Luttrell Of Arran Part 42

"I was going to say an impertinence," whispered she, "and I'll not."

"Nine o'clock, young ladies, and still in the drawing-room!" exclaimed the governess, in a tone of reproach. "These are habits of dissipation, indeed--come away. Ach Gott! der Clavigo!" muttered she, with clasped hands. And the girls were hardly able to restrain a burst of laughter at the fervour of her voice and manner.

CHAPTER XXVII. KITTY

The wished-for Tuesday came at last, and with a fortune not always so favouring, brought with it a glorious morning, one of those bright, sharp, clear days, with a deep blue sky and frosty air, and with that sense of elasticity in the atmosphere which imparts itself to the spirits, and makes mere existence enjoyment. The girls were in ecstasy; they had set their hearts so much on this visit, that they would not let themselves trust to the signs of the weather on the night before, but were constantly running out to ask George the gardener, if that circle round the moon meant anything?--why were the stars so blue?--and why did they twinkle so much?--and was it a sign of fine weather that the river should be heard so clearly? Rickards, too, was importuned to consult the barometer, and impart his experiences of what might be expected from its indications. The gardener augured favourably, was p.r.o.nounced intelligent, and tipped by Ada in secret. Rickards shook his head at the aspect of the mercury, and was called a "conceited old a.s.s" for his pains. Not either of them treated with different measure than is meted by the public to those great organs of information which are supposed to be their guides, but are just as often their flatterers, for the little world of the family is marvellously like the great world of the nation.

"What a splendid day, Kate. How beautiful the waterfall will look, coming down in showers of diamonds, and how crisp and sharp the copper beech and the big ilex-trees over it. Oh, winter, if this be winter, is really the time for scenery! What makes you so grave, dear? I am wild with spirits to-day."

"And so should I if I were you."

"How can you say that," said Ada, as she threw her arm around the other's waist. "How can you, Kate, when you know how much cleverer you are, and quicker at everything--how you leave me behind at all I have been working at for years!"

"And never to need that same cleverness is worth it all, I am told!"

"How so? I don't understand you."

"I mean, that you are better off--better dealt with by Fortune to be a born lady than I, if I had all the gifts and all the powers you would bestow upon me."

"This is one of your dark days, as you call them," said Ada, reproachfully; "and you mean to make it one of mine, too, and I was _so_ happy."

"This, perhaps, is another of my gifts," said she, with a mocking laugh, "and yet I was brought here to make you merry and light-hearted! Yes, dear, I overheard Mr. Grenfell tell your papa that his plan was a mistake, and that all 'low-bred ones'--that was the name he gave us--lost the little spirit they had when you fed them, and only grew lazy."

"Oh, Kate, for shame!"

"The shame is not mine; it was _he_ said it."

"How sad you make me by saying these things."

"Well, but we must own, Ada, he was right! I was--no, I won't say happier, but fifty times as merry and light-hearted before I came here; and though gathering brushwood isn't as picturesque as making a bouquet, I am almost sure I sang over the one, and only sighed over the other."

Ada turned away her head and wiped the tears from her cheeks.

"Isn't it a hopeful thing to try and make people happy?"

"But papa surely wished, and he believed that you would be happy," said Ada, with something almost reproachful in her manner.

"All because he hadn't read that little German fable of the Two Fairies--the one who always did something and failed, and the other who always promised and promised; watering the little plant of Hope, as he calls it, and making believe that the fruit would be, one day, so sweet and so luscious as no lips had ever tasted before. And it's strange, Ada," added she, in a graver tone--"it's strange, but when I was out upon the mountains watching the goats, rambling all day alone in the deep heather, how I used to think and think! O dear! what wonderful things did I not think would one day come to pa.s.s--how rich I should be, how great, and, best of all, how beautiful! How kings and great people would flatter me, and make me grand presents; and how haughty I should be to some, and how gracious to others--perhaps very humble people; and how I'd amaze every one with all I knew, and they'd say, 'Where did she learn this? How did she ever come to know that?'"

"And would that be happiness, Kate?"

"Would it not?"

"Then why not have the same dreams now?"

"Because I cannot--because they won't come--because life is too full--because, as we eat before we are hungry, and lie down before we are tired, one's thoughts never go high enough to soar above the pleasures that are around them. At least, I suppose that's the reason; but I don't care whether it is or not; there's the carriage--I hear it coming. And now for such a jolly day in that glorious old garden, with the fountains and the statues, and

All the fine things in rock-work and crockery, That make of poor Katun a solemn old mockery.

Do you know the rest?"

"No, I don't. I never heard it."

"It goes on, a something about

Flowers, the first gardener ne'er had in his Eden, And dells so secluded, they ne'er saw the sun, And sweet summer-houses so pleasant to read in, With bright little jets-d'eau of eau-de-Cologne.

Isn't that a Sn.o.b's Paradise?--that's what it's called, Ada." And away she went, singing a "Tyrol, tra la, la lira!" with a voice that seemed to ring with joy.

Ada called to her to come back; but she never heeded, and fled down the garden and was soon lost to view. Meanwhile, the carriage had reached the door, and as Ada rushed forward to greet it, she stepped back with dismay, for, instead of Sir Within's spruce britschka, it was an old post-chaise, from which descended the well wrapt-up figure of Mr.

M'Kinlay.

"Delighted to see you, Miss Ada; how you've grown since I was here--quite a young woman, I declare!" The last words were in soliloquy, for Ada, not aware that he had seen her, had betaken herself to flight to acquaint Mademoiselle of his arrival.

"Glad to see you again, Sir, in these parts," said Rickards, as he caught up the smallest item of the luggage by way of a.s.sisting the traveller. "You had a pleasant journey, I hope, Sir?"

"So-so, Rickards--only so-so. It's not the time of year one would choose to come down amongst the Welsh mountains; bitterly cold it was this morning early."

"We'll soon warm you, Sir; come into the dining-room. You haven't had breakfast, I'm sure."

"Nothing--not as much as a cup of tea--since four o'clock yesterday."

"Dear me, Sir, I don't know how you bear it. It's what I remarked to Sir Gervais. I said, 'There's Mr. M'Kinlay, Sir,' said I, 'he goes through more than any young gentleman in the grouse season.'"

"Well, I'm not so very old, Rickards--eh?"

"Old! I should think not, Sir--in the very prime of life; and I declare, of an evening, Sir, with your white waistcoat on, I'd not guess you to be more than--let me see----"

"Never mind the figure. Ah, this is comfortable; capital old room, and a good old-fashioned fire-place."

While the lawyer held his half-frozen hands to the fire, Rickards drew a little table close to the hearth, and, with the dexterity of his calling, arranged the breakfast-things. "A hot steak in one moment, Sir, and a devilled kidney or two. Excuse me, Sir, but I'd say a little mulled claret would be better than tea; mulled, Sir, with just one table-spoonful of old brandy in it--Mr. Grenfell's receipt."

"No man should know better, Rickards."

"Ah, Sir, always sharp--always ready you are, to be sure!" And Rickards had to wipe his eyes as he laughed at the repartee.

"And how do you get on here, Rickards?" said M'Kinlay, in a tone evidently meant to invite perfect confidence, and as evidently so interpreted, for, though the door was closed, Rickards went over and laid his hand on it, to a.s.sure himself of the fact, and then returned to the fireplace.

"Pretty well, Sir, pretty well. The governess will be meddling--these sort of people can't keep from it--about the house expenses, and so on; but I don't stand it, nohow. I just say, 'This is the way we always do, Mam'sel. It's just thirty-eight years I'm with the master's father and himself.' Isn't that a pictur' of a steak, Mr. M'Kinlay? Did you ever see sweeter fat than that, and the gravy in it, Sir? Mrs. Byles knows _you_, Sir, and does her best. You remember that game-pie, Sir, the last time you was here?"

"I think I do, and you told her what I said of it; but I don't like what you say of the governess. She is meddlesome--interferes, eh?"

"Everywhere, Sir, wherever she can. With George about the hothouse plants and the melon-frames, with Mrs. Byles about the preserves, a thing my lady never so much as spoke of; and t'other day, Sir, what d'ye think she does, but comes and says to me, 'Mr. Rickards, you have a cellar-book, haven't you?' Yes, ma'am,' says I; 'and if the young ladies wants it in the schoolroom to larn out of, I'll bring it in with pleasure.' Wasn't that pretty home, Sir, eh?"

"And what did she say to that?"