CHAPTER XXXVIII AN OMINOUS NOTE

It was a strange meeting. Full of a great throbbing hope, I glanced from one to another of their faces. My father's was white and set and stern. My Uncle Rupert's was ghastly pale, sad, and expressionless.

"I owe my life to you and your son," he said, slowly. "Would to God it had been to any other man!"

"You speak well," my father answered. "You owe your life to the man whose life you have made a living hell. Strange things have happened, but none stranger than this! Why, I have prayed with a sinking heart, Rupert Devereux, that if chance should bring us face to face I might not kill you. And I have saved your life. How came you here?"

"Bound to Palermo with a letter for Lord Parkhurst from England. They told me at Rome that he was here, so I followed."

There was a dead silence save for the hum of clamorous voices from the little group of brigands. My father's eyes were fixed upon Rupert Devereux's white, anguish-smitten face, full of stern expectation. But neither spoke for many minutes.

"I am waiting to hear what you have to say to me," my father said at last. "I have saved your life. 'Tis a deed which most men would deem deserving of reward. I ask no reward, but I demand justice of you, Rupert Devereux. For the long, weary years of my wasted life you can return me—nothing. But you can give me back my name to die under and to leave to my son. Speak."

Like a man who is torn asunder by a passionate indecision, Rupert Devereux hid his face in his hands, and rocked himself to and fro.

"Herbert," he moaned, "would to God you had let me die! Oh, how can I do this thing, how can I? It is not for myself I care, but for my son, for my daughter. They would never speak to me again. They would hate me."

"That they should do so would be a just punishment," was my father's stern reply. "You have built up your life upon a lie, and this is your reward. Rupert Devereux, I demand that you make a full confession, and restore to me my honour! If you have one single spark of conscience left, you cannot deny me. You shall not deny me!"

He turned away again and groaned. Almost I could have pitied him.

"I cannot do it. I cannot do it," he moaned. "Oh! think what it means! To cut myself off from life and the world. To make myself an object of contempt for all men. To forfeit everything that I have won. To endure the everlasting scorn of my children. Oh! Herbert, will you really ask me to do all this?"

"Ask! No! I demand it!" my father thundered. "Think of my sufferings; think of my five-and-twenty years, the best part of my life, hidden away in a secret corner of the earth, never setting eyes on my country or the home I love—a stranger to my children and a stranger to my father. What can you suffer more than this? Speak, Rupert Devereux, and quickly, or I shall kill you where you stand."

He turned around white and resolute.

"Kill me, then. I wish for nothing else. There is not a more miserable man than I on earth. You talk of your wasted years and weary exile, and yet you have not suffered as I have. You have had a clear conscience; I have had a guilty one. Everything I have won, every success, every joy I have stretched out my hand for has tasted like ashes between my teeth. Yours has been a passive sorrow—my life has been one long hell of remorse. But I will not do this thing. I will not pull down with my own hand what it has taken so many years to build up. I will not make my children hate me. Go your way, Herbert, or kill me if you like—I am indifferent."

I saw my father's arm lifted to strike him, but the blow never fell. Instead, his arm sank to his side and he turned away.

"Hugh," he said to me in a low hollow voice, "let us go. Let us go now. God keep him and me apart. I thought I saw him at that moment dead! murdered by me. I will not kill him! I will not kill him!"

José came hurrying out to us.

"Messieurs," he said anxiously, "I must ask of you for a pledge before you go. Not to a soul will you mention the presence of that gentilhomme lâ in our tents, and you will attempt no rescue, or to interfere with the ransom. You must swear this."

"Ay, I swear it," said my father, and I echoed his words.

"It is good," José declared, smiling and twirling his long black moustachios. "Messieurs will oblige me by accepting a cigarette. No? Very good. Monsieur will allow me, at any rate, to render him my most hearty thanks for having prevented us from committing an act of great folly. This ransom will be a gift from heaven. It will enable me to leave this country, and seek a more stirring life. Life here is dull—very dull."

My father nodded, and passed on.

"Good-day, Monsieur José," he said briefly, and then we strode away to where Jacko was still patiently waiting. He mounted and rode on, leaving me far behind, for the sun was high in the heavens, and the heat was great. When I reached home he had gone to his room, and on trying the door softly I found it locked. So I stole away again down-stairs and waited.

Hour after hour passed, but still he did not come down. At last, to my inexpressible relief, I heard the door of his room open, and he slowly descended. He opened the door and stood before me, gaunt and hollow-eyed, but with an air of resolution about him which struck me with a chill foreboding.

I greeted him cheerfully, and asked whether I should have some lunch brought in for him, but he took no notice.

"Hugh," he said quietly, "I wonder whether you would mind riding into Palermo with this letter and bringing me an answer."

I rose up and took it at once, glancing nervously at the address. As I had feared, it was directed to Burton Leigh, Esq.

"I will go, father," I said; and with a heavy heart I saddled Jacko and started off. In the grounds of Lord Parkhurst's villa, fast asleep in a miniature kiosk, I came upon Mr. Leigh. I woke him and gave him the note.

He read it through, and when he had finished smiled as though well pleased.

"Tell your father," he said, "that I will breakfast with him to-morrow morning. You are coming up to the villa?"

But I shook my head and turned away. I was in no mood for Lord Parkhurst's kindly talk or Lady Olive's merry chatter. Already I began to see that a great trouble was looming before me.