Kate Vernon: A Tale. Vol. 2 (of 3), Mrs. Alexander [best sci fi novels of all time txt] 📗
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"Galliard's strong point is Celtic antiquity," said their host.
"It is a subject full of profound and melancholy interest," he replied.
[263]
"Why melancholy?" asked Winter.
"Because," rejoined Galliard, "of the contrast between their past and present."
"The strongest proof they were an inferior race," said Langley, "otherwise they would not have given way so rapidly before the Saxons."
"A thoroughly English observation," cried Galliard. "You are poor and powerless, therefore you deserve to be so."
"That's not a fair commentary," said Langley.
"There are two causes, which, to a reflective mind, sufficiently explain, the deterioration of the Celtic race, morally and physically," observed Galliard, thoughtfully.
"And they are?" asked Kate.
"Their quick fancy, and unselfish nature."
"How do you make that out?" said Winter.
"First, the Saxon sees distinctly but one end or object, to the attainment of which his[264] every faculty is devoted. The Celt's livelier imagination presents him with half a dozen, at all of which he grasps with equal eagerness, and thus his powers are divided and dispersed. Secondly, a Saxon's first thought is of himself, and in this he is consistent; while, owing to the peculiarity of fallen humanity, the Celt's self-forgetfulness is inconsistent; thus, place a Saxon where you will, he possesses in himself a nucleus round which all his energies, hopes, and projects centre; and having a centre, stands. While the Celt works one day for himself, the next for a friend, the next to spite an enemy, the next to do him a service, and so he is, finally, nowhere. Your Saxon will have no objection to do all this in a lump, if it does not interfere with his own interests," and Galliard leaned back and took snuff.
"So," said Colonel Vernon, "our greatest errors spring from our noblest qualities!"
"The noblest qualities of mankind! It is man's fate!" returned Galliard.
[265]
"You argue ingeniously; but—" said Langley.
"But truly," interrupted Galliard. "What was it chained the French nation to Napoleon? Imagination! What enabled Bruce to conquer Edward at Bannockburn? Imagination! What rivets the heart of the Irish peasant to the flattering demagogue, or arms his hand against his landlord? Imagination!"
"And the want of a Cogitative nose," put in Winter.
"There's an upset for you, mounseer," said Mr. Storey.
"Really," said Mrs. Storey, "I think, Mrs. Winter, we had better leave the gentlemen to fight it out."
They all rose.
"And," continued Galliard, as he opened the door, "though the want of imagination may render the Saxon successful, its presence always makes the Celt beloved."
[266]
"You are right," said Miss Vernon, as she passed him, with a bow.
But pleasant intervals soon come to an end, and the last week of Mr. and Mrs. Winter's intended stay approached. Before it arrived, however, Miss Herman paid Kate a visit, and introduced her to some additional pupils, with whom, however, she agreed not to begin her lessons until after her friends' departure.
"I cannot bear to think of losing you," said Kate, one cold, sharp evening, Winter had walked to meet her, on her way back from Brompton. "Do pray put off your departure till after Christmas, I have so dreaded Christmas, alone in London, and you have nothing to hurry you away."
"Hum, let me see; I have already delayed a fortnight longer than I intended, another week will not make much difference. Ha, you little witch, I cannot say you nay; but after that not an hour."
[267]
"Ten thousand, thousand thanks, dear, kind friend; you have made me so happy."
"Now we are t�te-�-t�te, tell me how affairs go on; any news of the lawsuit?"
"Why yes, grandpapa gets frequent letters from Mr. Moore, who, it seems, is always filing bills, and making motions, very slow ones, I fear, for they never seem to produce any result."
Winter groaned.
"And yourselves? how is—how is—you know I am a bear—how is the purse?"
Marvellously, considering how fast your hundred went; but nurse has got quite into the London ways, and quite saves us a fortune now; and my pupils, and the new ones! Oh, we shall do very well—if—if dear grandpapa only could look like his own old self."
"Well, I have thirty pounds of his I must not run away with. Have you Lady Desmond's cheque?"
"Yes, quite safe."
[268]
"Well, be sure you keep it; sickness may come, a thousand things. How is your lady cousin?"
"Quite well; always, in her letters, talking of coming home, and never coming."
"Just as I expected."
"And you are bent on wintering at Pau?"
"Yes, and in the spring we intend crossing the Pyrenees; I long to see more of Spain; but, Kate, if you want me really, if, in short, illness should—that is, should the time ever come, you might want a home, Sue and myself look upon you as a daughter, write to me, at once, wherever I may be."
"Good God! Mr. Winter, do you think grandpapa so ill? do you anticipate—"
"Dear child, no, a thousand times no; but at parting I should like you to feel that it is only distance that can separate us, and that at any, and every time, I shall feel as a father towards you, and a proud father!"
"My dear, dear friend! surely God has[269] been very gracious to me; I will not try to thank you in words, they sound so cold!"
They walked on in silence, which Winter broke, by exclaiming abruptly.
"That letter of nurse's son was most characteristic! There is some good stuff in the writer."
Then, after another pause, as if he had expected some remark from Kate.
"It is odd Egerton should send it without a line; I cannot make it out; only that letters seldom miscarry, I should say he had written a despatch himself, independent of the other; but pooh, that is highly improbable. Has Mrs. O'Toole replied to her son's epistle?"
"Yes, that is I acted as her secretary, last week; when do you think the letter will reach Dennis?"
"Oh, heaven knows, they are up the country, and, I fancy, not very settled; perhaps in two or three months."
Kate sighed.
[270]
"Hey! Miss Vernon, what was that sigh for?"
"Oh, I was thinking of last Christmas, we were a very pleasant party, though poor Captain, I mean Major Egerton, was so terribly in the blues about leaving England; and now how different everything is! how silently and gradually a great gulf has been opened between the past and the present!"
"Well, well, it is melancholy enough, not to be either a pleasant or a profitable subject of cogitation. Forward, forward, as your favourite, Longfellow, says,
"A word in season, how good it is!" returned Miss Vernon, smiling pensively.
"Well, here we are, I wonder what Mrs.[271] Winter will say to your powers of persuasion?"
"She will be delighted—she dreads the journey."
"Pooh, not she; as long as I am with her, she thinks all must go well."
"A pattern wife!" sighed Kate.
"Yes; no wife can be happy if she does not feel this. Ah, Kate, Kate, I wish you had a good husband!"
"Like yourself! eh, Mr. Winter! but alas!"
"Now, no quizzing, if you please! I'm glad we are at the end of our trajet, if you are going to laugh at me."
The gradually silent change in the Colonel's health and spirits, which had escaped the every-day watchfulness of even Kate's tender guardianship, struck Winter, whose perception was quickened by the, to him, unshaded transition from light to gloom, caused by the cessation of their daily intercourse, with grief and[272] dismay; nor did he rest until he had persuaded his venerated friend to accompany him to an eminent physician, though the Colonel protested, he had not a single symptom of which he could reasonably complain. The doctor felt his pulse, looked at his tongue, and tried his lungs, asked a good many questions, seemingly irrelevant, as to his spirits, &c., wrote a short prescription, recommended horse exercise, took his fee, and bowed them out. Winter looked dissatisfied; and as he handed the Colonel into the cab, which was waiting for them, suddenly recollected he had forgotten his snuff-box, he returned to the room, but in vain, for the bland physician merely repeated—"Nothing physical, I assure you, sir—mental depression—imaginative disorder."
"Have you found your box?" asked the Colonel, with a significant smile, at least, to Winter's conscience it appeared so. The worthy artist reddened, and replied, gruffly, in the affirmative.
[273]
Kate never before felt so profoundly sad, as the day the Winters started for Dover. When she had parted from them at A——, there was the bustle and excitement of the journey, and the expected arrival at a new place, to divert her thoughts. Now she had full time to feel, how much alone she was, how much dependent on her own judgment, her own strength, her own efforts.
The travellers did not leave till after an early dinner, and the long, desolate evening, its usual occupations broken in upon and deranged, dragged its weary length slowly by, though the Colonel, by a brave effort, seemed more cheerful than usual, and talked of Paris, and the people he had known there, and of Bordeaux, and how the claret used to be smuggled into the west of Ireland, of Hoche, and of the French invasion. And Mrs. O'Toole brought in her work, and both endeavoured to keep up their darling's heart.
She could only remember that it was the[274] anniversary of Egerton's departure for India, and that to-morrow she was to give an early lesson to her new pupils.
"Good night, dearest grandpapa, and do not forget to take your bottle, you coughed a great deal to-day."
[275]
TRIALS.
Before entreating the reader to imagine the lapse of some months, unbroken by any event, we must record one which was a fertile theme of conversation and conjecture to our recluses. Kate was met by Mrs. O'Toole, almost at the garden gate, one morning, about a fortnight after the Winters had left them, as she returned from her daily perambulations.
"Och! come in, Agra! sure there's great news entirely! there's the Captin's been murthuring all afore him, in Ingee, an' such a[276] tundherin' battle! the masther's tired waitin' for ye."
"What's all this nurse is telling me, grandpapa?"
"Oh, the Indian mail is in, and has brought an account of a hard-fought battle between our fellows and those desperate Sikhs. Egerton's name is most honourably mentioned. Langley has very kindly sent me the second edition of the "Times," there it is, read it for yourself."
And Kate, untying her bonnet, seized the paper, and throwing herself into the nearest chair, read the official account, which, dry as it was, sufficed to flush her cheek, and set all her pulses throbbing.
"Lieutenant Colonel A——, having been severely wounded in the beginning of the action, Major Egerton led the —— Lancers, in repeated charges on the enemies' guns, which[277] were defended with a courage and determination indicative of European training; but they were in the possession of the Lancers before four o'clock. I have great pleasure in drawing your lordship's attention to the conduct of this regiment generally, and in particular to that of the gallant officer in command, whom I beg to recommend to your lordship's notice."
"Ah, that is delightful; I dare say Captain Egerton does not regret having gone to India now! It does not say if he was wounded? Are there any private letters?" turning the paper in every direction.
"No, not until next mail, I fancy."
"What news for Mr. and Mrs. Winter," she continued; "how he will rejoice, and grumble, and pooh, pooh, over it."
"Och, the crathure!" exclaimed Mrs. O'Toole, who, as usual, on any occasion of excitement, was always at hand; "his soul 'ud niver rouse up at the word iv a fight; he's not[278] got the blood in his vains for it. Sure, it's only the ould stock that's niver to say in rale pleasure, if they're not in the middle iv divilmint an' danger, jest look at Miss Kate's eyes, like two dimints, this minit. Though I'll go bail she's as white as a sheet at the sight iv a cut-finger, her heart's chargin the Sicks with the Captin. Sicks indeed! faith, he sickened thim sure enough; but it was on a boy's milk ye wor rared, avourneen, so it's no wondher."
"I do feel excited," said Kate, laughing; "some strange sympathy with—I do not know what! for in how many things I am a coward?"
"I believe it is the blood in your veins, Kate," returned the Colonel. "Nurse is right."
"Athen, if poor little Misther Gilpin, (the heavens be his bed,) was alive now, what a power iv rale sinse he'd talk about it; wouldn't he lay all the battles to the divil's door; well, they're terrible heart-breakin' things, entirely;[279] an' the dear knows where me poor Dinny is this blessed night—may be, asleep in a ditch, or—but faith, any ways he's alive, I feel that as sure as if I seen him livin' fornent me!"
The great news occupied many a circle beside that which we are attempting
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