The two children stood hand in hand while Vyner wrote. They wore each of them a look of sorrow at parting; but the boy’s face had a flush of shame as well as sorrow. They never uttered a word, however.
Vyner’s note was in these words:
“My dear Luttrell—Will you allow an old friend to see you, when he calls himself?
“Affectionately yours,
“Gervais Vyner.”
He did not show this note to Grenfell, but handed it to the boy at once.
“He won’t take the books, papa,” whispered Ada, “nor anything else I offered him.”
“He’ll know us all better later on, dearest. Do not embarrass him now by attention; he is ashamed to refuse, and does not care to accept. If papa will let you come out to breakfast with us to-morrow, Harry, we shall be glad to see you; and remember, I look to you to show me where we are to catch the lobsters.”
“I’ll tell you that now,” said the boy. “You see that great rock yonder. Well, a little more inland, where the water is about four fathoms, and perfectly clear, that’s the spot.”
When the boat was announced as ready, the boy took his leave of each in turn, shaking hands with Vyner, and Ada, and the governess; and then, advancing towards Grenfell, he stopped, and simply said good-by.
“Good day, Sir,” said Grenfell, stiffly, for he was one of those men whose egotism even a child could wound. “Is that boy like his father?” asked he, as Harry passed over the side.
“Wonderfully like, since his face took that expression of seriousness.”
“Then it is not a good face.”
“Not a good face?”
“Mind, I didn’t say not a handsome face, for it is strikingly regular and well proportioned, but the expression is furtive and secret.”
“Nothing of the kind. Luttrell was as frank a fellow as ever breathed. I think, after what I told you, you can see that it was trustfulness proved his ruin.”
“Isn’t he what your countrymen would call a ‘Wunderkind,’ Mademoiselle?” asked Grenfell of the governess.
“No, Saar, he is a much-to-be-pitied, and not the less-for-that-very dignified youth.”
“How Homeric it makes language to think in German. There he is, Ada, waving a rag of some sort, in farewell to you.”
Ada kissed her hand several times to him, and then hastened below into the cabin.
“I have asked Luttrell’s leave to call on him,” said Vyner.
“I thought you would,” was the dry reply.
“I only wrote one line, and made my request in the name of our old friendship.”
“Well, of course, you are the best judge of your own duties; only, for my own part, I beg, if I ever should turn hermit, that you’ll not think yourself bound to have me shaved and trimmed for the honour of dining some one day at your table.”
“Upon my word, I think it would be a pity to take you out of your cave, or whatever you call it,” said the governess, with a spiteful laugh.
“There, don’t fight any more till tea-time,” said Vyner, laughingly.
“Who’ll come on shore with me? I’m for a ramble over that purple mountain yonder.”
“I have the music-lesson.”
“And I have the remainder of that article in the Quarterly,” said Grenfell, “which proves incontestably the utter hopelessness of Ireland. The writer knows the people well, and describes their faults of character perfectly.”
A low faint sob caught Vyner’s ear, and, on hurrying below, he found Ada seated at the table, with her head leaning on her arms.
“What’s the matter, Ada darling?” asked he, gently.
“Oh, papa, it was for his mother he was crying, for though she seldom spoke to him or noticed him, he used to see her at the window, and now he’ll never see her more.”
“We must try and comfort him, Ada; the poor boy has a very dreary lot in life.”
“He says he is happy, papa! and that he only hopes he’ll never have to leave this lonely island all his life.”
“Did he speak of his father at all?”
“No, papa; only to say that he’d never remember whether he was at home or abroad, and that it was so pleasant not to have any one who cared what became of one.”
“And you—did you agree with him?”
“Oh no, no!” cried she, as her eyes swam in tears. “I could have told him how much better it was to be loved.”
Vyner turned away to hide his own emotion, and then, with an affected carelessness, said, “Get over this music-lesson now, and whenever you are free tell Mr. Crab to hoist a bit of white bunting to the peak, and I’ll come back to fetch you for a walk with me.”
“Is Mr. Grenfell going, papa?”
“No, darling; but why do you ask?”
“Because—because—I’d rather go with you alone. It is always so much nicer and happier.”
“How is it that Grenfell, with all his smartness, can never hit it off with any one, young or old, rich or poor?” thought Vyner, as he walked the deck, deep in thought. “He reads everything, has a smattering of all subjects, with a good memory and a glib tongue, and yet I believe I am the only man about town who could tolerate him.” If this were a reflection that had more than once occurred to his mind, it usually ended by impressing the conviction that he, Vyner, must have rare qualities of head and heart, not merely to endure, but actually to almost like, a companionship for which none other would have had taste or temper but himself. Now, however—not easy is it to say why—a doubt flashed across him that his doubting, distrustful, scoffing nature might prove in the end an evil, just as a certain malaria, not strong enough to give fever, will ultimately impregnate the blood and undermine the constitution.
“I don’t think he has done me any mischief as yet,” said he to himself, with a smile; “but shall I always be able to say as much?”
“You must read this paper—positively you must,” cried Grenfell from the sofa, where he lay under a luxurious awning. “This fellow writes well; he shows that the Irish never had any civilisation, nor, except where it crept in through English influence, has there ever been a vestige of such in the island.”
“I don’t see I shall be anything the better for believing him!”
“It may save you from that blessed purchase of an Irish property that brought you down to all this savagery. It may rescue you from the regret of having a gentleman shot because he was intrepid enough to collect your rents. That surely is something.”
“But I have determined on the purchase of Derryvaragh,” said Vyner, “if it only be what descriptions make it.”
“To live here, I hope—to turn Carib—cross yourself when you meet a priest, and wear a landlord’s scalp at your waist-belt.”
“Nay, nay! I hope for better things, and that the English influences you spoke of so feelingly will not entirely desert me in my banishment.”
“Don’t imagine that any one will come over here to see you, Vyner, if you mean that.”
“Not even the trusty Grenfell?” said he, with a half smile.
“Not if you were to give me the fee-simple of the barbarous tract you covet.”
“I’ll