Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. Kate Vernon: A Tale. Vol. 2 (of 3) by Mrs. Alexander (ereader for textbooks txt) 📖
- Author: Mrs. Alexander
Book online «Kate Vernon: A Tale. Vol. 2 (of 3) by Mrs. Alexander (ereader for textbooks txt) 📖». Author Mrs. Alexander
POPULAR NEW WORKS
PUBLISHED
BY MR. T. C. NEWBY.
In 1 Vol. 9s.
FROM BABYLON TO JERUSALEM.
BY THE COUNTESS HAHN-HAHN.
"This book is neither more nor less than the life of the Countess Hahn-Hahn, a lady of great literary celebrity, and the history of her conversion from Protestantism to Roman Catholicism: it will be read with deep interest."—Evening Post.
In 1 Vol. 7s. 6d.
FROM JERUSALEM.
BY THE COUNTESS HAHN-HAHN.
In 1 Vol. 10s. 6d.
CIRCASSIA;
OR, A TOUR TO THE CAUCASUS.
BY G. L. DITSON, ESQ.
"Give us a number of glimpses of countries not in the common track of tourists."—Literary Gazette.
"Mr. Ditson has embraced in his actual survey all that the ancient poets fixed as the boundary of the ancient world, and more."—Spectator.
In 2 Vols. post 8vo. �1 1s.
SEVEN YEARS' SERVICE ON THE SLAVE COAST OF AFRICA.
BY SIR HENRY HUNTLEY.
"The Author's views of the Slave Trade and its results are borne out by the facts which have been adduced. We could fill our pages with the horrors which stare us in the face almost in every page of his book."—Naval and Military Gazette.
A Tale.
IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. II.
LONDON:
THOMAS CAUTLEY NEWBY, PUBLISHER,
30, WELBECK STREET, CAVENDISH SQUARE
1854.
[1]
KATE VERNON.
CHAPTER ICLOUDS ON THE HORIZON.
It would give a very false idea of Kate Vernon's character, were we to say that Captain Egerton's departure did not leave a blank in the quiet routine of her life. Indeed, she was rather surprised to find how closely he had linked himself with the pleasures and occupations of the secluded little circle amongst whom accident had thrown him. She missed his ready companionship, and the amusing[2] contrariety of his opinions and prejudices; she missed the interested attention with which he listened to every word that fell from her lips, and her eye, peculiarly alive to beauty in every form, missed his distinguished, soldierly figure, and bold, frank, open face. But her regrets did not even border on the sentimental, and were spoken as openly as her grandfather's, who every hour in the day, for a week, at least, after his departure, might be heard to say—"If Fred Egerton was here, he would do this, or that, for me." In short, Kate had never dreamt of Egerton as a lover. Marriage was to her a distant possibility—desirable, certainly, in due time, as she always considered it, if happy, the happiest state of life; but marriage with a soldier, who could not be always near her grandfather, was something so utterly beyond the powers of her imagination to conceive, that it gave her all the ease and security she might have felt with a brother.
[3]
So the winter wore steadily away. The morning's study—the afternoon walk with her grandfather—often to visit the sick and needy—the interchange of contrasting thought with Winter and the organist, kept Miss Vernon too wholesomely active both in mind and body to permit the pleasant monotony of her life to degenerate into stagnation.
But the half-hour in the evening, while her grandfather dosed, was the happiest portion of the day to her; when she leaned back in her chair gazing at the fire-light as it danced upon the wall and cast uncouth shadows, and, following some train of thought suggested by the reading, or occurrences of the day, dreamed of the future, or conjured up the past! And often did she feel surprise, at the frequent recurrence of the ball at Carrington—of Egerton's farewell—among these visions—though, at this point, she ever turned resolutely away.
Then Colonel Vernon was laid up for a month with a feverish cold, which made Kate[4] rather anxious, and banished every thought not connected with the invalid.
So-came on the lengthening days' warmer sun, and more piercing winds of early spring; and one morning, towards the end of March, Mrs. O'Toole laid two letters before the Colonel; one directed to him in a clear, bold hand, bearing the Marseilles' post-mark, the other to Kate.
"I really think this is from Fred Egerton," said the Colonel, feeling in every pocket for glasses. "Kate, my dear! they were hanging round my neck before breakfast?"
"Oh! here they are, dear grandpapa," exclaimed she, eagerly; "do not mind looking at the outside—open it."
And she laid aside her own.
With many a break, and many a tantalising pause, the Colonel slowly doled forth Egerton's letter, it was short, and contained little more than a report of his safe arrival, after a tedious journey, many expressions of sincere regard,[5] and kind enquiries for his friends at A——, but breathed an indefinable tone of despondency, and restlessness of spirit, unlike anything they had hitherto observed in him.
The Colonel, at length, concluded, in a sort of surprised accent, as though he expected something more; and Kate exclaimed—
"Is that all? Do you know, grandpapa, I expected much greater things from Captain Egerton's first letter from India. Do you not think he writes dejectedly."
"I cannot quite make him out," he replied, in an absent manner; "but I am obliged to him for his kind remembrance of us. We must tell Winter and Gilpin—he was such a favorite with them. Now open your despatch, my dear. I see it is from Georgina."
"Dearest Kate," began Miss Vernon, in obedience to his commands, "your last letter is now so ancient, I am ashamed to mention it—your first I did not answer because I was[6] too much vexed at your absurd opposition to all my plans for your benefit. Time has cooled my resentment, and accident has revived my affection for my pretty, loveable god-child, while it has, I hope, awakened in your mind proper regret for the folly of preferring a life of seclusion in a dull country town to the brilliant lot you might have secured. I forgive you, as I am sure you have punished yourself enough. The immediate cause of this letter is as follows. Mrs. Wentworth, one of my closest allies at Naples, told me, a brother of hers met a most exquisite personage, called Colonel Vernon, and an equally exquisite Miss Vernon at A——, I recognised the description, and immediately a vision of my happy girlish days at Dungar, and of all I owed to my kind and venerated cousin, rose before my mind; and deep was the self-reproach, with which I thought of my long unpardonable neglect! It is the life of unchecked prosperity I lead, that makes me thus thoughtless, thus inferior to [7]you, my bright-eyed recluse, in whose name I once promised and vowed the three things you have practised. I am what I am, and will feign nothing. I acknowledge, that tardy as this letter is, I doubt if I should have penned it, had not certain fleeting catspaws ruffled the [8]smooth surface of my life, and showed me how slight are the bands that hold back the "dogs of war," doubt, emptiness, and dissatisfaction! I fear I am selfish, but nothing will do my heart so much good as the sight of your calm, sweet face, and the sound of your noble-hearted grandfather's well-remembered voice—forgive me, I know how guilty I am, I feel I am most unworthy—yet, forgive me, and come; leave the seclusion nature never intended for either. D'Arcy Vernon never refused me a request in those old times when I was all but a dependent on his bounty—I trust he will not now prevent me from employing some of the filthy lucre fortune has thrown in my way, in administering to my own enjoyment, by accelerating your journey here. I have written so much longer than usual, I can add nothing of the charms intrinsic or extrinsic of fair Florence, to me it will be nothing if you refuse to come.
"Yours as warmly as ever,
"G. Desmond.
"P.S.—Moore writes me word there has been a great search for some papers relating to the Knockdrum farm, I do not exactly understand what they want them for; some lawsuit that a Mr. Taaffe is engaged in, but you had better tell your grandfather."
"What a charming letter!" cried Kate, as she concluded. "Is it not delightful, to read such a candid, warm-hearted acknowledgement of error? I am so glad to have heard from her at last. It is so dreadful to feel that[9] any chilling cloud of doubt intervenes between you and one you love!"
"Yes, indeed," said the Colonel; "what a rash impulsive creature Georgy has ever been! rushing into injustice one moment, and atoning for it with such graceful self-abasement the next; it would be better if she could steer clear of both extremes; but let me look at that postscript again; she is as distinct as ladies usually are on legal subjects."
Kate handed him the letter, and he continued to read and re-read the postscript for some minutes, with a look of concentrated attention, then, raising his eyes and speaking more to himself than to his grand-daughter—
"I am astonished, that Moore has not written to me on this matter," he said, in a displeased tone. "If this Taaffe, be the nephew of old Arthur Taaffe, and the papers required, those connected with that judgment;" he stopped abruptly, and sat for a few moments in deep thought, looking very grave. Kate[10] also kept a respectful silence, feeling little interest in any legal matter, till her grandfather rousing himself, and with his old contented look returning, observed, "no, no! no man could act such a villanous part, he must be perfectly aware it was paid years ago."
"What was paid, grandpapa?"
"That debt to old Taaffe; he advanced my father money on Knockdrum, and got me to join in the bond, on which, of course judgments were entered against us both. I paid it years ago, and simply got an acknowledgement from him, but did not go through some other form, satisfying the judgment, I think they term it."
"Well, I am sure no one would ever doubt your word," cried Kate, "even if these papers cannot be found."
"I am afraid, my dear child, the great mass of legal and money-lending people do not come within the category of christians, who 'believe all things.' I must write to Moore this very[11] day, I'll be in time for the Irish post, give me my desk, Kate."
"But suppose this man insists on the production of these papers, and you cannot satisfy him?" asked Kate, as she was leaving the room after arranging the Colonel's writing materials.
He looked up with a sudden expression of pain in his noble, benevolent countenance.
"We shall be beggars, my child! that's all."
Miss Vernon walked into the drawing-room, and opened the piano mechanically; while her thoughts were busily engaged in conjecturing whether the lingering debility of indisposition, rather than justly grounded fears, prompted her grandfather's gloomy view of Lady Desmond's intelligence.
"Shall we then really know the poverty, nurse talks of? Shall I be strong enough to say, in sincerity, 'Thy will be done!'"
But soon these gloomy speculations gave[12] place to the pleasanter topic of her cousin's invitation, which seemed to have escaped her grandfather's notice.
She had been thus meditating for some time, when nurse entered with a letter in her hand.
"The master's love, Miss Kate, and if it's not too early he'd like you to go out wid him, he says he does not feel so well!"
"Yes, nurse, I will go and get my bonnet and shawl, when I have settled this music."
"Faith now, alannah, I'm not plaised at all with the looks iv him!"
"How?" said Kate, suspending her occupation of replacing the books in the music-stand, and looking up anxiously in Mrs. O'Toole's face, which wore an unusual look of care, especially about the depressed corners of her expressive mouth.
"Sorra one iv me can tell why, but he looks like as when a big black cloud is beginin' to be dhrawn over the sun in a fine summer's day; he just sits in the chair tired like; an ses[13] he, 'only one letther for the post, nurse,' ses he, 'but be sure it's in time for the Irish maal,' and then he give me the message, I gave yes. The Cross iv Christ betune us an harum, ses I, as soon as I see 'J. Moore, Esquire,' on the letther; how are we to have luck or grace when we have any thing to say to the man that sould Dungar, an give it up to the spalpeen that has it now; look Miss Kate, thim's the Esquires that's going now! Faith an I remember Paddy Moore, his father, carrying sacks iv corn to the mill, an meself own maid up at
Comments (0)