The hint given in the Prior's letter concerning Brian's reasons for continuing to teach in the Heron family, together with Hugo's own quickness of perception, had enabled that astute young man to hit upon something very like the exact truth. He had exaggerated it in his conversation with Dino: he had attributed motives to Brian which certainly never entered Brian's mind; but this was done for his own purposes. He thought that Brian's love for Elizabeth Murray might prove a useful weapon in the struggle between Dino's sense of his rights and the romantic affection that he entertained for the man who had taken his place in the world—an affection which Hugo understood so little and despised so much, that he fancied himself sure of an easy victory over Dino's resolution to fight for his rightful position. It was greatly to his surprise that he found so keen a sense of justice and resentment at the little trust that Brian had reposed in him present in Dino's mind: the young man had been irritatingly firm in his determination to possess the Strathleckie estate; he knew precisely what he wanted, and what he meant to do. And although he was inclined to be generous to Brian and to Miss Murray, there seemed no reason to expect that he would be equally generous to Hugo. Therefore Hugo had felt himself obliged to use what he called "strong measures."

He did not like strong measures. They were disagreeable to him. But they were less disagreeable than the thought of being poor. Hugo made little account of human life and human suffering so long as the suffering did not actually touch himself. He seemed to be born with as little heart as a beast of prey, which strikes when it is angry, or when it wants food, with no remorse and no regret. "A disagreeable necessity," Hugo called his evil deed, but he considered that the law of self-preservation justified him in what he did.

And Brian Luttrell? What reason was it that made him fling prudence to the winds, and follow the Herons to the neighbourhood of a place where he had resolved never to show his face again?

There was one great, overmastering reason—so great that it made him attempt what was well-nigh impossible. His love for Elizabeth Murray had taken full possession of him: he dreamed of her, he worshipped the very ground she trod upon; he would have sacrificed life itself for the chance of a gentle word from her.

Life, but not honour. Much as he loved her, he would have fled to the very ends of the earth if he had known, if he had for one moment suspected, that she was the Miss Murray who owned the landed estate which once went with the house and grounds of Netherglen.

It seemed almost incredible that he should not have had this fact forced from the first upon his knowledge; but such at present was the case. They had remained in Italy for the first three months of his engagement, and, during that time, he had not lived in the Villa Venturi, but simply given his lessons and taken his departure. Sometimes he breakfasted or lunched with the family party, but at such times no business affairs were discussed. And Elizabeth had made it a special request that Mr. Stretton should not be informed of the fact that it was she who furnished money for the expenses of the household. She had taken care that his salary should be as large as she could make it without attracting remark, but she had an impression that Mr. Stretton would rather be paid by Mr. Heron than by her. And, as she wished for silence on the subject of her lately-inherited wealth, and as the Herons were of that peculiarly happy-go-lucky disposition that did not consider the possession of wealth a very important circumstance, Mr. Stretton passed the time of his sojourn in Italy in utter ignorance of the fact that Elizabeth was the provider of villa, gardens, servants, and most of the other luxuries with which the Herons were well supplied. Percival, in his outspoken dislike of the arrangement, would probably have enlightened him if they had been on friendly terms; but Percival showed so decided and unmistakable an aversion to the tutor, that he scarcely spoke to him during his stay, and, indeed, made his visit a short one, chiefly on account of Mr. Stretton's presence.

The change from Italy to Scotland was made at the doctor's suggestion. The children's health flagged a little in the heat, and it was thought better that they should try a more bracing air. When the matter was decided, and Mr. Colquhoun had written to them that Strathleckie was vacant, and would be a convenient house for Miss Murray's purposes in all respects—then, and not till then, was Mr. Stretton informed of the proposed change of residence, and asked whether he would accompany the family to Scotland.

Brian hesitated. He knew well enough the exact locality of the house to which they were going: he had visited it himself in other days. But it was several miles from Netherglen: he would be allowed, he knew, to absent himself from the drawing-room or the dinner-table whenever he chose, he need not come in contact with the people whom he used to know. Besides, he was changed beyond recognition. And probably the two women at Netherglen led so retired a life that neither of them was likely to be encountered—not even at church; for, although the tenants of Netherglen and Strathleckie went to the same town for divine worship on Sunday mornings, yet Mrs. Luttrell and Angela attended the Established Church, while the Herons were certain to go to the Episcopal. And Hugo was away. There was really small chance of his being seen or recognised. He thought that he should be safe. And, while he still hesitated, he looked up and saw that the eyes of Miss Murray were bent upon him with so kindly an inquiry, so gracious a friendliness in their blue depths, that his fears and doubts suddenly took wing, and he thought of nothing but that he should still be with her.

He consented. And then, for the first time, it crossed his mind to wonder whether she was a connection of the Murrays to whom his estate had passed, and from whom he believed that Mr. Heron was renting the Strathleckie house.

He had left England without ascertaining what members of the Murray family were living; and the letter in which Mr. Colquhoun detailed the facts of Elizabeth's existence and circumstances, had reached Geneva after his departure upon the expedition which was supposed to have resulted in his death. He had never heard of the Herons. He imagined Gordon Murray to be still living—probably with a large family and a wife. He knew that they could not live at Netherglen, and he wondered vaguely whether he should meet them in the neighbourhood to which he was going. Murray was such an ordinary name that in itself it told him nothing at all. Elizabeth Murray! Why, there might be a dozen Elizabeth Murrays within twenty miles of Netherglen: there was no reason at all to suppose that this Elizabeth Murray was a connection of the Gordon Murrays who were cousins of his own—no, not of his own: he had forgotten that never more could he claim that relationship for himself. They were cousins of some unknown Brian Luttrell, brought up under a false name in a small Italian village. What had become of that true Brian, whom he had refused to meet at San Stefano? And had Father Cristoforo succeeded in finding the woman whom he sought, and supplying the missing links in the evidence? In that case, the Murrays would soon hear of the claimant to their estate, and there would be a law-suit. Brian began to feel interested in the matter again. He had lost all care for it in the period following upon his illness. He now foresaw, with something almost like pleasure, that he could easily obtain information about the Murrays if he went with the Herons to Strathleckie. And he should certainly take the first opportunity of making inquiries. Even if he himself were no Luttrell, there was no reason why he should not take the deepest interest in the Luttrells of Netherglen. He wanted particularly to know whether the Italian claimant had come forward.

He was perfectly ignorant of the fact of which Father Cristoforo's letter would have informed him, that this possible Italian claimant was no other than his friend, Dino Vasari.

Of course, he could not be long at Strathleckie without finding out the truth about Elizabeth. If he had lived much with the Herons, he would have found it out in the course of the first twenty-four hours. Elizabeth's property was naturally referred to by name: the visitors who came to the house called upon her rather than upon the Herons: it was quite impossible that the secrecy upon which Elizabeth had insisted in Italy could be maintained in Scotland. The only wonder was that he should live, as he did live, for five whole days at Strathleckie without discovering the truth. Perhaps Elizabeth took pains to keep it from him!

She had been determined to keep another secret, even if she could not hide the fact, that she was a rich woman. She would not have her engagement to Percival made public. For two whole years, she said, she would wait: for two whole years neither she nor her cousin should consider each other as bound. But that she herself considered the engagement morally binding might be inferred from the fact of her allowing Percival to kiss her—she surely would not have permitted that kiss if she had not meant to marry him! So Percival himself understood it; so Elizabeth knew that he understood.

She was not quite like herself in the first days of her residence in Scotland. She was graver and more reticent than usual: little inclined to talk, and much occupied with the business that her new position entailed upon her. Mr. Colquhoun, her solicitor, was astonished at her clear-headedness; Stewart, the factor, was amazed at the attention she bestowed upon every detail; even the Herons were surprised at the methodical way in which she parcelled out her days and devoted herself to a full understanding of her position. She seemed to shrink less than heretofore from the responsibilities that wealth would bring her, and perhaps the added seriousness of her lip and brow was due to her resolve to bear the burden that providence meant her to bear instead of trying to lay it upon other people's shoulders.

A great deal of this necessary business had been transacted before Mr. Stretton made his appearance at Strathleckie. He had been offered a fortnight's holiday, and had accepted it, seeing that his absence was to some extent desired by Mrs. Heron, who was always afraid lest her dear children should be overworked by their tutor. Thus it happened that he did not reach Strathleckie until the very day on which Hugo also arrived on his way to Netherglen. They had seen each other at the station, where Brian incautiously appeared without the blue spectacles which he relied upon as part of his disguise. From the white, startled horror which overcast Hugo's face, this young man saw that he had been almost, if not quite, recognised; and he expected to be sought out and questioned as to his identity. But Hugo made no effort to question him: in fact, he did not see the tutor again until the day when he came to restore a fragment of the letter which Brian had carelessly dropped in the road before he read it. During this interview he betrayed no suspicion, and Brian comforted himself with the thought that Hugo had, at any rate, not read the sheet that he returned to him.

A dog-cart was sent for him and his luggage on the day of his arrival. He had a five miles' drive before he reached Strathleckie, where he received a tumultuous welcome from the boys, a smiling one from Mrs. Heron and Kitty, a hearty shake of the hands from Mr. Heron. But where was Elizabeth? He did not dare to ask.

She was out, he learnt afterwards: she had driven over to the town to lunch with the Colquhouns. For a moment he did think this strange; then he put aside the thought and remembered it no more.

There was a long afternoon to be dragged through: then there was a school-room tea, nominally at six, really not until nearly seven, according to the lax and unpunctual fashion of the Heron family. Mr. Stretton had heard that there were to be guests at dinner, and, keeping up his character as a shy man, declined to be present. He was sitting in a great arm-chair by the cheerful, little fire, which was very acceptable even on an August evening: the clock on the mantelpiece had just chimed a quarter-past seven, and he was beginning to wonder where the boys could possibly be, when the door opened and Elizabeth came in. He rose to his feet.

"They told me that you had come," she said, extending her hand to him with quiet friendliness. "I hope you had a pleasant journey, Mr. Stretton."

"Very pleasant, thank you."

He could not say more: he was engaged in devouring with his eyes every feature of her fair face, and thinking in his heart that he had underrated the power of her beauty. In the fortnight that he had been away from her he had pictured her to himself as not half so fair. She had taken off her out-door things, and was dressed in a very plain, brown gown, which fitted closely to her figure. At her throat she wore a little bunch of sweet autumn violets, with one little green leaf, fastened into her dress by a gold brooch. It was the very ostentation of simplicity, yet, with that noble carriage of her head and shoulders, and those massive coils of golden-brown hair, nobody could have failed to remark the distinction of her appearance, nor to recognise the fact that there is a kind of beauty which needs no ornament.

Brian took off the ugly, blue spectacles which he had adopted of late, and laid them upon the mantelshelf. He did not need them in the flickering firelight, which alone illumined the dimness of the room.

Elizabeth laid her shapely arm upon the mantelpiece and looked into the fire. He stood beside her, looking down at her—for he was a little taller than herself—but she seemed unconscious of his gaze. She spoke presently in rather low tones.

"The boys are late. I hope they do not often keep you waiting in this way."

"They have never done it before. I do not mind."

"They were very anxious to have you back. They missed you very much."

Had she missed him, too? He could not venture to ask that question.

"You will find things changed," she went on, restlessly lifting a little vase upon the mantelpiece and setting it down again; "you will find us much busier than we used to be—much more absorbed in our own pursuits. Scotland is not like Italy."

"No. I wish it were."

"And I——" Her voice broke, as if some emotion troubled her; there came a swift, short sigh, and then she spoke more calmly. "I wish sometimes that one had no duties, no responsibilities; but life would not be worth having if one shirked them, after all."

"There is a charm in life without them—at least, so far without them as that pleasant life in Italy used to be," said he, rather eagerly.

"Yes, but that is all over."

"All over?"

She bowed her head.

"Is there nothing left?" said Brian, approaching her a little more nearly. Then, as she was silent, he continued in a hurried, low voice, "I knew that life must be different here, but I thought that some of the pleasantest hours might be repeated—even in Scotland—although we are without those sunny skies and groves of orange trees. Even if the clouds are grey, and the winds howl without, we might still read Dante's 'Paradiso' and Petrarca's 'Sonnets,' as we used to do at the Villa Venturi."

"Yes," said Elizabeth, gently, "we might. But here I shall not have time."

"Why not? Why should you sacrifice yourself for others in the way you do? It is not right."

"I—sacrifice myself?" she said, lifting her eyes for a moment to his face. "What do you mean?"

"I mean," he said, "that I have watched you for the last three months, and I have seen you day after day give up your own pleasure and your own profit for others, until I longed to ask them what right they had to claim your whole life and leave you nothing—nothing—for yourself——"

"You mistake," she interrupted him quickly. "They leave me all I want; and they were kind to me when I came amongst them—a penniless child——"

"What does it matter if you were penniless?" said Brian. "Have you not paid them a thousand times for all that they did for you?" Then, as she looked at him with rather a singular expression in her eyes, he hastened to explain. "I mean that you have given them your love, your care, your time, in a way that no sister, no daughter, ever could have done! You have taught the children all they know; you have sympathised with the cares of every one in turn—I have watched you and seen it day by day! And I say that even if you are penniless, as you say, you have repaid them a thousand times for all that they have done; and that you are wrong to let them take your time and your care, to the exclusion of your own interests. I beg your pardon; I have said too much," he said, breaking off suddenly, as the singular expression deepened upon her musing face.

"No," she said, with a smile, "I like to hear it: go on. What ought I to do?"

"Ah, that I cannot tell you. But I think you give yourself almost too much to others. Surely, no one could object if you took a little time from the interests of the rest of the family for your own pleasure, for your studies, your amusements?"

"No," she answered, quietly, "I do not suppose they would."

She stood and looked into the fire, and the smile again crossed her face.

"I have said more than I ought to have done," repeated Brian. "Forgive me."

"I will forgive you for everything," she said, "except for thinking that one can do too much for the people that one loves. I am sure that you do not act upon that principle, Mr. Stretton."

"It can be carried to an extreme, like any other," said Mr. Stretton, wisely.

"And you think I carry it to an extreme? Oh, no. I only do what it is a pleasure to me to do. Think of the situation: an orphaned, penniless girl—that is what you have said to yourself is it not——?"

"Yes," said Brian, wondering a little at the keen inquiry in her eyes as she paused for the reply. The questioning look was lost in a lovely smile as she proceeded; she cast down her eyes to hide the expression of pleasure and amusement that his words had caused.

"An orphaned, penniless girl, then, cast on the charity of friends who were then not very well able to support her, educated by them, loved by them—does she not owe them a great debt, Mr. Stretton? What would have become of me without my uncle's care? And, now that I am able to repay them a little—in various ways"—she hesitated as she spoke—"ought I not to do my best to please them? Ought I not to give them as much of myself as they want? Make a generous answer, and tell me that I am right."

"You are always right—too right!" he said, half-impatiently. "If you could be a little less generous——"

"What then?" said Elizabeth.

"Why, then, you would be—more human, perhaps, more like ourselves—but less than what we have always taken you for," said Mr. Stretton, smiling.

Elizabeth laughed. "You have spoilt the effect of your lecture," she said, turning away.

"I beg your pardon. I ought not to have said what I did," said Brian, sensitively alive to her slightest change of tone. "Miss Murray, tell me at least that I have not offended you before you go."

"You have not offended me," she said. He could not see her face.

"You are quite sure?" he said, anxiously. "For, indeed, I had forgotten that it was not my part to offer any opinion upon your conduct, and I am afraid that I have given it with impertinent bluntness. You will forgive me?"

She turned round and looked at him with a smile. There was a colour in her cheek, a softness in her eye, that he did not often see. "Indeed, Mr. Stretton," she said, gently, "I have nothing to forgive. I am very much obliged to you."

He took a step towards her as if there was something else that he would have gladly said; but at that moment the sound of the boys' voices echoed through the hall.

"There is no time for more," said Brian, with some annoyance.

"No," she answered. "And yet I have something else to say to you. Will you remember that some other day?"

"Indeed, I shall remember," he said, fervently. And then the boys burst into the room, and in the hubbub of their arrival Elizabeth escaped.

Her violets had fallen out of her brooch. Brian found them upon the floor when she had gone; henceforth he kept them amongst his treasures.