As there are periods in life, quiet and tranquil periods, in which the
mind reverts to the past, and dwells on bygones, so in story-telling
there are little intervals in which a brief retrospect is pardonable,
and it is to one of these I would now ask my reader’s attention.
There was not anything very eventful in Mr. M’Kinlay’s journey across
Europe with Ada and her governess. They met with no other adventures
than occur to all travellers by land or by water; but on arriving at
Marseilles, a letter from Lady Vyner apprised them that Sir Gervais
was slightly indisposed, and requested Mr. M’Kinlay would complete his
kindness by giving them his company and protection as far as Genoa, at
a short distance from which city, and in one of those little sheltered
nooks of the Riviera, they had now established themselves in a villa.
It is but truthful to own, that the lawyer did not comply with this
request either willingly or gracefully. He never liked the Continent, he
was an indifferent linguist, he detested the cookery, and fancied
that the wines poisoned him. Mademoiselle Heinzleman, too, was fussy,
meddling, and officious, presuming, at least he thought so, on being in
an element more her own. And as for Ada, grief at separating from Kate
had made her so indifferent and apathetic, that she neither enjoyed the
journey or took any interest in the new scenes and objects around her.
Mr. M’Kinlay, therefore, was in no mood to proceed farther; he was tired
of it all. But, besides this, he was not quite certain that he had done
the right thing by placing Kate O’Hara at Dalradern; or that in so doing
he had carried out the very vague instructions of Miss Courtenay. Not
that the lawyer saw his way at all in the whole affair. The absurd
suspicions of the old envoy about some secret contract, or marriage,
or some mysterious bond, he could afford to deride; but, unhappily,
he could not as easily forget, and some doubts--very ungenerous and
ungallant doubts they were--would cross his mind, that Miss Georgina
Courtenay’s favour to himself, in some way or other, depended on the
changeful fortunes of some other “issue,” of which he knew nothing. “She
means to accept me if she can get nothing better,” was the phrase that
he found on his lips when he awoke, and heard himself muttering as he
dropped off asleep at night; and, after all, the consideration was
not either reassuring or flattering. Middle-aged gentlemen, even with
incipient baldness and indolent “proclivities,” do not fancy being
consigned to the category of “last resorts.” They fancy--Heaven help
them!--that they have their claims on regard, esteem, and something
stronger too; and doubtless the delusion has its influence in fighting
off, for a year or two, the inevitable admission that they have dropped
out of the “van” into that veteran battalion which furnishes no more
guards of honour at the Temple of Venus, nor even a sentinel at the
gate. Very ungallant little sums in arithmetic, too, used he to work
about Georgina’s age; and it would seem strange to younger men the
anxiety he felt to give her a year or two more than she had a right to.
“I’m not sure she’s not nearer thirty-five than thirty-two,” muttered
he, ill naturedly, to himself. “Rickards said, one night, she was older
than her sister, though the old rascal took care to come and tell me
in the morning that it was a mistake.” And then, by subtracting this
thirty-five from another arbitrary sum, he obtained a result apparently
satisfactory, being, as he termed it, the proper difference of age
between man and wife! Why will not men, in their zeal for truth, take
“evidence for the defence” occasionally, and ask a woman’s opinion on.
this subject?
They arrived at last at the Villa Balbi, a grand old palace on the
sea-side, where ruin and splendour were blended up together, and
statues, and fountains, and frescoes struggled for the mastery over a
rank growth of vegetation, that seemed to threaten enclosing the whole
place in a leafy embrace. Into the deep arches that supported the
terrace, the blue Mediterranean flowed with that noiseless motion of
this all but tideless sea. All was silent as they drove up to the gate,
for they had not been expected before the morrow-. Scarcely was the door
opened than Ada sprung out and disappeared up the stairs, followed as
well as she might by the governess. Mr. M’Kinlay was then left alone,
or, at least, with no other companionship than some three or four
servants, whose attempts at English were by no means successful.
“Ah, Miller, I’m glad to see _your_ face at last,” said the lawyer,
as Sir Gervais’s valet pushed his way through the crowd; “how are all
here?”
“Sir Gervais has had a bad night, Sir, and we were expecting the doctor
every moment. Indeed, when I heard your carriage, I thought it was he
had come.”
“Not seriously ill, I hope?”
“Not that, perhaps, Sir; but the doctor calls it a very slow fever, and
requiring great care and perfect quiet. He is not to know when Miss Ada
arrives.”
“And the ladies, are they well?”
“My Lady’s greatly tired and fatigued, Sir, of course; but Miss
Courtenay is well. She was just giving directions about your room, Sir.
She said, ‘If Mr. M’Kinlay should be afraid of this fever, you can take
him down to the fattore’s house, and make him up a room there.’”
“Is it a fever then, Miller, a real fever?”
“They call it so, Sir.”
“This is all that’s wanting,” muttered M’Kinlay to himself. “I only
need to catch some confounded disorder, now, to make this the most happy
exploit of my whole life! Where is this house you speak of?”
“At the foot of the hill, Sir, where you saw the clump of evergreen
oaks.”
“Why, it was a dirty-looking hovel, with Indian corn hung all over it.”
“Well, Sir, it ain’t very clean to look at, but it’s not so bad inside,
and you can be sure of a comfortable bed.”
“I don’t see why I am to stop at all. I have seen Miss Ada safe to her
own door; I really cannot perceive that anything more is required of
me,” said he to himself, as he walked up and down the terrace.
“You’d like to eat something, perhaps, Sir? Supper is ready whenever you
wish it.”
“Yes, I’ll eat a morsel; I was very hungry half an hour ago, but all
this tidings of illness and infection has driven away my appetite. A
vast roomy old place this appears,” said he, as he followed the serrant
across a hall spacious as a public square, into a salon large enough to
be a church.
“We have five like this, Sir; and on the other floor there is one still
larger and loftier.”
“How long are you here?” said the lawyer, abruptly, for he was not at
all in love with the mansion.
“We shall be two months here on Tuesday, and her Ladyship likes it so
much, Sir Gervais means to buy it.”
“Well, I hope I shall not be much more than two hours in it. Let me have
something to eat, and order fresh horses at the post.”
“You’ll see my Lady, I suppose, Sir?”
“Of course, if she can receive me; but I will just send up a line on my
card to say that my departure at once is imperatively necessary.”
Few as the words were that were required to convey this message, Mr.
M’Kinlay could scarcely write them in a legible way. He was nervously
afraid of an illness; but the thought of a foreign malady--a fever of
some outlandish type--was a terror as great as the attack of a savage
animal, of whose instinct and ways he knew nothing. All the speculations
which had filled his head as he came along the road, were routed at
once. Love-making and marriage were all very well, but they might be
purchased too dearly. A dowry that was only to be won by facing a
fever, was a sorry speculation. No! he would have none of such
dangerous ambitions. He had gone through enough already--he had braved
shipwreck--and if needs were that he must resign the agency, better that
than resign life itself.
Not even the appetising supper that was now spread before him, could
dispel these gloomy thoughts. He was half afraid to eat, and he could
not be sure that wine was safe under the present circumstances.
“My Lady hoped to see you in the morning, Sir,” said the valet. “She has
just lain down, having been up last night with Sir Gervais.”
“I am extremely sorry! I am greatly distressed! But it is impossible
for me to defer my departure. I will explain it all by a letter. Just
unstrap that writing-desk, and I will write a few lines. You ordered the
horses, I hope?”
“Yes, Sir; they will be at the door by ten o’clock.”
“Miss Courtenay knows I am here, I suppose?” said M’Kinlay, in a tone of
well put-on indifference, as he opened his writing-desk and arranged his
papers.
“I don’t know, indeed, Sir; but she has the governess in her room with
her, and perhaps she has heard it from her.”
Mr. M’Kinlay bit his lip with impatience; he was vexed, and he was
angry. Nor altogether was it unreasonable; he had come a long journey,
at considerable inconvenience, and at a time he could be ill-spared
from his clients; he had undergone fatigue and annoyance--the sort of
annoyance which, to men who dislike the Continent, is not a trifling
matter--and here he was now, about to set out again without so much as
a word of thanks, not even a word of acknowledgment. What were they, or
what was he, to justify such treatment? This was the somewhat irritating
query to which all his self-examination reverted. “Am I a lacquey!”
cried he, as he threw down his pen in a passionate outburst that
completely overcame him. “I suppose they think I am a lacquey!” and he
pushed back from the table in disgust.
“Miss Courtenay, Sir, would be pleased to see you in the drawing-room,
Sir, whenever it was convenient,” said a thin-looking damsel of
unmistakably English mould.
“I will wait upon her now,” said Mr. M’Kinlay, with the severe accents
of an injured and indignant man. In fact, he spoke like one whose coming
might be supposed to evoke sentiments of trepidation, if not of awe; and
yet, after he had uttered the words, he fussed and pottered amongst
his papers, arranging and settling, and undoing, in a way that to any
shrewder observer than the Abigail, would have discovered a mind not by
any means so bent upon peremptory action as he had assumed to bespeak.
“Will you show me the way?” said he, at last, as he locked up the
writing-desk, and now followed her through room after room, till the
girl stopped at a door and knocked gently. No answer was returned, and
she repeated the summons, on which the maid opened the door, saying, “If
you’ll step inside, Sir, I’ll tell my mistress you are here;” and Mr.
M’Kinlay entered into what his first footstep informed him was a lady’s
boudoir. It was a small room, opening on a terrace by two windows, which
were thrown wide, filling the chamber with the odour of orange-flowers
to a degree positively oppressive. An alabaster lamp was the only light,
and served merely to throw a sort of faint sunset-glow over the room,
which seemed filled with cabinet pictures and statuettes, and had an
easel in one corner with an unfinished sketch in oils upon it. The
perfume of orange and magnolia was so overcoming that the lawyer moved
out upon the terrace, which descended by a flight of marble steps into
the sea. He sat down on these to inhale the fresh night air, for already
his head was beginning to feel confused and addled by the strong odours.
He had not been many minutes there, when he heard the rustle of a lady’s
dress close to him, and before he could arise, Miss Courtenay moved
forward and sat down beside him.
“How are you, Mr. M’Kinlay?” said she, giving him her hand cordially. “I
have come to thank you for all your care of Ada, and your kindness to us
all.”
These very simple words were delivered with a most winning grace of look
and manner. No wonder if he forgot all his irritation of a few moments
before; no wonder if in the very unexpectedness of this pleasure, he
felt somewhat confused; and it but needed that starlight hour, that
perfumed air, that murmuring sea, and the light gauzy veil, which in
Genoese mode Georgina wore in her hair, and which now floated carelessly
half across his arm, to make Mr. M’Kinlay think this one of the happiest
moments of his life.
After a few questions about the journey and its incidents, she went on
to tell him of themselves, in that tone of easy confidence people use
with their nearest friends. “It was a somewhat sad house,” she said, “he
had come to. Gervais”--she called him Gervais--“had caught one of those
low fevers of the country, and her mother was still very poorly. Her
sister, however, had benefited by the climate, and this it was that
decided them on remaining abroad. You knew, of course, that Gervais
intends to buy this villa?”
“No; he had not heard of it.”
“Nor that he has given up his seat in the House, and retired from public
life?”
“Nor that either had he heard.”
“Well, of course he means to tell you all now that he has got you out
here. You will be such a comfort to him, Mr. M’Kinlay; he was longing to
see an old friend again.”
Mr. M’Kinlay’s ears tingled with delight, and his heart throbbed high
with hope, but he could only mutter out something that sounded like
acknowledgment.
“He has so much to ask you about, besides,” she went on. “Mamma wants
him to let his Wiltshire house for some years, and so retrench a little,
for you know he has been rather extravagant lately.”
“I have ventured on an occasional remonstrance myself, though not
without feeling what a liberty I was taking.”
“A liberty! Surely, my dear Mr. M’Kinky, the kind solicitude of
friendship is not a liberty. Then there have been some mines--lead or
copper, I forget which, and I don’t well remember whether in South Wales
or Sardinia--but they have not turned out well.”
“Very badly, indeed, Miss Courtenay; the shares are at thirty-two, and
falling still.”
“Yes; he will have to talk over all these things with you; but not for
some days, of course, for he is very weak and low.”
“You don’t seem to know, then,” said he, with a smile, “that I am going
off to-night; my horses are ordered for ten o’clock.”
“Impossible! Why, we have not seen you yet; surely, Mr. M’Kinlay, you
couldn’t leave this without seeing Gervais and my sister?” There was a
reproachful tenderness in her look, and mingled expression of wounded
sensibility and shame at its being confessed, that gave some trouble
to the lawyer’s heart; for there rankled in that crafty old heart some
memories of the conversation at Dalradern; and, in his distrust-fulness,
he would ask himself, “What does this mean?”
“Come, Mr. M’Kinlay, say this is only a threat; do confess it was only
meant to terrify.”
“Oh, Miss Georgina, you cannot attach such interest to my presence here,
as to speak of my departure in terms like these!”
“I don’t know how others think of these things,” said she, with a sort
of pouting air, “but, for my own part, I cling very closely to old
friendships.”
[Illustration: 283]
Had Mr. M’Kinlay been some twenty years younger, he would, doubtless,
have seized on the moment to make a declaration. The conjuncture
promised well, and he would not have lost it; but Mr. M’Kinlay had
arrived at the time of life in which men are more prone to speculate
on the consequences of failure than on the results of success, and
when they never address them to jump over the narrowest ditch without a
thought of the terrible splashing they shall get if they fall in, and,
worse even than the wetting, the unsympathising comments of a malicious
public.
“What is Mr. M’Kinlay pondering over so deeply?” said Georgina, as she
turned her eyes full upon him; and very effective eyes they were at such
a range.
“I can scarcely tell; that is, I don’t well know now to tell,” said he,
trying to screw up his courage.
“Mr. M’Kinlay has a secret, I’m certain,” said she, with a winning
coquetry she was quite mistress of.
That look she gave--it-was a long-dwelling look as though she had half
forgotten, to take away her eyes, for ladies will sometimes fire after
the enemy has struck--was too much for Mr. M’Kinlay; he forgot all
his prudential reserves, and said, “Has not every one his secret, Miss
Courtenay?”
“I suppose so,” said she, carelessly.
“Has not Miss Courtenay got one?” said he, leaning, forward, and trying
to catch her eyes; but she had dropped them too suddenly for him.
“Not that I’m aware of,” said she; and if he had been gifted with a nice
ear, he would have perceived: that a slight vibration marked the words
as they fell.
“By the way,” said M’Kinlay--a most unlucky à propos--“have I your
perfect approval in my arrangement for that young Irish lady--or
girl--Miss O’Hara?”
Now the words “by the way,” had so completely touched her to the quick,
that for an instant her face became crimson.
“If you will first of all tell me what the arrangements are,” said she,
with a forced calm, “perhaps I may be able to say if I like them.”
“Has Mademoiselle not told you anything?”
“Mademoiselle has told me, simply, that Mr. M’Kinlay assumed the whole
responsibility of the case, and neither counselled with her nor divulged
his intentions.”
“Ah, that was not quite fair; I really must say, that Mademoiselle did
not represent me as I think I merit. It was a sort of case perfectly
new to me. It was not very easy to see one’s way. I could not make out
whether you would all be better pleased by some costly arrangement for
the girl, or by having her sent straight back to where she came from.
The mystery that hung over----” he paused and stammered; he had said
what he had not intended, and he blundered in his attempt to recal it.
“I mean,” added he, “that mystery that the old diplomatist insists on
connecting with her.”
“As how?” said Georgina, in a low, soft voice, intensely insinuating in
its cadence--“as how?”
“It’s not very easy to say how, so much of what he said was vague, so
much hypothetical; and, indeed, so much that seemed----” He stopped,
confused, and puzzled how to go on.
“So that you had a long conversation together on this topic?”
“An entire evening. I dined with him alone, and we spoke of very little
else as we sat over our wine.”
“I wish you could remember what he said. Don’t you think you could recal
some at least of it?”
“I can’t say that I could, and for this reason: that he kept always
interpolating little traits of what he knew of life, and all his vast
and varied experiences of human nature. These sort of men are rather
given to this.”
“Are they?” asked she; and it was not easy to say whether her accents
implied a simple curiosity, or a dreamy indifference. Mr. M’Kinlay
accepted them in the former sense, and with some pomposity continued:
“Yes; I have frequently remarked this tone in them, as well as the
tendency to see twice as much in everything as it really contains.”
“Indeed!” said she, and now her voice unmistakably indicated one who
listened with eager attention to the words of wisdom. “Did he show this
tendency on the occasion you speak of?”
“Markedly, most markedly. It is very strange that I cannot give you
a more accurate account of our interview; but he addled my head about
pictures and early art; and then, though always temperate, his wine was
exquisite. In fact, I carried away a most confused impression of all
that took place between us.”
“You remember, however, the arrangements that were settled on, What were
they?”
“The great point of all, the one you insisted on, I was, I may say,
peremptory upon.”
“Which was that?”
“That she should not come abroad; as I said to Sir Within: ‘We must
negotiate on this basis; here is Miss Courtenay’s letter, these are
her words;’ and I showed him the turn-down, only the turndown, of your
note.”
Had there been light enough to remark it, Mr. M’Kinlay would have seen
that Miss Courtenay’s face became deadly pale, and her lips trembled
with repressed anger.
“Well, and then?” said she, with a faint voice.
“He cut the Gordian knot at once, my dear Miss Courtenay,” continued he,
in a sort of sprightly tone; “he said, ‘There need be no difficulty in
the matter. I can act here _ex-officio_;’ he meant by that he was her
guardian. ‘I will write to her,’ said he, ‘and if she prefers to remain
here----’”
“Remain where?” gasped she out, with a great effort to seem calm and
composed.
“At Dalradern Castle, at his own house; if she likes this better than a
Paris pension, or an Irish cabin, it is quite at her service.”
“But, of course, you replied the thing was impossible; such an
arrangement couldn’t be. It would be indelicate, improper, indecent?”
“I didn’t say all that; but I hinted that as Sir Within was a bachelor,
there were difficulties----”
“Difficulties, Sir! What do you mean by difficulties? Is it possible
that one evening’s companionship with a person hardened by a long life
of ‘libertinage’ can have so warped your moral sense as to render you
blind to so obvious a shame as this?”
“He said his housekeeper----”
“His housekeeper! Am I to believe, Sir, that you listened to all this
with the patience with which you repeat it now, and that no feeling of
propriety roused you to an indignant rejection of such a scheme? Was his
Claret or his Burgundy so insinuating as this?”
“When he said housekeeper----”
“Pray, Sir, do not push my endurance beyond all limits. I have given a
very wide margin for the influence of Sir Within’s fascinations;
but, bear in mind, that the magnetism of his wit and his wine has not
extended to me.”
“If you want to imply, Miss Courtenay, that I was not in a condition to
judge of----.”
“Mr. M’Kinlay, I say nothing at any time by implication. People are
prone to call me too outspoken. What I say and what I mean to say
is this, that I cannot imagine a person of your intelligence calmly
listening to and concurring in such a project.”
“I am free to own I disliked it, and I distrusted it; the few words
that your brother’s butler, Rickards, said about this girl’s craft and
subtlety, the artful way she got round people, the study she made of the
tempers and tastes of those about her----”
“And with all this before you, with this knowledge fresh as it was in
your mind, you quietly sit down to agree to a plan which opens to these
very qualities a most dangerous field of exercise. What do you mean by
it? What do you intend? I can’t suppose,” said she, with a sneer, “you
contemplated her being Lady Wardle?”
“I certainly did not,” said he, with a sickly smile.
“Well, Sir, you have placed yourself in a position for malevolent people
to impute worse to you. Will you just tell me, who ever heard of such a
thing? Is there any country, any society ever tolerated it? This girl is
close on sixteen.”
“He asked particularly about her age,” said M’Kinlay, who was now so
confused, that he knew not well what he said.
And, simple as the words were, they seemed to pierce to her very heart,
for she sprang to her feet, and in a voice trembling with passion, said:
“I sincerely trust that you manage the material questions confided to
you with more ability and tact than you do matters of social interest,
and I can only say, Sir, it is the last occasion of this kind on which
you will be troubled with any commission from me.”
“I believed I was strictly carrying out your intentions. You said she
must not come abroad.”
“But I never said----” she stopped, and the crimson flush rose on her
face and covered her whole forehead. “Now mind me, Mr. M’Kinlay, and
remember, I do not intend that you should twice mistake my meaning,
my wish was, and is, that this girl should go back to the place, the
people, and the condition from which my brother, in a very ill-judging
hour, took her. I believed, and I believe, that her presence in any, the
most remote, connexion with our family, is fraught with inconvenience,
or worse--do you understand me so far?”
“I do,” said he, slowly.
“Well, with this strong conviction on my mind, I desire that she should
be sent home again; and I tell Mr. M’Kinlay now, that any favour he
cares for or values at my hands, depends on the success with which he
carries out this wish.”
“But how is this possible? What can I do?”
“That is for your consideration, Sir; you entangled the skein, you must
try if you cannot undo it. Lawyers, I have always heard, have resources
at their command common mortals never have dreamed of. You may discover
that Sir Within has no right to exercise this guardianship. You might
find out,” she smiled dubiously as she uttered the words, “that the
girl’s friends disapproved of this protection,--very humble people
occasionally are right-minded on these points,--you might find--how can
I tell what your ingenuity could not find--excellent reasons that she
should go back to Ireland and to the obscurity she should never have
quitted. I don’t doubt it may be hard to do this; but until I learn that
it is impossible, I will never consent to withdraw from Mr. M’Kinlay
that confidence with which his character and his abilities have ever
inspired me.”
“If the desire to win your favour Miss Courtenay----”
“No, no, Mr. M’Kinlay, that is not enough! We women are very practical,
if we are not very logical; we ask for success from those who aspire to
our good esteem.”
“To meet a difficulty, the first thing is to see where is the hitch!”
said he, thoughtfully.
“I don’t believe that I apprehend you here. What is it that you mean?”
“I mean, Miss Courtenay, that it is only by learning very accurately
what are the reasons for this girl’s removal--what urgent necessity,
in fact, requires it--that I shall be likely to hit upon the means to
affect it.”
“Suppose it to be a caprice--a mere caprice!”
“In that case, I should be powerless.”
“I don’t mean an actual caprice,” said she, hurriedly, for she saw
her error; “but a sort of apprehension that this initial mistake of
my brother’s would lead to worse. Great unhappiness has been caused to
families by these connexions; the Irish are a very vindictive people,
Sir, if they thought, as they might think, some years hence, that we
should have discovered our blunder before. In short, Sir, I will not
turn special pleader to show what I wish and I insist on.”
“Do you think, if I were to remain here to-morrow, Sir Gervais would be
able to see me.”
“It is most improbable; I am certain the doctors would not consent to
it.”
“Nor even the next day, perhaps?”
“Just as unlikely; everything like business is strictly forbidden to
him.”
“Then I do not see why I should not start at once--now!”
“If I am to accept this as zeal to serve me,” said she, in a very sweet
accent, “I thank you sincerely.”
“Ah, Miss Courtenay, could you only guess with what ardour I would
apply myself to win your favour! If you had known how the very faintest
promise of that favour----”
“Mr. M’Kinlay,” said she, stopping him, and bestowing a very captivating
smile on him, “Mr. M’Kinlay belongs to a profession that never
stipulates for its reward!”
“Enough, my dear Miss Courtenay,” said he, and, in his enthusiasm, he
actually seized her hand and kissed it.
“Good-by,” said she, with a sort of maidenly impatience; “let me hear
from you soon.” And she left him.
That same night saw Mr. M’Kinlay wearily rumbling along the same way
he had lately travelled, very tired and very road-sick; but still there
burned in his heart a small flame of hope, a tiny light indeed, not
unlike one of the little lamps which from time to time he saw on the
wayside, throwing their sickly glare over some humble shrine.
Ah, M’Kinlay! if you could but have seen the hurried impatience with
which a cambric handkerchief was employed to efface, as it were, all
trace of that rapturous embrace, it might have rescued you from some
vain fancies, even though it made the road all the wearier and the
drearier.
A very few words more will complete our account of a retrospect that
has already grown longer than we wished. Mr. M’Kinlay’s first care on
reaching town, was to address a very carefully-worded and respectful
letter to Sir Within Wardle, stating that as the Vyner family had
not fully approved of what he, M’K., had done with regard to the
arrangements for Miss O’Hara, he hoped Sir Within would graciously name
an early day to receive him, and explain what were the plans which they
had fixed on for this young person, and by what means they purposed to
relieve him from a charge which could not be other than embarrassing.
The following was the reply he received by return of post:
“Dear Sir,--Sir Within Wardle has handed me your note, and directed
me to answer it. Perhaps this fact alone, and of itself, will be
a sufficient reply. It will at least serve to show that while I am
honoured by his entire confidence, I am not the cause of any such
embarrassment as you feelingly deplore.
“Sir Within sees nothing in his present arrangements which call for the
advice you are so kind as to offer, nor does he feel warranted in giving
you the inconvenience of a journey, whose results would be unprofitable.
Apart from this discussion, a visit from you would be always acceptable.
“Believe me, dear Sir, with every sense of esteem and respect, yours,
“Kate O’Hara.”
This short epistle, written in a bold but well-formed handwriting,
and sealed with the initials of the writer, M’Kinlay forwarded by the
night-mail to Miss Courtenay, and in due course received the following
three lines:
“Dear Sir,--It will not be necessary in future to impose any further
trouble on you in this matter. Sir Within Wardle, the young lady, and
yourself, are all admirable representatives of the orders you severally
pertain to.
“And I am, your faithful servant,
“Georgina Courtenay.”