It was half-past four as Mr. M’Kinlay drove into the court-yard at
Dalradern. Sir Within’s note had said four o’clock, an early dinner, and
Sir Within himself could be seen, at an oriel window, watch in hand, as
the carriage passed under the arched entrance. Now, though it was part
of Mr. M’Kinlay’s usual tactics never to “cheapen himself,” he felt he
might by possibility have erred on the opposite side on this occasion,
and he prepared to make some excuses for his delay, the letters he had
read, the replies he was forced to make, and such like.
The old Baronet heard these apologies with a most polished urbanity, he
bowed a continual acquiescence, and then ordered dinner.
“I had hoped for a little daylight, Mr. M’Kinlay,” said he, “to have
shown you some of my pictures, which are only worth seeing when they
have got sun on them. Are you fond of the arts?”
“Passionately, Sir Within; devotedly, if a man so ignorant may dare to
say so.”
“Then, I must only hope for better fortune on another occasion, and that
you will give me an entire morning, if you will not graciously make me a
visit of some days.”
“Oh, Sir.”
“I think,” continued he--“I think I could requite you. My Van Eyks are
accounted the best of any private collection; and one at least of my
Albert Durers will bear comparison with any in the Munich Gallery.”
M’Kinlay muttered something that sounded as if he were firmly persuaded
of the fact.
“I know,” added Sir Within, “this sounds a little boastful; but when I
shall have told you how I came by this picture--it is called the Queen’s
Martyrdom, and represents the Queen Beatrice of Bohemia on a balcony
while her lover is going to the scaffold: the king, her husband,
has ordered her to throw to him the garland or wreath, which was the
privilege of nobles to wear in their last moments--and, I say, when I
tell you the history of the picture, you will, perhaps, acquit me of
vainglory; and also, when you see it, you will render me a greater
service by deciding whether the headsman has not been painted by
Cranach. How I wish we had a little daylight, that I might show it to
you!”
How grateful was M’Kinlay to the sun for his setting on that evening;
never was darkness more welcome, even to him who prayed for night--or
Blucher; and, secretly vowing to himself that no casualty should ever
catch him there before candlelight, he listened with a bland attention,
and pledged his word to any amount of connoisseurship required of him.
Still he hoped that this might not be “the case”--the especial case--on
which Sir Within had summoned him to give counsel; for, besides being
absurd, it would be worse--it would be unprofitable. It was a pleasant
interruption to this “art conversation” when dinner was announced. Now
did Mr. M’Kinlay find himself more at home when appealed to for
his judgment on brown sherry, and the appropriate period at which
“Amontillado” could be introduced; but he soon discovered he was in the
presence of a master. Dinner-giving was the science of his craft, and
Sir Within belonged to that especial school who have always maintained
that Brillat Savarin is more to be relied upon than Grotius, and M. Ude
a far abler ally than Puffendorf. It was the old envoy’s pleasure on
this occasion to put forth much of his strength; both the dinner and the
wine were exquisite, and when the entertainment closed with some choice
“Hermitage,” which had been an imperial present, the lawyer declared
that it was not a dinner to which he had been invited, but a banquet.
“You must run down in your next vacation, my dear Mr. M’Kinlay, and give
me a week. I don’t know if you are a sportsman?”
“Not in the least, Sir. I neither shoot, ride, nor fish.”
“Nor do I, and yet I like a country life, as a sort of interlude in
existence.”
“With a house like this, Sir Within, what life can compare with it?”
“One can at least have tranquillity,” sighed Sir Within, with an air
that made it difficult to say whether he considered it a blessing or the
reverse.
“There ought to be a good neighbourhood, too, I should say. I passed
some handsome places as I came along.”
“Yes, there are people on every hand, excellent people, I have not a
doubt; but they neither suit me, nor _I them_. Their ways are not mine,
nor are their ideas, their instincts, nor their prejudices. The world,
my dear Mr. M’Kinlay, is, unfortunately, wider than a Welsh county,
though they will not believe it here.”
“You mean, then, Sir Within, that they are local, and narrow-minded in
their notions?”
“I don’t like to say that, any more than I like to hear myself called
a libertine; but I suppose, after all, it is what we both come to.” The
air of self-accusation made the old envoy perfectly triumphant, and, as
he passed his hand across his brow and smiled blandly, he seemed to
be recalling to mind innumerable successes of the past. “To say truth,
diplomacy is not the school for dévots.”
“I should think not, indeed, Sir,” said M’Kinlay.
“And that is what these worthy folk cannot or will not see. Wounds and
scars are the necessary incidents of a soldier’s life; but people will
not admit that there are moral injuries which form the accidents of a
minister’s life, and to which he must expose himself as fearlessly
as any soldier that ever marched to battle. What do these excellent
creatures here--who have never experienced a more exciting scene than
a cattle-show, nor faced a more captivating incident than a Bishop’s
visitation--know of the trials, the seductions--the irresistible
seductions of the great world? Ah, Mr. M’Kinlay, I could lay bare a very
strange chapter of humanity, were I to tell even one-fourth of my own
experiences.”
“And an instructive one too, I should say, Sir.”
“In one sense, yes; certainly instructive. You see, Mr. M’Kinlay, with
respect to life, it is thus: Men in your profession become conversant
with all the material embarrassments and difficulties of families; they
know of that crushing bond, or that ruinous mortgage, of the secret loan
at fifty per cent., or the drain of hush-money to stop a disclosure,
just as the doctor knows of the threatened paralysis or the
spreading aneurism; but we men of the world--men of the world _par
excellence_--read humanity in its moral aspect; we study its conflicts,
its trials, its weakness, and its fall--I say fall, because such is the
one and inevitable end of every struggle.”
“This is a sad view, a very sad view,” said M’Kinlay, who, probably to
fortify himself against the depression he felt, drank freely of a strong
Burgundy.
“Not so in one respect. It makes us more tolerant, more charitable.
There is nothing ascetic in our judgment of people--we deplore, but we
forgive.”
“Fine, Sir, very fine--a noble sentiment!” said the lawyer, whose
utterance was not by any means so accurate as it had been an hour
before.
“Of that relentless persecution of women, for instance, such as you
practise it here in England, the great world knows positively nothing.
In your blind vindictiveness you think of nothing but penalties, and you
seem to walk over the battle-field of life with no other object or care
than to search for the wounded and hold them up to shame and torture. Is
it not so?”
“I am sure you are right. We are all fal--fal--la--hie, not a doubt of
it,” muttered M’Kinlay to himself.
“And remember,” continued Sir Within, “it is precisely the higher
organisations, the more finely-attuned temperaments, that are most
exposed, and which, from the very excellence of their nature, demand our
deepest care and solicitude. With what pains, for instance, would you
put together the smashed fragments of a bit of rare Sèvres, concealing
the junctures and hiding the flaws, while you would not waste a moment
on a piece of vulgar crockery.”
“Pitch it out o’ window at once!” said M’Kinlay, with an almost savage
energy.
“So it is. It is with this precious material, finely formed, beautiful
in shape, and exquisite in colour, the world has to deal; and how
natural that it should treat it with every solicitude and every
tenderness. But the analogy holds further. Every connoisseur will tell
you that the cracked or fissured porcelain is scarcely diminished in
value by its fracture; that when skilfully repaired it actually is
almost, if not altogether, worth what it was before.”
M’Kinlay nodded; he was not quite clear how the conversation had turned
upon porcelain, but the wine was exquisite, and he was content.
“These opinions of mine meet little mercy down here, Mr. M’Kinlay; my
neighbours call them Frenchified immoralities, and fifty other hard
names; and as for myself, they do not scruple to aver that I am an old
rake, come back to live on the recollection of his vices. I except,
of course, our friends the Vyners--they judge, and they treat me
differently; they are a charming family.”
“Charming!” echoed the lawyer, and seeming by his action to drink their
health to himself.
“You know the old line, ‘He jests at wounds that never felt a scar;’ and
so have I ever found that it is only amongst those who have suffered one
meets true sympathy. What is this curious story”--here he dropped into a
low, confidential voice--“about Miss C.? It is a by-gone now-a-days; but
how was it? She was to have married a man who had a wife living; or,
she did marry him, and discovered it as they were leaving the church? I
forget exactly how it went--I mean the story--for I know nothing as to
the fact.”
M’Kinlay listened, and through the dull fog of his besotted faculties a
faint nickering of light seemed struggling to pierce. The misanthrope at
Arran--the once friend, now banished for ever--the name that never was
to be uttered--the mystery to be kept from all--and then Georgina’s own
sudden outburst of passion on the evening they parted, when he blundered
out something about a reparation to Luttrell.
All this, at first confusedly, but by degrees more clearly, passed in
review before him, and he thought he had dropped upon a very black page
of family history. Though the wine of which he had drank freely had
addled, it had not overcome him, and, with the old instincts of his
calling, he remembered how all important it is, when extracting
evidence, to appear in fall possession of all the facts.
“How, in the name of wonder, Sir Within,” said he, after a long
pause--“how did it ever chance that this story reached you?”
“Mr. M’Kinlay, my profession, like your own, has its secret sources of
information, and, like you, we hear a great deal, and we believe very
little of it.”
“In the present case,” said M’Kinlay, growing clearer every minute, “I
take it you believe nothing.”
“How old is Miss O’Hara!” asked Sir William, quietly.
“Oh, Sir Within, you surely don’t mean to----”
“To what, Mr. M’Kinlay--what is it that I cannot possibly intend?” said
he, smiling.
“You would not imply that--that there was anything there?” said he,
blundering into an ambiguity that might not commit him irretrievably.
“Haven’t I told you, my dear Mr. M’Kinlay,” said he, with an air of easy
familiarity, “that if I am somewhat sceptical, I am very charitable? I
can believe a great deal, but I can forgive everything.” “And you really
do believe this?” asked M’Kinlay. “Something of it; about as much as
Mr. M’Kinlay believes Kate O’Hara is---- Let me see,” muttered he, half
aloud; “I was at Stuttgard; it was the winter Prince Paul died; we had a
court-mourning, and there were no festivities. The Legations received
a few intimates, and we exchanged all the contents of our letters--that
was sixteen or seventeen years ago; the young lady, I take it, is not
far from fifteen.” “Good Heavens, Sir Within, you want to establish a
distinct link between this story and the age of the young girl!”
“That is too legal a view, Mr. M’Kinlay; we diplomatists deal in another
fashion--we speculate, we never specify. We always act as if everything
were possible, and nothing certain; and in our very uncertainty lies our
greatest security.”
“At all events, you don’t believe one word of this story?” “When a
gentleman so intimately connected with all the secret details of a
family history as you are, instead of showing me where and how I am in
error, limits himself to an appeal to my incredulity, my reply is,
his case is a weak one. She is a most promising creature; she was here
yesterday, and I declare I feel half ashamed of myself for thinking her
more attractive than my dear old favourite, Ada. What are you going to
do about her?”
The suddenness of this question startled M’Kinlay not much, if at all
“Did the old Baronet know of the Vyners’ plans?--was he in reality
more deeply in their confidence than himself?”--was the lawyer’s first
thought. It was clear enough he knew something, whatever that something
might mean. To fence with such a master of his weapon would be a
lamentable blunder, and M’Kinlay determined on frankness.
“It is the very subject on which I want to consult you, Sir Within.
The case is a nice one, and requires nice treatment. The Vyners have
determined she is not to go out to Italy.”
“Do they give their reason?”
“No, not exactly a reason. They think--that is, Miss Courtenay
thinks--all this is, of course, in strict confidence, Sir Within?”
The old minister bowed an acquiescence, with his hand on his heart.
“As I was observing, then,” resumed M’Kinlay, “Miss Courtenay thinks
that the united education scheme has not been a success; that Miss
O’Hara has contrived, somehow, to usurp more than her share; that
from natural quickness, perhaps, in learning, a greater aptitude
for acquirement, she has not merely outstripped but discouraged Miss
Vyner----”
The incredulous surprise that sat on the old Baronet’s face stopped
M’Kinlay in his explanation, and he said: “You don’t appear to believe
in this, Sir Within?”
“Don’t you think, Sir,” said the old envoy, “that sitting here
_tête-à-tête_ as we do now, we could afford to be candid and frank with
each other? Does it not strike you that you and I are very like men who
could trust each other?”
There was a fine shade of flattery in the collocation that touched the
lawyer. It was not every day that he saw himself “brigaded” in such
company, and he reddened slightly as he accepted the compliment.
“Let us, then,” resumed the old minister--“let us leave to one side all
mention of these young ladies’ peculiar talents and capacities; come to
the practical fact that, for reasons into which we are not to inquire,
they are to be separated. What do you mean to do by Miss O’Hara?”
Mr. M’Kinlay paused for a few seconds, and then, with the air of one who
could not subdue himself to any caution, said: “Whatever you suggest,
Sir Within--anything that you advise. You see, Sir,” said he, turning
down the corner of Vyner’s letter, and handing it to him to read,
“this is what he says: ‘Tell Sir Within from me, that I will accept any
trouble he shall take with Miss O’H. as a direct personal favour.’”
Sir Within bowed. It was not the first time he had been shown a
“strictly confidential despatch” that meant nothing.
“I think--that is, I suspect--I apprehend the situation,” said he.
“The Vyners want to stand in the ‘_statu quo ante_;’ they have made a
mistake, and they see it. Now, what does Mr. M’Kinlay suggest?”
“I’d send her back, Sir Within.”
“Back! Where? To whom?”
“To her friends.”
“To her friends! My dear Mr. M’Kinlay, I thought we had disposed of all
that part of the case. Let us be frank--it _does_ save so much time; for
friends, read Mr. Luttrell. Now, what if he say, ‘No; you have taken her
away, and by your teaching and training unfitted her for such a life as
she must lead here; I cannot receive her?’”
“I did not mean Mr. Luttrell; I really spoke of the girl’s family----”
“You are a treasure of discretion, Sir,” said Sir Within; “but permit me
to observe, that the excess of caution often delays a negotiation. _You_
say that she cannot go to Italy, and _I_ say she can as little return
to Ireland--at least, without Mr. Luttrell’s acquiescence. Now for the
third course?”
“This school Sir Gervais speaks of in Paris,” said M’Kinlay, fumbling
for the passage in the letter, for he was now so confused and puzzled
that he was very far from feeling calm. “Here is the address--Madame
Gosselin, Rue Neuve, St. Augustin, Paris. Sir Gervais thought that--with
of course your approval--this would be the best course we could take.
She would be well treated, well educated, cared for, and eventually
qualified to be a governess--if she should not chance to marry.”
“Yes, yes,” said Sir Within, slowly, as he pondered over the other’s
words, “there is much in what you say, and the remarkable fact is, that
_they do_, very often, make admirable wives.”
Who were the “they” he referred to, as a category, M’Kinlay did not dare
to inquire, but assented by a smile and a bow.
“Curious it is,” said the old man, reflectively, “to mark how
generations alternate, as if it were decreed that the world should
not make any distinct progress, but oscillate between vice and
virtue--virtue and vice. The respectable father and the scampish son
being the counterpoise for the rakish mamma and the discreet daughter.”
To what such a reflection could be thought to apply, Mr. M’Kinlay
had not the vaguest conception; but it is only fair to add, that his
faculties were never throughout the interview at their clearest.
“My chief difficulty is this, Sir,” said the lawyer, rising to an effort
that might show he had an opinion and a will of his own; “Sir Gervais
requests me to convey his daughter as far as Marseilles; he names an
early day to meet us there, so that really there is very little time--I
may say no time, if we must start by Monday next.”
Sir Within made no reply, and the other went on.
“Suppose I take this girl over to Paris with us, and the school should
be full, and no vacancy to be had? Suppose they might object--I have
heard of such things--to receive as a pupil one who had not made any
preliminary inquiries?”
“Your position might become one of great embarrassment, Mr. M’Kinlay,
and to relieve you so far as in me lies, I would propose that until you
have taken the necessary steps to ensure Miss O’Hara’s reception, she
should remain under the charge of my housekeeper here, Mrs. Simcox. She
is a most excellent person, and kindness itself. When you have satisfied
yourself by seeing Madame Gosselin at Paris, as to all matters of
detail, I shall very probably have had time to receive a reply to the
letter I will write to my co-trustee, Mr. Luttrell, and everything can
be thus arranged in all due form.”
“I like all of your plans, Sir, but the last step. I have confessed to
you that Sir Gervais Vyner had strictly enjoined me not to mention Mr.
Luttrell’s name.”
“You also mentioned to me, if I mistake not, that the young girl’s
friends, whoever they might be supposed to be, were to be consulted as
to any future arrangements regarding her. Now, do you seriously mean to
tell me that you are going to address yourself to the old peasant, who
assumed to be her grandfather, and who frankly owned he couldn’t read?”
“I do think, Sir Within, that old Malone--that is the man’s name--ought
to be informed, and, indeed, consulted as to any step we take.”
“A model of discreet reserve you certainly are!” said Sir Within,
smiling graciously. “You will write to him, therefore, and say that
Miss Kate O’Hara is, for the time being, under the roof of one of her
guardians, Sir Within Wardle, preparatory to her being sent to a school
at Paris. You may, if you think it advisable, ask him for a formal
acquiescence to our plan, and if he should desire it, add, he may come
over here and see her. I suspect, Mr. M’Kinlay, we cannot possibly be
called on to carry out the illusion of relationship beyond this.”
“But he is her grandfather; I assure you he is.”
“I believe whatever Mr. M’Kinlay asks me to believe. With the inner
convictions which jar against my credulity, you shall have no cause of
complaint, Sir; they are, and they shall be, inoperative. To prove this,
I will beg of you to enclose ten pounds on my part to this old peasant,
in case he should like to come over here.”
“I am sure Sir Gervais will be deeply obliged by all your kindness in
this matter.”
“It is my pleasure and my duty both.”
“What a rare piece of fortune it was for her, that made you her
guardian.”
“Only one of them, remember, and that I am now acting, per force,
without my colleague. I own, Mr. M’Kinlay, I am red tapist enough not to
like all this usurped authority, but you have tied me up to secresy.”
“Not I, Sir Within. It was Sir Gervais who insisted on this.”
“I respect his wishes, for perhaps I appreciate their necessity. You
see some sort of objection to my plan, Mr. M’Kinlay?” said the old
diplomatist, with a cunning twinkle of the eye. “What is it?”
“None, Sir, none whatever,” said the lawyer, rapidly.
“Yes, yes, you do; be candid, my dear Mr. M’Kinlay. What we say to each
other here will never figure in a Blue-book.”
“I did not see a positive objection, Sir Within; I only saw what might
be an embarrassment.”
“In what shape?”
“I am completely in your hands, Sir Within Wardle; but such is my
confidence in you, I will not withhold anything. Here is the difficulty
I speak of: Miss Courtenay, who never favoured the project about this
girl, likes it now less than ever, and I do not feel quite certain that
she will be satisfied with any arrangement short of sending her back to
the obscurity she came from.”
“I can understand and appreciate that wish on her part, but then there
is no need that I should suspect it, Mr. M’Kinlay. The habits of my
profession have taught me to bear many things in mind without seeming to
act upon the knowledge. Now, the shelter that I purpose to afford this
young lady need not excite any mistrust. You will tell Sir Gervais that
the arrangement met with your approval. That it was, in your opinion,
the best of the alternatives that offered, and that Sir Within Wardle
has, on the present occasion, a double happiness afforded him--he
obliges friends whom he values highly, and he consults his own personal
gratification.”
In the last few words the old envoy had resumed a tone familiar to him
in the days when he dictated despatches to a secretary, and sent off
formal documents to be read aloud to dignitaries great and potent as
himself; and Mr. M’Kinlay was duly impressed thereat.
“In all that relates to Mr. Luttrell I am to rely upon you, Sir,” said
Sir Within, and Mr. M’Kinlay bowed his acquiescence. “I am certain that
you smile at my excess of formality,” continued the old minister. “These
particularities are second nature to us;” and it was clear as he said
“us,” that he meant an order whose ways and habits it would be a
heresy to dispute. “If you will not take more wine, let us go into the
drawing-room. A drawing-room without ladies, Mr. M’Kinlay,” said he,
with a sigh; “but, perhaps, one of these days--who knows?--we may be
fortunate enough to receive you here more gracefully.”
Mr. M’Kinlay, in any ordinary presence, would have responded by one of
those little jocose pleasantries which are supposed to be fitting on
such occasions; he had tact enough, however, to perceive that Sir Within
would not have been the man for a familiarity of this sort, so he merely
smiled, and bowed a polite concurrence with the speech.
“It will be as well, perhaps, if I wrote a few lines to Mademoiselle
Heinzleman, and also to Miss O’Hara herself, and if you will excuse me
for a few minutes, I will do so.”
The old minister despatched his two notes very speedily, and, with
profuse assurances of his “highest consideration,” he took leave of the
lawyer, and sat down to ruminate over their late conversation, and the
step he had just taken.
Mr. M’Kinlay, too, meditated as he drove homewards, but not with all
that clearness of intellect he could usually bestow upon a knotty point.
Like most men in his predicament, to be puzzled was to be angered, and
so did he inveigh to himself against “that crotchety old humbug, with
his mare’s nest of a secret marriage.” Not but there was-a “something
somewhere,” which he, M’Kinlay, would certainly investigate before he
was many weeks older. “Miss Georgina’s manner to me used to undergo very
strange vacillations--very strange ones indeed. Yes, there was something
‘in it’--surely something.”
While Kate O’Hara was still sleeping the next morning, Ada hurried into
her room, and threw her arms around her, sobbing bitterly, as the hot
tears ran down her cheeks. “Oh, Kate, my own dear, darling Kate, what is
this dreadful thing I have just heard? Lisette has just told me that she
is not to pack your clothes--that you are not coming with me abroad.”
Kate raised herself on one arm, and pushed back her hair from her
brow, her large eyes wearing for an instant the meaningless look of one
suddenly awakened from sleep.
“Do you hear me--do you know what I am saying, dearest?” asked Ada, as
she kissed her, and drew her towards her.
“Tell it me again,” said she, in a low, distinct voice.
“Lisette says that Mademoiselle has orders--from whom I cannot say--that
you are to remain in England, to go to a school, or to live with a
governess, or to return to Ireland, or something; but whatever it is,
that we are to be separated.” And again her grief burst forth and choked
her words.
“I knew this would come one day,” said Kate, slowly, but without any
touch of emotion. “It was a caprice that took me, and it is a caprice
that deserts me.”
“Oh, don’t say that, Kate, of my own dear papa, who loves you almost as
he loves me!”
“I can have nothing but words of gratitude for him, Ada, and for your
mother.”
“You mean, then----”
“No matter what I mean, my sweet Ada. It may be, after all, a mercy.
Who is to say whether, after another year of this sort of life, its
delicious happiness should have so grown into my nature that it would
tear my very heart-strings to free myself from its coils? Even now,
there were days when I forgot I was a peasant girl, without home, or
friends, or fortune.”
“Oh, Kate, you will break my heart if you speak this way!”
“Well, then, to talk more cheerfully. Will not that pretty hat yonder,
with the long blue feather, look wondrous picturesque, as I follow the
goats up the steep sides of Inchegora? and will not that gauzy scarf be
a rare muffle as I gather the seaweed below the cliffs of Bengore?”
“Kate, Kate!” sobbed Ada, “how cruel you are! You know, too, that dear
papa does not mean this. It is not to hardship and privation he would
send you.”
“But there are reverses, Ada, a hundred times worse than any change of
food or dress. There are changes of condition that seem to rend one’s
very identity. Here, I had respect, attention, deference, and now, I go,
Heaven knows where, to render these tributes to Heaven knows whom. Tell
me of yourself, my sweet Ada. It is a far brighter theme to dwell on.”
“No, no; not if I must part with you,” said she, sobbing; “but you
will write to me, my own darling Kate? We shall write to each other
continually till we meet again?”
“If I may. If I be permitted,” said Kate, gravely.
“What do you--what can you mean?” cried Ada, wildly. “You speak as
though some secret enemy were at work to injure you here, where you have
found none but friends who love you.”
“Don’t you know, my dear Ada, that love, like money, has a graduated
coinage, and that what would be a trifle to the rich man, would make
the wealth of a poor one? The love your friends bear me is meted out
by station; mind, dearest, I’m not complaining of this. Let us talk of
Italy, rather; how happy you ought to be there!”
“If I but had you, my own dearest----”
“There, I hear Mademoiselle coming. Bathe your eyes, dear Ada; or,
better still, run away before she sees you.”
Ada took this last counsel; but scarcely had she left by one door, than
Mademoiselle entered by another.