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CHAPTER LI. THE BOAR’S HEAD

Ladarelle stood at a window of the Boar’s Head which commanded a view of the road into the town, and waited, watch in hand, for O’Rorke’s coming. The morning passed, and noon, and it was late in the day when a wearied horse, over-driven and steaming, drew up at the door, and the long looked-for traveller alighted.

Though burning with impatience to learn his news, Ladarelle saw the necessity of concealing his anxiety, and, opening his writing-desk, he affected to be deeply engaged writing when, conducted by a waiter, O’Rorke appeared.

A single glance as he passed the threshold told Ladarelle that his tidings were important. Already the fellow’s swagger declared it, and in the easy confidence with which he sat down, and in the careless way he rather threw than laid his hat on the table, might be seen that he felt himself “master of the situation.”

“You are later than I expected,” said Ladarelle, carelessly.

“I didn’t leave the place till after twelve. He made me go over the gardens and the forcing-houses, and after that the stables, till at one time I thought I’d not get away till to-morrow.”

“And what do you think of it all?”

“Grand! – grand! It’s the finest place I ever saw, and well kept up, too! There’s eight men in the garden, and the head-gardener told me he might have as many more, if he wanted them.”

“The horses are overfed; they are like prize oxen.”

“They’re fat, to be sure; but it’s fine to see them standing there, with their glossy skins, and their names over them, and their tails hanging down like tassels, and no more call for them to work than if they were lords themselves.”

“I’ll make a grand clearance of all that rubbish one day. I’ll have none of those German elephants, I promise you, when I come to the property.”

“He isn’t going to make room for you yet awhile, he says,” said O’Rorke, with a grin.

“What do you mean?”

“If what he said to me this morning is to be relied on, he means to marry.”

“And haye a family, perhaps?” added Ladarelle, with a laugh.

“He said nothing about that; he talked like a man that hoped to see many years, and happy ones.”

“No one ever lived the longer for wishing it, or else we heirs-expectant would have a bad time of it. But this is not the question. What answer did he give you?”

“There it is!”

And, as he spoke, he drew from his breast-pocket a large square-shaped letter, massively sealed, and after showing the address, “Miss Luttrell,” on the cover, he replaced it in his pocket.

“Do you know what’s in it?” asked Ladarelle, sharply.

“Only that there’s money, that’s all, for he said to me, ‘Any banker will cash it.’”

Ladarelle took a couple of turns of the room without speaking; then, coming directly in front of the other, he said:

“Now, then, Mr. O’Rorke, which horse do you back? Where do you stand to win? I mean, are you going to serve Sir Within or me?”

“He is the bird in the hand, any way!” said O’Rorke, with a grin of malicious meaning.

“Well, if you think so, I have no more to say, only that as shrewd a man as you are might see that an old fellow on the verge of the grave is not likely to be as lasting a friend as a man like myself. In other words, which life would you prefer in your lease?”

O’Rorke made no answer, but seemed sunk in thought.

“I’ll put the case before you in three words. You might help this girl in her plans – you might aid her so far that she could come back here, and remain either as this old man’s wife or mistress – I don’t know that there would be much difference, in fact, as the law stands, between the two – but how long would you be a welcome visitor here after that? You speculate on being able to come, and go, and stay here just as you please; you’d like to have this place as a home you could come to whenever you pleased, and be treated not merely with respect and attention, but with cordiality. Now, I just ask you, from what you have yourself told me of this girl, is that what you would expect when she was the mistress? Is she so staunch to her own people, that she would be true to you?”

For some minutes O’Rorke made no answer, and then, leaning both arms on the table before him, he said, in a slow, measured voice, “What do you offer me yourself?”

“I said last night, and I repeat it now, make your own terms.”

O’Rorke shook his head, and was silent.

“I am willing,” resumed Ladarelle, “to make you my land-steward, give you a house and a plot of ground rent free, and pay you eighty pounds a year. I’ll make it a hundred if I see you stand well to me!”

“I’ve got some debts,” muttered O’Rorke, in a low voice.

“What do they amount to?”

“Oh, they’re heavy enough; but I could settle them for a couple of hundreds.”

“I’ll pay them, then.”

“And, after that, I’d rather go abroad. I’d like to go and settle in Australia.”

“How much money would that require?”

“I want to set up a newspaper, and I couldn’t do it under two thousand pounds.”

“That’s a big sum, Master O’Rorke.”

“The devil a much the old man at the Castle there would think of it, if it helped him to what he wanted.”

“I mean, it’s a big sum to raise at a moment, but I don’t say it would be impossible.”

“Will you give it, then? That’s the short way to put it. Will you give it?”

“First, let me ask for what am I to give it? Is it that you will stand by me in this business to the very end, doing whatever I ask you, flinching at nothing, and taking every risk equally with myself?”

“And no risk that you don’t share yourself?”

“None!”

“It is worth thinking about, anyhow,” said O’Rorke, as he arose and paced the room, with his hands deep in his pockets; “that is, if the money is paid down – down on the nail – for I won’t take a bill, mind.”

“I’m afraid, O’Rorke, your experiences in life have not taught you to be very confiding.”

“I’ll tell you what they’ve taught me; they’ve taught me that wherever there’s money in anything, a man ought not to trust his own mother.”

In a few hurried words, Ladarelle explained that till he came to his estate, all his dealings for ready money were of the most ruinous kind; that to raise two thousand would cost him eventually nearly four; and, as he phrased it, “I’d rather see the difference in the pocket of an honest fellow who stood to me, than a rascally Jew who rogued me.”

“I’ll give you a post obit on Sir Within’s estate for three thousand, and, so far as a hundred pounds goes to pay your voyage, you shall not want it.”

O’Rorke did not at first like the terms. Whenever he ventured his chances in life, things had turned out ill; all his lottery tickets were blanks, and he shook his head doubtingly, and made no reply.

“Five o’clock already! I must be going,” said Ladarelle, suddenly looking at his watch.

“That’s a fine watch!” said O’Rorke, as he gazed at the richly-embossed crest on the case.

“If having my arms on the back is no objection to you, O’Rorke, take it. I make you a present of it.”

O’Rorke peered into his face with an inquisitiveness so full of unbelief as almost to be laughable, but the expression changed to a look of delight as Ladarelle took the chain from off his neck and handed the whole to him.

“May I never!” cried O’Rorke; “if I won’t be your equal. There’s the letter!” And he drew forth Sir Within’s despatch, and placed it in his hands.

Concealing all the delight he felt at this unlooked-for success, Ladarelle retired to the window to read the letter; nor did he at once break the seal. Some scruple – there were not many left him – did still linger amidst the wreck of his nature, and he felt that what he was about to do was a step lower in baseness than he had hitherto encountered. “After all,” muttered he, “if I hesitate about this, how am I to meet what is before me?” And so he broke the seal and tore open the envelope. “The old fool! the infatuated old fool!” broke from him, in an accent of bitter scorn, as he ran over the three lines which a trembling hand had traced. “I knew it would come to this. I said so all long. Here’s an order to pay Miss Luttrell or bearer two hundred pounds!” said he, turning to O’Rorke. “We must not cash this, or we should get into a precious scrape.”

“And what’s in the letter?” asked O’Rorke, carelessly.

“Nothing beyond his readiness to be of use, and all that. He writes with difficulty, he says, and that’s not hard to believe – an infernal scrawl it is – and he promises to send a long letter by the post tomorrow. By the way, how do they get the letters at Arran?”

“They send for them once a week to the mainland; on Saturdays, if I remember aright.”

“We must arrest this correspondence then, or we shall be discovered at once. How can we obtain her letters?”

“Easy enough. I know the boy that comes for them, and he can’t read, though he can tell the number of letters that he should have. I’ll have one ready to substitute for any that should be to her address.”

“Well thought of. I see, O’Rorke, you are the man I wanted; now listen to me attentively, and hear my plan. I must return to the Castle, and pretend that I have pressing business in town. Instead of taking the London mail, however, I shall proceed to Holyhead, where you must wait for me at the inn, the Watkins’ Arms. I hope to be there tomorrow morning early, but it may be evening before I can arrive. Wait, at all events, for my coming.”

“Remember that I promised to be back in Arran, with the answer to her letter, by Saturday.”

“So you shall. It is fully as important for me that you should keep your word.”

“Does he want her back again?” said O’Rorke, not fully satisfied that he had not seen Sir Within’s note.

“No, not exactly; at least, it is evasive, and very short. It is simply to this purport: ‘I conclude you have made a mistake by leaving me, and think you might have humility enough to acknowledge it; meanwhile, I send you a cheque for two hundred. I shall write to-morrow more fully.’”

O’Rorke was thoroughly aware, by the stammering confusion of the other’s manner, that these were not the terms of the note; but it was a matter which interested him very little, and he let it pass unchallenged. His calculation – and he had given a whole night to it – was briefly this: “If I serve Sir Within, I may possibly be well and handsomely rewarded, but I shall obtain no power of pressure upon him; under no circumstances can I extort from him one shilling beyond what he may be disposed to give me. If, on the other hand, I stand by Ladarelle, his whole character is in my hands. He is too unscrupulous not to compromise himself, and though his accomplice, I shall do everything in such a way that one day, if I need it, I may appear to have been his dupe. And such a position as this can be the source of untold money.”

Nor was it a small inducement to him to think that the side he adopted was adverse to Kate. Why he disliked her he knew not – that is, he would not have been well able to say why. Perhaps he might not readily have admitted the fact, though he well knew that to see her great, and prosperous, and high placed, a winner in that great lottery of life where he had failed so egregiously, would be to him the most intense misery, and he would have done much to prevent it.

Along with these thoughts were others, speculating on Ladarelle himself, and whom he was sorely puzzled whether to regard more as knave or fool, or an equal mixture of the two. “He’ll soon see that whatever he does he mustn’t try to cheat Tim O’Rorke,” muttered he; “and when he gets that far, I’ll not trouble myself more about his education.”

CHAPTER LII. THE NIGHT AT SEA

The Saturday – the eventful day on which Kate was to have her answer from Sir Within – came at last. It was a dark, lowering morning, and though there was scarcely an air of wind, the sea rolled heavily in, and broke in great showers of spray over the rocks, sure sign that a storm was raging at a distance.

From an early hour she had been down to the shore to watch if any boat could be seen, but not a sail could be descried, and the fishermen told her that though the wind had a faint sound in it, there were few Westport men would like to venture out in such a sea.

“If you cannot see a boat before noon, Tim Hennesy,” said she to one of the boatmen, “you’ll have to man the yawl, for I mean to go over myself.”

“It will be a hard beat against the wind, Miss,” said the man. “It will take you an hour to get out of the bay here.”

“I suppose we shall reach Westport before morning?”

“It will be no bad job if we get in by this time to-morrow.”

She turned angrily away; she hated opposition in every shape, and even the semblance of anything like discouragement chafed and irritated her.

“No sign of your messenger?” said Luttrell, from the window of the tower, whither he had gone to have a look out over the sea.

“It is early yet, Sir. If they came out on the ebb we should not see them for at least another hour.”

He made no answer, but closed the window and withdrew.

“Get me a loaf of bread, Molly, and some hard eggs and a bottle of, milk,” said Kate, as she entered the house.

“And sure, Miss, it’s not off to the mountains you’ll be going such a day as this. It will be a down-pour of rain before evening, and you have a bad cough on you already.”

“You most lend me your cloak, too, Molly,” said she, not heeding the remonstrance, “it’s much warmer than my own.”

“Ain’t I proud that it would be on your back, the Heavens bless and protect you! But where are you going that you want a cloak?”

“Go and ask my uncle if I may speak to him.”

Molly went, and came back at once to say that Mr. Luttrell was in his room below, and she might come there when she pleased.

“I am thinking of going over to Westport, Sir,” said Kate, as she passed the threshold. “My impatience is fevering me, and I want to do something.”

“Listen to the sea, young woman; it is no day to go out, and those drifting clouds tell that it will be worse by-and-by.”

“All the better if it blows a little, it will take me off thinking of other cares.”

“I’ll not hear of it – there!”

And he waved his hand as though to dismiss her, but she never moved, but stood calm and collected where she was.

“You remember, Sir, to-day is Saturday, and very little time is now left us for preparation. By going over to the mainland, I shall meet O’Rorke, and save his journey here and back again, and the chances are, that, seeing the day rough, he’d not like to leave Westport this morning.”

“I have told you my mind, that is enough,” said he, with an impatient gesture; but she stood still, and never quitted the spot. “I don’t suppose you have heard me, Miss Luttrell,” said he, with a tone of suppressed passion.

“Yes, Sir, I have heard you, but you have not heard me. My poor old grandfather’s case is imminent; whatever measures are to be taken for his defence cannot be deferred much longer. If the plan I adopted should turn out a failure, I must think of another, and that quickly.”

“What is this old peasant to me?” broke out Luttrell, fiercely. “Is this low-lived family to persecute me to my last day? You must not leave me – you shall not – I am not to be deserted for the sake of a felon! – I’ll not hear of it! – Go! Leave me?”

She moved gently towards him, and laid her hand on the back of his chair.

“Dear uncle,” said she, in a low, soft voice, “it would grieve you sorely if aught befel this poor old man – aught, I mean, that we could have prevented. Let me go and see if I cannot be of some use to him.”

“Go? – go where? – do you mean to the gaol?”

“Yes, Sir, I mean to see him.”

“The yery thing I have forbidden! The express compact by which you came here was, no intercourse with this – this – family, and now that the contact has become a stain and a disgrace, now is the moment you take to draw closer to them.”

“I want to show I am worthy to be a Lnttrell, Sir. It was their boast that they never deserted their wounded.”

“They never linked their fortunes to felons and murderers, young woman. I will hear no more of this.”

“I hope to be back here by to-morrow night, uncle,” said she, softly, and she bent down her head over him till the long silky curls of her golden hair grazed his temple.

He brushed them rudely back, and in a stern tone said:

“To such as leave this against my consent there is no road back. Do you hear me?”

“I do,” said she, faintly.

“Do you understand me?”

“Yes.”

“Enough, then. Leave me now, and let me have peace.”

“Uncle – dear uncle,” she began; but he stopped her at once.

“None of this – none of this with me, young woman. You are free to make your choice: you are my adopted daughter, or, you are the grandchild of a man whose claim to be notorious will soon dispute with ours. It is an easy thing to make up your mind upon.”

“I have done so already, Sir.”

“Very well, so much the better. Leave me now. I wish to be alone.”

“Let me say good-by, Sir; let me kiss your hand, and say, for the last time, how grateful I am for all your past kindness.”

He never spoke, but continued to stare at her with an expression of wonderment and surprise.

“Would you leave me, then? – would you leave me, Kate?” muttered he, at last.

“No, Sir, if the door be not closed against me – never!”

“None but yourself can close that door against you.”

“Dear, kind uncle, only hear me. It may be, that I have failed in the scheme I planned; it may be, that some other road must be found to help this poor, forlorn, friendless old man. Let me at least see him; let me give him what comfort a few kind words can give; let him know that he has sympathy in his hour of sadness.”

“Sympathy with the felon – sympathy with the murderer! I have none. I feel shame – bitter, bitter shame, that I cannot disclaim him – disavow him! My own miserable rashness and folly brought me to this! but when I descended to their poverty, I did not descend to their crimes.”

“Well,” said she, haughtily, “I have no such excuses to shelter me. I am of them by blood, as I am in heart. I’ll not desert him.”

“May your choice be fortunate,” said he, with mockery; “but remember, young woman, that when once you pass under the lintel of the gaol, you forfeit every right to enter here again. It is but fair that you know it.”

“I know it, Sir; good-by.” She stooped to take his hand, but he drew it rudely from her, and she raised the skirt of his coat to her lips and kissed it.

“Remember, young woman, if the time comes that you shall tell of this desertion of me – this cold, unfeeling desertion – take care you tell the truth. No harping on Luttrell pride, or Luttrell sternness – no pretending that it was the man of birth could not accept companionship of misery with the plebeian; but the simple fact, than when the hour of a decided allegiance came, you stood by the criminal and abandoned the gentleman. There is the simple fact; deny it if you dare!”

“There is not one will dare to question me, Sir, and your caution is unneeded.”

“Your present conduct is no guarantee for future prudence!”

“Dear uncle – ” she began; but he stopped her hastily, and said:

“It is useless to recal our relationship when you have dissolved its ties.”

“Oh, Sir, do not cast me off because I am unhappy.”

“Here is your home, Kate,” said he, coldly. “Whenever you leave it, it is of your own free will, not of mine. Go now, if you wish, but remember, you go at your peril.”

She darted a fierce look at him as he uttered the last word, as though it had pierced her like a dart, and for a moment she seemed as if her temper could no longer be kept under; but with an effort she conquered, and simply saying, “I accept the peril, Sir,” she turned and left the room.

She gave her orders to the crew of the launch to get ready at once, and sent down to the boat her little basket; and then, while Molly Ryan was absent, she packed her trunk with whatever she possessed, and prepared to leave Arran, if it might be, for ever. Her tears ran fast as she bent over her task, and they relieved her overwrought mind, for she was racked and torn by a conflict – a hard conflict – in which different hopes, and fears, and ambitions warred, and struggled for the mastery.

“Here is the hour of destitution – the long dreaded hour come at last, and it finds me less prepared to brave it than I thought for. By this time to-morrow the sun will not shine on one more friendless than myself. I used to fancy with what courage I could meet this fall, and even dare it. Where is all my bravery now?”

“‘Tis blowin’ harder, Miss Kate; and Tim Hennesy says it’s only the beginnin’ of it, and that he’s not easy at all about taking you out in such weather.”

“Tell Tim Hennesy, that if I hear any more of his fears I’ll not take him. Let them carry that trunk down, Molly; I shall be away some days, and those things there are for you.”

“Sure, ain’t you coming back, Miss?” cried the woman, whose cheeks became ashy pale with terror.

“I have told you I am going for a few days; and, Molly, till I do come, be more attentive than ever to my uncle; he may miss me, and he is not well just now, and be sure you look to him. Keep the key, too, of this room of mine, unless my uncle asks for it.”

“Oh, you’re not coming back to us – you’ll never come back!” cried the poor creature, in an agony of sorrow. And she fell at Kate’s feet and grasped her dress, as though to detain her.

“There, there, this is all childishness, Molly. You will displease me if you go on so. Was that thunder I heard?”

As she asked, a knock came to the door, and the captain of the boat’s crew, Tim Hennesy, put in his head. “If you are bent on goin’, Miss, the tide is on the turn, and there’s no time to lose.”

“You’re a hard man to ask her, Tim Hennesy,” said the woman, rising, and speaking with a fiery vehemence: “You’re a hard man, after losing your own brother at sea, to take her out in weather like this.”

Kate gave a hurried look over the room, and then, as if not trusting her control over her feelings, she went quietly out, and hastened down to the shore.

There was, indeed, no lime to be lost, and all the efforts of the sailors were barely enough to save the small boat that lay next the pier from being crushed against the rocks with each breaking wave.

“Get on board, Miss; now’s the moment!” cried one of the men. And, just as he spoke, she made a bold spring and lighted safely in the stern.

The strong arms strained to the oars, and in a few seconds they were on board the yawl. The last few turns of the capstan were needed to raise the anchor, and now the jib was set to “pay her head round,” and amidst a perfect shower of spray as the craft swung “about,” the mainsail was hoisted, and they were away.

“What’s the signal flying from the tower for?” said one of the sailors. And he pointed to a strip of dark-coloured bunting that now floated from the flagstaff.

“That’s his honour’s way of bidding us good-by,” said Hennesy. “I’ve never seen it these twelve years.”

“How can we answer it, Tim?” said Kate, eagerly.

“We’ll show him his own colours, Miss,” said the man. And, knotting the Luttrell flag on the halyard, he hoisted it in a moment. “Ay, he sees it now! Down comes his own ensign now to tell us that we’re answered!”

“Was it to say good-by, or was it to recal her? – was it a last greeting of love and affection, or was it a word of scorn?” Such were Kate’s musings as the craft heaved and worked in the strong sea, while the waves broke on the bow, and scattered great sheets of water over them.

“I wish there was a dry spot to shelter you, Miss,” said Tim, as he saw the poor girl shivering and dripping from head to foot. “But it’s worse now than farther out; the squalls are stronger here under the land.”

“Ay; but we’ll have a heavier sea outside,” said another, who would willingly have seen her change her mind even now, and return to the island.

“It’s a fine wind for America, if that was where we were going,” said a third, laughingly.

Kate smiled; she had almost said, “It matters little to me where;” but she caught herself, and was silent. Hour after hour went over, and they seemed – to her, at least – to have made no way whatever, for there rose the great mountain-peaks; the well-known cliffs of Arran frowned down dark and sullen, just as when they had left the harbour. She could count one by one the lights along the bay, and knew each cabin they belonged to; and there, high tap, shone out a lonely star from the tower of St. Finbar, bringing back of her mind the solitary watcher who sat to sorrow over her desertion! The night at last fell, but the wind increased, and so rough was the sea that she was forced to take shelter in the bottom of the boat, where they made shift to cover her with & coarse canopy of tarpaulin.

Like some dreadful dream drawn out to the length of years, the hours of that night went over. The howling storm, the thundering crash of the sea, and at times a quivering motion in the craft, as though her timbers were about to part, and more even than these, the wild voices of the men, obliged to shout that they might be heard amongst the din, made up a mass of horrors that appalled her. Sometimes the danger seemed imminent, for to the loud words and cries of the men a sudden silence would succeed, while floods of water would pour over the sides, and threaten them with instant drowning. The agony she pictured to herself of a last struggle for life was more terrible far than her fear of death; and yet, through all these, came the thought: “Might it not be better thus? Should I not have left to the few who knew me dearer, fonder memories, than my life, if I am yet to live, will bequeath?” Worn out by these anxieties, and exhausted too, she fell into a deep sleep – so deep, that all the warring noises of the storm never awoke her; nor was she conscious that a new morning had dawned, and a bright noon followed it, as the launch entered the bay of Westport, and beat up for the harbour.

When Hennesy awoke her, to say that they were close in to shore, she neither could collect herself nor answer him; benumbed with cold, and wet, she could barely muster strength to arise, and sit down in the stern-sheets.

“That’s the spire of the town, Miss, under the hill there.”

“It was a wild night, Tim?” said she, inquiringly.

“I have seen as rough a sea, but I never was out in a stronger gale.”

“Mind that you tell my uncle so when you get back; and be sure to say that I bore it well.”

“Why wouldn’t I? The sorrow a word ever crossed your lips. No man ever was braver!” “That’s true,” muttered the others.

“Get me a piece of bread out of that basket, Tim; and don’t forget to tell my uncle how I ate, and ate heartily.”