"You must not think me unkind, Hugh," he said gently, "but mine is a very flying visit. I cannot breathe in this country. It chokes me! Everything reminds me so of home! To-night, in half-an-hour's time," he added, taking out his watch, "I leave here for Weymouth to see Marian. To-morrow afternoon I leave England, most likely for ever."
I tried entreaties, remonstrances, reproaches, but they were all in vain. He shook his head to all.
"I have called at London on my way here," he said, interrupting me in the midst of my appeal, "and have made over my account at Smith's to you. Here is the pass-book and a cheque-book. Mr. Malcolm, of 18, Bucklersbury, is my solicitor, and will pay you three hundred a year. If at any time you desire to re-invest the capital you can do so, for it stands in your name. Hugh, God knows it is my bitter sorrow that I can leave you nothing better than a tarnished name. But remember this: I believe that if you were to go to your grandfather, and tell him who you were, and that I had left England with a vow never to return, I believe then that he would receive you, and would make you his heir. So that——"
"Father, what do you take me for?" I interrupted, passionately. "I will live and die Hugh Arbuthnot, unless you before me bear the name and title of the Devereuxs. Can you imagine that I would seek out my grandfather and crave his recognition, whilst you were wandering about in miserable exile excluded from it? Father, you cannot think so meanly of me."
He held out his hand without speaking, but the gesture was in itself enough. Then he drew out his watch, and rose.
"Hugh, my boy, good-bye, and God bless you! Where I am going I cannot tell you, for I do not know myself. But I will write, and if at any time you have news for me and do not know my address, put an advertisement in the Times. Take care of Marian—and—and God bless you."
*****
He was gone, and save a dull, gnawing pain at my heart, and the letter which lay on the table before me, there was nothing to remind me of his recent presence. All through the long hours of the night I sat in my chair with my head buried in my hands, and—I see no shame in confessing it—many passionate tears falling on to my spoilt plans. Then, when the grey streaks of dawn commenced to rise in the eastern sky, and throw a ghastly light into my sitting-room, in which the gas was still burning, I fell into a drowsy sleep. When I awoke the sun was shining in a clear sky, and the cathedral bells were chiming the hour. It was eight o'clock.
I stood up half dazed. Then my eyes fell upon the letter which still lay before me, and I remembered with a cold chill all that had happened. I stretched out my hand for it, and tore it open.
The handwriting was weak and straggling, and the words were few; but I held it reverently, for it was a message from the dead.