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.”

“I will do my best, Sir. The eccentric habits of a sea-life must bear the burden of the explanation.”

“It’s poor comfort that I can’t be much missed! Good-by!” And, without any more cordial leave-taking, Luttrell turned into a side-path that led directly to the house, while M’Kinlay entered the garden and made straight for the sea-wall, on which Miss Courtenay was sitting, awaiting him.

“Well?” said she, impatiently, as he came forward—“well?”

“It is done—all finished!”

“In what way? How is it finished?”

“He goes away—goes at once!”

“Of course he writes a note, and makes some sort of excuse to my brother-in-law for his hurried departure?”

“I believe not. I fear—that is, I apprehend—he is one of those not very tractable people who always do an awkward thing in the awkwardest way; for when I explained to him that his position here was—what shall I say?—an indiscretion, and that Miss Vyner’s friends saw with uneasiness the growing intimacy between them——”

“You did not speak of me—you did not mention my name, I hope?” broke she in, in an imperious tone.

“You could not suppose me guilty of such imprudence, Miss Courtenay!” said he, in an offended manner.

“No matter what I suppose, Sir. I want you to tell me that my name was not uttered during your interview.”

“Not by me—certainly not by me!” said he, timidly.

“Was it by him, Sir? Answer me that!”

“Well, I rather think that he did say that I had been deputed by you to convey the message to him.”

“What insolence! And how did you reply?”

“I observed that I was not there exactly for the purpose of a cross-examination; that in my capacity as a friendly adviser, I declined all interrogation.”

“Fiddle faddle, Sir. It would have been far more to the purpose to have said, ‘Miss Courtenay has nothing whatever to do with this communication.’ I really feel ashamed to think I should play the prompter to a professor in subtleties; but I still think that your ingenuity might have hit upon a reason for his going, without any reference to us, or to our wishes. Did it never occur to you, for instance, that the arrival of Sir Within Wardle might offer a convenient plea?”

“Indeed! I might have mentioned that,” said he, in some confusion. “The house does not admit of much accommodation for strangers, and an additional room would be of consequence just now.”

“I think, Sir,” said she, haughtily, “you might have put the matter in a better light than by making it a domestic question. This young man might have been brought to see that the gentleman who was so ungratefully treated—I might say, so shamefully treated—by his near relative, could not be the pleasantest person for him to meet in a narrow family circle.”

“I might. It is quite true, I might have insinuated that consideration,” said he, with a crestfallen air and look.

“I suppose you did your best, Sir!” said she, with a sigh; and he felt all the sarcastic significance of its compassion. “Indeed, I am certain you did, and I thank you.” With these words, not conveyed in any excess of warmth or gratitude, she moved away, and M’Kinlay stood a picture of doubt, confusion, and dismay, muttering to himself some unintelligible words, whose import was, however, the hope of that day coming when these and many similar small scores might be all wiped out together.