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.”