Luttrell Of Arran

“The disposing mind – eh?”

“Just so, Sir. I could not bring myself to face a cross-examination on the subject.”

“Very proper on your part; proper and prudent, both.” “You see, Sir, the very servants noticed the way he was in to-day. Harris actually passed him twice without giving him Hock; he saw his state.”

“Cruel condition, when the very flunkeys feel for one!” “I thought at the time what evidence Harris would give – I did, indeed, Sir. No solicitor of rank in the profession could lend himself to such a proceeding.”

“Don’t do it, then,” said Grenfell, bluntly.

“Ah! it’s very well saying don’t do it, Mr. Grenfell, but it’s not so easy when you have to explain to your client why you ‘wont do it.’”

Grenfell lit a cigarette, and smoked on without reply. “It was finding myself in this difficulty,” continued M’Kinlay, “I thought I’d apply to you.”

“To me! And why, in Heaven’s name, to me?” “Simply, Sir, as Sir Within’s most intimate friend – the person, of all others, most likely to enjoy his confidence.”

“That may be true enough in one sense,” said Grenfell, evidently liking the flattery of the position attributed to him; “but though we are, as you observe, on the most intimate terms with each other, I give you my solemn word of honour he never so much as hinted to me that he was going mad.”

Mr. M’Kinlay turned angrily away; such levity was, he felt, unbecoming and misplaced, nor was he altogether easy in his mind as to the use a man so unscrupulous and indelicate might make of a privileged communication. While he stood thus irresolute, Grenfell came over to him, and, laying a finger on his arm, said:

“I’ll tell you who’ll manage this matter for you better – infinitely better – than either of us; Miss Courtenay.”

“Miss Courtenay!” repeated “the lawyer, with astonishment.

“Yes, Miss Courtenay. You have only to see, by the refined attention she bestows on him, how thoroughly she understands the break-up that has come upon his mind; her watchful anxiety to screen him from any awkward exposure; how carefully she smoothes down the little difficulties he occasionally finds at catching the clue of any theme. She sees what he is coming to, and would evidently like to spare him the pain of seeing it while his consciousness yet remains.”

“I almost think I have remarked that. I really believe you are right. And what could she do – I mean, what could I ask her to do – in this case?”

“Whatever you were about to ask me! I’m sure I’m not very clear what that was, whether to urge upon Sir Within the inexpediency of giving away a large portion of his fortune to a stranger, or the impropriety of falling into idiocy and the hands of Commissioners in Lunacy.”

Again was Mr. M’Kinlay driven to the limit of his temper, but he saw, or thought he saw, that this man’s levity was his nature, and must be borne with.

“And you advise my consulting Miss Courtenay upon it?”

“I know of none so capable to give good counsel; and here she comes. She has deposited the old man in that easy-chair for a doze, I fancy. Strange enough, the faculties that do nothing occasionally stand in need of rest and repose!”

Miss Courtenay, after consigning Sir Within to the comforts of a deep arm-chair, turned again into the garden. There was the first quarter of a clear sharp moon in the sky, and the season, though mid-winter, was mild and genial, like spring. Mr. M’Kinlay was not sorry to have received this piece of advice from Grrenfell. There was a little suit of his own he wanted to press, and, by a lucky chance, he could now do so, while affecting to be engaged by other interests. Down the steps he hastened at once, and came up with her as she stood at the little balustrade over the sea. Had he been a fine observer, or had he even had the common tact of those who frequent women’s society, he would have seen that she was not pleased to have been followed, and that it was her humour to be alone, and with her own thoughts. To his little commonplaces about the lovely night and the perfumed air, she merely muttered an indistinct assent. He tried a higher strain, and enlisted the stars and the moon, but she only answered with a dry “Yes, very bright.”

“Very few more of such exquisite nights are to fall to my lot, Miss Georgina,” said he, sighing. “A day or two more must see me plodding my weary way north’ard, over the Mont Cenis pass.”

“I wonder you don’t go by Marseilles, or by the Cornich,” said she, carelessly, as though the route itself was the point at issue.

“What matters the road which leads me away from where I have been so – happy?” He was going to say “blest;” but he had not been blessed, and he was too technically honest to misdirect in his brief. No rejoinder of any kind followed on this declaration. He paused, and asked himself, “What next? Is the Court with me?” Oh! what stores of law lore, what wealth of Crown cases reserved, what arguments in Banco, would he not have given, at that moment, for a little insight into that cunning labyrinth, a woman’s heart! Willingly would he have bartered the craft it had taken years to accumulate for that small knowledge of the sex your raw Attaché or rawer Ensign seem to have as a birthright. “I am too abrupt,” thought he. “I must make my approaches more patiently – more insidiously. I’ll mask my attack, and begin with Sir Within.”

“I have been plotting all day, Miss Courtenay,” said he, in a calmer tone, “how to get speech of you. I am in great want of your wise counsel and kindly assistance. May I indulge the hope that they will not be denied me?”

“Let me learn something of the cause, Sir, in which they are to be exercised.”

“One for which you feel interested; so much I can at least assure you. Indeed,” added he, with a more rhetorical flourish of manner, “it is a case that would enlist the kindly sympathies of every generous heart.”

“Yes, yes – I understand; a poor family – a distressed tradesman – a sick wife – ailing children. Don’t tell me any details; they are always the same – always painful. I will subscribe, of course. I only wonder how you chanced upon them. But never mind; count on me, Mr. M’Kinlay: pray do.”

She was turning impatiently away, when he followed, and said, “You have totally misapprehended me, Miss Courtenay. It was not of a poor person I was thinking at all. It was of a very rich one. I was about to bespeak your interest for Sir Within Wardle.”

“For Sir Within Wardle! What do you mean, Sir?” said she, in a voice tremulous with feeling, and with a flush on her cheek, which, in the faint light, fortunately Mr. M’Kinlay failed to remark.

“Yes, Miss Courtenay. It is of him I have come to speak. It is possible I might not have taken this liberty, but in a recent conversation I have held with Mr. Grenfell, he assured me that you, of all others, were the person to whom I ought to address myself.”

“Indeed, Sir,” said she, with a stern, cold manner. “May I ask what led your friend to this conclusion?”

“The great friendship felt by this family for Sir Within, the sincere interest taken by all in his welfare,” said he, hurriedly and confusedly, for her tone had alarmed him, without his knowing why or for what.

“Go on, Sir; finish what you have begun.”

“I was going to mention to you, Miss Courtenay,” resumed he, in a most confidential voice, “that Sir Within had sent for me to his room yesterday morning, to confer with him on certain matters touching his property. I was not aware before what a large amount was at his disposal, nor how free he was to burden the landed estate, for it seems that his life-interest was the result of a certain family compact. But I ask your pardon for details that can only weary you.”

“On the contrary, M’Kinlay, it is a subject you have already made as interesting as a novel. Pray go on.”

And he did go on; not the less diffusely that she gave him the closest attention, and showed, by an occasional shrewd or pertinent question, with what interest she listened. We are not to suppose the reader as eager for these details, however, and we skip them altogether, merely arriving at that point of the narrative where Mr. M’Kinlay recounted the various provisions in Sir Within’s last will, and the desire expressed by him to append a codicil.

“He wants, my dear Miss Courtenay,” said he, warming with his theme – “he wants to make a sort of provision for this girl he called his ward – Miss Luttrell, he styles her; a project, of course, to which I have no right to offer objection, unless proposed in the manner in which I heard it, and maintained on such grounds as Sir Within was pleased to uphold it.”

“And what were these, pray?” said she, softly.

“It will tax your gravity if I tell you, Miss Courtenay,” said he, holding his handkerchief to his mouth, as though the temptation to laugh could not be repressed. “I assure you it tried me sorely when I heard him.”

“I have much control over my feelings, Sir. Go on.”

“You’ll scarce believe me, Miss Courtenay. I’m certain you’ll think me romancing.”

“I hope I form a very different estimate of your character, Sir.”

“‘Well,’ said he, ‘I should like you to make a codicil, to include a bequest to Miss Luttrell; because, in the event of my marrying’ – don’t laugh, Miss Courtenay; on my honour he said it – ‘in the event of my marrying, it would be more satisfactory that this matter were previously disposed of.’”

“Well, Sir!” said she; and, short as that speech was, it banished every mirthful emotion out of Mr. M’Kinlay’s heart, and sent a cold thrill through him.

“It was not the thought of providing for this young lady made me laugh, Miss Courtenay; far from it. I thought it laudable, very laudable; indeed, if certain stories were to be believed, Sir Within was only just, not generous. What amused me was the pretext, the possible event of his marrying. It was that which overcame me completely.”

“And to which, as you say, you offered strenuous objection?”

“No, Miss Conrtenay. No. Nothing of the kind. I objected to entertain the question of altering the will, accompanied as the request was by what I could not help regarding as symptoms of a wandering, incoherent intellect.”

“What do you mean, Sir? Do you intend to insinuate that Sir Within Wardle is insane? Is that your meaning?”

“I should certainly say his mind is verging on imbecility. I don’t think the opinion will be disputed by any one who sat at table with him to-day.”

“I declare, Sir, you amaze me!” cried she, in a voice of terror. “You amaze and you frighten me. Are there any others of us in whom you detect incipient madness? Did you remark any wildness in my sister’s eyes, or any traits of eccentricity in my mother’s manner? To common, vulgar apprehensions – to my brother’s and my own – Sir Within was most agreeable to-day. We thought him charming in those little reminiscences of a life where, be it remembered, the weapons are not the coarse armour of every-day society, but the polished courtesies that Kings and Princes deal in. I repeat, Sir, to our notions his anecdotes and illustrations were most interesting.”

Mr. M’Kinlay stood aghast. What could have brought down upon him this avalanche of indignation and eloquence? Surely in his remark on that old man’s imbecility he could not be supposed to insinuate anything against the sanity of the others! His first sensation was that of terror; his second was anger. He was offended – “sorely hurt,” he would have called it – to be told that in a matter of social usage, in what touched on conventionalities, he was not an efficient testimony.