Luttrell Of Arran

“I will, so fer as in me lies, relieve you from some of the embarrassments that the course I advise might provoke. I will request my brother to desire Mr. M’Kinlay to run down and pay you a few hours’ visit, and you can easily explain the situation to him, and suggest what I here point out as the remedy.

“Of course, it is needless to repeat this letter is strictly and essentially confidential, and not to be imparted to any one.

“I might have counselled you to have taken the advice of Sir Within Wardle, of whose kindness and attention we are most sensible, if you had not told me of the extraordinary ‘influence’ – it is your own word, Mademoiselle, or I should not even have ventured to use it in such connexion – ‘the influence’ this young girl exercises over Sir Within. As the observation so completely passes my power of comprehension, for I really – and I hope without needless stupidity – cannot understand how a girl of her class, bringing up, and age – age, above all – could exert what you designate as ‘influence’ – I must beg you will be more explicit in your next.

“You are perfectly right in refusing all presents for either of the girls, and I should have thought Sir Within had more tact than to proffer them. I am also very much against you going to Dalradern Castle for Christmas, though Sir Gervais, up to this, does not agree with me. If this girl should not be sent away before the new year, I think you might advantageously remark to my brother that the visit would be a great interruption to all study, and a serious breach of that home discipline it has been your object to impose. And now, my dear Mademoiselle, accept all I have here said not only in your confidence, but in your friendship, and even where I appear to you nervously alive to small perils, give me credit for having thought and reflected much over them before I inflicted on you this long letter.

“Discourage your prodigy, check her influence, and believe me, very sincerely your friend,

“Georgina Courtenay.

“P.S. – What can Sir W. mean by passing his winter in the Welsh mountains, after giving orders to have his villa near Genoa prepared for his reception? Find out this, particularly if there be a secret in it.”

Mademoiselle Heinzleman received this letter as she was taking her half-hour’s walk in the garden after breakfast – one of the very few recreations she indulged in – while her pupils prepared their books and papers for the day.

Anything like remonstrance was so totally new to her, that she read the letter with a mingled amazement and anger, and, though she read and re-read, in the hope of finding her first impression was an exaggerated one, the truth was that each perusal only deepened the impression, and made the pain more intense.

It was not that her German pride only was wounded, but her dignity as a teacher – just as national an instinct as the pride of birth – and she muttered very mysterious gutturals to herself, as she went, about resigning her trust and retiring. This was, perhaps, too rash a step; at least, it required time to think of. Two hundred a year, and a position surrounded with many advantages! The other alternative was easier to send away Kate. A pity, perhaps, but, after all, as Miss Courtenay said, possibly a mercy. Who could tell? Mr. M’Kinlay might help her by his counsel. She liked him, and thought well of him. Kate, that was making such progress – that could already make out some of Schiller’s ballads! What a pity it was! And to think of her touch on the piano, so firm and yet so delicate! How tenderly she let the notes drop in one of those simple melodies from Spohr she was learning! Ach Gott! and what taste in drawing!

Again she opened the letter, and at the last page muttered to herself: “I don’t remember that I said ‘influence.’ I’m almost sure I said that she interested Sir Within. I know I meant to say that she pleased him; that he was delighted to hear her sing her little Lied, dance her Tarantella, or her wild Irish jig, or listen to some of those strange legends, which she tells with a blended seriousness and drollery that is quite captivating. At all events, if I said ‘influence,’ I can correct the word, and say that Sir Within comes over to see us two or three times a week, and it is plain enough that it is little Kate’s gaiety attracts him. What sorrow to the dear children if they are not to pass their Christmas at the Castle!”

A light, elastic step on the gravel startled her. It was Kate who was coming; not the Kate we once saw in the old ruins of St. Finbar, but a young lady, with an air calm and collected, with some conscious sense of power, her head high, her look assured, her step firm even in its lightness.

“Sir Within is in the drawing-room, Mademoiselle,” said she, with a slight curtsey, as she stood before her. “He says that this is St. Gudule’s day, and a holiday everywhere, and he hopes you will be kind enough to take us over to the Castle for dinner.”

“Nein! No,” said she, peremptorily. “‘Wir haben keine solche Heilige,’ I mean,” said she, correcting the harsh speech. “These saints are not in our calendar. I will speak to him myself. You may stay in the garden for a quarter of an hour. I will send Ada to you.”

While the young girl fell back, abashed at the refusal, and even more by the manner with which it was done, the governess smoothed her brow as well as she might to meet the distinguished visitor, but in so doing, as she drew her handkerchief from her pocket, she dropped the letter she had been reading on the walk.

“I wonder why she is so cross with me?” said Kate, as she looked after her; “if there’s a secret in it, I must learn it.”

While Kate O’Hara sauntered carelessly along her foot struck the letter, and it fell open. She stooped and picked it up, and was at once struck by the peculiar odour of jasmine on the paper, which was a favourite with Miss Courtenay. She turned to the address, “Mademoiselle de Heinzleman” – the de, too, was a courtesy Miss Courtenay affected – and so Kate stood still contemplating the document, and weighing it in her hand, as she muttered, “It does really feel heavy enough to be mischievous.” Her training had taught her to respect as inviolable the letter of another; she had over and over marked the deference paid to a seal, and seen even Ada’s letters from her playfellows handed to her unbroken, and she knew that to transgress in such a matter ranked in morals with a falsehood. She had no thought, then, of any dereliction, when in placing the fallen pages together within the envelope, her eye caught the words “Kitty O’Hara,” and lower down, “child of a poor cottier.” The temptation, stimulated by a passion fell as strong as curiosity, mastered her, and carrying away the letter into a secluded alley, she read it from end to end. There was much to gratify her vanity in it; there was the admission – and from no favouring witness either – that she had capacity of a high order, and a zeal to master whatever she desired to learn. But far above the pleasure these words afforded was the last paragraph, that which spoke of her “influence” over Sir Within Wardle. “Could this really be true? Had the little attentions he showed her a deeper significance? Did he really interest himself for her? Was it her lonely, friendless condition touched him? Was it that the same feeling, so harshly expressed by Miss Courtenay, the revulsion that yet awaited her, that moved him?” There was an ecstasy in the thought that filled her whole heart with joy. Sir Within was very rich – a great personage, too. The Vyners themselves spoke of him always with a certain deference. What a triumph if she had won him over to befriend her!

These thoughts flew quickly through her mind, and as quickly she bethought her of the letter, and what was now to be done with it. She would have liked much to keep it, to have it by her to read and re-read, and study, and weigh. This was of course impossible. To take it to Mademoiselle would be to incur the risk of her suspecting she had read it. In an instant, she determined to lay it back again where she had found it, on the walk, and let chance determine what became of it. Her resolution was scarcely carried out, when she heard Mademoiselle Heinzleman’s voice calling her.

“I have dropped a letter, Kate. I have mislaid it, or it has fallen out of my pocket. Come and help me to look for it,” said she, in deep confusion.

“Is this it, Mademoiselle?” said Kitty, artlessly, as she picked it up from the gravel.

“How lucky – how very fortunate!” exclaimed she, eagerly, as she clutched it. “There, you may have your holiday to-day, Kate. Go and tell Ada I shall not ask her to learn those verses; or wait” – she suddenly remembered that Sir Within was still in the drawing-room – “wait here, and I’ll tell her myself.”

Kate bowed, and smiled her thanks, and, once again alone, sat down to ruminate an her fortune.

CHAPTER XXVI. THE DINNER IN THE SCHOOLROOM

Sir Within could not persuade Mademoiselle to accept his invitation for herself and her pupils to dinner, and was about to take his leave, when Ada suddenly said, “Why not dine with us, Sir Within?”

“Fi! donc, Mademoiselle!” broke in the governess. “How could you think of such a thing? Sir Within Wardle sit down to a schoolroom dinner!”

“But why need it be a schoolroom dinner, Mademoiselle Heinzleman? Why not tell cook that we mean to have company to-day, and make Bickards wait on us, and tell George to wear his gloves, just as if papa were at home?”

“Oh” broke in Sir Within, “I have seen quite enough – more than enough – of all that, dear Ada; but if I could be permitted to join your own little daily dinner of the schoolroom, as you call it, that would really be a treat to me.”

“I invite you, then!” said Ada. “Mademoiselle owes me a favour for that wonderful German theme I wrote, and I take this as my reward. We dine at three, Sir Within, and, I warn you, on mutton-broth and mutton something else; but Kate and I will make ourselves as fine as we may, and be as entertaining as possible.”

While the two girls scampered off, laughing merrily at the discomfiture of the governess, that respectable lady remained to offer profuse apologies to Sir Within for the liberty, childish though it was, that had been taken with him, and to excuse herself from any imputation of participating in it.

She little knew, indeed, with what honest sincerity he had accepted the proposal. Of the great game of life, as played by fine people, he had seen it to satiety. He was thoroughly wearied of all the pleasures of the table, as he was of all the captivations which witty conveners and clever talkers can throw over society. Perhaps, from his personal experience, he knew how artificial such displays are – how studied the à propos, how carefully in ambush the impromptu – and that he longed for the hearty, healthful enjoyment of young, fresh, joyous natures, just as one might turn from the oppressive odours of a perfumer’s shop to taste with ecstasy the fresh flowers of a garden. It was, therefore, as he expressed it to the governess, a perfect fête to him to assist at that little dinner, and he was deeply honoured by the invitation.

Mademoiselle was charmed with the old Baronet’s politeness. It was ceremonious enough even for Germany, he smiled so blandly and bowed so reverently, and often it was like a memory of the Fatherland just to listen to him; and, indeed, it was reassuring to her to hear from him that he had once been a Minister at the Court of a Herzog, and had acquired his “moden” in this true and legitimate fashion. And thus did they discuss for hours “aesthetic,” and idealism, and sympathy, mysterious affinity, impulsive destiny, together with all the realisms which the Butter-brod life of Germany can bring together, so that when she arose to dress for dinner, she could not help muttering to herself, as she went, that he was “a deeply skilled in the human heart-and-far acquainted with the mind’s operations – but not the less on that account a fresh-with-a-youthful sincerity-endowed man.”

The dinner, though not served in the schoolroom, was just as simple as Ada promised, and she laughingly asked Sir Within if he preferred his beer frothed or still, such being the only choice of liquor afforded him.

“Mademoiselle is shocked at the way we treat you,” said she, laughing, “but I have told her that your condescension would be ill repaid if we made any attempt to lessen its cost, and it must be a ‘rice-pudding day’ in your life.”

And how charmingly they talked, these two girls! Ada doing the honours as a hostess, and Kate, as the favoured friend, who aided her to entertain an honoured guest. They told him, too, how the fresh bouquet that decked the table had been made by themselves to mark the sense they had of his presence, and that the coffee had been prepared by their own hands.

“Now, do say, Sir Within, that dining with Royal Highnesses and Supreme Somethings is but a second-rate pleasure compared to an Irish stew in a schoolroom, and a chat round a fire that has been lighted with Bonnycastle’s Algebra. Yes, Mademoiselle,” Kate said, “I had to make light of simple equations for once! I was thinking of that story of the merchant, who lighted his fire with the King’s bond when his Majesty deigned to dine with him. I puzzled my head to remember which of our books lay nearest our heart, and I hesitated long between Ollendorff and Bonnycastle.”

“And what decided you?” asked Sir Within.

“What so often decides a doubt – convenience. Bonnycastle had the worst binding, and was easier to burn.”

“If you so burn to study algebra, Mademoiselle,” said the governess, who had misunderstood the whole conversation, “you must first show yourself more ‘eifrig’ – how you call zeal? – for your arithmetic.”

“You shall have full liberty, when you pay me a visit, to burn all the volumes on such subjects you find,” said Sir Within.

“Oh, I’d go through the whole library,” cried Kate, eagerly, “if I could only find one such as Garret O’Moore did.”

“I never heard of his fortune.”

“Nor I. Do tell it, Kate.”

“Mademoiselle has forbidden all my legends,” said she, calmly.

“I’m sure,” said Sir Within, “she will recal the injunction for this time.”

“It is very short,” said Kate; and then with infinite archness, turning to the governess, added, “and it has a moral.”

The governess nodded a grave permission, and the other began:

“There was once on a time a great family in the west of Ireland called the O’Moores, who, by years of extravagance, spent everything they had in the world, leaving the last of the name, a young man, so utterly destitute, that he had scarcely food to eat, and not a servant to wait on him. He lived in a lonely old house, of which the furniture had been sold off, bit by bit, and nothing remained but a library of old books, which the neighbours did not care for.”

“Algebras and Ollendorff’s, I suppose,” whispered Sir Within; and she smiled and went on:

“In despair at not finding a purchaser, and pinched by the cold of the long winter’s nights, he used to bring an armful of them every night into his room to make his fire. He had not, naturally, much taste for books or learning, but it grieved him sorely to do this; he felt it like a sort of sacrilege, but he felt the piercing cold more, and so he gave in. Well, one night, as he brought in his store, and was turning over the leaves – which he always did before setting fire to them – he came upon a little square volume, with the strangest letters ever he saw; they looked like letters upside down, and gone mad, and some of them were red, and some black, and some golden, and between every page of print there was a sheet of white paper without anything on it. O’Moore examined it well, and at last concluded it must have been some old monkish chronicle, and that the blank pages were left for commentaries on it. At all events, it could have no interest for him, as he couldn’t read it, and so he put it down on the hearth till he wanted it to burn.

“It was close on midnight, and nothing but a few dying embers were on the hearth, and no other light in the dreary room, when he took up the old chronicle, and tearing it in two, threw one half on the fire.

The moment he did so the flame sprang up bright as silver, lighting up the whole room, so that he could see even the old cobwebs on the ceiling, that had not been seen for yean and years, and at the same time a delicious music filled the air, and the sounds of children’s voices singing beautifully; but, strangest of all, in the very middle of the bright fire that now filled the whole hearth, there sat a little man with a scarlet cloak on him, and a scarlet hat and a white feather in it, and he smiled very graciously at O’Moore, and beckoned him over to him, but O’Moore was so frightened and so overcome he couldn’t stir. At last, as the flames got lower, the Tittle man’s gestures grew more energetic, and O’ Moore crept down on his knees, and said, “‘Do you want anything with me, Sir?’”

“‘Yes, Garret,’ said the little man,: ‘I want to be your friend, and to save you from ruin like the rest of your family. You were wrong to burn that book.’

“‘But I couldn’t read it,’ said Garret; ‘what use was it to me?’

“‘It was your own life, Garret O’Moore,’ said the little man, ‘and take care that you keep the part you have there, and study it carefully. It would have been, better for you if you had kept the whole of it.’

“And with that the flame sprang brightly up for a second or two, and then went black out, so that O’Moore had to grope about to find tinder to strike a light. He lit the only bit of candle he had, and began to examine the part of the book that remained, and what did he find but on every blank page there was a line – sometimes two – written as if to explain the substance of the printed page, and all in such a way as to show it was somebody’s life, and adventures – as, for instance: ‘Takes to the sea – goes to America – joins an expedition to the Far West – on the plantations – marries – wife dies – off to China – marries again.’ I needn’t go on: everything that was ever to happen to him was written there till he was forty-five years of age, the rest was burned; but it was all fortunate – all, to the very end. He grew to be very rich, and prospered in everything, for whenever he was faint-hearted or depressed, he always said, ‘It wasn’t by being low and weak of heart that I begun this career of good fortune, and I must be stout and of high courage if I mean to go on with it.’ And he grew so rich that he bought back all the old acres of the O’Moores, and they have a hand rescuing a book from the flames on their arms till this day.”

“And the moral? – where’s the moral?” asked the governess.

“The moral, the moral!” said Kate, dubiously. “Well, I’m not exactly sure where it is, but I suppose it is this; that it’s far better to go to sea as a sailor than to sit down and burn your father’s library.”

“I have a notion, my dear Kate, that you yourself would like well to have a peep into destiny – am I wrong?”

“I would, Sir.”

“And you, Ada?”

“Why should she?” broke in Kate, eagerly; and then, as though shocked at her impetuosity, she went on, in a lower voice: “Ada makes her voyage in a three-decker, I am only clinging to a plank.”

“No, no, dearest,” said Ada, tenderly; “don’t say that.”

“Mademoiselle is looking at her watch,” said Sir Within, “and I must accept the signal.” And though she protested, elaborately too, that it was a mere habit with her, he arose to ring for his carriage. “I am not going without the sketch you promised me, Ada,” said he – “the pencil sketch of the old fountain.”

“Oh, Kate’s is infinitely better. I am ashamed to see mine after it.”

“Why not let me have both?”

“Yes,” said the governess, “that will be best. I’ll go and fetch them.”

Ada stood for a moment irresolute, and then muttering, “Mine is really too bad,” hastened out of the room after Mademoiselle Heinzle-man.

“You are less merry than usual, Kate,” said Sir Within, as he took her hand and looked at her with interest. “What is the reason?”

A faint, scarce perceptible motion of her brow was all she made in answer.

“Have you not been well?”

“Yes, Sir. I am quite well.”

“Have you had news that has distressed you?”

“Where from?” asked she, hurriedly.

“From your friends – from home.”

“Don’t you know, Sir, that I have neither!”

“I meant, my dear child – I meant to say, that perhaps you had heard or learned something that gave you pain.”

“Yes, Sir,” broke she in, “that is it. Oh, if I could tell you – ”

“Why not write it to me, dear child?”

“My writing is coarse and large, and I misspell words; and, besides, it is such a slow way to tell what one’s heart is full of – and then I’d do it so badly,” faltered she out with pain.

“Suppose, then, I were to settle some early day for you all to come over to Dalradern; you could surely find a moment to tell me then?”

“Yes, Sir – yes,” cried she; and, seizing his hand, she kissed it passionately three or four times.

“Here they are,” said Ada, merrily – “here they are! And if Kate’s does ample justice to your beautiful fountain, mine has the merit of showing how ugly it might have been. Isn’t this hideous?”

After a few little pleasant common-places, Sir Within turned to Mademoiselle Heinzleman, and said: “I have rather an interesting book at Dalradern; at least, it would certainly have its interest for you, Mademoiselle. It is a copy of ‘Clavigo,’ with Herder’s marginal suggestions. Goethe had sent it to him for his opinion, and Herder returned it marked and annotated. You will do me an infinite favour to accept it.”

“Ach Gott!” said the governess, perfectly overwhelmed with the thought of such a treasure.

“Well, then, if the weather be fine on Tuesday, Mademoiselle, will you and my young friends here come over and dine with me? We shall say three o’clock for dinner, so that you need not be late on the road. My carriage will be here to fetch you at any hour you appoint.”

A joyous burst of delight from Ada, and a glance of intense gratitude from Kate, accompanied the more formal acceptance of the governess; and if Sir Within had but heard one tithe of the flattering things that were said of him, as he drove away, even his heart, seared as it was, would have been touched.

Kate, indeed, said least; but when Ada, turning abruptly to her, asked, “Don’t you love him?” a slight colour tinged her cheek, as she said, “I think he’s very kind, and very generous, and very – ”

“Go on, dear – go on,” cried Ada, throwing her arm around her – “finish; and very what?”

“I was going to say an impertinence,” whispered she, “and I’ll not.”

“Nine o’clock, young ladies, and still in the drawing-room!” exclaimed the governess, in a tone of reproach. “These are habits of dissipation, indeed – come away. Ach Gott! der Clavigo!” muttered she, with clasped hands. And the girls were hardly able to restrain a burst of laughter at the fervour of her voice and manner.

CHAPTER XXVII. KITTY

The wished-for Tuesday came at last, and with a fortune not always so favouring, brought with it a glorious morning, one of those bright, sharp, clear days, with a deep blue sky and frosty air, and with that sense of elasticity in the atmosphere which imparts itself to the spirits, and makes mere existence enjoyment. The girls were in ecstasy; they had set their hearts so much on this visit, that they would not let themselves trust to the signs of the weather on the night before, but were constantly running out to ask George the gardener, if that circle round the moon meant anything? – why were the stars so blue? – and why did they twinkle so much? – and was it a sign of fine weather that the river should be heard so clearly? Rickards, too, was importuned to consult the barometer, and impart his experiences of what might be expected from its indications. The gardener augured favourably, was pronounced intelligent, and tipped by Ada in secret. Rickards shook his head at the aspect of the mercury, and was called a “conceited old ass” for his pains. Not either of them treated with different measure than is meted by the public to those great organs of information which are supposed to be their guides, but are just as often their flatterers, for the little world of the family is marvellously like the great world of the nation.