To welcome Sir Gervais Vyner home, the ladies had invited Sir Within
Wardle to dinner--one of those privileged little family meetings, to
be of which one must be an honoured guest--and so, indeed, did the old
Baronet with his fine tact understand it; for he was very skilful in
comprehending all those situations which make the so-to-say diplomacy of
daily life.
He knew that he was admitted to that very pleasant brevet rank, the
friend of the family, before whom everything can be said and talked
over; and he showed by innumerable little traits how he valued his
promotion, and, with a subtlety all his own, talked of himself and his
own affairs with an easy confidence that seemed to say, “Here we are,
all in secret committee; we may speak as freely as we like.”
The dinner was a very pleasant one. Vyner gave an amusing account of his
Irish experiences, spoke of everything and every one but Luttrell, for
his was a name that was never mentioned amongst them. Indeed, in the
wrong the Courtenays had done him, was the seal that closed their lips;
for, while we can talk, and talk fluently, of those who have injured us,
of such as we have ourselves injured, we are dumb.
Sir Within saw, with the old craft of his trade, that there was a
reserve; he smelt it like a secret treaty, but it did not touch him, and
he was indifferent about it. He joined with the ladies warmly in their
depreciation of Ireland as a residence, and laughingly concurred in
their insistance that they were never to be asked to go there.
As to the project of adopting the little peasant-girl, they made it
the subject of much pleasant banter; for, of course, Vyner was
totally unable to reply to one-tenth of the questions which the matter
suggested.
“We will suppose she is very pretty: and, what is still harder to
believe, we will suppose that she’ll grow up prettier, what is to come
of it; what do you intend her to be?” said Georgina.
“Yes,” said Sir Within, “let us look a little to what Italians call _e
poi?_”
“When well brought up, and well educated, she might surely be a
governess,” said Lady Vyner, coming to her husband’s rescue.
“And was it worth while to withdraw her from the drudgery she knew, to
enter upon a slavery that she never heard of?” asked Georgina.
“To tell truth,” said Vyner, “I must confess I was thinking more of the
benefit to Ada, the advantage she would have in a joyous, high-spirited
creature of her own age, that might make her hours of Lessons more full
of emulation, and her play hours pleasanter.”
Sir Within bowed a courteous assent to a speech principally addressed to
himself.
“And,” continued Sir Gervais, bolder for this encouragement, “and, as
to forecasting what is to happen to any of us, even if we be alive,
some ten or twelve years hence, I really own I don’t think it is called.
for.”
“I’m not sure of that,” said Sir Within. “I have made up my mind to live
about five-and-thirty years more, and even speculated on the how I am to
live it.”
“Do let us hear your plan,” said Georgina, with a slight flush of
eagerness in her face.
“I have two,” said he; “and as there is not a little to be said for
each, I hesitate between them.”
“We cannot pretend to be of any use in counselling you, unfortunately,”
said Lady Vyner; “but if there be anything which what you slightingly
call ‘woman’s wit’ can add to your own reasonings, we offer it freely.”
“I am deeply, infinitely gratified; your kindness is most acceptable. My
first plan is one with whose details I am but too conversant. It is to
live an old bachelor!”
The ladies looked at each other, and then looked down. They did not
very well see what was to be said, and they said nothing, though, by his
silence, he seemed to expect a remark.
“Well,” said Vyner, trying to break the awkward pause, “you at least
know its resources, and what such a mode of life can offer.”
“A good deal,” resumed Sir Within. “A well-cultivated selfishness has
very great resources, if one has only sufficient means to indulge them.
You can, what is called, live well, consult the climate that suits you,
frequent the society you like, know the people that you care to know,
buy the picture, the horse, the statue that takes your fancy. You can do
anything, and be anything but one.” “And what is that?”
“Be happy--that is denied you! I am not, of course, speculating on
any supreme bliss. I leave all these divine notions to novelists and
play-writers; but I speak of that moderate share of daily contentment
which we in our mundane humility call happiness; this you cannot have.”
“But, if I mistake not, you have given all the ingredients of it in your
late description,” said Georgina.
“And the Chinese cook got all the ingredients to make a plum-pudding,
but he forgot to tie the bag that held them; so is it the old bachelor’s
life has no completeness; it wants what the French call ‘l’ensemble.’”
“Then why not tie the bag, Sir Within?” asked Lady Vyner, laughing.
The old diplomatist’s eyes sparkled with a wicked drollery, and his
mouth curved into a half-malicious smile, when Sir Gervais quietly said,
“She means, why not marry?”
“Ah, marry!” exclaimed he, throwing up his eyebrows with an air that
said, “here is a totally new field before us!” and then, as quickly
recovering, he said, “Yes, certainly. There is marriage! But, somehow,
I always think on this subject of a remark Charles de Rochefoucauld once
made me. He said he was laid up once with an attack of gout in a château
near Nancy, without a single friend or acquaintance, and, to beguile
the weary hours, he used to play chess with himself, so that at last
he fancied he was very fond of the game. When he came up to Paris
afterwards, he engaged a person to come every day and play with him; but
to his horror he discovered that he could no longer win when he pleased,
and he gave up the pursuit and never resumed it. This is, perhaps, one
of the discoveries men like myself make when they marry.”
“Not if they marry wisely, Sir Within,” said Lady Vyner.
“I declare,” broke in Georgina, hastily, “I think Sir Within is right.
Telling a person to marry wisely, is saying, ‘Go and win that thirty
thousand pounds in the lottery.’”
“At all events,” said Vyner, “you’ll never do it, if you don’t take a
ticket.”
“But to do that,” said Lady Vyner, laughingly, “one ought to dream of a
lucky number, or consult a sorceress at least.”
“Ah! if you would but be the sorceress, Lady Vyner,” exclaimed he, with
a mingled seriousness and drollery.
“And tell you, I suppose, when you ought to venture?”
“Just so.”
“Am I so certain that you’d respect my divination--a prophet can’t
afford to be slighted.”
“I promise,” said he; and rising from his seat, he extended his right.
hand in imitation of a famous incident of the period, and exclaimed, “Je
jure!”
“It is then agreed,” said she, quietly, but with a slight show of
humour. “If it should be ever revealed to me--intimated to my inner
consciousness is the phrase, I believe--that a particular person was
Heaven-sent for your especial happiness, I’ll immediately go and tell
you.”
“And I’ll marry her.”
“Her consent is, of course, not in question whatever,” said Georgina;
“but I think so gallant a person as Sir Within might have mentioned it.”
“So I should, if Lady Vyner hadn’t said she was Heaven-sent. When the
whole thing became destiny, it was only obedience was called for.”
“You’re a lucky fellow,” cried Vyner, “if you’re not married off before
Easter. There’s nothing so dangerous as giving a commission of this kind
to a woman.”
“Sir Within knows he can trust me; he knows that I feel all the
responsibility of my charge. It is very possible that I may be too
exacting--too difficult----”
“I pray you do so,” cried he, with much eagerness.
“Do you see how he wants to get off?” said Vyner; “like certain
capricious ladies, he’d like to see all the wares in the shop, and buy
nothing.”
“I fancy it’s pretty much what he has done already,” said Georgina, in a
half whisper; but the butler put an end to the discussion by announcing
that Mr. M’Kinlay had just arrived.
“Shall we go into the drawing-room?” said Georgina to her sister.
“If you like; but he’ll certainly come in to tea,” was the answer.
“Well, it is at least a reprieve,” said she, with a dreary sigh; and
they retired.
As they left by one door, Mr. M’Kinlay entered the room by the other.
After a cordial greeting, Sir Gervais presented him to Sir Within, and
began to question him about his journey.
“Well, Sir Gervais,” said he, after a long-drawn breath, “it is no
exaggeration if I say, that I have not another client in the world for
whom I would undergo the same fatigues, not to say dangers.”
“My friend Mr. M’Kinlay has been on an excursion of some peril, and much
hardship,” said Sir Vyner to Sir Within.
“Ah! In Canada, I presume.”
“No, Sir,” resumed M’Kinlay, “far worse--infinitely worse than Canada.”
“You speak of Newfoundland, perhaps?”
“Excuse me, Sir, I mean Ireland, and not merely Ireland itself--though
I believe a glutton in barbarism might satiate himself there--but,
worse again, Sir--I have been over to visit some islands, wretched
rocks without vegetation--well would it be, could I say without
inhabitants--off the west coast, and in, actually in the wild Atlantic
Ocean!”
“The Arran Islands,” interposed Vyner, who saw that Sir Within was
doubtful of the geography.
“Yes, Sir; had they called them the Barren Islands there would have been
some fitness in the designation.” Mr. M’Kinlay appeared the better of
his very email drollery, and drank off a bumper of claret, which also
seemed to do him good.
“And was the estate you wished to purchase in these wild regions?” asked
Sir Within.
“No; my friend’s mission to Arran was only remotely connected with the
purchase. In fact, he went in search of an old friend of mine, whose
assistance I needed, and whose caprice it was to retire to that desolate
spot, and leave a world in which he might have made a very conspicuous
figure. I am not art liberty to tell his name, though, perhaps, you
might never have heard it before. M’Kinlay will, however, give us an
account of his reception, and all that he saw there.”
“My troubles began,” said Mr. M’Kinlay, “almost immediately after we
parted. You remember that on our last evening, at Westport it was,
that the waiter informed me a gentleman then in the house had engaged
a lugger to take him over to Innishmore, the very island I wanted to
reach. I commissioned the man to arrange if he could with the gentleman
to accept me as a fellow-traveller. It was settled accordingly, that
we were to sail with the ebb tide at eight o’clock the next morning.
My first shock, on reaching the pier, was to see what they called the
lugger. She was a half-decked tub! I say tub, for her whole length was
certainly not double her breadth. She was tarred all over, her sails
were patched, her ropes knotted, and for ballast, she had some blocks of
granite in a bed of shingle which shifted even as she lay surging in the
harbour. They--the sailors, I mean--answered my few questions so rudely,
and with so much ferocity of look and demeanour, that I was actually
afraid to refuse going on board, lest they should take it as offence,
though I would willingly have given five guineas to be excused
the expedition, and wait for a more responsible-looking craft. My
fellow-traveller, too, a very rough-looking, and evidently seafaring
man, settled the point, as seeing my hesitation, he said, ‘Well, Sir,
ain’t the boat good enough for you? Why don’t you step aboard? The faces
of the bystanders quickly decided me, and I went down the plank praying
for my safety, and cursing the day I ever saw Ireland.”
Our reader would possibly not thank us to follow Mr. M’Kinlay in his
narrative, which, indeed, only contained sorrows common to many besides
himself--the terrors of being shipwrecked added to the miseries of
sea-sickness. He told how, through all his agonies, he overheard the
discussions that overwhelmed him with terror, whether they could “carry”
this, or “take in that;” if such a thing would “hold,” or such another
“give way;” and lastly, whether it were better to bear away for Cork or
Bantry, or stand out to open sea, and--Heaven knows where! “Terrors that
will keep me,” cried he, “in nightmares for the rest of my life!”
“At last--it was all that was wanting to fill the measure of my fears--I
heard a sailor say, ‘There! she’s over at last!’ Who’s over?’ cried I.
“‘The fishing-boat that was down to leeward, Sir,’ answered he. ‘They’re
au lost.’
“‘Lucky for them,’ said I to myself, ‘if it’s over so soon. This
prolonged agony is a thousand deaths.’ ‘They’re on the spars; I see
them!’ cried my fellow-traveller; ‘slack off.’ I forget what he said,
but it was to slack off something, and run down for them. This atrocious
proposal rallied me back to strength again, and I opposed it with an
energy, indeed with a virulence, that actually astonished myself.
I asked by what right he took the command of the lugger, and why he
presumed to peril my life--valuable to a number of people--for God knows
what or whom. I vowed the most terrific consequences when we come on
shore again, and declared I would have him indicted for a constructive
manslaughter, if not worse. I grew bolder as I saw that the sailors,
fully alive to our danger, were disposed to take part with me against
him, when the fellow--one of the greatest desperadoes I ever met, and,
as I afterwards found out, a Yankee pirate and slaver--drew a pistol
from his breast and presented it at the helmsman, saying, ‘Down your
helm, or I’ll shoot you!’ and as the man obeyed, he turned to me and
said, ‘If I hear another word out of your mouth, I’ll put an ounce ball
in you, as sure as my name is’---- I think he said ‘Hairy.’ I believe I
fainted; at least, I only was aware of what was going on around me as I
saw them dragging on board a half-drowned boy, with a flag in his hand,
who turned out to be the son of Mr. Lut----”
“There, there, M’Kinlay,” burst in Vyner, “all this agitates you far too
much--don’t go on, I’ll not permit you. To-morrow, after a good sleep,
and a hearty breakfast, I’ll make you finish your story; but positively
I’ll not listen to another word, now.” The hastily thrown glance of
displeasure showed the lawyer that this was a command, and he hung his
head and muttered out an awkward concurrence. “Won’t you take more wine,
Sir Within?”
“No more, thank you. Your capital Bordeaux has made me already exceed my
usual quantity.”
“Let us ask the ladies, then, for a cup of tea,” said Vyner, as he
opened the door; and, as M’Kinlay passed out, he whispered, “I just
caught you in time!”
The ladies received Mr. M’Kinlay with that sort of cool politeness which
is cruel enough when extended to the person one sees every day, but has
a touch of sarcasm in it when accorded to him who has just come off a
long journey.
Now, in the larger gatherings of the world, social preferences are
scarcely felt, but they can be very painful things in the small, close
circle of a family party.
“You have been to Ireland, Mr. M’Kinlay--I hope you were pleased
with your tour? Won’t you have some tea?” said Lady Vyner, with the same
amount of interest in each question.
“Mr. M’Kinlay must have proved a most amusing guest,” said Georgina,
in a low voice, to Sir Within, “or we should have seen you in the
drawing-room somewhat earlier.”
“I felt it an age,” said he, with a little bow and a smile, intended to
be of intense captivation.
“But still you remained,” said she, with a sort of pique.
“_Ma foi!_ What was to be done? The excellent man got into a story of
his adventures, a narrative of a shipwreck which had not--as I was cruel
enough to regret--befallen him, and which, I verily believe, might have
lasted all night, if, by some lucky chance, he had not approached so
near a topic of some delicacy, or reserve, that your brother-in-law
closed ‘the séance,’ and stopped him; and to this accident I owe my
freedom.”
“I wonder what it could have been!”
“I cannot give you the faintest clue to it. Indeed, I can’t fashion to
my imagination what are called family secrets--very possibly because I
never had a family.”
Though Georgina maintained the conversation for some time longer,
keeping up that little game of meaningless remark and reply which
suffices for tea-table talk, her whole mind was bent upon what could
possibly be the mystery he alluded to. Taking the opportunity of a
moment when Sir Within was addressing a remark to Lady Vyner, she moved
half carelessly away towards the fireplace, where Mr. M’Kinlay sipped
his tea in solitude, Sir Gervais being deep in the columns of an evening
paper.
“I suppose you are very tired, Mr. M’Kinlay?” said she; and simple as
were the words, they were uttered with one of those charming smiles,
that sweet captivation of look and intonation, which are the spells by
which fine ladies work their miracles on lesser mortals; and, as she
spoke, she seated herself on a sofa, gracefully drawing aside the folds
of her ample dress, to convey the intimation that there was still place
for another.
While Mr. M’Kinlay looked rather longingly at the vacant place,
wondering whether he might dare to take it, a second gesture, making the
seat beside her still more conspicuous, encouraged him, and he sat down,
pretty much with the mixed elation and astonishment he might have
felt had the Lord Chancellor invited him to a place beside him on the
woolsack.
“I am so sorry not to have heard your account--the most interesting
account, my brother tells me--of your late journey,” began she; “and
really, though the recital must bring back very acute pain, I am selfish
enough to ask you to brave it.”
“I am more than repaid for all, Miss Courtenay, in the kind interest you
vouchsafe to bestow on me.”
After which she smiled graciously, and seemed a little--a very
little--flurried, as though the speech savoured of gallantry, and then,
with a regained serenity, she went on, “You narrowly escaped shipwreck,
I think?”
“So narrowly, that I believe every varying emotion that can herald in
the sad catastrophe passed through me, and I felt every pang, except the
last of all.”
“How dreadful! Where did it happen?”
“Off the west coast of Ireland, Miss Courtenay. Off what mariners
declare to be the most perilous lee-shore in Europe, if not in the
world; and in an open boat too, at least but half decked, and on a day
of such storm that, except ourselves and the unlucky yawl that was lost,
not another sail was to be seen.”
“And were the crew lost?”
“No; it was in saving them, as they chung to the floating spars, that we
were so near perishing ourselves.”
“But you _did_ save them?”
“Every one. It was a daring act; so daring that, landsman as I was,
I deemed it almost foolhardy. Indeed, our crew at first resisted, and
wouldn’t do it.”
“It was nobly done, be assured, Mr. M’Kinlay; these are occasions well
bought at all their cost of danger. Not only is a man higher for them in
his own esteem, but that to all who know him, who respect, who----” She
hesitated, and, in a flurried sort of way, suddenly said, “And where did
you land them?”
“We landed them on the island,” said he, with an almost triumphant
air--“we brought them back to their own homes--dreary enough in all
conscience; but they never knew better.”
“How is the place called?”
“Innishmore, the most northern of the Arran Islands,” said he, in a
whisper, and looking uneasily over at Sir Gerrais, to see that he was
not overheard.
“Is the place interesting, or picturesque, or are there any objects
of interest?” said she, carelessly, and to let him recover his former
composure.
“None whatever,” continued he, in the same cautious voice; “mere
barbarism, and such poverty as I never witnessed before. In the house
where we were received--the only thing worthy the name of a house in the
place--the few articles of furniture were made of the remnants thrown
on shore from shipwrecks; and we had on the dinner-table earthenware
pipkins, tin cups, glasses, and wooden measures indiscriminately. While,
as if to heighten the incongruity, a flagon of silver, which had once
been gilt too, figured in the midst, and displayed a very strange
crest--a heart rent in two, with the motto, _La Zutte réelle_, a
heraldic version of the name.”
“Luttrell,” whispered she, still lower. “What is his christian name?”
“John Hamilton. But, my dear Miss Courtenay, where have you been leading
me all this time? These are all secrets; at least, Sir Gervais enjoined
me especially not to speak of where I had been, nor with whom. I am
aware it was out of respect for the feelings of this unfortunate
man, who, however little trace there remained of it, has once been a
gentleman and a man of some fortune.”
“If you never tell my brother that you have revealed this to me, I
promise you I’ll not speak of it,” said she; and, with all her effort to
appear calm, her agitation nearly overcame her.
“You may depend upon _me_, Miss Courtenay.”
“Nor to my sister,” muttered she, still dwelling on her own thoughts.
“Certainly not. It was a great indiscretion--that is, it would have been
a great indiscretion to have mentioned this to any one less--less----”
While he was searching his brain for an epithet, she arose and walked
to a window, and Mr. M’Kinlay, rather shocked at his own impetuous
frankness, sat thinking over all that he had said.
“Come, Sir Within,” cried Vyner, “here’s my friend M’Kinlay, a capital
whist player. What say you to a rubber? and Georgina, will you join us?”
“Not to-night, Gervais. Laura will take my place.”
Lady Vyner acceded good naturedly, with many excuses for all her
ignorance of the game, and while Sir Within and Vyner held a little
amicable contest for her as a partner, Georgina drew again nigh to where
M’Kinlay was standing.
“Did he look very old and broken? asked she, in a low but shaken voice.
“Terribly broken.”
“What age would you guess him to be?”
“Fifty-four, or five; perhaps older.”
“Absurd!” cried she, peevishly; “he’s not forty.”
“I spoke of what he seemed to be; his hair is perfectly white, he stoops
considerably, and looks, in fact, the remains of a shattered, broken
man, who never at any time was a strong one.”
An insolent curl moved her mouth, but she bit her lips, and with an
effort said, “Did you see his wife?”
“He is a widower; except the little boy that we rescued from the wreck,
he has none belonging to him.”
“Come along, M’Kinlay, we are waiting for you,” cried Sir Gervais; and
the lawyer moved away, while Georgina, with a motion of her finger to
her lips, to enjoin secresy, turned and left the room.