It was a dull, lowering October day, sky and sea alike lead-coloured,
when the boat that bore Grenfell rounded the southern point of Arran,
and opened a view of the island in all its extent. His first visit there
had not left any favourable impressions of the place, though then he saw
it in sunshine, warm-tinted and softened; now all was hard, bleak, and
cold, and the ruined Abbey stood out amongst the leafless trees, like
the ghost of a civilisation long dead and buried.
“There he is himself, Sir,” said the steersman to Grenfell, as he
pointed to a lone rock on the extreme point of a promontory. “You’d
think he was paid for sitting there, to watch all the vessels that go
north about to America. He can see every craft, big and little, from
Belmullet to Craig’s Creek.”
“And does he stay there in bad weather?”
“I never missed him any day I came by, no matter how hard it blew.”
“It’s a dreary look-out.”
“Indeed it is, your honour! more by token, when a man has a comfortable
house and a good fire to sit at, as Mr. Luttrell has, if he liked it.”
“Perhaps he thinks it less lonely to sit there than to mope over his
hearth by himself. He lives all alone, I believe?”
“He does, Sir; and it’s what he likes best. I took a party of gentlemen
over from Westport last summer; they wanted to see the curiosities of
the place, and look at the old Abbey, and they sent me up with a civil
message, to say what they came for and who they were--one of them was a
lord--and what d’ye think, Sir? instead of being glad to see the face of
a Christian, and having a bit of chat over what was doing beyond there,
he says to me, ‘Barny Moore,’ says he, ‘you want to make a trade,’ says
he, ‘of showing me like a wild baste; but I know your landlord, Mr.
Creagh, and as sure as my name’s John Luttrell,’ says he, I’ll have you
turned out of your holding; so just take your friends and yourself off
the way you came!’ And when I told the gentlemen, they took it mighty
good humoured, and only said, ‘After all, if a man comes so far as this
for quietness, it’s rather hard if he wouldn’t get it;’ and we went
off that night. I’m tellin’ your honour this,” added he, in a low,
confidential tone, “because, if he asks you what boat you came in, you
would say it was Tom M’Caffray’s--that man there in the bow--he’s from
Kilrush, and a stranger; for I wouldn’t put it past John Luttrell to do
me harm, if I crossed him.”
“But, is he not certain to see you?”
“No, Sir; not if I don’t put myself in his way. Look now, Sir, look,
he’s off already?”
“Off! whereto?”
“To the Abbey, Sir, to bar himself in. He saw that the yawl was coming
in to anchor, and he’ll not look back now till he’s safe in his own four
walls.”
“But I want to speak with him--is it likely he’ll refuse to see me?”
“Just as-like as not. May I never! but he’s running, he’s so afeard
we’ll be on shore before he gets in.”
At no time had Grenfell been much in love with his mission; he was still
less pleased with it as he stepped on the shingly shore, and turned to
make his way over a pathless waste to the Abbey. He walked slowly along,
conning over to himself what he had got to do, and how he should do it.
“At all events,” thought he, “the more boorish and uncivil the man may
be, the less demand will be made on me for courtesy. If he be rude, I
can be concise; nor need I have any hesitation in showing him that
I never volunteered for this expedition, and only came because Vyner
begged me to come.”
He had seen no one since he left the boat, and even now, as he arrived
close to the house, no living thing appeared. He walked round on one
side. It was the side of the old aisle, and there was no door to be
found. He turned to the other, and found his progress interrupted by a
low hedge, looking over which he fancied he saw an entrance. He stepped,
therefore, over the enclosure; but, by the noise of the smashing twigs a
dog was aroused, a wild, wolfish-looking animal, that rushed fiercely at
him with a yelping bark. Grenfell stood fast, and prepared to defend
himself with a strong stick, when suddenly a harsh voice cried out,
“Morrah! come back, Morrah! Don’t strike the dog, Sir, or he’ll tear you
to pieces!” And then a tall, thin man, much stooped in the shoulders,
and miserably dressed, came forward, and motioned the dog to retire.
“Is he savage?” said Grenfell.
“Not savage enough to keep off intruders, it seems,” was the uncourteous
reply. “Is your business with me, Sir?”
“If I speak to Mr. Luttrell, it is.”
“My name is Luttrell.”
“Mine is Grenfell; but I may be better known as the friend of your old
friend, Sir Gervais Vyner.”
“Grenfell--Grenfell! to be sure. I know the name--we all know it,” said
Luttrell, with a sort of sneer. “Is Vyner come--is he with you?”
“No, Sir,” said Grenfell, smarting under the sting of what he felt to
be an insult. “It is because he could not come that he asked me to see
you.”
Luttrell made no reply, but stood waiting for the other to continue.
“I have come on a gloomy errand, Mr. Luttrell, and wish you would
prepare yourself to hear very, very sad news.”
“What do you call prepare?” cried Luttrell, in a voice almost a shriek.
“I know of nothing that prepares a man for misfortune except its
frequency,” muttered he, in a low tone. “What is it? Is it of Harry--of
my boy?”
Grenfell nodded.
“Wait,” said Luttrell, pressing his hand over his brow. “Let me go in.
No, Sir; I can walk without help.” He grasped the door-post as he spoke,
and stumbling onward, clutching the different objects as he went, gained
a chair, and sank into it. “Tell me now,” said he, in a faint whisper.
“Be calm, Mr. Luttrell,” said Grenfell, gently. “I have no need to say,
take courage.”
Luttrell stared vacantly at him, his lips parted, and his whole
expression that of one who was stunned and overcome. “Go on,” said he,
in a hoarse whisper--“go on.”
“Compose yourself first,” said Grenfell.
“Is Harry--is he dead?”
Grenfell made a faint motion of his head.
“There--leave me--let me be alone!” said Luttrell, pointing to the door;
and his words were spoken in a stern and imperative tone.
Grenfell waited for a few seconds, and then withdrew noiselessly, and
strolled out into the open air.
“A dreary mission and a drearier spot!” said he, as he sauntered along,
turning his eyes from the mountain, half hid in mist, to the lowering
sea. “One would imagine that he who lived here must have little love of
life, or little care how others fared in it.” After walking about a mile
he sat down on a rock, and began to consider what further remained for
him to do. To pass an entire day in such a place was more than he could
endure; and, perhaps, more than Luttrell himself would wish. Vyner’s
letter and its enclosures would convey all the sorrowful details of the
calamity; and, doubtless, Luttrell was a man who would not expose his
grief, but give free course to it in secret.
He resolved, therefore, that he would go back to the Abbey, and, with a
few lines from himself, enclose these papers to Luttrell, stating that
he would not leave the island, which it was his intention to have done
that night, if Luttrell desired to see him again, and at the same
time adding, that he possessed no other information but such as these
documents afforded. This he did, to avoid, if it could be, another
interview. In a word, he wanted to finish all that he had to do as
speedily as might be, and yet omit nothing that decorum required. He
knew how Vyner would question and cross-question him, besides; and he
desired, that as he had taken the trouble to come, he should appear to
have acquitted himself creditably.
“The room is ready for your honour,” said Molly, as Grenfell appeared
again at the door; “and the master said that your honour would order
dinner whenever you liked, and excuse himself to-day, by rayson he
wasn’t well.”
“Thank you,” said Grenfell; “I will step in and write a few words to
your master, and you will bring me the answer here.”
Half a dozen lines sufficed for all he had to say, and, enclosing the
other documents, he sat down to await the reply.
In less time than he expected, the door opened. Luttrell himself
appeared. Wretched and careworn as he seemed before, a dozen years of
suffering could scarcely have made more impress on him than that last
hour: clammy sweat covered his brow and cheeks, and his white lips
trembled unceasingly; but in nothing was the change greater than in his
eye. All its proud defiance was gone; the fierce energy had passed away,
and its look was now one of weariness and exhaustion. He sat down in
front of Grenfell, and for a minute or so did not speak. At last he
said:
“You will wish to get back--to get away from this dreary place; do not
remain on _my_ account. Tell Vyner I will try and go over to him. He’s
in Wales, isn’t he?”
“No; he is in Italy.”
“In Italy! I cannot go so far,” said he, with a deep sigh.
“I was not willing to obtrude other sorrows in the midst of your own
heavier one; but you will hear the news in a day or two, perhaps, that
our poor friend Vyner has lost everything he had in the world.”
“Is his daughter dead?” gasped out Luttrell, eagerly.
“No; I spoke of his fortune; his whole estate is gone.”
“That is sad, very sad,” sighed Luttrell; “but not the saddest! One may
be poor and hope; one may be sick, almost to the last, and hope; one may
be bereft of friends, and yet think that better days will come; but
to be childless--to be robbed of that which was to have treasured your
memory when you passed away, and think lovingly on you years after you
were dust--this is the great, the great affliction!” As he spoke, the
large tears rolled down his face, and his lank cheeks trembled. “None
will know this better than Vyner,” said he, after a pause.
“You do him no more than justice; he thought little of his own
misfortune in presence of yours.”
“It was like him.”
“May I read you his own words?”
“No; it is enough that I know his heart. Go back, and say I thank him.
It was thoughtful of him at such a time to remember me; few but
himself could have done it!” He paused for a few seconds, and then in a
stronger, fuller voice continued: “Tell him to send this sailor to me;
he may live here, if he will. At all events, he shall not want, wherever
he goes. Vyner will ask you how I bore this blow, Sir. I trust to you
to say the strict truth, that I bore it well. Is that not so?” Grenfell
bowed his head slightly. “Bore it,” continued Luttrell, “as a man may,
who now can defy Fortune, and say, ‘See, you have laid your heaviest
load on me, and I do not even stagger under it!’ Remember, Sir, that you
tell Vyner that. That I listened to the darkest news a man can hear, and
never so much as winced. There is no fever in that hand, Sir; touch it!”
“I had rather that you would not make this effort, Mr. Luttrell. I had
far rather tell my friend that your grief was taking the course that
nature meant for it.”
“Sir!” said Luttrell, haughtily, “it is not to-day that misfortune and
I have made acquaintance. Sorrow has sat at my hearth-stone--my one
companion--for many a year! I knew no other guest, and had any other
come, I would not have known how to receive him! Look around you and
say, is it to such a place as this a man comes if the world has gone
well with him?”
“It is not yet too late----”
“Yes, it is, Sir; far too late,” broke in Luttrell, impatiently. “I know
my own nature better than you ever knew it. Forgive me, if I am rude.
Misery has robbed me of all--even the manners of a gentleman. It would
be only a mockery to offer you such hospitality as I have here, but if,
before leaving, you would eat something----”
Grenfell made some hurried excuses; he had eaten on board the boat--he
was not hungry---and he was impatient to get back in time for the
morning mail.
“Of course, no one could wish to tarry here,” said Luttrell. “Tell Vyner
I will try and write to him, if not soon, when I can. Good-by, Sir! You
have been very kind to me, and I thank you.”
Grenfell shook his cold hand and turned away, more moved, perhaps, than
if he had witnessed a greater show of sorrow. Scarcely, however, had
he closed the door after him, than a dull, heavy sound startled him. He
opened the door softly, and saw that Luttrell had fallen on the ground,
and with his hands over his face lay sobbing in all the bitterness of
intense grief. Grenfell retired noiselessly and unseen. It was a sorrow
that none should witness; and, worldling as he was, he felt it. He
stopped twice on his way down to the shore, uncertain whether he ought
not to go back, and try to comfort that desolate man. But how comfort
him? How speak of hope to one who mocked all hope, and actually seemed
to cling to his misery?
“They cry out against the worldling, and rail at his egotism, and the
rest of it,” muttered he; “but the selfishness that withdraws from all
contact with others, is a hundred times worse! Had that man lived in
town, and had his club to stroll down to, the morning papers would have
shown him that he was not more unlucky than his fellows, and that a
large proportion of his acquaintances carried crape on their hats,
whether they had sorrow in their hearts or not.”
It was with a mind relieved that he reached Holyhead the next day, and
set out for the Cottage. Vyner had begged him to secure certain papers
and letters of his that were there; and for this purpose he turned off
on his way to town to visit Dinasllyn for the last time.
“The young gentleman went away the night you left, Sir,” said Rickards,
without being questioned; “but he came over this morning to ask if you
had returned.”
“What news of the young lady who was so ill at Dalradern?”
“Out of danger, Sir. The London doctor was the saving of her life, Sir;
he has ordered her to the sea-side as soon as she is fit to move, and
Sir Within sent off Carter yesterday to Milford Haven, to take the
handsomest house he can find there, and never think of the cost.”
“Rich men can do these things, Rickards!”
“Yes, Sir. Sir Within and my master haven’t to ask what’s the price when
an article strikes their fancy.”
Grenfell looked to see if the remark was intended to explode a mine, or
a mere chance shot. The stolid face of the butler reassured him in an
instant, and he said, “I shall want candles in the library, and you will
call me to-morrow early--say seven.”
When Grenfell had covered the library table with papers and parchments
innumerable, title-deeds of centuries old, and grants from the Crown
to Vyner’s ancestors in different reigns, he could not restrain a
passionate invective against the man who had, out of mere levity,
forfeited a noble fortune.
Contemptible as young Ladarelle was--mean, low-lived, and vulgar--the
fellow’s ambition to be rich, the desire to have the power that wealth
confers, raised him in Grenfell’s esteem above “that weak-minded
enthusiast “--so he called him--who must needs beggar himself, because
he had nothing to do.
He emptied drawer after drawer, burning, as Vyner had bade him, rolls
of letters, parliamentary papers, and such-like, till, in tossing over
heaps of rubbish, he came upon a piece of stout card-board, and on
turning it about saw the sketch Vyner had made of the Irish peasant
child in Donegal. Who was it so like? Surely he knew that expression,
the peculiar look of the eyes, sad and thoughtful, and yet defiant? He
went over in his mind one after another of those town-bred beauties he
had met in the season, when, suddenly, he exclaimed, “What a fool I have
been all this time. It is the girl at Dalradern, the ‘ward,’”--here he
laughed in derision--“the ‘ward’ of Sir Within Wardle. Ay, and she knew
_me_, too, I could swear. All her evasive answers about Ireland show
it.” He turned hastily to Vyner’s letter, and surmised that it was to
this very point he was coming, when the news of young Luttrell’s death
was brought him. “What can be her position now, and how came she beneath
that old man’s roof? With what craft and what boldness she played her
game! The girl who has head enough for that, has cleverness to know that
I am not a man to be despised. She should have made me her friend
at once. Who could counsel her so well, or tell her the shoals and
quicksands before her? She ought to have done this, and she shall, too.
I will go over to-morrow to Dalradern; I will take her this sketch; we
shall see if it will not be a bond of friendship between us.”
When, true to the pledge he had made with himself, he went oyer to
Dalradern the next morning, it was to discover that Sir Within and
his ward had taken their departure two hours before. The servants were
busily engaged in dismantling the rooms, and preparing to close the
Castle against all visitors.
To his inquiries, ingenious enough, he could get no satisfactory answer
as to the direction they had gone, or to what time their absence might
be protracted, and Grenfell, disappointed and baffled, returned to the
Cottage to pass his last evening, ere he quitted it for ever.