Luttrell Of Arran Part 81

"O'Rorke, Sir."

"Mr. O'Rorke, I am diffident about my p.r.o.nunciation of Irish names," added the old diplomatist, cautiously veiling the sin of his forgetfulness. A servant speedily appeared, and Sir Within ordered him to take every care for "this gentleman's accommodation." "I shall be able to prepare my reply to this letter to-night, Mr. O'Rorke, and you will be free to leave this at any hour that may suit you in the morning."

O'Rorke retired from the presence, well satisfied with himself, and with the way he had acquitted himself.

"Would you like to have the papers, Sir, or would you prefer seeing the gallery, while supper is getting ready?" asked the obsequious servant.

"I'll take a look at your pictures. I have a few myself," said Mr.

O'Rorke; which was perfectly true, though they were not in the first taste as objects of art, being certain coloured prints of Hempenstall, the walking gallows, the capture of Lord Edward Fitzgerald, and a few similar subjects from the year '98, in which, certes, the countenances bestowed on the Royalists essentially distinguished them in the most crowded melees from all honest patriots.

Leaving Mr. O'Rorke, then, to examine at his leisure Sir Within's varied treasures, we make no excuse to our reader for not recording the criticism he pa.s.sed upon them.

CHAPTER L. TWO OF A TRADE.

Whether an uneasy consciousness that he might not be able to display a proper spirit of connoisseurship before that bland, soft-spoken domestic who accompanied him through the picture-gallery, and who, doubtless, had enjoyed various opportunities of imbibing critical notions on art, disposed Mr. O'Rorke--or whether he deemed that his own enjoyment of the splendour would be higher if unwitnessed, is not given to us to p.r.o.nounce; but so it was, that he dismissed his guide very soon, and declared that he preferred to ramble about quite alone. The well-trained servant bowed and withdrew, and Mr. O'Rorke was left to revel at will amidst the magnificence of Dalradern.

There were art treasures there to have fixed the attention and captivated the gaze of more cultivated admirers; but these attracted less of his notice than the splendid furniture, the inlaid tables, the richly-encrusted cabinets, the gorgeously gilded "consoles," which, as he surveyed, he appraised, till he actually lost himself in the arithmetic of his valuation. Nor was this mere unprofitable speculation; far from it. Mr. O'Rorke was a most practical individual, and the point to which his calculation led him was this: How much depletion will all this plethora admit of? What amount of money may be a fair sum to extract from a man of such boundless wealth? "I'd have let him off for a hundred pounds," said he to himself, "as I came up the avenue, and I wouldn't take three now, to give him a receipt in full!" In the true spirit of a brigand, he estimated that his prisoner's ransom should be a.s.sessed by the measure of his fortune.

Wandering on from room to room, still amazed at the extent and splendour he surveyed, he opened a door, and suddenly found himself in a large room brilliantly lighted, and with a table copiously covered with fruit and wine. As he stood, astonished at the sight, a voice cried out, "Holloa, whose that? What do you want?" And though O'Rorke would willingly have retreated, he was so much embarra.s.sed by his intrusion that he could not move.

"Who the--are you?" cried out the voice again. And now O'Rorke perceived that a young man was half sitting, half lying in the recess of a very deep chair, beside the fire, with his legs resting on another chair. "I say," cried he, again, "what brings you here?" And as it was young Ladarelle that spoke, the reader may possibly imagine that the tone was not over conciliatory.

Retreat was now out of the question, not to say that Mr. O'Rorke had regained his self-possession, and was once more a.s.sured and collected.

Advancing, therefore, till he came in front of the other, he made his apologies for the accident of his intrusion, and explained how he happened to be there.

"And where's the letter you say you brought?" broke in Ladarelle, hurriedly.

"I gave it to Sir Within Wardle; he has it now."

"Where did it come from? Who wrote it?"

"It came from Ireland, and from a part of Ireland that, maybe, you never heard of."

"And the writer--who was he?"

"That's no business of _mine_," said O'Rorke; but he contrived to give the words the significance that would mean, "Nor of _yours_ either."

"I think I can guess without your help, my worthy friend; and I have suspected it would come to this for many a day. What relation are you to her?"

"Your honour must explain yourself better, if you want a clear answer,"

replied he, in some confusion.

"Don't fence with me, my fine fellow. I'm more than your match at that game. I see the whole thing with half an eye. She wants to come back!"

As he said the last words he sat up straight in the chair, and darted a searching, stern look at the other.

"Faix, this is all riddles to _me_," said O'Rorke, folding his hands, and looking his very utmost to seem like one puzzled and confused.

"What a-------fool you are," cried Ladarelle, pa.s.sionately, "not to see that you may as well tell me now, what, before two hours are over, I shall know for nothing; out with it, what was in the letter."

"How can I tell what's in a sealed letter," said O'Rorke, sulkily, for he was not very patient under this mode of interrogation.

"You know who wrote it, at all events?"

"I'll tell you what I know!" said O'Rorke, resolutely. "That I'll not answer any more questions, and that I'll leave this room now."

As he turned towards the door, Ladarelle sprang up and said, "You mistake me, my good fellow, if you think I want all this for nothing.

If you knew a little more of me, you'd see I was a pleasanter fellow to deal with than my old relation yonder. What is your name?"

"My name," said he, with a sort of dogged pride--"_my_ name is O'Rorke."

"Timothy O'Rorke? Ain't I right?"

"You are indeed, however you knew it."

"You shall soon see. I have had a letter for you in my writing-desk for many a long day. 'Timothy O'Rorke, Vinegar Hill, Cush--something or other, Ireland.'"

"And who wrote it, Sir?" said O'Rorke, approaching him, and speaking in a low, anxious voice.

"I'll be more frank with you than you are with me. I'll give you the letter, O'Rorke."

"But tell me who wrote it?"

"One who was your well wisher, and who told me I might trust you."

There was never a more puzzling reply than this, for Mr. O'Rorke well knew that there were few who thought well of him, and fewer who trusted him.

"Sit down. Take a gla.s.s of wine. Drink this." And as he spoke he filled a large goblet with sherry.

O'Rorke drained it, and looked happier.

"Take another," said Ladarelle, as he filled it out, and O'Rorke complied, smacking his lips with satisfaction as he finished.

"When you have read the letter I'll give you this evening, O'Rorke, you'll see that we are two men who will readily understand each other.

My friend Grenfell said----"

"Was it Mr. Grenfell wrote it?" broke in O'Rorke.

"It was. You remember him, then? He was afraid you might have forgotten his name."

"That's what I never did yet."

"All right, then. What he said was, 'Show O'Rorke that you mean to deal liberally with him. Let him see that you don't want to drive a hard bargain, and he'll stand by you like a man.'"

"When he said that, he knew me well."