Luttrell Of Arran Part 52

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."

[Ill.u.s.tration: 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 p.r.o.ne 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 a 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 a.s.sumed 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.