“As I was stepping into the boat that was to take me ashore, we were hailed by a large ship-rigged vessel just getting under weigh, and from which several boats, crowded with people, were just leaving. We rowed towards her, and found that they wanted us to take on shore a young lady whose class evidently prevented her mixing with the vulgar herd that filled the other boats. She was in deep mourning, and so overwhelmed with grief, that she was almost unconscious as they lifted her into the boat. I caught a mere glimpse of her face, and never saw anything so beautiful in my life. Only think! the vessel was a convict-ship, and she had gone there to take a last farewell of some father or brother, perhaps—husband it could scarcely be, she was too young for that. Can you imagine anything more dreadful? One evidently of rank and birth—there were unmistakable signs of both about her—mixing even for an instant with all the pollution of crime and wickedness that crowd the deck of a convict-ship! I asked leave to accompany her to her house or hotel, or wherever she was going, but she made a gesture of refusal; and, though I’d have given more than I dare tell to have known more about her, I thought it would be so unworthy to follow, her, that I left her the moment we landed, and never saw her more.
“I am sure I did what was right and becoming, but if you knew how sorry I am to have been obliged to do it—if you knew how, now that it is all done and passed, I think of her incessantly—ay, and follow every one I see in mourning till I discover that it is not she—you’d wonder what change has come over this thick blood of mine, and set it boiling and bubbling as it never used to do.”
He went on next to tell of his visit to the agents of his father’s property. Messrs. Cane and Carter had been duly apprised by Sir Gervais Vyner that Harry Luttrell was alive, and it scarcely needed the letter which he carried as a credential, to authenticate him, so striking was the resemblance he bore to his father.
“You should have been here yesterday, Mr. Luttrell,” said Cane. “You would have met your cousin. She has left this for Arran this morning.”
Harry muttered something about their not being known to each other, and Cane continued:
“You’d scarcely guess what brought her here. It was to make over to you, as the rightful owner, the property on the Arran Islands. We explained to her that it was a distinct deed of gift—that your late father bequeathed it to her as a means of support—for she has really nothing else—and that legally her claim was unassailable. She was not to be shaken from her resolution. No matter how we put the case—either as one of law or as one of necessity, for it is a necessity—her invariable reply was, ‘My mind is made up, and on grounds very different from any you have touched on;’ and she left us with full directions to make the requisite conveyances of the estate in your favour. I entreated her to defer her final determination for a week or two, and all I could obtain was a promise that if she should change her mind between that time and the day of signing the papers, she would let me know it. She has also given us directions about taking a passage for her to Australia; she is going out to seek occupation as a governess if she can, as a servant if she must.”
Harry started, and grew pale and red by turns as the other said this. He thought, indeed, there was some want of delicacy in thus talking to him of one so nearly allied to him. His ignorance of life, and the Irish attachment to kindred together, made him feel the speech a harsh one.
“How will it be, Sir,” asked he, curtly, “if I refuse to accept this cession?”
“The law has no means of enforcing it, Sir. There is no statute which compels a man to take an estate against his will. She, however, can no more be bound to retain, than you to receive, this property.”
“We had three hours’ talk,” said Harry, in writing this to Captain Dodge, “and I ascertained that this very property she is now so anxious to be free of, had formed up to this the pride and enjoyment of her life. She had laboured incessantly to improve it, and the condition of the people who lived on it. She had built a schoolhouse and a small hospital, and, strange enough, too, a little inn, for the place was in request with tourists, who now found they could make their visits with comfort and convenience. Cane also showed me the drawing of a monument to my father’s memory, the ‘Last Luttrell of Arran,’ she called him; and I own I was amazed at the simple elegance and taste of the design made by this poor peasant girl. Even if all these had not shown me that our old home has fallen into worthy hands, I feel determined not to be outdone in generosity by this daughter of the people. She shall see that a Luttrell understands his name and his station. I have told Cane to inform her that I distinctly refuse to accept the cession; she may endow her school or her hospital with it; she may partition it out amongst the cottier occupiers; she may leave it—I believe I said so in my warmth—to be worked out in masses for her soul—if she be still a Catholic—if all this while none of her own kith and kin are in want of assistance; and certainly times must have greatly changed with them if it be not so. At all events, I’ll not accept it.