The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 17, No. 100, February, 1866: A Magazine of Literature, Science, Art, and PoliticsVarious
History
The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 17, No. 100, February, 1866: A Magazine of Literature, Science, Art, and Politics
Various
American periodicals
She retired to rest directly after supper; for she was thoroughly worn
out. And the moment she rose to go, her father bounced up, and lighted
the bed-candle for her with novel fervor, and kissed her on the cheek,
and said in her ear,--
"Good night, my Lady Neville!"
CHAPTER VIII.
What with the day's excitement, and a sweet secluded convent in her
soul, and a bullet in her bosom, and a ringing in her ear, that sounded
mighty like "Lady Neville! Lady Neville! Lady Neville!" Kate spent a
restless night, and woke with a bad headache.
She sent her maid to excuse her, on this score, from going to Bolton
Hall. But she was informed, in reply, that the carriage had been got
ready expressly for her; so she must be good enough to shake off disease
and go; the air would do her a deal more good than lying abed.
Thereupon she dressed herself in her black silk gown, and came down,
looking pale and languid, but still quite lovely enough to discharge
what in this age of cant I suppose we should call "her mission":
_videlicet_, to set honest men by the ears.
At half past eight o'clock the carriage came round to the front door.
Its body, all glorious with the Peyton armorials and with patches of
rusty gilding, swung exceedingly loose on long leathern straps instead
of springs; and the fore-wheels were a mile from the hind-wheels, more
or less. A pretentious and horrible engine; drawn by four horses; only
two of them being ponies impaired the symmetry and majestic beauty of
the pageant. Old Joe drove the wheelers; his boy rode the leaders, and
every now and then got off and kicked them in the pits of their
stomachs, or pierced them with hedge-stakes, to rouse their mettle. Thus
encouraged and stimulated, they effected an average of four miles and a
half per hour, notwithstanding the snow, and reached Bolton just in
time. At the lodge, Francis got out, and lay in ambush,--but only for a
time. He did not think it orthodox to be present at a religious ceremony
of his Protestant friends,--nor common-sense-o-dox to turn his back upon
their dinner.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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