Читать книгу: «Luttrell Of Arran», страница 26

“And very well worth my while it was. It is not every day I chance upon so interesting a patient.”

“How kind you are – how pleasant your voice is; it soothes me to listen to it.”

“But we must not talk any more now, my child.”

“O yes, let us talk, it is so delightful; tell me of all the fine people you see daily. Do you speak to them as kindly as to me, or are you more reserved and distant? Do tell me.”

“I will tell you all about these things another time, when it will be safer for you to hear them. You must have perfect rest and quiet now.”

“It would quiet me far more to listen to you than to let me think on and on, as I have been doing. You are going away already?”

“I cannot help it, my child; I have many others waiting for me to see them.”

“But you wouldn’t hurry away from me in this fashion if I were a great person?”

“Pardon me; you are a very great person to me.”

“How so? Tell me what you mean; do tell me,” cried she; and she started up and caught his hand with both her own. “I must know what that means.”

“Listen to me, my child,” and he spoke in a graver, almost a stern manner; “I can only do the work of my daily life by being very despotic. I have replied to more questions of yours now, than I should have answered to a Royal Highness. Good-by.”

“Good-by!” said she, and pressed his hand to her hot lips. “Good-by; don’t forget me.”

As the Doctor, followed by Mrs. Simcox, left the room, he stood for a moment in the corridor, deep in thought. “Her mind is collected now,” said he, at last; “there is only excitement; there is no aberration.”

“She has those intervals every now and then, Sir, and she’ll speak as sensibly as any one; and, indeed, it’s hard to say when she is not talking rational, for she is odd and strange when she’s well.”

“Yes, I see that; she is no ordinary person.”

“And no later than last night, Sir, when we imagined that she was talking a mere gibberish of her own, our second housemaid, that was in the room, went over and answered her, and there they talked together for more than a quarter of an hour, Sir; and I asked Molly what it was, and she said it was Irish. So, when the girl came into the room this morning, I told her to talk it again; but, would you believe it, Sir, our young lady began to laugh, and asked what the creature meant by that nonsense. She did not know one word, Sir, Molly was saying, any more than ourselves.”

The Doctor nodded assentingly, as though such a case was familiar to him, and passed on. At the foot of the stairs he found Sir Within waiting for him.

“I will talk to Price,” said Sir Henry; “I shall see him to-night, and to-morrow I will take another opportunity of seeing her before I return to town.

“Are you hopeful as to the result?” asked Sir Within, with much anxiety in his look.

“She has youth in her favour,” said he, as he buttoned up his overcoat.

“And you think well of her case, then?”

“I did not say so, Sir; I don’t think any man would go so far; for it will be tedious, and consequently precarious. And there are now and then recoveries that can scarcely be called benefits. How many miles do you call it to Wrexham?”

“You speak of the effects upon the brain – the permanent effects?” said Sir Within, with trembling eagerness.

“Brain or membranes, I don’t think it signifies much which. And Wrexham – how far is it?”

“Your postboy will tell you, Sir; this case is of much more moment to me.”

Sir Henry turned a full steady look on the old envoy, as though he were contemplating an order of being wholly new and strange to him; and then turning to the housekeeper, who still stood at his side, said: “Stop the ice – apply mere cold water; don’t talk to her, and no more Irish – take care of that – no more Irish. Good night, Sir Within;” and stepping hastily down the steps, he entered his carriage and drove away.

“What did he mean by that last direction, no more Irish, Mrs. Simcox?” asked Sir Within.

“La, Sir, it was about a thing that happened last night;” and she recounted the incident, at somewhat greater length than we have given it.

“Send the girl to me,” said Sir Within, as she finished; “let me speak to her in the library.”

The interview lasted about half an hour, and at the end of it Molly was seen to hasten to her room, pack her clothes, and descend to the stable-yard, where a conveyance was in waiting for her.

“This is a hasty way to leave us, Molly,” said one of her fellow-servants, as she mounted the cart.

“It’s my mother that was sick, and sent for me,” said the girl. “Drive on,” added she to the groom, for Sir Within was leaning on the window-sill, overhead, and watching the scene.

Sir Henry arrived the next morning to find Kate worse than he had left her; and, though greatly pressed for time, he remained nigh an hour in consultation with Doctor Price, who had accompanied him. There was more fever, and far more of excitement than on the day before, and she talked incessantly to herself, occasionally giving way to bursts of laughter.

“How grave you both look this morning,” said she, with a derisive smile, as they arose to leave her bedside. “I think I can guess what’s passing in your mind.” Morland shook his head in dissent, and she went on: “Of course you would be reluctant to say it, but the simple truth is, Doctor, you think me very, very ill.”

“So far, you are right,” said he, gently.

“Yes, but you suspect more. You believe that I am dying.”

“You have many things in your favour, my dear child. You have youth, you have strength, and you have what is sometimes worth them both – good courage.”

“You do me justice, Doctor, I have plenty of courage, more even than you know of; and I have another thing,” added she, while her eyes flashed wildly and her lip shook with agitation – “I have no great desire to live!”

“Come, come, young lady,” broke in Price, “it is not at your age that one is weary of the world.”

“I never said I was,” cried she, impatiently; and then, turning from him as though he were not one to understand her aright, she addressed the other. “May I speak to you alone?”

“Certainly; my friend here will have no objection, I’m sure.”

“None whatever,” said Doctor Price, as he moved towards the door.

“And you, Simcox, you must go too; and take Nelly with you.”

“La, Miss – ”

“Do as you are told,” said the Doctor, peremptorily.

“And now we are alone, child,” said he, as having closed the door, he returned to the bedside.

“Sit down, sit there,” said she, pointing to the chair, “and wait a moment till I collect myself. I don’t like that man; his voice jars on – there is so much in a voice. Yours, for instance, soothes me.” He smiled kindly on her, and she continued: “I was not always so captious, but illness makes one very fretful. Ain’t it so?”

“Naturally.”

“I must be very ill, then, if irritability be the measure. Do you know” – and here she spoke with immense rapidity, and with a jarring vibration in her voice – “do you know that there are times, mere moments, in which it needs all my self-control not to scream aloud? Yes, I feel as though I would give life itself to cry out – to fling this weary load off my poor heart, and tell all – all!”

“You must be calm, young lady, or I shall think I have done amiss in permitting this interview.”

“Don’t call me young lady. The other, that man I dislike, called me young lady. You must call me Kate.” He only smiled, and she took his hand in her own burning hand, and said, in a coaxing, caressing tone, “Say Kate – Kate!”

“I am very proud that you let me call you Kate.”

“Yes, that’s it; and you say it softly, as it should be spoken. It’s a pretty name, is it not? No, don’t look on me pitifully. If it be even as you fear, there is no cause for sorrow. Answer me one thing,” said she, half sternly, “but answer truly. Shall I die of this? There, there! I do not want any more. You think I shall; but I know better. Ay, Doctor, there’s a keener instinct, stronger than all your skill, and it tell’s me I have years and years before me; years of such trouble, too, it would be a mercy I were taken now!”

“Calm yourself, my child. I like your self-confidence; but be calm.”

“And am I not calm? Count my pulse;” and she bared her arm and held it towards him. “It is a pretty arm? then say so, frankly. What harm can flattery do me now?”

“I must leave you, my dear child. I have a long journey before me, and much hard work at the end of it. I am sorry, very sorry to go. Don’t shake your head, Kate, it is the simple truth.”

“Then why not stay?”

“I have told you, child, that many others are expecting me.”

“Yes, great people, titled people, people of condition, as they are called; as if we, too, had not our condition. Don’t you hate that word? Don’t you hate every vulgar sneer at the low-born?”

“I like your generosity – ”

“My generosity!” cried she, with a wild hysteric laugh – “my generosity! Oh, yes; my generosity has a touch of genius in it. It reveals to me the unseen, the untasted! For, what can I know of such people?”

Her brows were knitted fast as she uttered the last words, and her lips were drawn tight, as though she spoke under the pressure of some intense constraint.

“There, there!” said he, rising. “I knew all this talking was injurious, and I am much to blame for having permitted it.”

“And you are going?”

“I must; I have no choice in the matter.”

“Well, give me a minute more. Sit down again, and I will not detain you more than a minute or two. When I asked to speak with you alone, Doctor, it was to beg of you to make my will. You need not be afraid that it will take long. I have only one legacy and one heir. Now, mind what I shall say to you. It may happen – I myself think it will happen – that I shall get better of this fever. Much of my raving – what they call my raving – was such wandering as passes through my head any day; so that it may easily be I have never been so ill as I seemed to be, and all the wonderful stories Mrs. Simcox told you in the window last night – my strange fancies about my bare feet bleeding with the sharp stones – no matter, fact or fancy, it was in my head before this. You are attending to me?”

“I am.”

“I was afraid you thought that this explanation was only ‘wandering’ of another sort; but I see you do not. I see you follow me.”

He nodded.

“If, however, your skill be better than my second sight – if I can call it so – I have a task for you to do. When it shall be all over, before I am buried, you will take care but wait, let us do it regularly.” She raised herself on one arm as she spoke, and with the other hand she pointed to a small writing-table at the farther part of the room. “Open that desk, and take out an envelope. It ought to be black-edged for the occasion,” said she, with a sad smile, “but I don’t think it matters much. Yes, that one will do very well. Write now the address I shall give you: Mr. Peter Malone.’ Show it to me – is it large and plain? No; take another. It must be clear, bold writing. I think I ought to write it myself – of course I ought, and I will.”

“All this excitement is wrong.”

“Then don’t prolong it. Give me the pen and that book to write on. I declare it is you that are nervous, Doctor. What makes your hand shake?”

“If I am nervous, it is because I feel much self-reproach for all this – this – ”

“This – what?” asked she, smiling. “Do give it a name. I am sure you are not angry at my detaining you. You are too kind and too considerate to reckon minutes against one who may have so few of them; and then, as to this task I impose on you,” and she smiled again – “do confess you never heard of so short a will. There, it is all written now. Read it out, that I may see if it be legible.”

“‘Mr. Peter Malone, to the care of Mr. T. O’Rorke, Vinegar Hill, Cush-ma-Creena, Ireland.’”

“Your pronunciation is not quite faultless, Doctor; but, luckily, you will not be the postman. Mind, now, this is to be posted so soon as all is over. No, no – not as it is. I have not yet enclosed my legacy. Take that scissors you see yonder. Open the shutter – a little more still – yes, that will do. Now come here. Cut off the longest and the brightest lock you can find here,” and she unbound her golden hair, and sent it floating in heavy masses over her shoulders and her back, and even her face. “Don’t spare it. I mean my last legacy to be munificent. There!” said she, taking the long tress from his fingers, “how soft and silky it is – see, too, if it has not that golden radiance the Venetian painters raved about! The old man to whom that envelope is addressed once asked me to give him a lock of my hair; he begged for it very eagerly, as a parting gift, and I refused him. I can give it now – yes, I can give it now! Ask me nothing – I will tell nothing. I thought to have told you all – the whole long, dreary story – but I cannot. There, you are impatient to be away. I release you; only remember, that if I do not die you are to return that paper to me. Do you understand me?”

“Perfectly, and will obey you to the letter, my dear child, if you will not give me this tress as my fee for having cured you. Perhaps I have as good a claim to it as that other to whom you would bequeath it.”

“No, no, no!” cried she, impetuously. “You never cared for me, you never could care for me, as he does; but keep it if you will. Good-by, good-by! One instant more. There is another old man to whom I would send a message.”

“Your guardian?”

A scornful curl of her lip and an impatient gesture of her head stopped him.

“Tell Sir Within that I was very grateful to him. He did much to make my life a very happy one, and yet I am so glad to leave it! Speak kindly to him and comfort him; tell him, if you will, that if he would continue to love me, it were best I should die; for if I were to live, Doctor” – and here her eyes grew full and wide, and her gaze steadfast – “if I were to live, I should lose that love.”

The wild look she gave, the strange vibration of her voice, and her words themselves, warned the Doctor that a period of excitement was approaching, and he drew the curtain and moved away.

CHAPTER XL. A SUDDEN REVERSE

“You see it is as well I acted with more forethought, and did not send for our Irish friend,” said Grenfell, as he sat at breakfast with Ladarelle. “We shall probably not want him.”

“I suspect not,” said the other; “the last news of her was unfavourable.”

Grenfell stole a look at the speaker, and, quick as the glance was, it bespoke a mingled aversion and contempt. The men who have arrived at middle age, either to form a poor opinion of their fellows, or to feign it – it is hard exactly to say which – feel a sort of detestation for younger men who entertain the same sentiments. Whether it be that to have reached that cynicism has cost years of patient study and endurance, and that they are indignant at the pretension that would assume to have acquired the knowledge without the labour, or that, and this more probable, they really do not fully trust their own heartlessness – whatever the cause, I can answer for the effect; and that cold, ungenial man now looked upon his younger companion with a sense of little less than disgust.

“So that her death would not shock you?” said Grenfell, as he stirred his tea, without looking up.

“I don’t exactly say that. She’s a fine girl, young, and very good looking.”

“Beautiful.”

“Well, beautiful if you like, though I’ll show scores just as handsome any day in Rotten Row. But the question is, Does she, or does she not, stand between me and a fine estate? You yourself thought that opinion of Palmer’s went against me.”

“No doubt of it. Palmer concurs with the Attorney-General; indeed, he seems astonished that any other view was ever taken, as he says, ‘No provision of a will can override the law.’”

“Which means, that the old cove may marry; and his heir, if he have one, may inherit the property?”

“Just so.”

“And then, in the face of that, you ask me if her life is of such consequence to me?”

“No; I asked if her death would shock you?” “I don’t well know what you mean by being shocked! If there was a suspicion abroad that I had poisoned her, to get her out of the way, then perhaps I might be shocked.”

“Shocked at the imputation, not the consequences?” “I can’t split hairs – I never could. If you want subtle distinctions and fine-drawn differences, you must try elsewhere. What I want to say is simply this: I have no ill will to the girl; I wish no harm to her; but I’d rather she wasn’t there.” “By there, you mean, alive?”

“Well, if there was no other alternative – yes, I do mean that. I’m certain old Wardle would never look out for another, and the great probability is, he’d not trouble us much longer; and, as Tom Scott says, by ‘nobbling’ one horse, you get rid of the whole stable. You look greatly disgusted, are you horrified at my wickedness, Grenfell?”

“No,” said he, slowly. “I have met a fair number of young fellows like you, and who fancied, that to know life they must begin at the lowest of it; the great misfortune was, that they never emerged from it after.”

“That’s severe, I take it,” said Ladarelle, as he lighted a cigarette and began to smoke.

“Feigning virtue will never make a saint,” said Grenfell, rising from the table; “but mock wickedness will always end by making a man a rascal!” He left the room as he spoke, and sauntered out unto the lawn; and now Ladarelle began to commune with himself – what notice he ought to take, if any, of these words. Were they to be considered as a moral sentiment of general application, or were they addressed specially to himself? The context favoured this latter supposition; but then he uttered them as a great truth; he had a trick of that sort of “preaching,” and the moment the word preaching crossed him, his anger was dispelled, for who minded preaching? Who was ever the better or the worse for it? Who ever deemed its denunciations personal?

The entrance of his man, Mr. Fisk, cut short his reflections, for he had sent him over to Dalradern, with his compliments, to ask after Mademoiselle O’Hara.

“Sir Within’s respects, Sir, the young lady is better; passed a good night, and seems much refreshed.”

“Here’s news, Grenfell,” cried Ladarelle, opening the window, and calling out to Grenfell – “here’s news; she has had a good night, and is better.”

Grenfell, however, had just received his letters from the post, and was already too deeply engrossed by one of them to mind him.

“I say, come here, and listen to the bulletin,” cried Ladarelle again; but Grenfell, without deigning the slightest notice to his words, thrust his letters into his pocket and walked hastily away.

The letter he had opened was from Vyner, and even in the first few lines had so far engaged his interest, that, to read it undisturbed, he set out to gain a little summer-house on a small island – a spot to which Ladarelle could not follow, as there was but one boat on the lake.

Having reached his sanctuary, he took forth the epistle, which, from Vyner, was an unusually long one, and began to read. It is not necessary that I should ask the reader’s attention to the whole of it. It opened by an apology for not having written before:

“I am ashamed to think, my dear Grenfell, how many of your questions remain unanswered; but as the Cardinal’s private secretary wrote to express the grief his Eminence felt at being obliged to die instead of dine out, so I must ask your patience for not replying to you, as I was occupied in being ruined. It is a big word, George, but not too big for the fact. When I gave up politics, for want of something to do, I took up speculation. A very clever rascal – I only found out the rascality later – with whom I made acquaintance at Genoa, induced me to make some railroad ventures, which all turned out successes. From these he led me on to others of a larger kind in Sardinia, and ultimately in Morocco. A great London banking firm was associated with the enterprise, which, of course, gave the air of stability to the operations, and as there was nothing unfair – nothing gambling in the scheme – nothing, in fact, that passed the limits of legitimate commercial enterprise, at the same time that there was everything to interest And amuse, I entered into it with all that ardour for which more than once your prudent temperament has rebuked me. I have no patience to go over the story; besides that the catastrophe tells it all. The original tempter – his name is Gennet – has fled, the great bankers have failed, and I am – I have ascertained – engaged to the full amount of all I have in the world – that is, nothing remains to us but my wife’s settlement to live on. A great blow this; I am staggering under it still. It was precisely the sort of misfortune I had thought myself exempt from, because I never cared much about money-getting; I was richer than I really needed to be; but, as the Spanish proverb says, ‘The devil never goes out to fish with only one sort of bait in his boat.’ I imagined I was going to be a great philanthropist. If I was to get lead from the Moors, I was to give them civilisation, culture, Heaven knows what cravings after good things here and hereafter. Don’t laugh, George; I give you my word of honour I believed it. Mr. Ridley Gennet was a great artist, and from the hour he waved his wand over me, I never really awoke ‘till I was beggared.’ Now, I do believe that you yourself, with all the craft you boast of, would not have come scathless out of his hands. These fellows are consummately clever, and in nothing more than in the quick reading of the characters they are placed in contact with. You can answer for it that I never was a gambler. I have played, it is true; but with no zest, no passion for play. That man, however, knew more of me than I did of myself; he detected a sort of combative spirit in my nature, which gives results very much like the love of play. It prompts to a rash self-confidence and a dogged resolution not to be beaten – no matter how heavy the odds against one. I say, he saw this, and he determined to make use of it. There was a time at which, at the loss of about twenty-eight or thirty thousand pounds, I might have freed myself of every liability; and, indeed, I was more than half inclined to do it; but the devil, in this fellow’s shape, hinted something about being poor-spirited and craven-hearted; said something about men who bore reverses ill, and only spread canvas when the wind was all astern; and that, in fact, the people who carried the day in life were exactly those who never would accept defeat. All he said met a ready concurrence from my own heart, and in I went after my thirty thousand, which soon became eighty. Even then I might have escaped – a heavy loser, of course, but not crushed – but he persuaded me that the concern was the finest enterprise in Europe, if emancipated from the influence of two powerful shareholders – men who, since they had joined us, had gone deeply into other speculations, whose prospects would be severely damaged by our success. One of these was La Marque, the Parisian banker, and a great promoter of the ‘Crédit Mobilier;’ the other an English contractor, whose name I may mention one of these days. They were, he said, to be bought out, and then I should stand the representative of four-sixths of the whole scheme. It reads like infatuation now that I go calmly over it; but I acceded. I commissioned Gennet to treat with these gentlemen, and gave him blank bills for the sums. For a while all seemed to go on admirably. La Marque himself wrote to me; he owned that his other engagements had not left him at liberty to develop the resources of our company to their full extent, and confessed that there were certain changes in the management that must lead to great advantage. With, however, what I thought at the time a most scrupulous honour – though I have come to regard it differently – he hinted to me that while Mr. G.‘s position in the ‘world of affairs’ was above all reproach, the fact of his conducting a transaction with blank acceptances was totally irregular and unbusiness-like; and he begged that I would give him a regular assurance, in a form which he enclosed, that I authenticated G.‘s position, and held myself responsible, not merely commercially, but as a man of honour, for such engagements as he should contract in my name. I made a few trifling alterations in the wording of this document, and sent it back with my signature. On the third day after, the London firm smashed, and on the evening that brought the news, G. bolted, and has not since been heard of.

“Since then, every post from England tells me of the steps at which my ruin advances. M’Kinlay, overwhelmed, I think, by the calamity, acts with less than his usual skill and cleverness, and continues to insist that I must repudiate my pledge to La Marque, whom he calls a confederate of G.‘s; and, indeed, declares that if we could but secure that fellow’s person, we should save a large remnant of the property. These are his views; they are not mine. I cannot consent to remedy my folly at the cost of my character; and though I have agreed to the despatch of detectives to hunt Gennet, I will not, by any act, dishonour my signature.

“It is at this stage we are now arrived. Whether I am to be drowned by six inches over my head, or six fathoms, is not, I opine, a matter of much consequence. Lady Vyner knows it all, and bears it – as I knew she would – nobly. Her sister, too, has shown a fine spirit. Of course, we have kept so much as we can of the calamity from Mrs. Courtenay; but she is more cast down than any of us. As for Ada, she sustains us all. I declare I never knew her before; and if it were not that the misfortune is to outlive me, I’d say it was worth being ruined to discover the boundless wealth of that dear girl’s heart.

“I could fill pages with little traits of her thoughtful affection, evincing a nature, too, that actually seemed to need an opportunity to show it was made for higher and better things than to float along in an existence of indulgence.

“You are impatient to hear how practical we can be. Well, you shall. We have given up our grand palazzo, and retired to a little place about twenty miles off, near Chiavari, where we found a small house to suit us. We have sent off all the servants but three. I doubt if we shall keep old Morris; but it would break his heart to discharge him with the others. I have despatched my horses to be sold at Turin. The yacht is already disposed of. Not bad this in four days, besides writing about a hundred and fifty letters, and giving solemn audience to Mr. Pengrove, of the detective force, come out specially to get from me a detailed description of G.‘s person, size, dress, accent, and manner. I vow, till I had the happiness of this gentleman’s acquaintance, I never knew by how many traits a human creature could stamp his identity; and the way in which he pushed his inquiries, as to matters utterly beyond the realms of all the disguises in use, perfectly amazed me.

“It was not, perhaps, a very acute question of mine, but it dropped from me half unawares. I asked whether he thought G. had fled to America or Australia? He replied, ‘No, sir; he never had any dealings in those parts. When men bolt, they always follow out some previously-formed train of circumstances; he’ll be somewhere on the African coast – I mean to try Tunis first.’

“You know now, my dear George, more than I really meant to inflict on you of our sad story; but I was, in a measure, forced into some details. First of all, one’s friends ought to be in a position to contradict false rumours, and I take it I shall have my share of them; and secondly, you may be disturbed in your present tenure, for the Cottage as well as the Castle goes to the creditors.

“There is, however, a small business matter in which I must have more than your advice – I want your assistance. You may remember that when, on our Irish tour – ”

There comes here a sudden stop in the epistle, but, in a hurried and tremulous hand, it was continued in this wise:

“Another great misfortune! Poor Luttrell’s boy is drowned. My wife has just brought me the news. A despatch boat of the Italian navy has picked up at sea an English sailor on a spar, the last of the crew of the American barque Squashy commanded by a Captain Dodge. They were attacked by pirates when becalmed off the Riff coast, and the Yankee, rather than surrender, blew up the ship. This man remembers nothing beyond his having leaped overboard when he saw the captain make for the magazine. He was, indeed, insensible when picked up, and even yet his mind wanders at times. So far as his memory would serve he has given the names of the crew, and Luttrell’s was amongst them. He said, too, that he saw Luttrell leaning against the tiller-wheel, with his arms folded, and looking quite calm, a moment or two before he jumped over. The Italian steamer returned to the place and cruised for an entire day, in the hope of saving some others, but none were met with, and there is no doubt now that all have perished. I thought only an hour ago that there were few in the world as unfortunate as myself; but what is my loss compared to poor Luttrell’s? If I could possibly leave home now, it would be to go over to Ireland and see him. What is to be done? Can you suggest how the tidings could be best broken to him? Would you undertake the charge yourself? If not, M’Kinlay must do it, though, for every reason, I prefer you. I know, my dear Grenfell, that you shrink from painful tasks, but it is my load that you will bear on this occasion, and it will strengthen you to remember that you are helping a friend in his great hour of need.

“If you are not able to go, and if M’Kinlay should also be unable, forward the enclosed note to Luttrell.

“I have just seen Martin the sailor. He has told us much about young Luttrell, who seems to have been actually beloved on board the ship; his courage, his daring, his coolness, and his unfailing high spirits, made him the idol of the crew; and this fellow declares, that if Luttrell’s advice had been listened to, the ship might have been saved; but the American lost his head; and, swearing that the pirates should never have a timber of her, rushed below with a portfire, and blew her up.