Kate Vernon: A Tale. Vol. 2 (of 3) by Mrs. Alexander (motivational books for men txt) 📗

AN ADVENTURE AND A SURPRISE.

Autumn was now rapidly merging into winter, the unbroken routine of Kate's life only lent swifter wings to time, for events like marked distances serve often but to show our tardy progress. Sometimes Langley would look in for half an hour's chat, and Galliard still more rarely; but though formerly so fond of society, their visits seemed now more than the Colonel wished for, or was equal to; and although she never permitted the dreadful thought to dwell on her mind, yet the consciousness that he was unusually silent, and[235] averse to move, that his cheek had lost its firm, round, ruddy look; and that he often sent his dinner away untouched, would seize her, with a sense of anguish. Nurse, with love's quick perception, always stoutly denied that any thing ailed him.

"It 'ill do nayther iv thim any good to be thinkin that a way," she would say to herself. "Miss Kate the crayther, has enough to put up with, an' as to me poor darlin' masther, it 'ud take a better cordial than iver kem out iv a 'poticary's shop to do him any good."

These apprehensions about her grandfather were weighing heavily on Kate's heart. One humid, gloomy afternoon she was returning home after giving some music lessons, escorted, as usual, by her faithful Cormac; as she hurriedly crossed the road, (for it was late), at Kensington Gore, to enter the gardens by the gate near the ancient and diminutive barrack, usually occupied by a small party of Light Dragoons, two gentlemen stopped opposite to[236] it. One a large, heavy, man, mounted on a splendid, dark chesnut horse, whose broad chest and clean, strong muscular limbs showed him to be a weight carrier; the rider's back was to the gardens, and his eyes fell on Kate and her companion, as she came up; the other, about middle height, slight, distinguished looking, but simply dressed, stood on the footway leaning his right arm on the neck of his friend's horse, and occasionally waving his left hand as if to enforce his words; the peculiar turn of this last described individual's head, and the careless arrangement of his wavy hair reminded Kate of Egerton, or rather stamped him as belonging to Egerton's class; for one of the indications of gentlemanlike appearance is the turn of the head and the manner of wearing the hat.

"By George! what a splendid dog!" exclaimed the equestrian, interrupting his companion, who turning slowly round, caught a glimpse of Kate, as she passed; her color[237] heightened by her rapid walk, and Cormac, as usual, keeping close to her side. A new keeper was standing at the gate, as she was about to enter, and said, civilly, though authoritatively—

"No dogs admitted, ma'am."

"But he always accompanies me," said Kate, "and never frightens any one, not even the birds, the last keeper never objected to his coming through."

"But my orders are strict; and he is such a large dog."

"Well, I really cannot go back again," continued Miss Vernon, smiling, and shaking her head. "I saw a lady go in just before me, with a dog."

"Yes, but she had a string to him."

"Oh, I can soon manage that," cried Kate, fastening one end of her handkerchief to Cormac's collar. "Now may I go through?"

The man smiled, and made way for her.

While stooping, to fasten the handkerchief,[238] the gentleman we have above described, as leaning across the neck of his friend's horse, walked past, glancing at Kate, quickly and keenly; she did not observe him, but turning up the broad walk proceeded towards home, lost in a wandering maze of sweet and bitter thought. As she approached the water near the Palace, she paused a moment to notice a peripatetic duck of large dimensions, and brilliant plumage, for whom she generally carried a bit of bread or biscuit, and who made long marches in quest of dainties, that might possibly be missed by adhering closely to his more natural element. Cormac sat down gravely, while his mistress addressed a few words of apology to her feathered pensioner.

"No bread or biscuit to-day, poor duck, but I will not forget you to-morrow."

And she stood looking at the creature, as it waddled awkwardly round and round her, quite regardless of the dog. At that moment the gentleman before mentioned came up beside her,[239] and slightly raising his hat, said, politely and easily—

"How is it that you are alone?"

Kate turned quickly, and met a piercing gaze from a pair of deep set, but stern looking black eyes. She was naturally courageous, and the idea of any one intentionally insulting her never occurred to her mind; the stranger's tone too, was perfectly well-bred, and his words, such as might be addressed to some familiar acquaintance; so, without hesitation, or the slightest apprehension or embarrassment, and meeting his bold glance steadily, she replied, calmly, with a slight inclination of the head—

"You mistake me, I do not know you," and moved on towards home. To her surprise, however, the stranger kept by her side, and after a moment's silence, apparently somewhat surprised at her composure, he resumed, softening still more a very musical and refined voice—

[240]

"You are both right and wrong; I do not mistake you for any other person, but I am unfortunately unacquainted with you, and unless I take a bold step, such as I have now done, may remain so; therefore, pray forgive me."

Kate walked on in silence, her heart throbbing with indignation; to be addressed by a stranger, and one too, apparently, of her own rank in life; one whom, under different circumstances, would, perhaps, have been presented by some smiling or dignified hostess. These thoughts flashed liked lightning through her brain, and left no room for fear, as she kept a resolute silence. After another short pause, the stranger again turning his cold, sallow, but intellectual countenance towards hers resumed—

"It is absurd your persevering in this unbroken silence; I generally carry out my resolves; and to exchange a few sentences with a person not formally introduced to you, cannot[241] possibly be an injury; speak, I entreat you, give me but the slightest clue to your name and position, and I will speedily contrive the necessary introduction—will not that satisfy you?" he added, in a slightly sarcastic tone, and suddenly placing himself in her way: she stopped, and keeping still silent, for a moment more, to collect her thoughts, and get the fiery indignation that swelled her heart under controul.

"Sir," said she, deliberately, and with a determination of tone and manner that surprised him, "unless your appearance sadly belies you, you should be too much a gentleman not to feel by instinct that I am a lady; your excuses for your presumptuous insolence only adds to it, but," she continued, with a curl of the lip, and a flash of indignant contempt from her dark grey eyes, that deepened them to blue, "I laugh at your attempt to stop me! Here, Cormac," to the hound, who had already uttered one or two ominous growls,[242] she untied the handkerchief; "watch him, good dog, and if he stirs—" she stopped, and looking once more full in the stranger's face, turned suddenly, so as to place the hound between them, and walked lightly away, yet not too fast. The stranger, thus left planted, bit his lip, then laughing slightly, attempted to pass the dog, who, in heraldic attitude 'couchant,' kept his fierce eyes fixed on his charge, at whose slightest movement he displayed his sharp, white fangs.

"Pshaw! what a mistake, to address such a girl, sans ceremonie; what an awkward predicament! It would be absurd to enter into a contest with such a brute, unarmed, for nothing," muttered Kate's admirer, who did not look like a man deficient in courage. "Here, good dog, I say," and he again attempted to pass, but Cormac sprang to his feet with a savage growl, and again the haughty looking 'elegant' was baffled.

Meantime Kate's slight figure disappeared[243] in the distance, and, a moment after, Cormac pricking his ears at some sound, unheard by his opponent, with a final growl, darted at full speed down the walk by which his mistress had vanished. She was waiting a few paces beyond the gate, where she had, to the best of her ability, uttered the whistle, which had recalled her faithful guardian; and now hurrying her pace almost to a run, they speedily reached home, but not before the persevering stranger had caught sight of the flutter of her dress, as she turned the corner of Victoria Gardens.

"How late you are, my child! you seem flushed and breathless."

"Yes, dear grandpapa, I was detained at Mrs. Potter's, and of course that made me late with my other pupils; then I walked so fast; but I will run up stairs and take off my bonnet."

"Oh, nurse!" she exclaimed, throwing herself into Mrs. O'Toole's arms, "I have had[244] such a fright—no, not a fright, but I am so indignant to think that he should dare to—"

"Och, what is it, good or bad? take breath, asthore!"

And Kate, with many charges not to tell her grandfather, recounted her adventure to nurse.

"Och, bad manners to him," exclaimed that sympathising confidante. "The rale divil he was to go spake that away to a lady like you; bad luck to his impidence; did he think ye'd thank him for wantin' to know ye? I wish I come across him, faith I'd make his hair stand on ind, the schamin' vagabone. But why are ye cryin', avick, about a thief iv a pickpocket? I'll go bail it's yer purse he wanted; sure a rale gintleman ud know betther!"

"I can't help it, nurse! they are the bitterest tears I ever shed, not on account of that wretched man, but to think that such a thing ever occurred, and may occur again."

"Sorra bit iv it, I'll go wid ye me own self ivery day to Potter's an' the other place, an'[245] let me see if me gintleman dare say pays to ye! Whist! och, jewel, there's the masther callin—dhry yer eyes."

For several days the faithful Nelly escorted her young mistress in her walks, but the adventurous stranger never appeared; and, by degrees, Kate began to look upon her fright and indignation as an unpleasant but unreal phantom.

One evening Kate had yielded to the entreaties of Mrs. Storey and her juvenile olive branches, to join a birth-day merry-making, in honor of the son and heir having attained his eighth year; and for once she left her grandfather to read alone. Nurse, of course, guarded her during her short transit between their abode and that of her host's, and having carefully removed her nursling's shawl and bonnet, plodded slowly homeward, to make the 'masther's tay,' for the birth-day f�te began at half-past six; thinking sadly enough of the past,[246] and of her dear master's sinking strength and spirits, she turned into the little street or terrace in which they lived.

"Pray," said a very languid, gentlemanlike voice, close beside her. "Pray, do you not live at No. — down here?"

"May be I do, may be I don't," replied Mrs. O'Toole, eyeing the speaker sharply, and with, what she considered, consummate caution.

"Well," returned her interrogator, whom, it is needless to say, was the same individual whose insolence had so annoyed Kate, and whose really elegant appearance would have enlisted her in his favour, but for her prepossessions against him; "I presume you know your own residence; at all events I shall feel obliged to you if you will let me know the name of the young lady, whom you sometimes escort through Kensington Gardens? Of course, as the utterance of it will cause considerable wear and tear of your lungs, accept this remuneration."

[247]

"What is it ye want with her name?" asked Mrs. O'Toole.

"That cannot possibly concern you; tell it to me, and take this."

"Keep yer money," replied Mrs. O'Toole, with supreme disdain, "divil another word, good nor bad, will ye get from me, till ye tell me what ye want her name for."

"Ah," said the gentleman, musingly, "you seem so respectable a person, I have no objection to tell you, that having unfortunately offended the lady, by speaking to her in the Gardens, I am anxious this apology should reach her hand," and he showed a note he held, "will you be the bearer of it?" he continued, insinuatingly.

"I'll tell ye what it is," returned nurse, firing up in spite of her determination to be cool and cautious, "I'll bear nayther yer notes nor yer impidince; I'd like to see the man, woman, or child that daur be carryin' notes for ye to Miss— No