CHAPTER XXIII IN THE PICTURE GALLERY

It is strange that, although so many years have passed, that scene remains as though written with letters of fire into my memory—vivid and clear. Word for word, I can remember every sentence that was spoken; and the different expressions on the face of each I could, if I were a painter, faithfully reproduce. Sir Francis gazed at me speechless in a sort of helpless apathy, Maud and Lady Olive looked horrified and thunderstruck, and my Uncle Rupert, with face as pale as death, was shaking from head to foot, with eyes riveted upon me in a sort of fascinated bewilderment, as though I were one risen from the dead. Sir Francis seemed to be the first to recover himself.

"Arbuthnot! Arbuthnot!" he exclaimed; "what does this mean?"

I pointed to my uncle, and he seemed to shrink back from my outstretched hand.

"Cannot you see?" he faltered, in a hollow tone. "Look at him and at the picture."

I had moved a step forward unconsciously, and was standing in the centre of the broad stretch, of moonlight which was streaming in from the high window. Sir Francis looked at me, and then gave a great start.

"My God! Arbuthnot, boy! Who are you? Speak!"

"Hugh Arbuthnot, son of Herbert Arbuthnot, who once called himself Devereux," I answered, proudly, looking Sir Francis steadily in the face; "and who would be a Devereux still," I added, "but for that man's villainous lie."

Rupert Devereux turned his head away, as though unable to meet the fire which blazed from my eyes. Maud had sunk, half fainting, upon an ottoman, and Lady Olive was by her side. Sir Francis stood gazing fixedly at me, as though in a dream.

"It can't be!" he muttered, hoarsely. "He could never have had such a son as you. He was a coward!"

"It's a lie!" I thundered—so vehemently that Sir Francis staggered back aghast. "Rupert Devereux!" I cried, taking a quick stride to his side, "can you, dare you look me in the face and tell me that my father was a coward? You, who bribed John Hilton, your servant, into a shameful conspiracy that you might step into his place! You, you—speak, man, and tell me! Was Herbert Devereux a coward?"

He was white to the lips with a fear not merely physical. His senses seemed stupefied; and though I waited amidst a deathlike silence for a full minute, he made me no answer. I turned my back upon him contemptuously.

"Sir Francis!" I cried. "He could lie to strangers and to you, but to me he dare not. Before heaven, I swear that my father is an innocent man, shamefully sinned against by him"—I pointed to my uncle. "Out of a mean jealousy, and for the sake of being your heir, he did it—he perjured himself. He to call himself a Devereux, and my father robbed of his name and honour by such treacherous villainy! Don't you wonder that I don't kill you?" I cried, turning round, a very tempest of passion surging up within me. "God knows why I don't do it! Sir Francis, I appeal to you. John Hilton has confessed to me that his story was a lie. My father is as brave a soldier and a gentleman as ever Devereux was. Tell me that you believe it. Let us make that man confess, aye, even though we have to tear his guilty secret from his heart!"

Sir Francis had recovered himself entirely, and was again the aristocratic immovable soldier.

"Hugh, my boy, I believe you," he said, kindly. "Be my grandson, and I shall thank God for it, and be proud of you. But you are mistaken about your father. A court-martial never errs."

The hope which had sprung up in my heart died away, and in its place had leaped up a bitter hatred—hatred of Rupert Devereux, hatred of my grandfather, hatred of Maud, of every one who refused to believe in my father's innocence. I drew back from Sir Francis's outstretched hand, and looked at him proudly.

"Never, Sir Francis. I will not call myself your grandson, or take the name of Devereux, until my father bears it too. I would sooner live and die Hugh Arbuthnot."

Then, without another look at one of them, without even a glance into Maud's white face, I turned, and walked slowly out of the gallery and out of the house.