CHAPTER XVI MY CONVALESCENCE

For three days and nights I lay at Devereux Court in danger of my life, but at the end of that time the concussion of the brain from which I was suffering suddenly abated, and I commenced to make rapid strides towards recovery. Everything that skill and kindness could do for me was done. Marian was my principal nurse, but often in the afternoons Lady Olive and Maud would come and sit with me, whilst more than once I woke up to find Sir Francis Devereux himself by my side.

As soon as I was well enough to talk I asked eagerly whether any of the other poachers had been taken. Sir Francis shook his head, and looked severe.

"Not one of them," he declared in a vexed tone. "I scarcely have patience to speak about it at the police-office, it seems so scandalous. A thick-head set of muffs they must be!"

How surprised he would have been if any one had told him his answer was a great relief to me—and yet it was so. There was one man among that gang of poachers whom I did not wish to be caught.

"And was Heggs much hurt?" I asked.

Sir Francis shook his head.

"The old man was cut about a bit, but not seriously injured. Richard—that's the son, you know—came off very easily, and was able to tell us all about it. Can't say much about it, Arbuthnot, my boy, for the doctor has given orders that there's to be no talking; but you behaved splendidly, just as I should like my own son to have behaved," he added, in a somewhat husky tone.

"What's become of the man they caught?" I asked.

"Remanded without bail until you can give evidence, which you won't be able to do just yet," was the reply. "And now you're not to talk any more. Not another word, sir," he added, sharply, in a tone of command which he often used, and which came naturally from him, as it does from any born soldier. And, of course, I obeyed.

The short period of my illness was made as pleasant for me as kindness and every luxury could make it. Marian was given a room close to mine, and Sir Francis had also insisted upon sending for a trained nurse from York Infirmary. All night she sat up with me, although it was quite unnecessary, for all symptoms of the brain fever, which the doctor had feared was impending, had disappeared, and I invariably slept well. And all day Marian was with me, whilst Lady Olive and, more rarely, Maud Devereux paid me occasional visits. My most regular daily visitor, though, was Sir Francis himself. Every afternoon I woke up from my doze to see his tall, stately figure moving softly about the room, or sitting in the high-backed chair by my side. And sometimes I found him with his eyes fixed upon me, watching me with a half-curious, half-tender light softening his fine, stern face. Then I knew that he was thinking of my father, and I found it hard to refrain from clasping his hand and telling him who I was, and the whole truth about that miserable day so many years ago. But I remembered that he had heard it from my father, and called him a liar. I remembered that to his soldierly notion the court-martial was a court infallible, a tribunal which could not err, and I kept my mouth closed.

To others, the obvious fancy which Sir Francis had taken for me seemed inexplicable. I alone could guess—nay, knew, the reason. Marian and Lady Olive sometimes jested with me about it, but Maud never referred to it. In those days of my convalescence it seemed to me almost as though her wild face, when I had lain fainting in the hall, must have been a dream. She was kind, but in a proud, languid way; she talked to me, but in a monotonous, measured manner, and with a cold gleam in her deep blue eyes. She moved about my room with the stately grace of a princess, but of a princess who is stooping to perform a conscientious duty which she finds very wearisome. And yet, when she was there all was glaring light, and my heart was beating with the pleasure of her presence, and, when she was gone, the room seemed dark, and cold, and cheerless, and the light went out of my eyes and from my heart.

During those long days of forced inaction many thoughts troubled me. Not a single line had I heard from my father since our parting at Exeter, and his worn, suffering face haunted me day and night, and filled me with a vague self-reproach. True, little time had gone by yet, and I had already moved one step forward towards the accomplishment of my sworn purpose. But—Maud Devereux was she not the daughter of the man whom we had met on Exmoor, the daughter of my Uncle Rupert, the man who had blasted my father's life, and thrown a long shadow over my own! It was a thought which made me toss about restless and uneasy, and filled me with a vague discontent. I never asked myself why—I doubt whether I knew, but all the same the feeling was there.

One afternoon, just as I was getting a little stronger and able to move about, Sir Francis Devereux gave me the opportunity which I had often coveted. He alluded indirectly to his son. Summoning up all my courage I asked him a question.

"Will your son—Mr. Rupert Devereux, isn't it—be down before the shooting is all over, Sir Francis?" I asked.

His face changed at once. From the courteous, sympathising friend he became the stiff, dignified aristocrat. His lips were set firmly together, and there was a decided contraction of his black-grey eyebrows. Altogether he looked as though he had suddenly remembered that I was a comparative stranger, and only his land agent, from whom a personal question of any sort was a decided impertinence.

"Certainly not," he answered, curtly; "my son never visits Devereux."

"And yet it will be his some day," I could not help remarking.

"It will not be his some day. Devereux Court, at my death, will pass into the hands of another son of mine, or his heir. Would to God it could crumble into dust first!" the old man added, with a sudden burst of bitterness.

I could not tell what answer to make, so I remained silent. But I suppose my face must have told him that I was eager to hear more. He rose, and walked up and down the room several times, my eyes anxiously following every movement. How like he was to my father! Age had wonderfully little bent his figure. There was the same grace of limb and carriage that I had often admired in my father when we had been striding side by side across the heather-covered moors, the same long, finely-carved features, and the same look of trouble stamped on the brow. But in my father's case it was developed somewhat differently. It had filled his eyes with a weary, long-suffering look, which seemed to speak of absolute despair, and unvarying, hopeless grief. There was more of bitterness and concentrated irritation in Sir Francis's face. It seemed as though the sorrow would not settle into his being, but was continually lashing him into acute and active wretchedness. Which was the harder to bear, I wonder?

Suddenly Sir Francis stopped short in the middle of the room, and turned round to me.

"Arbuthnot, my boy," he said, kindly, "I'll tell you about my two sons if you care to hear the story, in a few words."

"There is nothing I should like so well to hear, Sir Francis," I answered, in a low tone. He drew near to me and sat down.

"I've taken a strange fancy to you, Arbuthnot," he said, slowly; "I feel that I should like you to know an old man's sorrow."

His voice was very low indeed, and it seemed to me that his eyes were dim. Then he began speaking in short sentences, as was his wont, but with less than his usual curtness.

"I have been married twice, and by each wife I had a son. Herbert was the name of the elder, Rupert of the younger. Herbert's mother was the daughter of an English nobleman, and he grew up as fine a young Englishman as ever walked on God's earth, and a Devereux to the backbone. Rupert's mother was a Spanish lady, and he resembled her rather than me. Perhaps you will not be surprised when I tell you that, although I concealed it as much as possible, Herbert was the son I loved.

"I made them both enter the army directly they were old enough. Ours is a fighting family, and from the days of the Conqueror there has always been a Devereux ready to fight for his country. There, in the picture gallery, you may see them all, a magnificent race—ay, though I call them so—of knights and cavaliers and generals. Never has there been a battle fought in English history but a Devereux has borne arms in it. I myself was at Inkermann, and led my regiment on into Sebastopol. A glorious time it was."

He stopped for a moment with sparkling eyes, and a pleased smile on his lips, as though enjoying keenly the recollection. Then his face clouded over again, and his head drooped. The change was so complete and such a sad one that my heart ached for him, and I turned my head away. He continued in an altered tone.

"Well, I made them both soldiers, and when the time come for them to go abroad and see active service I parted with them without a pang. In less than six months Herbert, my eldest son, Herbert Devereux, returned, disgraced, turned out of his regiment—a coward."

Never had I heard anything so pathetic as the pang with which he seemed to part with this last word. His voice was shaking, and there was a hot colour in his checks. Suddenly he turned his back upon me, and I heard a sob.

"Did you believe it?" I asked, excitedly. "Was it proved? Was there no shadow of doubt?"

He shook his head. "None. My oldest friend was bound to pronounce him guilty in open court-martial. It was the bitterest duty he ever performed, he told me long afterwards. But a soldier's duty stands high above all personal feelings. Had I been in his place I should have pronounced the same verdict that he did, though my heart had snapped in two."

"On whose evidence was he convicted?" I asked.

Sir Francis groaned.

"On his own brother's. It was Rupert's word which convicted him, Rupert's word which has pulled down into the dust the name which through centuries and centuries has stood as high in honour and chivalry as any name in Europe. God forgive him! He only did his duty, but I cannot bear to look upon his face. Not that he wants to come here! He is a foreigner, and he lives in a foreign country. He is only half my son! It is Herbert whom I loved."

"And where is he—Herbert?" I asked, fearfully.

"Dead, I hope," he answered, sternly. "Since the day when I heard of this disgrace I have never looked upon his face. I never wish to look upon it again. For five-and-twenty years no one has dared to mention his name in my presence. I have cursed him."

"But if he lives, he is your eldest son, Devereux will be his?"

A passionate fire leaped into Sir Francis's face.

"Never. If I thought that he lived and would come here when I died, I would fire Devereux Court, though I perished in it. I would cram it full to the windows with dynamite, and leave not one stone standing upon another, sooner than he should enter its doors the head of the Devereuxs. You don't understand this feeling perhaps, Arbuthnot," he went on, in a lower voice, which was still, however, vibrating with an intense passion; "some day I will take you into the picture gallery with me, and then perhaps you will understand it a little better."

"I understand it now, Sir Francis," I told him: "but—but you are sure that your son Herbert was guilty? Think of the difference which his disgrace made to Rupert. It made him your heir, virtually your only son. If he was of a jealous disposition—Spanish people are, they say—the opportunity of getting rid of Herbert for ever and taking his place might have tempted him."

I am convinced that the idea which I falteringly suggested to Sir Francis Devereux had never in the vaguest way presented itself to him before. Nor was this wonderful. Courteous and polished man of the world though he was, his nature had preserved all the innate and magnificent simplicity of the ideal soldier. Falsehood and meanness were so utterly beneath him that he never looked for them in others. They represented qualities of which he knew nothing. Any one could have cheated him, but if by chance detected, the crime would have seemed to him unpardonable, and from him they would never have won forgiveness. Herbert, the son whom he loved, had told him a lie—a court-martial of his fellow-soldiers had determined that it was so—and the crime had seemed to him scarcely less black than the cowardice. He had never doubted it for one reason, because the decision of a court-martial was to him infallible, and for another, because the idea of falsehood in connection with his other son had never been suggested to him, and save from another's lips could never have entered into his mind.

I watched the lightning change in his face eagerly. A ray of sudden startling hope chased the first look of astonishment from his face, but it was replaced in its turn by a heavy frown and a tightening of the lips.

"We are not a race of liars," he began, sternly.

"But, if Rupert lied, Herbert was neither liar nor coward," I interrupted.

He looked at me in such a way that I could say no more.

"There was another witness beside Rupert——"

"Rupert's servant," I faltered, but he took no notice.

"And I should never dream of doubting the court-martial's decision. I've told you this story, Arbuthnot—I don't know why exactly; but I forbid you ever to mention it to me again. Ah, Miss Marian, you see I have been keeping your brother company for a long while this afternoon."

He had risen to his feet with old-fashioned courtesy as my sister entered the room, and had held a chair for her by my sofa. Then, after a few more pleasant words, he nodded kindly to me and went. If he had stayed five minutes longer I might have told him all.