THE DEAD MAN'S TESTIMONY.
About ten o'clock at night Hugo Luttrell was seen entering the courtyard
at the back of the house, where keepers, grooms, and indoor servants
were collected in a group, discussing in low tones the event of the day.
Seeing these persons, he seemed inclined to go back by the way that he
had come; but the butler--an old Englishman who had been in the Luttrell
family before Edward Luttrell ever thought of marrying a Scotch heiress
and settling for the greater part of every year at Netherglen--this said
butler, whose name was William Whale, caught sight of the young fellow
and accosted him by name.
"Mr. Hugo, sir, there's been many inquiries after you," he began in a
lugubrious tone of voice.
"After me, William?" Hugo looked frightened and uneasy. "What for?"
"You won't have heard of the calamity that has come upon the house,"
said William, shaking his head solemnly; "and it will be a great shock
to you, no doubt, sir; a terrible shock. Stand back, you men, there; let
Mr. Hugo pass. Come into the housekeeper's room, sir. There's a fire in
it; the night has turned chilly. Go softly, if you please, sir."
Hugo followed the old man without another question. He looked haggard
and wearied; his clothes were wet, torn and soiled; his very hair was
damp, and his boots were soaked and burst as though from a long day's
tramp. Mrs. Shairp, the housekeeper, with whom he was a favourite,
uttered a startled exclamation at his appearance.
"Guid guide us, sirs! and whaur hae ye been hidin' yoursel' a' this day
an' nicht, Mr. Hugo? We've baen sair trouble i' th' hoose, and naebody
kent your whaurabouts. Bairn! but ye're just droukit! Whaur hae you
hidden yoursel' then?"
"Hidden!" Hugo repeated, catching at one of the good woman's words and
ignoring the others. "I've not hidden anywhere. I've been over the hills
a bit--that's all. What is the matter?"
He seated himself in the old woman's cushioned chair, and leaned forward
to warm himself at the fire as he spoke, holding out first one hand and
then the other to the leaping blaze.
"How will I tell you?" said Mrs. Shairp, relapsing into the tears she
had been shedding for the last two hours or more. "Is it possible that
ye've heard naething ava? The laird--Netherglen himsel'--oor
maister--and have you heard naething aboot him as you cam doun by the
muir? I'd hae thocht shame to let you gang hame unkent, if I had been
Jenny Burns at the lodge."
"I did not come that way," said Hugo, impatiently. "What is the matter
with the laird?"
"Maitter?--maitter wi' the laird? The laird's deid, laddie, and a gude
freend was he to me and mine, and to your ain sei' forbye, and the hale
kintra side will be at the buryin'," said the housekeeper, shaking her
head solemnly. "An' if that were na enow for my poor mistress there's a
waur thing to follow. The laird's fa'en by his ain brither's han's. Mr.
Brian shot him this verra nicht, as they cam' thro' the wud."
"By mistake, Mrs. Shairp, by mistake," murmured William Whale. But Hugo
lifted his haggard face, which looked very pale in the glow of the
firelight.
"You can't mean what you are saying," he said, in a hoarse, unnatural
voice. "Richard? Richard--dead! Oh, it must be impossible!"
"True, sir, as gospel," said Mrs. Shairp, touched by the ring of pain
that came into the young man's voice as he spoke. "At half-past eight,
by the clock, they brought the laird hame stiff and stark, cauld as a
stane a'ready. The mistress is clean daft wi' sorrow; an' I doot but Mr.
Brian will hae a sair time o't wi' her and the bonny young leddy that's
left ahent."
Hugo dropped his face into his hands and did not answer. A shudder ran
through his frame more than once. Mrs. Shairp thought that he was
shedding tears, and motioned to William Whale, who had been standing
near the door with a napkin over his arm, to leave the room. William
retired shutting the door softly behind him.
Presently Hugo spoke. "Tell me about it," he said. And Mrs. Shairp was
only too happy to pour into his ears the whole story as she had learned
it from the keeper who had come upon the scene just after the firing of
the fatal shot. He listened almost in silence, but did not uncover his
face.
"And his mother?" he asked at length.
Mrs. Shairp could say little about the laird's mother. It was Dr. Muir
who had told her the truth, she said, and the whole house had heard her
cry out as if she had been struck. Then Miss Vivian had gone to her, and
had received the news from Mrs. Luttrell's own lips. They had gone
together to look at Richard's face, and then Miss Vivian had fainted,
and had been carried into Mrs. Luttrell's own room, where she was to
spend the night. So much Mrs. Shairp knew, and nothing more.
"And where is Brian?"
"Whaur should he be?" demanded the old woman, with some asperity. "Whaur
but in's ain room, sair cast doun for the ill he has dune."
"It was not his fault," said Hugo, quickly.
"Maybe no," replied Mrs. Shairp, with reserve. "Maybe ay, maybe no; it's
just the question--though I wadna like to think that the lad meant to
harm his brother."
"Who does think so?"
"I'm no saying that onybody thinks sae. Mr. Brian was aye a kind-hearted
lad an' a bonny, but never a lucky ane, sae lang as I hae kent him,
which will be twenty years gane at Marti'mas. I cam' at the term."
Hugo scarcely listened to her. He rose up with a strange, scared look
upon his face, and walked unsteadily out of the room, without a word of
thanks to Mrs. Shairp for her communications. Before she had recovered
from her astonishment, he was far down the corridor on his way to the
other portion of the house.
In which room had they laid Richard Luttrell? Hugo remembered with a
shiver that he had not asked. He glanced round the hall with a thrill of
nervous apprehension. The drawing-room and dining-room doors stood open;
they were in darkness. The little morning-room door was also slightly
ajar, but a dim light seemed to be burning inside. It must be in that
room, Hugo decided, that Richard Luttrell lay. Should he go in? No, he
dare not. He could not look upon Richard Luttrell's dead face. And yet
he hesitated, drawn by a curious fascination towards that half-open
door.
While he waited, the door was slowly opened from the inside, and a hand
appeared clasping the edge of the door. A horrible fancy seized Hugo
that Richard had risen from his bed and was coming out into the hall;
that Richard's fingers were bent round the edge of the open door. He
longed to fly, but his knees trembled; he could not move. He stood
rooted to the spot with unreasoning terror, until the door opened still
more widely, and the person who had been standing in the room came out.
It was no ghostly Richard, sallying forth to upbraid Hugo for his
misdeeds. It was Brian Luttrell who turned his pale face towards the boy
as he passed through the hall.
Hugo cowered before him. He sank down on the lower steps of the wide
staircase and hid his face in his hands. Brian, who had been passing him
by without remark, seemed suddenly to recollect himself, and stopped
short before his cousin. The lad's shrinking attitude touched him with
pity.
"You are right to come back," he said, in a voice which, although
abstracted, was strangely calm. "He told you to leave the house for
ever, did he not? But I think that--now--he would rather that you
stayed. He told me that I might do for you what I chose."
The lad's head was bent still lower. He did not say a word.
"So," said Brian, leaning against the great oak bannisters as if he were
utterly exhausted by fatigue, "so--if you stay--you will only be
doing--what, perhaps, he wishes now. You need not be afraid."
"You are the master--now," murmured Hugo from between his fingers.
It was the last speech that Brian would have expected to hear from his
cousin's lips. It cut him to the heart.
"Don't say so!" he cried, in a stifled voice. "Good God! to think that
I--I--should profit by my brother's death!" And Hugo, lifting up his
head, saw that the young man's frame was shaken by shuddering horror
from head to foot. "I shall never be master here," he said.
Hugo raised his head with a look of wonder. Brian's feeling was quite
incomprehensible to him.
"He was always a good brother to me," Brian went on in a shaken voice,
more to himself than to his cousin, "and a kind friend to you so long as
you kept straight and did not disgrace us by your conduct. You had no
right to complain, whatever he might do or say to you. You ought to
mourn for him--you ought to regret him bitterly--bitterly--while
I--I----"
"Do not you mourn for him, then?" said Hugo, when the pause that
followed Brian's speech had become insupportable to him.
"If I were only in his place I should be happy," said Brian,
passionately. Then he turned upon Hugo with something like fierceness,
but it was the fierceness of a prolonged and half-suppressed agony of
pain. "Do you feel nothing? Do you come into his house, knowing that he
is dead, and have not a word of sorrow for your own behaviour to him
while he lived? Come with me and look at him--look at his face, and
remember what he did for you when you were a boy--what he has done for
you during the last eight years."
He seized Hugo by the arm and compelled him to rise; but the lad, with a
face blanched by terror, absolutely refused to move from the spot.
"Not to-night--I can't--I can't!" he said, his dark eyes dilating, and
his very lips turning white with fear. "To-morrow, Brian--not to-night."
But Brian briefly answered, "Come," and tightened his grasp on the lad's
arm. And Hugo, though trembling like an aspen leaf, yielded to that iron
pressure, and followed him to the room where lay all that was mortal of
Richard Luttrell.
Once inside the door, Brian dropped his cousin's arm, and seemed to
forget his presence. He slowly removed the covering from the dead face
and placed a candle so that the light fell upon it. Then he walked to
the foot of the table, which served the purpose of a bier, and looked
long and earnestly at the marble features, so changed, so passionless
and calm in the repose of death! Terrible, indeed, was the sight to one
who had sincerely loved Richard Luttrell--the strong man, full of lusty
health and vigour, desirous of life, fortunate in the possession, of all
that makes life worth living only a few short hours before; now silent,
motionless for ever struck down in the hey-day of youth and strength,
and by a brother's hand! Brian had but spoken the truth when he said
that he would gladly change his own fate for that of his brother
Richard. He forgot Hugo and the reason for which he had brought him to
that room, he forgot everything except his own unavailing sorrow, his
inextinguishable regret.
Hugo remained where his cousin had left him, leaning against the wall,
seemingly incapable of speech or motion, overcome by a superstitious
terror of death, which Brian was as far from suspecting as of
comprehending. In the utter silence of the house they could hear the
distant stable-clock strike eleven. The wind was rising, and blew in
fitful gusts, rustling the branches of the trees, and causing a loose
rose-branch to tap carelessly against the window panes. It sounded like
the knock of someone anxious to come in. The candles flickered and
guttered in the draught; the wavering light cast strange shadows over
the dead man's face. You might have thought that his features moved from
time to time; that now he frowned at the intruders, and now he smiled at
them--a terrible, ghastly smile.
There was a footstep at the door. It was Mrs. Luttrell who came gliding
in with her pale face, and her long black robes, to take her place at
her dead son's side. She had thought that she must come and assure
herself once more that he was really gone from her. She meant to look at
him for a little while, to kiss his cold forehead, and then to go back
to Angela and try to sleep. She took no notice of Brian, nor of Hugo;
she drew a chair close to the long table upon which the still, white
form was stretched, seated herself, and looked steadfastly at the
uncovered face. Brian started at the sight of his mother; he glanced at
her pleadingly, as if he would have spoken; but the rigidity of her face
repelled him. He hung his head and turned a little from her, as though
to steal away.
Suddenly a terrible voice rang through the room. "Look!" cried the
mother, pointing with one finger to the lifeless form, and raising her
eyes for the first time to Brian's face--"look there!"
Brian looked, and flinched from the sight he saw. For a strange thing
had happened. Although not actually unusual, it had never before come
within the experience of any of these watchers of the dead, and thus it
suggested to them nothing but the old superstition which in old times
caused a supposed murderer to be brought face to face with the man he
was accused of having killed.
A drop of blood was trickling from the nostril of the dead man, and
losing itself in the thick, black moustache upon his upper lip. It was
followed by another or two, and then it stayed.
The mother did not speak again. Her hand sank; her eyes were riveted
upon Brian's face with a mute reproach. And Brian, although he knew well
enough in his sober senses that the phenomenon they had just seen was
merely caused by the breaking of some small blood-vessel in the brain,
such as often occurs after death, was so far dominated by the impression
of the moment that he walked out of the room, not daring to justify
himself in his mother's eyes, not daring to raise his head. After him
crept Hugo whose teeth chattered as though he were suffering from an
ague; but Brian took no more notice of his cousin. He went straight to
his own room and locked himself in, to bear his lonely sorrow as best he
might.
No formal inquiry was made into the cause of Richard Luttrell's death.
Archie Grant's testimony completely exonerated Brian, even of
carelessness, and the general opinion was that no positive blame could
be attached to anybody for the sad occurrence, and that Mr. Brian
Luttrell had the full sympathy and respect of all who knew him and had
known his lamented brother, Richard Luttrell of Netherglen.
So the matter ended. But idle tongues still wagged, and wise heads were
shaken over the circumstances attending Richard Luttrell's death.
It was partly Mrs. Luttrell's fault. In the first hours of her
bereavement she had spoken wildly and bitterly of the share which Brian
had had in causing Richard's death. She had spoken to Doctor Muir, to
Angela, to Mrs. Shairp--a few words only to each, but enough to show in
what direction her thoughts were tending. With the first two her words
were sacred, but Mrs. Shairp, though kindly enough, was not so
trustworthy. Before the good woman realised what she was doing, the
whole household, nay, the whole country-side, had learned that Mrs.
Luttrell believed her second son to have fired that fatal shot with the
intention of killing, or at least of maiming, his brother Richard.
The Grants, who had spent the day of the accident at Netherglen, were,
of course, eagerly questioned by inquisitive acquaintances. The girls
were ready enough to chatter. They confided to their intimate friends in
mysterious whispers that the brothers had certainly not been on good
terms; they had glowered at one another, and caught each other up and
been positively rude to each other; and they would not go out together;
and poor Mr. Luttrell looked so worried, so unlike himself! Then the
brothers were interrogated, but proved less easy to "draw." Archie flew
into a rage at the notion of sinister intentions on Brian's part. Donald
looked "dour," and flatly refused to discuss the subject.
But his refusal was thought vastly suspicious by the many wiseacres who
knew the business of everybody better than their own. And the rumour
waxed and spread.
During the days before the funeral Brian scarcely saw anyone. He lived
shut up in his own room, as his mother did in hers, and had interviews
only with his lawyer and men who came on business. It was a sad and
melancholy house in those days. Angela was invisible: whether it was she
or Mrs. Luttrell who was ill nobody could exactly say. Hugo wandered
about the lonely rooms, or shut himself up after the fashion of the
other members of the family, and looked like a ghost. After the first
two days, Angela's only near relation, her brother Rupert, was present
in the house; but his society seemed not to be very acceptable to Hugo,
and, finding that he was of no use, even to his sister, Mr. Vivian went
back to England, and the house seemed quieter than it had been before.
The funeral took place at last. When it was over, Brian came home, said
farewell to the guests, had a long interview with Mr. Colquhoun, the
solicitor, and then seated himself in the study with the air of a man
who was resolved to take up the burden of his duties in a befitting
spirit. His air was melancholy, but calm; he seemed aged by ten years
since his brother's death. He dined with Hugo, Mr. Colquhoun and Dr.
Muir, and exerted himself to talk of current topics with courtesy and
interest. But his weary face, his saddened eyes, and the long pauses
that occurred between his intervals of speech, produced a depressing
effect upon his guests. Hugo was no more cheerful than his cousin. He
watched Brian furtively from time to time, yet seemed afraid to meet his
eye. His silence and depression were so marked that the doctor
afterwards remarked it to Mr. Colquhoun. "I did not think that Mr. Hugo
would take his cousin's death so much to heart," he said.
"Do you think he does?" asked Mr. Colquhoun, drily. "I don't believe
he's got a heart, the young scamp. I found him myself in the wood,
examining the bark of the tree near which the accident took place, you
know, on the morning after Richard's death, as cool as a cucumber. 'I
was trying to make out how it happened,' he said to me, when I came up.
'Brian must have shot very straight.' I told him to go home and mind his
own business."
"Do you think what they say about Brian's intentions had any
foundation?" asked the doctor.
"Not a bit. Brian's too tender-hearted for a thing of that sort. But the
mother's very bitter about it. She's as hard as flint. It's a bad look
out for Brian. He's a ruined man."
"Not from a pecuniary point of view. The property goes to him."
"Yes, but he hasn't the strength to put up with the slights and the
scandal which will go with it. He has the pluck, but not the physique.
It's men like him that go out of their minds, or commit suicide, or die
of heart-break--which you doctors call by some other name, of
course--when the world's against them. He'll never stand it. Mark my
words--Brian Luttrell won't be to the fore this time next year."
"Where will he be, Colquhoun? Come, come, Brian's a fellow with brains.
He won't do anything rash."
"He'll be in his grave," said the lawyer, gloomily.
"Hell be enjoying himself in the metropolis," said the doctor. "He'll
have a fine house and a pretty wife, and he'll laugh in our faces if we
hint at your prophecies, Colquhoun. I should have had no respect at all
for Brian Luttrell if he threw away his own life because he had
accidentally taken that of another man."
"We shall see," said the lawyer.