Doubtless the fresh free mountain air had its influence, and something,
too, lay in the surprise at the goodness of the fare, but Vyner and
Grenfell sat at the open door after their dinner in the pleasant frame
of mind of those who have dined to their satisfaction, and like to
reflect on it.
“I can almost look with complacency on your idea of an Irish property,
Vyner, when I think of that mutton,” said Grenfell, as he lazily
puffed his cigar, while he lay full stretched on the grass. “With what
consummate tact, too, the fellow avoided all attempts at fine cookery,
and sent us up those trouts plainly fried.”
“This is the only thing I cannot relish--this vile, semi-sweet and smoky
compound. It is detestable!” And he held the whisky to his nose,
and laid it down again. “Are we sure that he cannot command something
better?”
“Here goes to see,” said Grenfell, starting up. “What a crowning
pleasure would a glass of sherry--that Amontillado of yours--be in such
a spot.”
“Fetch me out that map you’ll find on my table,” said Vyner, as the
other moved away, and he lay half dreamily gazing out at the long valley
with its mountain barrier in the distance. It was the thought of space,
of a splendid territory princely in extent, that captivated his mind
with regard to this purchase. All told him that such acquisitions are
seldom profitable, and very often perilous; that whatever changes are to
be wrought must be carried out with patience and infinite caution, and
that the people--the wild natives, who consider the soil as more than
half their own--must be conciliated. But was there ever a man--at least
an imaginative, impulsive man--who did not fancy he was the person to
deal with such difficulties? That by his tact, and skill, and delicate
treatment, the obstacles which had closed the way for others would be
removed; that with an instinctive appreciation of the people, of their
moods of thought, their passions, and their prejudices, _he_ would
discover the road to their hearts, and teach them to trust and confide
in him?
It was in a sort of fool’s paradise of this kind that Vyner lay. He was
a prince in his own wild mountain territory, his sway undisputed, his
rule absolute. He had spread benefits innumerable around him, and the
recipients were happy, and, what is more, were grateful. Some terrible
crime--agrarian outrage, as newspaper literature has it--had come before
the House, and led to a discussion on the question of Irish landlordism,
and he imagined himself rising in his place to declare his own
experiences--“very different, indeed, from those of the Right Honourable
Gentleman who had just sat down.” What a glowing picture of a country he
drew; what happiness, what peace, what prosperity. It was Arcadia,
with a little more rain and a police force. There was no disturbance,
no scarcity, very little sickness, religious differences were unknown,
a universal brotherhood bound man to man, and imparted to the success of
each all the sentiment of a general triumph. “And where, Sir, will you
say, is this happy region--in what favoured country blessed by nature
is this Elysium? and my reply is, in the wild and almost trackless
mountains of Donegal, amidst scenery whose desolate grandeur almost
appals the beholder; where but a few years back the traveller dared not
penetrate above a mile or two from the coast, and where in comparison
the bush in Newfoundland or the thicket in New Zealand had been safe. It
is my proud privilege to declare, Sir, and this I do, not alone before
this House, but in face of the country----”
“That you never saw a prettier face than that,” said Grenfell, leading
forward the little girl by the hand, and placing her before him.
“She is pretty; she is downright beautiful,” said Vyner, warmly. “Where
did you find this queen of the fairies?”
“At the well yonder, trying to place on her head a pitcher not much
smaller than herself. She tells me she is a stranger here, only waiting
for her grandfather to come and fetch her away.”
“And where to?” asked Vyner.
“To Glenvallah.” And she pointed in the direction of the mountains.
“And where have you come from now?”
“From Arran--from the island.”
“What took you to the island, child?”
“I was at my aunt’s wake. It was there I got this.” And she lifted one
of the beads of her necklace with a conscious pride.
“Amber and gold; they become you admirably.”
The child seemed to feel the praise in her inmost heart. It was a eulogy
that took in what she prized most, and she shook back the luxuriant
masses of her hair, the better to display the ornaments she wore.
“And it was your aunt left this to you?” asked Grenfell.
“No; but we had everything amongst us. Grandfather took this, and Tom
Noonan took that, and Mark Tracey got the other, and this--this was
mine.”
“Were you sorry for your aunt?” asked Vyner.
“No, I didn’t care.”
“Not care for your father’s or your mother’s sister?”
“She was my mother’s sister, but we never saw her. She couldn’t come to
us, and he wouldn’t let us come to her.”
“He, I suppose, means her husband?”
The child nodded assent.
“And what was the reason of this; was there a family quarrel?”
“No. It was because he was a gentleman.” “Indeed!” broke in Grenfell.
“How did you know that?”
“Because he never worked, nor did anything for his living. He could
stay all day out on the sea-shore gathering shells, and go home when he
pleased to his meals or his bed.”
“And that is being a gentleman?”
“I think it is; and I wish I was a lady.”
“What was this gentleman’s name?”
“John Hamilton Luttrell--Luttrell of Arran we called him.”
“John Luttrell! And was your aunt his wife, child?” asked Vyner,
eagerly; “and are you the cousin of Harry Luttrell?”
“Yes; but he would not let me say so; he is as proud as his father.”
“He need not be ashamed of such a cousin, I think,” said Vyner, as he
surveyed her; and the child again raised her fingers to her necklace, as
though it was there that lay all her claim to admiration.
“Keep her in talk, George, while I make a sketch of her; she is the very
brightest thing I ever saw in nature.”
“Tell me the names of all these mountains,” said Grenfell; “but first of
all, your own.”
“My name is Kitty; but I like them to call me Katherine--as the priest
does.”
“It is statelier to be Katherine,” said Grenfell, gravely.
And she gave a nod of haughty acknowledgment that almost provoked a
smile from him.
“That mountain is Caub na D’haoul, the Devil’s Nightcap; whenever he
takes it off, there’s a storm at sea; and there’s Kilmacreenon, where
the Bradleys was killed; and that’s Strathmore, where the gold mines
is.”
“And are there really gold mines there?”
“Ay, if one had leave from the devil to work them; but it was only old
Luttrell ever got that, and he paid for it.”
“Tell me the story, child; I never heard it.”
The girl here seated herself on a knoll directly in front of them, and,
with a demure air, and some of that assumed importance she had possibly
seen adopted by story-tellers, she began, in a tone and with a fluency
that showed she was repeating an oft-told tale:
“There was one of the Luttrells once that was very rich, and a great
man every way, but he spent all his money trying to be greater than the
King, for whatever the King did Luttrell would do twice as grand, and
for one great feast the King would give, Luttrell would give two, and
he came at last to be ruined entirely; and of all his fine houses and
lands, nothing was left to him but a little cabin on Strathmore,
where his herd used to live. And there he went and lived as poor as a
labourin’ man; indeed, except that he’d maybe catch a few fish or shoot
something, he had nothing but potatoes all the year round. Well, one
day, as he was wanderin’ about very low and sorrowful, he came to a
great cave on the hill-side, with a little well of clear water inside
it; and he sat down for sake of the shelter, and began to think over
old times, when he had houses, and horses, and fine clothes, and jewels.
‘Who’d ever have thought,’ says he, ‘that it would come to this with me;
that I’d be sittin’ upon a rock, with nothing to drink but water?’ And
he took some up in the hollow of his hand and tasted it; but when he
finished, he saw there was some fine little grains, like dust, in his
hand, and they were bright yellow besides, because they were gold.
“‘If I had plenty of you, I’d be happy yet,’ says he, looking at the
grains.
“‘And what’s easier in life, Mr. Luttrell?’ says a voice; and he starts
and turns round, and there, in a cleft of the rock, was sittin’ a little
dark man, with the brightest eyes that ever was seen, smoking a pipe.
‘What’s easier in life,’ says he, ‘Mr. Luttrell?’
[Illustration: 112]
“‘How do you know my name?’ says he.
“‘Why wouldn’t I? says the other. ‘Sure it isn’t because one is a little
down in the world that he wouldn’t have the right to his own name? I
have had some troubles myself,’ says he, ‘but I don’t forget my name,
for all that.’
“‘And what may it be, if it’s pleasin’ to you?’ says Luttrell.
“‘Maybe I’ll tell it to you,’ says he, ‘when we’re better acquainted.’
“‘Maybe I could guess it now,’ says Luttrell.
“‘Come over and whisper it, then,’ says he, ‘and I’ll tell you if you’re
right.’ And Luttrell did and the other called out, ‘You guessed well;
that’s just it!’ “‘Well,’ says Luttrell, ‘there’s many a change come
over me, but the strangest of all is to think that here I am, sittin’
up and talking to the----’ The other held up his hand to warn him not to
say it, and he went on: ‘And I’m no more afeard of him than if he was an
old friend.’
“‘And why would you, Mr. Luttrell?--and why wouldn’t you think him an
old friend? Can you remember one pleasant day in all your life that I
wasn’t with you some part of it?’”
“Give up that drawing, Vyner, and listen to this,” said Grenfell. “I’ll
make her begin it again for you.”
“I am listening. I’ve heard every word of it,” said Vyner. “Go on,
dear.”
“‘I know what you mean well enough,’ says Luttrell. ‘I know the sort of
bargain you make, but what would be the good of all my riches to me when
I’d lose my soule?’
“‘Isn’t it much trouble you take about your soule, Mr. Luttrell?’ says
he. ‘Doesn’t it keep you awake at night, thinking how you’re to save it?
Ain’t you always correctin’ and chastisin’ yourself for the good of your
soule, not lettin’ yourself drink this or eat that, and warnin’ you,
besides, about many a thing I won’t speak of, eh? Tell me that.’
“‘There’s something in what you say, no doubt of it,’ says Luttrell;
‘but, after all,’ says he, with a wink, ‘I’m not going to give it up as
a bad job, for all that.’
“‘And who asks you?’ says the other. ‘Do you think that a soule more or
less signifies to me? It don’t: I’ve lashins and lavins of them.’
“‘Maybe you have,’ says Luttrell.
“‘Have you any doubt of it, Mr. Luttrell?’ says he. ‘Will you just
mention the name of any one of your friends or family that I can’t give
you some particulars of?’
“‘I’d rather you’d not talk that way,’ says Luttrell; ‘it makes me feel
unpleasant.’
“‘I’m sure,’ says the other, ‘nobody ever said I wasn’t polite, or that
I ever talked of what was not pleasin’ to the company.’
“‘Well,’ says Luttrell, ‘supposin’ that I wanted to be rich, and
supposin’ that I wouldn’t agree to anything that would injure my soule,
and supposin’ that there was, maybe, something that you’d like me to do,
and that wouldn’t hurt me for doin’ it, what would that be?’
“‘If you always was as cute about a bargain, Mr. Luttrell,’ says the
other, ‘you’d not be the poor man you are to-day.’
“‘That’s true, perhaps,’ says he; ‘but, you see, the fellows I made them
with wasn’t as cute as the----’
“‘Don’t,’ says the other, holding up his hand to stop him; ‘it’s never
polite. I told you I didn’t want your soul, for I’m never impatient
about anything; all I want is to give you a good lesson--something that
your family will be long the better of--and you want it much, for you
have, all of you, one great sin.’ “‘We’re fond of drink?’ says Luttrell.
“‘No,’ says he; ‘I don’t mean that.’ “‘It’s gamblin’?’ “‘Nor that.’
“‘It’s a likin’ for the ladies?’ says Luttrell, slyly. “‘I’ve nothing to
say against that, for they’re always well disposed to me,’ says he.
“‘If it’s eatin’, or spendin’ money, or goin’ in debt, or cursin’ or
swearin’, or being fond of fightin’----‘’
“‘It is not,’ says he; ‘them is all natural. It’s your pride,’ says
he--‘your upsettin’ family pride, that won’t let you do this, or say
that. There’s what’s destroyin’ you.’
“‘It’s pretty well out of me now,’ says Luttrell, with a sigh. “‘It is
not,’ says the other. ‘If you had a good dinner of beef, and a tumbler
of strong punch in you, you’d be as impudent this minute as ever you
were.’
“‘Maybe you’re right,’ says Luttrell.
“‘I know I am, Mr. Luttrell. You’re not the first of your family I was
intimate with. You’re an ould stock, and I know ye well.’ “‘And how are
we to be cured?’ says Luttrell. “‘Easy enough,’ says he. ‘When three
generations of ye marry peasants, it will take the pride out of your
bones, and you’ll behave like other people.’
“‘We couldn’t do it,’ says Luttrell. “‘Try,’ says the other.
“‘Impossible!’
“‘So you’d say about livin’ on potatoes, and drinkin’ well water.’
“‘That’s true,’ says Luttrell.
“‘So you’d say about ragged clothes and no shoes to your feet.’”
Luttrell nodded.
“‘So you’d say about settin’ in a cave and talking over family matters
to--to a stranger,’ says he, with a laugh.
“‘I believe there’s something in it,’ said Luttrell; ‘but sure some of
us might like to turn bachelors.’
“‘Let them, and welcome,’ says he. ‘I don’t want them to do it one after
the other. I’m in no hurry. Take a hundred years--take two, if you like,
for it.’
“‘Done,’ says Lnttrell. ‘When a man shows a fair spirit, I’ll always
meet him in the same. Give me your hand; it’s a bargain.’
“‘I hurt my thumb,’ says he; ‘but take my tail, ‘twill do all the same.’
And though Mr. Luttrell didn’t like it, he shook it stoutly, and only
let it go when it began to burn his fingers. And from that day he was
rich, even till he died; but after his death nobody ever knew where to
find the gold, nor ever will till the devil tells them.”
“And did his family keep the bargain; did they marry the peasants?”
asked Grenfell.
“Two of them. One before, John Lnttrell of Arran; and another must do
it, and soon too, for they say the two hundred years is near out now.”
“And is it said that the remedy succeeded?” asked Vyner; “are the
Luttrells cured of their family pride?”
“They can’t be till the third marriage takes place; indeed, my
grandfather says they’ll be worse than ever just before they’re cured;
‘for,’ says he, ‘every one that makes a bargain with the devil thinks he
has the best of it.’”
“And that, I suspect, is a mistake, Katherine,” said Vyner.
She threw down her eyes, and seemed lost in thought, making no reply
whatever to his remark.
“I’d have had no dealings with him at all,” said Vyner.
“You are rich, and you don’t need him,” said she, almost fiercely, as
though his words had conveyed a sneer.
“That’s just it, Kitty,” said Grenfell; “or if he did want him it would
be for something different from money.”
She gave a saucy toss of her head, as though to show she agreed with
him, and turned to the table where Vyner was at work with his chalks.
“That’s me,” said she, gravely.
“I like your own face better,” said Vyner.
“So would that little fellow with the pipe that you were telling us of,”
said Grenfell.
“Let him say so,” said she, with a ringing laugh; and she bounded from
the spot, and skipping from crag to crag flew down the rock, and hurried
down the little path at speed.
“There’s a man coming up the road; don’t you see him waving his hat?”
“It’s an old man,” said Vyner, as he looked through his telescope. “I
snppose her grandfather.”