It was late in the day when Vyner awoke, and got up. Late as it was, he
found Grenfell at breakfast. Seated under an awning on the deck, before
a table spread with every luxury, that much-to-be-pitied individual
was, if not watering his bread with tears, sipping his chocolate with
chagrin. “He had no newspaper!”--no broad sheet of gossip, with debates,
divorces, bankruptcies, and defalcations--no moral lessons administered
to foreign Kings and Kaisers, to show them how the Press of England had
its eye on them, and would not fail to expose their short-comings to
that great nation, which in the succeeding leader was the text for a
grand pæan over increased revenue and augmented exports.
Grenfell had a very national taste for this sort of reading. It supplied
to him, as to many others, a sort of patent patriotism, which, like his
father’s potted meats, could be carried to any climate, and be always
fresh.
“Is not this a glorious day, George?” said Vyner, as he came on
deck. “There is something positively exhilarating in the fresh and
heath-scented air of that great mountain.”
“I’d rather follow a watering-cart down Piccadilly, if I was on the
look-out for a sensation. How long are we to be moored in this dreary
spot?”
“Not very long. Don’t be impatient, and listen while I recount to you my
adventure of last night.”
“Let me fill my pipe, then. Carter, fetch me my meerschaum. Now for it,”
said he, as he disposed his legs on an additional chair. “I only hope
the story has no beautiful traits of Irish peasant life, for I own to no
very generous dispositions with regard to these interesting people, when
I see the place they live in.”
Not in the slightest degree moved by the other’s irritability, Vyner
began a narrative of his ramble, told with all the power that a
recent impression could impart of the scene of the wake, and pictured
graphically enough the passion-wrought faces and wild looks of the
mourners.
“I was coming away at last,” said he, “when, on turning an angle of the
old church, I found myself directly in front of a little window, from
which a light issued. I crept close and peeped in, and there, asleep in
a large arm-chair, was a man I once knew well--as well, or even better,
than I know you--a man I had chummed with at Christ Church, and lived
for years with, on terms of close affection. If it were not that his
features were such as never can be forgotten, I might surely have
failed to recognise him, for though my own contemporary, he looked fully
fifty.”
“Who was he?” abruptly broke in Grenfell.
“You shall hear. Luttrell!”
“Luttrell! Luttrell! You don’t mean the fellow who was to have married
your sister-in-law?”
“The same; the first man of his day at Christ Church, the great prizeman
and medallist, ‘the double first,’ and, what many thought more of, the
best-looking fellow in Oxford.”
“I forget the story. He wanted to marry some one, and she wouldn’t have
him. What was it?”
“He wanted to marry my wife,” said Vyner, rather nettled at the cool
carelessness of the other. “She was, however, engaged to me, and
she said, ‘I have a sister so very like me, that we are constantly taken
for each other; come here next week, and you’ll meet her.’ They met,
liked each other, and were contracted to be married. I want to be very
brief, so I shall skip over all but the principal points.”
“Do so,” said the other, dryly.
“Everything went well for a time. All inquiries as to his fortune,
position, connexions, and so forth, were found satisfactory by the
Courtenays, when some busybody whispered to Georgina that there was an
ugly story about him in Ireland, and suggested that she should ask under
what circumstances he had quitted the Irish University and come over to
take his degree at Oxford. Luttrell was considerably agitated when the
question was put to him, though they were alone at the time; and, after a
brief struggle with himself, he said, ‘I’d rather you had not asked
me about this, but I meant to have told you of it myself, one day. The
thing is very simple, and not very serious. The only thing, however, I
exact is, that the confession is to and for yourself alone. You have a
right to know the fact; I have a right, that it be kept a secret.’
“She gave the pledge he required, and he went on to say that there
existed in Ireland a secret society known by the name of United
Irishmen, whose designs were, time and place suiting, to throw off
their allegiance to England, and declare for Irish independence. This
association was so far formidable, that it embraced men of all classes
and conditions, and men of all religious professions, the majority being
Presbyterians. He was one of these, and a very foremost one; drawn into
the league, in reality, rather by the warm enthusiasm of a generous
nature than by any mature consideration of the object or its
consequences. In some contest for a prize at College--a gold medal in
science, I believe--Luttrell’s closest competitor was the son of the
Provost of the University; but, after a three days’ conflict, Luttrell
was victorious. When the day of awarding the honours came, Luttrell
presented himself at the Hall to receive his laurels, but what was his
astonishment to hear, as he entered, that he would be first required
to subscribe a declaration that he was not a member of any secret or
treasonable society.
“‘If you mean,’ cried he to the Proctor, who recited the terms of the
declaration--‘if you mean me to say that I am not an United Irishman,
I will not do so. Give your gold medal to that gentleman yonder,’ added
he, pointing to the son of the Provost; ‘his father’s loyalty deserves
every testimony you can confer on it.’ He left the Hall, took his name
off the books, and quitted Ireland the next day. It was gravely debated
whether an expulsion should not be passed upon him; but, in
consideration of his great collegiate distinction and his youth, the
extreme rigour was spared him, and he was suffered to leave uncensured.
“Either the confession was not what she expected, or that she fancied it
might cover something far more serious beneath it, but Georgina was not
satisfied with the story. She again and again reverted to it. Not a day
that they walked out alone that she would not turn the conversation on
this theme, which, by frequent discussion, Luttrell came at length to
talk of, without any of the reserve he at first maintained. Indeed,
some of this was, in a measure, forced upon him, for she questioned him
closely as to the details of the association, how far it involved him,
and to what extent he was yet bound by its obligations.
“It was in a sort of defence of himself, one day, that he so far forgot
prudence as to declare that the society numbered amongst its members
many men not only high in station, but actually regarded as strong
adherents of the English party. He told how this, that, and the other,
who were seen at every levee of the Castle, and not unfrequently quoted
as guests of the Viceroy’s table, were brothers of this league; and he
indeed mentioned names of distinction and eminence.
“In her eagerness to confute all her father’s opinions on this
matter--for she had told him the whole story from the first--Georgina
hastened off to enumerate the great men who were engaged in this
treason. Two were in Parliament, one was a Law Adviser of the Crown,
another was a Commissioner of Customs, and generally regarded as an
active partisan of the Government. I remember these, but there were many
others of equal note. Mr. Courtenay, who, besides being a ministerial
supporter, had once been private secretary to Lord Castlereagh, divulged
the whole to the Home Secretary. Investigations were instituted, and,
although United Irishism had lost its sting after Emmett’s failure,
all who had once belonged to it were marked men, and black-listed in
consequence.
“I have been told that the consternation which the disclosure created
in Ireland was terrific. Men resigned their commissions of the peace,
pretended ill health, went abroad; lawyers and physicians of eminence
were ashamed to show their faces; and a well-known editor of a violently
‘English’ newspaper disposed of his journal and went to America.
“‘Who is the traitor?’ was now the universal demand; and, indeed, in
the patriotic papers the question stood forth every morning in great
capitals.
“‘Who was the traitor?’ none could positively assert; but the
controversy was carried on without any squeamish delicacy, and if
the papers did not fix on the man, they very freely discussed the
probability or improbability of this or that one.
“‘Why not Luttrell? said one writer in a famous print. ‘His father
betrayed us before.’ This was an allusion to his having voted for the
Union. ‘Why not Luttrell?’ They entered thereupon into some curious
family details, to show how these Luttrells had never been ‘true blue’
to any cause. That, with good abilities and fair prospects, they were
not successful men, just because they couldn’t be honest to their party,
or even to themselves. They were always half way between two opinions,
‘and,’ as the writer said, ‘far more eager to have two roads open to
them than to travel either of them.’ Whether excited by a theme which
had engrossed much of public attention, or incited by some personal
animosity, this editor devoted a portion of each day’s paper to
Luttrell. The result was a hostile message. They met and exchanged
shots, when the newspaper writer at once declared, ‘If Mr. Luttrell will
now disown any connexion with this act of betrayal, I am ready to beg
his pardon for all that I have said of him.’ Luttrell for a moment made
no reply, and then said, ‘Take your pistol, Sir; I have no explanations
to make you.’ At the next fire, Luttrell fell wounded. He was upwards of
two months laid in his bed. I saw him frequently during that time; and
though we talked every day of the Courtenays, I had not the courage
to tell him that they were determined the match should be broken
off. Georgina herself--how, I cannot well say, nor ever clearly
understood--being brought to believe that Luttrell had done what would
for ever exclude him from the society of his equals. I cannot dwell on a
period so full of miserable recollections. I never passed so many hours
of torture as when sitting by that poor fellow’s bedside. I listened to
all his bright projects for a future which in my heart I knew was
closed to him for ever. As his convalescence advanced, my task grew more
difficult. He used to ask every day when he would be permitted to write
to her; he wondered, too, why she had not sent him a few lines, or some
token--as a book, or a flower. He questioned and cross-questioned me
about her daily life; how she felt his misfortune; had she received a
correct account of the incident of the duel; what her family thought and
said; and, last of all, why Mr. Courtenay himself had only called once
or twice, and never asked to come up and see him?
“My own marriage was to take place early in May. It was now April; and
at one time there had been some talk of the two sisters being married on
the same day. It was late in the month; I am not clear about the date,
but I remember it was on a Sunday morning. I was sitting with him, and
he lay propped up on a sofa, to enable him to take his breakfast with
me. ‘I was thinking all last night, Vyner,’ said he--‘and nothing but a
sick man’s selfishness could have prevented my thinking it long ago--how
you must hate me.’
“‘Hate _you_, and why?’
“‘Because but for me and my misfortune you’d have been married by the
sixth or seventh, and now, who knows how long you must wait?’
“I saw at once that the double marriage was running in his mind, and
though my own was fixed for the following Thursday or Friday, I had not
nerve to say so; nor was my embarrassment the less that Mr. Courtenay
had charged me with the task of telling Luttrell that all should be
considered as at an end, and every day used to question me if I had yet
done so.
“‘Now or never,’ thought I, as Luttrell said this; but when I turned and
saw his wasted cheek, still pink with hectic, and his glassy, feverish
eye, I shrunk again from the attempt.
“‘Why did you look at me so pitifully, Vyner?’ said he, eagerly; ‘has
the doctor told you that I shall not rub through?’
“‘Nothing of the kind, man; he says he’ll have you down at Hastings
before a fortnight is over.’
“‘What was it, then? Do I look very fearfully?’
“‘Not even that. You are pulled down, of course. No man looks the better
for eight or ten weeks on a sick-bed.’
“‘Then it is something else,’ said he, thoughtfully; and I made no
answer.
“‘Well,’ said he, with a deep sigh, ‘I have had my forebodings of--I
don’t know what--but of something that was over me all this time back;
and when I lay awake at night, wondering in what shape this disaster
would come, I have ever consoled myself by saying, “Well, Vyner
certainly does not know it; Vyner has no suspicion of it.” If now,
however, I were to be wrong in this; if, in reality, Vyner _did_ know
that a calamity impended me; and if’--here he fixed his bright staring
eyes with their wide pupils full upon me--‘if Vyner knew something, and
only forbore to break it to me because he saw me a poor sickly wasted
creature, whose courage he doubted, all I can say is, he does not know
the stuff the Luttrells are made of.’
“I tried to answer this, but all I could do was to take his hand and
press it between my own. ‘Out with it, like a good fellow,’ cried he,
with an effort to seem gay--‘out with it, and you’ll see whether I am
too vain of my pluck!’
“I turned partly away--at least so far that I could not see his face
nor he mine--and I told him everything. I cannot remember how I began
or ended. I cannot tell what miserable attempts I made to excuse or to
palliate, nor what poor ingenuity I practised to make him believe that
all was for the best. I only know that I would have given worlds that he
should have interrupted me or questioned me; but he never spoke a word,
and when I had concluded he sat there still in silence.
“‘You are a man of honour, Vyner,’ said he, in a low but unshaken voice
that thrilled through my heart. ‘Tell me one thing. On your word as a
gentleman, has--has--she----’ I saw that he was going to say the name,
but stopped himself. ‘Has she been coerced in this affair?’
“‘I believe not. I sincerely believe not. In discussing the matter
before her, she has gradually come to see, or at least to suppose------’
“‘There, there; that will do!’ cried he aloud, and with a full tone that
resembled his voice in health. ‘Let us talk of it no more. I take it
you’ll go abroad after your wedding?’
“I muttered out some stupid common-place, I talked away at random for
some minutes, and at last I said good-by. When I came back the next
morning he was gone. He had been carried on board of a steam-vessel for
some port in the south of Ireland, and left not a line nor a message
behind him. From that hour until last night I never set eyes on him.”
“You have heard of him, I suppose?” asked Grenfell.
“Vaguely and at long intervals. He would seem to have mixed himself
up with the lowest political party in Ireland--men who represent, in a
certain shape, the revolutionary section in France--and though the very
haughtiest aristocrat I think I ever knew, and at one time the most
fastidious ‘fine gentleman,’ there were stories of his having uttered
the most violent denunciations of rank, and inveighed in all the set
terms of the old French Convention against the distinctions of class.
Last of all, I heard that he had married a peasant girl, the daughter
of one of his cottier tenants, and that, lost to all sense of his former
condition, had become a confirmed drunkard.”
“The moral of all which is, that your accomplished sister-in-law had a
most fortunate escape.”
“I’m not so sure of that. I think Luttrell was a man to have made a
great figure in the world. He swept college of its prizes, he could
do anything he tried, and, unlike many other clever men, he had great
powers of application. He had, too, high ability as a public speaker,
and in an age like ours, where oratory does so much, he might have had a
most brilliant career in Parliament.”
“There is nothing more delusive than arguing from a fellow’s school or
collegiate successes to his triumphs in after life. The first are purely
intellectual struggles; but the real battle of life is fought out by
tact, and temper, and courage, and readiness, and fifty other things,
that have no distinct bearing on mind. Your man there would have
failed just as egregiously amongst gentlemen as he has done amongst the
‘canaille’ that he descended to. He had failure written on his passport
when he started in life.”
“I don’t believe it; I can’t believe it.”
“Your sister-in-law, I think, never married?”
“No. She has refused some excellent offers, and has declared she never
will marry.”
“How like a woman all that! She first mars a man’s fortune, and, by way
of a reparation, she destroys her own. That is such feminine logic!”
“Is that a dog they have got in the bow of the launch, yonder?” said
Vyner, directing the captain’s attention to one of the boats of the
yacht that was now pulling briskly out from the land.
“Well, Sir, as well as I can make out, it’s a child,” said he, as he
drew the telescope from the slings, and began to adjust it. “Yes, Sir,
it’s a native they have caught, and a wild-looking specimen too;” and he
handed the glass to Vyner.
“Poor little fellow! He seems dressed in rabbit-skins. Where is Ada? She
must see him.”