THE PRIOR'S OPINION.
The Prior's face wore an expression of mild triumph. He was evidently
prepared to be questioned, and was somewhat surprised when Brian turned
to him gravely and addressed him in cold and serious tones.
"Reverend Father," he said, "I am ignorant of the way in which you have
possessed yourself of my secret, but, before a word more is spoken, let
me tell you at once that it is a secret which must be kept strictly and
sacredly between ourselves, unless great trouble is to ensue. It is
absolutely necessary now that Brian Luttrell should be--dead."
"What has Brian Luttrell done," asked the Prior, "that he should be
ashamed of his own name?"
"Ashamed!" said Brian, haughtily; "I never for one moment said that I
was ashamed of it; but----"
He turned in his chair and looked out of the window. A new thought
occurred to him. Probably Padre Cristoforo knew the history of every one
who had lived in San Stefano during the last few years. Perhaps he might
assist Brian in his search for the truth. At any rate, as Padre
Cristoforo already knew his name, it would do nobody any harm if he
confided in him a little further, and told him something of the story
which Mrs. Luttrell had told to him.
Meanwhile, Padre Cristoforo watched him keenly as a cat watches a mouse,
though without the malice of a cat. The Prior wished Brian no harm. But,
for the good of his Order, he wished very much that he could lay hands,
either through Brian or through Dino, upon that fine estate of which he
had dreamt for the last thirteen years.
"Father Cristoforo," Brian's haggard, dark eyes looked anxiously into
the priest's subtilely twinkling orbs, "will you tell me how you learnt
my true name?"
He could not bear to cast a doubt upon Dino's good faith, and the Prior
divined his reason for the question.
"Rest assured, my dear sir, that I learnt it accidentally," he said,
with a soothing smile. "I happened to be entering the door when our
young friend Dino recognised you. I heard you tell him to call you by
the name of Stretton; I also heard you say that Brian Luttrell was
dead."
"Ah!" sighed Brian, scarcely above his breath. "I thought that Dino
could not have betrayed me."
He did not mean the Prior to hear his words; but they were heard and
understood. "Signor," said the Padre, with an inflection of hurt feeling
in his voice, "Mr. Stretton, or Mr. Luttrell, however you choose to term
yourself, Dino is a man of honour, and will never betray a trust reposed
in him. I could answer for Dino with my very life."
"I know--I was sure of it!" cried Brian.
"But, signor, do you think it is right or wise to imperil the future and
the reputation of a young man like Dino--without friends, without home,
without a name, entirely dependent upon us and our provision for him--by
making him the depository of secrets which he keeps against his
conscience and against the rule of the Order in which he lives? Brother
Dino has told me nothing; he even evaded a question which he thought
that you would not wish him to answer; but, he has acted wrongly, and
will suffer if he is led into further concealment. Need I say more?"
"He shall not suffer through me," said Brian, impetuously. "I ought to
have known better. But I was not myself; I don't remember what I said. I
was surprised and relieved when I came to myself and found you all
calling me Mr. Stretton. I never thought of laying any burden upon
Dino."
"You will do well, then," said the Prior, approvingly, "if you do not
speak of the matter to him at all. He is bound to mention it if
questioned, and I presume you do not want to make it known."
"No, I do not. But I thought that he was bound only to mention matters
that concerned himself; not those of other people," said Brian, with
more hardihood than the priest had expected of him.
Padre Cristoforo smiled, and made a little motion with his hand, as much
as to say that there were many things which an Englishman and a heretic
could not be expected to know. "Dino is in a state of pupilage," he
said, slightly, finding that Brian seemed to expect an answer; "the
rules which bind him are very strict. But--if you will allow me to
advert once more to your proposed change of name and residence--I
suppose that it is not indiscreet to remark that your friends in
England--or Scotland--will doubtless be anxious about your place of
abode at present?"
"I do not think so," said Brian, in a low tone. "I believe that they
think me dead."
"Why so?"
"Perhaps you did not hear in your quiet monastery, Father, of a party of
travellers who perished in an avalanche last November? Two guides, a
porter, and an Englishman, whose body was never recovered. I was that
Englishman."
"I heard of the accident," said Padre Cristoforo, briefly, nodding his
head. "So you escaped, signor? You must have had strong limbs and stout
sinews--or else you must have been attended by some special providential
care--to escape, when those three skilled mountaineers were lost on the
mountain side."
"On ne meurt pas quand la mort est la delivrance," quoted Brian, with a
bitter laugh. "You may be quite sure that if I had been at the height of
felicity and good fortune, it would have needed but a false step, or a
slight chill, or a stray shot--a stray shot! oh, my God! If only some
stray shot had come to me--not to my brother--my brother----"
They were the first tears that he had shed since the beginning of his
illness. The sudden memory of his brother's fate proved too much for him
in his present state of bodily weakness. He bowed his head on his hands
and wept.
A curiously soft expression stole into the Prior's face. He looked at
Brian once or twice and seemed as if he wished to say some pitying word,
but, in point of fact, no word of consolation occurred to him. He was
very sorry for Brian, whose story was perfectly familiar to him; but he
knew very well that Brian's grief was not one to which words could bring
comfort. He waited silently, therefore, until the mood had passed, and
the young man lifted up his heavy eyes and quivering lips with a faint
attempt at a smile, which was sadder than those passionate sobs had
been.
"I must ask pardon," he said, somewhat confusedly. "I did not know that
I was so weak. I will go to my room."
"Let me delay you for one moment," said the Prior, confronting him with
kindly authority. "It has needed little penetration, signor, to discover
that you have lately passed through some great sorrow; I am now more
sure of it than ever. I would not intrude upon your confidence, but I
ask you to remember that I wish to be your friend--that there are
reasons why I should take a special interest in you and your family, and
that, humble as I am, I may be of use to you and yours."
Brian stopped short and looked at him. "Me and mine!" he repeated to
himself. "Me and mine! What do you know of us?"
"I will be frank with you," said the priest. "Thirteen years ago a
document of a rather remarkable nature was placed in my hands affecting
the Luttrell family. In this paper the writer declared that she, as the
nurse of Mrs. Luttrell's children, had substituted her own child for a
boy called Brian Luttrell, and had carried off the true Brian to her
mother, a woman named Assunta Naldi. The nurse, Vincenza, died and left
this paper in the hands of her mother, who, after much hesitation,
confided the secret to me."
Brian took a step nearer to the Prior. "What right have you had to keep
this matter secret so long?" he demanded.
"Say, rather, what right had I to disturb an honourable family with an
assertion that is incapable of proof?"
"Then why did you tell me now?"
"Because you know it already."
Brian seated himself and leaned back in his chair, with his eyes still
fixed upon the Prior's face.
"Why do you think that I know it?" he said.
"Because," said Padre Cristoforo, raising his long forefinger, and
emphasising every fresh point with a convincing jerk, "because you have
come to San Stefano. You would never have come here unless you wanted to
find out the truth. Because you have changed your name. You would have
had no reason to abandon the name of Luttrell unless you were not sure
of your right to bear it. Because you spoke of Vincenza in your
delirium. Do I need more proofs?"
There was another proof which he did not mention. He had found Mrs.
Luttrell's letter to Brian amongst the sick man's clothes, and had
carefully perused it before locking it up with the rest of the
stranger's possessions. It was characteristic of the man that, during
the last few years, he had set himself steadily to work to master the
English language by the aid of every English book or English-speaking
traveller that came in his way. He had succeeded wonderfully well, and
no one but himself knew for what purpose that arduous task had been
undertaken. He found his accomplishment useful; he had thought it
particularly useful when he read Mrs. Luttrell's letter. But naturally
he did not say so to Brian.
"You are right," said Brian, in a low voice. "But you say it is
incapable of proof. She--my mother--I mean Mrs. Luttrell--says so, too."
"If it were capable of proof," said the Prior, softly, "should you
contest the matter?"
"Yes," Brian answered, with an angry flash of his eyes, "if I had been
in England, and any such claimant appeared, I would have fought the
ground to the last inch! Not for the sake of the estates--I have given
those up easily enough--but for my father's sake. I would not lightly
give up my claim to call him father; he never doubted once that I was
his son."
"He never doubted?"
"I am sure he never did."
"But Mrs. Luttrell----"
"God help me, yes! But she thinks also that I meant to take my brother's
life."
It needed but a few words of inquiry to lead Brian to tell the story of
his brother's death. The Prior knew it well enough; he had made it his
business to ascertain the history of the Luttrell family during the past
few years; but he listened with the gentle and sympathetic interest
which had often given him so strong a hold over men's hearts and lives.
He was a master in the art of influencing younger men; he had the subtle
instinct which told him exactly what to say and how far to go, when to
speak and when to be silent; and Brian, with no motive for concealment,
now that his name was once known, was like a child in the Prior's hands.
In return for his confidence, Padre Cristoforo told him the substance of
his interview with old Assunta, and of the confession written by
Vincenza. But when Brian asked to see this paper the Prior shook his
head.
"I have not got it here," he said. "It was certainly preserved, by the
desire of some in authority, but it was not thought to afford sufficient
testimony."
"What was wanting?"
"I cannot tell you precisely what was wanting; but, amongst other
matters, there is the fact that this Vincenza made a directly opposite
statement, which counterbalances this one."
"Then you have two written statements, contradicting each other? You
might as well throw them both into the fire," said Brian, with some
irritation. "Who is the 'authority' who preserves them? Can I not
present myself to him and demand a sight of the documents?"
"Under what name, and for what reason, would you ask to see them?"
Brian winced; he had for the moment forgotten what his own hand had
done.
"I could still prove my identity," he said, looking down. "But, no; I
will not. I did not lose myself upon the mountain-side because of this
mystery about my birth, but because I wanted to escape my mother's
reproaches and the burden of Richard's inheritance. Nothing will induce
me to go back to Scotland. To all intents and purposes, I am dead."
"Then," said the Prior, "since that is your resolution--your wise
resolution, let me say--I will tell you frankly what my reading of the
riddle has been, and what, I think, Vincenza did. It is my belief that
Mrs. Luttrell's child died, and was buried under the name of Vincenza's
child."
"You, too, then--you believe that I am not a Luttrell?"
"If the truth could ever be ascertained, which I do not think it will
be, I believe that this would turn out to be the case. The key of the
whole matter lies in the fact that Vincenza had twins. One of these
children was sent to the grandmother in the country; one was nursed in
the village of San Stefano. A fever had broken out in the village, and
Vincenza's charge--the little Brian Luttrell--died. She immediately
changed the dead child for her own, being wishful to escape the blame of
carelessness, and retain her place; also to gain for her own child the
advantages of wealth and position. The two boys, who have now grown to
manhood, are brothers; children, of one mother; and Brian Luttrell--a
baby boy of some four months old--sleeps, as his mother declares, in the
graveyard of San Stefano."
"Why did the nurse confess only a half-truth, then?"
"She wanted to get absolution; and yet she did not want to injure the
prospects of her child, I suppose. At the worst, she thought that one
boy would be substituted for another. The woman was foolish--and
wicked," said the Prior, with a grain of impatient contempt in his tone;
"and the more foolish that she did not observe that she was outwitting
herself--trying to cheat God as well as man."
"Then--you think--that I----"
"That you are the son of an Italian gardener and his wife. Courage, my
son; it might have been worse. But I know nothing positively; I have
constructed a theory out of Vincenza's self-contradictions; it may be
true; it may be false. Of one thing I would remind you; that as you have
given up your position in England and Scotland, you have no
responsibility in the matter. You have done exactly what the law would
have required you to do had it been proved that you were Vincenza's
son."
"But the other child--the boy who was sent to his grandmother? What
became of him?"
The Prior looked at him in silence for a little time before he spoke.
"How do you feel towards him?" he said, finally. "Are you prepared to
treat him as a brother or not?"
Brian averted his face. "I have had but one brother," he said, shortly.
"I cannot expect to find another--especially when I am not sure that he
is of my blood or I of his."
"In any case he is your foster-brother. I should like you to meet him."
"Does he know the story?"
"He does."
"And is prepared to welcome me as a brother?" said Brian, with a bitter
but agitated laugh. "Where is he? I will see him if you like."
He had risen to his feet, and stood with his arms crossed, his brow
knitted, his mouth firmly set. There was something hard in his face,
something defiant in his attitude, which caused the Prior to add a word
of remonstrance. "It is not his fault," he said, "any more than it is
yours. You need not be enemies; it is my object to make you friends."
"Let me see him," repeated Brian gloomily. "I do not wish to be his
enemy. I do not promise to be his friend." |
"I will send him to you," said the Prior. "Wait here till he comes."
He left Brian alone; and the young man, thinking it likely that | he
would be undisturbed for sometime to come, bent his face upon his hands,
and tried to [missing word] his position. The strange tangle of
circumstances in which he found himself involved would never be easy of
adjustment; he wished with all his heart that he had refused the Prior's
offer to make his foster-brother known to him, but it was too late now.
Was it too late? Could he not send for Padre Cristoforo, and beg him to
leave the Italian peasant in his own quiet home, ignorant of Brian's
visit to the place where he was born? He would do it; and then he would
leave San Stefano for ever; it was not yet too late.
He lifted up his head and rose to his feet. He was not alone in the
room. To his surprise he saw before him his friend, Dino.
"You have come from Padre Cristoforo, have you?" said Brian, quickly and
impetuously. He took no notice of the young man's manifest agitation and
discomfort, which would have been clear to anybody less pre-occupied
than Brian, at that moment. "Tell him from me that there is no need for
me to see the man that he spoke of--that I do not wish to meet him. He
will understand what I mean."
A change, like that produced by a sudden electric shock, passed over
Dino's face. His hands fell to his sides. They had been outstretched
before, as if in greeting.
"You do not want to see him?" he repeated.
"I will not see him," said Brian, harshly, almost violently. "Weak as I
am, I'll go straight out of the house and village sooner than meet him.
Why does he want to see me? I have nothing to give him now."
Long afterwards he remembered the look on Dino's face. Pain, regret,
yearning affection, seemed to struggle for the mastery; his eyes were
filled with tears, his lips were pale. But he said nothing. He went away
from the room, and took the message that had been given him to the
Prior.
Brian felt that he had perhaps been selfish, but he consoled himself
with the thought that the peasant lad would gain nothing by a meeting
with him, and that such an embarrassing interview, as it must
necessarily be, would be a pain to them both.
But he did not know that the foster-brother (brother or foster-brother,
which could it be?) was sobbing on the floor of the Prior's cell, in a
passion of vehement grief at Brian's rejection of Padre Cristoforo's
proposition. He would scarcely have understood that grief if he had seen
it. He would have found it difficult to realise that the boy, Dino, had
grown from childhood with a strong but suppressed belief in his mother's
strange story, and yet, that, as soon as he saw Brian Luttrell, his
heart had gone out to him with the passionate tenderness that he had
waited all his life to bestow upon a brother.
"Take it not so much to heart, Dino," said the Prior, looking down at
him compassionately. "It was not to be expected that he would welcome
the news. Thou art a fool, little one, to grieve over his coldness.
Come, these are a girl's tears, and thou should'st be a man by now."
The words were caressingly spoken, but they failed of their effect. Dino
did not look up.
"For one reason," said the Prior, in a colder tone, half to himself and
half to the novice, "I am glad that he has not seen you. Your course
will, perhaps, be the easier. Because, Dino, although I may believe my
theory to be the correct one, and that you and our guest are both the
children of Vincenza Vasari, yet it is a theory which is as difficult to
prove as any other; and our good friend, the Cardinal, who was here last
week, you know, chooses to take the other view."
"What other view, Reverend Father?" said Dino.
"The view that you are, indeed, Brian Luttrell, and not Vincenza's son."
"But--you said--that it was impossible to prove----"
"I think so, my dear son. But the Cardinal does not agree with me. We
shall hear from him further. I believe it is the general opinion at Rome
that you ought to be sent to Scotland in order to claim your position
and the Luttrell estates. The case might at any rate be tried."
Dino rose now, pale and trembling.
"I do not want a position. I do not want to claim anything. I want to be
a monk," he said.
"You are not a monk yet," returned the Prior, calmly. "And it may not be
your vocation to take the vows upon you. Now, do you see why you have
been prevented from taking them hitherto? You may be called upon to act
as a layman: to claim the estates, fight the battle with these Scotch
heretics and come back to us a wealthy man! And in that case, you will
act as a pious layman should do, and devote a portion of your wealth to
Holy Church. But I do not say you would be successful; I think myself
that you have little chance of success. Only let us feel that you are
our obedient child, as you used to be."
"I will do anything you wish," cried Dino, passionately, "so long as I
bring no unhappiness upon others. I do not wish to be rich at Brian's
expense."
"He has renounced his birthright," said the Prior. "You will not have to
fight him, my tender-hearted Dino. You will have a much harder foe--a
woman. The estate has passed into the hands of a Miss Elizabeth Murray."