TRIALS.

Before entreating the reader to imagine the lapse of some months, unbroken by any event, we must record one which was a fertile theme of conversation and conjecture to our recluses. Kate was met by Mrs. O'Toole, almost at the garden gate, one morning, about a fortnight after the Winters had left them, as she returned from her daily perambulations.

"Och! come in, Agra! sure there's great news entirely! there's the Captin's been murthuring all afore him, in Ingee, an' such a tundherin' battle! the masther's tired waitin' for ye."

"What's all this nurse is telling me, grandpapa?"

"Oh, the Indian mail is in, and has brought an account of a hard-fought battle between our fellows and those desperate Sikhs. Egerton's name is most honourably mentioned. Langley has very kindly sent me the second edition of the "Times," there it is, read it for yourself."

And Kate, untying her bonnet, seized the paper, and throwing herself into the nearest chair, read the official account, which, dry as it was, sufficed to flush her cheek, and set all her pulses throbbing.

"Ah, that is delightful; I dare say Captain Egerton does not regret having gone to India now! It does not say if he was wounded? Are there any private letters?" turning the paper in every direction.

"No, not until next mail, I fancy."

"What news for Mr. and Mrs. Winter," she continued; "how he will rejoice, and grumble, and pooh, pooh, over it."

"Och, the crathure!" exclaimed Mrs. O'Toole, who, as usual, on any occasion of excitement, was always at hand; "his soul 'ud niver rouse up at the word iv a fight; he's not got the blood in his vains for it. Sure, it's only the ould stock that's niver to say in rale pleasure, if they're not in the middle iv divilmint an' danger, jest look at Miss Kate's eyes, like two dimints, this minit. Though I'll go bail she's as white as a sheet at the sight iv a cut-finger, her heart's chargin the Sicks with the Captin. Sicks indeed! faith, he sickened thim sure enough; but it was on a boy's milk ye wor rared, avourneen, so it's no wondher."

"I do feel excited," said Kate, laughing; "some strange sympathy with—I do not know what! for in how many things I am a coward?"

"I believe it is the blood in your veins, Kate," returned the Colonel. "Nurse is right."

"Athen, if poor little Misther Gilpin, (the heavens be his bed,) was alive now, what a power iv rale sinse he'd talk about it; wouldn't he lay all the battles to the divil's door; well, they're terrible heart-breakin' things, entirely; an' the dear knows where me poor Dinny is this blessed night—may be, asleep in a ditch, or—but faith, any ways he's alive, I feel that as sure as if I seen him livin' fornent me!"

The great news occupied many a circle beside that which we are attempting to describe, and day after day brought further particulars, private letters, and all the copious information so abundantly supplied by that fourth estate of the British Empire, the public press. In many of these, Egerton's name was mentioned, always with praise, often with enthusiasm; his coolness and undaunted gallantry in some hand to hand encounters; and the desperate stand made by the regiment he commanded, under great disadvantages, left an impression of something chivalrous and heroic, even on the minds of strangers. Kate, indeed, calling to mind the maxims of Winter, and the organist, sometimes felt that she ought not to feel so much delight in a courage that, after all, is generally shared by every healthy man; still, in spite of her reasoning, Egerton's image, invested with a prestige it never before possessed, constantly occupied her mind. Perhaps she did not know how dauntless was her own nature, and that there is irresistible attraction even to the most intellectual, in the courage, physical though it be, than can face death and danger, as if at home and at ease in the midst of both—this contempt of what it is natural to dread must partake more of the soul than philosophers allow, and is one certain element of greatness.

And so the winter slipped rapidly over; there was little to mark its flight; the constant sameness of occupation, without any incident to mark it, lent its wings to time; yet was it not all heaviness. A day of somewhat lighter spirits, and greater strength, would sometimes lend its brightening influence to the Colonel; and Kate revelled in the unwonted sunshine; or Langley would lend her some new work suggestive of much thought; and clearing, for the moment, the mist which wraps itself round spiritual things, granting a passing glimpse, catching a faint echo of the glorious harmony with which all nature blends in the Great Creator's scheme of happiness; and then the sameness or obscurity, which an hour before seemed oppressive in its meanness, acquired dignity from the thought, that it had its place allotted in the mighty whole. And she would turn with perfect content to bend her bright intelligence to the perfect comprehension and performance of those every-day duties which act to society as mortar to a wall, filling up the crevices, binding the unadhesive parts, and keeping the whole together.

Two months had fully elapsed, since the news of the battle of —— had reached England; letters from the Winters had announced them safely settled at Pau, and charmed with it. And one cold, bleak evening, Kate was engaged arranging some lines she had selected from amongst many, written by Gilpin's sister, to a very beautiful air bequeathed to her by the organist; the work did not progress as rapidly as it seemed, as her thoughts were divided by many mundane subjects, principally the necessity for looking out for cheaper lodgings.

"Nurse says it is so hard to manage; I must ask her to meet me to-morrow on my way home, and look for some other house—I mean rooms. I am afraid to mention it to dear grandpapa, he is so ill, and worn out with that dreadful cough—it is much worse to-day. How I wish Georgina would write! it is nearly a year since she invited us to join her at Florence, and talked of returning. Oh! how alone we are! I wonder shall I ever, ever live near my old friends, or among my own people again! God forgive the murmuring thought."

And here her reflections were broken by the Colonel, who suddenly starting from an uneasy slumber, coughed with more than usual violence; then as Kate, with some vague idea of assisting him, flew to his side, it suddenly stopped, with a choking sound, and he fell back, the blood pouring from his mouth.

To summon nurse, to send for a doctor, was the work of a moment; and before their anxious efforts to recall the Colonel to consciousness were successful, he arrived; then there were innumerable questions to answer, and various restoratives to be procured; and Kate had literally no time to feel the terror and dismay which afterwards rushed upon her mind.

The old man lay long insensible; and it was during a pause, occasioned by the exhaustion of every remedy that could possibly be applied in haste, that he breathed faintly, at last, and opening his eyes, smiled, when he met those of his beloved grandchild. The doctor immediately forbad his speaking, and directed that every precaution for the preservation of extreme quiet around him should be taken.

"This is the great point," he observed, when, after a lengthened visit, he was about to take leave. "I will write a prescription, and see it made up myself; he must take it every two hours, in a glass of port wine; but if he should be very sound asleep, do not disturb him; his strength must be kept up."

Kate took her station by her grandfather's bed-side. Nurse stationed herself in the next room; and the long watches of the night passed slowly over.

The Colonel lay motionless and deadly pale; but he did not sleep; for whenever Kate stole softly to his side, at the appointed times for his taking the medicine, he always, as if by instinct, opened his eyes; and who can tell, who can venture to depict the crowd of images, too vague for thought, too clear for dreams, which thronged Kate's mind, as she sat listening now to each scarce audible breath, from the invalid, now to the loud beating of her own heart; it was not fear or sorrow that seemed to hold her faculties in a strange tension, but an agonised absorption in the present danger, a dread, none the less intense because it was vague, that her darkest hour was at hand! connected prayer was out of the question; but frequent ejaculations for help, for strength, rose unconsciously to her lips. Towards morning, the Colonel sank into a quiet, profound sleep, and leaving nurse in charge of him, with directions to call her the moment he awoke, Kate threw herself into his vacant chair, and strove to still her throbbing pulses, and hush her troubled spirit to repose.

When she had left her grandfather's room, she thought sleep was too effectually frightened away by the terrors of the past night; but the strength and vigor of youth cannot be so soon unstrung, rest is too natural to that age; and, though it was disturbed, slumber stole over her unconsciously, and day had dawned fully, when, waking with a start, and feeling as though her short absence from him was a neglect of a sacred duty, she stole softly and quickly to his room.

He had but just awoke, Mrs. O'Toole said; and now lay gazing with a troubled expression in his eyes, towards the door. He smiled when he saw Kate, and his lips moved; she stooped to hear, and he whispered, faintly but earnestly—"Write—Georgina," with a pause between each word.

"I understand, dearest grandpapa," said Kate, quickly, to relieve his evident anxiety. "I will write to Georgina Desmond by this day's post."

And a look of greater contentment gradually composed the invalid's countenance, which appeared so worn and haggard, that Kate's eyes filled with tears every time she looked at him.

The doctor called early, and expressed himself quite satisfied with Kate's account of the patient's past night; his pulse, too, was a little stronger.

"Endeavour to keep him quiet, and free from anxiety; he is at present free from fever, and I should find some difficulty had we both fever and weakness to contend with; do not let him talk much."

The day wore slowly over, like the night, diversified only by the writing of the promised letter to Lady Desmond; and the Colonel seemed much easier when he was told it had been despatched.

Soon the cares and duties of the sick-room became matters of course; the Colonel decidedly gathered strength. He was able to converse a little with his grandchild without much exhaustion; and frequently made her read aloud to him. He never wearied of the Gospel of St. John, of the Psalms, and the seventh and concluding chapters of Revelation.

Nurse and Kate divided the night into two watches, the former taking the first watch, when the Colonel was most likely to sleep, and Kate, the remainder, to be ready with a few sympathising words, when, after his broken sleep, his restless weakness caused him to move uneasily on his pillow; or to repeat in her low, soft tones, his favorite Psalms, and passages of the Gospels, when his eyes met hers with that anxious gaze which made her heart ache, so well did she understand its source. As for the apprehension of losing him, it was a thought on which she never dwelt for an instant. She felt instinctively, how utterly it would unfit her for the preservation of that calm, cheerful aspect so necessary to her beloved grandfather's well being; yet the terror-striking thought would press upon her mind in spite of all her efforts to repel it, when that troubled glance met hers by the dim, uncertain watch-light, and her lips almost of themselves whispered the words of comfort and of strength to which her heart turned, as much to still its own dread, as to calm the anxiety she feared would injure her grandfather!

Poor, faithful Mrs. O'Toole never told her beads so fervently, and so often before; for loving both master and nurseling, she could fear for the future, to which Kate never gave a thought; her round, comely face faded from its bright rose to a yellowish tinge, and the corners of her mouth were drawn down lower than ever, while her aspirations to "Hesther," and her denunciations of "Hesther's stupidity," were rather encreased than lessened in acerbity, as if to make up for the enforced softness with which they were whispered.

It was about a fortnight after the Colonel was first taken ill, and he had begun to ask anxiously for letters, when he astonished the doctor, by expressing a desire to get up, and go into the sitting-room.

"My dear sir, it is much too soon; do you feel greater strength?"

"Sometimes I think I am stronger, and sometimes weaker," replied the old man, with a sigh; "but I feel I should be quite as comfortable and quiet in my arm-chair, as in bed, and more cheerful, more like myself; you may as well humour me," he added, with a sad smile, and paused, exhausted by so long a speech.

"Well," returned the doctor, after a prolonged feeling of his pulse, in order to give himself time to think, "perhaps, as you feel in this way, it may do you no harm; wait till the day after to-morrow; and take plenty of arrow-root, and wine, and beef tea, in the interval."

Kate could scarcely believe her ears, when she heard the welcome permission given; she was not present when the Colonel asked for it, and considered it an undoubted proof of amendment. She looked so bright, and spoke so cheerily, when she announced the fact to nurse, that Mrs. O'Toole took courage to make a disclosure, she had withheld for several days.

"Ye know, Miss Kate," she began, her apron folded round one arm, and rubbing the other hand confusedly up and down the table, "it's three days since last Sathurday."

"Yes, nurse. Well, what then?"

"Sathurday's rint day, alanah."

"Well, didn't you pay Mrs. Crooks?"

"Why ye see, Miss Kate, what wid the sickness, an' the arra-root, an' the beef tay, an' all that, though maisther Langley, the queen iv Heaven remimber it to him, sent in a sight of wine, what couldn't be bought for money, the purse is niver out iv yer hand; an' to spake the thruth, Miss Kate, last Sathurday, there was a fortnight's rint due; I niver thought a Christhian would go botherin' about sich a thrifle iv rint, an' sickniss an' sorra in the place; but they're quare Christhians here! Sure they'd hand you their 'little account,' if ye were sayin' mass for yer mother's sawl; it's a long account some iv thim will have to settle yet, any ways! an' that's the way it is, Miss Kate."

"But, nurse, why did you let it go so far without——."

"Sure," interrupted, Mrs. O'Toole, in a whisper, and pointing her finger towards the door, as a caution to extreme secresy, "sure I hadn't it, agrah! d' ye think I'd be wastin yer money payin that naggur iv a woman, an' the dear masther wantin every thing? 'Och, keep yer bills to yerself, woman,' ses I, 'don't be tasing Miss Vernon, an' she breakin' her heart, sure ye'll be paid over an over as soon as she has time to write an ordher on the bank,' ses I, an' she kept quite a whole week, but to-day, she ses, 'The ould gentleman's better,' ses she, spakin small, as if she begrudged the words that would bring her 'no return,' as they say, 'an' I'll spake to Miss Vernon meeself,' ses she. Och, if I had mee own notes ye made Mr. Winter put in the savins' bank out iv the way, I'd have paid her at wancet, an' not be botherin ye."

"Show me what you have," said Kate, rather nervously.

Mrs. O'Toole emptied the purse, she always kept; a half sovereign and some silver was all that appeared.

"Ah," said Miss Vernon, compressing her lips; "and I have only five shillings. We must fill up that cheque! How glad I am I kept it in my own desk!"

"What cheque, jewel?"

"Oh, I forgot you did not know."

And Kate hurriedly told Mrs. O'Toole of Lady Desmond's generosity.

"Och! then there's the raale lady for ye! none iv yer naggurs, sure it's she has the right to do it any how. Wasn't the Kurnel like a father to her, an it's not every wan would remember it; may the blessin iv heaven go with her! faith we're made up now, agrah, an how 'ill ye turn it into money?"

"I will enclose it with a note to Mr. Langley, and he is so kind, I am sure he will get it cashed (that is the word,) for me; but, nurse, how much money ought I to write down, I do not like to put too much—twenty pounds?"

"Och! botheration, Miss Kate, sure ye'r a babby about money. Twenty pounds is just a dhrop in the say, an' sickness in the house, write fifty pounds asthore, when ye're about it, God knows it's not so easy to get the money."

"But fifty pounds, nurse, is such a large sum, I am afraid—besides, I am certain Georgy herself will be here immediately, as she does not write, she must be on the road home, and twenty pounds, I am sure, will do 'till she arrives."

"Bother, be on the sure side, Miss Kate, an' if she comes so soon, give her what's left; just do as I bid ye, asthore; sure I know what's wantin better than you do."

"Well, I suppose so, put on your bonnet, I will write to Mr. Langley at once."

"Wait a bit," said Mrs. O'Toole, with an air of intense meaning; she rung the bell; "Hesther," as that functionary appeared, "bring Miss Vernon her desk, out iv her room, I was tellin her, yer mistress wants her rint, an she's goin to write an ordher on the bank; I'll post it meself. That 'ill do for Mrs. Crooks, I think, an' I'll give her a piece iv me mind to-morrow, about her English ways, as——."

"No, no, pray do not, it would be both wrong and foolish, I am sure we have met such true friendship from English people, we may well have patience with a poor woman, who, after all, may want her money."

"Musha, God help yer heart! She has twicet as much as you have, an' what's more, she needn't be payin for what she can do for herself, an' a lady mustn't do; well, well, it's a quare world; but any ways, the masther's better, glory be to God."

The Colonel persisted in his intention of getting up, on the appointed day, and though he almost fainted, when the transit to the sitting-room was accomplished, he seemed more cheerful, at least he listened with more seeming attention and interest to Kate's conversation, for he was too weak to converse himself.

From this period, he rose, each day, about noon, and Kate was grieved to observe how much his anxiety about the past exhausted his little strength; she asserted her conviction that Lady Desmond was on her homeward road, and though that generally quieted him for the moment, it was only to be done over again the next day.

Nurse kept watch at the hall door, to anticipate that dreadful short sharp knock, that has made, and will make, many a heart stand still with nameless dread; and still Kate's daily report was—

"The post has just come, dear grandpapa, no letters for us."

So time slipped by, and both nurse and Kate began to share the Colonel's uneasiness, at Lady Desmond's silence and non-appearance, though, of course, they suppressed all expression of it, before him.

At length, the post did bring a letter for Colonel Vernon, but it was from Winter, a few lines only, expressing surprise at Kate's long silence, and enclosing one directed to his care, for the Colonel. It bore the Southampton post-mark, and was from Fred Egerton. The Colonel was at first so much affected by the extreme disappointment he experienced at not receiving any letter from Lady Desmond, that was some before he desired to have Egerton's despatch read to him, not until he was fairly established in his easy chair, and recovered from the fatigue of dressing, which Kate noticed, sadly, continued the same from day to day, no visible improvement of strength taking place.

"Now, my love, let me hear this disappointing letter, though it is very ungracious in me to call it so."

And Kate, who had had no time of late to think of Fred Egerton, felt her voice trembling with the strange gush of delight that filled her whole heart with a sudden and delicious life, when the long looked for writing met her eye, and which she had not yet succeeded in stilling.

The letter was too long for a full insertion here; after expressing a hope that the Colonel's silence did not proceed from any intention to repudiate his acquaintance, and that he would not consider a third attempt at a correspondence importunate, Fred Egerton proceeded to give a short but clear description of the country round him, alluding briefly to the battle of ——, an account of which he supposed had reached them. He enquired kindly for the Winters, and said he had heard from Burton, (who had passed through A——, in the summer) of Gilpin's death, and that they (Colonel and Miss Vernon) had left the old city. I presume therefore that my last letter, as well as one I enclosed for Mrs. O'Toole, from her son, were delayed in reaching you, if they ever did reach you. Pray remember me kindly to my good nurse; many a time I have longed to hear her rich brogue near me, when I lay parched with fever. By the way, will you tell Miss Vernon, I am busily engaged training her foster-brother in the way he should go. I'll not say any thing of his past, but I anticipate great things for his future.

"A kind, warm-hearted letter," said the Colonel, at its conclusion, in the slow, faint tone, now usual with him. "I am gratified to find him so thoughtful of the past. Ah! if—" he stopped.

"If what?" asked Kate, carelessly, as she was re-reading the letter.

"Nothing, dear child," he returned, despondingly. "You had better tell nurse, she will like to hear of Denny."

"Glory be to God!" ejaculated Mrs. O'Toole, as Kate read the passage relating to her son, aloud. "An' so they're comin' home?"

"No, dear nurse, Captain Egerton says, 'if I ever re-visit England.'"

"Well, sure it's all the same; whin people niver intend a thing they niver talk iv it, but whin they begin to wish for it, they begin to talk iv it, an' whin they've talked a bit, they must do it."

The Colonel smiled at Mrs. O'Toole's logic. And not many minutes after the Doctor came in.

"Pulse very unsteady," said he, gravely and interrogatively to Kate, "any disturbing cause?"

"He has been disappointed about a letter, he hoped to receive."

"Ah, these letters are bad, very bad; he is not getting on as I could wish," added the doctor to Mrs. O'Toole, as she followed him to the hall door to receive his parting instructions, "could you not get up some pious fraud about this letter? invent one, eh?"

"Oh, God bless ye, docther, it's not possible, any ways, sure if it was I'm the woman would do it."

"Well, I suppose so; but, I tell you, I dread another bursting of a blood vessel, and then." The doctor paused, shook his head, drew on his glove, and departed in the teeth of a bitter March wind, and a cloud of dust.

"It seems a very cold, wretched day," said the Colonel, as Kate took up her work; "is poor Cormac never let into the house now?"

"Oh, yes, grandpapa, he generally lies outside the door, but I did not like to let him in for fear of disturbing you?"

"He would not disturb me, I wish to see him."

Miss Vernon rose, and opening the door, admitted Cormac, who testified his joy at beholding his master, in a quiet, subdued manner, and the Colonel welcomed his faithful follower with a warmth, that Kate feared would be too much for his strength, stroking the dog's head, feebly, from time to time, and gazing at him abstractedly, as if his spirit had flown back to the scenes and time, when he was still vigorous, and Cormac gambolled with all the vivacity of youth. Now the old hound sat grave and still, his dull, filmy eye returning his master's gaze; and Kate suppressed the deep sighs which rose from her heart, as she saw these old companions, side by side, thus changed, thus sinking in the unequal conflict with time and adversity! And behind them memory raised the dark curtain of the present, and the bright, happy past broke forth with more than its pristine freshness; she saw those two languid forms, instinct with life, glowing with animation; she heard her grandfather's clear musical laugh, ring forth as he sprang upon his favourite horse, and held him steady with a powerful hand; she heard the hound's deep, joyous bark, as, after a few gambols round the impatient horse, he bounded forward in a swift and sudden race, only to return with headlong speed; she saw her grandfather's stately form, with those of his high-born, gay companions, sweep round a bend of the avenue, and as the sound of their voices and the tramp of their horses died away in the distance, she heard the dash and roar of the restless Atlantic against the cliffs; she saw the park-like lawn, the stately wood, the bold, blue hills and—a faint voice, like the echo of her grandfather's, from another world recalled her to the present.

"Give Cormac, poor fellow, some bread and milk before he goes away."

A few days passed, and still no letter. One evening, pleased to see the Colonel sleeping peacefully in his chair, Kate dropped her work and gave herself up to reverie. She had hardly had time to think of Fred. Egerton's letter, and the tone of warm remembrance it breathed.

"I wonder shall I ever see him again! Ah, no, what folly to think of it! Yet if he was here, he would give grandpapa hope and courage, and to me! He is so bright and strong. But thank God his letter came, with its cheering words, just when I most wanted something to raise my heart a little! Nurse thinks he will come back, but that is only a dream; and, after all, if he did, it would make no difference to me!"

Her thoughts rambled on in this way for some time, over many a varied topic, till she was roused by Cormac's very unusual efforts to gain admittance without leave. "Well come in, good dog, but be quiet," and the hound immediately placed himself by his master's chair; and Kate was speaking to him in a low voice, when the postman's knock, they had so long guarded against, but did not expect at that unaccustomed hour, shook the frail walls of the habitation, and Kate rose from her chair, trembling for her grandfather.

He woke suddenly, startled, but not so much as Kate had feared, and at the same moment nurse entered with a letter.

"From Georgina," cried Kate, opening it with trembling haste; she read aloud.

"'Good heavens, dearest Kate, how unfortunate that I should have come here.'

"She writes from Lucca.

"'Your letter was not forwarded to me for ten days after I left Florence. I start to-morrow for England, and God grant the passes may not be snowed up; I hope to reach you as soon almost as this does; keep up your spirits; tell the Colonel I know his wishes, I fully understand his anxiety for your writing. The courier waits for my letter. God bless you—Yours in haste and much affliction.—G. Desmond.'"

"What is the date?" asked the Colonel, feebly.

"It has none, except the place; she evidently writes in the greatest haste."

"Look at the cover."

"It is so rubbed and soiled I can make nothing out, but a 'Fir' and 'Marzo.'"

"She will be here to-morrow," said the Colonel, with sudden decision. "My God, I thank thee!" he murmured. "Kate, my love, I feel exhausted, some wine."

She flew to get it, and, after taking a little, he leaned back, drowsily, she settled the cushions for his head, and knelt down to feel if his feet were cold; he stretched out his hand feebly, and laid it on her head; the old hound, whom they had not noticed, drew closer, and licked the hand that had so often caressed him.

"God bless you darling, from the hour of your birth, you have been an unalloyed blessing to me."

Kate rose, and kissed him fondly—

"Go to sleep, dearest grandpapa."

"Yes, for she will be here to-morrow. I feel so happy, Kate!"

"Thank Heaven!" she ejaculated; and returning to her seat, watched the sleeper for some time, rejoicing to see an expression of almost heavenly happiness and calm gradually stealing over his features. The old hound, too, shared her vigil, laying his head couched on his fore-paws, his eyes fixed on his master. So she sat, sometimes, raising her heart to God, with a feeling of thankfulness, though she knew not why, except that she ever looked, in spite of her cooler reason, to Lady Desmond's return as to a great deliverance.

The evening closed in, and still her grandfather lay in calm, unbroken repose. The old dog, at length, grew restless, he raised his head, and half rose up, as if to approach his master, and when Kate spoke to him, lay down again, with a low, complaining whine. Miss Vernon rung—

"I wish," said she, as Mrs. O'Toole entered, "you would take Cormac away, I never saw him so troublesome before. I am afraid he will disturb grandpapa from that sweet sound sleep."

"Come with me, Cormac."

The hound wagged his tail, turning his dull eyes on her for a moment, but immediately refixing them on his master, with a watchful air, his ears erected, as if in expectation. Mrs. O'Toole crossed the room quickly, and stooping to look into the old man's face, started back, clasping her hands, with an expression of awe and terror on her countenance.

"Nurse!" exclaimed Kate, springing to her side; "what, what is the matter?"

"Hush, hush, mee own darlint child," whispered Mrs. O'Toole. "He's not there—he's with the blessed saints in Heaven!"

END OF VOL. II.