Kitabı oku: «Luttrell Of Arran», sayfa 43
CHAPTER 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.
CHAPTER 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.
