IN THE PICTURE GALLERY
It is strange that, although so many years have passed, that scene
remains as though written with letters of fire into my memory--vivid
and clear. Word for word, I can remember every sentence that was
spoken; and the different expressions on the face of each I could, if I
were a painter, faithfully reproduce. Sir Francis gazed at me
speechless in a sort of helpless apathy, Maud and Lady Olive looked
horrified and thunderstruck, and my Uncle Rupert, with face as pale as
death, was shaking from head to foot, with eyes riveted upon me in a
sort of fascinated bewilderment, as though I were one risen from the
dead. Sir Francis seemed to be the first to recover himself.
"Arbuthnot! Arbuthnot!" he exclaimed; "what does this mean?"
I pointed to my uncle, and he seemed to shrink back from my
outstretched hand.
"Cannot you see?" he faltered, in a hollow tone. "Look at him and at
the picture."
I had moved a step forward unconsciously, and was standing in the
centre of the broad stretch, of moonlight which was streaming in from
the high window. Sir Francis looked at me, and then gave a great start.
"My God! Arbuthnot, boy! Who are you? Speak!"
"Hugh Arbuthnot, son of Herbert Arbuthnot, who once called himself
Devereux," I answered, proudly, looking Sir Francis steadily in the
face; "and who would be a Devereux still," I added, "but for that man's
villainous lie."
Rupert Devereux turned his head away, as though unable to meet the fire
which blazed from my eyes. Maud had sunk, half fainting, upon an
ottoman, and Lady Olive was by her side. Sir Francis stood gazing
fixedly at me, as though in a dream.
"It can't be!" he muttered, hoarsely. "He could never have had such a
son as you. He was a coward!"
"It's a lie!" I thundered--so vehemently that Sir Francis staggered
back aghast. "Rupert Devereux!" I cried, taking a quick stride to his
side, "can you, dare you look me in the face and tell me that my father
was a coward? You, who bribed John Hilton, your servant, into a
shameful conspiracy that you might step into his place! You,
you--speak, man, and tell me! Was Herbert Devereux a coward?"
He was white to the lips with a fear not merely physical. His senses
seemed stupefied; and though I waited amidst a deathlike silence for a
full minute, he made me no answer. I turned my back upon him
contemptuously.
"Sir Francis!" I cried. "He could lie to strangers and to you, but to
me he dare not. Before heaven, I swear that my father is an innocent
man, shamefully sinned against by him"--I pointed to my uncle. "Out of
a mean jealousy, and for the sake of being your heir, he did it--he
perjured himself. He to call himself a Devereux, and my father robbed
of his name and honour by such treacherous villainy! Don't you wonder
that I don't kill you?" I cried, turning round, a very tempest of
passion surging up within me. "God knows why I don't do it! Sir
Francis, I appeal to you. John Hilton has confessed to me that his
story was a lie. My father is as brave a soldier and a gentleman as
ever Devereux was. Tell me that you believe it. Let us make that man
confess, aye, even though we have to tear his guilty secret from his
heart!"
Sir Francis had recovered himself entirely, and was again the
aristocratic immovable soldier.
"Hugh, my boy, I believe you," he said, kindly. "Be my grandson, and I
shall thank God for it, and be proud of you. But you are mistaken
about your father. A court-martial never errs."
The hope which had sprung up in my heart died away, and in its place
had leaped up a bitter hatred--hatred of Rupert Devereux, hatred of my
grandfather, hatred of Maud, of every one who refused to believe in my
father's innocence. I drew back from Sir Francis's outstretched hand,
and looked at him proudly.
"Never, Sir Francis. I will not call myself your grandson, or take the
name of Devereux, until my father bears it too. I would sooner live
and die Hugh Arbuthnot."
Then, without another look at one of them, without even a glance into
Maud's white face, I turned, and walked slowly out of the gallery and
out of the house.