Luttrell Of Arran Part 47

"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 pa.s.sed 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 devots."

"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 embarra.s.sments 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 n.o.ble 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 Sevres, 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 a.n.a.logy 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 pa.s.sion 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, pa.s.sed 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 apt.i.tude 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 _tete-a-tete_ 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----"