MOTHER AND SON.
Early on the following morning Brian received a message from his mother.
It was the first communication that she had vouchsafed to him since the
day of her eldest son's death. "Would he come to her dressing-room at
eleven o'clock? She wished to consult him upon special business." Brian
sent word that he would be with her at that hour, and then fell into
anxious meditation as he sat at breakfast, with Hugo at the other end of
the table.
"Don't go far away from the house, Hugo," he said at last, as he rose to
leave the room. "I may want you in the course of the morning."
Hugo looked up at him without answering. The lad had been studying a
newspaper, with his head supported by his left hand, while his right
played with his coffee cup or the morsels of food upon his plate. He did
not seem to have much appetite. His great, dark eyes looked larger than
usual, and were ringed with purple shadow; his lips were tremulous. "It
was wonderful," as people said, "to see how that poor young fellow felt
his cousin's death."
Perhaps Brian thought so too, for he added, very gently--though when did
he not speak gently?--
"There is nothing wrong. I only want to make some arrangements with you
for your future. Think a little about it before I speak to you."
And then he went out of the room, and Hugo was left to his meditations,
which were not of the most agreeable character, in spite of Brian's
reassuring words.
He pushed his plate and newspaper away from him impatiently; a frown
showed itself on his beautiful, low brows.
"What will he do for me? Anything definite, I wonder? Poor beggar, I'm
sorry for him, but my position has been decidedly improved since that
unlucky shot at Richard. Did he want him out of the way, I wonder? The
gloomy look with which he goes makes about one imagine that he did. What
a fool he must be!"
Hugo pushed back his chair and rose: a cynical smile curled his lips for
a moment, but it changed by degrees into an expression of somewhat
sullen discontent.
"I wish I could sleep at nights," he said, moving slowly towards the
window. "I've never been so wretchedly wakeful in all my life." Then he
gazed out into the garden, but without seeing much of the scene that he
gazed upon, for his thoughts were far away, and his whole soul was
possessed by fear of what Brian would do or say.
At eleven o'clock Brian made his way to his mother's dressing-room, an
apartment which, although bearing that name, was more like an ordinary
sitting-room than a dressing-room. He knocked, and was answered by his
mother's voice.
"Come in," she said. "Is it you, Brian?"
"Yes, it is I," Brian said, as he closed the door behind him.
He walked quietly to the hearth-rug, where he stood with one hand
resting on the mantelpiece. It was a convenient attitude, and one which
exposed him to no rebuffs. He was too wise to offer hand or cheek to his
mother by way of greeting.
Mrs. Luttrell was sitting on a sofa, with her back to the light. Brian
thought that she looked older and more worn; there were fresh wrinkles
upon her forehead, and marks of weeping and sleeplessness about her
eyes, but her figure was erect as ever, as rigidly upright as if her
backbone were made of iron. She was in the deepest possible mourning;
even the handkerchief that she held in her hand was edged with two or
three inches of black. Brian looked round for Angela; he had expected to
find her with his mother, but she was not there. The door into Mrs.
Luttrell's bed-room was partly open.
"How is Angela?" he asked.
"Angela is not well. Could you expect her to be well after the terrible
trial that has overtaken her?"
Brian winced. He could make no reply to such a question. Mrs. Luttrell
scored a triumph, and continued in her hard, incisive way:--
"She is probably as well as she can hope to be under the circumstances.
Her health has suffered--as mine also has suffered--under the painful
dispensation which has been meted out to us. We do not repine. Hearts
that are broken, that have no hopes, no joys, no pleasures in store for
them in this life, are not eager to exhibit their sufferings. If I speak
as I speak now, it is for the last and only time. It is right that you
should hear me once."
"I will hear anything you choose to say," answered Brian, heavily. "But,
mother, be merciful. I have suffered, too."
"We will pass over the amount of your suffering," said Mrs. Luttrell,
"if you please. I have no doubt that it is very great, but I think that
it will soon be assuaged. I think that you will soon begin to remember
the many things that you gain by your brother's death--the social
position, the assured income, the estate in Scotland which I brought to
your father, as well as his own house of Netherglen--all the things for
which men are only too ready to sell their souls."
"All these things are nothing to me," sighed Brian.
"They are a great deal in the world's eyes. You will soon find out how
differently it receives you now from the way it received you a year--a
month--a week--ago. You are a rich man. I wish you joy of your wealth.
Everything goes to you except Netherglen itself; that is left in my
hands."
"Mother, are you mad?" said her son, passionately. "Why do you talk to
me in this way? I swear to you that I would give every hope and every
joy that I ever possessed--I would give my life--to have Richard back
again! Do you think I ever wanted to be rich through his death?"
"I do not know what you wanted," said Mrs. Luttrell, sternly. "I have no
means of guessing."
"Is this what you wished me to say?" said Brian, whose voice was hoarse
and changed. "I said that I would listen--but, you might spare me these
taunts, at least."
"I do not taunt you. I wish only to draw attention to the difference
between your position and my own. Richard's death brings wealth, ease,
comfort to you; to me nothing but desolation. I am willing to allow the
house of which I have been the mistress for so many years, of which I am
legally the mistress still, to pass into your hands. I have lost my home
as well as my sons. I am desolate."
"Your sons! You have not lost both your sons, mother," pleaded Brian,
with a note of bitter pain in his voice, as he came closer to her and
tried in vain to take her icy hand. "Why do you think that you are no
longer mistress of this house? You are as much mistress as you were in
my father's time--in Richard's time. Why should there be a difference
now?"
"There is this difference," said Mrs. Luttrell, coldly, "that I do not
care to live in any house with you. It would be painful to me; that is
all. If you desire to stay, I will go."
Brian staggered back as if she had struck him in the face.
"Do you mean to cast me off?" he almost whispered, for he could not find
strength to speak aloud. "Am I not your son, too?"
"You fill the place that a son should occupy," said Mrs. Luttrell,
letting her hand rise and fall upon her lap, and looking away from
Brian. "I can say no more. My son--my own son--the son that I
loved"--(she paused, and seemed to recollect herself before she
continued in a lower voice)--"the son that I loved--is dead."
There was a silence. Brian seated himself and bowed his head upon his
hands. "God help me!" she heard him mutter. But she did not relent.
Presently he looked up and fixed his haggard eyes upon her.
"Mother," he said, in hoarse and unnatural tones, "you have had your
say; now let me have mine. I know too well what you believe. You think,
because of a slight dispute which arose between us on that day, that I
had some grudge against my brother. I solemnly declare to you that that
is not true. Richard and I had differed; but we met--in the wood"--(he
drew his breath painfully)--"a few minutes only before that terrible
mistake of mine; and we were friends again. Mother, do you know me so
ill as to think that I could ever have lifted my hand against Richard,
who was always a friend to me, always far kinder than I deserved? It was
a mistake--a mistake that I'll never, never forgive myself for, and that
you, perhaps, never will forgive--but, at any rate, do me the justice to
believe that it was a mistake, and not--not--that I was Richard's
murderer!"
Mrs. Luttrell sat silent, motionless, her white hands crossed before her
on the crape of her black gown. Brian threw himself impetuously on his
knees before her and looked up into her face.
"Mother, mother!" he said, "do you not believe me?"
It seemed to him a long time--it was, in reality, not more than ten or
twelve seconds--before Mrs. Luttrell answered his question. "Do you not
believe me?" he had said. And she answered--
"No."
The shock of finding his passionate appeal so utterly disregarded
restored to Brian the composure which had failed him before. He rose to
his feet, pale, stricken, indeed, but calm. For a moment or two he
averted his face from the woman who judged him so harshly, so
pitilessly; but when he turned to her again, he had gained a certain
pride of bearing which compelled her unwilling respect.
"If that is your final answer," he said, "I can say nothing more.
Perhaps the day will come when you will understand me better. In the
meantime, I shall be glad to hear whether you have any plans which I can
assist you in carrying out."
"None in which I require your assistance," said Mrs. Luttrell, stonily.
"I have my jointure; I can live upon that. I will leave Netherglen to
you. I will take a cottage for myself--and Angela."
"And Angela?"
"Angela remains with me. You may remember that she has no home, except
with friends who are not always as kind to her as they might be. Her
brother is not a wealthy man, and has no house of his own. Under these
circumstances, and considering what she has lost, it would be mere
justice if I offered her a home. Henceforth she is my daughter."
"You have asked her to stay, and she has consented?"
"I have."
"And you thought--you think--of taking a home for yourselves?"
"Yes."
"I suppose you do not object," said Brian, slowly, "to the gossip to
which such a step on your part is sure to give rise?"
"I have not considered the matter. Gossip will not touch me."
"No." Brian would not for worlds have said that the step she
contemplated taking would be disastrous for him. Yet for one moment, he
could not banish the consciousness that all the world would now have
good reason to believe that his mother held him guilty of his brother's
death. He did not know that the world suspected him already.
It was with an unmoved front that he presently continued.
"I, myself, had a proposition to make which would perhaps render it
needless for you to leave Netherglen, which, as you say, is legally your
own. You may not have considered that I am hardly likely to have much
love for the place after what has occurred in it. You know that neither
you nor I can sell any portion of the property--even you would not care
to let it, I suppose, to strangers for the present. I think of going
abroad--probably probably for some years. I have always wanted to
travel. The house on the Strathleckie side of the property can be let;
and as for Netherglen, it would be an advantage for the place if you
made it your home for as many months in the year as you chose. I don't
see why you should not do so. I shall not return to this neighbourhood."
"It does not seem to occur to you," said Mrs. Luttrell, in measured
tones, "that Angela and I may also have an objection to residing in a
place which will henceforth have so many painful memories attached to
it."
"If that is the case," said Brian, after a little pause, "there is no
more to be said."
"I will ask Angela," said Mrs. Luttrell, stretching out her hand to a
little handbell which stood upon the table at her side.
Brian started. "Then I will come to you again," he said, moving hastily
to the door. "I will see you after lunch."
"Pray do not go," said his mother, giving two very decisive strokes of
the bell by means of a pressure of her firm, white fingers. "Let us
settle the matter while we are about it. There will be no need of a
second interview."
"But Angela will not want to see me."
"Angela----Ask Miss Vivian to come to me at once if she can" (to the
maid who appeared at the door)--"Angela expressed a wish to see you this
morning."
Brian stood erect by the mantelpiece, biting his lips under his soft,
brown moustache, and very much disposed to take the matter into his own
hands, and walk straight out of the room. But some time or other Angela
must be faced; perhaps as well now as at any other time. He waited,
therefore, in silence, until the door opened and Angela appeared.
"Brian!" said the soft voice, in as kind and sisterly a tone as he had
ever heard from her.
"Brian!"
She was close to him, but he dared not look up until she took his
unresisting hand in hers and held it tenderly. Then he raised his head a
very little and looked at her.
She had always been pale, but now she was snow-white, and the extreme
delicacy and even fragility of her appearance were thrown into strong
relief by the dead black of her mourning gown. Her eyes were full of
tears, and her lips were quivering; but Brian knew in a moment, by
instinct, that she at least believed in the innocence of his heart,
although his hand had taken his brother's life. He stooped down and
kissed the hand that held his own, so humbly, so sorrowfully, that
Angela's heart yearned over him. She understood him, and she had room,
even in her great grief, to be sorry for him too. And when he withdrew
his hand and turned away from her with one deep sob that he did not know
how to repress, she tried to comfort him.
"Dear Brian," she said, "I know--I understand. Poor fellow! it is very
hard for you. It is hard for us all; but I think it is hardest of all
for you."
"I would have given my life for his, Angela," said Brian, in a smothered
voice.
"I know you would. I know you loved him," said Angela, the tears
streaming now down her pale cheeks. "There is only one thing for us to
say, Brian--It was God's will that he should go."
"How you must hate the sight of me," groaned Brian. He had almost
forgotten the presence of Mrs. Luttrell, whose hard, watchful eyes were
taking notice of every detail of the scene.
"I will not trouble you long; I am going to leave Scotland; I will go
far away; you shall never see my face again."
"But I should be sorry for that," said Angela's soft, caressing voice,
into which a tremor stole from time to time that made it doubly sweet.
"I shall want to see you again. Promise me that you will come back,
Brian--some day."
"Some day?" he repeated, mournfully. "Well, some day, Angela, when you
can look on me without so much pain as you must needs feel now, any day
when you have need of me. But, as I am going so very soon, will you tell
me yourself whether Netherglen is a place that you hold in utter
abhorrence now? Would it hurt you to make Netherglen your home? Could
you and my mother find happiness--or at least peace--if you lived here
together? or would it be too great a trial for you to bear?"
"It rests with you to decide, Angela," said Mrs. Luttrell from her sofa.
"I have no choice; it signifies little to me whether I go or stay. If it
would pain you to live at Netherglen, say so; and we will choose another
home."
"Pain me?" said Angela. "To stay here--in Richard's home?"
"Would you dislike it?" asked Mrs. Luttrell.
The girl came to her side, and put her arms round the mother's neck.
Mrs. Luttrell's face softened curiously as she did so; she laid one of
her hands upon Angela's shining hair with a caressing movement.
"Dislike it? It would be my only happiness," said Angela. She stopped,
and then went on with soft vehemence--"To think that I was in his house,
that I looked on the things that he used to see every day, that I could
sometimes do the thing that he would have liked to see me doing--it is
all I could wish for, all that life could give me now! Yes, yes, let us
stay."
"It's perhaps not so good for you as one might wish," said Mrs.
Luttrell, regarding her tenderly. "You had perhaps better have a change
for a time; there is no reason why you should live for ever in the past,
like an old woman, Angela. The day will come when you may wish to make
new ties for yourself--new interests----"
Angela's whisper reached her ear alone.
"'Intreat me not to leave thee, or to return from following after
thee,'" she murmured in the words of the widowed Moabitess, "'for
whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge; thy
people shall be my people, and thy God my God...'"
Mrs. Luttrell clasped her in her arms and kissed her forehead. Then
after a little pause she said to Brian--
"We will stay."
Brian bowed his head.
"I will make all necessary arrangements with Mr. Colquhoun, and send him
to you," he said. "I think there is nothing else about which we have to
speak?"
"Nothing," said Mrs. Luttrell, steadily.
"Except Hugo. As I am going away from home for so long I think it would
be better if I settled a certain sum in the Funds upon him, so that he
might have a moderate income as well as his pay. Does that meet with
your approval?"
"My approval matters very little, but you can do as you choose with your
own money. I suppose you wish that this house should be kept open for
him?"
"That is as you please. He would be better for a home. May I ask what
Angela thinks?"
"Oh, yes," said Angela, lifting her face slowly from Mrs. Luttrell's
shoulder. "He must not feel that he has lost a home, must he, mother?"
She pronounced the title which Mrs. Luttrell had begged her to bestow,
still with a certain diffidence and hesitancy; but Mrs. Luttrell's brow
smoothed when she heard it.
"We will do what we can for him," she said.
"He has not been very steady of late," Brian went on slowly, wondering
whether he was right to conceal Hugo's misdeeds and evil tendencies. "I
hope he will improve; you will have patience with him if he is not very
wise. And now, will you let me say good-bye to you? I shall leave
Netherglen to-morrow."
"To-morrow?" said Angela, wonderingly. "Why should you go so soon?"
"It is better so," Brian answered.
"But we shall know where you are. You will write?"
His eyes sought his mother's face. She would not look at him. He spoke
in an unnaturally quiet voice, "I do not know."
"Mother, will you not tell him to write to you?" said Angela.
The mother sat silent, unresponsive. It was plain that she cared for no
letter from this son of hers.
"I will leave my address with Mr. Colquhoun, Angela," said Brian,
forcing a slight, sad smile. "If there is business for me to transact,
he will be able to let me know. I shall hear from him how you all are,
from time to time."
"Will you not write to me, then?" said Angela.
Brian darted an inquiring glance at her. Oh, what divine pity, what
sublime forgetfulness of self, gleamed out of those tender,
tear-reddened eyes!
"Will you let me?" he said, almost timidly.
"I should like you to write. I shall look for your letters, Brian. Don't
forget that I shall be anxious for news of you."
Almost without knowing what he did, he sank down on his knees before
her, and touched her hand reverently with his lips. She bent forward and
kissed his forehead as a sister might have done.
"God bless you, Angela!" he said. He could not utter another word.
"Mother," said the girl, taking in hers the passive hand of the woman,
who had sat with face averted--perhaps so that she should not meet the
eyes of the man whom she could not forgive--"mother, speak to him; say
good-bye to him before he goes."
The mother's hand trembled and tried to withdraw itself, but Angela
would not let it go.
"One kind word to him, mother," she said. "See, he is kneeling before
you. Only look at him and you will see how he has suffered! Don't let
him go away from you without one word."
She guided Mrs. Luttrell's hand to Brian's head; and there for a moment
it rested heavily. Then she spoke.
"If I have been unjust, may God forgive me!" she said.
Then she withdrew her hand and rose from her seat. She did not even look
behind her as she walked to the bed-room door, pushed it open, entered,
and closed it, and turned the key in the old-fashioned lock. She had
said all that she meant to say: no power, human or divine, should wrest
another word from her just then. But in her heart she was crying over
and over again the words that had been upon her lips a hundred times to
say.
"He is no son of mine--no son of mine--this man by whose hand Richard
Luttrell fell. I am childless. Both my sons are dead."