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"No one can tell, but him who finds it, like the poet," answered the curate. "But I suppose you at least consider it the Church of England," returned the lady with one of her sweetest attempts at a smile. "God forbid!" exclaimed the clergyman, with a kind of sacred horror. "Not the Church of England!" cried Mrs. Cathcart, in a tone of horror likewise, dashed with amazement.
"The river, uncle." "Nothing else?" "Well I don't know. Nothing much. It's horribly slow!" "I'm afraid you won't find this much better. But you must take care of yourself." "I've made that a branch of special study, uncle. I flatter myself I can do that." Colonel Cathcart laughed. Percy was the son of his only brother, who had died young, and he had an especial affection for him.
"That is very thoughtful of you. I will see Helen and find out " "Oh! don't trouble about her either," Richard put in. Again he studied the jewel-rimmed dial of the little clock. "I found she wanted to go to Newlands to bid Mrs. Cathcart good-bye. It seems Miss St. Quentin is back there for a day or two. So I promised to drive her over as soon as we were quit of the Fallowfeild party."
Ormiston's tears were as easily staunched as set flowing. And now, in her capacity of hostess, with three gentlemen or rather "two and a half, for you can't," as she remarked, "count a brother-in-law for a whole one" as audience, she felt remarkably cheerful. She had been over to Newlands during the afternoon, and insisted on Mary Cathcart returning with her Mrs. Ormiston was a Desmolyns.
There were no arguments or promises with him. He chucked Cathcart on the spot, turned him out of the place, and swore he'd make the road himself. I asked if I might stop, and I think he was glad, anyhow we've been ever such pals ever since, and I never expect to have such a time again as long as I live! But do you know, Auntie, we've about made that road.
"I think," said Mrs. Armstrong, "since criticism is the order of the evening, and Mr. Smith is so kind as not to mind it, that he makes the king and queen too silly. It takes away from the reality." "Right too, my dear madam," I answered. "The reality of a fairy-tale?" said Mrs. Cathcart, as if asking a question of herself.
There's no reason why we shouldn't make a killing on the side." "As how?" asked Gates. Cathcart outlined his plan. It was simply stock manipulation on a big scale; although the naked import was somewhat obscured by the complications of the scheme. After he had finished Gates smoked for some time in silence. "All right, Cliff," said he, "let's do it."
So Jane considered her afternoon, didactically, a failure. But, in the smoking-room that night, young Cathcart explained the game all over again to a few choice spirits, and then remarked: "Old Jane was superb! Fancy! Such a drive as that, and doing number seven in three and not talking about it! I've jolly well made up my mind to send no more bouquets to Tou-Tou. Hang it, boys!
The truth is, as written by Sir Francis Hincks fifty years later, "he embittered the party feeling that had been considerably assuaged by Sir Charles Bagot." Lord Metcalfe was succeeded by Lord Cathcart, a military man, who was chosen because of the threatening aspect of the relations between England and the United States on the question of the Oregon boundary.
He understood, while his body quivered with the anguish of it, that he had more in common with, and was nearer, far nearer, to the maimed fighting-man of the old ballad, even to the poor seagull robbed of its power of flight, than to all those dear people whose business in life it seemed to pet and amuse him, and to minister to his every want to the handsome soldier uncle, whose home-coming had so excited him, to Julius March, his indulgent tutor, to Mademoiselle de Mirancourt, his delightful companion, to Clara, his obedient playfellow, to brown-eyed Mary Cathcart, and even to his lovely mother herself!
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