Luttrell Of Arran

“Not if I may remain here. I’d like to pass days in this little chamber.”

“Remain, then, of course; and now, Mademoiselle, if you will accompany me, I will show you my books.”

Scarcely had the door closed, and Kate found herself alone, than she opened one of the glass-cases in which some of the costliest trinkets lay. There was a splendid cameo brooch of Madame de Valois, with her crest in diamonds at top. This Kate gazed at long and thought-folly, and at last fastened on her breast, walking to the glass to see its effect. She half started as she looked; and, whether in astonishment at seeing herself the wearer of such magnificence, or that some other and far deeper sentiment worked within her, her eyes became intensely brilliant, and her cheek crimson. She harried back, and drew forth a massive necklace of emeralds and brilliants. It was labelled, “A present from the Emperor to Marie Antoinette on the birth of the Dauphin.” She clasped it round her throat, her fingers trembling with excitement, and her heart beating almost audibly. “Oh!” cried she, as she looked at herself again in the mirror; and how eloquent was the cry – the whole outburst of a nature carried away by intense delight and the sentiment of an all-engrossing self-admiration, for indeed she did look surpassingly lovely, the momentary excitement combining with the lustre of the jewels to light up her whole face into a radiant and splendid beauty.

She took out next a large fan actually weighted with precious stones, and opening this, she seated herself in front of the glass, to survey herself at her ease. Lying back languidly in the deep old chair, the hand which held the fan indolently drooped over the arm of the chair, while with the other she played with the massive drop of the emerald necklace, she looked exceedingly beautiful. Her own ecstasy had heightened her colour and given a brilliant depth to the expression of her eyes, while a faint, scarcely detectable quiver in her lip showed how intense was her enjoyment of the moment. Even as she gazed, a gentle dreamy sentiment stole over her, visions, Heaven knows of what future triumphs, of days when others should offer their homage to that loveliness, when sculptors would mould and poets sing that beauty; for in its power upon herself she knew that it was Beauty, and so as she looked her eyelids drooped, her breathing grew longer and longer, her cheek, save in one pink cloud, became pale, and she fell off asleep. Once or twice her lips murmured a word or two, but too faintly to be caught. She smiled, too, that sweet smile of happy sleep, when softly creeping thoughts steal over the mind, as the light air of evening steals across a lake.

For nearly an hour did she lie thus, when Sir Within came in search of her. His habitual light step and cautious gait never disturbed her, and there he stood gazing on her, amazed, almost enraptured. “Where was there a Titian or a Raphael like that!” was his first thought; for, with the instinct of his life, it was to Art he at once referred her. “Was there ever drawing or colour could compare to it!” Through the stained glass window one ray of golden glory pierced and fell upon her hair and brow, and he remembered how he had seen the same “effect” in a “Memling,” but still immeasurably inferior to this. What would he not have given that Danneker or Canova could have seen her thus and modelled her! Greek art itself had nothing finer in form, and as to her face, she was infinitely more beautiful than anything the antique presented. How was it that in all his hitherto admiration of her he had never before recognised such surpassing beauty? Was it that excitement disturbed the calm loveliness, and gave too much mobility to these traits? or was it that, in her versatile, capricious way, she had never given him time for admiration? As for the gems, he did not remark them for a long while, and when he did, it was to feel how much more she adorned them than they contributed to her loveliness.

“I must bring Ada here,” muttered he to himself. “How she will be charmed with the picture.” He turned to steal away, and then, with the thoughtful instinct of his order, he moved noiselessly across the room, and turned the looking-glass to the wall. It was a small trait, but in it there spoke the old diplomatist. On gaining the drawing-room he heard that the governess and Ada had gone out to see the conservatory, so Sir Within hurried back to the Gem-room, not fully determined whether to awaken Kate or suffer her to sleep on. Remembering suddenly that if discovered all jewelled and bedecked the young girl would feel overcome with a sense of shame, he resolved not to disturb her. Still he wished to take a last look, and stole noiselessly back to the chamber.

Her position had changed since he left the room, the fan had fallen from her hand to the floor, and by a slight, very slight, motion of the eyelids he could mark that her sleep was no longer untroubled. “Poor girl,” muttered he, “I must not leave her to dream of sorrow;” and laying his hand softly on the back of hers, he said, in a low whisper, “Kate, were you dreaming, my child?”

She raised her eyelids slowly, lazily, and looked calmly at him without a word.

“What was your dream, Kate?” said he, gently, as he bent over her.

“Was it a dream?” murmured she, softly. “I wish it had not been a dream.”

“And what was it, then?” said he, as taking a chair he sat down beside her – “tell me of it all.”

“I thought a great queen, who had no child of her own, had adopted me, and said I should be her daughter, and in proof of it she took a beautiful collar from her throat and fastened it on mine.”

“You see so much is true,” said he, pointing to the massive emerald drop that hung upon her neck.

Kate’s cheek flushed a deep crimson as her eyes glanced rapidly over the room, and her mind seemed in an instant to recover itself. “I hope you are not angry with me,” stammered she, in deep confusion. “I know I have been very foolish – will you forgive me?” As she came to the last words she dropped upon her knees, and, bending forward, hid her head between his hands.

“My sweet child, there is not anything to forgive. As to those trinkets, I never believed they were so handsome till I saw them on you.”

“It was wrong – very wrong; but I was alone, and I thought no one would ever see me. If I was sure you had forgiven me – ”

“Be sure, my dear child,” said he, as he smoothed back her golden hair, caressing the beautiful head with his wasted fingers, “and now that I have assured you of this, tell me what it was you wished to speak of to me. You had a trouble, you said – what was it, Kate?”

“May I tell you of it?” asked she, lifting her eyes for the first time towards him, and gazing upwards through her tears.

“To be sure you may, child, and with the certainty that you speak to one who loves you.”

“But I do not know how I can tell it – that is, how you are to believe what I shall tell you, when I am not able to say why and how I know the truth of what I shall say.”

“More likely is it, child, I shall not ask that question, but take your word for it all.”

“Yes, that is true; it is what you would do. I ought to have seen that,” muttered she, half aloud. “Are we certain to be alone here? Can I tell you now?”

“Certainly. They are off to see the gardens. None will interrupt us: say on.”

“Mind,” said she, eagerly, “you are not to ask me anything.” “I agree. Go on.” “At the same time, you shall be free to find out from others whether I have misled you or not.” “Go on, my dear child, and do not torment yourself with needless cares. I want to hear what it is that grieves you, and if I can remove your sorrow.”

“You can at least counsel me – guide me.”

“It is my right and my duty to do so. I am one of your guardians, Kate,” said he, encouragingly.

“Do you remember the morning I came from Ireland, the morning of my arrival at the Cottage?” “Perfectly.”

“Do you remember my grandfather hesitating whether he would let me stay, till some promise was given him that I should not be sent away out of a whim, or a fancy, or at least some pledge as to what should be done with me?” “I remember it all.”

“Well, he was right to have foreseen it. The time has come. Mind your promise – do not question me – but I know that they mean to send me – I cannot – I will not call it home,” cried she, fiercely. “Home means shelter – friends – safety. Which of these does it offer me?”

“Be calm, my dear child; be calm and tell me all that you know. What reason have they for this change?”

“Ada is to go to Italy, to see her grandmother, who is ill. I am no longer wanted, and to be sent away.” “This is very unlike them. It is incredible.” “I knew you’d say so,” said she, with a heightened colour, and a sparkling eye. “They of course could do no wrong, but perhaps I can convince you. You know Mr. M’Kinlay, he is now at the Cottage, he has come down about this. Oh!” burst she out with a wild cry, while the tears ran down her cheeks – “oh, how bold my sorrow makes me, that I can speak this way to you. But save me! oh save me from this degradation! It is not the poverty of that life I dread, so much as the taunts upon me for my failure; the daily scoffs I shall have to meet from those who hoped to build their fortunes on my success. Tell me, then, where I may go to earn my bread, so it be not there. I could be a servant. I have seen girls as young as me at service. I could take care of little children, and could teach them, too. Will you help me? Will you help me,” cried she, sobbing, “and see if I will not deserve it?”

“Be comforted, my poor child. I have told you already you have a right to my assistance, and you shall have it.”

She bent down and kissed his hand, and pressed her cheek upon it. “Tell me, Kate, do you desire to go abroad with Ada?” “Not now,” said she, in a faint voice. “I did, but I do so no longer.”

“And on no account to return to Ireland.” “On none,” said she, resolutely.

“Then I will think the matter over. I will send for Mr. M’Kinlay to-morrow, and doubtless he will make some communication to me.” “But do not forget, Sir, that you must not betray me.” “I will take care of that, Kate; but come, my dear child, bathe these eyes of yours, and come into the air. They will wonder, besides, if they do not see you. Let us go and find them. Your heart may be at rest, now. Is it not so?”

“I have your promise, Sir?”

“You have, child.”

“Oh! am I not happy again!” said she, throwing back her long hair upon her neck, and turning towards him her eyes beaming with gratitude, and bright with triumph. “I have spent two nights of misery, but they are well repaid by the joy I feel now.”

“There. You look like yourself already,” said he. “Come, and we’ll search for them.”

“What am I thinking of!” cried she, suddenly. “I was forgetting these;” and she unclasped the necklace, and took off the brooch, depositing them carefully in their places.

“You shall wear them again one of these days, Kate,” said he, with a look of pensive meaning.

“They only served me to build castles with,” said she, gaily, “and the words you have spoken will help me to raise much finer ones. I am ready now, Sir.”

“Of all the days of your life,” whispered Ada to Kate, as they drove home that evening, “was this the happiest?”

“It was,” said the other, thoughtfully.

“And mine, too. I had not one dark thought till I saw evening coming on, and felt how soon it was to end. But I have such happy news for you, dear Kate, only I am not at liberty to tell it – something that is going to happen – somewhere we are about to go.”

“Do not tell me more, or I shall become too curious to hear all.”

“But you would be so glad, so overjoyed to hear it.”

“One can always wait patiently for good tidings, the wise people say. Where did you get your violets in mid-winter?”

“Where you got your roses, Kate,” said the other, laughing. “I never saw such pink cheeks as you had when you came into the garden.”

“I had fallen asleep,” said Kate, blushing slightly. “Whenever I am very, very happy, I grow sleepy.”

CHAPTER XXIX. MR. M’KINLAY IS PUZZLED

Mr. M’Kinlay was at his breakfast the next day when he received the following letter from Sir Gervais Vyner:

“Rome, Palazzo Altieri.

“My dear M’Kinlay, – Lady Vyner’s mother insists on seeing Ada out here, and will not listen to anything, either on the score of the season or the long journey. I cannot myself venture to be absent for more than a few days at a time; and I must entreat of you to give Mademoiselle and my daughter a safe convoy as far as Marseilles, where I shall meet you. I know well how very inconvenient it may prove to you, just as term is about to open, so pray make me deeply your debtor for the service in all ways. My sister-in-law informs me – but so vaguely that I cannot appreciate the reasons – that Mademoiselle H. does not advise Miss O’Hara should accompany them. It will be for you to learn the grounds of this counsel, and, if you concur with them, to make a suitable arrangement for that young lady’s maintenance and education in England, unless, indeed, her friends require her to return home. To whatever you decide, let money be no obstacle. There are good schools at Brighton, I believe. If her friends prefer a French education, Madame Gosselin’s, Rue Neuve, St. Augustin, Paris, is well spoken of. See Sir Within Wardle on the subject, who, besides being her guardian, is well qualified to direct your steps.

“I cannot tell you how much I am provoked by what I must call this failure in a favourite project, nor is my annoyance the less that I am not permitted to know how, when, or why the failure has been occasioned. All that Miss Courtenay will tell me is, ‘She must not come out to Italy,’ and that I shall be the first to agree to the wisdom of this decision when I shall hear the reasons for it. Of course all this is between ourselves, and with Sir Within you will limit yourself to the fact that her education will be more carefully provided for by remaining north of the Alps – a truth he will, I am certain, recognise.

“Be sure, however, to get to the bottom of this, I may call it – mystery, for up to this I have regarded Ada’s progress in learning, and great improvement in spirits, as entirely owing to this very companionship.

“Drop me a line to say if you can start on Monday or Tuesday, and at the Pavilion Hotel you will either find me on your arrival, or a note to say when to expect me. Tell Sir Within from me, that I will accept any trouble he shall take with Miss O’H. as a direct personal favour. I am not at all satisfied with the part we are taking towards this girl; nor shall I be easy until I hear from you that all is arranged to her own liking, and the perfect satisfaction of her family. I think, indeed, you should write to Mr. L., at Arran; his concurrence ought to be secured, as a formality; and he’ll not refuse it, if not linked to something troublesome or inconvenient.

“I shall be curious to hear your personal report of Miss O’Hara, so take care to fit yourself for a very searching cross-examination from

“Yours faithfully,

“Gervais Vyner.

“I hear that the people have just thrown down the walls of my new lodge in Derryvaragh, and vowed that they’ll not permit any one to build there. Are they mad? Can they not see that a proprietor, if he ever should come there, must be of use to them, and that all the benefit would be theirs? Grenfell laughs at me, and says he predicted it all. Perhaps he did: at all events, I shall not be deterred from going on, though neither of my Irish experiences have as yet redounded to my vainglory.

“I have not the shadow of a reason for suspecting it, still you would confer a favour on me if you could assure me, of your own knowledge, that nothing weightier than a caprice has induced Mademoiselle to recommend that Miss O’H. should not come out here with my daughter.

“All of this letter is to be regarded private and confidential.”

Scarcely had M’Kinlay finished the reading of this letter, than a servant presented him with a small note, sealed with a very large impress of the Wardle arms, and bearing a conspicuous W. W. on the outer corner. Its contents ran thus:

“My dear Mr. M’Kinlay, – Will you allow me to profit by the fortunate accident of your presence in these regions to bespeak the honour and pleasure of your company at a tête-à-tête dinner with me to-day? My carriage will await your orders; and if perfectly in accordance with your convenience, I would beg that they may be to take you over here by an early hour – say four o’clock – as I am desirous of obtaining the benefit of your advice.

“I am very sincerely yours,

“Within Wardle.”

“How provoking!” cried Mr. M’Kinlay; “and I meant to have caught the night-mail at Wrexham.”

Now Mr. M’Kinlay was not either provoked or disappointed. It had never been his intention to have left the Cottage till the day after; and as to a dinner invitation to Dalradern, and with “the contingent remainder” of a consultation, it was in every respect the direct opposite of all that is provoking. Here he was alone. None heard, him as he said these words. This hypocrisy was not addressed to any surrounders. It was the soliloquy of a man who liked self-flattery, and, strange as it may seem, there are scores of people who mix these sweet little draughts for themselves and toss them off in secresy, like solitary drinkers, and then go out into the world refreshed and stimulated by their dram.

“I cannot take his agency, if that’s what he is at,” said Mr. M’Kinlay, as he stood with his back to the fire and fingered the seals of his watch; “I am overworked already – sorely overworked. Clients, now-a-days, I find, have got the habit of employing their lawyers in a variety of ways quite foreign to their callings.” This was a hit at Sir Gervais for his request to take Ada abroad. “A practice highly to be condemned, and, in fact, to be put down. It is not dignified; and I doubt if even it be profitable,” – his tone was now strong and severe. “A fine old place, Dalradern,” muttered he, as his eyes fell upon a little engraving of the castle at the top of the note – such vignettes were rarer at that day than at the present – “I think, really, I will give myself a holiday and dine with him. I thought him a bit of a fop – an old fop, too – when I met him here; but he may ‘cut up’ better under his own roof.”

“Rickards,” said he, as that bland personage entered to remove the breakfast-things, “I am not going to dine here to-day.”

“Lor, Sir! You an’t a going so soon?”

“No. To-morrow, perhaps – indeed, I should say to-morrow certainly; but to-day I must dine at Dalradern.”

“Well, Sir, you’ll tell me when you comes home if he’s better than Mrs. Byles for his side-dishes; for I’ll never believe it, Sir, till I have it from a knowledgeable gentleman like yourself. Not that I think, Sir, they will play off any of their new-fangled tricks on you – putting cheese into the soup, and powdered sugar over the peas.”

“I have seen both in Paris,” said M’Kinlay, gravely.

“And frogs too, Sir, and snails; and Jacob, that was out in Italy with the saddle-horses, says, he seen fifteen shillings given for a hedgehog, when lamb got too big.”

“Let Mademoiselle Heinzleman know that I should be glad to speak to her,” said the lawyer, who, feeling that he was going to dine out, could afford to be distant.

“Yes, Sir, I’ll tell her;” and Rickards stirred the fire, and drew down a blind here, and drew up another there, and fidgeted about in that professionally desultory manner his order so well understand. When he got to the door, however, he stepped back, and in a low confidential whisper said, “It’s the ‘Ock, Sir, the ‘Ock, at Dalradem, that beats us; eighty odd years in bottle, and worth three guineas a flask.” He sighed as he went out, for the confession cost him dear. It was like a Government whip admitting that his party must be beaten on the next division!

Mr. M’Kinlay was deep in a second perusal of Sir Gervais Vyner’s letter when Mademoiselle Heinzleman entered. “I have a few lines from Sir Gervais here, Mademoiselle,” said he, pompously, for the invitation to Dalradem was still fresh in his mind. “He wishes me, if it be at all possible, to accompany you and Miss Vyner as far as, let me see” – and he opened the letter – “as far as Marseilles. I own, with whatever pride I should accept the charge, however charmed I should naturally feel at the prospect of a journey in such company – ”

“Es macht nichts. I mean, Sare,” said she, impetuously, “with Franz, the courier, we can travel very well all alone.”

“If you will permit me, Mademoiselle,” said he, haughtily, to finish my phrase, “you will find that, notwithstanding my many and pressing engagements, and the incessant demands which the opening of term makes upon my time, it is my intention not to refuse this – this, I shall call it favour – for it is favour – to my respected client. Can you be ready by Monday?”

“We are Wednesday now! Yes; but of Mademoiselle Kate, what of her? Does she come with us?”

“I opine not,” said he, gravely.

“And where she go to?” said she, with an eagerness which occasionally marred the accuracy of her expression.

“Sir Gervais has suggested that we may take one of two courses, Mademoiselle,” said he, and probably something in the phrase reminded M’Kinlay of a well-known statesman, for he unconsciously extended an arm, and with the other lifted his coat-skirt behind him, “or, it is even possible, adopt a third.”

“This means, she is not to come with us, Sir.”

Mr. M’Kinlay bowed his concurrence. “You see, Mademoiselle,” said he, authoritatively, “it was a mistake from the beginning, and though I warned Sir Gervais that it must be a mistake, he would have his way; he thought she would be a means of creating emulation.”

“So she has, Sir.”

“I mean, wholesome emulation; the generous rivalry – the – the – in fact, that she would excite Miss Vyner to a more vigorous prosecution of her studies, without that discouragement that follows a conscious – what shall I call it – not inferiority?”

“Yes, inferiority.”

“This, I am aware, Mademoiselle, was your view; the letter I hold here from Miss Courtenay shows me the very painful impression your opinion has produced; nor am I astonished at the warmth – and there is warmth – with which she observes: ‘Mademoiselle H. is under a delusion if she imagines that my brother-in-law was about to establish a nursery for prodigies. If the pigeon turns out to be an eagle, the sooner it is out of the dovecot the better.’ Very neatly and very smartly put. ‘If the pigeon – ’”

“Enough of the pigeon, Sare. Where is she to go? who will take her in charge?”

“I have not fully decided on the point, Mademoiselle, but by this evening I hope to have determined upon it; for the present, I have only to apprise you that Miss O’Hara is not to go to Italy, and that whatever arrangement should be necessary for her – either to remain in England, or to return to her family, will be made as promptly possible.”

“And who will take her in charge, Sare?” said she, repeating the former question.

Mr. M’Kinlay laid his hand over the region of his heart, and bowed; but whether he meant that he himself would undertake the guardianship of the young lady, or that the matter was a secret enclosed in his own breast, is not at all easy to say.

“May I speak to her about this?”

“Not until I shall see you again; but you may take all such measures as may prepare her for her sudden departure.”

Mr. M’Kinlay was, throughout the brief interview, more despotic than gallant. He was not quite satisfied that the mission was one in perfect accordance with his high professional dignity, and so to relieve himself from any self-reproach, he threw a dash of severity through his condescension.

“I suppose,” said he, superbly – “I suppose she has clothes?”

Mademoiselle stared at this, but did not reply.

“I am somewhat unaccustomed, as you may perceive, Mademoiselle, to these sort of affairs; I know nothing of young ladies’ wardrobes. I simply asked, was she in a position to travel, if called on, at a brief notice?”

“My poor Kate! my poor Kate!” was all that the governess could utter.

“I must say, Mademoiselle,” said he, pompously, “that, looking to what she originally came from, and taking into account the care and cost bestowed upon her, I do not perceive this to be a case that calls for any deep commiseration.”