Under False Pretences. Sergeant Adeline
I—I——"
"Do not you mourn for him, then?" said Hugo, when the pause that followed Brian's speech had become insupportable to him.
"If I were only in his place I should be happy," said Brian, passionately. Then he turned upon Hugo with something like fierceness, but it was the fierceness of a prolonged and half-suppressed agony of pain. "Do you feel nothing? Do you come into his house, knowing that he is dead, and have not a word of sorrow for your own behaviour to him while he lived? Come with me and look at him—look at his face, and remember what he did for you when you were a boy—what he has done for you during the last eight years."
He seized Hugo by the arm and compelled him to rise; but the lad, with a face blanched by terror, absolutely refused to move from the spot.
"Not to-night—I can't—I can't!" he said, his dark eyes dilating, and his very lips turning white with fear. "To-morrow, Brian—not to-night."
But Brian briefly answered, "Come," and tightened his grasp on the lad's arm. And Hugo, though trembling like an aspen leaf, yielded to that iron pressure, and followed him to the room where lay all that was mortal of Richard Luttrell.
Once inside the door, Brian dropped his cousin's arm, and seemed to forget his presence. He slowly removed the covering from the dead face and placed a candle so that the light fell upon it. Then he walked to the foot of the table, which served the purpose of a bier, and looked long and earnestly at the marble features, so changed, so passionless and calm in the repose of death! Terrible, indeed, was the sight to one who had sincerely loved Richard Luttrell—the strong man, full of lusty health and vigour, desirous of life, fortunate in the possession, of all that makes life worth living only a few short hours before; now silent, motionless for ever struck down in the hey-day of youth and strength, and by a brother's hand! Brian had but spoken the truth when he said that he would gladly change his own fate for that of his brother Richard. He forgot Hugo and the reason for which he had brought him to that room, he forgot everything except his own unavailing sorrow, his inextinguishable regret.
Hugo remained where his cousin had left him, leaning against the wall, seemingly incapable of speech or motion, overcome by a superstitious terror of death, which Brian was as far from suspecting as of comprehending. In the utter silence of the house they could hear the distant stable-clock strike eleven. The wind was rising, and blew in fitful gusts, rustling the branches of the trees, and causing a loose rose-branch to tap carelessly against the window panes. It sounded like the knock of someone anxious to come in. The candles flickered and guttered in the draught; the wavering light cast strange shadows over the dead man's face. You might have thought that his features moved from time to time; that now he frowned at the intruders, and now he smiled at them—a terrible, ghastly smile.
There was a footstep at the door. It was Mrs. Luttrell who came gliding in with her pale face, and her long black robes, to take her place at her dead son's side. She had thought that she must come and assure herself once more that he was really gone from her. She meant to look at him for a little while, to kiss his cold forehead, and then to go back to Angela and try to sleep. She took no notice of Brian, nor of Hugo; she drew a chair close to the long table upon which the still, white form was stretched, seated herself, and looked steadfastly at the uncovered face. Brian started at the sight of his mother; he glanced at her pleadingly, as if he would have spoken; but the rigidity of her face repelled him. He hung his head and turned a little from her, as though to steal away.
Suddenly a terrible voice rang through the room. "Look!" cried the mother, pointing with one finger to the lifeless form, and raising her eyes for the first time to Brian's face—"look there!"
Brian looked, and flinched from the sight he saw. For a strange thing had happened. Although not actually unusual, it had never before come within the experience of any of these watchers of the dead, and thus it suggested to them nothing but the old superstition which in old times caused a supposed murderer to be brought face to face with the man he was accused of having killed.
A drop of blood was trickling from the nostril of the dead man, and losing itself in the thick, black moustache upon his upper lip. It was followed by another or two, and then it stayed.
The mother did not speak again. Her hand sank; her eyes were riveted upon Brian's face with a mute reproach. And Brian, although he knew well enough in his sober senses that the phenomenon they had just seen was merely caused by the breaking of some small blood-vessel in the brain, such as often occurs after death, was so far dominated by the impression of the moment that he walked out of the room, not daring to justify himself in his mother's eyes, not daring to raise his head. After him crept Hugo whose teeth chattered as though he were suffering from an ague; but Brian took no more notice of his cousin. He went straight to his own room and locked himself in, to bear his lonely sorrow as best he might.
No formal inquiry was made into the cause of Richard Luttrell's death. Archie Grant's testimony completely exonerated Brian, even of carelessness, and the general opinion was that no positive blame could be attached to anybody for the sad occurrence, and that Mr. Brian Luttrell had the full sympathy and respect of all who knew him and had known his lamented brother, Richard Luttrell of Netherglen.
So the matter ended. But idle tongues still wagged, and wise heads were shaken over the circumstances attending Richard Luttrell's death.
It was partly Mrs. Luttrell's fault. In the first hours of her bereavement she had spoken wildly and bitterly of the share which Brian had had in causing Richard's death. She had spoken to Doctor Muir, to Angela, to Mrs. Shairp—a few words only to each, but enough to show in what direction her thoughts were tending. With the first two her words were sacred, but Mrs. Shairp, though kindly enough, was not so trustworthy. Before the good woman realised what she was doing, the whole household, nay, the whole country-side, had learned that Mrs. Luttrell believed her second son to have fired that fatal shot with the intention of killing, or at least of maiming, his brother Richard.
The Grants, who had spent the day of the accident at Netherglen, were, of course, eagerly questioned by inquisitive acquaintances. The girls were ready enough to chatter. They confided to their intimate friends in mysterious whispers that the brothers had certainly not been on good terms; they had glowered at one another, and caught each other up and been positively rude to each other; and they would not go out together; and poor Mr. Luttrell looked so worried, so unlike himself! Then the brothers were interrogated, but proved less easy to "draw." Archie flew into a rage at the notion of sinister intentions on Brian's part. Donald looked "dour," and flatly refused to discuss the subject.
But his refusal was thought vastly suspicious by the many wiseacres who knew the business of everybody better than their own. And the rumour waxed and spread.
During the days before the funeral Brian scarcely saw anyone. He lived shut up in his own room, as his mother did in hers, and had interviews only with his lawyer and men who came on business. It was a sad and melancholy house in those days. Angela was invisible: whether it was she or Mrs. Luttrell who was ill nobody could exactly say. Hugo wandered about the lonely rooms, or shut himself up after the fashion of the other members of the family, and looked like a ghost. After the first two days, Angela's only near relation, her brother Rupert, was present in the house; but his society seemed not to be very acceptable to Hugo, and, finding that he was of no use, even to his sister, Mr. Vivian went back to England, and the house seemed quieter than it had been before.
The funeral took place at last. When it was over, Brian came home, said farewell to the guests, had a long interview with Mr. Colquhoun, the solicitor, and then seated himself in the study with the air of a man who was resolved to take up the burden of his duties in a befitting spirit. His air was melancholy, but calm; he seemed aged by ten years since his brother's death. He dined with Hugo, Mr. Colquhoun and Dr. Muir, and exerted himself to talk of current topics with courtesy and interest. But his weary face, his saddened eyes, and the long pauses that occurred between his intervals of speech, produced a depressing effect upon his guests. Hugo was no more cheerful than his cousin. He watched Brian furtively from time to time, yet seemed afraid to meet his eye. His silence and depression were so marked that the doctor afterwards remarked it to Mr. Colquhoun. "I did not think that Mr. Hugo