“I turned partly away – at least so far that I could not see his face nor he mine – and I told him everything. I cannot remember how I began or ended. I cannot tell what miserable attempts I made to excuse or to palliate, nor what poor ingenuity I practised to make him believe that all was for the best. I only know that I would have given worlds that he should have interrupted me or questioned me; but he never spoke a word, and when I had concluded he sat there still in silence.
“‘You are a man of honour, Vyner,’ said he, in a low but unshaken voice that thrilled through my heart. ‘Tell me one thing. On your word as a gentleman, has – has – she – ’ I saw that he was going to say the name, but stopped himself. ‘Has she been coerced in this affair?’
“‘I believe not. I sincerely believe not. In discussing the matter before her, she has gradually come to see, or at least to suppose – ’
“‘There, there; that will do!’ cried he aloud, and with a full tone that resembled his voice in health. ‘Let us talk of it no more. I take it you’ll go abroad after your wedding?’
“I muttered out some stupid common-place, I talked away at random for some minutes, and at last I said good-by. When I came back the next morning he was gone. He had been carried on board of a steam-vessel for some port in the south of Ireland, and left not a line nor a message behind him. From that hour until last night I never set eyes on him.”
“You have heard of him, I suppose?” asked Grenfell.
“Vaguely and at long intervals. He would seem to have mixed himself up with the lowest political party in Ireland – men who represent, in a certain shape, the revolutionary section in France – and though the very haughtiest aristocrat I think I ever knew, and at one time the most fastidious ‘fine gentleman,’ there were stories of his having uttered the most violent denunciations of rank, and inveighed in all the set terms of the old French Convention against the distinctions of class. Last of all, I heard that he had married a peasant girl, the daughter of one of his cottier tenants, and that, lost to all sense of his former condition, had become a confirmed drunkard.”
“The moral of all which is, that your accomplished sister-in-law had a most fortunate escape.”
“I’m not so sure of that. I think Luttrell was a man to have made a great figure in the world. He swept college of its prizes, he could do anything he tried, and, unlike many other clever men, he had great powers of application. He had, too, high ability as a public speaker, and in an age like ours, where oratory does so much, he might have had a most brilliant career in Parliament.”
“There is nothing more delusive than arguing from a fellow’s school or collegiate successes to his triumphs in after life. The first are purely intellectual struggles; but the real battle of life is fought out by tact, and temper, and courage, and readiness, and fifty other things, that have no distinct bearing on mind. Your man there would have failed just as egregiously amongst gentlemen as he has done amongst the ‘canaille’ that he descended to. He had failure written on his passport when he started in life.”
“I don’t believe it; I can’t believe it.”
“Your sister-in-law, I think, never married?”
“No. She has refused some excellent offers, and has declared she never will marry.”
“How like a woman all that! She first mars a man’s fortune, and, by way of a reparation, she destroys her own. That is such feminine logic!”
“Is that a dog they have got in the bow of the launch, yonder?” said Vyner, directing the captain’s attention to one of the boats of the yacht that was now pulling briskly out from the land.
“Well, Sir, as well as I can make out, it’s a child,” said he, as he drew the telescope from the slings, and began to adjust it. “Yes, Sir, it’s a native they have caught, and a wild-looking specimen too;” and he handed the glass to Vyner.
“Poor little fellow! He seems dressed in rabbit-skins. Where is Ada? She must see him.”
CHAPTER IV. ON BOARD
“It was not an easy matter to get him to come, Sir,” said the sailor in a whisper to Vyner, as he assisted the boy to get on the deck.
“Where did you find him?”
“Sitting all alone on that rocky point yonder, Sir; he seemed to have been crying, and we suspect he has run away from home.”
Vyner now turned to look at the child, who all this while stood calm and composed, amazed, it is true, by all he saw around him, yet never suffering his curiosity to surprise him into a word of astonishment. In age from ten to twelve, he was slightly though strongly built, and carried himself erect as a soldier. The dress which Vyner at first thought was entirely made of skins was only in reality trimmed with these, being an attempt to make the clothes he had long worn sufficiently large for him. His cap alone was of true island make, and was a conical contrivance of undressed seal-skin, which really had as savage a look as need be.
“Do you live on this island, my little fellow?” asked Vyner, with a kindly accent.
“Yes,” said he, calmly, as he looked up full into his face.
“And have you always lived here?”
“So long as I remember.”
“Where do you live?”
“On the other side of the mountain – at St. Finbar’s Abbey.”
“May I ask your name?”
“My name,” said the boy, proudly, “is Harry Grenville Luttrell.”
“Are you a Luttrell?” cried Vyner, as he laid his hand affectionately on the boy’s shoulders; but the little fellow seemed not to like the familiarity, and stepped back to escape it.
“Are you the son of John Hamilton Luttrell?”
“Yes. What is your name?”
“Mine,” said the other, repressing a smile – “mine is Gervais Vyner.”
“And do you own this ship?”
“Yes.”
“And why have you come here?”
“Partly by chance – partly through curiosity.”
“And when will you go away?”
“Something will depend on the weather – something on whether we like the place and find it agreeable to us; but why do you ask? Do you wish we should go away?”
“The people do! I do not care!”
It is not easy to give an idea of the haughty dignity with which he spoke the last words. They were like the declaration of one who felt himself so secure in station, that he could treat the accidents of the day as mere trifles.
“But why should the people wish it? We are not very likely to molest or injure them.”
“That much you may leave to themselves,” said the boy, insolently. “They’ll not let you do it.”
“You seem very proud of your island, my little man! Have you any brothers or sisters?”
“No – none.”
“None belonging to you but father and mother?”
“I have no mother now,” said he, with an effort to utter the words unmoved; but the struggle was too much, and he had to turn away his head as he tried to suppress the sobbing that overcame him.
“I am very, very sorry to have pained you, my boy,” said Vyner, with kindness. “Come down with me here, and see a little daughter of mine, who is nearly your own age.”
“I don’t want to see her. I want to go ashore.”
“So