Now, Mr. M’Kinlay thoroughly understood that he was typified under that same public, who only knew great men by report, and misrepresented them through ignorance. He was, however, so strong in “his brief,” that he would not submit to be put down; he had taken pains to look over a record of Sir Within’s services, and had seen that he was attached to the Russian embassy fifty-two years ago.
“What do you say to that, Miss Courtenay? Fifty-two years ago.”
“I say, Sir, that I don’t care for arithmetic, and never settle any question by a reference to mere figures. When I last saw Sir Within he was in the prime of life, and if great social talents and agreeability were to be any test, one of the youngest persons of the company.”
“Oh, I’m the first to extol his conversational powers. He is a perfect mine of good stories.”
“I detest good stories. I like conversation, I like reply, rejoinder, even amplification at times; anecdote is almost always a mistake.”
Mr. M’Kinlay was aghast. How disagreeable he must have made himself, to render her so sharp and so incisive all at once.
“I can say all this to you,” said she, with a sweet tone, “for it is a fault you never commit. And so, you remark, that Sir Within showed no remarkable gloom or depression – nothing, in fact, that argued he had met with any great shock?”
“My impression was, that I sow him in high spirits and in the best possible health.”
“I thought so!” cried she, almost triumphantly. “I declare I thought so!” But why she thought so, or what she thought, or how it could be matter of such pleasure, she did not go on to explain. After a moment, she resumed: “And was there nothing said about why he had left Dalradern, and what induced him to come abroad?”
“Nothing – positively nothing.”
“Well,” said she, with a haughty toss of her head, “it is very possible that the whole subject occupies a much larger space in Mr. Grenfell’s letter than in Sir Within’s mind; and, for my own part, I only inquired about the matter as it was once the cause of a certain coldness, a half estrangement between Dalradern and ourselves, and which, as my brother takes much pleasure in Sir Within’s society, I rejoice to perceive exists no longer.”
All this was a perfect riddle to Mr. M’Kinlay, who had nothing for it but to utter a wise sentiment on the happiness of reconciliation. Even this was unfortunate, for she tartly told him that “there could be no reconciliation where there was no quarrel;” and then dryly added, “Is it not cold out here?”
“I protest I think it delightful,” said he.
“Well, then, it is damp, or it’s something or other,” said she, carelessly, and turned towards the house.
M’Kinlay followed her; gloomy enough was he. Here was the opportunity he had so long wished for, and what had he made of it? It had opened, too, favourably; their first meeting was cordial; had he said anything that might have offended her? or had he – this was his last thought as they reached the porch – had he not said what she expected he ought to have said? That supposition would at once explain her chagrin and irritation.
“Miss Georgina,” said he, with a sort of reckless daring, “I have an entreaty to make of you – I ask a favour at your hands.”
“It is granted, Mr. M’Kinlay,” said she, smiling. “I guess it already.”
“You guess it already, and you grant it!” cried he, in ecstasy.
“Yes,” said she, still graciously, as she threw off her shawl. “You are impatient for your tea, and you shall have it at once.”
And with that she moved hurriedly forward, and left him overwhelmed with shame and anger.
CHAPTER LXI. MR. M’KINLAY’S “INSTRUCTIONS.”
The party at the Villa were seated at breakfast the following morning, when Vyner arrived with his young guest – a fine, manly-looking, determined fellow, whose frank bearing and unaffected demeanour interested the ladies strongly in his favour at once; nor did the tone of sorrow and sadness in his manner detract from the good impression he produced. The tidings of his father’s death had met him as he landed at Genoa, and overwhelmed him with affliction – such utter friendlessness was his – so bereft was he of all that meant kindred or relationship. His captain was, indeed, now all that remained to him, and he had nursed and tended him in his long illness with untiring devotion, insomuch, indeed, that it was with difficulty Vyner could persuade him to come down to the Boschetto for a few days, to rally his strength and spirits by change of air and scene.
Sir Gervais had very early observed that the young sailor possessed the characteristic reserve of his family, and avoided, whenever possible, all reference to himself. Strange and eventful as his last few years had been, he never referred to them, or did so in that careless, passing way that showed he would not willingly make them matter to dwell upon; and yet, with all this, there was an openness when questioned, a frank readiness to answer whatever was asked, that plainly proved his reserve was mere shyness – the modest dislike to make himself or his story foreground objects.
Lady Vyner, not usually attracted by new acquaintances, liked him much, and saw him, without any motherly misgivings, constantly in Ada’s society. They walked together over the olive hills and along the sea-shore every morning. Once or twice, too, they had taken out Vyner’s little sail-boat, and made excursions to Sestri or to Recco; and in the grave, respectful, almost distant manner of Harry Luttrell, there seemed that sort of security which the mammas of handsome heiresses deem sufficient. Ada, too, frankness and honesty itself, spoke of him to her mother as a sister might have spoken of a dear brother. If he had been more confidential with her than with the others – and his confessions were even marked with a sort of strange deference, as though made to one who could not well realise to her mind the humble fortunes of a mere adventurer like himself – there was also a kind of rugged pride in the way he presented himself even in his character of a sailor – one who had not the slightest pretension to rank or condition whatever – that showed how he regarded the gulf between them.
It was strange, inexplicably strange, what distance separated him from Miss Courtenay. Neither would, perhaps neither could, make any advances to the other. “She is so unlike your mother, Ada,” blurted he out one day, ere he knew what he had said. “He is painfully like his father,” was Georgina’s comment on himself.
“You have had a long visit from young Luttrell, Mr. M’Kinlay,” said she, on the day after his arrival, when they had been closeted together for nigh two hours.
“Yes, Sir Gervais begged me to explain to him some of the circumstances which led his father to will away the Arran property, and to inform him that the present owner was his cousin. I suspect Sir Gervais shrank from the unpleasant task of entering upon the low connexions of the family, and which, of course, gave me no manner of inconvenience. I told him who she was, and he remembered her at once. I was going on to speak of her having been adopted by your brother, and the other incidents of her childhood, but he stopped me by saying, ‘Would it be possible to make any barter of the Roscommon property, which goes to the heir-at-law, and who is now myself, for the Arran estate, for I hold much to it?’ I explained to him that his being alive broke the will, and that Arran was as much his as the rest of the estate. But he would not hear of this, and kept on repeating, ‘My father gave it, and without she is disposed to part with it for a liberal equivalent, I’ll not disturb the possession.’”
“The Luttrells were all so,” said she; “half worldly, half romantic, and one never knew which side was uppermost.”
“He means to go over to Arran; he wants to see the place where his father is buried. The pride of race is very strong in him, and the mere utterance of the word Luttrell brings it up in full force.”
“What a pity she’s married!” said she, insolently, but in so faint a voice he could not catch the words, and asked her to repeat them. “I was only talking to myself, Mr. M’Kinlay,” said she.
“I pressed him,” continued the other, “to give me some instructions, for I can’t suppose he intends to let his fortune slip out of his hands altogether. I told him that it was as much as to impugn his legitimacy; and he gave me a look that frightened me, and, for a moment, I wished myself anywhere else than in the room with him. ‘He must be something younger, and bolder, and braver than you, Sir, that will ever dare to utter such a doubt as that,’ said he; and he was almost purple with passion as he spoke.”
“They are all violent; at least, they were!” said she, with a sneering smile. “I hope you encouraged the notion of going to Arran. I should be so glad if he were to do it at once.”
“Indeed?”
“Can you doubt it, Mr. M’Kinlay? Is it a person so acute and observant as yourself need be told that my niece, Ada, should not be thrown into constant companionship with a young fellow whose very adventures impart a sort of interest to him?”
“But a sailor, Miss Courtenay! – a mere sailor!”
“Very well, Sir; and a mere sailor, to a very young girl who has seen nothing of life, would possibly be fully as attractive as a Member of Parliament. The faculty to find out what is suitable to us, Mr. M’Kinlay, does not usually occur in very early life.”
There was a marked emphasis in the word “suitable” that made the old lawyer’s heart throb fast and full. Was this thrown out for encouragement – was it to inspire hope, or suggest warning? What would he not have given to be certain which of the two it meant.
“Ah, Miss Courtenay,” said he, with a most imploring look, “if I only could assure myself that in the words you have just spoken there lay one spark of hope – I mean, if I could but believe that this would be the proper moment – ”
“My dear Mr. M’Kinlay, let me stop you. There are many things to be done before I can let you even finish your sentence; and mind me, Sir, this, ‘without prejudice,’ as you lawyers say, to my own exercise of judgment afterwards; and the first of these is to send this young man away. I own to you, frankly, he is no favourite of mine. I call ruggedness what they call frankness; and his pride of name and birth are, when unattached to either fortune or position, simply insufferable. Get rid of him; send him to Arran, if he won’t go to Japan. You can do it without inhospitality, or even awkwardness. You can hint to him that people rarely remain beyond two or three days on a visit; that his intimacy with Ada gives pain, uneasiness, to her family; that, in short, he ought to go. I know,” added she, with a bewitching smile, “how little there is for me to instruct Mr. M’Kinlay on a point where tact and delicacy are the weapons to be employed. I feel all the presumption of such a pretence, and therefore I merely say, induce him to go his way, and let him do it in such guise that my brother may not suspect our interference.”
“There is nothing I would not do, Miss Courtenay, with the mere possibility that you would deem it a service. All I ask is the assurance – ”
“Must I stop you again?” said she, with a sweet smile. “Must I remind you that he who stipulates for his reward, risks in some sort his character for generosity, and, worse still, implies a distrust of the one he serves?”
“I am your slave, Miss Courtenay – your humble slave!” said he, bowing with a deep humility.
“It is what I intend you should be,” muttered she to herself; and then added aloud: “Lose no time about this; my brother mentions that he accidentally met Sir Within Wardle in the doorway of the hotel at Genoa; that they embraced most cordially, and parted with Sir Within’s promise to come over and pass some days here, and I believe he may be expected to-morrow; and of course it would be more convenient to have this young man’s room, all the more that Mr. Grenfell also is expected.”
“I’ll set about my negotiation at once.”
“Don’t call it negotiation, my dear Mr. M’Kinlay. It must be far more effectual and more peremptory. To present this sailor lad as an acquaintance to Sir Within would be monstrous. The pleasure of his visit will depend on his coming actually amongst all his old friends.”
Ah, Mr. M’Kinlay, how your heart swelled proudly at that flattery! How exquisite it was to feel you were a member of an order to which, in your proudest day-dreams, you had not aspired!
“There, now, you have your instructions. You’ll find me here about four o’clock to report progress, or rather, as I trust, to announce success.”
“I have an excellent opportunity,” cried M’Kinlay, as she moved away. “He has asked me to go out fishing with him in the boat today. It will be just the time to fall into confidential discourse. At four expect me.”
CHAPTER LXII. FISHING IN TROUBLED WATERS
On gaining the beach where he had appointed to meet Harry Luttrell, Mr. M’Kinlay discovered that his young friend had gone off already, taking Ada with him. He could, indeed, detect the form of a lady in the stern of the boat, as she slipped along over the calm sea, and mark that Luttrell was seated at her side.
Here was imprudence, rashness, wilful rashness, all the more reprehensible in a man like Vyner, who knew, or ought to know, the world by this time. “How is that sailor there to remember that he is only a sailor? and how is that young heiress to call to mind that she is an heiress? Why should people ever be placed in a position in which the impossible ceases to look impossible, and even gets a look of the probable?” Such were some of the wise reflections of this sage moralist, though it is but truth to say he never once thought of applying any one of them to his own case.
“What would Miss Courtenay say, too,” thought he, “when she discovered that he had been so neglectful of the mission entrusted to him?” He looked about for another boat to go after them. It was a strong measure, but it was a time for strong measures. No boat, however, was to be had. He bethought him of hailing them, or trying to attract their attention by signals, and to this end he mounted a rock, and attaching his handkerchief to his umbrella, waved it frantically to and fro, screaming out, “Boat ahoy!” in a voice he meant to be intensely maritime.
“Shout away, old fellow!” muttered Harry, whose well-practised eye and ear detected the signal-maker. “I’m not going back for you.”
“Do you sec any one, Harry?” asked Ada. “Who is it?”
“That old lawyer – I forget his name, but he’s the only creature in the house that I can’t bear. You wouldn’t believe it, but he came up to me yesterday evening, and asked if I had any recollection of his having saved my life. But I stopped him full, for I said, ‘I remember well how Captain Dodge picked me up off a spar at sea, and had to threaten to throw yourself overboard for opposing it.’”
“Well, but, Harry,” said she, gently, “people don’t say such unpleasant things – I mean, when they meet in the world; when thrown together in society, they forgive little grudges, if they cannot forget them.”
“Don’t you know that we Luttrells do neither? I can no more forget a wrong than a kindness. Mind me, though,” added he, quickly, “I do not ask to clear off scores with the lawyer, only let him not claim to make me his debtor. Shout away, it will stretch your lungs for the Old Bailey, or wherever it is that you make your living.”
“If your memory be as good as you say, Harry,” said she, smiling, “can you recal the time papa’s yacht, the Meteor, anchored in the little bay at Arran?”
“I can. I remember it all.”
“And how you came on board in one of our boats?”
“Ay, and how you called me Robinson. Don’t get so red; I wasn’t offended then, and I’m sure I’m not now. You said it in a whisper to your father, but I overheard you; and I think I said I should like well to be Robinson Crusoe, and have an island all my own.”
“And so you have. Arran is yours.”
“No. Arran was mine, or ought to have been mine, but my father, believing me dead, left it to my cousin.”
“Oh, how I long to see her again,” cried Ada, passionately. “You know how we were brought up together.”
“Your father told me all about it; but I never well understood how or why she was sent away again. Were you disappointed in her?”
“Oh no, no. Nothing of the kind. She was cleverer, and more beautiful, and more attractive, than any one could have anticipated. The lesson that would take me days to learn, she had but to glance at and she knew it. The governess was in despair how to keep in advance of her. And then there was a charm in her manner that made the veriest trifle she did a sort of fascination.”
“And were these the traits to send back into hardship and barbarism?”
“To this very hour I never knew how or why she went back, nor to what she went. I must tell you a secret, a great secret it is, Harry, and you will promise never to reveal it.” He nodded, and she went on: “Aunt Georgina never liked Kate. She could not help owning that she was very beautiful, and very gifted, and very graceful, but nothing would wring from her one word of affection, nor even a smile of kindly meaning.”
“It is exactly how she treats me. She is all courtesy and politeness; but it is a courtesy that chills me to the heart, and ever seems to say, ‘Don’t forget the distance that separates us.’ Perhaps,” added he, laughing, “my cousin Kate and I have some family resemblance to each other?”
“Don’t indulge any such flattery, Harry,” said she, laughing. “Kate was beautiful.”
“Come, come, I never meant in face. I only suspected that it was the marvellous gift of fascination we held in common.” And he laughed good humouredly at his own expense. “But to be serious. Was it quite fair to send such a girl as you have described back to all the miseries and sufferings of a peasant’s life?”
“I’m not sure that this was done. I mean, that after she went to live at Dalradern – for Sir Within Wardle became her guardian when we came abroad – I never knew what happened; my Aunt Georgina actually forbade the merest mention of her.”
“I wonder would she tell me why, if I were to ask her.” “Oh, Harry, I implore you not to do so. It would be at once to betray the confidence I have placed in you. She would know who had told you of her dislike to Kate.”
“The lawyer could tell it, I’m certain,” muttered Harry; “that fellow watches us all. I have marked him, as we sat in the drawing-room, studying the looks of each in turn, and pausing over chance words, as if they could mean more than they seemed to say.”
“How acute you want to be thought,” said she, laughing. “I have sailed in two ships where the crews mutinied, Miss Ada, and a man learns to have his wits about him where he suspects mischief, after that. There! look at the lawyer in the boat; he has got a boat at last, and is going to give us chase. Shall we run for it, Ada, or stand and fight him?”
“What wickedness are you muttering under your breast, there, Sir?” asked she, with a mock imperiousness.
“Well, I was just saying to myself that, if you hadn’t been here, I’d even run foul of him and upset us both. I’d like to see the old fellow in the water. Oh! I see I must behave well. Miss Courtenay is in the boat too!”
“Which means a reproof to me, Harry. My aunt never comes out on any less solemn mission.”
“And why a reproof? What have you done?” “Have I not gone off sailing all alone with that wild scamp Harry Luttrell – that buccaneer who respects neither laws nor proprieties! But that’s my aunt’s voice! What is she saying?”
“She’s telling the lawyer that it’s all his fault, or Sir Gervais’s fault, or somebody’s fault, and that it’s a shame and disgrace, and I don’t know well what else besides.”
“What can it be?”
“Just what you said a minute ago. There! I’ll wait for them. I’ll slack off and let them come up.”
Whatever might have been the rebukeful tone of Miss Courtenay’s voice a few moments before, now, as the boat drew up beside Luttrell’s, her tones were softened and subdued, and it was with her most silvery accent she told Ada that some visitors had just arrived, and begged her to return with her to receive them, while Mr. M’Kinlay would join Mr. Luttrell, and obtain the lesson in sea-fishing he was so eager for.
“Come along,” said Harry. “It looks fresh outside, and may turn out a nice mackerel day, calm as it seems here.”
“With your good leave, Sir, I shall decline a nice mackerel day. I’m a very fair-weather sailor.”
A hurried whisper from Georgina seemed, however, to arrest him in his excuses, and she added aloud: “Of course Mr. Luttrell has no intention of venturing out to sea farther than you like, Sir. He goes for your pleasure and amusement, and not to educate you for the Navy.”
Another hurried whisper followed this pert speech, and poor M’Kinlay, with the air of a condemned man, stepped into Luttrel’s boat with a heavy sigh, and a look of positive misery.
“No, no, not on any account,” were the last words of Ada into Harry’s ear, as he helped her to her place.
“Remember, we dine at six!” said Georgina, as she waved them an adieu; and young Luttrell cried out, “All right!” as he slacked off his sheet, and let the boat run broad and full towards the open sea.
“It is fresher, far fresher than I thought!” said M’Kinlay, whose transition from a row-boat to a sailing one imparted the impression of a strong breeze.
“Cat’s-paws! light airs of wind that die away every moment! But I see it looks bluer out yonder, and now and then I see a white curl on the water that may mean a little wind.”
“Then I beseech you, Sir, let us keep where we are!”
“Don’t you want me to teach you something about fishing? You said you wished to know what ‘trawling’ meant.”
“Not to-day; not on this occasion, my young friend. It was another errand brought me here this morning. Could you not draw that thing a little closer, and do something to make us go somewhat steadier?”
“I’ll close haul, if you prefer it,” said Harry, taking a strong pull at the sheet, and, with his helm hard up, sending the skiff along under a full wind. She leaned over so much, too, that it required all M’Kinlay’s strength, with both arms outside the gunwale, to keep his position. “That’s pleasanter, ain’t it?” asked Harry.
“I’ll not say I like it, either.”
“You will when the wind steadies; it’s squally just now, and she feels it, for she has no keel.”
“No keel! And ought she to have a keel?”
“Well, I think she’d be the better of one,” said Harry, smiling.
“Let us get back, Sir – let us get back at once! This is the reverse of agreeable to me. I don’t understand, and I don’t enjoy it. Put mc ashore anywhere, and leave me to find my way how I can. There – yonder, where you see the rocks – land me there!”
“If I tried it, you’d find your way sure enough, but it would be into the next world! Don’t you see the white line there? Those are breakers!”
“Then turn back, Sir, I command, I implore you,” cried he, with a voice shaking with terror.
“I’ll put about when the wind slackens. I can’t do it just yet. Have a little patience. Take the rudder a moment.”
“No, Sir; I refuse – I decidedly refuse. I protest against any share in what may happen.”
“Perhaps it will be past protesting if you don’t do what I tell you. Hold this, and mind my orders. Keep the tiller so till I cry out hard down; mind me, now – no mistake.” And not waiting for more, he sprang into the bow of the boat as she ran up into the wind, and held out the foresail to the breeze. “Down helm – hard down!” cried he; and round she spun at once, and so rapidly, that the lee gunwale went under water, and M’Kinlay, believing she had upset, uttered one wild cry and fell senseless into the bottom of the boat. Not much grieved at his condition – perhaps, on the whole, almost glad to be rid of his company – Harry lighted a cigar and steered for shore. In less than half an hour they gained the slack water of the little bay, and M’Kinlay, gathering himself up, asked if they were nigh land.
“Close in; get up and have a cigar,” said Harry, curtly.
“No, Sir; I will not.”
“I thought you liked a weed,” said Harry, carelessly.
“My likings or my dislikings must be matter of perfect indifference to you, Sir, or I should not be wet to the skin and shivering as I am now.”
“Take a go of brandy, and you’ll be all right,” said Harry, throwing his flask to him.
Though not very graciously offered, M’Kinlay accepted the dram, and then looked over the side towards the shore with an air of greater contentment. “Considering, Sir, that I came here to-day on your account, I think I might have been treated with somewhat more deference to my tastes,” said he, at last.
“On my account? And in what way on my account?”
“If we are not likely to have any more storms of wind, I can perhaps tell you.”
“No, no, it’s still as a fishpond here. Go on.”
“Before I go on – before I even begin, Mr. Luttrelle I must have your promise that you will not mention to any one what shall pass between us to-day. It is on a subject which concerns you– but still concerns others more nearly.”
“All right. I’ll not speak of it.”
“You will give me your word?”
“I have given it. Didn’t you hear me say I’d not speak of it?”
“Well, Sir, the matter is this: Great uneasiness is being felt here at the intimacy that has grown up between you and Miss Vyner. Motives of extreme delicacy towards you– who, of course, not having lived much in the world, could not be expected to weigh such considerations – but motives of great delicacy, as I say, have prevented any notice being taken of this intimacy, and a hope has been felt that you yourself, once awakened to the fact of the long interval that separates her condition from yours, would soon see the propriety, indeed the necessity, of another line of conduct, and thus not require what may seem an admonition, though I really intend you should receive it as the warning counsel of a friend.”
“Have you been commissioned to say this to me?” asked Luttrell, haughtily.
“Though I had decided with myself not to answer any questions, I will reply to this one – and this only. I have.”
“Who gave you this charge?”
M’Kinlay shook his head, and was silent.
“Was it Sir Gervais Vyner?”
Another shake of the head was the reply.
“I thought not. I am certain, too, it was not Lady Vyner. Be frank, Sir, and tell me candidly. It was Miss Courtenay employed you on this errand?”
“I really see no necessity for any explanation on my part, Mr. Luttrell. I have already transgressed the limits of mere prudence in the avowal I have made you. I trust you will be satisfied with my candour.”
“Let me ask for a little more of that same candour. I want to know what is expected of me. What I am to do?”
“Really, Sir, you make my position a very painful one. You insist upon my being extremely disagreeable to you.”
“Listen to reason. I am telling you that I found myself in considerable embarrassment, and I entreat of you, as a favour, to show me the way out of it. Am I to discontinue all intimacy with Miss Vyner? Am I to avoid her? Am I to leave this, and not return?”
“That I opine to be the most fitting course under the circumstances,” said M’Kinlay, bowing.
“I see,” said Harry, pondering for some seconds – “I see.” And then, with a more fervid manner, resuming: “But if I know, Sir – if I feel – that all this caution is unnecessary, that I have not – that I never had – the slightest pretensions such as you speak of, that Miss Vyner’s manner to me, in its very freedom, repels any suspicion of the kind, – I ask you, is it not a little hard to deny me the greatest happiness I have ever tasted in life – the first holiday after a long spell of work and hardship? Why should I not go straight to Sir Gervais and say this?”
“You forget your promise to myself.”
“Ay, to be sure, that is a barrier. I suppose you are right. The best, the only way, is to go off; and I own I feel ashamed to make this return for all the generous kindness I have met here; and what an insufferable coxcomb must it stamp me, if it ever comes out that I left on such grounds as these.”
“That is not how the world regards such things, Sir. Men are not supposed to measure their affections by their circumstances. If it were so, we should not see so many mésalliances.”
“I don’t know how to go about it. I’m a precious bungler at making excuses, and, whenever I have told a lie in my life, my own shame and confusion have always convicted me; help me to some ingenious pretext for a sudden departure.”
“You can have law business. Your agents wish to see you.”
“But I have no property, or next to none. No, no, that won’t do.”
“You desire to visit your friends in Ireland.”
“Just as bad. I have as little friends as fortune. Try again.”
“Why should not Captain Dodge have sent for you; you left him very ill, and confined to bed, I understand?”
“He told Sir Gervais to keep me as long as possible; that the air of the hospital was bad for me, and had brought back my ague.”
“If you are so very scrupulous, Sir, as to what people generally regard as a mere conventionality, I should say, pack up and be off without any explanation at all.”
“I believe you are right. It is the old story of paying one’s debts with the topsail sheet. Shabby enough, too, but it can’t be helped. Perhaps, Mr. M’Kinlay, if occasion should occur, you would find means to let Sir Gervais know that I am not the ungrateful dog my want of manners might bespeak me; perhaps you would convey to him that this step of mine had been suggested by yourself.”
“It is possible, Mr. Luttrell, that a fortuitous moment for an explanation of the kind you mention might occur, and, if so, you may rely on my willingness to profit by it. You mean to go at once?”
“I suppose so. Is it not what you advise?”
“Most certainly.”
“Here goes, then! I’ll start this instant. They are all out driving, except Miss Courtenay. I see her in the garden yonder. She, I know, will forgive me my abrupt departure, and you’ll make the best story you can out of it, Mr. M’Kinlay. As I was last seen in your company, you’ll be obliged, for your own sake, to say something plausible.”