"Why did you make me suffer if you want me to pity you now?" said Hugo, in a low, merciless tone. "You used me shamefully: you know you did. I swore then to have my revenge; and I have it now. For every one of the tears you shed now, I have shed drops of my heart's blood. It is nothing to me if you suffer: your pain is nothing to what mine was when you cast me off like an old glove because your fancy had settled on Rupert Vivian. You shall feel your master now: you shall be mine and mine only; not his, nor any other's. I will have my revenge."

"My fancy had settled on Rupert Vivian!" repeated Kitty, with a sudden rush of colour to her face. "Ah, how little you know about it! Rupert Vivian is far above me: he does not care for me. You have no business to speak of him."

"He does not care for you, but you are in love with him," said Hugo, looking at her from between his narrowed eyelids with a long penetrating gaze. "I understand."

Kitty shrank away from him. "No, no!" she cried. "I am not in love with anyone."

"I know better," said Hugo. "I have seen it a long time: seen it in a thousand ways. You made no secret of it, you know. You threw yourself in his way: you did all that you could to attract him; but you failed. He had to tell you to be more careful, had he not?"

"How dare you! How dare you!" cried the girl, starting up with her face aflame. "Never, never!" Then she threw herself down on the sofa and hid her face. Some memory came over her that made her writhe with shame.

Hugo smiled to himself.

"Everybody saw what was going on," he continued. "Everybody pitied you.

People wondered at your friends for allowing you to manifest an unrequited attachment in that shameless manner. They supposed that you knew no better; but they wondered that Mrs. Heron and Elizabeth Murray did not caution you. Perhaps they did. You were never very good at taking a caution, were you, Kitty?"

The only answer was a moan. He had found the way to torture her now; and he meant to use his power.

"Vivian was a good deal chaffed about it. He used to be a great flirt when he was younger, but not so much of late years, you know. I'll confess now, Kitty, I taxed him one day with his conduct to you. He said he was sorry; he knew that you were head and ears in love with him----"

"It is false," said Kitty, lifting a very pale face from the cushions amongst which she had laid it. "Mr. Vivian never said anything of the kind. He is too much of a gentleman to say a thing like that."

"What do you know of the things that men say to each other when they are alone?" said Hugo, confident in her ignorance of the world, and professedly contemptuous. "He said what I have told you. And he said, too, that marriage was out of the question for him, on account of an unfortunate entanglement in his youth--a private marriage, or something of the kind; his wife is separated from him, but she is living still. He asked me to let you know this as soon and as gently as I could."

"Is it true?" she asked, in a low voice. Her face seemed to have grown ten years older in the last ten minutes: it was perfectly colourless, and the eyes had a dull, strained look, which was not softened even by the bright drops that still hung on her long lashes.

"Perfectly true," said Hugo. "Perhaps this paper will bring you conviction, if my word does not."

He handed her a small slip cut from a newspaper, which had the air of having been in his possession for some time. Kitty took it and read:--

"On the 15th of October, at St. Botolph's Church, Manchester, Rupert, eldest son of the late Gerald Vivian, Esq., of Vivian Court, Devonshire, to Selina Mary Smithson. No cards."

Just a commonplace announcement of marriage like any other. Kitty's eyes travelled to the top of the paper where the date was printed: 1863. "It is a long while ago," she said, pointing to the figures. "His wife may be dead." Her voice sounded hoarse and unnatural, even in her own ears.

"Perhaps so," said Hugo, carelessly. "If he said that she were, I should not be much inclined to believe him. After all these years of secrecy a man will say anything. But he told me last year that she was living."

Kitty laid down the paper with a sort of gasp and shiver. She murmured something to herself--it sounded like a prayer--"God help me!" or words to that effect--but she was quite unconscious of having spoken. Hugo took up the paper, and replaced it carefully in his pocket-book. He had held it in reserve for some time now; but he was not quite sure that it had done all its work.

"And now," he went on, "you see a part--not the whole--of my motives, Kitty. I had been raging in my heart against this fellow's insolence for long enough; I wanted to stop the slanderous tongues of the people who were talking about you; and I hoped--when you were so kind and gracious to me--that you meant to be my wife. Therefore, when I asked you and you refused me, I grew desperate. Believe me, Kitty, or not, as you choose, but my love for you has nearly maddened me. I could not leave you to lay yourself open to the world's contempt and scorn: I was afraid--afraid--lest Vivian should do you harm in the world's eyes, and so I tried to save you, dear, to save you from yourself and him--even against your own will, when I brought you here."

His eyes grew moist, and lost some of their wildness: he drew nearer, and ventured almost timidly to take her hand. She did not repulse him, and from her silence and motionlessness he gathered courage.

"I thought to myself," he said, "that here, at least, was a refuge: here was a man who loved you, and was ready to give you his home and his name, and show the world that he loved you in spite of all. Here was a chance for you, I thought, to show that you had not given your heart where it was not wanted; that you were not that pitiable object, a woman scorned. But you refused me. So then I took the law into my own hands.

Was I so very wrong?"

He paused, and she suddenly burst out into wild hysterical sobs and tears.

"Let me go home," she said, between her sobs. "I will give you my answer then.... I will not forget! I will not be thoughtless and foolish any more.... But let me go home first: I must go home. I cannot stay here alone!"

"You cannot go home, Kitty," said Hugo, modulating his voice to one of extreme softness and sweetness. He knelt before her, and took both her hands in his. "You left Mrs. Baxter's yesterday afternoon--to meet me, you said. Where have you been since then?--that will be the first question. You cannot go home without me now: what would the world say?

Don't you understand?"

"What does it matter what the world says? My father would know that it was all right," said Kitty, helplessly.

"Would your father take you in?" Hugo whispered. "Would he not rather say that you must have planned it all, that you were not to be trusted, that you had better have married me when I asked you? For, if you leave this house before you are my wife, Kitty, I shall not ask you again to marry me. Are you so simple as not to know why? You would be compromised: that is all. You need not have obliged me to tell you so."

She wrenched her hands away from him and put them before her eyes.

"Oh, I see it all now," she moaned. "I am trapped--trapped. But I will not marry you. I will die rather. Oh, Rupert, Rupert! why do you not come?"

And then she fell into a fit of hysterical shrieking, succeeded by a swoon, from which Hugo found some difficulty in recovering her. He was obliged to call the nurse to his aid, and the nurse and the kitchen-maid between them carried the girl upstairs and placed her on the bed. Here Kitty came to herself by degrees, but it was thought well to leave the kitchen-maid, Elsie, beside her for some time, for as soon as she was left alone the hysterical symptoms reappeared. She saw Hugo no more that day, but on the following morning, when she sat pale and listless over the fire in her sitting-room, he reappeared. He spoke to her gently, but she gave him no answer. She looked at him with blank, languid eyes, and said not a word. He was almost frightened at her passivity. He thought that he had perhaps over-strained matters: that he had sent her out of her mind. But he did not lose hope. Kitty, with weakened powers of body and mind, would still be to him the woman that he loved, and that he had set his heart upon winning for his wife.

That day passed, and the next, with no change in her condition. Hugo began to grow impatient. He resolved to try stronger measures.

But stronger measures were not necessary. On the fifth day, he came to her at eleven o'clock in the morning, with a curious smile upon his lips. He had an opera-glass in his hand.

"I have something to show you, Kitty," he said to her.

He led her to the window, and directed her attention to a distant point in the view where a few yards of the highroad could be discerned. "You see the road," he said. "Now look through the glass for a few minutes."

Languidly enough she did as he desired. The strong glass brought into her sight in a few moments two gentlemen on horseback. Kitty uttered a faint cry. It was her father and Mr. Colquhoun.

"I thought that we should see them in a minute or two," said Hugo, calmly. "They were here a quarter-of-an-hour ago."

"Here! In this house?"

"Yes; making inquiries after you. I think I quite convinced them that I knew nothing about you. They apologised for the trouble they had given me, and went away."

"Oh, father, father!" cried Kitty, stretching out her arms and sobbing wildly, as if she could make him hear: "Oh, father, come back! come back! Am I to die here and never see you again--never again?"

Hugo said nothing more. He had no need. She wept herself into quietness, and then remained silent for a long time, with her head buried in her hands. He left her in this position, and did not return until the evening. And then she spoke to him in a voice which showed that her strength had deserted her, her will had been bent at last.

"Do as you please," she said. "I will be your wife. I see no other way.

But I hate you--I hate you--and I will never forgive you for what you have done as long as ever I live."

CHAPTER XLV.

TOO LATE!

Rupert Vivian went to London with a fixed determination not to return to Strathleckie. He told himself that he had been thinking far too much of the whims and vagaries of a silly, pretty girl; and that it would be for his good to put such memories of her bright eyes, and vain, coquettish ways as remained to him, completely out of his mind. He did his best to carry out this resolution, but he was not very successful.

He had some troubles of his own, and a good deal of business to transact; but the weeks did not pass very rapidly, although his time was so fully occupied. He began to be anxious to hear something of his friend, Percival Heron; he searched the newspapers for tidings of the _Arizona_, he called at Lloyd's to inquire after her; but a mystery seemed to hang over her fate. She had never reached Pernambuco--so much was certain! Had she gone to the bottom, carrying with her passengers and crew? And the _Falcon_, in which Brian had sailed--also reported missing--what had become of her?

Rupert knew enough of Elizabeth Murray's story to think of her with anxiety--almost with tenderness--at this juncture. He knew of no reason why the marriage with Percival should not take place, for he had not heard a word about her special interest in Brian Luttrell; but he had been told of Brian's reappearance, and of the doubt cast upon his claim to the property. He was anxious, for Percival's sake as well as for hers, that the matter should be satisfactorily adjusted; and he felt a pang of dismay when he first learnt the doubt that hung over the fate of the _Arizona_.