CHAPTER XXVII SIR FRANCIS DEVEREUX'S APPEAL

Of all the contingencies which had occurred to me, this was one which I had not considered, for only once since I had been its occupant had Sir Francis called at the cottage. But his greeting was even a greater surprise to me.

"Hugh, my boy," he said, rising and holding out his hand, "I have come down to have a chat with you, and Miss Marian has been giving me some tea."

Something in his look, his accent, and his words warned me that the battle of last night would have to be fought over again. But for a while he talked of nothing, save of last night's strange adventure and minor matters connected with the estate, of the turnip prospects, and the timber felling, until Marian left us to change her frock. Then, after opening the door for her with his usual stately courtesy, he returned to the hearthrug, and with the firelight playing round his tall, slim figure, and with a soft, almost appealing light relaxing the hard lines in his face, he commenced speaking.

"Hugh," he said, slowly, "they call me a proud man, but I have come here to beg a great boon from you. Nay, let me go on," for I would have interrupted him. "Let me say outright what I have come to say," he continued, stretching out his hands as though to silence me. "I want to tell you a little of my history.

"You know, perhaps, that I was married twice. To you I do not mind admitting that my last marriage was an unfortunate one. Your grandmother was the only woman I ever loved, and it was her son who took her place in my heart—not Rupert's mother, much less Rupert himself. Perhaps I am much to blame, but none the less it is a fact that the death of my second wife gave me little sorrow, and I have never been able to feel towards Rupert as a father should feel towards his son. And since that day when I knew that it was his evidence (although he was right to give it) which had brought irretrievable disgrace upon the name of Devereux, I have never been able—I say it to my shame—I have never been able to bear the sight of him."

Sir Francis walked restlessly to the other end of the room, and then, returning, took up his old position.

"For twenty years, Hugh, I have been a lonely, unhappy man. Gradually I began to lose all pride and interest in our family name, and even the Court itself, every stone of which was once dear to me. Everything that had made life endurable for me and pleasant had gone. My pride in, and love for, my son who had gone away with my blessing to be where a Devereux should always be, in his country's battles, was suddenly blasted for ever. He disgraced our long line of ancestors, disgraced himself and me, and instead of falling on his sword, as he should have done, came home here, turned out of the army—a Devereux turned out of the army, to beg for my forgiveness!"

My heart was burning, but I judged it wisest to hold my peace. He had thrown his head back, and his eyes were sparkling with anger. His frowning face was as stern and hard as marble, and, old man though he was, he looked terrible.

For a moment there was silence, and then he went on—

"Enough of him! If it had been Rupert I might some day have forgiven him. But Herbert, my eldest son, who at my death must be the head of the Devereuxs—oh, it is a cursed, cruel thing!"

He turned his back upon me, and I heard a sort of gasping sob. I made a pretence of stirring the fire, and when I had finished he was himself again.

"For twenty years," he went on, "I have lived alone with a leaden weight of misery dragging me down almost to the grave. And yet I have struggled against death for the simple reason that the thought of that disgraced man who was once my son calling himself the head of the Devereuxs, and lying down to rest within the walls of Devereux Court, has kept me hanging on to life. My son a coward! To run away from the enemy! My God, what had I done to deserve this?"

"He was not a coward," I interrupted, passionately. "Rupert lied! I know he lied! He was jealous! John Hilton has confessed to me!"

Sir Francis shook his head sorrowfully.

"The word of a servant discharged without a character is worth very little, especially when it is directed against his master," he said. "No, Hugh, my boy, if you had lived as long as I have, and had been a soldier, you would know that a court-martial never errs. It never convicts except on overwhelming evidence, and its judgments are absolute. General Luxton came to see me when he returned to England, and from him I learned the undoubted truth."

I remained silent. One might as well have talked to the Sphinx as to this coldly obstinate, dogmatic old soldier.

"I have come to make you an offer, Hugh," he went on in an altogether different tone of voice, "or rather to make you a request, and I beg you to remember that it is one which lies very near an old man's heart. I am childless and lonely, and weary of seeing none but girls' faces around me. Come and live with me as my grandson! Let that subject on which we can never agree, be buried between us! Why should you go away on a wild-goose chase? Devereux Court is your natural home. Come and live there."

I stood up and faced him. He was very much in earnest, I could see, for the long white hand which rested upon the chimney-piece was shaking, and his eyes were eagerly searching my face for its answer; but what they read there could not have been encouraging, for I never wavered for an instant.

"Sir Francis," I asked, firmly, "does a Devereux ever break his oath or neglect his duty?"

He shook his head.

"Never!"

"Neither will I, then," I answered; "my duty would never urge me to renounce my father, whose innocence I firmly believe in, and if I did I should break my oath, Sir Francis. I feel for you, and I love Devereux. But what you ask I distinctly and absolutely refuse."

He walked to the window, and stood there for a moment gazing across the park, with his hands behind him. Then he turned round suddenly and commenced drawing on his dog-skin gloves. He held himself up in his usual stiff, soldierly manner, but I could see that he was hurt and deeply disappointed.

"More than I have said I cannot say," he remarked, quietly. "Good-bye, Hugh; make my apologies to your sister."

I walked with him to the door, and watched him walk across the park with head bent more than usual, and slow, weary footsteps. Oh, that I could succeed in my life's desire and bring him home the son he loved! What would I not give to attain my end! And yet, save through my Uncle Rupert, how could I possibly succeed? My Uncle Rupert! Was it not strange that Maud's father should be the man whom I hated more than any one or anything on earth!