Luttrell Of Arran Part 80

"Tell your master that my letter comes from Ireland," cried O'Rorke after him, "and that it is one won't brook delay." But whether the fellow heard him or not, he could not say.

In less time, however, than he believed it possible for the man to have given his message, came a demure-looking man in black from the castle, who beckoned him to come forward.

"Are you the bearer of a letter from Ireland?" asked he.

"Yes. It is to be given to Sir Within Wardle's own hand."

"Come along with me, then."

O'Rorke was too much excited by the thought of the presence he was about to stand in, to note more than generally the s.p.a.cious hall and the immense marble stairs that led from it. The lofty corridor, whose windows of stained gla.s.s threw a rose-coloured glow over walls and pavement, together with the rich perfume of flowers, made his head feel confused and addled.

As the servant ushered him on the terrace, he whispered, "Go forward,"

and then retired. O'Rorke advanced to where Sir Within was now seated, one arm leaning on the table beside him.

"You said you came from Ireland," asked he, in a weak voice; "is it from Arran?"

"It is, Sir."

"Thank Heaven!" muttered he to himself. "Give me your letter. Go down yonder"--and he pointed to the extreme end of the terrace--"I shall call you when I want you."

When O'Rorke reached the end of the terrace, he turned a cautious, furtive look towards the old man, who still sat with the unopened letter in his hand, and did not move. At last he broke the seal, but such seemed the agitation of his feelings that he could scarcely read it, for he twice laid it on the table and hid his face between his hands.

Suddenly he looked up and beckoned O'Rorke towards him, and said:

"Tell me, my good man, do you know the contents of this letter?"

"I know what it's about, Sir."

"Were you with her when she wrote it?"

"I was."

"Was it of her own will--at the suggestion of her own thoughts? I mean, did she write this willingly, and without a struggle?"

"That she didn't! She wrote it just because that without it her old grandfather wouldn't have even a chance for his life! She wrote it, crying bitterly all the time, and sobbing as if her heart was breaking."

The old man turned away his head, but with his hand motioned to the other to cease speaking. Either O'Rorke, however, did not understand the gesture, or he unheeded it. He went on:

"'I'd rather,' says she, 'see my right hand cut off, than see it write these lines,' says she."

"There! there!" burst in Sir Within, "that will do--that is enough--say no more of this!"

But O'Rorke, intent on finding out what had been the relations between them, and why they had been severed, in spite of all admonition, continued:

"'Sure, Miss Kate," says I, "it is not one that was once so kind and so generous to you will see you in trouble for a trifle like this, for of course it would be a trifle to your honour!'"

"And yet she felt it a humiliation to ask me," said he, despondingly.

"She did, indeed! 'For,' says she, 'he may refuse me.'"

"No, no; she never thought that; she knew me better than to believe it."

"Well, indeed, Sir, it was what I thought myself, and I said in my own mind, 'It's more ashamed she is than afeard.'"

"Ashamed of what?" cried Sir Within, pa.s.sionately. "What has shame to do with it?"

The subtle peasant saw through what a channel the misconception came, and, still bent on tracing out the mysterious tie between them, said:

"After all, Sir, for a young lady, and a handsome one too, to ask a great favour of a gentleman not belonging to her, kith or kin, is a thing that bad tongues would make the worst of if they got hold of it."

Sir Within's sallow cheek flushed up, and in a broken voice he said:

"Bad tongues are only tyrants to those who cannot brave them. Miss Kate Luttrell is not of their number. You shall soon see if these same bad tongues have any terrors for me."

"I'm a poor man, but I wasn't so always," said O'Rorke, "and I know well that it was slander and lying crushed _me_."

The diversion was intended to have awakened some curiosity as to his former condition, but Sir Within was perfectly indifferent on the subject. All the interest the messenger had in _his_ eyes came from the fact that he came from _her_, that he had seen her, and was near her when she wrote.

"This island--I only know it by the map," said Sir Within, trying to talk in an easy, unconcerned strain--"it is very poor, I believe?"

"You might say wretched, and be nearer the mark." "Is it celebrated for sport? Is the shooting or the fis.h.i.+ng the great attraction?"

"There's no shooting, nor any fis.h.i.+ng but the deep sea fishery; and more men are lost in that than there are fortunes made of it."

"And what could have induced Mr. Luttrell to take up his abode in such a spot?"

"The same thing that sends men off to America, and Australia, and New Zealand; the same thing that makes a man eat black bread when he can't get white; the same thing that---But what's the use of telling you about the symptoms, when you never so much as heard of the disease?"

"Miss Luttrell's life must be a very lonely one," said Sir "Within, with every effort to talk in a tone of unconcern.

"'Tis the wonder of wonders how she bears it. I asked the woman that lives with them how she pa.s.sed her time and what she did, and she said, 'She takes up everything for a week or ten days, and goes at it as if her life depended on it.' One time it was gathering plants, and sprigs of heath, and moss, and the like--even seaweed she'd bring home--going after them up crags and cliffs that a goat couldn't climb. Then she'd give up that and take to gardening, and work all day long; then it was making fis.h.i.+ng-nets; then it was keeping a school, and teaching the fishermen's children; she even tried to teach them to sing, till a sudden thought struck her that they ought to have a lifeboat on the island, and she sat to writing to all the people that she could think of to send a plan of one, meaning, I suppose"--here he grinned--"to make it herself afterwards."

[Ill.u.s.tration: 417]

Sir Within listened eagerly to' all this, and then asked:

"And her uncle--does he aid her in these projects?"

"He! It's little he troubles himself about her! Why, it's often three days that they don't even meet! They never take their meals together.

It's a wonder of kindness from him the day that he'll tap the window of her room with his knuckles and say 'Good morning,' and when she'd get up to open the window to answer him, he'd be gone!"

"How desolate---how dreary!" muttered the old man. "Does this wearisome life prey upon her? Is she altered in appearance--thinner or paler?"

"I'll tell you how she looks, and there's not a man in Ireland understands a woman's face better than him before you, and here's what it means in three words. It means scorn for a world that could let the like of her wither and waste on that lonely rock, for it's not alone beauty she has, but she has grace and elegance, and a way of charming about her that's more than beauty, and there's a something in her voice--what it is I don't know, but it goes on thrilling into you after she has done speaking, till you just feel that a spell was working in you, and making you a slave."

"And _you_ have felt this?" said the old man, as though involuntarily demanding an avowal that would have set the seal of confirmation on her magic.

And the cunning Celt felt all the force of the sarcasm, while it did not suit his purpose to confess it. And yet it needed great self-control to suppress his rising anger, and keep him from declaring that in a matter of sentiment, or on a question of female captivation, he, Tim O'Rorke, Patriot, Martyr, and Paddy as he was, yielded to no man.

"Would you kindly ring that bell beside you, Mr.--Mr.----"