Part 97 (1/2)
”And left it for Arran?”
”Yes,” said she again, ”that' also is true; and I left it to come and see that old man whose trial you witnessed. He was my grandfather.”
”Your grandfather! Surely I am speaking to Miss Luttrell of Arran?”
She nodded, and, after a moment, said: ”That old man was my mother's father, and I journeyed here for no other end than to see him and comfort him. Of all these schemes and plots I know nothing, nor have I the strength now to attempt to think of them. Which of ns will you believe, Sir--them or me?”
”I believe you--every word you have told me,” said he; ”but can you forgive me for the tale I have just told you?”
”Enough, now, that you do not believe it. And yet what can it matter to me how I am thought of? The opinion of the world is only of moment to those who have friends, _I_ have not one!”
He did his best to comfort and to cheer her; he said all those kind things which even the humblest of his walk know how to pour into the ear of affliction, and he urged her to go back at once to Arran--to her uncle.
The counsel came well timed, and she caught at it eagerly. ”My wretchedness will plead for me if I cannot speak for myself,” said she, half aloud; and now all her thoughts were how to reach Westport, and take boat for the island. The doctor volunteered to see her so far on her journey, and they set out the same evening.
Arrived at Westport, tired and fatigued as she was, she would not stay to rest, but embarked at once. The night was a bright and pleasant one, with a light land breeze, and as she stepped into the boat, she said, ”The sea has given me the feeling of health again. I begin to hope I shall live to see you and thank you for all your friends.h.i.+p. Good-by.”
And as she spoke, the craft was away, and she saw no more.
The poor suffering frame was so overcome by fatigue, that they were already at anchor in the harbour of Arran before she awoke. When she did so, her sensations were so confused that she was almost afraid to speak or question the boatmen, lest her words should seem wild and unconnected.
”Are you coming back with us, Miss?” asked one of the men, as she stepped on sh.o.r.e.
”No--yea--I believe not; it may be--but I hope not,” said she, in a broken accent.
”Are we to wait for you?” repeated he.
”I cannot say. No--no--this is my home.”
”A dreary home it is, then!” said the man, turning away; and the words fell heavily on her heart, and she sat down on a stone and gazed at the wild, bleak mountain, and the little group of stunted trees amidst which the Abbey stood; and truly had he called it a dreary home.
The dawn was just breaking as she reached the door, and ere she had time to knock, Molly saw her from her window, and rushed out to meet her and welcome her home. Almost hysterical with joy and grief together, the poor creature clung to her wildly. ”It's in time you're come, darlin',”
she cried, amidst her sobs; ”he's going fast, sleeping away like a child, but asking for you every time he wakes up, and we have to tell him that you were tired, and were gone to lie down, and then he mutters some words and goes off again.”
It needed but this sorrow, Kate thought, to fill up the measure of her misery; and she tottered into the little room and sat down without uttering a word, while the woman went on with the story of her master's illness.
”A mere cold at first, brought on by going down to the point of rocks at daybreak to watch the boats. He thought he'd see you coming back. At last, when he was so ill that he couldn't leave the house, he said that the man that brought him the first news you were coming, he'd give him hothouse and garden rent free for his life, and it didn't need that same to make us long to see you! Then came the fever, and for a while he forgot everything, but he talked away about poor Master Harry, and what a differ we'll feel when _he_ was the master, raving, raving on, and never ceasing. After that he came back to his senses, and began to ask where you were, and why you didn't sit with him. There he is now! Hear that; that's your name he's trying to say. Come to him while it's time.”
Kate arose. She never spoke, but followed the woman through the pa.s.sage, and entered the little bedroom, where a faint lamp blended its light with the breaking day.
The sick man's eager eye saw her as she crossed the threshold, and in a vague, discordant voice he cried out, ”I knew you'd come to me. Sit here--sit down here and hold my hand. Such stories as they told me!”
muttered he, as he caught her hand in his grasp. ”They can't make that drink for me, Kate,” said he, in a low, winning voice.
”I'll make it, dearest uncle. I'll be your nurse now,” said she, stooping and kissing his forehead.
”No, no; I'll not let you leave me again. You must sit there and speak to me. When you go away, I feel as if you had gone for weeks.”
”My dear, dear uncle!”
”Strange! how strange!” whispered he. ”I knew well you were there--there, in that room yonder, asleep, but my thoughts would wander away till I came to think you had left me--deserted me! Don't cry, darling. I felt that tear; it fell on my cheek. I do believe,” cried he, aloud, ”they wished me to think I was deserted--a Luttrell of Arran dying without a friend or a kinsman to close his eyes. And the last Luttrell, too! The haughty Luttrells they called us once! Look around you, girl, at this misery, this want, this dest.i.tution! Are these the signs that show wealth and power? And it is all that is left to us!