Kate Vernon: A Tale. Vol. 2 (of 3) by Mrs. Alexander (motivational books for men txt) 📗
- Author: Mrs. Alexander
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"I am quite sure you are 'no humbug,' as[222] my partner of last night would say," returned Kate, laughing.
And they parted.
Lady Desmond's letters were rather more frequent at this time, and though they evinced, as usual, warm affection and sincere interest in the fortunes of her relatives, there was a restlessness and despondency in their tone which spoke of a spirit ill at ease. She frequently said she would return to them, as they would not come to her; but months flew by, and still she was among the "distinguished English at present in Florence." And Kate, who, in spite of herself, yearned for her return, as for the first beam of the rising sun, as something that would create a change for the better in the face of affairs, and also longed to see the fair face of a much loved relative, felt that the only reason why she did not quite despair of seeing Lady Desmond's promises fulfilled, was because she dared not deprive herself of that hope. The Colonel, too, clung to it, with an[223] eagerness almost painful, at times; and it was evident, this feverish anxiety was connected with some intention of putting Kate under her guardianship.
And so their life rolled on—the only break in its monotony was a slight difference between Mrs. Crooks, the landlady, and Mrs. O'Toole, which arose from their mutual affection for the parrot. Nurse asserted "it was a mighty knowledgeable craythur iv a bird;" and Poll verified the statement of her admirer, by repeating various phrases she learnt from Mrs. O'Toole, in a rich County Clare brogue. The poverty of the kitchen fire was a constant source of vexation to Mrs. O'Toole.
"Hesther, och! girl alive—will ye rouse up that fire a bit," was her constant cry; and Poll never beheld the much enduring handmaid of Mrs. Crooks, without screaming. "Hesther, Hesther, rouse up the fire a bit." "Hesther ye divil!" "Ah, speak pretty, Poll," Mr. Crooks would then exclaim, "don't[224] say such ugly words—say dear mistress." "Ye divil," Poll would reply.
"Faith it would make ye break yer heart laughing, sir," said nurse, who was detailing the events of their warfare, to the Colonel and Kate, one evening. 'Spake pretty,' ses she, 'an don't be hollowin' out thim vulgar Hirish words,' ses she. 'Och, God help ye woman,' ses I, 'it's little ye know the differ between what's vulgar, an what's genteel in this counthry,' ses I. 'Ye'd lave a poor Queen, to go sarve a rich tinker, any hour of the twinty-four; an ye'd rummage through the blackest dirt iv London for a halfpenny, though yer pocket was full iv goold guineas, all the time—that's yer gintility in England,' sis I; 'an as for style, an rale quolity, faith it's so little—'"
"Dear nurse," interrupted Kate, gravely, "I wish you had not made such a long and irritating speech, to Mrs. Crooks; you must let me settle your differences, and in future[225] turn a deaf ear to any casual remarks that may hurt your national vanity—they are not worth noticing."
"Och, my gracious, Miss Kate, is an impident thief iv a lodging-house keeper, to be let to have her talk about her betthers an—be the powers! there's the post," cried nurse interrupting herself, "an I dhreamt, I had a letther from—" she ran out hastily, and returned almost immediately, with a disappointed look, "It's for the masther."
"From Winter," said he, opening it. An enclosed letter, with the Indian post-mark fell from it. "From Egerton, I do believe," cried the Colonel; but no—within that again was another enclosure, the address, written in an intoxicated looking hand, and much blotted. "For Mrs. O'Toole, at the Kurnel's in England."
"It's for you, nurse," said Kate, with a heavy sensation of deep disappointment weighing down her heart.
[226]
"I'll engage it's from Dinny; athin read it for me, jewil!"
So Kate, disengaging its folds from the stiff adhesion of a large red wafer, and taking the liberty of correcting some very prominent errors of orthography, and transferring small into capital I's, read as follows:—
"Deer mother, I'm quite well, an it's little I thought I'd ever get a letther sent to ye; bud this is the way iv it; last April the new Captin, iv throop, No. 1, kem into Cantoonments, an' he half dead—havin' been kilt be robbers, an' murthered entirely be the faver. Well this was the beginnin' iv luck, fur ye see, what with the hate iv the climat', an' the druth an' me, I was gettin' accustomed to punishmint drill an' the like, an' to spake God's thruth, I was'nt sober over wanct in a week—though many's the sore heart I had about that same, thinkin' iv you mother, an' the green glens iv Dungar, an' father O'Dris-[227]coll, bud ye see I'd got a bad name, an' it was no use."
"Och! God help ye—ye onfortunate boy—many's the sowl that same, 'bad name,' has ruinated," ejaculated Mrs. O'Toole. "Go on, asthore."
"Captin Egerton comes on parade—lookin' like a ghost iv a fine man, an' sittin' his horse illegant—and ses he, afther praade, ridin' up, jist as we wor dispersin'—'Is there a man among ye's, me lads, iv the name iv Dinnis O'Toole?" ses he, quite cheerful like. 'Yes, sir,' ses Sargant Mills—'he's in throop, No. 3.' 'Let me see him,' ses the Captin'.' 'Dennis O'Toole, if yer sober, stand out,' ses the Sarjant.' 'Ha!' ses the Captin, quite quick like—'that's bad.' An' I niver felt so ashamed iv meself afore nor since; wid that he tells me to come up to his quarthers in the afthernoon. So I wint—an' he give me yer letther, that Miss Kate wrote for ye, God bless her! an' sure me hart was in me mouth, whin[228] I got the word iv home; bud faith it 'ud take a month's time to write all the good he done me—he discoarsed me like—no not like a clargy—like a man. 'Don't let the dhrink get the betther of ye,' ses he; 'fight it, as ye would a rascally Sikh—give it no quarther; an' don't let the people at home, say ye showed the white feather,' ses he; an' thin he walks up an' down, an' ses to hisself—'I will not have Kate Vernon's foster brother a dhrunkard, an' disgraced'—I hard him say it. Well, the ind iv it was, I was put in his throop, No. 1, an' iv taken the pledge; that's to the Captin; an' I'll be a corplar in a week or so; an' I'm as sober as a jidge, barin' the pipe—an' it's many a ride we do be takin—the Captin an' meself. He's not a bit like the other officers; but, always reading, whin he is'nt shootin' tigers or pullin' unfortunate women out iv the fire, or any divilment that way. Iv all the dashin' young min iver I seen, I'll back the Captin—there's nothin' good, bad, nor indifferent he would'nt[229] face—jist as if he was goin' to his dinner; an' many a time we do be talkin' iv you, an' how ye nursed him; and he's niver tired of hearin' tell iv Miss Kate, whin she was a beautiful little darlin' iv a child; an' iv Dungar an' the masther; an' I'm improvin' me writin'—an' Corplar Morrisson's writin' this letther for me like a rale pinman as he is; an' so I hope yer well—an he ses he's a trifle iv money with the Captin; an' indeed Mrs. O'Toole yer son's another man, intirely, an' I'm proud to tell ye that same; an' me duty to Miss Kate, an' the Kurnel. Sure, I never can forget Dungar, an' ould times, nor you, mother; an' if we are not to meet here again, I hope we may in Heaven, amin!
"Your dutiful an' lovin' son,
"Dinnis O'Toole.
"Throop, No. 1, an' own man to the Captin.
"Cantoonment.
"Junglepore, Ingy."
[230]
"The Queen in Heaven reward ye, Captin," cried Mrs. O'Toole, the tears rolling down her cheeks. "Och, Dinny, it's you's in luck—an' he's the Captin's own man; an' give up dhrink—glory be to God!"
"Well, it's a very pleasing, satisfactory letter, Nelly," said the Colonel, "and I am heartily glad to hear so good an account from your son. Eh, Kate, is there a postscript?"
"No; but I was reading over the concluding part—it is rather confused—Corporal Morrisson, appears to write for Dennis in the third person, and then Dennis himself comes in again, in the first person; but, dear nurse, I congratulate you, with all my heart, I think my foster-brother will now get on remarkably well."
"Sorra fear iv him now. Sure there was always luck in the Captin's face, an' he'll be back yet wid a pocket full iv goold, and set us all right, I pray, God, amin. Now I'll just get the specks, an' read it all over meself, sure[231] I can make it out beautiful afther Miss Kate readin' it."
And so after a few more ejaculations, nurse retired.
"It is very curious," began the Colonel.
"That Captain Egerton did not write himself," interrupted Kate, quickly.
"Yes, I cannot understand it, that letter indicates the kindliest feelings towards us, and yet I wonder he would not wish for some more direct communication with us, than through Dennis O'Toole."
"Do letters ever go astray?"
"Oh, scarcely; this one you see has arrived safe, but what surprises me is that he enclosed it without a line."
"Indolence about writing, I suppose," said Kate, with a sigh.
"But now I have the address, I shall certainly write."
"Will you, dear grandpapa?"
"Well, perhaps it would be better, decidedly[232]—let me see what days the Indian mail leaves, we can find it out at the post-office; you must remind me, my love."
"Yes, grandpapa."
Then she went to the piano, and played dreamily for a long time, seeing neither notes or music, but a tableau—Dennis O'Toole and Captain Egerton, while the words of the latter "I will not have Kate Vernon's foster brother, a drunkard," seemed to meet her eye, wherever she turned it, and brought the speaker too vividly before her. One of Egerton's most distinguishing characteristics was a chivalrous delicacy of feeling towards women, generally; Kate had often observed it, with silent, but profound approbation, and she could well imagine the tender consideration with which he would treat even a dog that had belonged to one he loved, and something whispered to her that she was this one—it was but very rarely that such a thought flashed across her mind. Yet although she felt that the course of proba[233]bilities held out little or no chance of their again meeting till the lapse of many years had fixed their destinies wide apart, still the conviction that she was loved and not forgotten, thrilled through her heart, with an ecstasy so exquisite, so strange that she shrunk from it, startled at the depths of her own nature, thus revealed, even
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