At the Hof Theatre, where they played her favorite operas; at the great reviews in the Prater, at the balls of the palace, or the déjeûners of Schonbrunn, she seemed the occasion of the fête, and to do her honor all appeared assembled. Carried away by the triumphant delight of pleasure so associated with power, she either forgot at times the price at which her greatness had been purchased, or was disposed to still the beatings of her heart by the thought, “My destiny is chosen; it is too late to look back.” To have grieved over her lot, besides, would have seemed an utter selfishness, seeing that she was the means of dispensing such happiness to all her family. Her poor father placed once more in comfort; Nelly free to follow the dictates of her charming fancy, without the alloying sense of toil; and dear Frank, in all the exuberant joy of his promotion, eternally reminding her that she was his patroness. The quick clatter of his charger's hoofs in the courtyard, the clank of his sabre as he ran up the stairs, were but the glad prelude to his daily outpouring of gratitude. Ay, “to be sorry now, would be but selfish.”
Such was the philosophy in which she wrapped herself; and day after day the feeling gained strength within her. It was true there were moments when all the sophistry gave way, and her affections flowed full and strong in the deep channels of her heart. Then, indeed, she saw the emptiness of all this gorgeous parade,—how little it gave of real happiness,—how seldom it ever called forth one generous feeling, or one high desire, and she wished the fates had dealt otherwise with her. At times she almost longed for the humble home, in all its poverty, with nothing but Nelly's bright smile and gentle voice to cheer its solitude! It may have been this conflict——for conflict it was—that gave to her demeanor a certain calm dignity, which, in the critical estimation of society, elevated her high above any charge of frivolity or capriciousness. She was a thought graver, perhaps, than her years; but the feeling imparted an indescribable grace to one whose beauty was the very type of brilliancy. After all, these were but passing clouds; nor did she ever suffer herself to recur to the past, save when wayward memories would obtrude uncalled for.
At last a letter came from Lady Hester; and although not a long one, it called up thoughts that all her endeavors could not efface from recollection. There were, once again, all the old familiar names with which she used to be so conversant.
Lady Hester, however, was much changed: all the capricious irritability of the fine lady had given place to a kind of importunate piety. She had grown “devote,” and her life a string of religious observances. After dwelling complacently on the self-imposed round of her mortifications and penances, she went on:——
“D'Esmonde has just returned, and delights me by saying that
you are quite free from any contagion as to the errors of
the Greek Church. Of course, outwardly, you must conform;
even if Midchekoff did not insist, his countrymen would; but
he says that St. Ursula is the sure resource in such cases,
and mentions the instance of a nun who took lessons in
Spanish from the Devil, and, by the aid of the blessed
Ursula, was nothing the worse.
“I told Jekyl, who left this on Friday, to send me an image
of St. Ursula, that I might forward it to you; but the
careless wretch has sent me a statuette of Fanny Elssler by
mistake. He discovered his error, however, and has written
me a most humble letter, mentioning, by the way, that he was
doing a 'Novena' for penance, and danced the polka all the
preceding night with a sharp peg in the sole of his foot.
With all his oddity, there is a great deal to like in him.
“I have only once heard from the Onslows; their conduct has
been too shocking; they are not ruined at all, but got up
the story, I verily believe, just to destroy my nerves. Sir
S. is living in Ireland, at that place with the horrid name
your father used to talk of, with Sydney; and George has
gone to India, a major, I think, in some cavalry regiment.
At Grounsell's kind suggestion, I have been cut off with a
miserable allowance of fifteen hundred a year; but even with
this I am content. St. Brigitta, of Cleves, lived on hard
peas, and never wore anything but an old sack for the last
seventeen years of her life; and Célestine has got a
charming pattern of a capote, à la Cistercine, which, when
made of white cashmere, will be perfectly simple and very
becoming. I wear my hair now always in bands, and very low
on the face. D'Esmonde says I 'm the image of the Madonna of
Domenichino, which you may remember, I always preferred to
Raphael's.
“Cardinal Bruschetti has been spending a few days here, and
I cannot tell you the charm I have felt in his society,
contrasted with the frivolous dissipation I have been used
to. He is so suave, and so gentle, so persuasive, without
importunity, and so conciliating withal. Not the least
austerity about him; but at times actually gay! He quite
approves of my having kept Fripponi as my cook. 'A change of
cuisine,' said he, 'involves a change of digestion, a change
of temperament, and a moral change;' alterations far too
important to be incurred at once. This is so far pleasant as
certainly the man is an admirable artist. His Eminence said
yesterday that the salmi of ortolans was a dish fit for the
Pope. We drive out, or row, every day, on the lake, and I
shall be quite lonely when he leaves this. I am curious to
know if you remember a bust of him in the Vatican. He was,
and indeed is, a remarkably handsome man; and his leg has
been modelled I can't say how often. He asks me to whom I am
writing, and begs you will remember him in your prayers, how
touchingly simple, is it not?
“I ventured last night on a bit of importunity, and asked
his Eminence a favor. That poor dear Jekyl, you know, is
miserably off. His family, all so wealthy, he says, only
allow him a few hundreds a year; and with his generous
habits and wastefulness this must be actual want. Well, I
asked the Cardinal if there might not be some way of sending
him out as a missionary—like St. Vincent de Paul. I 'm
certain he 'd not like the dress nor the bare feet, but he
'd be so happy with those charming Tonga islanders, who,
such is their zeal, that they actually give four and five
scalps for a wax image of the Virgin. His Eminence hinted
that there might be difficulties, and he'd think of it I
“Your Prince passed through here on Tuesday, on his way to
Naples; he wants to see 'La Giovina' dance in that new
ballet of 'Paradiso.' They say she is perfectly lovely. The
Prince asked after you, and said something about its not
being etiquette for him to write to you, or that you should
write first, or, I really forget what; you know the slurring
way he has of talking, and how he walks away before he has
finished. He's worse than ever, I think, or probably it is
I that have less patience with him now since you are gone!
“Jekyl told me—in strict confidence, remember—that M. did
not stand well with his Court, and that there would be
nothing wonderful in the Czar's refusing his leave for the
marriage. What you ought to do in that case I cannot
conceive; a convent, I suppose, would be the only thing.
After all, it might probably have been as well if you had
taken poor George. The estate is still a good one, and he
has some amiable points in his character, and he certainly
loved you. I never told you the thousand confessions he made
me, nor his entreaties for my intercession, but there is no
harm now in letting you hear them. It is, however,
impossible to say with whom one could live happily!
George begged of me to send him every letter you wrote to
me, and of course you can use the knowledge of the fact at
your discretion.
“Now, for two little commissions, my dear Kate, and I have
done. I want you to get me a case of Tokay from the Teleki
estate—mind, not Pain's, which, his Eminence says, wants
the oily flavor. Some of the archdukes will manage this for
you. I 'm certain your long eyelashes have got further than
this already. The second is to send me a haunch of Bohemian
venison,—Schwartenschild's, if possible. The Cardinal says
that fat is become as scarce as true piety, and that a well-
fed buck is as rare as a good Christian!
“Are they wearing their corsages pointed at the back?——not
that I care, dearest, for I am above such vanities, but
Célestine wishes to know. When you receive the St. Ursula,
keep her in your own room, and with her face to the west;
and so good-by, and, with many prayers, believe me,
“Affectionately yours,
“THEODOSIA,
“Late Hester Onslow.
“Could you, by any chance, send me a good miniature of
yourself?——perhaps you guess for what purpose.
Haselquist's oil picture is too large for what I want; and,
besides, is really not like you. Even with all its
imperfections his Eminence sits looking at it for hours of
an evening, and says he can scarcely fancy anything
lovelier. I do not ask after Madame de H., for I hate the
woman. His Eminence has told me such things of her! But of
course you can only make the best of it for the present, and
get on as well as you can.
“D'Esmonde tells me that Frank is a fine boy, and very good-
looking, but fearfully dissipated, but I suppose the service
is like the Life Guards with us—and what can one expect? À
propos to this, Norwood has written to me twice some
inexplicable nonsense about you, which I have not replied
to. What does he mean by 'treating a flirt like a flounce'
Jekyl says that the police have stopped his passport, or he
should have been after you to Vienna. This is quite
unintelligible to me, and I don't know why I repeat it.”
Never did a frivolous letter give more serious thought, nor bring gloomier reflections, than did this epistle to Kate Dalton. Her mind dwelt far less on the paragraph which concerned her own future than on that which spoke of George,—his devoted affection and his enduring sorrow! And so it was true that he loved her! He had even confided the avowal to another, and asked for aid and counsel. Why had he then concealed it from herself? Was the fault hers? Had her own conduct been the reason? Had her encouragement of any other estranged him, or was the teaching of the society in which she moved the reason? Poor fellow! how unfairly had she treated him,——even to that very last incident of their last meeting!—and now they were to meet no more! No, death itself could not more effectually separate them than did space and destiny. Even this she felt to be better, far better, than the chances of renewed intimacy in the world. Lady Hester had not told her why she had never divulged her secret; still less to what end she revealed it now, when the knowledge must be only misery. The mention of Norwood, and the vague half-threat connected with his name, gave her but little uneasiness, since her mind had but space for one absorbing thought,—George loved her! There was the sum of every reflection; and all the world around her, in its splendor or its brilliancy, the tortuous paths of political intrigue, the quiet byways of home-affection, the present and the future, were all as nothing when weighed against this one thought.
If her first impression had been to blame Lady Hester for revealing the secret, her second was to thank her with her whole heart. She remembered D'Esmonde, too, and the reasonings by which he accompanied the delivery of the letter; and she felt that this consciousness was a blessing of which no vicissitude could rob her,—that come what might of disappointment or sorrow in life, here, at least, in her heart of hearts, was one hoarded treasure to compensate for all. If there were but one to whom she could confide her secret, with whom she could talk over her sorrow, she thought that she would be contented. To Nelly she dared not; to Frank she could not speak of it; what, then, of Nina? Alas! it was no longer a secret to her! Nina had seen the picture, and although nothing in her manner betrayed the slightest consciousness, Kate knew her too well not to feel herself in her power.
Nina's demeanor, however, exhibited nothing of insolent triumph; on the contrary, her manner was gentle, even to submissiveness, and something almost affectionate seemed to mingle with the feeling in which she fulfilled her duties. Kate remarked this, and only needed the courage to take advantage of it At first the very idea of Nina's consciousness was torture; but day by day this terror grew weaker, till at last she actually wished that the moment of explanation was over, and that she could pour out all her griefs before her. “She may have loved unhappily, herself; and if so, will pity me. In any case, a frank avowal on my part will show that I knew nothing of his heart, and but little of my own, till 'too late.' We are never to meet again,” and so-and-so; in fact, with many a casuistry, she satisfied herself that mere memory could never be a sin,—that there could be nothing very wrong in looking back as often as the future seemed lowering and gloomy. It is hard to say if there might not have been some leaven of “pique” in these reasonings. The Prince, according to Lady Hester, if he had not entirely forgotten, was already indifferent about her. Some uncertainty of ceremonial prevented his writing or hearing from her; and at this very moment he was following out the ordinary life of dissipation which he led before. Why care for him,——why even endeavor to nourish an affection that must be blighted in the end? Besides, her marriage was never one of inclination; Lady Hester had been most frank in explaining the Prince's appreciation of it As to her own reasons for the step, she knew them too well.
All that Kate had seen of life in her Florence experiences told her that such cases were the ordinary events of the world. Few were happily married,—disparity of age, inequality of condition, incompatible tempers, and a hundred other causes were ever at work. Lady Hester used to tell her that nobody was ever satisfied with their “married lot: the good and right-minded only pined under it; the less scrupulous proclaimed their dissatisfaction to the world, and asked for sympathy.” These were the two categories that comprehended all her theory. Now Kate was quite resolved to be one of the former class; but she saw no reason why she ought not to have one “confidante” of her cares.
With all the force of these persuasions she could not get over the awkwardness of the confession, and would have given worlds that Nina herself would take the first step. That simple-minded creature, however, appeared dead to every hint or suggestion,—she could never see the drift of any remark, save in its most obvious sense, and actually pushed Kate's temper to the last entrenchment of patience by pure stupidity. “Is it possible—can it be that I am deceived—that she has not recognized the miniature?” thought Kate. “Is my secret still in my own keeping?”