Part 111 (2/2)

They overwhelmed him with questions about his s.h.i.+pwreck and his perils, and his frank, simple manner delighted them. Their own hardy natures could feel for such dangers as he told of, and knew how to prize the courage that had confronted them.

”These are all our guests to-day, Harry,” said Kate. ”We'll come back and see them by-and-by. Meanwhile, come with me. It is our first Christmas dinner together; who knows what long years and time may do? It may not be our last.”

With all those varied powers of pleasing she was mistress of, she made the time pa.s.s delightfully. She told little incidents of her Dalradem life, with humorous sketches of the society there; she described the old Castle itself, and the woods around it, with the feeling of a painter; and then she sang for him s.n.a.t.c.hes of Italian or Spanish romance to the guitar, till Harry, in the ecstasy of his enjoyment, almost forgot his grief.

From time to time, too, they would pa.s.s out and visit the revellers in the Abbey, where, close packed together, the hardy peasantry sat drinking to the happy Christmas that had restored to them the Luttrell of Arran.

The wild cheer with which they greeted Harry as he came amongst them sent a thrill through his heart. ”Yes, this was home; these were his own!”

It was almost daybreak ere the festivities concluded, and Kate whispered in Harry's ear: ”You'll have a commission from me to-morrow. I shall want you to go to Dublin for me. Will you go?”

”If I can leave you,” muttered he, as with bent-down head he moved away.

CHAPTER LXVII. A CHRISTMAS ABROAD

Let us turn one moment to another Christmas. A far more splendid table was that around which the guests were seated. Glittering gla.s.s and silver adorned it, and the company was a courtly and distinguished one.

Sir Gervais Vyner sat surrounded with his friends, happy in the escape from late calamity, and brilliant in all the glow of recovered buoyancy and spirits. Nor were the ladies of the house less disposed to enjoyment. The world was again about to dawn upon them in rosy suns.h.i.+ne, and they hailed its coming with true delight.

Not one of all these was, however, happier than Mr. M'Kinlay. The occasion represented to his mind something very little short of Elysium.

To be ministered to by a French cook, in the midst of a distinguished company who paid him honour, was Paradise itself. To feel that while his baser wants were luxuriously provided for, all his intellectual sallies--small and humble as they were--were met with a hearty acceptance--was a very intoxicating sensation. Thus, as with half-closed eyes he slowly drew in his Burgundy, his ears drew in, not less ecstatically, such words: ”How well said!” ”How neatly put!” ”Have you heard Mr. M'Kinlay's last?” or, better than all, Sir Gervais himself ”repeating him,” endorsing, as it were, the little bill he was drawing on Fame!

In happiness only inferior to this, Mr. Grenfell sat opposite him.

Grenfell was at last where he had striven for years to be. The haughty ”women,” who used to look so coldly on him in the Park, now smiled graciously when he talked, and vouchsafed towards him a manner positively cordial. Georgina had said: ”I almost feel as if we were old friends, Mr. Grenfell, hearing of you so constantly from my brother;”

and then little playful recognitions of his humour or his taste would be let fall, as ”Of course _you_ will say _this_, or think _that?_” all showing how well his nature had been understood, and his very influence felt, years before he was personally known.

These are real flatteries; they are the sort of delicate incense which regale sensitive organisations long palled to grosser wors.h.i.+p. Your thorough man of the world does not want to be ”praised;” he asks to be ”understood,” because, in his intense self-love, he believes that such means more than praise. It is the delicate appreciation of himself he asks for, that you should know what wealth there is in him, even though he has no mind to display it.

He was an adept in the art of insinuation; besides that, he knew ”every one.” And these are the really amusing people of society, infinitely more so than those who know ”everything.” For all purposes of engaging attention there is no theme like humanity. Look at it as long and closely as you will, and you will see that in this great game we call ”Life” no two players play alike. The first move or two may be the same, and then, all is different.

There was a third guest; he sat next Lady Vyner, in the place of honour.

With a wig, the last triumph of Parisian skill, and a delicate bloom upon his cheek no peach could rival, Sir Within sat glittering in diamond studs and opal b.u.t.tons, and his grand cross of the Bath. He was finer than the epergne! and the waxlights twinkled and sparkled on him as though he were frosted silver and filigree. His eyes had their l.u.s.tre too--uneasy, fitful brightness--as though the brain that ministered to them worked with moments of intermission; but more significantly painful than all was the little meaningless smile that sat upon his mouth, and never changed, whether he spoke or listened.

He had told some pointless, rambling story about an Archd.u.c.h.ess and a Court jeweller and a celebrated Jew banker, which none could follow or fathom; and simperingly finished by a.s.suring them that all other versions were incorrect. And there was a pause--a very painful silence that lasted above a minute. Very awful such moments are, when, in the midst of our laughter and our cheer, a terrible warning would seem to whisper to our hearts that all was not joy or gladness there! and that Decay, perhaps Death, was at the board amongst them.

Grenfell, with the hardihood that became him, tried to rally the company, and told the story of the last current scandal, the card-cheating adventure, in which young Ladarelle was mixed up. ”They've given him five years at the galleys, I see, Sir Within,” said he; ”and, I remember, you often predicted some such finish to his career.”

”Yes,” smiled the old man, tapping his jewelled snuff-box--”yes, you are quite right, Mr. Grenfell--quite right.”

”He goes off to Toulon this very day,” resumed Grenfell.

”He was a charmant garcon,” said the old man, with another smile; ”and will be an acquisition to any society he enters.”

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