"I shall be better if you administer the cure," he said. "Give me a kiss, Elizabeth; just one. Remember that I have not seen you for nearly eight months."

"I thought we made a compact," she began, trying to withdraw her hand from his; but he interrupted her.

"That I should not kiss you--often; not that I should never kiss you at all, Elizabeth. And as I have come all the way from England, and have not seen you for so long, you might as well show me whether you are glad or not."

"I am very glad to see you," said Elizabeth, quietly.

"Are you? Then kiss me, my darling,--only once!"

He put one arm round her. His face was very near her own, and his breath came thick and fast, but he waited for her permission still. In his own heart he made this kiss the crucial test of her faithfulness to him. But Elizabeth drew herself away. It seemed as though she found his eagerness distasteful.

"Then you don't care for me? You find that you don't love me!" said Percival, almost too sharply for a lover. "I may go back to England as soon as I like? I came only to see you. Tell me that my journey has been a useless one, and I'll go."

She smiled as she looked at him. "You have not forgotten how to be tyrannical," she said. "I hardly knew you when I first came in, because you looked so quiet and gentle. Don't be foolish, Percival."

"Oh, of course, it is folly for a man to love you," groaned Percival, releasing her hands and taking a step or two away from her. "You have mercy on every kind of folly but that. Well, I'll go back."

"No, you will not," said Elizabeth, calmly. "You will stay here and enjoy yourself, and go for a sail in the boat with us this evening, and eat oranges fresh from the trees, and play with the children. We are all going to take holiday whilst you are here, and you must not disappoint us."

"Then you must kiss me once, Elizabeth." But Percival's face was melting, and his voice had a half-laughing tone. "I must be bribed to do nothing."

"Very well, you shall be bribed," she answered, but with a rather heightened colour upon her cheek. And then she lifted up her face; but, as Percival perceived with a vague feeling of irritation, she merely suffered him to kiss her, and did not kiss him in return.

His next proceeding was to put his father through a searching catechism upon the antecedents and abilities of the tutor, Mr. John Stretton, who was by this time almost domiciled at the Villa Venturi. Mr. Heron's replies to his son's questions were so confused, and finished so invariably by a reference to Elizabeth, that Percival at last determined to see what he could extract from her. He waited for a day or two before opening the subject. He waited and watched. He certainly discovered nothing to justify the almost insane dislike and jealousy which he entertained with respect to Mr. Stretton; when he reasoned with himself he knew that he was prejudiced and unreasonable; but then he had a habit of considering that his prejudices should be attended to. He examined the children, hoping to find that the new tutor's scholarship might give him a loophole for criticism; but he could find nothing to blame. In fact, he was driven reluctantly to admit that the tutor's knowledge was far wider and deeper than his own, although Percival was really no mean classical scholar, and valued himself upon a thorough acquaintance with modern literature of every kind. He was foiled there, and was therefore driven back upon the subject of the tutor's antecedents.

"Who is this man Stretton, Elizabeth?" he asked one day. "My father says you know all about him."

"I?" said Elizabeth, opening her eyes. "I know nothing more than Uncle Alfred does."

"Indeed. Then you engaged him with remarkably little prudence, as it appears to me."

"Prudence is not quite the highest virtue in the world."

"Now, my dear Queen Bess, as Jack calls you, don't be didactic. Where did you pick up this starveling tutor? Was he fainting by the roadside?"

"Mr. Stretton teaches very well, and is much liked by the boys, Percival. You heard Aunt Isabel tell the story of his first meeting with Uncle Alfred."

"Ah, yes; the rescue of the umbrella. Well, what else? Of course, he got somebody to introduce him in proper form after that?"

"No," said Elizabeth.

"No! Then you had friends in common? You knew his family?"

"No."

"Then how, in Heaven's name, Elizabeth, did he make good his footing here?"

There was a silence. The two were sitting upon the low bench on the cliff. It was evening, and the sun was sinking to rest over the golden waters; the air was silent and serene, Percival had been smoking, but he flung his cigar away, and looked full into Elizabeth's face as he asked the question.

She spoke at last, tranquilly as ever.

"He was poor, Percival, and we wanted to help him. You and I are not likely to think the worse of a man for being poor, are we? He had been ill; he seemed to be in trouble, and we were sorry for him; and I do not think that my uncle made a mistake in taking him."

"And I," said Percival, with an edge in his voice, "think that he made a very great mistake."

"Why?"

"Why?" he repeated, with a short, savage laugh. "I shall not tell you why."

"Do you know anything against Mr. Stretton?"

"Yes."

"What, Percival?" Her tone was indignant; the colour was flaming in her cheeks.

"I know that Stretton is not his name. My father told me so." There was a pause, and then Percival went on, in a low voice, but with a gathering intensity which made it more impressive than his louder tones. "I'll tell you what I should do if I were my father. I should say to this fellow--'Now, you may be in trouble through no fault of your own, but that is no matter to me. If you cannot bear your own name, you have no business to live in an honest man's house under false pretences; you may, therefore, either tell me your whole story, and let me judge whether it is a disgraceful one or not, or you may go--the quicker the better.' That's what I should say to Mr. Stretton; and the sooner it is said to him the more I shall be pleased."

"Fortunately," said Elizabeth, "the decision does not rest in your hands." She rose, and drew herself to her full height; her cheeks were crimson, her eyes gleamed with indignation. "Mr. Stretton is a gentleman; as long as he is in my employment--mine, if you please; not yours, nor your father's, after all--he shall be treated as one. You could not have shown yourself more ungenerous, more poor-spirited, Percival, than by what you have said to-day."

And then she walked with a firm, resolute step and head erect, towards the house. Percival did not attempt to follow her. He watched her until she was out of sight, then he re-seated himself, and sank into deep meditation. It was night before he roused himself, and struck a blow with his hand upon the arm of the seat, which sent the rotten woodwork flying, as he gave utterance to his conclusion.

"I was right after all. My father will live to own it some day. He has made a devil of a mistake."

Then he rose and took the path to the house. Before he entered it, however, he looked vengefully in the direction in which the twinkling lights of the little village inn could be seen.

"If you have a secret," he said, slowly and resolutely, from between his clenched teeth, "I'll find it out. If you have a disgraceful story in your life, I'll unmask it. If you have another name you want to hide, I'll publish it to the world. So help me, God! Because you have come, or you are coming, between me and the woman that I love. And if I ever get a chance to do you a bad turn, Mr. John Stretton, I'll do it."

CHAPTER XVIII.

THE MISTRESS OF NETHERGLEN.

"Shall I go, or shall I not go?" meditated Hugo Luttrell.

He was lying on a broad, comfortable-looking lounge in one of the luxurious rooms which he usually occupied when he stayed for any length of time in London. He had been smoking a dainty, perfumed cigarette--he very seldom smoked anything except cigarettes--but he held it absently between his fingers, and finally let it drop, while he read and re-read a letter which his servant had just brought to him.

Nearly two years had passed since Richard Luttrell's death; years which had left their mark upon Hugo in many ways. The lines of his delicately beautiful, dark face had grown harder and sharper; and, perhaps on this account, he had a distinctly older look than was warranted by his two-and-twenty years. There were worn lines about his eyes, and a decided increase of that subtlety of expression which gave something of an Oriental character to his appearance. He had lost the youthful, almost boyish, look which had characterised him two years ago; he was a man now, but hardly a man whom one would have found it easy to trust.

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.