It was six weeks after the events in which we last saw Kate Luttrell that she was sufficiently able to rise from her sick-bed, and sit at the little window of her room. She was wan, and worn, and wasted, her eyes deep sunken, and her cheeks hollow. Beautiful was she still in all the delicate outline of her features, the finely-rounded nostril and gracefully-turned chin almost gaining by the absence of the brilliant colouring which had at one time, in a measure, absorbed all the admiration of her loveliness. Her long luxuriant hair—spared by a sort of pity by her doctor, who, in his despair of rescuing her from her fever, yielded to her raving entreaties not to cut it off—this now fell in wavy masses over her neck and shoulders, and in its golden richness rendering her pale face the semblance of marble. Each day had the doctor revealed to her some detail of what had happened during her illness: How she had been “given over,” and received the last rites of the Church; how, after this, one who called himself her brother had arrived, and insisted on seeing her; how he came with the man named O’Rorke and the priest O’Rafferty, and remained a few seconds in her room, and left, never to return again; indeed, all three of them had left the town within an hour after their visit.

She heard all this in mute amazement, nor even was she certain that her faculties yet served her aright, so strange and incomprehensible was it all. Yet she rarely asked a question, or demanded any explanation, hearing all in silence, as though hoping that with time and patience her powers of mind would enable her to surmount the difficulties that now confronted and defied her.

For days and days did she labour to remember what great event it was had first led her to this town of Lifford, the very name of which was strange to her. The same dislike to ask a question pursued her here, and she pondered and pondered over the knotty point, till at last, of a sudden, just as though the light broke instantaneously upon her, she cried out:

“I remember it all! I know it now! Has the trial come off? What tidings of my grandfather?” The poor woman to whom this was addressed imagined it was a return of her raving, and quietly brought the doctor to her side. “Are the assizes oyer?” whispered Kate in his ear.

“More than a month ago.”

“There was an old man—Malone. Is he tried?”

“The murder case?

“I was at it.”

“And the verdict?”

“The verdict was guilty, with a recommendation to mercy for his great age, and the want of premeditation in the crime.”

“Well, go on.”

“The Judge concurred, and he will not be executed.”

“He will be banished, however—banished for life,” said she, in a low, faltering voice.

“To believe himself he asks no better, he made a speech of nigh an hour in his defence, and if it had not been that at the last he attempted a sort of justification of what he had done, the Judge would not, in all probability, have charged against him; but the old fellow insisted so strongly on the point that a poor man must always look to himself and not to the law for justice, that he destroyed his case.”

“And was there not one to advise him?”

“Apparently not; and when the Chief Baron named a lawyer to defend him, the old fellow refused the aid, and said, ‘The work that’s done for nothing is worth nothing. I’ll just speak for myself.’”

“And this other man—O’Rorke, I mean—where was he?—what did he do?”

“He left this the night before the trial came on, with that young gentleman that was here.”

“Ah, he left him! Deserted him in his last need!” cried she, faintly, but with an intense agony in the tone.

“Had they been friends?” asked the doctor; but she never heard the question, and sat with her hands clasped before her, motionless and silent.

“Were you there throughout the whole trial?” asked she, at last.

“No, I was present only on the last day, and I heard his speech.”

“Tell me how he looked; was he broken or depressed?”

“The very reverse. It would have been better for him if he had looked cast down or in grief. It was too bold and too defiant he was, and this grew on him as he spoke, till, towards the end of his speech, he all but said, ‘I dare you to find me guilty!’”

“The brave old man!” muttered she below her breath.

“When the crowd in the court cheered him, I knew what would happen. No Judge in the land could have said a word for him after that.”

“The brave old man!” mattered she again.

“It seemed at one time he was going to call witnesses to character, and he had a list of them in his hand, but he suddenly changed his mind, and said, ‘No, my Lord, whatever you’re going to do with me this day, I’ll do my best to meet it, but I won’t make any one stand up here, and have the shame to say he knows a man that the mere turn of a straw might send to the gallows!’”

“Did he say that?” cried she, wildly.

“He did; and he looked at the jury all the while, as though to say, ‘Take care what you do; it’s a man’s life is on it!’”

“Did he ever mention my name? Did he ask for any one in particular, did you hear?” asked she, faintly.

“No; but before he began his speech he looked all over the court for full five minutes or more, as if in search of some one, and even motioned some people in the gallery to stand aside that he might see better, and then he drew a long breath—either disappointment or relief; it might be either.”

“‘How could they have the heart to say guilty?” said she.

“There was no other word to say. They were on their oaths, and so the Judge told them, and the whole country was looking at them.”

“And where is he now?” asked she, eagerly.

“All the prisoners for transportation have been sent on to Dublin. They’ll not leave the country before spring.”

She hid her head between her hands, and sat for a long time without speaking. At last she raised her face, and her eyes were red with weeping, and her cheeks furrowed.

“Doctor,” said she, plaintively, “have I strength enough to go to him?”

He shook his head mournfully, in token of dissent.

“Am I too ill?”

“You are too weak, my poor child; you have not strength for such a journey.”

“But I have great courage, doctor, and I can bear far more fatigue than you would think.”

He shook his head again.

“You do not know,” said she, in a low but earnest voice, “that I was reared in hardship, brought up in want, and cold, and misery. Ay, and I have never forgotten it!”

He smiled; it was half in compassion, half in disbelief.

“Do you know me?—do you know who I am?” asked she, eagerly.

“I know it all, my poor child—I know it all,” said he, sadly.

“Know it all! What does your phrase mean? How all?”

He arose, but she grasped his hand with both hers’, and held him fast.

“You shall not leave this till you have answered me!” cried she. “Is it not enough that I am sick and friendless? Why should you add the torture of doubt to such misery as mine? Tell me, I beseech you—I entreat of you, tell me what you have heard of me! I will deny nothing that is true!”

He pleaded warmly at first to be let off altogether, and then to be allowed further time—some period when she had grown to be stronger and better able to bear what he should have to tell her. Her entreaties only became more urgent, and she at last evinced such excitement, that, in terror lest a return of her brain fever might be feared, he yielded, promising that the confidence reposed in him was a trust nothing should induce him to break.

There is no need that the reader should pass through the sad ordeal of Kate’s suffering, even as a witness. No need is there that her shame, her sorrow, her misery, and, last of all, her passionate indignation, should be displayed before him; nor that he should see her as she sat there wrung with affliction, or half maddened with rage. Compressing the doctor’s story into the fewest words, it was this:

“Kate had met young Ladarelle at Dalradern Castle, where a passion had grown up between them. The young man, heir to a vast fortune, and sure of a high position, did not scruple to avail himself of what advantages his brilliant station conferred—won her affections, and seduced her with the promise of a speedy marriage. Wearied out at the unfulfillment of this pledge, she had fled from Dalradern, and sought refuge at Arran, intending to reveal all to her uncle, whose pride would inevitably have sought out her betrayer, and avenged her wrong, when she yielded to O’Rorke’s persuasion to meet her lover at Westport, where, as he assured her, every preparation for their marriage had been arranged. Thus induced, she had quitted her uncle’s house, and met Ladarelle. A mock marriage, performed by a degraded priest, had united them, and they were about to set out for the Continent, when she was struck down by brain fever. The fear of being recognised, as the town was then filling for the Assizes, determined Ladarelle and his friend to take their departure. There was deposited with the doctor a sum sufficient to defray every charge of her illness, with strict injunctions to keep all secret, and induce her, if she recovered, to proceed to Paris, where, at a given address, she would be welcomed and well received.”

This was the substance of a narrative that took long in the telling, not alone for the number of incidents it recorded, but that, as he proceeded, the unlucky doctor’s difficulties increased as some point of unusual delicacy would intervene, or some revelation would be required, which, in the presence of the principal actor in it, became a matter of no small embarrassment to relate.

“And how much of all this, Sir, do you believe?” said she, calmly, as he concluded.

He was silent, for the question impugned more than his credulity, and he hesitated what to answer.

“I ask you, Sir, how much of this story do you believe?”

“There is a colour to part of it,” said he, diffidently.

“And what part?”

“The part which refers to the marriage here.”

“What do you mean, Sir?”

“When you lay on that bed yonder, with fixed eyes, motionless, unconscious, and, as all believed, dying, a priest muttered some words over you, and placed your hand in that of this young man I spoke of. The woman of the house saw this through the keyhole of the door; she saw a ring produced, too, but it fell to the ground, and the priest laughingly said, ‘It’s just as good without the ring;’ and, after they had gone, the woman picked it up beneath the bed, and has it now. She saw them, besides, when they came down stairs, sit down at a table and draw up a paper, to which the priest ordered her to be a witness by a mark, as she cannot write; and this paper she believes to have had some reference to the scene she saw above. All this I believe, for she who told it to me is truthful and honest.”

Kate passed her hand across her forehead like one trying to clear her faculties for better reflection, and then said: “But this is no marriage!”

“Certainly not; nor could it have been had recourse to to quiet scruples of yours, since you were unconscious of all that went on.”

“And with what object, then, was it done?”

This was what he could not answer, and he sat silent and thoughtful; at last he said: “Were you not at this Castle in Wales I spoke of?”

“Yes.”

“And left it for Arran?”

“Yes,” said she again, “that’ also is true; and I left it to come and see that old man whose trial you witnessed. He was my grandfather.”

“Your grandfather! Surely I am speaking to Miss Luttrell of Arran?”

She nodded, and, after a moment, said: “That old man was my mother’s father, and I journeyed here for no other end than to see him and comfort him. Of all these schemes and plots I know nothing, nor have I the strength now to attempt to think of them. Which of ns will you believe, Sir—them or me?”

“I believe you—every word you have told me,” said he; “but can you forgive me for the tale I have just told you?”

“Enough, now, that you do not believe it. And yet what can it matter to me how I am thought of? The opinion of the world is only of moment to those who have friends, I have not one!”

He did his best to comfort and to cheer her; he said all those kind things which even the humblest of his walk know how to pour into the ear of affliction, and he urged her to go back at once to Arran—to her uncle.

The counsel came well timed, and she caught at it eagerly. “My wretchedness will plead for me if I cannot speak for myself,” said she, half aloud; and now all her thoughts were how to reach Westport, and take boat for the island. The doctor volunteered to see her so far on her journey, and they set out the same evening.

Arrived at Westport, tired and fatigued as she was, she would not stay to rest, but embarked at once. The night was a bright and pleasant one, with a light land breeze, and as she stepped into the boat, she said, “The sea has given me the feeling of health again. I begin to hope I shall live to see you and thank you for all your friendship. Good-by.” And as she spoke, the craft was away, and she saw no more.

The poor suffering frame was so overcome by fatigue, that they were already at anchor in the harbour of Arran before she awoke. When she did so, her sensations were so confused that she was almost afraid to speak or question the boatmen, lest her words should seem wild and unconnected.

“Are you coming back with us, Miss?” asked one of the men, as she stepped on shore.

“No—yea—I believe not; it may be—but I hope not,” said she, in a broken accent.

“Are we to wait for you?” repeated he.

“I cannot say. No—no—this is my home.”

“A dreary home it is, then!” said the man, turning away; and the words fell heavily on her heart, and she sat down on a stone and gazed at the wild, bleak mountain, and the little group of stunted trees amidst which the Abbey stood; and truly had he called it a dreary home.

The dawn was just breaking as she reached the door, and ere she had time to knock, Molly saw her from her window, and rushed out to meet her and welcome her home. Almost hysterical with joy and grief together, the poor creature clung to her wildly. “It’s in time you’re come, darlin’,” she cried, amidst her sobs; “he’s going fast, sleeping away like a child, but asking for you every time he wakes up, and we have to tell him that you were tired, and were gone to lie down, and then he mutters some words and goes off again.”

It needed but this sorrow, Kate thought, to fill up the measure of her misery; and she tottered into the little room and sat down without uttering a word, while the woman went on with the story of her master’s illness.

“A mere cold at first, brought on by going down to the point of rocks at daybreak to watch the boats. He thought he’d see you coming back. At last, when he was so ill that he couldn’t leave the house, he said that the man that brought him the first news you were coming, he’d give him hothouse and garden rent free for his life, and it didn’t need that same to make us long to see you! Then came the fever, and for a while he forgot everything, but he talked away about poor Master Harry, and what a differ we’ll feel when he was the master, raving, raving on, and never ceasing. After that he came back to his senses, and began to ask where you were, and why you didn’t sit with him. There he is now! Hear that; that’s your name he’s trying to say. Come to him while it’s time.”

Kate arose. She never spoke, but followed the woman through the passage, and entered the little bedroom, where a faint lamp blended its light with the breaking day.

The sick man’s eager eye saw her as she crossed the threshold, and in a vague, discordant voice he cried out, “I knew you’d come to me. Sit here—sit down here and hold my hand. Such stories as they told me!” muttered he, as he caught her hand in his grasp. “They can’t make that drink for me, Kate,” said he, in a low, winning voice.

“I’ll make it, dearest uncle. I’ll be your nurse now,” said she, stooping and kissing his forehead.

“No, no; I’ll not let you leave me again. You must sit there and speak to me. When you go away, I feel as if you had gone for weeks.”

“My dear, dear uncle!”

“Strange! how strange!” whispered he. “I knew well you were there—there, in that room yonder, asleep, but my thoughts would wander away till I came to think you had left me—deserted me! Don’t cry, darling. I felt that tear; it fell on my cheek. I do believe,” cried he, aloud, “they wished me to think I was deserted—a Luttrell of Arran dying without a friend or a kinsman to close his eyes. And the last Luttrell, too! The haughty Luttrells they called us once! Look around you, girl, at this misery, this want, this destitution! Are these the signs that show wealth and power? And it is all that is left to us! All!”

“My own dear uncle, if you but get well, and be yourself once more, it is enough of wealth for us.”

“Are we alone, Kate?” asked he, stealthily.

“No, Sir; poor Molly is here.”

“Tell her to go. I have something to say to you. Look in that top drawer for a paper tied with a string. No, not that—that is a direction for my funeral; the other—yes, you have it now—is my will. Arran will be yours, Kate. You will love it through all its barrenness, and never part with it. Promise me that.”

She muttered something through her sobs.

“Be kind to these poor people. I have never been to them as I ought, but I brought them a broken heart as well as a broken fortune. And wherever you live, come back sometimes to see these old rocks, and sit in that old chair; for, solitary as it all is, it would grieve me bitterly if I thought it were to be deserted!”

She tried to speak,, but could not.

“If those on the mainland should try to encroach—if they should come upon your fishing-grounds, girl—defend your rights. We have had these royalties for more than three hundred years. Be firm, be bold!” He muttered on for some moments, and the last words his lips uttered were, “A Luttrell of Arran!” His eyes closed as he said it, and he covered his face with his hand. Kate thought it was sleep, but it was the last sleep of all.