"I met Lord Effingham in society frequently, and he was the only man, amongst those of our circle, who did not enter himself as an aspirant for my smiles—to use the wretched jargon of those idlers—I will not say this piqued me. Pique is too weak, too French a term, to express the scorn of myself, with which his neglect filled me; he only considered me a fitting object of admiration for the vulgar mob. Yet there was a sympathy between us, that, though we seldom spoke, linked us strangely. Gradually—I cannot tell how it was—we became more intimate, and my very soul was absorbed in the intense longing to make him feel that I was not powerless. At length, I saw I was admired—I read it in his eyes a thousand times, and no longer unoccupied and listless, every faculty at its fullest stretch, both to feel and to conceal what I felt; for I dreaded either the world, or Lord Effingham, obtaining even the slightest clue to the state of my mind; then, Kate, then, for the first time, I tasted all the wild excitement—all the concentrated vitality of which life is capable."
Lady Desmond's eyes dilated, and Kate felt her own veins thrill with the contagious passion that inspired her cousin's words.
"Still," resumed Lady Desmond, "I was unconscious that, in my efforts to rivet chains on so untamable a captive, I had only twined them closely round myself. This did not last long; his excessive variability opened my eyes; though the tenderest accents had breathed the well-adapted line from my favorite poet in tones that rendered its application unmistakeable, though the interruption of our slightest conversation was avoided as unendurable in the evening, the next morning would find him so utterly cold, indifferent, almost forgetful, that I shrunk from the power so remorselessly displayed, and fled.
"Whether the novelty of my seeming indifference—for so far, I acted bravely, Kate—was not yet 'fletri,' or whether he was sick of Naples, I do not know, but he followed me to Florence, and told me, with the calm gravity of seeming truth, that Naples was insupportable without me. I believed him—nay, I think he spoke what he then felt. I was again lapped in Elysium; he was less variable—I did not care to think of the future, I was no longer strong enough to preserve the guard I had hitherto kept. His haughty iron-spirit mastered mine—he saw it, and left Florence for England.
"I will not dwell on that miserable year—I cannot—for I only remember a dark chaos of black misery and despair—an eternal effort to seem what I was not. All this is incomprehensible to you, Kate—may it ever be so. I despise myself; at this moment I hate Lord Effingham; but yet I would give every hope here, almost every hope hereafter, to see him at my feet—to hear him say, 'I love you,'—this wild longing to touch his heart; the conviction that no effort of mine can do so; the glimpse of his love; the long cold night of his indifference; and, worse than all, the irritating sense of slavery to his will, is death to me. Yet I have striven against it; I vowed I would not return to England while it contained him, and you know how I kept my vow—aye, in despite of duty. And when I did come, I believed he was in Paris. And must I live through all this again? Why does he seek me to torture me? I scarcely gave him the civil encouragement to call on me, required by the usages of society. And yet, I fear, he sees too well how vainly I struggle against his influence.
"His questions to you, when I endeavored to gain a few days' quiet reflection, uninterrupted by his disturbing presence, they were strange, yet they showed interest. Oh, Kate, Kate, can you read this riddle for me? my experience is all at fault; what say the instincts of your fresh heart?"
"He loves you," cried Kate, much moved by her cousin's recital; and she spoke her true conviction, "he must love you, and we do not know what motives he may have. Yet, I fear he must be selfish, and cold-hearted, to think so little of your feelings. Oh, dear Georgy, try not to love him; how can you love where you do not trust? pray to God to help you, and make up your mind to endure a little present pain, in the hope of future peace; let us leave this place, and go away from him—he has no right to make you wretched—let us go."
"No—impossible," said Lady Desmond, faintly, as if wearied by her own emotions. "Never was the spell so strong on me as now. I cannot—nay more, Kate, I will not break it; do not look so sadly, so shocked. I will be reasonable; you said just now we could not know his motives—fate seems to have thrown us together again—for God knows I came down here to get out of London, lest he might suddenly re-appear, to make me writhe under the consciousness of my thraldom. Let us see what another month may disclose. I feel that, before long, all doubt will be at an end, though now, at times, I think he loves me."
"Yes, he loves you—he must," cried Kate, gazing on Lady Desmond's beautiful face, as, glowing with the animation her reminiscences had called up, "but he loves himself better."