Colquhoun greatly objected to Miss Murray's marriage with her cousin, and applied to him (in strict privacy) not a few of the adjectives which Percival had bestowed upon the tutor. But the lawyer was driven to admit that Mr. Percival Heron, poor though he might be, showed a very disinterested spirit when consulted upon money matters, and that he stood firm in his determination that Elizabeth's whole fortune should be settled upon herself. He declared also that he was not going to live upon his wife's money, and that he should continue to pursue his profession of journalism and literature in general after his marriage; but at this assertion Mr. Colquhoun shook his head.

"It shows a very independent spirit in ye, Mr. Heron," he said, when Percival announced his resolve in a somewhat lordly manner; "but I think that in six months' time after the marriage, ye'll just agree with me that your determination was one that could not be entirely carried out."

"I usually do carry out my determinations, Mr. Colquhoun," said Percival, hotly.

"No doubt, no doubt. It's a determination that reflects credit upon ye, Mr. Heron. Ye'll observe that I'm not saying a word against your determination," replied Mr. Colquhoun, warily, but with emphasis. "It's highly creditable both to Miss Murray and to yourself."

And although Percival felt himself insulted, he could not well say more.

The continuation of his connection with the daily press was the proof which he intended to offer to the world of his disinterestedness in marrying Elizabeth Murray. He disliked the thought of her wealth, but he was of too robust a nature, in spite of his sensitiveness on many points, to refuse to marry a woman simply because she was richer than himself. In fact, that is a piece of Quixotism not often practised, and though Percival would perhaps have been capable of refusing to make an offer of marriage to Elizabeth after she had come into her fortune, he was not disposed to withdraw that offer because it had turned out a more advantageous one for himself than he had expected. It is only fair to say that he did not hold Elizabeth to her word on account of her wealth; he never once thought of it in that interview with her on the river-bank. Selfish as he might be in some things, he was liberal and generous to a fault when money was in the question.

It was Mr. Colquhoun who told Mrs. Luttrell of Miss Murray's engagement.

He was amazed at the look of anger and disappointment that crossed her face. "Ay!" she said, bitterly, "I am too late, as I always am. This will be a sore blow to Hugo."

"Hugo!" said the old lawyer. "Was he after Miss Murray too? Not a bad notion, either. It would have been a good thing to get the property back to the Luttrells. He could have called himself Murray-Luttrell then."

"Too late for that," said Mrs. Luttrell, grimly. "Well, he shall have Netherglen."

"Are you quite decided in your mind on that point?" queried Mr.

Colquhoun.

"Quite so. I'll give you my instructions about the will as soon as you like."

"Take time! take time!" said the lawyer.

"I have taken time. I have thought the matter over in every light, and I am quite convinced that what I possess ought to go to Hugo. There is no other Luttrell to take Netherglen--and to a Luttrell Netherglen must go."

"I should have thought that you would like better to leave it to Miss Murray, who is of your own father's blood," said Mr. Colquhoun, cautiously. "She is your second cousin, ye'll remember; and a good girl into the bargain."

"A good girl she may be, and a handsome one; and I would gladly have seen her the mistress of Netherglen if she were Hugo's wife; but Netherglen was never mine, it was my husband's, and though it came to me at his death, it shall stay in the Luttrell family, as he meant it to do. Elizabeth Murray has the Strathleckie property; that ought to be enough for her, especially as she is going to marry a penniless cousin, who will perhaps make ducks and drakes of it all."

"Hugo's a fortunate lad," said Mr. Colquhoun, drily, as he seated himself at a writing-table, in order to take Mrs. Luttrell's instructions. "I hope he may be worthy of his good luck."

Hugo did not seem to consider himself very fortunate when he heard the news of Miss Murray's approaching marriage. He looked thoroughly disconcerted. Mrs. Luttrell was inclined to think that his affections had been engaged more deeply than she knew, and in her hard, unemotional way, tried to express some sympathy with him in his loss. It was not a matter of the affections with Hugo, however, but his purse. His money affairs were much embarrassed: he was beginning to calculate the amount that he could wring out of Mrs. Luttrell, and, if she failed him, he had made up his mind to marry Elizabeth.

"Heron!" he exclaimed, in a tone of surprise and disgust, "I don't believe she cares a rap for Heron."

"How can you tell?" said his aunt.

Hugo looked at her, looked down, and said nothing.

"If you think she liked you better than Mr. Heron," said Mrs. Luttrell, in a meditative tone, "something might yet be done to change the course of affairs."

"No, no," said Hugo, hastily. "Dear Aunt Margaret, you are too kind. No, if she is happy, it is all I ask. I will go to Strathleckie this afternoon; perhaps I can then judge better."

"I don't want you to do anything dishonourable," said his aunt, "but, if Elizabeth likes you best, Hugo, I could speak to Mr. Heron--the father, I mean--and ascertain whether the engagement is absolutely irrevocable.

I should like to see you happy as well as Elizabeth Murray."

Hugo sighed, kissed his aunt's hand, and departed--not to see Elizabeth, but Kitty Heron. He felt that if his money difficulties could only be settled, he was well out of that proposed marriage with Elizabeth; but then money difficulties were not easily settled when one had no money.

In the meantime, he was free to make love to Kitty.

Percival spent two or three busy weeks in London, and found that hard work was the best specific for the low spirits from which he had suffered during his stay in Scotland. He heard regularly from Elizabeth, and her letters, though not long, and somewhat coldly expressed, gave him complete satisfaction. He noticed with some surprise that she spoke a good deal of Hugo Luttrell; he seemed to be always with them, and the distant cousinship existing between him and Elizabeth had been made the pretext for a good deal of apparent familiarity. He was "Hugo" now to the whole family; he had been "Mr. Luttrell" only when Percival left Strathleckie.

He was sitting alone in his "den," as he nicknamed it, late in the afternoon of a November day, when a low knock at the door made itself faintly heard. Percival was smoking; having come in cold and tired, he had wheeled an arm-chair in front of the fire, and was sitting with his feet on the bars of the grate, whereby a faint odour of singed leather was gradually mingling with the fumes of the very strong tobacco that he loved. His green shaded lamp stood on a small table beside him, throwing its light full upon the pages of the French novel that he had taken up to read (it was "Spiridion" and he was reading it for about the twentieth time); books and newspapers, as usual, strewed the floor, the tables, and the chairs; well-filled book-shelves lined three of the walls; the only ornaments were the photographs of two or three actors and actresses, some political caricatures pinned to the walls, a couple of foils and boxing-gloves, and on the mantelpiece a choice collection of pipes. The atmosphere was thick, the aspect of the furniture dusty: Percival Heron's own appearance was not at that moment calculated to insure admiration. His hair was absolutely dishevelled; truth compels us to admit that he had not shaved that day, and that his chin was consequently of a blue-black colour and bristly surface, which could not be called attractive: his clothes were shabby to the last degree, frayed at the cuffs, and very shiny on the shoulders. Heron was a poor man, and had a good deal of the Bohemian in his constitution: hence came a certain contempt for appearances, which sometimes offended his friend Vivian, as well as a real inability to spend money on clothes and furniture without getting into debt. And Percival, extravagant as he sometimes seemed, was never in debt: he had seen too much of it in his father's house not to be alive to its inconveniences, and he had had the moral courage to keep a resolution made in early boyhood, that he would never owe money to any man. Hence came the shabbiness--and also, perhaps, some of the arrogance--of which his friends complained.

Owing partly therefore to the shabbiness, partly to the untidiness, partly to the very comfort of the slightly overheated room, the visitor who entered it did not form a very high opinion of its occupant.

Percival's frown, and momentary stare of astonishment, were, perhaps, enough to disconcert a person not already very sure of his reception.

"Am I dreaming?" muttered Heron to himself, as he cast the book to the ground, and rose to his feet. "One would think that George Sand's visionary young monk had walked straight out of the book into my room.

Begging, I suppose. Good evening. You have called on behalf of some charity, I suppose? Come nearer to the fire; it is a cold night."

The stranger--a young man in a black cassock--bowed courteously, and seated himself in the chair that Percival pointed out. He then spoke in English, but with a foreign accent, which did not sound unpleasantly in Heron's ears.

"I have not come on behalf of any charity," he said, "but I come in the interests of justice."

"The same thing, I suppose, in the long run," Percival remarked to himself. "But what a fine face the beggar has! He's been ill lately, or else he is half-starved--shall I give him some whisky and a pipe? I suppose he would feel insulted!"

While he made these reflections, he replied politely that he was always pleased to serve the interests of justice, offered his guest a glass of wine (chiefly because he looked so thin and pale)--an offer which was smilingly rejected--then crossed his legs, looked up to the ceiling, and awaited in silent resignation the pitiful story which he was sure that this young monk had come to tell.

But, after a troubled glance at Mr. Heron's face, (which had a peculiarly reckless and defiant expression by reason of the tossed hair, the habitual frown and the bristles on his chin), the visitor began to speak in a very different strain from the one which Percival had expected.

"I have come," he said, "on affairs which concern yourself and your family; and, therefore, I most heartily beg your pardon if I appear to you an insolent intruder, speaking of matters which it does not concern me to know."

His formal English sentences were correct enough, but seemed to be constructed with some difficulty. Percival's eyes came down from the ceiling and rested upon his thin, pale face with lazy curiosity.

"I should not have thought that my affairs would be particularly interesting to you," he said.

"But there you are wrong, they interest me very much," said the young man, with much vivacity. His dark eyes glowed like coals of fire as he proceeded. "There is scarcely anyone whose fortunes are of so much significance to me."

"I am much obliged to you," murmured Percival, with lifted eyebrows; "but I hardly understand----"

"You will understand quite soon enough, Mr. Heron," said the visitor, quietly. "I have news for you that may not be agreeable. I believe that you have a cousin, a Miss Murray, who lately succeeded to a great fortune."

"Yes, but what has that to do with you, if you please?" demanded Heron, his amiability vanishing into space.

The stranger lifted his hand.

"Allow me one moment. She inherited this fortune on the death of a Mr.

Brian Luttrell, I think?"

"Exactly--but what----"

"Excuse me, Mr. Heron. I come to my piece of news at last. Miss Murray has no right to the property which she is enjoying. Mr. Brian Luttrell is alive!"

CHAPTER XXVIII.