On gaining the beach where he had appointed to meet Harry Luttrell, Mr. M’Kinlay discovered that his young friend had gone off already, taking Ada with him. He could, indeed, detect the form of a lady in the stern of the boat, as she slipped along over the calm sea, and mark that Luttrell was seated at her side.
Here was imprudence, rashness, wilful rashness, all the more reprehensible in a man like Vyner, who knew, or ought to know, the world by this time. “How is that sailor there to remember that he is only a sailor? and how is that young heiress to call to mind that she is an heiress? Why should people ever be placed in a position in which the impossible ceases to look impossible, and even gets a look of the probable?” Such were some of the wise reflections of this sage moralist, though it is but truth to say he never once thought of applying any one of them to his own case.
“What would Miss Courtenay say, too,” thought he, “when she discovered that he had been so neglectful of the mission entrusted to him?” He looked about for another boat to go after them. It was a strong measure, but it was a time for strong measures. No boat, however, was to be had. He bethought him of hailing them, or trying to attract their attention by signals, and to this end he mounted a rock, and attaching his handkerchief to his umbrella, waved it frantically to and fro, screaming out, “Boat ahoy!” in a voice he meant to be intensely maritime.
“Shout away, old fellow!” muttered Harry, whose well-practised eye and ear detected the signal-maker. “I’m not going back for you.”
“Do you sec any one, Harry?” asked Ada. “Who is it?”
“That old lawyer—I forget his name, but he’s the only creature in the house that I can’t bear. You wouldn’t believe it, but he came up to me yesterday evening, and asked if I had any recollection of his having saved my life. But I stopped him full, for I said, ‘I remember well how Captain Dodge picked me up off a spar at sea, and had to threaten to throw yourself overboard for opposing it.’”
“Well, but, Harry,” said she, gently, “people don’t say such unpleasant things—I mean, when they meet in the world; when thrown together in society, they forgive little grudges, if they cannot forget them.”
“Don’t you know that we Luttrells do neither? I can no more forget a wrong than a kindness. Mind me, though,” added he, quickly, “I do not ask to clear off scores with the lawyer, only let him not claim to make me his debtor. Shout away, it will stretch your lungs for the Old Bailey, or wherever it is that you make your living.”