The Daltons Volume I Part 53

Kate thought of the poor gray in the courtyard, and said nothing.

"And there is something so touching so exquisitely touching in those Flemish interiors, where the goodwife is seated reading, and a straggling sunbeam comes slanting in upon the tiled floor. Little peeps of life, as it were, in a cla.s.s of which we know nothing; for, really, Miss Dalton, iu our order, sympathies are too much fettered; and I often think it would be better that we knew more of the middle cla.s.ses. When I say this, of course I do not mean as a.s.sociates, far less as intimates, but as ingredients in the grand scheme of universal nature."

"'The no-no-n.o.blest study of man-mankind is' what is it, sister?"

"'Man,' Scroope; but the poet intended to refer to the great aims and objects of our being. Don't you think so, Miss Dalton? It was not man in the little cares of everyday life, in his social relations, but man in his destinies, in his vast future, when he goes beyond 'that bourne'--"

"From which n.o.body ever got out again," cackled Purvis, in an ecstasy at the readiness of his quotation.

"'From which no traveller returns,' Scroope, is, I believe, the more correct version."

"Then it don't mean pur-pur-pur-purgatory," gulped Scroope, who, as soon as the word was uttered, became shocked at what he said. "I forgot you were a Ro-Ro-Roman, Miss Dalton," said he, blus.h.i.+ng.

"You are in error, Scroope," said Mrs. Ricketts. "Miss Dalton is one of ourselves. All the distinguished Irish are of the Reformed faith."

"I am a Catholic, madam," said Kate, not knowing whether to be more amused than annoyed at the turn the conversation had taken.

"I knew it," cried Purvis, in delight. "I tracked your carriage to the D-D-Duomo, and I went in after you, and saw you at the co-co-co-co--"

"Corner," whispered Martha, who, from his agonies, grew afraid of a fit.

"No, not the corner, but the co-co-co-coufessional-confessional, where you stayed for an hour and forty minutes by my own watch; and I couldn't help thinking that your pec-pec-pec-peccadilloes were a good long score, by the time it took to to to tell them."

"Thanks, sir," said Kate, bowing, and with difficulty restraining her laughter; "thanks for the very kind interest you seem to have taken in my spiritual welfare."

"Would that I might be suffered a partic.i.p.ation in that charge, Miss Dalton," cried Mrs. Ricketts, with enthusiasm, "and allowed to hold some converse with you on doctrinal questions!"

"Try her with the posers, sister," whispered Purvis. "Hush, Scroope!

Mere opportunities of friendly discussion, nothing more I ask for, Miss Dalton."

"Give her the posers," whispered Purvis, louder.

"Be quiet, Scroope. I have been fortunate enough to resolve the doubts of more than one ere this. That dear angel, the Princess Ethelinda of Cobourgh, I believe I may say, owes her present enlightenment to our sweet evenings together."

"Begin with the posers."

"Hus.h.!.+ I say, Scroope."

"May I ask," said Kate, "what is the suggestion Mr. Purvis has been good enough to repeat?"

"That I should give you this little tract, Miss Dalton," said Mrs.

Ricketts as she drew out a miscellaneous a.s.semblage of articles from a deep pocket, and selected from the ma.s.s a small blue-covered pamphlet, bearing the t.i.tle, "Three Posers for Papists, by M. R."

"Montague Ricketts," said Purvis, proudly; "she wrote it herself, and the Pope won't let us into Rome in consequence. It 's very droll, too; and the part about the the Vir-gin--"

"You will, I 'm sure, excuse me, madam," said Kate, "if I beg that this subject be suffered to drop. My thanks for the interest this gentleman and yourself have vouchsafed me will only be more lasting by leaving the impression of them una.s.sociated with anything unpleasing. You were good enough to say that you had a letter for me?"

"A letter from your father, that dear, fond father, who dotes so distractingly upon you, and who really seems to live but to enjoy your triumphs. Martha, where is the letter?"

"I gave it to Scroope, sister."

"No, you didn't. I never saw--"

"Yes, Scroope, I gave it to you, at the drawing-room fire--"

"Yes, to be sure, and I put it into the ca-ca-ca--"

"Not the candle, I hope," cried Kate, in terror.

"No, into the card-rack; and there it is now."

"How provoking!" cried Miss Ricketts; "but you shall have it to-morrow, Miss Dalton. I 'll leave it here myself."

"Shall I appear impatient, madam, if I send for it this evening?"

"Of course not, my dear Miss Dalton; but shall I commit the precious charge to a menial's hand?"

"You may do so with safety, madam," said Kate, not without a slight irritation of manner as she spoke.

"Mr. Fogla.s.s, the late minister and envoy at--"

Here a tremendous crash, followed by a terrific yelping noise, broke in upon the colloquy; for it was Fidele had thrown down a Sevres jar, and lay, half-buried and howling, under the ruins. There was, of course, a general rising of the company, some to rescue the struggling poodle, and others in vain solicitude to gather up the broken fragments of the once beautiful vase. It was a favorite object with Lady Hester; of singular rarity, both for form and design; and Kate stood speechless, and almost sick with shame and sorrow, at the sight, not heeding one syllable of the excuses and apologies poured in upon her, nor of the equally valueless a.s.surances that it could be easily mended; that Martha was a perfect proficient in such arts; and that, if Scroope would only collect the pieces carefully, the most difficult connoisseur would not be able to detect a flaw in it.

"I've got a head here; but the no-nose is off," cried Purvis.

"Here it is, Scroope. I 've found it."

"No, that's a toe," said he; "there 's a nail to it."

"I am getting ill I shall faint," said Mrs. Ricketts, retiring upon a well-cus.h.i.+oned sofa from the calamity.

Martha now flew to the bell-rope and pulled it violently, while Purvis threw open the window, and with such rash haste as to upset a stand of camellias, thereby scattering plants, buds, earth, and crockery over the floor, while poor Kate, thunderstruck at the avalanche of ruin around her, leaned against the wall for support, unable to stir or even speak.

As Martha continued to tug away at the bell, the alarm, suggesting the idea of fire, brought three or four servants to the door together.

"Madeira! quick, Madeira!" cried Martha, as she unloosed various articles of dress from her sister's throat, and prepared a plan of operations for resuscitation that showed at least an experienced hand.

"Bring wine," said Kate, faintly, to the astonished butler, who, not noticing Miss Ricketts's order, seemed to await hers.

"Madeira! it must be Madeira!" cried Martha, wildly.

"She don't dislike Mar-Mar-Marco-brunner," whispered Purvis to the servant, "and I'll take a gla.s.s too."

Had the irruption been one of veritable housebreakers, had the occasion been what newspapers stereotype as a "Daring Burglary," Kate Dalton might, in all likelihood, have distinguished herself as a heroine. She would, it is more than probable, have evinced no deficiency either of courage or presence of mind, but in the actual contingency nothing could be more utterly helpless than she proved; and, as she glided into a chair, her pale face and trembling features betrayed more decisive signs of suffering than the ma.s.sive countenance which Martha was now deluging with eau-de-Cologne and lavender.

The wine soon made its appearance; a very imposing array of restoratives the ambulatory pharmacopeia of the Ricketts family was all displayed upon a table. Martha, divested of shawl, bonnet, and gloves, stood ready for action; and thus, everything being in readiness, Mrs. Ricketts, whose consideration never suffered her to take people unawares, now began her nervous attack in all form.

If ague hysterics recovery from drowning tic-doloureux, and an extensive burn had all sent representatives of their peculiar agonies, with injunctions to struggle for a mastery of expression, the symptoms could scarcely have equalled those now exhibited. There was not a contortion nor convulsion that her countenance did not undergo, while the devil's tattoo, kept up by her heels upon the floor, and her knuckles occasionally on the table, and now and then on Scroope's head, added fearfully to the effect of her screams, which varied from the deep groan of the melodrame to the wildest shrieks of tragedy.

"There's no danger, Miss Dalton," whispered Martha, whose functions of hand-rubbing, temple-bathing, wine-giving, and so forth, were performed with a most jog-trot regularity.