Luttrell Of Arran Part 97

"And left it for Arran?"

"Yes," said she again, "that' also is true; and I left it to come and see that old man whose trial you witnessed. He was my grandfather."

"Your grandfather! Surely I am speaking to Miss Luttrell of Arran?"

She nodded, and, after a moment, said: "That old man was my mother's father, and I journeyed here for no other end than to see him and comfort him. Of all these schemes and plots I know nothing, nor have I the strength now to attempt to think of them. Which of ns will you believe, Sir--them or me?"

"I believe you--every word you have told me," said he; "but can you forgive me for the tale I have just told you?"

"Enough, now, that you do not believe it. And yet what can it matter to me how I am thought of? The opinion of the world is only of moment to those who have friends, _I_ have not one!"

He did his best to comfort and to cheer her; he said all those kind things which even the humblest of his walk know how to pour into the ear of affliction, and he urged her to go back at once to Arran--to her uncle.

The counsel came well timed, and she caught at it eagerly. "My wretchedness will plead for me if I cannot speak for myself," said she, half aloud; and now all her thoughts were how to reach Westport, and take boat for the island. The doctor volunteered to see her so far on her journey, and they set out the same evening.

Arrived at Westport, tired and fatigued as she was, she would not stay to rest, but embarked at once. The night was a bright and pleasant one, with a light land breeze, and as she stepped into the boat, she said, "The sea has given me the feeling of health again. I begin to hope I shall live to see you and thank you for all your friendship. Good-by."

And as she spoke, the craft was away, and she saw no more.

The poor suffering frame was so overcome by fatigue, that they were already at anchor in the harbour of Arran before she awoke. When she did so, her sensations were so confused that she was almost afraid to speak or question the boatmen, lest her words should seem wild and unconnected.

"Are you coming back with us, Miss?" asked one of the men, as she stepped on sh.o.r.e.

"No--yea--I believe not; it may be--but I hope not," said she, in a broken accent.

"Are we to wait for you?" repeated he.

"I cannot say. No--no--this is my home."

"A dreary home it is, then!" said the man, turning away; and the words fell heavily on her heart, and she sat down on a stone and gazed at the wild, bleak mountain, and the little group of stunted trees amidst which the Abbey stood; and truly had he called it a dreary home.

The dawn was just breaking as she reached the door, and ere she had time to knock, Molly saw her from her window, and rushed out to meet her and welcome her home. Almost hysterical with joy and grief together, the poor creature clung to her wildly. "It's in time you're come, darlin',"

she cried, amidst her sobs; "he's going fast, sleeping away like a child, but asking for you every time he wakes up, and we have to tell him that you were tired, and were gone to lie down, and then he mutters some words and goes off again."

It needed but this sorrow, Kate thought, to fill up the measure of her misery; and she tottered into the little room and sat down without uttering a word, while the woman went on with the story of her master's illness.

"A mere cold at first, brought on by going down to the point of rocks at daybreak to watch the boats. He thought he'd see you coming back. At last, when he was so ill that he couldn't leave the house, he said that the man that brought him the first news you were coming, he'd give him hothouse and garden rent free for his life, and it didn't need that same to make us long to see you! Then came the fever, and for a while he forgot everything, but he talked away about poor Master Harry, and what a differ we'll feel when _he_ was the master, raving, raving on, and never ceasing. After that he came back to his senses, and began to ask where you were, and why you didn't sit with him. There he is now! Hear that; that's your name he's trying to say. Come to him while it's time."

Kate arose. She never spoke, but followed the woman through the pa.s.sage, and entered the little bedroom, where a faint lamp blended its light with the breaking day.

The sick man's eager eye saw her as she crossed the threshold, and in a vague, discordant voice he cried out, "I knew you'd come to me. Sit here--sit down here and hold my hand. Such stories as they told me!"

muttered he, as he caught her hand in his grasp. "They can't make that drink for me, Kate," said he, in a low, winning voice.

"I'll make it, dearest uncle. I'll be your nurse now," said she, stooping and kissing his forehead.

"No, no; I'll not let you leave me again. You must sit there and speak to me. When you go away, I feel as if you had gone for weeks."

"My dear, dear uncle!"

"Strange! how strange!" whispered he. "I knew well you were there--there, in that room yonder, asleep, but my thoughts would wander away till I came to think you had left me--deserted me! Don't cry, darling. I felt that tear; it fell on my cheek. I do believe," cried he, aloud, "they wished me to think I was deserted--a Luttrell of Arran dying without a friend or a kinsman to close his eyes. And the last Luttrell, too! The haughty Luttrells they called us once! Look around you, girl, at this misery, this want, this dest.i.tution! Are these the signs that show wealth and power? And it is all that is left to us!

All!"

"My own dear uncle, if you but get well, and be yourself once more, it is enough of wealth for us."

"Are we alone, Kate?" asked he, stealthily.

"No, Sir; poor Molly is here."

"Tell her to go. I have something to say to you. Look in that top drawer for a paper tied with a string. No, not that--_that_ is a direction for my funeral; the other--yes, you have it now--is my will. Arran will be yours, Kate. You will love it through all its barrenness, and never part with it. Promise me that."

She muttered something through her sobs.

"Be kind to these poor people. I have never been to them as I ought, but I brought them a broken heart as well as a broken fortune. And wherever you live, come back sometimes to see these old rocks, and sit in that old chair; for, solitary as it all is, it would grieve me bitterly if I thought it were to be deserted!"

She tried to speak,, but could not.

"If those on the mainland should try to encroach--if they should come upon your fishing-grounds, girl--defend your rights. We have had these royalties for more than three hundred years. Be firm, be bold!" He muttered on for some moments, and the last words his lips uttered were, "A Luttrell of Arran!" His eyes closed as he said it, and he covered his face with his hand. Kate thought it was sleep, but it was the last sleep of all.

[Ill.u.s.tration: 490]

CHAPTER LVIII. SIR WITHIN ABROAD

SIR Within, accompanied by Grenfell, who was now become an "indispensable" to him, left Dalradern for the Continent. The old man neither knew nor cared what direction he should take. The consciousness that any avowal of his love for Kate would but expose him to bitter raillery and ridicule, debarred him from all the sympathy he so much needed. Such a pa.s.sion at his age was exactly one of those follies that all concur to laugh at, and it is precisely in the cla.s.s that this old man pertained to, these dowagers of the world of statecraft, that ridicule is most powerful. The man who deems a witty "mot" a triumph, is just as ready to accept a severe epigram as a death-wound.

One would not have believed how a few days of sorrow could have aged him. It was not alone that a stern melancholy sat on his features, but that even his erect carriage and firm step had left him, and he walked now with bent-down head feebly and uncertainly. Arrived at Paris, Grenfell endeavoured to interest him by some of the pleasures of that marvellous capital. He induced him to dine at the "Rocher," and to drive in the Bois; he narrated all the pa.s.sing gossip of the day; told him the scandals in vogue, and showed him the actors in them as they drove by on the Boulevards; but it seemed as though all the world of these vanities had closed for him, and he neither smiled nor vouchsafed a word as he listened.

Once only did he betray the slightest animation of voice or manner; it was when Grenfell pointed out to him in a carriage one of the great beauties of the time. The old man looked fixedly for an instant at her, and then, turning away his head, muttered, "_She_ is infinitely more beautiful."

Paris he soon discovered to be too noisy and too bustling. For Switzerland, the season was already late, and the climate was severe.

Spain or Italy remained, and he was yet hesitating which to take, when Grenfell mentioned that he saw Mr. M'Kinlay's name amongst the arrivals at the hotel, and, on inquiry, learned that he was on his way out to Italy to see Vyner, and was to leave Paris that night.

"I think I should like to see Vyner too; that is, if he would receive me," said Sir Within, feebly. "Could you manage to catch this Mr.

M'Kinlay?"

"Shall we have him to dinner to-day?"

"No; I think not. I'm not equal to it."

"Suppose you were to try. He's not a person to make much ceremony with.

If he bores you, pretend indisposition, and leave him."

The old man smiled--a strange, dubious sort of smile it was; perhaps it amused him to receive a lesson in social craft or address from "a Mr.

George Grenfell." At all events, Grenfell read the smile as a partial concurrence with his suggestion, and went on:

"M'Kinlay would be flattered by the invitation; and, if you should want him in any other way, he will be all the more tractable."