Luttrell Of Arran

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!

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.