MOTHER AND SON.

Early on the following morning Brian received a message from his mother.

It was the first communication that she had vouchsafed to him since the day of her eldest son's death. "Would he come to her dressing-room at eleven o'clock? She wished to consult him upon special business." Brian sent word that he would be with her at that hour, and then fell into anxious meditation as he sat at breakfast, with Hugo at the other end of the table.

"Don't go far away from the house, Hugo," he said at last, as he rose to leave the room. "I may want you in the course of the morning."

Hugo looked up at him without answering. The lad had been studying a newspaper, with his head supported by his left hand, while his right played with his coffee cup or the morsels of food upon his plate. He did not seem to have much appetite. His great, dark eyes looked larger than usual, and were ringed with purple shadow; his lips were tremulous. "It was wonderful," as people said, "to see how that poor young fellow felt his cousin's death."

Perhaps Brian thought so too, for he added, very gently--though when did he not speak gently?--

"There is nothing wrong. I only want to make some arrangements with you for your future. Think a little about it before I speak to you."

And then he went out of the room, and Hugo was left to his meditations, which were not of the most agreeable character, in spite of Brian's reassuring words.

He pushed his plate and newspaper away from him impatiently; a frown showed itself on his beautiful, low brows.

"What will he do for me? Anything definite, I wonder? Poor beggar, I'm sorry for him, but my position has been decidedly improved since that unlucky shot at Richard. Did he want him out of the way, I wonder? The gloomy look with which he goes makes about one imagine that he did. What a fool he must be!"

Hugo pushed back his chair and rose: a cynical smile curled his lips for a moment, but it changed by degrees into an expression of somewhat sullen discontent.

"I wish I could sleep at nights," he said, moving slowly towards the window. "I've never been so wretchedly wakeful in all my life." Then he gazed out into the garden, but without seeing much of the scene that he gazed upon, for his thoughts were far away, and his whole soul was possessed by fear of what Brian would do or say.

At eleven o'clock Brian made his way to his mother's dressing-room, an apartment which, although bearing that name, was more like an ordinary sitting-room than a dressing-room. He knocked, and was answered by his mother's voice.

"Come in," she said. "Is it you, Brian?"

"Yes, it is I," Brian said, as he closed the door behind him.

He walked quietly to the hearth-rug, where he stood with one hand resting on the mantelpiece. It was a convenient attitude, and one which exposed him to no rebuffs. He was too wise to offer hand or cheek to his mother by way of greeting.

Mrs. Luttrell was sitting on a sofa, with her back to the light. Brian thought that she looked older and more worn; there were fresh wrinkles upon her forehead, and marks of weeping and sleeplessness about her eyes, but her figure was erect as ever, as rigidly upright as if her backbone were made of iron. She was in the deepest possible mourning; even the handkerchief that she held in her hand was edged with two or three inches of black. Brian looked round for Angela; he had expected to find her with his mother, but she was not there. The door into Mrs.

Luttrell's bed-room was partly open.

"How is Angela?" he asked.

"Angela is not well. Could you expect her to be well after the terrible trial that has overtaken her?"

Brian winced. He could make no reply to such a question. Mrs. Luttrell scored a triumph, and continued in her hard, incisive way:--

"She is probably as well as she can hope to be under the circumstances.

Her health has suffered--as mine also has suffered--under the painful dispensation which has been meted out to us. We do not repine. Hearts that are broken, that have no hopes, no joys, no pleasures in store for them in this life, are not eager to exhibit their sufferings. If I speak as I speak now, it is for the last and only time. It is right that you should hear me once."

"I will hear anything you choose to say," answered Brian, heavily. "But, mother, be merciful. I have suffered, too."

"We will pass over the amount of your suffering," said Mrs. Luttrell, "if you please. I have no doubt that it is very great, but I think that it will soon be assuaged. I think that you will soon begin to remember the many things that you gain by your brother's death--the social position, the assured income, the estate in Scotland which I brought to your father, as well as his own house of Netherglen--all the things for which men are only too ready to sell their souls."

"All these things are nothing to me," sighed Brian.

"They are a great deal in the world's eyes. You will soon find out how differently it receives you now from the way it received you a year--a month--a week--ago. You are a rich man. I wish you joy of your wealth.

Everything goes to you except Netherglen itself; that is left in my hands."

"Mother, are you mad?" said her son, passionately. "Why do you talk to me in this way? I swear to you that I would give every hope and every joy that I ever possessed--I would give my life--to have Richard back again! Do you think I ever wanted to be rich through his death?"

"I do not know what you wanted," said Mrs. Luttrell, sternly. "I have no means of guessing."

"Is this what you wished me to say?" said Brian, whose voice was hoarse and changed. "I said that I would listen--but, you might spare me these taunts, at least."

"I do not taunt you. I wish only to draw attention to the difference between your position and my own. Richard's death brings wealth, ease, comfort to you; to me nothing but desolation. I am willing to allow the house of which I have been the mistress for so many years, of which I am legally the mistress still, to pass into your hands. I have lost my home as well as my sons. I am desolate."

"Your sons! You have not lost both your sons, mother," pleaded Brian, with a note of bitter pain in his voice, as he came closer to her and tried in vain to take her icy hand. "Why do you think that you are no longer mistress of this house? You are as much mistress as you were in my father's time--in Richard's time. Why should there be a difference now?"

"There is this difference," said Mrs. Luttrell, coldly, "that I do not care to live in any house with you. It would be painful to me; that is all. If you desire to stay, I will go."

Brian staggered back as if she had struck him in the face.

"Do you mean to cast me off?" he almost whispered, for he could not find strength to speak aloud. "Am I not your son, too?"

"You fill the place that a son should occupy," said Mrs. Luttrell, letting her hand rise and fall upon her lap, and looking away from Brian. "I can say no more. My son--my own son--the son that I loved"--(she paused, and seemed to recollect herself before she continued in a lower voice)--"the son that I loved--is dead."

There was a silence. Brian seated himself and bowed his head upon his hands. "God help me!" she heard him mutter. But she did not relent.

Presently he looked up and fixed his haggard eyes upon her.

"Mother," he said, in hoarse and unnatural tones, "you have had your say; now let me have mine. I know too well what you believe. You think, because of a slight dispute which arose between us on that day, that I had some grudge against my brother. I solemnly declare to you that that is not true. Richard and I had differed; but we met--in the wood"--(he drew his breath painfully)--"a few minutes only before that terrible mistake of mine; and we were friends again. Mother, do you know me so ill as to think that I could ever have lifted my hand against Richard, who was always a friend to me, always far kinder than I deserved? It was a mistake--a mistake that I'll never, never forgive myself for, and that you, perhaps, never will forgive--but, at any rate, do me the justice to believe that it was a mistake, and not--not--that I was Richard's murderer!"

Mrs. Luttrell sat silent, motionless, her white hands crossed before her on the crape of her black gown. Brian threw himself impetuously on his knees before her and looked up into her face.

"Mother, mother!" he said, "do you not believe me?"

It seemed to him a long time--it was, in reality, not more than ten or twelve seconds--before Mrs. Luttrell answered his question. "Do you not believe me?" he had said. And she answered--

"No."

The shock of finding his passionate appeal so utterly disregarded restored to Brian the composure which had failed him before. He rose to his feet, pale, stricken, indeed, but calm. For a moment or two he averted his face from the woman who judged him so harshly, so pitilessly; but when he turned to her again, he had gained a certain pride of bearing which compelled her unwilling respect.

"If that is your final answer," he said, "I can say nothing more.

Perhaps the day will come when you will understand me better. In the meantime, I shall be glad to hear whether you have any plans which I can assist you in carrying out."

"None in which I require your assistance," said Mrs. Luttrell, stonily.

"I have my jointure; I can live upon that. I will leave Netherglen to you. I will take a cottage for myself--and Angela."

"And Angela?"

"Angela remains with me. You may remember that she has no home, except with friends who are not always as kind to her as they might be. Her brother is not a wealthy man, and has no house of his own. Under these circumstances, and considering what she has lost, it would be mere justice if I offered her a home. Henceforth she is my daughter."

"You have asked her to stay, and she has consented?"

"I have."