The letter was from Angela Vivian. She had written, at Mrs. Luttrell's request, to ask Hugo to pay them a visit. Mrs. Luttrell still occupied the house at Netherglen, and she seemed anxious for an interview with her nephew. Hugo had not seen her for many months; he had left Scotland almost immediately after Brian's departure, with the full intention of setting foot in it no more. But he had then considered himself tolerably prosperous. Brian's death had thrown a shade over his prospects. He could no longer count upon a successful application to Mr. Colquhoun if he were in difficulties, and Brian's six thousand pounds melted before his requirements like snow before an April sun. He had already squandered the greater part of it; he was deeply in debt; and he had no relation upon whom he could rely for assistance—unless it were Mrs. Luttrell, and Hugo had a definite dislike to the thought of asking Mrs. Luttrell for money.
It was no more than a dislike, however. It was an unpleasant thing to do, perhaps, but not a thing that he would refrain from doing, if necessary. Why should not Mrs. Luttrell be generous to her nephew? Possibly she wished to make him her heir; possibly she would offer to pay his debts; at any rate, he could not afford to decline her help. So he must start for Netherglen next day.
"Netherglen! They are still there," he said to himself, as he stared moodily at the sheet of black-edged note-paper, on which the name of the house was stamped in small, black letters. "I wonder that they did not leave the place. I should have done so if I had been Aunt Margaret. I would give a great deal to get out of going to it myself!"
A sombre look stole over his face; his hand clenched itself over the paper that he held; in spite of the luxurious warmth of the room, he gave a little shiver. Then he rose and bestirred himself; his nature was not one that impelled him to dwell for very long upon any painful or disturbing thought.
He gave his orders about the journey for the following day, then dressed and went out, remembering that he had two or three engagements for the evening. The season was nearly over, and many people had left London, but there seemed little diminution in the number of guests who were struggling up and down the wide staircase of a house at which Hugo presented himself about twelve o'clock that night, and he missed very few familiar faces amongst the crowd as he nodded greetings to his numerous acquaintances.
"Ah, Luttrell," said a voice at his ear, "I was wondering if I should see you. I thought you might be off to Scotland already."
"Who told you I was going to Scotland?" said Hugo.
The dark shadow had crossed his face again; if there was a man in England whom at that time he cordially disliked, it was this man—Angela's brother—Rupert Vivian. He did not know why, but he always had a presage of disaster when he saw that high-bred, impassive face beside him, or heard the modulation of Vivian's quiet, musical voice. Hugo was superstitious, and he firmly believed that Rupert Vivian's presence brought him ill luck.
"Angela wrote to me that Mrs. Luttrell was inviting you to Netherglen. I was going there myself, but I have been prevented. A relation of mine in Wales is dying, and has sent for me, so I may not be able to get to Scotland for some weeks."
"Sorry not to see you. I shall be gone by the time you reach Scotland, then," responded Hugo, amiably.