Luttrell Of Arran Part 75

He again kissed her forehead, and, motioning a good-by with his hand, moved slowly away.

"Perhaps I shall acquit myself better than he thinks," said she to herself. "Perhaps--who knows if I may not find some place or thing to interest me here? It is very grand 'savagery,' and if one wanted to test their powers of defying the world in every shape, this is the spot. What is this you have brought me to eat, Molly?"

"It's a bit of fried skate, Miss, and I'm sorry it's no better, but the potatoes is beautiful."

"Then let me have them, and some milk. No milk--is that so?"

"There's only one cow, Miss, on the island, and she's only milked in the evening; but St. Finbar's Well is the finest water ever was tasted."

"To your good health, then, and St. Finbar's!" said she, lifting a goblet to her lips. "You are right, Molly; it is ice-cold and delicious!" And now, as she began her meal, she went on inquiring which of the men about the place would be most likely as a gardener, what things could be got to grow, on which side came the worst winds, and where any shelter could be found. "Perhaps I shall have to take to fis.h.i.+ng, Molly," said she, laughing, "for something I must do."

"You could make the nets, anyhow, Miss," said Molly, in admiration of the white and graceful hands, and thinking what ought to be their most congenial labour.

"I can row a boat well, Molly," said Kate, proudly.

"Whatever you'd do, you'd do well, G.o.d bless you!" cried the other; for in that hearty delight in beauty, so natural to the Irish peasant nature, she imagined her to be perfection, and the honest creature turned, ere she left the room, to give her a look of admiration little short of rapture.

CHAPTER XLVI. THE STRANGER AT THE WELL.

Before a couple of weeks pa.s.sed over, Kate had contrived to divide her days so regularly, to establish for herself a certain routine of little duties, that the time slipped by--as time ever will do in monotony--unfelt. The season was the autumn, and the wild hills and mountains were gorgeous in all the brilliant colour of the ever varied heaths. In the little clefts and valleys, too, where shelter favoured, foxgloves and purple mallows grew with a rare luxuriance, while on every side was met the arbutus, its crimson berries hanging in festoons over rock and crag. The sudden, unexpected sight of the sea, penetrating by many a fissure, as it were, between the mountains, gave unceasing interest to the wild landscape, and over the pathless moors that she strayed, not a living thing to be seen, was the sense of being the first wayfarer who had ever trod these wastes.

As Kate wandered whole days alone, over and over again came the doubt across her, which was it--the brilliant past, with all its splendour and luxury, or the solitary present--was the dream? Surely they could not both be real! Was the bygone a fancy built out of some gorgeous fragments of things read, heard, or imagined, or was this--this actual scene around her--a vision that was to move past, and leave her to awake to all her former splendour?

Great as the revulsion was to her former life, it was in nothing greater than in the difference between her uncle's cold, sad, distant manner, for so after the first meeting had it become, and the ever watchful anxiety, the courteous attention to her slightest wish, of Sir Within.

She never ceased canva.s.sing with herself how he had borne her desertion; whether he had sunk under it into a hopeless despondency, or called upon his pride to sustain him above any show of indignation. Reading it as the world must read it, there never was such ingrat.i.tude; but then the world could never know the provocation, nor ever know by what personal sacrifice she had avenged the slight pa.s.sed upon her. "My story," said she, "can never be told; his, he may tell how it suite him."

At moments, a sort of romantic exaltation and a sense of freedom would make her believe that she had done well to exchange the splendid bondage of the past for the untrammelled liberty of the present; and then, at other times, the terrible contrast would so overcome her, that she would sit and cry as if her heart was breaking.

"Would my 'old Gardy' pity or exult over me if he saw me now? What would he, who would not suffer me to tread on an uncarpeted step, say if he saw me alone, and poorly clad, clambering up these rugged cliffs to reach some point, where, for an instant, I may forget myself? Surely he would not triumph over my fall!

"Such a life as this is meant to expiate great crimes. Men are sent to wild and desolate islands in the ocean, to wear out days of hopeless misery, because they have warred against their fellows. But what have I done? whom have I injured? Others had friends to love and to guide them; I had none. The very worst that can be alleged against me is, that I was rash and headstrong--too p.r.o.ne to resent; and what has it cost me!

"My uncle said, indeed, this need not be my prison if I could not endure its privations. But what did that mean--what alternative did he point to? Was it that I was to go lower still, and fall back upon all the wretchedness I sprang from? That, never! The barren glory of calling myself a Luttrell may be a sorry price for forfeited luxury and splendour; but I have it, and I will hold it. I am a Luttrell now, and one day, perhaps, these dreary hills shall own me their mistress."

In some such thoughts as these, crossed and recrossed by regrets and half-shadowed hopes, she was returning one night to the Abbey, when Molly met her. There was such evident anxiety and eagerness in the woman's face, that Kate quickly asked her:

"What is it? What has happened?"

"Nothing, Miss, nothing at all. 'Tis only a man is come. He's down at the Holy Well, and wants to speak to you."

"Who is he? What is he?"

"I never seen him before, Miss, but he comes from beyant there"--she motioned towards the main land of Ireland--"and says that you know him well."

"Have you told my uncle of him?"

"No, Miss, for the man said I was to tell no living soul but yourself, and to tell you quick too, for he was in a hurry, and wanted to get away with the evening's tide, and his boat was more than a mile off."

"Molly Byan," said the girl, calmly, almost sternly, "you heard the orders that my uncle gave. You heard him tell me that I was not to see, nor speak to, nor hold any intercourse with any of those belonging to my mother's family. Is this man one of them?"

"No, Miss. 'Tis what I asked him. 'Tis the very first question I put to him. And he said, 'I'm no more to them than you are, Mrs. Ryan,' says he; 'and what's more,' says he, 'if it's any comfort to you to know it, I don't even come from this part of Ireland; so you may make yourself easy about that,' says he. I was puttin' more questions to him, and he stopped me, and said, 'You're just wasting precious time,' says he, 'and if she comes back and finds it too late'--'she meant yourself Miss--'

she won't forgive you in a hurry for what you've done, for I can't come here again.'"

"You are sure and certain that he was not one of those I spoke of?"

"I know them all well, Miss--barrin' the three that was transported--and he's not any of them I ever saw before."

"But he might exactly be one of those who _was_ transported, and certainly if I knew that I'd not see him."

"He swore to me he wasn't, Miss; and, what's more, he said that what he came about wasn't his own business at all, but concerned _you_. That's his whistle now--he gave, one awhile ago--and he said, 'When I give three,' says he, 'I'm gone, for i'll not lose the tide, whether she comes or not.'"

"Go back to the house, Molly. I'll go down and speak to him."

"Wouldn't you let me follow you, Miss, to be near in case of anything?"

"No, Molly. I'm not a coward; and I know, besides, that no man who meant harm to me would ever come ever here to attempt it."

"At any rate, he'd never go back again!" said the woman, fiercely.

"Don't be long, Miss, or I'll be uneasy."

Kate now turned aside, and hastened down a little steep path which led to the Holy Well. The well itself was a sort of shrine built over a little spring, and shaded by a clump of dwindled oak-trees--almost the only ones in the island. As Kate drew nigh, she saw a man walking up and down beneath the trees, with the quick short step that implied impatience. It was her gift never to forget a face, and in one glance she recognised one she had not seen for years--O'Rorke of Vinegar Hill.

[Ill.u.s.tration; 394]

"I thought you'd never come;" cried he, as she descended the steps that led down to the well. "I have been waiting here about an hour!"

He held out his hand to shake hands with her, but she drew back, and crossing her shawl in front of her, showed that she declined this greeting.

"Are you too proud to shake hands with me?" asked he, insolently.

"Whatever you have to say to me can be said just as well without."

"What if I wouldn't say it, then, Kitty O'Hara? What if I was to go back the way I came, and leave you to rue the day you insulted me? Do you know, young woman, that it wasn't on my own account I came here, that it was to serve others?"

"They chose a bad messenger if they thought you'd be a welcome one."

"May I never see glory if I'm not tempted to turn away and leave you without telling one word I come for. Where's John Luttrell? for I think I'll tell it to himself."

"My uncle is at the Abbey, if you want him!"

"Your uncle!" said he, jeeringly. "Why wasn't he your uncle when you were up at Cush-ma-Creena, without a shoe, to your foot, or enough rags to cover you well? You were bare up to this, when I saw you last." And he put his hand to his knee.

"It was a national costume!" said she, with a quiet laugh, "and a patriot like Mr. O'Rorke should not find fault with it."