HUGO LUTTRELL.
Hugo's Sicilian mother had transmitted to him a nature at once fierce
and affectionate, passionate and cunning. Half-child, half-savage, he
seemed to be bound by none of the restraints that civilised men early
learn to place upon their instincts. He expressed his anger, his sorrow,
his love, with all the abandon that characterised the natives of those
sunny shores where the first years of his life were spent. Profoundly
simple in his modes of feeling, he was yet dominated by the habits of
slyness and trickery which seem to be inherent in the truly savage
breast. He had the savage's love of secrecy and instinctive suspicion of
his fellow-creatures, the savage's swift passions and vindictiveness,
the savage's innate difficulty in comprehending the laws of honour and
morality. It is possible to believe that, with good training from his
infancy, Hugo Luttrell might have developed into a trustworthy and
straightforward man, shrinking from dishonesty and cowardice as infamy
worse than death; but his early education had been of a kind likely to
foster every vice that he possessed. His father, a cousin of the
Luttrells of Netherglen, after marrying a lovely Palermitan, and living
for three years with her in her native land, had at last tired of her
transports of love and jealousy, and started upon an exploring
expedition in South Africa. Hugo was brought up by a mother who adored
him and taught him to loathe the English race. He was surrounded by
flatterers and sycophants from his babyhood, and treated as if he were
born to a kingdom. When he was twelve years old, however, his mother
died; and his father, on learning her death some months afterwards, made
it his business to fetch the boy away from Sicily and bring him to
England. But Hugh Luttrell, the father, was already a dying man. The
seeds of disease had been developed during his many journeyings; he was
far gone in consumption before he even reached the English shores. His
own money was nearly spent. There was a law-suit about the estates
belonging to his wife's father, and it was scarcely probable that they
would devolve upon Hugo, who had cousins older than himself and dearer
to the Sicilian grandfather's heart. The dying man turned in his
extremity to the young head of the house, Richard Luttrell, then only
twenty-one years of age, and did not turn in vain. Richard Luttrell
undertook the charge of the boy, and as soon as the father was laid in
the grave, he took Hugo home with him to Netherglen.
Richard Luttrell could hardly have treated Hugo more generously than he
did, but it must be confessed that he never liked the boy. The faults
which were evident from the first day of his entrance into the
Luttrells' home, were such as disgusted and repelled the somewhat
austere young ruler of the household. Hugo pilfered, lied, cringed,
stormed, in turn, like a veritable savage. He was sent to school, and
learned the wisdom of keeping his tongue silent, and his evil deeds
concealed, but he did not learn to amend his ways. In spite of his
frequent misconduct, he had some qualities which endeared him to the
hearts of those whom he cared to conciliate. His _naivete_, his
caressing ways, his beautiful, delicate face and appealing eyes, were
not without effect even upon the severest of his judges. Owing, perhaps,
to these attributes rather than to any positive merit of his own, he
scrambled through life at school, at a tutor's, at a military college,
without any irreparable disgrace, his aptitude for getting into scrapes
being equalled only by his cleverness in getting out of them. Richard,
indeed, had at times received reports of his conduct which made him
speak angrily and threaten condign punishment, but not until this day,
when the discovery of the lost bank-notes in Hugo's possession betokened
an absence of principle transcending even Richard's darkest
anticipations, had any serious breach occurred between the cousins. With
some men, the fact that it was the first grave offence would have had
weight, and inclined them to be merciful to the offender, but Richard
Luttrell was not a merciful man. When he discovered wrong-doing, he
punished it with the utmost severity, and never trusted the culprit
again. He had been known to say, in boasting accents, that he did not
understand what forgiveness meant. Forgiveness of injuries? Weakness of
mind: that was his opinion.
Hugo Luttrell's nature was also not a forgiving one. He lay upon the
grass, writhing, sobbing, tearing at the ground in an access of passion
equally composed of rage and shame. He had almost lost the remembrance
of his own offence in resentment of its punishment. He had been struck;
he had been insulted; he, a Sicilian gentleman! (Hugo never thought of
himself as an Englishman.) He loathed Richard Luttrell; he muttered
curses upon him as he lay on the earth, with every bone aching from his
cousin's blows; he wished that he could wipe out the memory of the
affront in Richard's blood. Richard would laugh at a challenge; a duel
was not the English method of settling quarrels. "I will punish him in
another way; it is a _vendetta_!" said Hugo to himself, choking down his
passionate, childish sobs. "He is a brute--a great, savage brute; he
does not deserve to live!"
He was too much absorbed in his reflections to notice a footstep on the
grass beside him, and the rustle of a woman's dress. Some one had drawn
near, and was looking pityingly, wonderingly, down upon the slight,
boyish form that still shook and quivered with irrepressible emotion. A
woman's voice sounded in his ear. "Hugo!" it said; "Hugo, what is the
matter?"
With a start he lifted his head, showed a flushed, tear-swollen
countenance for one moment, and then hid it once more in his hands. "Oh,
Angela, Angela!" he cried; and then the hysterical passion mastered him
once more. He could not speak for sobs.
She knelt down beside him and placed one hand soothingly upon his
ruffled, black locks. For a few minutes she also did not speak. She knew
that he could not hear.
The world was not wrong when it called Angela Vivian a beautiful woman,
although superfine critics objected that her features were not perfect,
and that her hair, her eyes, her complexion, were all too colourless for
beauty. But her great charm lay in the harmonious character of her
appearance. To deepen the tint of that soft, pale hair--almost
ash-coloured, with a touch of gold in the heavy coils--to redden her
beautifully-shaped mouth, and her narrow, oval face, to imagine those
sweet, calm, grey eyes of any more definite shade would have been to
make her no longer the Angela Vivian that so many people knew and loved.
But if fault were found with her face, no exception could be taken to
her figure and the grace with which she moved. There, at least, she was
perfect.
Angela Vivian was twenty-three, and still unmarried. It was said that
she had been difficult to please. But her choice was made at last. She
was to be married to Richard Luttrell before the end of the year. They
had been playmates in childhood, and their parents had been old friends.
Angela was now visiting Mrs. Luttrell, who was proud of her son's
choice, and made much of her as a guest at Netherglen.
She spoke to Hugo as a sister might have done.
"What is it, dear?" she asked him, smoothing out his short, dark curls,
as she spoke. "Can't you tell me? Is it some great trouble?"
For answer he dragged himself a little closer to her, and bowed his hot
forehead on one of her hands, which she was resting on the ground, while
she stroked his hair with the other. The action touched her; she did not
know why. His sobs were quietening. He was by no means very manly, as
English people understand manliness, but even he was ashamed to be found
crying like a baby over his woes.
"Dear Hugo, can you not tell me what is wrong?" said Angela, more
seriously alarmed by his silence than by his tears. She had a right to
question him, for he had previously given her as much of his confidence
as he ever gave to anybody, and she had been a very good friend to him.
"Are you in some great trouble?"
"Yes," he said, in a voice so choked that she could hardly hear the
word.
"And you have been in some scuffle surely. Your clothes are torn--you
are hurt!" said she, sympathetically. "Why, Hugo, you must have been
fighting!" Then, as he gave her no answer, she resumed in a voice of
tender concern, "You are not really hurt, are you, dear boy? You can
move--you can get up? Shall I fetch anyone to help you?"
"No, no, no!" he cried, clutching at her dress, as though to stay her
going. "Don't leave me. I am not hurt--at least, I can walk and stand
easily enough, though I have been hurt--set upon, and treated like--like
a dog by him----"
"By whom, Hugo?" said Angela, startled by the tenor of his incoherent
sentences. "Who has set upon you and ill-treated you?"
But Hugo hid his face. "I won't tell you," he said, sullenly.
There was a silence. "Can I do anything for you?" Angela asked at
length, very gently.
"No."
She waited a little longer, and, as he made no further sign, she tried
to rise. "Shall I go, Hugo?" she said.
"Yes--if you like." Then he burst out passionately, "Of course, you will
go. You are like everybody else. You are like Richard Luttrell. You will
do what he tells you. I am abandoned by everybody. You all hate me; and
I hate you all!"
Little as Angela understood his words, there was something in them that
made her seat herself beside him on the grass, instead of leaving him
alone. "Dear Hugo," she said, "I have never hated you."
"But you will soon."
"I see," said she, softly. "I understand you now. You are in
trouble--you have been doing something wrong, and you think that we
shall be angry with you. Listen, Hugo, Richard maybe angry at first, but
he is kind as well as just. He will forgive you, and we shall love you
as much as ever. I will tell him that you are sorry for whatever it is,
and then he will not refuse his pardon."
"I don't want it," said Hugo, hoarsely. "I hate him."
"Hugo!"
"I hate him--I loathe him. You would hate him, too, if you knew him as
well as I do. You are going to marry him! Well, you will be miserable
all your life long, and then you will remember what I say."
"I should be angry with you if I did not know how little you meant
this," said Angela, in an unruffled voice, although the faint colour had
risen to her cheeks, and her eyes looked feverishly bright. "But you are
not like yourself, Hugo; you are distressed about something. You know,
at least, that we do not hate you, and you do not hate us."
"I do not hate you," said Hugo, with emphasis.
He seized a fold of her dress and pressed it to his lips. But he said
nothing more, and by-and-bye, when she gently disengaged her gown from
his hold, he made no opposition to her going. She left him with
reluctance, but she knew that Mrs. Luttrell would want her at that hour,
and did not like to be kept waiting. She glanced back when she reached
the bend in the road that would hide him from her sight. She saw that he
had resumed his former position, with his head bent upon his arms, and
his face hidden.
"Poor Hugo!" she said to herself, as she turned towards the house.
Netherglen was a quaint-looking, irregular building of grey, stone, not
very large, but considerably larger than its appearance led one to
conjecture, from the fact that a wing had been added at the back of the
house, where it was not immediately apparent. The peculiarity of this
wing was that, although built close to the house, it did not actually
touch it except at certain points where communication with the main part
was necessary; the rooms on the outer wing ran parallel for some
distance with those in the house, but were separated by an interval of
one or two feet. This was a precaution taken, it was said, in order to
deaden the noise made by the children when they were in the nurseries
situated in this part of the house. It had certainly been an effectual
one; it was difficult to hear any sound proceeding from these rooms,
even when one stood in the large central hall from which the
sitting-rooms opened.
Angela was anxious to find Richard and ascertain whether or not he was
really seriously incensed against his cousin, but he was not to be
found. A party of guests had arrived unexpectedly for luncheon; Mrs.
Luttrell and Brian were both busily engaged in entertaining them. Angela
glanced at Brian; it struck her that he was not in his usual good
spirits. But she had no chance of asking him if anything were amiss.
The master of the house arrived in time to take his place at the head of
the table, and from the moment of his arrival, Angela was certain that
he had been, if he were not still, seriously annoyed by some occurrence
of the day. She knew his face very well, and she knew the meaning of the
gleam of his eye underneath the lowered eyebrows, the twitching nostril,
and the grim setting of his mouth. He spoke very little, and did not
smile even when he glanced at her. These were ominous signs.
"Where is Hugo?" demanded Mrs. Luttrell as they seated themselves at the
table. "Have you seen him, Brian?"
"Yes, I saw him down by the loch this morning," said Brian, but without
raising his eyes.
"The bell had better be rung outside the house," said Mrs. Luttrell. "It
can be heard quite well on the loch."
"It is unnecessary, mother," said Richard, promptly. "Hugo is not coming
in to lunch."
There was a momentary flash of his eye as he spoke, which convinced
Angela that Hugo's disgrace was to be no transient one. Her heart sank;
she did not find that Richard's wrath was easy to appease when once
thoroughly aroused. Again she looked at Brian, and it seemed to her that
his face was paler and more sombre than she had ever seen it before.
The brothers were usually on such pleasant terms that their silence to
each other during the meal became a matter of remark to others beside
Angela and Mrs. Luttrell. Had they quarrelled? There was an evident
coolness between them; for, on the only occasion on which they addressed
each other, Richard contemptuously contradicted his brother with
insulting directness, and Brian replied with what for him was decided
warmth. But the matter dropped--perhaps each was ashamed of having
manifested his annoyance in public--and only their silence to each other
betrayed that anything was wrong.
The party separated into three portions after luncheon. Mrs. Luttrell
and a lady of her own age agreed to remain indoors, or to stroll quietly
round the garden. Angela and two or three other young people meant to
get out the boat and fish the loch for pike. Richard and a couple of his
friends were going to shoot in the neighbouring woods. And, while these
arrangements were making, and everybody was standing about the hall, or
in the wide porch which opened out into the garden, Hugo's name was
again mentioned.
"What has become of that boy?" said Mrs. Luttrell. "He is not generally
so late. Richard, do you know?"
"I'll tell you afterwards, mother," answered her son, in a low tone.
"Don't say anything more about him just now."
"Is there anything wrong?" said his mother, also lowering her voice. But
he had turned away.
"Brian, what is it?" she asked, impatiently.
"For Heaven's sake, don't ask Brian," said Richard, looking back over
his shoulder, "there is no knowing what he may not require you to
believe. Leave the story to me."
"I've no desire to tell it," replied Brian, moving away.
Luttrell's friends were already outside the hall door, lighting their
cigars and playing with the dogs. A keeper stood in the background,
waiting until the party should start.
"Aren't you coming, Brian?" said one of the young men.
"I'll join you presently," said Brian. "I am going down to the loch
first to get out the boat."
"What a splendid gun that is of yours!" said Archie Grant, the younger
of the two men. "It is yours, is it not? I saw it in the corner of the
hall as I came in. You had it the other day at the Duke's."
"It was not mine. It belongs to Hugo."
"Let me have a look at it again; it's an awfully fine one."
"Are you ready, Grant?" said Richard Luttrell, coming forward. "What are
you looking for?"
"Oh, nothing; a gun," said the young fellow. "I see it's gone. I thought
it was there when I first came in; it's of no consequence."
"Not your own gun, I suppose?"
"No, no; I have my own. It was Hugo's."
"Yes; rather a fine one," said Richard, indifferently. "You're not
coming, then?"--to Brian--"well, perhaps it's as well." And he marched
away without deigning to bestow another look or word upon his brother.
Five minutes afterwards, Mrs. Luttrell and Angela encountered each other
in a passage leading to one of the upper rooms. No one was near. Mrs.
Luttrell--she was a tall, handsome woman, strikingly like Richard, in
spite of her snow-white hair--laid her hand gently on Angela's shoulder.
"Why do you look so pale, Angela?" she said. "Your eyes are red, child.
Have you been crying because those ill-bred lads of mine could not keep
a still tongue in their heads at the luncheon-table, but must needs
wrangle together as they used to when they were just babies? Never you
mind, my dear; it's not Richard's fault, and Brian was always a
troublesome lad. It will be better for us all when he's away at his
books in London."
She patted Angela's shoulder and passed on, leaving the girl more vexed
than comforted. She was sorry to see Mrs. Luttrell show the partiality
for Richard which everyone accused her of feeling. In the mother's eyes,
Richard was always right and Brian wrong. Angela was just enough to be
troubled at times by this difference in the treatment of the brothers.
Brian went down to the loch ostensibly to get out the boat. In reality
he wanted to see whether Hugo was still there. Richard had told him of
the punishment to which he had subjected the lad; and Brian had been
frankly indignant about it. The two had come to high words; thus there
had, indeed, been some foundation for the visitors' suspicions of a
previous quarrel.
Hugo had disappeared; only the broken brushwood and the crushed bracken
told of the struggle that had taken place, and of the boy's agony of
grief and rage. Brian resolved to follow and find him. He did not like
the thought of leaving him to bear his shame alone. Besides, he
understood Hugo's nature, and he was afraid--though he scarcely knew
what he feared.
But he searched in vain. Hugo was not to be found. He did not seem to
have quitted the place altogether, for he had given no orders about his
luggage, nor been seen on the road to the nearest town, and Brian knew
that it would be almost impossible to find him in a short space of time
if he did not wish to be discovered. It was possible that he had gone
into the woods; he was as fond of them as a wild animal of his lair.
Brian took his gun from the rack, as an excuse for an expedition, then
sallied forth, scarcely hoping, however, to be successful in his search.
He had not gone very far when he saw a man's form at some little
distance from him, amongst the trees. He stopped short and
reconnoitered. No, it was not Hugo. That brown shooting-coat and those
stalwart limbs belonged rather to Richard Luttrell. Brian looked,
shrugged his shoulders to himself, and then turned back. He did not want
to meet his brother then.
But Richard had heard the footstep and glanced round. After a moment of
evident hesitation, he quitted his position and tramped over the soft,
uneven ground to his brother, who, seeing that he had been observed,
awaited his brother's coming with some uncertainty of feeling.
Richard's face had wonderfully cleared since the morning, and his voice
was almost cordial.
"You've come? That's right," he said.
"Got anything?"
"Nothing much. I never saw young Grant shoot so wild. And my hand's not
very steady--after this morning's work." He laughed a little awkwardly
and looked away. "That fellow deserved all he got, Brian. But if you
choose to see him now and then and be friendly with him, it's your own
look out. I don't wish to interfere."
It was a great concession from Richard--almost as much as an apology.
Brian involuntarily put out his hand, which Richard grasped heartily if
roughly. Neither of them found it necessary to say more. The mutual
understanding was complete, and each hastily changed the subject, as
though desirous that nothing farther should be said about it.
If only some one had been by to witness that tacit reconciliation!