About ten o'clock at night Hugo Luttrell was seen entering the courtyard at the back of the house, where keepers, grooms, and indoor servants were collected in a group, discussing in low tones the event of the day. Seeing these persons, he seemed inclined to go back by the way that he had come; but the butler—an old Englishman who had been in the Luttrell family before Edward Luttrell ever thought of marrying a Scotch heiress and settling for the greater part of every year at Netherglen—this said butler, whose name was William Whale, caught sight of the young fellow and accosted him by name.

"Mr. Hugo, sir, there's been many inquiries after you," he began in a lugubrious tone of voice.

"After me, William?" Hugo looked frightened and uneasy. "What for?"

"You won't have heard of the calamity that has come upon the house," said William, shaking his head solemnly; "and it will be a great shock to you, no doubt, sir; a terrible shock. Stand back, you men, there; let Mr. Hugo pass. Come into the housekeeper's room, sir. There's a fire in it; the night has turned chilly. Go softly, if you please, sir."

Hugo followed the old man without another question. He looked haggard and wearied; his clothes were wet, torn and soiled; his very hair was damp, and his boots were soaked and burst as though from a long day's tramp. Mrs. Shairp, the housekeeper, with whom he was a favourite, uttered a startled exclamation at his appearance.

"Guid guide us, sirs! and whaur hae ye been hidin' yoursel' a' this day an' nicht, Mr. Hugo? We've baen sair trouble i' th' hoose, and naebody kent your whaurabouts. Bairn! but ye're just droukit! Whaur hae you hidden yoursel' then?"

"Hidden!" Hugo repeated, catching at one of the good woman's words and ignoring the others. "I've not hidden anywhere. I've been over the hills a bit—that's all. What is the matter?"

He seated himself in the old woman's cushioned chair, and leaned forward to warm himself at the fire as he spoke, holding out first one hand and then the other to the leaping blaze.

"How will I tell you?" said Mrs. Shairp, relapsing into the tears she had been shedding for the last two hours or more. "Is it possible that ye've heard naething ava? The laird—Netherglen himsel'—oor maister—and have you heard naething aboot him as you cam doun by the muir? I'd hae thocht shame to let you gang hame unkent, if I had been Jenny Burns at the lodge."

"I did not come that way," said Hugo, impatiently. "What is the matter with the laird?"

"Maitter?—maitter wi' the laird? The laird's deid, laddie, and a gude freend was he to me and mine, and to your ain sei' forbye, and the hale kintra side will be at the buryin'," said the housekeeper, shaking her head solemnly. "An' if that were na enow for my poor mistress there's a waur thing to follow. The laird's fa'en by his ain brither's han's. Mr. Brian shot him this verra nicht, as they cam' thro' the wud."

"By mistake, Mrs. Shairp, by mistake," murmured William Whale. But Hugo lifted his haggard face, which looked very pale in the glow of the firelight.

"You can't mean what you are saying," he said, in a hoarse, unnatural voice. "Richard? Richard—dead! Oh, it must be impossible!"

"True, sir, as gospel," said Mrs. Shairp, touched by the ring of pain that came into the young man's voice as he spoke. "At half-past eight, by the clock, they brought the laird hame stiff and stark, cauld as a stane a'ready. The mistress is clean daft wi' sorrow; an' I doot but Mr. Brian will hae a sair time o't wi' her and the bonny young leddy that's left ahent."

Hugo dropped his face into his hands and did not answer. A shudder ran through his frame more than once. Mrs. Shairp thought that he was shedding tears, and motioned to William Whale, who had been standing near the door with a napkin over his arm, to leave the room. William retired shutting the door softly behind him.

Presently Hugo spoke. "Tell me about it," he said. And Mrs. Shairp was only too happy to pour into his ears the whole story as she had learned it from the keeper who had come upon the scene just after the firing of the fatal shot. He listened almost in silence, but did not uncover his face.

"And his mother?" he asked at length.

Mrs. Shairp could say little about the laird's mother. It was Dr. Muir who had told her the truth, she said, and the whole house had heard her cry out as if she had been struck. Then Miss Vivian had gone to her, and had received the news from Mrs. Luttrell's own lips. They had gone together to look at Richard's face, and then Miss Vivian had fainted, and had been carried into Mrs. Luttrell's own room, where she was to spend the night. So much Mrs. Shairp knew, and nothing more.

"And where is Brian?"

"Whaur should he be?" demanded the old woman, with some asperity. "Whaur but in's ain room, sair cast doun for the ill he has dune."

"It was not his fault," said Hugo, quickly.

"Maybe no," replied Mrs. Shairp, with reserve. "Maybe ay, maybe no; it's just the question—though I wadna like to think that the lad meant to harm his brother."

"Who does think so?"

"I'm no saying that onybody thinks sae. Mr. Brian was aye a kind-hearted lad an' a bonny, but never a lucky ane, sae lang as I hae kent him, which will be twenty years gane at Marti'mas. I cam' at the term."

Hugo scarcely listened to her. He rose up with a strange, scared look upon his face, and walked unsteadily out of the room, without a word of thanks to Mrs. Shairp for her communications. Before she had recovered from her astonishment, he was far down the corridor on his way to the other portion of the house.

In which room had they laid Richard Luttrell? Hugo remembered with a shiver that he had not asked. He glanced round the hall with a thrill of nervous apprehension. The drawing-room and dining-room doors stood open; they were in darkness. The little morning-room door was also slightly ajar, but a dim light seemed to be burning inside. It must be in that room, Hugo decided, that Richard Luttrell lay. Should he go in? No, he dare not. He could not look upon Richard Luttrell's dead face. And yet he hesitated, drawn by a curious fascination towards that half-open door.

While he waited, the door was slowly opened from the inside, and a hand appeared clasping the edge of the door. A horrible fancy seized Hugo that Richard had risen from his bed and was coming out into the hall; that Richard's fingers were bent round the edge of the open door. He longed to fly, but his knees trembled; he could not move. He stood rooted to the spot with unreasoning terror, until the door opened still more widely, and the person who had been standing in the room came out. It was no ghostly Richard, sallying forth to upbraid Hugo for his misdeeds. It was Brian Luttrell who turned his pale face towards the boy as he passed through the hall.

Hugo cowered before him. He sank down on the lower steps of the wide staircase and hid his face in his hands. Brian, who had been passing him by without remark, seemed suddenly to recollect himself, and stopped short before his cousin. The lad's shrinking attitude touched him with pity.

"You are right to come back," he said, in a voice which, although abstracted, was strangely calm. "He told you to leave the house for ever, did he not? But I think that—now—he would rather that you stayed. He told me that I might do for you what I chose."

The lad's head was bent still lower. He did not say a word.

"So," said Brian, leaning against the great oak bannisters as if he were utterly exhausted by fatigue, "so—if you stay—you will only be doing—what, perhaps, he wishes now. You need not be afraid."

"You are the master—now," murmured Hugo from between his fingers.

It was the last speech that Brian would have expected to hear from his cousin's lips. It cut him to the heart.

"Don't say so!" he cried, in a stifled voice. "Good God! to think that I—I—should profit by my brother's death!" And Hugo, lifting up his head, saw that the young man's frame was shaken by shuddering horror from head to foot. "I shall never be master here," he said.

Hugo raised his head with a look of wonder. Brian's feeling was quite incomprehensible to him.

"He was always a good brother to me," Brian went on in a shaken voice, more to himself than to his cousin, "and a kind friend to you so long as you kept straight and did not disgrace us by your conduct. You had no right to complain, whatever he might do or say to you. You ought to mourn for him—you ought to regret him bitterly—bitterly—while I—I——"

"Do not you mourn for him, then?" said Hugo, when the pause that followed Brian's speech had become insupportable to him.

"If I were only in his place I should be happy," said Brian, passionately. Then he turned upon Hugo with something like fierceness, but it was the fierceness of a prolonged and half-suppressed agony of pain. "Do you feel nothing? Do you come into his house, knowing that he is dead, and have not a word of sorrow for your own behaviour to him while he lived? Come with me and look at him—look at his face, and remember what he did for you when you were a boy—what he has done for you during the last eight years."

He seized Hugo by the arm and compelled him to rise; but the lad, with a face blanched by terror, absolutely refused to move from the spot.

"Not to-night—I can't—I can't!" he said, his dark eyes dilating, and his very lips turning white with fear. "To-morrow, Brian—not to-night."

But Brian briefly answered, "Come," and tightened his grasp on the lad's arm. And Hugo, though trembling like an aspen leaf, yielded to that iron pressure, and followed him to the room where lay all that was mortal of Richard Luttrell.

Once inside the door, Brian dropped his cousin's arm, and seemed to forget his presence. He slowly removed the covering from the dead face and placed a candle so that the light fell upon it. Then he walked to the foot of the table, which served the purpose of a bier, and looked long and earnestly at the marble features, so changed, so passionless and calm in the repose of death! Terrible, indeed, was the sight to one who had sincerely loved Richard Luttrell—the strong man, full of lusty health and vigour, desirous of life, fortunate in the possession, of all that makes life worth living only a few short hours before; now silent, motionless for ever struck down in the hey-day of youth and strength, and by a brother's hand! Brian had but spoken the truth when he said that he would gladly change his own fate for that of his brother Richard. He forgot Hugo and the reason for which he had brought him to that room, he forgot everything except his own unavailing sorrow, his inextinguishable regret.

Hugo remained where his cousin had left him, leaning against the wall, seemingly incapable of speech or motion, overcome by a superstitious terror of death, which Brian was as far from suspecting as of comprehending. In the utter silence of the house they could hear the distant stable-clock strike eleven. The wind was rising, and blew in fitful gusts, rustling the branches of the trees, and causing a loose rose-branch to tap carelessly against the window panes. It sounded like the knock of someone anxious to come in. The candles flickered and guttered in the draught; the wavering light cast strange shadows over the dead man's face. You might have thought that his features moved from time to time; that now he frowned at the intruders, and now he smiled at them—a terrible, ghastly smile.

There was a footstep at the door. It was Mrs. Luttrell who came gliding in with her pale face, and her long black robes, to take her place at her dead son's side. She had thought that she must come and assure herself once more that he was really gone from her. She meant to look at him for a little while, to kiss his cold forehead, and then to go back to Angela and try to sleep. She took no notice of Brian, nor of Hugo; she drew a chair close to the long table upon which the still, white form was stretched, seated herself, and looked steadfastly at the uncovered face. Brian started at the sight of his mother; he glanced at her pleadingly, as if he would have spoken; but the rigidity of her face repelled him. He hung his head and turned a little from her, as though to steal away.

Suddenly a terrible voice rang through the room. "Look!" cried the mother, pointing with one finger to the lifeless form, and raising her eyes for the first time to Brian's face—"look there!"

Brian looked, and flinched from the sight he saw. For a strange thing had happened. Although not actually unusual, it had never before come within the experience of any of these watchers of the dead, and thus it suggested to them nothing but the old superstition which in old times caused a supposed murderer to be brought face to face with the man he was accused of having killed.

A drop of blood was trickling from the nostril of the dead man, and losing itself in the thick, black moustache upon his upper lip. It was followed by another or two, and then it stayed.

The mother did not speak again. Her hand sank; her eyes were riveted upon Brian's face with a mute reproach. And Brian, although he knew well enough in his sober senses that the phenomenon they had just seen was merely caused by the breaking of some small blood-vessel in the brain, such as often occurs after death, was so far dominated by the impression of the moment that he walked out of the room, not daring to justify himself in his mother's eyes, not daring to raise his head. After him crept Hugo whose teeth chattered as though he were suffering from an ague; but Brian took no more notice of his cousin. He went straight to his own room and locked himself in, to bear his lonely sorrow as best he might.

No formal inquiry was made into the cause of Richard Luttrell's death. Archie Grant's testimony completely exonerated Brian, even of carelessness, and the general opinion was that no positive blame could be attached to anybody for the sad occurrence, and that Mr. Brian Luttrell had the full sympathy and respect of all who knew him and had known his lamented brother, Richard Luttrell of Netherglen.

So the matter ended. But idle tongues still wagged, and wise heads were shaken over the circumstances attending Richard Luttrell's death.

It was partly Mrs. Luttrell's fault. In the first hours of her bereavement she had spoken wildly and bitterly of the share which Brian had had in causing Richard's death. She had spoken to Doctor Muir, to Angela, to Mrs. Shairp—a few words only to each, but enough to show in what direction her thoughts were tending. With the first two her words were sacred, but Mrs. Shairp, though kindly enough, was not so trustworthy. Before the good woman realised what she was doing, the whole household, nay, the whole country-side, had learned that Mrs. Luttrell believed her second son to have fired that fatal shot with the intention of killing, or at least of maiming, his brother Richard.

The Grants, who had spent the day of the accident at Netherglen, were, of course, eagerly questioned by inquisitive acquaintances. The girls were ready enough to chatter. They confided to their intimate friends in mysterious whispers that the brothers had certainly not been on good terms; they had glowered at one another, and caught each other up and been positively rude to each other; and they would not go out together; and poor Mr. Luttrell looked so worried, so unlike himself! Then the brothers were interrogated, but proved less easy to "draw." Archie flew into a rage at the notion of sinister intentions on Brian's part. Donald looked "dour," and flatly refused to discuss the subject.

But his refusal was thought vastly suspicious by the many wiseacres who knew the business of everybody better than their own. And the rumour waxed and spread.

During the days before the funeral Brian scarcely saw anyone. He lived shut up in his own room, as his mother did in hers, and had interviews only with his lawyer and men who came on business. It was a sad and melancholy house in those days. Angela was invisible: whether it was she or Mrs. Luttrell who was ill nobody could exactly say. Hugo wandered about the lonely rooms, or shut himself up after the fashion of the other members of the family, and looked like a ghost. After the first two days, Angela's only near relation, her brother Rupert, was present in the house; but his society seemed not to be very acceptable to Hugo, and, finding that he was of no use, even to his sister, Mr. Vivian went back to England, and the house seemed quieter than it had been before.

The funeral took place at last. When it was over, Brian came home, said farewell to the guests, had a long interview with Mr. Colquhoun, the solicitor, and then seated himself in the study with the air of a man who was resolved to take up the burden of his duties in a befitting spirit. His air was melancholy, but calm; he seemed aged by ten years since his brother's death. He dined with Hugo, Mr. Colquhoun and Dr. Muir, and exerted himself to talk of current topics with courtesy and interest. But his weary face, his saddened eyes, and the long pauses that occurred between his intervals of speech, produced a depressing effect upon his guests. Hugo was no more cheerful than his cousin. He watched Brian furtively from time to time, yet seemed afraid to meet his eye. His silence and depression were so marked that the doctor afterwards remarked it to Mr. Colquhoun. "I did not think that Mr. Hugo would take his cousin's death so much to heart," he said.

"Do you think he does?" asked Mr. Colquhoun, drily. "I don't believe he's got a heart, the young scamp. I found him myself in the wood, examining the bark of the tree near which the accident took place, you know, on the morning after Richard's death, as cool as a cucumber. 'I was trying to make out how it happened,' he said to me, when I came up. 'Brian must have shot very straight.' I told him to go home and mind his own business."

"Do you think what they say about Brian's intentions had any foundation?" asked the doctor.

"Not a bit. Brian's too tender-hearted for a thing of that sort. But the mother's very bitter about it. She's as hard as flint. It's a bad look out for Brian. He's a ruined man."

"Not from a pecuniary point of view. The property goes to him."

"Yes, but he hasn't the strength to put up with the slights and the scandal which will go with it. He has the pluck, but not the physique. It's men like him that go out of their minds, or commit suicide, or die of heart-break—which you doctors call by some other name, of course—when the world's against them. He'll never stand it. Mark my words—Brian Luttrell won't be to the fore this time next year."

"Where will he be, Colquhoun? Come, come, Brian's a fellow with brains. He won't do anything rash."

"He'll be in his grave," said the lawyer, gloomily.

"Hell be enjoying himself in the metropolis," said the doctor. "He'll have a fine house and a pretty wife, and he'll laugh in our faces if we hint at your prophecies, Colquhoun. I should have had no respect at all for Brian Luttrell if he threw away his own life because he had accidentally taken that of another man."

"We shall see," said the lawyer.