Prince Fortunatus by William Black (ebook reader with highlighter TXT) 📖

attached to this or that monthly magazine; the correspondent of a country journal would hasten to say that it was not necessary to inform his readers that Lady Arthur Castletown was, in reality, Lady Adela Cunyngham, the wife of the well-known breeder of polled cattle, Sir Hugh Cunyngham of the Braes. In the midst of all this Lionel went to his friend Maurice Mangan.

"Look here, Maurice," said he, "that book can't be as bad as you tried to make out."

"It is the most insensate trash that was ever put between boards," was the prompt reply.

"But how can that be? Look at what the papers say!"

"The papers--what papers? That isn't what the papers say--that is what the small band of log-rollers say, calling industriously to one another, like frogs in a pond. Didn't I tell you what would happen if you got hold of Octavius Quirk, or any one of them? How many dinners did your swell friends expend on Quirk?"

"Oh, I don't know. He is pretty often at the house."

"He is pretty often at the house, is he?" Mangan repeated.

"I hope they won't ask him to Scotland," Lionel said, ruefully. "I can't bear the fellow; it's just as you say, he's always in a whirlwind of insistence--about nothing; and he doesn't grin through a horse-collar, he roars and guffaws through it. But then, you see, he has been very kind about this book; and, of course, a new author, like Lady Adela, is grateful. I admit what you say is right enough--perhaps the family are a little anxious for notoriety; but so are a good many other people; and there's no great harm in writing or painting or composing music as well as you can. Mind, I think there's a little professional jealousy about you, Maurice," continued this sage Mentor. "You don't like a woman of fashion to come into your literary circles. But why shouldn't she? I'm sure I don't object when any one of them tries to produce a little dramatic or musical piece; on the contrary, I would rather help. And look at Mellord--the busiest painter of the day--look at the trouble he takes in advising Lady Rosamund; she has the free entree into his studio, no matter who is sitting to him. I think, for amateurs, the work of all the three sisters is very creditable to them; and I don't see why they shouldn't like to have the appreciation of the public, just as other people like it."

"My dear fellow," Mangan said, but with obvious indifference, "do you think I resent the fact of your friend Lady Arthur or Lady Adela writing a foolish novel? Far from it. You asked my opinion of it, and I told you; if you don't see for yourself that the book is absolute trash--but harmless trash, as I think--then you are in a happy condition of mind, for you must be easily pleased. Come, let's talk of something worth talking about. Have you been down to Winstead lately?"

"No--never since that Sunday."

"Do you know, your people were awfully good to me," this long, lank, lazy-looking man went on--but now he seemed more interested than when talking about Lady Adela's novel. "I never spent a more delightful evening--never. I wonder they did not turn me out, though; for I stayed and stayed, and never noticed how late it was getting. Missed the last train, of course, and walked all the way up to London; not a bit sorry, either, for the night was cool, and there was plenty of starlight; I'd walk twice as far to spend another such evening. I--I'm thinking of going down there next Sunday," he added, with a little hesitation.

"Why not?" Lionel said, cordially enough.

"You see," Mangan continued, still rather hesitatingly, "the fact is--I'm rather in the way of getting illustrated papers--and--and summer numbers--and children's books--I mean, when I want them, I can get them--for lots of these things come to the newspaper offices, and they're not much use to anybody; so I thought I would just make up a parcel and send it down to Miss Frances, don't you understand, for her sick children--"

"I dare say you went and spent a lot of money." Lionel said, with a laugh.

"And she was good enough to write back that it was just what she wanted; for several of the children--most of them, I should say--couldn't read, but they liked looking at pictures. And then she was kind enough to add that if I went down next Sunday, she would take me to see how the things had been distributed--the pictures hung up on walls, and so forth--and--and that's why I think I may go down."

"Oh, yes, certainly," Lionel said, though he did not understand why any such excuse was necessary.

"Couldn't you come down, too, Linn?" Mangan suggested.

"Oh, no, I couldn't, I'm so busy," was the immediate reply. "I'm going to Scotland the first or second week in August. The doctor advises me to give my voice a long rest; and the Cunynghams have asked me to their place in Ross-shire. Besides, I don't care about singing in London when there's nobody but country cousins, and none too many of them. Of course I'll have to go down and bid the old folks good-bye before starting for Scotland, and Francie, too. Mind you tell that wicked Francie that I am very angry with her for not having come up to see 'The Squire's Daughter.'"

"Linn," said his friend, after a second, "why don't you take the old people over to Aix or some such place for a month? They're so awfully proud of you; and you might take Miss Frances as well; she seems to work so hard--she deserves a rest. Wouldn't that be as sensible as going to Scotland?"

"My good chap, I would do that in a moment--I should be delighted," said he--for he was really a most generously disposed young man, especially as regarded money; time was of greater consideration with him. "But it's no use thinking of such a thing. The old folks are much too content with home; they won't travel. And Francie--she wouldn't come away from those precious babes. Well, I'm off. Mind you scold Francie for me!"

"Perhaps," said Mangan, as he accompanied his friend to the door.

So it was that on a certain evening in August, Lionel Moore drove up to Euston Station and secured a sleeping-berth in the train going north; and no doubt the consciousness that after a long spell of hard work he was entering upon a well-earned holiday was a very welcome and comfortable thing. If only he had been a little more reflective, he might have set to work (here in the railway-carriage, as he lit his cigar, and proceeded to fix up his reading-lamp) and gone on to consider how entirely satisfactory all his circumstances were at this moment. Prince Fortunatus, indeed! Was ever any one more happily situated? Here he was, young, full of health and high spirits, excellent-tempered, and sufficiently good-looking; he had acquired a liberal measure of fame and popularity; he had many friends; he had ample means, for he did not know the difference between a backer and a layer, nor yet the difference between a broker and a jobber--in fact, gambling, either in stocks or on the turf, had never even occurred to him as a thing worth thinking about. But there was something further than all this for which he ought to have been profoundly grateful. As the long train thundered away into the night, there was no dull misery of farewell weighing heavily upon him; there were no longing fancies wandering wistfully back to a certain house, a certain figure, a pair of too-eloquent eyes. He dragged no lengthening chain with him on this journey north. For, notwithstanding his pleasant companionship with Nina, and her constant sympathy with him and her interest in his professional career; notwithstanding the affectionate regard of his cousin Francie, which was none the less sincere that it remained unspoken and only to be guessed at; notwithstanding the somewhat jealous favor which the prima-donna of the New Theatre seemed inclined to bestow on him; notwithstanding the pert coquetries and fascinations of Miss Georgie Lestrange, to say nothing of the blandishments and pettings showered upon him by crowds of ladies of exalted rank, this fortunate young man (so far at least as he was himself aware) was going away to Scotland quite heart-whole.


CHAPTER VII.


IN STRATHAIVRON.

It was still early in the afternoon when Lionel found himself driving along a loftily-winding road overlooking the wide and fertile valley of the Aivron. Right down below him, and visible through the birch-trees, was the river itself, of a brilliant, clear-shining blue, save where in some more distant sweeps it shone a silver-white; on the other side of the broad strath rose a range of hill fringed along its base with wood, but terminating in the west in far altitudes of bare rock and heather; while now and again he could catch a glimpse of some still more distant peak or shoulder, no doubt belonging to the remote and mountainous region of Assynt. And there, in the middle of the plain, stood the shooting-lodge for which he was bound--a long, rambling building or series of buildings, with all sorts of kennels and out-houses and deer-houses attached; and as he was regarding this goal and aim of his journey, and wondering how he was going to get across the swift-flowing stream, behold! a white fluttering of handkerchiefs just outside the porch. It was a signal to him, he knew; and he returned it more than once--until, indeed, he discovered that his driver was leaving the road and about to take the horses down a rudely cut track on the hillside.

"I say, isn't there a bridge anywhere?" he asked; for he was not used to such exploits.

"Aw, no, there's no bridge," the old Highland driver said, coolly, as he jammed down the brake. "But we'll do ferry well at the ford; the water is not so high the now."

"And when the water is high, what do they do then?" Lionel asked, as he regarded with some concern the almost vertical pole and the straining harness.

"Aw, well, there uss a boat; and if there's a spate on the ruvver they can come and go; but not with the heavy things. Ay, I hef seen tons of coal waiting for them at Invershin for near a fortnight when there wass a heavy spate on the ruvver. The leddies are so particular nowadays; peat will not do for them for the cooking; naw, they must hef coal."

But now the horses were entering the stream, and the old man's loquacity ceased. The animals, however, seemed quite accustomed to this performance; without any hesitation they adventured into the rapid current, and splashed their way forward, getting such footing as was possible among the big, loose stones and shingle. Indeed, the passage was effected with very little trouble, if with a good deal of jolting and bumping; and thereafter there was a pleasant trot along some sufficiently smooth greensward up to the door of the lodge.

Yes, here were the three tall and handsome sisters, looking very picturesque in their simple Northern attire? and here was Miss Georgie Lestrange conspicuous in a Tam o' Shanter of bright blue; and no sooner had the young man descended from the wagonette than they surrounded him, laughing and questioning, and giving him the heartiest of welcomes. How could he answer them all at once? When the poor man was taken into the dining-room, and set down to his solitary luncheon, they were