“She’s worse, Sir,” whispered the woman, as she crossed the threshold of her door, and exchanged a word with her daughter. “Biddy says she’s clean out of her mind now—listen to that! The Lord have mercy on us!”
It was a wild scream rang through the house, followed by a burst of fearful laughter.
“Ask her if she’ll see me,” said O’Rorke, in a low voice.
“That’s O’Rorke’s voice!” Kate cried out from the top of the stairs. “Let him come up. I want to see him. Come up!” She leaned over the railing of the stairs as she spoke, and even O’Rorke was horror-struck at the ashy paleness of her face, and a fearful brilliancy that shone in her eyes. “It’s a very humble place, Mr. O’Rorke, I am obliged to receive you in,” said she, with a strange smile, as he entered; “but I have only just arrived here, you see I have not even changed my dress; pray sit down, if you can find a chair; all is in disorder here—and, would you believe it?”—here her manner became suddenly earnest, and her voice dropped to a whisper—“would you believe it? my maid has never come to me, never asked me if I wanted her since I came. It’s getting dark, too, and must be late.”
“Listen to me, now, Miss Kate,” said he, with a touch almost of pity in his voice, “listen to me. You’re not well, you’re tired and exhausted, so I’ll send the woman of the house to you, and get to bed, and I’ll find out a doctor to order you something.”
“Yes, I should like to see a doctor; that kind person I saw before, Sir Henry something—what was it? You will see it in the Court Guide—he attends the Queen.”
“To be sure, to be sure, we’ll have the man that attends the Queen!” said he, giving his concurrence to what he imagined to be the fancy of an erring brain.
“And if he should ask why I am here,” added she, in a whisper, “make out some sort of excuse, but don’t mention my grandfather; these fashionable physicians are such snobs, they cannot abide visiting any but great folk. Isn’t it true?”
“Yes, dear, it is true,” said he, still humouring her.
“The fact is,” said she, in a low, confiding voice, “I may confess it to you, but the fact is, I don’t well know why I am here myself! I suppose Sir Within knows—perhaps my uncle may.” And in her vague, meaningless look might now be seen how purposeless and unguided were all her speculations. “There, go now, and send my maid to me. Tell Coles, as you pass down, he may put up the horses. I’ll not ride this evening. Do you know, I feel—it is a silly fancy, I suppose—but I feel ill; not actually ill so much as odd.”
He cast one glance, not without compassion, on her, and went out. “There’s a young woman above stairs mighty like ‘in’ for a fever,” said he to the hostess. “Get a doctor to see her as soon as you can, and I’ll be back soon to hear what he says.”
While the woman of the house, with all that kindliness which attaches to her class and nation, busied herself in cares for Kate, O’Rorke hastily made his way back to the inn.
“What is it? What called you away?” asked Ladarelle, as he entered the room.
“She’s out of her mind! that’s what it is,” said O’Rorke, as he sat down, doggedly, and filled out a bumper of sherry to rally his courage. “What with anxiety, and fatigue, and fretting, she couldn’t bear up any more, and there she is, struck down by fever and raving!”
“Poor thing!” said Ladarelle; but there was no pity in the tone, not a shade of feeling in his countenance; he said the words merely that he might say something.
“Yes, indeed! Ye may well say ‘Poor thing!’” chimed in O’Rorke; “it wouldn’t be easy to find a poorer!”
“Do you suspect the thing is serious?” said Ladarelle, with a deep interest in his manner. “Do you think her life’s in danger?”
“I do.”
“Do you really?” And now, through the anxiety in which he spoke, there pierced a trait of a most triumphant satisfaction; so palpable was it, that O’Rorke laid down the glass he had half raised to his lips, and stared at the speaker. “Don’t mistake—don’t misunderstand me!” blurted out Ladarelle, in confusion. “I wish the poor girl no ill. Why should I?”
“At any rate, you think it would be a good thing foryou!” said O’Rorke, sternly.
“Well, I must own I don’t think it would be a bad one; that is, I mean it would relieve me of a deal of anxiety, and save me no end of trouble.”
“Just so!” said O’Rorke, who, leaning his head on his hand, addressed his thoughts to the very serious question of how all these things would affect himself. Nor did it take him long to see that from the hour Ladarelle ceased to need him, all their ties were broken, and that the fashionable young gentleman who now sat at table with him in all familiarity would not deem him fit company for his valet.”
“This is the fifth time, Master O’Rorke, you have repeated the words, ‘Just so!’ Will you tell me what they refer to? What is it that is ‘just so?’”
“I was thinking of something!” said O’Rorke.
“And what was it? Let us have the benefit of your profound reflections.”
“Well, then, my profound reflections was telling me that if this girl was to die, your honour wouldn’t be very long about cutting my acquaintance, and that, maybe, this is the last time I’d have the pleasure of saying, ‘Will you pass me the wine?’”
“What are you drinking? This is Madeira,” said Ladarelle, as he pushed the decanter towards him, and affecting to mistake his meaning.
“No, Sir; I’m drinking port wine,” was the curt reply, for he saw the evasion, and resented it.
“As to that other matter—I mean as to ‘cutting you,’ O’Rorke—I don’t see it—don’t see it at all!”
“How do you mean, ‘you don’t see it?’”
“I mean it is not necessary.”
“Isn’t it likely?”
“No; certainly not.”
“Isn’t it possible, then?”
“Everything is possible in this world of debts and difficulties, but no gentleman ever thinks of throwing off the man that has stood to him in his hour of need. Is that enough?”
O’Rorke made no answer, and in the attitude of deep thought he assumed, and in his intense look of reflection, it was pretty plain that he did not deem the explanation all-sufficient. “Here’s how it is, Sir!” burst he out, suddenly. “If this girl dies, you won’t want me; and if you won’twantme, it’s very unlikely the pleasure of my society will make you come after me; so that I’d like to understand how it’s to be between us.”
“I must say, my worthy friend, everything I have seen of you goes very far to refute the popular notion abroad about Irish improvidence; for, a man so careful of himself under every contingency—one who looked to his own interests in all aspects and with all casualties—I never met before.”
“Well, Sir, you meet him now. He is here before you; and what do you say to him?” said O’Rorke, with a cool audacity that was actually startling.
It was very probably fortunate for both of them, so far as their present good relations were concerned, that an interruption took place to their colloquy in the shape of a sharp knock at the door. It was a person wanted to see Mr. O’Rorke.
“Mr. O’Rorke’s in request to-night,” said Ladarelle, mockingly, as the other left the room.
“Are you the friend of that young lady, Sir, that’s down at M’Cafferty’s?”
“Yes, I’m her friend,” was the dry answer.
“Then I’ve come to tell you she’s going fast into a fever—a brain fever, too.”
“That’s bad” muttered O’Rorke below his breath.
“One ought to know something about her—whence she came, and how she came. There are symptoms that ought to be traced to their causes, for she raves away about people and things the most opposite and unlike——”
“Are you able to cure her? that’s the question,” said O’Rorke.
“No doctor could ever promise that much yet.”
“I thought as much,” said O’Rorke, with an insolent toss of his head.
“I am willing to do my best,” said the doctor, not noticing the offensive gesture; “and if you want other advice, there’s Doctor Rogan of Westport can be had easy enough.”
“Send for him, then, and hold a consultation; her life is of consequence, mind that!”
“I may as well tell you that Doctor Rogan will require to know what may lead him to a history of her case, and he won’t treat her if there’s to be any mystery about it.”
O’Rorke’s eyes flashed, as if an insolent answer was on his lips, and then, as quickly controlling himself, said, “Go and have your consultation, and then come back here to me; but mind you ask for me—Mr. O’Rorke—and don’t speak to any one else than myself.”
The doctor took his leave, and O’Rorke, instead of returning to the room, slowly descended the stairs and strolled out into the street.
It was night; there were few about; and he had ample opportunity for a quiet commune with himself, and that species of “audit” in which a man strikes the balance of all that may beproorcontrain any line of action. He knew well he was on dangerous ground with Ladarelle. It needed not an intelligence sharp as his own to show that a deep mistrust existed between them, and that each only waited for an opportunity to shake himself free of the other. “If I was to go over to the old man and tell him the whole plot, I wonder how it would be?” muttered he to himself. “I wonder would he trust me? and, if he was to trust me, how would he pay me? that’s the question—how would he pay me?” The quiet tread of feet behind him made him turn at this moment. It was the waiter of the inn coming to tell him that the post had just brought two letters to the gentleman he had dined with, and he wished to see him at once.
“Shut |he door—turn the key in it,” said Ladarelle, as O’Rorke entered. “Here’s something has just come by the mail. I knew you’d blunder about those letters,” added he, angrily; “one has reached Luttrell already, and, for aught I know, another may have come to hand since this was written. There, there, what’s the use of your excuses. You promised me the thing should be done, and it was not done. It does not signify a brass farthing to me to know why. You’re very vain of your Irish craft and readiness, and yet I tell you, if I had entrusted this to my fellow Fisk, Cockney as he is, I’d not have been disappointed.”
“Very like,” said O’Rorke, sullenly; “he’s more used to dirty work than I am.”
Ladarelle had just begun to run his eyes over one of the letters when he heard these words, and the paper shook in his hand with passion, and the colour came and went in his face, but he still affected to read on, and never took his gaze from the letter. At last he said, in a shaken voice, which all his efforts could not render calm, “This is a few lines from Fisk, enclosing a letter from Luttrell for Sir Within. Fisk secured it before it reached its destination.”
To this insinuated rebuke O’Rorke made no rejoinder, and, after a pause, the other continued: “Fisk says little, but it is all to the purpose. He has reduced every day to a few lines in journal fashion, so that I know what goes on at Dalradern as if I were there myself.”
O’Rorke kept an unbroken silence, and Ladarelle went on: “The day you left the Castle, Sir Within wrote to Calvert and Mills, his solicitors, and despatched by post a mass of documents and parchments. The next day he wrote to Mr. Luttrell of Arran, posting the letter himself as he drove through Wrexham.”
“That letter was the one I stopped at Westport,” broke in O’Rorke.
“I suppose it was. Fisk writes: ‘The servants all remarked a wonderful change had come over Sir W.; he gave orders through the house as if he expected company, and seemed in such spirits as he had not been for months. Next morning very anxious for the post to come in, and greatly disappointed at not seeing some letter he expected. The late post brought a letter from Mills to say he would be down by the morning’s mail—that the matter presented no difficulty whatever, and was exactly as Sir Within represented it.’ Fisk managed to read this and re-seal it before it got to hand; that’s what I call a smart scoundrel!”
“So he is—every inch of one!” was O’Rorke’s rejoinder.
“Here he continues,” said Ladarelle: “‘Thursday—No letter, nor any tidings of Mills. Sir Within greatly agitated. Post-horses ordered for Chester, and countermanded. All sorts of contradictory commands given during the day. The upholsterers have arrived from town, but told not to take down the hangings, nor do anything till to-morrow. Mr. Grenfell called, but not admitted; a message sent after him to ask him to dinner to-morrow; he comes. Friday—Arrived at Wrexham. As the mail came in, saw Mr. Mills order horses for Dalradern; waited for the post delivery, and secured the enclosed. No time for more, as the Irish mail leaves in an hour.’
“Now for Luttrell. Let’s see his side in the correspondence,” said Ladarelle, breaking the seal; “though perhaps I know it as well as if I read it.”
“You do not,” said the other, sturdily.
“What do you mean by ‘I do not?’”
“I suspect I know what you’re thinking of; and it’s just this—that John Luttrell is out of himself with joy because that old fool’s in love with his niece.”
“He might well be what you call out of himself with joy if he thought she was to be mistress of Dalradern.”
“It’s much you know him,” said O’Rorke, with an insolent mockery in his voice and look. “A Luttrell of Arran wouldn’t think a Prince of the Blood too good for one belonging to him. Laugh away, laugh away; it’s safe to do it here, for John Luttrell’s on the island beyand.”
“You are about the most——”
“The most what? Say it out. Surely you ain’t afraid to finish your sentence, Sir?”
“I find it very hard, Mr. O’Rorke, to conduct an affair to its end in conjunction with one who never omits an occasion to say, or at least insinuate, a rudeness.”
“Devil a bit of insinuation aboutme. Whatever I have to say, I say it out, in the first words that come to me; and I’m generally pretty intelligible too. And now, if it’s the same thing to you, what was it you were going to call me? I was the most—something or other—what was it?”
“I’ll tell you whatIam,” said Ladarelle, with a bitter grin—“about the most patient man that ever breathed.”
Neither spoke for some time, and then Ladarelle opened the letter he still held in his hand, and began to read it.
“Well,” cried he, “of all the writing I ever encountered, this is the most illegible; and not merely that, but there are words erased and words omitted, and sentences left unfinished, or finished with a dash of the pen.”
“Are you going to read it out?” asked O’Rorke; and in his voice there rang something almost like a command, for the man’s native insolence grew stronger at every new conflict, and with the impression—well or ill-founded—that the other was afraid of him.
“I’ll try what I can do,” said Ladarelle, repressing his irritation. “It is dated St. Finbar’s, 16th:
“‘Sir,—I know nothing of your letter of the 12th instant. If I ever received, I have forgotten and mislaid it. I answered yours of the 9th, and hoped I had done with this correspondence. I have seen your name in the newspapers, and have been’—have been, I suppose it is—‘accustomed’—yes, accustomed—‘to look on you as a person in high employ, and worthy of the’—here the word is left out—‘who employed him. If, however, you be, as you state, in your’—this may be a nine or seven, I suppose it is seven—‘in your seventy-fourth year, your proposal to a girl of twenty is little short of———’ Another lapse; I wish we had his word, it was evidently no compliment. ‘That is, however, more your question than mine. Such follies as these ask for no comment; they usually——— And well it is it should be so.
“‘Fortune, however, befriends you more than your own foresight. It is your good luck rescues you from this———- She has left this—gone away—desertedme, as she once desertedyou, and would in all likelihood when sorry— insolent airs of your connexions — to resent unpardonable. Without you are as bereft as myself, you must surely have— relations, of whom— choice — and certainly more suitable than one whose age and decrepitude might in pity and compassion sentiment.
“‘But she is gone! Warning is, therefore, needless. You cannot if you would this folly. She is gone—and on a bed of sickness, to which the only hope—and that speedily.
“‘If — by such— hurt you.’”
“Line after line had been here erased and re-written, but all illegibly; nor was it, till after long puzzling and exploring, the last words could be made out to be: “‘All further interchange of letters is a task beyond my strength. It is all said when I write, She is gone, no more to nor would I now—— A few hours more—I pray not days.
“‘Faithful servant,
“‘H. LUTTRELL.’
“It’s clearhe’llhave no more correspondence,” said Ladarelle, with a half triumphant manner, as he closed the letter.
“And the other? What will the other do?”
“Do you mean Sir Within?”
“Yes.”
“It’s not easy to say. It seems plain we’re not to expect anything very sensible from him. He is determined to make a fool of himself, and it only remains to see how he is to do it.”
“And how do you think it will be?” In spite of himself, O’Rorke threw into his question that amount of eagerness that showed how much interest he felt in the-matter. Ladarelle was quick enough to see this, and turned his eyes full upon him, and thus they stood for nigh half a minute, each steadfastly staring at the other. “Well! do you see anything very wonderful in my face that you look so hard at me?” asked O’Rorke.
“I do.”
“‘And what is it, if I might make so bowld?”
“I see a man who doubts how far he’ll go on the road he was paid to travel—that’s what I see!”
“And do you know why?” rejoined O’Rorke, defiantly. “Do you know why?”
“No.”
“Then I’ll tell you! It’s because the man that was to show me the way hasn’t the courage to do it! There’s the whole of it. You brought me over here, telling me one thing, and now you’re bent on another! and to-morrow, if anything cheaper turns up, you’ll be forthat. Is it likely that I’d risk myself far with a man that doesn’t know his own mind, or trust his own courage?”
“I suppose I understand my own affairs best!”
“Well! that’s what I think aboutmine, too.”
Ladarelle took an impatient turn or two up and down the room before he spoke, and it was easy to see that he was exerting himself to the very utmost to be calm. “If this girl’s flight from Arran has served us in one way, her illness has just done us as much harm in another—I mean, of course, if she should not die—-because my venerable relation is just as much determined to marry her as ever he was. Are you attending to me?”
“To every word, Sir,” said O’Rorke, obsequiously; and, indeed, it was strangely like magnetism the effect produced upon him, when Ladarelle assumed the tone and manner of a superior.
“I want to have done with the business, then, at once,” continued Ladarelle. “Find out from the doctor—and find it out accurately—what are her chances of life. If she is likely to live, learn how soon she could be removed from this, and whither to, as Sir Within is sure to trace her to this place. As soon as possible, we must manage some sort of mock marriage, for I believe it is the only sure way of stopping this old man in his folly. Now, I leave it toyouto contrive the plan for this. There’s another demand for you. See who is at the door.”
“Mr. O’Rorke is wanted at M’Cafferty’s,” said a voice outside.
“I’ll be back in a few minutes, Sir.”
“Well, I shall go to bed, and don’t disturb me if there be nothing important to tell me. Order breakfast for ten to-morrow, and let me see you there.”
O’Rorke bowed respectfully, and went out.
“I’d give fifty pounds to hear that you had broken your neck on the staircase!” muttered Ladarelle, as he saw the door close; “and I’d give a hundred had I never seen you!”
In the grand old dining-room of Dalradern Castle, Sir Within was seated with his guest, Mr. Grenfell. The ample wood-fire on the hearth, the costly pictures on the walls, the table covered with decanters and flasks of various forms, the ample old chairs in which they lounged, suggested luxurious ease and enjoyment; and perhaps Grenfell, as he smoked his cigar, in accordance with the gracious permission of his host,didfeel that it was a supreme moment of life; while certainly he, to whom all the precious appliances belonged, was ill at ease and uncomfortable, answering occasionally at random, and showing in many ways that his mind was deeply and far from pleasantly preoccupied.
Grenfell had been some days at the Castle, and liked his quarters. There were, it is true, many things he wished changed; some of them, he fancied, could be altered by a little adroit diplomacy with the butler and the housekeeper, and other heads of departments; others, of a more serious kind, he reserved to be dealt with when the time should come that he would be regarded in that house as little less than a master. He had weighed the matter carefully with himself, and determined that it was better to stand by Sir Within, old as he was, than to depend on the friendship of young Ladarelle, whose innate vulgarity would have made all companionship irksome, and whose inveterate obstinacy would have made guidance impossible.
The house had, indeed, great capabilities, and, with Sir Within’s means, might be made all that one could wish for. With the smallest imaginable addition to the household, thirty, ay, forty guests could be easily accommodated, and he, Grenfell, knew of such delightful people—such charming people—who would be in ecstasies to stop at a house where there was no mistress, where no return civilities were wanted, where each guest might be a law to himself as to his mode of life, and where the cellar was immaculate, and the cook better than at the Travellers’.
“If I could only get him out of this stupid isolation—if I could persuade him that all England is not like a Welsh county, and that this demure neighbourhood, with its antiquated prudery, has no resemblance to the charming world of seductive sinners I could bring around him, what a victory it would be!” To this end the first grand requisite was, that the old man should not marry. “If he marry,” argued Grenfell, “he will be so deplorably in love, that what between his passion and his jealousy, he’ll shut up the house, and nothing younger than the old French abbé will ever cross the threshold.”
Now Grenfell had not of late kept up any relations of intercourse with Ladarelle; indeed, in his life in town, he had avoided intimacy with one all whose associates were evidently taken from the lowest ranks of the turf, and the slang set of second-rate theatres. Grenfell could not, consequently, know what plan of campaign this promising young gentleman was following out; but when he learned that it was quite suddenly he had quitted the Castle, and that his servant, Mr. Fisk, had been left behind, he very soon established such a watch on the accomplished valet’s movements as satisfied him that he was there on duty as a spy, and that his daily visits to the post-office signified how industriously he despatched his intelligence. At first, Grenfell was disposed to make advances to Fisk, and win his confidence—a task not difficult to one whose whole life had been a series of such seductions; but he subsequently thought it might be better to hold himself quite aloof from all intercourse with the younger branch, and stand firmly by the head of the dynasty. “If Ladarelle be really gone after, this girl, to marry her, or to run off with her, it matters not which, he is playingmygame. All I ask is, that Sir Within be not the bridegroom. If the shock of the disaster should not overwhelm him, there is nothing else to be dreaded.” There, indeed, lay the great peril; nor was Grenfell a man to undervalue it. In his contempt for all emotions, he naturally ascribed their strongest influences to those whose age had weakened their faculties and impaired their judgments. Love was a folly with the young; but with the old, it was the stupidest of all infatuations, and the reckless way in which an old man would resign fortune, station, and the whole world’s opinion on such an issue, was, tohisthinking, the strongest possible evidence of second childhood.
“If I could make him feel the ridiculous part of the calamity, he would gain courage to brave the disaster,” thought he. And while he thus thought he smoked on in silence, neither uttering a word.
“Nine o’clock!” said Sir Within, as he counted the strokes of the timepiece. “Nine, and the post not in!”
“How easily one takes the delay of the mail when ‘the House’ is up,” said Grenfell, purposely saying what might possibly suggest some sort of dissent or opinion; but the old diplomatist had been too well schooled to fall into such indiscretion, and simply said, “It is true, we all hibernate when the autumn begins.”
Grenfell saw that his shell had not exploded, and began to talk at random about how much pleasanter it was to have one’s post of a morning—that letters should always come in with the eggs at breakfast—that people exchanged their gossip more genially then than at any other time; and, at last, arrived at what he sought to portray, the tableau of a charming party in a delightful country-house, “The best thing we have in England; and, indeed, the best thing the world has anywhere.”
“I quite agree with you,” said Sir Within, blandly. And he wiped the beautiful miniature of Marie Antoinette that adorned the lid of his snuff-box, and gazed with admiration at the lovely features.
“I fancy they know very little abroad of what we call country-house life?” half asked Grenfell.
“They have their gatherings at ‘the chateau’ in France; and in Italy they have their villégiatura———Ah, there he comes; I hear the clank of the post-bag!” He caught himself quickly, and resumed: “I rather like the villégiatura; there is not much trouble taken to entertain you, but you are free to dispose of yourself how you like. What has kept him so late, Fry?” said he, as the butler entered with the bag; “take it up to my room.”
“Oh, let us hear who has won the Cantelupe!” said Grenfell. “I have backed Grimsby’s horse, Black Ruin, at three to eight against the field.”
“Here’s the key, then,” said Sir Within, with well feigned indifference.
As Grenfell emptied the contents of the bag on the table, a square-shaped, somewhat-heavy packet fell to the floor, at Sir Within’s feet. The old man lifted it up and laid it on the table, but, on doing so, his hand trembled, and his colour changed.
“What about your race—has your horse won?” asked he, as Grenfell turned over the paper to find the sporting intelligence. “Oh, here it is—a dead heat between Black Ruin and Attila. Why, he’s Grimsby’s also. ‘Second heat, Attila walked over.’ What a sell! I see there’s a long letter about it from the correspondent; shall I read it for you?”
“By all means,” said Sir Within, not sorry to give him any occupation at the moment that might screen himself from all scrutiny.
“‘The long-expected match between Lord St. Dunstan’s well-known Carib Chief and Mr. Grimsby’s Black Ruin—for, in reality, the large field of outsiders, fourteen in number, might as well have been cantering over an American savannah—took place yesterday.’” He read on and on—the fluent common-places—about the course crowded with rank and fashion, amongst whom were noticed the usual celebrities of the turf, and was getting to the description of the scene at the weighing stand, when a dull, heavy sound startled him. He looked down, and saw that Sir Within had fallen from his chair to the floor, and lay stretched and motionless, with one arm across the fender.
476
Lifting him up, Grenfell carried him to a sofa. His face and forehead were crimson, and a strange sound came from the half-open lips, like a faint whistle. “This is apoplexy,” muttered Grenfell; and he turned to ring the bell and summon aid, but, as he did so, he perceived that several papers lay on the floor, and the envelope of a recently-opened packet amongst them. “Ha, here is what has done it!” muttered he to himself; and he held a square-shaped piece of coarse paper to the light and read the following, written in a bold, irregular hand:
“‘I, Paul O’Rafferty, P.P. of Drumcahill and Ardmorran, hereby certify that I have this day united in the bonds of holy matrimony, Adolphus Ladarelle, Esq., of Upper Portland-street, London, and the “Downs,” in Herefordshire, to Kate Luttrell, niece and sole heiress of John Hamilton Luttrell, Esq., of Arran; and that the ceremony was duly performed according to the rights and usages of the Holy Catholic Church, and witnessed by those whose names are attached to this document.
“‘Jane M’Cafferty, her mark X.
“‘Timothy O’Rorke, of Cush-ma-Creena.
“‘Given on this eighteenth of November, 18—.’”
Grenfell had not time to look at the other papers, for he heard a step in the corridor, and, thrusting them hastily into his pocket, he rang the bell violently, nor desisted till the door opened, and Mr. Fisk appeared.
“Call the people here—send for a doctor!” cried Grenfell. “Sir Within has been taken with a fit.”
“A fit, Sir! Indeed, how very dreadful,” said Fisk; but who, instead of hurrying off to obey the order, walked deliberately over and stared at the sick man. “He’ll not come round, Sir, take my word for it, Mr. Grenfell. It’s no use doing anything—it’s all up.”
“Go, send for a doctor at once,” said Grenfell, angrily.
“I assure you, Sir, it’s too late,” said the impassive valet, as he left the room in the same slow and measured pace he had entered.
Several servants, however, rushed now to answer the bell, which Grenfell rang unceasingly, and by them Sir Within was carried to his room, while messengers were despatched in all directions for medical aid. Once alone in his own room, and with the door locked, Grenfell re-read the document which had caused the disaster. He was not one of those men who suffer from the pangs of conscience on ordinary occasions, but he had his misgivings here that a certain piece of counsel he had once given might just as well have been withheld. If the shock should kill the old man, it would defeat all that policy to which he had been of late devoting himself. Young Ladarelle would have learned from Fisk enough about his, Grenfell’s, influence with Sir Within to shut the doors against him when he had succeeded to the estate. These were painful reflections, and made him think that very probably he had “been backing the wrong stable.”
“Is the fellow really married?” muttered he, as he sat examining the paper. “This document does not seem to me very formal. It is not like the copy of a registry, and, if the marriage were duly solemnised, why is it not stated where it took place?”
He turned to the long letter which accompanied the certificate. It was from Ladarelle, half apologetically, announcing his marriage, and stating that the intelligence could doubtless only prove gratifying to Sir Within, since the object of his choice had so long been the recipient of so many favours from Sir Within himself, and one whose gratitude had already cemented the ties of relationship which bound her to the family. It was long and common-place throughout, and bore to the keen eyes of him who read it the evidence of being written to sustain a fraud.
“There has been no marriage,” said Grenfell, as he closed the letter. “She has been duped and tricked, but how, and to what extent, I know not. If I were to send for Fisk, and tell him that I had just received this letter from his master, the fellow might accord me his confidence, and tell me everything.”
He rang the bell at once, but, when the servant answered the summons, he said that Mr. Fisk had left the Castle with post-horses half an hour before, it was supposed for town.
Ladarelle’s letter finished by saying, “We are off to Paris, where we remain, Hôtel Grammont, Rue Royale, till the 30th; thence we shall probably go south—not quite certain where.”
“No, no, there has been no marriage—not even a mock one. All these details are far too minute and circumstantial, and these messages of ‘my dear wife’ are all unreal. But what can it matter? If the old man should only rally, it is all for the best.”
A knock came to the door. It was Doctor Price. “All is going on favourably. It was shock—only shock of the nervous system—nothing paralytic,” said he; “and he is more concerned to know that his face was not bruised, nor his hands scratched, than anything else. He wishes to see you immediately.”
“Is it quite prudent to go and talk to him just yet?”
“Better than render him irritable by refusing to see him. You will, of course, use your discretion on the topic you discuss with him.”
Grenfell was soon at the sick man’s bedside, none but themselves in the room.
“We are alone, are we?” asked Sir Within, faintly.
“Quite alone.”
“Yates says there were no letters or papers to be found when he entered the room——”
“I placed them all in my pocket,” interrupted Grenfell. “There were so many people about, and that fellow of young Ladarelle’s too, that I thought it best not to leave anything at their mercy.”
“It was very kind and very thoughtful. Where are they?”
“Here. I sealed them up in their own envelope.”
The old man took the paper with a trembling hand, and placed it under his pillow. He had little doubt but that they had been read—his old experiences in diplomacy gave no credit to any sense of honour on this head—but he said not a word of this.
“Adolphus has married the girl you saw here—my ward, he used to call her,” said he, in a low whisper.
“Indeed! Is it a good match? Has she fortune?”
“Not a shilling. Neither fortune nor family.”
“Then you are not pleased with the connexion?”
Sir Within drew a long sigh, and said: “It is no affair of mine. His father will, perhaps, not like it.”
“How did it come about? Where did it take place?”
“Nothing—nothing but misery before her!” muttered the old man, unheeding his question.
“Do you think he will treat her ill?”
“A life of sorrow—of sorrow and shame!” murmured he, still lower. “Poor girl!—poor unhappy girl!”
Grenfell was silent, and the other, after a pause, went on:
“His father is sure to be displeased; he is a violent man, too, and one can’t say to what lengths temper may carry him. And all this will fall uponher!”
“Do you think so?”
“I know him well!” He mused for several minutes, and then said to himself: “I could not—I could not—not for worlds!” And then aloud: “But I could leave this—leave the Castle, and let them come here. How she loved it once! Oh, if you knew how happy she was here!” He covered his face with his hands, and lay thus a considerable time.
“And do you mean to invite them here?” asked Grenfell at last.
“You can write it for me,” said he, still pursuing his own train of thought. “You can tell him that, not being well—having some difficulty in holding a pen—I have begged of you to say that the Castle is at their disposal—that I mean to leave this—where shall I say for?—to leave this for the south of France, or Italy.”
“Are you equal to such a journey? Have you strength for it?”
“Far more than to stay here and meet her—them—meetthem,” added he, almost peevishly. “I have not health nor spirits for seeing company, and of course people will call, and there will be dinners and receptions—all things I am unfit for. Say this for me, dear Mr. Grenfell, and tell Yates that I mean to go up to town to-morrow.”
Grenfell shook his head to imply dissent, but the other resumed:
“If you knew me better, Sir, you would know that my energy never failed me when I called upon it. I have been tried pretty sorely once or twice in life, and yet no disaster has found me faint-hearted!” As he spoke, a gleam of pride lighted up his features, and he looked all that he thought himself. “Will you take this key of the gem-room,” said he, after a pause; “and in the second drawer of the large ebony cabinet you will find a green morocco-case; it has my mother’s name on it, Olivia Trevor. Do me the favour to bring it to me. This was a wedding present some eighty years ago, Mr. Grenfell,” said he, as he unclasped the casket that the other placed in his hands. “It was the fashion of those days to set gems on either side, and here you have emeralds, and here are opals. Ladies were wont to turn their necklaces in the course of an entertainment; they are content with less costly changes now: they merely change their affections.” He tried to smile, but his lips trembled, and his voice all but failed him.
“It is very magnificent!” exclaimed Grenfell, who was truly surprised at the splendour of the jewels.
“The Margravine of Anhalt’s present to my mother, Sir!” As the glow of pride the recollection imparted to his face faded away, a sickly pallor succeeded, and, in a tone of broken and difficult utterance, he said: “Be kind enough to place this in an envelope, seal it with my arms, and address it, ‘Mrs. A. Ladarelle, de la part de W. W.’ That will be quite sufficient.”
“They are splendid stones!” said Grenfell, who seemed never to weary of his admiration.
“They will become her, Sir, andshewill becomethem!” said the old man, with an immense effort to seem calm and collected. “I believe,” said he at last, with a faint smile, “I am overtaxing this poor strength of mine. Price warned me to be careful. Will you forgive me if I ask you to leave me to my own sorry company? You’ll come back in the evening, won’t you? Thanks—my best thanks!” And he smiled his most gracious smile, and made a little familiar gesture with his hand; and then as the door closed, and he felt that none saw him, he turned his face to the pillow and sobbed—sobbed convulsively.
Although Grenfell had acceded to Sir Within’s request to write the invitation to Ladarelle, he secretly determined that he would not commit himself to the step without previously ascertaining if the marriage had really taken place, because, as he said to himself, this young fellow must never get it into his head that he has deceived such a man as me. He therefore wrote a short, half jocular note, addressed to Ladarelle at his club in town, saying that he had read his letter to Sir Within, and was not one-half so much overcome by the tidings as his respected relative. “‘In fact,’ said he, ‘I have arrived at that time of life in which men believe very little of what they hear, and attach even less of importance to that little. At all events, Sir Within will not remain here; he means to go abroad at once, and Dalradern will soon be at your disposal, either to pass your honeymoon, or rejoice over your bachelor freedom in, and I offer myself as your guest under either casualty.’ The answer will show me,” muttered he, “what are to be our future relations towards each other. And now for a good sleep, as befits a man with an easy conscience.”
It was six weeks after the events in which we last saw Kate Luttrell that she was sufficiently able to rise from her sick-bed, and sit at the little window of her room. She was wan, and worn, and wasted, her eyes deep sunken, and her cheeks hollow. Beautiful was she still in all the delicate outline of her features, the finely-rounded nostril and gracefully-turned chin almost gaining by the absence of the brilliant colouring which had at one time, in a measure, absorbed all the admiration of her loveliness. Her long luxuriant hair—spared by a sort of pity by her doctor, who, in his despair of rescuing her from her fever, yielded to her raving entreaties not to cut it off—this now fell in wavy masses over her neck and shoulders, and in its golden richness rendering her pale face the semblance of marble. Each day had the doctor revealed to her some detail of what had happened during her illness: How she had been “given over,” and received the last rites of the Church; how, after this, one who called himself her brother had arrived, and insisted on seeing her; how he came with the man named O’Rorke and the priest O’Rafferty, and remained a few seconds in her room, and left, never to return again; indeed, all three of them had left the town within an hour after their visit.
She heard all this in mute amazement, nor even was she certain that her faculties yet served her aright, so strange and incomprehensible was it all. Yet she rarely asked a question, or demanded any explanation, hearing all in silence, as though hoping that with time and patience her powers of mind would enable her to surmount the difficulties that now confronted and defied her.
For days and days did she labour to remember what great event it was had first led her to this town of Lifford, the very name of which was strange to her. The same dislike to ask a question pursued her here, and she pondered and pondered over the knotty point, till at last, of a sudden, just as though the light broke instantaneously upon her, she cried out:
“I remember it all! I know it now! Has the trial come off? What tidings of my grandfather?” The poor woman to whom this was addressed imagined it was a return of her raving, and quietly brought the doctor to her side. “Are the assizes oyer?” whispered Kate in his ear.
“More than a month ago.”
“There was an old man—Malone. Is he tried?”
“The murder case?
“I was at it.”
“And the verdict?”
“The verdict was guilty, with a recommendation to mercy for his great age, and the want of premeditation in the crime.”
“Well, go on.”
“The Judge concurred, and he will not be executed.”
“He will be banished, however—banished for life,” said she, in a low, faltering voice.
“To believe himself he asks no better, he made a speech of nigh an hour in his defence, and if it had not been that at the last he attempted a sort of justification of what he had done, the Judge would not, in all probability, have charged against him; but the old fellow insisted so strongly on the point that a poor man must always look to himself and not to the law for justice, that he destroyed his case.”
“And was there not one to advise him?”
“Apparently not; and when the Chief Baron named a lawyer to defend him, the old fellow refused the aid, and said, ‘The work that’s done for nothing is worth nothing. I’ll just speak for myself.’”
“And this other man—O’Rorke, I mean—where was he?—what did he do?”
“He left this the night before the trial came on, with that young gentleman that was here.”
“Ah, he left him! Deserted him in his last need!” cried she, faintly, but with an intense agony in the tone.
“Had they been friends?” asked the doctor; but she never heard the question, and sat with her hands clasped before her, motionless and silent.
“Were you there throughout the whole trial?” asked she, at last.
“No, I was present only on the last day, and I heard his speech.”
“Tell me how he looked; was he broken or depressed?”
“The very reverse. It would have been better for him if he had looked cast down or in grief. It was too bold and too defiant he was, and this grew on him as he spoke, till, towards the end of his speech, he all but said, ‘I dare you to find me guilty!’”
“The brave old man!” muttered she below her breath.
“When the crowd in the court cheered him, I knew what would happen. No Judge in the land could have said a word for him after that.”
“The brave old man!” mattered she again.
“It seemed at one time he was going to call witnesses to character, and he had a list of them in his hand, but he suddenly changed his mind, and said, ‘No, my Lord, whatever you’re going to do with me this day, I’ll do my best to meet it, but I won’t make any one stand up here, and have the shame to say he knows a man that the mere turn of a straw might send to the gallows!’”
“Did he say that?” cried she, wildly.
“He did; and he looked at the jury all the while, as though to say, ‘Take care what you do; it’s a man’s life is on it!’”
“Did he ever mention my name? Did he ask for any one in particular, did you hear?” asked she, faintly.
“No; but before he began his speech he looked all over the court for full five minutes or more, as if in search of some one, and even motioned some people in the gallery to stand aside that he might see better, and then he drew a long breath—either disappointment or relief; it might be either.”
“‘How could they have the heart to say guilty?” said she.
“There was no other word to say. They were on their oaths, and so the Judge told them, and the whole country was looking at them.”
“And where is he now?” asked she, eagerly.
“All the prisoners for transportation have been sent on to Dublin. They’ll not leave the country before spring.”
She hid her head between her hands, and sat for a long time without speaking. At last she raised her face, and her eyes were red with weeping, and her cheeks furrowed.
“Doctor,” said she, plaintively, “have I strength enough to go to him?”
He shook his head mournfully, in token of dissent.
“Am I too ill?”
“You are too weak, my poor child; you have not strength for such a journey.”
“But I have great courage, doctor, and I can bear far more fatigue than you would think.”
He shook his head again.
“You do not know,” said she, in a low but earnest voice, “that I was reared in hardship, brought up in want, and cold, and misery. Ay, and I have never forgotten it!”
He smiled; it was half in compassion, half in disbelief.
“Do you know me?—do you know who I am?” asked she, eagerly.
“I know it all, my poor child—I know it all,” said he, sadly.
“Know it all! What does your phrase mean? How all?”
He arose, but she grasped his hand with both hers’, and held him fast.
“You shall not leave this till you have answered me!” cried she. “Is it not enough that I am sick and friendless? Why should you add the torture of doubt to such misery as mine? Tell me, I beseech you—I entreat of you, tell me what you have heard of me! I will deny nothing that is true!”
He pleaded warmly at first to be let off altogether, and then to be allowed further time—some period when she had grown to be stronger and better able to bear what he should have to tell her. Her entreaties only became more urgent, and she at last evinced such excitement, that, in terror lest a return of her brain fever might be feared, he yielded, promising that the confidence reposed in him was a trust nothing should induce him to break.
There is no need that the reader should pass through the sad ordeal of Kate’s suffering, even as a witness. No need is there that her shame, her sorrow, her misery, and, last of all, her passionate indignation, should be displayed before him; nor that he should see her as she sat there wrung with affliction, or half maddened with rage. Compressing the doctor’s story into the fewest words, it was this:
“Kate had met young Ladarelle at Dalradern Castle, where a passion had grown up between them. The young man, heir to a vast fortune, and sure of a high position, did not scruple to avail himself of what advantages his brilliant station conferred—won her affections, and seduced her with the promise of a speedy marriage. Wearied out at the unfulfillment of this pledge, she had fled from Dalradern, and sought refuge at Arran, intending to reveal all to her uncle, whose pride would inevitably have sought out her betrayer, and avenged her wrong, when she yielded to O’Rorke’s persuasion to meet her lover at Westport, where, as he assured her, every preparation for their marriage had been arranged. Thus induced, she had quitted her uncle’s house, and met Ladarelle. A mock marriage, performed by a degraded priest, had united them, and they were about to set out for the Continent, when she was struck down by brain fever. The fear of being recognised, as the town was then filling for the Assizes, determined Ladarelle and his friend to take their departure. There was deposited with the doctor a sum sufficient to defray every charge of her illness, with strict injunctions to keep all secret, and induce her, if she recovered, to proceed to Paris, where, at a given address, she would be welcomed and well received.”
This was the substance of a narrative that took long in the telling, not alone for the number of incidents it recorded, but that, as he proceeded, the unlucky doctor’s difficulties increased as some point of unusual delicacy would intervene, or some revelation would be required, which, in the presence of the principal actor in it, became a matter of no small embarrassment to relate.
“And how much of all this, Sir, do you believe?” said she, calmly, as he concluded.
He was silent, for the question impugned more than his credulity, and he hesitated what to answer.
“I ask you, Sir, how much of this story do you believe?”
“There is a colour to part of it,” said he, diffidently.
“And what part?”
“The part which refers to the marriage here.”
“What do you mean, Sir?”
“When you lay on that bed yonder, with fixed eyes, motionless, unconscious, and, as all believed, dying, a priest muttered some words over you, and placed your hand in that of this young man I spoke of. The woman of the house saw this through the keyhole of the door; she saw a ring produced, too, but it fell to the ground, and the priest laughingly said, ‘It’s just as good without the ring;’ and, after they had gone, the woman picked it up beneath the bed, and has it now. She saw them, besides, when they came down stairs, sit down at a table and draw up a paper, to which the priest ordered her to be a witness by a mark, as she cannot write; and this paper she believes to have had some reference to the scene she saw above. All this I believe, for she who told it to me is truthful and honest.”
Kate passed her hand across her forehead like one trying to clear her faculties for better reflection, and then said: “But this is no marriage!”
“Certainly not; nor could it have been had recourse to to quiet scruples of yours, since you were unconscious of all that went on.”
“And with what object, then, was it done?”
This was what he could not answer, and he sat silent and thoughtful; at last he said: “Were you not at this Castle in Wales I spoke of?”
“Yes.”
“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,Ihave 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 shore.
“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 whenhewas 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 passage, 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 destitution! 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—thatis 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.