The party at the Villa were seated at breakfast the following morning,
when Vyner arrived with his young guest--a fine, manly-looking,
determined fellow, whose frank bearing and unaffected demeanour
interested the ladies strongly in his favour at once; nor did the tone
of sorrow and sadness in his manner detract from the good impression he
produced. The tidings of his father’s death had met him as he landed at
Genoa, and overwhelmed him with affliction--such utter friendlessness
was his--so bereft was he of all that meant kindred or relationship. His
captain was, indeed, now all that remained to him, and he had nursed and
tended him in his long illness with untiring devotion, insomuch, indeed,
that it was with difficulty Vyner could persuade him to come down to the
Boschetto for a few days, to rally his strength and spirits by change of
air and scene.
Sir Gervais had very early observed that the young sailor possessed the
characteristic reserve of his family, and avoided, whenever possible,
all reference to himself. Strange and eventful as his last few years had
been, he never referred to them, or did so in that careless, passing way
that showed he would not willingly make them matter to dwell upon;
and yet, with all this, there was an openness when questioned, a frank
readiness to answer whatever was asked, that plainly proved his reserve
was mere shyness--the modest dislike to make himself or his story
foreground objects.
Lady Vyner, not usually attracted by new acquaintances, liked him
much, and saw him, without any motherly misgivings, constantly in
Ada’s society. They walked together over the olive hills and along the
sea-shore every morning. Once or twice, too, they had taken out Vyner’s
little sail-boat, and made excursions to Sestri or to Recco; and in the
grave, respectful, almost distant manner of Harry Luttrell, there
seemed that sort of security which the mammas of handsome heiresses deem
sufficient. Ada, too, frankness and honesty itself, spoke of him to her
mother as a sister might have spoken of a dear brother. If he had been
more confidential with her than with the others--and his confessions
were even marked with a sort of strange deference, as though made to
one who could not well realise to her mind the humble fortunes of a mere
adventurer like himself--there was also a kind of rugged pride in the
way he presented himself even in his character of a sailor--one who had
not the slightest pretension to rank or condition whatever--that showed
how he regarded the gulf between them.
It was strange, inexplicably strange, what distance separated him from
Miss Courtenay. Neither would, perhaps neither could, make any advances
to the other. “She is so unlike your mother, Ada,” blurted he out one
day, ere he knew what he had said. “He is painfully like his father,”
was Georgina’s comment on himself.
“You have had a long visit from young Luttrell, Mr. M’Kinlay,” said she,
on the day after his arrival, when they had been closeted together for
nigh two hours.
“Yes, Sir Gervais begged me to explain to him some of the circumstances
which led his father to will away the Arran property, and to inform him
that the present owner was his cousin. I suspect Sir Gervais shrank from
the unpleasant task of entering upon the low connexions of the family,
and which, of course, gave _me_ no manner of inconvenience. I told him
who she was, and he remembered her at once. I was going on to speak of
her having been adopted by your brother, and the other incidents of her
childhood, but he stopped me by saying, ‘Would it be possible to make
any barter of the Roscommon property, which goes to the heir-at-law,
and who is now myself, for the Arran estate, for I hold much to it?’ I
explained to him that his being alive broke the will, and that Arran was
as much his as the rest of the estate. But he would not hear of this,
and kept on repeating, ‘My father gave it, and without she is disposed
to part with it for a liberal equivalent, I’ll not disturb the
possession.’”
“The Luttrells were all so,” said she; “half worldly, half romantic, and
one never knew which side was uppermost.”
“He means to go over to Arran; he wants to see the place where his
father is buried. The pride of race is very strong in him, and the mere
utterance of the word Luttrell brings it up in full force.”
“What a pity she’s married!” said she, insolently, but in so faint a
voice he could not catch the words, and asked her to repeat them. “I was
only talking to myself, Mr. M’Kinlay,” said she.
“I pressed him,” continued the other, “to give me some instructions,
for I can’t suppose he intends to let his fortune slip out of his hands
altogether. I told him that it was as much as to impugn his legitimacy;
and he gave me a look that frightened me, and, for a moment, I wished
myself anywhere else than in the room with him. ‘He must be something
younger, and bolder, and braver than you, Sir, that will ever dare to
utter such a doubt as that,’ said he; and he was almost purple with
passion as he spoke.”
“They are all violent; at least, they were!” said she, with a sneering
smile. “I hope you encouraged the notion of going to Arran. I should be
so glad if he were to do it at once.”
“Indeed?”
“Can you doubt it, Mr. M’Kinlay? Is it a person so acute and observant
as yourself need be told that my niece, Ada, should not be thrown into
constant companionship with a young fellow whose very adventures impart
a sort of interest to him?”
“But a sailor, Miss Courtenay!--a mere sailor!”
“Very well, Sir; and a mere sailor, to a very young girl who has seen
nothing of life, would possibly be fully as attractive as a Member
of Parliament. The faculty to find out what is suitable to us, Mr.
M’Kinlay, does not usually occur in very early life.”
There was a marked emphasis in the word “suitable” that made the
old lawyer’s heart throb fast and full. Was this thrown out for
encouragement--was it to inspire hope, or suggest warning? What would he
not have given to be certain which of the two it meant.
“Ah, Miss Courtenay,” said he, with a most imploring look, “if I only
could assure myself that in the words you have just spoken there lay
one spark of hope--I mean, if I could but believe that this would be the
proper moment----”
“My dear Mr. M’Kinlay, let me stop you. There are many things to be done
before I can let you even finish your sentence; and mind me, Sir, this,
‘without prejudice,’ as you lawyers say, to my own exercise of judgment
afterwards; and the first of these is to send this young man away. I
own to you, frankly, he is no favourite of mine. I call ruggedness
what _they_ call frankness; and his pride of name and birth are, when
unattached to either fortune or position, simply insufferable. Get rid
of him; send him to Arran, if he won’t go to Japan. _You_ can do it
without inhospitality, or even awkwardness. You can hint to him that
people rarely remain beyond two or three days on a visit; that his
intimacy with Ada gives pain, uneasiness, to her family; that, in short,
he ought to go. I know,” added she, with a bewitching smile, “how little
there is for me to instruct Mr. M’Kinlay on a point where tact and
delicacy are the weapons to be employed. I feel all the presumption of
such a pretence, and therefore I merely say, induce him to go his way,
and let him do it in such guise that my brother may not suspect our
interference.”
“There is nothing I would not do, Miss Courtenay, with the mere
possibility that you would deem it a service. All I ask is the
assurance----”
“Must I stop you again?” said she, with a sweet smile. “Must I remind
you that he who stipulates for his reward, risks in some sort his
character for generosity, and, worse still, implies a distrust of the
one he serves?”
“I am your slave, Miss Courtenay--your humble slave!” said he, bowing
with a deep humility.
“It is what I intend you should be,” muttered she to herself; and then
added aloud: “Lose no time about this; my brother mentions that he
accidentally met Sir Within Wardle in the doorway of the hotel at Genoa;
that they embraced most cordially, and parted with Sir Within’s promise
to come over and pass some days here, and I believe he may be expected
to-morrow; and of course it would be more convenient to have this young
man’s room, all the more that Mr. Grenfell also is expected.”
“I’ll set about my negotiation at once.”
“Don’t call it negotiation, my dear Mr. M’Kinlay. It must be far
more effectual and more peremptory. To present this sailor lad as an
acquaintance to Sir Within would be monstrous. The pleasure of his visit
will depend on his coming actually amongst all his old friends.”
Ah, Mr. M’Kinlay, how your heart swelled proudly at that flattery! How
exquisite it was to feel you were a member of an order to which, in your
proudest day-dreams, you had not aspired!
“There, now, you have your instructions. You’ll find me here about four
o’clock to report progress, or rather, as I trust, to announce success.”
“I have an excellent opportunity,” cried M’Kinlay, as she moved away.
“He has asked me to go out fishing with him in the boat today. It will
be just the time to fall into confidential discourse. At four expect
me.”