Prince Fortunatus Part 15

But if Lionel was to be reproached for his lack of ambition, that was a charge which could not be brought against certain of those fas.h.i.+onable friends of his at whom Nina (in unconscious collusion with Maurice Mangan) seemed inclined to look askance. At the very height of the London season Lady Adela Cunyngham and her sisters, Lady Sybil and Lady Rosamund Bourne, had taken the town by storm; and it seemed probable that, before they departed for Scotland, they would leave quite a trail of glory behind them in the social firmament. The afternoon production of "The Chaplet," in the gardens of Sir Hugh's house on Campden Hill, had been a most notable festivity, doubtless; but then it was a combination affair; for Miss Georgie Lestrange had shared in the honors of the occasion; moreover, they had professional a.s.sistance given them by Mr. Lionel Moore. It was when the three sisters attacked their own particular pursuits that their individual genius shone, and marked success had attended their separate efforts. His royal highness, the commander-in-chief, it is true, had not as yet invited the colonels of the British army to recommend Lady Sybil's "Soldiers' Marching Song" to the band-masters of the various regiments, but, in default of that, this composition was performed nightly, as the concluding ceremony, at the international exhibition then open in London; and as the piece was played by the combined bands of the Royal Marines, with the drums of the 1st Battalion Grenadier Guards, the Highland Pipers of the 2d Battalion Scots Guards, and the drums of the 2d Battalion Grenadier Guards, the resultant noise was surely sufficient to satisfy the hungriest vanity of any composer, professional or amateur, who ever lived. Then not only had Lady Rosamund exhibited a large picture at the Lansdowne Gallery (a decorative work this was, representing the manumission of a slave, with the legend underneath, "_Hunc hominem liberum esse volo_"), but also the proprietors of an ill.u.s.trated weekly newspaper had published in their summer number, as a colored supplement, what she had ventured to call "An All-the-year-round Valentine." She had taken the following rhyme (or perhaps some one had found it for her)--

"In these fair violets of the veins, The verdure of the spring remains; Ripe cherries on thy lips display The l.u.s.tre of the summer day; If I for autumn were to seek, I'd view the apples on thy cheek; There's nought could give me pain in thee, But winter in thy heart to see."

--and she had drawn four pretty little landscapes, which, when reproduced on one sheet by chromo-lithography, looked very neat and elegant, while the fair artist was much gratified to observe her name figuring on the placards at railway-stations or on the boards in front of stationers' shops, as she drove along Kensington High Street.

But, of course, the crowning achievement of the gifted family was Lady Adela Cunyngham's novel. If it was not quite the success of the season, as far as the outer world was concerned, it certainly was the most-talked-of book among Lady Adela's own set. Every character in it was identified as somebody or another; and although Lady Adela, as a true artist, maintained that she did not draw individuals, but types, she could not stem the tide of this harmless curiosity, and had to submit to the half-humorous inquiries and flattering insinuations of her friends. As for the outer world, if it remained indifferent, that only showed its lack of grat.i.tude; for here, there, and everywhere, among the evening and weekly papers (the morning papers were, perhaps, too busy with politics at the time), attention was drawn to Lady Arthur Castletown's charming and witty romance of modern life. Alp called to Alp, and deep to deep, throughout Satan's invisible world; "Kathleen's Sweethearts" was dragged in (apparently with ten men pus.h.i.+ng behind) for casual allusion in "Our Weekly Note-book;" Lady Arthur's smart sayings were quoted in the gossip 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 fas.h.i.+on 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 ill.u.s.trated 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-s.h.i.+re. Besides, I don't care about singing in London when there's n.o.body 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 circ.u.mstances 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 companions.h.i.+p 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-s.h.i.+ning 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 alt.i.tudes 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 a.s.synt. 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 Invers.h.i.+n for near a fortnight when there wa.s.s 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 s.h.i.+ngle. Indeed, the pa.s.sage was effected with very little trouble, if with a good deal of jolting and b.u.mping; 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 all for waiting on him and talking to him at the same time.

"It is so awfully kind of you to come," Lady Adela said, with one of her most gracious smiles. "Now we shall hear about something else than dogs and guns and grouse."

"Oh, Mr. Moore," cried Lady Rosamund (who was the youngest, and had a bit of a temper, and was allowed to interfere when she liked), "do you know a masque called 'Alfred'? You do? how delightful! Well, then, you remember the visions of the future kings and queens that pa.s.s before Alfred when he is in the Isle of Athelney? how can I get that done in the open air? What kind of gauze do you use in the theatre? Could you get me a bit? And would painted shades do instead of living persons?--you see we have so few people to come and go on up here."

"And, Mr. Moore," cried Lady Sybil, "how are we to manage about an accompaniment? A single violin is no use out in the open. Would it be too dreadful if we had a harmonium concealed somewhere? We could get one from Inverness; and you know a harmonium would do very well for the music that introduces the visions."

"Mr. Moore," put in Miss Georgie Lestrange, with a complaining air, "fancy their having given me another of Kitty Clive's characters; isn't it too bad? Why, I'll go on and on until I identify myself with her altogether; and then, you know, Kitty Clive wasn't--I'm afraid she wasn't quite--"

"Oh, Mrs. Clive was all right; she was a great friend of Dr. Johnson,"

Lionel made answer, to rea.s.sure the young lady.

"But I wish you girls would leave off chattering, and let Mr. Moore get something to eat," the young matron said, impatiently; and she herself was so kind as to go and fetch the claret jug from the glide-table and fill his gla.s.s.

However, there was peace in store for him. When he had finished with this late lunch, Lady Adela begged him to excuse them if they left him to s.h.i.+ft for himself; they were busy dressmaking, she said. Would she send for one of the keepers, who would show him one or two of the nearest pools, so that he might try for a salmon? The gentlemen had all gone down the strath, to test some new rifle, she thought; this was out of consideration for her, for she could not bear shooting close to the house; would he walk in that direction, and see what they were doing?

"Don't you trouble," he said, instantly. "You leave me to myself. I like to wander about and find out my surroundings. I shall go down to the river, to begin with; I saw some picturesque bits higher up when we were coming along."

"You'll almost certainly find Honnor Cunyngham there," said Miss Lestrange. "I suppose she has gone storking, as usual."

"Stalking?" said he, in some amazement.

"No, no--storking, as I call it. She haunts the side of the river like a crane or a heron," said the red-haired damsel. "I think she would rather land a salmon than go to heaven."

"Georgie," said the young matron, severely, "you are not likely ever to do either; so you needn't be spiteful. Come away and get to work. Mr.

Moore, we dine at eight; and, if you are anywhere up or down the strath, you'll hear the bell over the stables rung at seven, and then at half-past."