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Updated: May 28, 2025
The rain partially ceased, and we were attracted out of the road to Luttrell's Tower, whence we were compelled to seek shelter in a miserable public-house in a village about three miles distant. No spare bed, a wretched smoky fire; and hard beer, and poor cheese, called Isle of Wight rock, were all the accommodation our host could provide.
Again Brian paused, this time in utter bewilderment. "Is my mother mad" he said to himself. "I not her son? Who am I, then?" "I repeat what I have said," so ran Mrs. Luttrell's letter "with all the emphasis which I can lay upon the words. The matter may not be capable of proof, but the truth remains.
When the brass plate, glittering with newness, had been first affixed to the door, Marcus Luttrell's heart had been sanguine with hope, and he had brought his young fiancée to see it. The small, narrow house, with its dark, square entry, its double parlours communicating with folding-doors, and the corner room, that would do for a surgery, had seemed to them both a most desirable abode.
"If he repents " he began doubtfully, and never finished the sentence. "I don't repent," said Hugo. His voice was hoarse and broken, but insolently defiant. By a great effort of will he fixed his haggard eyes full on Richard Luttrell's face as he spoke. Richard shrugged his shoulders. "You hear?" he said, briefly to his brother. "I hear," Brian answered, in a low, pained tone.
Clinging to her, and yet guiding her, came Angela, with the white flower crushed and drooping from her hair. She also was ashy pale, but there was a more natural and tender look of grief to be read in her wet eyes and on her trembling lips than in the stony tranquility of Richard Luttrell's mother. Brian could not contain himself.
And, therefore, in a few days after Mrs. Luttrell's seizure, Hugo was once again at Netherglen, ruling even more openly and imperiously than he had done in the days of his aunt's health and strength. His presence there, and Mrs. Luttrell's helplessness, caused some of Angela Vivian's friends to object seriously to her continued residence at Netherglen.
They returned to England a disgraced regiment. Now do you see the compulsion?" Stella Croyle turned the problem over in her mind. "Yes, I think I do," she said, but still was rather doubtful. Then she looked at the problem through Harry Luttrell's eyes. "Yes, I understand. The regiment must recover its good name in the next war.
The little Brian was brought back to the house, with Vincenza as his nurse; but Mrs. Luttrell refused to see him. Doctors declared her dislike of the child to be a form of mania; her husband certainly believed it to be so. But the one fact remained. She would not acknowledge the child to be her own, and she would not consent to its being brought up as Edward Luttrell's son.
"Yes, I did 'steal the secret' if that is the way you put it pro tem, which means 'for the time being. You are a nest of very young idiots, and I trusted to that; but you opened your puppy eyes at the time I hadn't counted on, with the help of Luttrell's scouting nose."
Luttrell to seek out some pleasant house amongst the hills where his wife and child might enjoy cool breezes and perfect repose. For he had lately had reason to be seriously concerned about Mrs. Luttrell's health. The husband and wife were as unlike each other as they well could be. Edward Luttrell was a broad-shouldered, genial, hearty man, warmly affectionate, hasty in word, generous in deed.
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