"Oh, impossible," cried Kate, in genuine anxiety that her cousin should not overtask her strength.
"Why impossible, Miss Vernon?" asked Lady Desmond, in a constrained voice. "Does your 'instinctive repugnance' to Lord Effingham permit so high an estimate of his fascinating powers, that you imagine self-esteem and self-respect rendered incapable of acting under his indifference; you little know me. I tell you, if he presents himself here to-morrow evening, neither of you shall see the slightest change in my manner—neither of you shall see a trace of the torture—"
"Georgy, dear Georgy," cried Kate, whose candid mind revolted from the strange constraint forced on it by her cousin, "be just to me, be merciful to yourself, I know it is agony to doubt me."
"God knows it is," she returned, "but at present I cannot trust you or any one, my soul is embittered; time only can show me the truth; and restore me to myself—to you. Kate, if you have deceived me; no! you could not! there is no falsehood in that face! Oh that I could read your heart; if you have deceived me, God forgive you, if not, bear with me, pardon me."
Her voice sank to the softest, tenderest accents, "Remember, I never had the holy love for father or mother to fill and soften my heart; to teach it true affection; to plant in it a pure unselfish principle, a sacrificing spirit whereby to test the seeming passion offered to me. You have known this, you have this invaluable touchstone, this unerring balance wherewith to weigh the false jewels which hollow-hearted men of the world offer, in exchange for real gems, fresh truth and warm devotion. Yes you may have weighed his and found them wanting; but you could never love him, as I do, as I did; we are alike, as substance and shadow, there is not a change of his countenance, an inflection of his voice that I cannot read; shame shame to speak so! and I have known so little happiness, I have sought my whole life for some unknown treasure to catch the first glimpse of it as it was lost to me for ever."
And at last the dark, burning eyes were suffused with the blessed refreshment of tears; but Lady Desmond's were always stormy tears; and Kate stole nearer to her in the tenderest most loving sympathy for that poor, proud, wounded heart—yet silently, for she feared the sound of her voice might recall her cousin's suspicions, and she would spurn her from her—kneeling at her feet and kissing the hand that hung down in inactivity bespeaking the language of despair.
At last Lady Desmond pressed the hand that held hers so lovingly, and drawing Kate slightly to her, muttered in tones more like her own than Kate had yet heard, "leave me now, while I feel I have wronged you, ask me no more at present," and grateful even for these words Kate slowly retired.
The next evening did indeed display the wonderful strength which pride can lend a mortified spirit, never had Lady Desmond played the part of a gracious graceful hostess to greater perfection; the only difference which Kate's watchful eye could detect, was a slight increase of animation in her manner, and of brilliancy in her conversation; just enough to lead careless observers to imagine that she enjoyed the prospect of her intended visit to Ireland, which with many politely expressed regrets she announced to her company.
The evening glided on with more than usual agreeability, to the guests at least; the only grave faces present were Miss Vernon's and Colonel Dashwood's, he seemed quite upset by the intelligence of their approaching departure, and joined but little in the noisy and probably sincere regrets of the rest. Burton was there, he had not been a frequent guest, having been generally quartered with another detachment. "I regret to find that you are going to leave this place, Miss Vernon, just as I am about to take up my abode in it," said Burton during the loudest notes of a bravura sung by Miss Meredyth, "I have heard so much, yet I seem doomed to see so little of you."