Read Ebook: Luttrell Of Arran by Lever Charles James Browne Hablot Knight Illustrator

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Ebook has 4907 lines and 217344 words, and 99 pages

"And Master Harry," said the woman, wiping her eyes with her apron--"what's to be done with him? 'Tis two days that he's there, and he won't leave the corpse."

"It's a child's sorrow, and will soon wear itself out."

"Ay, but it's killing him!" said she, tenderly--"it's killing him in the mean while."

"He belongs to a tough race," said he, with a bitter smile, "that neither sorrow nor shame ever killed. Leave the boy alone, and he'll come to himself the sooner."

The peasant woman felt almost sick in her horror at such a sentiment, and she moved towards the door to pass out.

"Have you thought of everything, Molly?" asked he, more mildly.

"I think so, Sir. There's to be twenty-eight at the wake--twenty-nine, if Mr. Rafter comes; but we don't expect him--and Father Lowrie would make thirty; but we've plenty for them all."

"And when will this--this feasting--take place?"

"The night before the funeral, by coorse," said the woman.

"And they will all leave this the next morning, Molly?"

"Indeed I suppose they will, Sir," said she, no less offended at the doubt than at the inhospitable meanness of the question.

"So be it, then!" said he, with a sigh. "I have nothing more to say."

"You know, Sir," said she, with a great effort at courage, "that they'll expect your Honour will go in for a minute or two--to drink their healths, and say a few words to them?"

He shook his head in dissent, but said nothing.

In a beautiful little bay on the north-east of Innishmore, land-locked on all sides but the entrance, a handsome schooner yacht dropped her anchor just as the sun was setting. Amidst the desolate grandeur of those wild cliffs, against which the sea surged and plashed till the very rocks were smooth worn, that graceful little craft, with her tall and taper spars, and all her trim adjuncts, seemed a strange vision. It was the contrast of civilisation with barbarism; they were the two poles of what are most separated in life--wealth and poverty.

The owner was a Baronet, a certain Sir Gervais Vyner--one of those spoiled children of fortune which England alone rears; for while in other lands high birth and large fortune confer their distinctive advantages, they do not tend, as they do with us, to great social eminence, and even political influence. Vyner had got almost every prize in this world's lottery; all, indeed, but one; his only child was a daughter, and this was the drop that sufficed to turn to bitterness much of that cupful of enjoyment Fate had offered to his lips. He had seen a good deal of life--done a little of everything--on the turf--in the hunting-field--on the floor of the House he had what was called "held his own." He was, in fact, one of those accomplished, well-mannered, well-looking people, who, so long as not pushed by any inordinate ambition into a position of undue importance, invariably get full credit for all the abilities they possess, and, what is better still, attract no ill will for the possessing them. As well as having done everything, he had been everywhere: up the Mediterranean, up the Baltic, into the Black Sea, up the St. Lawrence--everywhere but to Ireland--and now, in a dull autumn, when too late for a distant tour, he had induced his friend Grenfell to accompany him in a short cruise, with the distinct pledge that they were not to visit Dublin, or any other of those cognate cities of which Irishmen are vain, but which to Mr. George Grenfell represented all that was an outrage on good taste, and an insult to civilisation. Mr. Grenfell, in one word, entertained for Ireland and the Irish sentiments that wouldn't have been thought very complimentary if applied to Fejee islanders, with certain hopeless forebodings as to the future than even Fejee itself might have resented as unfair.

Such were the two men who travelled together, and the yacht also contained Vyner's daughter Ada, a little girl of eight, and her governess, Mademoiselle Heinzleman, a Hanoverian lady, who claimed a descent from the Hohenzollerns, and had pride enough for a Hapsburg. If Vyner and Grenfell were not very much alike in tastes, temperament, and condition, Grenfell and the German governess were positively antipathies; nor was their war a secret or a smouldering fire, but a blaze, to which each brought fuel every day, aiding the combustion by every appliance of skill and ingenuity.

Vyner loved his daughter passionately--not even the disappointment that she had not been a boy threw any cloud over his affection--and he took her with him when and wherever he could; and, indeed, the pleasure of having her for a companion now made this little home tour one of the most charming of all his excursions, and in her childish delight at new scenes and new people he renewed all his own memories of early travel.

"For mercy's sake don't give us more of that tiresome little book, which, from the day we sailed, has never contributed one single hint as to where we could find anything to eat, or even water fit to drink," said Grenfell. "Do you mean to go on shore in this barbarous place?"

"Of course I do. Crab intends us to pass two days here; we have sprung our for'topmast, and must look to it."

"Blessed invention a yacht! As a means of locomotion, there's not a cripple but could beat it; and as a place to live in, to eat, sleep, wash, and exercise, there's not a cell in Brixton is not a palace in comparison."

"Mademoiselle wish to say good night, Sare Vyner," said the governess, a tall, fair-haired lady, with very light eyes, thick lips, and an immense lower jaw, a type, but not a flattering type, of German physiognomy.

"Let her come by all means;" and in an instant the door burst open, and with the spring of a young fawn the little girl was fast locked in her father's arms.

"Oh, is it not very soon to go to bed, papa dearest?" cried she; "and it would be so nice to wait a little and see the moon shining on these big rocks here."

"What does Mademoiselle Heinzleman say?" asked Vyner, smiling at the eager face of the child.

The lady appealed to made no other reply than by the production of a great silver watch with an enormous dial.

"That is a real curiosity," cried Grenfell. "Is it permissible to ask a nearer view of that remarkable clock, Miss Heinzleman?"

"Freilich!" said she, not suspecting the slightest trace of raillery in the request. "It was made at Wurtzburg, by Jacob Schmelling, year time 1736."

"And intended, probably, for the Town-hall?"

"No, Saar," replied she, detecting the covert sneer; "intended for him whose arms it bear, Gottfried von Heinzleman, Burgomeister of Wurtzburg, a German noble, who neither made sausages nor sold Swiss cheeses."

"Good night! good night! my own darling!" said Vyner, kissing his child affectionately. "You shall have a late evening to-morrow, and a walk in the moonlight too;" and after a hearty embrace from the little girl, and a respectful curtsey from the governess, returned with a not less respectful deference on his own part, Vyner closed the door after them, and resumed his seat.

"What cursed tempers those Germans have," said Grenfell, trying to seem careless and easy; "even that good-natured joke about her watch she must take amiss."

"Don't forget, George," said Vyner, good humouredly, "that in any little passage of arms between you, you have the strong position, and hers is the weak one."

"She is an excellent governess, and Ada is very fond of her."

"So much the worse for Ada."

"What do you mean by that?" cried Vyner, with an energy that surprised the other.

"Simply this; that by a man who professes to believe that objects of beauty are almost as essential to be presented to the eyes of childhood as maxims of morality, such a choice in a companion for his daughter is inexplicable. The woman is ugly, her voice discordant and jarring, her carriage and bearing atrocious--and will you tell me that all these will fail to make their impression when associated with every tone and every incident of childhood?"

"You are not in your happiest mood to-night, George. Was the claret bad?"

"Perhaps there may be glaciers in the wild region beside us. Ireland and Iceland have only a consonant between them. What if we go ashore and have a look at the place?"

A careless shrug of assent was the answer, and soon afterwards the trim yawl, manned by four stout fellows, skimmed across the smooth bay, and landed Vyner and his friend on a little rocky promontory that formed a natural pier.

It was complete desolation on every side of them: the mountain which rose from the sea was brown and blue with moss and heather, but not a human habitation, not an animal, marked its side; a few sea-birds skimmed fearlessly across the water, or stood perched on peaks of rock close to the travellers, and a large seal heavily plunged into the depth as they landed; save these, not a sign of anything living could be seen.

"There is something very depressing in this solitude," said Grenfell; "I detest these places where a man is thrown back upon himself."

"Do you know, then, that at this very moment I was speculating on buying a patch of land here to build a cottage; a cabin of three or four rooms, where one might house himself if ever he came this way."

"But why should he come this way? What on earth should turn any man's steps twice in this direction?"

"Come, come, George! You'll not deny that all this is very fine: that great mountain rising abruptly from the sea, with that narrow belt of yellow beach below it; those wild fantastic rocks, with their drooping seaweed; those solemn caves, wherein the rumbling sea rushes to issue forth again in some distant cleft,--are all objects of grandeur and beauty, and, for myself, I feel as if I could linger for days amongst them unwearied."

"What was that?" cried Grenfell, as they now gained a crest of the ridge, and could see a wild irregular valley that lay beneath, the shades of evening deepening into very blackness the lower portions of the landscape. "Was that thunder, or the roar of the sea? There it is again!"

They listened for a few moments, and again there came, borne on the faint land-breeze, a sound that swelled from a feeble wail to a wild sustained cry, rising and falling till it died away just as it had begun. It was indescribably touching, and conveyed a sense of deep sorrow, almost of despair. It might have been the last cry of a sinking crew as the waves closed above them; and so indeed did it seem to Vyner, as he said, "If there had been a storm at sea, I'd have sworn that sound came from a shipwreck."

"I suppose it is only some other pleasant adjunct of the charming spot you would select for a villa," said Grenfell; "perhaps the seals or the grampuses are musical."

"Listen to that!" cried Vyner, laying a hand on his arm; "and see! yonder--far away to the left--there is a light!"

"Well, if there be inhabitants here, I'm not astonished that they cry over it."

"Let us find out what it can mean, George."

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