“You see it is as well I acted with more forethought, and did not send for our Irish friend,” said Grenfell, as he sat at breakfast with Ladarelle. “We shall probably not want him.”

“I suspect not,” said the other; “the last news of her was unfavourable.”

Grenfell stole a look at the speaker, and, quick as the glance was, it bespoke a mingled aversion and contempt. The men who have arrived at middle age, either to form a poor opinion of their fellows, or to feign it—it is hard exactly to say which—feel a sort of detestation for younger men who entertain the same sentiments. Whether it be that to have reached that cynicism has cost years of patient study and endurance, and that they are indignant at the pretension that would assume to have acquired the knowledge without the labour, or that, and this more probable, they really do not fully trust their own heartlessness—whatever the cause, I can answer for the effect; and that cold, ungenial man now looked upon his younger companion with a sense of little less than disgust.

“So that her death would not shock you?” said Grenfell, as he stirred his tea, without looking up.

“I don’t exactly say that. She’s a fine girl, young, and very good looking.”

“Beautiful.”

“Well, beautiful if you like, though I’ll show scores just as handsome any day in Rotten Row. But the question is, Does she, or does she not, stand between me and a fine estate? You yourself thought that opinion of Palmer’s went against me.”

“No doubt of it. Palmer concurs with the Attorney-General; indeed, he seems astonished that any other view was ever taken, as he says, ‘No provision of a will can override the law.’”

“Which means, that the old cove may marry; and his heir, if he have one, may inherit the property?”

“Just so.”

“And then, in the face of that, you ask me if her life is of such consequence to me?”

“No; I asked if her death would shock you?” “I don’t well know what you mean by being shocked! If there was a suspicion abroad that I had poisoned her, to get her out of the way, then perhaps I might be shocked.”

“Shocked at the imputation, not the consequences?” “I can’t split hairs—I never could. If you want subtle distinctions and fine-drawn differences, you must try elsewhere. What I want to say is simply this: I have no ill will to the girl; I wish no harm to her; but I’d rather she wasn’t there.” “By there, you mean, alive?”

“Well, if there was no other alternative—yes, I do mean that. I’m certain old Wardle would never look out for another, and the great probability is, he’d not trouble us much longer; and, as Tom Scott says, by ‘nobbling’ one horse, you get rid of the whole stable. You look greatly disgusted, are you horrified at my wickedness, Grenfell?”

“No,” said he, slowly. “I have met a fair number of young fellows like you, and who fancied, that to know life they must begin at the lowest of it; the great misfortune was, that they never emerged from it after.”

“That’s severe, I take it,” said Ladarelle, as he lighted a cigarette and began to smoke.

“Feigning virtue will never make a saint,” said Grenfell, rising from the table; “but mock wickedness will always end by making a man a rascal!” He left the room as he spoke, and sauntered out unto the lawn; and now Ladarelle began to commune with himself—what notice he ought to take, if any, of these words. Were they to be considered as a moral sentiment of general application, or were they addressed specially to himself? The context favoured this latter supposition; but then he uttered them as a great truth; he had a trick of that sort of “preaching,” and the moment the word preaching crossed him, his anger was dispelled, for who minded preaching? Who was ever the better or the worse for it? Who ever deemed its denunciations personal?

The entrance of his man, Mr. Fisk, cut short his reflections, for he had sent him over to Dalradern, with his compliments, to ask after Mademoiselle O’Hara.

“Sir Within’s respects, Sir, the young lady is better; passed a good night, and seems much refreshed.”

“Here’s news, Grenfell,” cried Ladarelle, opening the window, and calling out to Grenfell—“here’s news; she has had a good night, and is better.”

Grenfell, however, had just received his letters from the post, and was already too deeply engrossed by one of them to mind him.

“I say, come here, and listen to the bulletin,” cried Ladarelle again; but Grenfell, without deigning the slightest notice to his words, thrust his letters into his pocket and walked hastily away.

The letter he had opened was from Vyner, and even in the first few lines had so far engaged his interest, that, to read it undisturbed, he set out to gain a little summer-house on a small island—a spot to which Ladarelle could not follow, as there was but one boat on the lake.

Having reached his sanctuary, he took forth the epistle, which, from Vyner, was an unusually long one, and began to read. It is not necessary that I should ask the reader’s attention to the whole of it. It opened by an apology for not having written before:

“I am ashamed to think, my dear Grenfell, how many of your questions remain unanswered; but as the Cardinal’s private secretary wrote to express the grief his Eminence felt at being obliged to die instead of dine out, so I must ask your patience for not replying to you, as I was occupied in being ruined. It is a big word, George, but not too big for the fact. When I gave up politics, for want of something to do, I took up speculation. A very clever rascal—I only found out the rascality later—with whom I made acquaintance at Genoa, induced me to make some railroad ventures, which all turned out successes. From these he led me on to others of a larger kind in Sardinia, and ultimately in Morocco. A great London banking firm was associated with the enterprise, which, of course, gave the air of stability to the operations, and as there was nothing unfair—nothing gambling in the scheme—nothing, in fact, that passed the limits of legitimate commercial enterprise, at the same time that there was everything to interest And amuse, I entered into it with all that ardour for which more than once your prudent temperament has rebuked me. I have no patience to go over the story; besides that the catastrophe tells it all. The original tempter—his name is Gennet—has fled, the great bankers have failed, and I am—I have ascertained—engaged to the full amount of all I have in the world—that is, nothing remains to us but my wife’s settlement to live on. A great blow this; I am staggering under it still. It was precisely the sort of misfortune I had thought myself exempt from, because I never cared much about money-getting; I was richer than I really needed to be; but, as the Spanish proverb says, ‘The devil never goes out to fish with only one sort of bait in his boat.’ I imagined I was going to be a great philanthropist. If I was to get lead from the Moors, I was to give them civilisation, culture, Heaven knows what cravings after good things here and hereafter. Don’t laugh, George; I give you my word of honour I believed it. Mr. Ridley Gennet was a great artist, and from the hour he waved his wand over me, I never really awoke ‘till I was beggared.’ Now, I do believe that you yourself, with all the craft you boast of, would not have come scathless out of his hands. These fellows are consummately clever, and in nothing more than in the quick reading of the characters they are placed in contact with. You can answer for it that I never was a gambler. I have played, it is true; but with no zest, no passion for play. That man, however, knew more of me than I did of myself; he detected a sort of combative spirit in my nature, which gives results very much like the love of play. It prompts to a rash self-confidence and a dogged resolution not to be beaten—no matter how heavy the odds against one. I say, he saw this, and he determined to make use of it. There was a time at which, at the loss of about twenty-eight or thirty thousand pounds, I might have freed myself of every liability; and, indeed, I was more than half inclined to do it; but the devil, in this fellow’s shape, hinted something about being poor-spirited and craven-hearted; said something about men who bore reverses ill, and only spread canvas when the wind was all astern; and that, in fact, the people who carried the day in life were exactly those who never would accept defeat. All he said met a ready concurrence from my own heart, and in I went after my thirty thousand, which soon became eighty. Even then I might have escaped—a heavy loser, of course, but not crushed—but he persuaded me that the concern was the finest enterprise in Europe, if emancipated from the influence of two powerful shareholders—men who, since they had joined us, had gone deeply into other speculations, whose prospects would be severely damaged by our success. One of these was La Marque, the Parisian banker, and a great promoter of the ‘CrÉdit Mobilier;’ the other an English contractor, whose name I may mention one of these days. They were, he said, to be bought out, and then I should stand the representative of four-sixths of the whole scheme. It reads like infatuation now that I go calmly over it; but I acceded. I commissioned Gennet to treat with these gentlemen, and gave him blank bills for the sums. For a while all seemed to go on admirably. La Marque himself wrote to me; he owned that his other engagements had not left him at liberty to develop the resources of our company to their full extent, and confessed that there were certain changes in the management that must lead to great advantage. With, however, what I thought at the time a most scrupulous honour—though I have come to regard it differently—he hinted to me that while Mr. G.‘s position in the ‘world of affairs’ was above all reproach, the fact of his conducting a transaction with blank acceptances was totally irregular and unbusiness-like; and he begged that I would give him a regular assurance, in a form which he enclosed, that I authenticated G.‘s position, and held myself responsible, not merely commercially, but as a man of honour, for such engagements as he should contract in my name. I made a few trifling alterations in the wording of this document, and sent it back with my signature. On the third day after, the London firm smashed, and on the evening that brought the news, G. bolted, and has not since been heard of.

“Since then, every post from England tells me of the steps at which my ruin advances. M’Kinlay, overwhelmed, I think, by the calamity, acts with less than his usual skill and cleverness, and continues to insist that I must repudiate my pledge to La Marque, whom he calls a confederate of G.‘s; and, indeed, declares that if we could but secure that fellow’s person, we should save a large remnant of the property. These are his views; they are not mine. I cannot consent to remedy my folly at the cost of my character; and though I have agreed to the despatch of detectives to hunt Gennet, I will not, by any act, dishonour my signature.

“It is at this stage we are now arrived. Whether I am to be drowned by six inches over my head, or six fathoms, is not, I opine, a matter of much consequence. Lady Vyner knows it all, and bears it—as I knew she would—nobly. Her sister, too, has shown a fine spirit. Of course, we have kept so much as we can of the calamity from Mrs. Courtenay; but she is more cast down than any of us. As for Ada, she sustains us all. I declare I never knew her before; and if it were not that the misfortune is to outlive me, I’d say it was worth being ruined to discover the boundless wealth of that dear girl’s heart.

“I could fill pages with little traits of her thoughtful affection, evincing a nature, too, that actually seemed to need an opportunity to show it was made for higher and better things than to float along in an existence of indulgence.

“You are impatient to hear how practical we can be. Well, you shall. We have given up our grand palazzo, and retired to a little place about twenty miles off, near Chiavari, where we found a small house to suit us. We have sent off all the servants but three. I doubt if we shall keep old Morris; but it would break his heart to discharge him with the others. I have despatched my horses to be sold at Turin. The yacht is already disposed of. Not bad this in four days, besides writing about a hundred and fifty letters, and giving solemn audience to Mr. Pengrove, of the detective force, come out specially to get from me a detailed description of G.‘s person, size, dress, accent, and manner. I vow, till I had the happiness of this gentleman’s acquaintance, I never knew by how many traits a human creature could stamp his identity; and the way in which he pushed his inquiries, as to matters utterly beyond the realms of all the disguises in use, perfectly amazed me.

“It was not, perhaps, a very acute question of mine, but it dropped from me half unawares. I asked whether he thought G. had fled to America or Australia? He replied, ‘No, sir; he never had any dealings in those parts. When men bolt, they always follow out some previously-formed train of circumstances; he’ll be somewhere on the African coast—I mean to try Tunis first.’

“You know now, my dear George, more than I really meant to inflict on you of our sad story; but I was, in a measure, forced into some details. First of all, one’s friends ought to be in a position to contradict false rumours, and I take it I shall have my share of them; and secondly, you may be disturbed in your present tenure, for the Cottage as well as the Castle goes to the creditors.

“There is, however, a small business matter in which I must have more than your advice—I want your assistance. You may remember that when, on our Irish tour——”

There comes here a sudden stop in the epistle, but, in a hurried and tremulous hand, it was continued in this wise:

“Another great misfortune! Poor Luttrell’s boy is drowned. My wife has just brought me the news. A despatch boat of the Italian navy has picked up at sea an English sailor on a spar, the last of the crew of the American barque Squashy commanded by a Captain Dodge. They were attacked by pirates when becalmed off the Riff coast, and the Yankee, rather than surrender, blew up the ship. This man remembers nothing beyond his having leaped overboard when he saw the captain make for the magazine. He was, indeed, insensible when picked up, and even yet his mind wanders at times. So far as his memory would serve he has given the names of the crew, and Luttrell’s was amongst them. He said, too, that he saw Luttrell leaning against the tiller-wheel, with his arms folded, and looking quite calm, a moment or two before he jumped over. The Italian steamer returned to the place and cruised for an entire day, in the hope of saving some others, but none were met with, and there is no doubt now that all have perished. I thought only an hour ago that there were few in the world as unfortunate as myself; but what is my loss compared to poor Luttrell’s? If I could possibly leave home now, it would be to go over to Ireland and see him. What is to be done? Can you suggest how the tidings could be best broken to him? Would you undertake the charge yourself? If not, M’Kinlay must do it, though, for every reason, I prefer you. I know, my dear Grenfell, that you shrink from painful tasks, but it is my load that you will bear on this occasion, and it will strengthen you to remember that you are helping a friend in his great hour of need.

“If you are not able to go, and if M’Kinlay should also be unable, forward the enclosed note to Luttrell.

“I have just seen Martin the sailor. He has told us much about young Luttrell, who seems to have been actually beloved on board the ship; his courage, his daring, his coolness, and his unfailing high spirits, made him the idol of the crew; and this fellow declares, that if Luttrell’s advice had been listened to, the ship might have been saved; but the American lost his head; and, swearing that the pirates should never have a timber of her, rushed below with a portfire, and blew her up.

“I am ashamed to send off all the selfish details that fill the first part of this letter. In the presence of such a calamity as poor Luttrell’s, my sorrows are unworthy and contemptible; but who knows when I could have the time or the temper to go over my dreary story again? and so you shall have it as it is.

“I am not able to read over again what I have written, so that I am not sure whether I have answered all your questions. You will, I am sure, however, forgive me much at such a season; for, though I had screwed up my courage to meet my own disasters, I had no reserve of pluck to sustain me against this sad blow of Luttrell’s.

“Do not refuse me, George, this service; believe me, the poor fellow is worthy of all the kindness you can show him. More than ever do I feel the wrong that we have done him, since every misfortune of his life has sprung from it.

“I must finish to catch the post. I enclose you a copy of the deposition of the seaman made before the consul at Genoa, and an extract from the log of St. Genaro, the despatch-boat. If you do go—indeed, in any case—write to me at once, and believe me, meanwhile,

“Your faithful friend,

“Gervais Vyner.

“A hearty letter from Lord B. has just come. He says he has just heard of my smash, and offers me my choice of something at home, or in the Colonies. Time enough to think of this; for the present, we shall have to live on about what my guardian allowed me at Christ-church. Address, La Boschetta, Chiavari.”

With much attention, Grenfell read this letter to the end, and then re-read it, pondering over certain parts as he went. He was certainly grieved as much as he could well be for any misfortune not his own.

He liked Vyner as well as it was in his nature to like any one; not, indeed, for his fine and generous qualities, his manliness, and his rectitude—he liked him simply because Vyner had always stood by him. Vyner had sustained him in a set, which, but for such backing, would not have accepted him. Every real step he had made in life had been through Vyner’s assistance; and he well knew that Vyner’s fall would extend its influence to himself.

Then came other thoughts: “He should have to leave the Cottage, where he had hoped to have remained for the cock shooting at least, perhaps a little longer; for this same Welsh life was a great economy. He was living for ‘half nothing;’ no rent, no servants to pay; horses, a fine garden, a capital cellar, all at his disposal. What, in the name of all foolishness, could make a man with double what he could spend, go and squander the whole in rotten speculations? He says he did not want to be richer! What did he want then? How can men tell such lies to their own hearts? Of course, he intended to be a Rothschild. It was some cursed thirsting after enormous wealth—wealth, that was to be expressed by figures on paper—not felt, not enjoyed, nor lived up to; that was the whole sum and substance of the temptation. Why not have the honesty to say so? As for Luttrell, I only wonder how he can think of him at such a time. I imagine, if I were to awake some fine morning to hear I was a beggar, I should take all the other calamities of the world with a marvellous philosophy. It’s a bore to be drowned, particularly if there was no necessity for it; but the young fellow had the worst of it; and after all, I don’t see that he had a great deal to live for. The island that formed his patrimony would certainly never have seduced me into any inordinate desire to prolong existence. Perhaps I must go there. It is a great annoyance. I hate the journey, and I hate the duty; but to refuse would, in all probability, offend Vyner. It is just the time men are unreasonably thin-skinned, fancying that all the world has turned its back on them, because they have sent off their French cook. Vulgar nonsense! Perhaps Vyner would not take that view; but his women would, I’m certain!”

Now, Mr. Grenfell knew nothing whatever of “the women” in question, and that was the precise reason that he included them in his spiteful censure.

“And then to fancy that his money-seeking was philanthropy! Was there ever delusion like it! Your virtuous people have such a habit of self-esteem; they actually believe the thing must be right, because they do it.”

Grumbling sorely over that “Irish journey,” he sauntered back to the house, in the porch of which Ladarelle was standing, with an open letter in his hand.

“I say,” cried he, “here’s a go! The house of Fletcher and David, one of the oldest in London, smashed!”

“I know it,” said Grenfell, dryly.

“Then you know, perhaps, how your friend, Sir Gervais Vyner, has let them in for nigh a quarter of a million?”

“I know more; for I know that you know nothing of the matter; but, to turn to something that concerns ourselves. I must start by the mail train to-night for Holyhead.”

“Which means, that I must evacuate my quarters. I must say, you give your tenants short notice to quit.”

“Stay, by all means. All I have to say is, that I cannot keep you company. Rickards will take excellent care of you till I come back.”

“Which will be——?”

“I can’t name the day; but I hope it will be an early one.”

“A mysterious journey—eh?”

“No; but one which it is not at all necessary to take an opinion upon.”

“By the way, you wrote the letter to that Irish fellow the other evening—what did you do with it?”

“It is on the writing-table.”

“And I suppose I may make use of it, if I need it?”

“Yes; it’s a matter that other things have driven out of my head; but the letter is yours, if you wish.”

“And you will stand by me, I hope, if I get into a scrape?”

“Don’t count on me. I’m a capricious fellow, and whenever a thing does not come off at once, I never can vouch for the spirit in which I may resume it.”

“That’s hearty, at all events!”

“No; but it is unmistakable.—Rickards, hurry the cook, if he will let you, and order the carriage for eight o’clock.”

“And posters for me for Dalradern at the same hour,” said Ladarelle. “Grog is worth a score of such fellows!” muttered he below his breath, as he strolled to his room. “Grog would never strike out a plan, and leave a man in the lurch afterwards.”

When they met at dinner, Grenfell took care that the conversation should be as general as possible, never by a chance alluding to any subject of personal interest to either of them; and, as the clock struck eight, and he heard the tramp of the horses on the gravel, he arose and said:

“Don’t forget to say all sorts of things to Sir Within for me, and to Mademoiselle, too, when she is visible. Good-by, and ‘bonne chance!’”

“Good-by! I wish I could have had a few words with you before you started. I wish you would have told me something more definite about the plan. I wish——” What he continued to wish is not on record, for once more Grenfell uttered his good-by, and the next moment he was gone.