“And where to?” asked Vyner.
“To Glenvallah.” And she pointed in the direction of the mountains.
“And where have you come from now?”
“From Arran—from the island.”
“What took you to the island, child?”
“I was at my aunt’s wake. It was there I got this.” And she lifted one of the beads of her necklace with a conscious pride.
“Amber and gold; they become you admirably.”
The child seemed to feel the praise in her inmost heart. It was a eulogy that took in what she prized most, and she shook back the luxuriant masses of her hair, the better to display the ornaments she wore.
“And it was your aunt left this to you?” asked Grenfell.
“No; but we had everything amongst us. Grandfather took this, and Tom Noonan took that, and Mark Tracey got the other, and this—this was mine.”
“Were you sorry for your aunt?” asked Vyner.
“No, I didn’t care.”
“Not care for your father’s or your mother’s sister?”
“She was my mother’s sister, but we never saw her. She couldn’t come to us, and he wouldn’t let us come to her.”
“He, I suppose, means her husband?”
The child nodded assent.
“And what was the reason of this; was there a family quarrel?”
“No. It was because he was a gentleman.” “Indeed!” broke in Grenfell. “How did you know that?”
“Because he never worked, nor did anything for his living. He could stay all day out on the sea-shore gathering shells, and go home when he pleased to his meals or his bed.”
“And that is being a gentleman?”
“I think it is; and I wish I was a lady.”
“What was this gentleman’s name?”
“John Hamilton Luttrell—Luttrell of Arran we called him.”
“John Luttrell! And was your aunt his wife, child?” asked Vyner, eagerly; “and are you the cousin of Harry Luttrell?”
“Yes; but he would not let me say so; he is as proud as his father.”
“He need not be ashamed of such a cousin, I think,” said Vyner, as he surveyed her; and the child again raised her fingers to her necklace, as though it was there that lay all her claim to admiration.
“Keep her in talk, George, while I make a sketch of her; she is the very brightest thing I ever saw in nature.”
“Tell me the names of all these mountains,” said Grenfell; “but first of all, your own.”
“My name is Kitty; but I like them to call me Katherine—as the priest does.”
“It is statelier to be Katherine,” said Grenfell, gravely.
And she gave a nod of haughty acknowledgment that almost provoked a smile from him.
“That mountain is Caub na D’haoul, the Devil’s Nightcap; whenever he takes it off, there’s a storm at sea; and there’s Kilmacreenon, where the Bradleys was killed; and that’s Strathmore, where the gold mines is.”
“And are there really gold mines there?”
“Ay, if one had leave from the devil to work them; but it was only old Luttrell ever got that, and he paid for it.”
“Tell me the story, child; I never heard it.”
The girl here seated herself on a knoll directly in front of them, and, with a demure air, and some of that assumed importance she had possibly seen adopted by story-tellers, she began, in a tone and with a fluency that showed she was repeating an oft-told tale:
“There was one of the Luttrells once that was very rich, and a great man every way, but he spent all his money trying to be greater than the King, for whatever the King did Luttrell would do twice as grand, and for one great feast the King would give, Luttrell would give two, and he came at last to be ruined entirely; and of all his fine houses and lands, nothing was left to him but a little cabin on Strathmore, where his herd used to live. And there he went and lived as poor as a labourin’ man; indeed, except that he’d maybe catch a few fish or shoot something, he had nothing but potatoes all the year round. Well, one day, as he was wanderin’ about very low and sorrowful, he came to a great cave on the hill-side, with a little well of clear water inside it; and he sat down for sake of the shelter, and began to think over old times, when he had houses, and horses, and fine clothes, and jewels. ‘Who’d ever have thought,’ says he, ‘that it would come to this with me; that I’d be sittin’ upon a rock, with nothing to drink but water?’ And he took some up in the hollow of his hand and tasted it; but when he finished, he saw there was some fine little grains, like dust, in his hand, and they were bright yellow besides, because they were gold.
“ ‘If I had plenty of you, I’d be happy yet,’ says he, looking at the grains.
“ ‘And what’s easier in life, Mr. Luttrell?’ says a voice; and he starts and turns round, and there, in a cleft of the rock, was sittin’ a little dark man, with the brightest eyes that ever was seen, smoking a pipe. ‘What’s easier in life,’ says he, ‘Mr. Luttrell?’
“ ‘How do you know my name?’ says he.
“ ‘Why wouldn’t I? says the other. ‘Sure it isn’t because one is a little down in the world that he wouldn’t have the right to his own name? I have had some troubles myself,’ says he, ‘but I don’t forget my name, for all that.’
“ ‘And what may it be, if it’s pleasin’ to you?’ says Luttrell.
“ ‘Maybe I’ll tell it to you,’ says he, ‘when we’re better acquainted.’
“ ‘Maybe I could guess it now,’ says Luttrell.
“ ‘Come over and whisper it, then,’ says he, ‘and I’ll tell you if you’re right.’ And Luttrell did and the other called out, ‘You guessed well; that’s just it!’ “ ‘Well,’ says Luttrell, ‘there’s many a change come over me, but the strangest of all is to think that here I am, sittin’ up and talking to the——’ The other held up his hand to warn him not to say it, and he went on: ‘And I’m no more afeard of him than if he was an old friend.’
“ ‘And why would you, Mr. Luttrell?—and why wouldn’t you think him an old friend? Can you remember one pleasant day in all your life that I wasn’t with you some part of it?’ ”
“Give up that drawing, Vyner, and listen to this,” said Grenfell. “I’ll make her begin it again for you.”
“I am listening. I’ve heard every word of it,” said Vyner. “Go on, dear.”
“ ‘I know what you mean well enough,’ says Luttrell. ‘I know the sort of bargain you make, but what would be the good of all my riches to me when I’d lose my soule?’
“ ‘Isn’t it much trouble you take about your soule, Mr. Luttrell?’ says he. ‘Doesn’t it keep you awake at night, thinking how you’re to save it? Ain’t you always correctin’ and chastisin’ yourself for the good of your soule, not lettin’ yourself drink this or eat that, and warnin’ you, besides, about many a thing I won’t speak of, eh? Tell me that.’
“ ‘There’s something in what you say, no doubt of it,’ says Luttrell;