CHAPTER XXVIII GOOD-BYE TO DEVEREUX COURT

Mr. Holdern dined with us that evening, and when he and I had the table to ourselves, and little clouds of blue smoke began to curl upwards to the ceiling, he made a sudden request to rue.

"I want you to let me have Marian at once," he said. "Why not let us be married before you go away?"

I raised but few objections, for the plan suited me. But Marian, when we told her, protested that a month was much too soon. Strangely enough, however, when I took her view, and rescinded my consent, she went over to the other side; so I gave in, and it was settled as they wished. An aunt of Mr. Holdern's was written for, and arrived in a few days in a most excited state, with two tin trunks and a box of caps. A dressmaker took up her abode in our other spare room, and peace at the cottage was at an end. Even in my sanctum I was never safe, for Marian would keep waltzing in with her mouth full of pins and her hair all disarranged, to beseech me to give my opinion as to the draping of a gown, or to inquire shyly, with a blushing face, whether I thought Charlie would like this or that! Altogether those few last weeks at the cottage were not quiet ones.

Lady Olive came often and assisted eagerly at the grave consultations. But I saw her only for a moment or two now and then, for there were many things on the estate which needed my attention just then, especially as I was going so soon, and I was out most nights till long after our usual dinner-hour.

Once Maud came, but I did not see her, and I was glad of it. If it had been possible I would have left Devereux without another word with her. But that was not to be.

On the morning before the wedding I saddled Black Prince myself, and took him out for a farewell ride. I would sooner say farewell to a man than a horse any day! The Black Prince had been my chief companion at Devereux, and a very faithful one too. He had never been the same to any one else, they told me; in fact, he had got the name of being a brute, but whenever I entered the stable he would whinny and rub his head against my coat-sleeve, holding it there sometimes, and looking up at me out of his mild, brown eyes as though imploring me to take him out. And now I was riding him for the last time! For the last time I watched him stretch out his legs for a gallop, and felt him bound away under me as he thundered over the turf. For the last time he picked up his legs as clean as a Leicestershire hunter, and flew over the park railings like a bird. And then who should we meet, as though to spoil our ride, but Maud and her father cantering over the moor towards us, Maud with flashing eyes and a colour springing into her soft cheeks as she waved her whip ever so slightly, with a half-imperative gesture. But I would see none of it. What had Black Prince and I to do with them? Nobly he answered my whisper, and cleared the high stone wall which separated us, and left them on their way to the house, whilst he and I flew on towards the desolate moorland, heedless whither we went, so that we were alone.

Three days more and I shall be away—out of temptation, out of Paradise, alone in the world, with my life's work before me. What matter! Banish such thoughts—away with them! Away with that sweet, sad face, with its proud lips and sorrowing eyes! What are these to my Prince and I, whilst we fly across the moorland, over hedges and fences, with the earth skimming beneath and the wind-swept sky clear and bright above! Live the present! Bury the past! Welcome the future! Regrets and haunting memories are the plagues of the devil. The Black Prince and I will have none of them.

Ah! that was a wild ride. The wonder to me now is that we ever reached home safely. But we did, and when we got there I led him into the stable myself, and took the bit out of his mouth, and the saddle from his back. I watched him munch his corn, and daintily thrust his nose into the bucket of chilled water, and when I turned away and walked into the house there was a lump in my throat.

A gentleman was waiting to see me in my study, I was told—and without asking his name, and with very little curiosity, I crossed the hall and entered the room. Then I gave a great start, and my fingers closed upon my riding-whip, for upon the hearthrug, hat in hand, stood my Uncle Rupert.

Had he not been Maud's father I should have taken him by the neck and thrown him from the house. As it was, I stood waiting with the door in my hand and an angry sparkle in my eyes.

"You are not pleased to see me, Mr. Arbuthnot," he began, nervously. "I did not expect that you would be. But my daughter tells me that she has scarcely thanked you for your gallant behaviour the other night, and, as her father, I trusted that I might be permitted to come and offer you my most heartfelt thanks."

And this was my Uncle Rupert! this tall, thin man with the eager eyes and nervous manner, and sad, sweet tone. For, though I hated him, I could not help noticing that I had never heard a man's voice more pleasant to listen to. Whence had come the affected manners and thinly-veiled snobbism of my cousin Francis? Not from his father.

"I fear that Miss Devereux, in her very natural terror, has exaggerated the service I was fortunate enough to be able to render her," I answered icily. "I trust that she has recovered from the shock."

"Quite, thank you. Mr. Arbuthnot, there was another reason which brought me here. All through my life—which has been a most unhappy one—I have constantly been troubled with the reflection that though innocently (that you will not believe, but no matter), I was the cause of poor Herbert's—your father's trouble. If I could render his son even the slightest service it would be a great happiness to me. You are going to London, I hear. You know no one there, and you have no friends. Could you not make my house your home? You will not take the name of Devereux, I hear, but Mr. Arbuthnot would always be a welcome and an honoured guest."

"You have a conscience, then, Rupert Devereux?" I said, quietly.

He looked at me appealingly, flushing to the very roots of his hair.

"I scarcely understand," he began, hesitatingly.

"Let me explain, then," I said, looking at him steadily. "It seems to me that, having wrecked my father's life by a deliberate conspiracy, you are now seeking to expiate that most damnable sin by conferring favours upon his son. It will not do, Rupert Devereux!"

I should have pitied him had he been any other man, for he stood there looking distressed and disappointed. But, remembering who it was, I watched him with a bitter, sneering smile.

"Then there is nothing more to be said, I suppose," he remarked, with a sigh. "I had better go."

"You had better go," I echoed. "The only words I shall ever care to hear from your lips will be a confession of your villainous lie. I cannot believe that you will have the courage to die with that foul sin on your conscience."

He moved his position, and then for the first time I remarked how like he was in the outline of the face and the features to Maud. But the likeness softened me not one whit towards him, whilst it made me feel harder towards her.

He moved towards the door with a dejected gesture.

"You are very hard," he said, in a low tone, "very hard for one so young. But I daresay that, according to your view of the matter, you are right, quite right. If you won't let me help you in any way, you won't. It's only another disappointment in a life of disappointments. I must go, then, Mr. Arbuthnot. But if at any time you should change your mind, come to me. I live in Mayfair, London."

He walked out, and, without answering his farewell, I opened the door, and let him go in silence. This was my first interview with my Uncle Rupert.

On the morrow Marian was married to Mr. Holdern. It was a very quiet wedding down at the village church, but it went off very pleasantly, and Marian looked charming in her plain white satin gown and simple veil. As we were entering the church I had a great surprise. Sir Francis Devereux, in a black frock-coat, and with an orchid in his buttonhole, called me on one side for a moment, and asked for permission to give away the bride. I would have preferred refusing such an unusual request—unusual, at any rate, as it would seem to those who knew us as Mr. and Miss Arbuthnot—but he looked so much in earnest that I could not find it in my heart to hurt his feelings. So, in ignorance of what they were beholding, the villagers of Devereux saw Sir Francis give his granddaughter away, whilst I, his grandson, stood a few yards behind.

A woman once told me that she always felt inclined to cry at weddings and laugh at funerals. I can understand it. There is something in the former exquisitely, though covertly, pathetic; whilst in the latter case tears are so obviously the correct thing, that sometimes they absolutely refuse to come. I feel certain that the tears were not far from Sir Francis's eyes as he shook hands with us in the churchyard. Perhaps they were not far from mine.

There were presents from nearly every one at the Court, and a sealed envelope from Sir Francis, which, when we opened it, contained a cheque for a thousand pounds. I had offered to make over to Marian half of my little income, but Mr. Holdern was resolute, and even peremptory, in his refusal. They would have a good deal more money now than they could spend in their quiet country home, and eventually, feeling that Holdern was sincere in his refusal, I had given way. Money would certainly be useful, nay, necessary, for me in carrying out the course of action on which I had decided. And so I kept it.

One day longer I had to spend at Devereux, and a dreary day it was. All the morning I was busy balancing accounts with the solicitor to the estate, and in the afternoon I finished my packing. In the evening, after dinner, I wrote a note to Sir Francis, bidding him farewell. He would understand, I said, why I did not come to him personally. An oath was not a thing to be broken, and I had sworn that over the threshold of Devereux Court I would not pass, save with my father. So I was compelled to write him instead, but I did my best to make my letter as cordial and grateful as possible, and within an hour an answer came back, short and informal.

"Farewell, Hugh, my boy. God bless you, wherever you may go, and remember always that though you may call yourself Hugh Arbuthnot, you are still a Devereux of Devereux, and this place is your home whenever you care to make it so.—Ever yours,

"FRANCIS DEVEREUX."

Through many lands and many years I carried with me that half-sheet of thick, heavily-crested notepaper. And yellow with age it reposes now in the secret drawer of my cabinet.

I sent no farewell to Maud. It were better not. My Maud she could never be, though never another should take her place. Me she would soon forget; I was not vain enough to think otherwise for a moment. Only yesterday I had seen her riding with that ill-bred prig, Lord Annerley, the son of a lawyer peer, with all his father's innate vulgarity, and never a feather's weight of his brains. Let her have him if she would, him or any other—or let her flirt with him, lead him on by the beauty of her dazzling fair face and the glances of her deep blue eyes. Let her flirt with him, and then throw him over with a light laugh as very likely she would have done me. A fig for all women! An ounce of philosophy would weigh them all down in the scales of reason. But at twenty-four that ounce is hard to get!