Part 34 (1/2)
”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 quant.i.ty.”
”Let us ask the ladies, then, for a cup of tea,” said Vyner, as he opened the door; and, as M'Kinlay pa.s.sed 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 s.h.i.+pwreck 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 seance,' 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 fas.h.i.+on 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 s.h.i.+pwreck, I think?”
”So narrowly, that I believe every varying emotion that can herald in the sad catastrophe pa.s.sed 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-sh.o.r.e 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 peris.h.i.+ng 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 n.o.bly done, be a.s.sured, 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?”