Under False Pretences. Sergeant Adeline
for so many years, of which I am legally the mistress still, to pass into your hands. I have lost my home as well as my sons. I am desolate."
"Your sons! You have not lost both your sons, mother," pleaded Brian, with a note of bitter pain in his voice, as he came closer to her and tried in vain to take her icy hand. "Why do you think that you are no longer mistress of this house? You are as much mistress as you were in my father's time—in Richard's time. Why should there be a difference now?"
"There is this difference," said Mrs. Luttrell, coldly, "that I do not care to live in any house with you. It would be painful to me; that is all. If you desire to stay, I will go."
Brian staggered back as if she had struck him in the face.
"Do you mean to cast me off?" he almost whispered, for he could not find strength to speak aloud. "Am I not your son, too?"
"You fill the place that a son should occupy," said Mrs. Luttrell, letting her hand rise and fall upon her lap, and looking away from Brian. "I can say no more. My son—my own son—the son that I loved"—(she paused, and seemed to recollect herself before she continued in a lower voice)—"the son that I loved—is dead."
There was a silence. Brian seated himself and bowed his head upon his hands. "God help me!" she heard him mutter. But she did not relent.
Presently he looked up and fixed his haggard eyes upon her.
"Mother," he said, in hoarse and unnatural tones, "you have had your say; now let me have mine. I know too well what you believe. You think, because of a slight dispute which arose between us on that day, that I had some grudge against my brother. I solemnly declare to you that that is not true. Richard and I had differed; but we met—in the wood"—(he drew his breath painfully)—"a few minutes only before that terrible mistake of mine; and we were friends again. Mother, do you know me so ill as to think that I could ever have lifted my hand against Richard, who was always a friend to me, always far kinder than I deserved? It was a mistake—a mistake that I'll never, never forgive myself for, and that you, perhaps, never will forgive—but, at any rate, do me the justice to believe that it was a mistake, and not—not—that I was Richard's murderer!"
Mrs. Luttrell sat silent, motionless, her white hands crossed before her on the crape of her black gown. Brian threw himself impetuously on his knees before her and looked up into her face.
"Mother, mother!" he said, "do you not believe me?"
It seemed to him a long time—it was, in reality, not more than ten or twelve seconds—before Mrs. Luttrell answered his question. "Do you not believe me?" he had said. And she answered—
"No."
The shock of finding his passionate appeal so utterly disregarded restored to Brian the composure which had failed him before. He rose to his feet, pale, stricken, indeed, but calm. For a moment or two he averted his face from the woman who judged him so harshly, so pitilessly; but when he turned to her again, he had gained a certain pride of bearing which compelled her unwilling respect.
"If that is your final answer," he said, "I can say nothing more. Perhaps the day will come when you will understand me better. In the meantime, I shall be glad to hear whether you have any plans which I can assist you in carrying out."
"None in which I require your assistance," said Mrs. Luttrell, stonily. "I have my jointure; I can live upon that. I will leave Netherglen to you. I will take a cottage for myself—and Angela."
"And Angela?"
"Angela remains with me. You may remember that she has no home, except with friends who are not always as kind to her as they might be. Her brother is not a wealthy man, and has no house of his own. Under these circumstances, and considering what she has lost, it would be mere justice if I offered her a home. Henceforth she is my daughter."
"You have asked her to stay, and she has consented?"
"I have."
"And you thought—you think—of taking a home for yourselves?"
"Yes."
"I suppose you do not object," said Brian, slowly, "to the gossip to which such a step on your part is sure to give rise?"
"I have not considered the matter. Gossip will not touch me."
"No." Brian would not for worlds have said that the step she contemplated taking would be disastrous for him. Yet for one moment, he could not banish the consciousness that all the world would now have good reason to believe that his mother held him guilty of his brother's death. He did not know that the world suspected him already.
It was with an unmoved front that he presently continued.
"I, myself, had a proposition to make which would perhaps render it needless for you to leave Netherglen, which, as you say, is legally your own. You may not have considered that I am hardly likely to have much love for the place after what has occurred in it. You know that neither you nor I can sell any portion of the property—even you would not care to let it, I suppose, to strangers for the present. I think of going abroad—probably probably for some years. I have always wanted to travel. The house on the Strathleckie side of the property can be let; and as for Netherglen, it would be an advantage for the place if you made it your home for as many months in the year as you chose. I don't see why you should not do so. I shall not return to this neighbourhood."
"It does not seem to occur to you," said Mrs. Luttrell, in measured tones, "that Angela and I may also have an objection to residing in a place which will henceforth have so many painful memories attached to it."
"If that is the case," said Brian, after a little pause, "there is no more to be said."
"I will ask Angela," said Mrs. Luttrell, stretching out her hand to a little handbell which stood upon the table at her side.
Brian started. "Then I will come to you again," he said, moving hastily to the door. "I will see you after lunch."
"Pray do not go," said his mother, giving two very decisive strokes of the bell by means of a pressure of her firm, white fingers. "Let us settle the matter while we are about it. There will be no need of a second interview."
"But Angela will not want to see me."
"Angela——Ask Miss Vivian to come to me at once if she can" (to the maid who appeared at the door)—"Angela expressed a wish to see you this morning."
Brian stood erect by the mantelpiece, biting his lips under his soft, brown moustache, and very much disposed to take the matter into his own hands, and walk straight out of the room. But some time or other Angela must be faced; perhaps as well now as at any other time. He waited, therefore, in silence, until the door opened and Angela appeared.
"Brian!" said the soft voice, in as kind and sisterly a tone as he had ever heard from her.
"Brian!"
She was close to him, but he dared not look up until she took his unresisting hand in hers and held it tenderly. Then he raised his head a very little and looked at her.
She had always been pale, but now she was snow-white, and the extreme delicacy and even fragility of her appearance were thrown into strong relief by the dead black of her mourning gown. Her eyes were full of tears, and her lips were quivering; but Brian knew in a moment, by instinct, that she at least believed in the innocence of his heart, although his hand had taken his brother's life. He stooped down and kissed the hand that held his own, so humbly, so sorrowfully, that Angela's heart yearned over him. She understood him, and she had room, even in her great grief, to be sorry for him too. And when he withdrew his hand and turned away from her with one deep sob that he did not know how to repress, she tried to comfort him.
"Dear Brian," she said, "I know—I understand. Poor fellow! it is very hard for you. It is hard for us all; but I think it is hardest of all for you."
"I would have given my life for his, Angela," said Brian, in a smothered voice.
"I know you would. I know