Luttrell Of Arran

“I am aware, fully aware, Miss Courtenay,” said he, gravely, “that Sir Within’s society is not my society; that neither our associations, our topics, or our ways of life, are alike; but, on a question which my professional opinion might determine – and such a question might well arise – I will say that there are few men at the English Bar would be listened to with more deference.”

“Fiddle-faddle, Sir! We have nothing to do with the Bar or Barristers, here. I have a great esteem for you – we all have – and I assure you I can give no better proof of it than by promising that I will entirely forget this conversation – every word of it.”

She waved her hand as she said “By-by!” and flitted rather than walked away, leaving Mr. M’Kinlay in a state of mingled shame and resentment that perfectly overwhelmed him.

For the honour of his gallantry I will not record the expressions with which he coupled her name; they were severe – they were even unprofessional; but he walked the garden alone till a late hour of the evening, and when Sir Gervais went at last in search of him, he refused to come in to tea, alleging much preoccupation of mind, and hinting that an urgent demand for his presence in London might possibly – he was not yet quite certain – oblige him to take a very hurried leave of his kind hosts.

In fact, Mr. M’Kinlay was in the act of determining with himself the propriety of a formal demand for Miss Courtenay in marriage, and endeavouring to make it appear that he “owed it to himself,” but, in reality, was almost indifferent as to the upshot. There are such self-delusions in the lives of very shrewd men when they come to deal with women, and in the toils of one of these we leave him.

CHAPTER LXVIII. TRUSTFULNESS

Perhaps the night brought reflection; at all events, Mr. M’Kinlay had so far recovered himself, that he came down to breakfast with a smile on his face and a mass of fresh-opened letters in his hand, with whose contents he purposed to amuse the company.

Miss Courtenay’s manner was so kind, so actually cordial, too, that he felt perfectly reassured on the score of their last interview; and as Sir Within was not present – he never made his appearance till late in the afternoon – all went on pleasantly and well.

Giving the precedence to “fashionable intelligence,” Mr. M’Kinlay related how certain great people were about to marry certain other great people, with intimations as to the settlements, and, in some cases, a minute account of the costly presents to the bride – all circumstances which, somehow, seem to have their interest for every age, and class, and condition of humanity. Some of these were known to Vyner, and he asked about them with eagerness. Grenfell knew none of them except by name, but he spoke of them with all the confidence of an old and intimate friend. Of the “men,” without using their titles; of the “women,” as dear Lady Fanny, or that charming little Lady Grace. So that hearing him was actually imbibing an atmosphere of aristocracy, inhaling the Peerage at every respiration.

“What is the large packet with all the seals on it, Mr. M’Kinlay?” asked Georgina. “It has been torturing my curiosity in the most painful manner these last ten minutes.”

“This, my dear Miss Courtenay,” said he, laying his hand on a somewhat bulky parcel, “is not for me, though it came under cover to my address. It is for Sir Within Wardle, in a lady’s handwriting.”

“I think I know the hand,” said Miss Courtenay, as she bent her head over it.

“Of course you do, Aunt Georgy. It is Kate’s. Nobody ever made those dear little round symbols but herself. It is the very prettiest writing in the world.”

“By the way,” said Mr. M’Kinlay, searching amongst the papers before him, “there is something here – I just glanced at it – from that young lady. Ay, here it is! You know, Sir Gervais, that you instructed me to write to the land agents of the late Mr. Luttrell, and inform them of your intention to confirm the deed of gift of the lodge in Donegal on Miss Luttrell; in consequence of which I wrote to Messrs. Cane and Carter, and here is their reply. But perhaps I had better keep these business matters for another opportunity?”

“Not at all. We are all friends here, and all about equally interested in these affairs,” said Sir Gervais. “Go on.”

Mr. M’Kinlay mumbled over, in an indistinct tone, something that sounded like an apology for not having more promptly answered his late communication. “‘It was only yesterday,’” he read aloud, “‘that we were in receipt of Miss Luttrell’s reply. The young lady refuses to accept of the property in question. She declines to admit that it had been at any time in the possession of her family, and desires me, while expressing her deep sense of gratitude, to explain that, associated as the spot is to her with a great calamity, it never could be an object of her desire or ambition.’”

“She refers to that scrimmage where her old grandfather killed a man,” said Grenfell, stirring his tea. “Really I fancied they took these things much easier in Ireland.”

“Don’t you see that the young lady is of the exalted school? Not to say that, as she always gambled for a high stake, she can’t abide low play.”

This bitter speech Georgina addressed directly to Grenfell, as the one person in the company adapted to comprehend it. He nodded and smiled a perfect acquiescence with her, and Mr. M’Kinlay read on:

“‘For your own guidance, therefore, as well as Sir Gervais Vyner’s – if you should desire to make the communication to him – I may remark, that any further insistance on this project would be perfectly ineffectual. Everything I have seen of Miss Luttrell has shown her to be a person of most inflexible will, and a determination far beyond the common. This will be apparent to you when you hear that she is equally resolved to make over the Arran estate, bequeathed to her by her late uncle, to the present Mr. Luttrell, leaving herself, as I may say, totally penniless and unprovided for.’”

“What a noble-hearted, generous girl!” cried Vyner.

“The dear, high-hearted Kate!” murmured Ada.

“A most artful, designing minx!” whispered Georgina to Grenfell; “but I suspect that her scheme will not have the success she anticipates.”

“‘Of course,’” read on M’Kinlay, “‘I mention the last in perfect confidence to you.’”

“Oh, of course!” broke in Georgina, “my dear Mr. M’Kinlay; the very first trait I discover in myself of angelic self-devotion, I’ll certainly impart it to you under the seal of inviolable secresy. Mind, therefore, that you tell nobody what a mine of goodness, of charity, and self-denial I am.”

Mr. M’Kinlay bowed an acquiescence, not aware in the least to what he was acceding, so overcome was he by the astounding assurance that the world contained one creature who refused to accept a legacy or avail herself of a gift.

“I am such a poor, weak-minded, vacillatory being myself,” said Georgina, still turning to Grenfell as most likely to appreciate her meaning, “that I really feel terrified in the presence of these great-souled creatures, who refuse to be stirred by the common motives of humanity.”

“The girl must be a fool!” muttered M’Kinlay, with his eyes fixed on a postscript of Cane’s letter – “a perfect fool!” But, without explaining why he thought so, he bundled up his papers, and hurried away.

“What is the mysterious parcel? I am dying to know the content» of it,” said Georgina, as she stood at a window with Grenfell.

“I think I could guess,” said he, slowly.

“You think you could guess! And you have the coolness to tell me this, seeing all the tortures of my curiosity!”

“It is by the shape of the packet that I am disposed to believe I know what is in it.”

“Pray tell me! Do tell me!” said she, entreatingly.

“I don’t think I can. I don’t think I ought. I mean,” said be, in a more apologetic tone – “I mean, it is not my secret. It is another’s – that is, if my guess be the right one.”

“And you have the courage to heighten my eagerness by all this preamble! Why, my dear Mr. Grrenfell, they told me, that of all the men about town, none knew women as you did!”

“Who told you that?” asked he, eagerly.

“Scores of people.” And she quoted at random the most distinguished names of her acquaintance, every syllable of their high-sounding titles falling on Grenfell’s ear with a cadence perfectly enthralling. “Come, now,” said she, with a look of entreaty, “don’t worry me any longer. You see I know more than one half of the secret, if it be a secret, already; from whom it comes, and to whom it is addressed.”

“I am in your hands,” said he, in a tone of submission. “Come out into the garden, and I’ll tell you all I know.”

Georgina accepted his arm as he spoke, and they passed out into a shady alley that led down to the sea.

“If I be right,” said he, “and I’d go the length of a wager that I am, the packet you saw on the breakfast-table contains one of the most costly ornaments a woman ever wore. It was a royal present on the wedding-day of Sir Within Wardles mother, and sent by him to fulfil the same office to Miss Luttrell on becoming Mrs. Ladarelle.”

“You know this!” said she, in a slow, collected tone.

“I know it because he sent me to his gem-room at Dalradern to fetch it. He opened the casket in my presence, he showed me the jewels, he explained to me the peculiar setting. Emeralds on one side, opals on the other, so as to present two distinct suites of ornaments. I remember his words, and how his lips trembled as he said, ‘Ladies in these times were wont to turn their necklaces, now they only change their affections!’ You’d scarcely believe it, Miss Conrtenay, but it is fact, positive fact, the poor old man had been in love with her.”

“I certainly cannot stretch my credulity to that extent, Mr. Grenfell,” said she, with a shade of vexation in her voice, “though I could readily believe how an artful, unprincipled girl, with a field all her own, could manage to ensnare a most gentle, confiding nature into a degree of interest for her, that she would speedily assume to be a more tender feeling. And was the casket sent to her, Mr. Grenfell?” asked she, in a suddenly altered tone.

“Yes, I enclosed it, with an inscription dictated by Sir Within himself.”

“And she sends it back to him?” said she, pondering oyer each word as though it were charged with a deep significance.

“It would seem so.”

“I think you guess why. I am certain, if I have not taken a very wrong measure of Mr. Grenfell’s acuteness, that he reads this riddle pretty much as I do myself.”

“It is by no means improbable,” said Grenfell, who quickly saw the line her suspicions had taken. “I think it very likely the same interpretation has occurred to each of us.”

“Give me yours,” said she, eagerly.

“My reading is this,” replied he: “she has returned his present on the ground that, not being Mrs. Ladarelle, she has no claim to it. The restitution serving to show at the same moment a punctilious sense of honour, and, what she is fully as eager to establish, the fact that, being still unmarried, there is nothing to prevent Sir Within himself from a renewal of his former pretensions.”