Читать книгу Ancestors - Gertrude Atherton - Страница 12

Whether or not Mr. Gwynne had made up his mind to follow his mother’s advice and employ a new weapon in his siege of Mrs. Kaye, or whether, like common mortals, he was subject to the natural impulses of youth, the most novel of the guests of Capheaton found herself on his right in the informality of breakfast, and the object of his solicitude. He fetched her bacon and toast from the sideboard, and when he discovered that she did not like cream in her tea, carried her cup back to his mother and waited for the more pungent substitute. And then he actually made an effort to entertain her. There was a flicker of surprised amusement in the neighborhood, but Isabel accepted his attentions as a matter of course, assuming that the young gentleman felt refreshed after a night’s rest in his own bed, or had awakened to a sense of her importance as a member of his family. It was not until she caught Mrs. Kaye’s eye and read a contemptuous power to retaliate, that she experienced a certain zest in the situation. With the magnetism of intelligent interest in her own eyes, she turned to Gwynne with a question that betrayed a flattering acquaintance with one of his less popular books, then hung upon the monologue of which he promptly delivered himself. It was characteristic that he either contributed little to the conversation or monopolized it; and he reflected, as he talked of the personal experience which led up to the episode of her interest, that he had never before gazed into eyes at once so lovely and so fine. He disliked American girls, partly because they had shown no disposition to join the ranks of those that lived to spoil him, partly because he believed them to be shallow and cold. Some of the married women had attracted him, but not before they had lived long enough to develop the stronger qualities of the older races; he had his ideals and was not easily satisfied. He was deeply in love with Mrs. Kaye, for her brilliant subtle mind and powerful appeal to his passions had blinded him to her defects, and he was convinced that his heart had travelled to its predestined goal. Nevertheless, he decided that his new cousin, if as cold as the rest of her youthful compatriots, was worth cultivating for her intelligence and obvious talent for good-comradeship.

But in a moment a subject was started that entirely diverted his mind and upset the lively tenor of the breakfast-table.

“Where is Lorcutt?” asked some one, abruptly, referring to a brother of Lord Brathland, who had lost heavily and cheerfully at Bridge the night before.

Isabel’s eyes happened to have wandered to the face of the man opposite. To her surprise it became livid. He turned instantly to Gwynne, however, and said: “I should have told you—I quite forgot—he asked me to make his excuses. He got a telegram—bad news—Bratty is dead.”

Involuntarily Isabel glanced at Mrs. Kaye; Flora had hinted to her of the lady’s designs. That face for once was ghastly and unmasked, but the eyes were not glittering with grief.

“Impossible!” she cried, sharply. “Lord Brathland? Why—I saw him only two days ago, in London. He was as well as possible.”

The others barely noticed her. Their astonished eyes were fixed on the first speaker, Captain Ormond, who was sitting very erect, as if to receive the questions fired at him as a brave man faces the hiss of lead on the field.

“I know little,” he replied; “except that Brathland was suddenly attacked by appendicitis two nights ago and that an operation was immediately performed—”

“Friday night!” cried Mrs. Kaye. “Why he spent an hour with me that afternoon, and was to dine with Lord Zeal and Lord Raglin and half a dozen other men that night—they all came up to London to talk over one of Sir Cadge Vanneck’s mines. Why—I remember you were to be there. Surely Lord Brathland was well then?”

“He was looking very seedy when he came in. I happened to sit next to him—told him he ought to go home. Finally he got so bad he decided that he would, and as he left the table he fainted. Several of us saw him to bed. He said he didn’t want his family fidgeting him, and the surgeon said he would be all right in a few days. I thought he was out of danger when I came down last night, so said nothing about it to Harold.”

“Was he taken home?” asked Gwynne, whose eyes had never left Ormond’s face.

“No—to Raglin’s room up-stairs. The dinner was at the Club.”

“I cannot understand why his family was not summoned at the last!” exclaimed Lady Victoria.

“Well, there’s only the old duke and Harold, you see. Dick is out in Africa. I suppose they didn’t want to agitate the duke until the last moment and couldn’t find Harold until this morning. Besides, Raglin was with him, and he is a relative, at least. It is awfully sudden. I have been upset ever since Harold woke me up this morning and told me; and hated to speak of it.”

“Who was the surgeon?” asked Gwynne.

“Ballast.”

“Ballast? Who is he? Why not one of the big men, in heaven’s name?” cried Mrs. Kaye.

“Well—they were all out of town—naturally enough at this time of year. We had to take what we could get. No doubt Lester or Masten was telegraphed for later. I—all of us—left the affair in Raglin’s hands.”

The company broke into general comment, and under cover of the confusion Isabel distinctly heard Gwynne demand:

“What’s up your sleeve, Ormond?”

And the response: “For God’s sake, old chap, don’t ask!”