["They sprang after me, but started back with a quick exclamation,
for they looked into the black muzzle of my father's revolver."]
([Chapter XXXVII].)

FALSE EVIDENCE

BY

E. PHILLIPS OPPENHEIM

Author of
"Anne, the Adventuress," "The Traitors," "Conspirators," etc.

WARD, LOCK & CO., LIMITED,
LONDON, MELBOURNE AND TORONTO.
1911.

This Book, written by the Author some years ago,
is now issued in Library form for the first time.

CONTENTS

CHAP.

[PROLOGUE]

I. [MY APOLOGY]
II. [THE FIRST CLOUD]
III. ["THE BOY MUST BE TOLD"]
IV. ["A MYSTERIOUS MEETING"]
V. ["ON BOSSINGTON HEADLAND"]
VI. [AN INTERRUPTED ADDRESS]
VII. ["I AM TOLD"]
VIII. ["MY VOW"]
IX. [AN UNEXPECTED VISIT]
X. [THE FIRST MOVE]
XI. [COLONEL DEVEREUX'S LAND AGENT]
XII. [AT DEVEREUX COURT]
XIII. [COLONEL SIR FRANCIS DEVEREUX, BART.]
XIV. [THE BEGINNING OF DANGER]
XV. [A FIGHT FOR LIFE]
XVI. [MY CONVALESCENCE]
XVII. [A MOONLIGHT RIDE]
XVIII. [A STRANGE INTERVIEW]
XIX. [MARIAN SURPRISES ME]
XX. [AMONGST THE BULRUSHES]
XXI. [RUPERT DEVEREUX]
XXII. [FACE TO FACE]
XXIII. [IN THE PICTURE GALLERY]
XXIV. [A MIDNIGHT VISITOR]
XXV. ["COUSINS!"]
XXVI. [I "GIVE WARNING"]
XXVII. [SIR FRANCIS DEVEREUX'S APPEAL]
XXVIII. [GOOD-BYE TO DEVEREUX COURT]
XXIX. [I AM TEMPTED]
XXX. [LIAR AND COWARD]
XXXI. [MY FATHER AND I]
XXXII. [THE BRIGANDS' HOME]
XXXIII. [AT PALERMO]
XXXIV. [VISITORS FROM ROME]
XXXV. [WE ENTERTAIN AT THE VILLA]
XXXVI. [MR. BURTON LEIGH]
XXXVII. [CUT DOWN]
XXXVIII. [AN OMINOUS NOTE]
XXXIX. ["MY FATHER'S RESOLUTION"]
XL. [A HORRIBLE MISTAKE]
XLI. ["TWO YEARS AFTER"]
XLII. [A TRAITOROUS LOVE]
XLIII. [EXPIATION]
XLIV. ["HERO"]

FALSE EVIDENCE

PROLOGUE

The last sally had been made and repulsed, the last shot fired; the fight was over, and victory remained with the white men. And yet, after all, was it a victory or a massacre? If you were a stay-at-home, and read the report from the telegrams in your club, or in the triumphant columns of the daily papers, especially those on the side of the Ministry, you would certainly have pronounced it the former. But if you had been there on the spot, and had seen the half-naked, ill-armed natives, with the fire of patriotism blazing in their eyes and leaping in their hearts—had seen them being shot down in rows by the merciless guns of the English batteries—another view of the matter might have presented itself to you. It might have occurred to you that these men were fighting on their own soil for their freedom and their country, and that the spirit which was blinding their eyes to the hopelessness of resistance, and urging them on to resist the stranger's progress with such passionate ineffectiveness, was after all, a natural and a poetic one. But, after all, this has nothing to do with my story.

The battle was over, and it was morning. Far away in the east a dull red light had arisen from over the tops of the towering black mountains, and an angry sun was sullenly shining on the scene of carnage. It was a low hillside, once pleasant enough to look upon, but at that moment probably the most hideous sight which the whole universe could have shown. The silvery streams, which had trickled lazily down to the valley below, now ran thick and red with blood. The luxuriant shrubs and high waving ferns were trampled down and disfigured, and, most horrible sight of all, everywhere were strewn the copper-coloured forms of the beaten natives. There they lay apart and in heaps in all imaginable postures, and with all imaginable expressions on their hard, battered faces. Some lay on their sides with their fingers locked around their spears, and the rigid frown and convulsed passion of an undying hatred branded on their numbed features. Others less brave had been shot in the back whilst flying from the death-dealing fire of the European guns, and lay stretched about in attitudes which in life would have been comical, but in death were grotesquely hideous; and over the sloping fields the misty clouds of smoke still lingered and curled upwards from the battered extinct shells which lay thick on the ground.

High above the scene of devastation, on a rocky tableau at the summit of the range of hills, were pitched the tents of the victors. A little apart from these, conspicuous by the flag which floated above it, were the general's quarters; and underneath that sloping roof of canvas a strange scene was being enacted.

Seated amongst a little group of the superior officers, with a heavy frown on his stern face, sat the general. Before him, at a little distance, with a soldier on either side, stood a tall, slight young man, in the uniform of an officer, but swordless. His smooth face, as yet beardless, was dyed with a deep flush, which might well be there, whether it proceeded from shame or indignation. For he was under arrest, and charged with a crime which, in a soldier, is heinous indeed—it was cowardice.

It was a court-martial before which he stood arraigned, although a hastily improvised one. But soldiers have prompt ideas of justice, and General Luxton was a martinet in all matters of discipline. Disciplinarian though he was, however, he liked little the task which was now before him.

He looked up from the papers, which were stretched out on the rickety little round table, with a sudden movement, and bent his frowning gaze upon the accused. The young man returned his gaze steadily, but the colour in his cheeks grew deeper.

"Herbert Devereux, you stand accused of a crime which, in your profession, nothing can palliate or excuse. Have you anything to say for yourself?"

"There will be no need for me to say anything, sir," was the prompt reply. "It is true that I turned my back upon the enemy, but it was to face a greater danger. The man whose life I saved can disprove this cruel charge against me in a moment. I admit that, from your point of view, appearances are suspicious, but you have only to learn from my half-brother, Rupert Devereux, why I quitted my post, and what I effected by so doing, to absolve me at least from all suspicion of cowardice, however much I may be to blame as a matter of discipline."

General Luxton appeared surprised, a little relieved.

"I hope so," he said, not unkindly. "Roberts, send an orderly to Lieutenant Devereux's tent, and command his presence at once."

The man withdrew, and there was a few minutes' delay. Then the entrance to the tent was lifted up, and a tall, dark young man, with thin but decided features, and flashing black eyes, stepped forward. He was handsome, after a certain type, but his expression was too lifeless and supercilious to be prepossessing.

General Luxton looked up and nodded.

"Lieutenant Devereux, your half-brother, who stands accused of cowardice in the face of the enemy, appeals to you to give evidence on his behalf. Let us hear what you saw of him during the recent fighting."

Eagerly, and with a confident light in his fair young face, the prisoner turned towards the man to whom these words were addressed. But slowly and deliberately the latter turned his back upon his half-brother without noticing his glance of appeal, and with a scornful light in his eyes. There was a slight murmur, and an interchange of looks amongst the few who were present at this significant action.

"I do not know, General Luxton," he said, slowly, "what the prisoner can expect me to say likely to benefit him. He can scarcely be so mad as to expect me to shield him in this matter on account of our relationship, or to preserve the honour of our name, and yet I do not see why else he should have appealed to me. I saw very little of the affair, and would rather not have seen that. I was riding to you, sir, with a message from Colonel Elliott; and, as I passed trench 4, I saw the prisoner suddenly leave his company and run towards me. He passed several yards to the left, and as he seemed to be hurrying along aimlessly, I called to him. He made no answer, but——"

"LIAR!"

The word seemed hurled out with such a passionate intensity that every one started. General Luxton looked up angrily.

"Silence, sir! You will have an opportunity of saying what you have to say presently. Proceed, Devereux."

"As I was saying," Rupert Devereux continued calmly, without appearing to have noticed the interruption, "he made no answer, but seemed to wish to avoid me. As the message with which I was entrusted was an important one, I rode on and left him hurrying towards the rear."

With a sterner air even than he had at first assumed, General Luxton turned towards the unfortunate young man who stood before him. He was standing as though turned to stone, with wide-open eyes, staring at the man who had just spoken, attitude and expression alike bespeaking an overpowering bewilderment.

"You are at liberty to ask the witness any questions," the General said, shortly.

For a moment there was a dead silence. Then the words came pouring out from his quivering lips like a mountain torrent.

"Rupert, what have you said? What does this mean? Good God, are you trying to ruin me? Did I not run to your assistance because you were beset by those three blackguards? Didn't I kill two of them and save your life? You can't have forgotten it! Why are you lying? Hilton saw it all, and so did Fenwick. Where are they? My God, this is horrible!"

The deep flush had gone from his cheeks, and left him pale as death. Great beads of perspiration stood out upon his forehead, and there was a wild look in his deep blue eyes. But the man to whom he made his passionate appeal kept his back turned and heeded not a word of it. Instead of answering he addressed the General.

"General Luxton," Rupert said, calmly, "the accused, in denying the truth of my statement, mentions the names of two men whom he admits were witnesses of this lamentable occurrence. Might I suggest that they be called to give their version?"

The General nodded assent, and the thing was done. But Hilton was the only one who answered the summons, and on reference to a list of the killed and wounded it was found that Fenwick was reported missing.

"John Hilton, the accused has appealed to you to give evidence on his behalf. Let us hear what you saw of him during the recent fighting."

The man, an ordinary-looking private, stepped forward and saluted.

"I only saw him for a moment, sir," he said, slowly, and with a marked reluctance. "I was riding behind Lieutenant Devereux when I saw him leave his company and pass us a few yards to the left. It struck me that he looked very pale, and I thought that perhaps he was wounded."

"He did not leave his company to come to your master's assistance, then?"

"Certainly not, sir. We were not in any need of it. None of the enemy were near us."

"Thank you. You can go, Hilton."

The man saluted and went.

There was a dead silence for a full minute. Then there came a passionate, hysterical cry from the prisoner—

"Liar! Liar! General Luxton, upon my honour, either my brother and this man are under some hallucination or they have entered into a conspiracy against me. Before God Almighty I swear that I only left my post because several of the enemy had crept down from the hill behind and had attacked my brother and his servant. I killed one of them, and the blood of the other is still on my sword. Why, Rupert, you know that you called out, 'Thanks, Herbert, you have saved my life.' Those were your very words!"

The man appealed to shook his head slowly and as though with great reluctance. The sigh seemed to madden the prisoner, and he made a sudden movement forward as though to spring at him.

"Oh, this is horrible!" he cried. "Where is Fenwick? He saw it all. Let him be called."

General Luxton glanced again at the list before him and looked up.

"You are unfortunate in your selections," he said, dryly. "The evidence of Hilton and your brother, to whom you appealed, only strengthens the case against you. Fenwick is missing. Herbert Devereux," he went on sternly, "the charge against you has been proved. I, myself, at a most critical moment, saw you desert your post when it was the centre of attack, and it fell to another's lot to lead your men on to the pursuit. The reasons which you have brought forward to account for your unwarrantable action have been clearly disposed of. You are most certainly guilty of a crime for which, amongst soldiers, there is no pardon. But you are young, and I cannot forget that you are the son of one of the most distinguished officers with whom it has been my good fortune to be associated. For his sake I am willing to make some allowance for you—on one condition you may retain your commission, and, I trust, retrieve this well-nigh fatal mistake in the future. To the crime of cowardice you have added the crime of lying; for that your account of the attack upon your half-brother and your rescue is a pure fabrication I cannot doubt. The peculiar curve in the defile behind trench 4 unfortunately hid you from the field of battle and prevents further evidence as to the occurrence which, you say, took place. But that your story is false no one can possibly doubt. The place has been carefully examined, and there are no dead bodies within a hundred yards. It seems, from your appeal to your half-brother, that you expected him to shield you at the expense of his honour. This lie and false statement of yours you must retract if you hope for any mercy from me."

There was a convulsive agony in the boy's white, strained face as he drew himself up, and looked half piteously, half indignantly at his judge. But when he tried to speak he could not, and there was a minute or two's dead silence whilst he was struggling to obtain the mastery over himself. All expected a confession, and General Luxton removed his eyes from the prisoner, and bent close over his papers, that none might read the compassion which was in his heart, and which was reflected in his face.

The words came at last; and shrill and incoherent though they were, there was a ring of genuine dignity in them.

"General Luxton, I have been guilty neither of cowardice nor falsehood. I swear before God, on the sword which my father himself put into my hands before I left England; by everything that is most holy to me I swear that my account of this awful occurrence is true. Ask the men of whom I was in command when I caught sight of—of him"—and he pointed with a trembling finger and a gesture than which nothing could have been more dramatic to his half-brother—"ask them whether I bore myself like a coward when those spears were whistling around us, or when we were fighting hand-to-hand after the first repulse. God knows that I did not. I left my post to encounter a greater danger still. Bitterly do I regret that I ever did so; but it is the only indiscretion of which I am guilty. I swear it."

General Luxton raised his head, and what there had been of compassion in his face was either gone or effectually concealed.

"You have sworn enough already," he said, sternly. "Herbert Devereux, I am bitterly disappointed in you. I was willing to spare your father the disgrace which I fear will kill him; but you cut away the ground from under my feet. You are most certainly proved guilty of gross cowardice in the face of the enemy found guilty, not upon the evidence of one man, but of two, and one of those your own relative. Circumstances, too, are strong against you, so are the probabilities. Most undeniably and conclusively you are found guilty; guilty of cowardice, guilty of falsehood. You will remain under arrest until I can find an opportunity of sending an escort with you to the Hekla. Your commission is forfeited to the Queen, whose uniform you have disgraced."

Never a sign of guilt in the prisoner's countenance. Proudly and indignantly he looked his General straight in the face, his cheeks red with a flush, which was not of shame, and the wild fury in his heart blazing out of his eyes.

"It is not I who have disgraced the Queen's colours; but he—he who has fabricated and sworn to a false string of lies. Rupert, in your heart alone is the knowledge of why you have done this thing. But some day you shall tell me—or die."

There was something intensely dramatic in the passionate bitterness which vibrated in the shrill boyish tone, and, as though moved by a common impulse, every one in the tent followed that threatening gesture. But the face of Rupert Devereux was little like the face of a guilty man. He looked somewhat agitated, and a good deal pained; but although he was the cynosure of all eyes, he turned never a shade the paler, nor flinched once from the passionate fire which was leaping from the eyes of the young prisoner. He seemed as though about to make some reply; but the General raised his hand.

"Remove the prisoner."

There was a sudden commotion, for, with a deep, despairing groan, and arms for a moment lifted high above his head, he had staggered backwards and sunk heavily to the ground in a dead swoon. What wonder! He was but a boy after all.

*****

"Herbert! Why, Herbert! Good God! where did you spring from? Are you invalided?"

The moonlight was streaming in through the high oriel windows of the long picture-gallery, glittering upon the armour and crossed weapons which hung upon the walls, and casting fantastic rays down the polished oak floor. Colonel Sir Francis Devereux dropped the cigar which he had been peacefully smoking, and brought to a sudden halt his leisurely perambulation of this his favourite resort. Before him, with drooping head, with sunken cheeks, and with deep black rims under his eyes, stood his son Herbert, who, only a few months ago, had departed on his first campaign, a happy, careless young sub. Was it, indeed, his son, or was it a ghost that had stolen upon him out of the gloomy shadows of the vast gallery?

"Invalided! Would to God that I was dead!" broke from the boy's quivering lips. "Father, I have brought disgrace upon you—disgrace upon our name." And he stretched out his hands towards the long line of pictured warriors, who seemed to be frowning down upon him from the wall. "Disgrace that you will never forgive, never pardon."

Like a statue of stone the proud old soldier stood while he listened to his son's story. Then, with a half-smothered groan, he deliberately turned his back upon him.

"Father," he pleaded, "listen to me. Before heaven I swear that I am innocent. Rupert lied. Why, I don't know, but he lied. I never felt fear."

His father turned half round.

"You have been put on your defence. General Luxton would never have found your father's son guilty of cowardice had there been room for doubt. The charge was proved against you in court-martial."

"But, father, it was because they believed Rupert and his man. The only two other men who saw the struggle are dead."

Colonel Devereux turned away and buried his face in his hands.

"A Devereux guilty of cowardice!" he groaned. "My God! that it should have been my son!"

Then with a sudden movement he turned round. His son had sunk upon his knees before him, and the moon was throwing a ghastly light upon his haggard, supplicating face.

"Out of my sight, and out of my heart for ever, Herbert Devereux!" cried his father, his tones vibrating with a passionate contempt. "You have brought disgrace upon a stainless name. Curse you for it, though you be a thousand times my son. You shall not sleep under this roof again. Begone! Change your name, I command you! Forget that you are a Devereux, as I most surely shall. Turn linen-draper, or man-milliner, or lawyer, what you will so that I never see or hear from you again. Begone, and curse you."

Scathing and vibrating with scorn though the words were, they seemed to touch a chord in the boy's heart, not of humiliation, but of righteous anger. He sprang to his feet, and held himself for a moment as proudly as any of his armoured ancestors who looked down from the walls upon father and son.

"I will go, then," he cried, firmly. "It is right that I should go. But, after all, it is false to say that I have disgraced your name. It is Rupert who has done this."

He turned and walked steadily away, without a backward glance. Out of the swing doors on to the broad staircase, he passed along noble corridors, between rows of marble statues, down into the mighty dome-like hall, and out of the house which he had loved so well. And the servants, who would have pressed forward to welcome him, hung back in fear, for there was that in his face which they shrunk from looking upon. Out into the soft summer night he stepped, heedless of their wondering glances, and down the broad avenue he hurried, never pausing once to breathe in the balmy night wind, heavy with the odour of sweet-smelling flowers, or to listen to the nightingale singing in the low copse which bordered the gardens. Through a low iron gate he stepped into the park, and walked swiftly along, never glancing to the right or to the left at the strange shadows cast by the mighty oak-trees on the velvety turf, or at the startled deer, who sprung up on every side of him and bounded gracefully away, or at the rabbits who were scampering about all around in desperate alarm; once he had loved to watch and to listen to all these things; but now he felt only a burning desire to escape from them, and to find himself outside the confines of the home which he was leaving for ever. And not until he had reached the last paling, and had vaulted into the broad, white road, did his strength desert him. Then, faint and weary, and heartsick, he sank down in a heap on the roadside, and prayed that he might die.

*****

A cloudless summer morning, with the freshness of dawn still lingering in the air. A morning which seemed about to herald in one of Nature's perfect days, on which to be sad were a crime, and to have troubles absurd. Already the dreamy humming of bees was floating in the atmosphere, and the lark had given place to noisier, if less musical, songsters. It was a glorious morning.

Over the low, iron gate of an old-fashioned garden a girl was leaning, her head resting lightly upon her hand, gazing across the pleasant meadows to the dark woods beyond, with a soft, far-away look in her grey eyes—for she was thinking of her lover. She was dressed in a blue print gown, which hung in simple folds around her straight, slim figure, and she had carelessly passed the long stalk of a full-blown red rose within her waistband. It was a very pleasant view that she was admiring; but any casual spectator would have declared that she was the most charming object in it.

And there was a spectator, although not a casual one. Suddenly, like a ghost, the figure of her dreams stood before her. Pale, haggard, and dishevelled-looking, he seemed to have risen out of the very ground; and it was very little to be wondered at that, at first, she shrunk back alarmed.

"Herbert! Herbert! can it really be you?"

He never answered her; but, as the first surprise began to fade away, she moved forward, and would have thrown herself into his arms. But he stopped her.

"Keep back, Marian," he cried, hoarsely; "keep away from me! I have come to bid you good-bye."

A swift, sudden fear drove the colour from her cheeks, and chilled her through and through; but she faltered out an answer.

"Good-bye, Herbert! What do you mean? Oh, tell me what has happened, quick!"

"The one thing worse than death, Marian—disgrace!"

And then, with his face turned away, and his eyes resting wearily on the picturesque landscape, he told her his story.

*****

The last word had left his quivering lips, and he stood as though in a dream. The worst was over. He had told his father, and he had told her. It seemed like the end of all things to him.

Suddenly a pair of white arms were thrown around his neck, and a great red rose was crushed to pieces against his waistcoat.

"Herbert! oh, Herbert! how dreadful! Don't look like that, you frighten me!"

He was striving to free himself, but she would not let him go.

"Dearest, you don't understand! This is ruin to me. My father has turned me from the house, commanded me to bear another name, disowned me. Be brave, Marian, for we must part. I am here only to tell you this, and to bid you farewell."

Still she would not let him go.

"You will do nothing of the sort, sir. I'll not be thrown over in that fashion," she said, struggling to smile through her tears. "And, Herbert, oh, Herbert! how ill you look! You've been out all night."

He did not deny it, but again he strove to disengage himself. But she would have none of it.

"Bertie, dearest," she spoke cheerfully, though her eyes were still swimming with tears, "you mustn't think that you're going to get rid of us in this way. You've just got to come in to breakfast with me, and afterwards we'll tell Grannie all about it. Come along, sir, I insist."

He braced himself up for resistance, but he had still to learn that against a woman's love a man's will can prevail nothing. At first he was firm, then wavering, and finally he was led in triumph across the smooth lawn and along the winding path to the French windows of the morning-room. But when he found himself face to face with the kind old lady who had loved him as her own son, and saw the tears trickle down her withered, apple-red cheeks as she listened to the tale which Marian poured out, he felt that he had passed the limits of self-endurance. For more than twenty-four hours he had neither eaten nor drunk, and he was sick at heart. Gradually Marian felt the arm, which she had drawn tightly through hers, grow heavier and heavier until at last as she finished her tale with a little tremulous burst of indignation, he sank back in the arm-chair, and slowly fainted. But through the mist which closed in upon him he saw nothing but kindly pitying faces bending over his, and heard Grannie's gentle whisper—

"I believe you, Herbert," and more emphatic but none the less earnest were her words, whose sweet, tear-stained face, so close to his, was the last he saw when unconsciousness was closing in upon him.

"So do I, Bertie, I hate Rupert," and sweeter than the most heart-stirring music were the faltering words she added—

"And I love you better than ever. Oh, Grannie, Grannie, he has fainted!"

CHAPTER I
MY APOLOGY

Fortune is the strangest mistress a man ever wooed. Who courts her she shuns, who deserves her she passes over, and on him who defies her and takes no pains to secure her she lavishes her favours. I am one of those to whom she has shown herself most kind. Many years ago I vowed my life away to one purpose, and that partly an immoral one. It was a purpose which held my life. I swore to seek no end apart from it, and I put away from my thoughts all joys that were not included in its accomplishment. And yet, having kept my oath, I still possess in the prime of life everything which a man could wish for. I am rich, and well thought of amongst my fellows. I am married to the woman whom I love, and life is flowing on with me as calmly and peacefully as the murmuring waters of a woodland stream in the middle of summer. And, above all, my heart is at ease, for I have kept my vow.

She is a strange mistress, indeed! Nothing have I sought or deserved of her, yet everything I have. Whilst he who was far above me in his deservings, and whose sufferings none save myself thoroughly understood, passed through a gloomy life, buffeted by every wind, stranded by every tide of fortune; misunderstood, wronged, falsely accused, and narrowly escaped remaining in men's minds only as a prototype of a passionate, unforgiving, Quixotic man.

That the world may know him as he was, and form a better judgment as to his character, I have gathered together the threads of my life indissolubly connected with his, and have turned them inside out. I have never indulged myself with the feminine luxury of a diary, but with a surer progress than of pen over paper has the record of my strange life been written into my mind; and so I tell it just as it all comes back to me, not as a professed story-teller, with harmonious dates and regular evolution of plot, and neatly paged chapters, but in a bolder way, leaving much to be guessed at, and some things untold. If there be any of whom I have occasion to speak still amongst the living (my life has so contracted of late that many have passed out of its horizon), let them remember for what purpose I write, and for his sake forbear to complain. If the sword were the pen, then would mine be the pen of a ready writer, and I might be able to touch lightly on their shortcomings, and gild over the black spots on my own life. But enough of excuses. I take up my pen a blunt Englishman, an athlete rather than a scholar, to write a plain story which shall serve not as a eulogy, but as a justification of the man to whom many years of my life have been ungrudgingly given. Let all those who may feel disposed to cavil at the disconnectedness of my loosely jointed story, remember this, and be silent.

CHAPTER II
THE FIRST CLOUD

About a mile seaward from Porlock, separated from it by a narrow strip of the most luxuriant meadowland in Devonshire, lies the village of Bossington. Perhaps it were better called a hamlet, for at the time when I knew anything about it (which, let the tourist remember, is many years ago) it consisted but of six or seven cottages, a farmhouse, and a half-ruined old manor-house, for the privilege of living in which my father paid ten pounds a year, or some such trifling sum, to the neighbouring clergyman whose property it was.

But what the place lacked in size was certainly atoned for—and more than atoned for—by the beauty of its situation. High above it, like a mighty protecting giant, rose Bossington Headland, covered always with a soft, springy turf, and glowing in midsummer with the brilliant colouring of rich purple heather and yellow gorse. Often have I stood on its highest point, and with my head bared to the strong fresh breeze, watched the sun rise over the Exmoor Hills and Dunkerry Beacon, and waited until it shed its first warm gleams on the white cottages and queer old church-tower of Porlock, which lay clustered together in picturesque irregularity at the head of the little bay. And almost as often have I gazed upon the same scene from the same spot by the less distinct but more harmonious light of the full harvest moon, and have wondered in which guise it seemed the fairest.

Behind Bossington lay Allercombe Woods, great tree-covered hills sloping on one side down to the road which connected, and still connects, Porlock with Minehead and the outside world, and on the other, descending precipitously to the sea; so precipitously indeed that it seemed always a wonder to me how the thickly growing but stunted fir-trees could preserve their shape and regularity. The descent from Bossington Headland into Porlock was by a steep winding path through Allercombe Woods, and many a time I have looked through the thin coating of green leaves upon the fields which stretched like a piece of patchwork below down to the sea, and wondered whether any other country in the world (I had never been out of Devonshire then) could be more beautiful than this.

Within a stone's throw of where the blue sea of our English Bay of Naples rippled in on to the firm white sands, was the tumble-down old building in which we lived. What there had been of walls had long before our time been hidden by climbing plants and ivy, and in summer-time the place from a distance somewhat resembled a gigantic nosegay of cottage roses, jessamine, and other creeping flowers. There was but a small garden and no ground, for Bossington Headland rose precipitously close to the back of the house, and in front there was no space for any. A shed served as a stable for one or two Exmoor ponies, and also as a sleeping-place for the lanky, raw-boned Devonshire lad whom we kept to look after them.

There were but few habitable rooms in our mansion, but they were sufficient, for our household was a small one. My father, mother, sister, myself, and a country servant comprised it. We never had a visitor, save occasionally the clergyman from Porlock. We never went anywhere. We knew no one, and at seventeen years of age an idea which had been developing in me for a long time, took to itself the tangible shape of words.

"Father," I said to him one evening when we were sitting out upon our little strip of lawn together, he smoking, I envying him for being able to smoke, "do you know that I have never been out of Devonshire—never been further than Exeter even, and I am eighteen years old?"

It was long before he answered me, and when, at last, he turned round and did so, I was distressed to see the look of deep anxiety in his worn, handsome face, and the troubled light in his clear eyes.

"I know it, my boy," he said, pityingly. "I have been expecting this. You are weary of the country."

I stood up, with my hands in my pockets, and my back against the latticed wall of the house, gazing over the sparkling, dancing sea, to where, on the horizon, the stars seemed to stoop and meet it. Was I tired of this quiet home? I scarcely knew; country sports and country sights were dear to me, and I had no desire to leave them for ever. I thought of the fat trout in the Exford streams, and the huntsman's rallying call from "t'other side Dunkerry," and the wild birds that needed so much getting at and such quick firing, and of the deep-sea fishing, and the shooting up the coombes from Farmer Pulsford's boat, and of the delight of shipping on a hot summer's day and diving deep down into the cool bracing water. Why should I wish to leave all this? What should I be likely to find pleasanter in the world of which, as yet, I knew nothing? For a moment or two I hesitated—but it was only for a moment or two. The restlessness which had been growing up within me for years was built upon a solid foundation, and would not be silenced.

"No, I'm not tired of the country, father," I answered, slowly. "I love it too much ever to be tired of it. But men don't generally live all their lives in one place, do they, without having any work or anything to do except enjoy themselves?"

"And what should you like to be?" my father asked, quickly.

I had long ago made up my mind upon that point, and was not slow to answer—

"I should like to be a soldier," I declared, emphatically.

I was very little prepared for the result of my words. A spasm of what seemed to be the most acute pain passed across my father's face, and he covered it for a moment with his hands. When he withdrew them he looked like a ghost, deathly pale in the golden moonlight, and when he spoke his voice trembled with emotion.

"God forbid that you should wish it seriously!" he said, "for it is the one thing which you can never be!"

"Oh, Hugh, you do not mean it really; you do not wish to go away from us!"

I turned round, for the voice, a soft and gentle one, was my mother's. She was standing in the open window with a fleecy white shawl around her head, and her eyes, the sweetest I ever saw, fixed appealingly upon me. I glanced from one to the other blankly, for my disappointment was great. Then, like a flash, a sudden conviction laid hold of me. There was some great and mysterious reason why we had lived so long apart from the world.

CHAPTER III
"THE BOY MUST BE TOLD"

That was quite an eventful night in our quiet life. Whilst we three stood looking at one another half fearfully—I full of this strange, new idea which had just occurred to me—we heard the latch of our garden gate lifted, and Mr. Cox, the vicar of Porlock and my instructor in the classics, followed by no fewer than four large-limbed, broad-shouldered, Porlock men, entered.

They made their way up the steep garden path, and my father, in no little surprise, rose to greet them. With Mr. Cox he shook hands and then glanced inquiringly at his followers, who, after touching their hats respectfully, stood in a row looking supremely uncomfortable, and each betraying a strong disposition to retire a little behind the others. Mr. Cox proceeded to explain matters.

"You are pleased to look upon us as a deputation," he said, pleasantly, waving his hand towards the others, "of which I am the spokesman. We come from the Porlock Working Men's Conservative Club."

My father bowed, and bidding me bring forward a garden seat, requested the deputation to be seated. Then he called into the house for Jane to bring out some jugs of cider and glasses, and a decided smile appeared on the somewhat wooden faces of the deputation. I was vastly interested, and not a little curious.

When the cider had been brought and distributed, and a raid made upon the tobacco jar, Mr. Cox proceeded with his explanation.

"We have come to ask you a favour, Mr. Arbuthnot," he said. "We are going to hold a political meeting in the school-room at Porlock next week. A gentleman from Minehead is going to give us an address on the land question which promises to be very interesting, and Mr. Bowles here has kindly promised to say a few words."

The end man on the seat here twirled his hat, and, being nudged by his neighbour, betrayed his personality by a broad grin. Finally, to relieve his modesty, he buried his face in the mug of cider which stood by his side.

"The difficulty we are in is this," continued Mr. Cox; "we want a chairman. I have most unfortunately promised to be in Exeter on that day and shall not be able to return in time for the meeting, or else we would not have troubled you. But as I shall not be available, we thought that perhaps you might be induced to accept the office. That is what we have come to ask you."

My father shook his head.

"It is very kind of you to think of me," he said, hesitatingly, "but I fear that I must decline your offer. Politics have lost most of their interest for me—and—and, in short, I think I would rather not."

"I hope you will reconsider that," Mr. Cox said, pleasantly. "It will be a very slight tax upon you after all. You need only say a very few words. Come, think it over again. We really are at our wit's end or we would not have troubled you.

"There is Mr. Sothern," my father protested.

"He is in bed ill. An attack of pleurisy, I think."

"Mr. Brown, then?"

"A rank Radical."

"Mr. Jephcote?"

"Away."

"Mr. Hetton?"

"Gone to London for a week."

"Mr. Smith, then?"

"Will be at Exeter cattle fair."

My father was silent for a moment or two. Then he suggested some more names, to each of which there was some objection.

"You do seem to have been unfortunate," he declared, at last. "To tell you the truth, Mr. Cox," he added, thoughtfully, "I scarcely know what to say. I had made up my mind, for certain private reasons, never to have anything to do with public life in any shape or form."

"This isn't a very formidable undertaking, is it?" Mr. Cox urged, smiling.

"It isn't. But the principle is the same," my father answered. "However, leave it in this way if you like. Give me until to-morrow evening to think the matter over, and in the meantime see if you can't find some one else. I'm afraid I can't say more than that."

The deputation thought that nothing could be fairer than this, and nothing more satisfactory except an unqualified assent. I think my father imagined that having promised so much they would take their departure. But nothing of the sort happened. Perhaps they found the cider too good, or perhaps they were tired after their day's work and the walk from Porlock. At any rate, there they sat for more than an hour, taking occasional gulps at their cider, and puffing incessantly at their blackened pipes with a stolid vacuous look on their honest faces, whilst my father and Mr. Cox talked a little aside in a low tone. I fancied that I was the subject of their conversation, but though I strained my ears in the attempt to catch some part of it, I was unsuccessful. Once or twice the sound of my name reached me, but directly I leaned forward they dropped their voices, so that I could hear no more. I have always believed, however, that my father was asking advice from Mr. Cox concerning me, and that Mr. Cox was urging him to send me to the University. But I never knew for certain, for events were soon to occur which swept out of my mind all minor curiosity.

At last Mr. Cox rose to go, and the deputation, with manifest reluctance, did the same. My father courteously accompanied them to the garden gate, and shook hands with them all, thanking them for their visit. When he returned there was a slight sparkle in his eyes, and an amused smile on his lips. So monotonous was our life, that even such an event as this was welcome, and I could tell from his manner that he was pleased at the request which had been made to him, and disposed to accept it. I determined to encourage him in it.

"Governor," I remarked, leaning over the wall and watching the retreating forms of our visitors, "I hope we're not going to have many political deputations here, especially if they're all going to be as thirsty as this one was. Did you ever see such fellows for cider! We shan't have a drop left for the hot weather if you encourage this sort of thing. But you'll do what they want you to, won't you? I should! It'll be capital fun, and I'm sure you'd make a rattling speech. You're up on the land question, too. I heard you giving it to old Simpson the other morning."

My father smiled, and stood by my side watching them make their way down the coombe.

"I shall have to consult your mother about it," he said. "I almost think that I may venture it," he added, in a lower tone and thoughtfully, as though to himself.

"Venture it! What could there be adventurous in it," I wondered, "to a well-read, scholarly man such as I knew him to be!" But I did not dare to ask.

Presently he turned to me with a much graver look in his face.

"Hugh!" he said, "these people interrupted our conversation. There is something which I must say to you at once. I do not wish you to become a soldier. When you feel that you can stay here no longer, and that this country life is too quiet for you, you must choose some other profession. But a soldier you can never be."

I was bitterly disappointed, and not a little curious, and an idea which had often occurred to me swept suddenly into my mind with renewed strength.

"Father, may I ask you a question?"

He hesitated, but did not forbid me.

"I have heard it said down in the village—every one says that you must once have been a soldier. You walk and hold your head like one, and—father, what is the matter?" I broke off all at once, for his face had become like a dead man's, and he had sunk heavily on to the seat.

I would have sprung to his side, but my mother was there before him. She had passed one arm around his neck, and with the other she motioned me to go into the house.

"It isn't your fault, Hugh," she said, "but you mustn't ask your father questions; they distress him. Leave us now."

I turned heavily away, and went up-stairs to my room. About an hour afterwards, when I pushed open my window before getting into bed, there stole into my room together with the sweet scent of jessamine and climbing roses the sound of subdued voices.

"He must be told," I heard my father say solemnly. "God give me strength."

Then the voices ceased for a while, but I still lingered, and presently they began again, but in a more cheerful key.

I moved away and got into bed, but I left the window open as I always did, and some fragments of their conversation still reached me.

"I am sure that you need have no fear, Herbert. No one in these parts can have the slightest idea of ... I hope you will ... It will be a change ... Now promise."

I could hear nothing of my father's reply, but from its tone he seemed reluctant, though wishful. Then the voices dropped again, and I think that I must have dozed for some time. But suddenly I awoke and sat up in bed startled, for my father's voice was ringing in through the window.

"You are right, Marian; you are right. I will do my duty. The boy must be told. The time has come when I must dig up my trouble again. The boy must be told."

Then I heard them enter the house (leaving the door wide open, as was our common practice), and come up to their rooms. Afterwards there was silence, but there was no more sleep for me that night.

CHAPTER IV
"A MYSTERIOUS MEETING"

On the morrow my father, not a little to my surprise, appeared to be in a particularly cheerful tome of mind. At breakfast time he remarked that the day looked well for fishing, and asked me whether I would not like to go. Of course I consented willingly, and William, our man, or rather boy-of-all-work, was sent down to Mr. Cox, with whom I used generally to read in the morning, with my father's compliments and my excuses.

What sport we had all day long! We waded knee deep, sometimes waist high, down the Badgeworthy stream, following its gleaming course past Lorna's bower, past waterslide, which I never looked upon without thinking of John Ridd's description, and round the green hills of the Doone valley as far as the bend of the stream.

It was a long ride home, and across a desolate country. I think that I should have gone to sleep in the saddle I was so tired, but for the stern necessity of picking our way carefully along what was nothing better than a sheep-walk. I remember that night-ride well.

Suddenly my father pulled his pony almost on its haunches, and instinctively William and I did the same.

"Listen!" he cried.

I bent down and listened intently.

"I hear nothing," I remarked, gathering up my reins, for I was desperately hungry and cold.

My father held up his hand to bid me stay, and then turning towards the inland stretch of moor, shouted, "Hulloa there! Hulloa! Hulloa!" We listened, and, to my surprise, we heard almost immediately an answering shout, faint and evidently a long way off, but distinctly a man's hail.

It was scarcely safe to leave the track, so we stopped where we were, and all three shouted. And, sure enough, in less than five minutes we heard the sound of galloping hoofs, and a tall, stately-looking man came riding out of the mist mounted on a fine bay horse which seemed to have been up to its girths in a morass, and which was trembling in every limb.

"I'm uncommonly glad to see you, gentlemen, whoever you are," he exclaimed, riding up to us. "For close upon three hours have I been trying to come upon a path, or a road, or a track, or something that led somewhere, and have only succeeded in losing myself more completely. Curse these mists! How far am I from Luccombe Hall?"

To my surprise my father made no answer, and when I looked towards him he was sitting bolt upright in his saddle, with his eyes riveted upon the stranger. So I answered his question.

"If you mean Sir Frederick Lawson's place, it's about nine miles off. We are going that way."

The stranger thanked me heartily, and moved his horse to the side of mine. And then happened the strangest thing which I had ever seen. My father, who was the most courteous and gentlest-mannered man I ever came near, rose suddenly in his stirrups, and, without a word, struck the stranger full in the mouth with the back of his hand.

It seemed for a moment as though he must fall from his horse; but by a great effort he recovered himself, and, with the blood streaming from his mouth, grasped his riding-whip and dug spurs into his horse as though to spring at my father. What followed was the strangest part of all. Although his assailant was within a yard of him, with his heavy riding-whip lifted high in the air to strike, my father never moved a muscle, but simply sat still as a statue upon his pony. But at the last moment, when the whip was quivering in the air, he quietly raised his hand and lifted his hat from his head. There he sat motionless, with the faint moon which had just struggled out from a bank of clouds shining on his handsome, delicate face, and with his clear, firm eyes fixed steadily upon the stranger. Like a tableaux vivant, burnt into my memory, I shall carry that scene with me until I die.

The moment my father removed his hat his would-be assailant evidently recognised him. His whip dropped heavily to the ground, and into his ghastly face there leaped such an expression of horrified surprise as my pen could never dissect and set down in words.

"My God! Herbert! Is this possible!"

"Keep back, keep away from me," muttered my father in a low suppressed tone, as though he were striving to control some violent passion. "Keep out of my reach lest I do you a mischief. Thank God, we are not alone. Speak! What are you doing here?"

The fierce restraint which he seemed to be putting upon his words made them come forth slowly with a monotonous sing-song which sounded more terrible than the wildest outburst. I was shivering all over with dread of what might come of this.

The stranger answered hoarsely, and I could tell that he, too, had felt the peculiar effect of my father's strange tone.

"I am staying with Sir Frederick Lawson at Luccombe Hall for a few days only. I had no——"

My father raised his hand.

"Swear on what remains of your honour—swear by anything that is dearest to you—that you do not seek to discover my dwelling-place, or the name under which I choose to live. Swear that you never mention this meeting to living man or woman."

The stranger raised his hat.

"I swear," he said.

There was a dead silence for a full minute. Then my father gathered up his reins, and motioned us to ride on.

"You are fortunate as ever, Rupert Devereux," were his last words as he turned to follow us, "for, sure as there is a God above us, if I had met you here alone to-night, nay, if any other had been with me than my son, I should have killed you."

We rode home almost in silence, and, though I listened often, I never once heard the sound of horse's hoofs behind us. Whoever this man might be whom we had so strangely met, he evidently preferred to risk losing his way again, rather than chance another meeting with us.

As we walked our ponies down Porlock Hill, and came in sight of Bossington Headland, standing gloomily out into the sea, my father called William to him.

"William," he said, shortly, "I desire that you keep strictly to yourself what happened to us just now. If I hear of your mentioning so much as a word of it, you will leave my service at once."

William touched his hat awkwardly, but sincerely.

"There bean't no fear of me, maester," he answered. "I bean't no gossip, I bean't, and I never zeed no zense in talkin' 'bout other folks' avvairs; zepecially yer betters. I'll no mention that ther'er chap to no one."

My father nodded, and not another word was spoken until we had passed through Porlock and our ponies had freshened up into the home canter. Then he leaned over and spoke to me.

"I need say nothing to you, my boy; I know your mother must hear about this from me, and from me only."

"I promise, father," I answered simply, having hard work to keep my voice from trembling, for I was still excited and uneasy; and something made me suddenly hold my hand out to him as a pledge of my silence. Many a time since I have been glad that I did so, for he seemed to take it kindly.

"God bless you, my boy!" he said, and I could almost have fancied that there were tears in his eyes.

CHAPTER V
"ON BOSSINGTON HEADLAND"

A very demon of unrest laid hold of me that night. I ought to have been sleepy, for we had had a long fatiguing day in the open air, but, as a matter of fact, I was nothing of the sort. I have always been a rigid materialist, but never since that night have I been without some faint belief in that branch of superstition known as presentiments.

I had led a strange life for a boy of my age. I had never been to school, and I had no companions of my own station save my father. As regards my education, that had been entrusted to Mr. Cox, our nearest clergyman. He did his best with me, poor man; but he must have found it terrible work, for I was anything but brilliant. There was another part of my education, the part undertaken by my father, in which I was not so backward, and, with all due respect to the classics, I found it of infinitely more use to me in my after life. I could ride, fish, shoot, fence, box, or row as well as most men, and, though I was slight, I was tall and strong, as who would not have been leading the healthy life which we did?

It had never troubled me that I had no friends of my own age. Indeed, I never had need of any, for when I had finished for the day with Mr. Cox, or on holidays—which came not unfrequently—my father was always ready to do anything I desired; and what better companion could I have had? He was a better shot and a far better fencer than I, and, at a distance, no one would have taken him for more than my elder brother. He was over six feet in height, and as slim and upright as a dart. His slight moustaches and hair were, indeed, grey, but they were the only signs of age, save, perhaps a weary, troubled look which sometimes came into his face and dwelt there for days. But a good hand-gallop or an hour or two shooting from a boat round the coombe, used generally to drive that away; and then his blue eyes would flash as eagerly and his interest in the sport would be as strong as ever mine was. But, though we were out in all weathers, sometimes for the whole day together, it seemed as though neither sun nor wind could do more than very slightly tan his clear, delicate skin; and his hands, although they were as tenacious and strong as a bargeman's, remained almost as white and shapely as a lady's. I used to think him the handsomest man in the world, and I have certainly never seen a handsomer. To be told that I was growing like him was to make me supremely happy—and people often told me so in those days.

No wonder that I grew to love him with more even than an ordinary filial love. The ties between us were so various, that it would have been strange had it not been so. To the love of a son for his father, was added the love which springs from constant companionship whilst engaged with kindred tastes in following a common object. My mother, too, claimed a large share of my affection, and so did Marian, my sister. But neither of them came anywhere near him in my heart.

I was not of a speculative nature, but gradually it had begun to dawn upon me that we were somehow different from other people—that there must be some reason for the absolute and unbroken solitude in which we lived, and the events of the last two days had now made this certain. "The boy must be told." What was it that I must be told? I had thought that I should have known this very evening, for just as I was going to bed my father had called me to him.

"Hugh," he had said kindly, "you were saying something last night about never having been away from this place. You were quite right. You must not live here always. There has been a reason, a very grave reason, for our having lived here so long and in such solitude. You must be told that reason."

I could see that he was agitated, and a vague yet strong sense of trouble filled me.

"Do not tell me now, father," I cried; "do not tell me at all if it distresses you. I will ask no more questions. I will be content to live on here always as we are doing now."

He shook his head slowly.

"No, Hugh, my boy, you must be told. It is my duty to tell you. But not to-night. I have gone through enough to-day," and he sighed.

I thought of that terrible scene on the moor, of my father's wild words and passionate action, and I asked him no questions. But when I left him for the night and went to bed, there was in my heart a strong sense of some approaching trouble. I tossed about from side to side in my bed till sleep became hopeless. Then I rose, and, hastily putting on my clothes, slipped out of the house.

Even outside I found it warm and oppressive. The sky was black with clouds, and without the moon's softening light the sea looked sullen and uninviting. The air seemed heavy, and, even when I stood on the headland after half-an-hour's climbing, there was no cool breeze to reward me, and, though I had thought myself hard and in good condition, the perspiration came streaming from every pore in my body, and I found myself panting for breath.

I stood upright, and tried to look around me, but everything was wrapped in a thick pall of darkness. I had never known so dark a night, and, after standing there for a moment or two, I grew afraid to move lest I should make a false step. To the right of me I could hear the wind moaning amongst the pine-trees of Allercombe Wood, which the slightest breeze, when in a certain direction, always seemed to cause, and, many hundred feet below, there was the roar of the sea, unusually loud for such a quiet night, as it swept round the sharp corners of the headland.

Never had I stood there before on such a night, or with such a heavy heart. I wished that I had not come, and yet I was afraid to go. The darkness had closed in upon me till I could almost feel it, and knowing that a single step in the wrong direction might cost me my life, I dared not move. Suddenly the heaviness of the atmosphere was explained. The sky above me seemed to be rent aside to let out a great blaze of vivid light which flashed, glittering and fiercely brilliant, right across the arc of the heavens, sinking at last into the horizon of the sea, which it showed me for a moment with a lurid light, green and disturbed. Almost on its heels came the thunder, and I trembled as I listened. It seemed as if the hills were one by one splitting open with a great crash all around me, and the ground on which I stood shook. Again the lightning was scattered all over the inky sky, giving me ghastly peeps at sections of the patch-worky landscape below, and once it flashed down the conductor of Porlock steeple, showing me the little town as distinctly as I had ever seen it. A gale sprung up with marvellous suddenness; the moaning of the pine-trees became an angry shrieking, and the roar of the sea far away below became a deafening thunder. Black clouds and grey mists came rolling along, sometimes enveloping me, and sometimes passing so close above my head that I could feel their moisture, and, by stretching out my hand, could almost have touched them. Every now and then above the storm I could hear the piteous bleating of the mountain sheep, as they rushed frantically about seeking in vain for shelter which the bare hillside could not afford them. For the rain was coming down in sheets, blinding, driving sheets, and already the swollen mountain streams were making themselves heard above all the din, as they swept down into the Porlock valley.

Before the storm had even commenced to die away I had thrown myself face downwards on the wet grass, and was praying. A strange idea had flashed into my mind, and had suddenly become a conviction. This storm had somehow associated itself in my mind with the sudden sense of gloomy depression which had laid hold of me, and driven me out into the black night. As one ended, so would the troubles which the other foretold. It was a strange idea, but it was stranger still what a mastery it gained over me. I dared not look up lest I should still see a threatening sky and an angry see. If such had been the case, I am convinced that I should have been strongly tempted to have thrown myself from the cliffs into the arms of certain death. But when at last I summoned up courage to rise, and gaze fearfully around, it was a very different sight upon which my eyes dwelt. So strangely different that at first it seemed almost as though the hideous storm which had been raging so short a while ago must surely have been a wild nightmare. The dark line of the Exmoor hills was betopped with a gorgeous bank of rosy-coloured clouds, and the sun which had just escaped from them was shining down from a clear sky, gilding and transforming the whole landscape like some great magician. The white cottages of Porlock seemed basking in its pleasant warmth, whilst the fields between it and the sea seemed to be stretching themselves out smiling and refreshed. Here and there, scattered about amongst them, and on the white sands, were long sparkling streaks of silver, which bore witness of the violence of the rainfall; and the tops of the pine-trees, amongst which the wind was no longer playing strange pranks, seemed encrusted with a glittering mass of diamonds, which shot forth their rays in every direction; and strangest of all seemed the altered aspect of the sea. It stretched away below me like a great lake, with only the gentlest ripple disturbing its placid surface, a mighty playground for myriads of dancing, sparkling sunbeams to revel and disport themselves upon. Never had I seen the hills so green or the sea such an exquisite deep, clear blue. Everything seemed to speak of peace and calm and happiness after suffering. It struck an answering chord in my heart, and I could have cried out with joy. The hideous depression seemed rolled away from me, and I could breathe freely again. My spirits leaped up within me, and I threw my hat into the air and shouted for joy till Allercombe Wood rang with the echoes. Then I turned away and strode down the narrow winding path, suddenly conscious that I was stiff and wet and tired. If I had known then when and how I should next stand on Bossington Point, should I ever have come down? I cannot tell.

CHAPTER VI
AN INTERRUPTED ADDRESS

Imagine a long, bare-looking apartment with white-washed walls and generally cheerless appearance, in one corner of which had been pushed aside black boards, piles of maps, and other evidences of the school-room. Seated on benches which reached to the entrance door was a very fair sprinkling of the Porlock labourers and tradespeople, whose healthy red faces were shining with soap and expectation, and whose whole appearance denoted a lively and creditable desire to be enlightened on the very important subject which they had come to hear discussed. If any one was interested in the land question surely they were, for they all lived either upon it or by it, except a few whose nautical garb betrayed another occupation, and whose presence was the subject of a great dead of good-humoured chaff before the proceedings opened.

"Eh, Bill," cried one of the land toilers whom I knew well, for he worked at Farmer Smith's up at Bossington, "what dost want know about t'land, eh? This'll noa teach thee to catch fishes."

"Never thee moind aboot that, Joe," was the good-humoured answer, "we want noabody to teach us how to catch fish, we don't. I ha' come t' hear what the bloke from Minehead's got to zay 'bout you poor de'ils o' landsmen just out o' curiosity like."

"Coom, Bill, I like that," returned the first speaker. "Poor de'ils, indeed! Bean't we as well off as you vishers, eh!"

"Noa, of course you bean't. How can yer be when every voot of land yer tread on belongs to your maesters? Why, we can go sailing away vor days on the zea, lads, and we've as much roight theer as any voine gentleman in his steam yacht. T' zea belongs to us zall, yer zee, and we as goes vishing ha' got as much roight theer as any one. I reckon we've got the best o' you landsmen theer, eh, Bill. Ha, ha, ha!"

To my deep regret this interesting discussion was here brought to a sudden termination by the appearance of my father, the lecturer, and the committee upon the platform. Instantly there was a deep silence, for country audiences, in that respect, are far better bred than town ones, in the midst of which my father, in a few kindly, well-chosen words, introduced the lecturer to them.

When he resumed his chair there was a burst of applause (Devonshire men are generous with their hands and feet), at the conclusion of which the lecturer, a retired linen-draper from Minehead, stepped forward. Of course his doing so was the signal for another little round of cheering, during which he stood rustling his papers about, edging down his cuffs, and making desperate efforts to appear at his ease, which he most certainly was not. At last he made a start, and in less than five minutes I found myself devoutly wishing that he would look sharp and finish. The land question may be an immensely interesting one—no doubt it is; but when it consists in having long strings of depressing statistics hurled mercilessly at you by a nervous little ex-vendor of calico, who made a point of dropping his h's, you can very soon have enough of it. Before long I saw my father politely stifle a yawn—a piece of delicacy which I, not being upon the platform, did not think it necessary to imitate. The audience behaved admirably. The painful efforts written on the faces of most of them to appear intelligently interested were quite affecting, and at exactly the proper moments they never failed to bring in a little encouraging applause. I'm quite sure there wasn't one of them who understood a word of what the man was saying, but they were evidently charitably inclined to put this down to their own stupidity rather than to the incompetence of the lecturer.

He had been droning on for about half-an-hour, when a slight commotion caused by the noisy entrance of some late-comers led me to turn my head. Instantly my spirits rose, for I foresaw a row. The new-comers were all Luccombe men, and between the men of Luccombe and the men of Porlock there existed a deadly enmity. They were rivals in sport and also in politics, for whilst Luccombe boasted a Radical club, Porlock was distinctly Conservative. The arrival of these Luccombites, therefore, was most promising, for they certainly had not come out of compliment to their neighbours, and I took an early opportunity of changing my seat for one nearer the back of the room, so as to be in the fun in case there should be any.

It certainly seemed as though something would come of it. There were several strangers amongst the new-comers, and one of them in particular attracted my attention. He was a big, white-faced man, with continually blinking eyes and stupid, vacuous face, and every now and then he gave vent to his feelings by a prolonged animal cry which afforded the most exquisite amusement to his companions, and never failed to produce the utmost consternation in the lecturer's startled face. I don't know why it was so, but I took a violent dislike to that man the moment I saw him. He was so ugly, so like an animal, besides which he was evidently half drunk. He seemed of a different species altogether to the broad-shouldered, ruddy-faced, good-humoured Devonshire men by whom he was surrounded, and a very inferior species too.

After a while my attention was distracted from him to the other Luccombites, who were evidently bent upon breaking up the meeting. The lecturer was by no means the sort of man to defy the uproar, and insist upon finishing what he had to say. After a very mild protest, the meekness of which caused a howl of derision from the peace-breakers, he brought his lecture to an abrupt close and sat down.

Then my father rose, and spoke a few stern reproving words which had an infinitely better effect. But I was too occupied in watching the extraordinary behaviour of the white-faced man from Luccombe to listen to them. He had half risen to his feet, and was leaning over the back of one of the benches with his eyes and mouth wide open, staring with a stupidly-bewildered look at my father. Suddenly he turned round to his companions.

"Say, lads, should you like to see me shut that joker up?"

I felt hot with indignation, but I kept still.

"Ay, Jack, or Thomas, or whatever your name is," answered one of the Luccombites, "give him a cock-a-doodle-do."

The man smiled an ugly, sickly smile.

"I'll do better nor that," he muttered. "Listen, you 'ere," and, leaning forward, he shouted out one word at the top of his voice—"Yah! coward!"

I saw my father reel backwards as though he were shot, and the word he was uttering died away upon his lips. For a moment I hesitated whether to rush to him or at the man who had yelled out that word. But one glance at his ugly, triumphant face decided me. With two rapid strides I was across the room, and my hand was on his collar.

"Come on!" I shouted, "come along!"

He turned his fishy eyes up at me in amazement.

"What d'ye want? What d'ye mean?" he called out. "Let me go, you young cub, you! You're choking me."

"I'll do worse than choke you before I've done," I cried, passionately. "Come outside and fight, you great beast," and I dragged him half across the floor, for he was striving to free himself and shaking like a jelly-fish.

The audience had sat quite still in their places until now, only half realising what was going on. But at my words it seemed suddenly to dawn upon them, and they crowded around us with a full appreciation of my intended action.

"Let him be, Maester Hugh; we'll bring him along," they cried heartily, for there was not one whom I did not know. "We won't let him go, no fear. Who be 'e to call Maester Arbuthnot names?"

The man whom I jealously released shook himself sulkily and slouched along in the middle of the crowd towards the door.

"I don't want to be let go," he sneered. "If the boy wants a whipping I'll give it 'im. Most like he's a coward like his father though, and won't stand up to it."

My blood was boiling, but I would not answer; there were others to speak for me, though.

"You'd best keep that d—— tongue of yours fro' wagging in yer ugly mouth," cried Jim Holmes the blacksmith. "The lad's i' the right to stand up for his father, and, boy or no boy, he's like to make a jelly-bag o' you. Bring him on to the green, lads."

They brought him on to the green, and quickly formed a ring. The policeman, who was present as a delighted spectator, and who never dreamt of interfering, was good enough to hold my coat and waistcoat, whilst my adversary, unable to find any one willing to perform the same kind office for him, had to deposit his on the ground. He seemed in no hurry to declare himself ready, but at last the word was given, and we stood face to face. Even then he held up his hand for a minute's longer grace, and stared at me as though I were a ghost.

"My God!" he muttered to himself, "it's Mr. Herbert's own self! It's just as he looked at me in the tent;" and he stared at me as though frightened, yet fascinated.

Then we began. Of course I am not going to describe the fight. If we had been alone I should probably have killed him. As it was, they held me off by sheer force when they thought that he had had enough, and there was life still in him when I turned away, followed by an enthusiastic little crowd. But not much.

I went straight to the school-room. It was deserted, and the gas was turned down. From one of the loiterers outside I heard that my father had gone home, and hastily bidding good-night to the little crowd who still hung about my heels, I followed in the same direction.

I had thought that I should have overtaken my father, and at every turn of the lane I looked forward to catching sight of him. But I was disappointed, and when I at last reached home without having done so, I began to feel nervously uneasy. I did not at once enter the house, but looked in at the window. My mother and Marian were alone, working. I looked through into the hall. Neither his hat nor coat were there. He could not have yet returned. And when I realised this I stepped back on to the lawn, pale and shivering, for a horrible foreboding had laid hold of me. What could have become of him? Where could he have gone? I could not imagine, I dared not conjecture.

CHAPTER VII
"I AM TOLD"

"Maester Hugh!"

I had been leaning against a tree on the lawn, afraid to enter the house, yet knowing that there was nothing else for me to do. At the sound of a voice close to my elbow I turned quickly round, and found myself face to face with our solitary man-servant, a raw country yokel with the garb and manners of a ploughboy.

"Maester Hugh, dost thee want t' master?"

"Ay, William, have you seen him?" I cried.

"That I have, Maester Hugh, and it zeemed to me that he had gone off 'is chump like. He coom down the lane 'bait quater of an hour ago, and insteat o' cooming t' house, blamed if he didna turn in at Varmer Zmith's gate, and be a gone up theer," and the boy pointed to the dark outline of the headland which towered up above us.

I sprang away from him, over the low wall, and up the steep winding path, with a reckless speed which frightened William out of the very few wits with which nature had endowed him, and bereft him of all words. I had but one idea, to get to the top as quickly as possible, and but one hope, that I might find him there when I arrived. I was a trained climber, and I did that night what I had never done before—I forsook the path and clambered right up the precipitous side of the hill, helping myself with hands and feet, heedless that a slip must cost me my life, and between my short, quick gasps for breath faltering out a prayer that I might be in time.

It was granted. As I reached the last ridge, and swung myself on to the summit, grasping with my bleeding hands a friendly heather bush, I saw my father kneeling on the ground close to the edge of the cliff, with his coat and hat thrown on one side, and his arms stretched out to the sea. In a moment I was beside him, and as my hand descended on his shoulder and closed upon him with a firm grasp, I drew a long sigh of relief.

"Father, what does all this mean?" I cried. "What are you doing here? Thank God that I have found you!"

He started as though he were shot, and tried to shrink away from me. But I would have none of it. I dropped on my knees by his side, and locked my arm in his.

"Father, tell me all about it," I pleaded. "Something terrible happened a long while ago, and that man who was there to-night knew about it. Am I not right? Tell me all about it; I am not afraid to hear."

He shivered from head to foot, and his face looked ghastly cold. I reached out my hand for his coat, and made him put it on.

"Hugh, my poor boy, I had meant to tell you this, but I never dreamt that this would come. I thought that I was safe here—away from every one."

"Let me know it," I begged.

"Ay, listen. When I was not much older than you are, I entered the army."

I could not keep back the exclamation which rose to my lips. Had I not always thought that he had been a soldier?

"At my first battle I unwisely deserted my post to save the life of the man whom we saw on Exmoor last night, and whose servant was at the meeting this evening. After the fighting was over I was charged with running away. I thought lightly of it, and appealed at once to the man whose life I had saved to come forward and clear me. He came forward with his servant, but, to my horror, they both deliberately perjured themselves. They swore that they had only seen me running away, and I was found guilty, guilty of cowardice—was cashiered, ruined disgraced for life, and, but for your mother, I should have killed myself."

The tears were swimming in my eyes, and I tightened my grasp upon his arm.

"Father, why did he do it?"

He sprang to his feet, his eyes ablaze with fury and his voice shaking—

"That he might oust me from my home and my father's heart—the cur—and take my position. We were half-brothers, and I was the elder. My father loved me and cared little for Rupert. He was jealous,—ah! I can see it all now,—and seized this opportunity of ruining me and getting rid of me for ever. He succeeded. Every one believed me guilty. My father turned me out of the house, bade me change my name, and forget that I was a—one of a noble family. From, that day to this I have never looked upon his face or seen my old home. Your mother alone believed in me, refused to desert me, and, but for that, I must have died. Oh, God, it has been cruel!"

He covered his face with his hands, and great sobs burst from him. My heart was beating with a passionate pity, but I could not tell how to comfort him.

"Father, you know that I do not believe this thing," I cried. "Tell me the name of the man who has sworn to this wicked lie."

"The same as your own and mine. Devereux. Rupert Devereux. Curse him! On his head be the sin of this thing, if sin there be! Good-bye, my boy; good-bye, Hugh!"

He had made a sudden movement to the edge of the cliff, and it was only by a stupendous effort that I caught hold of him in time.

"Father, what would you do?" I cried. "Are you mad?"

I caught hold of him by the waist, and dragged him back from his perilous position. He submitted without protesting—without speech of any sort. Looking into his face a great fear came upon me. Were my words prophetic, and was he indeed going mad? There was a dreamy, far-away look in his glazed eyes, a look which frightened me more than a wilder one would have done, and his face was like the face of a corpse. Then, with a deep groan, his knees would have given way from under him, but that I still held him up. He was unconscious.

CHAPTER VIII
"MY VOW"

How we reached home that night I could never exactly tell. I know that I half carried, half supported him down the narrow path, and at last managed to reach the door of our house. But it was no easy task, and for some minutes I stood there panting and exhausted before I could bring myself to summon any one. Then my mother, who had been sitting up anxiously, heard us, and came hurrying out full of eager inquiries. But I had no strength left to answer her, and when she saw my father's state she ceased her questioning, for she knew at once what had happened.

For three whole days and nights he was only partially conscious. Then he fell into a heavy sleep, which the doctor whom we had summoned from Minehead assured us was his salvation; and so it turned out, for on the fourth day he recovered consciousness, and within a week he was up, and looked much as usual, save for the worn, troubled look in his eyes, and the deeper lines on his forehead.

On the first afternoon when he was allowed to talk, my mother was alone with him for several hours. Then she came out, and fetched me in from the garden and took me to him.

"Hugh, my boy," he said slowly, looking up from his desk, "we are making our plans for the future. We are going to leave here at once."

I was not surprised, and I was certainly not displeased. For although I loved our country home and the quaint homely people by whom we were surrounded, I could never look upon Bossington Headland again without a shudder, when I remembered how nearly it had witnessed a terrible tragedy.

"Your mother and I thought of travelling abroad for a while," he went on. "I shall never be able to settle down anywhere again. But with you it is different. You ought to go to college and choose a profession. Whether you do so or not must depend upon one thing. I myself shall never resume the name which I am supposed to have disgraced, but if you choose to do so there is nothing to prevent you. You will have to bear a certain amount of odium, but it is not every one who will visit my disgrace upon you. You will be poor, but although my father will never leave either of us a penny he cannot prevent the title coming to me, and eventually to you. The entailed estates which go with the title are very small, and I hear that he has purposely mortgaged them up to the hilt, so that nothing should ever come to me from them. But if you choose to bear your rightful name you will claim a place amongst one of the oldest and most honourable families in the country, you can go to college, and somehow or other we will find the money to start you in one of the professions, but not in the army."

"And if I choose to bear still the name I have always done?"

"Then you will not be able to go to college, or to enter any of the professions," my father answered. "You can do neither under an assumed name."

I walked up and down the room for a minute or two thinking. My mind was soon made up.

"I will not bear any name that you do not," I declared, firmly. "If my grandfather thinks that you are not worthy to bear the name of Devereux, neither will I, unless the time shall come when he and the whole world shall know the truth, and you shall take your name again: I will never call myself anything else but Hugh Arbuthnot."

My father stretched out his hand, and looked up at me with glistening eyes.

"Spoken like a man, Hugh," he said. "God grant that that day may come!"

"Amen!" I added, fervently. "And come it shall!"

But I did not tell him then the resolve which I had grafted into my heart, I did not tell him then that I had sworn to myself that I would roll this cloud away from his name, even if I wrung the confession from my uncle's dying lips, and if success should be denied to me, I would, at least, find some means of bringing down retribution on the head of the man who had wrecked and embittered my father's life. By fair means or foul I would gain my end. At eighteen years old I devoted and consecrated my life to this purpose.

CHAPTER IX
AN UNEXPECTED VISIT

During the next four years of my life there happened to me not one single incident worth recording. Our home had been broken up, and we had left Devonshire for ever. My father and mother were living abroad at a small country town in the south of France, Marian was at a boarding-school at Weymouth, and I—I was articled clerk to a very respectable firm of land agents and surveyors in Exeter.

To say that I was contented would be false, but, on the other hand, I was not absolutely miserable. The out-of-door life suited me, and I did not find the work unpleasant. But apart from that I was by no means satisfied. Day and night I carried with me the pale, unhappy face of my poor father, his proud spirit continually being lashed and mortified by the disgrace which falsely rested upon him. I thought of him wandering about in a foreign country, exiled from his proper place in the world, from the society of his fellows, from all things which men of his kind most esteem. I thought of him bearing always in his mind those cruel words of his father's, "Out of my house and out of my heart," and it seemed to me a disgrace that I should be leading a humdrum life in a quiet country town, instead of throwing all my heart and energies into the task which I had placed before me as a sacred mission. But how was I to commence it? The combined income of my father and mother was barely four hundred a year, out of which I received one hundred, besides a trifling salary, which, however, was soon to be increased. Out of this I had been able to save a little, but not much. Nothing which would be of the slightest service to me in commencing such a task as I had in view. And so I did not see what move I could possibly make in the matter which was nearest to my heart, although my present inaction was irksome, at times almost unbearably irksome, to me.

One night I was working late in my little sitting-room copying some plans, when I heard steps on the stairs and the door was quietly opened. I looked up in some surprise, for I never had visitors, and my landlady would scarcely have entered without knocking. But when I saw who it was standing on the threshold I dropped my compasses and sprang up with an eager, welcoming cry.

"Hugh, my boy!" and our hands were locked in a close grasp. Then all of a sudden the joy of this unexpected meeting was dispelled, and my heart sank cold within me. For from head to foot he was clothed in the deepest mourning, and the tears were standing in his hollow eyes.

"Something has happened!" I exclaimed, in a low voice. "Tell me! Mother——"

"Is dead!"

Then he sank down upon my hard little horsehair sofa, and covered his face with his hands, and I waited patiently, though with an aching heart, for surely his sorrow was greater than mine.

Presently he told me more—told me how she had caught a fever at a poor "ouvrier's" cottage, which had never been looked upon as serious until too late; and how she would not have either Marian or me sent for when she knew that she was dying, but had written us each a dying message, and had made him promise to bring the sad news to us himself, and not trust it to a letter. But all this has little to do with my story, so I pass it briefly over.

He had told me all that there was to tell, and then I ventured to speak to him of the future. I had hoped that he would have settled down in England somewhere with Marian and me, but it was a hope which he very soon dispelled.

"Your mother's death," he said, in a low tone when I first began to hint at my desire, "has left me free. I shall look to you to make a home for Marian, and I shall make over to you for that purpose three-quarters of my income. For myself I can never live in England. There is one place, and one place only, which I could call home, and there I cannot go. My life has been for a long time too sedentary a one to be pleasing to me. I am a man of action, and I can never forget that I was once a soldier. I must go where there is fighting."

His words were a blow to me, and for a moment or two I did not answer him. My heart was too hot for words, full of a burning indignation against the cruel slander which was sapping away his life. Notwithstanding the weary look in his eyes, and his wrinkled brow, he was still the finest-looking man I had ever, or ever have, seen. Handsome after the highest type of the patrician Englishman. He was tall, and though slight, magnificently shaped, with long, firm limbs and stately carriage. His features, though powerful and strongly defined, were delicately carved and of the most refined type, and though his hair and moustache were greyer even than when he had left Devonshire, he was still in the prime of life. There was the je ne sais quoi of a soldier about him, the air of command and military bearing. And yet there was nothing better for him to do with his life than go and throw it away amongst foreigners, fighting in a cause for which he could care nothing, and which glory and patriotism, the highest incentives of the soldier, could never make dear to him.

A curse upon that uncle of mine! I would have uttered it out loud, but for fear of raising a storm which I should not be able to quell. So I breathed it to myself, savagely, and none the less emphatically.

"Let me go with you, father," I begged, "I am sick of this humdrum life, and I cannot bear to think of you going wandering about the world by yourself; I can fight, and could soon learn the drill."

He shook his head—not vigorously, but decisively.

"It is good of you to want to come, Hugh," he said, kindly, "but it is quite out of the question. You have your sister to look after, and besides," he added, with a smile, "I do not think my career as a soldier of fortune will be a long one."

"Father, don't talk like that!" I cried, passionately. "They say that some time or other truth will always out, and I believe it! I believe that the day will come when your innocence will be made clear!"

He shook his head dejectedly, but not without emotion.

"Little hope of that," he said, with a deep sigh. "Two men alone amongst the living know the truth about that day, and, having once perjured themselves, they are not likely to recant."

"And those two are my uncle Rupert and his servant. What was the servant's name?"

"John Hilton, the man who was at the meeting at Porlock," my father answered, with a shudder at the recollection of that terrible night. "There was one other man who might have cleared me; but, as fate would have it, when I appealed for his evidence it was discovered that his name was on the missing list. He was either killed or taken prisoner."

"Who was he?" I asked.

"Sergeant Fenwick. Without doubt he was killed, or he would have been delivered over to us at the peace. No, unless Rupert confesses, and one might as well expect the heavens to fall in, I shall die dishonoured and nameless," my father concluded, bitterly.

I stood up and drew a long breath.

"Father," I cried in a low, intense tone, "have you never felt that you must seek out this hound of a brother of yours, and hold him by the throat until he has confessed, or until the breath is gone out of his body? I should feel like that! I should want to stand face to face with him and wring the truth from his lying lips."

My father's eyes were sparkling, and his whole frame quivering with compressed excitement.

"Ah, Hugh, I have felt like that," he cried, "many and many a time. Do you remember the night when we met him on the moor near Dunkerry? If I had been alone that night I should have killed him. I know that I should. It is for that reason that I dare not seek him out. If I heard him utter that lie again, if I saw in his eyes one gleam of pity for me whose life he has hopelessly wrecked, no power on earth could keep me from strangling him, and so I do not seek to meet him. But if chance throws him in my way again, when we are alone, God have mercy on him and me!"

There was a long silence between us. Then I asked him further questions about his present plans.

"You must not think me unkind, Hugh," he said gently, "but mine is a very flying visit. I cannot breathe in this country. It chokes me! Everything reminds me so of home! To-night, in half-an-hour's time," he added, taking out his watch, "I leave here for Weymouth to see Marian. To-morrow afternoon I leave England, most likely for ever."

I tried entreaties, remonstrances, reproaches, but they were all in vain. He shook his head to all.

"I have called at London on my way here," he said, interrupting me in the midst of my appeal, "and have made over my account at Smith's to you. Here is the pass-book and a cheque-book. Mr. Malcolm, of 18, Bucklersbury, is my solicitor, and will pay you three hundred a year. If at any time you desire to re-invest the capital you can do so, for it stands in your name. Hugh, God knows it is my bitter sorrow that I can leave you nothing better than a tarnished name. But remember this: I believe that if you were to go to your grandfather, and tell him who you were, and that I had left England with a vow never to return, I believe then that he would receive you, and would make you his heir. So that——"

"Father, what do you take me for?" I interrupted, passionately. "I will live and die Hugh Arbuthnot, unless you before me bear the name and title of the Devereuxs. Can you imagine that I would seek out my grandfather and crave his recognition, whilst you were wandering about in miserable exile excluded from it? Father, you cannot think so meanly of me."

He held out his hand without speaking, but the gesture was in itself enough. Then he drew out his watch, and rose.

"Hugh, my boy, good-bye, and God bless you! Where I am going I cannot tell you, for I do not know myself. But I will write, and if at any time you have news for me and do not know my address, put an advertisement in the Times. Take care of Marian—and—and God bless you."

*****

He was gone, and save a dull, gnawing pain at my heart, and the letter which lay on the table before me, there was nothing to remind me of his recent presence. All through the long hours of the night I sat in my chair with my head buried in my hands, and—I see no shame in confessing it—many passionate tears falling on to my spoilt plans. Then, when the grey streaks of dawn commenced to rise in the eastern sky, and throw a ghastly light into my sitting-room, in which the gas was still burning, I fell into a drowsy sleep. When I awoke the sun was shining in a clear sky, and the cathedral bells were chiming the hour. It was eight o'clock.

I stood up half dazed. Then my eyes fell upon the letter which still lay before me, and I remembered with a cold chill all that had happened. I stretched out my hand for it, and tore it open.

The handwriting was weak and straggling, and the words were few; but I held it reverently, for it was a message from the dead.

"Farewell, my dearest Hugh, for before this reaches you I shall be dead. Take care of Marian always, and be good to her. With my last strength, Hugh, I am tracing these words to lay upon you a solemn charge. Your father is dying slowly of a broken heart. Year after year I have watched him grow more and more unhappy, as the memory of this cruel dishonour seems to grow keener and bitterer. He is pining away for the love of his old home, his father, and the name which he was once so proud to bear. Oh, Hugh, let it be your task, however impossible it may seem, to bring the truth to light, and clear his name and your own. Hugh, this is my dying prayer to you. With my last strength I write these words, and I shall die at peace, because I know that you will bear them ever in your heart, and carry them on with you to the end. Farewell! My strength is going fast, and my eyes are becoming dim. But thank God that I have been able to finish this letter. Farewell, Hugh!—From your loving MOTHER."

Word by word I read it steadfastly through to the end, and then, my heart throbbing with the fire of a great purpose, I threw open the window and looked out. Below me stretched the fair city of Devon, smiling and peaceful, basking in the early morning sunshine, and the air around was still ringing with the music of the cathedral chimes. Little it all matched with my mood, for my whole being was vibrating with an agony of hate, and with the fervour of a great resolution. With the letter clutched in my hands, I stretched them forth to the blue, cloudless sky, and swore an oath so fearful and blasphemous that the memory of it even now makes me shudder. But I kept it, and thank God, without sin.

CHAPTER X
THE FIRST MOVE

My first plans were not easy to form. I was like a blind man groping for some object which has slipped from his fingers, and not knowing in which direction to search for it first. I had a great and solemn purpose before me, a purpose which was my first consideration in life, and which nothing but death would cause me to relinquish. But I did not know how to start upon it.

I was in London when the idea occurred to me, save for which this story might never have been written. It was simple enough, and very vague. Nothing more or less than to try to procure employment near the Devereux estates, which I knew were somewhere in Yorkshire.

My idea was no sooner conceived than I put it into operation. I went to the firm of agents to whom my late employers had given me a letter of introduction, and inquired whether they knew of any vacancy in Yorkshire, either in a land agent's office or on an estate. One of the clerks ran through a long list, and shook his head.

"Nothing so far north," he declared, shutting up the book. "Two or three in Leicestershire, if that would do."

I shook my head, and, thanking him, turned away disappointed. At the door he called me back as though a sudden thought had struck him.

"Just wait one moment, will you?" he said, jumping down from his stool. "There was a letter from Yorkshire this morning which I haven't seen yet. I'll fetch it from the governor's room and see what it's about."

I took a seat, and he vanished into the inner office. Presently he reappeared smiling.

"Lucky thing I noticed the postmark of this letter," he remarked. "Strikes me it's just what you want. Listen," and he read it out:

"'Devereux Court, Yorkshire.

"'Colonel Sir Francis Devereux——"

"Hullo! what's the matter with you?" he broke off suddenly.

I mastered myself with a quick effort.

"I'm all right," I answered, a little hoarsely. "It's a trifle hot in here, that's all. Go on."

He began again—

"'Colonel Sir Francis Devereux is in want of a young man to act under his present agent and collaborate with him in the management of his estate. Applicant must have some knowledge of farming and surveying, and must be a gentleman. Credentials and unexceptionable references required. Salary £250 a year and a cottage, rent free.'

"There, Mr. Arbuthnot, how would that do for you?"

"Nothing could suit me better," I exclaimed—so eagerly that the young man looked at me surprised. "To whom have I to apply?"

He consulted the letter again.

"Mr. Benson, solicitor, 19, Bedford Row, has authority to engage you. You had better go and see him, I should think."

I thanked him and hurried out. So nervous was I lest some one else should precede me and secure the better chance that I jumped into a stray hansom and was driven straight to Mr. Benson's office. There I was informed, to my great satisfaction, that Mr. Benson was in, and disengaged, and in a few minutes I was shown into his room.

He was sitting at his desk when I entered, a short, clean-shaven, grey-haired man, with a keen but not unkindly face. He motioned me to a seat, and kept his eyes fixed steadfastly upon me whilst I explained my mission.

When I had finished he took out a bunch of keys from his pocket, and carefully unlocked a small drawer in his desk. For a full minute he seemed to be examining something there, glancing up at me more than once. Then he took it and passed it across the table to me.

"Do you recognise that, Mr. Arbuthnot?" he asked, quietly.

Recognise it? How could I help it? It was a photograph—and the photograph of my father.

I leaned back in my chair, agitated and disappointed. Mr. Benson watched me for awhile in silence.

"I see that you are in mourning, Mr. Devereux," he said suddenly, noticing it for the first time. "Your father is well, I hope?"

I pulled myself together, and answered him—

"I am in mourning for my mother, Mr. Benson. I can't say that my father is well, but he is not ill that I know of."

The lawyer was sitting with his head resting upon his elbow, and his eyes fixed upon the photograph.

"Poor Mr. Herbert—poor Mr. Herbert!" he said to himself, in a low tone.

Something, perhaps his sympathetic tone, prompted me to ask him a question.

"Mr. Benson, you knew my father. Do you believe that he was a coward?"

The lawyer looked up at once.

"I do not," he said, firmly. "I never did, and never will."

The words were the sweetest I had ever heard in my life. I jumped up with tears standing in my eyes, and wrung his hand heartily.

"Thank you for those words, Mr. Benson," I exclaimed, warmly. "I can't tell you how glad I am to hear them. But don't call me by the name of Devereux again, please. I won't hear it, I won't even own it."

He nodded approvingly, but made no direct reply. Then, in answer to his questions, I told him as much of our history as I myself knew.

"And with regard to your application to me, to-day," he remarked, after a short pause, "it seems a strange one under the circumstances."

I hesitated, and then I told him everything—told him of my father's breaking heart, of my mother's last letter to me, and of my vow. He listened patiently, and with every sign of strong interest.

"Yours is a noble purpose," he said, when I had concluded, "and though I fear that it is hopeless, I shall throw no obstacle in your way. What I can do for you I will. You can go to Devereux, and I shall write Sir Francis, telling him that you are admirably suited for the work, and, from my own knowledge, that you are a gentleman. Fortunately Sir Francis is rather near-sighted, and as he obstinately refuses to wear glasses there is not the fear of his recognising you that there would otherwise be. But I'm rather afraid of Mr. Rupert. Fortunately he's not often at Devereux."

"I must chance all that," I declared. "After all, a resemblance is very different from actual recognition. I shall try to hit upon some way of altering my appearance a little."

"You have my best wishes for your success," declared the lawyer, rising. "Write me, Mr. Arbuthnot—Mr. Hugh, I may call you. I shall be always pleased to hear how you are getting on; and if you need advice or a friend at any time, come to me. Good-morning."

I left him feeling almost light-hearted. To have met a man who believed in my father was like a strong invigorating tonic to me. That afternoon I telegraphed to Marian to come to me at once, and set about making the few preparations necessary for our expected move into Yorkshire.

CHAPTER XI
COLONEL DEVEREUX'S LAND AGENT

As yet I have said nothing of my sister Marian. It is necessary for me now to do so. They say that a man can never describe or appreciate his own sister, and, on the whole, I am not disinclined to lend some credence to this statement. I know that Marian was beautiful, for many people have told me so, but to give a detailed description of her as she was then I should find an impossible task. I know that her beauty—prettiness always seemed to me the more appropriate term—was of the order evolved by the combination of a trim, shapely figure, good features and complexion, plenty of fair hair, and soft grey eyes (the latter a heritage from her mother), which knew equally well how to gleam with mischief, or to flash with a tenderer and more dangerous light. I feel some diffidence in using the term, but I am bound to here place on record my conviction that when she left school and, in obedience to my telegram, joined me in London, my sister Marian was more or less inclined to be a flirt.

Of the shadow which rested upon my father's name she knew nothing, nor did she know that the name we bore was an assumed one, or anything of the purpose which had induced me to fix our temporary residence in Yorkshire. I judged her to be of too light a nature to be trusted with a great secret—besides, she would doubtless be happier not knowing.

Three days we spent together in London making purchases and superintending the packing up and forwarding of our few belongings. Then there came a note from Colonel Devereux, short but polite, intimating that the sooner I could find it convenient to assume my new position the better. On the next day Marian and I travelled down to Yorkshire.

It was dusk when we arrived at the little wayside station at which we had been directed to alight. Directly I had helped Marian out of the carriage, and we stood together on the platform, a tall, bland-looking man, dressed in the soberest black, hurried up to us and took off his hat.

"Mr. Arbuthnot?"

I admitted that his surmise was correct, and presumed that he had come from Devereux.

"Just so, sir. Colonel Devereux desired me to present his compliments, and if you find that the cottage is not yet habitable, rooms can be prepared for you at the Court."

"Very kind, I'm sure," I answered, watching with satisfaction our last box safely thrown out from the van. "We're quite prepared to rough it for a day or two, however, and I have no doubt that we shall be able to manage. Have you brought anything down for the luggage?"

"Certainly, sir. Bring them this way, John," he added to the porter, and led us through the little booking office out into the road, where a small shapely brougham, drawn by a pair of magnificent dark bays, was waiting.

"I thought it better to bring a brougham, sir," he explained, "as the young lady might find it chilly driving across the moor. Londoners mostly finds it so. There's no need to wait for the luggage, sir. The cart's here for that, and I've given orders for them to bring it on. I'll have to intrude upon you inside, sir, as far as the cottage, as my master's orders is that I don't leave you until I see you in a fair way to be comfortable. I'd have come down on the box, but the Colonel is so mighty particular about little things that it's more than I dare do to let a carriage leave the yard without a man on the box, even at night. This is Knighton, this village, sir. From the top of the next hill you'd be able to see a good part of Devereux Court if it were only light enough."

I let him talk on uninterrupted, for I was too full of a nervous internal excitement to be able to talk. I was amongst the scenes—in a few minutes I should be in sight of the very house—where my father had spent his boyhood. That thought was enough to engross me—to drive every other from my mind, and for once I was devoutly thankful for Marian's ceaseless chatter, which spared me from all necessity of speech.

We dashed through a tiny village, and up a steep hill. "Dashed" is rather a clap-trap word, perhaps, but it is not far from correctly expressing the rate of our progress. The roads were in good order, it was not yet dark; the thoroughbred horses were eager to get home, and quivering with impatience, and the coachman seemed to be of the same mind. And so I could see but very little of the country. A heather-covered moor, varied by occasional patches of pasture land, bordered the road on either side, but in front things seemed to be different. I could just distinguish the dim outline of a low range of hills, and we seemed to be approaching a wood. Suddenly the carriage came to a halt, but it was only for a moment. A pair of great iron gates were rolled open before us, and we proceeded along a smoother road as swiftly as before.

"Are we nearly there?" asked Marian, looking behind at the grey stone, thatched lodges, which were as large as moderate-sized houses.

Colonel Devereux's servant shook his head, and smiled in the light of his superior knowledge.

"Bless you, no, miss; we're only just inside the park. It's six miles from the lodge gates to the House" (the capital may seem superfluous, but I'm quite sure that the man meant it), "and five and a half to the cottage."

Marian's grey eyes were wide open in earnest now.

"Oh, dear me! Did you hear that, Hugh? The park six miles from the house! This must be a very big place."

"Big!" Our companion's face grew quite solemn in its impressiveness. "There ain't such another place in Yorkshire, nor yet in England, barring three. Devereux Court, to my mind, is the finest building I ever set eyes on. Why, it's the show place of the county, and we gets no end of visitors from all parts to look at it."

"Colonel Devereux is a very fortunate man," I remarked.

The man's manner grew a shade more confidential, and I listened with more eagerness than I dared show.

"Well, he should be, sir; but I doubt whether he thinks himself so. You see, his family ain't turned out exactly well. He married twice, and each wife died within two years of her marriage, and, strangely enough, each left him a son. Of course, when they grew up they both wanted to be soldiers. They do say, sir, that every Devereux for twelve generations has been a soldier. A bloodthirsty race they must be! But, as I was saying, they both became soldiers, and went out together in the same regiment for their first campaign. Well, they say that one of 'em, Mr. Herbert his name was, the elder of the two, and the old Colonel's favourite and heir, disgraced himself. Anyway, he was found guilty of cowardice, and turned out of his regiment. It very near killed the Colonel, and he's never been the same man since. He's taken a mortal dislike to his other son, Mr. Rupert, and, though he makes no secret of it that he's left him all his estates and property, he never lets him come down here scarcely."

"But the title! He can't leave that to his second son," I said. "That must go to the one whom you say disgraced himself."

"It just that that's troubling the Colonel more than anything," replied the man. "He says it makes him wild to think that the title of Devereux of Devereux must be borne by a coward, and that his picture gallery and grand old house must go to him, too. At times I have heard him pray that his son may be dead, and have died childless; and yet, hard old man though he is, it's easy to see, from the way he talks about him sometimes, that he's as fond of him as ever, though he'd never confess it. But I'm afraid I'm tiring you, sir. Family histories are not very interesting to strangers."

To strangers! I could scarcely keep a sardonic smile from my lips as I echoed the words in my thoughts.

"Not at all," I answered, as lightly as I could; "but I was going to ask you, who is there living with Sir Francis now?"

"Well, there's no one living regularly with him, sir, except you count old Mrs. Platts, who really ain't much more than a housekeeper, though I believe she's a sort of distant connection. But, just now, there's Miss Maud Devereux, Mr. Rupert's daughter, and a friend of hers stopping here. Here we are at the cottage, Mr. Arbuthnot."

The carriage had pulled up, and a tall footman was standing by the side of the open door. I helped Marian out, and looked around. A little distance in front there was a low wire fencing, and about fifty yards further back, with a dark plantation of fir-trees immediately behind it, was a long, low, grey stone house, with gabled roof and old-fashioned windows. As we approached, the door was thrown open, and two smiling, countrified-looking servants, with neat caps and aprons, stood in a flood of light to welcome us.

We stepped into the hall, and Marian and I looked at one another in astonishment. This was all very different to what I had expected, and my first thought was that the few odds and ends of furniture which I had sent down would be of very little use in such a place as this. But our greatest surprise was to come, for when one of our pleasant-looking servants threw open the door of the dining-room, the room was already furnished, and in a fashion which, made us gaze around in astonishment. Instead of bare boards, which we had half expected, our feet sank into a thick Turkey carpet, and the furniture, solid and handsomely carved, matched the black oak panelling which skirted the walls. A bright fire was burning in a marble grate, and the table, covered with a snow-white cloth, and many things more substantial, was glittering with cut-glass, flowers, and heavy plate, on which were the Devereux arms.

I looked at Colonel Devereux's servant in an amazement which seemed to amuse him immensely.

"What has become of the furniture I sent down?" I asked.

"It is in the lumber room, sir," was the man's quiet reply. "Colonel Devereux's strict orders were that the place should be furnished for you from attic to cellar, and there's furniture enough up at the Court which no one ever sees, enough to furnish a score of such places as this. I hope I may say that you are satisfied, sir?"

"Satisfied? It's quite too lovely," declared Marian, sinking into a low chair. "Isn't it, Hugh?"

"Colonel Devereux has been very kind," I assented, thoughtfully, for I was not too sure that I was altogether pleased.

"And I was to tell you, miss," continued the man, backing towards the door, "that the servants here, and also your man, sir," turning towards me, "receive their wages from the steward. You'll pardon my mentioning this, but it was the housekeeper's strict orders. Good-night, miss; good-night, sir. Colonel Devereux will see you to-morrow morning at eleven, if you'll be so good as to come up to the Court. Good-night, sir."

This time he really went, and we were left for a moment alone. I am obliged to confess that the first thing my madcap sister did was to waltz round the room, and wind up by throwing herself into my arms.

"Isn't this perfectly delightful, Hugh, and isn't the Colonel an old dear? I declare I could kiss him! And I am so hungry, and everything looks so nice. Do ring the bell, Hugh."

There was no need, for before she had finished speaking one of our buxom servants had entered with the tray, and the other was waiting to show us our rooms, which we found no less comfortable. Everything was totally different to what I had expected, and for Marian's sake I was pleased. But for my own I could not help regretting that I should be forced to accept favours from the man who believed my father to be a coward and a liar and whose cruel words "Out of my house and out of my heart for ever," he carried always with him in weary exile.

CHAPTER XII
AT DEVEREUX COURT

At six o'clock on the following morning I was up and in the park. I had prepared myself for much, but what I saw exceeded everything. It is not part of my rôle as story-teller to attempt long descriptions. I am not an artist or a descriptive writer, and were I to attempt to play the part of either I should most certainly fail. But the park and mansion of Devereux were one day bound to be mine, even though they brought me pauperdom, and despite the sorrow and bitter grief which were bound up in this recollection, a curious thrill, in which there was something of pleasure, passed through me as I looked upon them for the first time by daylight.

The cottage—such a term was surely a misnomer, for it was three times as large as the habitable part of our Devonshire home—stood at the extremity of the park nearest the house. Only a wire ring-fence separated the gardens from the soft springy turf of the park, which, studded with giant oak-trees, a revelation to me after the comparatively stunted growths of Devonshire, stretched away in one direction as far as I could see. Bordering it on one side, close behind the cottage, and curving round as though to form a fitting background for Devereux Court, was a low range of hills, some crowned with thick plantations of black fir, and others purple with the declining glory of the autumn heather. But the house was the grandest sight of all. A great architect might have learnedly protested against its want of any distinct style and its general want of outline, but he would have admired it all the same. It was one of those houses which no one can describe, save by making use of such adjectives as picturesque, romantic, majestic. It was all these and more. The style of every age seemed represented by the successive enlargements of every century. Every Devereux of Devereux had added something to it, until a century ago, and every one seemed to have had different notions of architecture. There was something in it of the castle, something of the mediæval abbey, something of the Italian villa, and something of the Venetian palace. It was a magnificent medley, a striking mass of architectural incongruity—altogether the finest building that I had ever seen. It excited me to look upon it, and at the same time it depressed me. Its frowning battlements and gloomily majestic weather-beaten towers seemed to breathe out and help me to better understand the spirit which had fired the words of the stern, proud, old soldier, who had bidden my father leave his home for ever, and bear another name than the name of Devereux. For the first time I began to look forward to the inevitable interview with my grandfather with something akin to apprehension.

At breakfast time Marian's lively chatter drove all such thoughts out of my head. And before they had had time to crowd in on me again, a man from the stables was announced, with whom I went to examine the two horses placed at my disposal.

I loved horses, and it seemed as though Sir Francis Devereux was determined to do everything au prince. Besides a stout useful cob, there was an animal with which I fell in love the moment I saw it. The man uncovered him gingerly, and took particular care to keep out of reach of his heels.

"I was to tell you, sir," he said, confidentially, as he came out of the box, "that if you wished to change this 'ere animal—the Black Prince they call un—for one a wee bit less spirity, that you was to come up to the stables and choose for yourself. There ain't no vice about 'im, but he's got a mouth like iron and the devil's own temper."

"I think I shall manage him," I answered confidently. "Who's been in the habit of riding him?"

"Well, sir, Miss Maud rode him for a bit, but he used to pull her arms out very near, and he gave her one nasty fall, so Sir Francis he's made her leave off."

"I should think so," I answered.

The Black Prince, fine animal though he was, was certainly not a lady's mount.

"Well, she's a rare plucky 'un is Miss Maud, and a fine seat, too," remarked the man, leisurely chewing a wisp of straw. "You think he'll do for you, sir, then?"

"I think so," I answered.

Then, glancing at my watch, and seeing that it was but nine o'clock, it struck me that I might as well give him a trial at once, and in half-an-hour's time I was careering across the park, my spirits rising at every bound the Black Prince made, and my cheeks glowing with the rapid progress through the sharp morning air, and with the strain of keeping him in hand. What pleasure is there within the reach of man so great as a gallop across an open country, with the fresh morning breeze blowing strong in your teeth, and your mount a perfect one? When I got back to the cottage, just before eleven, and after seeing Marian start off for a walk, set out for Devereux Court, all my apprehensions had vanished, and I was only eager to stand face to face with its master.

I had not far to go. Up a steep ascent, across a bridge, through some more iron gates, and I stood upon the open stretch of gravel in front of the main entrance, which was supported by four massive white stone pillars. A man-servant was waiting within the glass doors, which were promptly opened before me, and on telling him my name, I was led across the vast hall, which seemed to me, from its great height, the stained windows, and its size, like the interior of a richly decorated church, into the library. I had never been in such a room before, nor have I ever since, but the man gave me little time to admire it, for, opening the door of a small ante-room at its furthest extremity, which had a far more habitable appearance, he bade me wait whilst he informed Sir Francis of my arrival.

The room seemed to open upon the gardens, for, though the Venetian blinds were drawn, I could hear distinctly the voices of two girls playing tennis just outside.

"Love, love 15, love 30, love 40. Maud, you're a great deal too lazy for tennis this morning!"

The girl's triumphant voice floated into the room so clearly that at first I was surprised. Then, by the gentle swaying to and fro of the blind, I saw that the window was open.

The charge seemed not to be made without foundation, to judge from the languid drawl of the answering voice.

"I believe I am, Olive. It really is too exhausting without some men to look after the balls. Suppose we have a rest for a minute or two."

There was a laughing assent, and then I heard light footsteps coming towards the window. I thought at first that they were going to enter; but just outside they halted and seemed to subside into a seat.

There was a moment's silence, during which I withdrew as far as possible from the window. But I was still within easy reach of their voices, as I very soon learnt, not a little to my discomfort.

"I wonder what the new young man's like at the cottage. Have you seen him, Maud?"

I started, and drew further back into my corner.

"I really don't know," was the very uninterested reply. "By the bye, though, I did see a stranger in the park, yesterday. Perhaps it was he."

"What was he like? Fancy not telling me, when you knew I was dying to hear. Is he tall or short, dark or fair?"

A scornful inflection had crept into the languid drawl of the answering voice. But it was far from an unpleasant voice to listen to:—"I only saw him for a moment, but I remember that he was short, and had red hair, and wore glasses. I don't think even you would flirt with him, Olive."

This was dreadful. I was six foot four, and my eyesight was keener than most men's. She must have mistaken some one else for me! But what was I to do? I tried a nervous little cough, but they took no notice.

"Oh! I'm so disappointed. I had made up my mind that he was good-looking, and would do to flirt with, at any rate, until the shooting brings some men down. Goodness gracious, what was that?"

Rendered desperate by the mention of my name, I had essayed a more determined cough. Now that it had been heard my best course was to reveal myself at once. So I walked to the window and drew up the blind.

Two girls started to their feet at once, and stood looking at me in startled postures, one dark, of medium height, decidedly pretty, and with a gleam of mischief in her large eyes; the other tall and slim, fair, and stately as a young princess, with a cold, questioning look in her blue eyes, and a slight frown on her proud, delicate face. Something told me that this was Rupert Devereux's daughter. And the thought checked the smile which I had found some difficulty in repressing.

"I am afraid I startled you?" I said. "I am waiting in here to see Colonel Devereux, and as I heard my name mentioned I thought it as well to let you know that I was here."

For the life of me I could not meet the laughing gaze of those mischievous black eyes without a smile. They seemed to be looking me over from head to foot, with an air of decided interest, and finally they looked up into mine, as though satisfied with their inspection.

"Did you hear what we were saying, Mr. Arbuthnot?" she asked eagerly, with a bewitching little smile.

"How could I help it? I coughed once before, but you did not hear me."

I glanced for the first time at Maud Devereux, and she inclined her head slightly, as though to intimate that she accepted my explanation.

"It is of no consequence," she said, a little coldly; "we were to blame for talking nonsense. I'm ready for another set now, Olive."

She turned and moved slowly away to the tennis-court without another look at me; but the other girl lingered for a moment.

"I'm so sorry for what I said, Mr. Arbuthnot," she remarked. "Of course I didn't mean it, but it is so dull here that one is bound to talk nonsense sometimes."

I bowed, and I am afraid that there was a decided twinkle in my eyes as I answered, "Pray, don't apologise. You can't imagine how grateful I am for the red hair and other etceteras which are to save me from a broken heart."

She had the grace to blush a little at last, and it made her look uncommonly pretty.

"You're too bad, Mr. Arbuthnot. Good-bye."

And, with a parting glance and smile, she picked up her racket and moved away across the lawn towards Maud Devereux, who had never once looked round.

I let the blind fall again, and turned back towards my chair. I had hardly reached it before the door opened, and I stood face to face with my grandfather, Colonel Sir Francis Devereux.

CHAPTER XIII
COLONEL SIR FRANCIS DEVEREUX, BART.

For a second everything swam before my eyes, and it always seemed to me afterwards a miracle that I recovered myself sufficiently to accept his outstretched hand, and mutter some intelligible response to his courteous speech of greeting. For the stately, white-haired, military-looking man who had entered the room was so like my father that I had very nearly called him by name.

At the sound of my voice he started slightly, and, adjusting an eye-glass, looked at me steadily. Then he, too, seemed to receive something of a shock, for he turned abruptly away towards the window, and I could see that his long white fingers were shaking.

"I must ask your pardon, Mr. Arbuthnot," he said, suddenly looking round and scanning me over again. "The fact is, your appearance recalled some one to my mind whom—whom I have not seen for many years."

I bowed silently. I understood his emotion better than, he imagined, and my heart was warming to him in consequence of it.

"You are welcome to Devereux, sir," he went on, cordially. "I hope you find your quarters fairly comfortable."

I began to thank him for the generosity of his arrangements, but he stopped me at once.

"If you are satisfied, that is well. I hope you will like the place," he went on, after a moment's pause, "for I think that you will suit me. Mr. Andrews will explain what your duties will be on the estate. I don't think you'll find them particularly arduous. You shoot, I hope, and hunt, and fish? H'm, I thought so. I'm glad to hear it. I wanted some one who would be able to show my guests, when I have any, what there is to do about the place, and who won't mind a day amongst the stubble with an old man now and then," he added, pleasantly. "Have you seen anything of the place yet?"

I told him of my early ride, and that all the impressions I had as yet received of the country and its surroundings were pleasant ones. He was delighted to hear it, he told me.

"And your sister. Does she think that she will be able to make herself at home here?"

I assured him that there was very little doubt about that. She had been used to the country all her life.

We talked for awhile of the estate, and the share of its management which would fall to my lot. There was much that wanted doing, he said, and I was glad to hear it, for though I had come here with another ultimate object, I had no desire to spend my time in idleness. We talked for a long while, he seeming anxious to keep me there, and asking many personal questions which I found it not altogether easy to answer. But at last the luncheon bell rang out, and then he let me go.

"I should like to show you round the place myself," he said, as we walked down the hall together. "Be ready at three o'clock, and I will call for you. We will ride, of course."

Just as we passed the foot of the great oak staircase which descended into the centre of the hall, we came face to face with the two girls who had been playing tennis. Sir Francis stopped at once.

"Ah, Maud, dear, let me introduce you to Mr. Arbuthnot. Mr. Arbuthnot, this is my niece, Miss Devereux, and her friend, Lady Olive Parkhurst."

My cousin bowed very slightly, and scarcely paused in her progress across the hall. But Lady Olive lingered to throw a saucy glance at me over her shoulder.

"You two men have wasted a delightful morning gossiping," she said, lightly. "Maud and I have been dying with curiosity to know what it's all been about."

Miss Devereux was standing in one of the doorways a little way off, with the slightest possible frown of impatience on her face, and looking decidedly supercilious at her friend's remark, although she did not take the trouble to contradict it. They had both changed their morning gowns for riding habits, and though Lady Olive, with her trim, dainty figure and coquettish smile, looked sufficiently charming, I could not help my eyes dwelling the longest on Maud Devereux. Fair, proud, and cold, with slim yet perfectly graceful figure, she reminded me of Tennyson's Princess. It was only for a moment that I looked at her, but her eyes chanced to meet mine, and the frown on her statuesque young face deepened, as though to admire her even were a liberty. I turned away at once, and moved a step nearer the door.

"We have wasted a beautiful morning, certainly," Sir Francis remarked; "but we are going to make up for it this afternoon. Mr. Arbuthnot and I are going to ride together on a tour of inspection. Would you young ladies care to join us?"

Lady Olive leaned forward with a beaming smile.

"I should like it immensely," she declared.

"You forget, Olive, that we are going to call on the Annerleys this afternoon," remarked Maud Devereux, in a cold tone of disapprobation. "Luncheon is quite ready, uncle."

Lady Olive gathered up her skirts, and, nodding to me with a comical grimace, took Sir Francis's arm.

"Good-morning, Mr. Arbuthnot. I'm so sorry we can't come. I should like to see how you manage the Black Prince."

"You will have plenty of other opportunities," Sir Francis remarked. "Good-morning, Arbuthnot; be ready about three o'clock."

And so ended my first visit to Devereux Court.

CHAPTER XIV
THE BEGINNING OF DANGER

Before a month had passed I began to feel quite settled at the cottage. My duties, though many, lay within my capacity, and were such as I found pleasure in undertaking. It was impossible for me not to see that Sir Francis Devereux had taken a great and, to others, an unaccountable fancy to me; and occasionally he made such demands upon my time that I found it hard to get through my work. But I never grudged him an hour that I could honestly spare, for every day the prejudice which I had felt against him grew less, and I began to heartily like and pity him. Perhaps this change in my feelings towards him arose chiefly from the fact that he was obviously an unhappy man. The sorrow which was embittering my father's life and clouding mine had laid its hand with almost equal bitterness upon him. And was it not natural? For more than twenty years he had never looked upon the face or heard of the son whom he had loved better than any one else in the world. The heir of Devereux, for all he knew, might have sunk to the lowest depths of vice and degradation, and yet for all that, he must bear the title and, if he chose, take up his abode in the home where his ancestors had lived with honour for many centuries, and at the very best there was a deep blot which nothing could ever efface. The descendant of a long race of mighty soldiers had been publicly pronounced a coward; and yet some day or other, by the inevitable law of nature, he would become the representative of his family. To the stern old soldier I knew well that the thought was agony, and I longed to reassure and comfort him, as I most certainly could have done. But the time was not yet come.

Naturally I saw a good deal of Maud Devereux and Lady Olive, much more of the latter than the former, for she appeared to have taken a violent fancy for Marian, and was often at the cottage. Conceit was never amongst my failings, but of course I could not help noticing that the times she chose for coming were those on which I was most likely to be at home, and generally when I returned from my day's work I found Marian and her gossiping over the fire, or if I was early, indulging in afternoon tea. She seemed determined to flirt with me, and I, willing to be amused, let her have her own way. We were both perfectly aware that the other was not in earnest, and we both—I particularly—took care not to lapse into the sentimental stage. On the whole we managed to amuse one another very well.

With Maud Devereux I made but little progress—in fact I feared sometimes that she even disliked me. She was always the same—cold, unbending, and apparently proud. It seemed impossible to win even a smile from her, and the more friendly Lady Olive and I became the more she seemed to stand aloof. Once or twice, when I had found myself riding by her side, or alone with her for a minute, I had fancied that her manner was changing a little. But before I could be sure of it, Lady Olive would bear down upon us and challenge me to a race, or make some mocking speech.

Why should it matter to me? I could not tell; yet always at such times I knew that I wished Lady Olive a little further away. Cold and disdainful though she was, a minute with her was more to me than hours with Lady Olive. And yet she was the daughter of the man whom I hated more than any living thing, and on whom I had sworn to be revenged should I fail in the great object of my life.

One evening, when, tired and dusty and stiff, after many hours' riding, I walked into Marian's little drawing-room to beg for a cup of tea before changing my things, I had a great surprise. Instead of Lady Olive, Maud Devereux was leaning back in an easy chair opposite my sister. Maud, with the proud wearied look gone from her cold blue eyes, and actually laughing a soft, pleasant laugh at one of my sister's queer speeches. I stepped forward eagerly, and there was actually a shade of something very like embarrassment in her face as she leaned forward and held out her hand.

"You are surprised to see me, Mr. Arbuthnot," she said; "I wanted Olive, and thought this the most likely place to find her."

"We haven't seen her to-day, have we, Hugh?" Marian remarked.

I assented silently, and spoke of something else. I did not want to talk about Lady Olive just then.

For more than half-an-hour we sat there sipping our tea, and chatting about the new schools which Sir Francis was building in the village, the weather, and the close approach of cub-hunting. I could scarcely believe that it was indeed Maud Devereux who sat there in my easy chair, looking so thoroughly at home and talking so pleasantly. As a rule, the only words I had been able to win from her were cold monosyllables, and the only looks half-impatient, half-contemptuous ones.

At last she rose to go, and I walked with her to the gate. It was almost dusk, and I felt that under the circumstances I might offer to walk up to the house with her. But I felt absolutely timid about proposing what with Lady Olive would have been a matter of course.

I did propose it, however, and was not a little disappointed at the passive indifference with which my escort was accepted. But what I should have resented from Lady Olive I accepted humbly from her.

Side by side we walked through the park, and I could think of nothing to say to her, nothing that I dared say. With Lady Olive there would have been a thousand light nothings to bandy backwards and forwards, but what man living would have dared to speak them to Maud Devereux? Not I, at any rate.

Once she spoke; carelessly as though for the sake of speaking.

"What spell holds Mr. Arbuthnot silent so long? A penny for your thoughts!" and I answered thoughtlessly.

"They are worth more, Miss Devereux, for they are of you. I was thinking that this was the first time I had walked alone with you."

"I am not Lady Olive," she said, coldly. "Be so good, Mr. Arbuthnot, as to reserve such speech for her."

She quickened her pace a little, and I could have bitten my tongue out for my folly. But she was not angry for long, for at the gate which led from the park into the ground she paused.

Devereux Court, with its lofty battlements and huge stacks of chimneys, towered above us—every window a burnished sheet of red fire, for the setting sun was lingering around it, and bathing it with its last parting rays as though loth to go.

"What a grand old place it is!" I said, half to myself; "I shall be sorry to leave it."

She turned round quickly, and there was actually a shade of interest in her tone.

"You are not thinking of going away, are you, Mr. Arbuthnot? I thought you got on so well with my uncle."

"Ay, too well," I answered bitterly, for I was thinking of my father and hers. "There is a great work which lies before me, Miss Devereux, and I fear that I shall do little towards it down here. Life is too pleasant altogether—dangerously pleasant."

"And yet you work hard, my uncle says," she observed; "too hard, he says, sometimes. You look tired to-night."

I might well, for I had ridden over thirty miles without a rest; but I would have ridden another thirty to have won another such glance from her sweet blue eyes.

"A moment's pleasure is worth a day's work," I said, recklessly, "and I have had nearly an hour's."

She opened the gate and passed through at once with a gesture of contempt.

"If you cannot remember, Mr. Arbuthnot, that I am not Lady Olive, and that such speeches only appear ridiculous to me, I think you had better go home," she said, coldly.

I looked down—tall though I was, it was not far to stoop—into her slightly flushed face, and through the dusky twilight I could see her eyes sparkling with a gleam of indignation. She was right to say that I had better go home—nay, I had better never have started. What had come over me that I should find my heart throbbing with pleasure to be alone with the daughter of the man whom I hated? It was treachery to my father, and, as the thought of him wandering about in his weary exile rushed into my mind, a sudden shame laid hold of me. I drew myself up, and strode along in silence, speaking never another word until we reached the gate leading on to the lawn. Then I opened it, and raising my cap with a half-mechanical gesture, stood aside to let her pass.

"Good-evening, Mr. Arbuthnot."

"Good-evening, Miss Devereux."

It might have been merely a fancy, but it seemed to me that she lingered for a second, as though expecting me to say something else. And though I was gazing fixedly over her head, I knew well that her eyes were raised to mine. But I stood silent and frowning, waiting only for her to pass on, and so she went without another word.

I watched her, fair and stately, walking with swift, graceful steps along the gravel path. Then I turned my back upon the spot where she had vanished, and, leaning against the low iron gate, let my face fall upon my folded arms.

Of all the mental tortures which a man can undergo, what is there worse than the agony of self-reproach? To be condemned by another's judgment may seem to us comparatively a light thing—but to be condemned by our own, what escape or chance of escape can there be from that! And it seemed to me as though I were arraigned before the tribunal of my own conscience. As clearly as though indeed he stood there, I saw before me the bowed form, and unhappy face of my poor father, looking steadfastly at me out of his sad blue eyes, with the story of his weary suffering life written with deep lines into his furrowed face. And then I saw myself standing at the window of my rooms in Exeter, with an oath ringing from my lips, and a passionate purpose stirring my heart, and last of all I saw myself only a few minutes ago walking by her side with stirred pulses and bounding heart—by her side, whose father, curse him! was the man above all others whom I should hate—for was it not his lying word which had driven Herbert Devereux from his home, and blasted a life more precious to me than my own! At that moment a passionate longing came upon me to stand face to face with him, the man whom we had met in the moonlight on Exmoor, and tear the truth from his lying throat.

"Mr. Arbuthnot!"

I started violently and turned round pale and agitated with the rage which was burning within me. Maud Devereux stood before me—Maud, with the pride gone out from her exquisite face, and the warming light of a kindly sympathy shining out of her glorious eyes.

"I startled you, Mr. Arbuthnot?"

"I must confess that you did, Miss Devereux. I thought that I was alone."

I had drawn myself up to my full height, and was looking steadily at her, determined that neither by word nor look, would I yield to the charm of her altered manner. It was I now who was proud and cold; she who was eager and a little nervous.

"I had a message to deliver to you, and I forgot it," she said, hurriedly. "I was to ask you to dine with us to-night."

"Does Sir Francis particularly wish it?" I asked. "Because, if not, as I have had a long day, and am rather tired——"

She interrupted me, speaking with a sudden hauteur, and with all the coldness of her former manner.

"I don't know that he particularly wishes it, but he has brought Lord Annerley home with him to talk over the Oadby Common matter, so you had better come."

Lord Annerley was the eldest son of a neighbouring landowner between whom and myself, as the agent of Sir Francis Devereux, there had arisen a friendly dispute as to the right of way over a certain common, and I knew at once that I must not miss the opportunity of meeting him.

"Very good, Miss Devereux," I answered, "I will go home and change my things at once."

"Without speaking to me?"

I turned abruptly round. Lady Olive had come softly over the smooth turf, and was looking up into my face with a mischievous smile.

"How cross you both look!" she exclaimed; "have you been quarrelling?"

"Quarrelling! Scarcely," I answered, laughing lightly. "Miss Devereux and I have no subject in common which we should be likely to discuss, far less to quarrel about. Wherever did you get such beautiful chrysanthemums, Lady Olive?"

She buried her piquant little face in the mass of white and bronze blooms, and then divided them.

"From the south garden. Aren't they lovely! See, Mr. Arbuthnot, I want you to take half of them to your sister if you don't mind. I don't think you have any cut yet, and the colours of these are so exquisite. Which do you like the better, Maud, the white or the bronze?"

"The white, of course," she answered, scarcely looking at them. "I don't care for the other colour at all."

"And I prefer it," Lady Olive went on, filling my outstretched hands. "Mr. Arbuthnot, did I gather correctly from what you were saying when I came up that you dine with us to-night?"

"I am to have that happiness, Lady Olive," I answered; "and, if I don't hurry off now, I'm afraid I shall be late."

"Then don't stop another moment," she laughed. "But, Mr. Arbuthnot——"

I halted resignedly and turned round.

"Well?"

"Oh, nothing, only Maud and I expect you to show us this evening whose taste you choose to follow."

"In what respect?" I asked.

"Why, chrysanthemums, of course! Maud has chosen white, I have chosen bronze. We shall both look out eagerly to see whose colours you wear in your buttonhole to-night, If you wear a white one, I sha'n't speak to you all the evening. Mind, I warn you."

"What nonsense you talk, Olive!" said Maud, carelessly, but with a slight flush rising into her cheeks. "As if it could make the slightest possible difference to me which colour Mr. Arbuthnot prefers in chrysanthemums!"

There was a distinct vein of contempt in her concluding sentence, and Lady Olive, noticing it, looked at us both in surprise.

"It is my positive conviction," she declared, with mock seriousness, "that, notwithstanding Mr. Arbuthnot's high-flown repudiation, you two have been quarrelling."

Maud Devereux turned impatiently away, with a scornful shrug of her shoulders, and walked slowly towards the house. Lady Olive started to follow her, but at the gate she paused.

"Mr. Arbuthnot, come here, I want to speak to you."

I retraced my steps, of course, and stood by her side.

"Well?"

She stood on tiptoe and whispered—quite an unnecessary proceeding, for Maud was a dozen yards away.

"Mr. Arbuthnot, what have you and Maud been quarrelling about?"

I turned round so abruptly that our heads knocked together and my moustache brushed her cheek.

"Mr. Arbuthnot!"

"It wasn't my fault," I assured her, truthfully.

"Sure!"

She was looking up at me with a half-coquettish, altogether inviting smile.

"Quite. Shall I show you how it happened?" I asked, stooping down till my face was very close to hers.

"What colour chrysanthemum are you going to wear this evening, Mr. Arbuthnot?" she asked, rather irrelevantly.

"Can you ask? Bronze, of course."

"Well, then—yes—I think you may show me—just so that it sha'n't happen again, you know," she added, with laughing eyes.

And so I showed her, just as a matter of precaution, and received for my reward a not very hard box on the ears, and a saucy, mock-angry backward glance as she broke away from, me and hurried after Maud. Then I strode across the park, angry with myself, yet fiercely exultant, for I knew that Maud had been lingering in the shrubbery alone, and had seen us. She would know now, if she did not before, that the grief which she must have read in my face when she had returned so unexpectedly was none of her causing, else had I never let my lips rest for a second on Lady Olive's cheek.

CHAPTER XV
A FIGHT FOR LIFE

In less than an hour I was back at Devereux Court. The gong was booming through the hall as I reached the drawing-room, and the little party had already risen to their feet. Maud's hand was resting on the coat-sleeve of a man scarcely as tall as herself, with a fair, insipid-looking face and weak eyes—whom I knew at once must be Lord Annerley. Sir Francis, who was suffering from a bad attack of gout, was leaning half on his stick, half on Lady Olive's bare, white shoulder; but, at my entrance, he withdrew his hand, and she stepped back, rubbing her arm with a comical air of relief.

"Just in time, Arbuthnot! Come and give me your arm, there's a good fellow. Annerley, this is Mr. Arbuthnot, my agent."

Lord Annerley returned my greeting with a slightly patronising air, and then we walked across the hall to the dining-room, Sir Francis leaning heavily on my shoulder.

Maud had noticed me only by the merest inclination of her stately head, and during dinner-time she never addressed a single observation to me, her attention seeming wholly absorbed by her companion. Lady Olive, although at first she rattled on in her usual style, seemed always watching for an opportunity to join in their conversation, and when at last she found it seemed almost to forget my existence. They talked of people whom I did not know, and subjects in which I had no interest, but I was well content to be left alone. I was in no mood for talking, and to answer Sir Francis's few inquiries was quite enough for me.

We were about half-way through dinner when suddenly Sir Francis held up his finger and cried "Hush!"

Every one stopped talking, and I who had also heard the sound sprung to my feet. It came again in a second or two, three sharp reports from the direction of the park.

"Poachers, by G—d!" exclaimed Sir Francis, angrily, "and in the home spinneys, too! The cheeky rascals!"

I was half-way across the room before he had finished speaking.

"Take care of yourself, my boy," he called out earnestly. "You'll find my revolver in the top drawer of my cabinet in the library. See that it's loaded. By Jove, I wish my foot was right! Annerley, I don't know whether you care about a row as much as I did when I was a youngster; but if you do, pray go with Arbuthnot. My niece will excuse you."

Lord Annerley did not seem to find that keen prospect of pleasure in the affray, which was doubtless proceeding, that Sir Francis would certainly have done, for as I hurried from the room I heard him mutter something about his boots being rather thin. An irresistible impulse made me glance for a moment into Maud's face whilst he was elaborately excusing himself, and I was satisfied. A slight but distinctly contemptuous expression had stolen into it.

I was scarcely a moment in the library, for the revolver was in its place and loaded. As I hurried down the hall, Sir Francis hobbled out of the drawing-room.

"Arbuthnot," he called out anxiously after me, "I've just remembered Atkins and Crooks are both away to-night; I gave 'em a holiday; so old Heggs and his son must be alone in the home spinneys. Those damned rascals must have known of it. I'll send the men after you, but run, or you'll be too late!"

There was no need to tell me to run. Holding my revolver clenched in my right hand, I dashed across the gardens toward the park, leaping over the flower-beds, and using my left hand to vault over locked gates and fences. I had scarcely reached the park when I heard the almost simultaneous report of three or four guns, and immediately afterwards, the moon shining in a cloudless sky showed me the figure of a man leap from one of the dark belts of plantation at the head of the slope, and make for the open country. My first impulse was to strike off to the right hand and intercept him; but before I had gone half-a-dozen yards out of my way, I changed my intention, for from the interior of the plantation came a hoarse, despairing cry for help, followed by another gunshot.

I was a good runner, and I strained every nerve to reach the spinneys. But when at last, panting but eager, I dashed up the slope, and leaped over the low stone wall, a fear came upon me that I was too late.

At first it was too dark to see anything, for the moon's light could not penetrate through the thickly-growing black fir-trees. But close in front of me I could hear the sound of muttered curses and the trampling of feet upon the dried leaves and snapping twigs. A dozen hasty strides forward, and I burst through the bushes into a small clearing, and found myself in the thick of the struggle.

On the ground, only a few feet from me, lay Heggs, groaning heavily, with his leg doubled up under him. Close by his son was struggling desperately with two powerfully-built, villainous-looking men, and on the ground were stretched the forms of two others, one, an under-keeper, writhing about in pain, and the other, whose face was unknown to me, lying quite still, and evidently insensible. Two other men were hastily filling a bag with their spoil, one holding it open, and the other collecting the birds from a broken net on the ground and throwing them in.

The sound of my rapid approach naturally changed the situation. The two men struggling with young Heggs relapsed their grasp for a moment to look round, and with a great effort he wrenched himself free, and stood back panting. The others who were filling the bag started up as though to run, but seeing I was alone hesitated, and one of them snatching up a gun commenced hastily to load. But his companion, who appeared to be the leader, yelled to him with an oath to put it down.

"Put your barker down, you fool!" he shouted. "We shall have the whole blooming lot down here if we got using them any more. It's only one of the fine birds from the Court! We'll soon settle him."

One of the men who had been filling the bag sprang up, and, holding his gun by the barrel, rushed at me. Suddenly he stopped and cowered back, for he looked full into the dark muzzle of my revolver. I would have spared him, but the odds were too desperate. There was a sharp report, and the arm which held his weapon sunk helplessly to his side. He staggered back with a howl of pain, and then, turning away, bounded into the thicket.

"You are at my mercy," I cried to the others. "Stay where you are, or I shall fire."

An oath was the only answer, and then two of the men rushed at me, whilst another, turning away to escape, was seized by young Heggs, who had been leaning, panting, against a tree. The desperate struggle which followed I could never describe in detail. One of my assailants I should certainly have shot through the heart, but that in the sudden shock of recognising him my hand swerved and the bullet only grazed his cheek. Backwards and forwards, amongst the bushes and on the ground, we struggled and fought. But for my Devonshire training in boxing and wrestling, I must have been overpowered at once, for the men who had attacked me were fighting like wild beasts for their liberty—biting, kicking, and dealing out sledge-hammer blows, any one of which had it struck me would have sent me down like a log. Heggs could render me no assistance, for, wearied with his long struggle, he was overmatched himself, and in desperate straits. Suddenly there came the sound of voices, and feet clambering over the low stone wall. With a giant effort the taller of the two men with whom I had been struggling flung me backwards amongst the bushes, and bounded away, leaping the wall and scudding away across the park. But in my fall I never relaxed my grasp upon the other man, and together we rolled over and over in a fierce embrace, his teeth almost meeting in my hand, which held him firmly by the throat.

It was all over, for help had come. Nearly dozen of the servants and stablemen from the Court poured into the enclosure, some taking up the pursuit, some making preparations to carry Heggs and the other wounded man up to the house, some tying together the hands, and zealously guarding my prisoner, and all plying me with eager questions. My recollection of all that directly followed is obscure. I remember staggering across the park up to the Court, and meeting Sir Francis, anxious yet thankful, in the courtyard. Then faint and giddy, the blood pouring from a wound in my head down my shirt-front, and my clothes torn and soiled, I sank down upon a couch in the hall, whilst Sir Francis, with his own hand, strove to force some brandy down my throat. A deadly, sickening unconsciousness was creeping over me; there was a singing in my cars, and a buzzing in my head. But although every one and everything around me seemed to my reeling senses confused and chaotic, one person I saw as vividly as my eyes could show her to me. First standing in the open doorway, then close to my side. I saw her with white, pitying face, and an agony of terror in her dimmed blue eyes, gazing at my shirt-front soaked with blood, and asking eagerly, with quivering lips, where I was hurt. And my last effort was to force a ghastly smile and to utter reassuring words, which died away half-uttered and altogether incomprehensible upon my lips. Then black darkness surged in upon me, blotting her out from my sight, and I swooned.

CHAPTER XVI
MY CONVALESCENCE

For three days and nights I lay at Devereux Court in danger of my life, but at the end of that time the concussion of the brain from which I was suffering suddenly abated, and I commenced to make rapid strides towards recovery. Everything that skill and kindness could do for me was done. Marian was my principal nurse, but often in the afternoons Lady Olive and Maud would come and sit with me, whilst more than once I woke up to find Sir Francis Devereux himself by my side.

As soon as I was well enough to talk I asked eagerly whether any of the other poachers had been taken. Sir Francis shook his head, and looked severe.

"Not one of them," he declared in a vexed tone. "I scarcely have patience to speak about it at the police-office, it seems so scandalous. A thick-head set of muffs they must be!"

How surprised he would have been if any one had told him his answer was a great relief to me—and yet it was so. There was one man among that gang of poachers whom I did not wish to be caught.

"And was Heggs much hurt?" I asked.

Sir Francis shook his head.

"The old man was cut about a bit, but not seriously injured. Richard—that's the son, you know—came off very easily, and was able to tell us all about it. Can't say much about it, Arbuthnot, my boy, for the doctor has given orders that there's to be no talking; but you behaved splendidly, just as I should like my own son to have behaved," he added, in a somewhat husky tone.

"What's become of the man they caught?" I asked.

"Remanded without bail until you can give evidence, which you won't be able to do just yet," was the reply. "And now you're not to talk any more. Not another word, sir," he added, sharply, in a tone of command which he often used, and which came naturally from him, as it does from any born soldier. And, of course, I obeyed.

The short period of my illness was made as pleasant for me as kindness and every luxury could make it. Marian was given a room close to mine, and Sir Francis had also insisted upon sending for a trained nurse from York Infirmary. All night she sat up with me, although it was quite unnecessary, for all symptoms of the brain fever, which the doctor had feared was impending, had disappeared, and I invariably slept well. And all day Marian was with me, whilst Lady Olive and, more rarely, Maud Devereux paid me occasional visits. My most regular daily visitor, though, was Sir Francis himself. Every afternoon I woke up from my doze to see his tall, stately figure moving softly about the room, or sitting in the high-backed chair by my side. And sometimes I found him with his eyes fixed upon me, watching me with a half-curious, half-tender light softening his fine, stern face. Then I knew that he was thinking of my father, and I found it hard to refrain from clasping his hand and telling him who I was, and the whole truth about that miserable day so many years ago. But I remembered that he had heard it from my father, and called him a liar. I remembered that to his soldierly notion the court-martial was a court infallible, a tribunal which could not err, and I kept my mouth closed.

To others, the obvious fancy which Sir Francis had taken for me seemed inexplicable. I alone could guess—nay, knew, the reason. Marian and Lady Olive sometimes jested with me about it, but Maud never referred to it. In those days of my convalescence it seemed to me almost as though her wild face, when I had lain fainting in the hall, must have been a dream. She was kind, but in a proud, languid way; she talked to me, but in a monotonous, measured manner, and with a cold gleam in her deep blue eyes. She moved about my room with the stately grace of a princess, but of a princess who is stooping to perform a conscientious duty which she finds very wearisome. And yet, when she was there all was glaring light, and my heart was beating with the pleasure of her presence, and, when she was gone, the room seemed dark, and cold, and cheerless, and the light went out of my eyes and from my heart.

During those long days of forced inaction many thoughts troubled me. Not a single line had I heard from my father since our parting at Exeter, and his worn, suffering face haunted me day and night, and filled me with a vague self-reproach. True, little time had gone by yet, and I had already moved one step forward towards the accomplishment of my sworn purpose. But—Maud Devereux was she not the daughter of the man whom we had met on Exmoor, the daughter of my Uncle Rupert, the man who had blasted my father's life, and thrown a long shadow over my own! It was a thought which made me toss about restless and uneasy, and filled me with a vague discontent. I never asked myself why—I doubt whether I knew, but all the same the feeling was there.

One afternoon, just as I was getting a little stronger and able to move about, Sir Francis Devereux gave me the opportunity which I had often coveted. He alluded indirectly to his son. Summoning up all my courage I asked him a question.

"Will your son—Mr. Rupert Devereux, isn't it—be down before the shooting is all over, Sir Francis?" I asked.

His face changed at once. From the courteous, sympathising friend he became the stiff, dignified aristocrat. His lips were set firmly together, and there was a decided contraction of his black-grey eyebrows. Altogether he looked as though he had suddenly remembered that I was a comparative stranger, and only his land agent, from whom a personal question of any sort was a decided impertinence.

"Certainly not," he answered, curtly; "my son never visits Devereux."

"And yet it will be his some day," I could not help remarking.

"It will not be his some day. Devereux Court, at my death, will pass into the hands of another son of mine, or his heir. Would to God it could crumble into dust first!" the old man added, with a sudden burst of bitterness.

I could not tell what answer to make, so I remained silent. But I suppose my face must have told him that I was eager to hear more. He rose, and walked up and down the room several times, my eyes anxiously following every movement. How like he was to my father! Age had wonderfully little bent his figure. There was the same grace of limb and carriage that I had often admired in my father when we had been striding side by side across the heather-covered moors, the same long, finely-carved features, and the same look of trouble stamped on the brow. But in my father's case it was developed somewhat differently. It had filled his eyes with a weary, long-suffering look, which seemed to speak of absolute despair, and unvarying, hopeless grief. There was more of bitterness and concentrated irritation in Sir Francis's face. It seemed as though the sorrow would not settle into his being, but was continually lashing him into acute and active wretchedness. Which was the harder to bear, I wonder?

Suddenly Sir Francis stopped short in the middle of the room, and turned round to me.

"Arbuthnot, my boy," he said, kindly, "I'll tell you about my two sons if you care to hear the story, in a few words."

"There is nothing I should like so well to hear, Sir Francis," I answered, in a low tone. He drew near to me and sat down.

"I've taken a strange fancy to you, Arbuthnot," he said, slowly; "I feel that I should like you to know an old man's sorrow."

His voice was very low indeed, and it seemed to me that his eyes were dim. Then he began speaking in short sentences, as was his wont, but with less than his usual curtness.

"I have been married twice, and by each wife I had a son. Herbert was the name of the elder, Rupert of the younger. Herbert's mother was the daughter of an English nobleman, and he grew up as fine a young Englishman as ever walked on God's earth, and a Devereux to the backbone. Rupert's mother was a Spanish lady, and he resembled her rather than me. Perhaps you will not be surprised when I tell you that, although I concealed it as much as possible, Herbert was the son I loved.

"I made them both enter the army directly they were old enough. Ours is a fighting family, and from the days of the Conqueror there has always been a Devereux ready to fight for his country. There, in the picture gallery, you may see them all, a magnificent race—ay, though I call them so—of knights and cavaliers and generals. Never has there been a battle fought in English history but a Devereux has borne arms in it. I myself was at Inkermann, and led my regiment on into Sebastopol. A glorious time it was."

He stopped for a moment with sparkling eyes, and a pleased smile on his lips, as though enjoying keenly the recollection. Then his face clouded over again, and his head drooped. The change was so complete and such a sad one that my heart ached for him, and I turned my head away. He continued in an altered tone.

"Well, I made them both soldiers, and when the time come for them to go abroad and see active service I parted with them without a pang. In less than six months Herbert, my eldest son, Herbert Devereux, returned, disgraced, turned out of his regiment—a coward."

Never had I heard anything so pathetic as the pang with which he seemed to part with this last word. His voice was shaking, and there was a hot colour in his checks. Suddenly he turned his back upon me, and I heard a sob.

"Did you believe it?" I asked, excitedly. "Was it proved? Was there no shadow of doubt?"

He shook his head. "None. My oldest friend was bound to pronounce him guilty in open court-martial. It was the bitterest duty he ever performed, he told me long afterwards. But a soldier's duty stands high above all personal feelings. Had I been in his place I should have pronounced the same verdict that he did, though my heart had snapped in two."

"On whose evidence was he convicted?" I asked.

Sir Francis groaned.

"On his own brother's. It was Rupert's word which convicted him, Rupert's word which has pulled down into the dust the name which through centuries and centuries has stood as high in honour and chivalry as any name in Europe. God forgive him! He only did his duty, but I cannot bear to look upon his face. Not that he wants to come here! He is a foreigner, and he lives in a foreign country. He is only half my son! It is Herbert whom I loved."

"And where is he—Herbert?" I asked, fearfully.

"Dead, I hope," he answered, sternly. "Since the day when I heard of this disgrace I have never looked upon his face. I never wish to look upon it again. For five-and-twenty years no one has dared to mention his name in my presence. I have cursed him."

"But if he lives, he is your eldest son, Devereux will be his?"

A passionate fire leaped into Sir Francis's face.

"Never. If I thought that he lived and would come here when I died, I would fire Devereux Court, though I perished in it. I would cram it full to the windows with dynamite, and leave not one stone standing upon another, sooner than he should enter its doors the head of the Devereuxs. You don't understand this feeling perhaps, Arbuthnot," he went on, in a lower voice, which was still, however, vibrating with an intense passion; "some day I will take you into the picture gallery with me, and then perhaps you will understand it a little better."

"I understand it now, Sir Francis," I told him: "but—but you are sure that your son Herbert was guilty? Think of the difference which his disgrace made to Rupert. It made him your heir, virtually your only son. If he was of a jealous disposition—Spanish people are, they say—the opportunity of getting rid of Herbert for ever and taking his place might have tempted him."

I am convinced that the idea which I falteringly suggested to Sir Francis Devereux had never in the vaguest way presented itself to him before. Nor was this wonderful. Courteous and polished man of the world though he was, his nature had preserved all the innate and magnificent simplicity of the ideal soldier. Falsehood and meanness were so utterly beneath him that he never looked for them in others. They represented qualities of which he knew nothing. Any one could have cheated him, but if by chance detected, the crime would have seemed to him unpardonable, and from him they would never have won forgiveness. Herbert, the son whom he loved, had told him a lie—a court-martial of his fellow-soldiers had determined that it was so—and the crime had seemed to him scarcely less black than the cowardice. He had never doubted it for one reason, because the decision of a court-martial was to him infallible, and for another, because the idea of falsehood in connection with his other son had never been suggested to him, and save from another's lips could never have entered into his mind.

I watched the lightning change in his face eagerly. A ray of sudden startling hope chased the first look of astonishment from his face, but it was replaced in its turn by a heavy frown and a tightening of the lips.

"We are not a race of liars," he began, sternly.

"But, if Rupert lied, Herbert was neither liar nor coward," I interrupted.

He looked at me in such a way that I could say no more.

"There was another witness beside Rupert——"

"Rupert's servant," I faltered, but he took no notice.

"And I should never dream of doubting the court-martial's decision. I've told you this story, Arbuthnot—I don't know why exactly; but I forbid you ever to mention it to me again. Ah, Miss Marian, you see I have been keeping your brother company for a long while this afternoon."

He had risen to his feet with old-fashioned courtesy as my sister entered the room, and had held a chair for her by my sofa. Then, after a few more pleasant words, he nodded kindly to me and went. If he had stayed five minutes longer I might have told him all.

CHAPTER XVII
A MOONLIGHT RIDE

Before a month had passed I was able to get about, and was soon as well and strong as ever. I gave my evidence before a full bench of the county magistrates, identified the man in custody, and gave descriptions in all cases but one sufficiently clear of the men who were still at large. The local papers had made a great stir about the whole affair, and when the court was over most of the magistrates came up to shake hands with me, and I found myself quite a celebrity. For a full month afterwards invitations to dinner and shooting parties came pouring in upon me, and Lady Olive was never tired of chaffing me about my reputed achievements. But the more friendly Lady Olive became, both with Marian and myself, the less we saw of Maud Devereux. I told myself that I was glad of it, but I was a hypocrite. More than once lately I had reined in my cob, and from a distance watched her riding home from a day's hunting, with Lord Annerley by her side, and had cursed him under my breath for an insolent puppy. Since the night when he had dined at Devereux Court he seemed to have taken a strong dislike to me. I had met him afterwards and nodded, and in return had received an insolent stare. At first I had been tempted to lay my riding-whip across his face, but I quoted Tennyson to myself instead and laughed—

"Scorn'd, to be scorn'd by one that I scorn,
Is that a matter to make me fret?
That a calamity hard to be borne?
Well, he may live to hate me yet."

And Lord Annerley did live to hate me, and before very long too, for one afternoon as I was riding home in the dusk I met Maud and him face to face at one of the entrances to the park. She bowed to me coldly, but Lord Annerley looked straight between his horse's ears without even acknowledging my salutation. Instantly she turned round to me.

"Mr. Arbuthnot."

I pulled the Black Prince on his haunches, and brought him round to her side.

"Are you not going our way? It is a long way round by the road unless you want to call in the village!"

I was too surprised to think of any excuse, so I turned my horse's head.

"Yes, I suppose the park's the shorter way. I ought to have remembered it for the Black Prince's sake," I remarked. "I'm afraid he's rather done up."

"I thought that you two had met," she said, turning to her companion. "Lord Annerley, you know Mr. Arbuthnot, do you not?"

He turned stiffly round towards me, with an angry flush on his cheek.

"Oh—ah—yes. How d'ye do, Arbuthnot?"

I sat bolt upright in my saddle, and looked steadily at Lord Annerley without returning his insolent greeting.

"My name is Arbuthnot, certainly," I said, coldly, "but your lordship will pardon my observing that I am not accustomed to hear it taken such liberties with."

I raised my hat to Miss Devereux, and digging spurs into Black Prince's side rode on ahead. But I had scarcely gone a quarter of a mile before I heard a single horse's hoofs close behind, and looking round saw Maud riding up to me alone. I reined in at once and waited for her.

She joined me without a word, and we walked our horses side by side in silence. There was a change in her face which puzzled me; a faint tinge of pink was colouring her cheeks, and a peculiar smile, half of amusement, half of satisfaction, parted slightly her lips. Her eyes she kept averted from me.

"Where is Lord Annerley?" I asked, suddenly.

"Gone home," she answered, demurely.

"I'm afraid I've spoilt your ride," I said. "I'm sorry."

"Not at all," she answered, still without looking at me. "You spoilt his, I think."

I answered nothing. I dared not. I felt that there was safety for me only in silence. And so we rode on, our horses' feet sinking silently into the short, green turf as we cantered slowly through the park. From behind the dark plantations on our right the moon had risen into a clear sky, and every now and then the Black Prince started and shied slightly at the grotesque shadows cast by the giant oak-trees under which we rode. Where they were thickest a few bats flew out and wheeled for a minute or two round our heads before disappearing in the opposite thickets.

"Are you afraid to talk to me, Mr. Arbuthnot, or can't you think of anything to say?" Maud suddenly asked.

The words which I intended to speak died away on my lips. A subtle power seemed to be struggling with my will and intoxicating my senses. I answered blindly—

"I am afraid to talk to you, Miss Devereux, because I have too much to say."

She turned round and looked at me, her deep blue eyes full of a half-inviting, half-mocking light which nearly drove me mad. She, at any rate, was quite at her case.

"Are you going to try and flirt with me, Mr. Arbuthnot?" she asked, lightly. "I am not Lady Olive."

Just then the Black Prince shied as we rode across the shadow of a gigantic oak-tree, and we were so close together that our horses' heads nearly touched. One of her shapely hands was hanging carelessly down, toying with her whip, and, scarcely knowing what I did, I caught hold of it and held it to my lips. She drew it away, but she might have drawn it away a second sooner had she chosen.

"You are a presumptuous boy," she said, looking at me with a curious, half-puzzled light in her glorious eyes. "If you don't behave yourself I shall begin to be sorry that I sent Lord Annerley away. He wouldn't have done such a stupid thing as that, I'm sure."

"He'd better not," I said, fiercely. She laughed mockingly. I would have given anything to have been able to keep back the words which were fast rising from my swelling heart to my lips, but I seemed to have lost all control over myself. A fatal, irresistible impulse was luring me on. "Maud——"

"Mr. Arbuthnot," with a stress upon the Mr.

I leaned over to her, and strove to look into her face, but she kept it turned from me. "Maud, dearest!"

She turned round suddenly, with a curious contradiction of expressions in her face. Her eyes still seemed to mock me with a delusive tenderness, but her lips were close set, and her head thrown proudly back.

"That is quite enough, Mr. Arbuthnot! Must I remind you again that I am not Lady Olive? I have never studied the art of flirting, and I don't think I'll begin with you. You're far too accomplished."

In vain I tried to analyse the look she threw me as she struck her horse sharply, and rode away from me. It was contemptuous and tender, angry and laughing, serious and mocking. I dug spurs into Black Prince's side; but he was done up, whilst she was on her second horse. It was not until we were actually in the shrubbery grounds that I caught her up.

"One word, Miss Devereux," I begged, riding up to her side, "you are not angry with me?"

She looked into my eager face and laughed a low mocking laugh, which maddened me to listen to. The moon was shining full upon her loose coils of fair hair and exquisite profile, bathing her in its silvery light, and making her look like a marvellous piece of statuary, perfectly beautiful, but cold as marble. My heart sank as I looked into her face, and I turned away in despair.

"Maud, you are a flirt," I cried.

"Mr. Arbuthnot," she replied, impressively, "people who live in glass houses shouldn't throw stones."

CHAPTER XVIII
A STRANGE INTERVIEW

The sun had gone down behind a bank of angry, leaden-coloured clouds, which were fast spreading over the whole surface of the sky. Only here and there a stunted, half-grown, and leafless oak-tree stretched out its naked branches towards the darkening sky, and within a yard or two of me there was a miserable apology for a cottage.

No one, save they had known otherwise, would have taken it for anything but a cowshed of the rudest form. It was built of boards dipped in black tar, windowless, chimneyless, save for a hole in the roof through which a small piece of dilapidated stove piping had been thrust, and without the merest pretence of a garden. It stood, or rather leaned, against one side of a sharp slope in the moor, and fifty yards from the rude sheep-track which did duty as a road, and even in the daytime there was no other human habitation within sight, or any sign of one.

With my arm in the bridle of the Black Prince, I led him down the slope, and, grasping my riding-whip by the stock, knocked sharply at what I concluded to be the door. I heard the quick sound of a man's startled curse, and then there was a dead silence. I knocked again, but no one answered. Then I kicked at the loose planks till the place seemed as though it would tumble down like a pack of cards.

"What d'ye want?" a woman's shrill voice cried through the open chinks. "Who be you?"

"I want your husband," I answered.

"Well, he bean't here, 'e bean't coom home."

"It's a lie!" I shouted back. "Tell him I shall not go away until I have seen him, though I kick this place about your ears. Is he afraid? Tell him I am alone."

She withdrew muttering, and I fastened Black Prince as securely as I could against the wall. Suddenly the door was opened, and stooping low, with my heavy riding-whip grasped firmly in my right hand, I stepped inside.

At first I could see nothing, but just as I was cautiously feeling in my pockets for a match, the red flames of a wood fire, which was smouldering on the hearth, leaped up and showed me the bare walls and miserable interior of the tumble-down hovel, showed me, too, the figure of a tall, evil-looking man grasping a thick cudgel in his hand, and peering through the gloom at me with a sort of threatening inquisitiveness.

"What d'ye want wi' me?" the man began, suspiciously. Then suddenly he dropped his cudgel and staggered back against the frail wall, with his arms stretched out as though to keep me off.

"God, it's Muster Herbert! It's Muster Herbert's ghost. What d'ye want? What d'ye want? What d'ye want here wi' me? Speak, can't you!" he cried out in a tone of hysterical dread.

"Don't be a fool, John Hilton," I said, contemptuously. "I am Hugh Devereux, son of the man against whom you swore a lie twenty-five years ago, and I have come here to ask you a few questions."

He kept his eyes fixed upon me in a sort of sullen fascinated stare.

"First tell me why you swore that lie? It was Rupert Devereux who made you."

The man's brute courage was returning to him slowly. He picked up his cudgel and began to beat the side of his legs with it.

"You know how to command, young sir," he said, sneeringly. "Suppose I say I won't answer your d—d questions?"

"I don't think you'll be so foolish," I said. "If you don't want to find yourself in gaol for poaching, before the week's out, you'll do exactly as I tell you."

He swore savagely, and turned his ugly face full upon me.

"So you was the d—d young swell that came busting in upon us when we was just a-settling things off nice and comfortable t'other night, was you! I've a good mind——"

He had advanced a step or two towards me, and his fingers had closed firmly round his cudgel.

"Put that piece of timber down, John Hilton," I said, firmly; "you've tried conclusions with me once at Porlock, and you got the worst of it. So you will again if you try the same game. Drop it. Do you hear?"

I took a quick step forward, and raised my riding-whip. He hesitated, and then threw it savagely down.

"Curse it, what d'ye want to know?"

"It was Rupert Devereux who made you tell that lie before the court-martial?"

"Ay, 'twas him, right enough. I'll tell yer all about it. Muster Rupert Devereux ain't nothink to me! He comes to me that morning t' moment the bugle had sounded, and we was in the tents. 'Hilton,' he said to me, 'would yer tell a lie to be made a rich man for the rest of your life?' 'In coors I would,' said I. 'Then when you're summoned before General Luxton to-morrow,' says he, 'tell him that you saw nothing of my brother during the fight. Forget that he ran out to help us against those two black varmint. Do that, and I'll allow you two hundred pounds a year as long as you live.' 'I'm your man,' said I. 'That's right,' says he, and turns on his heel and walks back again. That were 'ow it war," he wound up defiantly.

I had hard work to keep my hands off him, but I did.

"And your two hundred pounds a year?" I asked, glancing around and at the bold-looking, slatternly woman who sat crouched on a stool watching us. "What's become of that? I presume you don't live here from choice?"

He broke into a volley of horrible curses.

"I should think I don't," he broke out. "I'll tell 'e how that —— served me. I was maybe a bit of a fool; anyways, I was a bit strong-headed, and when we got back to England I would live wi' 'im as his servant, though he didn't like it, and said I was too rough and clumsy, and so I war. But I got into his ways a bit, and live wi' 'im I would, for I didn't nohow feel safe about getting the coin, he war always moving about so. Often we had rows, and he used to say as he'd send me a-packing; but I only laughed at 'im. But that 'ere night, down at Porlock, yer remember it, he got to hear what I'd done, and he sent for me. 'Hilton,' he said, 'here's a month's wages, and you can go to the devil. I've done wi' you.' ''Ow about our little secret, mister?' I said, for I didn't think as he was noways in earnest, and he says, 'You're a fool. Hilton. You think you've got me in your power, but it's the stupidest mistake you ever made in your life. You can go and tell your secret to any one you like, and I wish you joy of those who'll believe yer.' And I saw then as I wor done, for of coors no one would believe me. They all said as it wor a bit o' spite because he'd given me the sack and so I went down, down, down, and here I am."

"A poacher," I remarked.

"I didn't say nowt about that," he answered, sullenly. "Wot more do yer want wi' me?"

"A little family history, that's all. Whom did your master marry?"

"Miss Saville, or some such name. She war a clergyman's daughter, and she died soon after the second child were born."

"The second child! There is a daughter living at Devereux Court now—is the other one a son?"

The man nodded sullenly.

"And where is he?"

"How the devil should I know! He war at college when I left Muster Rupert; ain't 'eard of 'im since!

"Or of Rupert Devereux?"

"No, I ain't 'eard of 'im. D'ye think I reads the sassiety papers down 'ere to know where all the fine folks is, 'cos I don't."

I was silent for a few minutes, thinking. Of what use was this fellow's confession to me now that I had got it? Who would believe the word of such a disreputable vagabond against the word of Rupert Devereux? Still, I would have his confession—some day it might be useful.

"Have you a candle?" I asked.

The woman rose from her seat for the first time, and after groping about for a moment or two produced a few inches of tallow dip I struck a match, and, righting it, thrust it in the neck of a black bottle which she silently handed me. Then, in as few words as possible, I wrote down the substance of Hilton's confession and handed it to him, with the pencil, to sign.

"If it only does 'im the harm I wish it will," he muttered, "it'll do. Now, mister," he went on, turning towards me half threateningly, half whiningly, "wot I wants to know is this—Be yer going to peach on me for that poaching job, and how in thunder's name did yer know where to find me?"

"By accident, the latter," I answered. I saw you come out of this den months ago, when I was riding across the moor to Silverbridge. I thought it was a chance resemblance then, but when I saw you in the wood I knew you. John Hilton, I am not going to denounce you as one of that gang of poachers; on the other hand, I have purposely refrained from handing in your description. But you have an account to settle with me.

He grasped his cudgel again.

"What do you mean?" he muttered.

"I shall show you," I answered. I turned aside to the woman, who sat watching us with a weary, indifferent stare.

"How long is it since you had anything to eat?" I asked.

"Yester forenoon," she moaned. "Him there"—she pointed to her husband—"he daredna go owt, and I ain't got no money, nor nowt to sell. We be starving."

I put my hand in my pocket and gave her half-a-sovereign.

"Take that, and go and get something at once," I said.

She started to her feet, and her fingers closed eagerly over the coin. Then she drew her shawl around her and hurried to the door.

"I'll be back inside o' an hour, Jack," she called out to her husband. "We'll 'a some supper to-night; I'll go to Jones's"—and she hurried away.

I turned to the man, who stood looking hungrily after his wife.

"John Hilton, I said that I had an account to settle with you. I have. It is through your damnable conspiracy and lying that my father is wandering about in a foreign land a miserable man; that I am here compelled to bear a false name and occupy a false position. If you think that I have forgiven you this because I gave your wife money and do not cause you to be arrested as a poacher, you are mistaken. I don't want your miserable life. I wouldn't take it if I had the chance. But I am going to give you the soundest horsewhipping you ever had in your life."

He shrunk back. He was a coward at heart, but he had plenty of bravado.

"Now, look 'ere, young mister," he said, savagely, "you've given my missus money when we wanted it, lad, and I don't want to hurt you. But you're only a stripling, and if you lay 'ands on me I sha'n't take it quiet, I can tell you. Now keep off."

He was a tall man, but I was a taller; and though I was slim, my out-of-door life had hardened my muscles till they were like iron. But had I been less his superior in strength, the passionate hatred and disgust which leaped up within me when I remembered what this man had done would have helped me to have gained my end. As it was, he was utterly helpless in my grasp, and I had wrenched his cudgel from him in a moment. All round the little room he struggled and writhed; whilst holding him by the collar with one hand I dealt him fierce, quick blows with my thonged riding-whip. Then, throwing him from me, panting and helpless, into the furthest corner of the room, I strode out of the shaking tenement to where my horse was neighing impatiently outside. He made no attempt to follow me, and in a few minutes I had given Black Prince the rein, and we were flying across the moor homewards.

CHAPTER XIX
MARIAN SURPRISES ME

It was eighteen miles from John Hilton's hut to the park gates, across a wild country, and I had had two hours' hard riding when, splashed with bog mud from head to foot, I walked into Marian's little sitting-room, which, it seemed to me, after the dark moor, had never looked so cheerful and cosy. Marian herself was there, lounging in a low wicker chair, with her fair hair scarcely so tidy as usual, and a soft, pleased light in her grey eyes, and opposite her was a visitor—our curate. She sprang up as I entered.

"Hugh, how late you are! I waited dinner nearly two hours. Where have you been?"

I was tired, and hungry, and cold; and I shook hands with our visitor without a superabundance of cordiality before dropping into an easy chair in front of the fire.

"A little business, that's all. Did you keep any dinner back?"

"Of course I did."

She rang the bell, and I sat still for a minute or two, expecting Mr. Holdern to take his leave. But he did nothing of the sort. Presently I rose.

"I'll change my things, and have a wash, I think. You'll excuse me for a few minutes," I said to Mr. Holdern, curtly.

He consented readily, without making any movement to go. When I descended into our little dining-room, about half-an-hour afterwards, Marian was not there, though she came in almost directly.

"That fellow Holdern not gone yet?" I asked, surprised.

"N—no, Hugh, he's not gone yet," Marian answered, a little consciously. "Now, I do hope that partridge isn't done up to nothing. And how's the bread sauce? Rather thick, isn't it?"

I couldn't quite make Marian out. She seemed almost nervous, and after she had waited upon me, and poured out a glass of the claret which Sir Francis had insisted upon sending down from the house, she stood by my side with her arm round my neck, and looking uncommonly pretty.

"Hadn't you better go in and talk with that fellow Holdern, if he won't go?" I asked; "won't do to leave him in there all by himself."

"Oh, he won't hurt," she answered, stroking my hair caressingly; "he's been here ever since afternoon tea."

"The deuce he has!" I exclaimed, setting down my glass, and looking up at her surprised. "What does he want? A subscription?"

"N—no. I don't think so, Hughie."

Something of the truth commenced to dawn upon me, and, sitting back in my chair, I caught Marian by the arms, and looked into her face.

"Marian, you don't mean to say that the fellow's been making love to you!"

She was blushing all over her delicate little face, and she held up her hands as though to hide it from me.

"I—I'm afraid he has, Hughie, and—and——"

"And what?"

"And I've been letting him."

"Oh, indeed!" I exclaimed, feebly.

It wasn't a very impressive thing to say, but I was bewildered.

Suddenly she threw herself into my arms and hid her face on my shoulder.

"Oh, Hugh, you won't be angry, will you? say that you won't! He is so nice, and I'm so happy."

I don't know how most men would have felt in my position, but I must confess that my first impulse was to go and punch Mr. Holdern's head. But when I began to think the matter over a little it occurred to me that this was scarcely the proper course to pursue—at any rate, it was not the usual one. The more I thought of it the more natural it seemed to me. I remembered now how often I had found Mr. Holdern sitting at afternoon tea with Marian when I had come home about that time, and what an interest she had been taking in parish matters lately. As far as the man himself was concerned there was nothing against him; in fact, I rather liked him. But to give him—a stranger—Marian, my little sister, who had only just begun to keep house for me, the idea was certainly not a pleasant one, and yet if she wished it, how could I refuse her?

"You're too young, you know, for anything of this sort, Marian," I began, with an attempt at severity, which I'm sure she saw through.

"I'm eighteen," came a piteous voice from the vicinity of my waistcoat. "Lots of girls are engaged before they're eighteen."

This was unanswerable. I tried another line.

"And you want to leave me, then, Marian, already?" I said, with a plaintiveness that was not all affected.

The arms that were round my neck tightened their grasp, and a tear-stained, dishevelled face was lifted piteously to mine.

"I don't, Hugh! You know I don't. We only want to be engaged. We don't want to be married."

"Well, I suppose it's all right," I said, with a sigh. "Look here, Marian, you run along in to Mr. Holdern, and leave me to think about it while I finish my dinner."

She unclasped her arms and looked at me radiantly.

"Dear old Hugh! I knew you'd say yes."

"But I haven't said anything of the sort," I protested, severely. "Don't you run away with that idea, young lady. I shall have to hear what Mr. Holdern's got to say for himself first," I added, frowning, and assuming an air of paternal authority. But she saw through it, and with a final kiss ran away laughing.

Being a somewhat matter-of-fact young man, and keenly conscious of an as yet unsatisfied hunger, I finished my dinner before I commenced to think seriously over this unexpected incident. Then I leaned back in my chair and considered it, and in a very few minutes I had come to the conclusion that it was about the most fortunate thing that could have happened. I had never intended my stay here to be a permanent one, and whilst there were now no reasons why I should remain, there were several strong ones why I should go. First, I could attain no nearer now, by stopping, to the great object of my life; on the other hand, every day I stayed here and remained under the fascination of Maud Devereux's presence I stood in greater risk of forgetting my oath. Then whilst here I had no opportunity of meeting Rupert Devereux, my uncle, the man from, whom, if it came at all, must come my father's justification. My father!

I thought of him in his weary exile, and my heart ached. Not a line had I heard from him since our parting, nor had I even the least idea in what country of the world he was. If Marian left me, what was there to prevent my finding him out and throwing in my lot with his? Together we might accomplish what singly each might fail in. The more I thought about it the more I liked the idea.

Leave Devereux I must, though I had grown to love the place, and to feel a strange affection for my stern old grandfather. Yet how could I go on living here to feel every day the subtle fascination of Maud Devereux's presence gaining a stronger hold upon me—Maud Devereux, the daughter of the man who had wrecked my father's life and mine, the man whom I had cursed in my heart? It seemed to me almost like treachery towards him whom I loved so well, and whose wrongs I so bitterly resented, that a glance from her blue eyes could madden or elate me, and that the sound of her voice could set all my senses quivering. I must go, I must turn my back upon her for ever and take up the work of my life wherever it might lead me. This thing which had happened to Marian made the way clear before me.

I crossed over to our little drawing-room, and, entering without the ceremony of knocking, found Marian and Mr. Holdern seated on chairs a long way from one another, apparently engaged in a minute examination of the ceiling. Marian took up her work and left us with a blushing face, and Mr. Holdern, without any beating about the bush, stood up on the hearthrug and began his tale.

He was a pleasant-faced, agreeable young fellow, and there was an honest look about his eyes and a straightforward manner which I liked, and which convinced me of his sincerity. He had a private income, he told me, and had recently been offered a very comfortable living about twelve miles away. "Of course," he added, hesitatingly, "he felt some diffidence in proposing to take Marian away from me, and thus leaving me to live by myself—but, but, the long and short of it was, he wanted to get married as soon as I could possibly spare her. They would not be far away; indeed, if my prospective loneliness was an objection, I could take up my abode with them. Anything so that I would give him Marian, and give him her soon."

I did not waste any time in affecting to consider the matter, but, pledging him first to secrecy, I told him our history, what was our rightful name, and my reasons for not bearing it. If I had had any doubt before, I knew by his behaviour when I had finished my story that he was a good fellow. He held out his hand and grasped mine, with the tears standing in his eyes.

"Mr. Devereux," he said, emphatically, "I don't know how to express my sympathy for you. I heard of this sad affair when I was a very little boy, and I have heard my father say many a time that he would never believe Herbert Devereux to be a coward. I hope to God that you will succeed in your quest."

"I hope so," I echoed, fervently. "Marian knows nothing of this, Mr. Holdern."

"Nor need she ever," he answered. "I think you have been quite right to keep it from her! There would have been no object gained in her knowing, and women do not understand these things like men."

"Do you know anything of Rupert Devereux?" I asked.

He shook his head. "Very little. I have seen him once—a tall, dark man, handsome, but very unlike the Devereuxs. I have heard him spoken of as a Sybarite and a pleasure-seeker. He is seldom in England, I believe."

A Sybarite! A pleasure-seeker! I thought of him wandering at will through the countries of the world, steeping his senses in every luxury that money could buy, and living at ease and in comfort, and I thought of my father, also a wanderer on the face of the earth, seeking neither comfort nor pleasure nor ease, at war with the world and with himself, with no joy in the present or hope for the future, seeking only for a chance to throw his life away in the miserable quarrels of any pettifogging country who would accept his sword! Mr. Holdern watched me in silence while I walked up and down the room for a few minutes almost beside myself with compressed passion. Then he walked up to me and laid a hand on my shoulder. "Devereux," he said, earnestly, "I can understand your feeling like this, but you must try and keep it under control, or I'm afraid there will be trouble soon."

"What do you mean?" I asked, turning round and facing him.

He hesitated, and then answered slowly—

"I have just heard that young Francis Devereux, your cousin, is expected down here for Christmas."

CHAPTER XX
AMONGST THE BULRUSHES

It wanted but three days to Christmas, and it had been a frost. Upon the bare fields and the shivering landscape had fallen a hand of iron—no gentle hoar-frost, making the fields and country look like a glittering panorama, but a stern, merciless black frost which had come in with the east wind, and lay upon the land like a cruel blight. Agricultural work of all sort was at a standstill, and hunting was impossible. The only thing to be done out of doors was to skate, and that every one who owned a pair of skates was doing.

There was a large party at Devereux Court, but I had contrived to see very little of them. Two of Lady Olive's sisters, some former schoolfellows of Maud Devereux's, Francis Devereux, and some town friends, were all stopping there, and Maud was playing hostess while Sir Francis kept himself partially shut up. Once or twice I had come across them in the park, a laughing, chattering group, but I had passed with a bow, and had chosen not to see Lady Olive's mute command to stop. I had seen him, my cousin, and I hated him. What freak of nature had made him the brother of such a sister?—this pale, effeminate-looking man, with leaden eyes and insolent stare, and the manners of a fop. "What did Sir Francis think of him," I wonder, "as the future head of the family of Devereux?" Bah! It was a profitless thought.

Early in the morning I sallied out with Mr. Holdern and Marian for an hour or two's skating; there was nothing else for me to do. There were two lakes, and we chose the smaller that we might have it all to ourselves. No sooner had we our skates on than the inevitable happened. Hand in hand Marian and Holdern swept away together to the farther end where the bulrushes were many and the ice was bad, and I was left alone.

I commenced to make the best of it by selecting a smooth piece of ice and setting myself an impossible task in figure skating. Far away on the other lake I could hear the hum of many skates and the sound of merry voices, and it made me feel lonely and discontented. I would like to have been with them, skating hand in hand with Maud—Maud whom I had not spoken a single word to since our last ride home together; Maud whose face was seldom absent from my thoughts; Maud whom, alas! I loved.

With an aching heart I left off my futile attempt to cut impossible figures, and, lighting my pipe, commenced to make the circuit of the lake, with long, swift strides. There was something exhilarating in the rapid motion, in the desperate hastening over the smooth black ice, and as I came round for the second time my cheeks began to glow and my heart to grow lighter. Then suddenly it bounded with an unthinking joy, for close above me was a chorus of gay, chattering tongues, and one amongst them I could distinguish in a moment, although it was the lowest of all.

I struck away for the middle of the lake, meaning to make my escape, but I was just a second or two too late. Lady Olive was calling to me, and I was obliged to turn round.

The whole group was standing on the bank, some carrying chairs, and some sledges, and all, except Francis Devereux, skates. Lady Olive was calling to me, so I was obliged to skate up to them.

"Fancy your being here all by yourself, Mr. Arbuthnot! Do you know, we were coming down to call on you, the whole lot of us, if we hadn't seen you soon? Is it good ice? And come in closer, do; I want to introduce you to my sisters."

There was nothing for me to do but obey, and in a moment I found myself being chatted to by two girls not very unlike Lady Olive herself; and my hand had touched Maud's for a moment, and my eyes looked into hers. Then some one introduced me to Mr. Francis Devereux, and I found myself bowing slightly (I had kept my hands behind me, all the time anticipating this, for God forbid that I should place the hand of Rupert Devereux's son within my own) to my cousin, who looked out at me superciliously from the depths of a fur coat, which had the appearance of having been made for the Arctic regions. It was too cold to stand still, and we all trooped on to the ice. There were many more men than girls in the party, I was pleased to see, and very soon they were scattered all over the lake in couples, and I, glad enough of it, was left to myself. Maud alone had delayed putting on her skates, and was sitting on a stump close to where I was standing filling my pipe, the centre of a little group of men, amongst whom was Lord Annerley. As I threw the match down, and turned round to start away again, my eyes met hers for a moment, and she smiled slightly. Did she expect me, I wonder, to join the little group of her admirers, and vie with them in making pretty speeches, and compete with them for the privilege of putting her skates on? Bah! not I. If she thought that I was her slave, to be made happy or miserable by a glance from her blue eyes or a kind word from her lips, I would show her that she was mistaken. If she was proud, so was I; and drawing on my glove again, I skated over to the other side of the lake, out of hearing and sight of her little court.

Soon Lady Olive came skating up to me alone, with her hands stuck coquettishly into the pockets of her short fur-trimmed jacket, and her bright little face glowing with pleasure and warmth.

"Mr. Arbuthnot, I think you're the most unsociable man I ever knew!" she exclaimed. "My sisters are dying to skate with you, but you won't ask them, and—and—so am I," she added, with a bewitching smile up at me.

Of course I could do nothing but take her little hands into mine and skate away with her at once. We passed Maud again and again skating with Lord Annerley, and the proud cold light in her eyes as she glanced at us in passing half maddened me. Whenever we met her, Lady Olive, out of wanton mischief, forced me to look down into her laughing upturned face and bright eyes, and to do so without an answering smile was impossible; and yet Lady Olive's brilliant chatter and mocking speeches were very pleasant to hear and to respond to, reckless little flirt though she was.

She left me at last to skate with Lord Annerley's brother, who had just driven up in a dog-cart with some more men, and then I went to look for Marian and Holdern. Instead, I came face to face round a sharp corner with Maud leaning back in a sledge and gazing idly into the bulrushes, where one of her brother's friends was busy with a penknife. She motioned me languidly to stop, and I obeyed her.

"What have you done with Lady Olive?" she inquired, coldly.

"Resigned her to a more fortunate man," I answered, circling round her chair.

"More fortunate! You haven't much to grumble at! You've been skating with her more than an hour, haven't you?"

"Really I don't know," I answered, lightly. "I took little notice of the time."

"It passed too pleasantly, I suppose?"

"Perhaps so! I so seldom have any one to talk to," I could not help answering.

"It is your own fault. You have been avoiding us deliberately for the last three weeks."

I folded my arms and looked steadily away from her.

"And if I have," I said, slowly, "I think you might congratulate me on my wisdom and strength of mind."

She laughed a little hesitating laugh, and, with her head thrown back on the cushion of the sledge, fixed her eyes upon me.

"Lady Olive is dangerous, is she?"

I looked at her for a full minute without answering. From underneath her sealskin turban hat her blue eyes were looking full into mine, and a mocking smile was playing around her delicate lips. Surely she was beautiful enough to drive any man mad.

"No, Lady Olive is not dangerous to me," I answered, deliberately; "you are."

A curious change came over her face as she uttered the word. The mocking smile became almost a tender one, and a delicate flush tinged her soft cheeks. But the greatest change was in her eyes. For a moment they flashed into mine with a light shining out of their blue depths which I had never dreamt of seeing there, a soft, warm, almost a loving light.

"You are a silly boy," she said, in a low tone, and the colour deepening all the while in her cheeks. "How dare you talk to me like this?"

Ah, how dared I? She might well have asked that if she had only known.

"I don't know," I said, recklessly. "I shall say more if I stay here any longer."

"You? Ah, Captain Hasleton, how beautiful! However did you manage to find so many?"

Captain Hasleton shut up his penknife and commenced tying the bundle of bulrushes together.

"Ah, you may well ask that, Miss Devereux," he said, laughing; "it would take too long to narrate all the horrors I have faced in collecting them. First of all, endless frogs resented my intrusion by jumping up and croaking all round me. Then I stood in constant peril of a ducking. You should have heard the ice crack! And last, but by no means least, I've cut my finger. Nothing but half-a-dozen waltzes to-night will repay me."

Maud laughed gaily.

"Half-a-dozen? How grasping! I'll promise you two. That reminds me, Mr. Arbuthnot," she added, leaning forward on her muff and looking up at me, "we're going to dance to-night, and I've persuaded your sister and Mr. Holdern to come up to dinner. You will come, won't you?"

I said something conventional to the effect that I should be delighted, and, raising my cap, was about to turn away. But she called me back.

"How dreadfully tall you are, Mr. Arbuthnot! I have a private message for your sister. Do you think that you could bring yourself within whispering distance?"

I stooped down till my heart beat to feel her soft breath on my cheek, and I felt a wild longing to seize hold of the slender, shapely hand that rested on my coat-sleeve. And these were the words which she whispered into my ear, half mischievously, half tenderly—

"Faint heart never won—anything, did it? Don't, you silly boy! Captain Hasleton will see you."

And then she drew herself up and nodded, and with the hot colour burning my cheeks, and with leaping heart, I watched Captain Hasleton seize hold of the light hand-sledge and send it flying along the smooth surface of the lake round the sharp corner and out of sight. Then I turned and skated away in the opposite direction with those words ringing in my ears and a wild joy in my heart. The cold east wind seemed to me like the balmiest summer breeze, and the bare, desolate landscape stretching away in front seemed bathed in a softening golden light. For Maud loved me—or she was a flirt. Maud was a flirt—or she loved me.

CHAPTER XXI
RUPERT DEVEREUX

If any one had told me that evening, as Marian and Holdern and I drew near to the great entrance of Devereux Court, that I was entering it for the last time for many years, I should probably have thought them mad. And yet so it was, for that night was a fateful one to me. Into foreign lands and far-away places I carried with me the memory of the stately greystone front, the majestic towers, the half-ruined battlements, the ivy-covered, ruined chapel, with its stained-glass windows, and the vast hall towering up to the vaulted roof. Of Devereux Court, of all these, I have said but little, for my story is rather a chronicle of events than a descriptive one. But they had made a great impression upon me, as was only natural; for would they not some day, if I chose to claim them, be mine?

We arrived rather early, and leaving Marian and Mr. Holdern in the drawing-room with a few of the other guests who had already assembled, I made use of my knowledge of the house to go and look for Maud, and I found her—alone, in the conservatory, leading out of her little morning-room.

Surely God's earth had never held a more lovely woman. I stood looking at her for a full minute without speaking. A rich ivory satin dress hung in simple but perfectly graceful folds about her slim, exquisite figure, and bands of wide, creamy old point lace filled in her square bodice right up to her white throat. She wore no ornaments, no flowers, save a single sprig of heliotrope nearly buried amongst the lace. Her deep blue, almost violet, eyes had lost their cold, disdainful gleam, and looked into mine kindly; but there was still the half-mocking smile playing around her slightly parted lips.

"And, pray, what right have you to come into my sanctum without knocking, sir?" she asked, with a soft laugh, which did not seem to me to speak of much anger; "and now that you are here, why do you stand staring at me like a great stupid?"

I drew a long breath, and took a step forward.

"I came to beg for a flower, and——"

"Well, there are plenty in the conservatory," she said, pointing to it. "You may help yourself."

I stood close to her, so close that the faint perfume from the morsel of lace which she was holding in her hand reached me.

"Only one flower will satisfy me," I said. "That sprig of heliotrope. May I have it?"

She laughed again, a low musical laugh, and the tinge of pink in her cheeks grew deeper.

"If nothing else will satisfy you I suppose you must."

She unfastened it from the bosom of her dress, and her little white fingers busied themselves for a moment with my buttonhole. So close was her head, with its many coils of dazzlingly fair hair, to mine, that, irresistibly tempted, I let my fingers rest upon it for a second with a caressing touch. She looked up at me with a mock frown, which her eyes contradicted.

She did not speak, neither did I. But a sweet subtle intoxication seemed to be creeping over my senses, and slowly, scarce knowing what I did, I drew her into my arms, and her head rested upon my shoulder. Then my lips touched hers in one long quivering kiss, which she not only suffered, but faintly returned, and it seemed to me that life could hold nothing sweeter than this.

Only for a moment she lingered in my arms. Then, as though suddenly galvanised into life and recollection, she gently disengaged herself, and stood apart from me.

Maud blushing—my princess blushing! I had pictured her to myself often with a thousand different expressions dwelling in her cold, fair face, but never thus! Yet how could she have looked more lovely!

"Now I wonder what my father would have said if he had come in just then!" she exclaimed, holding her fan in front of her face, and looking at me with laughingly reproachful eyes over the top of its wavy feathers. "Mind, you must be on your very best behaviour this evening, and not attempt to talk to me too much. He hasn't seen me for five years, and I don't want him to think me frivolous."

"Your father! My God! is he here?" I gasped, leaning back against the table, and clutching hold of it with nervous fingers. The room seemed swimming round with me, and Maud's face alone remained distinct.

"He's coming to-night," she said, looking at me in amazement. "What difference can it make to you? Why, Mr. Ar—— Hugh, you are ill!" she exclaimed, shutting up her fan and moving to my side.

I held out my hand to keep her away. God forbid that Rupert Devereux's daughter should rest in my arms again.

"Coming here!" I muttered. "Coming here to-night!" The idea seemed almost too much for me to realise. How could I sit at the same table with him? How breathe the same air without letting him know of my hate? And this was his daughter Maud—my Maud, my princess. The idea seemed almost to choke me.

The second dinner gong boomed out, and I raised myself at once.

"I'm afraid I frightened you, M—— Miss Devereux. I won't stop to explain now. They will be wanting you in the drawing-room."

I opened the door for her, and she swept out and across the polished oak and rug-strewn floor of the hall, lifting her eyes to mine for one moment as she passed, full of a strange, sweet light. For a brief while I lingered behind; then, with a great efforts regaining my calmness, I followed her.

CHAPTER XXII
FACE TO FACE

I sat between Lady Olive and her younger sister at dinner, and I have no doubt that both found me very stupid and inattentive. I could neither eat nor drink, talk nor laugh. Even Lady Olive gave me up at last, and devoted her attention to Captain Hasleton, her neighbour on the other side. It was not until dinner was nearly over that I was able to rouse myself in the slightest degree, and by that time Lady Olive had quite lost her temper with me.

"Skating doesn't agree with you, Mr. Arbuthnot," she whispered, when at last Maud had given the signal to rise. "I never knew any one so provokingly stupid in all my life."

I shrugged my shoulders deprecatingly.

"I'm sorry, Lady Olive," I said, grimly, "but if you felt as I do for five minutes you'd forgive me," which was perfectly true.

She looked up at me with a pitying glance, and I suppose something in my expression told her that I was suffering, for her piquant little face clouded over at once.

"I'm so sorry, Mr. Arbuthnot. You look as though you had a very bad headache. Come to me in the drawing-room as soon as you can, and I'll give you some sal volatile."

I thanked her a little absently—perhaps without sufficient gratitude, for she was a kind-hearted little woman, although she was such a terrible flirt. But I was eager to watch Maud go by—eager even to be brushed by her garments as she passed.

She half stopped as she reached me.

"I won't allow you to flirt with Lady Olive," she whispered, with a bewitching little moue; then added out loud: "Come to us as soon as ever you can, Mr. Arbuthnot. We want to commence dancing in good time."

I bowed, and letting fall the curtain, turned back to the table. Sir Francis motioned me to take the vacant place by his side, and filled my glass himself from the decanter which stood at his elbow.

"Hugh, my boy," he said, slowly—he had got into the habit of calling me Hugh lately—"I'm upset!"

I looked into his handsome old face, and saw that it was clouded over, and there was a heavy frown on his brow.

"I'm sorry, sir," I ventured to say.

"Thanks. I knew you would be. I don't suppose a man ought to be sorry because his son's coming to see him, ought he?"

It depended upon the son, I thought.

"Ay, it depends upon the son, of course," he said, thoughtfully, stroking his long grey moustache. "There is nothing against Maud's father, nothing at all. He's nothing like that young cub of his down there," he went on, jerking his head to where Francis Devereux was talking very loudly and drinking a good deal of champagne. "And yet I don't want him here. I can't bear to see him in the place. It's a damned funny thing."

"If you feel like that, sir," I said, keeping my eyes fixed upon the tablecloth, "depend upon it, it's your son's fault. He's done something to deserve it."

Sir Francis sat silent for a while, toying with his glasses.

"He has done nothing," he said, half to himself, "and yet I hate the sight of him, and he of me. It is twelve years since he set foot within Devereux Court. Twelve years! I wonder what his fancy is for coming now. Would to God he had stopped away!"

"Sir Francis," exclaimed a voice from the lower end of the table, "a promise to ladies is sacred. We were told that ten minutes was as long as we could be allowed this evening, and we have pledged our words. Have we your permission?"

"Certainly, gentlemen."

Sir Francis rose, and there was a general draining of glasses and a stretching of masculine forms. Then we followed him across the hall into the blue drawing-room.

I should have made my way at once to Maud but a look in her eyes checked me, and I turned aside and sat down in an empty recess. I had scarcely commenced to turn over the pages of a book of engravings which I had carelessly taken up, when I heard a voice at my elbow.

"As usual, Mr. Arbuthnot, you make me come to you. It's too bad of you."

I put down the book with a start, and stood up. Lady Olive was at my elbow.

"Now, sit down again, and tell me how the headache is," she exclaimed, sinking herself into the cushioned recess, and drawing her skirts aside to make room for me. "See, I've brought you my favourite smelling-salts, and I have some sal volatile in my pocket. I mustn't doctor you before all these people, though! And now for the question I'm dying to ask. Shall you be able to waltz?"

"Come and see," I said, rising and offering her my arm, for an exodus was already taking place from the room. "It's awfully good of you, Lady Olive, to remember my headache," I added, gratefully.

She tapped my fingers with her fan.

"Don't make speeches, sir. What a grand old place this is, isn't it?"

We were to dance in the armour gallery, and the whole party were making their way there now. The magnificent staircase, bordered with massive black oak balustrades, up which we were passing, descended into the middle of the hall, and was supported by solid black marble pillars; and the corridor, which ran at right angles to it, was lighted by stained-glass windows, in front of each of which armoured knights were grimly keeping watch. One corridor led into another, all of noble dimensions, with high oriel windows, and lined by a silent ghostly guard of steel-clad warriors and polished marble statues. A strange contrast they seemed to the gay laughing procession of girls, in their low-necked dinner dresses and flashing diamonds, and men in their mess jackets and evening coats. Maud alone, moving with the slow, stately grace of a princess of former days, seemed in keeping with our surroundings.

Soon the sound of violins reached us, and, pushing aside the heavy curtains, we descended two steps and stood in the armour gallery. Maud's imagination and many nimble fingers had been busy here, and at first I scarcely knew the place. Fairy lights with various coloured shades hung from the mailed gloves of many generations of Devereux, and the black oak floor was shining with a polish beyond its own. But no fairy lights or bracketed candles could dispel the gloom which hung about the long lofty gallery, with its vaulted roof black with age, and its panelled walls hung with the martial trophies of every age and every land. And yet it was a gloom which seemed in keeping with the place, and no one found it oppressive.

I danced with Lady Olive, and then, as we stood talking in the shade of one of my armoured forefathers, Captain Hasleton came up and claimed her, and I was left alone. Nearly opposite me was Maud, standing like an exquisite picture in the softened light of one of the stained-glass windows. But I did not go to her at once. Several men were talking to her, and she was answering them with the languid air of one who finds it hard to be amused, and her blue eyes more than once travelled past them and looked into mine indifferently, but still with a meaning in them. At last I crossed the room and stood before her.

"You promised me a waltz, I think, Miss Devereux. Will not this one do?"

She hesitated for a moment, and then she laid her hand on my coat-sleeve, and we moved away. Without a word I passed my arm around her waist, and we floated slowly up the room. It was one of Waldteufel's wild, sad waltzes, now bursting into a loud flood of music, now dying away into a few faint melodious chords. For many years afterwards I never heard it played without longing to rush away into solitude and recall those few minutes of exquisite happiness in that strange, dimly-lit ball-room.

All things come to an end, and so did that waltz. Maud promised me the next but one, and was led away by Lord Annerley, and, to while away the time, I took a lamp from a bracket on the wall, and, pushing aside the heavy curtains, stepped into the picture gallery to look at my father's portrait.

It was not the first time by many that I had done so, for when I had been shown over the court soon after my arrival my first visit had been here. Bitterly indignant had I felt when, after I had looked for long in vain for my father's picture, I had found it—with its face turned against the wall. I had turned it round again during a moment or two when Groves, the portly house-steward, had been otherwise engaged, and since then it had not been disturbed, for Sir Francis no longer made this his favourite lounging-place; indeed, he seldom came here at all.

The sound of the music and of voices—some fresh ones I fancied—came to me in a faint, indistinct hum through the drawn curtains, and for a while I forgot all about them. I seemed in another world, amongst these long rows of my frowning ancestors, beruffed ladies in quilted gowns and dresses of strange device, armed knights, and beaux of a later and more peaceful age with perukes, knee-breeches, and snuff-boxes. But though I walked the whole length of the gallery, and glanced leisurely at all of them, it was my father's picture at which I lingered longest, and before which I was standing absorbed when the drawing of the curtain and the sound of voices and feet entering the gallery made me start round and very nearly drop the candle which I held in my hand.

"Why, Arbuthnot, what are you doing moping in here?" exclaimed Sir Francis, in a tone of astonishment. "Why don't you go and dance?"

I turned round with some excuse on my lips, but it died away when I saw who were his companions. Walking by his side was a tall dark man, with iron-grey hair, and pale, delicate face. On his arm was Maud, and, glancing from one to another, I knew that this was her father, my Uncle Rupert. Behind was my cousin Francis, with Lady Olive on his arm. It was a strange meeting.

"This is Mr. Arbuthnot, Rupert, whom I was telling you about just now," Sir Francis went on, without appearing to notice my start, "Arbuthnot, this is my son, Mr. Rupert Devereux."

I bowed slightly, and my Uncle Rupert did the same, withdrawing the hand which I had affected not to see. God forbid that my hand should touch his, even in the most casual fashion.

"Well, Arbuthnot, we——"

Sir Francis broke off in his pleasant speech, with his eyes riveted on the wall behind me. Slowly his face grew rigid with anger, and his thick eyebrows were contracted in a stern frown.

"Who has touched that picture?" he asked, in a cold, measured tone, which I had never heard from him before.

Rupert Devereux's eyes followed his father's shaking forefinger, and I saw a change pass over his face also. His dark eyes filled with a troubled, fearful light, and he shrank back a pace, as though to escape from the sight of the handsome boyish face which laughed down on him from the massive frame. To my eyes, inspired by knowledge, guilt was written in his pale face as plainly as nature could write, and a passionate anger which had lain sleeping within me for many weary months leapt out, burning and fierce, kindled by his presence. I forgot that I was Mr. Arbuthnot, the land agent; I forgot Maud's presence; I forgot everything save that I stood face to face with the man who had blighted my father's name and honour. That one maddening thought alone held me, and it was only by a great effort that I restrained myself from flying at his throat like a mad bull-dog.

I don't think that Sir Francis noticed my agitation. In fact, I am sure that he did not; for I was standing just outside the streak of light which the moon, shining softly in through the diamond-paned window, was casting upon the polished floor.

"Mr. Arbuthnot," he said, firmly, "might I trouble you—or Francis, you are nearest! Be so good as to turn that picture with its face to the wall."

Francis Devereux dropped Lady Olive's arm, and advancing, laid his hands upon the frame. Then the devil broke loose within me, and seizing him by the collar as though he had been a baby, I threw him on his back upon the floor.

"Dare to lay a finger upon that picture, you or any one else here," I cried, passionately, "and I will kill you!"

CHAPTER XXIII
IN THE PICTURE GALLERY

It is strange that, although so many years have passed, that scene remains as though written with letters of fire into my memory—vivid and clear. Word for word, I can remember every sentence that was spoken; and the different expressions on the face of each I could, if I were a painter, faithfully reproduce. Sir Francis gazed at me speechless in a sort of helpless apathy, Maud and Lady Olive looked horrified and thunderstruck, and my Uncle Rupert, with face as pale as death, was shaking from head to foot, with eyes riveted upon me in a sort of fascinated bewilderment, as though I were one risen from the dead. Sir Francis seemed to be the first to recover himself.

"Arbuthnot! Arbuthnot!" he exclaimed; "what does this mean?"

I pointed to my uncle, and he seemed to shrink back from my outstretched hand.

"Cannot you see?" he faltered, in a hollow tone. "Look at him and at the picture."

I had moved a step forward unconsciously, and was standing in the centre of the broad stretch, of moonlight which was streaming in from the high window. Sir Francis looked at me, and then gave a great start.

"My God! Arbuthnot, boy! Who are you? Speak!"

"Hugh Arbuthnot, son of Herbert Arbuthnot, who once called himself Devereux," I answered, proudly, looking Sir Francis steadily in the face; "and who would be a Devereux still," I added, "but for that man's villainous lie."

Rupert Devereux turned his head away, as though unable to meet the fire which blazed from my eyes. Maud had sunk, half fainting, upon an ottoman, and Lady Olive was by her side. Sir Francis stood gazing fixedly at me, as though in a dream.

"It can't be!" he muttered, hoarsely. "He could never have had such a son as you. He was a coward!"

"It's a lie!" I thundered—so vehemently that Sir Francis staggered back aghast. "Rupert Devereux!" I cried, taking a quick stride to his side, "can you, dare you look me in the face and tell me that my father was a coward? You, who bribed John Hilton, your servant, into a shameful conspiracy that you might step into his place! You, you—speak, man, and tell me! Was Herbert Devereux a coward?"

He was white to the lips with a fear not merely physical. His senses seemed stupefied; and though I waited amidst a deathlike silence for a full minute, he made me no answer. I turned my back upon him contemptuously.

"Sir Francis!" I cried. "He could lie to strangers and to you, but to me he dare not. Before heaven, I swear that my father is an innocent man, shamefully sinned against by him"—I pointed to my uncle. "Out of a mean jealousy, and for the sake of being your heir, he did it—he perjured himself. He to call himself a Devereux, and my father robbed of his name and honour by such treacherous villainy! Don't you wonder that I don't kill you?" I cried, turning round, a very tempest of passion surging up within me. "God knows why I don't do it! Sir Francis, I appeal to you. John Hilton has confessed to me that his story was a lie. My father is as brave a soldier and a gentleman as ever Devereux was. Tell me that you believe it. Let us make that man confess, aye, even though we have to tear his guilty secret from his heart!"

Sir Francis had recovered himself entirely, and was again the aristocratic immovable soldier.

"Hugh, my boy, I believe you," he said, kindly. "Be my grandson, and I shall thank God for it, and be proud of you. But you are mistaken about your father. A court-martial never errs."

The hope which had sprung up in my heart died away, and in its place had leaped up a bitter hatred—hatred of Rupert Devereux, hatred of my grandfather, hatred of Maud, of every one who refused to believe in my father's innocence. I drew back from Sir Francis's outstretched hand, and looked at him proudly.

"Never, Sir Francis. I will not call myself your grandson, or take the name of Devereux, until my father bears it too. I would sooner live and die Hugh Arbuthnot."

Then, without another look at one of them, without even a glance into Maud's white face, I turned, and walked slowly out of the gallery and out of the house.

CHAPTER XXIV
A MIDNIGHT VISITOR

Like a man in a dream, I walked with unsteady footsteps down the avenue, through the shrubbery, and across the park to the cottage. I had forgotten my latch-key, and the servant who answered my ring welcomed me with a little cry of relief.

"John was just a-coming up to the house for you, sir," she exclaimed, shutting the door again. "There's a strange woman wants to see you most particular. She's been here more than an hour, a-fretting ever so because you wasn't here."

"Where is she?" I asked.

"In your study, sir. I see'd as there was nothink about as she could lay 'er 'ands on before I let her in."

I had no doubt but that it was the wife of one of the tenants on the estate, though why she should choose such a strange time for her visit I could not imagine. But when I walked into the study I saw at once that she was a stranger to me. And yet, no. I had seen her face before somewhere.

She rose nervously when I entered, and pulled her shawl closer around her.

"You'll excuse the liberty I've taken in coming, sir," she began, hurriedly. "I 'a come to do yer a service. You doan't seem to recollect me. I'm John Hilton's wife; him as you comed to see t'other week."

I recognised her at once, and became more interested.

"You see, sir, it's like this," she went on. "My Jack, he's had one o' his drinking fits on, and he's always mortal mischievous after one of 'em. He seems to 'a got a powerful sort o' a grudge agin' you, and there's that piece o' paper as you wrote out, and he put 'is name to. He says as 'ow he might get lagged for that if you showed it."

"Well, has he sent you to try and get it away again?" I asked.

"Not he! If he know'd as I'd come 'ere at all he'd half kill me."

"Well, what is it, then?" I asked.

"Well, it's just like this," she answered, slowly; "he's a-coming himself to try and get it back agin."

"Indeed! And when may I expect him?" I inquired, becoming suddenly interested.

"To-night."

I leaned back in my chair, and laughed dryly. The woman must be mad.

"'Tain't no laughing matter, master," she said, sullenly. "You'd 'a laughed t'other side o' your mouth, I can tell 'e, if I hadn' 'a chosen ter come and tell 'e. He ain't a-coming to ask you for it. He's a-coming to take it, and to pay yer back something as yer gave 'im at our cottage—him and a mate."

I began to see what it all meant now, and to understand why the woman had come.

"And you've come here to put me on my guard, is that it?" I remarked.

"Yes. Yer gave me money when I was starving, and I felt sort 'er grateful. And when I 'eard them two blackguards a-planning how they'd settle you I thought as they just shouldn't. If you puts a bullet in that 'long Jem,' which is my man's pal, I shall thank yer for it. Jack's bad enough, specially when he's just getting round from a spell o' drinking, which he is now; but he's a sight worse. Cuss him. He's always a-leading my Jack into something."

"What time are they coming?" I asked, thoughtfully.

"I 'eerd 'em say as they'd meet at Cop't Oak, which is a mile from here, as soon as it were dark, and hide until you was all a-gone to bed. I'm mortal afeard of their seeing me, although I shall go 'ome t'other way."

I pressed her to stay at the cottage for the night, but she stubbornly refused. Her Jack would kill her if he found out that she had been here, she declared. But before she went I made her drink a glass of wine, and fill her pockets with the bread and food which I had ordered in.

This promised to be an exciting night for me altogether, I thought, as I drew out my revolver from the cupboard and carefully loaded it. I was not inclined altogether to believe or altogether to disbelieve this woman's story, but at any rate there was no harm in being prepared. If I had gone to bed, there would have been little sleep for me with my head still throbbing with the vivid recollection of that terrible scene in the picture gallery. I dared not think of it, I dared not let my thoughts dwell for an instant on the inevitable consequences of what had happened. The excitement of what might shortly take place kept me from the full sickening realisation of the change which that evening's events must make in my life, but underneath it all there was a dull aching pain in my heart, for had I not lost Maud?

Presently Marian and Mr. Holdern arrived. I had forgotten their very existence, and directly the latter had taken his leave, Marian was full of eager, agitated questions. Why had I left so suddenly? Had I quarrelled with Sir Francis Devereux? What did it all mean? Maud had gone to her room with white face and looking like a ghost, and Lady Olive had not again entered the dancing-room. Sir Francis had apologised to his guests with the agitation of one who had received a great shock, and Rupert Devereux none of them had seen again; and I was mixed up in it. What did it all mean?

She threw herself into my arms, and when I saw the gathering tears in her soft grey eyes, and her anxious, troubled look, I shrunk from the task before me.

"Not now, Marian; I will tell you to-morrow; wait until then," I begged. But she would not wait.

Then, with a great effort, I braced myself up, and told her everything. She listened with ever-growing astonishment, and when I had finished she slipped down from my knee and sank upon the hearthrug.

"Poor papa!" she sobbed. "No wonder you hate that Rupert! Beast! Oh, Hugh, Hugh, why could you not tell me before? I ought to have known," she added, reproachfully.

"It could have done no good," I answered.

A wave of sudden anxiety passed across her face.

"Oh, Hugh!" she sobbed. "Char—— Mr. Hold——"

"Mr. Holdern knows all about it," I interrupted. "I thought it right to tell him when he asked me for you."

A great relief brightened her face, and she smiled through her tears. Even a woman is selfish when she is in love.

"I am glad he knows," she whispered, looking into the fire. "How strange it all seems! Why our name is Devereux; you will be Sir Hugh Devereux. Why, Hugh, Devereux Court will be yours some day!"

"Never!" I answered, firmly; "until Sir Francis asks my father's pardon, and receives him as a son, I shall never take the name of Devereux or enter the Court. I have sworn it, Marian."

"And it was noble of you to swear it, Hugh," she whispered, coming over and kissing me. "They say truth always comes out some time or other. Perhaps this will all come right some day."

"For our father's sake, pray that it may do, Marian dear," I answered, gravely. "And now run along to bed, I have some writing to do."

She lingered by my side.

"Hugh, what are you going to do now? You will leave here, I suppose?"

"I must, Marian. Unless Sir Francis desires otherwise, I shall remain here until he has found some one else to take my place, though it will be as Hugh Arbuthnot, his agent, only, and into Devereux Court I will not go again. It will be well for Rupert Devereux, too, that he keeps out of my way," I added to myself. "When does Mr. Holdern want to marry you, Marian?" I asked her suddenly, changing the subject.

She blushed up to her eyes, and looked at me half pleased, half reproachfully.

"Hugh! How could you ask me like that? I—I don't quite know."

"Because you'll have to go away with me, you know," I continued. "I can't leave you behind."

She looked serious enough now.

"Of course you can't, Hugh. I don't think I ought to leave you at all. You'll be alone if I do, with no one to look after you."

I pretended to look serious, as though considering the matter, but her piteous expression and quivering lips were irresistible, and I broke into a reassuring laugh.