Kate Vernon, Vol. 2 (of 3). Mrs. Alexander

and ignorant of its language," returned Gilpin.

      "Wretched indeed! but wait for me, Mr. Gilpin, we have some thoughts of taking a flight to Italy, this summer," said Miss Vernon.

      "Corpo di Baccho! I'll not be left behind: to act as Miss Vernon's cicerone, would be something more than commonly delightful – what a state of enjoyment you would be in; but what put such a move into your head, Colonel?"

      "An invitation from Lady Desmond, who is at Florence," said Colonel Vernon, "Our acceptance of it however is very uncertain, though I see Kate is full of the project. I had another letter, Messieurs, which I think will give you pleasure – here; read it, Winter."

      "Bombay – Fred Egerton —che gusto."

      A quick glance at Kate. The whole party moved slowly towards Abbey Gardens, the Colonel and Winter, who read the letter aloud, and Gilpin close behind with Kate.

      "Ad ogni uccello suo nido é bello," said Winter, as he concluded the epistle, "here am I shivering and pining for a warm sun, which many years' custom has made natural to me, and there is that young scape-grace, revelling in baths; and slaves, and sunshine, dying to be back among east winds and consumption!"

      "Captain Egerton does not forget his friends – as soldiers are said to do," said Gilpin.

      "Pooh, pshaw!" cried Winter, "he was bored by a bad sea voyage; sea-sickness is at the bottom of half the sentimental adieus to my native shores, that you read in albums and annuals, wait until he gets among his tiger-shooting brother officers, or the Bombay belles, he'll soon forget the sum-total of all he left behind – stuff!"

      "I do not quite agree with you, Mr. Winter," replied Kate. "I think Captain Egerton will always remember our little circle, kindly, and be delighted to see any member of it again. Beyond this we have no right to expect; he would not charge his memory with regrets for people, who do not let his absence interfere with their pleasures or occupations."

      "Bravo, Miss Vernon! if he was some worthy curate, in a white tie and spectacles, you would not bustle up so warmly in his defence; but a handsome light dragoon, with moustache, and a long sword and spurs, and saucy 'make way for me look,' is another affair."

      "Wrong again, Mr. Winter," said Kate. "I see no reason why a Lancer's cap may not cover as good qualities, as a clerical broad-brim – and I have been too long your pupil, not to appreciate form and color."

      "Good; and if every Lancer was like Captain Egerton, I, for one, would prefer trusting them, even in a confessional, to the white neck-clothed curates," chimed in the organist.

      "In truth, though Egerton is the type of a class I have always disliked, I cannot help liking him – especially when I think of his – pooh, pooh – I was forgetting – " And Winter stopped abruptly.

      "You are mysterious," said the Colonel. "But let me see the Times, at your house; I want to read the Indian news, that came by the last mail; and to see Mrs. Winter."

      "Do you really think you will go to Italy, Miss Vernon?" asked Gilpin.

      "I fear it is problematical. I long to travel; but grandpapa has some business, and nurse has had a dream, which bodes evil for my wishes."

      "Oh, the dream ought not to be classed with the business."

      "I dare confess to you, and to you only," returned Kate, with a smile, "that it seems to shake my hopes far more than the business."

      "The philosophic Miss Vernon – superstitious!"

      "No, no! yet, you know —

      'It may be a sound,

      A tone of music, summer's eve, or spring;

      A flower, the wind, the ocean, which shall wound,

      Striking the electric chain wherewith we're darkly bound.'"

      "Winter would say it was the east wind."

      "Perhaps so," said Miss Vernon, "for alas! how ignominiously physical are the causes of many a tenderly poetic mood! not that I am at all addicted to such, but – "

      "I think it is a mistake to consider everything physical, as despicable," observed Gilpin; "we hear of mere physical force, mere physical wants; but the same hand made and blended our two natures, and we shall be happy and healthy, in proportion as we train both to work in harmony, without giving undue preference to either."

      "I often think we have a species of trinity within us," said Miss Vernon. "We have sense with all its powerful tendencies in one direction, and spirit with its aspirations in another, while the heart and its affections seem to be neutral ground, where the claims of both may be adjusted."

      "I like the fancy; but sense gets the upper hand in many a heart."

      "No," interrupted Kate, "the heart may be destroyed in the struggle, but while it exists, the spirit always has fair play."

      "Your sentence is too sweeping; in all such warfare, the variations are so delicately shaded that – "

      "Walk in, Colonel," broke in Winter; "never mind if Mrs. Winter is in or not; Gilpin, we'll have some Scotch broth for luncheon, that will set you up. I give you no choice – in you must come."

      "Sense must carry the day, Mr. Gilpin," said Kate, smiling.

      Some days elapsed after this conversation before a reply from Mr. Moore reached the Colonel; and the anxiety he and Kate had experienced, died away into a half-forgetfulness.

      It is strange how events, which at first strike us with such keen force, lose their sharpness of outline as the mind becomes accustomed to what was at first a novel aspect of affairs; and, as nothing fresh arises, we gradually sink back into our former frame of mind, or recur to that which distressed it, in momentary spasms of anxiety.

      So Kate and her grandfather had quite recovered their usual serenity, and the former had written to Lady Desmond, long and affectionately; rejoicing that the cloud which had for a while interposed between them, had been dispersed; merely mentioning the obstacle to their journey, as a temporary annoyance, and speaking of its removal as a matter of certainty.

      But she did not allude to it when in conversation with the Colonel, as she fancied he avoided the subject.

      Such was their frame of mind when, at the usual post hour, one morning, Mrs. O'Toole entered.

      "A letther for the masther," a large, blue, pitiless looking envelop, such as emanate from attorneys' and merchants' offices, implacable places, sacrificial alters, where youth and joy, tenderness and the pleasant amenities of life are immolated at the shrine of the English juggernaut "business."

      The Colonel, keeping his eye fixed on it, felt in his pockets for his spectacles, silently, with a certain determination of manner, very different from the joyous confusion with which he sought for them, when opening Fred Egerton's letter; then with a loud hem, as if he wished to clear both throat and brains, he tore open the missive.

      Kate sat opposite gazing at him, as if she could read the contents through his countenance; and although that morning she had risen with the full conviction that the anticipated letter would only prove their anxiety to be groundless, she now felt the terrible, creeping, gnawing, sickening sensation of doubt and dread which makes the hand so cold, and the eye so dim, when felt in its full force.

      This however was her first and but slight experience of care, so she sat quite still, not knowing of what she thought, until her grandfather had turned over the second page of the rather lengthy epistle; and she could see the flourishing signature at the end of it. Still the Colonel did not speak, but turned back to re-read some passage, and Kate was surprised to find she had not courage to ask "what news?"

      At last her grandfather without looking up, handed her the letter, observing —

      "Much what I ought to have anticipated; read it, my dear."

      Kate, with a sensation of extreme repugnance, took the letter and read as follows: —

"Dublin, March 27th, 18 – ."My Dear Sir,

      "In reply to yours of the 21st inst., on the subject of Lady