Luttrell Of Arran Part 67

"I am very proud that you let me call you Kate."

"Yes, that's it; and you say it softly, as it should be spoken. It's a pretty name, is it not? No, don't look on me pitifully. If it be even as you fear, there is no cause for sorrow. Answer me one thing," said she, half sternly, "but answer truly. Shall I die of this? There, there! I do not want any more. You think I shall; but I know better. Ay, Doctor, there's a keener instinct, stronger than all your skill, and it tell's me I have years and years before me; years of such trouble, too, it would be a mercy I were taken now!"

"Calm yourself, my child. I like your self-confidence; but be calm."

"And am I not calm? Count my pulse;" and she bared her arm and held it towards him. "It _is_ a pretty arm? then say so, frankly. What harm can flattery do me now?"

"I must leave you, my dear child. I have a long journey before me, and much hard work at the end of it. I am sorry, very sorry to go. Don't shake your head, Kate, it is the simple truth."

"Then why not stay?"

"I have told you, child, that many others are expecting me."

"Yes, great people, t.i.tled people, people of condition, as they are called; as if we, too, had not our condition. Don't you hate that word?

Don't you hate every vulgar sneer at the low-born?"

"I like your generosity----"

"My generosity!" cried she, with a wild hysteric laugh--"my generosity!

Oh, yes; my generosity has a touch of genius in it. It reveals to me the unseen, the untasted! For, what can I know of such people?"

Her brows were knitted fast as she uttered the last words, and her lips were drawn tight, as though she spoke under the pressure of some intense constraint.

"There, there!" said he, rising. "I knew all this talking was injurious, and I am much to blame for having permitted it."

"And you _are_ going?"

"I must; I have no choice in the matter."

"Well, give me a minute more. Sit down again, and I will not detain you more than a minute or two. When I asked to speak with you alone, Doctor, it was to beg of you to make my will. You need not be afraid that it will take long. I have only one legacy and one heir. Now, mind what I shall say to you. It may happen--I myself think it will happen--that I shall get better of this fever. Much of my raving--what they call my raving--was such wandering as pa.s.ses through my head any day; so that it may easily be I have never been so ill as I seemed to be, and all the wonderful stories Mrs. Simc.o.x told you in the window last night--my strange fancies about my bare feet bleeding with the sharp stones--no matter, fact or fancy, it was in my head before this. You are attending to me?"

"I am."

"I was afraid you thought that this explanation was only 'wandering' of another sort; but I see you do not. I see you follow me."

He nodded.

"If, however, _your_ skill be better than my second sight--if I can call it so--I have a task for you to do. When it shall be all over, before I am buried, you will take care but wait, let us do it regularly." She raised herself on one arm as she spoke, and with the other hand she pointed to a small writing-table at the farther part of the room. "Open that desk, and take out an envelope. It ought to be black-edged for the occasion," said she, with a sad smile, "but I don't think it matters much. Yes, that one will do very well. Write now the address I shall give you: Mr. Peter Malone.' Show it to me--is it large and plain? No; take another. It must be clear, bold writing. I think I ought to write it myself--of course I ought, and I will."

"All this excitement is wrong."

"Then don't prolong it. Give me the pen and that book to write on.

I declare it is _you_ that are nervous, Doctor. What makes your hand shake?"

"If I am nervous, it is because I feel much self-reproach for all this--this----"

"This--what?" asked she, smiling. "Do give it a name. I am sure you are not angry at my detaining you. You are too kind and too considerate to reckon minutes against one who may have so few of them; and then, as to this task I impose on you," and she smiled again--"do confess you never heard of so short a will. There, it is all written now. Read it out, that I may see if it be legible."

"'Mr. Peter Malone, to the care of Mr. T. O'Rorke, Vinegar Hill, Cush-ma-Creena, Ireland.'"

"Your p.r.o.nunciation is not quite faultless, Doctor; but, luckily, you will not be the postman. Mind, now, this is to be posted so soon as all is over. No, no--not as it is. I have not yet enclosed my legacy.

Take that scissors you see yonder. Open the shutter--a little more still--yes, that will do. Now come here. Cut off the longest and the brightest lock you can find here," and she unbound her golden hair, and sent it floating in heavy ma.s.ses over her shoulders and her back, and even her face. "Don't spare it. I mean my last legacy to be munificent.

There!" said she, taking the long tress from his fingers, "how soft and silky it is--see, too, if it has not that golden radiance the Venetian painters raved about! The old man to whom that envelope is addressed once asked me to give him a lock of my hair; he begged for it very eagerly, as a parting gift, and I refused him. I can give it now--yes, I can give it now! Ask me nothing--I will tell nothing. I thought to have told you all--the whole long, dreary story--but I cannot. There, you are impatient to be away. I release you; only remember, that if I do not die you are to return that paper to me. Do you understand me?"

[Ill.u.s.tration: 346]

"Perfectly, and will obey you to the letter, my dear child, if you will not give me this tress as my fee for having cured you. Perhaps I have as good a claim to it as that other to whom you would bequeath it."

"No, no, no!" cried she, impetuously. "You never cared for me, you never could care for me, as he does; but keep it if you will. Good-by, good-by! One instant more. There is another old man to whom I would send a message."

"Your guardian?"

A scornful curl of her lip and an impatient gesture of her head stopped him.

"Tell Sir Within that I was very grateful to him. He did much to make my life a very happy one, and yet I am so glad to leave it! Speak kindly to him and comfort him; tell him, if you will, that if he would continue to love me, it were best I should die; for if I were to live, Doctor"--and here her eyes grew full and wide, and her gaze steadfast--"if I were to live, I should lose that love."

The wild look she gave, the strange vibration of her voice, and her words themselves, warned the Doctor that a period of excitement was approaching, and he drew the curtain and moved away.

CHAPTER XL. A SUDDEN REVERSE

"You see it is as well I acted with more forethought, and did not send for our Irish friend," said Grenfell, as he sat at breakfast with Ladarelle. "We shall probably not want him."

"I suspect not," said the other; "the last news of her was unfavourable."

Grenfell stole a look at the speaker, and, quick as the glance was, it bespoke a mingled aversion and contempt. The men who have arrived at middle age, either to form a poor opinion of their fellows, or to feign it--it is hard exactly to say which--feel a sort of detestation for younger men who entertain the same sentiments. Whether it be that to have reached that cynicism has cost years of patient study and endurance, and that they are indignant at the pretension that would a.s.sume to have acquired the knowledge without the labour, or that, and this more probable, they really do not fully trust their own heartlessness--whatever the cause, I can answer for the effect; and that cold, ungenial man now looked upon his younger companion with a sense of little less than disgust.

"So that her death would not shock you?" said Grenfell, as he stirred his tea, without looking up.

"I don't exactly say that. She's a fine girl, young, and very good looking."

"Beautiful."

"Well, beautiful if you like, though I'll show scores just as handsome any day in Rotten Row. But the question is, Does she, or does she not, stand between me and a fine estate? You yourself thought that opinion of Palmer's went against me."

"No doubt of it. Palmer concurs with the Attorney-General; indeed, he seems astonished that any other view was ever taken, as he says, 'No provision of a will can override the law.'"

"Which means, that the old cove may marry; and his heir, if he have one, may inherit the property?"

"Just so."

"And then, in the face of that, you ask me if her life is of such consequence to me?"

"No; I asked if her death would shock you?" "I don't well know what you mean by being shocked! If there was a suspicion abroad that I had poisoned her, to get her out of the way, then perhaps I might be shocked."

"Shocked at the imputation, not the consequences?" "I can't split hairs--I never could. If you want subtle distinctions and fine-drawn differences, you must try elsewhere. What I want to say is simply this: I have no ill will to the girl; I wish no harm to her; but I'd rather she wasn't _there_." "By _there_, you mean, alive?"