Luttrell Of Arran Part 87

He brushed them rudely back, and in a stern tone said:

"To such as leave this against my consent there is no road back. Do you hear me?"

"I do," said she, faintly.

"Do you understand me?"

"Yes."

"Enough, then. Leave me now, and let me have peace."

"Uncle--dear uncle," she began; but he stopped her at once.

"None of this--none of this with me, young woman. You are free to make your choice: you are my adopted daughter, or, you are the grandchild of a man whose claim to be notorious will soon dispute with ours. It is an easy thing to make up your mind upon."

"I have done so already, Sir."

"Very well, so much the better. Leave me now. I wish to be alone."

"Let me say good-by, Sir; let me kiss your hand, and say, for the last time, how grateful I am for all your past kindness."

He never spoke, but continued to stare at her with an expression of wonderment and surprise.

"Would you leave me, then?--would you leave me, Kate?" muttered he, at last.

"No, Sir, if the door be not closed against me--never!"

"None but yourself can close that door against you."

"Dear, kind uncle, only hear me. It may be, that I have failed in the scheme I planned; it may be, that some other road must be found to help this poor, forlorn, friendless old man. Let me at least see him; let me give him what comfort a few kind words can give; let him know that he has sympathy in his hour of sadness."

"Sympathy with the felon--sympathy with the murderer! I have none. I feel shame--bitter, bitter shame, that I cannot disclaim him--disavow him! My own miserable rashness and folly brought me to this! but when I descended to their poverty, I did not descend to their crimes."

"Well," said she, haughtily, "_I_ have no such excuses to shelter me. I am of them by blood, as I am in heart. I'll not desert him."

"May your choice be fortunate," said he, with mockery; "but remember, young woman, that when once you pa.s.s under the lintel of the gaol, you forfeit every right to enter here again. It is but fair that you know it."

"I know it, Sir; good-by." She stooped to take his hand, but he drew it rudely from her, and she raised the skirt of his coat to her lips and kissed it.

"Remember, young woman, if the time comes that you shall tell of this desertion of me--this cold, unfeeling desertion--take care you tell the truth. No harping on Luttrell pride, or Luttrell sternness--no pretending that it was the man of birth could not accept companionship of misery with the plebeian; but the simple fact, than when the hour of a decided allegiance came, you stood by the criminal and abandoned the gentleman. There is the simple fact; deny it if you dare!"

"There is not one will dare to question me, Sir, and your caution is unneeded."

"Your present conduct is no guarantee for future prudence!"

"Dear uncle--" she began; but he stopped her hastily, and said:

"It is useless to recal our relationship when you have dissolved its ties."

"Oh, Sir, do not cast me off because I am unhappy."

"Here is your home, Kate," said he, coldly. "Whenever you leave it, it is of your own free will, not of mine. Go now, if you wish, but remember, you go at your peril."

She darted a fierce look at him as he uttered the last word, as though it had pierced her like a dart, and for a moment she seemed as if her temper could no longer be kept under; but with an effort she conquered, and simply saying, "I accept the peril, Sir," she turned and left the room.

She gave her orders to the crew of the launch to get ready at once, and sent down to the boat her little basket; and then, while Molly Ryan was absent, she packed her trunk with whatever she possessed, and prepared to leave Arran, if it might be, for ever. Her tears ran fast as she bent over her task, and they relieved her overwrought mind, for she was racked and torn by a conflict--a hard conflict--in which different hopes, and fears, and ambitions warred, and struggled for the mastery.

"Here is the hour of dest.i.tution--the long dreaded hour come at last, and it finds me less prepared to brave it than I thought for. By this time to-morrow the sun will not shine on one more friendless than myself. I used to fancy with what courage I could meet this fall, and even dare it. Where is all my bravery now?"

"'Tis blowin' harder, Miss Kate; and Tim Hennesy says it's only the beginnin' of it, and that he's not easy at all about taking you out in such weather."

"Tell Tim Hennesy, that if I hear any more of his fears _I_'ll not take _him_. Let them carry that trunk down, Molly; I shall be away some days, and those things there are for you."

"Sure, ain't you coming back, Miss?" cried the woman, whose cheeks became ashy pale with terror.

"I have told you I am going for a few days; and, Molly, till I _do_ come, be more attentive than ever to my uncle; he may miss me, and he is not well just now, and be sure you look to him. Keep the key, too, of this room of mine, unless my uncle asks for it."

"Oh, you're not coming back to us--you'll never come back!" cried the poor creature, in an agony of sorrow. And she fell at Kate's feet and grasped her dress, as though to detain her.

[Ill.u.s.tration: 443]

"There, there, this is all childishness, Molly. You will displease me if you go on so. Was that thunder I heard?"

As she asked, a knock came to the door, and the captain of the boat's crew, Tim Hennesy, put in his head. "If you are bent on goin', Miss, the tide is on the turn, and there's no time to lose."

"You're a hard man to ask her, Tim Hennesy," said the woman, rising, and speaking with a fiery vehemence: "You're a hard man, after losing your own brother at sea, to take her out in weather like this."

Kate gave a hurried look over the room, and then, as if not trusting her control over her feelings, she went quietly out, and hastened down to the sh.o.r.e.

There was, indeed, no lime to be lost, and all the efforts of the sailors were barely enough to save the small boat that lay next the pier from being crushed against the rocks with each breaking wave.

"Get on board, Miss; now's the moment!" cried one of the men. And, just as he spoke, she made a bold spring and lighted safely in the stern.

The strong arms strained to the oars, and in a few seconds they were on board the yawl. The last few turns of the capstan were needed to raise the anchor, and now the jib was set to "pay her head round," and amidst a perfect shower of spray as the craft swung "about," the mainsail was hoisted, and they were away.

"What's the signal flying from the tower for?" said one of the sailors.

And he pointed to a strip of dark-coloured bunting that now floated from the flagstaff.

"That's his honour's way of bidding us good-by," said Hennesy. "I've never seen it these twelve years."

"How can we answer it, Tim?" said Kate, eagerly.

"We'll show him his own colours, Miss," said the man. And, knotting the Luttrell flag on the halyard, he hoisted it in a moment. "Ay, he sees it now! Down comes his own ensign now to tell us that we're answered!"

"Was it to say good-by, or was it to recal her?--was it a last greeting of love and affection, or was it a word of scorn?" Such were Kate's musings as the craft heaved and worked in the strong sea, while the waves broke on the bow, and scattered great sheets of water over them.

"I wish there was a dry spot to shelter you, Miss," said Tim, as he saw the poor girl shivering and dripping from head to foot. "But it's worse now than farther out; the squalls are stronger here under the land."