LXII. FISHING IN TROUBLED WATERS
On gaining the beach where he had appointed to meet Harry Luttrell, Mr. M’Kinlay discovered that his young friend had gone off already, taking Ada with him. He could, indeed, detect the form of a lady in the stern of the boat, as she slipped along over the calm sea, and mark that Luttrell was seated at her side.
Here was imprudence, rashness, wilful rashness, all the more reprehensible in a man like Vyner, who knew, or ought to know, the world by this time. “How is that sailor there to remember that he is only a sailor? and how is that young heiress to call to mind that she is an heiress? Why should people ever be placed in a position in which the impossible ceases to look impossible, and even gets a look of the probable?” Such were some of the wise reflections of this sage moralist, though it is but truth to say he never once thought of applying any one of them to his own case.
“What would Miss Courtenay say, too,” thought he, “when she discovered that he had been so neglectful of the mission entrusted to him?” He looked about for another boat to go after them. It was a strong measure, but it was a time for strong measures. No boat, however, was to be had. He bethought him of hailing them, or trying to attract their attention by signals, and to this end he mounted a rock, and attaching his handkerchief to his umbrella, waved it frantically to and fro, screaming out, “Boat ahoy!” in a voice he meant to be intensely maritime.
“Shout away, old fellow!” muttered Harry, whose well-practised eye and ear detected the signal-maker. “I’m not going back for you.”
“Do you sec any one, Harry?” asked Ada. “Who is it?”
“That old lawyer--I forget his name, but he’s the only creature in the house that I can’t bear. You wouldn’t believe it, but he came up to me yesterday evening, and asked if I had any recollection of his having saved my life. But I stopped him full, for I said, ‘I remember well how Captain Dodge picked me up off a spar at sea, and had to threaten to throw yourself overboard for opposing it.’”
“Well, but, Harry,” said she, gently, “people don’t say such unpleasant things--I mean, when they meet in the world; when thrown together in society, they forgive little grudges, if they cannot forget them.”
“Don’t you know that we Luttrells do neither? I can no more forget a wrong than a kindness. Mind me, though,” added he, quickly, “I do not ask to clear off scores with the lawyer, only let him not claim to make me his debtor. Shout away, it will stretch your lungs for the Old Bailey, or wherever it is that you make your living.”
“If your memory be as good as you say, Harry,” said she, smiling, “can you recal the time papa’s yacht, the Meteor, anchored in the little bay at Arran?”
“I can. I remember it all.”
“And how you came on board in one of our boats?”
“Ay, and how you called me Robinson. Don’t get so red; I wasn’t offended then, and I’m sure I’m not now. You said it in a whisper to your father, but I overheard you; and I think I said I should like well to be Robinson Crusoe, and have an island all my own.”
“And so you have. Arran is yours.”
“No. Arran was mine, or ought to have been mine, but my father, believing me dead, left it to my cousin.”
“Oh, how I long to see her again,” cried Ada, passionately. “You know how we were brought up together.”
“Your father told me all about it; but I never well understood how or why she was sent away again. Were you disappointed in her?”
“Oh no, no. Nothing of the kind. She was cleverer, and more beautiful, and more attractive, than any one could have anticipated. The lesson that would take me days to learn, she had but to glance at and she knew it. The governess was in despair how to keep in advance of her. And then there was a charm in her manner that made the veriest trifle she did a sort of fascination.”
“And were these the traits to send back into hardship and barbarism?”
“To this very hour I never knew how or why she went back, nor to what she went. I must tell you a secret, a great secret it is, Harry, and you will promise never to reveal it.” He nodded, and she went on: “Aunt Georgina never liked Kate. She could not help owning that she was very beautiful, and very gifted, and very graceful, but nothing would wring from her one word of affection, nor even a smile of kindly meaning.”
“It is exactly how she treats me. She is all courtesy and politeness; but it is a courtesy that chills me to the heart, and ever seems to say, ‘Don’t forget the distance that separates us.’ Perhaps,” added he, laughing, “my cousin Kate and I have some family resemblance to each other?”
“Don’t indulge any such flattery, Harry,” said she, laughing. “Kate was beautiful.”
“Come, come, I never meant in face. I only suspected that it was the marvellous gift of fascination we held in common.” And he laughed good humouredly at his own expense. “But to be serious. Was it quite fair to send such a girl as you have described back to all the miseries and sufferings of a peasant’s life?”
“I’m not sure that this was done. I mean, that after she went to live at Dalradern--for Sir Within Wardle became her guardian when we came abroad--I never knew what happened; my Aunt Georgina actually forbade the merest mention of her.”
“I wonder would she tell me why, if I were to ask her.” “Oh, Harry, I implore you not to do so. It would be at once to betray the confidence I have placed in you. She would know who had told you of her dislike to Kate.”
“The lawyer could tell it, I’m certain,” muttered Harry; “that fellow watches us all. I have marked him, as we sat in the drawing-room, studying the looks of each in turn, and pausing over chance words, as if they could mean more than they seemed to say.”
“How acute you want to be thought,” said she, laughing. “I have sailed in two ships where the crews mutinied, Miss Ada, and a man learns to have his wits about him where he suspects mischief, after that. There! look at the lawyer in the boat; he has got a boat at last, and is going to give us chase. Shall we run for it, Ada, or stand and fight him?”
“What wickedness are you muttering under your breast, there, Sir?” asked she, with a mock imperiousness.
“Well, I was just saying to myself that, if you hadn’t been here, I’d even run foul of him and upset us both. I’d like to see the old fellow in the water. Oh! I see I must behave well. Miss Courtenay is in the boat too!”
“Which means a reproof to me, Harry. My aunt never comes out on any less solemn mission.”
“And why a reproof? What have you done?” “Have I not gone off sailing all alone with that wild scamp Harry Luttrell--that buccaneer who respects neither laws nor proprieties! But that’s my aunt’s voice! What is she saying?”
“She’s telling the lawyer that it’s all his fault, or Sir Gervais’s fault, or somebody’s fault, and that it’s a shame and disgrace, and I don’t know well what else besides.”
“What can it be?”
“Just what you said a minute ago. There! I’ll wait for them. I’ll slack off and let them come up.”
Whatever might have been the rebukeful tone of Miss Courtenay’s voice a few moments before, now, as the boat drew up beside Luttrell’s, her tones were softened and subdued, and it was with her most silvery accent she told Ada that some visitors had just arrived, and begged her to return with her to receive them, while Mr. M’Kinlay would join Mr. Luttrell, and obtain the lesson in sea-fishing he was so eager for.
“Come along,” said Harry. “It looks fresh outside, and may turn out a nice mackerel day, calm as it seems here.”
“With your good leave, Sir, I shall decline a nice mackerel day. I’m a very fair-weather sailor.”
A hurried whisper from Georgina seemed, however, to arrest him in his excuses, and she added aloud: “Of course Mr. Luttrell has no intention of venturing out to sea farther than you like, Sir. He goes for your pleasure and amusement, and not to educate you for the Navy.”
Another hurried whisper followed this pert speech, and poor M’Kinlay, with the air of a condemned man, stepped into Luttrel’s boat with a heavy sigh, and a look of positive misery.
“No, no, not on any account,” were the last words of Ada into Harry’s ear, as he helped her to her place.
“Remember, we dine at six!” said Georgina, as she waved them an adieu; and young Luttrell cried out, “All right!” as he slacked off his sheet, and let the boat run broad and full towards the open sea.
“It is fresher, far fresher than I thought!” said M’Kinlay, whose transition from a row-boat to a sailing one imparted the impression of a strong breeze.
“Cat’s-paws! light airs of wind that die away every moment! But I see it looks bluer out yonder, and now and then I see a white curl on the water that may mean a little wind.”
“Then I beseech you, Sir, let us keep where we are!”
“Don’t you want me to teach you something about fishing? You said you wished to know what ‘trawling’ meant.”
“Not to-day; not on this occasion, my young friend. It was another errand brought me here this morning. Could you not draw that thing a little closer, and do something to make us go somewhat steadier?”
“I’ll close haul, if you prefer it,” said Harry, taking a strong pull at the sheet, and, with his helm hard up, sending the skiff along under a full wind. She leaned over so much, too, that it required all M’Kinlay’s strength, with both arms outside the gunwale, to keep his position. “That’s pleasanter, ain’t it?” asked Harry.
“I’ll not say I like it, either.”
“You will when the wind steadies; it’s squally just now, and she feels it, for she has no keel.”
“No keel! And ought she to have a keel?”
“Well, I think she’d be the better of one,” said Harry, smiling.
“Let us get back, Sir--let us get back at once! This is the reverse of agreeable to me. I don’t understand, and I don’t enjoy it. Put mc ashore anywhere, and leave me to find my way how I can. There--yonder, where you see the rocks--land me there!”
“If I tried it, you’d find your way sure enough, but it would be into the next world! Don’t you see the white line there? Those are breakers!”
“Then turn back, Sir, I command, I implore you,” cried he, with a voice shaking with terror.
“I’ll put about when the wind slackens. I can’t do it just yet. Have a little patience. Take the rudder a moment.”
“No, Sir; I refuse--I decidedly refuse. I protest against any share in what may happen.”
“Perhaps it will be past protesting if you don’t do what I tell you. Hold this, and mind my orders. Keep the tiller so till I cry out hard down; mind me, now--no mistake.” And not waiting for more, he sprang into the bow of the boat as she ran up into the wind, and held out the foresail to the breeze. “Down helm--hard down!” cried he; and round she spun at once, and so rapidly, that the lee gunwale went under water, and M’Kinlay, believing she had upset, uttered one wild cry and fell senseless into the bottom of the boat. Not much grieved at his condition--perhaps, on the whole, almost glad to be rid of his company--Harry lighted a cigar and steered for shore. In less than half an hour they gained the slack water of the little bay, and M’Kinlay, gathering himself up, asked if they were nigh land.
“Close in; get up and have a cigar,” said Harry, curtly.
“No, Sir; I will not.”
“I thought you liked a weed,” said Harry, carelessly.
“My likings or my dislikings must be matter of perfect indifference to you, Sir, or I should not be wet to the skin and shivering as I am now.”
“Take a go of brandy, and you’ll be all right,” said Harry, throwing his flask to him.
Though not very graciously offered, M’Kinlay accepted the dram, and then looked over the side towards the shore with an air of greater contentment. “Considering, Sir, that I came here to-day on your account, I think I might have been treated with somewhat more deference to my tastes,” said he, at last.
“On my account? And in what way on my account?”
“If we are not likely to have any more storms of wind, I can perhaps tell you.”
“No, no, it’s still as a fishpond here. Go on.”
“Before I go on--before I even begin, Mr. Luttrelle I must have your promise that you will not mention to any one what shall pass between us to-day. It is on a subject which concerns you--but still concerns others more nearly.”
“All right. I’ll not speak of it.”
“You will give me your word?”
“I have given it. Didn’t you hear me say I’d not speak of it?”
“Well, Sir, the matter is this: Great uneasiness is being felt here at the intimacy that has grown up between you and Miss Vyner. Motives of extreme delicacy towards you--who, of course, not having lived much in the world, could not be expected to weigh such considerations--but motives of great delicacy, as I say, have prevented any notice being taken of this intimacy, and a hope has been felt that you yourself, once awakened to the fact of the long interval that separates her condition from yours, would soon see the propriety, indeed the necessity, of another line of conduct, and thus not require what may seem an admonition, though I really intend you should receive it as the warning counsel of a friend.”
“Have you been commissioned to say this to me?” asked Luttrell, haughtily.
“Though I had decided with myself not to answer any questions, I will reply to this one--and this only. I have.”
“Who gave you this charge?”
M’Kinlay shook his head, and was silent.
“Was it Sir Gervais Vyner?”
Another shake of the head was the reply.
“I thought not. I am certain, too, it was not Lady Vyner. Be frank, Sir, and tell me candidly. It was Miss Courtenay employed you on this errand?”
“I really see no necessity for any explanation on my part, Mr. Luttrell. I have already transgressed the limits of mere prudence in the avowal I have made you. I trust you will be satisfied with my candour.”
“Let me ask for a little more of that same candour. I want to know what is expected of me. What I am to do?”
“Really, Sir, you make my position a very painful one. You insist upon my being extremely disagreeable to you.”
“Listen to reason. I am telling you that I found myself in considerable embarrassment, and I entreat of you, as a favour, to show me the way out of it. Am I to discontinue all intimacy with Miss Vyner? Am I to avoid her? Am I to leave this, and not return?”
“That I opine to be the most fitting course under the circumstances,” said M’Kinlay, bowing.
“I see,” said Harry, pondering for some seconds--“I see.” And then, with a more fervid manner, resuming: “But if I know, Sir--if I feel--that all this caution is unnecessary, that I have not--that I never had--the slightest pretensions such as you speak of, that Miss Vyner’s manner to me, in its very freedom, repels any suspicion of the kind,--I ask you, is it not a little hard to deny me the greatest happiness I have ever tasted in life--the first holiday after a long spell of work and hardship? Why should I not go straight to Sir Gervais and say this?”
“You forget your promise to myself.”
“Ay, to be sure, that is a barrier. I suppose you are right. The best, the only way, is to go off; and I own I feel ashamed to make this return for all the generous kindness I have met here; and what an insufferable coxcomb must it stamp me, if it ever comes out that I left on such grounds as these.”
“That is not how the world regards such things, Sir. Men are not supposed to measure their affections by their circumstances. If it were so, we should not see so many mésalliances.”
“I don’t know how to go about it. I’m a precious bungler at making excuses, and, whenever I have told a lie in my life, my own shame and confusion have always convicted me; help me to some ingenious pretext for a sudden departure.”
“You can have law business. Your agents wish to see you.”
“But I have no property, or next to none. No, no, that won’t do.”
“You desire to visit your friends in Ireland.”
“Just as bad. I have as little friends as fortune. Try again.”
“Why should not Captain Dodge have sent for you; you left him very ill, and confined to bed, I understand?”
“He told Sir Gervais to keep me as long as possible; that the air of the hospital was bad for me, and had brought back my ague.”
“If you are so very scrupulous, Sir, as to what people generally regard as a mere conventionality, I should say, pack up and be off without any explanation at all.”
“I believe you are right. It is the old story of paying one’s debts with the topsail sheet. Shabby enough, too, but it can’t be helped. Perhaps, Mr. M’Kinlay, if occasion should occur, you would find means to let Sir Gervais know that I am not the ungrateful dog my want of manners might bespeak me; perhaps you would convey to him that this step of mine had been suggested by yourself.”
“It is possible, Mr. Luttrell, that a fortuitous moment for an explanation of the kind you mention might occur, and, if so, you may rely on my willingness to profit by it. You mean to go at once?”
“I suppose so. Is it not what you advise?”
“Most certainly.”
“Here goes, then! I’ll start this instant. They are all out driving, except Miss Courtenay. I see her in the garden yonder. She, I know, will forgive me my abrupt departure, and you’ll make the best story you can out of it, Mr. M’Kinlay. As I was last seen in your company, you’ll be obliged, for your own sake, to say something plausible.”
“I will do my best, Sir. The eccentric habits of a sea-life must bear the burden of the explanation.”
“It’s poor comfort that I can’t be much missed! Good-by!” And, without any more cordial leave-taking, Luttrell turned into a side-path that led directly to the house, while M’Kinlay entered the garden and made straight for the sea-wall, on which Miss Courtenay was sitting, awaiting him.
“Well?” said she, impatiently, as he came forward--“well?”
“It is done--all finished!”
“In what way? How is it finished?”
“He goes away--goes at once!”
“Of course he writes a note, and makes some sort of excuse to my brother-in-law for his hurried departure?”
“I believe not. I fear--that is, I apprehend--he is one of those not very tractable people who always do an awkward thing in the awkwardest way; for when I explained to him that his position here was--what shall I say?--an indiscretion, and that Miss Vyner’s friends saw with uneasiness the growing intimacy between them----”
“You did not speak of me--you did not mention my name, I hope?” broke she in, in an imperious tone.
“You could not suppose me guilty of such imprudence, Miss Courtenay!” said he, in an offended manner.
“No matter what I suppose, Sir. I want you to tell me that my name was not uttered during your interview.”
“Not by me--certainly not by me!” said he, timidly.
“Was it by him, Sir? Answer me that!”
“Well, I rather think that he did say that I had been deputed by you to convey the message to him.”
“What insolence! And how did you reply?”
“I observed that I was not there exactly for the purpose of a cross-examination; that in my capacity as a friendly adviser, I declined all interrogation.”
“Fiddle faddle, Sir. It would have been far more to the purpose to have said, ‘Miss Courtenay has nothing whatever to do with this communication.’ I really feel ashamed to think I should play the prompter to a professor in subtleties; but I still think that your ingenuity might have hit upon a reason for his going, without any reference to us, or to our wishes. Did it never occur to you, for instance, that the arrival of Sir Within Wardle might offer a convenient plea?”
“Indeed! I might have mentioned that,” said he, in some confusion. “The house does not admit of much accommodation for strangers, and an additional room would be of consequence just now.”
“I think, Sir,” said she, haughtily, “you might have put the matter in a better light than by making it a domestic question. This young man might have been brought to see that the gentleman who was so ungratefully treated--I might say, so shamefully treated--by his near relative, could not be the pleasantest person for him to meet in a narrow family circle.”
“I might. It is quite true, I might have insinuated that consideration,” said he, with a crestfallen air and look.
“I suppose you did your best, Sir!” said she, with a sigh; and he felt all the sarcastic significance of its compassion. “Indeed, I am certain you did, and I thank you.” With these words, not conveyed in any excess of warmth or gratitude, she moved away, and M’Kinlay stood a picture of doubt, confusion, and dismay, muttering to himself some unintelligible words, whose import was, however, the hope of that day coming when these and many similar small scores might be all wiped out together.
LXIII. WITH LAWYERS
“What! that you, Harry? How comes it you have left all the fine folk so soon?” cried Captain Dodge, as he suddenly awoke and saw young Luttrell at his bedside. “Why, lad, I didn’t expect to see you back here these ten days to come. Warn’t they polite and civil to you?”
“That they were. They could not haye treated me better if I had been their own son.”
“How comes it, then, that you slipped your moorings?”
“Well, I can’t well say. There were new guests just arriving, and people I never saw, and so, with one thing or other, I thought I’d just move off; and--and--here I am.”
It was not difficult to see that this very lame excuse covered some other motive, and the old skipper was not the man to be put off by a flimsy pretext; but, rough sailor and buccaneer as he was, he could respect the feelings that he thought might be matter of secret meaning, and merely said: “I’m glad to see you back, at all events. I have no one to speak to in this place, and, as I lie here, I get so impatient, that I forget my smashed thigh-bone, and want to be up and about again.”
“So you will, very soon, I hope.”
“Not so soon, lad!” said he, sorrowfully. “It’s a big spar to splice, the surgeon says, and will take three months; though how I’m to lie here three months is more than I can tell.”
“I’ll do my best to make it endurable for you. I’ll get books--they’ve plenty of books here--and maps, and drawings; and I saw a draftboard this morning, and you’ll see the time won’t hang so heavily as you feared.”
“That ain’t it at all, Harry. You’ve got to go to Liverpool to Towers and Smales--them’s the fellows know me well. Smales sailed with me as a youngster, and you’ll hand them a letter I’ll write, and they’ll look about for the sort of craft we’re wanting--something bark-rigged, or a three-masted schooner. I was dreaming of one last night--such a clipper on a wind! The French are blockading Vera Cruz just now, and if we could slip past them and get in, one trip would set us all right again.”
“I think I should like that well!” cried the youth. “Like it! Why. wouldn’t you like it? There ain’t nothing to compare with blockade running in this life: stealing carefully up till you see the moment to make a dash--watching your wind, and then with every inch of canvas you can spread, go at it till the knee timbers crack again, and the planks work and writhe like the twigs of a wicker basket, and all the ships of war flying this signal and that to each other, till at last comes a gun across your bows, and you run up a flag of some sort--English belike, for the French never suspect John Bull of having a clipper. Then comes the order to round to, and you pretend to mind it; and just as they man their boat, dead at them you go, swamp every man of them, and hold on, while they fire away, at the risk of hulling each other, and never take more notice of them than one discharge from your pivot-gun, just by way of returning their salute. That’s what I call sport, boy; and I only wish I was at it this fine morning.”
“And what happens if you’re taken?”
“That depends on whether you showed fight or not; if you fired a shotted gun, they hang you.”
Luttrell shook his head, and muttered, “A dog’s death; I don’t like that.”
“That’s prejudice, Sir; nothing more. Every death a man meets bravely is a fine death! I’d just as lieve be hanged as flayed alive by the Choctaws!”
“Perhaps so would!”
“Well, there’s what you’ve got to do. Towers and Smales, shipbuilders!--they’re the men to find what we want, and they know a clipper well; they’ve built more slavers than any house in the trade.”
Harry made a wry face; the skipper saw it, and said: “There’s more prejudice; but when you’ve been at sea as long as I have, you’ll think less about the cargo than what you get per ton for the freight.”
“I’d not turn slaver, anyhow; that much I can tell you,” said he, stoutly.
“I’d not do it myself, Sir, except when business was alack and freights low. It ain’t cheering, noways; and there’s a certain risk in it besides. Towers and Smales--Towers and Smales!” muttered he over to himself three or four times. “They’d not be the men they are to-day, I can tell you, if they never traded in ebony ware! Had you any talk with your grand friend, Sir Gervais, about that loan he offered me?” asked he, after a pause.
“Not a word. I came away hurriedly. I had no good opportunity to speak about it.”
“He said, ‘Two thousand, and pay when I like;’ not hard terms certainly.”
“And yet I’d rather you’d not accept them,” said Harry, slowly.
“Not take money without interest charged or security asked? What do you mean?”
“I mean, I rather you’d wait till I’ve seen those lawyers that managed my father’s affairs, and see whether they can’t sell that trifle of property that comes to me.”
“Why, didn’t you tell me your father willed it away to some peasant girl?”
“Yes, the island, for the entail had been broken by my grandfather, but the small estate in Roscommon goes to the next of kin, and that happens to be myself. It must be very little worth, but it may help us at least to get a ship, and we’ll soon do the rest ourselves.”
“That will we, Harry. This is the fourth time in my life I’ve had to begin all over again, and I’m as fresh for it as on the first day.”
They went on now to talk of the future and all their plans like men who felt the struggle with life a fair stand up fight, that none with a stout heart ought ever to think of declining. The skipper had not only been in every corner of the globe, but had brought back from each spot some memories of gain, or pleasure, or peril--sensations pretty much alike to his appreciation--and whether he commanded a whale-boat at Behring’s Straits, or took in his ship store of cocoa-nuts and yams at the Spice Islands, adventure ever tracked his steps. Dashed with the love of danger was the love of gain, and in his narrative one never could say whether there prevailed more the spirit of enterprise or the temper of the trader.
“We’ll want that loan from Vyner yet, I see, Harry,” said he, at the end of a long calculation of necessary outgoings; “and I see no reason against taking it.”
“I do, though,” said the other, gravely.
“Mayhap some sentimental reason that I’d not give a red cent for, boy. What is it?”
“I’ll not trouble you with the sentimental reasons,” said Luttrell, smiling, “though perhaps I’m not without some of them. What I’ll give you will suffice. While I was one morning with Sir Gervais, going over all about my father and his affairs, of which he knew far more than I did, he opened his writing-desk, and took out a great mass of letters. ‘These,’ said he, ‘are in your father’s hand; read them, and you’ll be better acquainted with him than you have yet been.’ They were on all manner of themes--of society, field sports, books, and much about politics--and interested me vastly, till at last I came upon one which certainly Sir Gervais would not have suffered me to see had he been aware it was amongst them. It was the last letter my father had ever written to him, and was almost entirely about myself. He spoke of the semi-barbarism I had been reared in, and the humble prospects before me, and he told about my disposition, and my faults of temper--the old family faults, he called them--that made us all ‘intractable to our friends, and intolerable to all who were not friends.’ At the end he asked Vyner to become my guardian, and he added these words: ‘Be a friend to my boy in all ways that your kindness, your sympathy, your counsel can dictate. Guide, direct, encourage, or, if need be, reprove him, but never, whatever you do, aid him with your purse. It is on this condition I commit him to you. Remember.’”
“Well, I’d be noways obliged to my father if he had made any such condition about me. I’ve never been much the better for all the good advice I’ve got, but I’ve found the man that lent me a thousand dollars uncommon useful.”
“I am telling you of what my father wished and asked for,” said Harry, proudly, “not of anything else.”
“And that’s just what I’m objectin’ to, youngster. It was his pride to take no help, and it brought him to live and die on a barren rock in the ocean; but I don’t intend to do that, nor to let you do it. We’ve got to say to the world, ‘Sheer off there, I’m a comin’, and I mean comin’ when I say it. There’s maybe room enough for us all, but I’ll be smashed and chawed up but I’ll have room for me!”
Whether it was the fierce energy with which he spoke this, or the fact that in a few rough words he had embodied his whole theory of life, but certainly Harry looked at him with a sort of wonder blended with amusement.
“Besides this,” resumed Bodge, with the same decision of tone, “your father might say, if he pleased, ‘You shan’t help Harry Luttrell,’ but he never could say, ‘You mustn’t help Herodotus Dodge.’ No, Sir!”
“At all events,” said Harry, “you’ll let me try my own plan first. If that fail, there will be time enough to consider the other. I’ll start to-night for Liverpool. After I have seen your friends there, I’ll go over and consult my lawyers in Dublin; and I mean to run across and see Arran--the old rock--once more. It shall be my last look at it.”
“It ain’t a beauty, that’s a fact,” said Dodge, who saw nothing of the agitation in the other’s voice or manner. “Give me an hour or two, and I’ll write the letters for you, and I’ll tell Smales that if you want any money----”
“I shall not want it.”
“Then you’ll be unlike any other man that ever wore shoes, Sir, that’s all!” And Dodge stuffed a formidable piece of tobacco into his mouth, as though to arrest his eloquence and stop the current of his displeasure, while Harry waved him a good-by, and went out.
The same evening he started for Liverpool. The skipper’s friends were most cordial and hospitable to him. They had had long dealings with Dodge, and found him ever honourable and trustworthy, and Harry heard with sincere pleasure the praises of his friend. It was evident, too, that they were taken with young Luttrell, for they brought him about amongst their friends, introducing him everywhere, and extending to him every hospitality of their hospitable city. If Harry was very grateful for all this kindness, his mind continually reverted to the society he had so lately mixed in, and whose charm he appreciated, new as he was to life and the world, with an intense zest--the polished urbanity of Sir Gervais; the thoughtful good nature of Lady Vyner; the gentle gracefulness of Ada; even Miss Courtenay--no favourite of his, nor he of hens--yet even she possessed a winning elegance of manner that was very captivating.
Very unlike all these were the attentions that now surrounded him, and many were the unfavourable comparisons he drew between his present friends and their predecessors. Not that he was in love with Ada; he had asked himself the question more than once, and always had he given the same answer: “If I had been a man of rank and fortune, I’d have deemed my lot perfect to have had such a sister.” And really it was sister-like she had been to him; so candid, so frank, so full of those little cares that other “love” shrinks from, and dares not deal in. She had pressed him eagerly, too, to accept assistance from her father--a step she never could have taken had love been there--and he had refused on grounds which showed he could speak with a frankness love cannot speak.
“I take it,” muttered he to himself one day, after long reflection--“I take it that my Luttrell blood moves too slowly for passionate affection, and that the energy of my nature must seek its exercise in hatred, not love; and if this be so, what a life is before me!”
At last the ship-builders discovered the craft that Dodge was in search of. She was a slaver recently captured off Bahia, and ordered to be sold by the Admiralty. A few lines from Harry described her with all the enthusiasm that her beauty and fine lines could merit, and he smiled to himself as he read over the expressions of admiration, which no loveliness in human form could have wrung from him.
He sailed for Ireland on the night he wrote, but carried his letter with him, to relate what he might have to say of his meeting with his lawyer. A little event that occurred at his landing was also mentioned:
“As I was stepping into the boat that was to take me ashore, we were hailed by a large ship-rigged vessel just getting under weigh, and from which several boats, crowded with people, were just leaving. We rowed towards her, and found that they wanted us to take on shore a young lady whose class evidently prevented her mixing with the vulgar herd that filled the other boats. She was in deep mourning, and so overwhelmed with grief, that she was almost unconscious as they lifted her into the boat. I caught a mere glimpse of her face, and never saw anything so beautiful in my life. Only think! the vessel was a convict-ship, and she had gone there to take a last farewell of some father or brother, perhaps--husband it could scarcely be, she was too young for that. Can you imagine anything more dreadful? One evidently of rank and birth--there were unmistakable signs of both about her--mixing even for an instant with all the pollution of crime and wickedness that crowd the deck of a convict-ship! I asked leave to accompany her to her house or hotel, or wherever she was going, but she made a gesture of refusal; and, though I’d have given more than I dare tell to have known more about her, I thought it would be so unworthy to follow, her, that I left her the moment we landed, and never saw her more.
“I am sure I did what was right and becoming, but if you knew how sorry I am to have been obliged to do it--if you knew how, now that it is all done and passed, I think of her incessantly--ay, and follow every one I see in mourning till I discover that it is not she--you’d wonder what change has come over this thick blood of mine, and set it boiling and bubbling as it never used to do.”
He went on next to tell of his visit to the agents of his father’s property. Messrs. Cane and Carter had been duly apprised by Sir Gervais Vyner that Harry Luttrell was alive, and it scarcely needed the letter which he carried as a credential, to authenticate him, so striking was the resemblance he bore to his father.
“You should have been here yesterday, Mr. Luttrell,” said Cane. “You would have met your cousin. She has left this for Arran this morning.”
Harry muttered something about their not being known to each other, and Cane continued:
“You’d scarcely guess what brought her here. It was to make over to you, as the rightful owner, the property on the Arran Islands. We explained to her that it was a distinct deed of gift--that your late father bequeathed it to her as a means of support--for she has really nothing else--and that legally her claim was unassailable. She was not to be shaken from her resolution. No matter how we put the case--either as one of law or as one of necessity, for it is a necessity--her invariable reply was, ‘My mind is made up, and on grounds very different from any you have touched on;’ and she left us with full directions to make the requisite conveyances of the estate in your favour. I entreated her to defer her final determination for a week or two, and all I could obtain was a promise that if she should change her mind between that time and the day of signing the papers, she would let me know it. She has also given us directions about taking a passage for her to Australia; she is going out to seek occupation as a governess if she can, as a servant if she must.”
Harry started, and grew pale and red by turns as the other said this. He thought, indeed, there was some want of delicacy in thus talking to him of one so nearly allied to him. His ignorance of life, and the Irish attachment to kindred together, made him feel the speech a harsh one.
“How will it be, Sir,” asked he, curtly, “if I refuse to accept this cession?”
“The law has no means of enforcing it, Sir. There is no statute which compels a man to take an estate against his will. She, however, can no more be bound to retain, than you to receive, this property.”
“We had three hours’ talk,” said Harry, in writing this to Captain Dodge, “and I ascertained that this very property she is now so anxious to be free of, had formed up to this the pride and enjoyment of her life. She had laboured incessantly to improve it, and the condition of the people who lived on it. She had built a schoolhouse and a small hospital, and, strange enough, too, a little inn, for the place was in request with tourists, who now found they could make their visits with comfort and convenience. Cane also showed me the drawing of a monument to my father’s memory, the ‘Last Luttrell of Arran,’ she called him; and I own I was amazed at the simple elegance and taste of the design made by this poor peasant girl. Even if all these had not shown me that our old home has fallen into worthy hands, I feel determined not to be outdone in generosity by this daughter of the people. She shall see that a Luttrell understands his name and his station. I have told Cane to inform her that I distinctly refuse to accept the cession; she may endow her school or her hospital with it; she may partition it out amongst the cottier occupiers; she may leave it--I believe I said so in my warmth--to be worked out in masses for her soul--if she be still a Catholic--if all this while none of her own kith and kin are in want of assistance; and certainly times must have greatly changed with them if it be not so. At all events, I’ll not accept it.
“I own to you I was proud to think of the high-hearted girl, bred up in poverty, and tried by the terrible test of ‘adoption’ to forget her humble origin. It was very fine and very noble of her, and only that I fear if I were to see her the illusion might be destroyed, and some coarse-featured, vulgar creature rout for ever the pleasant image my mind has formed, I’d certainly make her a visit. Cane presses me much to do so, but I will not. I shall go over to the island to see the last resting-place of my poor father, and then leave it for ever. I have made Cane give me his word of honour not to divulge my secret, nor even admit that he has more than seen me, and I intend to-morrow to set but for Arran.
“I asked Cane, when I was leaving him, what she was like, and he laughingly answered, ‘Can’t you imagine it?’ And so I see I was right. They were a wild, fierce, proud set, all these of my mother’s family, with plenty of traditions amongst them of heavy retributions exacted for wrongs, and they were a strong, well-grown, and well-featured race, but, after all, not the stuff of which ladies and gentlemen are made in my country at least. You have told me a different story as regards yours.
“You shall hear from me from the island if I remain there longer than a day, but, if my present mood endure, that event is very unlikely.”
LXIV. ON THE ISLAND
It was late at night when Harry landed on Arran. Dark as it was, however, his sailor’s eye could mark that the little jetty was in trim order, and that steps now led down to the water where formerly it was necessary to clamber over rugged rocks and slippery seaweed. A boatman took his carpet-bag as matter of course, too, as he stepped on shore, and trifling as was the service, it had a certain significance as to the advance of civilisation in that wild spot. More striking, again, than these was the aspect of the comfortable little inn into which he was ushered. Small and unpretending, indeed, but very clean, and not destitute of little ornaments, sketches of the scenery of the island, and specimens of ore, or curious rock, or strange fern, that were to be found there. A few books, too, were scattered about, some of them presents from former visitors, with graceful testimonies of the pleasure they had found in the trip to Arran, and how gratefully they cherished the memory of its simple people.
Harry amused himself turning over these, as he sat at the great turf fire waiting for his supper. Of those who served him there was not one he recognised. Their looks and their language bespoke them as belonging to the mainland, but they spoke of the island with pride, and told how, in the season, about July or August, as many as fifteen or twenty strangers occasionally came over to visit it.
“There was a day,” said the man, “in the late Mr. Luttrell’s time, when nobody dare come here; he’d as soon see ould Nick as a stranger; and if a boat was to put in out of bad weather, or the like, the first moment the wind would drop ever so little, down would come a message to tell them to be off.”
Harry shook his head; an unconscious protest of dissent it was, but the other, interpreting the sign as condemnation, went on:
“Ay, he was a hard man! But they tell me it wasn’t his fault; the world went wrong with him, and he turned against it.”
“He had a son, hadn’t he?” asked Harry.
“He had, Sir. I never saw him, but they tell me he was a fine boy, and when he was only ten years old, got a broken arm fighting with a seal in one of the caves on the shore; and, what’s more, he didn’t like to own it, because the seal got away from him.”
“What became of him?”
“He was lost at sea, Sir. I believe he turned pirate or slaver himself, and it was no great matter what became of him. They were all unlucky men and women. No one ever heard of a Luttrell coming to good yet.”
“That’s a hard sentence.”
“You’d not think so, Sir, if you knew them; at least, so the men tell me about here. They liked the man that was here last well enough, but they said that nothing he could do would ever prosper.”
“And who owns it now?”
“Kitty O’Hara that was--Neal O’Hara’s daughter--he that was transported long ago--she’s now the mistress of the whole island, and her name--she took it by his will--is Luttrell--Luttrell of Arran!”
“Do the people like her?”
“Why wouldn’t they like her? Isn’t she working and slaving for them all day long, nursing them at the hospital, visiting them in their cabins, teaching them in the school, getting them seed potatoes from Belmullet, and hasn’t she set up a store there on the shore, where they can buy pitch, and hemp, and sailcloth, and all kinds of cordage, for less than half what it costs at Castlebar?” “How has she money to do all this?”
“Just because she lives like the rest of us. Sorrow bit better dinner or supper she has, and it’s a red cloak she wears, like Molly Ryan, and she makes her own shoes, and purtier ones you never looked at.” “And who taught her to manage all this so cleverly?” “She taught herself ont of books; she reads all night through. Come here, now, Sir! Do you see that light there? That’s her window, and there she’ll be till, maybe, nigh five o’clock, stodyin’ hard. Molly says there’s nights she never goes to bed at all.” “That light comes from the tower.”
“So it does, Sir, however you knew it,” said the man; “but it was the favourite room of him that’s gone, and she always sits there.” “And are strangers permitted to see the Abbey?” asked Harry. “Yes, Sir. All they’ve to do is to write their names in this book and send up a message that they want to see the place, and they’d see every bit of it but the two little rooms Mr. Luttrell that was used to keep for himself.”
“And if one wished to see these also?”
“He couldn’t do it, that’s all; at least, I’d not be the man that axed her leave!”
“Take my name up there in the morning,” said Harry, as he wrote “H. Hamilton” in the book, that being a second name by which he was called after his father, though he had long ceased to use it.
The supper made its appearance at this moment, and little other conversation passed between them. As the man came and went, however, he continued to speak of Miss Luttrell, and all she had done for the people in terms of warmest praise, winding up all with the remark, “That no one who had not lived the life of hardship and struggle of a poor person could ever be able to know what were the wants that press hardest--what the privations that cut deepest into the nature of the poor. And that’s the reason,” he said, “that she’ll never let any one be cruel to the children, for it was as a child herself she knew sorrow!”
Long after the man had left him, Harry sat at the fire thinking over all he had heard. Nor was it, let us own, without a certain irritation that he thought of the contrast the man drew between his father and this girl--his father, the man of mind and intellect, the scholar, the orator, the man whose early career had been a blaze of success, and yet all his acquirements and all his knowledge paled beside the active energy of a mere peasant. The reflection pained him; it chafed him sorely to admit, even to his own heart, that birth and blood were not always the superiors, and he causistically suspected that much of the praise he had heard bestowed upon this girl was little other than the reflex of that selfish esteem the people felt for qualities like their own.
And out of these confused and conflicting thoughts he set to work to paint her to his mind and imagine what she most be. He pictured her a coarse, masculine, determined woman; active, courageous, and full of expedients, with some ability, but far more of self-confidence, the great quality of those who have been their own teachers. From what Mr. Cane had told him, she was one who could take a proud view of life and its duties. That very resolve to cede the property, when she heard that there was yet a Luttrell alive to inherit it, showed that there was stuff of no mean order in her nature. “And yet,” he thought, “all this could consist with vulgar looks and vulgar manners, and a coarseness of feeling that would be repugnant.” With these imaginings he went to bed, and dreamed the whole night through of this girl.
“Have you taken my message up to the Abbey?” asked he, as he sat at breakfast.
“Yes, Sir; and Miss Luttrell says you are to go where you like. She’s off to the far part of the island this morning to see a woman in fever, and won’t be back till night.”
“Then perhaps I may be able to see those two rooms you spoke of?”
The man shook his head in silence, perhaps not over-pleased at the obstinacy of the stranger to investigate what was deemed sacred.
“I want no guide,” said Harry. “I see the Abbey, and I’ll find my own way to it.”
And with these words he sauntered along, every step and every stone of the path familiar to him. As he drew nigh he saw some changes. The railing of the little garden had been repaired, and the garden itself was better tilled than of yore, and close by the wall of the Abbey, where shelter favoured, a few flowers were growing, and some attempt there seemed making to train a creeper to reach the window-sill.
Molly Ryan was out, and a strange face that Harry knew not received him at the door, leaving him, as he entered, to go where he pleased, simply saying, “There’s the way to the Abbey, and that’s where she lives!”
He turned first to the aisle of the church, paved with the tombstones of bygone Luttrells, and where now a cross in blue limestone marked his father’s grave. The inscription was, “To the Memory of the Last of the Luttrells, by one who loved him, but not merited his love.”
“Strange that she should have said so,” thought he, as he sat down upon the stone. But it was soon of the long past his mind was filled with. Of the days of his boyhood, no happy, careless, sunny youth was it, but a time of loneliness and sorrow--of long solitary rambles through the island, and a return at nightfall to a home of melancholy and gloom. He bethought him of his poor mother’s tears as they would fall hot upon his face, and the few words, stern and harsh, his father would meet him with; and yet, now in his utter desolation, what would he not give to hear that voice again whose accents were wont to terrify him?--what would he not give to see the face whose slightest sign of reproof had once overwhelmed him with shame?
How fervently, how faithfully, will the heart cling to some memory of kindness for those whose severity had once been almost a terror! What a sifting process do our affections go through where death has come, tearing away the recollections of what once had grieved and pained us, and leaving only the memory of the blessed word that healed, of the loving look that rallied us. John Luttrell had been a hard, stern, unforgiving man; it was but seldom that he suffered his heart to sway him, but there had been moments when his love overcame him, and it was of these Harry now bethought him, and it was in such guise he pictured his father now before him.
“Oh! if he were here to welcome me back--to let me feel I was not homeless in the world--what a moment of joy and happiness had this been!” How keen can sorrow make memory. There was not a little passing word of praise his father ever spoke--there was not a kindly look, not a little gesture of fondness, that did not recur to him as he sat there and wept.
With slow steps and heavy heart he turned into the house, and sought the little room where his father usually sat during the day. There was the great old chair of bog oak, and there the massive table, and over the fireplace the great two-handed sword, and the stone-headed javelin crosswise over the ox-hide shield; all these he knew, but other objects there were new and strange to him--so strange, that he could not but wonder at them. A half-finished water-colour on an easel, done by no common hand, was at one side of the window, and in a deep chair, as though left hurriedly there, was a guitar. Music, and pen sketches, and books, were strewn about, and a solitary rose in a glass of water bore an almost painful testimony to the rareness of flowers on the spot. A basket of some sewing work--capes of frieze for her school children--stood beside the fire. It was plain to see that this peasant girl had caught up tastes and pursuits which belong to another sphere, and Harry pondered over it, and questioned himself if she were the happier for this cultivation. “Was it better for her, or worse, to be endowed with what, in imparting a resource, removes a sympathy?”
Seated on the little window-stool--the same spot where he had often sat silent for hours--he fell into a train of melancholy thought. His poor father--the broken-down, crushed man, without a companion or a friend--rose before his mind, and filled each spot he turned to, and it was with a feeling of deep self-reproach he recalled how he himself had left him--deserted him, he called it now--to live on in sorrow and die forlorn. Out of this dreamy half-stupor he was roused by the woman hurriedly telling him that her mistress was, coming up the path to the house, and entreating him to go away before she entered.
He arose at once, and, passing through the kitchen, issued forth by the back of the Abbey at the very instant that Kate crossed the door.
“Who has been here, Jane? Whose cane is this?” said she, taking up a stick, Harry had forgotten in his haste..
The woman explained it was the young gentleman to whom her mistress gave permission that morning to see the Abbey, and who had only just taken his departure.
“The whole day here!” exclaimed Kate.
“True enough, Miss. He was two hours, and more in the Abbey, and I thought he was asleep, for he was lying on the masters, grave with his face hid; but when I spoke he answered me. It was what he wished, Miss, was to be let go up in the tower and have a view from the top; but I told him your own rooms was there, and nobody ever got leave to see them.”
“I mean to go to the Murra Glen to-morrow, Molly,” said Kate, turning to her old and faithful servant, “and you may let this stranger go over the Abbey in every part; so that he be away before nightfall, the whole is at his disposal. Go-down this evening to the inn, and take his stick to him, with this, message.”
Seated at her tea, Kate was thinking over the long sea voyage that lay before her, and the new land in which she was to seek her fortune, when a wild shrill scream startled her, and, at the same instant, Molly rushed into the room, and when she had reached the middle of it, staggered back, and leaned, half fainting, against the wall.
“What’s the matter, Molly? What has happened?” cried Kate, eagerly.
“May the blessed saints protect and guard us, Miss, but I seen him as plain as I see you.”
“Whom did you see?”
“Himself that’s gone--the master! Glory to him, and peace too, if it was God’s will,” said the woman, falteringly.
“How foolish this is, Molly. I scarcely expected this from you.”
“I don’t care. I’ll swear it on the book I saw him, and heard him too. ‘Would you be so kind------’ says he; and at that I let a screech out of me and ran in here.”
“This is too absurd,” said Kate, with some irritation in her voice. “Go and see what this man wants.”
“Not if you were to give me a hat full of goold, Miss Kate. May I never, if I’d go there again to be Queen of England.”
“I am not pleased with you, Molly,” said Kate, taking a candle in her hand and moving towards the door. The woman threw herself at her feet to prevent her, but with a haughty gesture she motioned her away, and passed out.
A man was standing in the doorway, who courteously removed his hat as she came forward, and said, “I’m sorry to have alarmed your servant, Miss Lutrell, but I had left my walking-stick here this morning, and came to get it.”
Screening the light from herself with one hand, she threw the full glare on the other’s face, and, in a voice of deep emotion, said, “I see well why she was frightened. Your name is Luttrell!”
“I must not deny it to the only one that remains of all my kin. Are you not my Cousin Kate?”
She held out her hand to him, and, in a voice quavering and broken, said, “How glad I am to see you--and to see you here under your own roof.”
“There must be two words more before that be settled, Kate,” said he, kindly, as, still holding her hand in his own, he walked back with her to her room.
“There, Molly--there’s your young master; perhaps you’ll be less frightened now that you see him at my side.”
While the poor woman gave way to a transport of joy and tears, Harry continued to gaze at Kate with an intense eagerness. “Tell me one thing, Cousin Kate,” said he, in a whisper; “answer me truly: Were you on board of a convict-ship in Kingstown harbour on Tuesday last, as she was getting under weigh?”
She nodded assent
“Then it was I who lifted you into the boat, and asked your leave to see you safely on shore.”
“I’m ashamed to seem ungrateful, but I have no memory of your kindness. I had too much sorrow on my heart that morning.”
“Oh, if you knew how I longed to meet you again--how I walked and walked incessantly to try and come up with you, never dreaming of such happiness as this--that, when we met, I could claim you as my own dear cousin!”
“And was it right, Cousin Harry, for you to come here in disguise and visit the Abbey like a stranger? Was that an evidence of the affection you speak of?”
“You forget, Kate, I didn’t know whom I was to meet. If I had known that you were the girl whom I carried down the ladder to the boat, I’d have gone to the world’s end to see you again. How came you to be there?”
“You shall hear it all when you have time and patience. We each have much to tell, and you shall begin, but not to-night, Harry; let us be satisfied to make acquaintance now. Why do you stare at me?”
“Because you are so beautiful--because I never saw any one so beautiful before.”
“A very frank compliment, and I suppose too frank to be construed into what is called flattery.”
“To think of you living here!--you, in such a place as this! Why, it is downright monstrous.”
“Cousin Harry,” said she, gravely, “if you are to-do nothing but make me compliments, our intimacy will have but a sorry chance to make any progress. I have no doubt I’m pretty, but remember, that in this place here there are scores of things you’ll be struck by, simply because they come upon you unexpectedly. Look at my little tea equipage, for instance; could you have dreamed of anything so tasteful on the Island of Arran?”
The playful raillery of this speech could not turn his thoughts from herself. Nor was it alone her beauty that amazed him, but her exquisite grace of manner, the sweet-toned voice, low and gentle, her every movement and gesture, and then her bearing towards himself, so nicely balanced between the reserve of a maidenly bashfulness and the freedom of a near relative.
“We will have our tea together, Harry,” said she, “and you shall tell me all your adventures. You could not readily find a listener more eager for all that is strange, or wild, or exciting. Let me hear of the scenes you have gone through, and I’ll be able to make some guess of what manner of man my cousin is.”
“My rough life is little more than a long catalogue of common-place hardships--hardships that sailors come at last to look at as the ordinary events of existence, but which certainly tend to make us somewhat careless about life, but very ready to enjoy it. Where am I to begin?”
“At the beginning, of course. I want to see you as a boy before I hear of you as a man.”
With a manly frankness, and a modesty totally devoid of any affectation, he told the story of his sea life; the strange lands and people he had seen; the wild spots he had visited; the hopes of fortune at one time full and radiant, at another dashed and destroyed by disaster; dreams of wealth and affluence rudely dispelled by mischances; and, last of all--the crowning calamity--the attack made by the Riffs, and his captivity amongst the Moors.
“Was home very often in your thoughts through these reverses?” asked she, gravely.
“Seldom out of my thoughts, Kate. It had not been, as you may know, a very cheerful or a happy home. It was a lonely, gloomy life I led here, but I believe sorrows can attach just as well as joys, and I longed to see the old rock again, and I used to fancy how much more companionable I could be to my poor father now that I had grown up and had learnt something of the world and its ways. All my misfortunes were nothing compared to the sorrowful tidings that met me as I landed at Genoa, and learned I was alone in the world, without even one to care for me.”
“You went at once to Sir Gervais Vyner’s. Tell me about them.” “You know them better than I do, Kate,” said he, smiling. “Ada told me of all her love for you--it was the theme she never tired of--your beauty, your wit, your gracefulness, your talent at everything--till I grew half angry. She would talk of nothing else.”
“And Ada herself--what is she like? She was, as a child, almost perfectly beautiful.”
“She is very handsome. Her features are all regular, and her smile is very sweet, and her manner very gentle, and her voice singularly silvery and musical.”
“So that you fell in love with her?” “No,” said he, shaking his head--“no, I did not.” “Yes, yes, you did! That list of her perfections was given too readily not to have been conned over.”
“I tell you again, I felt no love for her. We were whole days together, and lived as a brother and a sister might, talking of whatever interested us most, but one word of love never passed between us.” “A look, then?”
“Not even that. Just think one moment, Kate. Who is she, and who am I?”
“What would that signify if your hearts caught fire? Do you think the affections ask leave of title-deeds?”
“Mine certainly did not. They had no need to do so. I was as frank with Ada as with you.” Scarcely was the last word out, than a deep crimson flash covered his cheek, and he felt overwhelmed with confusion, for he had said what, if true in one sense, might possibly convey a very different meaning in another. “I mean,” added he, stammeringly, “I told her all I have told you about my sea life.”
“You are a puzzle to me, Harry,” said she, after a pause. “You can enumerate a number of qualities with enthusiasm, and still declare that they had no influence over you. Is this the sailor temperament?”
“I suspect not,” said he, smiling. “I rather opine we salt-water folk are too free of our hearts.”
“But why were you not in love with her?” cried she, as she arose impatiently, and walked up and down the room. “You come off a life of hardships and perils into what, of all things, is the most entrancing--the dairy life of people bred up to all the courtesies and charms that embellish existence--and you find there a very beautiful girl, well disposed to accept your intimacy and your friendship--how can you stop at friendship? I want to hear that.”
“I never knew there was any difficulty in the task till now that you have told me of it,” said he, smiling.
She opened a little drawer in a cabinet as she stood with her back towards him, and drew on her finger a ring--a certain plain gold ring--which recalled a time of bygone sorrow and suffering, and then, coming close to him, laid her hand upon his arm, so that he could but notice the ring, and said:
“I ought to have remembered you were a Luttrell, Harry--the proud race who never minded what might bechance their heads, though they took precious care of their hearts!”
“What does that mean?” said he, pointing to the ring; and a paleness like death spread over his face.
“What does such an emblem always mean?” said she, calmly. “It is not that you are married, Kate?
“Surely you have heard the story. Mr. M’Kinlay could not have been a week at the Vyners’ without telling it.”
“I have heard nothing, I know nothing. Tell me at once, are you a wife?--have you a husband living?”
“You must be patient, Harry, if you want a somewhat long history.”
“I want no more than what I asked you. Are you a married woman? Answer me that.”
“Be calm, and be quiet and listen to me,” said she, sitting down at his side. “You can answer your own question when I shall have finished.”
“Why not tell me in one word? A Yes or a No cannot cost you so much, though one of them may cost me heavily.”
“What if I could not so answer you? What if no such answer were possible? Will you hear me now?”
“Say on,” muttered he, burying his face between his hands--“say on!”
“I have a long story to tell you, Harry, and I will tell it all; first, because you shall give me your counsel; and secondly, because, if you should hear others speak of me, you will know where is the truth. You will believe me? Is it not so?”
“That I will. Go on.”
“It would be well if I could speak of myself as one simply unlucky,” said she, in a tone of deep melancholy, “but this may not be! I have gone through heavy trials, but there was not one of them, perhaps, not self-incurred.”
“Oh, Kate, if you would not break my heart with anxiety, tell me at once this ring means nothing--tell me you are free.”
“Be patient, Harry, and hear me. Trust me, I have no wish to linger over a narrative which has so little to be proud of. It is a story of defeat--defeat and humiliation from beginning to end.”
She began, and it was already daybreak ere she came to the end. Tracking the events of her life from her first days at the Vyners’, she related an inner history of her own longings, and ambitions, and fears, and sufferings, as a child ripening into the character of womanhood, and making her, in spite of herself a plotter and a contriver. The whole fabric of her station was so frail, so unreal, it seemed to demand incessant effort to support and sustain it. At Dalradern, where she ruled as mistress, an accident, a word might depose her. She abhorred the “equivoque” of her life, but could not overcome it. She owned frankly that she had brought herself to believe that the prise of wealth was worth every sacrifice; that heart, and affection, and feeling were all cheap in comparison with boundless affluence.
“You may imagine what I felt,” said she, “when, after all I had done to lower myself in my own esteem--crushed within me every sentiment of womanly affection--when, after all this, I came to learn that my sacrifice had been for nothing--that there was a sentiment this old man cared for more than he cared for me--that there was a judgment he regarded more anxiously than all I could say--the opinion of the world; and it actually needed the crushing sorrow of desertion to convince him that it was better to brave the world than to leave it for ever. Till it became a question of his life he would not yield. The same lesson that brought him so low served to elevate me. I was then here--here in Arran--holding no feigned position. I was surrounded with no luxuries, but there were no delusions. Your father gave me his own proud name, and the people gave me the respect that was due to it. I was real at last. Oh, Harry, I cannot tell you all that means! I have no words to convey to you the sense of calm happiness I felt at being what none could gainsay--none question. It was like health after the flush and madness of fever. This wild spot seemed to my eyes a Paradise! Day by day duties grew on me, and I learned to meet them. All the splendid past, the great life of wealth and its appliances, was beginning to fade away from my mind, or only to be remembered as a bright and gorgeous dream, when I was suddenly turned from my little daily routine by an unhappy disaster. It came in this wise.” She then went on to tell of her grandfather’s imprisonment and trial, and the steps by which she was led to ask Sir Within’s assistance in his behalf. On one side, she had to befriend this poor old man, deserted and forlorn, and, on the other, she had to bethink her of her uncle, whose horror at the thought of a public exposure in court was more than he had strength to endure. If she dwelt but passingly on the description, her shaken voice and trembling lip told too well what the sacrifice had cost her. “The messenger to whom I entrusted my letter, and whom I believed interested almost equally with myself in its success, brought me back for answer that my letter would not be even opened, that Sir Within refused to renew any relations with me whatever--in a word, that we had separated for ever and in everything. I cannot tell now what project was in my head, or how I had proposed to myself to befriend my grandfather; some thought, I know, passed through my head about making a statement of his case, so far as I could pick it up from himself and going personally with this to one of the leading lawyers on the circuit, and imploring his aid. I always had immense confidence in myself or in whatever I could do by a personal effort. If I have learned to think more meanly of my own powers, the lesson has been rudely taught me. What between the mental strain from this attempt, anxiety, privation, and exposure to bad weather, I fell ill, and my malady turned to brain fever. It was during this time that this man O’Rorke, of whom I have told you, returned, bringing with him Mr. Ladarelle, a young relative of Sir Within’s. On the pretext of giving me the rites of my Church, a priest was admitted to see me, and some mockery of a marriage ceremony was gone through by this clergyman, who, I am told, united me, unconscious, and to all seeming dying, to this same young gentleman. These details I learned later, for long, long before I had recovered sufficient strength or sense to understand what was said to me, my bridegroom had gone off and left the country.”
“And with what object was this marriage ceremony performed?” asked Luttrell.
“I have discovered that at last. I have found it out through certain letters which came into my hands in looking over your father’s papers. You shall see them yourself to-morrow. Enough now, that I say that Sir Within had never rejected my prayer for help; on the contrary, he had most nobly and liberally responded to it. He wrote besides to your father a formal proposal to make me his wife. To prevent the possibility of such an event, Ladarelle planned the whole scheme I have detailed, and when your father wrote to Sir Within that I had left Arran--‘deserted him,’ he called it--and Ladarelle forwarded a pretended certificate of our marriage, no further proof seemed wanting that I was one utterly unworthy of all interest or regard. I came here in time--not to receive my dear uncle’s forgiveness, for he had long ceased to accuse me--his last thoughts of me were kind and loving ones. Since then,” said she, “my life has had but one severe trial--my leave-taking with my poor old grandfather; but for this it has been like a strange dream, so much of active employment and duty blending with memories of a kind utterly unlike everything about me, that I am ever asking myself, ‘Is it the present or the past is the unreal?’”
“The marriage is, however, a mockery, Kate,” said Luttrell; and, taking her hand, he drew off the ring and threw it into the fire. “You are sure it gives him no claim--no power over me?” asked she.
“Claim!--power! None. I’m no lawyer, but I could almost swear that his act would subject him to severe punishment; at all events, you have a cousin, Kate, who will not see you insulted. I’ll find out this fellow, if I search ten years for him.”
“No, no, Harry. To publish this story would be to draw shame upon me. It was your own father said, ‘A Woman is worse with an imputed blame than is a Man after a convicted fault.’ Let me not be town-talk, and I will bear my sorrows patiently.”
“That’s not the Luttrell way to look at it!” said he, fiercely.
“Remember, Harry, I am only Luttrell by adoption,” said she, rising, and approaching the fire.
“What are you looking for there in the embers, Kate?”
“My ring,” said she, drawing the charred and blackened ring out from the ashes. “I mean to keep this--an emblem of a sorrow and a shame which should not be forgotten.”
“What do you mean? It was by no fault of yours this trick was worked!”
“No; but it was my own heartless ambition that provoked it, Harry. I wanted to be a great lady, at the cost of all that gives life a charm.”
“You surely would not have married this old man--this Sir Within, you speak of?”
“I would,” said she, coldly.
“Oh, Kate! unsay that. Tell me that you only said this in levity or jest!”
“I will not tell you one word of myself which is not true,” said she, in a tone firm and collected.
“And you would have married a man you could not love--a decrepit old man, whose very attentions must have been odious to you?”
“I never forgot the misery I was reared in. I shrank with terror at the thought of going back to it. I used to dream of cold, and want, and privation. I used to ramble in my sleep about the weary load I had to carry up the slippery rocks with bleeding feet, and then wake to see myself waited on like a queen, my slightest word obeyed, my merest whim fulfilled. Are these small things?--or, if they be, what are the great ones?”
“The great ones are a fearless heart and a loving nature!” said Harry, fiercely; and his dark face almost grew purple as he darted an angry look at her.
“So they are,” said she, calmly. “I had them once, too; but I had to lay them down--lay them down as stakes on the table for the prize. I played for.”
“Oh, this is too bad--too sordid!” cried he, madly.
“Say on, you cannot speak more cruelly than I have spoken to my own heart. All these have I told myself over and over!”
“Forgive me, my dear Cousin Kate, but if you knew with what agony your words wring me----”
“I can believe it, Harry; better and purer natures than mine could not stand the test of such confessions, but you would have them, remember that. You said, ‘No concealments,’ and now you are shocked at the naked truth. With very little aid from self-deception, I could have given you a more flattering view of my heart and its affections. I could have told you, as I often told myself, that I wished to be better--that I longed to be better--that the only ones I ever envied were those whose fate entailed no such struggle as mine--a struggle, remember, not to gain smooth water and a calmer sea, but to save life--to escape drowning! To fall from the high place I held, was to fall to the lowest depth of all! I had plenty of such casuistry as this ready, had you asked for it. You preferred to have me truthful, you ought not to shrink from the price!”
“Had you no friend to counsel--to guide you?” “None.”
“Was there none to take you away from the danger you lived in?” “I could have gone back to the cabin I came from; do you think I was well suited to meet its hardships?”
“But my father--surely my father’s house was open to you!”
“Not till he believed that he was childless. It was when the tidings of your shipwreck came that he asked me to come here. All his generosity to me, his very affections, were given on a false assumption. He gave me his love, as he gave me his fortune, because he did not know that the rightful heir to both was living.”
“No, no. I have heard, in the few hours that I have been here, of your tender care of him, and how he loved you.”
“He had none other,” said she, sorrowfully.
“Oh, Kate, how differently others speak of you than you yourself. What have I not heard of your devotion to these poor islanders; your kindness to them in sickness, and your cheering encouragement to them in their health. The very children told me of your goodness as I came along.”
“You gave me the true epithet a while ago, Harry.”
“I? What did I say?”
“You used a hard word, but a true one. You called me sordid,” said she, in a low, tremulous voice.
“Oh no, no! Never! I never said so. Oh, dear Kate, do not believe I could couple such a word with you.”
“I will not any more, since you have forgotten it; but in honest truth it was the very epithet my conduct merited. Let us speak of it no more, since it pains you. And now, Harry, there is daybreak. I must not ask you to stay here--here in your own house. I, the mere intruder, must play churlish host, and send you off to your inn.”
“This house is yours, Kate. I will never consent to regard it otherwise. You would not have me dishonour my father’s name, and take back what he had given?”
“It is too late in the night to open a knotty discussion. Say good-by, and come back here to breakfast,” said she, gaily; “and remember to make your appearance in becoming guise, for I mean to present the lieges to their master.”
“I wish you would not send me away so soon; I have many things to ask you.”
“And is there not all to-morrow before you? I am going to see Inchegora after breakfast; a very important mission, touching a limekiln in dispute there. You shall sit on the bench with me, and aid justice by your counsels.”
“Can you not give, all to-morrow to me, and leave these cares for another time?”
“No, Sir. ‘We belong to our people,’ as Elizabeth said. Good night--good night.”
With a most reluctant heart he answered, “Good night,” and pressing her hand with a cordial grasp, he kissed it twice, and turned away.
Sleep was out of the question--his mind was too full of all he had heard to admit of slumber--and so he strolled down to the shore, losing himself amongst the wild, fantastic rocks, or catching glimpses of the old Abbey at times between their spiked and craggy outlines.
“What a creature, in what a place!” muttered he. “Such beauty, such grace, such fascination, in the midst of all this rugged barbarism!” And what a terrible story was that she told him: the long struggle she had endured, the defeat, and then, the victory--the victory over herself at last, for at last she saw and owned how ignoble was the prize for which she had perilled her very existence. “What a noble nature it most be, too,” thought he, “that could deal so candidly with its own short-comings, for, as she said truly, ‘I could have made out a case for myself, if I would.’ But she would not stoop to that--her proud heart could not brook the falsehood--and oh, how I love her for it! How beautiful she looked, too, throughout it all; I cannot say whether more beautiful in her moments of self-accusing sorrow, or in the haughty assertion of her own dignity.”
One thing puzzled him, she had not dropped one word as to the future. The half-jesting allusion to himself as the Lord of Arran dimly shadowed forth that resolve of which Cane had told him.
“This must not be, whatever shall happen,” said he. “She shall not go seek her fortune over the seas, while I remain here to enjoy her heritage. To-morrow--to-day, I mean,” muttered he, “I will lead her to talk of what is to come, and then------” As to the “then,” he could not form any notion to himself. It meant everything. It meant his whole happiness, his very life; for so was it, she had won his heart just as completely as though by the work of years.
Where love steals into the nature day by day, infiltrating its sentiments, as it were, through every crevice of the being, it will enlist every selfish trait into the service, so that he who loves is half enamoured of himself; but where the passion comes with the overwhelming force of a sudden conviction, where the whole heart is captivated at once, self is forgotten, and the image of the loved one is all that presents itself. This was Harry Luttrell’s case, and if life be capable of ecstasy, it is when lost in such a dream.
LXV. THE LUTTRELL BLOOD
“Look at this, Harry,” said Kate, as he came into the room where she was preparing breakfast. “Read that note; it bears upon what I was telling you about last night.”
“What a scoundrel!” cried Harry, as his eye ran over the lines. “He scarcely seems to know whether the better game will be menace or entreaty.”
“He inclines to menace, however,” for he says, “The shame of an exposure, which certainly you would not be willing to incur.’”
“What may that mean?”
“To connect my name, perhaps, with that of my poor old grand-father; to talk of me as the felon’s granddaughter. I am not going to disown the relationship.”
“And this fellow says he will arrive to-night to take your answer. He has courage, certainly!”
“Come, come, Harry, don’t look so fiercely. Remember, first of all, he is, or he was, a priest.”
“No reason that I shouldn’t throw him over the Clunk rock!” said Luttrell, doggedly.
“I think we might feel somewhat more benevolently towards him,” said she, with a malicious twinkle of the eye, “seeing how generously he offers to go all the way to Italy to see Sir Within, and explain to him that my marriage with Mr. Ladarelle was a mockery, and that I am still open to a more advantageous offer.”
“How can you talk of this so lightly?”
“If I could not, it would break my heart!” said she, and her lip trembled with agitation. She leaned her head upon her hand for some minutes in deep thought, and then, as though having made up her mind how to act, said, “I wish much, Cousin Harry, that you would see this man for me, only----”
“Only what?”
“Well, I must say it, I am afraid of your temper.”
“The Luttrell temper?” said he, with a cold smile.
“Just so. It reaches the boiling-point so very quickly, that one is not rightly prepared for the warmth till he is scalded.”
“Come, I will be lukewarm to-day--cold as the spring well yonder, if you like. Give me my instructions. What am I to do?”
“I shall be away all day. I have a long walk before me, and a good deal to do, and I want you to receive this man. He will soon moderate his tone when he finds that I am not friendless; he will be less exacting in his demands when he sees that he is dealing with a Luttrell. Ascertain what is his menace, and what the price of it.”
“You are not going to buy him off, surely?” cried Harry, angrily.
“I would not willingly bring any shame on the proud name I have borne even on sufferance. I know well how your father felt about these things, and I will try to be loyal to his memory, though I am never again to hear him praise me for it. Mr. Cane already wrote to me about this man, and advised that some means might be taken to avoid publicity. Indeed, he offered his own mediation to effect its settlement, but I was angry at the thought of such submission, and wrote back, I fear, a hasty, perhaps ill-tempered answer. Since then Cane has not written, but a letter might come any moment--perhaps to-day. The post will be here by one o’clock; wait for its arrival, and do not see the priest till the letters have come. Open them till you find Cane’s, and when you are in possession of what he counsels, you will be the better able to deal with this fellow.”
“And is all your correspondence at my mercy?”
“All!”
“Are you quite sure that you are prudent in such frankness?”
“I don’t know that it will tempt you to any very close scrutiny. I expect an invoice about some rapeseed, I look for a small package of spelling-books, I hope to receive some glasses of vaccine matter to inoculate with, and tidings, perhaps, of a roll of flannel that a benevolent visitor promised me for my poor.”
“And no secrets?”
“Only one: a sketch of Life on Arran, which I sent to a London periodical, but which is to be returned to me, as too dull, or too melancholy, or too something or other for publication. I warn you about this, as the editor has already pronounced sentence upon it.”
“May I read it, Kate?”
“Of course. I shall be very proud to have even one to represent the public I aspired to. Read it by all means, and tell me when I come back that it was admirable, and that the man that rejected it was a fool. If you can pick up any especial bit for praise or quotation, commit it to memory, and you can’t think how happy you’ll make me, for I delight in laudation, and I do--get--so very--little of it,” said she, pausing after each word, with a look of comic distress that was indescribably droll; and yet there was a quivering of the voice and a painful anxiety in her eye that seemed to say the drollery was but a coyer to a very different sentiment It was in this more serious light that Harry regarded her, and his look was one of deepest interest. “You have your instructions now!” said she, turning away to hide the flush his steady gaze had brought to her cheek; “and so, good-by!”
“I’d much rather go with you, Kate,” said he, as she moved away.
“No, no,” said she, smiling, “you will be better here! There is plenty of work for each of us. Good-by!”
Harry’s wish to have accompanied her thus thwarted, by no means rendered him better disposed towards him who was the cause of the disappointment, and as he paced the room alone he conned over various modes of “clearing off scores” with this fallen priest. “I hope the fellow will be insolent! How I wish he may be exacting and defiant!” As he muttered this below his breath, he tried to assume a manner of great humility--something so intensely submissive as might draw the other on to greater pretension. “I think I’ll persuade him that we are at his mercy--absolutely at his mercy!” mattered he. But had he only glanced at his face in the glass as he said it, he would have seen that his features were scarcely in accordance with the mood of one asking for quarter. The boat which should bring the letters was late, and his impatience chafed and angered him. Three several times had he rehearsed to himself the mock humility with which he meant to lure on the priest to his destruction; he had planned all, even to the veriest detail of the interview, where he should sit, where he would place his visitor, the few bland, words he would utter to receive him; but when he came to think of the turning-point of the discussion, of that moment when, all reserve abandoned, he should address the man in the voice of one whose indignation had been so long pent up that he could barely control himself to delay his vengeance,--when he came to this, he could plan no more. Passion swept all his intentions, to the winds, and his mind became a chaos.
At last the post arrived, but brought only one letter. It was in Cane’s writing. He opened it eagerly, and read:
“Dear Madam,--I am happy to inform you that you are not likely to be further molested by applications from the priest O’Rafferty. He no sooner heard that young Mr. Luttrell was alive, and in Ireland, than he at once changed his tone of menace for one of abject solicitation. He came here yesterday to entreat me to use my influence with you to forgive him his part in an odious conspiracy, and to bestow on him a trifle--a mere trifle--to enable him to leave the country, never to return to it.
“I took the great--I hope not unpardonable---liberty to act for you in this matter, and gave him five pounds, for which I took a formal receipt, including a pledge of his immediate departure. Might I plead, in justification of the authority I thus assumed, my fears that if young Mr. Luttrell should, by any mischance, have met this man, the very gravest disasters might have ensued. His family traits of rashness and violence being, I am informed, only more strikingly developed by his life and experiences as a sailor.”
Harry read over this passage three several times, pausing and pondering over each word of it.
“Indeed!” muttered he. “Is this the character I have brought back with me? Is it thus my acquaintances are pleased to regard me? The ungovernable tempers of our race have brought a heavy punishment on us, when our conduct in every possible contingency exposes us to such comment as this! I wonder is this the estimate Kate forms of us? Is it thus she judges the relatives who have shared their name with her?”
To his first sense of disappointment that the priest should escape him, succeeded a calmer, better feeling--that of gratitude that Kate should be no more harassed by these cares. Poor girl! had she not troubles enough to confront in life without the terror of a painful publicity! He read on:
“Of Mr. Ladarelle himself you are not likely to hear more. He has been tried and convicted of swindling, in France, and sentenced to five years’ reclusion, with labour. His father, I learn, is taking steps to disinherit him, and there is no wrong he has done you without its full meed of punishment.
“It was quite possible that he and his accomplice, O’Rorke, might have escaped had they not quarrelled, and each was the chief instrument in the conviction of the other. The scene of violent invective and abuse that occurred between them, exceeded, it is said, even the widest latitude of a French criminal court.
“I thought to have concluded my letter here, but I believe I ought to inform you, and in the strictest confidence, that we had a visit from young Mr. Luttrell on Wednesday last. We were much struck by the resemblance he bore to his late father in voice and manners, as well as in face and figure. When I hinted to him--I only hinted passingly--certain scruples of yours about retaining the Arran property, he declared, and in such a way as showed a decided resolve, that, come what might, the estate should not revert to him. ‘It was yours,’ he said, ‘and it was for you to dispose of it.’ When he put the question on the ground of a dishonour to his father’s memory, I forbore to press it further. The Luttrell element in his nature showed itself strongly, and warned me to avoid any inopportune pressure.
“You will, I suspect, find it exceedingly difficult to carry out your intentions in this matter, and I hope you will allow me to entreat a reconsideration of the whole project; all the more, since every information I have obtained as to the chance of employment in Australia is decidedly unfavourable. Except for the mechanic, it is said, there is now no demand. The governess and tutor market is greatly overstocked, and persons of education are far less in request than strong-bodied labourers.
“I hope sincerely I may be able to dissuade you from what I cannot but call a rash scheme. In the first place, it will not accomplish what you intended regarding the Arran property; and secondly, it will as Surely involve yourself in grave difficulty and hardship. I know well how much may be expected from what you call your ‘courage,’ but ‘courage’ that will brave great dangers will also occasionally succumb to small daily privations and miseries. There is no doubt whatever how you would behave in the great trial. It is in meeting the slights and injuries that are associated with humble fortune that I really feel you will be unequal.
“Should you, however, persist in your resolve, I shall be able to secure you a passage to Melbourne under favourable circumstances, as a distant relative of my wife’s, Captain Crowther, of the Orion, will sail from Liverpool on Thursday, the seventh of next month. This gives you still seventeen days; might I hope for such reflection as will induce you to forego a step so full of danger, present and future? Indeed, from Captain Crowther himself I have heard much that ought to dissuade you from the attempt. He went so far as to say yesterday, that he believed he had already brought back to England nearly every one of those he had taken out with hopes of literary employment.
“I think I know what you would reply to this. I have only to call upon my memory of our last conversation to remind me of the daring speech you made when I ventured to hint at the difficulty of finding employment; and once more, my dear Miss Luttrell, let me entreat you to remember, you have not the habits, the strength, the temperament, that go with menial labour. You have yourself admitted to me that your early sorrows and sufferings are nightmares to you in your sleep--that you are never feverish or ill that they do not recur--that when your head wanders, it is about the days of your childish troubles; surely it is not with habits of luxury and refinement you hope to combat these enemies?
“Do not persist in believing that what you call your peasant nature is a garment only laid aside, but which can be resumed at any moment. Take my word for it, there is not a trace of it left in you!
“If your desire for independence must be complied with, why not remain and achieve it at home? Mrs. Cane is ready and willing to serve you in any way; and it will be a sincere pleasure to us both if we can acquit towards you any portion of the debt we have long owed your late uncle.
“I wish much you would consult Mr. Luttrell on this subject; indeed, he would have a right to feel he ought to be consulted upon it; and, although his experiences of life may not be large or wide, his near relationship to you gives him a claim to have his opinion cared for.
“You will see from all this insistance, my dear Miss Luttrell, how eager I am to dissuade you from a step which, if taken, will be the great disaster of your whole life. Remember that you are about to act not alone for the present, but for the events and contingencies which are to occur years hence.”
The letter wound up with many assurances of esteem, and most cordial offers of every service in the writer’s power. A postscript added, “On reconsideration, I see that you must absolutely speak to Mr. Luttrell about your project, since in my notes I find that he positively declines to accept your gift of the Arran estate except in exchange for the larger property in Roscommon. In all my varied experiences, two such clients as yourself and your cousin have never occurred to me.”
It was as he was finishing the reading of this letter for the third time, that Harry Luttrell felt a hand laid gently on his shoulder. He turned, and saw Kate standing behind him. Her cheek was flushed with the fresh glow of exercise, and her hair, partly disordered, fell in heavy masses beneath her bonnet on her neck and shoulders, while her full lustrous eyes shone with a dazzling brilliancy. It was one of those moments in which every trait that formed her beauty had attained its most perfect development. Harry stared at her with a wondering admiration.
“Well, Sir?” cried she, as if asking what his look implied--“well, Sir?” But, unable to maintain the cool indifference she had attempted, and feeling that her cheek was growing hot and red, she added, quickly, “What have you done?--have you seen him?--has he been here?” He stared on without a word, his eager eyes seeming to drink in delight without slaking, till she turned away abashed and half vexed. “I don’t suppose you heard my question,” said she, curtly.
“Of course I heard it, but it was of what I saw I was thinking, not of what I heard.”
“Which, after all, was not quite polite, Harry.”
“Politeness was not much in my thoughts either,” said he. “I couldn’t believe any one could be so beautiful.”
“What a nice rough compliment, what a dear piece of savage flattery! What would you say, Sir, if you had seen me, in my days of finery, decked out in lace and jewels, Harry? And, dear me, don’t they make a wondrous difference! I used to come down to dinner at Dalradern at times powdered, or with my hair in short curls, à la Sévigné, and my costume all to suit; and you should have seen the worshipful homage of old Sir Within, as he presented me with my bouquet, and kissed the extreme tips of my fingers. Oh dear, what a delightful dream it was, all of it!”
“What a coquette you must be! What a coquette you are!” muttered he, savagely.
“Of course I am, Harry. Do you think I would deny it? Coquetry is the desire to please, as a means of self-gratification. I accept the imputation.”
“It means intense vanity, though,” said he, roughly.
“And why not vanity, any less than courage or compassion, or a dozen other things one prides himself on having?”
“I think you are saying these things to vex me, Kate. I’ll swear you don’t feel them.”
“No matter what I feel, Sir. I am certainly vain enough to believe I can keep that for myself. Tell me of this man. Have you seen him?”
“No, he has not come; he will not come.”
“Not come! And why?”
“Here’s a letter from Cane will explain it all; a letter which I suppose you would not have let me read had you seen it first. You said you had no secrets, but it turns out that you had.”
“What do you mean?” said she, snatching the letter eagerly from him.
“I read every word of it three times. I know it almost by heart,” said he, as he watched her running her eyes over the letter.
“When I said I had no secrets,” said she, gravely, “I meant with regard to my past life. Of that assuredly I have told you all, freely and candidly. The future is my own, at least so far as what I intend by it.”
“And you persist in this scheme?”
“Don’t look so sternly--don’t speak so harshly, Harry. Let me enjoy the good news of Cane’s letter, in so far as this priest is concerned. It is a great weight off my heart to know that my name is not to be bandied about by gossips and newsmongers--that name your poor father treasured with such care, and for whose safeguard he would have made any sacrifice.”
“Tell me you will give up this scheme, Kate; tell me you will make Arran your home,” cried he, earnestly. “I mustn’t tell you an untruth, Harry. Arran is yours.”
“And if it be mine,” said he, seizing her hand, “share it with me, Kate. Yes, dearest, be mine also. Oh, do not turn away from me. I know too well how little I resemble those gifted and graceful people your life has been passed with. I am a rough sailor, but remember, Kate, the heart of a gentleman beats under this coarse jacket. I am a Luttrell still.”
“And the Luttrell’s have passed their ordeal, Harry. Three generations of them married peasants to teach their proud hearts humility. Go practise the lesson your fathers have bought so dearly; it will be better than to repeat it. As for me, my mind is made up. Hear me out, Harry. I promised my poor old grandfather to aid him on his trial. Illness overtook me, and I was in a raging fever on the day he was sentenced. It was not for months after that I was able to go to him, and the poor old man, who had believed himself forgotten and deserted, no sooner saw me than he forgave all, and pressed me to his heart with rapturous affection. I told him then--I gave him my solemn pledge--that so soon as I had arranged certain details here, I would follow him across the seas. There are many ways by which a resident can lighten the pains and penalties of a prisoner. I learned these, and know all about them, and I have determined to pay off some part of the debt I owe him, for he loved me--he loved me more than all the world. The very crime for which he is suffering was committed on my behalf; he thought this property should have been mine, and he was ready to stake his life upon it.”
“And must he be more to you than me?” said Harry, sadly.
“I must pay what I owe, Harry, before I incur a new debt,” said she, with a smile of deep melancholy.
“Why did I ever come here? What evil destiny ever brought me to know you!” cried he, passionately. “A week ago--one short week--and I had courage to go anywhere, dare anything, and now the whole world is a blank to me.”
“Where are you going? Don’t go away, Harry. Sit down, like a dear, kind cousin, and hear me. First of all, bear in mind people cannot always do what is pleasantest in life----”
A heavy bang of the door stopped her, and he was gone!
LXVI. A CHRISTMAS AT ARRAN
For two entire days Harry Luttrell wandered over the island alone and miserable, partly resolved never to see Kate again, yet he had not resolution to leave the spot. She sent frequent messages and notes to him, entreating he would come up to the Abbey, but he gave mere verbal replies, and never went.
“Here’s Miss Kate at the door, Sir, asking if you’re in the house,” said the woman of the inn; “what am I to tell her?”
Harry arose, and went out.
“Come and have a walk with me, Harry,” said she, holding out her hand cordially towards him. “This is Christmas-day--not a morning to remember one’s grudges. Come along; I have many things to say to you.”
He drew her arm silently within his own, and walked on. After a few half-jesting reproaches for his avoidance of her, she became more serious in manner, and went on to talk of Arran and its future. She told of what she had done, and what she meant to do, not claiming as her own many of the projects, but honestly saying that the first suggestions of them she had found amongst his father’s papers.
“It is of these same papers,” said she, more earnestly, “I desire to speak. I want you to read them, and to read them carefully, Harry. You will see that the struggle of a proud man against an unequal marriage marred the whole success of a life; you will see that it was this ‘low-lived herd’--the hard words are his own--that had stamped ruin upon him. The disappointment he had met with might have driven him for a while from the world, but, after a year or two, he would have gone back to it more eager for success, more determined to assert himself, than ever. It was the bane of a low connexion poisoned all hope of recovery. How could he free, himself from the claims of this lawless brood? His journals are filled with this complaint. It is evident, too, from the letters of his friends, how he must have betrayed his misery to them, proud and reserved as he was. There are constant allusions through them to his stern refusal of all invitations, and to his haughty rejection of all their friendly devices to draw him back amongst them. It was in some moment of rash vengeance for an injury real or supposed,” said she, “that he plunged into this marriage, and it completed his ruin. If there was a lesson he desired to teach his son, it was this one; if there was a point which he regarded as the very pivot of a man’s fortune, it was the belongings which surround and cling to him, for better or for worse, on his journey through life. I will show you not one, but fifty-ay, twice fifty--passages in his diary that mark the deep sense he had of this misfortune. When the terrible tidings reached him that you were lost, he ceased to make entries regularly in his journal, but on your birthday recurring, there is this one: ‘Would have been twenty-two today. Who knows which for the best? No need of my warnings now; no need to say, Do not as I have done!’ Are you listening to me, Harry?” asked she, at length, as he never by a word or sign seemed to acknowledge what she was saying.
“Yes, I hear you,” said he, in a low voice.
“And you see why, my dear Harry, I tell you of these things. They are more than warnings; they are the last wishes, the dying behests, of a loving father; and he loved you, Harry--he loved you dearly. Now listen to me attentively, and mind well what I say. If these be all warnings to you, what are they to me? Do you imagine it is only the well-born and the noble who have pride? Do you fancy that we poor creatures of the soil do not resent in our hearts the haughty contempt by which you separate your lot from ours? Do you believe it is in human nature to concede a superiority which is to extend not to mere modes of life and enjoyments, to power, and place, and influence, but to feelings, to sentiments, to affections? In one word, are you to have the whole monopoly of pride, and only leave to us so much as the honour of ‘pertaining’ to you? Or is it to be enough for us to know that we have dragged down the man who tried to raise us? Reflect a little over this, dear cousin, and you will see that, painful as it is to stoop, it is worse--ten thousand times worse--to be stooped to! Leave me, then, to my own road in life--leave me, and forget me, and if you want to remember me, let it be in some connexion with these poor people, whom I have loved so well, and whose love will follow me; and above all, Harry, don’t shake my self-confidence as to the future. It is my only capital; if I lose it, I am penniless. Are you listening to me?”
“I hear you but too well,” muttered he. “All I gather from your words is, that while accusing us of pride, you confess to having ten times more yourself. Perhaps if I had not been a poor sailor, without friends or fortune, that same haughty spirit of yours had been less stubborn.”
“What do you mean?” said she, disengaging herself from his arm, and staring at him with wide-opened, flashing eyes. “Of what meanness is this you dare to accuse me?”
“You have angered me, and I know not what I say.”
“That is not enough, Sir. You must unsay it! After all that I have told you of my early life, such an imputation is an insult.”
“I unsay it. I ask pardon that I ever said it. Oh, if you but knew the wretchedness of my heart, you would see it is my misery, not myself that speaks.”
“Be as brave as I am--or as I mean to be, Harry. Don’t refuse to meet the coming struggle--whatever it be--in life; meet it like a man. Take my word for it, had your father lived, he would have backed every syllable I have spoken to you. Come back to the Abbey now, and give me your best counsel. You can tell me about this long voyage that is before me. There are many things I want to ask you.”
As they turned towards the house, she went on talking, but in short, broken sentences, endeavouring, as it were, to say something---anything that should leave no pause for thought. The old doorway was decked with holly-boughs and arbutus-twigs, in tasteful honour of the day, and she directed his attention to the graceful courtesy of the poor people, who had bethought them of this attention; and simple as the act was, it revealed to Harry the wondrous change which had come over these wild natives, now that their hearts had been touched by sympathy and kindness. In the old days of long ago there were none of these things. Times nor seasons met no recognition. The dark shadow of melancholy brooded drearily over all; none sought to dispel it.
The little children of the school, dressed in their best, were all drawn up in the Abbey, to wish their benefactress a happy Christmas; and Kate had provided a store of little toys from Westport that was certain to render the happiness reciprocal. And there were, too, in the background, the hardy fishermen and their wives, eager to “pay their duty;” and venerable old heads, white with years, were there, to bless her who had made so many hearts light, and so many homes cheery.
“Here is your Master Harry, that you all loved so well,” said Kate, as she gained the midst of them. “Here he is, come back to live with you.”
And a wild cheer of joy rang through the old walls, while a tumultuous rush was made to grasp his hand, or even touch his coat. What blessings were uttered upon him! What honest praises of his handsome face and manly figure! How like he was to “his Honour,” but far stronger and more upstanding than his father, in the days they knew him!
They overwhelmed him with questions about his shipwreck and his perils, and his frank, simple manner delighted them. Their own hardy natures could feel for such dangers as he told of, and knew how to prize the courage that had confronted them.
“These are all our guests to-day, Harry,” said Kate. “We’ll come back and see them by-and-by. Meanwhile, come with me. It is our first Christmas dinner together; who knows what long years and time may do? It may not be our last.”
With all those varied powers of pleasing she was mistress of, she made the time pass delightfully. She told little incidents of her Dalradem life, with humorous sketches of the society there; she described the old Castle itself, and the woods around it, with the feeling of a painter; and then she sang for him snatches of Italian or Spanish romance to the guitar, till Harry, in the ecstasy of his enjoyment, almost forgot his grief.
From time to time, too, they would pass out and visit the revellers in the Abbey, where, close packed together, the hardy peasantry sat drinking to the happy Christmas that had restored to them the Luttrell of Arran.
The wild cheer with which they greeted Harry as he came amongst them sent a thrill through his heart. “Yes, this was home; these were his own!”
It was almost daybreak ere the festivities concluded, and Kate whispered in Harry’s ear: “You’ll have a commission from me to-morrow. I shall want you to go to Dublin for me. Will you go?”
“If I can leave you,” muttered he, as with bent-down head he moved away.
LXVII. A CHRISTMAS ABROAD
Let us turn one moment to another Christmas. A far more splendid table was that around which the guests were seated. Glittering glass and silver adorned it, and the company was a courtly and distinguished one.
Sir Gervais Vyner sat surrounded with his friends, happy in the escape from late calamity, and brilliant in all the glow of recovered buoyancy and spirits. Nor were the ladies of the house less disposed to enjoyment. The world was again about to dawn upon them in rosy sunshine, and they hailed its coming with true delight.
Not one of all these was, however, happier than Mr. M’Kinlay. The occasion represented to his mind something very little short of Elysium. To be ministered to by a French cook, in the midst of a distinguished company who paid him honour, was Paradise itself. To feel that while his baser wants were luxuriously provided for, all his intellectual sallies--small and humble as they were--were met with a hearty acceptance--was a very intoxicating sensation. Thus, as with half-closed eyes he slowly drew in his Burgundy, his ears drew in, not less ecstatically, such words: “How well said!” “How neatly put!” “Have you heard Mr. M’Kinlay’s last?” or, better than all, Sir Gervais himself “repeating him,” endorsing, as it were, the little bill he was drawing on Fame!
In happiness only inferior to this, Mr. Grenfell sat opposite him. Grenfell was at last where he had striven for years to be. The haughty “women,” who used to look so coldly on him in the Park, now smiled graciously when he talked, and vouchsafed towards him a manner positively cordial. Georgina had said: “I almost feel as if we were old friends, Mr. Grenfell, hearing of you so constantly from my brother;” and then little playful recognitions of his humour or his taste would be let fall, as “Of course you will say this, or think that?” all showing how well his nature had been understood, and his very influence felt, years before he was personally known.
These are real flatteries; they are the sort of delicate incense which regale sensitive organisations long palled to grosser worship. Your thorough man of the world does not want to be “praised;” he asks to be “understood,” because, in his intense self-love, he believes that such means more than praise. It is the delicate appreciation of himself he asks for, that you should know what wealth there is in him, even though he has no mind to display it.
He was an adept in the art of insinuation; besides that, he knew “every one.” And these are the really amusing people of society, infinitely more so than those who know “everything.” For all purposes of engaging attention there is no theme like humanity. Look at it as long and closely as you will, and you will see that in this great game we call “Life” no two players play alike. The first move or two may be the same, and then, all is different.
There was a third guest; he sat next Lady Vyner, in the place of honour. With a wig, the last triumph of Parisian skill, and a delicate bloom upon his cheek no peach could rival, Sir Within sat glittering in diamond studs and opal buttons, and his grand cross of the Bath. He was finer than the épergne! and the waxlights twinkled and sparkled on him as though he were frosted silver and filigree. His eyes had their lustre too--uneasy, fitful brightness--as though the brain that ministered to them worked with moments of intermission; but more significantly painful than all was the little meaningless smile that sat upon his mouth, and never changed, whether he spoke or listened.
He had told some pointless, rambling story about an Archduchess and a Court jeweller and a celebrated Jew banker, which none could follow or fathom; and simperingly finished by assuring them that all other versions were incorrect. And there was a pause--a very painful silence that lasted above a minute. Very awful such moments are, when, in the midst of our laughter and our cheer, a terrible warning would seem to whisper to our hearts that all was not joy or gladness there! and that Decay, perhaps Death, was at the board amongst them.
Grenfell, with the hardihood that became him, tried to rally the company, and told the story of the last current scandal, the card-cheating adventure, in which young Ladarelle was mixed up. “They’ve given him five years at the galleys, I see, Sir Within,” said he; “and, I remember, you often predicted some such finish to his career.”
“Yes,” smiled the old man, tapping his jewelled snuff-box--“yes, you are quite right, Mr. Grenfell--quite right.”
“He goes off to Toulon this very day,” resumed Grenfell.
“He was a charmant garçon,” said the old man, with another smile; “and will be an acquisition to any society he enters.”
To the first provocative to laughter this mistake excited, there quickly succeeded a far sadder, darker sentiment, and Lady Vyner arose, and the party retired to the drawing-room.
“I think our dining-room was most uncomfortably warm to-day, Sir Within,” said Georgina; “come and see if this little salon here with the open window is not very refreshing after it.” And Sir Within bowed and followed her.
“What do you call that, Sir?” whispered M’Kinlay to Grenfell, as they stood taking their coffee at a window. “He has just turned the corner; he has been so long loitering about. The head is gone now, and, I suppose, gone for ever.”
“My position,” whispered M’Kinlay again, “is a very painful one; he sent to me this morning about a codicil he wants executed.”
“Does he intend to make me his heir?” asked the other, laughing. “I opine not, Sir. It is of that girl--Miss Luttrell, they pretend to call her now--he was thinking; but really he is not in that state the law requires.”
“The disposing mind---eh?”
“Just so, Sir. I could not bring myself to face a cross-examination on the subject.”
“Very proper on your part; proper and prudent, both.” “You see, Sir, the very servants noticed the way he was in to-day. Harris actually passed him twice without giving him Hock; he saw his state.”
“Cruel condition, when the very flunkeys feel for one!” “I thought at the time what evidence Harris would give--I did, indeed, Sir. No solicitor of rank in the profession could lend himself to such a proceeding.”
“Don’t do it, then,” said Grenfell, bluntly.
“Ah! it’s very well saying don’t do it, Mr. Grenfell, but it’s not so easy when you have to explain to your client why you ‘wont do it.’”
Grenfell lit a cigarette, and smoked on without reply. “It was finding myself in this difficulty,” continued M’Kinlay, “I thought I’d apply to you.”
“To me! And why, in Heaven’s name, to me?” “Simply, Sir, as Sir Within’s most intimate friend--the person, of all others, most likely to enjoy his confidence.”
“That may be true enough in one sense,” said Grenfell, evidently liking the flattery of the position attributed to him; “but though we are, as you observe, on the most intimate terms with each other, I give you my solemn word of honour he never so much as hinted to me that he was going mad.”
Mr. M’Kinlay turned angrily away; such levity was, he felt, unbecoming and misplaced, nor was he altogether easy in his mind as to the use a man so unscrupulous and indelicate might make of a privileged communication. While he stood thus irresolute, Grenfell came over to him, and, laying a finger on his arm, said:
“I’ll tell you who’ll manage this matter for you better--infinitely better--than either of us; Miss Courtenay.”
“Miss Courtenay!” repeated “the lawyer, with astonishment.
“Yes, Miss Courtenay. You have only to see, by the refined attention she bestows on him, how thoroughly she understands the break-up that has come upon his mind; her watchful anxiety to screen him from any awkward exposure; how carefully she smoothes down the little difficulties he occasionally finds at catching the clue of any theme. She sees what he is coming to, and would evidently like to spare him the pain of seeing it while his consciousness yet remains.”
“I almost think I have remarked that. I really believe you are right. And what could she do--I mean, what could I ask her to do--in this case?”
“Whatever you were about to ask me! I’m sure I’m not very clear what that was, whether to urge upon Sir Within the inexpediency of giving away a large portion of his fortune to a stranger, or the impropriety of falling into idiocy and the hands of Commissioners in Lunacy.”
Again was Mr. M’Kinlay driven to the limit of his temper, but he saw, or thought he saw, that this man’s levity was his nature, and must be borne with.
“And you advise my consulting Miss Courtenay upon it?”
“I know of none so capable to give good counsel; and here she comes. She has deposited the old man in that easy-chair for a doze, I fancy. Strange enough, the faculties that do nothing occasionally stand in need of rest and repose!”
Miss Courtenay, after consigning Sir Within to the comforts of a deep arm-chair, turned again into the garden. There was the first quarter of a clear sharp moon in the sky, and the season, though mid-winter, was mild and genial, like spring. Mr. M’Kinlay was not sorry to have received this piece of advice from Grrenfell. There was a little suit of his own he wanted to press, and, by a lucky chance, he could now do so, while affecting to be engaged by other interests. Down the steps he hastened at once, and came up with her as she stood at the little balustrade over the sea. Had he been a fine observer, or had he even had the common tact of those who frequent women’s society, he would have seen that she was not pleased to have been followed, and that it was her humour to be alone, and with her own thoughts. To his little commonplaces about the lovely night and the perfumed air, she merely muttered an indistinct assent. He tried a higher strain, and enlisted the stars and the moon, but she only answered with a dry “Yes, very bright.”
“Very few more of such exquisite nights are to fall to my lot, Miss Georgina,” said he, sighing. “A day or two more must see me plodding my weary way north’ard, over the Mont Cenis pass.”
“I wonder you don’t go by Marseilles, or by the Cornich,” said she, carelessly, as though the route itself was the point at issue.
“What matters the road which leads me away from where I have been so--happy?” He was going to say “blest;” but he had not been blessed, and he was too technically honest to misdirect in his brief. No rejoinder of any kind followed on this declaration. He paused, and asked himself, “What next? Is the Court with me?” Oh! what stores of law lore, what wealth of Crown cases reserved, what arguments in Banco, would he not have given, at that moment, for a little insight into that cunning labyrinth, a woman’s heart! Willingly would he have bartered the craft it had taken years to accumulate for that small knowledge of the sex your raw Attaché or rawer Ensign seem to have as a birthright. “I am too abrupt,” thought he. “I must make my approaches more patiently--more insidiously. I’ll mask my attack, and begin with Sir Within.”
“I have been plotting all day, Miss Courtenay,” said he, in a calmer tone, “how to get speech of you. I am in great want of your wise counsel and kindly assistance. May I indulge the hope that they will not be denied me?”
“Let me learn something of the cause, Sir, in which they are to be exercised.”
“One for which you feel interested; so much I can at least assure you. Indeed,” added he, with a more rhetorical flourish of manner, “it is a case that would enlist the kindly sympathies of every generous heart.”
“Yes, yes--I understand; a poor family--a distressed tradesman--a sick wife--ailing children. Don’t tell me any details; they are always the same--always painful. I will subscribe, of course. I only wonder how you chanced upon them. But never mind; count on me, Mr. M’Kinlay: pray do.”
She was turning impatiently away, when he followed, and said, “You have totally misapprehended me, Miss Courtenay. It was not of a poor person I was thinking at all. It was of a very rich one. I was about to bespeak your interest for Sir Within Wardle.”
“For Sir Within Wardle! What do you mean, Sir?” said she, in a voice tremulous with feeling, and with a flush on her cheek, which, in the faint light, fortunately Mr. M’Kinlay failed to remark.
“Yes, Miss Courtenay. It is of him I have come to speak. It is possible I might not have taken this liberty, but in a recent conversation I have held with Mr. Grenfell, he assured me that you, of all others, were the person to whom I ought to address myself.”
“Indeed, Sir,” said she, with a stern, cold manner. “May I ask what led your friend to this conclusion?”
“The great friendship felt by this family for Sir Within, the sincere interest taken by all in his welfare,” said he, hurriedly and confusedly, for her tone had alarmed him, without his knowing why or for what.
“Go on, Sir; finish what you have begun.”
“I was going to mention to you, Miss Courtenay,” resumed he, in a most confidential voice, “that Sir Within had sent for me to his room yesterday morning, to confer with him on certain matters touching his property. I was not aware before what a large amount was at his disposal, nor how free he was to burden the landed estate, for it seems that his life-interest was the result of a certain family compact. But I ask your pardon for details that can only weary you.”
“On the contrary, M’Kinlay, it is a subject you have already made as interesting as a novel. Pray go on.”
And he did go on; not the less diffusely that she gave him the closest attention, and showed, by an occasional shrewd or pertinent question, with what interest she listened. We are not to suppose the reader as eager for these details, however, and we skip them altogether, merely arriving at that point of the narrative where Mr. M’Kinlay recounted the various provisions in Sir Within’s last will, and the desire expressed by him to append a codicil.
“He wants, my dear Miss Courtenay,” said he, warming with his theme--“he wants to make a sort of provision for this girl he called his ward--Miss Luttrell, he styles her; a project, of course, to which I have no right to offer objection, unless proposed in the manner in which I heard it, and maintained on such grounds as Sir Within was pleased to uphold it.”
“And what were these, pray?” said she, softly.
“It will tax your gravity if I tell you, Miss Courtenay,” said he, holding his handkerchief to his mouth, as though the temptation to laugh could not be repressed. “I assure you it tried me sorely when I heard him.”
“I have much control over my feelings, Sir. Go on.”
“You’ll scarce believe me, Miss Courtenay. I’m certain you’ll think me romancing.”
“I hope I form a very different estimate of your character, Sir.”
“‘Well,’ said he, ‘I should like you to make a codicil, to include a bequest to Miss Luttrell; because, in the event of my marrying’--don’t laugh, Miss Courtenay; on my honour he said it--‘in the event of my marrying, it would be more satisfactory that this matter were previously disposed of.’”
“Well, Sir!” said she; and, short as that speech was, it banished every mirthful emotion out of Mr. M’Kinlay’s heart, and sent a cold thrill through him.
“It was not the thought of providing for this young lady made me laugh, Miss Courtenay; far from it. I thought it laudable, very laudable; indeed, if certain stories were to be believed, Sir Within was only just, not generous. What amused me was the pretext, the possible event of his marrying. It was that which overcame me completely.”
“And to which, as you say, you offered strenuous objection?”
“No, Miss Conrtenay. No. Nothing of the kind. I objected to entertain the question of altering the will, accompanied as the request was by what I could not help regarding as symptoms of a wandering, incoherent intellect.”
“What do you mean, Sir? Do you intend to insinuate that Sir Within Wardle is insane? Is that your meaning?”
“I should certainly say his mind is verging on imbecility. I don’t think the opinion will be disputed by any one who sat at table with him to-day.”
“I declare, Sir, you amaze me!” cried she, in a voice of terror. “You amaze and you frighten me. Are there any others of us in whom you detect incipient madness? Did you remark any wildness in my sister’s eyes, or any traits of eccentricity in my mother’s manner? To common, vulgar apprehensions--to my brother’s and my own--Sir Within was most agreeable to-day. We thought him charming in those little reminiscences of a life where, be it remembered, the weapons are not the coarse armour of every-day society, but the polished courtesies that Kings and Princes deal in. I repeat, Sir, to our notions his anecdotes and illustrations were most interesting.”
Mr. M’Kinlay stood aghast. What could have brought down upon him this avalanche of indignation and eloquence? Surely in his remark on that old man’s imbecility he could not be supposed to insinuate anything against the sanity of the others! His first sensation was that of terror; his second was anger. He was offended--“sorely hurt,” he would have called it--to be told that in a matter of social usage, in what touched on conventionalities, he was not an efficient testimony.
“I am aware, fully aware, Miss Courtenay,” said he, gravely, “that Sir Within’s society is not my society; that neither our associations, our topics, or our ways of life, are alike; but, on a question which my professional opinion might determine--and such a question might well arise--I will say that there are few men at the English Bar would be listened to with more deference.”
“Fiddle-faddle, Sir! We have nothing to do with the Bar or Barristers, here. I have a great esteem for you--we all have--and I assure you I can give no better proof of it than by promising that I will entirely forget this conversation--every word of it.”
She waved her hand as she said “By-by!” and flitted rather than walked away, leaving Mr. M’Kinlay in a state of mingled shame and resentment that perfectly overwhelmed him.
For the honour of his gallantry I will not record the expressions with which he coupled her name; they were severe--they were even unprofessional; but he walked the garden alone till a late hour of the evening, and when Sir Gervais went at last in search of him, he refused to come in to tea, alleging much preoccupation of mind, and hinting that an urgent demand for his presence in London might possibly--he was not yet quite certain--oblige him to take a very hurried leave of his kind hosts.
In fact, Mr. M’Kinlay was in the act of determining with himself the propriety of a formal demand for Miss Courtenay in marriage, and endeavouring to make it appear that he “owed it to himself,” but, in reality, was almost indifferent as to the upshot. There are such self-delusions in the lives of very shrewd men when they come to deal with women, and in the toils of one of these we leave him.
LXVIII. TRUSTFULNESS
Perhaps the night brought reflection; at all events, Mr. M’Kinlay had so far recovered himself, that he came down to breakfast with a smile on his face and a mass of fresh-opened letters in his hand, with whose contents he purposed to amuse the company.
Miss Courtenay’s manner was so kind, so actually cordial, too, that he felt perfectly reassured on the score of their last interview; and as Sir Within was not present--he never made his appearance till late in the afternoon--all went on pleasantly and well.
Giving the precedence to “fashionable intelligence,” Mr. M’Kinlay related how certain great people were about to marry certain other great people, with intimations as to the settlements, and, in some cases, a minute account of the costly presents to the bride--all circumstances which, somehow, seem to have their interest for every age, and class, and condition of humanity. Some of these were known to Vyner, and he asked about them with eagerness. Grenfell knew none of them except by name, but he spoke of them with all the confidence of an old and intimate friend. Of the “men,” without using their titles; of the “women,” as dear Lady Fanny, or that charming little Lady Grace. So that hearing him was actually imbibing an atmosphere of aristocracy, inhaling the Peerage at every respiration.
“What is the large packet with all the seals on it, Mr. M’Kinlay?” asked Georgina. “It has been torturing my curiosity in the most painful manner these last ten minutes.”
“This, my dear Miss Courtenay,” said he, laying his hand on a somewhat bulky parcel, “is not for me, though it came under cover to my address. It is for Sir Within Wardle, in a lady’s handwriting.”
“I think I know the hand,” said Miss Courtenay, as she bent her head over it.
“Of course you do, Aunt Georgy. It is Kate’s. Nobody ever made those dear little round symbols but herself. It is the very prettiest writing in the world.”
“By the way,” said Mr. M’Kinlay, searching amongst the papers before him, “there is something here--I just glanced at it--from that young lady. Ay, here it is! You know, Sir Gervais, that you instructed me to write to the land agents of the late Mr. Luttrell, and inform them of your intention to confirm the deed of gift of the lodge in Donegal on Miss Luttrell; in consequence of which I wrote to Messrs. Cane and Carter, and here is their reply. But perhaps I had better keep these business matters for another opportunity?”
“Not at all. We are all friends here, and all about equally interested in these affairs,” said Sir Gervais. “Go on.”
Mr. M’Kinlay mumbled over, in an indistinct tone, something that sounded like an apology for not having more promptly answered his late communication. “‘It was only yesterday,’” he read aloud, “‘that we were in receipt of Miss Luttrell’s reply. The young lady refuses to accept of the property in question. She declines to admit that it had been at any time in the possession of her family, and desires me, while expressing her deep sense of gratitude, to explain that, associated as the spot is to her with a great calamity, it never could be an object of her desire or ambition.’”
“She refers to that scrimmage where her old grandfather killed a man,” said Grenfell, stirring his tea. “Really I fancied they took these things much easier in Ireland.”
“Don’t you see that the young lady is of the exalted school? Not to say that, as she always gambled for a high stake, she can’t abide low play.”
This bitter speech Georgina addressed directly to Grenfell, as the one person in the company adapted to comprehend it. He nodded and smiled a perfect acquiescence with her, and Mr. M’Kinlay read on:
“‘For your own guidance, therefore, as well as Sir Gervais Vyner’s--if you should desire to make the communication to him--I may remark, that any further insistance on this project would be perfectly ineffectual. Everything I have seen of Miss Luttrell has shown her to be a person of most inflexible will, and a determination far beyond the common. This will be apparent to you when you hear that she is equally resolved to make over the Arran estate, bequeathed to her by her late uncle, to the present Mr. Luttrell, leaving herself, as I may say, totally penniless and unprovided for.’”
“What a noble-hearted, generous girl!” cried Vyner.
“The dear, high-hearted Kate!” murmured Ada.
“A most artful, designing minx!” whispered Georgina to Grenfell; “but I suspect that her scheme will not have the success she anticipates.”
“‘Of course,’” read on M’Kinlay, “‘I mention the last in perfect confidence to you.’”
“Oh, of course!” broke in Georgina, “my dear Mr. M’Kinlay; the very first trait I discover in myself of angelic self-devotion, I’ll certainly impart it to you under the seal of inviolable secresy. Mind, therefore, that you tell nobody what a mine of goodness, of charity, and self-denial I am.”
Mr. M’Kinlay bowed an acquiescence, not aware in the least to what he was acceding, so overcome was he by the astounding assurance that the world contained one creature who refused to accept a legacy or avail herself of a gift.
“I am such a poor, weak-minded, vacillatory being myself,” said Georgina, still turning to Grenfell as most likely to appreciate her meaning, “that I really feel terrified in the presence of these great-souled creatures, who refuse to be stirred by the common motives of humanity.”
“The girl must be a fool!” muttered M’Kinlay, with his eyes fixed on a postscript of Cane’s letter--“a perfect fool!” But, without explaining why he thought so, he bundled up his papers, and hurried away.
“What is the mysterious parcel? I am dying to know the content» of it,” said Georgina, as she stood at a window with Grenfell.
“I think I could guess,” said he, slowly.
“You think you could guess! And you have the coolness to tell me this, seeing all the tortures of my curiosity!”
“It is by the shape of the packet that I am disposed to believe I know what is in it.”
“Pray tell me! Do tell me!” said she, entreatingly.
“I don’t think I can. I don’t think I ought. I mean,” said be, in a more apologetic tone--“I mean, it is not my secret. It is another’s--that is, if my guess be the right one.”
“And you have the courage to heighten my eagerness by all this preamble! Why, my dear Mr. Grrenfell, they told me, that of all the men about town, none knew women as you did!”
“Who told you that?” asked he, eagerly.
“Scores of people.” And she quoted at random the most distinguished names of her acquaintance, every syllable of their high-sounding titles falling on Grenfell’s ear with a cadence perfectly enthralling. “Come, now,” said she, with a look of entreaty, “don’t worry me any longer. You see I know more than one half of the secret, if it be a secret, already; from whom it comes, and to whom it is addressed.”
“I am in your hands,” said he, in a tone of submission. “Come out into the garden, and I’ll tell you all I know.”
Georgina accepted his arm as he spoke, and they passed out into a shady alley that led down to the sea.
“If I be right,” said he, “and I’d go the length of a wager that I am, the packet you saw on the breakfast-table contains one of the most costly ornaments a woman ever wore. It was a royal present on the wedding-day of Sir Within Wardles mother, and sent by him to fulfil the same office to Miss Luttrell on becoming Mrs. Ladarelle.”
“You know this!” said she, in a slow, collected tone.
“I know it because he sent me to his gem-room at Dalradern to fetch it. He opened the casket in my presence, he showed me the jewels, he explained to me the peculiar setting. Emeralds on one side, opals on the other, so as to present two distinct suites of ornaments. I remember his words, and how his lips trembled as he said, ‘Ladies in these times were wont to turn their necklaces, now they only change their affections!’ You’d scarcely believe it, Miss Conrtenay, but it is fact, positive fact, the poor old man had been in love with her.”
“I certainly cannot stretch my credulity to that extent, Mr. Grenfell,” said she, with a shade of vexation in her voice, “though I could readily believe how an artful, unprincipled girl, with a field all her own, could manage to ensnare a most gentle, confiding nature into a degree of interest for her, that she would speedily assume to be a more tender feeling. And was the casket sent to her, Mr. Grenfell?” asked she, in a suddenly altered tone.
“Yes, I enclosed it, with an inscription dictated by Sir Within himself.”
“And she sends it back to him?” said she, pondering oyer each word as though it were charged with a deep significance.
“It would seem so.”
“I think you guess why. I am certain, if I have not taken a very wrong measure of Mr. Grenfell’s acuteness, that he reads this riddle pretty much as I do myself.”
“It is by no means improbable,” said Grenfell, who quickly saw the line her suspicions had taken. “I think it very likely the same interpretation has occurred to each of us.”
“Give me yours,” said she, eagerly.
“My reading is this,” replied he: “she has returned his present on the ground that, not being Mrs. Ladarelle, she has no claim to it. The restitution serving to show at the same moment a punctilious sense of honour, and, what she is fully as eager to establish, the fact that, being still unmarried, there is nothing to prevent Sir Within himself from a renewal of his former pretensions.”
“How well you know her! How thoroughly you appreciate her wily, subtle nature!” cried she, in warm admiration.
“Not that the game will succeed,” added he; “the poor old man is now beyond such captations as once enthralled him.”
“How so? What do you mean?” asked she, sharply.
“I mean simply what we all see. He is rapidly sinking into second childhood.”
“I declare, Mr. Grenfell, you astonish me!” said she, with an almost impetuous force of manner. “At one moment you display a most remarkable acuteness in reading motives and deciphering intentions, and now you make an observation actually worthy of Mr. M’Kinlay.”
“And so you do not agree with me?” asked he.
“Agree with you! certainly not. Sir Within Wardle is an old friend of ours. Certain peculiarities of manner he has. In a great measure they have been impressed upon him by the circumstances of his station. An ambassador, a great man himself, is constantly in the presence of a sovereign, who is still greater. The conflict of dignity with the respect due to royalty makes up a very intricate code of conduct and manner of which the possessor cannot always disembarrass himself, even in the society of his equals. Something of this you may have remarked in Sir Within’s manner; nothing beyond it, I am confident!”
“I only hope, my dear Miss Courtenay, that, if the day should come when my own faculties begin to fail me, I may be fortunate enough to secure you for my defender.”
“The way to ensure my advocacy will certainly not be by attacking an old and dear friend!” said she, with deep resentment in tone; and she turned abruptly and entered the house.
Mr. Grenfell looked after her for a moment in some astonishment. He was evidently unprepared for this sudden outburst of passion, but he quickly recovered himself, and, after a brief pause, resumed his walk, muttering below his breath as he went: “So, then, this is the game! What a stupid fool I have been not to have seen it before! All happening under my very eyes, too! I must say, she has done it cleverly--very cleverly.” And with his cordial appreciation of female skill, he lit his cigar, and, seating himself on the sea-wall, smoked and ruminated during the morning. There were many aspects of the question that struck him, and he turned from the present to the future with all that ready-wittedness that had so longed favoured him in life.
He heard the bell ring for luncheon, but he never stirred; he was not hungry, neither particularly anxious to meet Miss Courtenay again. He preferred to have some few words with her alone ere they met in society. He thought he had tact enough to intimate that he saw her project, and was quite ready to abet it without anything which could offend her dignity. This done, they would be sworn friends ever after. As he sat thus thinking, he heard a quiet step approaching. It was doubtless a servant sent to tell him that luncheon was served, and while doubting what reply to make, he heard M’Kinlay call out, “I have found you at last! I have been all over the house in search of you.”
“What is the matter? What has happened? Why are you so flurried---eh?”
“I am not flurried. I am perfectly calm, perfectly collected--at least, as collected as a man can hope to be who has had to listen for half an hour to such revelations as I have had made me; but it is all over now, and I am thankful it is. All over and finished!”
“What is over? What is finished?”
“Everything, Sir--everything! I leave this within an hour--earlier if I can. I have sent two messengers for the horses, and I’d leave on foot--ay, Sir, on foot--rather than pass another day under this roof!”
“Will you have the extreme kindness to tell me why you are going off in this fashion?”
Instead of complying with this reasonable request, Mr. M’Kinlay burst out into a passionate torrent, in which the words “Dupe!” “Fool!” and “Cajoled!” were alone very audible, but his indignation subsided after a while sufficiently to enable him to state that he had been sent for by Sir Within, after breakfast, to confer with him on the subject of that codicil he had spoken of on the previous day.
“He was more eager than ever about it, Sir,” said he. “The girl had written him some very touching lines of adieu, and I found him in tears as I came to his bedside. I must own, too, that he talked more sensibly and more collectedly than before, and said, in a tone of much meaning, ‘When a man is so old and so friendless as I am, he ought to be thankful to do all the good he can, and not speculate on any returns either in feeling or affection I I left him, Sir, to make a brief draft of what he had been intimating to me. It would take me, I told him, about a couple of hours, but I hoped I could complete it in that time. Punctual to a minute, I was at his door at one o’clock; but guess my surprise when Miss Courtenay’s voice said, ‘Come in!’ Sir Within was in his dressing-gown, seated at the fire, the table before him covered with gems and trinkets, with which he appeared to be intently occupied. ‘Sit down, M’Kinlay,’ said he, courteously. ‘I want you to choose something here--something that Mrs. M’Kinlay would honour me by accepting.’ She whispered a word or two hastily in his ear, and he corrected himself at once, saying, ‘I ask pardon! I meant your respected mother. I remember you are a widower.’ To withdraw his mind from this painful wandering, I opened my roll of papers and mentioned their contents. Again she whispered him something, but he was evidently unable to follow her meaning; for he stared blankly at her, then at me, and said, ‘Yes, certainly, I acquiesce in everything.’ ‘It will be better, perhaps, to defer these little matters, Miss Courtenay,’ Said I, ‘to some moment when Sir Within may feel more equal to the fatigue of business.’ She stooped down and said something to him, and suddenly his eyes sparkled, his cheek flushed, and, laying his hand-with emphasis on the table, he said, ‘I have no need of Law or Lawyers, Sir! This lady, in doing me the honour to accord me her hand, has made her gift to me more precious by a boundless act of confidence; she will accept of no settlements.’ ‘Great Heavens! Miss Courtenay,’ whispered I, ‘is he not wandering in his mind? Surely this is raving!’ ‘I think, Sir, you will find that the only person present whose faculties are at fault is Mr. M’Kinlay. Certainly I claim exemption both for Sir Within Wardle and myself.’ It was all true, Sir--true as I stand here! She is to be his wife. As to her generosity about the settlements, I understood it at once. She had got the whole detail of the property from me only yesterday, and knew that provision was made--a splendid provision, too--for whomsoever he might marry. So much for the trustfulness!”
“But what does it signify to you, M’Kinlay? You are not a Lord Chancellor, with a function to look after deranged old men and fatherless young ladies, and I don’t suppose the loss of a settlement to draw will be a heart-break to you.”
“No, Sir; but, lawyer as I am, there are depths of perfidy I’m not prepared for.”
“Come in and wish them joy, M’Kinlay. Take my word for it, it might have been worse. Old Sir Within’s misfortune might have befallen you or myself!”
LXIX. THE END
“You see, Sir, she is obstinate,” said Mr. Cane to Harry Luttrell, as they sat closeted together in his private office. “She is determined to make over the Arran estate to you, and equally determined to sail for Australia on the 8th of next month.”
“I can be obstinate too,” said Harry, with a bent brow and a dark frown--“I can be obstinate too, as you will see, perhaps, in a day or two.”
“After all, Sir, one must really respect her scruples. It is clear enough, if your father had not believed in your death, he never would have made the will in her favour.”
“It is not of that I am thinking,” said Luttrell, with a tone of half irritation; and then, seeing by the blank look of astonishment in the other’s face that some explanation was necessary, he added, “It was about this foolish journey, this voyage, my thoughts were busy. Is there no way to put her off it?”
“I am afraid not. All I have said--all my wife has said--has gone for nothing. Some notion in her head about the gratitude she owes this old man overbears every other consideration, and she goes on repeating, ‘I am the only living thing he trusts in. I must not let him die in disbelief of all humanity.’” Harry made a gesture of impatient meaning, but said nothing, and Cane went on: “I don’t believe it is possible to say more than my wife has said on the subject, but all in vain; and indeed, at last, Miss Luttrell closed the discussion by saying: ‘I know you’d like that we should part good friends; well, then, let us not discuss this any more. You may shake the courage I shall need to carry me through my project, but you’ll not change my determination to attempt it.’ These were her last words here.”
“They were all the same!” muttered Harry, impatiently, as he walked up and down the room. “All the same!”
“It was what she hinted, Sir?”
“How do you mean--in what way did she hint it?”
“She said one morning--she was unusually excited that day--something about the wilfulness of peasant natures, that all the gilding good fortune could lay on them never succeeded in hiding the base metal beneath; and at last, as if carried away by passion, and unable to control herself, she exclaimed, ‘I’ll do it, if it was only to let me feel real for once! I’m sick of shams!--a sham position, a sham name, and a sham fortune!’”
“I offered her the share of mine, and she refused me,” said Luttrell, with a bitterness that revealed his feeling.
“You offered to make her your wife, Sir!” cried Cane, in astonishment.
“What so surprises you in that?” said Harry, hastily. “Except it be,” added he, after a moment, “my presumption in aspiring to one so far superior to me.”
“I wish you would speak to Mrs. Cane, Mr. Luttrell. I really am very anxious you would speak to her.”
“I guess your meaning--at least, I suspect I do. You intend that your wife should tell me that scandal about the secret marriage, that dark story of her departure from Arran, and her repentant return to it; but I know it all, every word of it, already.”
“And from whom?”
“From herself--from her own lips; confirmed, if I wanted confirmation, by other testimony.”
“I think she did well to tell you,” said Cane, in a half uncertain tone.
“Of course she did right. It was for me to vindicate her, if she had been wronged, and I would have done so, too, if the law had not been before me. You know that the scoundrel is sentenced to the galleys?”
Cane did not know it, and heard the story with astonishment, and so much of what indicated curiosity, that Harry repeated all Kate had told him from the beginning to the end.
“Would you do me the great favour to repeat this to my wife? She is sincerely attached to Miss Luttrell, and this narrative will give her unspeakable pleasure.”
“Tell her, from me, that her affection is not misplaced--she deserves it all!” muttered Harry, as he laid his head moodily against the window, and stood lost in thought.
“Here comes the postman. I am expecting a letter from the captain of the Australian packet-ship, in answer to some inquiries I had made in Miss Luttrell’s behalf.”
The servant entered with a packet of letters as he spoke, from which Cane quickly selected one.
“This is what I looked for. Let us see what it says:
“‘Dear Sir,--I find that I shall be able to place the poop cabin at Miss L.’s disposal, as my owner’s sister will not go out this spring. It is necessary she should come over here at once, if there be any trifling changes she would like made in its interior arrangement. The terms, I believe, are already well understood between us. By the Hamburg packet-ship Drei Heilige, we learn that the last outward-bound vessels have met rough weather, and a convict-ship, the Blast, was still more unfortunate. Cholera broke out on board, and carried off seventy-three of the prisoners in eleven days.’”
There was a postscript marked confidential, but Cane read it aloud:
“‘Can you tell me if a certain Harry Luttrell, who has signed articles with me as second mate, is any relation of Miss L.’s? He has given me a deposit of twenty pounds, but my men think he is no seaman, nor has ever been at sea. Do you know anything of him, what?’”
“Yes!” said Harry, boldly. “Tell him you know him well; that he was with you when you read aloud that passage in his letter; assure him--as you may with a safe conscience--that he is a good sailor, and add, on my part, that he has no right to make any other inquiries about him.”
“And do you really intend to make this voyage?”
“Of course I do! I told you a while ago I could be as obstinate as my cousin. You’ll see if I don’t keep my word. Mind me, however; no word of this to Miss Luttrell. I charge you that!”
“And the property, Sir! What are your views respecting the estate?”
“I shall write to you. I’ll think of it,” said Harry, carelessly. After a few words more, they parted. Harry had some things to buy in the city, some small preparations for the long voyage before him; but, promising Cane to come back and take a family dinner with him, he went his way. For some hours he walked the streets half unconsciously, a vague impression over him that there was something he had to do, certain people to see, certain places to visit; but so engaged was he with the thought of Kate and her fortunes, his mind had no room for more. “She shall see,” muttered he to himself, “that I am not to be shaken off. My Luttrell obstinacy, if she will call it so, is as fixed as her own. Country has no tie for me. Where she is, there shall be my country.” Some fears he had lest Cane should tell her of his determination to sail in the same ship with her. She was quite capable of outwitting him if she could only get a clue to this. Would Cane dare to disobey him? Would he face the consequences of his betrayal? From these thoughts he wandered on to others--as to how Kate would behave when she found he had followed her. Would this proof of attachment move her? Would she resent it as a persecution? Hers was so strange a nature, anything might come of it. “The same pride that made her refuse me, may urge her to do more. As she said so haughtily to me at Arran, ‘The peasant remedy has failed to cure the Luttrell malady; another cure must be sought for!’”
Harry had scarcely knocked at Cane’s door, when it was opened by Cane himself, who hurriedly said, “I have been waiting for you. Come in here;” and led him into his own room. “She’s above stairs. She has just come,” whispered he.
“Who?” asked Harry, eagerly. “Who?”
“Your cousin--Miss Luttrell. A letter from the surgeon of the convict-ship has conveyed news of old Malone’s death, and she has come up to free herself from her arrangement with the captain. And----”
He stopped and hesitated with such evident confusion, that Harry said, “Go on, Sir; finish what you were about to say.”
“It is her secret, not mine, Mr. Luttrell; and I know it only through my wife.”
“I insist on hearing it. I am her nearest of kin, and I have a right to know whatever concerns her.”
“I have already told you what I promised to keep secret. I was pledged not to say she was here. I came down to make some excuse for not receiving you to-day at dinner--some pretext of my wife’s illness. I beg, I entreat you will not ask me for more.”
“I insist upon all you know,” was Harry’s stern reply.
“How do I even know it,” cried Cane, in despair, “from a few incoherent words my wife whispered in my ear as she passed me? Were I to tell, it may be only to mislead you.”
“Tell me, whatever may come of it.”
Cane took a turn or two up and down the room, and at last, coming in front of Luttrell, said: “She is about to take back her old name, and with it the humble fortune that belonged to it. She says you and yours have suffered enough from the unhappy tie that bound you to her family. She is resolved you shall never see, never hear of her again. She took her last look at Arran last night. To-morrow she declares she will go away from this, where none shall trace her. There’s her secret! I charge you not to betray how you came by it.”
“Let me see her; let me speak with her.”
“How can I? I have promised already that you should not hear she is here.”
“Send for your wife, and let me speak to her. I must--I will speak to her.”.
“Go into that room for a moment, then, and I will advise with my wife what is to be done.”
Harry passed into the room and sat down. He heard Cane’s bell ring, and soon afterwards could mark the tread of a foot on the stairs, and then the sound of voices talking eagerly in the adjoining room. His impatience nearly maddened him; his heart beat so that he felt as if his chest could not contain it; the vessels of his neck, too, throbbed powerfully. He opened the window for air, and then, as though the space was too confined, flung wide a door at the side of the room. As he did this, he saw that it led to the stairs. Quicker than all thought his impulse urged him. He dashed up and entered the drawing-room, where Kate sat alone, and with her head buried between her hands.
She looked up, startled by his sudden entrance, and then, resuming her former attitude, said, in a low, muffled voice, “You have heard what has befallen me. I am not fated to acquit the debt I owed.”
Harry sat down beside her in silence, and she went on: “I was hoping that this pain might have been spared us--I mean, this meeting--it is only more sorrow. However, as we are once more together, let me thank you. I know all that you intended, all that you meant by me. I know that you would have come with me, too. I know all! Now, Harry,” said she, in a more resolute voice, “listen to me calmly. What I say to you is no caprice, no passing thought, but the long-earned conviction of much reflection. From my people came every misfortune that has crushed yours. Your father’s long life of suffering--told in his own words--his diaries--revealed in the letters from his friends--I have read them over and over--was caused by this fatal connexion. Are these things to be forgotten? or are you cruel enough to ask me to repeat the experiment that broke your mother’s heart, and left your father friendless and forsaken? Where is your pride, Sir? And if you have none, where would be mine, if I were to listen to you?”
“There comes the truth!” cried he, wildly. “It is your pride that rejects me. You, who have lived in great houses, and mixed with great people, cannot see in me anything but the sailor.”
“Oh no, no, no!” cried she, bitterly.
“I know it--I feel it, Kate,” continued he. “I feel ashamed when my coarse hand touches your taper fingers. I shrink back with misgiving at any little familiarity that seems so inconsistent between us. Even my love for you--and God knows how I love you!--cannot make me think myself your equal.”
“Oh, Harry, do not say such things as these; do not--do not!”
“I say it--I swear it; the highest ambition of my heart would be to think I could deserve you.”
She hid her face between her hands, and he went on, madly, wildly, incoherently; now telling her what her love might make him--now darkly hinting at the despair rejection might drive him to. He contrasted all the qualities of her gifted nature, so sure to attract friendship and interest, with the ruggedness of his character, as certain to render him friendless; and, on his knees at her feet, he implored her, if any gratitude for all his father’s love could move her, to take pity on and hear him.
There was a step on the stair as Harry seized her hand and said, “Let this be mine, Kate; give it to me, and make me happier than all I ever dreamed of. One word--one word, dearest.” And he drew her face towards him and kissed her.
“The Luttrell spirit is low enough, I take it, now,” said she, blushing. “If their pride can survive this, no peasant blood can be their remedy.”