"Hugh Arbuthnot, son of Herbert Arbuthnot, who once called himself Devereux," I answered, proudly, looking Sir Francis steadily in the face; "and who would be a Devereux still," I added, "but for that man's villainous lie."
Rupert Devereux turned his head away, as though unable to meet the fire which blazed from my eyes. Maud had sunk, half fainting, upon an ottoman, and Lady Olive was by her side. Sir Francis stood gazing fixedly at me, as though in a dream.
"It can't be!" he muttered, hoarsely. "He could never have had such a son as you. He was a coward!"
"It's a lie!" I thundered—so vehemently that Sir Francis staggered back aghast. "Rupert Devereux!" I cried, taking a quick stride to his side, "can you, dare you look me in the face and tell me that my father was a coward? You, who bribed John Hilton, your servant, into a shameful conspiracy that you might step into his place! You, you—speak, man, and tell me! Was Herbert Devereux a coward?"
He was white to the lips with a fear not merely physical. His senses seemed stupefied; and though I waited amidst a deathlike silence for a full minute, he made me no answer. I turned my back upon him contemptuously.
"Sir Francis!" I cried. "He could lie to strangers and to you, but to me he dare not. Before heaven, I swear that my father is an innocent man, shamefully sinned against by him"—I pointed to my uncle. "Out of a mean jealousy, and for the sake of being your heir, he did it—he perjured himself. He to call himself a Devereux, and my father robbed of his name and honour by such treacherous villainy! Don't you wonder that I don't kill you?" I cried, turning round, a very tempest of passion surging up within me. "God knows why I don't do it! Sir Francis, I appeal to you. John Hilton has confessed to me that his story was a lie. My father is as brave a soldier and a gentleman as ever Devereux was. Tell me that you believe it. Let us make that man confess, aye, even though we have to tear his guilty secret from his heart!"
Sir Francis had recovered himself entirely, and was again the aristocratic immovable soldier.
"Hugh, my boy, I believe you," he said, kindly. "Be my grandson, and I shall thank God for it, and be proud of you. But you are mistaken about your father. A court-martial never errs."
The hope which had sprung up in my heart died away, and in its place had leaped up a bitter hatred—hatred of Rupert Devereux, hatred of my grandfather, hatred of Maud, of every one who refused to believe in my father's innocence. I drew back from Sir Francis's outstretched hand, and looked at him proudly.
"Never, Sir Francis. I will not call myself your grandson, or take the name of Devereux, until my father bears it too. I would sooner live and die Hugh Arbuthnot."