CHAPTER XXXI MY FATHER AND I

"My father! my father!"

We stood on the slope of a wild heath-covered hill, alone, with no human being or sign of habitation in sight. Before us towered a dreary, lofty range of bare mountains—on one side was a fearful precipice, and below us on the other the blue sea. We had met on the road, my father and I!

With both hands clasping his, I looked into his face. Alas, how changed it was! Thin and shrunken, with hollow eyes and furrowed brow, he looked to me what he was, a wreck.

"You have been ill," I cried, with a lump in my throat and the tears springing into my eyes; "where have you been? Why did you not send for me?"

He pointed to a loose piece of rock a few yards off.

"Let us sit down, and I will tell you everything," he said, wearily; "I am tired."

We sat down, and I waited eagerly for him to begin. There was a patch of brilliantly coloured wild-flowers at our feet which filled the air all round with a dreamy, intoxicating odour. It was a perfume which has lingered with me even to this day.

"Ay, I have been ill," he began, slowly, "almost to death, but death would have none of me. I have little, very little to tell you, Hugh, my boy. Since we parted in England I have wandered about in many countries seeking to find an honourable manner of disposing of my life, but in vain. The dead calm of peace which seems to rest all over Europe can be but the hush before a storm, but the storm is long in coming—long in coming.

"I have done nothing save wander about," he added, after a moment's pause, "after the fashion of a tramp, carrying my luggage with me, and calling no place home. A few miles from here, about two months ago, I thought that my release had come. I swooned suddenly in a lonely part of yonder range of mountains, and when I came to I was still lying on the track, but a fever had laid hold of me, and I thought then that surely I must die. I became unconscious again, and when I recovered my senses for the second time I was no longer lying on the ground, but was in a rude sort of a tent, lying on a bed of dried leaves and heath. One of the roughest-looking men I ever saw, dirty, but gaudily dressed, with a brace of pistols stuck in his belt, was sitting by my side, and through the opening of the tent I could see more like him moving backwards and forwards, and shouting to one another in some villainous patois. For a long time I couldn't imagine into whose hands I had fallen, but they were very kind to me, and brought me plenty of everything they could get—grapes, and olives, and wild aloes, and wine. At last one of them, who seemed to be their chief, and who spoke French, came in to talk with me. Then I knew that these men who had taken such care of me were really bandits, brigands. They had taken nothing of mine, and would accept nothing in return for their kindness. They rob the rich only, the chief assured me. I daresay you'll be surprised to hear, Hugh, that when I began to get stronger and able to get about, I felt quite loth to leave the place. I felt that there I was, at any rate, right out of the world, and secure from any casual questioning. And the spot where they have fixed their abode is the most lovely I ever looked upon. So I had a talk with their chief one day—José his name is—and it was arranged that I should pay a small sum to them for the use of the tent, and for supplies of fruit and olives and wine which the peasants bring them in abundance; and, in short, that I should live with them, though not be of them. I have felt at rest there, though at times the weariness of complete inaction is hard to bear. Only a few days ago I travelled into Palermo for the first time. There I bought the Times, and saw your advertisement, and answered it, and the rest you know. I sent José's son, a quick little fellow he is, into the town to hunt you out, and bring you here. God bless you for coming, Hugh. It has done me good to see you again."

He ceased, and my heart was very heavy. Through every word he uttered, and in his whole appearance, I could trace how thoroughly he had renounced all idea of again mixing with the world, and yet what could his present state of existence be but a state of living death?

"And now for my story, father," I said, as lightly as I could. "First, Marian is married."

"Marian married!" He repeated the words slowly, with a sort of passive wonderment in his tones.

"Yes, Marian is married to a clergyman, and a very good fellow, and I, father—I have been in a situation."

He frowned, and repeated the words slowly to himself, as though displeased with it.

"A situation? What sort of a one?"

"I have had the management of a large estate. It was pleasant work."

"Whereabouts?" he asked.

"Father," I said, holding his arm, "I held it as Mr. Arbuthnot, of course, at Devereux."

He sprang up like a galvanised figure, and looked down at me in eager amazement.

"At Devereux! At Devereux! Oh, my God, at Devereux!"

He sat down again, and covered his face with his hands. Thinking it best to leave him alone, I remained silent for a while. Suddenly he turned round.

"How does the old place look, Hugh? Tell me all about it. And my—my—Sir Francis. Did you see him? Is he well?"

There was such a lingering pathos in his eager questions, that, with an aching heart, I turned away and wept. Then, after a while, I told him everything. Told him of my recognition, of my grandfather's offer, of Hilton's confession, and of my appeal to Rupert Devereux. He listened as though every word were sinking into his heart—listened with an utter absorption which was almost painful to witness. I told him of everything save of Maud.

There was a long silence when I had finished. Then he said quietly—

"You have done wrong, Hugh. You should have accepted your grandfather's offer. You must go back to England, and go to him."

"Father," I answered, "an oath is a sacred thing, and I have sworn before God that I will not do this thing. Whilst your name is Arbuthnot mine will be Arbuthnot. The name of Devereux may die out for all I care! Those who bear the name now are not worthy of it—an obstinate old man, blinded by his military notions and his cursed family pride, and a man who has lived upon a villainous lie, which he refuses to own to! They may rot before I will go near them again, or take their cursed name. You are the only Devereux, father, whom I love and respect, and with you I will stop. I swear it."

His hands were locked in mine, and a wonderful change had softened his face. But by degrees the light seemed to die out of it, and he shook his head anxiously.

"You don't know what you are saying, Hugh. What, you, a young man, with your life all before you, bury yourself with a hermit! Ah, no, it must not be. You must retract that oath, and go back to England. I wish it; nay, I command it!"

There is no need to reproduce the arguments he used, or my stubborn opposition. We talked till the sun sank down, tinging the glass-like sea into which it sank and the clouds in the western horizon with glowing tints of orange and purple and gold. And when the last word had been spoken it was I who was unshaken in my resolve, and he who was yielding. For we had agreed that for a time, at any rate, we would live together.

The shades of evening had fallen with a suddenness which to me seemed strange, but to which my father was accustomed.

"We must part for to-night, at any rate, Hugh," he exclaimed, rising. "It will be dark in half-an-hour. I must call young Pietro to guide you back to the town, unless," he added, hesitatingly, "you would care to come on and rough it with us for a night. I can only offer you a shake-down of dried leaves."

"With you, by all means," I answered, quickly. "One could sleep out of doors in this country."

"Come, then," he said, and, arm-in-arm, we struck over the heath, following no path, for the simple reason that there was none, but aiming for one of the heights of the range of hills before us, and skirting, at a respectable distance, the cleft-like precipice which stretched yawning by our side.