BRIAN'S WELCOME.
The hint given in the Prior's letter concerning Brian's reasons for
continuing to teach in the Heron family, together with Hugo's own
quickness of perception, had enabled that astute young man to hit upon
something very like the exact truth. He had exaggerated it in his
conversation with Dino: he had attributed motives to Brian which
certainly never entered Brian's mind; but this was done for his own
purposes. He thought that Brian's love for Elizabeth Murray might prove
a useful weapon in the struggle between Dino's sense of his rights and
the romantic affection that he entertained for the man who had taken his
place in the world--an affection which Hugo understood so little and
despised so much, that he fancied himself sure of an easy victory over
Dino's resolution to fight for his rightful position. It was greatly to
his surprise that he found so keen a sense of justice and resentment at
the little trust that Brian had reposed in him present in Dino's mind:
the young man had been irritatingly firm in his determination to possess
the Strathleckie estate; he knew precisely what he wanted, and what he
meant to do. And although he was inclined to be generous to Brian and to
Miss Murray, there seemed no reason to expect that he would be equally
generous to Hugo. Therefore Hugo had felt himself obliged to use what he
called "strong measures."
He did not like strong measures. They were disagreeable to him. But they
were less disagreeable than the thought of being poor. Hugo made little
account of human life and human suffering so long as the suffering did
not actually touch himself. He seemed to be born with as little heart as
a beast of prey, which strikes when it is angry, or when it wants food,
with no remorse and no regret. "A disagreeable necessity," Hugo called
his evil deed, but he considered that the law of self-preservation
justified him in what he did.
And Brian Luttrell? What reason was it that made him fling prudence to
the winds, and follow the Herons to the neighbourhood of a place where
he had resolved never to show his face again?
There was one great, overmastering reason--so great that it made him
attempt what was well-nigh impossible. His love for Elizabeth Murray had
taken full possession of him: he dreamed of her, he worshipped the very
ground she trod upon; he would have sacrificed life itself for the
chance of a gentle word from her.
Life, but not honour. Much as he loved her, he would have fled to the
very ends of the earth if he had known, if he had for one moment
suspected, that she was the Miss Murray who owned the landed estate
which once went with the house and grounds of Netherglen.
It seemed almost incredible that he should not have had this fact forced
from the first upon his knowledge; but such at present was the case.
They had remained in Italy for the first three months of his engagement,
and, during that time, he had not lived in the Villa Venturi, but simply
given his lessons and taken his departure. Sometimes he breakfasted or
lunched with the family party, but at such times no business affairs
were discussed. And Elizabeth had made it a special request that Mr.
Stretton should not be informed of the fact that it was she who
furnished money for the expenses of the household. She had taken care
that his salary should be as large as she could make it without
attracting remark, but she had an impression that Mr. Stretton would
rather be paid by Mr. Heron than by her. And, as she wished for silence
on the subject of her lately-inherited wealth, and as the Herons were of
that peculiarly happy-go-lucky disposition that did not consider the
possession of wealth a very important circumstance, Mr. Stretton passed
the time of his sojourn in Italy in utter ignorance of the fact that
Elizabeth was the provider of villa, gardens, servants, and most of the
other luxuries with which the Herons were well supplied. Percival, in
his outspoken dislike of the arrangement, would probably have
enlightened him if they had been on friendly terms; but Percival showed
so decided and unmistakable an aversion to the tutor, that he scarcely
spoke to him during his stay, and, indeed, made his visit a short one,
chiefly on account of Mr. Stretton's presence.
The change from Italy to Scotland was made at the doctor's suggestion.
The children's health flagged a little in the heat, and it was thought
better that they should try a more bracing air. When the matter was
decided, and Mr. Colquhoun had written to them that Strathleckie was
vacant, and would be a convenient house for Miss Murray's purposes in
all respects--then, and not till then, was Mr. Stretton informed of the
proposed change of residence, and asked whether he would accompany the
family to Scotland.
Brian hesitated. He knew well enough the exact locality of the house to
which they were going: he had visited it himself in other days. But it
was several miles from Netherglen: he would be allowed, he knew, to
absent himself from the drawing-room or the dinner-table whenever he
chose, he need not come in contact with the people whom he used to know.
Besides, he was changed beyond recognition. And probably the two women
at Netherglen led so retired a life that neither of them was likely to
be encountered--not even at church; for, although the tenants of
Netherglen and Strathleckie went to the same town for divine worship on
Sunday mornings, yet Mrs. Luttrell and Angela attended the Established
Church, while the Herons were certain to go to the Episcopal. And Hugo
was away. There was really small chance of his being seen or recognised.
He thought that he should be safe. And, while he still hesitated, he
looked up and saw that the eyes of Miss Murray were bent upon him with
so kindly an inquiry, so gracious a friendliness in their blue depths,
that his fears and doubts suddenly took wing, and he thought of nothing
but that he should still be with her.
He consented. And then, for the first time, it crossed his mind to
wonder whether she was a connection of the Murrays to whom his estate
had passed, and from whom he believed that Mr. Heron was renting the
Strathleckie house.
He had left England without ascertaining what members of the Murray
family were living; and the letter in which Mr. Colquhoun detailed the
facts of Elizabeth's existence and circumstances, had reached Geneva
after his departure upon the expedition which was supposed to have
resulted in his death. He had never heard of the Herons. He imagined
Gordon Murray to be still living--probably with a large family and a
wife. He knew that they could not live at Netherglen, and he wondered
vaguely whether he should meet them in the neighbourhood to which he was
going. Murray was such an ordinary name that in itself it told him
nothing at all. Elizabeth Murray! Why, there might be a dozen Elizabeth
Murrays within twenty miles of Netherglen: there was no reason at all to
suppose that this Elizabeth Murray was a connection of the Gordon
Murrays who were cousins of his own--no, not of his own: he had
forgotten that never more could he claim that relationship for himself.
They were cousins of some unknown Brian Luttrell, brought up under a
false name in a small Italian village. What had become of that true
Brian, whom he had refused to meet at San Stefano? And had Father
Cristoforo succeeded in finding the woman whom he sought, and supplying
the missing links in the evidence? In that case, the Murrays would soon
hear of the claimant to their estate, and there would be a law-suit.
Brian began to feel interested in the matter again. He had lost all care
for it in the period following upon his illness. He now foresaw, with
something almost like pleasure, that he could easily obtain information
about the Murrays if he went with the Herons to Strathleckie. And he
should certainly take the first opportunity of making inquiries. Even if
he himself were no Luttrell, there was no reason why he should not take
the deepest interest in the Luttrells of Netherglen. He wanted
particularly to know whether the Italian claimant had come forward.
He was perfectly ignorant of the fact of which Father Cristoforo's
letter would have informed him, that this possible Italian claimant was
no other than his friend, Dino Vasari.
Of course, he could not be long at Strathleckie without finding out the
truth about Elizabeth. If he had lived much with the Herons, he would
have found it out in the course of the first twenty-four hours.
Elizabeth's property was naturally referred to by name: the visitors who
came to the house called upon her rather than upon the Herons: it was
quite impossible that the secrecy upon which Elizabeth had insisted in
Italy could be maintained in Scotland. The only wonder was that he
should live, as he did live, for five whole days at Strathleckie without
discovering the truth. Perhaps Elizabeth took pains to keep it from him!
She had been determined to keep another secret, even if she could not
hide the fact, that she was a rich woman. She would not have her
engagement to Percival made public. For two whole years, she said, she
would wait: for two whole years neither she nor her cousin should
consider each other as bound. But that she herself considered the
engagement morally binding might be inferred from the fact of her
allowing Percival to kiss her--she surely would not have permitted that
kiss if she had not meant to marry him! So Percival himself understood
it; so Elizabeth knew that he understood.
She was not quite like herself in the first days of her residence in
Scotland. She was graver and more reticent than usual: little inclined
to talk, and much occupied with the business that her new position
entailed upon her. Mr. Colquhoun, her solicitor, was astonished at her
clear-headedness; Stewart, the factor, was amazed at the attention she
bestowed upon every detail; even the Herons were surprised at the
methodical way in which she parcelled out her days and devoted herself
to a full understanding of her position. She seemed to shrink less than
heretofore from the responsibilities that wealth would bring her, and
perhaps the added seriousness of her lip and brow was due to her resolve
to bear the burden that providence meant her to bear instead of trying
to lay it upon other people's shoulders.
A great deal of this necessary business had been transacted before Mr.
Stretton made his appearance at Strathleckie. He had been offered a
fortnight's holiday, and had accepted it, seeing that his absence was to
some extent desired by Mrs. Heron, who was always afraid lest her dear
children should be overworked by their tutor. Thus it happened that he
did not reach Strathleckie until the very day on which Hugo also arrived
on his way to Netherglen. They had seen each other at the station, where
Brian incautiously appeared without the blue spectacles which he relied
upon as part of his disguise. From the white, startled horror which
overcast Hugo's face, this young man saw that he had been almost, if not
quite, recognised; and he expected to be sought out and questioned as to
his identity. But Hugo made no effort to question him: in fact, he did
not see the tutor again until the day when he came to restore a fragment
of the letter which Brian had carelessly dropped in the road before he
read it. During this interview he betrayed no suspicion, and Brian
comforted himself with the thought that Hugo had, at any rate, not read
the sheet that he returned to him.
A dog-cart was sent for him and his luggage on the day of his arrival.
He had a five miles' drive before he reached Strathleckie, where he
received a tumultuous welcome from the boys, a smiling one from Mrs.
Heron and Kitty, a hearty shake of the hands from Mr. Heron. But where
was Elizabeth? He did not dare to ask.
She was out, he learnt afterwards: she had driven over to the town to
lunch with the Colquhouns. For a moment he did think this strange; then
he put aside the thought and remembered it no more.
There was a long afternoon to be dragged through: then there was a
school-room tea, nominally at six, really not until nearly seven,
according to the lax and unpunctual fashion of the Heron family. Mr.
Stretton had heard that there were to be guests at dinner, and, keeping
up his character as a shy man, declined to be present. He was sitting in
a great arm-chair by the cheerful, little fire, which was very
acceptable even on an August evening: the clock on the mantelpiece had
just chimed a quarter-past seven, and he was beginning to wonder where
the boys could possibly be, when the door opened and Elizabeth came in.
He rose to his feet.
"They told me that you had come," she said, extending her hand to him
with quiet friendliness. "I hope you had a pleasant journey, Mr.
Stretton."
"Very pleasant, thank you."
He could not say more: he was engaged in devouring with his eyes every
feature of her fair face, and thinking in his heart that he had
underrated the power of her beauty. In the fortnight that he had been
away from her he had pictured her to himself as not half so fair. She
had taken off her out-door things, and was dressed in a very plain,
brown gown, which fitted closely to her figure. At her throat she wore a
little bunch of sweet autumn violets, with one little green leaf,
fastened into her dress by a gold brooch. It was the very ostentation of
simplicity, yet, with that noble carriage of her head and shoulders, and
those massive coils of golden-brown hair, nobody could have failed to
remark the distinction of her appearance, nor to recognise the fact that
there is a kind of beauty which needs no ornament.
Brian took off the ugly, blue spectacles which he had adopted of late,
and laid them upon the mantelshelf. He did not need them in the
flickering firelight, which alone illumined the dimness of the room.
Elizabeth laid her shapely arm upon the mantelpiece and looked into the
fire. He stood beside her, looking down at her--for he was a little
taller than herself--but she seemed unconscious of his gaze. She spoke
presently in rather low tones.
"The boys are late. I hope they do not often keep you waiting in this
way."
"They have never done it before. I do not mind."
"They were very anxious to have you back. They missed you very much."
Had she missed him, too? He could not venture to ask that question.
"You will find things changed," she went on, restlessly lifting a little
vase upon the mantelpiece and setting it down again; "you will find us
much busier than we used to be--much more absorbed in our own pursuits.
Scotland is not like Italy."
"No. I wish it were."
"And I----" Her voice broke, as if some emotion troubled her; there came
a swift, short sigh, and then she spoke more calmly. "I wish sometimes
that one had no duties, no responsibilities; but life would not be worth
having if one shirked them, after all."
"There is a charm in life without them--at least, so far without them as
that pleasant life in Italy used to be," said he, rather eagerly.
"Yes, but that is all over."
"All over?"
She bowed her head.
"Is there nothing left?" said Brian, approaching her a little more
nearly. Then, as she was silent, he continued in a hurried, low voice,
"I knew that life must be different here, but I thought that some of the
pleasantest hours might be repeated--even in Scotland--although we are
without those sunny skies and groves of orange trees. Even if the clouds
are grey, and the winds howl without, we might still read Dante's
'Paradiso' and Petrarca's 'Sonnets,' as we used to do at the Villa
Venturi."
"Yes," said Elizabeth, gently, "we might. But here I shall not have
time."
"Why not? Why should you sacrifice yourself for others in the way you
do? It is not right."
"I--sacrifice myself?" she said, lifting her eyes for a moment to his
face. "What do you mean?"
"I mean," he said, "that I have watched you for the last three months,
and I have seen you day after day give up your own pleasure and your own
profit for others, until I longed to ask them what right they had to
claim your whole life and leave you nothing--nothing--for yourself----"
"You mistake," she interrupted him quickly. "They leave me all I want;
and they were kind to me when I came amongst them--a penniless
child----"
"What does it matter if you were penniless?" said Brian. "Have you not
paid them a thousand times for all that they did for you?" Then, as she
looked at him with rather a singular expression in her eyes, he hastened
to explain. "I mean that you have given them your love, your care, your
time, in a way that no sister, no daughter, ever could have done! You
have taught the children all they know; you have sympathised with the
cares of every one in turn--I have watched you and seen it day by day!
And I say that even if you are penniless, as you say, you have repaid
them a thousand times for all that they have done; and that you are
wrong to let them take your time and your care, to the exclusion of your
own interests. I beg your pardon; I have said too much," he said,
breaking off suddenly, as the singular expression deepened upon her
musing face.
"No," she said, with a smile, "I like to hear it: go on. What ought I to
do?"
"Ah, that I cannot tell you. But I think you give yourself almost too
much to others. Surely, no one could object if you took a little time
from the interests of the rest of the family for your own pleasure, for
your studies, your amusements?"
"No," she answered, quietly, "I do not suppose they would."
She stood and looked into the fire, and the smile again crossed her
face.
"I have said more than I ought to have done," repeated Brian. "Forgive
me."
"I will forgive you for everything," she said, "except for thinking that
one can do too much for the people that one loves. I am sure that you do
not act upon that principle, Mr. Stretton."
"It can be carried to an extreme, like any other," said Mr. Stretton,
wisely.
"And you think I carry it to an extreme? Oh, no. I only do what it is a
pleasure to me to do. Think of the situation: an orphaned, penniless
girl--that is what you have said to yourself is it not----?"
"Yes," said Brian, wondering a little at the keen inquiry in her eyes as
she paused for the reply. The questioning look was lost in a lovely
smile as she proceeded; she cast down her eyes to hide the expression of
pleasure and amusement that his words had caused.
"An orphaned, penniless girl, then, cast on the charity of friends who
were then not very well able to support her, educated by them, loved by
them--does she not owe them a great debt, Mr. Stretton? What would have
become of me without my uncle's care? And, now that I am able to repay
them a little--in various ways"--she hesitated as she spoke--"ought I
not to do my best to please them? Ought I not to give them as much of
myself as they want? Make a generous answer, and tell me that I am
right."
"You are always right--too right!" he said, half-impatiently. "If you
could be a little less generous----"
"What then?" said Elizabeth.
"Why, then, you would be--more human, perhaps, more like ourselves--but
less than what we have always taken you for," said Mr. Stretton,
smiling.
Elizabeth laughed. "You have spoilt the effect of your lecture," she
said, turning away.
"I beg your pardon. I ought not to have said what I did," said Brian,
sensitively alive to her slightest change of tone. "Miss Murray, tell me
at least that I have not offended you before you go."
"You have not offended me," she said. He could not see her face.
"You are quite sure?" he said, anxiously. "For, indeed, I had forgotten
that it was not my part to offer any opinion upon your conduct, and I am
afraid that I have given it with impertinent bluntness. You will forgive
me?"
She turned round and looked at him with a smile. There was a colour in
her cheek, a softness in her eye, that he did not often see. "Indeed,
Mr. Stretton," she said, gently, "I have nothing to forgive. I am very
much obliged to you."
He took a step towards her as if there was something else that he would
have gladly said; but at that moment the sound of the boys' voices
echoed through the hall.
"There is no time for more," said Brian, with some annoyance.
"No," she answered. "And yet I have something else to say to you. Will
you remember that some other day?"
"Indeed, I shall remember," he said, fervently. And then the boys burst
into the room, and in the hubbub of their arrival Elizabeth escaped.
Her violets had fallen out of her brooch. Brian found them upon the
floor when she had gone; henceforth he kept them amongst his treasures.