MY FATHER AND I
"My father! my father!"
We stood on the slope of a wild heath-covered hill, alone, with no
human being or sign of habitation in sight. Before us towered a
dreary, lofty range of bare mountains--on one side was a fearful
precipice, and below us on the other the blue sea. We had met on the
road, my father and I!
With both hands clasping his, I looked into his face. Alas, how
changed it was! Thin and shrunken, with hollow eyes and furrowed brow,
he looked to me what he was, a wreck.
"You have been ill," I cried, with a lump in my throat and the tears
springing into my eyes; "where have you been? Why did you not send for
me?"
He pointed to a loose piece of rock a few yards off.
"Let us sit down, and I will tell you everything," he said, wearily; "I
am tired."
We sat down, and I waited eagerly for him to begin. There was a patch
of brilliantly coloured wild-flowers at our feet which filled the air
all round with a dreamy, intoxicating odour. It was a perfume which
has lingered with me even to this day.
"Ay, I have been ill," he began, slowly, "almost to death, but death
would have none of me. I have little, very little to tell you, Hugh,
my boy. Since we parted in England I have wandered about in many
countries seeking to find an honourable manner of disposing of my life,
but in vain. The dead calm of peace which seems to rest all over
Europe can be but the hush before a storm, but the storm is long in
coming--long in coming.
"I have done nothing save wander about," he added, after a moment's
pause, "after the fashion of a tramp, carrying my luggage with me, and
calling no place home. A few miles from here, about two months ago, I
thought that my release had come. I swooned suddenly in a lonely part
of yonder range of mountains, and when I came to I was still lying on
the track, but a fever had laid hold of me, and I thought then that
surely I must die. I became unconscious again, and when I recovered my
senses for the second time I was no longer lying on the ground, but was
in a rude sort of a tent, lying on a bed of dried leaves and heath.
One of the roughest-looking men I ever saw, dirty, but gaudily dressed,
with a brace of pistols stuck in his belt, was sitting by my side, and
through the opening of the tent I could see more like him moving
backwards and forwards, and shouting to one another in some villainous
patois. For a long time I couldn't imagine into whose hands I had
fallen, but they were very kind to me, and brought me plenty of
everything they could get--grapes, and olives, and wild aloes, and
wine. At last one of them, who seemed to be their chief, and who spoke
French, came in to talk with me. Then I knew that these men who had
taken such care of me were really bandits, brigands. They had taken
nothing of mine, and would accept nothing in return for their kindness.
They rob the rich only, the chief assured me. I daresay you'll be
surprised to hear, Hugh, that when I began to get stronger and able to
get about, I felt quite loth to leave the place. I felt that there I
was, at any rate, right out of the world, and secure from any casual
questioning. And the spot where they have fixed their abode is the
most lovely I ever looked upon. So I had a talk with their chief one
day--José his name is--and it was arranged that I should pay a small
sum to them for the use of the tent, and for supplies of fruit and
olives and wine which the peasants bring them in abundance; and, in
short, that I should live with them, though not be of them. I have
felt at rest there, though at times the weariness of complete inaction
is hard to bear. Only a few days ago I travelled into Palermo for the
first time. There I bought the _Times_, and saw your advertisement,
and answered it, and the rest you know. I sent José's son, a quick
little fellow he is, into the town to hunt you out, and bring you here.
God bless you for coming, Hugh. It has done me good to see you again."
He ceased, and my heart was very heavy. Through every word he uttered,
and in his whole appearance, I could trace how thoroughly he had
renounced all idea of again mixing with the world, and yet what could
his present state of existence be but a state of living death?
"And now for my story, father," I said, as lightly as I could. "First,
Marian is married."
"Marian married!" He repeated the words slowly, with a sort of passive
wonderment in his tones.
"Yes, Marian is married to a clergyman, and a very good fellow, and I,
father--I have been in a situation."
He frowned, and repeated the words slowly to himself, as though
displeased with it.
"A situation? What sort of a one?"
"I have had the management of a large estate. It was pleasant work."
"Whereabouts?" he asked.
"Father," I said, holding his arm, "I held it as Mr. Arbuthnot, of
course, at Devereux."
He sprang up like a galvanised figure, and looked down at me in eager
amazement.
"At Devereux! At Devereux! Oh, my God, at Devereux!"
He sat down again, and covered his face with his hands. Thinking it
best to leave him alone, I remained silent for a while. Suddenly he
turned round.
"How does the old place look, Hugh? Tell me all about it. And
my--my--Sir Francis. Did you see him? Is he well?"
There was such a lingering pathos in his eager questions, that, with an
aching heart, I turned away and wept. Then, after a while, I told him
everything. Told him of my recognition, of my grandfather's offer, of
Hilton's confession, and of my appeal to Rupert Devereux. He listened
as though every word were sinking into his heart--listened with an
utter absorption which was almost painful to witness. I told him of
everything save of Maud.
There was a long silence when I had finished. Then he said quietly--
"You have done wrong, Hugh. You should have accepted your
grandfather's offer. You must go back to England, and go to him."
"Father," I answered, "an oath is a sacred thing, and I have sworn
before God that I will not do this thing. Whilst your name is
Arbuthnot mine will be Arbuthnot. The name of Devereux may die out for
all I care! Those who bear the name now are not worthy of it--an
obstinate old man, blinded by his military notions and his cursed
family pride, and a man who has lived upon a villainous lie, which he
refuses to own to! They may rot before I will go near them again, or
take their cursed name. You are the only Devereux, father, whom I love
and respect, and with you I will stop. I swear it."
His hands were locked in mine, and a wonderful change had softened his
face. But by degrees the light seemed to die out of it, and he shook
his head anxiously.
"You don't know what you are saying, Hugh. What, you, a young man,
with your life all before you, bury yourself with a hermit! Ah, no, it
must not be. You must retract that oath, and go back to England. I
wish it; nay, I command it!"
There is no need to reproduce the arguments he used, or my stubborn
opposition. We talked till the sun sank down, tinging the glass-like
sea into which it sank and the clouds in the western horizon with
glowing tints of orange and purple and gold. And when the last word
had been spoken it was I who was unshaken in my resolve, and he who was
yielding. For we had agreed that for a time, at any rate, we would
live together.
The shades of evening had fallen with a suddenness which to me seemed
strange, but to which my father was accustomed.
"We must part for to-night, at any rate, Hugh," he exclaimed, rising.
"It will be dark in half-an-hour. I must call young Pietro to guide
you back to the town, unless," he added, hesitatingly, "you would care
to come on and rough it with us for a night. I can only offer you a
shake-down of dried leaves."
"With you, by all means," I answered, quickly. "One could sleep out of
doors in this country."
"Come, then," he said, and, arm-in-arm, we struck over the heath,
following no path, for the simple reason that there was none, but
aiming for one of the heights of the range of hills before us, and
skirting, at a respectable distance, the cleft-like precipice which
stretched yawning by our side.