CHAPTER XIX MARIAN SURPRISES ME

It was eighteen miles from John Hilton's hut to the park gates, across a wild country, and I had had two hours' hard riding when, splashed with bog mud from head to foot, I walked into Marian's little sitting-room, which, it seemed to me, after the dark moor, had never looked so cheerful and cosy. Marian herself was there, lounging in a low wicker chair, with her fair hair scarcely so tidy as usual, and a soft, pleased light in her grey eyes, and opposite her was a visitor—our curate. She sprang up as I entered.

"Hugh, how late you are! I waited dinner nearly two hours. Where have you been?"

I was tired, and hungry, and cold; and I shook hands with our visitor without a superabundance of cordiality before dropping into an easy chair in front of the fire.

"A little business, that's all. Did you keep any dinner back?"

"Of course I did."

She rang the bell, and I sat still for a minute or two, expecting Mr. Holdern to take his leave. But he did nothing of the sort. Presently I rose.

"I'll change my things, and have a wash, I think. You'll excuse me for a few minutes," I said to Mr. Holdern, curtly.

He consented readily, without making any movement to go. When I descended into our little dining-room, about half-an-hour afterwards, Marian was not there, though she came in almost directly.

"That fellow Holdern not gone yet?" I asked, surprised.

"N—no, Hugh, he's not gone yet," Marian answered, a little consciously. "Now, I do hope that partridge isn't done up to nothing. And how's the bread sauce? Rather thick, isn't it?"

I couldn't quite make Marian out. She seemed almost nervous, and after she had waited upon me, and poured out a glass of the claret which Sir Francis had insisted upon sending down from the house, she stood by my side with her arm round my neck, and looking uncommonly pretty.

"Hadn't you better go in and talk with that fellow Holdern, if he won't go?" I asked; "won't do to leave him in there all by himself."

"Oh, he won't hurt," she answered, stroking my hair caressingly; "he's been here ever since afternoon tea."

"The deuce he has!" I exclaimed, setting down my glass, and looking up at her surprised. "What does he want? A subscription?"

"N—no. I don't think so, Hughie."

Something of the truth commenced to dawn upon me, and, sitting back in my chair, I caught Marian by the arms, and looked into her face.

"Marian, you don't mean to say that the fellow's been making love to you!"

She was blushing all over her delicate little face, and she held up her hands as though to hide it from me.

"I—I'm afraid he has, Hughie, and—and——"

"And what?"

"And I've been letting him."

"Oh, indeed!" I exclaimed, feebly.

It wasn't a very impressive thing to say, but I was bewildered.

Suddenly she threw herself into my arms and hid her face on my shoulder.

"Oh, Hugh, you won't be angry, will you? say that you won't! He is so nice, and I'm so happy."

I don't know how most men would have felt in my position, but I must confess that my first impulse was to go and punch Mr. Holdern's head. But when I began to think the matter over a little it occurred to me that this was scarcely the proper course to pursue—at any rate, it was not the usual one. The more I thought of it the more natural it seemed to me. I remembered now how often I had found Mr. Holdern sitting at afternoon tea with Marian when I had come home about that time, and what an interest she had been taking in parish matters lately. As far as the man himself was concerned there was nothing against him; in fact, I rather liked him. But to give him—a stranger—Marian, my little sister, who had only just begun to keep house for me, the idea was certainly not a pleasant one, and yet if she wished it, how could I refuse her?

"You're too young, you know, for anything of this sort, Marian," I began, with an attempt at severity, which I'm sure she saw through.

"I'm eighteen," came a piteous voice from the vicinity of my waistcoat. "Lots of girls are engaged before they're eighteen."

This was unanswerable. I tried another line.

"And you want to leave me, then, Marian, already?" I said, with a plaintiveness that was not all affected.

The arms that were round my neck tightened their grasp, and a tear-stained, dishevelled face was lifted piteously to mine.

"I don't, Hugh! You know I don't. We only want to be engaged. We don't want to be married."

"Well, I suppose it's all right," I said, with a sigh. "Look here, Marian, you run along in to Mr. Holdern, and leave me to think about it while I finish my dinner."

She unclasped her arms and looked at me radiantly.

"Dear old Hugh! I knew you'd say yes."

"But I haven't said anything of the sort," I protested, severely. "Don't you run away with that idea, young lady. I shall have to hear what Mr. Holdern's got to say for himself first," I added, frowning, and assuming an air of paternal authority. But she saw through it, and with a final kiss ran away laughing.

Being a somewhat matter-of-fact young man, and keenly conscious of an as yet unsatisfied hunger, I finished my dinner before I commenced to think seriously over this unexpected incident. Then I leaned back in my chair and considered it, and in a very few minutes I had come to the conclusion that it was about the most fortunate thing that could have happened. I had never intended my stay here to be a permanent one, and whilst there were now no reasons why I should remain, there were several strong ones why I should go. First, I could attain no nearer now, by stopping, to the great object of my life; on the other hand, every day I stayed here and remained under the fascination of Maud Devereux's presence I stood in greater risk of forgetting my oath. Then whilst here I had no opportunity of meeting Rupert Devereux, my uncle, the man from, whom, if it came at all, must come my father's justification. My father!

I thought of him in his weary exile, and my heart ached. Not a line had I heard from him since our parting, nor had I even the least idea in what country of the world he was. If Marian left me, what was there to prevent my finding him out and throwing in my lot with his? Together we might accomplish what singly each might fail in. The more I thought about it the more I liked the idea.

Leave Devereux I must, though I had grown to love the place, and to feel a strange affection for my stern old grandfather. Yet how could I go on living here to feel every day the subtle fascination of Maud Devereux's presence gaining a stronger hold upon me—Maud Devereux, the daughter of the man who had wrecked my father's life and mine, the man whom I had cursed in my heart? It seemed to me almost like treachery towards him whom I loved so well, and whose wrongs I so bitterly resented, that a glance from her blue eyes could madden or elate me, and that the sound of her voice could set all my senses quivering. I must go, I must turn my back upon her for ever and take up the work of my life wherever it might lead me. This thing which had happened to Marian made the way clear before me.

I crossed over to our little drawing-room, and, entering without the ceremony of knocking, found Marian and Mr. Holdern seated on chairs a long way from one another, apparently engaged in a minute examination of the ceiling. Marian took up her work and left us with a blushing face, and Mr. Holdern, without any beating about the bush, stood up on the hearthrug and began his tale.

He was a pleasant-faced, agreeable young fellow, and there was an honest look about his eyes and a straightforward manner which I liked, and which convinced me of his sincerity. He had a private income, he told me, and had recently been offered a very comfortable living about twelve miles away. "Of course," he added, hesitatingly, "he felt some diffidence in proposing to take Marian away from me, and thus leaving me to live by myself—but, but, the long and short of it was, he wanted to get married as soon as I could possibly spare her. They would not be far away; indeed, if my prospective loneliness was an objection, I could take up my abode with them. Anything so that I would give him Marian, and give him her soon."

I did not waste any time in affecting to consider the matter, but, pledging him first to secrecy, I told him our history, what was our rightful name, and my reasons for not bearing it. If I had had any doubt before, I knew by his behaviour when I had finished my story that he was a good fellow. He held out his hand and grasped mine, with the tears standing in his eyes.

"Mr. Devereux," he said, emphatically, "I don't know how to express my sympathy for you. I heard of this sad affair when I was a very little boy, and I have heard my father say many a time that he would never believe Herbert Devereux to be a coward. I hope to God that you will succeed in your quest."

"I hope so," I echoed, fervently. "Marian knows nothing of this, Mr. Holdern."

"Nor need she ever," he answered. "I think you have been quite right to keep it from her! There would have been no object gained in her knowing, and women do not understand these things like men."

"Do you know anything of Rupert Devereux?" I asked.

He shook his head. "Very little. I have seen him once—a tall, dark man, handsome, but very unlike the Devereuxs. I have heard him spoken of as a Sybarite and a pleasure-seeker. He is seldom in England, I believe."

A Sybarite! A pleasure-seeker! I thought of him wandering at will through the countries of the world, steeping his senses in every luxury that money could buy, and living at ease and in comfort, and I thought of my father, also a wanderer on the face of the earth, seeking neither comfort nor pleasure nor ease, at war with the world and with himself, with no joy in the present or hope for the future, seeking only for a chance to throw his life away in the miserable quarrels of any pettifogging country who would accept his sword! Mr. Holdern watched me in silence while I walked up and down the room for a few minutes almost beside myself with compressed passion. Then he walked up to me and laid a hand on my shoulder. "Devereux," he said, earnestly, "I can understand your feeling like this, but you must try and keep it under control, or I'm afraid there will be trouble soon."

"What do you mean?" I asked, turning round and facing him.

He hesitated, and then answered slowly—

"I have just heard that young Francis Devereux, your cousin, is expected down here for Christmas."