Luttrell Of Arran. Charles James Lever

occurs to me, and if the notion be at all practicable, it solves every difficulty at once. This child’s aunt, a peasant like the others, was married to a gentleman, an old friend and college companion of my own. Unfortunate in many ways, and, of course, lost to the world of society by this unequal match, he retired to a lonely island on the coast, where he has lived for some years in a condition and with habits scarcely above the half-savage creatures about him. He was and is still a man of considerable ability, although soured and disgusted with a world wherein he met nothing but failure. I met him last week by mere accident, having landed on the lonely rock he inhabits. I will not say he was at all pleased with the recognition, but, in short, we renewed acquaintance, and parted a little more like friends than we met. If he could be induced to accept this trust, it would accomplish all that I wish.”

      “Has his wife any influence over him?”

      “She is dead. She died a few days since.”

      “Does he care for and interest himself about those who belonged to her?”

      “I have no means of knowing; but I suspect not.”

      “Then probably it would be better that you made this proposition to him without any intimation that you knew of the relationship between him and this girl; asking him to assist you in carrying out a whim—a mere caprice?”

      “I have been thinking over that. I believe you are right. He might not feel indisposed to serve these people, though he might shrink from declaring them his near connexions. At the same time, I feel he may refuse us on other grounds. He rejects whatever in the remotest way would lead him back into the world he has quitted. His is a passive sort of misanthropy—I believe, the least curable kind.”

      “It would be a pity not to secure him; he is the very man, with his local knowledge and thorough acquaintance with the people, to give your experiment the fairest chance of success.”

      “Well, here goes for the attempt. Let us first have our dinner, M’Kinlay, and then I’ll write your credentials. You shall go over to Arran, and use your best powers of persuasion. I’ll tell you by-and-by all that you ought to know beforehand of your adversary, for adversary you’ll find him, whatever subject you broach; but I shall call it a great victory if you succeed.”

      “Where is Arran?” asked the lawyer, in some trepidation, for he only half liked his mission.

      “Here it is,” said Vyner, spreading a map over the table, and pointing to some three or four insignificant dots off the coast of Donegal. “It is the most northern of these—that one.”

      “And how is it to be come at?”

      “We must learn all that from the people of the inn here. A fishing lugger, I take it——”

      “I declare, frankly, I have no fancy for the expedition; nor is there, indeed, any reason for it. A letter will be amply sufficient to explain your object.”

      “Yes, but not to urge and persuade him—not to meet the doubts and the difficulties he will suggest—not to reassure him about this, and convince him about that. He’s a clever fellow, M’Kinlay, and one who will require to examine every phase of a subject before he’ll accept it.”

      “Good Heavens! what a place to go to,” cried the other, as his eyes were still intently bent upon the little spots on the map.

      “The place is most interesting; some remarkable scenery, and a very curious ruin of an ancient Abbey.”

      “Not in my way—not at all in my way, Sir Gervais. I’d rather see a snug chop-house than the purest specimen of pointed Gothic.”

      “Well, it will be an event in your life, at any rate—an incident to recal (sp) hereafter; and more than all, it will be a service to myself personally, which I shall not easily forget.”

      “If you make a point of it, I’ll certainly go. I have told you that the adventurous spirit is not my strongest characteristic. Out-of-the-way places or buildings, or out-of-the-way people, have no interest far me. They are like a language I don’t know; they may be eloquent and charming to others, to me they make no appeal; but I’ll go, as you wish it, and I’ll do my best.”

      “And you’ll succeed, too, I know it. Luttrell and you will understand each other at once. He’ll be pleased with your purpose-like, straightforward manner, while he’d reject flatly any attempt to influence or cajole him. He’ll possibly oppose his habitual indolence and his life of isolation to all plans for exertion or activity, but you’ll satisfy him that we have no intention to burden him unnecessarily, and that, in all likelihood he’ll not be called upon for more than a single act of an executive nature.”

      “What are these luggers like? Are they considered safe?”

      “The best sea-boats in the world.”

      “And the sailors?”

      “None better in the kingdom. In fact, on a coast like this——”

      Be stopped suddenly, just remembering in time, that by any picturesque description of an iron-bound shore or an Atlantic swell, he might effectually deter M’Kinky from all thought of the expedition. “Say nothing of what we’ve been talking over, at dinner,” said he; “and I rejoice to say, here comes the waiter to announce it.”

      M’Kinlay sighed; he could have eaten with a capital appetite half an hour ago. It was all gone now. He’d have liked a stiff glass of brandy-and-Seltzer-water, nothing more.