"Shall I go, or shall I not go?" meditated Hugo Luttrell.

He was lying on a broad, comfortable-looking lounge in one of the luxurious rooms which he usually occupied when he stayed for any length of time in London. He had been smoking a dainty, perfumed cigarette—he very seldom smoked anything except cigarettes—but he held it absently between his fingers, and finally let it drop, while he read and re-read a letter which his servant had just brought to him.

Nearly two years had passed since Richard Luttrell's death; years which had left their mark upon Hugo in many ways. The lines of his delicately beautiful, dark face had grown harder and sharper; and, perhaps on this account, he had a distinctly older look than was warranted by his two-and-twenty years. There were worn lines about his eyes, and a decided increase of that subtlety of expression which gave something of an Oriental character to his appearance. He had lost the youthful, almost boyish, look which had characterised him two years ago; he was a man now, but hardly a man whom one would have found it easy to trust.

The letter was from Angela Vivian. She had written, at Mrs. Luttrell's request, to ask Hugo to pay them a visit. Mrs. Luttrell still occupied the house at Netherglen, and she seemed anxious for an interview with her nephew. Hugo had not seen her for many months; he had left Scotland almost immediately after Brian's departure, with the full intention of setting foot in it no more. But he had then considered himself tolerably prosperous. Brian's death had thrown a shade over his prospects. He could no longer count upon a successful application to Mr. Colquhoun if he were in difficulties, and Brian's six thousand pounds melted before his requirements like snow before an April sun. He had already squandered the greater part of it; he was deeply in debt; and he had no relation upon whom he could rely for assistance—unless it were Mrs. Luttrell, and Hugo had a definite dislike to the thought of asking Mrs. Luttrell for money.

It was no more than a dislike, however. It was an unpleasant thing to do, perhaps, but not a thing that he would refrain from doing, if necessary. Why should not Mrs. Luttrell be generous to her nephew? Possibly she wished to make him her heir; possibly she would offer to pay his debts; at any rate, he could not afford to decline her help. So he must start for Netherglen next day.

"Netherglen! They are still there," he said to himself, as he stared moodily at the sheet of black-edged note-paper, on which the name of the house was stamped in small, black letters. "I wonder that they did not leave the place. I should have done so if I had been Aunt Margaret. I would give a great deal to get out of going to it myself!"

A sombre look stole over his face; his hand clenched itself over the paper that he held; in spite of the luxurious warmth of the room, he gave a little shiver. Then he rose and bestirred himself; his nature was not one that impelled him to dwell for very long upon any painful or disturbing thought.

He gave his orders about the journey for the following day, then dressed and went out, remembering that he had two or three engagements for the evening. The season was nearly over, and many people had left London, but there seemed little diminution in the number of guests who were struggling up and down the wide staircase of a house at which Hugo presented himself about twelve o'clock that night, and he missed very few familiar faces amongst the crowd as he nodded greetings to his numerous acquaintances.

"Ah, Luttrell," said a voice at his ear, "I was wondering if I should see you. I thought you might be off to Scotland already."

"Who told you I was going to Scotland?" said Hugo.

The dark shadow had crossed his face again; if there was a man in England whom at that time he cordially disliked, it was this man—Angela's brother—Rupert Vivian. He did not know why, but he always had a presage of disaster when he saw that high-bred, impassive face beside him, or heard the modulation of Vivian's quiet, musical voice. Hugo was superstitious, and he firmly believed that Rupert Vivian's presence brought him ill luck.

"Angela wrote to me that Mrs. Luttrell was inviting you to Netherglen. I was going there myself, but I have been prevented. A relation of mine in Wales is dying, and has sent for me, so I may not be able to get to Scotland for some weeks."

"Sorry not to see you. I shall be gone by the time you reach Scotland, then," responded Hugo, amiably.

"Yes." Rupert looked down with a reflective air. "Come here, will you?" he said, drawing Hugo aside into a small curtained recess, with a seat just wide enough for two, which happened at that moment to be empty. "I have something to ask you; there is something that you can do for me if you will."

"Happy to do anything in my power," murmured Hugo. He did not like to be asked to help other people, but there was a want of assurance in Vivian's usually self-contained demeanour which roused his curiosity. "What is it?"

"Well, to begin with, you know the Herons and Miss Murray, do you not?"

"I know them by name. I have met Percival Heron sometimes."

"Do you know that they have returned rather unexpectedly from Italy and gone to Strathleckie, the house on the other side of the property—about six miles from Netherglen?"

"How's that?"

"I suppose that Miss Murray thinks she may as well take possession of her estate," replied Rupert, rather shortly. "May I ask whether you are going to call?"

"Oh, yes, I shall certainly call."

"Then, look here, Luttrell, I want you to do something for me," said Vivian, falling into a more friendly and confidential strain than he usually employed with Hugo. "Will you mention—in an incidental sort of way—to Mrs. Heron the reason why I have not come to Scotland—the claim that my relation in Wales has on me, and all that sort of thing? It is hardly worth while writing about it, perhaps; still, if it came in your way, you might do me a service."

Hugo was so much relieved to find nothing more difficult required of him that he gave vent to a light laugh.

"Why don't you write?" he said.

"There's nothing to write about. I do not correspond with them," said Rupert, actually colouring a little beneath Hugo's long, satirical gaze. "But I fancy they may think me neglectful. I promised some time ago that I would run down; and I don't see how I can—until November, at the earliest. And, if you are there, you may as well mention the reason for my going to Wales, or, you see, it will look like a positive slight."

"I'm to say all this to Mrs. Heron, am I? And to no one beside?"

"That will be quite sufficient." There was a slight touch of hauteur in Vivian's tone. "And, if I may trouble you with something else——"

"No trouble at all. Another message?"

"Not exactly. If you would take care of this little packet for me I should be glad. I am afraid of its being crushed or lost in the post. It is for Miss Heron."

He produced a little parcel, carefully sealed and addressed. It looked like a small, square box. Hugo smiled as he took it in his hand.

"Perishable?" he asked, carelessly.

"Not exactly. The contents are fully a hundred years old already. It is something for Miss Heron's birthday. She is a great favourite of mine—a nice little girl."

"Quite a child, I suppose?"

"Oh, of course. One won't be able to send her presents by-and-bye," said Rupert, with rather an uneasy laugh. "What a pity it is that some children ever grow up! Well, thanks, Hugo; I shall be very much obliged to you. Are you going now?"

"Must be moving on, I suppose. I saw old Colquhoun the other day and he began telling me about Miss Murray, and all the wonders she was doing for the Herons. Makes believe that the money is theirs, not her own, doesn't she?"

"Yes."

"Odd idea. She must be a curiosity. They brought a tutor with them from Italy, I believe; some fellow they picked up in the streets."

"He has turned out a very satisfactory one," Rupert answered, coldly. "They say that he makes a capital tutor for the little boys. I think he is a favourite with all of them; he teaches Miss Heron Italian."

His voice had taken a curiously formal tone. It sounded as though he was displeased at something which had occurred to him.

Hugo thought of that tone and of the conversation many times before he left London next evening. He was rather an adept at the discovery of small mysteries; he liked to draw conclusions from a series of small events, and to ferret out other people's secrets. He thought that he was now upon the track of some design of Vivian's, and he became exceedingly curious about it. If it had been possible to open the box without disturbing the seals upon it, he would certainly have done so; but, this being out of the question, he contented himself with resolving to be present when it was opened, and to observe with care the effect produced by Vivian's message on the faces of Mrs. Heron, Miss Heron, and Miss Murray.

He reached Dunmuir (where the nearest station to his aunt's house was situated) at eleven o'clock in the morning. Mrs. Luttrell had sent the mail-phaeton for him. As Hugo took the reins and glanced at the shining harness and the lustrous coats of the beautiful bays, he could not help remembering the day when the mail-phaeton had last been sent to bring him from the station. Richard had then sat in the place that he now occupied, with Angela beside him; and Brian and Hugo laughed and talked in the back seat, and were as merry as they well could be. Nearly two years ago! What changes had been seen since then.

The bays were fidgetty and would not start at once. Hugo was just shouting a hasty direction to the groom at their heads when he happened to glance aside towards the station door where two or three persons were standing. The groom had cause to wonder what was the matter. Hugo gave the reins a tremendous jerk, which brought the horses nearly upon their haunches, and then let them go at such a pace that it seemed as if he had entirely lost control over them. But he was a very good whip, and soon mastered the fiery creatures, reducing their mad speed by degrees to a gentle trot, which enabled the groom to overtake them, panting and red in the face, indeed, as he swung himself up behind. The groom was inclined to think that Mr. Hugo had lost his nerve for a few moments; for "his face turned as white," honest John remarked afterwards, "as if he had seen a ghost."

"John," said Hugo, after driving for a good two miles in silence, "who was that gentleman at the station door?"

"Gentleman, sir?"

"A young man—at least, he seemed young—in a great-coat."

"Oh!—I don't think that's a young gentleman, exactly; least-ways he's got grey hair. That's the gentleman that teaches at Mr. Heron's, sir; Mr. Heron, the uncle to Miss Murray that has the property now. His name's Mr. Stretton, sir. I asked Mr. Heron's coachman."

"What made you ask?"

The groom hesitated and shuffled; but, upon being kept sharply to the point, avowed that it was because the gentleman "seen from behind" looked so much like Mr. Brian Luttrell. "Of course, his face is quite different from Mr. Brian's, sir," he said, hastily, noting a shadow upon Hugo's brow; "and he has grey hair and a beard, and all that; but his walk was a little like poor Mr. Brian's, sir, I thought."

Hugo was silent. He had not noticed the man's gait, but, in spite of the grey hair, the tanned complexion, the brown beard—which had lately been allowed to cover the lower part of Mr. Stretton's face, and had changed it very greatly—in spite of all these things he had noticed, and been startled by, the expression of a pair of grave, brown eyes—graver and sadder than Brian's eyes used to be, but full of the tenderness and the sweetness that Hugo had never seen in the face of any other man. Full, also, of recognition; there was the rub. A man who knows you cannot look at you in the same way as one who knows you not, and it was this look of knowledge which had unnerved Hugo, and make him doubt the evidence of his own senses.

He was still silent and absorbed when he arrived at Netherglen, and felt glad to hear that he was not to see his aunt until later in the day. Angela came to meet him at the door; she was pale, and her black dress made her look very slender and fragile, but she had the old, sweet smile and pleasant words of welcome for him, and could not understand why his face was so gloomy, and his eyes so obstinately averted from her own.

It was four o'clock in the afternoon when Hugo was admitted to Mrs. Luttrell's sitting-room. He had scarcely seen her since the death of her eldest son, and was manifestly startled and shocked to see her looking so much more aged and worn than she had been two years ago. She greeted him much after her usual fashion, however; she allowed him to touch her smooth, cold cheek with his lips, and take her stiff hand into his own, but she showed no trace of any softening emotion.

"Sit down, Hugo," she said. "I am sorry to have brought you away from your friends."

"Oh, I was glad to come," said Hugo, confusedly. "I was not with friends; I was in town. It was late for town, but I—I had business."

"This house is no longer a cheerful one," continued Mrs. Luttrell, in a cold, monotonous voice. "There are no attractions for young men now. It has been a house of mourning. I could not expect you to visit me."

"Indeed, Aunt Margaret, I would have come if I had known that you wanted me," said Hugo, wondering whether his tardiness would entail the loss of Mrs. Luttrell's money.

He recovered his self-possession and his fluency at this thought; if danger were near, it behoved him to be on the alert.

"I have wanted you," said Mrs. Luttrell. "But I could wait. I knew that you would come in time. Now, listen to what I have to say."

Hugo held his breath. What could she say that needed all this preamble?

"Hugo Luttrell," his aunt began, very deliberately, "you are a poor man and an extravagant one."

Hugo smiled, and bowed his head.

"But you are only extravagant. You are not vicious. You have never done a dishonourable thing—one for which you need blush or fear to meet the eye of an honest man? Answer me that, Hugo. I may know what you will say, but I want to hear it from your own lips."

Hugo did not flinch. His face assumed the boyish innocence of expression which had often stood him in good stead. His great, dark eyes looked boldly into hers.

"That is all true, Aunt Margaret. I may have done foolish things, but nothing worse. I have been extravagant, as you say, but I have not been dishonourable."

He could not have dared to say so much if Richard or Brian had been alive to contradict him; but they were safely out of the way and he could say what he chose.

"Then I can trust you, Hugo."

"I will try to be worthy of your trust, Aunt Margaret."

He bent down to kiss her hand in his graceful, foreign fashion; but she drew it somewhat hastily away.

"No. None of your Sicilian ways for me, Hugo. That foreign drop in your blood is just what I hate. But you're the only Luttrell left; and I hope I know my duty. I want to have a talk with you about the house, and the property, and so on."

"I shall be glad if I can do anything to help you," said Hugo, smoothly. His cheek was beginning to flush; he wished that his aunt would come to the point. Suspense was very trying! But Mrs. Luttrell seemed to be in no hurry.

"You know, perhaps," she said, "that I am a tolerably rich woman still. The land, the farms, and the moors, and all that part of the property passed to Miss Murray upon my sons' deaths; but this house and the grounds (though not the loch nor the woods) are still mine, and I have a fair income with which to keep them up. I should like to know that one of my husband's name was to come after me. I should like to know that there would be Luttrells of Netherglen for many years to come."

She paused a few minutes, but Hugo made no reply.

"I have a proposition to make to you," she went on presently. "I don't make it without conditions. You shall hear what they are by-and-bye. I should like to make you my heir. I can leave my money and my house to anyone I choose. I have about fifteen-hundred a-year, and then there's the house and the garden. Should you think it worth having?"

"I think," said Hugo, with a wily avoidance of any direct answer, "that it is very painful to hear you talk of leaving your property to anyone."

"That is mere sentimental nonsense," replied his aunt, with a perceptible increase in the coldness of her manner. "The question is, will you agree to the conditions on which I leave my money to you?"

"I will do anything in my power," murmured Hugo.

"I want you, then, to arrange to spend at least half the year with me here. You can leave the army; I do not think that it is a profession that suits you. Live here, and fill the place of a son to me. I have no sons left. Be as like one of them as it is in your power to be."

In spite of himself Hugo's face fell. Leave the army, leave England, bury himself for half the year with an old woman in a secluded spot, which, although beautiful in summer and autumn, was unspeakably dreary in winter? She had not required so much of Richard or Brian; why should she ask for such a sacrifice from him?

Mrs. Luttrell watched his face, and read pretty clearly the meaning of the various expressions which chased each other across it.

"It seems a hard thing to you at first, no doubt," she said, composedly. "But you would find interests and amusements in course of time. You would have six months of the year in which to go abroad, or to divert yourself in London. You should have a sufficient income. And my other condition is that you marry as soon as you can find a suitable wife."

"Marry?" said Hugo, in dismay. "I never thought of marriage!" "

"You will think of it some time, I presume. An early marriage is good for young men. I should like to see you married, and have your children growing up about me."

"Perhaps you have thought of a suitable lady?" said Hugo, with a half-sneer. The prospect that had seemed so desirable at first was now very much lowered in his estimation, and he did not disguise the sullen anger that he felt. But he hardly expected Mrs. Luttrell's answer.

"Yes, I have."

"Indeed! Who is it?"

"Miss Murray. Elizabeth Murray, to whom your cousins' estates have gone."

"What sort of a person is she?"

"Young, beautiful, rich. A little older than yourself, but not much. You would make a fine couple, Hugo. She came to see me the other day, and you would have thought she was a princess."

"I should like to see her," said Hugo, thoughtfully.

"Well, you must just go and call. And then you can think the matter over and let me know. I'm in no hurry for a decision."

"You are very good, Aunt Margaret."

"No. I am only endeavouring to be just. I should like to see you prosperous and happy. And, while you are here, you will oblige me by considering yourself the master of the house, Hugo. Give your own orders, and invite your own friends."

Hugo murmured some slight objection.

"It will not affect my comfort in the least. I kept some of the horses, and one or two vehicles that I thought you would like. Use them all. You will not expect to see very much of me; I seldom come downstairs, so the house will be free for you and your friends. When you have decided what you mean to do, let me know."

Hugo thanked her and retired. He did not see her again until the following evening, when she met him with a question.

"Have you seen Miss Murray yet?"

"Yes," said Hugo, lowering his eyes.

"And have you come to any decision?"

"Yes."

"I should like to know what it is," said Mrs. Luttrell.

Her hands, which were crossed before her on her knee, trembled a little as she said the words.

Hugo hesitated for a moment.

"I have made my decision," he said at last, in a firm voice, "and it is one that I know I shall never have cause to repent. Aunt Margaret, I accept your kind—your generous—offer, and I will be to you as a son."

He had prepared his little speech so carefully that it scarcely sounded artificial when it issued from those curved, beautiful lips, and was emphasised by the liquid softness of his Southern eyes.