prior himselE spent a good deal of time in the patient's room, and showed un- usual interest in his progress towards lecovery. The Prior under- stood English; but if he had hoped to gather any information concerning Brian's history from the ravings of his delirium he was mistaken. Brian's mind ran upon the incideni s of his child- hood, upon the tour that he had made with his father when he was a boy, upon his school -days; not upon the sad and tragic events with which he had been connected. He scarcely ever mentioned the names of his mother or brother. Like Falstaff, when he lay a-dying, he "babbled of green fields," and nothing more. At one time he grew better ; then he had a relapse, and was very near death indeed ; but at last the power of youth reasserted itself, and he came slowly back to life once more. But it was as a man who had been in another world ; who had faced the bitter- ness of death and the darkness of the grave. He was as much startled when he looked at himself for the first time in a looking-glass as a girl who has lost her beauty after a virulent attack of small-pox. Not that he had ever had r.uch beauty to boast of ; but the look of youth and hope which had once brightened his eyes was gone ; his cheeks were sunken, his temples hollow, his features drawn and pinched with bodily pain and weakness. And — greatest change perhaps of all — his hair had turned from brown to grey ; an alteration so striking and visible that, as he put down the little mirror which had been brought to him, he murmured to himself, with a bitter smile — •' My own mother would not know me now." And then he turned his face away from the light, and lay silent and motionless for so long a space of time that the lay-brother who waited on him thought that he was sleeping. When he rose from his bed and was able to sit in the sunny garden or the cloisters, spring had come in all its tender glow of beauty, and sent a thrill of fresh life through the sick man's veins. Nature had always been dear to Brian. He loved the sights and sounds of country life. The hills, the waving trees, tranquil skies and running wator calmed and refreshed his jaded brain and barrassed nerves. The broad fields, crimsoning with anemones, purpling with hyacinth and auricula ; the fresh green i 1 110 UNDER FALSK PRETENCES. of the fig trees, the lovely tendrils of the ucwly shooting vines even the sight of the oxen with their patient eyes, and the homely, feathered creatures of the farmyard, cluclcing and strutting at the sandalled feet of the black-robed, silent, lay -brothers who brought them food— all these things acted like an anodyne upon Brian's stricken heart. There was a life beside that of feeling ; a life of passive, peaceful repose; the life of "stocks and stones," and happy, unresponsive things, amidst which he could learn to bear his burden patiently. He saw little of Dino during his illness ; but, as soon as he was aV>le to go into the garden, Dino was permitted to ac(!ompnny him. It was plain from his manner that no unwillingness on his own part kept liim away. The English stranger had evidently a great attraction for him ; he waited upon his movements and followed him, silently and affectionately, like a dog whose whole heart has been given to its master. Brian felt the charm of this devotion, but was too weak to speculate concerning its cause. He was con- scious of the same kind of attraction towards Dino ; he knew not why, but he found it pleasant to have Dino at his side, to lean on his arm as they went down the garden path together, to listen to the young Italian's musical accents as he read aloud at the even- ing hour. But what was the secret of that indefinable mutual •attraction, that almost magnetic power, which one seemed to possess over the other, Brian Luttrell could not tell. Perhaps Dino knew. This friendship did not pass unobserved. It was quietly, gently, fostered by the Prior, whose keen eyes were eery where, and seemed to see everything at once. He it was who dis- pensed Dino from his usual duties that he might attend upon the English guest, who smiled benignly when he met them together in thie cloister, who dropped a word or two expreasive of his pleasure that Dipo should have an opporli .aty of practising his knowledge of the English tongue. Dino could speak English with tolerable fluency, altliough with a strong foreign accent. But the quiet state of affairs did not last very long. As Brian's strength returned he grew restless and uneasy ; and at length one day he sent a formal request to the Prior that he might speak to him alone. Padre Cristoforo replied by coming at once to the guest-chamber, which Brian occupied in the day- time, and by asking in his usual mild and kindly way what he could do for him. The guest-room was a bare enough place, but the window commanded a fine view of the wide plain on which the monas- tery looked down, The blinds were open, for the morning was ines nely, , ,t tba >upht L-ian's ife of • and )bear c was Y him. is own I great llowed irt lias votioui as con- ,ew not lean on isten to e even- mutual seemed ot tell. [uietly, where, rho dis- id upon ^t them )re3sive iity of could strong |ng. As and at [that he Iming at Ihe day- ly what rindow monas- ling was SAN 8TEPANO. Ill delictously cool, and the shadows of the leaves Uiat clustered roun^ the lattice .played in the glow of sunshine on the floor. Brian was standing as the Prior entered the room ; his wasted figure, worn face, and grc . hairs made him a striking sight in that abode of peace ant ' fact, Brian was probably less worldly in thought and aspirajo", at that moment than the sorene-browed priest who stood before him an I looked him in the face with such benignant friendly interest. "You wished to see me, my son?" he began, gently. " I am ashamed to trouble you," said Brian. " But I felt that I ought to speak to you as soon as possible. I am growing strong enough to continue my journey— and I must not trespass on your hospitality any longer." "Your strength is not very great as yet," said the Prior, courteously, "Pray take a seat, Mr. Stretton. We are only too pleased to keep you with us as long as you will do us the honour to remain, and I think it is decidedly against your own interests to travel at present." Brian stammered out an acknowledgment of the Prior's kind- ness. He was evidently embarrassed, even painfully so ; and Padre Cristoforo found himself watching the young man with some surprise and curiosity. What was it that troubled this young Englishman? Brian at last uttered the words that he had wished to say, "If I remained here," he said, colouring vividly with a Rcnyitiveness sprini ing from the reduced physical condition to which he had been Drought by his long illness ; " if I remained here I should ask you whether I could do any work for you — whether I could teach any of your pupils English or music. I am a poor man ; I have no prospects. I would as soon live in Italy as in England— at any rate for a time." The Prior looked at him steadily; his deeply-veined hand grasped the arm of his wooden chair, a slight flush rose to his forehead. It was in a perfectly calm and unconstrained voice, however, that he macle answer. **It is quite possible that we might find work of the kind you mention, signor— if you require it." There was a subdued accent of inquiry in the last four words. Brian laughed a little, and put his hand in his pocket, whence he drew out four gold pieces and a few little Swiss and Italian coins. "You see these, Father?" he said, holding them out in the palm of his liand. "They constitute my fortune, and they are due to the institution that has sheltered me so kindly and nursed i m UNDER FALSE PRETBNOBS. iiie back to life and health. I have vowed these coins to your alms-box ; wlicn (hey are given, I shall nialce a fresh start in the world— as Ihe architect of my own fortunes," "You will then be penniless?" said the priest, in rather a curious tone. " Entirely so." There was a short silence. Brian's fingers played idly with the coins, but lie was not thinking about them ; his dreamy eyes revealed that his thoughts were very far away. Padre Cristoforo was bitinc; his forefinger and knitting his brows— two signs of unusual iierturbalion of mind with him. Presently, however, his brow cleared ; he smoothed his gown' over his knees two or three times, coughed once or twice, and then addressed himself to Brian with all his accustomed urbanity. "Our Order is a rich one," he said, with a smile, "and one that can well aflford to entertain strangers. I will not tell you to make no gifts, for we know that it is very blessed to give- more blessed than to receive. I think it quite possible that we can give you such work as you desire. But before I do so, I think I am justified in asking you witli what object you take it?" " With what object ? A very simple one— to earn my daily bread." " And v/hy," said the priest leaning forward and speaking in a lower voice— " why should your father's son need to earn his daily bread in a little Italian village?" Again Brian's face changed colour. " My father's son ?" he repeated, vaguely. The coins fell to the ground ; he sat up and looked at the Prior suspiciously. " What do you know about my father?' he said. "What do you know about me ?" The Prior pushed back his chair. A little smile played upon his shrewd, yet kindly face. The Englishman was easier to manage than he had expected to find him, and Father Cristoforo was unquestionably relieved in his mind. "I do not know much about you," he said, "but I have reason to believe that your name is not Stretton— that you were recently travelling under the name of Brian Luttrell, and that you have a special int( rest in the village of San Stefano. Is that not true, my friend?" " Yes," said Brian slowly. " It is true." CHAPTER XIV, - THE prior's opinion. The Prior's face wore an expression of mild triumph. He was evidently prepared to be questioned, and was somewhat surprised i • THK prior's opinion. 113 [e was Iprised when Brian turned to him gravely and addressed him in cold and serious (ones. "Reverend Father," he said, "I am ignorant of the way in which you have possessed yourself of my secret, but, before a word more is spolcen, let me tell you at once that it is a secret which must be kept strictly and sacredly between ourselves, unless great trouble is to eu.^ue. It is absolutely necessary now that Brian Luttrell should be— dead." "Whet has Brian Luttrell done," asked the Prior, "that he should Le ashamed of his own namcl" " Ashamed 1" said Brian, hauglitily ; " I never for one moment *aaid that I was ashamed of it ; but " He turned in his chair and looked out of the window. A new thought occurred to him. Probably Padre Cristoforo knew the history of every one who had lived in San Stefano during the last few years. Perhaps he might assist Brian in his search for tlie truth. At any rate, as Padre Cristoforo already knew his name, it would do nobody any harm if he confided in him a little further, and told him something of the story which Mrs. Luttrell had told to him. Meanwhile, Padre Cristoforo watched him keenly as a cat watches a mouse, though without the malice of a cat. The Prior wished Brian no harm. But, for the good of his Order, he wished very much that he could lay hands, either through Brian or through Dino, upon that fine estate of which he had dreamt for the last thirteen years. "Father Cristoforo," Brian's haggard, dark eyes looked anxiously into the priest's subtilely twinkling orbs, " will you tell me how you learnt my true name?" He could not bear to cast a doubt upon Dino's good faith, and the Prior divined his reason for tlie question. " Rest assured, my dear sir, that I leai*nt it accidentally," he said, with a soothing smile. " I happened to be entering the door when our young friend Dino recognised you. I heard you tell him to call you by che name of Stretton ; I also heard you say that Brian Luttrell v.as dead." "Ah!" sighed Briar., scarcely above his breath. "I thought that Dino could not have betrayed me." He did not mean the Prior to hear his words ; but they were heard and understood. "Signer," said the Padre, with an inflection of hurt feeling in liis voice, " Mr. Stretton, or Mr. Luttrell, however you choose to term yourself, Dino is a man of honour, and will never betray a trust reposed in hhn. I could answer for Dino with my very life." " I know— I was sure of it !" cried Brian. ■i^^ ^:m 114 UNDER FAL8K PRETRNCEfl. " But, signor, do you think it is right or wise to imperil the future and the reputation of a joung man lilce Dino— without friends, witliout home, without a name, entirely dependent upon us and our provision for him— by making him the depository of secrets which he keeps against his conscience and against the rule of the Order in which he lives ? Brother Dino has told me nothing; he even evaded a q estion which he thought that you would not wish him to answer ; but he has acted wrongly, and will suffer if he is led into further concealment. Need I say more?" "He shall not suffer through me," said Brian, impetuously. " I ought to have known better. But I was not myself ; I don't • remember what I said. I was surprised and relieved when I came to myself and found you all calling me Mr. Stretton. I never thought of laying any bui'den upon Dino." ".You will do well, then," said the Prior, approvingly, "if you do not speak of the matter to him at all. He is bound to mention it if questioned, and I presume you do not want to make it known." "No, I do not. But I thought that he was bound only to mention matters that concerned himself; not those of other people," said Brian, with more hardihood than the priest liad expected of l«im. Padre Cristoforo smiled, and made a little motion with his hand, as much as to say that there were many things which an Englishman and a heretic could not be expected to know. *' Dino is in a state of pupilage," he said, slightly, flndina: that Brian seemed to expect an answer; "the rules which bind him are very strict. But— if you will allow me to advert once more to your proposed change of name and residence— I suppose that it is not indiscreet to remark that your friends in England— or Scotland— will doubtless be anxious about your place of abode at present?" " I do not think so," said Brian, in a low tone. " I believe that they think me dead." "Why so?" "Perhaps you did not hear in your quiet monastery. Father, of a party of travellers who perished in an avalanche last November? Two guides, a porter, and an Englishman, whose body was never recovered. I was that Englishman," "I heard of the accident," said Padre Cristoforo, briefly, nodding his head. "So jou escaped, signor? You must have had strong Ijmbs and stout sinews— or else you must have been attended by some special providential care— to escape, when those three skilled uiouutaiaeers were lost on the mountain side." THE prior's opinion. 116 it -or at "On ne meurt pas quand la mort est la delivrance," quoted Brian, with a bitter laugh. " You may be quite sure that i' I had been at the height of felicity and good fortune, it would have needed but a false step, or a slight chill, or a stray shot— a stray shot 1 oh, my God I If only some stray shot had come to me— not to my brother —my brother " They were the first tears that he had shed since the beginning of his illness. The sudden memory of his brother's fate proved too much for him in his present stale of bodi^ weakness. He bowed his head on his hands and wept. A curiously soft expression 8tole into the Prior's face. He looked at Brian once or twice and seemed as if he wished to say some pitying word, but, in point of fact, no word of consolation occurred to him. He was very sorry for Brian, whose story was perfectly familiar to him ; but he knew very well that Brian's grief was not one to which words could bring comfort. He waited silently, therefore, until the mood had passed, and the young man lifted up his heavy eyes and quivering lips with a faint attempt at a smile, which was sadder than those passionate sobs had been. "I must ask pai'don," he said, somewhat confusedly. "I did not know that I was so weak. I will go to my room." '* Let me delay you for one moment," said the Prior, confront- ing him with kindly authority. "It has needed little penetra- tion, siguor, to discover that you have lately passed through some great sorrow ; I am now more sure of it than ever. I would not intrude upon your confidence, but I ask you to remember that I wish to be your friend— that there are reasons why 1 should take a special interest in you and your family, and that, humble as I am, I may be of use to you and yours." Brian stopped short and looked at him. " Me and mine !" he repeated to himself. "Me and mine I Whatdoyou know of usf' " I will be frank with you," said the priest. " Tliirteen years ago a document of a rather remarkable nature was placed in my hands affecting the Luttrell family. In this paper the writer declared that she, as the nurse of Mrs. Luttreli's children, had substituted her own child for a boy called Brian Luttrell, and had carried off the true Brian to her mother, a woman named Assunta Naldi. Th^e nurse. Vincenza, died and left this paper in the hands of her mother, who, after mut;h hesitation, confided the secret to me." Brian took a step nearer to the Prior. " What right have you had to keep this matter secret so long ?" he demanded. "Say, rather, what right had I to disturb an honourable family with an assertion that is incapable of proof?" ue UNDER rALSie PRKTUNClta* "Then why did you tell me nowT *' Because you know it already." Brian seated himself and leaned back in his chair, with h(8 eyeii still fixed upon the Prior's face. •• Why do you think that I know It ?" he said. "Because," said Padre Cristoforo, raisinpc his long forefinger, and emphasising every fresh point witli a convincing jerk, " because you have come to San Stcfano. You would never have come here unless you wanted to find out the truth. Because you have changed your name. You would have had no reason to abandon the name of Luttrell unless you were not sure of your right to bear it. Because you spoke of Vincenza in your delirium. Do I need more proofs ?" There was another proof which he did not mention. He had I'ound Mrs. Luttrell's letter to Brian amongst the sick man's clothes, and had carefully perused it before locking it up with the rest of the stranger's possessions. It was characteristic of the man that, during the last few years, he had set himself steadilv to work to master the English language by the aid of every English book or English-speaking traveller that came in his way. He had succeeded wonderfully well, and no one but himself knew for what purpose that arduous task had been tinder taken. He found his accomplishment useful ; he had thought it particularly useful when he read Mrs. Lutlrell's letter. But naturally he did not say so to Brian. "You are right," said Brian, in a low voice. "But you say It is incapable of proof. She— my mother —I mean Mrs. Luttrell— says so, too." "If it were capable of proof," said the Prior, softly, " should you contest the matter ?" " Yes," Brian answered, with an angry flash of his eyes, "if I had been in England, and any such claimant appeared, I would have fought the ground to the last inch I Not for the sake of the estates— I have given those up easily enough -but for ray father's sake. I would not lightly give up my claim to call him father; he never doubted once that I was his sou." " He never doubted?" *• I am sure he never did." " But Mrs. Luttrell " " God help me, yes I But she thinks also that I meant to take my brother s life." It needed but a few words of inquiry to lead Brian to tell the story of his brother's death. The Prior knew it well enough ; he had made it his business to ascertain the history of the Luttrell family during the past few years ; but he listened with the gentle mmt THX PRIOR S OPINIOK. 117 you take the ; he ttrell sntle and sympathetic interest which had often ^iven him so strong a hold over men's hearts and lives. Ho was a master in the art ol influencing younger men ; ho liad (tie subtle instinct which told him exactly what to say and liow far to go, wlien to speak and when to bo silent ; and Brian, with no motive for concealment, now tlia't his name was once known, was like a child in tlie Prior's hands. In return for his confidence, Padre Crlstoforo told him the sub- stance of his interview with old Assunta, and of the confession written by Vincenza. Rut when Brian asked to see this paper tbo Prior shook hin head. *' I have not got it here, he said. " It was certainly preserved, by the desire of some In authority, but it was not tliought to atrord sufllcieut testimony." •' Wiiat was wanting?" "I cannot tell you precisely what was wanting; but, amongst other matters, there is the factthr this Vincenza made a directly opposite statement, which Counterbalances this one." "Then you have two written statements, contradicting each other? You might as well throw them both into the fire," said Brian, with some irritation. *' Who is the ' authority ' who pre- serves them? Can I not present myself to him and demand a sight of the documents ?" " Under what name, and for what reason, would you ask to see them ?" Brian winced ; he had for the moment forgotten what his own hand had done. ** I could still prove my identity," he said, looking down. " Bu <■, no ; I will not. I did not lose myself upon the mountain-side be- cause of this mystery about my birth, but because I wanted to escape my mother's reproaches and the burden of Richard's inheritance. Nothing will induce me to go back to Scotland. To all intents and purposes, I am dead." "Then," said the Prior, "since that is your resolution— your wise resolution, let me say— I will tell you frankly what my read- ing of the riddle has been, and what, I think, Vincenza did. It is my belief that Mrs. Luttrcll's child died, and was buried under the name oii Vincensja's child." "You, too, then— you believe that I am not a Luttrell?" "If the truth could ever be ascertained, which I do not think it will be, I believe that this would turn out to be the case. The key of the whole matter lies in the fact that Vincenza had twins. One of these children was sent to the grandmother in the country ; one was nursed in the village of San Slefano. A fever had broken out in the village, and Vincenza's charge— the little Brian I 118 UNDER FALSE PRETENCES. Luttrell— died. She immediately changed the dead child for her own, being wishful to escape the blame of carelessness, and retain her place ; also to gain for her own child the advantages of wealth and position. The two boys, who have now grown to manhood, are brothers; childi*en of one mother; and Brian Luttrell— a baby boy of some four months old— sleeps, as his mother declares, in the graveyard of San Stefano." " Why did the nurse confess only a half-truth, then?" "She wanted to get absolution; and yet she did not want to injure the prospects of her child, I suppose. At the worst, she thought that one boy would be substituted for another. The woman was foolisli— and wicked," said the Prior, with a grain of impatient contempt in his tone ; " and the more foolish that she did not observe that she was outwitting herself— trying to cheat God as well as man." " Then— you think-tliat I " "That you are the son of an Italian gardener and his wife. Courage, my son ; it might have been worse. But I know nothing positively ; I have constructed a theory out of Vincenza's self-contradictions ; it may be true ; it may be false. Of one thing I would remind you ; that as you have given up your position in England and Scotland, you have no responsibility in the matter. You have done exactly what the law would have required you to do had it been proved that you were Vincenza's son." "But the other child— the boy who was sent to his grand- mother? What became of him?" The Prior looked at him in silence for a little time before he spoke. " How do you feel towards him ?" he said, finally. " Are you prepared to treat him as a brother or not ?" Brian averted his face. " I have had but one brother,' he said, shortly. " I cannot expect to find another— especially when I am not sure that he is of my blood or I of his." " In any case he is your foster-brother I should like you to meet him." " Doe3 he know the story ?" " He does." 'And is prepared to welcome me as a brother?" said Brian, with a bitter but agitated laugh. " Where is he ? I will see him if you like." He had risen to his f .'.et, and stood with his arms crossed, his brow knitted, his mouth firmly set. There was something hard iu his face, something dcdant in his attitude, which caused the Prior to add a word of remonstrance. "It is not his fault," he said, " any more than it is yours. You need not be enemies ; it is my object to make you friends," THE pnTOR's opinio:*?. no "Let me see him " repeated Bri8»i- doomily. " I do not wish to be his enemy. I do not promise o > b his friend." "I will send him to you," said *ii6 Prior. "Wait here till he comes." He left Brian alone ; and the yo up man, thinking it likely that he would be undisturbed for 80iu« i me to come, bent his face upon his hands, and tried to ''''»'•' his position. The strauj^e tangle of circumstances in which he found himself involved would never be easy of adjustment ; he wished with all his heari that he had refused the Prior's offer to make his foster-brother known to him, but it was too late now. Was it too late ? Could he not send for Padre Cristoforo, and beg him to leave the Italian peasant in his own quiet home, ignorant of Brian's visit to the place where be was born ? He would do it ; and then ho would leave San Stefano for ever ; it was not yet too late. '^Te lifted up his head and rose to his feet. He was not alone in the room. To his surprise he saw before him his friend, Dino. " You have come from Padre Cristoforo, have you ?" ftuid Brian, quickly and impetuously. He took no notice of the young man's manifest agitation and discomfort, which would have bef;n clear to anybody less preoccupied than Brian at that moment. " Tell him from me that there is no need for me to see the man that he spoke of— that I do not wish to meet bim. He will understand what I mean." A change, like that produced by a sudden electric shock, passed over Dino's face. His hands fell to his sides. They had been outstretched before, as if in greeting. " You do not want to see him ?" he repeated. " I will not see him," said Brian, harshly, almost violently. *• Weak as I am, I'll go straight out of the house and village sooner than meet him. Why does he want to see me ? I have nothing to give him now." Long afterwards he remembered the look on Dino's face. Pain, regret, yearning affection, seemed to struggle for the mastery; his eyes were filled with tears, his lips were pale. But he said nothing. He went away from the room, and took the message that had been given him to the Prior. Brian felt that he had perhaps been selfish, but he consoled himself with the thought that the peasant lad would gain nothing by a meeting with him, and that such an embarrassing interview, as it must necessarily be, would be a pain to them both. But he did not know that the foster-brother (brother or foster- brother, which could it be?) was sobbing on the floor of the Prior's cell, in a passion of vehement grief at Brian's rejection of Padre it 120 UNDER FALSE PRE'flCNCES. Crist oforo's proposition. He would scarcely have understood that grief if he had seen it. He would havo found it difficult to realise that the boy, Dino, had grown from childhood with a strong but suppressed belief in his mother's strange story, and yet, that, as soon as he saw Brian D itu \1, his heart had gone out to him with the passionate tenden ess ibat he had waited all his life to bestow upon a brother. *• Take it not so much to heart, Diuo bsIo," said the Prior, looking down at him compassionately. •• I'i was not to be ex- pected that he would welcome the news : »' 5U art a fool, little one, to grieve over his coldness. Come, i^uese are a girl's tears, and thou should'st be a man by now." The words were caressingly spoken, but they failed of their cflTect. Dino did not look up. "For one reason," said the Prior, in a colder tone, half to himself and half to the novice, " I am glad tl)at he has not seen you. Your course will, perhaps, be the easier. Because, Dino, although I may believe my theory to be the correct one, and that you and our guest are both the chiU^ren of Vincenza Vasari, yet it is a theory which is as difficult to prove as any other ; and our good friend, the Cardinal, who was here la .1 week, you know, chooses to take the other view." "What other view. Reverend Father?" said Dino. "The view that you are, indeed, Brian Luttrell, and not Vincenza's son." " But— you said — that it was impossible to prove — " I think so, my dear sor: But the Cardinal does not agree with me- "We shall hear from h'-m further. I believe it is the general opinion at Rome that you ought to be seiit to Scotland in order to claim your position and the Luttrell estates. The case might at any rate be tried.'" Dino rose now, pale and trembling. "I do not want a position. I do not want to claim anything. I want to be a monk," he said. "You are not a monk yet," returned the Prior, calmly. " And it may not be your vocation to take the vows upon you. Now, do you see why you have been prevented from taking them hitherto? You may be called upon to act as a layman: to claim the estates, fight the battle with these Scotch heretics and come back to us a wealthy man 1 And in that case, you will act as a pious layman should do, and devote a portion of your wealth to Holy Church. But I do not say you would bo successful ; I think myself that you have little chance of suct-oss. Only let us feel that you are our obedient child, as you used to be." 1 ! THE VILLA VSNTUBI. 121 not thing. And I Now, 1 them to i-etics you lou of lid bo id to **I will do anything you wish, cried Dino. passionately, "so long as T bring no unhappiness upon others. I do not wish to be rich at Brian's expense." " He has renounced his birthright, said the Prior. " You will not have to fight him, my tender-hearted Dino. You will have a much harder foe— a woman. The estate has passed into the hands of a Miss Elizabeth Murray.' CHAPTER XV. THE VILLA ViiNTURI. An elderly English artist, with carefully-trimmed grey hair, a gold-rimmed eye-glass, and a velvet coat which was a little too hot as well as a little too picturesque for the occasion, had got into diflSculties with his sketching apparatus on the ba7"''s of a lovely little river in North Italy. He had been followed fo* some distance by several children, who had never once ceased to whine for alms ; and he had tried all arts in the hope of getting rid of them, and all in vain. He had thrown small coins to them ; they had picked them up and clamoured only the more loudly ; he had threatened them with his sketching umbrella, whereat they had screamed and run away, only to return in the space of five seconds with derisive laughter and hands outstretched more greedily than ever. When he reached the spot where he in- tended to make a sketch, his tormentors felt that they had him at their mercy. They swarmed round him, they peeped under his umbrella, they even threw one or two small stones at his back; and when, in desperation, their victim sprang up and turned upon them, they made a wild dash at his umbrella, which sent it into the stream, far beyond the worthy artist's reach. Then they took to their heels, leaving the good man to con- template wofully the fate of his umbrella. It had drifiod to the middle of the stream had there been caught by a stone and a tuft of weed, and seemed destined to complete destruction. He tried to arrest its course, but could not reach it, and nearly over-balanced himself In the attempt; then he sat down upon the bank and gave vent to an ejaculation of mild impatience — " Oh, dear, dear, dear rae I I wish Elizabeth were here." It was 80 small a catastrophe, after all, and yet it called up a look o£ such unmistakable vexation to that naturally tranquil and abstracted countenance, that a spectator of the scene re- pressed a smile which had risen to his lips and came to the rescue. '• Can I be of any assistance te you, sir?" he said. The arMst gave a violent start. He had not previously seen the 122 UNDER FALSE PRETENCES. speaker, who had been lying on the grass at a few yards' distance, screened from sight by an intervening clump of brushwood. He came forward and stood by the water, looking at the opened umbrella. " I think I could get it," he said. " The water is very shallow." " But— my dear sir — pray do not trouble yourself ; it is entirely unnecessary. I do not wish to give the slightest inconvenience," stammered the Englishman, secretly relieved, but very much embarrassed at the same time. "Pray, be careful— it's very wet. Good Heaven !" The last exclamation was caused by the fact that the new-comer had calmly divested himself of his boots and soclis and was stepping into the water. " Indeed, it's scarcely worth the trouble that you are taking." "It is not much trouble to wade for a minute or two In this deliciously cool water," said the stranger, with a smile, as he returned from his expedition, umbrella iu hand. " There, I think you will find it uninjured. It's a wonder that it was not broken. You would have been inconvenienced without it on this hot day." He raised his hat slightly as he spoke and moved away. The artist received another shock. This young man— for he moved with the strength and lightness of one still young, and his face was a young face, too— this young man had grey hair— perfectly grey. There was not a black thread amongst it. For one moment the artist was so much astonished that he nearly forgot to thank the stranger for the service that he had rendered him. " Onc! moment," he said, hurriedly. " Pray allow me to thank you. I am very much obliged to you. You don't know how great a service you have done me. If I can be of any use to you in any way " "It was a very trifling service," said the young man, cour- teously. " I wish it had been my good fortune to do you a greater one. This was nothing." "Foreign I" murmured the artist to hir.iself, as the stranger returned to his lair behind the thicket, where he seemed to be occupying himself in puttirg on his socks and boots once more. "No Englishman would have answered in that way. I wish he had not disai peared so quickly. I should like to have made a sketch of his head. Hum I I shall net sketch much to-day, I fancy." He shut up his paint-box with an air of resolution, and walked leisurely to the spot where the young man was completing his toilet. "I ought perhaps to explain," he began, with an air which he fancied was Machiavellian in its simplicity, "that the loss of that umbrella wouid have been a serious matter- to me. ♦the villa VENTURt. 123 istance, od. He opened hallow." entirely snience," •y much 'ery wet. the fact lis boots , scarcely o in this le, as he There, I ) was not it on this ay. The le moved i his face perfectly For one y forgot jd him. to thank now how se to you Ein, cour- do you a stranger ed to be ice moie. ; wish he ; made a |to-day, 1 walked ^ting his an air Ithat the to me. It might have entailed another and more serious loss- the loss of my liberty." The young man looked up with a puzzled and slightly doubtful expression. "I beg your pardon," he said. "The loss of " "The loss of my liberty," said the Englishman, in a louder and rather triumphant tone of voice. "The fact is, my dear sir, that I have a very tender and careful wife, and an equally tender and careful daughter and niece, who have so little confidence in my power of caring for my own safety that they have at various times threatened to accompany me in all my sketching ex- peditions. Now, if I came home to them and confessed that I had been attacked by a troop of savage Italian children, who tossed my umbrella into the river, do you think I should ever be allowed to venture out alone again ?" The young man smiled, with a look of comprehension. •• Can I be of any further use to you ?" he said. " Can I walk back to the town with you, or carry any of your things "" " You ca>^ be of very great use to me, indeed," said tue gentle- man, opening his sketch-book in a great hurry, and then pro- ducing a card from some concealed pocket in his velvet coat. " I'm an artist— allow me to introduce myself— my name is Heron; you would be of the very greatest use to me if you would allow me to -to make a sketch 6f your head for a picture that I am doing just now. It is the very thing— il you will excuse the liberty that I am taking " He had his pencil ready, but he faltered a little as he saw the sudden change which came over his new acquaintance's face at the sound of his proposition. The young man flushed to his temples, and then turned suddenly pale. He did not speak, but Mr. Heron inferred offence from his silence, and became ex- ceedingly profuse in his apologies. ** It is of no consequence," said the stranger, breaking in upon Mr. Heron's incoherent sentences with some abruptness. " I was merely surprised for the moment ; and, after all— I think I must ask you to excuse me ; I have a great dislike— a sort of nervous dislike— to sitting for a portrait. I would rather that you did not sketch me, if you please." "Oh, certainly, certainly; I am only sorry that I mentioned it," said Mr. Heron, moi'e formally than usual. He was a little vexed at his own precipitation, and also by the way in which his request had been received. For a few moments there was a somewhat awkward silence, during which the young man stood with his eyes cast down, apparently absorbed in thought. "A strikimr face," thought Mr. Heron to himself, beiug greatly Attracted by the appearance of his new friend ; " all the more 1 »;■ 124 tMOER FALSE PR£t£NC£S. picturesque on account of that curious grey Iiair. I wonder what his hiblory has been." Then he spoke aloud and in a kindlier tone. *• I will accept your offer of help," he said, *' and ask you to walk back with me to the town, if you are going that way. I came by a short cut, which I am quite sure that I shall never remember." The young man awoke from his apparently scd meditations ; his fine, dark eyes were lightened by a grateful smile as he looked at Mr. Heron. It seemed as though he were glad that something had been suggested that he could do. But the smile was succeeded by a still more settled look cf gloom. "I must introduce myself," he said. "I have no card with me— perhaps this will do as well." He held out the book that he had been reading ; it was a copy of Horace's Odea, bound in vellum. On the fly-leaf a name had been scrawled in pencil — John Stretton. Mr. Heron glanced at it through his eye-glass, nodded pleasantly, and regarded his new friend with increased respect. " You're a scholar, I see," he said, good-humouredly, as they strolled leisurely towards the little town in which he had told John Stretton that he was staying ; " or else you would not bring Horace out with you into the fields on a sunshiny day like this. I have forgotten almost all my classical lore. To tell the truth, Mr. Stretton, I never found it very much good to me ; but I sup- pose all boys have got to have a certain amount of it drilled into them ?" He stopped short in an interrogative manner. " I suppose so," said Stretton, without a smile. His eyes were bent on the ground; there was a joyless contraction of his delicate, dark brows. It was with an evident effort that he suddenly looked up and spoke. "I have an interest in such subjects. I am trying to find pupils myself — or, at letst, I hope to find some when I return to England in a week or two. I think," he added with a half-laugh, " that I am a pretty good classic — good enough, at least, to teach small boys !" '*I dare say, I dare say," said Mr. Heron, hastily. He looked as if he would like to put another que&tion or two, then turned away, muttered something inaudible, and started off upon a totally different subject, about which he laid down the law with unaccustomed volubility and decision. Stretton listened, assented now and then, but took care to say little in reply. A sudden turn in the road brought them close to a fine, old building, grey with age, but stately still, at the sight of which Mr. Heron became silent and slackened his pace. "A magnificent old place," said Stretton, looking up at it as his companion paused before the gateway. ♦the villa VBWTURr. 125 sr what tlndlier eisk you i(( that 1 1 shall tations ; e as he ;]ad that But the la ard with ook that bound in pencil — jye-glass, increased , as they B had told not bring like this. Ithe truth, [but I sup- •illed into ler. !S were )n of hia ft that he in such it, I hope two. I [etty Kood Itily. He or two, arted off lid down Stretton little in I a fine, sight of at it as "Picturesque, but not very waterproof, said Mr. Heron, with a dismal air of couviction, "It is what they call the Viiia Venturi. There are some charminp bits of colour t.bout it, but I am not sure that it is the best possible residence," " You are residing here?" "For the present— yes. You must come in and see the banqueting-hall and the terrace; you must, indeed. My wife will be delighted to thank you herself— for the rescue of the umbrella!" and Mr. Heron laughed quietly below his breath. "Yes, yes"— as Stretton showed symptoms of refusing— "I can take no denial. After your long, hot walk with me, you must come in and rest, if it is but for half-an-hour. You do not know what pleasure it gives me to have a chat with some one like your- self, who can properly appreciate the influence of the Renaissance upon Italian art.'" Stretton yielded rather than listen to any more of such gross and open flattery. He followed Mr. Heron under the gateway into a paved courtyard, flanked on three sides by out-buildings and a clock tower, and on the fourth by the house itself. Mr. Heron led the way through some dark, cool passages, expatiating as he went upon the architecture of the building ; finally they entered a small but pleasant little room, where he offered his guest a seat, and ordered refreshments to be set before him. "I am afraid that everyone is out," Mr. Heron said, after open- ing and shutting the doors of two or three rooms in succession, and returning to Stretton with rather a discomfited countenance. " The afternoon is growing cool, you see, and they have gone for a drive. However, ycu can have a look at the terra ^ and the banqueting-hall while it's still light, and we shall ho te for the pleasure of your company at some other time when my wife is at home, Mr. Stretton, if you are staying near us." " You are very kind," murmured Stretton. " But I fear that I must proceed with my journey to-morrow. I ought not to stay— I must not " He broke off abruptly. Mr. Heron forgot his good manners, and stared at him in surprise. There was something a little odd about this grey-haired young man after all. But, after a pause, the stranger seemed to recover his self-possession, and repeated his excuses more intelligibly. -Mr. Herou was sorry to hear of his probable departure. They wandered round the garden together. It was a pleasant place, with terraced walks and shady alcoves, so quaint and trim that it might well have passed for that fair garden to which Boccaccio's fine ladies and gallant cavaliers fled when the plague raged in Florence, or for the scene on which the hapless Fraucesca '!•-'?,: 12A UNDER FALSE PRETENCES. looked when she read the story of Lancelot that led to her own undoing:. Some such fancies as these passed through the crannies of Stretton's mind while he seemed to be listening to Mr. Heron's mildly-pedantic allocutions, and absorbed in the con- sideration of mediaeval art. Mr. Heron was in raptures with his listener. "Oh, by-thc-bye," said the artist, suddenly, as they paused beside one of the windows on the terrace, " if I may trouble you to wait here a minute, I will go and fetch the sketch I have made of the garden from this point. You will excuse me for a moment. Won't you go inside the house ? The window is open- go in, if you like." He disappeared into another portion of the house, leaving Stretton somewhat amused by his host'^ unceremonious demeanour. He did not accept the invitation ; he leaned against the wall rather languidly, as though fatigued by his long walk, and tried to make friends with a beautiful peacock which seemed to expect him to feed it, and yet was half-afraid to approach. As he waited, a gentle sound, of which he had been conscious ever since he halted close to the window, rose more distinctly upon his ear. It was the sound of a voice engaged in some sort of monotonous reading or reciting, and it seemed first to advance to the window near which he stood and then to r'icede. He soon discovered that it was accompanied by a soft but regular foot- fall. It wa» plain that somebody— some woman, evidently— was pacing the floor of the room to which this window belonged, and that she was repeating poetry, either to herself or to some silent listener. As she came near the window, Stretton heard the words of an old ballad with which he was himself familiar — " 1 saw the new moon, late yestreen, Wi' the old moon in her arm : Ai)d if we gang ';o sea, master, I fear we'.l come to tmrm." The voice died away as it travelled down the space of the*long room. Presently it came nearer ; the verses were still going on— "Oh, lancr, laiig may the la■« "«'■•"» of t.„ -av. d,ea,„t o, ,oW„,, .JtXt'LZ uZ'L:^"' "' """'^ CHAPTER XVI. announced. He in^y^A ' ^iizabeth, whpn n „- ,"""*'"« "£■.,,„ "■■'■ •■'■ '• '• •■"»■ St- •£ Stretton wn, «, ^"' ^'"' ""'»''' And it J„;.m ^'"'*« ''o»« a vlne-cIaS po^?| 5,'^"^"'S. with his shoi « with evident dl« ,f ° "*« sensitively Jf«?v '""' '^ *o when he Cie ^" '>■ ''"'* "e brongh ° hiS^.f f «> ""^ « wa, partly «.lveT ' '"^'"'^'-^ ""»=''• '"Mi Be"on°,°?;^- .A"' 180 UNDER FAL8K I'RETENCES. ! '* I don't Mupposo 1 hope to efttn my "I had better mention one tiling from the very first," aald the young roan, quietly. " I have no references. I am afraid the lack of them will be a fatal drawback with mo8t people." *' No references I" .stammered Mr. Jloron, evidently mucli taken aback. " But— my dear youu(< friend— how do you propose to get a tutor's work without them?" "I don't know," said Stretton, with a smile in which a touch of sternness made itself felt rather than seen, that I shall get very much Mork at all. But bread in one way or another." " I— I— well, I really don't know what to say," remarked Mr. Heron, getting up, and buttoning his yellow gloves reflectively. " I should have no objection. I judge for myself, don't you know, by the face and the manner and all that sort of thing ; but it's a different thing when it comes to iealing with women, you know. They are so particular " " I am afraid I should not suit Mrs. Heron's requirements," said Stretton, in a very quiet tone. ** It isn't that exactly," said Mr. Heron, hesitating ; •* and yet— well, of course, you know it isn't the usual thing to be met with the plain statement that you have no references 1 Not that I might even have thought of asking for them ; ten to one that It would ever have occurred to me— but my wife . Come, you don't mean it literally? You have friends in England, no doubt, but you don't want to apply to them." *' Excuse me, Mr. Heron ; I spoke the literal truth. I have no references to give cither as to character, attainments, or birth. I have no friends. And I agree with you and Mrs. Heron that I should not be a fit person to teach your boys their Latin accidence —that's all. " Not so fast, if you please," said Mr. Heron, more impressed by Stretton's tone of cold independence than he would have been by sheaves of testimonials to his abilities; "not so fast, my good fellow. Now, will you do me a favour? Let me think the matter over for half-an-hour, and come to you again. Then we will decide the matter, one way or the other." "I should prefer to consider the matter decided now," said Sti'etton. "Nonsense, my dear sir, you must not be ha.%ty. In half-an- hour I shall see you again," cried the artist, as he turned his back on the young man, and walked off towards the Villa Venturi, swinging his stick jauntily in his hand. Stretton watched him, and bit his lip. "I was a fool to aay that I wanted work," he said to himself, " and perhaps a greater fool to blurt out the fact that I had no- "WITHOUT A REFEnENCE.' 181 respectable references so easily. However, Vve done for niysell in that quarter. Tlie Urllhli dragon, MrH. (Jrundy, would never admit a man as tutor to her boys under tlicsfc mystorious circum- stances. All the better, perhaps. I sbould be looked upon with suspicion, as a man * under a cloud.' And I should not like that, especially in the case of that beautiful Miss Heron, whose clear eyes seem to rebuke any want of candour or courage by their calm fearlessness of gaze. Well, I sliall not meet her under false pretences now, at any rate." And then he gave vent to a short, impatient sigh, and resumed the seat that he had vacated for Mr. Heron's beneflt. He tried to read ; but found, to his disgust, that he could not fix his mind on the printed page. He kept wondering what report Mr. Heron was giving to his wife and family of the inter- view that ho had had with the English tutor "without references." "Perhaps they think that I was civil to the father becaut-e I hoped to get something out of them," said Stretton to him- self, frowning anxiously at the line of blue sea in the distance. "Perhaps tiiey are accusing me of being a rank impostor. What if thy do? What else have I been all my life? What a fool I am I" In despair he flung aside his book, went up to his bed-room, and began to pack the modest knapsack which contained all his worldly wealth. In half-an-hour— when he had had that fire minutes' decisive conversation with Mr. Hrron— he would be on his way to Naples. He had all but finished bis packing when the landlord shuffled upstairs to speak to him. There was a messenge'* *rom the Villa Venturi. There was also a note. Stretton ope: it and read : — "Dear Mr. Stretton,— Will you do me the favour to come up to the villa as soon as you receive this note? I am sorry to trouble you, but I think I can explain my motive when we meet. Yours truly, "Alfred Heron." Stretton crumpled the note up in his hand, and let it drop to the floor. He glanced at his km psack. Had he packed it too soon or not ? He followed the servant, whom he found in waiting for him— a stolid, impenetrable-looking Englishman, who led the way to an entx'ance into the garden of the villa — an entrance which Stretton did not know. "Is your master In the garden? Does he wish me to come this way?" he asked, rather sharply. 132 UNDER FALSE PKETENCES. The stolid servant bowed his head. •' My master desired me to take you to the lower terrace, sir, if you didn't find it too 'ot," he said, solemnly. And Stretton said nothing more. The lower terrace ? It was not the terrace by the house ; it was one at the further end of the garden, and, as he soon saw, it was upon a cliff overlooking the sea. It was overshadowed by the foliage of some great trees, and com- manded a magnificent view of the coast, broken here and there into inlets and tiny bays, beyond which stretched "the deep sapphire of the sea." A slight haze hung over the distance, through which the forms of mountain peaks and tiny islets could yet be clearly seen. The wash of the water at the foot of the cliff, the chirp of the cicadas, were the only sounds to be heard. And here, on a low, wooden bench, in the deepest and coolest shade afforded by the trees, Stretton found— not Mr. Heron, as he had expected, but— Elizabeth. He bowed, hesitating and confused for the moment, but she gave him her white hand with a friendly look which set him at his ease, just as it had done upon his entrance to the villa on the previous evening. " Sit down, Mr. Stretton," she said, "will you not? My uncle has gone up to the house for a paper, or a book, or something, and I undertook to entertain you until he came back. Have we not a lovely view ? And one is always cool here under the trees, now that the heats of summer are past. I think you will find it a good place to read in when you are tired of giving lessons— that is, if you are going to be so kind as to give lessons to our trouble- some boys." She had looked at him once, and in that glance she read what would have taken Mr. Heron's obtuse male intellect weeks to comprehend. She saw the young man's slight embarrassment and the touch of pride mingling with it ; she noticed the spare ness of outline and the varying colour which suggested recent ill- ness, or delicacy of health ; above all, she observed the expression of his face, high, noble, refined, as it had always been, but darkened by some inexplicable shadow from the past, some trace of sorrow which could never be altogether swept away. Seeing all these things, she knew instinctively that the calmest and quietest way of speaking would suit him best, and she felt that she was right when he answered, in rather low and shaken tones — " Pardon me. It is for Mr. Heron to decide ; not for me." " I think my uncle zs decided," said Elizabeth. " He asked me to ascertain when you would be willing to give the boys their first lesson." m ll • '.'Mi WITHOUT A REFERENCE. loo race, sir, Stretton e terrace len, and, . It was ind com- ixxd there the deep distance, lets could ot of the be heard, id coolest ron, as he , but she et him at Ua on the My uncle :hinK, and we not a rees, now find it a ons — that r trouble- ead what weeks to rassment he spare ecent ill- cpression |)een, but )me trace Seeing lest and felt that shaken le." isked me their first •'He said tliat, now? Since he saw me?" cried Stretton, as if in uncontrollable surprise. Elizabeth's lips straightened themselves for a moment. Then she turned her face towards the young man, with the look of mingled dignity and candour which had already impressed him 80 deeply, and said, gently — " Is there anything to be surprised at in that? " "Yes," said Stretton, hanging his head, and absently pulling forward a long spray of clematis wliich grew beside him. "It is a very surpr'sing thing to me that Mr. Heron should take me on trust— a man Avithout recommendation, or influence, or friends." He plucked the spray as he spoke, and played restlessly with the leaves. Elizabeth watched his Angers ; she saw that the movement was intended to disguise the fact that they were trembling. "As it is," he went on, "even though your father— I beg pardon, your uncle— admits me to this house, I doubt whether I do well to come. I think it would be better in many ways that I should decline this situation." He let the leaves fall from his hand and rose to his feet. " Will you tell Mr. Heron what I say?" he asked, in an agitated voice. " Tell him I will not take advantage of his kindness. I will eco on to Naples— this afternoon." Elizabeth was puzzled. This was a specimen of humanity the like of which she had never met before. It interested her ; though she hardly wished to interfere in the affairs of a man who was so much of a riddle to her. That he was a stranger and that he was young— not much older than herself, very probably — were facts that did not enter her mind with any deterrent force. But as Stretton lifted his hat and turned to leave her, she noticed how white and wan he looked. "Mr. Stretton," she said, imperiously, "please to sit down. You are not to attempt that long, hot walk again just now. Besides, you must wait to see my uncle. Sit down, please. Now, tell me, you have been ill lately, have you not ?" " Yes," said Stretton, seating himself as she bade him, and answering meekly. " I had brain fever more than a year ago at the monastery of San Stefano, and my recovery was a slow one." " I know the Prior of San Stefano— Padre Cristoforo. Do you remember him ?" ' Yes. He was very good to me. I was there for twelve months or more 3e gave me work to do in the school." " Will you mention that to my uncle ? He is very fond of Padre Cristoforo." i 1S4 tJNDER VALSR PllKTKNCKfi. "I thought," said Stretton, colouring a little, and almost as thouji2;h he were excusing himself, " that it would be useless to give the name of a Romanist Prior as a referee to Mr. Heron. Most people would think it an objection in itself." '* Why not give English names, then ? " said Elizabeth. " Because I have no English friends," There was a little silence. Stretton was leaning back in his seat, looking quietly out to sea ; Elizabeth was sitting erect, with her hands crossed on her lap. Presently she spoke, but without turning her head. "Mr. Stretton, i do not want you to think my remarks im- pertinent or uncalled for. I must tell you first that I am in a somewhat unusual position. My aunt is an invalid, and does not like to be troubled about the children ; my uncle hates to decide anything for himself. They have fallen into the habit— the unlucky habit for me— of referring many practical matters to my decision, and, therefore, you will underatand that my un?le came to me on his return from the inn this moruing and told me what you had said. I want to explain all this, so that you may see how it is that I have heard it so quickly. No one else knows." "You are very good," said Stretton, feeling his whole heart strengthened and warmed by this frank explanation. " 1 think you must see how great a drawback my absence of recom- mendations is likely to be to me." "Yes," said Elizabeth, seriously, "I do. But if you cr 'not overcome it in this rase, how are you going to overcome it at i I ?" " I don't know, Miss Heron." "You said that you wished to take pupils,' Elizabeth went on, too much interested in the subject to notice the mistake made in her name ; "you told my uncle so, I believe. Will you get them more easily in England than here?" "1 shall no doubt find somebody who will forego the adv<*,niages of a 'character' for the sake of a little scholarship," said Stretton, rather bitterly. "Some schoolmaster, who wants his drudgery done cheap." "Drudgery, indeed!" said Elizabeth, softly. Then, after a pause — " That seems a great pity. And you are an Oxford man, too I" Stretton looked up, " How do you know that?" he said, almost sharply. "You talked of Balliol last night as if you knew it." "You have a good memory, Miss Heron. Yes, I was at Balliol; but you will not identify me there. The truth will out, you see ; I was not at Oxford under my present name." ) f.' 3r. \' WITHOUT A REFERENCE. laiS Imost as iseless to '. Heron, ck in his 'ect, with ; without (larks im- am in a and does hates to e habit- natters to my uncle and told that you one else ole heart " 1 think )f recom- lU Cf " it at I not ir eth went mistake Will you [vantages IStretton, Idrudgery after a }rd man, I, almost was at kth will le." He thought he should read a look of shocked surprise upon her face; but he was misLuken. She seemed merely to be studying him with p;rave, womanly watchfulne^^s; not to be easily biassed, nor liglitly turned aside. "That is your own affair, of course," she said. "You have a right to change your name if you choose. In your own name, I dare say you would have plenty of friends." " I had," he answered, gravely, but not, as she noticed, as if he were ashamed of having lost them. " And you have none now?" " Absolutely none." "Through your own fault?" She wondered afterwards how she Iiad the courage to ask the question ; but, at the moment, it came naturally to her lips, and he answered it as simply as it was asked. " No. Through my misfortune. Pray ask me nothing more." "I beg your pardon," she said. "I ought not to have asked anything. But I was anxious— for the children's sakes— and there was nobody to speak but myself. I will say nothing more." "I shall beg of you," said Stretton, trying to speak in as even a tone as hers, although the muscles round his lips quivered once or twice and made utterance somewhat difllcult, " I shall beg of you to tell what I have said to Mr. Herri only ; you and he will perhaps kindly guard my secret. I wish I could be more frank ; but it is impossible. I trust that, when I find employ- ment, my employers will be as kind, as generous, as you have been to-day. You will tell your uncle ?" •" What am I to tell him ?" she said, turning her eyes upon him with a kindly smile in their serene depths. " That you will be here to-morrow at nine o'clock— or eight, before the day grows hot? Eight will be best, because the boys get so terribly sleepy and cross, you know, in the middle of the day ; and you will be able to breakfast here at h^ilf-past ten as we do." He looked at her, scarcely believing the testimony of his own ears. She saw his doubt, and continued quietly enough, though still with that lurking smile in her sweet eyes. " You must not find fault with them if they are badly grounded; or rather you must find fault with me, for I have taught them nearly every- thing they knoxv. They are good boys, if they are a little unruly now and then. Here is my uncle coming from the house. You had really better wait and see him, will you not, Mr. Stretton ? I will leave you to talk business together." She ii'ose and moved away. Stretton stood like a statue, pas- sionately desiring to speak, yet scarcely knowing what to say. m II 136 UNDER FALSE PRETENCES. It was only when she gave him a slight, parting smile over h«r shoulder that he found his voice. " I can't thank you," he said, hoarsely. She paused for a he spoke again, with long gaps between " You don'b know what you have done . . I have something to live for now. . , the for moment, and sentences. me God bless you." He turned abruptly towards the sea, and Elizabeth, aiter hesi- tating for a moment, went- silently to meet her uncle. She was more touched than she liked to pxknowledge to herself by the young man's emotion ; and she felt all the pleasurable glow that usually accompanies the doing of a good deed. "Perhaps we have saved him from great misery— poverty and starvation," she mused to herself. "I am sure that he is good; he has such a fine face, and he speaks so frankly about his troubles. Of course, as my uncle says, he may be an adventurer ; but I do not thinli he is. We shall soon be able to judge of his character." •' Well, Betty," said Mr. Heron, as he came up to her, " what success? Have you dismissed the young man in disgrace, or are we to let him try to instruct these noisy lads every morning ?" " I think you had better try him, uncle." "My dear Elizabeth, it is not for me to decide the question. You know very well that I could not do what you Insist upon doing for us all " " Don't tell Mr. Stretton that, please, uncle." Mr. Heron stopped short, and looked at her almost pileously. " Dear child, how can I go on pretending to be the master of this house, and hiring tutors for my children, when the expense comes out of your purse and not out of mine ?" "My purse is Avide enough," said Elizabeth, laughing. "Dear uncle, I should hate this money if I might not use it in the way I please. What good would it be to me if you could net al! share it? Besides, I do not want to be gossiped about and stared at, as is the lot of most young women who happen to bo heiresses. I am your orphan niece— that is all that the outside world need know. What does it matter which of us really owns the money?" " There are very few people of your opinio:), my dear," said her uncle. " But you are a good, kind, generous girl, and wo are more grateful to you than we can say. And now, shall I talk to this young man ? Have you asked him any questions?" "Yep. I do not think that we need reject him because he has no I'efeiences, uncle."' " Very well, Elizabeth. I quite agree with you. But, on the PERCIVALS HOLIDAY, 137 AvLole, we won't mention the fact of his liavii)g no references to the rest of the family." " Just what I was about to say, Uncle Alfred." Tliereupon she betook herself to the house, and Mr. Heron proceeded to the bench on the cliff, where he held a long and apparently satisfactory colloquy with his visitor. And at the end of the conversation it was decided that Mr. John Stretton, as he called himself, should give thi'ee or four hours daily of his valuable time to the instruction of the more youthful members of the Heron family. CHAPTER XVII. percival's holiday. "Hey for the South, the sunny South I" said Percival Heron, striding into his friend Vivian's room with a lighted cigar between his teeth and a letter in his hand. "I'm off to Italy to-morrow." "I wish to Heaven that I were off, too 1" returned Rupert, lean- ing back in a lounging-chair with a look of lazy discontent. " The fogs last all the year round in London. This is May ; I don't know why I am in town at all." " Nor I," said his friend, briskly. " Especially when you have the cash to take you out of town as of ten as you like, and when- ever you like, while I have to wait on the tender mercies of pub- lishers and editors before I can put fifty pounds in my pocket and go for a holiday." " You're in luck just now, then, I am to understand?" " Very much so. Look at that, my boy." And he flourished a piece of thin paper in Vivian's face. " A cheque for a hundred. I am going to squander it on railway lines as soon as possible." " You are going to join your family?" •• Yes, I am going to join my family. What a sweetly domestic sound I I don't care a rap for my family. I am going to see the woman I love best in the world, and, if she were not in Italy, I doubt whether wild horses would ever draw me from this vast, tumultuous, smoky, beloved city of mine — Alma Mater, indeed, to me, and to scores of men who are your brothers and mine " "Now, look here, Percival," said Rupert, in a slightly wearied tone, "if you are going to rant and rave, I'll go out. My room is quite at your disposal, but I am not. I've got a headache. Why don't you go to a theatre or a music hall, and work off your superfluous energy thereby clapping and shouting applause?" Percival laughed, but seated himself and spoke in a gentler tone. I:- «■:• i 138 UNDER FALSE PRETENCES. " I'll remember your susceptibilities, my friend. Let me stay and smoke, that's all. Throw ?. book at my head if I grow too noisy. Or hand me that ' Hevlew ' at your elbow. I'll read it and hold my tongue." He was as good as his word. He read so long and so quietly that Vivian tui.ied his head at last and addi'essed him of his own accord. "What makes your people stay so long abroad?' he said. "Are they going to stop there all the summer? I never heard that a summer in Italy was a desirable thing." " It's Elizabeth's doing," answered Percival, coolly. "She and my father between them got up an Italian craze ; and off they went as soon as ever she came into that property, dragging the family behind them, all laden with books on Italian art, and quoting Augustus Hare, Symonds, and Buskin indiscriminately. I don't suppose Kitty will have a brain left to stand on when she comes back again— if ever she does come back." " What do you mean ?" said Rupert, with a sudden deep change of voice. " I mean— nothing. I mean, if she does not marry an Italian count or an English adventurer, or catch malaria and die in a swamp." "Good Heavens, Percival! how can you talk so coolly? One would think that it was a joke 1" Vivian had risen from his chair, and was standing erect, with a decided frown upon his brow. Percival glanced at him, and answered lightly. "Don't make such a pother about Hothing. She's all right. They're in a very healthy place ; a little seaside village, where it has been quite cool, they say, so far. And they will return before long, because they mean to spend the autumn in Scotland. Yes, obey say it is * quite cool ' at present. Don't see how it can be ool myself; but that's their look out. They've all been very veil, and there's no immediate prospect of the marriage of either i! the girls with an Italian or an English adventurer ; not even >f Miss Murray with your humble servant." Rupert threw himself back into his chair again as if Relieved, ind a half-smile crossed his countenance. " How is Miss Murray ?" he asked, rather maliciously. " Very well, as far as I know," said Percival, turning over a page and smoothing out the " Review " upon his knee. He read on for two or three minutes more, then suddenly tossed the book from him, gave it a contemptuous kick, and discovered that his cigar had gone out. He got up, walked to the mantelpiece, found ft match, and lighted it, and then 3aid, deliberately— PERCIVAL'S HOLIDAY. 189 ne stay row too d it and quietly his own 1 he said, jr heard 1 She and off they pcinp; the art, and linately. vhen she 1 p change fM n Italian die in a 1 ly ? One 1 jct, with him, and 1 ill right. where it rn before d. Yes, t can be 1 een very of either not even 1 •' They've done a devilish imprudent thing out there." "Whatr " Hired a fellow as tutor to the boys without references or recommendations, solely because he was good-looking, as far as I can make out." "Who told your "My father." " Did he do it T " He and Elizabeth between them. Kitty sings his praises in every letter. He teaches the girls Italian." Bupeit said nothing. " So I am going to Italy chiefly to see what the fellow is like. I can't make out whether he is young or old. Kitty calls him divinely handsome ; and my father speaks of his grey hairs." " And Miss Murray ?" "Miss Murray." said Percival, rather slowly, "doesn't speak of him at all." Then, he added, in quicker tones— " Doubtless he isn't worth her notice. Elizabeth can be a very grand lady when she likes. Upon my word, Vivian, there are times when I wonder that she ever deigned to bestow a word or look even upon me I" " You are modest," said Rupert, drily. " Modesty's my foible ; it always was. So, Hey for the sunny South, as I said before. <0, BW.1II0W, swallow, flyiiiKi flyi'tr Suutb, I'ly to her, and fall upon her gildea eavei. And tell hrr, tell I.er, what I tell to thee.* Any message for the swallow, sir?" touching an imaginary cap. "Shall I say that 'Dark and true and tender Is the North,* and 'Fierce and false and fickle is the South,' or any similar state- ment?" " I have no message," said Rupert. "So be it. Do you know anything of young Luttrell— Hugo Luttrell— by-the-bye?" " Very little. My sister is interested in him." " He is going to the bad at an uncommonly swift pace— that is all." " Old Mrs. Luttrell talks of making him her heir," said Vivian. "She asked him down last winter but he wouldn't go." " I don't wonder at it. She must be a very tough old lady if she thinks that he could shoot therewith much pleasure after his cousin's accident." " I don't suppose that Mrs. Luttrell asked him with any such notion," returned Rupert. " She merely wanted him to spend a few days with her at Netherglen," HO UNDER FALSE PRETENCES. " Has she much to leave? I thought the estates were entailed," said Percival. "She has a rather large private fortune. I expected to And that you knew all about it," said Rupert, with a smile. " It's the last thing that I should concern myself about," said Percival, superbly. And Vivian was almost sorry that he had made the remark, for it overset all the remains of his friend's Rood temper, and brought into ugly prominence the upright, black mark upon his forehead caused by his too frequent frown. Matters were not mended when Rupert asked, by way of changing the conversation, whether Percival's marriage were to take place on Miss Murray's return to England. " Marriage ? No ! What are you thinking of ?" said he, starting up impatiently. "Don't you know that our engagement— such, ns it is— is a px'ofound secret from (he world in general? You are nearly the only person who knows anything about it outside our own family; and even there it isn't lalked about. Marriage ! I only wish there was a chance of it. But she is in no hurry to give up her liberty ; and I can't press her." And then he took his departure, with an injured feeling that Rupert had not been veiy sympathetic. "I've a good mind to offer to go with him," said Mr. Vivian to himself when his friend was gone. "I should like to see them all again ; I should like to enjoy the Italian sunshine and the fresh, sweet air with Kitty, and hear her innocent little comments on the remains of mediaeval art that her father is sure to be raving about. But it is better not. I might forget myself some day. I might say what could not be unsaid. And then, poor, little Kitty, it would be hard both for you and for me. No, I won't go. Stay in Italy and get married, Kitty ; that is the best thing for us both. You will have forgotten your old friend by the time you come back to London ; and I shall dragon at the old round, with the same weary, clanking chain at my heels which nobody suspects. Good God ! " cried Rupert, with a sudden burst of passion which would have startled the friends who had seen in him nothing but the perfectly self- possessed, cold-natured, well-mannered man of the world, " what a fool a man can make of himself in his youth, and repent it all his life afterwards in sackcloth and ashes— yet repent it in vain— in vain I' Percival Heron did not choose to announce his coming to his friends. He travelled furiously, as it was his fashion to travel when he went abroad, and arrived at the little village, on the outskirts of which stood the Villa Venturi, so late in the evening that he prefernd to take a bed at the inn, and sup there, rather WBBWB percival's hoi.ipay. 141 than disturb his own people until morning. He enjoyed (he night at the inn. t was a place much frequjuted by flfiher- men, who came to All their bottles before going out at night, or to talk over the events of the previous day's fishing. There was a garden behind the house— a garden full of orange and lemon trees— from which sweet breaths of fragrance were wafted to the nostrils of tlie guests as thej sat within the little hostelry. Percival could speak Italian well, and understood the patois of the fishermen. He had a wonderful gift for languages ; and it pleased him to sit up half the night, drink- ing the rough wine of the country, smok'ng innumerable cigar- ettes, and laughing heartily at the stories of 'Y^ fisher-folk, until the simple-minded Italians were filled with admiration and astonishment at this Inglese who was so much more like one of themselves than any of the Inglesi that they had ever met. Owing to these late hours and the amount of talking, per- haps, that he had got through, Percival slept late next morning, and it was not until eleven o'clock that he started, regardless of the heat, for the Villa Venturi. He had not very far to go, and it was with a light heart that he strode a long holding a great, white umbrella above his head, glancing keenly at the view of sea and land which made the glory of the place, turning up his nose fastidiously at the smells of the village, and wondering in bis heart what induced his relations to stay so long out of Lorxdon. He rang the bell at the gate- way with great decision , and told the servant to inform Mr. Heron that ''an English gentleman" wished to speak to him. He was ushered into a little ante-room, requested to wait there until Mr. Heron was found, and left alone. But he was not content to wait very patiently. He was sure that he heard voices in the next room. Being quite without the scruples which had made Stretton, not long before, refuse to push open a door one single inch in order to see what was not meant to meet his eyes, he calmly advanced to an archway screened by long and heavy curtains, parted them with his fingers, and looked in. It was an innocent scene, and a pietty sccue enough, on which his eyes rested, and yet it was one that gave Percival little pleasure. The room was not very light, and such sunshine as entered it fell through the coloured panes of a stained-glass win- dow high in the wall. At an old oak table, black and polished with age, sat two persons— a master and a pupil. They had one book between thera, and the pupil was reading from it. Papers, dictionaries, and copybooks strewed the table ; it was evident that other pupils had been there before, but that they had aban- I it h I 142 U.NI>KR FALSE PRETENCES. I ! i I t ' don^d the scene. Pcrcival set his teeth, and the brightness went out of his eyes, if only the pupil had not been Elizabeth I It was not that she showed any other fueling than that of interest in the book that she was reading. Her eyes were fixed upon the printed page ; lior lips opened only to pronounce slowly and carefully the unfamiliar syllables before her. The tutor was quiet, grave, reserved; but Percival noticed, quickly and jealously, that he once or twice raised his eyes as if to observe the expression of Elizabeth's fair face ; and, free from all offence as that glance certainly was, it made a wild and unreasoning fury rise up in the lover's heart. He looked, he heard an interchange of quiet question and answer, he saw a smile on her face, a curiously wistful look on his ; then came a scraping sound, as llie chairs were puslieil back over the morble floor, and master and pupil rose. The lesson was over. Percival dropped tlio curtain. He was so pale when Elizabeth came to him in the little ante- room that she was startled. "Are you not well, Percival?" she asked, as she laid her hand in bis. She did not allow him to kiss her ; she did not allow him to announce her engagement ; and, as he stood looking down into her eyes, he felt that the present slate of things was very unsatis- factory. *• I shall be better if you administer the cure," he said. " Give me a kiss, Elizabeth ; just one. Bemember that I have not seen you for nearly eight months." " I thought we made a compact," she began, trying to withdraw her hand from his ; but he interrupted her. " That I should not kiss you— often ; not that I should never kiss you at all, Elizabeth. And aK> I have come all the way from England, and have not seen you for so long, you might as well show me whether you are glad or noc." " I am very glad to se;ter of all necessary fact?. If I Lave done so under protest, it is no concern of yours. I earneslly lecommend you to give up your residence in Scotland, and to return, at any rate until this matter is settled, to San Slefano. ] need hardly say that Brian Luttrell will never let you know the necessity of such drudgery as that in which you have lately been eng;gcd. " With earnest v.ishes for your wolfaie, and above all for your speedy return to the bosom of I lie true Catholic Church in which yoa were baptised, and of which I hope to see you one day account yourself a faithful child, I remain, luy dear son, " Your faithful friend and lather, "Cristofouo Donaldi, *' Prior of the Monastery of San Stefano." / CHAPTEll XX. "MIScailEF, TXIOU ART AFOOT." Hugo's meditations were long and deep. I»Iore than an hour elapsed before ho roused him.s'.'lf fioni the thoughtful attitude which he had assumed at the close of liis first perusal of th ^ letter. When he lifted his face from his hands, his lips were white, althougli they were twisted into the seml)!aiu'e of a smile. "So that is why I fancied f knew his face," he said, half aloud. " Who would have thought it? Brian alive, after . 11 ! What a fool he must be I What an iinuiitij-'iated, egregious fool !" He poured out some brandy lor himscif with rather a shaky hand, and drauk it; oil" wilhout; water. lie shivered a little, an 1 draw closer to the fire. 'It's a very cold night," he muttered, holding his hands out to the Ioimu.i.'v ILiinc, and rcs'ing liis fore- head ujion the marble mantelpiece. "It's a cold night, aud — - it all, aie my wits going? I can't think clearly; 1 can hardly sec onto!' my eyes, lt'8 tls'^ iiliui.-k ; that's what it ia. Tlic "MTSCnrEF, TirOTT ABT AFOOT." 163 ) his will .esire nt of n, lie ;th of riend I will I not . He [ Lave neslly lU(1 to etano. know lately >r yo'.iv whicli le clay ano. hour titude of th '. I were suiilc. aloud. What i\. shaky 0, an I itLei-ed , is tore- fid — - liardly , Tho shock? Yes, Dio mio, and it is a yhock) iu ali cuiiscieuco I Who- ever would have helie red that Brian could possihly he alive all this time 1 Poor devil! I suppose that little 'accident' to Richard preyed upon his mind, lie must he 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 com- plication." He threw himself ill! an arin-tliiii;-, and loaned back with his dark, delicately-bcautil'ul face slant'jd n-ilt'ctively towards the ceiling. He was loo much disturbed in mind to afford himself the solace of a cigar. "This old fellow— the Prior— seems to know the family aflai is very intimately," he went on thinking. "This is another extra- ordinary occurrence. Hrian alive is nothing to (he fact that Brian is the son of some Italian wumriU— a jica'aii! -woman pro- bably. Did Aunt Margaret suspect it ? Sho al v,-.7ys hated Brian ; every one could sec that. When she said once, 'lie is not my son,' did she mean the words lilei-ally? Quite posrsihle." "And the real Brian Luttrcll is noAv to ap|e;iron the scene! "What is his name ? Dino— Beruardii.o --\'as:v;'i (f c:ourse, there was little use in his coming forward as long as llichard Lnttr*'ll was alive. Now that he is gone and niian is heir to the jiroperty, this young fellow, Avhom the priests have got hold of, becomes important. No doubt this is what they ha\ e 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 tli(>. jargon— I heard enough of it in Sicily. They have the proofs, no doubt— they could easily mauiiraclure tlioui if tlu'y v/ere wauling; and they will oust Elizabeth Murray and set their pot pupil in lier j)lace, and manage the land and the monej' and everything Ise for him. And what will Mrs. Luttrell say V Ho paused, and chnngcil h"i position uneasily. His brows con- tracted ; his eye grew restlcys as he continued to x'eflect. "It's my belief," ho said at last, "that Mrs. Luttrell will be enchanted. And then what will become of me?" He rose from his chair aiul bogan to pace up and down the room. " What will become of me ?" he repeated. " AVhat Avill 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 li.ld to be provided for? Not she 1 She notices me now only b'ocausc sho 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 Avall. I shall be ruined. There will be no Ncthci'ginu for me, no marriage 164 UNDER FALSK PRETENCES. with an heiress, no love-making with pretty little Kitty. 1 ahall have to disappear from the scene. I cannot hold my ground against a son— a son of the house I Curses on him 1 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 r,he latter pages of Father Cristoforo's letter, " Meet him in London. I should like to meet Djno 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. Wha,t 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 "^^asari were out of the way, and Brian felt his title to the estate rather shaky, of course, it would 1:-; 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-writlen 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 hav e 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 the>- Mont peacefully to bed. He could do nothing more, he told hin.j^^elf, and,, although his excitable disposition prevent^-d 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 sur- prised, hesitated a moment, and then asked him to walk in, Htf followed her, and was not surprised to find that she was conduct- "mtschiep, thou art afoot.'* 10a LMied Ing Inm straij^lit to the school-room, wliich was on the ground- floor. He had thought that she lookod stupid ; now he was snro of it. But it was a stupidity so much to his advanlapjc tliat he mentally vowed to reward it by the gift of half-a-crown when he had tlie 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 tablo and fixed them upon his iio^e. Hugo admired the coolness ol! 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. .SIretton to one of the boys, in a curiously-mu filed voice. " Take (his gentleman up to the drawing-i'oom, -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 sup- posing that a paper that the wind blew to my feet this morning, as I was strolling do vn the road, belonged to yourself. Will you kindly open this er .'elope 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 parb of the letter that I lost." "Only part? Indeed, I am soi'ry 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 neiglibourhood but yourself." " I am much obliged to you," Mr, Stretton repeated. "I hope you will find the rest of the lettA"," said Hugo, with rather a mocking look in his beautiful eyes. "It is awkwaiJ 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." Ml ■i m tfNDErt FAt-SK PRKTKKCp;??. "I hope not," Mr. SlvetLon answered, recover!)!}:; himself rt little ; *' but the fact is that I had read only the fust 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 contiiined no very important communication. Good morning, Mr. Strettou ; good morning to you," he added, with a smile for the cliiklren. " 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 agreeaolc. lie was like one of those sleek-coated animals of the panther tribe, sutli- ciently tamed or tameable to like caresses ; and very few people recognised the latent ferocity that lay beneath the velvet soft- ness 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 there- fore 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. Strelton 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 revela- tion. He was as sure as he was of his own existence that Mr. Strettou was " in love." Whether the afTection 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. Colqu- Iioun'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 pari of the world again ?" " My aunt's invitation," said Hugo. "Ah, yes; your aunt has a hankering after anybody of the "MISCiriEr, THOU ART AFOOT." ie7 name of Luttiell, at present. It won't last. Don't truat 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 ioke too far. What do you mean ?" Again Hugo replied by a questicn. "Did you ever hear of a place called San Stefano?" he said, gently. Old Mv. Colquhoun bounded in his seat. " Good God 1" 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. Colquhouu's ire. "Kejit 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 Avas 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 mucli I may tell you without any breach of confidence, now that they are both in their graves, poor lads 1" 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 avAd. Hugo's answer \\ as ready. " I met a queer sort of man in V:' of the 168 UNDER FALSE PRETE^'CES. the town this morning wlio was making inquiries that set me on the alert. I got hold of him— wallied along the road with him for some distance— and heard u long story. He was a priest, I think— sent from San Stefuno to investigate. I got a good doul out of him. "Eh?" said Mr. Colquhoun, slowly. "And where might he b ^- stiying, you priest ?" "Didu't ask," replied Hugo. "I told him to come to you for nformation. So you can look out. There's something in the >.d, Vm sure. I thought you might have heard of it. Thank yoii for your readiness to enlighten me, Mr. Colquhoun. I've lear-i good Jeal today. 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 dovvn 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. Tlicvc 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 triumpliant smile upon Hugo's face as he rode away from the lawyer's office. Twice in that day had his generalsliip 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 neigh- bours ! 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, lie 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 I'oom 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 afiaid, dear aunt, that I must run up to town for a day •'MISCHIEF, THOU AUT AFOOT. * 109 the lie taiu able was cult day or two," he said to Mrs. Luttrell that evening;, ^ ^engap;ing frankness. "I have business to tran«iact. Butlwi', 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 trammeU 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 fo'- .^n blood and Contincnfal training, which had given him the Ivbi' he supposed, of saying "pretty things." She could not r" abt i sincerity when she looked at the peach-like bloom of » 'iRt oval lace, the impenetrable softness of those velvet eyes. I ufco'i physical beauty always stood him in good stead. "You aic an affectioi te, warm-hearted boy, I believe, Hugo," said Mrs. Lvttrell. T. ,, ufter a short pause, she added, with no visible liiik of connection, "I have written instructions to Colquhoun. I 'ixpect 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 Bichard. " 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-morroAV- 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 1" " 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. :'rl S--. :m l] — — — ' ".' *"!!!!£ JJgBMBMI^MB 170 TNDEI'. FALSE rni:Tl.N( ES. "Yes, sir. What nrirnc, ftlr, if you ploasc?" " Sny that a gciinemrui from Scolhind w ishes to see him." The woman gave Jiim a keen loolc, as if she know something of the errand upon which Dino Vosari had cotno to her Iiouso ; but said nothing, and ushered liim at oi'co into a sill ing-room on tlio ground-IIoor. The room war, curl aincd so licaviiy tliat it seemed nearly dark. Hugo could not hcc wIietluT it was teiinjited by more than one person ; of one ho was sure, l)eca\isc that one person came to meet liim witli outstretcbed bands and eager words of greeting. "Mr. Luttrell ! You have come, then ; you have come -I knew you would !" "I beg your pardon," said lingo, and at the sound of his voice the first speaker fell back amazed ; " but I am Hugo Luttrell— not Brian. I come from bini." "A tbousand pardons ; this Knglisb daikuess Is to blame," said the other, in llucnt English siToocIi, though with a slightly foreign accent. " Let us have lights ; then we can know cacli other. I am— Dino Vasnri." 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 like- ness of feature, but a total dissimilarity of expression. The subtlety o2 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 admii'ation ; Hugo, lost in a thought of dark significance. " So you aie the man !" he was saying to himself. " You call yourself my cousin, do you? And yon want the Straliileckio nnd the Luttrell estates? Be w;uned and go back to Italj% my good (.ousin, while you have time ; you will never reach Scotland alive, J promise you. I shall kill you flisi, as I should kill a snake lying in my path. Never in your life, Mr. Dino Vasari, wei'e you in greater danger than you are just now." CHAPTER XXI. ▲ FLASK OF ITALIAN WINB. "I AM Brian Luttrell's cousin," said Hugo, quietiy, " and I come from him." "Then you know— you know " Dino stammered, and he looked eagerly into Hugo's face. •• I know all." A FLASK OF ITALIAN WINii. 171 *' You know Nvliere ho is liOW ?" *' I do. I have brought you a letter from him— a sort of iutro- tluctlon," said Hugo, with a faint smile. "I trust that you will (ind It satisfactory." "No Introduction Is necessary," was Dlno's polUe reply. **I have hoard him speak of you." Hugo's eyes Hashed an Interrogation. What had Brian said o£ him ? But Ulno's tones were so courteous, his face so calmly impassive, that Hugo was reassured. Ho bowfd 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 Hushed, his hands twitched a little. He was actually nervous about the success of his scheme. Suppose Diiio were to doubt the genuineness of that letter I *It consisted of a few words only, and they were Italian:— " DiNO Mio," It began, " the bearer of this letter la my cousin Hugo, Avho knows all Liie circumstances and will explain to you what are my views. I am ill, and cannot como to London. Burn this note. "BttlAN LUTTBELL." 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. Wheu'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 unfavour- ably during the performance of this action. It seemed to show that Dino Vasari might not be a man so easy to deal Avith as Brian Luttrell. '• I have done what I was asked to do," h'' said, drawing himself up to his full height, and turning round with folded arms and dai'kening brow. " I have burnt his letter, and I should now be glad, Mr. Luttrell, to hear the views which you were to exx)lain 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." M^r '4- llJMMa ! n 172 UNDER FALSE PRETENCES. This was 80 elaborate a sentence that Dlno took somo 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 Vasarll" •• Neither is he," «ald IIu«o. " But if we liave proof " "Mr. Vasarl, you cannot Imagine that my cousin will give up his rights without a struggle ?" "But he has given them up," said Dlno, vehemently. "He refuses to be called by his own name ; he lias let the estates pass away from him " "But h( lacans to claim his rights again," said Hugo. "Oh." Then there was a long silence. Dino sat down in a chair facing thatof Hugo, and confronted him steadily. "I under- stood," he said at last, " when I was in Italy, that ho had resolved to give up all claim to his name, or to his estate. He had dis- agreeable associations with both. He delcrmlned 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 whyi* " If I tell you why, may I ask you to keep what I say a profound secret?" Dino hesitated. Then he said flrnily, "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 hy 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 Bhe 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 indii-jnantly. " You call it clever to deceive a woman, to marry her for her moneyj to mislead her about one's name? Are these your English ▲ FLASK OP ITATJAN WINR. 178 fashions 1 Is It clover to break your word, to throw awuy the love and the help that Is ofl'ercd you, to show yourself seinsli, and designing, and false? Tliis is what you tell nie about tliu man wlioin you call your cousin, und then you ask ino toudniiro ills behaviour? Oh, no, I do not admire it. I call it mean, and l>asc, and vile. And that is wliy he woulu not come to see me hlmscli! ; that is why lie sent you as an emissary. He could not look mo iu tlio face and tell me the things that you have told mo !" He sat down again. The fire died out of his eyes, the hectic colour from Ills cheek. '* But I do not believe it 1" lie said, more sorrowfully than angrily; and in a much lower voice; "I do not believe tliat he means to do tills thing. Ho was always good b. I always true." Hugo watched him, and spoke after a little pause. " You had his letter," ho said. " He told you to believe wliat I said to you. I could explain his views." " Ah, but look you, perhaps you do not understand," said Dinci, turning towards him witli renewed vivacity. " It is a liard position, this of mine. Ever since I was a little cliild, 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 cliildren was told to me, and I used to think of the Italian boy who had taken my place, and wonder whetlier he would bo sorry to exchange it for mine. I was not sorry ; I loved my own life in tlie 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 ; ho 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 Diiio at last, " so long as no land— no money— was concci ned. Wliile Brian Luttrell was the second son the exchange of children was, after all, of very little consequence. When Richard LuLtrclI died, tho position of things was changed. If ho had lived, you would never have heard ol "Vincenza Vasari's dishonesty. Tiio privsts knew that there would be little to be gained l)y it. But when he died my life became a burden to me, because they were always saying— 'Go find claim your iuhenL«;i''3, Go to Scotland a; i 1 dispossess the 171 UNDER FALSE mKTENCLS. man who lords it over your lauds, and spends your revenues. Take your rights.' " "And Ihenyou met Bjiau ^■' said Hugo, as the narrator paused again. " I met liim and I loved liim. I was sorry for his unhappiness. He leai'ut (ho story that I had known for so many years, audit galled him. He refused to see (ho man who really ought to have borne his name. He knew me well enough, but he never sus- pected that I was Mr. Luti roll's soi;. We parted at San Stefano with friendly words ; he did not sus])cot that I was leaving the place because I could not bear to sec him day by day brooding over his grief, and never teli him that I did not wish to take hia place." "But why did you not tell him ?" " I was ordoiod to keep silence. The Piiur said that he would tell him (he whole sloiy in good time. They sent me away, and, after a (inic, I heard iroui Father Criiloforo ihat lie was gone, and had foujid a tutorship in an English family, that lie vowed never to bear iiio name of LuUroll any more, and that the way was oi)eii f(.'r me to claim my own rights, as (he v.oman Vincenza Vasari had been foujid and made confession." "So yovt came lo Ejiy.land with tiiat objcoi;" "With the object, iirst," said Dino, lifting his face from his crossed, arms, "of s 'oing him and asking him whetlier he was resolved to despoil himself of his name and fortune. I would nol have raised a liand to do either, but, if he liimsclf did it, I tiionght that I mi, .t pick up what ho threw away. Not for myself, but for the Church to vthich I belong. The Church . .should have it all." " Would you give it away?" cried Hugo. "I am 10 be a monk. A monk has no properly," was Diuo's answer. "I \\ anted to be sure that he did not repent of his decision before 1 move I a Jinger." " You soeni to have no scrapie about dcsi)ailing Miss Blurray of her goods," said Hugo, drily. A fresh gleam shot from the j'oung man's eyes. "Miss Murray is a woman," he said, brielly. "She does not need an estate. She ^vill man-y." "Marry Brian Lultr'.'ll, perhnps." "If she marries liim as Mr. Sl^'etton, 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-breadlh; in anodier you propose to leave him and his wife in poverty if he inaiTies Miss Murray." A FLASK OF ITATJAN WINIC 17." the "No, paidou me, you jnislako," replied Dino, j^eixtlj'. "I will iiiiver injure liim whom you call, Brian, but if lie keeps the name of Strelton I shall claim the rights which he ha?5 given up. And, when the estate is miuo, I will give him and his wife what they want ; I will give them hoM', if I Iiey desire it, but I will have what is my own, first ol' all, and in spiie of all." " You say, in fact, tliat you will not injure Brian, but that you do not care how niuoli you injure iVl ;-p> Tdurray." " Tiiat is not it," cried Dino, his dark eye lighting up and his form positively treml>liiig with excitement. " I say that, if Brian himselfhad 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 ; 1 would havede'=5tioycd the evidence; I would have given up all, most willingly ; but when he treats me harshly, coldly — when he will nol; now that he knows who I am, make one little journey to see me and tell inc 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 jut of my claim to tlic LuLtrell estate and the LuttrcU name." "You will not?" " I will light to the death for it." Hugo smiled slightly. *' There will be very little fighting necessary, if you liave your evidence ready. You have it with j-ou, I presumed" *' I have coi)ies ; tlie original depositions arc with my lawyer."' " Ah. And he is " "A Mr. G rattan; 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?" " Yc3. One moment, Blr. Lutti'ell. Excuse me for mentioning it ; but you have made two statements, one of which seems to me to contradict the otiier." Dino had recovered all his usual cool- ness, and lixed his kecu gaze ujion 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 namo once more. Then you said that he meant to marry Miss Murray under the name of Stretlon. You will remark that these tAvo in- tentions arc 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 bis irtentions are to preserve the name ol! Slretton, and to marry Miss Murray under it." "Then I will tell Mr. Graltan to take the necessary steps to- HI il>: 170 TTNDER FALSE PRETENCES. i i morrow," said Dino, rising, as if to hint that the interview had now come to an end. Uugo looked at liim 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 Rood, Mr. Luttrell." " Won't you write yourself to Brian?" faltered Hugo, as if he hardly dared to make the sugeslion. "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 olFended 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 si; bed. "I suppose we ought to be enemies— I don't Ivuow," 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 minules. Come back with me and have dinner." Dino tried to evade the invitation, lie would much rather have been alone; but IJugo would lake no denial. The two went out together without summoning the landlady: Hugo took his companion by the arm, and walked lor a little way down the streeb. 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 iu a rather obscure quarter of London ; but be 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-lloor was occupied by a public bar and relreshment-rooni. The waiters were German or French, and the cuokory was distinctly foreign in flavour. There was a touch of garlic in every dish, whicli 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 wiue, wli'ch looked to Dino as if it had come straight from the cellars of the monastery at San SLefano. "It is our wine," he said, with a smile. "It looks like an old friend." "1 thought that you would appreciate it," said Hugo, with a laugh, as he rose and pouied the red wine carelessly into Diuo'a glass. " It is too rougli for me ; but I was sure that you would like it." A Pr,ASK OP ITALIAN WINB. m IS a and lome kome "It liid." Lh a I into lyou 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. Diiio smiled, praised his host's thoughifulness, and swallowed a mouthful or two of the wine ; then .«"■ • down his glass. "There is something wrong with the flavour," he said : " some- thing a little bitter." "Try it again," said Hugo, averting his eyes. "I thought it very good. At any rate, it is harn)less : ore may drink any amount of it without doing oneself an injury," " Yes, but this is curiously coarse in flavour," persisted Dino. "One won'.d 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 ofTer his guest a second draught. Dino raised his hand to his brow with a puzzled gesture, and tlieu spoke confusedly. " I do not know how it is," he said. " I am quite dizzy— I can- not see — I " His eyes grew dim : his hands fell to his sides, and his head upon his breast. He mntterod 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 hiinsell! now and then. In a short time he rose, emptied the i-emainder of the wine in tliB flask into Dino's glass, rinsed out the flask with clear water, then poured the dregs, as well as the wine in tlie 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 Iriumpliant, 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. Tiie waiter glanced once or twice at the l:^ure on the chair. "GenUeman had a leetle moche to drink," he said, nodding towards poor Dino. "A little too much," said Hugo, careles&.y. "He'll be better soon." Tiien he went aiid shook the young man by the arm. " Come, ' he said, " ii . lime for us to go. Wake up; I'll see you home. That wine was a little too strong for you, was it not?" Dino (jpcui'd his e.ves, half-rose, muttered something, and then sank back ia nis »hair. "(jenllenian want a cab, i)erliap3?" said the waiter. "Well, really, i don't know," said Hugo, looking quite puzzled and distressed. "If lie can't walk we must have a cab ; but if he r :^' .;-;w/SiI «sfci,^r»i, 178 iJNnril KiST,SE rRKTJCXCKS. 'II '11 }n]1 m M I !|;r| .11 can, I'd rather not ; liis lotl.i?in;?s are not i;vr from liorc. Come, Jaclc. ciin't you try?' Dino, uddrcssod ns Jack for tlie edificaf ion o£ the waiter, rose, and Avilh Hu.!l>;o's help .staixgored a few sieps. lingo was some- what disconcerted. lie Jind not counted upon Dino's small experience of intoxicating liqnor.s when lie iMei);ned that beverage for him beforehand, lie had meant Dino io be wild and noisy: and, behold, lie pvi.sciued all the appearance of a man who was dead drunk, and could lir.'.diy walk or slaii !. They mana,u;ed to get him downstiurs, and there, revived by the fresh ai'- ho seemed able to Avalk to the lod,:i;in.2:s which, as Hugo said, were close at hand. The landlord and the waiters laughed to each other when tlic two gen!lenu>n were out of sight, "He must have takeii a good deal to make hint like that," said one of them. " The other was sober esiongh. Who were they ?" The landlord fthook his head. "Never sa-v eillier of them before yesterday," he said. " They paid, at any v.te : I wish all my cus- tomers did as much." And he went bui'k to tin; "little parlour which he had quilted for a few moiuenls Jii order to observe the departure of tlie gentlemnu who bad got so uvnnk upon a flask of heady Italian wine. Meanwhile, lingo was leading hi victim through a l.ibyrinth of dark streets and lanes. Ilino was iiud. io conduct in this manner ; he leaned heavily upon his guide, he staggered at times, and nearly fell. The night was '.:'/k isnd tOj.;gy ; more than once Hugo almost lost his beuiiugs andtuiuouiu a wrong direction. But he had a r';>asou for all the devious windings and turnings which he iocl. : he was afraid of being spied upon, followed, trcked. I', w; - not until he came at last to a dark lane, between ro^* ; ol warehouses, where not a light twinkled iu the rooms, nor a solitary pedestrian loitered about the pavement, that he seemed inclined to pause. " Tiiis is the place," he said to him- self, lightening his grasp upon the young man's arm. "This is the place I chose." He led Dino down the lano, looking carefully f^oout him until he csuie to a narrow archway on his left h.uul. This archway opened on a flagged passage, at the end of vvhtcii c, dight of steps led up to one of the empty warehouses. It was a lonely, deserted spot. He dragged his comjianion into this entry ; the st;eps 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 liuttrell crept slowly back to the iane, 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, Willi a quick step and resolute BRIANS WELCOMK. 170 mien he plunged again into the networii 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. Ho went to the theatre. In til he )pened lied up k spot, he two [e still, after lack to [glance heard ;solute 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 witli Hugo's own ([iiickness of perception, had enabled that astute young man to hit upon something very like the exact truth. He had exaggeiatcd it in his conversation witli Dino : he had attributed n)otives to Bri;.:', \ liich certainly never entered Brian's mind ; but tli s was done for his own purposes. He tliouglit tliat Brian's love lor Elizabetli Murray might prove a useful weapon in the struggle between Dino's sense of his riglils and the romantic aJlcction tliat he entertained for the man who haJ taken liis place in the Avorld — an afl'cction wliiili Ifup,o under- stood so little and despised so much, that he fancied himself sure of an easy victory over Dino's resolution to fi,.1>t for bin rightful position. It was greatly to his surprise tha 'lu <"oviud Sv. Icecu a sense of justice and resentment at the little trust that 'hian had reposed in him present in Dino's mind: tne young man liad been irritatingly iirm in his deleiniinat ion to poss- .j the Stath- leckie esta' e ; he knew pre:isely what he vt'.uW.t^d, and wi.at he moar^todo. And althougli lie was inclined to bo ^eiieuus to Brian and to .l\Iiss Murray, tliero seemed no rci^':^ \ to expect that he would be equally generous to Hugo. Tlicie;ore Hugo had felt lumself obliged to use what lie called " strong ii.easures." He did not like strong measi 's. They were disagieeable to him. But they were less ilisa^c alile than the thougliL oi being poor. Hugo uKule liitle acei it of liuman life and human suffering so long as the sutlrring did not actually touch him- self. He seemed to be born with as little heart as a beast of prey, which strikes when it is aniny, or v. lien it wants food, with no remorse and no regret. "A ii -agreeable necessity,"' Hugo called his evil deed, but he consid red that the law of self-preservation justified him in what he did. And Brian liUtlrell^ "What loason was it lliat made him fling prudence to tlie winds, and follow the Herons io the neighbour- hood of a place where he had resolved never to show his face again «' There was one great, overmastering reason— so great that it made hiiu attempt v/hat Avas - U-nigli impossible. His love for S f Bll:': m 180 UNDER FALSE PKETENCES. Elizabeth Murray had taken full possession of him : he dreamed of her, he worsliippcd 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, tuat she was the Miss Murray who owned the landed estate which once went with the house and grounds of Netherglen. It seemed almost inci'cdible that he should not have had this fact forced from the flrst upon his knowledge ; but such at present was the case. They had remained in Italy for the flrst 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 aff"airs were discussed. And Elizabeth had made it a special request that Mr. Stretton should not be inforaned 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 'ould rather be paid by Mr. Ilerou than by her. And, as she wished for silence on the subject of her lately-inheritfid 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 uttei ignorance of the fact that Elizabeth was the provider of villa, gardens, servants, and most of the other luxuries wiili which the Herons Avere 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 lutoi', 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 flogged a little in the heat, and it was thought belter that they should try a more bracing air. When the matter was decided, and Mr. Colquhoun had written to theiu that Strathleckie was vacant, and would bo a convenient house for Miss Murray's purposes in all resj>ects— then, and not till then, was Mr. Stretton informed of the pro- posed change of residence, and asked /hether he would accompany the family to Scotland. Brian hesitated, He knew Avell enough the exact locality of BRIAN ti WELCOME. 181 aiiaetl vould from , have lad for f who se and a,d this uch at he first he had ma and ed with cs were that Mr. she who She had lid make that Mr. i'. And, iiilieritf'.d -go-luclvy th a very le of his I'oeth was he other Percival, probably rnis; but iion to the tl, indeed, Stretton's le doctor's the heat, re bracing xhoun l»ad ouUl be a res)>ccls— of ihc pio- he wovild locality of the house to which they were p;oing : he had visited it himself In other days. But it was several miles from Nethergleu : he would be allowed, he knew, to absent himself from the drawing- room or the tlinner-table whenever he chose, he need not come in contact with tlie 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 noil her of theni was likely to be encountered— not even at {'ImiLh ; for, although the tenants of Netherglen and Stx-athleekie 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 setn 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 1/e with her. He consented. And then, for the first time, it crossed his mind to wonder whether siie 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 cir- cumstances, had reached Geneva after his departure upon the expedition which was supposed to have resulted in his death. He had never heai'd 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 wondei*ed vaguely wheth«5r he should meet them in the neighbourhood to which ho 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 Stefanol 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 N 182 UNDEK falsi: l'nll;TJ■;^•cJ•;^^. elaiiuaiit to tlieir estate, and there would be a lavvHuit. Ihlun bep;au to feel interested in the matter again. He had Jost all care for it in the p(?riod following upon his illness. lie now fore- saw, with something almost like pleasure, that he could easily obtain information about the Murrays if he wont with the Herons to Strathleckie. And he should certainly take the first opportunity of making inquiries. Even if he himself were no Lultrell, there was no reason why he should not take the deepest interest in (he Luttrellsof Netherglen. He wanted particularly to know wliether the Italian clainuint had come forward. He was per feci ly ignorant of the fact of which Father Cristo- foro's loiter would have informed him, that this jmssible Italian claimant was no other than his friend, Dino Vasari. Of course, he could not be long at Strathleckie without finding out the (luth III. out ]']li/abetli. If ho had lived much with the Herons, he would have found It out in the conr.sc of the first twcntv-foiir liwu.s. Elizabeth's properly was naturally referred to by nam.' : llic visitors who ci.mc to llie iiouse called upon her rather tlian upon the lierous: it was quite impossible that the secrecy upon which lllizabelh hud iusislcd in Italy could be main- tained in Scotland. The, only wonder was (hat he should live, as lie did live, for five whole days at Straihlcckle without dis- covering the truth. Perhaps Elizabeth took pains to keep it from him 1 She had been determined to keep another secret, even if she could not hide the fact, that she was a rich woman. Slie would not have her engagement to Fercival 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 l)e inferred from the fact of her allowing Percival to kiss her— she surely would not have i)ern)itted that kiss if she J>ad not meant to niairy 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 visual : 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 amnzed 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] ^o bear A grc before JV heen o/l Hiat Jiis ^vas ahv by their leckie ui ^vay to ] where Hi which Jic startled 1 that he e-xpected i it "go mat tutor agai the letter he read it. Brian com rate, uot n A dog-ca arrival. Ij where Ik smiling hands fn dare to ask She vva, town to t'lis Rtran.t uo more. There .. was a .sclu seven, acco| family, dinner, and] be present, little fire, the clock seven, and po&sibly .„, rose to his "They hand to : journey, imiANS WKT.COMfi. 188 due to her resolve to bear the burden (la( piovideiicc meauther to bear instead of trying to lay it xijxm other people's sltoulders. A great deal of this neccs.s:iry buHUiess had been transacted before Mr. Stretton made his appoiuance at Strathleclde. He had been oflered a forlDighl's holiday, jiiid had accepted it, seeing that luH absence was to sonio extent desired by Mrs. Heron, who ■\vas always afraid lest her dear (iiildreu sliuuld be o\er\voi'ked by their tutor. Thus it happened that he did not reacli Strath- leckie until the very day on whieli Hugo also arrived on his ■way to Netherijclei). Tlicy h.'id y.(^i".x earli oilier at the stiilion, where Brian iiicanllously appeared without the blue .sj)ec(aclcs which he relied upon ns part of hi.-i disjj;uise. J/roui the white, startled horror which overcast liti[;o's face, thu youiij^ man saw that he had been almost, if not qtiile, recognised ; and he expected to be sought out and questioned its to his ideuLity. But lIuj:;o made no elfort to question him : in fact, he did not see the tutor again until the day when he came to rest ore a fragment of the letter which Brian had carelessly dropped in the road before he read it. During this inteiview he betrayed no suspicion, and Brian comforted himself with the thought tluit Hugo had,at any rate, not read the sheet that he relurned to him. A dog-cart was sent for him and his higgage on the day of his arrival. He had a five miles' drive before he reached Slralhleckie, where he received a tumultuous welcome from the boys, a smiling one from Mrs. Ucrr.j and Kitty, a hearty Sii:ike 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 uupunctual 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 I'ose 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." mA 1 ..' I ) il! ! , 1 ^■.."■..^^SVauaw*.*,.. • 184 tTNDER FALStS PHI/IENCES. " Very pleasant, thank you." He could not say more : he was engngetl in devouring with hia 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 licr lie had pictured her to himself as not half so fair. Site 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 liead 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 adopleJof 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 a^ul 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 arc 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 manteli>iece and setting it down again ; *' you win 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 responsi- biliiies ; 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. BRIAN ti WKLCOMB 1S8 At\\ bis »rt that (rtniglit himseU ip;8, and losely to »f Bweet ler dress :ity, yet, lid those failed to ;nise the iient. dopled of ccd them Imness of ,aA looked er— for he iiscious of u waiting \isscd you ask that isly lifting vn ag.iin; tich more trotibled oke more I responsi- keel them, III- wii.iOUt ]he, rather "Is there nothing left?" said Brian, approachhig her a little more nearly. Then, as she was silent, he continued in a hurried, low voice, *' I Icnew that life must be different here, but I thought thai some of the pleasantest hours ini^ht be repealed— even in Scotland-^although we are without those sunny skies and groves of orange trees. Even if tlic clouds are grey, and the winds howl without, we might still read Dante's 'Paradiso' aid Pctrarca'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— sacriflce myself?" she said, liTting 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 ycu 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 tiiousand 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 witli 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 wi'ong 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, youi* 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. ^ •'•■n IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) 1.0 I.I il.25 ^ 1^ 1112.2 2.0 1.8 U ill 1.6 6" em W N>' %.-^J^V rf* V Photographic Sciences Corporation 23 WEST MAIN STRUT WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580 (716) 872-4903 f\ ^ ^ ^9) *^^ <> V :\ \ > >. 4^ <^ V^^^^' % * 180 UNDER FALSE PRETriMCES. " I have said more than I ought to have done," repeated Brian. " For/lour rose to loldenbrown hair. Brian noticed the olush; 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, und then wandered away to reach a fui'ther 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 nmst 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 ohe case," said Brian. " But— I have tried the experiment befori*.*' ^T m tNDER FAtSK TlJETKNOrS. "Here?" "Yes, here.- " I did not know that you hnd betn to Duninuir 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 Muri'ay. And I feel a ccrtai n 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 tlie ceremony had been performed. "Tb.ere is notliing that I wish for very greatly." "Nothing? Ah, I have ^ne wish— only one." "I am unfortunate in that I have none," said Elizabeth. " Then give me the benefit of your wishes. Wish tliat my wish may be fulfilled," said -Brian. She hesitated for a moment, then smiled, and threw a crooked pin into tlie water. "I have wished," she said, as she watched it sink, "but I must not say wliat I wish : that breaks (lie charm." "Sit down and rest," said Brian, persuasively, as she turned away. " Tliere is a little sliade here ; and the otiiers will no doubt join us by-and-bj'e. You must be tired." "I am not tiied, 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 i" 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 theii' brown depths. "I have thought a great deal about it— about you; and it seems to me that there is no real reason why 1 was you need But you." His THE WISniNO WELL. 101 there was, ;ain. o the ibcen ly wisli (jrooTsed ; I must 3 turned ao doubt ile," said rian also e silting ,Ue. He rence ol lou would l\er worda Lme time. Lev browa [a, raising |e in Uiei^ it— abou^ [on why 1 should not speak. You are of age ; you can do as you please ; and I could work Tor both— because— Elizabetli— I love you." It was brokenly, awkwardly said, after all ; but more com- pletely uttered, perhaps, than if-Jie had told liis tale at greater length, for then he would have been stopped belore he reached the end. As it was, Eli;vibeih's look of terror and dismay brought him to a sudden pause. "Oh, no !" she siaid, " no ; you don't mean tliat. Take back what you have ^aid, Mr. Siretton." '• 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 liini, half-rose from lier seat, and then sat down ap;aiu. Twice she tried to speak and failed, for her tongue clove to the roof oil her mouth. But ai last she found her voice. " You do not know," she said, hurriedly and hoarsely, " that I am engaged to my cou liu Percival." He rose to his feet, and withdrew two or three paces, lookiup; down on her in silent cousteruation. She did not lift her eyes, but she felt that his r^.ize was vipon lier. It seemed to pierce to the very marrow of her bones, to tlie bottom of her heart. "Is this truer' he said at last, in a voice as changed as her own had been — lio;use 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 aui I. God knows that I am sorry," said the young man turning away to hide the loolc of bitter despair and disappoint- ment, which lie could not help but feel was too visibly imprinted on his face. "For if I liad known, I might never have dai'ed to love you. If I had known, I should never have dreamt of you as my wife." At tlie sound of these two words, a shiver ran through her frame, as if a cold wind had blown over her from the mountain- lieights above. Slie 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 - i ■■. W-. ■n. ■III S'l 102 UNDER FALSE PRETENCES. silence fell upon him. For tlie moinent he thought of the many losses and sorrows that he had experienced, and it seemed to him that this was the bit^erc.st one of all. Elizabeth sat lil^c a statue ; her face was pale, her uudur-lip bitten, her handu tlKi^tiy clasxied together. At the end of some minutes' silence she roused herself to speak. There was an accent of linrt pride in lier voice, but there was a tremor, too. " I gave you no reason to think so, Mr. Streltou," she said. " No," he answered, still without turning round. " I see now ; I made a mistake." *' Ttiat you should ever have made the mistake," said Elizabelh, slowly, "seems tome " She did not flnisli the sentence. She spoke so slowly that Brian found it easy to interrupt her. He tuined and broke injpetuously 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 tool as to do that I No, I never really hoped ; I never thought thai you could for a rjomeut look at me ; believe me when I say that, even ir i.^y wildest dreams, I knew myself to be far, infinitely far, t ;.; , >ou, utterly unworthy of your love, Elizabeth." " Nc. .0," she murmured, " you must not say that." "ijut I do say it, and I mean it. I only ask to be forgiven for that wi' ■ .- -eam — it lasted but for a moment, and tliere was nothing .:. .t titat could have ofTended even you, I think ; nothing but the love itself. And I believe in a man's right to love the woman who is the best, the most beautiful, the noblest on earth for him, even if she were the Queen herself 1 If you think that I hoped where I ought to have despaired, forgive me ; but don't say you forgive me for merely loving you ; I had the right to do that." She altered her attitude as he spoke. Her hands were now before her face, and he saw that the tears were trickling between her fingers. All the generosity of the man's nature was stirred at the sight. ** I am very sorry that I have distressed you," he saic?. " I am sorry that I spoke so roughly— so hastily— at first. Trust me when I say that I will not offend in the same way again." She lifted her iace a little, and tried to wipe away her tears. '* I am not ofieuded, Mr. Stretton," she said. " You inistake me>-I am only sorry— deeply sorry— that I— if I— have misled you in any way," TUB WISHING WELL. 103 •'Oh, you did not mislead me, Miss Murray," replied Brian, gently ; " it was my own folly that was to blame. But since I bave spoken, may I say something more? I should like, if pc^ssible, to justify myself a little in your eyes." She bowed her head. "Will you not sit down?" she said, softly. " Say what you like ; or, at least, what you think best." lie did not sit down exactly, but he came back to the stone on which he had been sitting at her feet, and dropped on one knee upon it. *'Let me speak to you in this way, as a culprit should speak," he said, with a faint smile which had in it a gleam of some slightly ironical feeling, " and then you can pardon or condemn me as you choose." "If you feel like a culprit you condemn yourself," said Eliza* beth, lifting her eyes to his. " I do not feel like a culprit. Miss Murray. I have, as I said before, a perfect right to love you if I choose " Elizal)eth*s eyes fell, and the colour stole into her cheeks—" I would maintain that rie^ht against all the world. But I want you to be merciful : I want you to listen for a little while " " " Not to anything that I ought not to hear, Mr. Stretton." "No : to nothing that would wrong Mr. Percival Heron even by a thought. Only — it is a selfish wish of mine ; but I have been misjudged. a good deal in my life, and I do not want you to mis- judge me— I should like you to understand how it was that I dared— yes, I dared— to love you. May I speak ?" " I don't know whether I ought to listen. I think I ought to go," said Elizabeth, with an irrepressible little sob. " No, do not speak— I cannot bear it." " But in justice to me you ought to listen," said Brian, gently, and yet firmly. He laid one bund upon her's, and prevented her from rising. "A few words only," he said, in pleading tones. "Forgive me if I say I must go on. Forgive me if I say you must listen. It is for the last— and the only— time." With a great sigh she sank back upon the stone seat from which she had tried to rise. Brian still held her hand. She did not draw it away. The lines of her face were all soft and relaxed ; her usual clearness of purpose had deserted her. She did not know what to do. " If you had loved me, Elizabeth— let me call you Elizabeth just for onco ; I will not ask to do it again— or it you bad evGo. been free— I would have told you my whole history from bugiAnixus to end, and let you judge how far I was justified in taking another name iS>nd living the life I do. But I won't lay that I V'M :■] "'€ 101 TTNDER FAL8B PRETENCES. burden upon you now. It would not be fair. I think that you would have agreed with me— but it is not worth while to loll you now." ** I am sure that you would not have acted as you did without a good and honourable motive/' said Elizabeth, trembling, though she did not know why. "I acted more on impulse than on principle, I am afraid," he answered. " I was in great trouble, and it seemed easier— but I saw no reason afterwards to change my decision. Elizabeth, my friends think me dead, and I want them to think so still. I had been accused of a crime which I did not commit— not publicly accused, but accused in my own home by one— one who ought to have known me better; and I had inadvertently— by pure acci- dent, remember— brought great misery and sorrow upon my houue. In all Ibis- 1 could swear it to you, Elizabeth— I was not to blame. Can you believe my word t" "lean, I do." " God bless you for saying so, my love— the one love of my life- Elizabeth 1 Forgive me : I will not say it again. To add to my troubles, then, I found reason to believe that I had no right to the r.aaie I bore, that'I was of a diiTerent family, a different race, uli ogether ; that it would simplify the disposal of certain property if I were dead ; and so— I died I disappeared. I can never again take the name that once was mine." He said all this, but no suspicion of the truth crossed Elizabeth's mind. That she was the person who bad benefited by his dis- appearance was as far from her thoughts as from Brian's at that moment. That he was the Brian Luttrell of whom she had so often heard, whose death in the Alps had seemed so certain that even the law courts had been satisfied that she might right- fully inherit his possessions, that he— John Stretton, the boys' tutor— could be this dead cousin of her's, was too incredible a thought ever to occur to her. She felt nothing but sorrow for his past troubles, and a conviction that he was perfectly in the right. " But you are deceiving your friends," she said. " For their good, as I firmly believe," answered Brian, sorrow- fully. " If I went back to them, I should cause a great deal o( confusion and distress : I should make my so-called heirs im- cocitortable and unhappy , and, as far as I can see, I should have uu right to the property that they would not consent to retain if I were living " " Have they a right to it then 9" *' Tes-^if I am dead, and if no one else appefare to claim it. It is a; complicated business, and one that would take some time to explain. Let it suffice that I vras utterly hopeless, utterly tBK WISHING W£LL. 106 miserable, when I cast away what had always seemed to ine to be ray bii-tluight ; that I was then for many months very ill ; and that, when you met me in Italy, I was Just winning my way back to health, and repose of mind and body. And then— do you remember how you looked and spoke to me ? Of course, you do not know. You were Rood, and sweet, and kind : you stretched out your hand to aid a fallen man, for I was poorer and more friendless than you knew ; and from the moment when you said you trusted me, as we sat together on the bench upon the cliff* my whole soul went out to you, Elizabeth, and I loved you as I never had loved before— as I never shall love again." "In time," she murmured, "you will learn to care for someone else . in time you will forget me." " Forget you ? I can never forget you, Elizabeth. Your trust iu me— an unknown, friendless man your goodness to me, your sweet pity for me, will never be forgotten. Can you Avonder if I loved you, and if I thought that my love must surely have betrayed itself? I fancied tliat you guessed it " "No, no," she said, hurriedly. "I did not guess. I d'''. not think. I only knew that you were a kind friend to me, and taught me and helped me in many ways. I have been often very lonely— I never had a friend." "Is Percival Heron, then, no friend to you!" he asked, with something of indignant sternness in his voice. " Ah, yes, he is a friend ; but not— not— I cannot tell you what be is " "But you love himt" cried Brian, the sternness changing to anguish, as the doubt first presented itself to him. " Elizabeth, do not tell me that you have promised yourself to a man that you do not love ! I may be miserable ; but do not let me think that you will be miserable, too." He caught both her hands in his and looked her steadily in the face. " I have heard them say that you never told a lie in all your life," he went on. "Speak the truth still, Elizabeth, and tell me whether you love Percival Heron as a woman should lore a man? Tell me the truth." She shrank a little at first, and tried to take her hands away. But when she found that Brian's clasp was firm, she drew herself up and looked him in the face with eyes that were full of an unutterable sadness, but also of a resolution which nothing on earth could shake. "You have no right to ask me the question," she said; "and I have no right to give you any answer." But something in her troubled face told him what that answei would have been. |i '■nS'-: t ^ CNDUR FALSE PRBT£NC£il. CHAPTER XXIV. "good-bye." **I SEE," he said, dropping her hands and turning away with a heavy nigh. *' I was too late." " Don't misunderstand me," said Elizabetli, with an efibrt. " I B'mll be very happy. I owe a debt to my uncle and my cousins which scarcely anything can repay." '' Give them anything but yourself" he said, gravely. " It is not righ^— I do not speak for myself now, but for you— it is not right to marry a man whom you do not love." "But I did not say that I do not love him," she cried, trying to shield herself behind this barrier of silence. "I said only that you had no right to ask the question." Brian looked at her and paused. '^ Tem,' he answered, slowly. His face was paler than usual, and his eyes, after one hasty glance at her, fell to the ground. "It was a long time ago. I do not know them now." ^ " You seid you had been here before. You " " Miss IsTurray, don't question me as to how I knew them. You cannot guess what a painful subject it is to me. I would rather not dis'^uss it." " But, Mr. Stretton^ — " " Let me tell you something else," he said, hastily, as if anxious to change the subject. " Let me ask you— as you are the arbitress of my destiny, my employer, I may call you —when you will let go. Could the boys do without me at once, do you think ■/' i; A'ould soon find another tutor." Mr. Stretton ! Why should you go? Do "ou mean to leave r - J" exclaimed Elizabeth. " Oh, surely it is ^it necessary to do H.9X r '* Do you think it would be so easy for me, then, to take money from your hands after what has passed between us ?" " Money is a small thing," said she. " Money I yes ; but there are other things in the world beside money. And it is better that I should go away from you now. It it not for my peace to see you every day, and know that you " aOOD-BTE." 190 lie to marry Percival Heron. Cannot you guess what pain it is o me?" '• But the children : you have no love for them, then. I thouQ;ht hat you did love our little Jack— and they are so fond of you." " Don't try to keep me," he said, hoarsely. " It is hard enough o say good-bye without having to refuse you anything. The one hlng now for which I could almost thank God is that you never ovfcd mo, Elizabeth." She shivered, and drew a long, sobbing breath. Her face looked ale and cold : her voice did not sound like itself as she mur- nured — "Why?" "Because— no, I can't tell you why. Think for yourself of a reason. It is not that I love you less ; and yet— yet— not for the world would I marry you now ^'lat I know what I know." "You would not marry me because I am rich : tnat is it, is it not ?" she asked him. " I knew that some men were proud ; but I did not think that you woul I be so proud." " What does it signify ? Tner« is no chance of your marrying me; you are going to marry another man— whom you do not love ; we may scarcely ever see each other again after to-day. It i9 better so." "If I were free," she said, slowly, "and if— if— I loved you, you would be doing wrong to leave me because— only because — I was a little richer than you. I do not think that that is your only motive. It is since you heard that I was one of the Luttrell- Murrays that you have spoken in this way." "What if it were? The fact remains," he said, gloomily. " You do not care for me : and I— I would give my very soul for you, Elizabeth. I had better go. Think of me kindly when I am away— that is all. I see Miss Heron and the boys on the brow of the hill signalling to us. Will you excuse me if I say good-bye to you now, and walk back towards Strathleckie ?" " Must it be now?" she said, scarcely knowing what the words implied. She turned her face towards him with a look that he never forgot— a look of inexpressible regret, of yearning sweet- ness, of something only too like the lo\ '^ that he thought he had failed to win. It caused him to turn back and to lean over her with a half -whispered question — •"Would it have been possible, Elizabeth, it we had met earlier, do you think that you ever could have loved mel" " Do you think you ought to ask me ?" "Ah, givt me one word of com tort before I go. Remember that T go for ever. It will do no one any harm. Could you have loved me, Elizabeth ?" \U M '.■ ■m t ■■ "J 281 YNDER FAL8K PRETENCES. " I think I could," she murmured in so low a tone that he could hardly hear the wo* ds. He seized her hands and pressed them closely in his own ; he could do no more, for the Herons were very near. "Good-bye, my love, my own darling I" were the last words she heard. They rang in her ears as if they had been as loud as a trumpet-call ; she could hardly believe that they had not re-echoed far and wide across the moor. She felt giddy and sick. The last sight of his face was lost in a strange, momen* tary darkness. When she saw clearly again he was walking away from her with long, hasty strides, and her cousins were close at hand. She watched him eagerly, but he did not turn round. She knew instinctively that he had resolved that she should never see his face again. "What is the matter, Betty?" cried one of the children. "You look so white! And whei*e is Mr. Stretton going? Mr. Stretton ! Wait for us !" "Don't call Mr. Stretton, said Elizabeth, collecting her forces, and speaking as nearly as possible in her ordinary tone. " He wants to get back to Stivathleckie as quickly as possible. 1 am rather tired and am resting." " You are not usually tired with so short a walk," said Kitty, glancing sharply at her cousin's pallid cheeks. "Are you not well?" " Yes, I am quite well," Elizabeth answered. " But I am very, very tired." And then she rose and made her way back to the loch-side, where Mr. and Mrs. Heron were still reposing. But her steps lagged, and her face did not recover its usual colour as she went home, for, as she had said, she was tired— strangely and unnaturally tired— and it was with a feeling of relief that she locked herself into her own room at Strathlecklfe, and gave way to the gathering tears which she had hitherto striven to restrain. She would willingly have stayed away from the diiiner-table, but she was afraid of e; citing remark. Her pale face anrl bcctvy eyelids excited remark as much as her abbence would have done ; but she did not think of that. Mr. Stretton, who uaua/ly dined with them, sent an excuse to M»*s. Heron. He had a headache, and preferred to remair in his own room. "It must have been the sun," said Mrs. Heron. "Elizabeth has a headache, too. Have you a headache, Kitty ? " " Not at all, thank you," paid Kitty. Ther^ was something peculiar in bfjr tone, thought Elizabeth. Or v^as it only that her conscience was guilty, and t'aat she was becoming apt to suspect hidden meanings in words and tones that used to be harmless and innocent enough f The idea was "good-byb." 201 a degrading one to her mind. She hated the notion of having anything to conceal— an> inning, at least, beyond what was lawful and right. Her inheritance, her engagement to Fercival, had been to some extent kept secret; but not, as she now said passionately to herself, not because she was asliamed of them. Now, indeed, she was ashamed of her secret, and there was nothing on earth from which she shrank so much as the ihottght of its being discovered. She went to bed early, but she could not sleep. The words that Brian had said to her,, the answers that she had made to him, were rehearsed one after tlio other, turned over in her mind, commented on, and repeated again and again all through the night. She hardly knew the meaning of her own excite- ment of feeling, nor of the intense desire that possessed her to see him again and listen ouce more to his voice. She only knew that her brain was in a turmoil and that her heart seemed to be on Are. Sleep ! She could not th'nk of sleep. His face was before her, his voice was sounding in her ears, until the cock crew and the morning sunliglit flooded all the room. And then for a little while, indeed, she slept, and dreamt of him. She awoke late and unrefreshed. She dressed leisurely, wondering somewhat at the vehemence of last night's en^otion, but not mistress enough of herself to understand its danger. In that last moment of her interview with Brian she had given way far more than he knew. If he had understood and taken advantage of that moment of weakness, she would not I ave been able to refuse him anything. At a word she would have given up all for him— friends, home, riches, even her promise to Percival — and gone forth into the world with the man sh" loved, happier in her poverty than she had ever been in wealth. " Ask me no more, for at a touch I yield," was the silent cry of her inmost soul. But Brian had not understood. He did not dream that with Elizabeth, as with most women, the very weakest time is that which immediately follows the moment of greatest apparent strength. She had refused to listen ( o him at all— and after that refusal she was not strong, but weak in heart and will as a wearied child. Realising this, Elizabeth felt a sensation of relief and safety. She had escaped a great gulf— and. yet— and yet— she had not reached that point of reasonableness and moderation at which she could be exactly glad that she had escaped. She made her way downstairs, and reached the dining-room to find that everyone but herself had breakfasted and gone out. She was too feverish to do more than swallow a cup of coffee and a little toast, and she had scarcely concluded her scanty meal i\ ■ i It, 202 UNDER FALSE PRETENCES. before Mr. Heron entered the room with a disconcerted ex pression upon his face. "Do you know the reason of this freak of Stretton's, Elizabeth?' he asked almost immediately. " What do you mean, Uncle Alfred T " I mean— has he taken a dislike to Slrathlcckie, or has anybody offended him? I can't understand it. Just when we were settling down so nicely, and found him such an excellent tutor for the boys ! To run away after this fashion 1 It is too bad 1" "Does Mr. Stretton think of leaving Strathleckie ?" said Elizabeth, with her eyes bent steadfastly upon the table- cloth. "Think of leaving! My dear Lizzie, he has left! Gone: went this morning before any of us were down. Spoke to me last night about it ; I tried to dissuade him, but his mind was quite made up." " What^eason did he give?" " Well, he would not tell me the exact reason. I tried to find out, but he was as close as— as— wax," said Mr. Heron, trying to find a suitable simile. "He said he was much obliged to us all for our kindness to him ; had no fault to find with anything or anybody ; liked the place ; but, all the same, he wanted to go, and go he must. I ofTered him double the salary— at least, I hinted as much : I knew you would not object, Lizzie dear, but it was no use. Partly family affairs ; partly private reasons : that was all I could get out of him." Mr. Heron's long speech left Elizabeth the time to consider what to say. " It does not matter very much," she answered at length, indifferently: "wo can find someone who will teach the boys quite as well, I havfe no doubt. "Do you think so?" asked Mr. Heron. "Well, perhaps so. 3ut, you see, it is not always easy to get a tutor at this time of the year, Elizabeth ; and, besides, we shall not find one, jei-haps, 60 ready to read Italian with you, as Mr. Stretton •used to do " Oh, those Italian readings! How well she remembered them! How the interest which Mr. Stretton had fiom the first in- spired in her had grown and strengthened in the hours that I hey spent together, with heads bent over the same page, and hearts throbbing in unison over the lines that spoke of Dante's Beatrice, or Petrarca's Laura ! She shuddered at the remem- brance, nc V fraught to her with keenest pain. " I shall not want to read Italian again," she said, rising from th« table. " We had better advertise for a tutor, Uncle Alfred, ▲ OOYEIfANT. / m: unless you think the boys might run wild for a little while, or unless Percival can find us one." "Shall you be writing to Percival to-day, my dear!" ••I don't know." "Because you might mention that Mr. Stretton has left us. I am afraid that Percival will be glad," said Mr. Heron, with liltle laugh ; "he had an unaccountable dislike to poor Stretton." "Yes, Percival will be glad," said Elizabeth, turning mechani- cally to leave the room. At the door she paused. " Mr. Stretton left an address, I suppose?" " No, he did not. He said ho would write to me when his plans Avere settled. And I'm sorry to say he would not take a cheque. I pressed it upon him, and finally left it on the table for him— where I found it again this morning. He said that he had no right to it, leaving as suddenly as he did— some crochet of that kind. I should tiiink that Stretton could be very Quixotic if he chose." "When he writes," said Elizabeth, "you will send him thu cheque, will you not. Uncle Alfred ? I do not think that hu is very well off; and it seems a pity tiiat he should be in want of money for the sake of— of— a scruple." She did not wait for a reply, but closed the door behind her, and stood for a few moments in the hall, silently wondering what to do and where to go. Finally she put on her garden hat and went out into the grounds. She felt that she must be alone. A sort of numbness came over her. He had gone, without a word, without making any effort to see her again. Hie "Good-bye" had been spoken in solemn earnest. He had been stronger than Elizabeth ; although in ordinary matters it might bo thought that her nature was the stronger of the two. There was nothing, therefore, for her to say or do ; she could not write to him, she could not call him back. If she could have done so she would. She had never known be ore what it was to hunger for the sight of a beloved face, to think of the words that she might have said, and long to say them. She did not as yet know by what name to call her misery. Only, little by little she woke up to the fact that it was what people meant when they spoke of love. Then she began to understand her position. She had promised to marry Percival Heron, . but her heart was given to the penniless tutor who called himself John Stretton, CHAPTER XXV. ▲ COVENANT. ' BstiAN had no fixed notion of what he should do, but he though i it better to go to London, where he could more easily decide on \r < UK tl IW i I ■M^ V'T-' lit ,E?(j''- -.•f i SM tTxNUIR FALSE PRBTBIfOBS. his future movements. He was in no present difficulty, for the liberal salary which he had received from the Herons during the past few months was almost untouched, and although he had just now a morbid dislike to touching the money that liad come to him through Elizabeth's generosity, he had the sense to see that he must make use of it, and turn it to the best possible account. In the coui'se of his journey he bought a newspaper. His eyes fell almost immediately upon a paragraph which caused him some amazement. "Mysterious Case of Attemptkd Murder.— A young man of respectable appearance was discovered early this morning in a state of complete insensibility at the end of a passage leading out of Mill-street, Blackfriars. He was found to have received a severe wo»ind, presumably with a knife, in the left side, and had lost a considerable amount of blood, but, although weak, was still living. His watch and purse had not been abstracted, a fact which points to the conclusion either that the wound was inflicted by a companion in a drunken brawl, or that the thief was disturbed in his operations before the comple- tion of the work. The young man speaks a little English as well as Italian, but he has not yet been able to give a precise account of the assault committed upon him. It is thought that the police have a clue to the criminal. The name given in the gentleman's pocket-book is Vasari ; and he has been removed to Guy's Hospital, where he is reported to be doing well." •'Vasari 1 Dino Vasari! can it be he?" said Brian, throwing down his newspaper. " What brings him to London ?" Then it occurred to him that Father Cristoforo's long letter might have contained information concerning Dino's visit to London : possibly he had been asked to do the young Italian some service, which, of course, he had been unable to render as he had not read the letter. He felt doubly vexed at his own carelessness as he thought of this possibility, and resolved to go to the hospital and see whether the man who had been wounded was Dino Vasari or not. And then he forgot all about the news- paper paragraph, and lost himself in sad reflections concerning the unexpected end of his connection with the Herons. - Arrived in London, he found out a modest lodging, and began to arrange his plans for the future. A fit of restlessness seemed to have come upon him. He could not bear to think of staying any longer in England. He paid a visit next morning to an Emigration Agency Ofiice, asking whether the agents could direct him to the best way of obtaining suitable work in the Colonies. He did not care where he went or what he did ; hia ▲ OOTXNANT. 206 preference was for work in the open air, because he still at timob felt the effect of that brain-fever which had so nearly ended his existence at San Stefano ; but his physique was not exactly of the kind which was most suited to bush-clearing and sheep* farming. This he was told, and informed, moreover, that so large a number of clerks arrived yearly in Australia and America, that the market in that sort of labour was over-stocked, and that, if he was a clerk, he had a better chance in the Old World than in the New. " I am not a clerk ; I have lately been a tutor," said Brian. References t He could refer them to his late employer. A degree? Oxford or Cambridge ? And there the questions ceased to be answered satisfactorily. He could not tell them that he had been to Oxford, because he dared not refer them to the name under which he studied at Balliol. He hesitated, blundered a little— he certainly had nHver mastered the art of lying with easa and fluency— and created so unfavourable an impression in the mind of the emigration agent that that gentleman regarded him with suspicion from that moment, and apparently ceased to wish to aflbrd him any aid. "I am very sorry," he said, politely, "but I don't think that we have anything that would suit you. There is a college at Dunedin where they want a junior master, but there, a man with a good degree and — hum— unimpeachable antecedents '..ould be required. People out there are in want of men with a trade : not of clerks, nor of poor professional men." "Then I must go as a hodman or a breaker of stones," said Brian, " for I mean to go." "I don't think that that employment is one for which you are especially fitted, Mr. Smith," said the agent, with a slight smile. Brian had impatic .cly given the name of Smith in making his application, and the agent, who was a man of wide experience, did not believe that in was his own ; " but, of course, if you like to try it, you can look at these papers about 'assisted passages.'" " Thank you, that is not necessary," answered Brian, rather curtly. " A steerage passage to Australia does not cost a fortune. If I go out as a labouring man I think I can manage it. But I am obliged to you for your kindness in answering my questions." He had resumed his usual manner, which had been somewhat ruffled by the tone taken by the agent, and now asked one or two practical questions respecting the fares, the lines of steamers, and matters of that kind ; after which he bade the agent a courteous good-raorning and went upon his way. Vi. I &:, \\l f I: £00 VI7DER FAL8B PRKTKNOKS. He foresaw that the inevitable cloud hanging over his past story would prove a great obstacle to his obtaining employment in the way he desired. Any work requiring certificates or testl* monials was utterly out of the question for him in England. In Australia or New Zealand things might be different. He had no great wish to go to America— he had once spent a summer holiday in the Eastern States, and did not fancy that they would be agreeable places of residence for him in his present circum- stances, and he had no great desire to "go West;" besides, he bad a wish to put as great a distance as possible between himself and England. As he walked away from the emigration office he made up his mind to take the first vessel that sailed for Sydney. He had nothing to do. He wanted to divert his mind from thoughts of Elizabeth. It flashed across his minU that he would go to the hospital and inquire after the man who had been stabbed, and who called himself Vasari. He made his request to see the patient, and was admitted with such readiness that he suspected tiie case to be a dangerous one. And, indeed, the house-surgeon acknowledged this to be so. The stab, he said, had gone wonderfully near the vital parts ; a hair's- breadth deviation to the right or left, and Vasari would have been a dead man. It was still uncertain whether he would recover, and all agitation must be avoided, as he was not allowed either to move or speak. " I am not sure whether he is the young man I used to know or not," said Brian, doubtfully. " Vasari— was there a Christian name given as well?" " Yes : Bernardino, and in another place simply Dino. Was that the name of your friend V " Yes, it was. If I saw him T should be sure. I don't suppose that my appearance would agitate him," said Brian, little sus- pecting the deep interest and importance which would attach to his visit in Dino's mind. *• Come, then." And the surgeon led the way to the bed, hidden by a screen from the rest of the ward, where Dino lay. Brian passed with the nurse inside the screen, and looked pity- ingly at the patient. " Yes," he said, in a low tone, ** it is the man I know." He thought that Dino was unconscious, but at the sound of his voice— low though it was— the patient opened his eyes, and fixed them upon Brian's face. Brian had said that his appearance would produce no agitation, but he was mistaken. A sudden change passed over that pale countenance. Dino's great dark eyes seemed to grow larger than ever ; his face assumed a still ▲ OOVBNAKt. iM more deathly tinge ; the look of mingled anguish and horror was unmistakable. He tried to spe&k, he tried to rise in his bed, but the effort was too great, -and he sank back insensible. The indignant nurse hustled Brian away, and would not allow him to return ; he ought to iiave known, she said, that the sight of him would excite the patient. Brian had not known, and was grieved to think that his visit had been unacceptable. But that did not prevent him from writing an account of the state in which he had found Dino Vasari to his friend. Padre Cristo- foro ; nor from callirg at the hospital every day to inquire after the state of his Italian friend. He was glad to hear at last that Dino was out of danger; then, that he was grow ig a little stronger; and then that he had expressed a desire to see the English gentleman when he called again. By this time he had, to some extent, changed his plans. Neither Australia nor New Zealand would be his destination. He had taken his passage in a vessel bound for Pernambuco, and a very short time remained to him in England. He was glad to think that he should see Dino before he went. He found the young man greatly altered : his eyes gleamed in orbits of purple shadow : his face was white and wasted. But the greatest change of all lay in this— that there was no smile upon his lips, no pleasure in his eyes, when he saw Brian draw near his bed. " Dino !" said Brian, holding out his hand. " How did you come here, amico mio?" And then he noticed the absence of Any welcoming word or gesture on Dino's part. The large dark eyes were bene upon him questioningly, and yet with a proud reserve in their shadowy depths. And the blue-veined hands locked themselves together upon the coverlet instead of returning Brian's friendly grasp. " Why have you come ?" said Dino, in a loud whisper. " What do you want?" ** I want nothing save to ask how' you are and to see you again," replied Brian, after a pause of astonishment. " If you want to alter your decision it is not yet too late. I have taken no stepa towards the claiming of my rights." " His mind must be wandering," thought Brian to himself. He added aloud in a soothing tone, " I have made no decision about anything, Dino. Can I do anything for you ? " Dino looked at him long and meditatively. Brian's face ex- pressed some surprise, but perfect tranquility of mind. He had seated himself at Dino's bed-side, and was leaning his chin upon his hand and his elbow upon his crossed knees. " Why did you make Hugo Luttrell your messenger? Why 1;- . liii t I M ijij H t i' m 208 UNDER FALSE PRETENCES. not come to meet me yourself as Padre Cristoforo begged you todo?" Brian shook his head. "I don't think you had better talk, Dino," he said. "You are feveiisli, surely. I will come and see you again tomorrow." "No, no: answer my question first," said Dino, a slight flush rising to his thin cheeks. " Why could you not come your- self?" " When ?" "When! You know." '* Upon my honour, Dino, I don't know what you mean." " You— you— had a letter 'rom Padre Cristoforo— about me? said Dino, stammering with eagerness. Brian looked guilty. " I was a great fool, Dino," he said, peni- tently. "I had a lette** from him, and I managed to lose it before I had read more than the first sheet, in which there was nothing about you. I suppose he told me in that letter why you came to London, and asked me to meet you or something; and I wish T had met you, if it would have prevented this ui' fortunate accident of yours, or whatever it was. My own carr'essness is always to blame," said Brian, with a heavy sigh, "and I don't wonder that you look coldly upon me, Dino, when I seem to have done you such an unfriendly turn. But I don't think I need say that I never meant to do it." *' How did you know that I was here ? " asked Dino, with breathless interest. " I saw in the papers an account of your being found insensible from a wound in your side. The name Vasari was mentioned, and I came to see if it could possibly be you." Dino was silent for a few minutes. Then his face lighted up his pale lips parted with a smile. "So you never read Father Cristoforo's letter?" he said. "And you sent me no message of reply r "Certainly not. How could I, when I did not know that you were in England?" Dino held out his hands. "I misjudged you," he said, simplj', "Will you forgive me and take my hand again T Brian clasped his hand. "You know there's nothing to for- give," he said, with a smile. " But I am glad you don't think I neglected you on purpose, Dino. I had not forgotten those pleasant days at San Stefano." Dino smiled, too, but did not seem inclined to speak again. The nurse came to say that the interview had lasted long enough, and Brian took his leave, promising to come on the morrow, and struck with the look of perfect peace and quiet upon the placid A COVBNANt. face as it lay amongst the white pillowrs, almost as white as they. He had only a couple of days left before he was to start for Pernambuco, where he had heard of work that was likely to suit him. He had made his arrangements, taken his passage in the steerage : he had nothing to do now but to write a farewell letter to Mr. Heron, telling him whither he was bound, and another— should he write that other or should he not ?— to Elizabeth. He felt it hard to go without saying one last farewell to her. The discovery that she was the heiress of his property had finally decided him to leave England. He dared not risk the chance of being recognised and identified, if such recognition and identi* fication would lead to her poverty. For even if, by a deed of gift in his supposed name of Brian Luttrell, he devised his wealth to her, he knew that she would never consent to take it if he were still alive. The doubt thrown on his birth and parentage would not be conclusive enough in her mind to justify her in despoiling him of what all the judges in the land would have said was his birthright. But then Brian did not know that Vincenza Vasarl had been found. The existance of another claimant to the Luttrell estate never troubled him in the least. He wronged nobody, he thought, by allowing Elizabeth Murray to suppose that Brian Luttrell was dead. He wrote a few lines to Mr. Heron, thanking him for his kind* ness, and informing him that he was leaving England for South America ; and then he proceeded to the more difficult task of writing to Elizabeth. He destroyed many sheets of paper, and spent a great deal of time in the attempt, although the letter, as it stood at last, was a very simpln affair, scarcelv worthy of the pains that had been bestowed upon it. " Dear Miss Murray," he wrote, " when you receive this note I shall have left England, but I cannot go without one word of farewell. You will never know how much you did for me in those early days of our acquaintance in Italy; how much hope you gave mu back, how much interest in life you inspired in me ; but for all that you did I thank you. Is it too much to ask you to remember me sometimes ? I shall remember you until the hour of my death. Forgive me if I have said too much. God bless you, Elizabeth ! Let me write that name once, for I shall never write to you nor see your face again." He put no signature. He could not bear to use a false name when he wrote to her ; and he was sure that she would know from whom the letter came. He went out and dropped it with his own hands into a letter- box ; then he came back to his dreary lodgings, never expecting :.:l f ■ I' m iio ttNllRtt rAt.NIC ntRTRNrKl, lo Hiut (Iton* nnvHititM of ittloroMi, lliil lio rniiiitl noiiiitlliliig ttmt. inlrroN(< opporl unity of ii<4 I ho hiiiulN of Ihhno^ iind iiiurv!-., «|ooh not >vanl to Hokiiowloilgo that lio nuIVoi'n imiIii. " Diim," ho Nal<( to liimHolf, lliiKoiinKly- "Diiitil it Ih Iim wIio Im lU'iaii l.iiitioll. Ihon, aflorall. Ami what am If Ami, oil, my poor ICIlK.iluMh t lint mIio will only hkioI Iho Ionm of llioinotioy liooauNo t*\w will no longor ho ahio to liolp otiior pi>opli<. Tiio llonniH will NUlVor )u«>r«« than nIio. Ami i'oiclvai lloroii I tlow will it AlVoot hinif I think ho will ho ploumMi. Yoh, I think iio is disintofONtod oiion^h to bo (horouKhly ploaii t timt nIio In poor. I HhonUi b(* ploaNod, in IUh oaKo. " Thoro id \M liouht ahoni it now, I Huppono," Ito Mai«l, hoKh'iiinK to pnoi> np ami down (ho liltio room, with rIow, unovon Nti^pa and hont head. "I am not a iinttrotl. 1 nin a VaNari. My mothor'H namo wan VincHMiiia VAMari— a woman wlio liod «nd oh«Atod for tlio sako of hor child. And 1 wan I lu^ child I Oood (*ot I liAvo no riglU (o nay 8o; l( waa all done for ino -for me— who novor know a molhor'n lovo. t)h, mo(hor, mother, how much happier your son would have huvii if you had reared him in the place where he was lH)rn, amungMl (lie vines and olive- yar«.t. of his native land. "And 1 must see DIno to-morrow. So he Uuowh the whole Atury. 1 understand now why he thou>;ht ill of ute for not coming to uu'ct him, poor fellow I 1 must go early to-morrow." lie went, hut as aeon a.s he reaclied Uino'ii bed-side he found (hat he knew not what to say, Dino looked up at him with eyed full of grave, wistful tilTection, and suddenly smiled, as if some- thing uuwontedly pleasant had t^iawncd upon his mind. " Ah," he said, *' at last— you know." " Ye^ I know," said Brian. •* And you are «orry f I am sorry, too." A t'OVKr^ANT. mt " No, Niilil llrkii, (IikIImk It mllMir tliniciill In frn*i<« hliiHfir nl tliiit iiiMiiifiii; " I iiMi iMtl noiiy (linl y'>*i im<* IIm< man wlio will lif^nr (li<^ niiiiio of LuIIi-kII, lliiil. I liavn wroMKly bnnio ho Ioii«, f Mii|ip^ you to provtt It, mill to kIvo up my tiniMi> iiiul pjiii-i* |,o yon 11 Junllro riM|iili'ionr wiiy, Ut^tii\mf Iho olil Mrliiii l.in know ImiIi'ikI." " Hut ir yon wiM'n In yoiii* olil ponltJon, i-onhl yon nI III pardon nnt mill hi« fi-K'nilly wIMi mis ovimi If I rlnlnn-*! my i\nUiMt" " I hopi* HO," Miilil llrlun. " I hopo Mial I mIioiiIiI not, hit no nn KPniM'iMiN HN to look upon yon nn an iniiony hi*rauN«^ yon wIhIm'iI to tuko your own plan^ lumtunnl yonrown klnilii"!. Yon on^lil I'll! hor to took npon nn^ tiN yonr noMiny, hiM-anai^ I have o('i'Upli*il your plan* mo Iook*" " Yon Mii> K"<"l -you im of yon mo ofluii I" Ilif Npoko ai''e holidays now. Mr. Stretton has gone away. He went away a fo. iniu;ht ago, or nearly three weeks now." Percival looked suddenly at Kitty, who coloured vividly, " Why did he go?" he asked. "I'm sure I can't tell you," said Mr. Heron, almost peevishly. "Family aOairs, he said. And i ow he has gone to South America. I don't understand it at all." Neither did Percival. " Where is Eliza'^eth ?" said Mr. Keron, looking round the room as if in search of iier. " She can't know that Percival has come ; go and tell her, one of you boys." she! able I <( (( r shovJ littlel only that tired I <« 1^ She ELIZABETH'S CONFESSION. 216 iper. rent Isbly. louth room bme ; "No, never mind," said Percival, quickly ; but it was too late,, (he boy was ^one. There was a little silence. Percival sat at one side of the whitely-draped table, with a luxurious breakfast before him and a threat bowl of autumn flowers. The sunshine stx'eamed in bri^-ihtly through the broad, low windows ; the pleasant room was fragrant with the scent of the burning wood upon the fire; the dogs wandered in and out, and stretched themselves com- fortal)ly upon the polished oak floor. Kitty sat in a cushioned window-seat and looked anxious;' Mr. Heron stood by the fire- place and moved one of the burning logs in the grate with his foot. A sort of constraint had fallen over the little party, though nobody quite knew why ; audit was not dispeiled, even when Harry's footsteps were heard upon the stairs, and he threw open the door for Elizabeth. Percival threw down his serviette and started up to meet her. And then he knew why his father and sister looked uncomfort- able. Elizabeth was changed ; it was plain enough that Elizabeth must be ill. She was thinner than he had ever seen her, and her face had grown pale. But the fixed gravity and mournfulness of her expressioii struck Jiim even more than the sharpened contour of her features or the dark lines beneath lier eyes. She looked as if she sufl'ered : as if she was suflering still. "You are ill 1" he said, abruptly, holding her by the hand and looking down into her face. " That's what I've been saying all along I" muttered Mr. Heron. "1 knew he woiild be shocked by her looks. You should have prepared him, Kitty." " I have ii^ad neuralgia, that is all," said Elizabeth, quietly. '* Slrathleckie does not suit you ; you ought to go away," remarked Percival, devouring her witli his eyes. " Wliat have you been doing to yourself?" "Nothing: ( am perfectly well; except for this neuralgia,*' she said, with a faint, vexed smile. "Did you have a comfort- able journey, and have you breakfasted?" " Yes, thank you." " Then you will come out with me for a little stroll ? I want to show you the grounds ; and the others can spare you to me for a little while," she went on, with perfect ease and fluency. The only change in her manner was its unusual gravity, and the fact that she did not seem able to meet Percival's eye. "Are you too tired ?" " Not at all." And luey left the room together. Sh« took him down the hill on which the house stood, by a '!•; 4 >'i li^) 216 VNDBR FALSE PltKTENCES. narrow, winding path, to the side of a picturesque stream in the valley below. He had seen the place before, but he followed her without a word until they reached a wooden seat close to the water's edge, with its back fixed to the steep bank behind it. The rowan trees, with their clusters of scarlet berries, hung over it, and great clumps of ferns stood on either hand. It was an absolutely lonely place, and Percival knew instinctively that Elizabeth had brought him to it because she could here speak without fear of interruption. " It is a beautiful place, is it not?" she said, as b ? took his seat beside her. He did not answer. He rather disdained the trivial question. He was silent for a feiv minutes, and then said briefly :— " Tell me why you wanted me." " I have been unhappy," a'ae said, simple. •• That is easy to be seen.' "Is it? Oh, I am sorry for that. But I have had neuralgia. I have, indeed. That makes me look pale and tired." Percival threw his arm over the back of the seat with an impatient motion, and looked at the river. " Nothing else?' he asked, drily. "It seems hardly worth while to send for me if that was all. The doctor would havedone better." "There is something else," said Elizabeth, in so quiet and even a voice as to sound almost indifferent. " Well, I supposed so. What is it ?" " You are making it very hard toi me to tell you, Percival," said she, with one of her old, straight glances. " What is it you know ? What is it you suspect ?" " Excuse me, Elizabeth, I have not said thet I know or suspect anything. Everybody seems a little uncomfortable, but that is nothing. What is the matter ?" As she did not answer, he turned and looked at her. Her face was pale, but there was a look of indomitable resolve about her which made him flinch from his purpose of maintaining a cold and reserved manner. A sudden fear i^^n through his heart lest Kitty's warning should be true ! " Elizabeth," he said, quickly and passionately, "forgive me for the way in which I have spoken. I am an ill-tempered brute. It is my anxiety for you that makes me seem so savage. I cannot bear to see you look as you do : it breaks my heart !" Her lip trembled at this. She would rather that he had pre- served his hard, sullen manner : it would have made it more easy for her to tell her story. She locked her hands closely together, and answered in low, hesitating tones : — "I am not worth your anxiety. I did not uean to be— untrue SLIZABETH8 COIfFESSZON. 217 3Ct is ice lei lest Ifoi It lOt |)re- L'Ud —to you, Percival. I suffered a great deal before I made up my mind that I had better tell you— everything." A tear fell down her pale cheek unheeded. Percival rose to his feet. " I don't think there is much to tell, is there ?" he said. " You mean that you wish to give me up, to throw me over ? Is that alH" His words were calm, but the tone of ironical bitterness in which they were uttered cut Elizabeth to the quick. She lifted her head proudly. " No," she said, " you are wrong. I wish nothing of the kind." He stood in an attitude of profound attention, waiting for her to explain. His face wore its old, rigid look : the upright line between his brows was very marked indeed. But he would not speak again. "Percival," she said— and her tone expressed great pain and profound self-abasement—" when I promised to marry you— so^ie day, you will remember that I never said I loved you. I thought that I should learn to love in time. And so I did— but not— not you." ** And who taught you the IcLson that I failed to impart?" asked Percival, with the sneer in his voice which she knew and dreaded. " Don't ask me," she said, painfully. " It is not fair to ask me that. I did not know until it was too late." " Until he — whoever he was— asked you to marry him, I sup- pose? Well, when is the ceremony to take place? Do you expect me to dance at the wedding ? Do you think I am going tamely to resign my rights ? My God, Elizabeth, is it you who can treat me in this way ? Are all women as false as you ?" He struck his foot fiercely against the ground, and walked away from her. When he came back he found her in the same position ; white as a statue, with her hands clasped together upon her knee, p/ad her eyes fixed upon the running water. *' Do you think that I am a stone," he said, violently, " that you t«ll me the story of your falseness so quietly, as if it were a tale that I should like to hear? Do you think that I feel nothing, or do you care so little what I feel? You had better have refused me outright at once than kept me dangling at your feet for a couple r2 years, only to throw me over at the last !" " I have not thrown you over," she said, raising her blue-grey eyes steadily to his agitated &tce. " I wanted to tell you ; that was all. If you like to marry me now, kUowlng the truth, you may do so." " What !" "I may hav« been false to you in heart," she said, the hot blood if i ■n. ■. i''J*l '■!H|ii 218 UMDBR FALSE PRETENOES. tinting her cheeks with carnation as she spoke, " but I will not break my word." "And what did your lover say to that?" he asked, roughly, as he stood before her. " Did he not say that you were as false to hira as you were to me ? Did he not say that he would come back .iKain and again, aud force you to be true, at least, to him? For that is what I should have done in his place." "Then," Elizabeth said, with a touch of antagonism in her tones, " he was nobler than you." "Oh, no doubt," said Percival, tossing aside his head. "No doubt he is a finer fallow in every way. Am I to have the pleasure of making his acquaintance?" His scorn, his intolerance, were rousing her spirit at last. She spoke firmly, with a new light in her eyes, a new self-possession in her manner. " You are unjust, Percival. I think that you do not understand what I mean to tell you. He accepted my decision, and I shall never see him again. I thought at first that I would not tell you, but let our engagement go on quietly ; and theu again I thought that it would be unfair to you not to tell you the whole truth. I leave it to you to say what we should do. I have no love to give you— but you knew that from the first. The difference now is that I— I love another,"- Her voice sank almost to a whisper as she uttered the last few words, and she covered her face with her hands. Percival's brow cleared a little ; the irony disappeared from his lips, the flash of scorn from his eye. He advanced to her side, and stood looking down at her for several minutes before he attempted any answer to her speech. "You mean to say." he began, in a softer tone, "that you rejected this man because you had given your promise to me?" "Yes." "You sent him away?" " Yes." " And he knew the reason ? Did he know that you loved him, Elizabeth?" The answer was given reluctantly, after a long pause. " I do not know. I am afraid— he did." Percival drew a short, impatient breath. " You must forgive me if I was violent just now, Elizabeth. This is very hard to bear." " I dare not ask your pardon," she murmured, with her face still between her hands. " Oh, my pardon ? That will do you little good," he said, contemptuously. " The question is— what io to be done ? I ILIZABETH S CONFESSION. 219 70X1 im, do live to ice suppose this man—this lover of yours— is within call, as it were, Elizabeth ? You could summon him with your little flnger ? If I released you from this engagement to me, you could whistle him back to you next day ?" " Oh, no," she said, looking up at him wonderingly. " He is pone away from England. I do not know where he is " " It is this man Stretton, then?" said Percival, quietly. A sudden rush of colour to her face assured him that he had guessed the truth. " I always suspected him," he muttered. " You had no need. He behaved as honourably as possibly. He did not know of my engagement to you." " Honourably? A penniless adventurer making love to one of the richest women in Scotland !" " You mistake, Percival. He did not know that I was rich." " A likely story !" " You insult him— and me, " said Elizabeth, in a very low tone. " If you have no pity, have some respect— for him— if you have none for me." And then she burst into an agony of tears, such as he had never seen her shed before. But he was pitiless still. The wound was very deep : his pain very sharp and keen. " Have you had any pity for me?" he said. " Why should I pity him? To my mind, he is the most enviable man on earth, because he has your love. Respect him, when he has stolen from me the thing that I value more than my life ! You do not know what you say." She still wept, and presently he sat down beside her and leaned his head on his hand, looking at her from out the shadow made by his bent fingers above his eyes. "Let me understand matters clearly," he said. "You sent him away, and he has gone to America, never to return. Is that it? And you will marry me, although you do not love me, because you have promised to do so, if I ask you? What do you expect me to say ?" She shook her head. She could not speak. "I am not generous," he went on deliberately. "You have known me long enough to be aware that I am a very selfish man. I will not give you up to Stretton. He is not the right husband for you. He is a man whom you picked up in the streets, without a character, without antecedents, with a history which he dares not tell. So much I gathered from my father. I say nothing about his behaviour in this case ; he may have acted well, or ho may have acted badly ; I have no opinion to give. But you shall ne^er be his wife." Elizabeth's tears were dried as if by magic. She sat erect, ,1:1 m m 'ii M 220 V17DER F'ALSE PRKYSNCDlt). listening with set lips and startled eyes to the fierce energy of his tones. " I accept your sacrifice," he said. " You will thank me in the end that I did so. No, I do not release you from your enf);age> nient, Elizabeth. You have said that you would keep your word, and I hold you to it." He drew her to him with his arm, and kissed her cheek with passionate determination. She shranlc away, but he would not let her go. *• No," he proceeded, "you are my promised wife, Elizabeth. I have no intention of giving you up for Stretton or anybody else. I love you more than ever now that I see how brave and honest you can be. We will have no more concealments. When we go back to the house we will tell all the world of our engagement. It was the secrecy that worked this mischief." She wrenched herself away from him with a look of mingled pain and anger. "Percival !" she cried, "do you want to make me hate you 1" " I v/ould rather have hate than indifTerence," he answered. " And whether you hate me or not, Elizabeth, you shall be my wife before the year is out. I shall not let you go." ^' CHAPTER XXVII. percival's own way. Percival had his way. He came back to the house looking stern and grim, but with a resolute determination to carry his point. In half-an-hour it was known throughout the whole household that Miss Murray was engaged to be married to young Mr. Heron, and that the marriage would probably take place before Christmas. Kitty cast a frightened glance at Elizabeth's face when the announcement was made, but gathered little from its expression. A sort of dull apathy had come over the girl— a reaction, perhaps, from the excitement of feeling through which she had lately passed. It gave her no pain when Percival insisted upon de- monstrations of aiTection which were very contrary to her former habits. She allowed him to hold her hand, to kiss her lips, to call her by endearinc names, in a way that would ordinarily have roused her indignation. She seemed incapable of resistance to his will. And this passivencss was so unusual with her that it alarmed and irritated Percival by turns. Anger rather than affection was the motive of his conduct. As he himself had said, he was rather a selfish man, and he would not willingiy sacrifice his own happiness unless h« was very tERCIVALS OWN WAt. 221 lole ing lace Ithe lion, ips, |tely de- Imer to lave ke to U it As }uld ?ery sure that hers depended upon the sacrifice. He was enraged witli tlie man who had won Elizabetli's love, and believed him to be a scheminp; adventurer. Neither patience nor tolerance belonged to Fercival's character; and although he loved Eliza* beth, he was bitterly indignant with her, and not indisposed to punish her for her faithlessness by forcing her to submit to caresses which she neither liked nor returned. If he had any magnanimity in him he deliberately put it on one side ; he knew that he was taking a revenge upon her for which she might never forgive him, which was neither delicate nor generous, but he told himsielf that he had been too much injured to show mercy. It was Elizabeth's own fault if he assumed the airs of a sultan with a favourite slave, instead of kneeling at her feet. So he argued with himself ; and yet a little grain of conscience made him feel from time to time that he was v/rong, and that he might live to repent what he was doing now. " We will be married before Christmas, Elizabeth," he said one day, when he had been at Strathleckie nearly a week. He spoke in a tone of cool Jnsistance. " As you think best," she answered, sadly. " Would you prefer a later date?" "Oh, no," said Elizabeth, smiling a little. *' It is all the same to me. " ' If 'twere done^ at all, 'twere well done quickly,' you know." " Do you mean that ?" •• Yes. " Then why delay it at all ? Why not next week— next month, at latest ? What is there to wait for ?" They were sitting in the little school-room, or study, as it was called, near the froat door— the very room in which Elizabeth had talked with Brian on the night of his arrival at Strathleckie. The remembrance of that conversation prompted her reply. "Oh, no," she said, in a tone of almost agonised entreaty. "Percival, have a little mercy. Not yet— not yet." His face hardened : his keen eyes fixed themselves relentlessly upon her white face. He was sitting upon the sofa : she stand- ing by the fireplace with her hands clasped tightly before her. For a minute he looked at her thus, and then he spoke. " You said just now that it was all the same to you. May I ask what you mean ?" " There is no need to ask me," she said, resolutely, although her pale lips quivered. " You know what I mean. I will marry you before Christmas, if you like; but not with such — such indecent haste as you propose. Not this month, nor next.** "In Decamber then?" 2^ t^SDCR rALSU PIt£T£NOfi«l. " Yes." "You promise? Even if this man —this tutor— should come back V " I suppose I have given you a right to doubt me, Percival," she said. "But I have never broken my word— never 1 From the first, I only promised to try to love you ; and, indeed, I tried." " Oh, of course, I know that I am not a lovable individual," said Percival, throwing himself back on the cushions with a savage scowl. She looked up quickly : there was a bitter word upon her tongue, but she refrained from uttering it. The struggle lasted for a moment only ; then she went over to him, and laid her hand softly upon his arm. " Percival, are you always going to be so hard upon uief she said. " I know you do not easily forgive, and I have wronged you. Can I do more than be sorry for my wrong-doing? I was wrong to object to your wishes. I will marry you when you like : you shall decide everything for me now !" His face had beeii gloomily averted, but he turned and looked at her as she »aid the last few words, and took both her hands in his. "I'm not quite such a brute as you think me, Elizabeth,'* he answered, with some emotion in his voice. "I don't want to make you do what you find painful." " That is nonsense," she saiJ. more decidedly than he had heard her speak for many days. " The whole matter is very painful to both of us at present. The only alleviation " " Well, what is the only alleviation ? Why do you hesitate f* She lifted her serious, clear eves to his face. "I hesitated," she said, "because I did not feel sure whether I had the right to speak of it as au al aviation. I meant — the only thing that makes life bearable at all is the trying to do right ; and, when one has failed in doing it, to get back to the right path as soon as possible, leaving the siu and misery behind." He still held her hands, and he looked down at the slender wrists (where the blue veins showed so much more distinctly than they used to do) with something like a sigh. "If one failure grieves you in this way, Elizabeth, what would you do if you had chosen a path from which you could not turn back, although you knew that it was wrong? There are many men and women whose lives are based upon what you would call, I suppose, wrong-doing." There was little of his usual sneering emphasis in the words. His face had fallen into an expression of trouble pnd sadness PEROIVAL 8 OWN WAY. 228 to -the do the laery ider ^ctly irhat )uld lere lyou krds. which it did not ofteu wear ; but tliere was so much less hard> nessiu its lines than there had been of late that Elizabeth felt that she might answer him freely and frankly. " I don't think there is any path of wrong-doing from which one might not turn back, Fercival. And it seems to me that the worst misery one could go through would be the continuing in any such path ; because the conBciousuess of wrong would spoil all the beauty of life and take the flavour out of every enjoyment. It would end, I think, by breaking one's heart altogether." " A true woman's view," said Percival, starting up and releasing her hands, "but not one that is practicable in the world of men. I suppose you think you know one man, at least, who would come up to your ideal in that respect ?" " I know several ; you amongst them," she replied. " I am sure you would not deliberately do a wicked, dishonourable action for the world." " You have more faith in me than I deserve," he said, walking restlessly up and down the room. " I am not so sure— but of one thing I am quite sure, Elizabeth," and he came up to her and put his hands on her shoulders, " I am quite sure that you are the best and truest woman that ever lived, and I beg your pardon if I seemed for one moment to doubt you. Will you grant it to me, darling?" For the first time since the beginning of the visit, she looked at him gratefully, and even affectionately. •' I have nothing to forgive you," she said. " If only I could forgive myself 1" And then she burst into tears, and Percival forgot his ill-humour and his sense of wrong in trying to sooth her into calmness again. This conversation made them both happier. Elizabeth lost her unnatural passiveness of demeanour, and looked more like her clear-headed, energetic self ; and Percival was less exacting and overbearing than he had been during the past week. He went back to London with a strong conviction that time would give him Elizabeth's heart as well as her hand ; and that she would learn to forget the unprincipled scoundrel— so Percival termed him— who had dared to aspire to her love. The Herons were to return to London in November, and the purchase of Elizabeth's trousseau was postponed until then. But other preparations were immediately begun : there was a great talk of "settlements" and "»ntail" in the house; and Mr. Colquhoun had some very long and serious interviews with his fair client. It need hardly be stated that Mr. Colqunoun greatly objected to Miss Murray's marriage with her cousin, M'l ^A UUBBR FALSE PRBTBN0K8. and applied to him (in strict privacy) not a few of tlie adjectives which Percival had bestowed upon the tutor. But the lawyer was driven to admit that Mr. Percival Heron, poor though he might be, showed a very disiutereHted spirit when consulted upon money matters, and that he stood Arm in his determination that Elizabeth's whole fortune should be settled upon herself. He declared also that be was not going to live upon his wife's money, and that he should continue to pursue his profession of Journalism and literature in general after his marriage; but at this assertion Mr. C!olquhoun shook his head. " It shows a very independent spirit in ye, Mr. Heron," he said, when Percival announced his resolve in a somewhat lordly manner ; " but I think that in six months' time after the marriage, ye'll Just agree with me that your determination was one that could not be entirely carried out. "I usually do carry out my determinations, Mr. Colquhouu,'* said Percival, hotly. " No doubt, no doubt. It's a determination that reflects credit upon ye, Mr. Heron. Ye'll observe that I'm not saying a word against your determination," replied Mr. Colquhoun, warily, but with emphasis. " It's highly creditable both to Miss Murray and to yourself." And although Percival felt himself insulted, he could not well say more. The continuation of his connection with the daily press was the proof which he intended to offer to the world of his disinterestedness in marrying Elizabeth Murray. He disliked the thought of her wealth, but he was of too robust a nature, in spite of his sensitiveness on many points, to refuse to marry a woman simply because she was richer than himself. In fact, that is a piece of Quixotism not often practised, and though Percival would perhaps have been capable of refusing to make an offer of marriage to Elizabeth after she had come into her fortune, he was not disposed to withdraw that offer because it had turned out a more advantageous one for himself than he bad expected. It is only fair to say that he did not hold Elizabeth to her word on account of her wealth : he never once thought of it in that intsrvlew with her on the river^bank. Selfish as he might be in some things, he was liberal and generous to a fault when money was in the question. It was Mr. Colquhoun who told Mrs. LuttrcU of Miss Murray's engagemant. He was amazed at the locdc of anger and die* appointment that crossed her face. **A.y 1" sh* said, bitterly, ** I am too late, as I always am. Thl« will be a soxe blow to Hugo." " Hugo !" said the old lawyer. " Was he after Miss Murray MKCITALS OWN WAT. toof Not a bad noticu, either. It would hare been a p(ood thlnfc to get the property back to the LuttrelU. He could hara called liiinself Murray-Lultrell then." •Too late for that," said Mrs. Luttrell, grimly. "Well, ha shall have Netherglen." "Are you quite decided in your mind on that point?" queried Mr. Colquhoun. " Quite 80. I'll give you ray instructions about the will as soon OS you like." " Take time ! take time I" said the lawyer. " I have taken time. I have thoupcht the matter over in every light, and I am quite convinced that what I possess ought to go to Hugo. There is no other Luttrell to take Netherglen— and to a Luttroli Netherglen must go." "I should have thought that you would like better to leava it to Miss Murray, who is of your own father's blood," said Mr. Colquhoun, cautiously. "She is your second cousin, yell ra* member ; and a good girl into the bargain." " A good girl she may be, and a handsome one ; and I would gladly have seen her the mistress of Netherglen if shr were Hugo's wife ; but Netherglen was never mine, it was my husband's, and though it came to me at his death, it shall stay in the Luttrell family, as he meant it to do. Elizabeth Murray has the Strathleckie property ; that ought to be enough for her, especially as she is going to marry a penniless cousin, who will perhaps make ducks and drakes of it all." "Hugo's a fortunate lad," said Mr. Colquhoun, drily, as he seated himself at a writing-table, in order to take Mrs. Lutt- rell's instructions. "I hope he may be worthy of his good luck." Hugo did not seem to consider himself very fortunate when ha heard the news of Miss Murray's approaching marrlap;o. Ha looked thoroughly disconcerted. Mrs. Luttrell was inclined to think that his affections had been engaged more deeply than she knew, and in her hard, unemotional way, tried to express some sympathy with him in bis loss. It was not a matter of tha affections with Hugo, however, but his purse. His money affairs were much embarrassed: he was baginniag to calculate tha amount that he could wring oat of Mrs. X^ttrell, and, if sha failed him, he had mada up his oUxid to marry BlUabath. " Heron r he exolaimed* Ijn a tana of nmqprise and disgust, " I doa^ believe she cages a sap lor JUmu^" " How eaa you talir 9aiAW aoat Hugo lodnd at bffe IooIshI ^grwa, m^ m^ ^ottiij}^ "If you think sha liked yoa better ,1- "hi I v. .'iSf TJXDHR valik: PBSTENCXS. Luttrell said, or thought, or did, I should prefei* to have as little of it as possible. ' "I am sorry to inconvenience you, but I must tell my story in my own way," answered Dino. The flash of his eye and the increased colour in his cheek showed that Heron's words irritated him, but his voice was carefully calm and cool. " Mrs. luttrell's statement was this : that Brian Luttrell was not her sen at ail. I have in my possession the letter that she wrote to him en the subject, assuring him confidently that he was the child of her Italian nurse, Vincenza Vasari, and that her own child had died in infancy, and was buried in the churchyard of San Stefauo. Here is the letter, if you like to assure yourself that what I have said is true." Fercival made a satirical little bow of refusal. But a look of attention had come into his eyes. "Brian believed this story absolutely, although he had then no proof of its truth," continued Dino. "She told him that the Vasari family lived at San Stefano " " Vasari ! Relations of your own, I presume," interposed Percival, with ironical politeness. "And to San Stefano, therefore, he was making his way when the accident on the mountain occurred," said Dino, utterly dis- regarding the interruption. " There were inquiries made about him at San Stefano soon after the news of his supposed death arrived in England, for Mrs. Luttrell guessed that he would go thither if he were still living; but he had not then appeared at the monastery. He did not arrive at San Stefano, as I said before, until a fortnight after the date of the accident ; he had been ill, and was footsore and weary. When he recovered from the brain-fever which prostrated him as soon as he reached the monastery, he told his whole story to the Prior, Padre Cristoforo of San Stefano, a man whose character is far beyond suspicion. I have also Padre Cristoforos statement, if you would like to see it." Fercival shook his head. But his pipe had gone out ; he was listening now with interest. '* As it happened," the narrator went on, "Padre Cristoforo was already interested in the matter, because the mother of Mrs. Luttrell's nurse, Vincenza, had, before her death, confided to him her suspicions, and those of Vincenza's husband concerning the child that she had nursed. There was a child living in the village of San Stefano, a child who had been brought up as Vincenza's child, but Vincenza had told her this boy was the true Brian Luttrell, and that her eon had been taken back to Scotland as Mrs. 'mttrell's child." Le ry tie ed r8 ill. he ler led no. a.ve c ot ino the osed A REVELATIO^f. 233 was was I Mrs. jd to ruing the ^p as the Bk to "1 see your drift now," remarked Percival, quietly re-lighting his pipe. " Where is this Italian Brian Luttrell to be found ?" " Need I tell you? Should I come hear with this story if I were not the man?" He asked the question almost sadly, but with a simplicity of manner which showed him to be free from any desire to produce any theatrical effect. He waited for a moment, looking steadily at Percival, whose darkening brow and kindling eyes displayed rapidly-rising anger. "I was called Dino Vasari at San Stefano," he continued, "but I believe that my rightful name is Brian Luttrell, and that Vincenza Vasai'i changed the children during an illness of Mrs. Luttrell's.' "And that, therefore," said Percival, slowly, "you are the owner of the Strathleckie pi'operty— or, as it is generally called, the Luttrell property— now possessed by Miss Murray?" Dino bowed his head. Percival puffed away at his pipe for a minute or two, and surveyed him from head to foot with angi'y, contemptuous ej^es. The only thing that prevented him from letting loose a storm of rage upon Dino's head was the young man's air of grave sim- plicity and good faith. He did not look like an intentional impostor, such as Percival Heron would gladly have believed him to be. "Do you know,** inquired Heron, after a momentary pause, " what the penalties are for attempting to extort monej , or for passing j'ourself olT under a false name in order to get pi-operty? Did you ever hear of the Claimant and Portland Prison? I would advise you to acquaint yourself with these details before you come to me again. You may be more fool than knave ; but you may carry your foolery or your knavery elsewhere." Dino smiled. " You had botler hear the rest of my story before you indulge in theso idle threats, Mr. Heron. I know perfectly Avell what I am doing." There was a tone of lofty assurance, aim. it of superiority, in Dino's calm voice, which galled Percival, because he felt that it had the power of subduing him a little. Before he had thought of a rejoinder, the young Benedictine resumed his story. " You will say rightly enough that these were not proofs. So Padre Cristoforo said when he kept me in the monastery until I came to years of discretion. So he told Brian Luttrell when he came to San Stefano. But since that day new witnesses have arisen. Vincenza Vasari was not dead : she had only disappeared for a time. She is now found, and she is prepared to swear to W 284 UNDER FALSE PRETENCES. the truth of the story tliat I liave told you. Mrs. Luttrell's suspicions, the statement made by Viiiceuza'ts husband and mother, the confession of another woman who was Vincenza's accomplice, all form corroborative evidence which will, I think, be quite sufficient to prove the case. So, at least, Messrs. Brett and Grattan assure me, and they have gone carefully into the mattei', and have the original papers in their possession." " Brett and Grattan 1" repeated Percival. He knew the names. "Do you say that Brett and Grattan have taken it up? You must have managed matters cleverly : Brett and Grattan are a respectable firm." '• You are at liberty, of course, to question them. You may, perhaps, credit their statement." "I will certainly go to them and expose this imposture," said Percival, haughtily. " I suppose you have no objection," with a hardly-concealed sneer, " to go with me to them at once ?" "Not in the least. I am quite ready." Percival was rather sta.Ecgered by his willingness to accompany him. He laid down his pipe, which he had been holding mechanically for some time in his hand, and made a step towards the door. But as he reached it Dino spoke again. "I wish, Mr. Heron, that before you go to these lawyers you would listen to me a little longer. If for a moment or two you would divest yourself of your suspicions, if you would for a moment or two assume (only for the sake of argument) the truth of my story, I could tell you then why I came. As yet, I have scarcely approached the object of my errand." " Money, I suppose !" said Percival. "Truth will out, sooner or Inter," "Mr. Heron," said Dino, "are we to approach this subject as gentlemen or not? When I ask you for money, you will be at liberty to insult me, not before." Again that tone of quiet superiority 1 Percival broke out angrily : — " I will listen to nothing more from you. If you like to go with me to Brett and Grattan, we will go now ; if not, you are a liar and an impostor, and I shall be happy to kick you out into the street." Dino raised his head ; a quick, involuntary movement ran through his frame, as if it thrilled with anger at the insulting words. Then his head sank ; he quietly folded his arms across his breast, and stood^ as he used to stand when awaiting an order or an admonition from the Prior— tranquil, submissive, silent, but neither ill-humoured nor depressed. The very silence and submission enraged Percival the more. 5l\'8 and iza's ink, Jrctt I tbe You area L may, •• said with a >mpauy holding a step ;ain. rers you ;wo you d for a lie truth ,, I have sooner Object as rill be at l-oke out Ike to go I you are you out lent ran liiwultinfS IS across liting an Ibmissive, |ry silence A REVELATION. M "If you were of Scotch or English blood." he said, sharply, pausing as he crossed the room to look over his ehoulder at the motionless figure in the black robe, with folded arms and bent head, "you would resent the words I have hastily used. That you don't do so is proof positive to my mind that you are no Luttrell." "If I am a Luttrell, I trust that I am a Christian, too," said Diuo, tranquilly. "It is a monk's duty— a monk's privilege— to bear insult." " Detestable hypocrisy !" growled Percival to himself, as he stepped to the door and ostentatiously locked it, putting the key into his pocket, before he went into the adjoining bed-room to change his coat. " We'll soon see what Brett and Grattan say to him. Confound the fellow I Who would think that that smooth saintly face covered so much insolence ! I should like to give him a good hiding. I should, indeed." He returned to the sitting-room, unlocked the door, and ordered a servant to fetch a hansom-cab. Then he occupied himself by setting some of the books straight on the shelves, humming a tune to himself meanwhile, as if nobody else were in the room." "Mr. Heron," Dino said at last, "I came to propose a com* promise. Will you listen to it yet?" " No," said Percival, drily. "I'll listen to nothing until I have seen Brett. If your case is as good as you declare it is, he will convince me ; and then you can talk about compromises. I'm not in the humour for compromises just now." He noticed that Dino's eyes were fixed earnestly upon some- thing on his writing-table. He drew near enough to see that it was a cabinet photograph of Elizabeth Murray in a brass Irame —a likeness which had just been taken, and which was con- sidered remarkably good. The head and slioulders only were seen : the stately pose of the head, the slightly upturned profile, the rippling mass of hair resting on the fine shoulders, round which a shawl had been loosely draped— these constituted the chief points of a portrait which some people said was "idealised," but which, in the opinion o£ the Herons, only showed Elizabeth at her best. Percival coolly took up the photograph and marched away with it to another table, on which he laid it face down- wards. He did not choo&e to hiive the Italian impostor scrutinising Elizabeth Murray's face. Dino understood the action, and liked him for it better than he had done as yet. The drive to Messrs. Brett and Grattan's office was ac- complished in perfect silence. The office was just closing, n iji 'I- ■!!• :ii i 280 VNOXZt FALSE PRBTXNOm. but Mr. Brett— the partner with whom Percival happened to be acquainted— was there, and received the visitors very civilly. "You seem to know this— this gentleman, Mr. Brett?" began Percival, somewhat stiffly. " I think I have that pleasure," said Mr. Brett,who was a big, red-faced, genial-looking man, as much unlike the typical lawyer of the novel and the stage, as a fox-hunting squire would have been. But Mr. Brett's reputation was assured. "I think I have that pleasure," he repeated, rubbing his hands, and looking as though he >v..s enjoyin;j; the interview very much. "I have seen him before once or twice, have I not? eh, Mr. — er-Mr. " "Ah, that is just the point," said Percival. "Will you have the goodness to tell me the name of this— this person ? " Mr. Brett stopped rubbing his hands, and looked from Dlno to Percival, and back again to Dlno. Tlie look said plainly enough, " What shall I tell him ? How much does he know ?" •* I wish to have no secrets from Mr. Heron," said Dino, simply. " He is the gentleman who is going to marry Miss Elizabeth Murray, and, of course, he is interested in the matter." "A}i, of course, of course. I don't know that yuu ought to have brought him here," said Mr. Brett, shaking his head waggip!ily at Dino. " Against rules, you know : against custom : against precedent. But I believe you want to arrange matters pleasantly a longst yourselves. Well, Mr. Heron, I don't often like to commit myself to a statement, but, under the circumstances, I have no hesitation in saying that I believe this gentleman now before you, who called himself Vasari in Italy, is in reality " "Well?" said Percival, feeling his heart sink within him and speaking more impatiently than usual in consequence, "WeU, Mr. Brett?" "Is in reality," said Mr. Brett, with great deliberation and empha&is, " the second son of Edward and Margaret Luttrell, stolen from them in infancy— Brian Luttrell." CHAPTER XXIX. DINO'S PROPOSITION. Dino turned away. He would not see the discomfiture plainly depicted upon Percival's face. Mr. Brett smiled pleasantly, and rubbed bis hands. " I see that it's a shock to you, Mr. Heron," he said. " Well, "we can understand that, It's natural. Of course you thought SINOS PAOPOtl'n«N. £C'7 and ttrell, Well, Miss Murray a rich woman, as we all did, and it is a little dis- appointing " *' your reraarlcs are oflFensive, sir, most offensive," said Per* cival, whose ire was thoroughly roused by this address. " I will bid you and your client good-evening. I have no more to say." He made for the door, but Dino interposed. " It is my turn now, I think, Mr. Heron. You Insisted upon my coming here : I must insist now upon your seeing the docu- ments I have to show you, and hearing what I have to say." And with a sharp click he turned the key in the lock, and stood with his back against the door. " Tut, tut, tut I" said Mr. Brett ; *' there is no need to lock the door, no need of violence, Mr. Luttrell." In spite of him- self, Fercival started when he heard that uame applied to the young monk before him. "Let the matter be settled amicably, by all means. You rome from the young lady; you have authority to act for her, have you, Mr. Heron?" "No," said Fercival, sullenly. "She knows nothing about it." "This is an informal interview," said Dino. "Mr. Heron refused to believe that you had undertaken my case, Mr. Brett, until he heard the fact from your own lips. I trust that he ie now satisfied on that point, at any rate." "Mr. Brett is an old acquaintance of mine. I have no reason to doubt his sincerity," said Fercival, shortly and stiffly. If Dino had hoped for anything like an apology, he was much mistaken. Percival's temper was rampant still. "Then," said Dino, quitting the door, with the key in his hand, "we may as well proceed to look at those papers of mine, Mr. Brett. There can be no objection to Mr. Heron's seeing them, I suppose?" The lawyer made some objections, but ended by producing from a black box, a bundle of papers, aniongst which wt 'e the signed and witnessed confessions of Vincenza Vasari and a woman named Bosa Naldi, who had helped in the exchange of the children. Mr. Brett would not allow these papers to go out of his own hands, but he showed them to Fercival, expounded their contents, and made comments upon the evidence, remark- ing amongst other tilings that Vincenza Vasari herself was expected in England in a week or two, Fadre Cristoforo having taken charge of her, and undertaken to produce her at the fitting time. " The evidence seems to be very conclusive," said Mr. Brett, with a pleasant smile. " In fact, Miss Murray has no case at all, ■m 238 tJNDKR FALHE PUKTKNCBi. i I aud I dare say her legal advlaer will know what advice to give her, Mr. Herou. Is there any question that you would like to ask?" "No," said Fcrcivul, rising from hlfl chair and glancing at Diuo, who had stood by without speaking, throughout the lawyer's exposition of the papers. Then, vcr; ungraciously: "I suppose I owe this gentleman in ecclcsiustical attire— I hardly know what to cull him— some sort of apology. I see that I was mistaken in wliat I said." "My dear sir, I am sure Mr. Luttrsll will make allowance for words upolven in the heat of the moment. No doubt it was a shock to you," said Mi'. Brett, with ready sympathy, for which Percival hated him in his heart. His brow contracted, and he might have said something uncivil Iiad Diuo not come forward with a few quiet words, which diverted him from his pur- pose. " If Mr. Heron tliiuks that he was mistaken," lie said, "he will not refuse now to hear what I wished to say before we left his house. It will be sini' ''^ justice to listen to me." " Very well," answered Percival, frowning and looking down. "I will listen." "Could we, for a few moments only, have a private room?" said Diuo to Mr. Brett, with some embarrassment. " You won't want me again V said that cheerful gentleman, locking his desk. "Then, if you won't think me uncivil, I'll leave you altogether. My clerk is in the outer room, if you require J im. I have a dinner engagement at eight o'clock which I should like to keep. Good-bye, Mr. Herou ; sorry for your dis.ippointuient. Good-bye, Mr. Luttreli ; I wish you wouldn't don that monkish dress of yours. It makes you look so un- English, you know. And, after all, you are not a monk, and never will be." '■ Do not lie too sure of tliat," said Dino, smiling. Mr Brett departed, and the two young men were left together. Fercival was standing, vexation and impatience visible in every line of his handsome features. He gave his shoulders a shrug as the door closed behind Mr. Brett, and turned to the fire. "Aud now, Mr. Heron," said Dino, "will you listen to my proposition?" He spoke in Italian, not English, and Percival replied in the same language. " I have said I would listen." "It refers to Brian Luttreli — the man who 1ms borne that name so long that I think he should still be called liy it." " Ah I You have proved to me that Mr. Brett believes your f, and you have shown me that your case ifi a plausible one ; DINO'S FKOrOoMION. 23U jvy pug le; I but you have not provud to me that the man Stretton U identical with Brian Luttreil." " It is not necessary that that should be proved just now. It can be proved ; but wa will pass over that point, if you pluase. I am sorry that what L have to say trenches somewhat on your private and personal a/Tairs, Mr. Heron. I can only entreat your patience for a little time. Your marriags with Miss Murray-—" '' Need that be drafCRed into the discussion?" " It is exactly the point on which I wish to speak." "Indeed." Percival pulled the lawyer's arm-chair towards him, seated himself, and pulled his moustache. "I understand, You are Mr. Stretton's emissary 1" " His emissary 1 No." The denial was sharply spoken. It was with a softening touch of emotion that Dino tdded— "I doubt whether he will easily forgive me. I have betrayed him. He docs not dream that I would tell his secret." " Are you friendly with him, then!" " We are as brothers." "Where is her " In London." *' Not gone to America then?" "Not ye«. He starts in a few trying to keep him back." "I knew that his pretence of Percival. "Of course, he never intended to leave the country 1" " Pai'don me," said Dino, who had heard more than was quite meant for his ears. " The word * lie ' should never bo uttered in ' ^nnection with any of Brian's words or actions. He is the soul 0£ honour." Percival sneered bitterly. " As is shown " he began, and then stopped short. But Dino understood. "As is shown," he said, steadily, "by the fact that when he learnt, almost in the same moment, that Miss Murray was the person who had inherited his property, and that she was promised in marriage to yourself, he left the house in which she lived, and resolved to see her face no more. Was there no sense of honour shown in this ? For he loved her as his own soul." " Upon my word," explained Percival, with unconcealed annoy- ance, "you seem to know a great deal about Miss Murray's affairs and mine, Mr.— Mr. — Vasari. I am flattered by the interest they excite; but I don't see exactly what good is to come of it. I knew of Mr. Stretton's proposal long ago : a very insolent one, I considered it." "Let me ask you a plain question, Mr. Heron. You love Miss Muiiay, do you not?" days, if not delayed. I am going was a lie !" muttei'ed I .• ". '■■■'>: •«■•■■ ! i 1 •r ! ii i triTDKlt FALSE PRBTENCSS. If I do, said Heron, haughtily, "it is not a question that I am disposed to answer at present." You love Miss Murray," said Dino, as if the question had been answered in the affirmative, " and there is nothing on earth so dear to me as my friend Brian Luttrell. It may seem strange to you that it sliould be so ; but it is true. I have no wish to take his place in Scotland " "Then what are you doing in Mr. Brett's office?" asked Percival, bluntly. For the first time Dino showed some embarrassment. "I have been to blame," lie said, hanging his head. "I was forced into this position— by others ; and I had not the strength to free myself. But I will not wrong Brian any longer." " If yov r story is proved, it will not be wronging Brian or any- body else, vo claim your rights. Take the Luttrell property, by all means, if it belongs to you. We shall do very well without It." "Yes," said Dino, almost in a whisper, "you will do very well without it, if you are sure that she loves you." Percival sat erect in his chair and looked Dino in the face with an expression which, for the first time, was devoid of scorn or anger. It was almost one of dread ; it was certainly the look of one who prepares himself to receive a shock. "What have you to tell me?" he said, in an unusually quiet voice. "Is she deceiving me? Is she corresponding with him ? Have they made you their confidant?" "No, no," cried Dino, earnestly. " How can you think so of a woman with a face like hers, of a man with a soul like Brian's ? Even he has told me little ; but he has told me more than he knows— and I have guessed the rest. If I had not known before, your face would have told me all." "Tricked!" said Percival, falling back in his chair with a gesture of disgust. " I might have known as much. Well, sir, you are wrong. And Miss Murray's feelings are not to be can- vassed in this way." "You are right," said Dino; " we will not speak of her. We will speak of Brian, of my friend. He is not happy. He is very brave, but lie is unhappy, too. Are we to rob him of both the things which might make his happiness? Are you to marry the Woman that he loves, and am I to take to myself his inheritance?" "Hardly to be called his i'^heritance, I think," said Percival, In a parenthetic way, "if he was the child of one Vincenza Vasari, and not of the Luttrells." "I have my proposals to make," said Dino again lowering his ?oice. A nervous flush crept up to his forehead : his lips twitched mmm mm DINO'S PROPOSITION. 241 the the le?" val, inza his Ihed behind the thin fingers with which he had partly covered Ihem : the fln.2;ers trembled, too. Percival noted these signs of emotion without seeming to do so: ho waited with some curiosity for the proposition. It startled him when it came. *' I have been think* lag that it would be better," said Dino, so simply and naturally that one would never have supposed that he was indicating n path of stern self-sacrifice, " if I were to withdraw all my claims to the estate, and you to relinquish Miss Murray's hand to Brian, then things would fall into their proper places, and he would not go to America." Percival stared at him for a full minute before he seemed quite to understand all that was implied in this proposal; then he burst into a fit of scornful laughter. "This is too absurd !" he cried. " Am I to give her up tamely because Mr. Brian Luttrell, as you call him, wishes to marry her? I am not so anxious to secure Mr. Brian Luttrell's happiness." "But you wish to secure Miss Murray's, do you not 1" Percival became suddenly silent. Dino went on persuasively. " I care little for the money and the lands which they say would be mine. My greatest wish in life is to become a monk. That is why I put on the gown that I used to wear, although I have taken no vows upon me yet, but I came to you in the spirit of one to whom earthly things are dead. Let me give up this estate to Brian, and make him happy with the woman that he loves. When he is married to Elizabeth you shall never see my face again." "This is your proposition?" said Percival, after a little pause. " Yes." " If I give up Elizabeth "—he forgot that he had not meant to call her by her Christian name in Dino Vasari's presence— " you will give up your claim to the property ?" "Yes." " And if I refuse, what will you do?" "Fight the matter out by the help of the lawyers," said Dino, with an irrepressible flash of his dark eyes. And then there was another pause, during which Percival knitted his brows and gazed into the fire, and Dino never took his eyes from the other's face. " Well, I refuse," said Percival at last, getting up and walking about the room, with an air of being more angry than he really was. " I will have none of your crooked Italian ways. Fair play is the besc way of managing thi?. matter. I refuse to carry out my share of this 'amicable a. "angement,' as Brett would call it. Let us light it out. Every man for himself, and the devil take the hindmost." 'Hi I ■\ ■ -I ii in i 242 UKDEIi FALSE PRETFXCfig. The last sentence was an English one. "But what satisfaction will the fight give to anybody?" said Dino, earnestly. " For myself — I may gain the estate— I probably jhall do so— and what use shall I make of it ? I might give it, perhaps, to Brian, but what pleasure would it be to him if she married you? Miss Murray will be left in poverty." "And do you think she will care for that? Do you think I should care?" " Money is a good thing : it is not well to despise it," said Dino. "Think what you are doing. If you refuse ray proposi- tion you deprive Miss Murray of her estate, and— I leave you to decide whether you deprive her of her happiness." "Miss Murray can refuse me if she chooses," said Percival, shortly. " I should be a great fool if I handed her over at your recommendation to a man that I know nothing about. Besides, you could not do it. This Italian friend of yours, this Prior of San Stefauo, would not let the matter fall through. He and Brett would bring forward the witnesses " Dino turned his eyes slowly upon him with a curiously subtle look. " No," he said. "I have received news to-day which puts the matter completely in my own hands. Vinceaza Vasari is dead : Bosa Naldi is dying. They were in a train when a railway acci- dent took place. They will never be able to appear as witnesses." " But they made depositions " ^ " Yes. I believe these depositions would establish the case. But depositions are written upon paper, and hearsay evidence is not admitted. Nobody could prove it, if I did not wish it to be proved." " I doubt whether it could be proved at all," said Percival, hesitatingly. "Of course, it would make Miss Murray uncom- fortable. And if that other Brian Luttrell is living still, the money would go back to him. Would he divide it with you, do you think, if he got it, even as you would share it all with him?" "I believe so," answered Dino. "But I should not want it — unless it were to give to the monastery ; and San Stefano is already rich. A monk has no wants." " But I am not a monk. There lies the unfairness of your pro- posal. You give up what you care for very little : I am to give up what is dearer than the whole world to me. No ; I won't do it. It's absurd." "Is this your answer, Mr. Heron?" said Dino. " Will you sacrifice Brian's happiness— 1 say nothing of her's, for you under- stand her best— for your own?" , " Yes, r will," Percival declared, roundly. "No man is called I mmmm mmtm DINO'S PROPOSITION. 243 itpou to give up his life for another without good reason. Your friend is nothing to me. ill get what I can out of the world for myself. It is little enough, but I cannot be expected to surrender it for some ridiculous notion of unselfishness. I never professed to be unselfish in my life. Mr. Stretton is a man to whom I owe a grudge. I acknowledge it." Dino sighed heavily. The shade of disappointment upon his face was so deep that Heron felt some pity for him— all the more because he believed that the monk was destined to deeper disappointment still. He turned to him with almost a friendly look. " You can't expect extraordinary motives from an ordinary man like me," he said. " I must say in all fairness that you have made a generous proposal. If I spoke too violently and hastily, I hope you will overlook it. 1 was rather beside myself with rage — though not with the sort of regret which Mr. Brett kindly attributes to me." '* I understood that," said Dino. By a sudden impulse Fercival held out his hand. It was a strong testimony to Dino's earnestness and simplicity of character that the two parted friends after such a stormy interview. As they went out of the office together Fercival said, abruptly :— " Where are you staying ?" Dino named the place. " With the man you call Brian Luttrell V " With Brian Luttrell." "What is the next thing you mean to do?" " I must tell Brian that I have betrayed his secret* "Oh, he won't be very angry with you for thatl" laughed Fercival. Dino shook his head. He was not so sure. As soon as they had separated, Fercival went off at a swinging pace for a long walk. It was his usual way of getting rid of annoyance or excitement ; and he was vexed to find that he could not easily shake ofi' the effects that his conversation with Dino Vasari had produced upon his mind. The unselfishness, the devotion, of this man— younger than himself, with a brilliant future before him if only he chose to take advantage of it — appealed powerfully to his imagination. He tried to laugh at it : he called Dino hard names— " Quixotic fool," "dreamer," and " enthusiast "—but he could not forget that an ideal of conduct had been presented to his eyes, which was far higher than any which he should have thought possible for himself, and by a man upon whose profession of faith and calling he looked with pro- found contempt. '".vlfl 'In «44 V2TDKB VALSB PKETENCKS. He tried to disbelieve the story that he had been told. He tried Hard to think that the man whom Elizabeth loved could not be Brian Luttrsll. He strove to convince himself that Elizabeth would be happier with him than with the man she loved. Last of all he struggled desperately with the conviction that it was his highest duty to tell her the whole story, set her free, and let Brian marry her if he chose. With the respective claims of Dino, Brian, and Elizabeth^ to the estate, he felt that he had no need to inter- fere. They must settle it amongst themselves. Of one thing he wanted to make sure. Was the tutor who had come with the Herons from Italy indeed Brian Luttrell ? How could he ascertain ? Chance favoured him, he thought. On the following morning he met Hugo Luttrell in town, and accosted him with unusual eagerness. " I've an odd question to ask you," he said, " but I have a strong reason for it. You saw the tutor at Strathleckie when you were in Scotland 1" " Yes," said Hugo, looking at him restlessly out of his long, dark eyes, ** Had you Auy Idea that Stretton was not his real name 1* Hugo paused before he replied. " It is rather an odd question, certainly," he said, with a temporising smile. "May I ask what you want to know for?" ** I was told that he came to the house under a feigned name : that's all." "Who told you so?" " Oh, a person who knew him." " An Italian ? A priest ?" Hugo was thinking of the possibility of Father Christoforo's having made his way to England. "Yes," said Percival, dubiously. "A Benedictine monk, I believe. He hinted that you knew Stretton's real name." "Quite a mistake," said Hugo. " I know nothing about him. But your priest sounds romantic. An old fellow, isn't he, with grey hair ?" " Not at all : young and slight, with dark eyes and rath«*r a finely-cut face. Calls himself Dino Vasari or some such name." Hugo started: a yellowish pallor overspread his face. For a moment he stopped short in the street : then hurried on so fast that Percival was left a few steps behind. "What's the matter? Do you know him?" said Heron, over- taking him by a few vigorous strides. "A little. He's the biggest scouudiel I ever met," replied Hugo, slackening his pace and trying to speak easily. " I was FRIElfSS AND BROTBXIW. 241 ed as surprised at his being in England, that was all. Do you know where he lives, that I may avoid the street !" lie added, laughing. Percival told him, wondering at his evident agitation. " Then you can't tell me anything about Strettoii 1" he said, as they came to a building which he was about to enter. "Nothing. Wish I could, said Hugo, turning away. "So he escaped, after all!" he murmured to himself, as he walked down the street, with an occasional nervous glance to the right and left. " I thought I had done my work eftectually : I did not know I was such a bungler. Does he guess who attacked him, I wonder? I suppose not, or T should lave hoard of the matter before now. Fortunate that I took the precaution of drugging him first. What an escape ! And he has got^iOldof Heron! I shall have to make sure of the old lady pretty soon, or I foresee that Netherglen— and Kitty— never will be mine." "^ CHAPTER XXX. FRIENDS AND BROTHERS. In a little room on the second-floor of a London lodging-house near Manchester-square, Brian Luttrell was packing a box, with the few scanty possessions that he called his own. He had little light to see by, for the slender, tallow candle burnt with a vary uncertain flame : the glare of the gas lamps in the street gave almost a better light. The floor was uncarpeted, the furniture scanty and poor : the fire in the grate smouldered miserably, and languished for want of fuel. But there was a contented iook on Brian's face. He even whistled and hummed to himself as he packed his box, and though the tune broke down, and ended with a sigh, it showed a mind more at ease than Brian's had been for many a long day. "Heigho !" he said, rising from his task, and giving the box a. shove with his foot into a corner, " I wonder where Dino is? He ought not to be out so late with that cough of his. I suppose he has gone to Brett and Grattau's. I am glad the dear fellow has put himself into their hands. Right ought to be done: she would have said so herself, and 1 know Dino will be generous. It would suit him very well to take a money compensation, and let her continue to reiga, with glories somewhat shorn, however, at Strathleckie. I am afraid he will do nothing but enrich San Stefano with his inheritance. He certainly will not settle down at Nedierglen as a country squire. " What will my mother say ? Pooh ! I must get out of that H ;r i I fli; .1 ■ 246 tJNDKB FALSE PRETENCES. habit of calling her my mother. She is no relation of niiiie, as she herself told me. Mrs. Luttrell !— it sounds a little odd. Odder, too, to think that I muist never sign myself Brian Luttrell any more. Bernardino Vasari ! I think I might as well stick to the plain John Stretton, which I adopted on the spur of the moment at San Stefano. I suppose I shall soon have to meet the woman who calls herself— who is— my mother. I will say nothing harsh or unkind to her, poor thing! She has done herself a greater injury than she has done me." So he meditated, with his face bent over his folded arms upon the mantelpiece. A slow step on the stair roused him, he poked the fire vigorously, lighted another candle, and then opened the door. " Is that you, Dino 1" he said. " Where have you been for the last three hours 1" Dino it was. He came in without speaking, and dropped into a chair, as if exhausted with fatigue. Brian repeated his question, but when Dino tried to answer it, a fit of coughing choked his words. It lasted several minutes, and left liini panting, with the perspiration standing in great beads upon his brow. With a grave and anxious face Brian brougnt him some water, wrapped a cloak round his s' aking shoulders, and stood by him, waiting for the paroxysm ol: coughing to abate. Dino's cough was seldom more than the little hacking one, whicli the wound in his side seemed to have left, but it was always apt to grow worse in cold or foggy weather, and at times increased to positive violence, Brian, who had visited him regularly while he was in hospital, and nursed him with a woman's tenderness as soon as he was discharged from it, had never known it to be so bad as it was on this occasion. "You've been overdoing yourself, old fellow," he said, affec- tionately, when Dino was able to look up and smile. " You have been out too late. And this den of mine is not the place for you. You must clear out of it as soon as you can." "Not as long as you are here," said Dino. "That was all very well as long as we could remain unknown. But now that Brett and Grattan consent to take up your case, as I knew they would all along, they will want to see you : your friends and relations will want to visit you ; and you must not be found here with me. I'll settle you in new Ipdgings before I sail. There's a comfortable place in Piccadilly that I used to know, with a landlady who is honest and kind." "Too expensive for me," Dino murmured, with a pleasant light in his eyes, as Brian made preparations for their evening meal, with a skill acquired by recent practice. FRIENDS AND BS0TBEB9. 247 affec- " You lace for mown. jase, as your not be |e I sail. know, it light meal, " You forget that your expenses will be pai.. out of the estate," said Brian, " in the long run. Did not Brett offer to advance you funds if you wanted them ?" "Yes, and I declined them. I had enough from Father Christo- foro," answered Dino, rather faii'ly. " I did not like to run the risk of spending what 1 might not be able to repay." " Brett would not have offered you money if he did not feel very sure of his case. There can be no doubt of that," said Brian, as ho set two cracked tea-cups on the table, and pro- duced a couple of chops and a frying-pan from a cupboard. " You need not be afraid." For some minutes the sound of hissing and spluttering that came from the frying-pan effectually prevented any further attempts at conversation. When the cooking was over, Dino again addressed his friend. " Do you want to know what I have been doing?" " Yes, 1 mean you to give an account of yourself. But not until you have had some food. Eat and drink first ; then talk." Dino smiled and came to the table. But he had no appetite : he swallowed a few mouthfuls, evidently to please Brian only ; then went back to the solitary arm-chair by the fire, and closed his eyes. Brian did not disturb him. It was plain that Dino, not yet strong after his accident, had weai'ied himself out. He was glad, however, when the young man roused himself from a light and fitful doze, and said in his naturally tranquil voice :— " I am ready to give an account of myself, as you call it, now." "Then tell me," said Brian, leaning his elbow on the mantel- piece, and looking down upon the pale, somewhat emaciated countenance, with a tender smile, " what you mean by going about London in a dress which I thought that you had renounced for ever V *• It only means,* said Dino, returning the smile, " that you were mistaken. I had not renounced it, and I think that I shall keep to it now." " You can hardly do that in your position," said Brian, quietly. " My position I What is that to me ? * I had rather be a door- keeper in the house of the Lord'— you know what I mean: I have said it all to you before. If I go back to Italy, Brian, and the case falls through, as it may do through lack of witnesses, will you not take your own again ?" *• And turn out Miss Murray? Certainly not." Then, after a pause, Brian, asked, rather sternly, " What do you mean by the lack of witnesses? There are plenty of witnesses. There is— my— my mother— for one." i li 248 VKDSB FALAE PRETENC£8. "No. She is dead." '* Dead. Vincenza Vasarf dead 1" Dino recounted to him briefly enough the details of the catastrophe, but acknowledged, in reply to his quick questions, that there was no necessity for his claim to be given up on account of the death of these two persons. Mr. Brett, with whom he had conferred before visiting Fercival Heron, had assured him that there could be no doubt of his identity with the child whom Mrs. Luttrell had given Vincenza to nurse ; and, knowing the circumstances, he thought it probable that the law- suit would be an amicable one, and that Miss Murray would consent to a compromise. All this, Dino repeated, though with some reluctance, to his friend. " You see, Brian," he continued, " there will be no reason for your hiding yourself if my case is proved. You would not be turning out Miss Murray or anybody else. You would be ray friend, my brother, my helper. Will you not stay in England and be all this to me? I ask you, as I have asked you many times before, but I ask it now for the last time. Stay with me, and let it be no secret that you are living still." " I oan't do it, Dino. I must go. You promised not to ask it of me again, dear old fellow." "Let me come with you, then. We will both leave Miss Murray to enjoy her inheritance in peace." "No, that would not be just." "Justl What do 1 care for justice?" snid Dino, indignantly, while his eyes grew dark and his cheeks ci imson with passionate feeling. " I care for you, for her, for the happiness of you both. Can I do nothing towards it?" "Nothing, I think, Dino mio." "But you will stay with me until you go? You will not cast me off as you have cast off your other friends? Promise me. "I promise you, Dino," said Brian, laying his hand soothingly on the other's shoulder. It seemed to him that Dino must be suffering from fever ; that he was taking a morbidly exaggerated view of matters. But his next words showed that his excitement proceeded from no merely physical cause. " I have done you no harm, at any rate," he said, rising and holding Brian's hand between his own. "I have made up my mind. I will have none of this inheritance. It shall either be yours or hers. I do not want it. And I have taken the first step towards ridding myself of it." •* What have you done?" said Brian. "Will you ever forgive me?" asked Dino, looking half -sadly, FKIKXVDS AND BROTBSIU. 149 cast )misie [inglT 1st be [rated Iment and my sr be step idly. half -doubtfully, into bis face. " I am not sure that you ever will. I have betrayed you. I have said that you were alive." Brian's face first turned red, then deathly pale. He wJthdrew^ his hand from Dino's Rrasp, and took a backward 8tep. " You !" he said, in a stifled voice. '• You I whom I thought to be my friend 1" "I am your friend still," said Dino. Brian resumed his place by the mantelpiece, and played mechanically with the ornaments upon it. His face was pale still, but a little smile had begun to curve his lips. *' So," he said, slowly, " my deep-laid plans are frustrated, it seems. I did not think you would have done this, Dino. I took a good deal of trouble with my arrangements." The tone of gentle satire went to Dino's heart. He looked appealingly at Brian, but did not speak. "You have made me look like a very big fool," said Brian, quietly, "and all to no purpose. You can't make me stay in England, you know, or present myself to be recognised by Mrs. Luttrell, and old Colquhoun. I shall vanish to South America under another name, and leave no trace behind, and the only result of your communication will be to disturb people's minds a little, and to make them suppose that I had repented of my very harmless deception, and was trying to get money out of you and Miss Murray." "Nobody would think so who knows you." "Who does know me? Not even you, Dino, if you think I would take advantage of what you have said to-night. Go to- morrow, and tell Brett that you were mistaken. It is Brett you have told, of course." " It is not Brett." "Who then?" " Mr, Fercival Heron," said Dino, looking him steadily in the face. Brian drew himself up into an upright posture, with an ejaculation of astonishment. "Good Heavens, Dino! What have you been doing ?" " My duty," answered Dino. " Your duty 1 Good Heavens !— unpardonable interference I should call it from any one but you. You don't understan f raBBTfflnnKjw-! SflO UNDER FALSE PHETENCB8. one any authority to act for me. I may mauajie my aflalrs badly, but on the whole I must manage them for myself." "I knew that I should have to bear your reproaches," said Dino, with folded arms and downcast eyes. Then, after a pause, • luring which Brian walked up and dcwn the room impatiently, ae added in a lower tone, " But I did not think that they would .lave been so biUer." Hrian slopped uliort and looked at him, then came and laid his hand gently on his shoulder. "Poor Dino!" he said, "I ought to remumliev how unlike all the rest of the world you are. i*'orgive me. I did not mean to hurt you. No doubt yon thought that you were acting lor the best." Dino looked up, and met the somewhat melancholy kindness of Brian's gaze. His heart was already full : his impulsive nature was longing to assert Itself: witii one great sob he threw his arms round Brian's neck, and fell weeping upon his shoulder. " But, my dear Dino," said Brian, when the storm ual conduct, which Brian chaiitably set down to ignorance of English customs and absence of English reserve. He guessed no finer motive, and his mouth curled with an irrepressible, if somewhat mournful, smile, as he turned away, murmuring to himself :— '• I have had my revenge." , He did not leave England next day. Dlno's entreaties weighed with him ; and he knew also that he himself had acted in a way which was likely to nuUify his friend's endeavours to reinstate liim in his old position. He waited with more curiosity than apprehension for the letter, the telegram, the visit, that would assure him of Percival's uprightness. For Brian had no doubt in his own mind as to what Fercival Heron ought to do. If he learnt that Brian Luttrell was still living, he ought to com- municate the fact to Mr. Colquhoun at least. And if Mr. Colqu- houn were the kindly old man that he used to be, he would probably hasten to London to shake hands once more with the boy that he had known and loved in early days. Brian was so certain of this that he caught himself listening for the door-bell, and rehearsing the sentences with which he should excuse his conduct to his kind, old friend. But two days passed away, and he watched in vain. No message, no visitor, came to show him that Fercival Heron had told the story. Perhaps, however, he had written it in a letter. Brian silently calculated the time that a letter and its i>nswer m 262 t^NDBK FALAE PHIbtfiNCEt. would take. He found that by pont it was not possible to get a reply until an hour after the time at which he was to start. In those two days DIno had an interview with Mr. Brett, from which he returned looking anxious and uueatty. Ho told Brian, however, nothing of its import, and Brian did not choose to ask. The day and the hour of Brian's departure came without further conversation between them oh the subject which was, perhaps, nearer than any other to their hearts. Dino wanted to accompany his friend to the ship by which he was to sail : but Brian steadily refused to let him do so. It was strange to see the relation between these two. In spite of his youth, Dino usually inspired a feeling of rcHpect in the minds of other men : his peculiarly grave and tranquil manner made him appear older and more experienced than he really v/as. But with Brian, he fell naturally into the position of a younger brother : he seemed to take a delight in leaning upon Brian's jurlgment, and sur- rendering his own will. He had been brought up to depend upon others in this way all through his life ; but Brian saw clearly enough that the habit was contrary to his native temperament, and that, when once freed from the leading-strings in which hn had hitherto been kept, he would certainly prove himself a man of remarkably strong and clear judgment. It was this conviction that caused Brian to persist in his intention of going to South America : Dino would do better when left to himself, than wheu leaning upon Brian, as his affect ion led him to do. " Tou will come back," said Dino, in a tone that admitted of no contradiction. " I know you will come back." "Dino mio, you will come to see me some day, perhaps," said Brian. "Listen. I leave their future in your care. Do you understand ? Make it possible for them to be happy." " I will do what is possible to bring you home again." " Caro mio, that is not possible," said Brian. " Do not try. You Bee this letter ? Keep it until I have been an hour gone ; then open it. Will you promise me that?" " I promise." " And now good-bye. Success and good fortune to you," said Brian, trying to smile. " When we meet again " " Shall we ever meet again V said Dino, with one arm round Brian's neck, with his eyes looking straight Into Brian's, with a look of pathetic longing which his friend never could forget. "Or is it a last farewell ? idrother— my brother— God bless thee, and bring thee home at last." But it was of no earthlj home that Dino thought. And then they parted. \v Accrssn awd accttsko. 268 ible t6 was to ,t, from Brian, I to ask. fuvthev ierhapi«, onipany t Brian gee tlie 1 usually len: his sar older Brian, be e seemed and sur- lend upon ,w clearly perament, which h**, jell a man lonviction to South ban when Itted of no ^aps," said Do you try. You jne; then you r said rm round In's, with a ]rget. "Or thee, and [home that It was more than an liour :)Rfore Dino thought of opening tho Utter wliich Prlan had left wltlj him. It ran as follows :— " Dlno mio, pardon me if I have done wronffly. You told my story and I have told yours. I feared lest you, in your generosity, should hide the tiutli, and therefore I have written fully to your mother. Go to her if nhs sends for you, and remember that she has suflTercd much. I have told her that you have the proofs : show tlicni to her, and she will be convinced. God bless you, my only Irij-nd and brotlior." DinOH head dropped upon his hands. Were all his efforts vain t^ tree himHclf from the l>nrden of a wealth which he did not desire? Tho Prior of San Stefano liad forced liira into the posi- tion of a claimant to the estate. With his lonjj' formed habits of obedience it seemed impossible to gainsay the Prior's will. Here, in England, it was easier. And Dlno was more and more resolved to take his own way. A letter was brought to him at that moment. He opened it, and let liis eyes run mechanically down the sheet. Then he started violently, and read it agaii: with more attention. It contained one sentence and a signature :— " If Dino Vasari of San Stcfano will visit me at Netherglen, I will hear what he has to say. " Margaret Luttrioll." Could he have expected more ? And yet, to his excited fancy, the words seemed cold and hard. CHAPTER XXXI. ACCUSER AND ACCUSED. There had been solemn council in the house of Netherglen. Mrs. Luttrell and Mr. Colquhoun had held long interviews letters and papers of all sorts had been produced and compared; the dressing-room door was closed against all comers, and even Angela was excluded. Hugo was once summoned, and came away from the conference with the »> of a desperate man at once baffled and fierce. He lurked about the dark corners of the house, as if he were afraid to appear in the light of the day ; but he took no one into his confidence. Fortune, character, life itself, perhaps, seemed to iiim to be hanging; on a thread. For, if Dino Vasari remembered liis treachery and exposed it, he knew that he should be ruined and disgraced. And he was resolved not to survive any such public exposure. He would die by his own iiancl rather than stand in the dock as a would-be murderer. Even if things were not so bad as that, he did not see how ho was to exonerate himself from another charge ; a minor one. m ^S4 ITN'DER I'AtiRK PUBiTKXCEJl. indeed, but one 'vvliich. might make him look very black in some people's eyes. He liad known of Dino's claims for many weeks, jis well as of Brian's existence. Wliy iiad he told no one of his discoveries ? What ii: JJino spoke of the tiss 8 of lies which he had concocted, the forgery of Brian's handwriting, in the inter- view which they had had in Tarragon -street? Fortunately, Dino had burned the letter, and there had been no auditor of the conversation. Of course, he must deny that he had known any- thing of the matter. Dino could prove nothing against, him ; he could only make assertions. But assertions were awkward things sometimes. So Hugo skulked and frowned and listened, and was told nothing definite ; but saw by the liglit of previous knowledge that there was great excitement in the bosoms of his aunt and the amiiy lawyer. There were letters and teleprrams sent off, and Hugo was disgusted to tind that he could not catch sight oT their addresses, much "ss of their conlents. Mr. Colquhoun looked gloomy; Mrs. LuLirell sternly exultant. What was going on? Was Brian coming home ; or was Dino to be recognised in Brian's place? Hugo Icnevv nothing. But one fine autumn morning, as he was standing in the ^arden at Netherglen, he saw a dog-cart turn in at the gate, a dog-cart in which four men had with some difficulty squeezed themselvcs--the driver, Mr. Colquhoun, Dino Vasari, and a red-faced man, whom Hugo recognised, after a minute's hesitation, as the well-known solicitor, Mr. Brett. Hugo drew back into the shrubbery and waited. He dared not show himself. He was trembling in every limb. The ho\ir of his disgrace was drawing near. Should he take advantage of the moment, and leave Netherglen at once, or should he wait and face it out? After a little reflection he determined to wait. From what he had seen of Dino Vasari he fancied that it would not be easy to manage him. Yet he seemed to be a simple-minded youth, fresh from the precincts of a monastery : he could surely by degrees be cajoled or bullied into silence. If he did accuse Hugo of treachery, it was better, perhaps, that the accused should be on the spot to justify himself. If only Hugo could see him before the story had been told to Mrs. Luttrell 1 He loitered about the house for some time, then went to his own room, and began to pack up various articles which lie should wish to take away with him, if Mrs. Luttrell expelled him from the house. At every sound upon the stairs, he pai sed in his occupa- tion and looked around nervously. When the luncheon-bell rang \x« actually dared not go down to the dining-room. He summoned ACCUSER AND ACCUSED. fib a servant, and ordered brandy and water and a biscuit, alleging an attack of illness a» an excuse for his non -appearance. And, indeed, the suspense and anxiety which he was enduring raade him feel and look really ill. He was sick with the agony of his dread. The afternoon wore on. His window commanded a view of the drive : he was sure that the guests had not yet left the house. It was four o'clock when somebody at length approached his door, knocked, aud then shook the door-handle. "Hugo! Are you there!" It was Mr. Colquhoun's voice. "Can't you open the door?" Hugo hesitated a moment : then turned the key, leaving Mr. Colquhoun to enter if he pleased. He came in looking rather astonished at this oioile of admittance. "So ! It'3 sick, you are, is it? Well, I don't exactly wonder at that. You've lost your chance of Netherglen, Mr. Hugo Luttrell.'' Hugo's face grew livid. He looked to Mr. Colquhou.i 'or ex- planation, but did not speak. "It's just the most remarkable coincidence I ever heard of," said Mr. Colquhoun, seating himself in the least comfortable chair the room afforded, and rubbing his forehead with a, great, red silk-handkerchief. " Brian alive, and meeting with the very man who had a claim to the estate I Though, of course, if one thinks of it, it is only natural they should meet, when Mrs. Luttrell, poor body, had been fool enough to send Brian to San Stefano, the very place where the child was brought up. You know the story?" " No," said Hugo. His heart began to beat wildly. Had Dine kept silence after all ? Mr. Colquhoun launched forth upon the whole history, to which Hugo listened without a word of comment. He was leaning against the window-frame, in a position from which he could still see the drive, and his face was so white that Mr. Colquhoun at last was struck by its pallor. "Man alive, are you going to faint, Hugo? What's wrong?" " Nothing. I've had a headache. Then my aunt is satis- fied as to the genuineness of this claim?" "Satisfied! She's more than satisfied," said the old lawyer, with a groan. " I dcubt myself whether the court will see the matter in the same light. If Miss Murray, or if Brian Luttrell, would make a good fight, I don't believt> this Italian fellow would win the case. He'mipht. Brett says he would. But BMan— God bless himl he mi(fht have told me he was living sUU^-^rian has gone off to America, poor lad ! and Elizabeth Murray— well, I'll make her fight, if I can, but I doubt—I doubt.' Tfl " 1 ' 1 r' i 7 ■ 1 i i ! 1 •i; ■ i i J' ■ 1 ■ 266 ITNDER FALSE PRETENOZt. *' My aunt wants this fellow to have Strathleckie and Netherp;len, too, then?" " Yes, she does ; so you are cut out there, Hugo. Don't build on Netherglen, if Margaret Luttrell's own son is living. I must be going: Brett's to dine with me. I used to know him iq Loudon." >. "Is Dino Vasari staying here, then ?" Mr. Golquhoun raised a warning finger. " You'll have to learn to call him by another name, if he stays in this house, young man," he said. " He declines to be called Brian— he has that much good sense — but it seems that Dino is short for Ber- nardino, or some such mouthful, and we're to call him Bernard to avoid confusion. Bernard Luttrell— humph 1 — I don't know whether he will stay the night or not. We met Miss Murray on our way up. The young man looked at her uncommonly hard, and asked who she was. I think he was rather struck with her. Good-bye, Hugo ; take care of yourself, and don't be too downhearted. Poor Brian always told me to look after you, and I will." But the assurance ul ' not carry the consolation to Hugo's mind which Mr. Colquhouu intended. The two lawyers drove away to Duuinuir together. Hugo watched the red lamps of the dog-cart down the road, and then turned away frcm the window with a gnawing sense of anxiety, which grew more imperious every moment. He felt that he must do something to relieve it. He knew where the interview with Dino was taking place. Mrs. Luttrell bad lately been growing somewhat infirm : a slight stroke of paralysis, dangerous only in that it was probably the precursor of other attacks, had rendered locomotion particularly distasteful to her. She did not like to feel that she was dependent upon others for aid, and, therefore, sat usually in a wheeled chair in her dressing- room, and it was the most easily accessible room from her sleeping apartment. She was in her dressing-room now, and Dino Vasari was with her. Hugo stole quietly through the passage until he reached the door of Mrs. Luttrell's bed-room, which was ajar. He slipped into the room andjooked round. It was dimly lighted by the red glow of the fire, and by this dim light he saw that the door into the dressing-room was also not quite closed. He could hear the sound of voices. He paused a moment, and then advanced. There was a high screen near the door, of which one fold was so close to the wall that only a slight fissure could slip behijid it, though, when once bfthiod thMre, it would be entirely bidden. Hugo meatuied it with his eye : be would have to pass the aperture of the door to reach it. but a cautious glance fi'om a distance assured him that . . , 1 ....i.-WiiW I ACCUSER AND ACCUSED. 257 both Mrs. Luttrell and Dino had their backs to him and could not see. He ensconced hhnself, therefore, between the screen and the wall- he could see nothing, but every word fell distinctly upon his ear. " Sit down beside me," Mrs. Luttrell was saying— how could her voice have Kfown so tender ?—" and tell me everything about your past life. I knew— I always knew— that that other child was not my son. I have my own Brian now. Call me mother : it is long since I have heard the word." " Mother !" Dino's musical tones were tremulous. " My mother I I have thought of her all my life." "Ay, my poor son, and but for the wickedness of others, I might have seen and known you years ago. I had an interloper in my house throughout all those years, and he worked me the bitterest sorrow of my life." " Do not speak so of Brian, mother," said Dino, gently. " He loved you— and he loved Richard. His loss— his grief — has been greater even than yours." " How dare you say so to m<»i ?" said Mrs. Luttrell, with a momentary return to her old, grim tones. Then, immediately softening them — "But you may say anything you like. It is pleasure enough to hear your voice. You must stay with me, Brian, and let me feast my eyes on you for a time. I have no patience, no moderation left : ' my son was dead and is alive again, he was lost and is found.' " He raised his mother's hand and kissed it silently. The action would, of course, have been lost upon Hugo, as he could not see the pair, but for Mrs. Luttrell's next words. " Nay," she said, *' kiss me on the cheek, not on the hand, Brian. I let Hugo Luttrell do it, because of his foreign blood ; but you have only a foreign training which you must forget. They said something about your wearing a priest's dress : I am glad you did not wear it here, for you would have been mobbed in Dun- muir. It's a sad pity that you're a Papist, Brian ; but we must set Mr. Drummoud, our minister, to talk to you, and he'll soon show you the error of your ways." "I shall be very glad to hear what Mr. Drummond hcs to say," said Dino, vriiu all the courtesy which his monastic training had instilled ; "but I fear that he will have his labour thrown away. And I have one or two things to tell you, mother, now that those gentlemen have gone. If I am to disappoint you, let me do it at once, so that you may understand." "Disappoint me? and how can you do that?" asked Mrs. Luttrell, scornfully. " Perhaps you mean that you will winter in the South I If your health requires it, do you think I would stand -1 , " iV-' It ll^i I. \l ir?) 268 UNDER FALSH PRETENCKS. in the vrtiyl You have a sickly air, but it inakes you all the more like one whom I well remember— your lather's brother, who died of a decline in early youth. No, go if you like ; I will not tie you down. You can come back in the summer, and then we will think about your settling; down and marrying. There are plenty of nice girls in the neighbourhood, thoqgli none so good as Angela, nor perhaps so handsome as Elizabeth Murray/' "Mother, I shall never marry." "Not marry? and why not?" cried Mrs. Luttrell, indignantly. " But you say this to tease me only ; being a Luttrell— the only Luttrell, indeed, save Hugo, that remains— you must marry and continue the family." " I shall never marry," said Dino, with a firmness which at last seemed to make an impression upon Mrs. Luttrell, "because I am going to be a monk." Hugo could not stifle a quick catching of his breath. Did Dino mean what he said ? And what elTect would this decision have upon the lives of the many persons whose future seemed to be bound up with his? What would Mrs. Luttrel say? At first she said nothing. And then Dino's voice was heard again. "Mother, my mother, do not look at me like that. I must follow ray vocation. I would have given myself years ago, but I was not allowed. The Prior will receive me now. And nothing on earth will turn me from ray resolution. I have made up ray I " What !" said Mrs. Luttrell, very slowly. "You will desert me too, after all these years !" Dino answered by repeating; in Latin the words— "He that loveth father or mother more than Me, is not worthy of Me." But Mrs. Luttrell interrupted him angrily. "I want none of your Latin gibberish," she said. "I want plain commonsense. If you go into a monastery, do you intend to give the property to the monks ? Perhaps you want to turn Netherglen into a convent, and establish a priory at Strath- leckie ? Well, I cnuot prevent you. What fools we are to think that there is any happiness in this world !" "Mother!' said Dino, and his voice was very gentle, "let me speak to you of another before we talk about the estates. Let me speak to you of Brian." " Brian !" Her voice had a checked tone for a moment ; then she recovered herself and spoke in her usual harsh \vay. "I knovr no one of that name but you." " I mean my friend whom you thought to be your son for so many years, mother. Have you no tenderness for him ? Do you ▲CCUSER AMD ACCU8BD. 260 1 desert me not think of him with a little love and pity ? Let me tell you what he suflfered. When he came to us first at San Stefano he was nearly dying of grief. It was long before we nursed him back to health. When I think how we all learnt to love him, mother, I cannot but believe that you must love him, too." "I never loved him," said Mrs. Luttrell. "He stood in your place. If you had a spark of proper pride in you, you would know that he was your enemy, and you will feel towards him as I do." " He is an enemy that I have learned to love," answered Dino. •• At any rate, mother"— his voice always softened when he called her by that name—*' at any rate, you will try to love him now." " Why now ?" She asked the question sharply. "Because I mean him to fill my place." There was a little silence, in which the fall of a cinder from the grate could bo distinctly heard. Then Mrs. Luttrell uttered a long, low moan. " Oh, my God !" she said. " What have I done that I should be tormented in this way ?" "Mother, mother, do not say so," said Dino, evidently with deep emotion. Then, in a lower and more earnest voice, he added—" Perhaps if you had tried to love the child that Vincenza placed within your arms that day, you would have felt joy and not sorrow now." "Do you dare to rebuke your mother?" said Mrs. Luttrell, fiercely. " If I had loved that child, I would never have acknow- ledged you to-day. Not though all the witnesses in the world swore to your story." "That perhaps would have been the better for me," said Dino, softly. " Mother, I am going away from you for ever ; let me leave you another son. He has never grieved you willingly; forgive him for those misfortuuesf which he could not help; love him instead of me." '* Never 1" "He iias gone to th" other side of the world, but I think he would corns back if le knevv that you had need of him. Let me send him a li.ic, a word, from you : make him the master of Netherglen, and let me go in peace." "I will iuot hear his name, I will not tolerate his presence within these walls," cried Mrs. Luttrell, passionately. " He was never dear to me, never ; and he is hateful to me now. He has robbed me of both my sons : his hand struck Richard down, and for twenty -three years he usurped your place. I will never see him again. I will never forgive him so long as my tongue can speak." '* Then may God forgive you," said Dino, in a strangely solemn m >f- ri ■?' 260 UNDKR FALSE PRETBNCES. voice, "for you are doing a worse iujustice, a worse wrong, than that done by the poor woman who tried to pnt her child in your son's place. Have you held that child upon your knee, kissed his face, and seen him grow up to manhood, without a particle of love for him in your heart ? Did you send him away from you with bitter reproaches, because of the accident which he would have given his own life to prevent? You have spoilt his life, ?«nd you do not care. Your heart is hard then, and God will not let that hardness go unpunished. Mother, pray that his judgments may not descend upon you for this." "You have no right to talk to me in that way," said Mrs. Luttrell, with a great effort. " I have not been unjust. You are ungrateful. If you go away from me, I will leave all that I possess to Hugo, as I intended to do. Brian, as you call him— Vincenza Vasari's son— shall have nothing." "And Brian is to be disinherited in favour of Hugo Luttrell, is he?" said Dino, in a still lower voice, but one which the listener felt instinctively had a dangerous sound. "Do you know what manner of man this Hugo Luttrell is, that you wish to enrich him with your wealth, and make him the master of Netherglen?" " I know no harm of him," she answered. He paused a little, and turned his face— was it consciously or unconsciously ?— towards the open door, from which could be seen the screen, behind which the unhappy listener crouched and quivered in agony of fear. Willingly would Hugo have turned and fled, but flight was now impossible. The fire was blazing brightly, and threw a red glow over all the room. If he emerged from behind the screen, his figure would be distinctly visible to Dino, whose face was turned in that direction. What was he going to say ? " I know no harm of him," she answered. " Then I will enlightpn you. Hugo Luttrell knew that Brian was alive, that I was in England, two months ago. A letter from the Prior of San Stefano must have been in some way intercepted by him ; he made use of his knowledge, however, he obtained it, to bring the niessa^es from Brian which were utterly false, to try and induce me to relinquish my claim on you ; he forged a letter from Brian for that purpose ; and finally " Mrs. Luttrell's voice, harsh and strident with emotion, against which she did her best to fight, broke the sudden silence. " Do you call it fair and right," she said, " to accuse a man of such faults as these behind his back ? If you want to tell me anything against Hugo, send for him and tell it to me in hia presence. Then he can defend himself." RETRIBUTION. 20l *' He will try to defend himself, no doubt," said Dino, Avith a note of melancholy scorn in his grave, young voice. "But I will do nothing behind his back. You wish him to be summoned?" " Yes, I do. Ring the bell Instantly I" cried Mrs. Luttrell, whose loving ardour seemed to have given way to the most unmitigated resentment. " Tell the servants to find him and bring him here. " They would not have far to go," said Dino, coolly. " He is close to hand. Hugo Luttrell, come here and answer for yourself." " What do you mean? "Where is he ?" exclaimed Mrs. Lutlrell, struck with his tone of command. " He is not in this room !" " No, but he is in the next, hiding behind that screen. He has been there for the last half-hour. You need play the spy no longer, sir. Have the goodness to step forward and show yourself." The inexorable sternness of his voice struck the listeners with amaze. Pale sm a ghost, trembling like an aspen leaf, Hugo emerged from his hiding-place, and confronted the mother and the son. h I iin: CHAPTER XXXII. RETRIBUTION. •• Confess l" said Dino, whose stern voice and outstretched, pointing finger seemed terrible as those of some accusing and avenging angel to the wretched culprit. "Confess that I have only told the truth. Confess that you lied and forged and cheated to gain your own ends. Confess that when other means failed you tried to kill me. Confess— and then"— with a sudden lower- ing of his tones to the most wonderful exquisite tenderness — " God knows that I shall be ready to forgive !" But the last words passed unheeded. Hugo cowered before his eye, covered his ears with his hands, and made a sudden dash to the door, with a cry that was more like the howl of a hunted wild animal, than the utterance of a human being. Mrs. Luttrell called for help, cud half-rose from her chair. But Dino laid his hand upon her arm. " Let him go," said he. '* I have no desire to punish him. But I must warn you." The door clanged behind the flying figure, and awakened the echoes of the old house. Hueo was gone : whither they knew not : away, perhaps, into the world of darkness that reigned without. Mrs. Luttrell sank back into her chair, trembling from head to foot. "Mother," caid Dino, going up to her, and kneeling before W I I I 262 UNDER FALSK PRETKNCfeS. her, " forgive mo if I have spoken too violently. But I could not bear that you should never know what sort of man this Hugo Luttrell has grown to be." Her hand closed convulsively on his. "How— how did you know— that he was there ?" "I saw his reflection in the mirror before me as he passed the open door. He was afraid, and he "id himself there to listen. Mot'ier, never trust him agn v." "i\ ever— never," she stamsoeretl "Stay with me— protect me." "You will not need my proi. ;ion," ' > said, looking at her with calm, surprised eyes. "You will iia.e your friends: Mr. Colquhoun, and the beautiful lady that you call Angela. And, for my sake, let me think that you will have Brian, too." " No, no 1" Her voice took new strength as she answered him, and she snatched her hand angrily away from his close clasp. " I will never speak to him again." " Not even when he returns ?" " You told me that he was gone to America?" " I feel sure that some day he will come back. He will learn the truth— that I have withdrawn my claim ; then he and Miss Murray must settle the matter of property between them. They may divide it ; or they might even marry." His voice was perfectly calm ; he had brooded over this arrange- ment for so long that it scarcely struck him how terrible it would sound in Mrs. Luttrell's ears. "Do you mean it?" she said, feebly. "You renounce your claim— to be— my son ?" "Oh, not your son, mother," he said, kissing the cold hand, which she immediately drew away from him. " Not your son 1 Not the claim to be loved, and the right to love you ! But let that rest between ourselves. Why should the money that I do not want come between me and you, between me and my friend ? Let Brian come home, and you will have two sons instead of one. " Rather say that I shall have no son at all," said Mrs. Luttrell, with gathering anger. "If you do this thing I cast you off. I forbid you to give what is your own to Vincenza Vasari's son." *' You make it hard for me to act if you forbid me," said Dino, rising and standing before her with a pleading look upon his face. "But I hold to my intention, mothei-. I will not touch a penny of this fortune. It shall be Brian's, or Miss Murray's— never mine." " The matter is in a lawyer's hands. Your rights will be proved in spite of you." RETRIBUTION. MS "I do not think they will. I hold the proofs in my hand. I can destroy them every one, if I choose." •'But you will not choose. Besides, these are the copies, not the originals." " No, excuse me. I obtained the originals from Mr. Brett. He expects me to take them back to him to-night." Dino held out a roll of papers. " They're all here. I will not burn them, mother, if you will send for Brian back and let him have his share." " They would be no use if he came back. You must have the whole or nothing. Let us make a bargain ; give up your scheme of entering a monastery, and then I will consent to some arrangement with Brian about money matters. But I will never see him." Dino shook his head. He turned to the fireplace with the papers in his hand. *' I withdraw my claims," he iSaid, simply. Mrs. Luttrell was quivering with suppressed excitement, but she mastered herself suflBciently to speak with perfect coldne&is. " Unless you consent to abandon a monastic life, I would rathor that your claims were given up," she said. "Let Elizabeth Murray keep the property, and do you and the man Vasari go your separate Avays." " Mother " "Call me 'mother' no longer," she said, sternly, "you are no more my son than he was, if >ou can leave me, in my loneliness and widowhood, to be a monk." " Then— thia is the end," said Dino. With a sudden movement of the hand he placed the roll of papers in the very centre of the glowing fire. Mrs. Luttrell uttered a faint cry, and struggled to rise to her feet, but she had not the strength to do so. Besides, it was too late. With the poker, Dino held down the blazing mass, until nothing but a charred and blackened ruin remained. Then he laid down the poker, and faced Mrs, Luttrell with a wavering but victorious smile. " It is done," he said, with something of exultation in his tone. " Now I am free. I have long seen that this was the only thing to do. And now I can acknowledge that the temptation was very great." With lifted head and kindling eye, he looked, in this hour of triumph over himself, as if no temptation had ever assailed, or ever could assail, him. But then his glance fell upon Mrs. Luttrell, whose hands fiercely clutched the arms of her chair, whose features worked with uncontrollable agitation. He fell on his knees before her. n i •ta- 264 UMDi:R FALSE PRETEN0X8. "Mother!" he cried. "Forgive me. Perhaps I was wrong. I will— I will ... I will pray for you." The last few words were spoken after a lonf? pause, with a fall in his voice, which showed that they were not those which he had intended to say when he bei^an the sentence. There was some- thing solemn and pathetic in the sound. But Mrs. Luttrell would not hear. "Gol" she said, hoarsely. "Go. You are no son of mine. Sooner Brian— or Hugo— than you. Go back to your monastery." She thrust him away from her with her hands when he tried to plead. And at last he saw that there was no use in arguing, for she pulled a bell which hung within her reach, and, when the servant appeared, she placed the matter beyond dispute by saying sharply :— " Show tl.is gentleman out." Dino looked at her face, clasped his hands in one last silent entreaty, and— went. There was no use in staying longer. The door closed behind him, and the woman who had thrust away from her the love that might have been hers, but for her selfish- ness and hardness of heart, was left alone. A whirl of raging, angry thoughts made her brain throb and reel. She had put away from her what might have been the great joy of her life ; her will, which had never been controlled by another, had been simply set aside and disregarded. "What was there left for her to do? All. the repentance in the world, would .not give her back the precious papers that her son had burnt before her eyes. And where had he gone ? Back to his monastery? Should she never, never see him again? Was he tramping the long and weary way to the Dunmuir station, where the railway engine would presently come shrieking and sweeping out of the darkness, and, like a fabled monster in some old fairy tale, gather him into its embrace, and bear him away to a place whence he would never more return? So grotesque this fancy appeared to her that her anger failed her, and she laughed a little to herself— laughed with bloodless lips that made no sound. A kind of numbness of thought came over her : she sat for a little time in blank unconsciousness of her sorrow, and yeo she did not sleep. And then a host of vividly- pictured images began to succeed each other with frightful rapidity across the tabula rasa of her mind. It seemed to her in that quiet hour she saw her soa as he walked down the dark road to Dunmuir. The moon was just rising ; the trees on either hand lifted their gaunt branches to a wild and starless sljy. Whose face, white as that of a corpse, gleamed from between those leafless stems? Hugo's, surely. RETntfitJTION. a6S And what did he hold in hia hand? Was it a knife on whlcli a faint ray of moonllglit was pn^'^y reflected? He was watching for tiiat solitary traveller who came with heedless step and hanging head upon the lonely road. In another moment the spring would be taken, the thrust made, and a dying man's blood would well out upon the stones. Could she do nothing? •'Bx'ian! Brian!" she cried— or strove to cry; but the shriek seemed to be stifled before it left her lips. "Brian I" Three times she tried to call his name, with an agony of effort whi'^h, perhaps, brought her back to consciousness— for the dream, if dream it was, vanished, and she awoke. Awoke— to the remembrance of what she had heard, con* cerning Hugo's attempt ou Dino's life, and the fact that she liad sent her son out of the house to walk to Dunmuir alone. She was not so blind to Hugo's inherited proclivities to passion ".nd revenge as she pretended to be. She knew that he was a dangei'ous enemy, and that Dino had incurred his hatred. What might not happen on that lonely road between Netherglen and Dunmuir if Dino (Brian, she called him) traversed it unwarned, alone, unarmed ? She must send servants after him at onco, to guard him as he went upon his way. She heard her maid in the next room. Should she call Janet, or should she ring the bell ? What a curiously-helpless sensation had come over her ! She did not seem able to rouse herself. She could not lift her hand. She was tired ; that was it. She would call Janet. " Janet 1 " But Janet did not hear. How was it that she could not speak? Her faculties were as clear as usual : her memory was as strong as ever it had been. She knew exactly what she wanted : she could arrange in her own mind the sentences that she wished to say. But, try as she would, she could not articulate a word, she could not raise a finger, or make a sign. And again the terrible dread of wliat would happen to the son she loved took possession of hev mind. Oh, if only he would return, she would let him have his way. What did it matter that the proof of his birth had been des- troyed? She would acknowledge him as her son before all the world ; and she would let him divide his heritage with whom- soever he chose. Netherglen should be his, and the three claimants might settle between themselves, whether the rest of the proJ)erty should belong to one of them, or be divided amongst the three. He might even go back to San Stefano; she would love him and bless him throughout, if only she knew that his life was safe. She went further. She seemed to be pleading with fate— or rather with God— for the safety of her -*l !f-. i UNDER FALSE PBETENrr«. son. Slio would receive Brian with open arms; she would try to love him for Dino's Rnke. She would do all and everything that Dino required from her, if only she cjuld conquer thin terrible helplessness of feeling, this dumbness of tongue which had come over her. Surely it wa« but a passhiK phase : surely when someone came and stood before her the spell would bo broken, and she would be able to speak once more. The maid peeped in, thought she was sleepinK, and quietly retired. No one ventured to disturb Mrs. Lutirell if she nodded, for at night she slept so little that even a few minutes' slumber in the daytime was a boon to her. A silent, motionless figure in her great ariu-chair, with her hands folded before her in her lap, she sat— not sleeping— with all her senses unnaturally sharp- ened, it seemed to her; hearing; every sound in the house, noting every change in the red embers of the lire in which the proof of her sou's history had been consumed, and all the while picturing to herself some terrible tragedy going on outside the house, which a word from her might have a' jrted. And she not able to pronounce that word ! Dino, meanwhile, had plunged into the darkness, without a thought of fear for himself, lie walked away from the house just as she had seen him in her waking dream, with head bent and eyes fixed on the ground. He took the right joad to Dunniuir, more by accident than by design, and walked beneath the rows of sheltering trees, through which the IocIj gleamed whitely on the one hand, while on the other the woods looked ominously black, without a thought of the revengeful ferocity whicli lurked beneath the velvet smoothness of Hugo Luttrell's outer demeanour. If something moved amongst the trees on his right hand, if something crouched amongst the brushwood, like a wild animal prepared to spring, he neither saw nor heard the tokens which might have moved him to sus- picion. But suddenly it seemed to him that a wild cry rang out upon the stillness of the night air. His friend's name— or was it his own?— three times repeated, in tones of heartrending pain and terror. *' Brian ! Brian ! Brian I" Whose voice had called him f Not that of anyone he knew. And yet, what stranger would use that name? He stopped, looked round, and answered : — " Yes, I am here." And then it struck him that the voice had been close beside him, and that, standing where he stood in the middle of the long, white road, it was quite impossible that any one could be so )iear, anu yet remain unseen. With a slight shudder he let his eyes explore the sides of the RXTRIBUTIOIf. M7 )ul(l try to B very thing uquer this ^uo which ase -. surely \ would bo md quietly she nodded, lea' slumber ,ule3s figure , her in her Lirally sharp- Ibe house, n which the atul all the ig on outside r jrted. And 33, without a ora the house I with head he right joad \ and walked [hlch the loch rier the woods he revengeful |ness of Hugo amongst the I amongst the L, he neither red him to sua- id cry rang out name— or was trtrending pain ice had called what stranger round, and [en close beside 1 middle of the lone could be so the sides of the road : the hedgerows, and the bank that rose on his right band towards the wood. Surely there was something that moved and stopped, and moved again amongst the bracken. With one hound DIno reached the moving object, and dragged it forth into the light. He knew whom he was touching before he !saw the face. It was Hugo wiio lurked in the hedgerows, waiting— and for what? "You heard it?" said Dino, as the young man crouched before him, scarcely daring to lift up his head, although at that moment, If he had had his wits about him, he could not Jiave had a better chance for the accomplishment of any sinister design. "Who called?" Mugo cast a quick startled glance at the wood behind him. "I heard nothing," he said, sullenly. " I heard a voice that called nic," said DIno. Then he looked jvt Hugo, and pressed his slioulder somewhat heavily with his hand. "What were you doing there? For whom were you waiting?" "For nobody," muttered Hugo. "Are you sure of that? I could almost believe that you were, waiting for me; and should I be far wrong? When I think of that other time, when you deceived me, and (rapped me, and left me dying, as you thought, in the streets, I can believe any- thing of you now." Hugo's trembling lips refused to articulate a word. He could neither deny the charge nor plead for mercy. DIno's exultation of mood led him to despise an appeal to any but the higher motives. He would not condescend to threaten Hugo with the police-court and the criminal cell. He loosed his hold on the young man's shoulder, and told him to rise from the half-kneeling posture, to which fear, rather than Dino's strength, had brought him. And when Hugo stood before him, he spoke in the tone of one to whom the spiritual side of life was more real, more important than any other, and it seemed to Hugo as if he spoke from out some other world. " There is a day coming," he said, " when the secrets of all men's hearts will be revealed. And where will you be, what will you do in that dread day? When you stand before the Judge of all men on His great white Throne, how will you justify yourself to Him ?" The strong conviction, the deep penetrating accents of his words, carried a sting to Hugo's conscience. He felt as if Dino had a supernatural knowledge of his past life and his future, when he said solemnly :— " Think of the secrets of your heart which shall then be mivde m 8m VMDBB FALSE PRBTHyOES. II kiiOTirn to all men. What have you done ? Have you not broken God's laws? Have you not in very truth committed murder? . . . There is a commandment in God's Word which says, •Thou Shalt not kill.'" "Stop, stop, for Heaven's sake, stop!" gasped Hugo, covering his face with his hands. "How can you know all this? I did not mean to kill him. I meant only to have my revenge. I did not know " " Nay, do not try to excuse yourself," said Dlno, who caught the words imperfectly, and did not understand that they referred to any crime but the one so nearly accomplished against himself. " God knows all. He saw what you did : He can make it manifest in His own way. Confess to Him now : not to me. I pardon you." There was a great sob from behind Hugo's quivering fingers ; but it was only of relief, not repentance. Dino waited a moment or two before he said, with the tone of quiet authority which was natural to him : — "Now fetch me the knife which you dropped amongst the ferns by the hedge over there." With the keen, quick sight that he possessed, he had caught a glimpse of it in the scuffle, and seen it drop from Hugo's hand. But the young Sicilian ♦^ook the order as another proof of the sort of superhuman knowledge of his deeds and motives which he attributed to Dino Vasari, and went submissively to the place where the weapon was lying, picked it up, and with hanging head, presented it humbly to the man whoso spiritual force had for the moment mastered him. "You must not return to Netherglen, said Dino, looking at him as he spoke. "My mother will not see you again : she does not want you near her. You understand ?" Hugo assented, with a sort of stifled groan. "I was forced to tell her, in order to put her on her guard. But if you obey me, I will tell no one else. I have not even told Brian. If I find that you return to your evil courses, I shall keep the secret of your conduct no longer. Then, when Brian comes home, he can reckon with you." " Brian !" ejaculated Hugo. — ■ " Yes : Brian. What I require from you is that you trouble Nether.'jlen no moie. I cannot think of you with peace in ray mother's house. You will leave it to-night— at once." " Yes," Hugo muttered. He had no desire to return to Netherglen. "I am going to Dunmuir," said Dino. "You can walk on with me." Hugo made no opposition. He turned his face vaguely in th^ WHAT PERCrVAL KN'EW. specified direction, and moved onward ; but the sound of Dino's voice, clear and cold, gave him a thrill of shame, amounting to positive physical pain. " Walk before me, if you please. I cannot trust you." They walked on: Hugo a pace or two in front, Dino behind. Not a word was spoken between them until they reached the chief street of Dunmuir, and then Dino called to him to pause. They were standing in front of Mr. Colquhoun's door. " You are not going in here ?" said Hugo, with a sharp note of terror in his voice. " You will not tell Colquhoun ?" " I will tell no one," said Dino, " so long as you fulfil the condi- tion I have laid upon you. This is our last word on the subject. God f-'-give you, as I do." They stood for a moment, face to face. The moon had risen, and its light fell peacefully upon the paved street, the old stone houses, the broad, beautiful river with its wooded banks, the distant sweep of hills. It fell also on the faces of the two men, not unlike in feature and colouring, but totally dissimilar in expression, and seemed to intensify every point of difference between them. There was a lofty serenity upon Dino Vasari's brow, while guilt and fear and misery were deeply imprinted on Hugo's boyish, beautiful face. For the first time the contrast between them struck forcibly on Hugo's mind. He leaned against the stone wall of Mr. Colquhoun's house, and gave veut to his emotion in one bitter, remorseful sob of pain. CHAPTER XXXIII. WHAT PERCIVAL KNEW. Mr. Colquhoun and Mr. Brett were sitting over their wine in the well-lighted, well-warmed dining-room of the lawyer's house. They had been friends in their earlier days, and were delighted to liave an opportunity of meeting (in a strictly unprofessional way) and chatting over the memories of their youth. It was a surprise to both of them when the door was opened to admit Dino Vasari and Hugo Luttrell : two of the last visitors whom Mr. Colquhoun expected. His bow to Dino was a little stiff: his greeting of Hugo more cordial than usual. " You cone from Mrs. Luttrell ?" he asked, in surprise, Hugo's pallid lips, and look of agitation, convinced him that some disaster was impending. But Dino answered with great composure. " I come to bring you news which 1 think ought not to be kept from you for a moment longer than is necessary," 'le said. n L m I ^1 "Pray take a glass of wine, Mr.— er— Mr.- The lawyer 270 UNDKR FALSE PRETENCES. 11 did not quite know how to address his visitor. " Won't you sit down, Hugo ?" "I have not come to stay," said Dino. "I am going to the hotel for the night. I wished only to speak to you at once." He put one hand ou the table by which he was standing and glanced at Mr. Brett. For the first time he showed some embarrassment. " I hopt it wi'i not inconvenience you," he said, " if I tell you that I have withdrawn my claim." Dead silence fell on the assembly. Mr. Brett pushed back his chair a little way and stared. Mr. Colcjflihoun shook his head and smiled. "I find," continued Dino, "that Mrs. Luttrell and I have entirely different views as to the disposition of the property and the life that I ought to lead. I cannot give up my plans— even for her. The easiest way to set things straight is to let the estate remain in Miss Murray's hands." " You can't !" said Mr. Colquhoun, abruptly. "Brian Luttrell is alive !" " Then let it go to Brian Luttrell." "My de^ir sir," said Mr. Brett, " you have offered us complete documentary evidence that the gentleman now on his way to America is not Brian Luttrell at all." " Yes, but there is only documentary evidence," said Dino. " The deaths of Vinceuza Vasari and Rosa Naldi in a railway accident deprived us of anything else." " Whei'e are those ^^apers ?" asked Mr. Brett, sharply. ** 1 hope they are safe." " Quite safe, Mr. Brett. I have burnt them all." The shock of this communication was too much, even for the case-hardened Mr. Brett. He turned positively pale. "Burnt them 1 Bui nt them !" he ejaculated. "Oh, the man is mad. Burnt the proofs of his position and birth " " I have done all that I wanted to do," said Dino, colouring as the three pairs of eyes were fastened upon him with different expressions of disbelief, surprise, and even scorn. " My mother knows that I am her son : that is all I cared for. That is what I came for, not for the estate." "But, my dear, young friend," said Mr. Colquhoun, with unusual gentleness, "don't you see that if Mrs. Luttrell and Brian and Miss Murray are all convinced that you are Mrs. Luttrell's son, you are doing them a wrong by destroying the proofs and leaving everybody in an unsettled state ? You should never have come to Scotland at all if you did not mean to carry the matter through." "That's what I say," cried Mr. Brett, who wfts working himself /If' WHAT PKRCIVAL KNEW. 27i up Into a violent passion. *' He has played fast and loose with all us! He has tiiclced and cheated me. Why, he had a splendid case ! And to think that it can be set aside in this way 1" " Very informal," said Mr. Colquhoun, shaking his head, but with a little gleam of laughter in his eye. If Dino Vasari had told the truth, the matter had taken a fortunate turn in Mr. Colquhoun's opinion. " Scandalous 1 scandalous I" exclaimed Mr. Brett. "Actionable, I call it. You had no right to make away with those papers, sir. However, it may be possible to repair the loss. They were not all there." "I will not have it," said Dino, decisively. "Nothing more shall be done. I waive my claims entirely. Brian and Miss Murray can settle the rest." And then the party broke up. Mr. Brett seized his client by the arm and bore him away to the hotel, ai'guing and scolding as he went. Before his departure, however, Dino found time to say a word in Mr. Colquhoun's ear. "Will you kindly look after Hugo to-night?" he,said. "Mrs. Luttrell will not wish him to return to Netherglen." " Oh ! There's been a quarrel, has there?" said Mr, Colquhoun eyeing the young man curiously. After a little consideration, Dino thought himself justified in saying " Yes." " I will see after him. You are going with Brett, You'll not have a smooth time of it." " It will be smoother by-and-bye. You will shake hands with me, Mr. Colquhoun?" "That I will," said the old lawyer, heartily. "And wish you God-speed, my lad. You've not been very wise, maybe, but you've been generous." " You will have Brian home, before long, I hope." " I liope so. I hope so. It's a difficult matter to settle," said Mr. Colquhoun, cautiously, "but I think we might see our way out. ol it if Brian were at home. If you want a friend, lad, come to me." Left alone with Hugo, the solicitor took his place once more at the table, and hastily drank off a glass of wine, then glanced at his silent guest with a queerly -questioning look. " What's wrong with ye, lad ?" he said. " Cheer up, and drink a glass of good port wine. Your aunt has quarrelled wit!; many people before you, and she'll like enough come to her senses in course of time," " Did he say I had quarrelled with my aunt?" aaked Hugo, in a dazed sort of way. 272 UKDEB FALSE PRETENCES. Hi I " Well, he said as much. He said there had been a quarrel. He asked me to keep an eye on you. Why, Hugo, my man, what'o, the matter?" For Hugo, utterly careless of the old man's presence, suddenly laid his arms on the table, and his head on his arms, and burst into passionate hysterical tears. " Tut, tut, tut, man ! this wi'l never do," said Mr. Colquhoun, rebukingly. " You're not a eiil, nor a child, to cry for a sharp word or two. What's wYong';" But he got no answer. Not even when Hugo, spent and ex- hausted with the violence of his emotion, lifted up his face and asked hoarsely for brandy. Mr. Colquhoun gave him what he required, without asking further questions, and tried to induce him to take some solid food ; but Hugo abs ately refused to swallow anything but a stiff glass o.f brandy and water, and allowed himself to be conducted to a bed-room, where he flung himself face downwards on the bed, and preserved a sullen silence. Mr. Colquhoun did not press him to speak. " I'll hear it all from Margaret Luttrell to-monow morning," he said to himself. " My mind misgives me that there have been strange doings up at Nethergleu to-night. But I'll know to-morrow." It was at that very moment that Angela Vivian, going into the dressing-room, found a motionless, silent figure, sitting upright in the wheeled arm-chair, a figure, not lifeless, indeed, but with life apparent only in the agonised glance of the restless eyes, w'hich seemed to plead for help. But no help could be given to her now. No more hard words could fall from those stricken lips : no more bitter sentences be written by those nerveless fingers. She might live for years, if dragging on a nr!ut-> maimed existence could be, indeed, called living; hut, as far ;t--. i < . erover the destiny of others, of doing good or lann to 1h-t io -dones, was concerned, Margaret Luttrell was practically dead ! Mr. Colquhoun heard the news of Mrs. Lutti-ell's seizure on the following morning, and made good use of it as a reproach to Dino in the conversation tbat he had with him. But Dino, although deeply grieved at the turn which things had taken, stood firm. He would have nothing to do with the Strati, leckie or the Luttrell properties. Whereupon, Mr. Colquhoun went straight to Miss Murray, and told her, to the i^est of his ability, the long and intricate story. Be it obs';rved that, although Z»Ir. Colquhoun knew that 6rian was living, and that he had lately been in England, It did not know of Brian s appearance at Strathleckie under the liM.n.o ol Stretton, and w.is, therefore, unable to give Elizubeth any inforniatiou on this point. WHAT PERClVAt KNEW. 878 Elizabeth was imperative in her decision. " At any rate," she said, "the property cannot belong to me. It must belong either to Mr. Luttrell or to Mr. Vasari. 1 have no ri^ht to it." " Possession is nine points of the law, my dear," said the lawyer. " Nobody can turn you out until Brian comes home again. It may be all a mistake." " You don't think it a mistake, Mr. Colquhoun?" Mr. Colquhoun smiled, ptirsed up his lips, and gave his head a little shake, as much as to say that he was not going to be tricked into any expression of his private opinions. " The thing will be to get Mr. Brian Luttrell back," said Eliza- beth. " Not such an easy thing as it seems, I am afraid. Miss Murray. The lad, Dino Vasavi, or whatever his name is, tried hard to keep him, but failed. He is an hoiiCst lad, I believe, this Dino, but he's an awful fool, you know, begging your pardon. If he wanted to keep Brian in England, why couldn't he write to me?" "Perhaps he did not know of your friendship for Brian," said Elizabeth, smiling. " Then he knew very little of Brian's life and Brian's friends, my dear, and^ according to his own account, he knew a good deal. Of course, he is a foreigner, and vve must make allowances for him, especially as he was brought up in a monastry, where I don't suppose they learn much about the forms of ordinary life. What puzzles me is the stupidity of one or two other people, Avho might have let me know in time, if they had had their wits about them. I've a crow to pluck with your Mr. Heron on that ground," con- cluded Mr. Colquhoun, never dreaming that he was makmg mis- chief by his communication. Elizabeth started forward. " Percival !" she said, contracting her brows and looking at Mr. Colquhoun earnestly. " You don't mean that Percival knew !" Mr. Colquhoun perceived that he had gone too far, but could not retract his words. " Well, my dear Miss Murray, .c- certainly knew something—" aiid then he stopped short and cmighed apologetically. "Oh," said Elizabeth, with a little extra colour in her cheeks, and the faintest possible touch of coldness, "no doubt he had his reasons for being silent; he will explain them when he comes." "No doubt," said the lawyer, gravely; but he chuckled a little to himself- over the account which Mr. Brett had given him that morning of Mr. Heron's disappointment. (Mr, Brett had thrown up the case, he told his friend Colquhouu ; would have nothing :* m u 1^ 11 m ill Ill [ill i\ 274 UNDER FALSE PRETENCES. more to do with it at any price. '* I think the case has Ihrown you up," said Mr. Colquhoun, laugliing slyly.) He liad taken up some papers which he had brought with him and was turning towards the door when a new thought caused him to stop, and address Elizabeth once more. " Miss Murray," he said, " I do not wish to make a remark that would be unpleasant to you, but when I remember that Mr. Heron was in possession of the facts that I have just imparted to you, nearly a week ago, I do think, like yourself, that his conduct calls for an explanation." "I did not say that I thought so, Mr. Colquhoun," said Elizabeth, feeling provoked. But Mr. Colquhoun was gone. Nevertheless, she agreed with him so far that she sent off a telegram to Percival that afternoon. " Come to me at once, if possible. I want you." When Percjval received the message, which he did on his return from his club abor'. eleven o'clock at night, he eyed the thin, pink paper on which it was written as if it had been a reptile of some poisonous kind. " I expected it," he said to himself, and all the gaiety went out of his face. "She has found something out." It was too late to do anything that night. He felt resentfully conscious that he should not sleep if he went to bed ; so he em- ployed the midnight hours in completing some items of work which ought to be done on the following day. Before to was light he had packed a hand-bag, and departed to catch the early train. He sent a telegram from Peterborough to say that he was on the \vay. Of course, it was late when he reached Strathleckie, and he assured himself with some complacency that Elizabeth would expect no conversation with 1 im until next morning. But he was a little mistaken. In her quality of mistress, she had chosen to send everyone else to bed ; the household was so well accustomed to Percival's erratic comings and goings, that nobody attached any importance to las visits ; and even old Mr. Heron appeared only for a few n.Inutes to gossip with his son while he t.tj a comfortable supp'^r, r^^r^ring at last, with a nod to his niece which Percivf i et-iily . nJerstood. It meant— "I will do now what you told uiPi you wisi.od— leave you together to have your talk out." i'md Pe.fiival kit irritated by Elizabeth's determination. " Will you smoke?" she a» ':;><'. whoi> the meal was over. ''I don't mind if I do. Wii rou uomc into the study— that s the smoking-room, is it not?- r is it ^oo late for you ?" " It is Tict very lato," said El. abeth. / ■WHAT PaROIVAT- KlfBYT. 976 -that s When they were seated in the study, Fercival in a great green arm-chair, and Elizabeth opposite to him in a much smaller one, lie attempted to take matters somewhat into his own hands. " I won't ask to-night what you wanted me for," he said, easily. "I am rather battered and sleepy; we shall talk better to- morrow." "Tou can set my mind at rest on one point, at any rate," rejoined Elizabeth, whose face burned with a feverish-looking flush. " It is, of course, a mistake that you knew a week ago of Brian Luttrell being in London?" " Oh, of course," said Percival. But the irony in his voice was too plain for her to be deceived by it. '* Did you know, Percival ?" " Well, if you must have the plain truth," he saiJ, sitting up and examining the end of his cigar with much attention, " I did." She was silent. He raisei his eyes, apparently with some effort, to her face ; saw there a rather shockid and startled look, and rushed immediately into vehement speech. "What if I did 1 Do you expect me to rush to ji-ou with every disturbing reporn I hear? I did not see this man, l^iian Luttrell ; I should not know him if I did— as Brian Luttrell, at any rate. I merely heard the story from a-— an acquaintance of mine " "Dino Vasari," said Elizabeth. "Oh, I see you know the facts. There is no need for me to say any more. Of course, you attach no weight to any reasons I misht have for silence." "Indeed, 1 do, Percival; or I should do, if I knew v/hat they were." "Can you not guess them?" he said, looking at her intently. " Can you think of no powerful motive that would make me anxious to delay the telling of the story?" " None," she said. " None, except one that would be beneath you." Beneath me? Is it possible?" scoffed Percival. "No motive is too base tor me, allow me to tell you, my dear child. I am the true designing villain of romance. Go on : what is the one bad motive which you attribute to me?" "I do not attribute it to you," said Elizabeth, slowly, but with some indignation. " I never in my life believed, I never shall believe, that you caved in the least whethei 1 was rich or poor." Percival paused, as if he had met with an unexpected check, and then went off into a tit of rather forced laughter. "So you never thought that," he said. "And tiiat was the only ""-"otive that occurred to you? Then, perhaps you will kindly tell me the story as it was told to you, for you seem ; i Ml i-i •V -iV' 1 1 • i 870 irMDXR FAL8K PRITENCSfl. ♦ i to have had a special edition. Has Dino Vasari been down here?" She jcave him a short account of the events that had occurred at Netherglen, and she noticed that as he listened, he forgot to smolce his cigar, and that he leaned his elbow on the arm of the great chair, and shaded his eyes with his hand. There was a certain suppressed eagerness in his manner, as he turned round wlien she had finished, and said, with lifted eyebrows :— "Is that all?" " What else do you know ?" said Elizabeth. He rubbeid his hand impatiently l)Hckw{irds and forwards on the arm c tlie chair, and did not spoak for a nionient. " What does Colquhoun advise you to (\o i" lie asked, presently. "To wait here until Brian Luttrell is found and brought home." " Brought hoii»e. They think lie will come ?" "Oh, yes. Why not? When everybody knows that he is alive there will be no possible reason why he should stay away. In fact, if he is a right-thinking man, he will see that justice requires him to come home at once." "I should not think, myself, that he was a right-thinking man." said Percival, without looking at her. "Because he allowed himself to be thouj!;ht dead?" said Elizabeth, watching him as he relighted his cigar. "But, tiien, he was in such terrible trouble— and the opportunity offered itself, and seemed so easy. Poor fellow 1 1 was always very sorry for him." "Were you?" " Yes. His motiitT, at least, Mrs. Luttrell, for I suppose she is not his mother really, must have been very cruel. From all that I have heard he was the last man to be jealous of his brother, or to wish any harm to him." " In short, you are quite prepared to look upon him as a Jieros de 7'onian, and worship him as such when he appears. Possibly you may think there is some reason in Dino Vasari's naive suggestion that you should marry Mr. Luttrell and prevent any division of the property." " A suggestion which, from you, Percival, is far more insulting than that of the motive which I did not attribute to you," said Elizabeth, with spirit. " You wouldn't marry Brian Luttrell, then?" "Percival!" "Not under any consideration ? Well, tell me so. I like to hear you say it." iElizabeth was silent. PICRCIVAL S ATONEMENT, 277 "Tell me so,' lie said, stretching out ]iis hand to her, and looking at her attentively, " and I will tell you the reason of my week's silence." "I have no need to tell you so," she answered, in a suppressed voice. "And if I did you would not trust me." "No,"hesaid,dril3', "p'M-haps not; butpromisome, all the same, th'it under no circumstances will you ever marry Brian Luttrell." "I promise," she said, in a low tone of humiliation. Her eyes were lull of tears. "And now let me go, Pcrcival. I cannot stay Willi vou— when you say that you trust me so little." He had taken advantage of her rising to seize her hand. Ho now tossed his cigar into the Are, and rose, too, still holding her hand in his. He looked down at her quivering lips, her tear-flUed eyes, with gathering intensity of emotion. Then he put both arms round her, pressed her to his breast with passionate velu'mcMiee, and kissed her again and again, on cheek, lip, neck, and brow. Slie shivered a little, but did not protest. " Tlicre !" he said, suddenly putting her away from him, and standing erect Avitli the black frowning line very strongly marlied npon his forehead. "I will tell you now why I did not try to keep Brian Luttrell in England. I knew that I ought to mal~o a row about it. I knew that I was bound in honour to write to Colquhoun, to you, to Mrs. Luttrell, to any of the people concerned. And I didn't do it. I didn't precisely mean not to do it, but I wanted to shift the responsibility. I thought it was other people'n business to keep him in England : not mine. As a matter of fact, I suppose it was mine. What do you say ?" "Yes," said Elizabeth, lifting her lovely, grieved eyes to his stormy face. " I think it was partly yours." " Well, I didn't do it, you see," said Percival. "I was a brute and a cad, I suppose. But it seemed fatally easy to hold one's tongue. And now he has gone to America." " But he can be brought back again, Percival." " If he will come. I fancy that it will take a strong rope to drag him back. "You want to know the reason for my silence? It isn't far to seek. Brian Luttrell and the tutor, Stretton, who fell in love with you, were one and the same person. That's all." And then he walked straight out of the room, and left her to her own reflections. CHAPTER XXXIV. percival's atonement. Percival felt a decided dread of his next meeting with Elizabeth. He cpuld not guess what would be the effect of his information c i ■a # it78 VNUBU FAI.8B PRETiSNGES. t ! \ I upon her mind, nor what would be her opiuiou of IiIh conduct. He was In a state of exaspcratinpc uncertainty about her views. The only thing of which ho was sure was her love and respect for truthfulness; he did not know whether she would ever for- give any lapse from it. " Though, if it comes to that," he said to himself, as he, finished his morning toilet, " she ought to be as angry with Stretton as she is with me ; for he took her in completely, and, as for me, I only held my tongue. I suppose she will say that 'the motive was everything.' Which con- firms me in my belief that one man may steal a horse, while the other may not look over the wall." And then he went down to breakfast. He was late, of course ; when was ho not late frr breakfast? The whole .family - party had assembled ; even Mrs. Heron was downstairs to welcome her step-son. Percival responded curtly enough to their greetings ; his eyes and ears and thoughts were too much taken up with Eliziibeth to bo bestowed on the rest of the family. And Elizabeth, after all, looked much as usual. Perhaps there was a little unwonted colour in her cheek, and life in her eye ; she did not look as if she had not slept,, or had had bad dreams; there was rather an unusually restful and calm expression upon her face. "Confound the fellow '."—thus Percival mentally apostrophised the missing Brian Luttrell. " One would think that she was glad of what I told her." Ho was thoroughly put out by this reflection, and munched his breakfast in sulky silence, listening cynically to his stepmother's idle utterances and Kitty's vivacious replies. He was conscious of some disinclination to meet Elizabeth's tranquil glance, of which he bitterly resented the tranquillity. And she scarcely spoke, except to the chil- dren. "I wonder how poor Mrs. Luttrell is to-day," Isabel Heron was saying. "It is sad that she should be so ill." "Yes, I wondered yesterday what was the matter, when I met Hugo," said Kitty. " He looked quite pale and serious. He was staying at Dunmuir, he told me. I suppose he does not find the house comfortable while his aunt is ill." " Rather a cold-blooded young fellow, if he can consider that," said Mr. Heron. "Mrs. Luttrell has always been very kind to him, I believe." "Perhaps he is tired of Netherglen," said Kitty. ("Nobody knows anything about the story of the two Brian Luttrells, then 1" Percival reflected, with surprise. " Elizabeth has a talent for silence when she chooses.") Kitty went on carelesslj- " Netherglen is damp in this weather, I don't think X should rERClVAt's ATONEMENf. fl99 luct. lows, spect r foi- ild to to be ler ia ppose I con- lie the )wn to ,ldast1 Heron ponded s and to bo ter all, wonted ik as if Lther an ophised he was by this stening Kitty's tion to ted the lie clill- Heron In I met JHe was Iflnd the ir that," Ikind to JNobody ittrells, la talent lelesslj- should care fo live there." Then shp blushed a Utile, as though some now thought liad occurred to her. "TIk! weatlier i;* growing quite autumnal," said Mrs. Heron, languidly. " We ought to return to town, and make our pre- parations " She looked with a sly smile from Percival to .'jli;;alielh, and paused. "When is it to be, Lizzie?" Elizahoili drow up her head hanghtily and said nothing. Pcrciviil glanced at lier, and drew no good augury from the L'old olVcucii visible in hor face. There was an awkwiird silence, which ]Mrs. Heron thou.'^ht it better to Mspel by rising from the tahle. Percival smoked his morning cigar on the terrace with his father, and wondered whether Elizabeth was not going to present herseU; and talk to him. He was ready to be very penitent and m;ike every possible sign of submission to her wishes, for he I'elt that he had wronged her in his mind, and that she nii.iiht justly be otlended with liim if she guessed his thoughis. He jmced up and down, iookinnin impatiently at the windows from time to time, hut still she came not. At last, standing disconsolately in the i)orch, he saw lier passing through the hall with little Jaclc in lier arms, and the other boys hanging on to her dress, quite in the old Gower-street fashion. "Elizabeth, won't you come out?" he said. "I can't, just now. I am going to give the children some lessons. I do that, first thing." "Always?" " Ever since Mr. Stretton left," she said. "Give them a lioliday. I want you. There are lots of things we have to talk about." "Are there? I thought there was nothing left to say," said she, sweetly but coldly. "But I am going to Dunnmir at half- past two this afternoon, and you can drive down with me if you like." She passed on, and shut herself into the study with the chil- dren. Percival felt injured. "She should not have brought rae all the way froni London if she had nothing to say," he grumbled. "I'll go back to-night. And I might as well go and see Colquhoun this morning." He went down to Mr. Colquhoun's office, and was not received very cordially by that gentleman. The interview resulted in rather a violent quarrel, which ended by Percival being re- quested to leave Mr. Colquhoun's presence, and not return to it uninvited. Mr. Colquhoun could not easily forgive him for neglecting to inform the Luttrells, at the earliest opportunity, of Brian's reappearance. " Wo should have saved time, ] •f- IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (M7-3) // ^ iy M 4^ ^ d IMi u.. 1.0 |50 i"^" li^H 1^ 1^ III 2.2 i "^ IIIM WUu II 1.4 1.6 I.I 1.25 4" ► 1 r % V) /. '\. .-^ > '^ <^ <■> .-> :^ '/ /A Hiotographic Sdences Corporation 23 WEST MAIN STREET WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580 (716) 872-4S03 Wo t 280 tTNDER FALSE PRETUNCKS. money, anxiety : we might have settled the matter without troubling Miss Murray, or agitating Mrs. Luttrell ; and I call it downright dishonesty to have concealed a fact which was of such vital importance," said Mr. Colquhoun, who had lost liis temper. And Percival flung himself out of the room in a rage. He was still inwardly fuming when he seated himself beside Elizabeth that afternoon in a little low carriage drawn by two grey ponies— an equipage which she specially affected— in order to drive to Dunmuir. For full five minutes neither of them spoke, but at last Elizabeth said, with a faint accent of sur< prise :— " I thought you had something to say to me." "I have 80 many things that I dont know where to begin. Have you nothing to say— about what I told you last night?" " I can only say that I am very glad of it." " The deuce you are I" thought Percival, but his lips were sealed. Elizabeth went on to explain herself. "lam glad, because now I understand various things that were very hard for me to understand before. I can see why Mr. Stretton hesitated about coming here ; I see why he was startled when he discovered that I was the Very gir). whom he must have heard of before he left England. Of coui'se, I should never have objected to surrender the property to its rightful ownar ; but in this case I shall be not only willing but pleased to give it b.ick." Her tone was proud and independent. Percival did not like it, but would not say so. "I was saying last night," she continued, "that Brian Luttrell must come back. This discovery makes his return all the more necessary. I am going now to ask Mr. Colquhoun what steps had better be taken for bringing him home." "Do you think he will come?" " He must come. He must be made to see that it is right for him to come. I have been thinking of what I will ask Mr. Colquhoun to say to him. If he remembers me " — and her voice sank a little—" he will not refuse to do what would so greatly lighten my burden." " Better write yourself, Elizabeth," said Percival, in a sad yet cynical tone. " You can doubtless say what would bring him back by the next steamer." She made no answer, but set her lips a little more firmly, and gave one of the grey ponies a slight couch with the whip. It was the silence that caused Percival to see that she was wounded. PERCIVAL's ATO^-I:MENT. 281 "I have a knack of saying what I don't mean," he remarked, rousing himself. " I beg your pardon for this and every olh-ir rude speech that I may make, Elizabeth ; and ask you to under- Btand that I am only translating my discontent with myself into words when I am ill-tempered. Have a little mercy on me, for pity's sake." She smiled. He thought there was some mockery in the smile. "What are you laughing at?" he said, abruptly, dropping the apologetic tone. "I am not laughing. I was wondering that you thought it worth while to excuse yourself for such a trifle as a rude word or two. I thought possibly, when I came out with you, that you had other apologies to make." *' May I ask what you mean?" "I mean that, by your own showing, you have not been quite straightforward," said Elizabeth, plainly. " And I thought that you might have something to say about it." " Not straightforward ! " he repeated. It was not often that his cheeks tingled as they tingled now. " What have I done to make you call me not straightforward, pray?" " You knew that I inherited this property because of Brian LuttrelVs death. You knew— did you not ?— that he had only a few days to spend in London, and that he meant to start for America this week. You must have known that some fresh arrangement was necessary before I could honestly enjoy any of his money— that, in fact, he ought to have it all. And, unless he himself confided in you under a promise of secrecy, or anything of that sort, I think you ought to have written to Mr. CJolquhoun at once." " He did not confide in me : I did not see him. It was Dino Vasari who sought me out and told me," said Percival, with some anger. "And did Dino Vasari intend you to keep the matter a secret?" "No. The real fact was, Elizabeth, that I did not altogether believe Vasari's story. I did not in the least believe that Brian Luttrell was living. I thought it was a hoax. Upon my word, I am half-inclined to believe so still. I thought it was not worth while to take the toouble." " You did not know where to find him, I suppose T ** WeU-^es ; I had titie address." " Aad you did iiothing ?" she said, fiashiug upon him a look of iadj^sosiit surprise. " I did nothing," returned Percival. " That Is what I complain of," she remarked, shortly. . SSSBSBSaSSBiS uu± VNDER VALSB PHETKIfCBS. For some time she drove on in silence, lip^htly flicking her ponies' heads from time to time with her whip, her face set steadily towards the road before her, her strong, well-gloved bands showing determination in the very way she held the whip and reins. Percival grew savage, and then defiant. "You ask too much," he said, palling his long moustache, and uttering a bitter laugh. " It would have been easy and natural enough to move Heaven and earth for the sake of Brian Luttrell's rights, if Brian Luttrell had not constituted himself my rival in another domain. But when his ' rights ' meant depriving you of your property, and placing Mr.Stretton in authority— I decline." " I call that mean and base," said Elizabeth, giving the words a low but clear-toned emphasiSj which made Percival wince. "Thank you," he said. And there was another long silence, which lasted until they drew up at Mr. Colquhoun's door. Percival waited for nearly an hour before she came back, and had time to go through every possible phase of anger and mortifi- cation. He felt that he had more reason on his side than Eliza- beth could understand : the doubt of Dino's good faith, which seemed so small to her, had certainly influenced him very strongly. No doubt it would have been bettei'— wiser— if he had tried to find out the truth of Dino's story ; but the sting of Elizabeth's judgment lay in the fact that he had fervently hoped that Dino's story was not true, and that he had refused to meet Dino's offv^r half-way, the offer that would have secured Eliza- beth's own happiness. "Would she ever hear a full account of that interview ? And what would she think of his selfishness if she came to know it? Ever since that conversation in Mr. Brett's office Percival had been conscious of bitter possibilities of evil in his own soul. He had had a bad time of it during the past week, and, when he contrasted his own conduct with the generous candour and uprightness that Elizabeth seemed to expect from him, he was open to confess to himself that he fell very short of her standard. She came back to her place attended by Mr. Colquhoun, who wrapped her rugs about her in a fatherly way, and took not the slightest notice of Mr. Percival Heron. She had some small pur- chases to make in the town, and it was growing almost dusk before they turned homewards. Then she began to speak in her ordinary tone. " Mr. Colquhoun has been telling me what to do," she said, "and I think that he is right. Dino Vasari has ali-eady gone bock to Italy, but befors he went, he signed a paper relinquishing all claim to the property in favour of Brian Luttrell and myself. Mr. Colquhoun says it was a useless thing to do, except as it ' ' Jl i>EnCIVAL*S ATONEMENT. she rous of who the pur- Idusk her said, tback ig aU liyself. as it shows his generosity and kindness of heart, and that it would not be valid in a court at all ; but that nothing further can be done, as he does not press his claim, until Brian Luttrell comes back to England or writes instructions. There might be a friendly suit when he came ; but that would be left for him (and, I suppose, myself) to decide. When he comes we shall try to get Dino Vasari back, and have a friendly consultation over the matter. I don't see why we need have lawyers to interfere at all. I should resign the property with a very good grace, but Mr. Colquhoun thinks that Mr. Luttrell will have scruples." " He ought to have," muttered Percival, bui; Elizabeth took no notice. "It seems that he went in a sailing vessel," she went on, in a perfectly calm and collected voice, " because he could get a very cheap passage in that way. Mr. Colquhoun proposes that wo should write to Pernambuco ; but he might not be expecting any letters — he might miss them— and go up the country ; there is no knowing. I think that a responsible, intelligent person ought to be sent out by a fast steamer and wait for him at Pernambuco. Then everything would be satisfactorily explained and enforced— better than by letter. Mr. Colquhoun says he feels inclined to go himself." She gave a soft, pleased laugh as she said the words ; but there \'as excitement and trouble underneath its apparent lightness. "That, of course, would never do; but he has a clerk whom he can thoroughly trust, and he will start next week for the Brazils." Percival sat mute. Had she no idea that he was suffering? She went on quickly. "Mr. Salt — that is the clerk's name— will reach Pernambuco many days before the sailing vessel ; but it ia better that he should be too early than too late. They may even pass the i^a?con— that is the name of Mr. Lrttrell's ship— on the way. The worst is " — and here her voice began to tremble—" that Mr. Colquhoun has heard a report that the Falcon was not— not— qui te— sea-worthy." She put up one gloved hand and dashed a tear from her eyes. Percival's silence exasperated her. For almost the iirst time she turned upon him with a reproach. "Will you remember," she said, bitterly, "if his ship goes to the bottom, that you might have stopped him, and — did not think it worth while to take the trouble ?" "Good God, Elizabeth, aow unjust you are I" cried Percival," impetuously. Vlisabeth did not anower. She had to put up her hand again t . Hi ! f w I'- '1 , ■■■ii *j~riiLiii» i . i ■-■ «•«■■ 284 tTNDI^ PALSE PJrttiTEN^CliiA. and apcain to wipe away bor tears. The strain of self-control had been a severe one, and when it once slipped away from her the emotion had to have its own way. Percival tried to tak^ the reins from her, but this she would not allow ; and they were going uphill on a quiet sheltered road of which the ponies knew every step as well as he did himself. When she was calmer, he broke the silence by saying in an oddly- muffled, hoarse voice :— "It is no use going on like this. I suppose you wish our engagement to be broken off?" "ir said Elizabeth. " Yes, you. Can't I see that you care more for this man Stretton or Luttrell than you caro for me ! I don't want my wife to be always sighing after another man." " That you would not have," she said, coldly. "I don't care. I know now what you feel. And if Stretton comes back, I suppose I must go to the wall." "I will keep my word to you if you like," said Elizabeth, after a moment's pause. She could not speak more graciously. " I did not think of breaking off the engagement : I thought that matter was decided." " Tou called me mean and base just now, and you expect me to put up with it. You think me a low, selfish brute. I may bu all that, and not want you to tell me so." Some of Percival's sense of humour — a little more grim than usual— was perceptible in the last few words. " I am sorry if I told you so. I will not tell you so again." " But you will feel it." " If you are low and base and mean, of course, I shall feel it,'* said Elizabeth, incisively. "It rests with you to show me that you are not what you say." Percival found no word to answer. They were near Strath- leckie by this time, and turned in at the gates without the exchange of another sentence. Elizabeth expected him to insist upon going back to London that night, or, at least, early next morning, but he did not propose to do so. He hung about the place next day, smoking, and speaking little, with a certain yellowness of tint in his com- plexion, which denoted physical as well as mental disturbance. In the afternoon he went to Dunmuir, and was away for some hours ; and more than one telegram arrived for him in the course of the day, exciting Mrs. Heron's fears lest something should have "gone wrong" with his business affairs in London. But he assured her, on his return, with his usual impatient frown, that everything was goinp exactly as he woxild like it to do. It wa» t»EIlCIVAL*S ATONEMEN*. 285 hail • the reins l^lng every )ddly- h our retton ) to be tretton h, after " I did i matter pect me may ^» erclvaVa •ceptlble a." feel It,*' me that Strath- bout the London did not Ismoking;, L his com- Iturbance. I for some the course ig should But he lown, that Itwaa wrtth one of ih-i teTcjraphic despatches crushed up in his hand, that he canu to Elizabeth as she sat in the drawing-room after dinner, and said, with a little paleness visible about his lips :— " Can I speak to you for a few moments alone 1" She looked up, startled ; then rose and led the way to an inner drawing-room, where they would be undisturbed. She seated Kerself in the chair, which, with unwonted ceremoniousness, he wheeled forward for her ; but he himself stood on the hearthrug, twisting and untwisting the paper in his hand, as if— extra- ordinary occurrence !— as if he were actually nervous. " I have a proposition to make to you," he said. He uttered his words very rapidly, but made long pauses between some of the sentences. " You say that Mr. Colquhoun is going to send out his clerk, Salt, to stop Brian Luttrell when he lands at Pernam- buco. I have just seen Mr. Colquhoun, and he agrees with me that this proceeding is of very doubtful utility. . . Now, dcn't interrupt me, 1 beg. If I throw cold water on this plan, it is only that I may suggest another which I think better. . . Salt is a mere clerk : we cannot tell him all the circumstances, and the agumcnts that he will use will probably be such as a man like Luttrell will despise. I mean that he will put it on the ground of Luttrell's own interests— not Dino Vasari's, or— or yours. . . What I propose is that someone should go who knows the story intimately, who knows the relations of all the parties.^. . If you like to trust me, I will do ray best to bring Brian Luttrell home again." " You 1" exclaimed Elizabeth. " Oh, Percival, no." •'And why not? I assure you I will act carefully, and I am sure I shall succeed. I have even persuaded Mr. Colquhoun of my good intentions— with some difficulty, I confess. Here is a note from him to you. He read it to me after writing it, and I know what he advises you to do." Elizabeth read the note. It consisted only of these words : "If you can make up your mind to let Mr. Percival Heron go in Salt's place, I think it would be the better plan.— J. C." "I'll be on my good behaviour, I promise you," said t'ercival, watching her, with a lightness of toue which was rather belied by the mournful expression of his eyes. "I'll play no tricks, either with him or myself ; and bring him safely back to Scotland — on my honour, I will. Do you distrust me so much, Elizabeth?" " Oh, no, no. "Would it not be painful to you? I thought— you did not like Mr. Luttrell." She spoke with great hesitation. Percival made a grimace. "I don't say tliat I do like him. I mean to say that I want to show you— and myself— that I do— a little bit— legret my silence, and will try my best to remedy the '•>' 286 Vl^DER FAME PRETENCRS. mischief caused by it. A frank confession which ought to please you." •• It does please me, I am sure of it. But you must not go— you must not leave your work " " Oh, my work can be easily done by somebody else. That is what this telegram is about, l>y-the-bye. I must send an answer, and it depends upon your decision." " Can I not consult any one ? My uncle ? Mr. Colquhoun?" **You know Mr. Colquhoun's opinion. My father will think exactly as you and I do. No. it depends entirely upon whether you think I shall do your errand well, Elizabeth, and whether you will give me the chance of showing that I am not so ungenerous and so base as you say yo i think me. Tell me to fetch Brian Luttrell home again, and I wUl go." And, with tears in her eyes, Elizabeth said, " Go." CHAPTER XXXV. DINO'S HOME-COMING. " It is to be understood," said Percival, two or three days later, with an affectation of great precision, " that I surrender none of my rights by going on this wild-goose chase. I shall come back in a few onths time to claim my bride." Eliz '. 1 - smiled rather sadly. " Very well," she said. " In ,t," Percival went on expansively, " I shall expect the weduing to be arranged for the day after my arrival, whenever fhat takp' i. '^ce. So get your white gown and lace veil ready, and we . ^•> lave Brian Luttrell as best man, and Dino Vasari to give you away." It was rather cruel jesting, thought Elizabeth ; but then Percival was in the habit, when he was in a good humour, of turning his deepest feelings into jest. The submission with which she listened to him, roused him after a time to a per- ception that his words were somewhat painful to her ; and he relapsed into a silence which he broke by saying in an entirely different sort of voice :— " Have you no message for Brian Luttrell, Elizabeth T *• You know all that I want to say." "But is there nothing else? No special message of remem- brance and friendship?" " Tell him," said Elizabeth, flushing and then paling again, " that I shall not be happy until he comes back and takes what is his own." " Well, I can't say anything much stronger," said Percival, drilj. " I will remember." DIKO'8 ROME-eOMIirff. 28T Aease )-you Chat is nswer, ar I think irhether beryou enerous h Brian i,y8 later, (f none ot ome back xpect the whenever eU ready, o Vasarl |but then itnour, of sion with to a per- .• ; and he Ln entirely )f remem- tng again, [akes what llval, drily. They talked no more about themselves, until the day on which he was to start, and then, when he was about to take his leave of her, he said, in a very low voice :— '* Do you mean to be true to mo or not when Luttrcll comes home, Elizabeth?" •• I shall keep my word to you, Pevcival. Oh, don't— don't— say that to me again !" she cried, bursting into tears, as she saw the lurking doubt that so constantly haunted his mind. " I won't," he said. " I will never say it again if you tell mc that you trust me as I trust you." " I do trust you." " And I am not so base and mean as you said I was ?" For, perhaps, the first time in her life, she kissed him of her own accord. It was with this kiss burning upon liis lips that Percival leaned out of the window of the railway -carriage as the train steamed away into the darkness, and waved a last farewell to the woman he loved. He had been rather imperious and masterful during the last few days ; he felt conscious of it now, and was half-sorry for it. It had seemed to him that, if he did this thing for Brian LuLtreil, he had at least the right to some reward. And he claimed his reward beforehand, in the shape of close companionship and gentle words from Elizabeth. He did not compel her to kiss him —he remembered his magnanimity in that respect with some complacency— but he had demanded many other signs of good* fellowship. And she had seemed ready enough to render tliem. She had wanted to go with him and Mr. Heron to London, and help him to prepare for the voyage. But he would not allow her to leave Strathleckie. He had only a couple of days to spare, and he should bo hurried and busy. He preferred saying good- bye to her at Dunmuir. The reason of his going was kept a profound secret from all the Herons except the father, who gave his consent to the plan cordially, though with some surprise. "But what will become of your profession ?" he had asked of Percival. " Won't three or four months' absence put you sadly out of the running f "You forget my prospects," Percival replied, with his ready, cynical laugh. " When I've squared the matter with Brian Luttrell. and married Elizabeth, I shall have no need to think of my profession." Mr. Heron shifted his ej'e-glasses on his nose uneasily, and screwed up his face into an expression of mild dis- approval, but couldn't think of any suitable reply. " Besides/' said Percival, "I've got a commission to do some papers on Brazilian life. The Evening Mail will take them. And I am 288 rNDXB VALSE PBETENCE8. going to write a boolc on ' Modern Morality' as I go out. I fully expect to make my literary work pay my travelling expenses, air." "I tliought Elizabetli paid tliose," said Mr. Heron, in a hesitating sort of way. "Well, she thinks she will do so," said Percival, "and that's all she need know about the matter." Mr. Colquhoun, to whom Elizabeth had gone for advice on the day after Fercival's proposition, was very cautious in what he said to her. " It's the best plan in the world," he remarked, " in one way." " In what way ?" asked Elizabeth, anxiously. "Well, Mr. Heron goes as your affianced husband, does he not? O^ course, he can represent your interests better than any- body else." "I thought he was going to prevent my interests from being too well represented," said Elizabeth, half-smiling. " I want him to make Mr. Luttrell understand that I have no desire to keep the property at all." "There is one drawback," said Mr. Colquhoun, "and one that I don't see how Mr. Heron will get over. He haa never seen Brian, has he? How will he recognise him? For the lad's probably gone under another name. It's just a wild-goose chase that he's starting upon, I'm afraid." "They have seen each other." "Mr. Heron didn't tell me that. And where was it they saw each other, Miss Murray?" " In Italy —and here. Here at Strathleckie. Oh, Mr. Colquhoun, it was Brian Luttrell who came with us as the boys' tutor, and we did not know. He called himself Stretton." And then Elizabeth shed a small tear or two, although she did not exactly know why. Mr. Colquhoun's wrath and astonishment were not to be des- cribed. That Brian should have been so near him, and that they should have never met 1 " I should have known him anywhere I" cried the old man. " Grey hair ! do you tell me? What difference does that make to a man that knew him all his life, and his father before him? And a beard, you say? Toots! beard or no beard, I should have known Brian Luttrell anywhere." -Angela Vivian, being taken into their confidence, supplied ibem with several photographs of Brian in his earlier days. And Fwqivol was admitted to Netberglen to look at a portraiD of the brothers (or reptited brothers), painted not long before BJchard's death. He looked at it long and carefully, but acknowledged afterwards that he could not see any likeness between his come] she pj DINO'S HOME-COMING. 280 memories of Mr. Stretton aud the pictured face , with its fine contour, brown moustache, and smiling eyes, a face in which an expression of 8li>?ht melancholy seemed to bo the index to intense susceptibility of temperament and great reflnemeiit of mind. " The eyes are like Stretton's," he said, "and that is all." He took two of the photographs with him, however, as part of his equipment. Mrs. Luttrell continued In the state in which she liad been found after her interview with Dlno. She could not speak : she could not move : her eyes had an awful consciousness In them which told that she was living and knew what was going on around her: otherwise she might easily have been mistaken for one already dead. It was dlftioult to imagine that she understood the words spoken in her presence, and for some time her attendants did not realise this fact, and spoke with less caution than they might have done respecting the affairs oC the neigh« bourhood. But when the doctor had declared that her mind was unimpaired, Mr. Colquhoun thought it better (o come ana give her some account of the things that had been done during her illness, on the mere chance that she might hear and understand. He told her that Dlno had gone to Italy, that Brian had sailed for South America, and that Perclval Heron had gone to fetch him back, in order to make some arrangement about the property which Elizabeth Murray wished to give up to him. He thought that there was a look of relief in her eyes when he had finished ; but he could not be sure. Hugo, after staying for some dayd at the hotel in Dunmulr, ventured rather timidly back to Netherglen. Now that Dino was out of the way, he did not see why he should not make use of his opportunities. He entered the door of his old home, it was true, with a sort of superstitious terror upon him : Dino had obtained a remarkable power over his mind, and if he had been either in England or Scotland, Hugo would never have dared to present himself at Netherglen. But his acquaintances and friends — even Angela — thought hts absence so strange, that he was encouraged to pay a call at his aunt's house, and when there, he was led, almost against his will straight into her presence. He had heard that she could not speak or move ; but he was hardly prepared for the spectacle of complete helplessness that met his gaze. There might be dread and loathing in the eyes that looked at him out of that Impassive face ; but there was no possibility of the utterance by word of mouth. An eternal silence seemed to have fallen upon Margaret Luttrell : her bitterest enemy might come and go before her, and against none of his devices could she protect herself. 200 UNDER FALSE rRETENCES. While looking at ber, a thought flashed across Hugo's mind, and matured itsnlf later in the day into a complete plan of action. He remembered the will that Mrs. Lnttrcll had made In hia favour. Had that will ever been signed 1 By the curious brusquencss with which Mr. Colquhoun had lately treated him, he fancied that It had. If it was signed, lie was the heir ; ho would be the master ultimately of Netherglen. Why should he go away? Dino Vasari had ordered him never to come again into Mrs. Luttrell's presence ; but Dino Vasari was now shut up in some Italian monastery, and was not likely to hear very much about the affairs of a remote country-house in Scotland. At any rate, when Mrs. Luttrell was dead, even Dino'could not object to Hugo's taking possession of his own house. When Mrs. Luttrell was dead I And when would she die? The doctor, whom Hugo consulted witli great professions of affection for his aunt, gave little hope of long life for her. He wondered, he said, that she had survived the stroke that deprived her of speech and the use of her limbs : a few weeks or mouths, in his opinion, would see the end. Hugo considered the situation very seriously. It would be better for him to stay at Netherglen, where he could ascertain his aunt's condition from time to time, and be sure that there were no signs of returning speech and muscular power. Dared he risk disobedience to Dino's command? On deliberation, he thought he dare. Dino could prove nothing against him : it would be assertion against assertion, that was all. And most people would look on the accusations that Dino would bring as positive slander. Hugo felt that his greatest danger lay in his own cowardice— his absence of self-control and superstitious fear of Dino's eye. But if the young monk were out of England there was no present reason to be afraid. And when such a piece of luck had occurred as Mrs. Luttrell's paralytic stroke seemed likely to prove to Hugo, it would be folly to take no advantage of it. Hugo had had one or two wonderful strokes of luck in his life ; but he told himself that this was the greatest of all. He was rather Inclined to attribute it to his possession of a medal which had been blessed by the Pope (for, as far as he had any religion at all, Hugo was still a Romanist), which his mother had hung round his neck whilst he was a chubby- faced boy in Sicily. He wore it still, and was not at all above considering it as a charm for ensuring him a larger slice of good fortune than would otherwise have fallen to his share. And, therefore, in a few days after Mrs. Luttrell's seizure, Hugo was once again at Netherglen, ruling even more openly and im- periously than he had done in the days of his aunt's health and r \ • ttlNO's IIOMK-COMINO. 291 jn. hlR nus lui, I he gain it up nuch bany ,b.iect Mrs. DUB of r. He prlved lonUw, ►uld be jcortain it tbere Dared ,Joti, he hitn" **■ Ud most [bring o» \y in his Mous fear ]Bng^ant\ h a piece |e seemed Bintage ot ^ckinhls it of all. jion of a Iftx as he t), which ,'chubby- , all above it slice of bis share, iure, Hugo [y and im- lealth and strength. Hli presence there, and Mrs. Luttrcll's helplessness, caused some of Angela Vivian's friends lo object Hcrlously to iier continued residence at Netherglen. She was still a young woman of considerable beauty; and Hugo was two-and-twenty. Of what use could she be to Mrs. Luttrell? She ought, at any rate, to have an older friend to chaperono her, to be with her in her walks and drives, and be present at the meals which she and Hugo now shared alone. Angela took little notice of the remonstrance of aunts and cousins, but when she heard that her brother Rupert was coming to stay at the Herons, and pro- posed to spend a day or two at Netherglen on his way thither, she felt a qualm of fear. Rupert was very careful of his sister : she felt sure that she would never be permitted to do what he thought in the least degree unbecoming. Meanwhile, the man who had resolved to bo known as Dino Vasari for his life-time— or at least until he laid down his name, together with his will, his affections, and all his other possessions at the door of the religious house which he desired to enter, was hastening towards his old home, his birthplace, (whether he was Dino Vasari or Brian Imttrcll) under sunny Italian skies. He did not quite dare to think how he should bo received. He had thwarted the plans of the far-seeing monks : he had made their anxious efforts for his welfare of no avail. He had thrown away the chance of an inheritance which might have been used for the benefit of his Church : would the rulers of that Church easily forgive him ? He reached San Stefano at night, and took up his quarters at the inn, whence he wrote a letter to the Prior, asking to be allowed to see him, and hinting at his wish to enter the monastery for life. Perhaps the humility of the tone of his epistle made Father Cristoforo suspect that something was wrong. To begin with, Dino was not supposed to act without the advice of those who had hitherto been his guardians, and he had committed an act of grave insubordination in leaving England without their permission. The priest to whom he had reported himself on his arrival in London, had already complained to Father Crlstoioro of the young man's self-reliant spirit, and a further letter had given some account of "very unsatisfactory proceedings" on Dino's part— of a refusal to tell where he had been or what he had been doing, and, finally, of his sudden and unauthorised departure from British shores. This letter had not tended to put Father Cristoforo into charity with his late pupil— child of the house, as, in a certain sense, he had been for many years, and special pet and favourite with the Prior— he was rather inclined to order Dino back to England without loss of time. Fadre Cristoforo set 1|i^ 1 .-.I ::o2 UNDER FALSE PBETENCfi.^. N< iiiir a high value upon that inheritance in Scotland. He wished to secure it for Dino— still more for tbe Church. He sent back a curt verbal answer. Dino might come to the cloisters on the following morning after early mass. The Prior would meet him there as he came from the monastery chapel. Dino was waiting at the appointed hour. In spite of the dis- pleasure implied in Padre Cristoforo's message, his heart was swelling >. ith delight at the sigLt of the well-known Italian hills, at the sunshine and the sweet scents that came to him with the cr;^3tal clearness of the Italian atmosphere. He loved the white walls of the tronastery, the vine-clad slopes and olive groves around it, the glimpses of purple sea which one caught from time to time in the openings left in the chestnut-woods, where he had wandered so often when he was a boy. These things were daar to Dino : he had loved them all his life, and it was a veritable home-coming to him when he present'^d himself at San Stefano. And yet the home-coming would not bo without its peculiar trials. Never once had Father Cristoforo been seriously angry with him, and the habit of obedience, of almost filial reverence^ reviving in Dino's heart as ho approached the monastery precincts, made him think with some awe of the severity which the Prior's face had sometimes shown to impenitent culprits. Was he impenitent ? He did not know. Was he afraid ? No, Dino assured himself, looking up to the purple mountains and the cloudless sky, with a grave smile of recognition and profound content, he was afraid of nothing now. He waited until the service was over. The peal of the organ, the sound of the monks* chant, reached him where he stood, but he did not enter the little chapel. A sense of unworthiness came over him. As the short, sharp stroke of the bell smote upon his ear, he fell upon his knees, and rested his forehead against the wnll. Old words of prayer rose familiarly to his lips. He remem- bered his sins of omission and comnaission— venial faults they ./ould seem to many of us, but black and heinous in pure- Learted Dino's eyes— and pleaded passionately for their forgive- ness. And then the words turned into a prayer for the welfare oi his friend Brian and the woman that ^rian loved. Dino was one of those rare souls who love their neighbour better than themselves. The Prior quitted the chapel at last, and approached his former pupil. He did not come alone, but the brothers who followed him kept at some little distance. Some of the other occupants of tlie monastery— monks, lay-brofiers, pupils— occasionally passed l)y, but they did not even lift i^neir eyes. Still, there was a certain inNo's HOME co^tI^'d. 20!) organ, d, but camo on his lat tbo mem- , they purc- >rgive- elfare o was than Ifor'Jfte' led him of tV.o sed »)y, Icevtaia Hense of publicity al.oui; tiie interview wliicli made Diiio feel that he was not to be we1coined~0)i1y jud^otl. Father Cristoforo'a face was terrible in its very impasisivtueSH. 'J'iiere was no trace of emotion in tliose rigidly-set features and piercing eyes. He looked at Dino foi- some minutes before he spoke. The young n)a>i retained his kneeliup postnre until liie Pricr said, briefly — •'Rise. Dino stood up immediately, wiih folded arms and bowed head It was not his part to speak till lie was que;slioned. " You left England without permission," said the Prior in a dry tone, rather of assertion than of inquiry." " Reverend Father, yes." "Why?" "Tliere was no reason for me to stay in England. The estate is not mine." "Who says it is not?" "Reverend Father, I cannot take it away from those to whom it now belongs," said Dino, faltering, and grow^lng red and white by turns. The Prior looked at him with an examining eye. In jspile of his apparent coldness, he was .shocked by the change t l\at he perceived in his old pupil's bearing and appearance. Tiie flnely-cuf; face was wasted ; the"e were hollows in the temples and the cheaks the dew of perspiration upon the forehead marked physical weakness as well as agitation. Tliere was more kindness iu the Prior's manner as he said : — ."Yon felt, perhaps the need of rest? The English winds are keen. You came to i*ecrait yourself before going back to fight your cause in a court of law ? You wanted help and counsel ?" Dino's head sank lower upon his breast : ho breathed quickly, and did not speak. ** Had ycu not proof sufficieiit ? I sent all necessary papers by a ti'usty messenger. You received them?" " Yes." Dino's voice had sunk to a hoarse whisper. " You have them with you?" Dino flashed one look of appeal into the Prior's face, and then sank on his knees. "Father," he said, desperately, " I have not done as you commanded me. I could not fight this cause. I could not turn them out of their inheritance --their home. I destroyed all the papers There is no proof left." In spite of his self-possession the Prior staited. Of this con- • tingency he had certainly never thought. He came a stepnpai'er to the young maii, and spoke with astonished urgency. "You destroyed the proofs ? You? Every one of them ?" V Ml tilll r* If !i ■1 'MUIJi.iII!i_ imimh^ 294 UNDKR FALSH? PRKIKNCKS. "Every one." A sudden white chanfi;e passed over Paclie Ciislofuro's face. His lips locked themselves together until they looked like a single line; his eyes flashed ominously beneath his heavy brows. In his anger he did, as he was privileged to do to any inferior member of his community, forgetting that Dino Vasarl, with his flve-and- twenty years, had pasted from under his control, and was free to resent an offered indignity. But Dino had laid himself open to rebuke by adopting the tone of a penitent. Thence it came tliat the Prior lifted his han«. and si ruck him, as he sometimes struck an offending novice— struck him sharply across the face. Dino turned scarlet, and (hen white as death ; lie sank a little lower, and crushed his tliin fingers more closely together, but he did not speak. For a moment there was silence. The waiting monks, the passing pupils who saw the blow given and received, wondered what had been the oftVnce of one who used to be con- sidered the brightest oriianient of the monastic school, the pride and glory of his teachers. His fault mn.^t be grave, indeed, if it could move the Prior to such wrath. Padre Cristoforo stood with his hand lifted as if he meant to repeat the blow ; then it fell slowly to his side. He gathered his loose, black robe round him, as though he would not let his skirts touch the kneeling figure before him— the scorn of his gesture was unmistakable— and hastily turned away. As he went, Dino fell on his face on the marble pavement, crushed by the silence rather than the blow. Monks and pupils, following the Prior, passed jtheir old companion, and did not dare to speak a word of greeting. But Dino would not move. A wave of religious fervour, of pas'iionate yearning for the old devotional life, had come across him. He might die on the pavement of the cloister ; he would not be sorry even to die and have done with che manifold per- plexities of life ; but he would not rise until the Prlov- the only father and protector that he had ever known— bade him rise. And so he lay, while the noon-day sunlight waxed and waned, and the drowsy afternooa declined to dewy eve, and the purple twilight faded into aight. If the hours seemed long or short, he could not tell. A sort of stupor came over him. He knew not what was going on around him ; dimly he heard feet and «?oices, and the sound of bell"' u.nd music, but which of the sounds came to Mm in dreams, and which were reilities, he could not tell. It was certainly a dream that Brian and Elizabeth )jtood beside him hand-in-hand, and told hsm to take courage. That, as he knew afterwards, was quite too impossible to be true. But it was a dream that brought him peace. BY I.AND AND SEA. CHAPTER XXXVI. BV LAND AND SEA. 293 A^ . . J'AND jVND spa -At night the Pii room, where the PHh. '"^ ^'^'^^''^ wasoXpi, ' ^^^^ ^vassaid; fino an additioVa?" r.""^/^ ^'^ eon^ f^^ l^«;'"'"''^«»««^■ "freven of sympaThv"'^ '"^»' »>ut\ot devo'idT'"*^^ P'^^e- his mfclier Kr^n ?ea^^; ?* '^^^ived Di,^o tTn, °' ^°'»P«««lon. speaking. -J win . f!' ^"<^ ^^'d him to Z? "^ ^'eJa'^ation of felteons^ciousof sln,^^^^,'^ ^o yo« fi^tii f.',3^"''.,^'-'nk before -She looked at hfrn"' ''"^' ^^ eompa,ssion''i„ he "d '„,""? ^"- ^'"0 sat, therefore anH . • , '''' ^ ^^^^ ^as ahnost in vain \m ^^'^^ <=o eat and^i.- , , of bread and wa^er n^^ ^^ ''^^ ^^vvaUowe ':'; '"^ "»« ^^'-t that hecouJd toloh Z^""^ ^'tb a little ZT '' "' monthfuls for the Prior's questtn' ''^ "^ ^'^ oken ZV V''^'^ ^«« *' While been walkl^^'^,"; ^ ^^^ather Crisi'UorU^^^ ^'^^y at once stopped shorf « ? ^'^'^" "'e room wi/i, ^*^ "^ea*^- ^I^etitbefemtnt. LjhatT^'^^^^^'^- ' '''"'^^ ""'•' stern-voiced pri«st a«. .« • '"° ^^^^ towards H..- His affections were ,t .o^"^ ^ «"" ^^«'« towards V"^^"^'" **««^' expend them. TltePrim ^' ''"^ ^'^ ''^^ fe^vol'Ltl '" ^^"'«''- pleasure of one in „ 'f/ « an^er meant to hUn,T^ °" ^^'cb to shielded and envelL?,";"'^^^' ''"^ the loss of ^^'^''^''^^^^ ^'s- school When h "was ?:; '"" ^"^'' ^'"^^e he e^me totT ^''^'^ ^^^ need of it; withoTtI/ Z^*^'* ''^^- He«eemed fn h ^ '"^''astery- Father C:!^^^ Va'^^as i»;po.ssib,rtrgo'o?''^ ^" «''-'"'« -^r::^^^;^?;!^-^-- o/sfc -- sort <^e-.nin^the wiv i,f'"?.?^"^"S»^ a searchL "v ''^'^^'''"^«« ^o Dino c^Jswerldhil n 'l^:'^ '^^ *>ad speitZ ,'''"" '^"°" «<>"■ that he wlTed to hlU''^'^"^^ ^""^ and clearlv-T l"" ^"«'«"d- of a wish to eve L r^^- ^'^" <^''« Pnor co 'J "^ J'*^^ "«^'»"g -i^b Hugo^Ttrdirf^ Hetcid ^'-r;'oriisi;;r '''"' hi« innocence w^r ^*''"'°"' ^"owing t\Tat he J'"!!^' ^"''^ «"t of bis inte?!ou^^i l?""'^ ^'^ Hugo's ^lo rl ^' "^"^"'^ «°) of >^ess hinged °ohi:f'' ^^'^»' ^^^ di« o very tha.'n"' '^ ^^^^^'^^ J'Ufi 296 UNDER FALSE PRETENCES. to unravel the very taugled skein of his friend't fortunes. Mr. Brett's opinion of the case, Brian's letter to Mrs. Luttrell, Dino's own visit to Scotland, with its varied eflfects, includinR the final destruction of the papers— all this was quietly and fully detailed, with an occasional interruption only from fadre Cristoforo in the shape of a question or » muttered comment. And when the whole story was told the Prior spoke. Everything that Dino had done was, of course, wrong. He ought never to have seen Hugo, or dined with him : he ought to have gone to Father Connolly, the priest to whose care he had heen recommended, as soon as he came out of hospital : he ought never to have interfered in Brian's love affairs, nor gone to Scotland, nor sought to impose conditions on Mrs. Luttrell, nor, in short, done any of the thousand and one things that he had done. As for the destruction of the papers, it was a point on which he (Fatlier Cristoforo) hardly dared, he said, with a shrug of his shoulders, to touch. The base ingratitude, the unfaithfulness to the interests of the Ch'irch, the pre- sumption, the pride, the wilfulness, manifested in that action, transcended all his powers of reprobation. The matter must be referred to a higher authority than his. And so forth. And every word he said was like a dagger planted in Dino's breast. As for his desire to be a monk, the Prior repudiated the notion with contempt. Dino Vasari a monk, after this lapse from obedience and humility? He was not fit to do the humblest work of the lowest servant of those who lived by the altar. He had not even shown common penitence for his sin. Let him do that: let him humble himself: let him sit in dust and ashes, metaphorically speaking: and then, by-and-bye, the Church might open her arms to him, and listen to the voice of his prayer. But now — Father Cristoforo declined even to hear any forma', confession : his pupil must wait and prepare himself, before he was fit for the sacrament of penance. To Dino, this was a hard sentence. He did not know that the Prior was secretly much better satisfied with his submissive state of mind than he chose to allow, or that he had made up his mind to relax his severity on the morrow. Just for this one night the Prior had resolved to be stern and harsh. "I will make hin\ eat dust," he said to himself, out of Iris real vexation and disappointment, as he looked vengefully at Diuo, who was lying face downwards on the ground, weeping with all the self- abandonment of his nature. "He must never rebel again." The Prior knew that his measures were generally effectual: he rn ant to take strong ones now. " There is something more in it that I can understand," he mur- Dino stiugj^^ed to ;.• i '^ ' '"'^ ^"« see your fan. " " ^"*^^ "^t in Jife; but if "^ " '"-'^ only .„„!/'^'^ "''"<^'' "ever )e„c° fo,«eu',er" " ""■"^^ "^'"ee" m/and ^JJ I^P'""'' "<» once ^?»t M.e naule tiat'iv'- "»«'■»»„,«?'•'" """" »'■«»'"■ ha^ :"-tirci;-?r ^ - - -' -- see the monJl *"'" ^'er out tlI ^ ^°"'' '"'leritance- to ,ove." ^^^-^'-« - they cFa4e?e:e"o hT ^:T- '^^"■"«' nie Prior gave him . i '' '"* «'" your faitli trvll ? ^'*"»' s<^eady gaze « v , have forgotten v" ^T'" ^'^ ^^i^, "ami M .°" '^^^^ sacrificed vocation, yet TeWwif'^' ^°" «ome here' rnf '*""^"'« «^'^e ffce comes betvvee„ ^^'"^--^''^'^ ^'^'^c^^^^^^^ "'is i« a sin, bu j "v^,? .^"^ ^«"»- Prayed r' '^'« toman's you have poved 3 t^°" ^^^ »>etter T^v/ *^? ""'^^ say thai; f efano. Go back to 'l''^/^^^ ^«^' "'e iif? Lt' '""'r"""^^' ^^'r J:-:- -e. y-^- -^ .;d ^tan y u 1^ -- ^««''-'-PHorvvasnot,u.ein "''''"' '^ '^^'^ «»"ebt. He wanted to try -I ■ 208 UNI>KU KAT.SE PnETENCIOS. the strength of his pupil'H rcRolve. But >v]i^ii Diiiu said, "I will not leave you, I will lend the vincH and Ihc goats at your door, but I will never go away," the priest felt a revival of all the old tenderness which he had been used to lavish silently on the bi*own-eyed boy who had come to him from old Assunta. "I will not go 1" cried Dino. " I have no one in the world but you. Ah, my father, will you never forgive me?" " It is not my forgiveness you need,". said, the Prior, shortly. *' But come, the hour is late. We will give you shelter for the night, at least." "Let mo go to the chapel first," pleaded Dino, in a voice which had suddenly grown faint. "I dared not enter it this morning, but now let me pray there for a little while. I must ask forgive- ness there." "Pray there if you choose," said the I'rior; "and pray for the penitence which yon have yet to learn. When that is won, then talk of forgiveness. He coldly withdrew the hand that Dino tried to kiss; he left the room without uttering one word of comfort or encourage- ment. It was good for his pupil, he thought, to be driven well- nigh to despair. Dino, left to himself, remained for a few minutes in the posture in which the Prior had left him ; then rose and made his way, slowly and feebly, to the little monastery chapel, where a solitary lamp swung before the altar, and a flood of moonlight felt through the coloured panes of the clerestory windows. Dino stood passive in that tlood of moonlight, almost forgetting why he had come. His brain was dizzy, his heai't was sicl<. His mind was distracted with the thought of a guilt which he did not feel to be his own, of sin for which his conscience did not smite him. For, with a strange commingling of clear-sightedness and sub- mission to authority, he still believed that he had done per- fectly right in giving up his claim to the Scotch estate, and yet, with all his heart, desired to feel that he had done wrong. And when the words with which Father Cristoforo had reproached him came back to his mind, his burden seemed greater than he could bear. With a moan of pain he sank down close beside the altar steps. And there, through the midniglit hours, he lay alone and wrestled with himself. It was no use. Everything fell from him in that hour except that faith and that love which had been the controlling powers of his life. He had loved Brian as a brother ; and he had done well : he had loved Elizabeth— though he had not known that the dreaming fancies which had lately centred round her deserved the name which the' Prior had given to them -and he had not done ill ; BV LAND AND SRA. ana Jfc was viaht ih^t i,« t , •M ■"Ufc Low would it fn t'-X the inmost convicUo';; Of ^"1^. "'"/ '^^^ '' ^^« told the Prinr Miat lie was not nf «« i "^ lieart? He wouUi 1 . ,1 "®' beautiful women- 1',° """'""""■«".'« well as bad' ,r ' ^"^ makesjife ser wonr .w" "'^r" ""■«''> '"■<'' "«* S who had been senttn' ''"^*" ^° «Peak aloud and . .'**'' hour in church IT ^*^ * ^^^^a'a number of « * ''^^^^e, If ?! doo UNDER FALSE FUETENCXf. Him somewhere - somehow— I don't know where : He knows. Oh, my God, if I have loved anoMier more than Thee, forgive me . . and let me rest, , . for I am tired— tired- tired " The voice sank into an inarticulate murmur, in which the novice, frightened and perplexed, could not distinguish words. Then there wat silence. One little sigh escaped those lips, and that was all. The novice turned and fled, terrified at those words of prayer, which seemed to him so diflerent from any that he had ever heard— so different that they must be wrong I At four in the morning the monks came in to chant their morning prayer. One by one they dropped into their places, scarcely noticing tlie prostrate figure before the altar-steps. It was usual enough for one of their number, or even a stranger staying in the monastery, to humiliate himself in that gianner as a public penance. The Prior only gave a little start, as if an electric slioek passed through his frame, when, on taking his seat in the choir, his eye fell upon that motionless form. But he did not leave his place until the last prayer had been said, the last psalm chanted. Then he rose and walked deliberately to the place where Dino lay, and laid his hand upon his head. *'My son !" he said, gently. There was a great fear in his face, a tremor of startled emotion in his voice. *' Dino, my beloved 1 I pardon theo." But Dino did not hear. His prayer had been granted him ; he was at rest. God had been more merciful than roan. The Prior's pardon came too late. And far away, on a southern sea, where each great wave threatened to engulf the tiny boat which seemed like a child's toy thrown upon the waters, three men were struggling for dear life— for the life that Dino Vasari had been so ready to lay down —toiling, with broken oars, and roughly-fashioned sails, and ragged^strearaers as signals of distress, to win their way back to solid land, and live once more with their fellows the common but precious life of common men. They had narrowly escaped death by fire, and were fast losing hope of ultimate rescue. For five days they had been tossing on the waves of the Southern Atlantic, and they had seen as yet no sign of land ; no friendly sail bearing down upon-them to bring relief. Their stock of food was scanty, the water supply had now entirely failed. The tortures of a raging thirst under a sultry sky had begun : the men's lips were black and swollen, their bloodshot eyes searched the horizon in anguished, fruitless yearning. There was no cloud in all the great expanse of bhie : there was nothing to be. seen between sea and sky but this one BV LAND ANT SKA. SOI fiaU boat with Its tlivee occupants. Another and a larger boat had set out with them, but they iiad lost si^ht of it in the niglit. There had been five men in this little cockleshell when they left the ship ; but one of them had lost his senses and jumped over- board, drowning before their very eyes ; and one, a mere lad, had died on the second day from injuries received on board the burning vessel. And of the three who were left, it seemed as if one, at least, would speedily succumb to the exposure and pri- vations which they had been drivcjv to endure. This man lay prostrate at the bottom of the boat. He could hold out no longer. His half-closed eyes 'lis open mouth and swollen features showed the suffering which had brought him to this pass. Another man sat bowed together in a kind of torpor. A third, the oldest and most experienced of the party, kept his hand upon the tiller ; but there was a sullen hopelessness in his air, a nerveless dejection in the pose of his limbs, which showed that he had neither strength nor inclination to flght much longer against fate. It was at nine o'clock on the f^th day of their perilous voyage, that the steersman lifted up his eyes, and saw a faint trail ot smoke on the horizon. He uttered a hoarse, inarticulate cry, and rose up, pointing with one shaking finger to the distant sign. "A steamer I" He could say nothing more, but the word was enough. Tt called back life even to the dull eyes of the man who had lain down to die. And he who was sitting witli his head bowed wearily upon his knees, looked up with a quick, sudden flicker of hope which seemed likely enough to be extinguished as soon as it was evident. For it was probable that the steamer would merely cross the line of vision and disappear, without approaching them near enough to be of any use. Eiigerly they watched. They strained their eyes to see it : they spent their streng'.h in rigging up a tattered garment or two to serve as a signal of distress. Then they waited through hoins of sickening, terril)]e suspense. And the steamer loomed into iuiht : nearer it came and nearer. They were upon its track : surel.v succour was nigh at hand. And succour came. The great vessel slackened its pace : it came to a standstill and waited, heaving to and fro upon the waters, as if -it were a live thing with a beating and compas- sionate heart. The two men in the boat, standing up and faintly endeavouring to raise their voices, saw that a great crowd of heads was turned towards them from the sides of the vessel, that a boat was lowered and pushed off. The plashing of oars, the sound of a cheer, came to the ears of the seafarers. The old sailor muttered something that sounded like " Thank God 1" and 30i UNDER FAI.SL' PRMTKM'MH. his companion burst into tears, bnt llie man at ilio bottom of the boat lay still : tlicy had not been able to make liim hear or under- stand. The officer in the boat from the steamer stood up as it approached, and to him the old man addressed liiniself as soon as he could speak. " We're the second mate and bo'sun of the Fa1c»n, sir, and one 8teera({e passenger. Destroyed by Are five days ago ; and we've been in this licro coekle-shell ever since." But his voice was so husky and dry that he was almost unintelligible. "Mates, for the love of Heaven, give us sunmiat to drink," cried the other man, as he was lifted into the boat. And in a few minutes they were speeding bu.': to tiie steamer, and the sailors were trying to pour a few drop-: of brnndy and water down the parched throat of the one man who seemed to be beyond speech and move- ment. Tlie mnte was able to give a concise account of the perils of the last few days when he arrived on board the Arlxona; but there was little to relate. The story of ix fire, of a hurried escape, of the severance of the boats, and the agonies of thirst endured by the survivors had nothing in it that was particularly new. The captain dismissed the men good-humouredly to the care of cook and steward : it was only the steerage passenger who required to be put under the doctor's care. It seemed that he had been hurt by the falling of a spur, and severely scorched in trying to save a child who was in imminent danger ; and, though he had at first been the most cheery and hopeful of the party, his strength had soon failed, and he had lain half or wholly unconscious for the greater part of the last two or three days. There was one passenger on board the Arizona wlio listened to all these details with a keener interest than that shown by any other listener. He went down and talked to the men liim- self as soon as he had the chance and asked their names. One of the officers came with him, and paid an almost equally keen attention to the replies. "Mine's Thomas Jackson, sir; and the bo'sun's name it is Fall— Andrew Fall. And the passenger, sir ? Steerage lie was: he was called Mackay." "No, he warn't," said the boatswain, in a gruff tone. "Saving your presence, sir, his name was Smitli." "Mackay," said the mate, with equal positiveness. "And a fine fellow he was, too, and one of the best for cheering of us up with his stories and songs ; and not above a bit of a prayer, too, when the worst came to the worst. I heard liim myself." " No sign of your friend here, Mr. Heron, I'm afraid," whispered the ship's officer. WIIKCKKU. ',m "I am R'lttld not. Was there a passciigov on bcaid tli? Falcon called Stretton.' •• No, sir. I'm sure o' that." ••Or-LuttrelU" Percival Heron knew well enough lliat no such name had been found umongHt the lint of passengers ; but he had a vague notion that Brian might have reMumed his former appellation for some reason or other after he came on board. Thomas Jackson con- sidereA the subject for a few minutes. '*I ain't rightly sure, sir. Seems to me there was a geut of that name, or something like it, on board : but if so, he was amongst those in the other boat." "I should like to see this man Mackay— or Smith," said Percival. The berth in which the steerage passenger lay was pointed out to him : he looked at the face upon the pillow, and shook his liead. A rough, reddened, blistered face it was, with dirt grained into the pores and matting (he hair and bcai'd : not in the least like the countenance of the man whom he had come to seek. •• We may fall in with the other boat," suggested the officer. But though the steamer went out of her course in search of it, and a carefxil watch was kept throughout the day and n'ght, the other boat could not be seen. CHAPTER XXXVII. WRECKKD. Pkrcival cultivated acquaintance with the two sailors, and tried to obtain from them some description of the passengers on board the Falcon. But description was not their forte, He gained nothing but a clumsy mass of separate facts concerning passengers and crew, wliich assisted him little in forming an opinion as to whether Brian Luttrell had, or had not, been on board. He was inclined to think — not. "But he seemed to have a slippery habit of turning up in odd places where you don't in the least expect to find him," soliloquised Percival over a cigar. " Why couldn't he have stayed comfortably dead in that glacier? Or why did the brain fever not carry him off? He has as many lives as a cat. He, drowned or burnt when the Falcon was on fire ? Not a bit of it. I'll believe in Mr. Brian Luttrell's death when I have seen him screwed into his cofBn, followed him to the grave, ordered a headstone, and written his epitaph. And even then, I should feel that there was no knowing whether he had not buried himself under false pretences, and was, in reality, enjoying life at the i m r\'p 80* UNDER FALSE PRETKNCE§. Antipodes. I tluu't know anybo^ly else who can b«, Mike Cci'bc'i'us, Ihicu ;;;untlunien at oncu.' I 8)iall nail hint to o|iu alias for tlio future, if I catch him. But thore sei-mH very little chance of my culching him at all. I've come on a wildgooHe chase, and can't expect to succeed." This mood of compiiralive dt^presHlon did not last long. Perclval fell cei tiiin that the utlier boat wuuld be ovuvtuken, or that Brian would he found to have nailed iir another ship. lie could not reconcile himKelf lo any idea of returning to Elizabeth with his task hiilf done. They were nearlng the Equal or, and the heat of the weather was meat. It was less fine, however, than was usually the case, and when reiclval turned into his berth one nixht, he noticed that the stars were hidden, and that rain was beginning to fall. He slept lightly, and woke now and then to hear the swish of water outside, and the beat of the engines, the dragging of a rope, or titc step of a sailor overhead. He was dreaming of Elizabeth, and that she was standing with Itim beside Brian LuttrelTs grave, when suddenly he awoke with a violent start, and a sense that the world was coining to an end. In another moment ho was out of his berth and on tl»e floor. There had been a scraping sound, then a ci*ash— and then the engines had stopped. There was a swaying sensation for a second or two. and then another bump. Percival knew instinctively what was . le matter. The ship had struck. After that moment's silence there was an outcry, a trampling of feet, a few minutes' wild confusion. The voice of the captain rose strong and clear above the hubbub as he gave his orders. Percival, already half-dressed, made his appearance on deck and soon learned what was the matter. The ship had struck twice heavily, and was now filling as rapidly as possible. The sailors were making preparations for launching the long boat. " Women and children first," said tlie captain, in his stentorian tones. The noise subsided as he made his calm presence felt'. The children cried, indeed, and a few of the women shrieked aloud ; but the men passengers and crew alike, bestirred themselves to collect necessavy articles, to reassure the timid, and to make ready the boats. Percival was amongst the busiest and the bravest. His strength made him useful, and it was easier for him to use it in practical work than to stand and watch the proceedings, or even to console women and children. For one moment he had a deep and bitter sense of anger agninst the ordering of his fate. Was he to go down into the deep waters in the heyday of his youth and strength, before he had done bis work or tasted the reward WRKCKKO. MA of work well done? Had Hi inn Lull roll expciteiiccd a Hko fatel And what would become of Elizabeth, sittiiif^ lonely in the midst of splendoiii'H which hIio lind felt were not Juntly Iuth, watting for weeks and months and years, perhaps, for the lovers who would never come hnck until the sen gave up Its dead ? Perclval crushed hack the thought. There was no time for nny« thing but action. And his senses seemed gifted with preter* natural nculeness. He saw a child near him put her little hand into that of a soldltu'ly-lool, mean Dunbar was wrecked hereon theway to Auckland. The Mercuriiis, coming back from Sydney by way of 'Frisco, she was wrecked, too— in '70. It's the fJocas Keef, mates, which you niay liave heard of or you may not; and, as near as I reinenil>er, its about three degrees south of the Line : longitude thirty-three tweuly, west." •' I remember now," said Per<;ival, eagerly. His work as a journalist lielped him to remember the event to which Jackson alluddd. "The men of the Mercurins found some iron tanks filled with water, left by the Duncan Dunbar people. AVe might go and see if they are still here. But first we must attend to this man's leg." " It is not very bad," said Macl