They carried him upstairs again, handling him gently, and trying to discover the extent of his injuries; but they did not guess—until, in the earliest hours of the day, a doctor came from Dunmuir to Netherglen—that Hugo Luttrell's hours on earth were numbered. He had broken his back, and although he might linger in agony for a short time, the inevitable end was near. As the dawn came creeping into the room in which he lay, he opened his eyes, and the watchers saw that he shuddered as he looked round.

"Why have they brought me here?" he said.

No one knew why. It was the nearest and most convenient room for the purpose. Brian had not been by to interpose, or he might have chosen another place. For it was the room to which Richard Luttrell had been carried when they brought him back to Netherglen.

Kitty was beside him, and, with her, Elizabeth, who had come from Dunmuir on hearing of the accident. These two women, knowing as they did the many evil deeds which he had committed, did not refuse him their gentle ministry. When they saw the pain that he suffered, their hearts bled for him. They could, not love him: they could not forgive him for all that he had done; but they pitied him. And most of all they pitied him when they knew that the fiat had gone forth that he must die.

He knew it, too. He knew it from their faces: he had no need to ask. The hopelessness upon his face, the pathetic look of suffering in his eyes, touched even Kitty's heart. She asked him once if she could do anything to help him. They were alone together, and the answer was as unexpected as it was brief: "I want Angela."

They telegraphed for her, although they hardly thought that she would reach the house before he died. But the fact that she was coming seemed to buoy him up: he lingered throughout the day, turning his eyes from time to time to the clock upon the mantelpiece, or towards the opening door. At night he grew restless and uneasy: he murmured piteously that she would not come, or that he should die before she came.

Brian, although in the house, held aloof from the injured man's room. Merciful as he was by nature, Hugo's offences had transcended the bounds even of his tolerance; and his anger was more implacable than that of a harsher man. Although he had been told that Hugo was dying, he found it hard to be pitiful. He knew more than Hugo imagined. Mrs. Luttrell had recovered speech sufficiently to tell her son the history of the previous night, and Brian was certain that Kitty's cry for help had come only just in time.

It was early in the evening when Hugo spoke, almost for the first time of his own accord, to his wife. "Kitty," he said, imperiously, "come here."

She came, trembling a little, and stood beside him, scarcely bearing to meet the gaze of those darkly-burning eyes.

"Kitty," he said, looking at her strangely, "I suppose you hate me."

"No," she answered. "No, indeed, Hugo."

"Is that mark on your forehead from the blow I gave you?"

"Yes."

"I did not mean to hurt you," he said, "but I think I was mad just then. However, it doesn't matter; I am going to die, and you can be happy in your own way. I suppose you will marry Vivian?"

"Don't talk so, Hugo," she said, laying her hand upon his brow.

"Why not? I do not care. Better to die than lie here—here, where Richard Luttrell lay. Kitty, they say I cannot be moved while I live; but if—if you believe that I ever loved you, see that they carry me out of this room as soon as I am dead. Promise me that."

"I promise."

"That is all I want. Marry Vivian, and forget me as soon as you please. He will never love you as much as I did, Kitty. If I had lived, you would have loved me, too, in time. But it's no use now."

The voice was faint, but sullen. Kitty's heart yearned over him.

"Oh, Hugo," she said, "won't you think of other things? Ask God to forgive you for what you have done: He will forgive you if you repent: He will, indeed."

"Don't talk to me of forgiveness," said Hugo, closing his eyes. "No one forgives: God least of all."

"We forgive you, Hugo," said Kitty, with brimming eyes, "and is God less merciful than ourselves?"

"I will wait till Angela comes," he answered. "I will listen to her. To nobody but her."

And then he relapsed into a half-conscious state, from which she dared not arouse him.

Angela came at night; and she was led almost instantly to the room in which he lay. He opened his eyes as soon as she entered, and fixed them eagerly upon her.

"So you have come," he said. There was a touch of satisfaction in his tone. She knelt down beside him and took his hand. "Talk to me," he murmured.

Kitty and Brian, who had entered with Angela, marvelled at the request. They marvelled more when she complied with it in a curiously undoubting way. It seemed as if she understood his needs, his peculiarities, even his sins, exactly. She spoke of the holiest things in a simple, direct way, which evidently appealed to something within him; for, though he did not respond, he lay with his eyes fixed upon her face, and gave no sign of discontent.

At last he sighed, and bade her stop.

"It's all wrong," he said, wearily. "I had forgotten. I ought to have a priest."

"There is one waiting downstairs," said Brian.

Hugo started at the voice.

"So you are there?" he said. "Oh, it's no use. No priest would absolve me until—until——"

"Yes: until what?" said Angela. But he made no answer.

Presently, however, he pressed her hand, and murmured:—

"You were always good to me."

"Dear Hugo!"

"And I loved you—a little—not in the way I loved Kitty—but as a saint—an angel. Do you think you could forgive me if I had wronged you!"

"Yes, dear, I believe so."

"If you forgive me, I shall think that there is some hope. But I don't know. Brian is there still, is he not? I have something to say to him."

Brian came forward, a little reluctantly. Hugo looked at him with those melancholy, sunken eyes, in which a sort of fire seemed to smoulder still.

"Brian will never forgive me," he said.

"Yes, Hugo, he will," said Angela.

Brian gave an inarticulate murmur, whether of assent or dissent they could not tell. But he did not look at Hugo's face.

"I know," said Hugo. "It doesn't matter. I don't care. I was justified in what I did."

"You hear," said Brian to Angela, in a very low voice.

But Hugo went on without noticing.

"Justified—except in one thing. And I want to tell you about that."

"You need not," said Brian, quietly. "If it is anything fresh, I do not wish to hear."

"Brian," said Angela, "you are hard."

"No, he is not too hard," Hugo interposed, in a dreamy voice, more as if he were talking to himself than to them. "He was always good to me: he did more for me than anybody else. More than Richard. I always hated Richard. I wished that he was dead." He stopped, and then resumed, with a firmer intonation. "Is Mr. Colquhoun in the house? Fetch him here, and Vivian too, if he is at hand. I have something to say to them."

They did his bidding, and presently the persons for whom he asked stood at his bed-side.

"Are they all here? My eyes are getting dim; it is time I spoke," said Hugo, feebly. "Mr. Colquhoun, I shall want you to take down what I say. You may make it as public as you like. Angela——"

He felt for her hand. She gave it to him, and let him lean upon her shoulder as he spoke. He looked up in her eyes with a sort of smile.

"Kiss me, Angela," he said, "for the last time. You will never do it again.... Are you all listening? I wish you and everyone to know that it was I—I—who shot Richard Luttrell in the wood; not Brian. We fired at the same moment. It was not Brian; do you hear?"

There was a dead silence. Then Brian staggered as if he would have fallen, and caught at Percival's arm. But the weakness was only for a moment. He said, simply, "I thank God," and stood erect again. Mr. Colquhoun put on his spectacles and stared at him. Angela, pale to the lips, did not move; Hugo's head was still resting against her shoulder. It was Brian's voice that broke the silence, and there was pity and kindliness in its tone.

"Never mind, Hugo," he said, bending over him. "It was an accident; it might have been done by either of us. God knows I sorrowed bitterly when I thought my hand had done it; perhaps you have sorrowed, too. At any rate, you are trying to make amends, and if I have anything personally to forgive——"

"Wait," said Hugo, in his feeble yet imperious voice, with long pauses between the brief, broken sentences. "You do not understand. I did it on purpose. I meant to kill him. He had struck me, and I meant to be revenged. I thought I should suffer for it—and I did not care.... I did not mean Brian to be blamed; but I dared not tell the truth.... Put me down, Angela; I killed him, do you hear?"

But she did not move.

"Did you wish me to write this statement?" said Mr. Colquhoun, in his dryest manner. "If so, I have done it."

"Give me the pen," said Hugo, when he had heard what had been written.

He took it between his feeble fingers. He could scarcely write; but he managed to scrawl his name at the bottom of the paper on which his confession was recorded, and two of the persons present signed their names as witnesses.

"Tell Mrs. Luttrell," said Hugo, very faintly, when this was over. Then he lay back, closed his eyes, and remained for some time without speaking.

"I have something else to tell," he said, at last. "Kitty—you know, she married me ... but it was against her own will. She did not elope with me. I carried her off.... She will explain it all now. Do you hear, Kitty? Tell anything you like. It will not hurt me. You never loved me, and you never would have done. But nobody will ever love you as I did; remember that. And I think that's all."

"Have you nothing to say," asked Mr. Colquhoun in very solemn tones, "about your conduct to Dino Vasari and Mrs. Luttrell?"

"Nothing to you."

"But everything to God," murmured Angela. He raised his eyes to her face and did not speak. "Pray for His forgiveness, Hugo, and He will grant it. Even if your sins are as scarlet they shall be as white as snow."

"I want your forgiveness," he whispered, "and nothing more."

"I will give you mine," she said, and the tears fell from her eyes as she spoke; "and Brian will give you his: yes, Brian, yes. As we hope ourselves to be forgiven, Hugo, we forgive you; and we will pray with you for God's forgiveness, too."

She had taken Brian's hand and laid it upon Hugo's, and for a moment the three hands rested together in one strangely loving clasp. And then Hugo whispered, "Pray for me if you like: I—I dare not pray."

And, forgetful of any human presence but that of this sick, sinful soul about to come before its Maker, Angela prayed aloud.

He died in the early dawn, with his hand still clasped in hers. The short madness of his love for Kitty seemed to have faded from his memory. Perhaps all earthly things had grown rather faint to him: certain it was that his attempt on the lives of Dino and of Mrs. Luttrell did not seem to weigh very heavily on his conscience. It was the thought of Richard Luttrell that haunted him more than all beside. It was with a long, shuddering moan of fear—and, as Angela hoped (but only faintly hoped), of penitence—that his soul went out into the darkness of eternity.

With Hugo Luttrell's death, the troubles of the family at Netherglen seemed to disappear. Old Mrs. Luttrell's powers of speech remained with her, although she could not use her limbs; and the hardness and stubbornness of her character had undergone a marvellous change. She wept when she heard of Dino's death; but her affection for Brian, and also for Elizabeth, proved to be strong and unwavering. Her great desire—that the properties of Netherglen and Strathleckie should be united—was realised in a way of which she had never dreamt. Brian himself believed firmly that he was of Italian parentage and that Dino Vasari was the veritable heir of the Luttrells; but the notion was now so painful to Mrs. Luttrell, that he never spoke of it, and agreed, as he said to Elizabeth, to be recognised as the master of Netherglen and Strathleckie under false pretences. "For the whole estate, to tell the truth, is yours, not mine," he said. And she: "What does that matter, since we are man and wife! There is no 'mine and thine' in the case. It is all yours and all mine; for we are one."

In fact, no words were more applicable to Brian and Elizabeth than the quaint lines of the old poet:

The Herons returned to London shortly after Elizabeth's marriage, and with them Kitty returned, too. But it was a very different Kitty from the one who had frolicked at Strathleckie, or pined at Netherglen. The widowed Mrs. Hugo Luttrell was a gentler, perhaps a sadder, woman than Kitty Heron had promised to be: but she was a sweeter woman, and one who formed the chief support and comfort to her father's large and irregular household, as it passed from its home in Scotland to a more permanent abode in Kensington. For the house in Gower-street, dear as it was to Kitty's heart, was not the one which Mr. and Mrs. Heron preferred to any other.

Little Jack, now slowly recovering from his affection of the spine, found in Kitty the motherliness which he had sorely missed when Elizabeth first went away. His affection was very sweet to Kitty. She had never hitherto been more than a playmate to her step-brothers: she was destined henceforward to be their chief counsellor and friend. And the little baby-sister was almost as a child of her own to Kitty's heart.

It was not until more than a year of quiet life in her father's home had passed away that she saw much of Rupert Vivian. She was very shy and silent with him when he began to seek her out again. He thought her a little cold, and fancied that a blind man could find no favour in her eyes. It was Angela—that universal peacemaker—who at last set matters straight between the two.

"Kitty," she said, one day when Kitty was calling upon her, "why are you so distant and unfriendly to my brother?"

"I did not mean to be," said Kitty, with rising colour.

"But, indeed, you are. And he thinks—he thinks—that he has offended you."

"Oh, no! How could he!" ejaculated Kitty. Whereat Angela smiled. "You must tell him not to think any such thing, Angela, please."

"You must tell him yourself. He might not believe me," said Angela.

Kitty was very simple in some things still. She took Angela's advice literally.

"Shall I tell him now—to-day?" she said, seriously.

"Yes, now, to-day," said Angela. "You will find him in the library."

"But he will think it so strange if I go to him there."

"Not at all. I would not send you to him if I did not know what he would feel. Kitty, he is not happy. Can you not make him a little happier?"

And then Angela, who had meanwhile led her guest to the library door, opened it and made her enter, almost against her will. She stood for a moment inside the door, doubting whether to go or stay. Then she looked at Rupert, and decided that she would stay.

He was alone. He was leaning his head on one hand in an attitude of listlessness, which showed that he was out of spirits.

"Is that you, Angela?" he said.

"No," said Kitty, softly. "It's not Angela: it's me."

She was very ungrammatical, but her tone was sweet, and Rupert smiled. His face looked as if the sunshine had fallen on it.

"Me, is it?" he said, half-rising. Then, more gravely—"I am very glad to see you—no, not to see you: that's not it, is it?—to have you here."

"Are you?" said Kitty.

There were tears in her voice.

"Am I not?" He was holding her hand now, and she did not draw it away even when he raised it, somewhat hesitatingly, to his lips. He went on in a very low voice:—"It would make the happiness of my life to have you always with me. But I must not hope for that."

"Why not?" said Kitty, giving him both hands instead of one; "when it would make mine, too."

And after that there was no more to be said.

"Tell me," she whispered, a little later, "am I at all now like the little girl in Gower-street that you used to know?"

"Not a bit," he answered, kissing her. "You are dearer, sweeter, lovelier than any little girl in Gower-street or anywhere else in the whole wide world."

"And you forgive me for my foolishness?"

"My darling," he said, "your foolishness was nothing to my own. And if you can bear to tie yourself to a blind man, so many years older than yourself, who has proved himself the most arrogant and conceited fool alive——"

"Hush!" said Kitty. "I shall not allow you to speak in that way—of the man I love."

"Kiss me, then, for the first time in your life, Kitty, and I will say no more."

And so they married and went down to Vivian Court in Devonshire, where they live and flourish still, the happiest of the happy. Never more happy than when Brian and Elizabeth came to spend a week with them, bringing a pair of sturdy boys—Bernard and Richard they are called—to play with Kitty's little girl upon the velvet lawns and stately terraces of Vivian Court. Kitty is already making plans for the future union of Bernard Luttrell and her own little Angela; but her husband shakes his head, and laughingly tells her that planned marriages never come to good.

"I thought all marriages had to be planned," says Kitty, innocently.

"Mine was not."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that I was led into it—quite against my will, madam—by a tricksy, wilful sprite, who would have her own way——"

"Say that you have not repented it, Rupert," she whispers, looking up at him with the fond, sorrowful eyes that he cannot see.

"My own love," he answers, taking her in his arms and kissing her, "you make the sunshine of my life; and as long as you are near me I am thoroughly and unspeakably content."

Kitty knows that it is true, although she weeps sometimes in secret at the thought that he will never look upon his little daughter's face. But everyone says that the tiny Angela is the image of Kitty herself as a child; and, therefore, when the mother wishes to describe the winning face and dancing eyes, she tells Rupert that he has only to picture to himself once more—"the little girl that he used to know in Gower Street."