THE MISTRESS OF NETHERGLEN.
"Shall I go, or shall I not go?" meditated Hugo Luttrell.
He was lying on a broad, comfortable-looking lounge in one of the
luxurious rooms which he usually occupied when he stayed for any length
of time in London. He had been smoking a dainty, perfumed cigarette--he
very seldom smoked anything except cigarettes--but he held it absently
between his fingers, and finally let it drop, while he read and re-read
a letter which his servant had just brought to him.
Nearly two years had passed since Richard Luttrell's death; years which
had left their mark upon Hugo in many ways. The lines of his delicately
beautiful, dark face had grown harder and sharper; and, perhaps on this
account, he had a distinctly older look than was warranted by his
two-and-twenty years. There were worn lines about his eyes, and a
decided increase of that subtlety of expression which gave something of
an Oriental character to his appearance. He had lost the youthful,
almost boyish, look which had characterised him two years ago; he was a
man now, but hardly a man whom one would have found it easy to trust.
The letter was from Angela Vivian. She had written, at Mrs. Luttrell's
request, to ask Hugo to pay them a visit. Mrs. Luttrell still occupied
the house at Netherglen, and she seemed anxious for an interview with
her nephew. Hugo had not seen her for many months; he had left Scotland
almost immediately after Brian's departure, with the full intention of
setting foot in it no more. But he had then considered himself tolerably
prosperous. Brian's death had thrown a shade over his prospects. He
could no longer count upon a successful application to Mr. Colquhoun if
he were in difficulties, and Brian's six thousand pounds melted before
his requirements like snow before an April sun. He had already
squandered the greater part of it; he was deeply in debt; and he had no
relation upon whom he could rely for assistance--unless it were Mrs.
Luttrell, and Hugo had a definite dislike to the thought of asking Mrs.
Luttrell for money.
It was no more than a dislike, however. It was an unpleasant thing to
do, perhaps, but not a thing that he would refrain from doing, if
necessary. Why should not Mrs. Luttrell be generous to her nephew?
Possibly she wished to make him her heir; possibly she would offer to
pay his debts; at any rate, he could not afford to decline her help. So
he must start for Netherglen next day.
"Netherglen! They are still there," he said to himself, as he stared
moodily at the sheet of black-edged note-paper, on which the name of the
house was stamped in small, black letters. "I wonder that they did not
leave the place. I should have done so if I had been Aunt Margaret. I
would give a great deal to get out of going to it myself!"
A sombre look stole over his face; his hand clenched itself over the
paper that he held; in spite of the luxurious warmth of the room, he
gave a little shiver. Then he rose and bestirred himself; his nature was
not one that impelled him to dwell for very long upon any painful or
disturbing thought.
He gave his orders about the journey for the following day, then dressed
and went out, remembering that he had two or three engagements for the
evening. The season was nearly over, and many people had left London,
but there seemed little diminution in the number of guests who were
struggling up and down the wide staircase of a house at which Hugo
presented himself about twelve o'clock that night, and he missed very
few familiar faces amongst the crowd as he nodded greetings to his
numerous acquaintances.
"Ah, Luttrell," said a voice at his ear, "I was wondering if I should
see you. I thought you might be off to Scotland already."
"Who told you I was going to Scotland?" said Hugo.
The dark shadow had crossed his face again; if there was a man in
England whom at that time he cordially disliked, it was this
man--Angela's brother--Rupert Vivian. He did not know why, but he always
had a presage of disaster when he saw that high-bred, impassive face
beside him, or heard the modulation of Vivian's quiet, musical voice.
Hugo was superstitious, and he firmly believed that Rupert Vivian's
presence brought him ill luck.
"Angela wrote to me that Mrs. Luttrell was inviting you to Netherglen. I
was going there myself, but I have been prevented. A relation of mine in
Wales is dying, and has sent for me, so I may not be able to get to
Scotland for some weeks."
"Sorry not to see you. I shall be gone by the time you reach Scotland,
then," responded Hugo, amiably.
"Yes." Rupert looked down with a reflective air. "Come here, will you?"
he said, drawing Hugo aside into a small curtained recess, with a seat
just wide enough for two, which happened at that moment to be empty. "I
have something to ask you; there is something that you can do for me if
you will."
"Happy to do anything in my power," murmured Hugo. He did not like to be
asked to help other people, but there was a want of assurance in
Vivian's usually self-contained demeanour which roused his curiosity.
"What is it?"
"Well, to begin with, you know the Herons and Miss Murray, do you not?"
"I know them by name. I have met Percival Heron sometimes."
"Do you know that they have returned rather unexpectedly from Italy and
gone to Strathleckie, the house on the other side of the property--about
six miles from Netherglen?"
"How's that?"
"I suppose that Miss Murray thinks she may as well take possession of
her estate," replied Rupert, rather shortly. "May I ask whether you are
going to call?"
"Oh, yes, I shall certainly call."
"Then, look here, Luttrell, I want you to do something for me," said
Vivian, falling into a more friendly and confidential strain than he
usually employed with Hugo. "Will you mention--in an incidental sort of
way--to Mrs. Heron the reason why I have not come to Scotland--the claim
that my relation in Wales has on me, and all that sort of thing? It is
hardly worth while writing about it, perhaps; still, if it came in your
way, you might do me a service."
Hugo was so much relieved to find nothing more difficult required of him
that he gave vent to a light laugh.
"Why don't you write?" he said.
"There's nothing to write about. I do not correspond with them," said
Rupert, actually colouring a little beneath Hugo's long, satirical gaze.
"But I fancy they may think me neglectful. I promised some time ago that
I would run down; and I don't see how I can--until November, at the
earliest. And, if you are there, you may as well mention the reason for
my going to Wales, or, you see, it will look like a positive slight."
"I'm to say all this to Mrs. Heron, am I? And to no one beside?"
"That will be quite sufficient." There was a slight touch of hauteur in
Vivian's tone. "And, if I may trouble you with something else----"
"No trouble at all. Another message?"
"Not exactly. If you would take care of this little packet for me I
should be glad. I am afraid of its being crushed or lost in the post. It
is for Miss Heron."
He produced a little parcel, carefully sealed and addressed. It looked
like a small, square box. Hugo smiled as he took it in his hand.
"Perishable?" he asked, carelessly.
"Not exactly. The contents are fully a hundred years old already. It is
something for Miss Heron's birthday. She is a great favourite of mine--a
nice little girl."
"Quite a child, I suppose?"
"Oh, of course. One won't be able to send her presents by-and-bye," said
Rupert, with rather an uneasy laugh. "What a pity it is that some
children ever grow up! Well, thanks, Hugo; I shall be very much obliged
to you. Are you going now?"
"Must be moving on, I suppose. I saw old Colquhoun the other day and he
began telling me about Miss Murray, and all the wonders she was doing
for the Herons. Makes believe that the money is theirs, not her own,
doesn't she?"
"Yes."
"Odd idea. She must be a curiosity. They brought a tutor with them from
Italy, I believe; some fellow they picked up in the streets."
"He has turned out a very satisfactory one," Rupert answered, coldly.
"They say that he makes a capital tutor for the little boys. I think he
is a favourite with all of them; he teaches Miss Heron Italian."
His voice had taken a curiously formal tone. It sounded as though he was
displeased at something which had occurred to him.
Hugo thought of that tone and of the conversation many times before he
left London next evening. He was rather an adept at the discovery of
small mysteries; he liked to draw conclusions from a series of small
events, and to ferret out other people's secrets. He thought that he was
now upon the track of some design of Vivian's, and he became exceedingly
curious about it. If it had been possible to open the box without
disturbing the seals upon it, he would certainly have done so; but, this
being out of the question, he contented himself with resolving to be
present when it was opened, and to observe with care the effect produced
by Vivian's message on the faces of Mrs. Heron, Miss Heron, and Miss
Murray.
He reached Dunmuir (where the nearest station to his aunt's house was
situated) at eleven o'clock in the morning. Mrs. Luttrell had sent the
mail-phaeton for him. As Hugo took the reins and glanced at the shining
harness and the lustrous coats of the beautiful bays, he could not help
remembering the day when the mail-phaeton had last been sent to bring
him from the station. Richard had then sat in the place that he now
occupied, with Angela beside him; and Brian and Hugo laughed and talked
in the back seat, and were as merry as they well could be. Nearly two
years ago! What changes had been seen since then.
The bays were fidgetty and would not start at once. Hugo was just
shouting a hasty direction to the groom at their heads when he happened
to glance aside towards the station door where two or three persons were
standing. The groom had cause to wonder what was the matter. Hugo gave
the reins a tremendous jerk, which brought the horses nearly upon their
haunches, and then let them go at such a pace that it seemed as if he
had entirely lost control over them. But he was a very good whip, and
soon mastered the fiery creatures, reducing their mad speed by degrees
to a gentle trot, which enabled the groom to overtake them, panting and
red in the face, indeed, as he swung himself up behind. The groom was
inclined to think that Mr. Hugo had lost his nerve for a few moments;
for "his face turned as white," honest John remarked afterwards, "as if
he had seen a ghost."
"John," said Hugo, after driving for a good two miles in silence, "who
was that gentleman at the station door?"
"Gentleman, sir?"
"A young man--at least, he seemed young--in a great-coat."
"Oh!--I don't think that's a young gentleman, exactly; least-ways he's
got grey hair. That's the gentleman that teaches at Mr. Heron's, sir;
Mr. Heron, the uncle to Miss Murray that has the property now. His
name's Mr. Stretton, sir. I asked Mr. Heron's coachman."
"What made you ask?"
The groom hesitated and shuffled; but, upon being kept sharply to the
point, avowed that it was because the gentleman "seen from behind"
looked so much like Mr. Brian Luttrell. "Of course, his face is quite
different from Mr. Brian's, sir," he said, hastily, noting a shadow upon
Hugo's brow; "and he has grey hair and a beard, and all that; but his
walk was a little like poor Mr. Brian's, sir, I thought."
Hugo was silent. He had not noticed the man's gait, but, in spite of the
grey hair, the tanned complexion, the brown beard--which had lately been
allowed to cover the lower part of Mr. Stretton's face, and had changed
it very greatly--in spite of all these things he had noticed, and been
startled by, the expression of a pair of grave, brown eyes--graver and
sadder than Brian's eyes used to be, but full of the tenderness and the
sweetness that Hugo had never seen in the face of any other man. Full,
also, of recognition; there was the rub. A man who knows you cannot look
at you in the same way as one who knows you not, and it was this look of
knowledge which had unnerved Hugo, and make him doubt the evidence of
his own senses.
He was still silent and absorbed when he arrived at Netherglen, and felt
glad to hear that he was not to see his aunt until later in the day.
Angela came to meet him at the door; she was pale, and her black dress
made her look very slender and fragile, but she had the old, sweet smile
and pleasant words of welcome for him, and could not understand why his
face was so gloomy, and his eyes so obstinately averted from her own.
It was four o'clock in the afternoon when Hugo was admitted to Mrs.
Luttrell's sitting-room. He had scarcely seen her since the death of her
eldest son, and was manifestly startled and shocked to see her looking
so much more aged and worn than she had been two years ago. She greeted
him much after her usual fashion, however; she allowed him to touch her
smooth, cold cheek with his lips, and take her stiff hand into his own,
but she showed no trace of any softening emotion.
"Sit down, Hugo," she said. "I am sorry to have brought you away from
your friends."
"Oh, I was glad to come," said Hugo, confusedly. "I was not with
friends; I was in town. It was late for town, but I--I had business."
"This house is no longer a cheerful one," continued Mrs. Luttrell, in a
cold, monotonous voice. "There are no attractions for young men now. It
has been a house of mourning. I could not expect you to visit me."
"Indeed, Aunt Margaret, I would have come if I had known that you wanted
me," said Hugo, wondering whether his tardiness would entail the loss of
Mrs. Luttrell's money.
He recovered his self-possession and his fluency at this thought; if
danger were near, it behoved him to be on the alert.
"I have wanted you," said Mrs. Luttrell. "But I could wait. I knew that
you would come in time. Now, listen to what I have to say."
Hugo held his breath. What could she say that needed all this preamble?
"Hugo Luttrell," his aunt began, very deliberately, "you are a poor man
and an extravagant one."
Hugo smiled, and bowed his head.
"But you are only extravagant. You are not vicious. You have never done
a dishonourable thing--one for which you need blush or fear to meet the
eye of an honest man? Answer me that, Hugo. I may know what you will
say, but I want to hear it from your own lips."
Hugo did not flinch. His face assumed the boyish innocence of expression
which had often stood him in good stead. His great, dark eyes looked
boldly into hers.
"That is all true, Aunt Margaret. I may have done foolish things, but
nothing worse. I have been extravagant, as you say, but I have not been
dishonourable."
He could not have dared to say so much if Richard or Brian had been
alive to contradict him; but they were safely out of the way and he
could say what he chose.
"Then I can trust you, Hugo."
"I will try to be worthy of your trust, Aunt Margaret."
He bent down to kiss her hand in his graceful, foreign fashion; but she
drew it somewhat hastily away.
"No. None of your Sicilian ways for me, Hugo. That foreign drop in your
blood is just what I hate. But you're the only Luttrell left; and I hope
I know my duty. I want to have a talk with you about the house, and the
property, and so on."
"I shall be glad if I can do anything to help you," said Hugo, smoothly.
His cheek was beginning to flush; he wished that his aunt would come to
the point. Suspense was very trying! But Mrs. Luttrell seemed to be in
no hurry.
"You know, perhaps," she said, "that I am a tolerably rich woman still.
The land, the farms, and the moors, and all that part of the property
passed to Miss Murray upon my sons' deaths; but this house and the
grounds (though not the loch nor the woods) are still mine, and I have a
fair income with which to keep them up. I should like to know that one
of my husband's name was to come after me. I should like to know that
there would be Luttrells of Netherglen for many years to come."
She paused a few minutes, but Hugo made no reply.
"I have a proposition to make to you," she went on presently. "I don't
make it without conditions. You shall hear what they are by-and-bye. I
should like to make you my heir. I can leave my money and my house to
anyone I choose. I have about fifteen-hundred a-year, and then there's
the house and the garden. Should you think it worth having?"
"I think," said Hugo, with a wily avoidance of any direct answer, "that
it is very painful to hear you talk of leaving your property to anyone."
"That is mere sentimental nonsense," replied his aunt, with a
perceptible increase in the coldness of her manner. "The question is,
will you agree to the conditions on which I leave my money to you?"
"I will do anything in my power," murmured Hugo.
"I want you, then, to arrange to spend at least half the year with me
here. You can leave the army; I do not think that it is a profession
that suits you. Live here, and fill the place of a son to me. I have no
sons left. Be as like one of them as it is in your power to be."
In spite of himself Hugo's face fell. Leave the army, leave England,
bury himself for half the year with an old woman in a secluded spot,
which, although beautiful in summer and autumn, was unspeakably dreary
in winter? She had not required so much of Richard or Brian; why should
she ask for such a sacrifice from him?
Mrs. Luttrell watched his face, and read pretty clearly the meaning of
the various expressions which chased each other across it.
"It seems a hard thing to you at first, no doubt," she said, composedly.
"But you would find interests and amusements in course of time. You
would have six months of the year in which to go abroad, or to divert
yourself in London. You should have a sufficient income. And my other
condition is that you marry as soon as you can find a suitable wife."
"Marry?" said Hugo, in dismay. "I never thought of marriage!" |
"You will think of it some time, I presume. An early marriage is good
for young men. I should like to see you married, and have your children
growing up about me."
"Perhaps you have thought of a suitable lady?" said Hugo, with a
half-sneer. The prospect that had seemed so desirable at first was now
very much lowered in his estimation, and he did not disguise the sullen
anger that he felt. But he hardly expected Mrs. Luttrell's answer.
"Yes, I have."
"Indeed! Who is it?"
"Miss Murray. Elizabeth Murray, to whom your cousins' estates have
gone."
"What sort of a person is she?"
"Young, beautiful, rich. A little older than yourself, but not much. You
would make a fine couple, Hugo. She came to see me the other day, and
you would have thought she was a princess."
"I should like to see her," said Hugo, thoughtfully.
"Well, you must just go and call. And then you can think the matter over
and let me know. I'm in no hurry for a decision."
"You are very good, Aunt Margaret."
"No. I am only endeavouring to be just. I should like to see you
prosperous and happy. And, while you are here, you will oblige me by
considering yourself the master of the house, Hugo. Give your own
orders, and invite your own friends."
Hugo murmured some slight objection.
"It will not affect my comfort in the least. I kept some of the horses,
and one or two vehicles that I thought you would like. Use them all. You
will not expect to see very much of me; I seldom come downstairs, so the
house will be free for you and your friends. When you have decided what
you mean to do, let me know."
Hugo thanked her and retired. He did not see her again until the
following evening, when she met him with a question.
"Have you seen Miss Murray yet?"
"Yes," said Hugo, lowering his eyes.
"And have you come to any decision?"
"Yes."
"I should like to know what it is," said Mrs. Luttrell.
Her hands, which were crossed before her on her knee, trembled a little
as she said the words.
Hugo hesitated for a moment.
"I have made my decision," he said at last, in a firm voice, "and it is
one that I know I shall never have cause to repent. Aunt Margaret, I
accept your kind--your generous--offer, and I will be to you as a son."
He had prepared his little speech so carefully that it scarcely sounded
artificial when it issued from those curved, beautiful lips, and was
emphasised by the liquid softness of his Southern eyes.