SIR FRANCIS DEVEREUX'S APPEAL
Of all the contingencies which had occurred to me, this was one which I
had not considered, for only once since I had been its occupant had Sir
Francis called at the cottage. But his greeting was even a greater
surprise to me.
"Hugh, my boy," he said, rising and holding out his hand, "I have come
down to have a chat with you, and Miss Marian has been giving me some
tea."
Something in his look, his accent, and his words warned me that the
battle of last night would have to be fought over again. But for a
while he talked of nothing, save of last night's strange adventure and
minor matters connected with the estate, of the turnip prospects, and
the timber felling, until Marian left us to change her frock. Then,
after opening the door for her with his usual stately courtesy, he
returned to the hearthrug, and with the firelight playing round his
tall, slim figure, and with a soft, almost appealing light relaxing the
hard lines in his face, he commenced speaking.
"Hugh," he said, slowly, "they call me a proud man, but I have come
here to beg a great boon from you. Nay, let me go on," for I would
have interrupted him. "Let me say outright what I have come to say,"
he continued, stretching out his hands as though to silence me. "I
want to tell you a little of my history.
"You know, perhaps, that I was married twice. To you I do not mind
admitting that my last marriage was an unfortunate one. Your
grandmother was the only woman I ever loved, and it was her son who
took her place in my heart--not Rupert's mother, much less Rupert
himself. Perhaps I am much to blame, but none the less it is a fact
that the death of my second wife gave me little sorrow, and I have
never been able to feel towards Rupert as a father should feel towards
his son. And since that day when I knew that it was his evidence
(although he was right to give it) which had brought irretrievable
disgrace upon the name of Devereux, I have never been able--I say it to
my shame--I have never been able to bear the sight of him."
Sir Francis walked restlessly to the other end of the room, and then,
returning, took up his old position.
"For twenty years, Hugh, I have been a lonely, unhappy man. Gradually
I began to lose all pride and interest in our family name, and even the
Court itself, every stone of which was once dear to me. Everything
that had made life endurable for me and pleasant had gone. My pride
in, and love for, my son who had gone away with my blessing to be where
a Devereux should always be, in his country's battles, was suddenly
blasted for ever. He disgraced our long line of ancestors, disgraced
himself and me, and instead of falling on his sword, as he should have
done, came home here, turned out of the army--a Devereux turned out of
the army, to beg for my forgiveness!"
My heart was burning, but I judged it wisest to hold my peace. He had
thrown his head back, and his eyes were sparkling with anger. His
frowning face was as stern and hard as marble, and, old man though he
was, he looked terrible.
For a moment there was silence, and then he went on--
"Enough of him! If it had been Rupert I might some day have forgiven
him. But Herbert, my eldest son, who at my death must be the head of
the Devereuxs--oh, it is a cursed, cruel thing!"
He turned his back upon me, and I heard a sort of gasping sob. I made
a pretence of stirring the fire, and when I had finished he was himself
again.
"For twenty years," he went on, "I have lived alone with a leaden
weight of misery dragging me down almost to the grave. And yet I have
struggled against death for the simple reason that the thought of that
disgraced man who was once my son calling himself the head of the
Devereuxs, and lying down to rest within the walls of Devereux Court,
has kept me hanging on to life. My son a coward! To run away from the
enemy! My God, what had I done to deserve this?"
"He was not a coward," I interrupted, passionately. "Rupert lied! I
know he lied! He was jealous! John Hilton has confessed to me!"
Sir Francis shook his head sorrowfully.
"The word of a servant discharged without a character is worth very
little, especially when it is directed against his master," he said.
"No, Hugh, my boy, if you had lived as long as I have, and had been a
soldier, you would know that a court-martial never errs. It never
convicts except on overwhelming evidence, and its judgments are
absolute. General Luxton came to see me when he returned to England,
and from him I learned the undoubted truth."
I remained silent. One might as well have talked to the Sphinx as to
this coldly obstinate, dogmatic old soldier.
"I have come to make you an offer, Hugh," he went on in an altogether
different tone of voice, "or rather to make you a request, and I beg
you to remember that it is one which lies very near an old man's heart.
I am childless and lonely, and weary of seeing none but girls' faces
around me. Come and live with me as my grandson! Let that subject on
which we can never agree, be buried between us! Why should you go away
on a wild-goose chase? Devereux Court is your natural home. Come and
live there."
I stood up and faced him. He was very much in earnest, I could see,
for the long white hand which rested upon the chimney-piece was
shaking, and his eyes were eagerly searching my face for its answer;
but what they read there could not have been encouraging, for I never
wavered for an instant.
"Sir Francis," I asked, firmly, "does a Devereux ever break his oath or
neglect his duty?"
He shook his head.
"Never!"
"Neither will I, then," I answered; "my duty would never urge me to
renounce my father, whose innocence I firmly believe in, and if I did I
should break my oath, Sir Francis. I feel for you, and I love
Devereux. But what you ask I distinctly and absolutely refuse."
He walked to the window, and stood there for a moment gazing across the
park, with his hands behind him. Then he turned round suddenly and
commenced drawing on his dog-skin gloves. He held himself up in his
usual stiff, soldierly manner, but I could see that he was hurt and
deeply disappointed.
"More than I have said I cannot say," he remarked, quietly. "Good-bye,
Hugh; make my apologies to your sister."
I walked with him to the door, and watched him walk across the park
with head bent more than usual, and slow, weary footsteps. Oh, that I
could succeed in my life's desire and bring him home the son he loved!
What would I not give to attain my end! And yet, save through my Uncle
Rupert, how could I possibly succeed? My Uncle Rupert! Was it not
strange that Maud's father should be the man whom I hated more than any
one or anything on earth!