RETRIBUTION.
"Confess!" said Dino, whose stern voice and outstretched, pointing
finger seemed terrible as those of some accusing and avenging angel to
the wretched culprit. "Confess that I have only told the truth. Confess
that you lied and forged and cheated | to gain your own ends. Confess
that when other means failed you tried to kill me. Confess--and
then"--with a sudden lowering of his tones to the most wonderful
exquisite tenderness--"God knows that I shall be ready to forgive!"
But the last words passed unheeded. Hugo cowered before his eye, covered
his ears with his hands, and made a sudden dash to the door, with a cry
that was more like the howl of a hunted wild animal, than the utterance
of a human being. Mrs. Luttrell called for help, and half-rose from her
chair. But Dino laid his hand upon her arm.
"Let him go," said he. "I have no desire to punish him. But I must warn
you."
The door clanged behind the flying figure, and awakened the echoes of
the old house. Hugo was gone: whither they knew not: away, perhaps, into
the world of darkness that reigned without. Mrs. Luttrell sank back into
her chair, trembling from head to foot.
"Mother," said Dino, going up to her, and kneeling before her, "forgive
me if I have spoken too violently. But I could not bear that you should
never know what sort of man this Hugo Luttrell has grown to be."
Her hand closed convulsively on his. "How--how did you know--that he was
there?"
"I saw his reflection in the mirror before me as he passed the open
door. He was afraid, and he hid himself there to listen. Mother, never
trust him again."
"Never--never," she stammered. "Stay with me--protect me."
"You will not need my protection," he said, looking at her with calm,
surprised eyes. "You will have your friends: Mr. Colquhoun, and the
beautiful lady that you call Angela. And, for my sake, let me think that
you will have Brian, too."
"No, no!" Her voice took new strength as she answered him, and she
snatched her hand angrily away from his close clasp. "I will never speak
to him again."
"Not even when he returns?"
"You told me that he was gone to America!"
"I feel sure that some day he will come back. He will learn the
truth--that I have withdrawn my claim; then he and Miss Murray must
settle the matter of property between them. They may divide it; or they
might even marry."
His voice was perfectly calm; he had brooded over this arrangement for
so long that it scarcely struck him how terrible it would sound in Mrs.
Luttrell's ears.
"Do you mean it?" she said, feebly. "You renounce your claim--to be--my
son?"
"Oh, not your son, mother," he said, kissing the cold hand, which she
immediately drew away from him. "Not your son! Not the claim to be
loved, and the right to love you! But let that rest between ourselves.
Why should the money that I do not want come between me and you, between
me and my friend? Let Brian come home, and you will have two sons
instead of one."
"Rather say that I shall have no son at all," said Mrs. Luttrell, with
gathering anger. "If you do this thing I cast you off. I forbid you to
give what is your own to Vincenza Vasari's son."
"You make it hard for me to act if you forbid me," said Dino, rising and
standing before her with a pleading look upon his face. "But I hold to
my intention, mother. I will not touch a penny of this fortune. It shall
be Brian's, or Miss Murray's--never mine."
"The matter is in a lawyer's hands. Your rights will be proved in spite
of you."
"I do not think they will. I hold the proofs in my hand. I can destroy
them every one, if I choose."
"But you will not choose. Besides, these are the copies, not the
originals."
"No, excuse me. I obtained the originals from Mr. Brett. He expects me
to take them back to him to-night." Dino held out a roll of papers.
"They're all here. I will not burn them, mother, if you will send for
Brian back and let him have his share."
"They would be no use if he came back. You must have the whole or
nothing. Let us make a bargain; give up your scheme of entering a
monastery, and then I will consent to some arrangement with Brian about
money matters. But I will never see him!"
Dino shook his head. He turned to the fireplace with the papers in his
hand.
"I withdraw my claims," he said, simply.
Mrs. Luttrell was quivering with suppressed excitement, but she mastered
herself sufficiently to speak with perfect coldness.
"Unless you consent to abandon a monastic life, I would rather that your
claims were given up," she said. "Let Elizabeth Murray keep the
property, and do you and the man Vasari go your separate ways."
"Mother----"
"Call me 'mother' no longer," she said, sternly, "you are no more my son
than he was, if you can leave me, in my loneliness and widowhood, to be
a monk."
"Then--this is the end," said Dino.
With a sudden movement of the hand he placed the roll of papers in the
very centre of the glowing fire. Mrs. Luttrell uttered a faint cry, and
struggled to rise to her feet, but she had not the strength to do so.
Besides, it was too late. With the poker, Dino held down the blazing
mass, until nothing but a charred and blackened ruin remained. Then he
laid down the poker, and faced Mrs. Luttrell with a wavering but
victorious smile.
"It is done," he said, with something of exultation in his tone. "Now I
am free. I have long seen that this was the only thing to do. And now I
can acknowledge that the temptation was very great."
With lifted head and kindling eye, he looked, in this hour of triumph
over himself, as if no temptation had ever assailed, or ever could
assail, him. But then his glance fell upon Mrs. Luttrell, whose hands
fiercely clutched the arms of her chair, whose features worked with
uncontrollable agitation. He fell on his knees before her.
"Mother!" he cried. "Forgive me. Perhaps I was wrong. I will--I will ...
I will pray for you."
The last few words were spoken after a long pause, with a fall in his
voice, which showed that they were not those which he had intended to
say when he began the sentence. There was something solemn and pathetic
in the sound. But Mrs. Luttrell would not hear.
"Go!" she said, hoarsely. "Go. You are no son of mine. Sooner Brian--or
Hugo--than you. Go back to your monastery."
She thrust him away from her with her hands when he tried to plead. And
at last he saw that there was no use in arguing, for she pulled a bell
which hung within her reach, and, when the servant appeared, she placed
the matter beyond dispute by saying sharply:--
"Show this gentleman out."
Dino looked at her face, clasped his hands in one last silent entreaty,
and--went. There was no use in staying longer. The door closed behind
him, and the woman who had thrust away from her the love that might have
been hers, but for her selfishness and hardness of heart, was left
alone.
A whirl of raging, angry thoughts made her brain throb and reel. She had
put away from her what might have been the great joy of her life; her
will, which had never been controlled by another, had been simply set
aside and disregarded. What was there left for her to do? All the
repentance in the world would not give her back the precious papers that
her son had burnt before her eyes. And where had he gone? Back to his
monastery? Should she never, never see him again? Was he tramping the
long and weary way to the Dunmuir station, where the railway engine
would presently come shrieking and sweeping out of the darkness, and,
like a fabled monster in some old fairy tale, gather him into its
embrace, and bear him away to a place whence he would never more return?
So grotesque this fancy appeared to her that her anger failed her, and
she laughed a little to herself--laughed with bloodless lips that made
no sound. A kind of numbness of thought came over her: she sat for a
little time in blank unconsciousness of her sorrow, and yet she did not
sleep. And then a host of vividly-pictured images began to succeed each
other with frightful rapidity across the _tabula rasa_ of her mind.
It seemed to her in that quiet hour she saw her son as he walked dawn
the dark road to Dunmuir. The moon was just rising; the trees on either
hand lifted their gaunt branches to a wild and starless sky. Whose face,
white as that of a corpse, gleamed from between those leafless stems?
Hugo's, surely. And what did he hold in his hand? Was it a knife on
which a faint ray of moonlight was palely reflected? He was watching for
that solitary traveller who came with heedless step and hanging head
upon the lonely road. In another moment the spring would be taken, the
thrust made, and a dying man's blood would well out upon the stones.
Could she do nothing? "Brian! Brian!" she cried--or strove to cry; but
the shriek seemed to be stifled before it left her lips. "Brian!" Three
times she tried to call his name, with an agony of effort which,
perhaps, brought her back to consciousness--for the dream, if dream it
was, vanished, and she awoke.
Awoke--to the remembrance of what she had heard, concerning Hugo's
attempt on Dino's life, and the fact that she had sent her son out of
the house to walk to Dunmuir alone. She was not so blind to Hugo's
inherited proclivities to passion and revenge as she pretended to be.
She knew that he was a dangerous enemy, and that Dino had incurred his
hatred. What might not happen on that lonely road between Netherglen and
Dunmuir if Dino (Brian, she called him) traversed it unwarned, alone,
unarmed? She must send servants after him at once, to guard him as he
went upon his way. She heard her maid in the next room. Should she call
Janet, or should she ring the bell?
What a curiously-helpless sensation had come over her! She did not seem
able to rouse herself. She could not lift her hand. She was tired; that
was it. She would call Janet. "Janet!" But Janet did not hear.
How was it that she could not speak? Her faculties were as clear as
usual: her memory was as strong as ever it had been. She knew exactly
what she wanted: she could arrange in her own mind the sentences that
she wished to say. But, try as she would, she could not articulate a
word, she could not raise a finger, or make a sign. And again the
terrible dread of what would happen to the son she loved took possession
of her mind.
Oh, if only he would return, she would let him have his way. What did it
matter that the proof of his birth had been destroyed? She would
acknowledge him as her son before all the world; and she would let him
divide his heritage with whomsoever he chose. Netherglen should be his,
and the three claimants might settle between themselves, whether the
rest of the property should belong to one of them, or be divided amongst
the three. He might even go back to San Stefano; she would love him and
bless him throughout, if only she knew that his life was safe. She went
further. She seemed to be pleading with fate--or rather with God--for
the safety of her son. She would receive Brian with open arms; she would
try to love him for Dino's sake. She would do all and everything that
Dino required from her, if only she could conquer this terrible
helplessness of feeling, this dumbness of tongue which had come over
her. Surely it was but a passing phase: surely when someone came and
stood before her the spell would be broken, and she would be able to
speak once more.
The maid peeped in, thought she was sleeping, and quietly retired. No
one ventured to disturb Mrs. Luttrell if she nodded, for at night she
slept so little that even a few minutes' slumber in the daytime was a
boon to her. A silent, motionless figure in her great arm-chair, with
her hands folded before her in her lap, she sat--not sleeping--with all
her senses unnaturally sharpened, it seemed to her; hearing every sound
in the house, noting every change in the red embers of the fire in which
the proof of her son's history had been consumed, and all the while
picturing to herself some terrible tragedy going on outside the house,
which a word from her might have averted. And she not able to pronounce
that word!
Dino, meanwhile, had plunged into the darkness, without a thought of
fear for himself. He walked away from the house just as she had seen him
in her waking dream, with head bent and eyes fixed on the ground. He
took the right road to Dunmuir, more by accident than by design, and
walked beneath the rows of sheltering trees, through which the loch
gleamed whitely on the one hand, while on the other the woods looked
ominously black, without a thought of the revengeful ferocity which
lurked beneath the velvet smoothness of Hugo Luttrell's outer demeanour.
If something moved amongst the trees on his right hand, if something
crouched amongst the brushwood, like a wild animal prepared to spring,
he neither saw nor heard the tokens which might have moved him to
suspicion. But suddenly it seemed to him that a wild cry rang out upon
the stillness of the night air. His friend's name--or was it his
own?--three times repeated, in tones of heartrending pain and terror.
"Brian! Brian! Brian!" Whose voice had called him? Not that of anyone he
knew. And yet, what stranger would use that name? He stopped, looked
round, and answered:--
"Yes, I am here."
And then it struck him that the voice had been close beside him, and
that, standing where he stood in the middle of the long, white road, it
was quite impossible that any one could be so near, and yet remain
unseen.
With a slight shudder he let his eyes explore the sides of the road: the
hedgerows, and the bank that rose on his right hand towards the wood.
Surely there was something that moved and stopped, and moved again
amongst the bracken. With one bound Dino reached the moving object, and
dragged it forth into the light. He knew whom he was touching before he
saw the face. It was Hugo who lurked in the hedgerows, waiting--and for
what?
"You heard it?" said Dino, as the young man crouched before him,
scarcely daring to lift up his head, although at that moment, if he had
had his wits about him, he could not have had a better chance for the
accomplishment of any sinister design. "Who called?"
Hugo cast a quick startled glance at the wood behind him. "I heard
nothing," he said, sullenly.
"I heard a voice that called me," said Dino. Then he looked at Hugo, and
pressed his shoulder somewhat heavily with his hand. "What were you
doing there? For whom were you waiting?"
"For nobody," muttered Hugo.
"Are you sure of that? I could almost believe that you were waiting for
me; and should I be far wrong? When I think of that other time, when you
deceived me, and trapped me, and left me dying, as you thought, in the
streets, I can believe anything of you now."
Hugo's trembling lips refused to articulate a word. He could neither
deny the charge nor plead for mercy.
Dino's exultation of mood led him to despise an appeal to any but the
higher motives. He would not condescend to threaten Hugo with the
police-court and the criminal cell. He loosed his hold on the young
man's shoulder, and told him to rise from the half-kneeling posture, to
which fear, rather than Dino's strength, had brought him. And when Hugo
stood before him, he spoke in the tone of one to whom the spiritual side
of life was more real, more important than any other, and it seemed to
Hugo as if he spoke from out some other world.
"There is a day coming," he said, "when the secrets of all men's hearts
will be revealed. And where will you be, what will you do in that dread
day? When you stand before the Judge of all men on His great white
Throne, how will you justify yourself to Him?"
The strong conviction, the deep penetrating accents of his words,
carried a sting to Hugo's conscience. He felt as if Dino had a
supernatural knowledge of his past life and his future, when he said
solemnly:--
"Think of the secrets of your heart which shall then be made known to
all men. What have you done? Have you not broken God's laws? Have you
not in very truth committed murder?... There is a commandment in God's
Word which says, 'Thou shalt not kill.'"
"Stop, stop, for Heaven's sake, stop!" gasped Hugo, covering his face
with his hands. "How can you know all this? I did not mean to kill him.
I meant only to have my revenge. I did not know----"
"Nay, do not try to excuse yourself," said Dino, who caught the words
imperfectly, and did not understand that they referred to any crime but
the one so nearly accomplished against himself. "God knows all. He saw
what you did: He can make it manifest in His own way. Confess to Him
now: not to me. I pardon you."
There was a great sob from behind Hugo's quivering fingers; but it was
only of relief, not repentance. Dino waited a moment or two before he
said, with the tone of quiet authority which was natural to him:--
"Now fetch me the knife which you dropped amongst the ferns by the hedge
over there."
With the keen, quick sight that he possessed, he had caught a glimpse of
it in the scuffle, and seen it drop from Hugo's hand. But the young
Sicilian took the order as another proof of the sort of superhuman
knowledge of his deeds and motives which he attributed to Dino Vasari,
and went submissively to the place where the weapon was lying, picked it
up, and with hanging head, presented it humbly to the man whose
spiritual force had for the moment mastered him.
"You must not return to Netherglen," said Dino, looking at him as he
spoke. "My mother will not see you again: she does not want you near
her. You understand?"
Hugo assented, with a sort of stifled groan.
"I was forced to tell her, in order to put her on her guard. But if you
obey me, I will tell no one else. I have not even told Brian. If I find
that you return to your evil courses, I shall keep the secret of your
conduct no longer. Then, when Brian comes home, he can reckon with you."
"Brian!" ejaculated Hugo.
"Yes: Brian. What I require from you is that you trouble Netherglen no
more. I cannot think of you with peace in my mother's house. You will
leave it to-night--at once."
"Yes," Hugo muttered. He had no desire to return to Netherglen.
"I am going to Dunmuir," said Dino. "You can walk on with me."
Hugo made no opposition. He turned his face vaguely in the specified
direction, and moved onward; but the sound of Dino's voice, clear and
cold, gave him a thrill of shame, amounting to positive physical pain.
"Walk before me, if you please. I cannot trust you."
They walked on: Hugo a pace or two in front, Dino behind. Not a word was
spoken between them until they reached the chief street of Dunmuir, and
then Dino called to him to pause. They were standing in front of Mr.
Colquhoun's door.
"You are not going in here?" said Hugo, with a sharp note of terror in
his voice. "You will not tell Colquhoun?"
"I will tell no one," said Dino, "so long as you fulfil the condition I
have laid upon you. This is our last word on the subject. God forgive
you, as I do."
They stood for a moment, face to face. The moon had risen, and its light
fell peacefully upon the paved street, the old stone houses, the broad,
beautiful river with its wooded banks, the distant sweep of hills. It
fell also on the faces of the two men, not unlike in feature and
colouring, but totally dissimilar in expression, and seemed to intensify
every point of difference between them. There was a lofty serenity upon
Dino Vasari's brow, while guilt and fear and misery were deeply
imprinted on Hugo's boyish, beautiful face. For the first time the
contrast between them struck forcibly on Hugo's mind. He leaned against
the stone wall of Mr. Colquhoun's house, and gave vent to his emotion in
one bitter, remorseful sob of pain.