To welcome Sir Gervais Vyner home, the ladies had invited Sir Within Wardle to dinner—one of those privileged little family meetings, to be of which one must be an honoured guest—and so, indeed, did the old Baronet with his fine tact understand it; for he was very skilful in comprehending all those situations which make the so-to-say diplomacy of daily life.

He knew that he was admitted to that very pleasant brevet rank, the friend of the family, before whom everything can be said and talked over; and he showed by innumerable little traits how he valued his promotion, and, with a subtlety all his own, talked of himself and his own affairs with an easy confidence that seemed to say, “Here we are, all in secret committee; we may speak as freely as we like.”

The dinner was a very pleasant one. Vyner gave an amusing account of his Irish experiences, spoke of everything and every one but Luttrell, for his was a name that was never mentioned amongst them. Indeed, in the wrong the Courtenays had done him, was the seal that closed their lips; for, while we can talk, and talk fluently, of those who have injured us, of such as we have ourselves injured, we are dumb.

Sir Within saw, with the old craft of his trade, that there was a reserve; he smelt it like a secret treaty, but it did not touch him, and he was indifferent about it. He joined with the ladies warmly in their depreciation of Ireland as a residence, and laughingly concurred in their insistance that they were never to be asked to go there.

As to the project of adopting the little peasant-girl, they made it the subject of much pleasant banter; for, of course, Vyner was totally unable to reply to one-tenth of the questions which the matter suggested.

“We will suppose she is very pretty: and, what is still harder to believe, we will suppose that she’ll grow up prettier, what is to come of it; what do you intend her to be?” said Georgina.

“Yes,” said Sir Within, “let us look a little to what Italians call e poi?”

“When well brought up, and well educated, she might surely be a governess,” said Lady Vyner, coming to her husband’s rescue.

“And was it worth while to withdraw her from the drudgery she knew, to enter upon a slavery that she never heard of?” asked Georgina.

“To tell truth,” said Vyner, “I must confess I was thinking more of the benefit to Ada, the advantage she would have in a joyous, high-spirited creature of her own age, that might make her hours of Lessons more full of emulation, and her play hours pleasanter.”

Sir Within bowed a courteous assent to a speech principally addressed to himself.

“And,” continued Sir Gervais, bolder for this encouragement, “and, as to forecasting what is to happen to any of us, even if we be alive, some ten or twelve years hence, I really own I don’t think it is called. for.”

“I’m not sure of that,” said Sir Within. “I have made up my mind to live about five-and-thirty years more, and even speculated on the how I am to live it.”

“Do let us hear your plan,” said Georgina, with a slight flush of eagerness in her face.

“I have two,” said he; “and as there is not a little to be said for each, I hesitate between them.”

“We cannot pretend to be of any use in counselling you, unfortunately,” said Lady Vyner; “but if there be anything which what you slightingly call ‘woman’s wit’ can add to your own reasonings, we offer it freely.”

“I am deeply, infinitely gratified; your kindness is most acceptable. My first plan is one with whose details I am but too conversant. It is to live an old bachelor!”

The ladies looked at each other, and then looked down. They did not very well see what was to be said, and they said nothing, though, by his silence, he seemed to expect a remark.

“Well,” said Vyner, trying to break the awkward pause, “you at least know its resources, and what such a mode of life can offer.”

“A good deal,” resumed Sir Within. “A well-cultivated selfishness has very great resources, if one has only sufficient means to indulge them. You can, what is called, live well, consult the climate that suits you, frequent the society you like, know the people that you care to know, buy the picture, the horse, the statue that takes your fancy. You can do anything, and be anything but one.” “And what is that?”

“Be happy—that is denied you! I am not, of course, speculating on any supreme bliss. I leave all these divine notions to novelists and play-writers; but I speak of that moderate share of daily contentment which we in our mundane humility call happiness; this you cannot have.”

“But, if I mistake not, you have given all the ingredients of it in your late description,” said Georgina.

“And the Chinese cook got all the ingredients to make a plum-pudding, but he forgot to tie the bag that held them; so is it the old bachelor’s life has no completeness; it wants what the French call ‘l’ensemble.’”

“Then why not tie the bag, Sir Within?” asked Lady Vyner, laughing.

The old diplomatist’s eyes sparkled with a wicked drollery, and his mouth curved into a half-malicious smile, when Sir Gervais quietly said, “She means, why not marry?”

“Ah, marry!” exclaimed he, throwing up his eyebrows with an air that said, “here is a totally new field before us!” and then, as quickly recovering, he said, “Yes, certainly. There is marriage! But, somehow, I always think on this subject of a remark Charles de Rochefoucauld once made me. He said he was laid up once with an attack of gout in a chÂteau near Nancy, without a single friend or acquaintance, and, to beguile the weary hours, he used to play chess with himself, so that at last he fancied he was very fond of the game. When he came up to Paris afterwards, he engaged a person to come every day and play with him; but to his horror he discovered that he could no longer win when he pleased, and he gave up the pursuit and never resumed it. This is, perhaps, one of the discoveries men like myself make when they marry.”

“Not if they marry wisely, Sir Within,” said Lady Vyner.

“I declare,” broke in Georgina, hastily, “I think Sir Within is right. Telling a person to marry wisely, is saying, ‘Go and win that thirty thousand pounds in the lottery.’”

“At all events,” said Vyner, “you’ll never do it, if you don’t take a ticket.”

“But to do that,” said Lady Vyner, laughingly, “one ought to dream of a lucky number, or consult a sorceress at least.”

“Ah! if you would but be the sorceress, Lady Vyner,” exclaimed he, with a mingled seriousness and drollery.

“And tell you, I suppose, when you ought to venture?”

“Just so.”

“Am I so certain that you’d respect my divination—a prophet can’t afford to be slighted.”

“I promise,” said he; and rising from his seat, he extended his right. hand in imitation of a famous incident of the period, and exclaimed, “Je jure!”

“It is then agreed,” said she, quietly, but with a slight show of humour. “If it should be ever revealed to me—intimated to my inner consciousness is the phrase, I believe—that a particular person was Heaven-sent for your especial happiness, I’ll immediately go and tell you.”

“And I’ll marry her.”

“Her consent is, of course, not in question whatever,” said Georgina; “but I think so gallant a person as Sir Within might have mentioned it.”

“So I should, if Lady Vyner hadn’t said she was Heaven-sent. When the whole thing became destiny, it was only obedience was called for.”

“You’re a lucky fellow,” cried Vyner, “if you’re not married off before Easter. There’s nothing so dangerous as giving a commission of this kind to a woman.”

“Sir Within knows he can trust me; he knows that I feel all the responsibility of my charge. It is very possible that I may be too exacting—too difficult——”

“I pray you do so,” cried he, with much eagerness.

“Do you see how he wants to get off?” said Vyner; “like certain capricious ladies, he’d like to see all the wares in the shop, and buy nothing.”

“I fancy it’s pretty much what he has done already,” said Georgina, in a half whisper; but the butler put an end to the discussion by announcing that Mr. M’Kinlay had just arrived.

“Shall we go into the drawing-room?” said Georgina to her sister.

“If you like; but he’ll certainly come in to tea,” was the answer.

“Well, it is at least a reprieve,” said she, with a dreary sigh; and they retired.

As they left by one door, Mr. M’Kinlay entered the room by the other. After a cordial greeting, Sir Gervais presented him to Sir Within, and began to question him about his journey.

“Well, Sir Gervais,” said he, after a long-drawn breath, “it is no exaggeration if I say, that I have not another client in the world for whom I would undergo the same fatigues, not to say dangers.”

“My friend Mr. M’Kinlay has been on an excursion of some peril, and much hardship,” said Sir Vyner to Sir Within.

“Ah! In Canada, I presume.”

“No, Sir,” resumed M’Kinlay, “far worse—infinitely worse than Canada.”

“You speak of Newfoundland, perhaps?”

“Excuse me, Sir, I mean Ireland, and not merely Ireland itself—though I believe a glutton in barbarism might satiate himself there—but, worse again, Sir—I have been over to visit some islands, wretched rocks without vegetation—well would it be, could I say without inhabitants—off the west coast, and in, actually in the wild Atlantic Ocean!”

“The Arran Islands,” interposed Vyner, who saw that Sir Within was doubtful of the geography.

“Yes, Sir; had they called them the Barren Islands there would have been some fitness in the designation.” Mr. M’Kinlay appeared the better of his very email drollery, and drank off a bumper of claret, which also seemed to do him good.

“And was the estate you wished to purchase in these wild regions?” asked Sir Within.

“No; my friend’s mission to Arran was only remotely connected with the purchase. In fact, he went in search of an old friend of mine, whose assistance I needed, and whose caprice it was to retire to that desolate spot, and leave a world in which he might have made a very conspicuous figure. I am not art liberty to tell his name, though, perhaps, you might never have heard it before. M’Kinlay will, however, give us an account of his reception, and all that he saw there.”

“My troubles began,” said Mr. M’Kinlay, “almost immediately after we parted. You remember that on our last evening, at Westport it was, that the waiter informed me a gentleman then in the house had engaged a lugger to take him over to Innishmore, the very island I wanted to reach. I commissioned the man to arrange if he could with the gentleman to accept me as a fellow-traveller. It was settled accordingly, that we were to sail with the ebb tide at eight o’clock the next morning. My first shock, on reaching the pier, was to see what they called the lugger. She was a half-decked tub! I say tub, for her whole length was certainly not double her breadth. She was tarred all over, her sails were patched, her ropes knotted, and for ballast, she had some blocks of granite in a bed of shingle which shifted even as she lay surging in the harbour. They—the sailors, I mean—answered my few questions so rudely, and with so much ferocity of look and demeanour, that I was actually afraid to refuse going on board, lest they should take it as offence, though I would willingly have given five guineas to be excused the expedition, and wait for a more responsible-looking craft. My fellow-traveller, too, a very rough-looking, and evidently seafaring man, settled the point, as seeing my hesitation, he said, ‘Well, Sir, ain’t the boat good enough for you? Why don’t you step aboard? The faces of the bystanders quickly decided me, and I went down the plank praying for my safety, and cursing the day I ever saw Ireland.”

Our reader would possibly not thank us to follow Mr. M’Kinlay in his narrative, which, indeed, only contained sorrows common to many besides himself—the terrors of being shipwrecked added to the miseries of sea-sickness. He told how, through all his agonies, he overheard the discussions that overwhelmed him with terror, whether they could “carry” this, or “take in that;” if such a thing would “hold,” or such another “give way;” and lastly, whether it were better to bear away for Cork or Bantry, or stand out to open sea, and—Heaven knows where! “Terrors that will keep me,” cried he, “in nightmares for the rest of my life!”

“At last—it was all that was wanting to fill the measure of my fears—I heard a sailor say, ‘There! she’s over at last!’ Who’s over?’ cried I.

“‘The fishing-boat that was down to leeward, Sir,’ answered he. ‘They’re au lost.’

“‘Lucky for them,’ said I to myself, ‘if it’s over so soon. This prolonged agony is a thousand deaths.’ ‘They’re on the spars; I see them!’ cried my fellow-traveller; ‘slack off.’ I forget what he said, but it was to slack off something, and run down for them. This atrocious proposal rallied me back to strength again, and I opposed it with an energy, indeed with a virulence, that actually astonished myself. I asked by what right he took the command of the lugger, and why he presumed to peril my life—valuable to a number of people—for God knows what or whom. I vowed the most terrific consequences when we come on shore again, and declared I would have him indicted for a constructive manslaughter, if not worse. I grew bolder as I saw that the sailors, fully alive to our danger, were disposed to take part with me against him, when the fellow—one of the greatest desperadoes I ever met, and, as I afterwards found out, a Yankee pirate and slaver—drew a pistol from his breast and presented it at the helmsman, saying, ‘Down your helm, or I’ll shoot you!’ and as the man obeyed, he turned to me and said, ‘If I hear another word out of your mouth, I’ll put an ounce ball in you, as sure as my name is’—— I think he said ‘Hairy.’ I believe I fainted; at least, I only was aware of what was going on around me as I saw them dragging on board a half-drowned boy, with a flag in his hand, who turned out to be the son of Mr. Lut——”

“There, there, M’Kinlay,” burst in Vyner, “all this agitates you far too much—don’t go on, I’ll not permit you. To-morrow, after a good sleep, and a hearty breakfast, I’ll make you finish your story; but positively I’ll not listen to another word, now.” The hastily thrown glance of displeasure showed the lawyer that this was a command, and he hung his head and muttered out an awkward concurrence. “Won’t you take more wine, Sir Within?”

“No more, thank you. Your capital Bordeaux has made me already exceed my usual quantity.”

“Let us ask the ladies, then, for a cup of tea,” said Vyner, as he opened the door; and, as M’Kinlay passed out, he whispered, “I just caught you in time!”

The ladies received Mr. M’Kinlay with that sort of cool politeness which is cruel enough when extended to the person one sees every day, but has a touch of sarcasm in it when accorded to him who has just come off a long journey.

Now, in the larger gatherings of the world, social preferences are scarcely felt, but they can be very painful things in the small, close circle of a family party.

“You have been to Ireland, Mr. M’Kinlay—I hope you were pleased with your tour? Won’t you have some tea?” said Lady Vyner, with the same amount of interest in each question.

“Mr. M’Kinlay must have proved a most amusing guest,” said Georgina, in a low voice, to Sir Within, “or we should have seen you in the drawing-room somewhat earlier.”

“I felt it an age,” said he, with a little bow and a smile, intended to be of intense captivation.

“But still you remained,” said she, with a sort of pique.

“Ma foi! What was to be done? The excellent man got into a story of his adventures, a narrative of a shipwreck which had not—as I was cruel enough to regret—befallen him, and which, I verily believe, might have lasted all night, if, by some lucky chance, he had not approached so near a topic of some delicacy, or reserve, that your brother-in-law closed ‘the sÉance,’ and stopped him; and to this accident I owe my freedom.”

“I wonder what it could have been!”

“I cannot give you the faintest clue to it. Indeed, I can’t fashion to my imagination what are called family secrets—very possibly because I never had a family.”

Though Georgina maintained the conversation for some time longer, keeping up that little game of meaningless remark and reply which suffices for tea-table talk, her whole mind was bent upon what could possibly be the mystery he alluded to. Taking the opportunity of a moment when Sir Within was addressing a remark to Lady Vyner, she moved half carelessly away towards the fireplace, where Mr. M’Kinlay sipped his tea in solitude, Sir Gervais being deep in the columns of an evening paper.

“I suppose you are very tired, Mr. M’Kinlay?” said she; and simple as were the words, they were uttered with one of those charming smiles, that sweet captivation of look and intonation, which are the spells by which fine ladies work their miracles on lesser mortals; and, as she spoke, she seated herself on a sofa, gracefully drawing aside the folds of her ample dress, to convey the intimation that there was still place for another.

While Mr. M’Kinlay looked rather longingly at the vacant place, wondering whether he might dare to take it, a second gesture, making the seat beside her still more conspicuous, encouraged him, and he sat down, pretty much with the mixed elation and astonishment he might have felt had the Lord Chancellor invited him to a place beside him on the woolsack.

“I am so sorry not to have heard your account—the most interesting account, my brother tells me—of your late journey,” began she; “and really, though the recital must bring back very acute pain, I am selfish enough to ask you to brave it.”

“I am more than repaid for all, Miss Courtenay, in the kind interest you vouchsafe to bestow on me.”

After which she smiled graciously, and seemed a little—a very little—flurried, as though the speech savoured of gallantry, and then, with a regained serenity, she went on, “You narrowly escaped shipwreck, I think?”

“So narrowly, that I believe every varying emotion that can herald in the sad catastrophe passed through me, and I felt every pang, except the last of all.”

“How dreadful! Where did it happen?”

“Off the west coast of Ireland, Miss Courtenay. Off what mariners declare to be the most perilous lee-shore in Europe, if not in the world; and in an open boat too, at least but half decked, and on a day of such storm that, except ourselves and the unlucky yawl that was lost, not another sail was to be seen.”

“And were the crew lost?”

“No; it was in saving them, as they chung to the floating spars, that we were so near perishing ourselves.”

“But you did save them?”

“Every one. It was a daring act; so daring that, landsman as I was, I deemed it almost foolhardy. Indeed, our crew at first resisted, and wouldn’t do it.”

“It was nobly done, be assured, Mr. M’Kinlay; these are occasions well bought at all their cost of danger. Not only is a man higher for them in his own esteem, but that to all who know him, who respect, who——” She hesitated, and, in a flurried sort of way, suddenly said, “And where did you land them?”

“We landed them on the island,” said he, with an almost triumphant air—“we brought them back to their own homes—dreary enough in all conscience; but they never knew better.”

“How is the place called?”

“Innishmore, the most northern of the Arran Islands,” said he, in a whisper, and looking uneasily over at Sir Gerrais, to see that he was not overheard.

“Is the place interesting, or picturesque, or are there any objects of interest?” said she, carelessly, and to let him recover his former composure.

“None whatever,” continued he, in the same cautious voice; “mere barbarism, and such poverty as I never witnessed before. In the house where we were received—the only thing worthy the name of a house in the place—the few articles of furniture were made of the remnants thrown on shore from shipwrecks; and we had on the dinner-table earthenware pipkins, tin cups, glasses, and wooden measures indiscriminately. While, as if to heighten the incongruity, a flagon of silver, which had once been gilt too, figured in the midst, and displayed a very strange crest—a heart rent in two, with the motto, La Zutte rÉelle, a heraldic version of the name.”

“Luttrell,” whispered she, still lower. “What is his christian name?”

“John Hamilton. But, my dear Miss Courtenay, where have you been leading me all this time? These are all secrets; at least, Sir Gervais enjoined me especially not to speak of where I had been, nor with whom. I am aware it was out of respect for the feelings of this unfortunate man, who, however little trace there remained of it, has once been a gentleman and a man of some fortune.”

“If you never tell my brother that you have revealed this to me, I promise you I’ll not speak of it,” said she; and, with all her effort to appear calm, her agitation nearly overcame her.

“You may depend upon me, Miss Courtenay.”

“Nor to my sister,” muttered she, still dwelling on her own thoughts.

“Certainly not. It was a great indiscretion—that is, it would have been a great indiscretion to have mentioned this to any one less—less——”

While he was searching his brain for an epithet, she arose and walked to a window, and Mr. M’Kinlay, rather shocked at his own impetuous frankness, sat thinking over all that he had said.

“Come, Sir Within,” cried Vyner, “here’s my friend M’Kinlay, a capital whist player. What say you to a rubber? and Georgina, will you join us?”

“Not to-night, Gervais. Laura will take my place.”

Lady Vyner acceded good naturedly, with many excuses for all her ignorance of the game, and while Sir Within and Vyner held a little amicable contest for her as a partner, Georgina drew again nigh to where M’Kinlay was standing.

“Did he look very old and broken? asked she, in a low but shaken voice.

“Terribly broken.”

“What age would you guess him to be?”

“Fifty-four, or five; perhaps older.”

“Absurd!” cried she, peevishly; “he’s not forty.”

“I spoke of what he seemed to be; his hair is perfectly white, he stoops considerably, and looks, in fact, the remains of a shattered, broken man, who never at any time was a strong one.”

An insolent curl moved her mouth, but she bit her lips, and with an effort said, “Did you see his wife?”

“He is a widower; except the little boy that we rescued from the wreck, he has none belonging to him.”

“Come along, M’Kinlay, we are waiting for you,” cried Sir Gervais; and the lawyer moved away, while Georgina, with a motion of her finger to her lips, to enjoin secresy, turned and left the room.