“We are acquaintances already,” said D'Esmonde, passing his arm within the soldier's; “and albeit our coats are not of the same color, I think many of our principles are.”
A few moments saw him seated between the brother and sister on the sofa, recounting the circumstances of his journey, and detailing, for Kate's amusement, the latest news of Florence.
“Lady Hester is much better in health and spirits, too,” said the Abbé; “the disastrous circumstances of fortune would seem to have taken a better turn; at least, it is probable that Sir Stafford's losses will be comparatively slight. I believe her satisfaction on this head arises entirely from feeling that no imputation of altered position can now be alleged as the reason for her change of religion.”
“And has she done this?” asked Kate, with a degree of anxiety; for she well knew on what feeble grounds Lady Hester's convictions were usually built..
“Not publicly; she waits for her arrival at Rome, to make her confession at the shrine of St. John of Lateran. Her doubts, however, have all been solved,—her reconciliation is perfect.”
“Is she happy? Has she found peace of mind at last?” asked Kate, timidly.
“On this point I can speak with confidence,” said D'Esmonde, warmly; and at once entered into a description of the pleasurable impulse a new train of thoughts and impressions had given to the exhausted energies of a “fine lady's” life. It was so far true, indeed, that for some days back she had never known a moment of ennui. Surrounded by sacred emblems and a hundred devices of religious association, she appeared to herself as if acting a little poem of life, wherein a mass of amiable qualities, of which she knew nothing before, were all developing themselves before her. And what between meritorious charities, saintly intercessions, visits to shrines, and decorations of altars, she had not an instant unoccupied; it was one unceasing round of employment; and with prayers, bouquets, lamps, confessions, candles, and penances, the day was even too short for its duties.
The little villa of La Rocca was now a holy edifice. The drawing-room had become an oratory; a hollow-cheeked “Seminariste,” from Como, had taken the place of the Maestro di Casa. The pages wore a robe like acolytes, and even Albert Jekyl began to fear that a costume was in preparation for himself, from certain measurements that he had observed taken with regard to his figure.
“My time is up,” said Frank, hastily, as he arose to go away.
“You are not about to leave me, Frank?” said Kate.