Luttrell Of Arran Part 8

A murmur of disapproval ran through the meeting. They wanted to see everything. His Honour's munificence was not limited. It included all that was once hers; and a very animated discussion ensued as to what const.i.tuted personal properties.

"Maybe you'd like the crockery too," said Molly, indignantly, for she began to feel ashamed of the covetousness.

"Well see everything," said old Peter Hogan, "and we'll begin with this." So saying, he inserted a chisel beneath one of the pine planks, and soon displayed to the company a large chest full of house linen. The articles were neither costly nor remarkable, but they seemed both to the beholders; and sheets, and napkins, and pillow-cases, and tablecloths were all scrutinised closely, and unanimously declared to be perfection.

The crockery and gla.s.s were next examined, and even more enthusiastically approved of. Some curious china and some specimens of old Venetian gla.s.s, family relics, that ven connoisseurship might have valued, really amazed them, and many an epithet in Irish went round as a cup or a goblet was pa.s.sed from hand to hand to be admired.

The clothes were the last to be examined, and with all their heightened expectations the reality surpa.s.sed what they looked for. Hats, and shawls, and silk gowns, scarfs, and bonnets, and ribbons, soon covered every box and bench around, and covetous eyes sparkled as each longed for some special prize in this vast lottery. "I remember the day she wore that brown silk at chapel," said one. "That's the blue tabinet she had on at the christening." "There's the elegant, shawl she had on at the fair at Ennis." "But look at this--isn't this a real beauty?" cried one, who drew forth a bright dress of yellow satin, which seemed never to have been worn.

"Don't you think you could pick and choose something to plaze ye, now?"

said Molly, who was in reality not a little frightened by all this enthusiasm.

"It is true for you, Molly Ryan," said Peter. "There's something for everybody, and since the company trusts it to me to make the division, this is what I do. The crockery and gla.s.s for Mr. Rafter, the linen for myself, and the clothes to be divided among the women when we get home.

"So that you'll take everything," cried Molly.

"With the blessin' of Providence 'tis what I mean," said he; and a full chorus of approving voices closed the speech.

"The master said you were to choose what plazed you--"

"And it's what we're doing. We are plazed with everything, 'and why wouldn't we?' Wasn't she that's gone our own blood, and didn't she own them? The pillow she lay on and the cup she dhrunk out of is more to us than their weight in goold."

Another and fuller murmur approved these sentiments.

"And who is to have this?" cried one of the women, as she drew forth from a small pasteboard box an amber necklace and cross, the one solitary trinket that belonged to her that was gone. If not in itself an object of much value, it was priceless to the eyes that now gazed on it, and each would gladly have relinquished her share to possess it.

"Maybe you'd have the dacency to leave that for his Honour," said Molly, reprovingly.

Less, perhaps, in accordance with the sentiment than in jealous dread lest another should obtain it, each seemed to concur with this recommendation.

"There's something in what Molly says," said old Peter, with the air of a judge delivering a charge. "If his Honour houlds to a thing of the kind, it would be hard to refuse it to him; but if he doesn't, or if it would only be more grief to be reminding him of what's gone------ Let me finish what I have to say, Molly," added he, with some irritation, as a sneering laugh from her interrupted his speech.

"There's an old pair of shoes of hers in the room within. I'll go for them, and then you'll have everything," said she; and she darted an angry glance around, and left the spot.

"I'll wear this--this is for me!" cried a little girl, taking the amber necklace from the case and putting it on. And, a buzz of Astonishment at the audacity ran around. She was about eleven years of age, but her dark blue eyes and long lashes made her seem older. It was one of those beautiful faces which appear to suggest that with years the delicate loveliness must be lost, so perfect the accordance between the expression and the feature. She had a ma.s.s of golden-brown hair, which fell in long curls over a neck of perfect whiteness; but even these traits were less striking than the air of gracefulness that really implied a condition far above that of her rank in life; and, as she stood in the midst to be admired, there was a haughty consciousness of her claim for admiration that was as triumphant in that a.s.sembly as ever was the proud a.s.sertion of beauty in a court.

[Ill.u.s.tration: 066]

"It becomes you well, Kitty O'Hara, and you shall have it, too," cried old Hogan, who was her grandfather, and whose pride in her took the shape of the boldest aspirations for her future. "Ain't I right?" cried he, appealing to, those around him. "Look at her, and say if she isn't a picture!"

With a full burst of a.s.sent all broke in at this appeal, and still she stood there unabashed, almost unmoved, indeed, by the admiring looks and enthusiastic words around her.

"Isn't that the making of a lady, ay, and as elegant a lady as ever stepped?" cried the old man, as his eyes ran over with proud notion.

"And as sure as my name is Peter Hogan, it's diamonds will be round the same neck yet! Yes, my darling, yer ould grandfather won't be to the fore to see it, but there's some here that will. Mark the words I'm saying now; lay them up in your hearts, and see if I'm not telling the truth. There she stands before you that'll raise her family, and make a name for them far and wide."

While he delivered this boastful speech, the girl turned her eyes from him, a slight flush deepened the colour of her cheek, and a scarcely perceptible eagerness showed itself on the parted lips, but her att.i.tude was unchanged, and a slight nod of the head, in token of a.s.sent, was the only notice she took of his words.

"Yes, come in, my dear," cried Hogan at this moment--"come in, Master Harry; there's none here but your own kith and kin, and here's a nice little wife, or a sweetheart, for you." As he said this, he drew from the doorway, where he lingered, the boy, who now came forward with a shamefaced and reluctant look. "There they stand," said the old man, as he placed them side by side, "and I defy the world to show me a purtier couple."

The boy turned a long and steady look at the girl--something for the beauty, and something, too, doubtless, there was for the ornaments that heightened it--and she bore the scrutiny without a shadow of constraint; but there was even more, for, as he continued to stare at her, she smiled half superciliously, and said at last, with a faint smile, "I hope I'm not so ugly that I frighten you!"

There was just that pertness in the speech that stood for wit with the company, and they laughed loud and heartily at what they fancied to be a repartee.

"Did ye ever see a purtier--did ye ever see as purty?" cried old Hogan.

"Yes I did, this very evening, on board of that schooner there. There's one ten times as handsome, and she is a lady, too."

Insolent as were the words, the look and manner with which he gave them were far more so. It was like the speech of a proud n.o.ble to his va.s.sals, who actually derived a sense of pleasure in the measure of outrage he could dare to mete out to them. The boy turned his haughty stare around at each in turn, as though to say, "Who is there to gainsay me?" and then left the place.

"Isn't that a worthy twig of the ould tree?" cried old Hogan, pa.s.sionately. "The world hasn't done with the Luttrells yet! But I know well who puts these thoughts in the child's head. It's Molly Ryan, and no other. Taching him, as she calls it, to remember he's a gentleman."

The company endorsed all the indignation of the speaker, but, soon recalled to more practical thoughts, proceeded to nail down the trunks and boxes, and prepared to carry them down to the seaboard.

CHAPTER VI. ON THE SEA-Sh.o.r.e AT NIGHT

Towards the evening of the same day a light breeze from the westward sprang up, and Mr. Crab argued that there was little use in waiting any longer to refit, and proposed to sail with the tide. By keeping along close to sh.o.r.e he learned that the ebb would take him well out to sea before midnight. Vyner, therefore, gare orders that the yacht should lie-to after she rounded the extreme promontory of the island, and send in a boat there to take him off, thus giving him one last ramble over a spot it was scarcely possible he would ever revisit.

He landed early in the evening, and amused himself strolling at will along the desolate sh.o.r.e. There were objects enough on every hand to excite interest, whether the visitor had been man of science or man of taste. Strange sea-plants and sh.e.l.ls abounded; lichens of colour the most novel and varied; rocks, whose layers defied all theories of stratification, and were convoluted and enclosed one within another inextricably. Caves, whose stalact.i.tes glittered with the gorgeous tints of Bohemian gla.s.s. The very cries of the sea-fowl had a wild unearthly shriek in them that seemed to suit the solitude, and their fearlessness showed how little they knew of molestation.

"How peaceful at first, how dreary at last, must be life in such a spot!" thought Vyner; who, like all men, would p.r.o.nounce upon the problem as it addressed itself to _him_. He could understand the repose of coming suddenly there out of the din and turmoil of the world, and he could picture to his mind how the soft teaching of that first sentiment would darken into the impenetrable blackness of unbroken gloom. As he thus mused, he was sorry that he had written that note to Luttrell. He had no right to obtrude himself upon one, who, in withdrawing from the world, declared that he deserved to be unknown. He was half angry with himself for a step which now appeared so unjustifiable. "After all,"

thought he, "the man who makes this his home should not fear to have his door forced; he ought to be able to sleep with his latch ajar, and never dread an intruder." Again and again he wished that he had gone his way without even letting Luttrell know that he had been his neighbour.

As he mused he rambled onward, now, from some rocky point obtaining a view of the jagged coast line, broken into innumerable bays, some small enough to be mere fissures, now turning his glance inward, where a succession of valleys, brown and purple in the evening light, darkened and deepened beneath him. He could, besides, in the far distance make out the copse of trees that sheltered the Abbey, and at last detect the twinkle of a light through the foliage, and then turning seaward, he could descry the light and airy spars of his little vessel as she slowly crept along, a light from a stern window showing where he, too, for the nonce, owned a home on the blue waters of the Atlantic. What a difference between these two homes! what blissful thoughts, and budding hopes, and present enjoyments in the one, what unbroken gloom in the other! "I was wrong to have written, but I wish he had not repulsed me,"

said he; and still there lingered in his heart a half hope that, if he were to present himself boldly before Luttrell, he would not reject him. The dread of Grenfell was too great to make him risk defeat; that scoffing, sneering spirit, who on the mere fact of thinking ill of every one, took credit for detecting all individual short-coming, would be so unforgiving if he had to come and own that he had been twice repulsed!

"No," thought he, "I 'll accept my defeat as it is, and try to think no more of it;" and then he endeavoured to think of the scene and the objects around him. From the spur of the mountain, a long, low, shingly promontory stretched into the sea, at the extremity of which were some rocks, forming an arm of a large bay that swept boldly inwards, and this was the spot which, on the map, he had pointed out as a suitable place for the yacht to lie-to, and wait for him. He now saw, howevar, that in following out the spit of land, he had diverged largely from the way, and must retrace his steps for above a mile ere he could reach the strand, and at the same time, in the half-fading twilight, he could make out the schooner, under easy sail, heading still farther to the southward.

Crab had evidently mistaken the headland, and was making for one still more distant. What was to be done? In coming down to the coast line he had subjected himself to following out all the jagged and irregular course of the sh.o.r.e, and yet to venture inland without a guide would have been the extreme of rashness. There was nothing for it but to make a signal, if perchance it could be seen; the _Meteor_ was not more than a mile off, and the project seemed not hopeless. He tied his handkerchief to his cane, and hastened on towards one of the rocks before him; as he drew nigher, he saw something which at last he made out to be the figure of a man, seated with his head supported between his hands, and gazing steadfastly seaward. Vyner mounted the rock and waved his signal several times, but in vain; the dark background of the mountain probably obscured the flag, and prevented its being observed.

"I want to signal the schooner yonder, my good man," cried he to a poor-looking creature who sat crouched down close to the water's edge; "could you get me some dry leaves or chips together to make a fire?" The other looked up with a startled air, for he had thought himself alone, and then rising to his feet, they stood face to face. "My dear old friend!" cried Vyner, "have we met at last? How glad I am to see you again."

"Not this way, surely, not this way," muttered Luttrell, in a faint and broken voice.

"To be sure I am, Luttrell. I' ll call the chance that led me here one of the happiest of my life, if it brings you back to any of your old feeling for me."

"You got my note?" asked the other, in a hoa.r.s.e voice.

"Yes; and it was no part of my intention to molest you, Luttrell. This meeting is, I a.s.sure you, the merest accident."

"Let me go, then, Vyner; the shame is killing me; I wouldn't that you had seen me thus--in these rags, in all this misery. These are not the memories I wanted you to carry away with you; but what would you have? I came here to live like the others."

"My dear old friend, I wanted to talk of long ago with you; it is not to reproach you I've come. Take my word for it, I feel too acutely all the wrong you have suffered from mine. I know too well at whose door your heaviest injuries lie."

"If I had attempted to be more or better than my neighbours, I couldn't have lived here," cried he, eagerly reverting to his self-defence.