Luttrell Of Arran Part 69

"It is on the writing-table."

"And I suppose I may make use of it, if I need it?"

"Yes; it's a matter that other things have driven out of my head; but the letter is yours, if you wish."

"And you will stand by me, I hope, if I get into a sc.r.a.pe?"

"Don't count on me. I'm a capricious fellow, and whenever a thing does not come off at once, I never can vouch for the spirit in which I may resume it."

"That's hearty, at all events!"

"No; but it is unmistakable.--Rickards, hurry the cook, if he will let you, and order the carriage for eight o'clock."

"And posters for me for Dalradern at the same hour," said Ladarelle.

"Grog is worth a score of such fellows!" muttered he below his breath, as he strolled to his room. "Grog would never strike out a plan, and leave a man in the lurch afterwards."

When they met at dinner, Grenfell took care that the conversation should be as general as possible, never by a chance alluding to any subject of personal interest to either of them; and, as the clock struck eight, and he heard the tramp of the horses on the gravel, he arose and said:

"Don't forget to say all sorts of things to Sir Within for me, and to Mademoiselle, too, when she is visible. Good-by, and 'bonne chance!'"

"Good-by! I wish I could have had a few words with you before you started. I wish you would have told me something more definite about the plan. I wish----" What he continued to wish is not on record, for once more Grenfell uttered his good-by, and the next moment he was gone.

CHAPTER XLI. THE DARK TIDINGS

It was a dull, lowering October day, sky and sea alike lead-coloured, when the boat that bore Grenfell rounded the southern point of Arran, and opened a view of the island in all its extent. His first visit there had not left any favourable impressions of the place, though then he saw it in suns.h.i.+ne, warm-tinted and softened; now all was hard, bleak, and cold, and the ruined Abbey stood out amongst the leafless trees, like the ghost of a civilisation long dead and buried.

"There he is himself, Sir," said the steersman to Grenfell, as he pointed to a lone rock on the extreme point of a promontory. "You'd think he was paid for sitting there, to watch all the vessels that go north about to America. He can see every craft, big and little, from Belmullet to Craig's Creek."

"And does he stay there in bad weather?"

"I never missed him any day I came by, no matter how hard it blew."

"It's a dreary look-out."

"Indeed it is, your honour! more by token, when a man has a comfortable house and a good fire to sit at, as Mr. Luttrell has, if he liked it."

"Perhaps he thinks it less lonely to sit there than to mope over his hearth by himself. He lives all alone, I believe?"

"He does, Sir; and it's what he likes best. I took a party of gentlemen over from Westport last summer; they wanted to see the curiosities of the place, and look at the old Abbey, and they sent me up with a civil message, to say what they came for and who they were--one of them was a lord--and what d'ye think, Sir? instead of being glad to see the face of a Christian, and having a bit of chat over what was doing beyond there, he says to me, 'Barny Moore,' says he, 'you want to make a trade,' says he, 'of showing me like a wild baste; but I know your landlord, Mr.

Creagh, and as sure as my name's John Luttrell,' says he, I'll have you turned out of your holding; so just take your friends and yourself off the way you came!' And when I told the gentlemen, they took it mighty good humoured, and only said, 'After all, if a man comes so far as this for quietness, it's rather hard if he wouldn't get it;' and we went off that night. I'm tellin' your honour this," added he, in a low, confidential tone, "because, if he asks you what boat you came in, you would say it was Tom M'Caffray's--that man there in the bow--he's from Kilrush, and a stranger; for I wouldn't put it past John Luttrell to do me harm, if I crossed him."

"But, is he not certain to see you?"

"No, Sir; not if I don't put myself in his way. Look now, Sir, look, he's off already?"

"Off! whereto?"

"To the Abbey, Sir, to bar himself in. He saw that the yawl was coming in to anchor, and he'll not look back now till he's safe in his own four walls."

"But I want to speak with him--is it likely he'll refuse to see me?"

"Just as-like as not. May I never! but he's running, he's so afeard we'll be on sh.o.r.e before he gets in."

At no time had Grenfell been much in love with his mission; he was still less pleased with it as he stepped on the s.h.i.+ngly sh.o.r.e, and turned to make his way over a pathless waste to the Abbey. He walked slowly along, conning over to himself what he had got to do, and how he should do it.

"At all events," thought he, "the more boorish and uncivil the man may be, the less demand will be made on me for courtesy. If he be rude, I can be concise; nor need I have any hesitation in showing him that I never volunteered for this expedition, and only came because Vyner begged me to come."

He had seen no one since he left the boat, and even now, as he arrived close to the house, no living thing appeared. He walked round on one side. It was the side of the old aisle, and there was no door to be found. He turned to the other, and found his progress interrupted by a low hedge, looking over which he fancied he saw an entrance. He stepped, therefore, over the enclosure; but, by the noise of the smas.h.i.+ng twigs a dog was aroused, a wild, wolfish-looking animal, that rushed fiercely at him with a yelping bark. Grenfell stood fast, and prepared to defend himself with a strong stick, when suddenly a harsh voice cried out, "Morrah! come back, Morrah! Don't strike the dog, Sir, or he'll tear you to pieces!" And then a tall, thin man, much stooped in the shoulders, and miserably dressed, came forward, and motioned the dog to retire.

"Is he savage?" said Grenfell.

"Not savage enough to keep off intruders, it seems," was the uncourteous

reply. "Is your business with me, Sir?"

"If I speak to Mr. Luttrell, it is."

"My name is Luttrell."

"Mine is Grenfell; but I may be better known as the friend of your old friend, Sir Gervais Vyner."

"Grenfell--Grenfell! to be sure. I know the name--we all know it," said Luttrell, with a sort of sneer. "Is Vyner come--is he with you?"

"No, Sir," said Grenfell, smarting under the sting of what he felt to be an insult. "It is because he could not come that he asked me to see you."

Luttrell made no reply, but stood waiting for the other to continue.

"I have come on a gloomy errand, Mr. Luttrell, and wish you would prepare yourself to hear very, very sad news."

"What do you call prepare?" cried Luttrell, in a voice almost a shriek.

"I know of nothing that prepares a man for misfortune except its frequency," muttered he, in a low tone. "What is it? Is it of Harry--of my boy?"

Grenfell nodded.

"Wait," said Luttrell, pressing his hand over his brow. "Let me go in.

No, Sir; I can walk without help." He grasped the door-post as he spoke, and stumbling onward, clutching the different objects as he went, gained a chair, and sank into it. "Tell me now," said he, in a faint whisper.

"Be calm, Mr. Luttrell," said Grenfell, gently. "I have no need to say, take courage."

Luttrell stared vacantly at him, his lips parted, and his whole expression that of one who was stunned and overcome. "Go on," said he, in a hoa.r.s.e whisper--"go on."

"Compose yourself first," said Grenfell.

"Is Harry--is he dead?"

Grenfell made a faint motion of his head.