Читать книгу Under False Pretences - Sergeant Adeline - Страница 18

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Early on the following morning Brian received a message from his mother. It was the first communication that she had vouchsafed to him since the day of her eldest son's death. "Would he come to her dressing-room at eleven o'clock? She wished to consult him upon special business." Brian sent word that he would be with her at that hour, and then fell into anxious meditation as he sat at breakfast, with Hugo at the other end of the table.

"Don't go far away from the house, Hugo," he said at last, as he rose to leave the room. "I may want you in the course of the morning."

Hugo looked up at him without answering. The lad had been studying a newspaper, with his head supported by his left hand, while his right played with his coffee cup or the morsels of food upon his plate. He did not seem to have much appetite. His great, dark eyes looked larger than usual, and were ringed with purple shadow; his lips were tremulous. "It was wonderful," as people said, "to see how that poor young fellow felt his cousin's death."

Perhaps Brian thought so too, for he added, very gently—though when did he not speak gently?—

"There is nothing wrong. I only want to make some arrangements with you for your future. Think a little about it before I speak to you."

And then he went out of the room, and Hugo was left to his meditations, which were not of the most agreeable character, in spite of Brian's reassuring words.

He pushed his plate and newspaper away from him impatiently; a frown showed itself on his beautiful, low brows.

"What will he do for me? Anything definite, I wonder? Poor beggar, I'm sorry for him, but my position has been decidedly improved since that unlucky shot at Richard. Did he want him out of the way, I wonder? The gloomy look with which he goes makes about one imagine that he did. What a fool he must be!"

Hugo pushed back his chair and rose: a cynical smile curled his lips for a moment, but it changed by degrees into an expression of somewhat sullen discontent.

"I wish I could sleep at nights," he said, moving slowly towards the window. "I've never been so wretchedly wakeful in all my life." Then he gazed out into the garden, but without seeing much of the scene that he gazed upon, for his thoughts were far away, and his whole soul was possessed by fear of what Brian would do or say.

At eleven o'clock Brian made his way to his mother's dressing-room, an apartment which, although bearing that name, was more like an ordinary sitting-room than a dressing-room. He knocked, and was answered by his mother's voice.

"Come in," she said. "Is it you, Brian?"

"Yes, it is I," Brian said, as he closed the door behind him.

He walked quietly to the hearth-rug, where he stood with one hand resting on the mantelpiece. It was a convenient attitude, and one which exposed him to no rebuffs. He was too wise to offer hand or cheek to his mother by way of greeting.

Mrs. Luttrell was sitting on a sofa, with her back to the light. Brian thought that she looked older and more worn; there were fresh wrinkles upon her forehead, and marks of weeping and sleeplessness about her eyes, but her figure was erect as ever, as rigidly upright as if her backbone were made of iron. She was in the deepest possible mourning; even the handkerchief that she held in her hand was edged with two or three inches of black. Brian looked round for Angela; he had expected to find her with his mother, but she was not there. The door into Mrs. Luttrell's bed-room was partly open.

"How is Angela?" he asked.

"Angela is not well. Could you expect her to be well after the terrible trial that has overtaken her?"

Brian winced. He could make no reply to such a question. Mrs. Luttrell scored a triumph, and continued in her hard, incisive way:—

"She is probably as well as she can hope to be under the circumstances. Her health has suffered—as mine also has suffered—under the painful dispensation which has been meted out to us. We do not repine. Hearts that are broken, that have no hopes, no joys, no pleasures in store for them in this life, are not eager to exhibit their sufferings. If I speak as I speak now, it is for the last and only time. It is right that you should hear me once."

"I will hear anything you choose to say," answered Brian, heavily. "But, mother, be merciful. I have suffered, too."

"We will pass over the amount of your suffering," said Mrs. Luttrell, "if you please. I have no doubt that it is very great, but I think that it will soon be assuaged. I think that you will soon begin to remember the many things that you gain by your brother's death—the social position, the assured income, the estate in Scotland which I brought to your father, as well as his own house of Netherglen—all the things for which men are only too ready to sell their souls."

"All these things are nothing to me," sighed Brian.

"They are a great deal in the world's eyes. You will soon find out how differently it receives you now from the way it received you a year—a month—a week—ago. You are a rich man. I wish you joy of your wealth. Everything goes to you except Netherglen itself; that is left in my hands."

"Mother, are you mad?" said her son, passionately. "Why do you talk to me in this way? I swear to you that I would give every hope and every joy that I ever possessed—I would give my life—to have Richard back again! Do you think I ever wanted to be rich through his death?"

"I do not know what you wanted," said Mrs. Luttrell, sternly. "I have no means of guessing."

"Is this what you wished me to say?" said Brian, whose voice was hoarse and changed. "I said that I would listen—but, you might spare me these taunts, at least."

"I do not taunt you. I wish only to draw attention to the difference between your position and my own. Richard's death brings wealth, ease, comfort to you; to me nothing but desolation. I am willing to allow the house of which I have been the mistress for so many years, of which I am legally the mistress still, to pass into your hands. I have lost my home as well as my sons. I am desolate."

"Your sons! You have not lost both your sons, mother," pleaded Brian, with a note of bitter pain in his voice, as he came closer to her and tried in vain to take her icy hand. "Why do you think that you are no longer mistress of this house? You are as much mistress as you were in my father's time—in Richard's time. Why should there be a difference now?"

"There is this difference," said Mrs. Luttrell, coldly, "that I do not care to live in any house with you. It would be painful to me; that is all. If you desire to stay, I will go."

Brian staggered back as if she had struck him in the face.

"Do you mean to cast me off?" he almost whispered, for he could not find strength to speak aloud. "Am I not your son, too?"

"You fill the place that a son should occupy," said Mrs. Luttrell, letting her hand rise and fall upon her lap, and looking away from Brian. "I can say no more. My son—my own son—the son that I loved"—(she paused, and seemed to recollect herself before she continued in a lower voice)—"the son that I loved—is dead."

There was a silence. Brian seated himself and bowed his head upon his hands. "God help me!" she heard him mutter. But she did not relent.

Presently he looked up and fixed his haggard eyes upon her.

"Mother," he said, in hoarse and unnatural tones, "you have had your say; now let me have mine. I know too well what you believe. You think, because of a slight dispute which arose between us on that day, that I had some grudge against my brother. I solemnly declare to you that that is not true. Richard and I had differed; but we met—in the wood"—(he drew his breath painfully)—"a few minutes only before that terrible mistake of mine; and we were friends again. Mother, do you know me so ill as to think that I could ever have lifted my hand against Richard, who was always a friend to me, always far kinder than I deserved? It was a mistake—a mistake that I'll never, never forgive myself for, and that you, perhaps, never will forgive—but, at any rate, do me the justice to believe that it was a mistake, and not—not—that I was Richard's murderer!"

Mrs. Luttrell sat silent, motionless, her white hands crossed before her on the crape of her black gown. Brian threw himself impetuously on his knees before her and looked up into her face.

"Mother, mother!" he said, "do you not believe me?"

It seemed to him a long time—it was, in reality, not more than ten or twelve seconds—before Mrs. Luttrell answered his question. "Do you not believe me?" he had said. And she answered—

"No."

The shock of finding his passionate appeal so utterly disregarded restored to Brian the composure which had failed him before. He rose to his feet, pale, stricken, indeed, but calm. For a moment or two he averted his face from the woman who judged him so harshly, so pitilessly; but when he turned to her again, he had gained a certain pride of bearing which compelled her unwilling respect.

"If that is your final answer," he said, "I can say nothing more. Perhaps the day will come when you will understand me better. In the meantime, I shall be glad to hear whether you have any plans which I can assist you in carrying out."

"None in which I require your assistance," said Mrs. Luttrell, stonily. "I have my jointure; I can live upon that. I will leave Netherglen to you. I will take a cottage for myself—and Angela."

"And Angela?"

"Angela remains with me. You may remember that she has no home, except with friends who are not always as kind to her as they might be. Her brother is not a wealthy man, and has no house of his own. Under these circumstances, and considering what she has lost, it would be mere justice if I offered her a home. Henceforth she is my daughter."

"You have asked her to stay, and she has consented?"

"I have."

"And you thought—you think—of taking a home for yourselves?"

"Yes."

"I suppose you do not object," said Brian, slowly, "to the gossip to which such a step on your part is sure to give rise?"

"I have not considered the matter. Gossip will not touch me."

"No." Brian would not for worlds have said that the step she contemplated taking would be disastrous for him. Yet for one moment, he could not banish the consciousness that all the world would now have good reason to believe that his mother held him guilty of his brother's death. He did not know that the world suspected him already.

It was with an unmoved front that he presently continued.

"I, myself, had a proposition to make which would perhaps render it needless for you to leave Netherglen, which, as you say, is legally your own. You may not have considered that I am hardly likely to have much love for the place after what has occurred in it. You know that neither you nor I can sell any portion of the property—even you would not care to let it, I suppose, to strangers for the present. I think of going abroad—probably probably for some years. I have always wanted to travel. The house on the Strathleckie side of the property can be let; and as for Netherglen, it would be an advantage for the place if you made it your home for as many months in the year as you chose. I don't see why you should not do so. I shall not return to this neighbourhood."

"It does not seem to occur to you," said Mrs. Luttrell, in measured tones, "that Angela and I may also have an objection to residing in a place which will henceforth have so many painful memories attached to it."

"If that is the case," said Brian, after a little pause, "there is no more to be said."

"I will ask Angela," said Mrs. Luttrell, stretching out her hand to a little handbell which stood upon the table at her side.

Brian started. "Then I will come to you again," he said, moving hastily to the door. "I will see you after lunch."

"Pray do not go," said his mother, giving two very decisive strokes of the bell by means of a pressure of her firm, white fingers. "Let us settle the matter while we are about it. There will be no need of a second interview."

"But Angela will not want to see me."

"Angela——Ask Miss Vivian to come to me at once if she can" (to the maid who appeared at the door)—"Angela expressed a wish to see you this morning."

Brian stood erect by the mantelpiece, biting his lips under his soft, brown moustache, and very much disposed to take the matter into his own hands, and walk straight out of the room. But some time or other Angela must be faced; perhaps as well now as at any other time. He waited, therefore, in silence, until the door opened and Angela appeared.

"Brian!" said the soft voice, in as kind and sisterly a tone as he had ever heard from her.

"Brian!"

She was close to him, but he dared not look up until she took his unresisting hand in hers and held it tenderly. Then he raised his head a very little and looked at her.

She had always been pale, but now she was snow-white, and the extreme delicacy and even fragility of her appearance were thrown into strong relief by the dead black of her mourning gown. Her eyes were full of tears, and her lips were quivering; but Brian knew in a moment, by instinct, that she at least believed in the innocence of his heart, although his hand had taken his brother's life. He stooped down and kissed the hand that held his own, so humbly, so sorrowfully, that Angela's heart yearned over him. She understood him, and she had room, even in her great grief, to be sorry for him too. And when he withdrew his hand and turned away from her with one deep sob that he did not know how to repress, she tried to comfort him.

"Dear Brian," she said, "I know—I understand. Poor fellow! it is very hard for you. It is hard for us all; but I think it is hardest of all for you."

"I would have given my life for his, Angela," said Brian, in a smothered voice.

"I know you would. I know you loved him," said Angela, the tears streaming now down her pale cheeks. "There is only one thing for us to say, Brian—It was God's will that he should go."

"How you must hate the sight of me," groaned Brian. He had almost forgotten the presence of Mrs. Luttrell, whose hard, watchful eyes were taking notice of every detail of the scene.

"I will not trouble you long; I am going to leave Scotland; I will go far away; you shall never see my face again."

"But I should be sorry for that," said Angela's soft, caressing voice, into which a tremor stole from time to time that made it doubly sweet. "I shall want to see you again. Promise me that you will come back, Brian—some day."

"Some day?" he repeated, mournfully. "Well, some day, Angela, when you can look on me without so much pain as you must needs feel now, any day when you have need of me. But, as I am going so very soon, will you tell me yourself whether Netherglen is a place that you hold in utter abhorrence now? Would it hurt you to make Netherglen your home? Could you and my mother find happiness—or at least peace—if you lived here together? or would it be too great a trial for you to bear?"

"It rests with you to decide, Angela," said Mrs. Luttrell from her sofa. "I have no choice; it signifies little to me whether I go or stay. If it would pain you to live at Netherglen, say so; and we will choose another home."

"Pain me?" said Angela. "To stay here—in Richard's home?"

"Would you dislike it?" asked Mrs. Luttrell.

The girl came to her side, and put her arms round the mother's neck. Mrs. Luttrell's face softened curiously as she did so; she laid one of her hands upon Angela's shining hair with a caressing movement.

"Dislike it? It would be my only happiness," said Angela. She stopped, and then went on with soft vehemence—"To think that I was in his house, that I looked on the things that he used to see every day, that I could sometimes do the thing that he would have liked to see me doing—it is all I could wish for, all that life could give me now! Yes, yes, let us stay."

"It's perhaps not so good for you as one might wish," said Mrs. Luttrell, regarding her tenderly. "You had perhaps better have a change for a time; there is no reason why you should live for ever in the past, like an old woman, Angela. The day will come when you may wish to make new ties for yourself—new interests——"

Angela's whisper reached her ear alone.

"'Intreat me not to leave thee, or to return from following after thee,'" she murmured in the words of the widowed Moabitess, "'for whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge; thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God … '"

Mrs. Luttrell clasped her in her arms and kissed her forehead. Then after a little pause she said to Brian—

"We will stay."

Brian bowed his head.

"I will make all necessary arrangements with Mr. Colquhoun, and send him to you," he said. "I think there is nothing else about which we have to speak?"

"Nothing," said Mrs. Luttrell, steadily.

"Except Hugo. As I am going away from home for so long I think it would be better if I settled a certain sum in the Funds upon him, so that he might have a moderate income as well as his pay. Does that meet with your approval?"

"My approval matters very little, but you can do as you choose with your own money. I suppose you wish that this house should be kept open for him?"

"That is as you please. He would be better for a home. May I ask what Angela thinks?"

"Oh, yes," said Angela, lifting her face slowly from Mrs. Luttrell's shoulder. "He must not feel that he has lost a home, must he, mother?" She pronounced the title which Mrs. Luttrell had begged her to bestow, still with a certain diffidence and hesitancy; but Mrs. Luttrell's brow smoothed when she heard it.

"We will do what we can for him," she said.

"He has not been very steady of late," Brian went on slowly, wondering whether he was right to conceal Hugo's misdeeds and evil tendencies. "I hope he will improve; you will have patience with him if he is not very wise. And now, will you let me say good-bye to you? I shall leave Netherglen to-morrow."

"To-morrow?" said Angela, wonderingly. "Why should you go so soon?"

"It is better so," Brian answered.

"But we shall know where you are. You will write?"

His eyes sought his mother's face. She would not look at him. He spoke in an unnaturally quiet voice, "I do not know."

"Mother, will you not tell him to write to you?" said Angela.

The mother sat silent, unresponsive. It was plain that she cared for no letter from this son of hers.

"I will leave my address with Mr. Colquhoun, Angela," said Brian, forcing a slight, sad smile. "If there is business for me to transact, he will be able to let me know. I shall hear from him how you all are, from time to time."

"Will you not write to me, then?" said Angela.

Brian darted an inquiring glance at her. Oh, what divine pity, what sublime forgetfulness of self, gleamed out of those tender, tear-reddened eyes!

"Will you let me?" he said, almost timidly.

"I should like you to write. I shall look for your letters, Brian. Don't forget that I shall be anxious for news of you."

Almost without knowing what he did, he sank down on his knees before her, and touched her hand reverently with his lips. She bent forward and kissed his forehead as a sister might have done.

"God bless you, Angela!" he said. He could not utter another word.

"Mother," said the girl, taking in hers the passive hand of the woman, who had sat with face averted—perhaps so that she should not meet the eyes of the man whom she could not forgive—"mother, speak to him; say good-bye to him before he goes."

The mother's hand trembled and tried to withdraw itself, but Angela would not let it go.

"One kind word to him, mother," she said. "See, he is kneeling before you. Only look at him and you will see how he has suffered! Don't let him go away from you without one word."

She guided Mrs. Luttrell's hand to Brian's head; and there for a moment it rested heavily. Then she spoke.

"If I have been unjust, may God forgive me!" she said.

Then she withdrew her hand and rose from her seat. She did not even look behind her as she walked to the bed-room door, pushed it open, entered, and closed it, and turned the key in the old-fashioned lock. She had said all that she meant to say: no power, human or divine, should wrest another word from her just then. But in her heart she was crying over and over again the words that had been upon her lips a hundred times to say.

"He is no son of mine—no son of mine—this man by whose hand Richard Luttrell fell. I am childless. Both my sons are dead."