Amongst the embarrassments of story-telling there is one which, to be
appreciated, must have been experienced; it is, however, sufficiently
intelligible to claim sympathy even by indicating,--we mean the
difficulty a narrator has in the choice of those incidents by which
his tale is to be marked out, and the characters who fill it adequately
depicted.
It is quite clear that a great number of events must occur in the story
of every life of which no record can be made; some seem too trivial,
some too irrelevant for mention, and yet, when we come to reflect upon
real life itself, how many times do we discover that what appeared to be
but the veriest trifles were the mainsprings of an entire existence,
and the incidents which we deemed irrelevant were the hidden links
that connected a whole chain of events? How easy, then, to err in the
selection! This difficulty presents itself strongly to us at present; a
vast number of circumstances rise before us from which we must refrain,
lest they should appear to indicate a road we are not about to travel;
and, at the same time, we feel the want of those very events to
reconcile what may well seem contradictions in our history.
It not unfrequently happens that an apology is just as tiresome as
the offence it should excuse; and so, without further explanation, we
proceed. Lady Dorothea soon found herself as much sought after as she
had previously been neglected. The Duchesse de Luygnes was the great
leader of fashion at Paris; and the marked attentions by which she
distinguished her Ladyship at once established her position. Of course
her unquestionable claim to station, and her own high connections
rendered the task less difficult; while it imparted to Lady Dorothea's
own manner and bearing that degree of dignity and calm which never
accompany an insecure elevation.
With such refinement of delicacy, such exquisite tact, was every step
managed that her Ladyship was left to suppose every attention she
received sprung out of her own undeniable right to them, and to the
grace and charm of a manner which really had had its share of success
some five-and-thirty years before. The gloomy isolation she had passed
through gave a stronger contrast to the enjoyment of her present life;
and for the first time for years she regained some of that courtly
elegance of address which in her youth had pre-eminently distinguished
her. The change had worked favorably in her temper also; and Martin
perceived, with astonishment, that she neither made injurious
comparisons between the present and the past, nor deemed the age they
lived in one of insufferable vulgarity. It would scarcely have been
possible for Lady Dorothea not to connect her altered position with the
friendship between Kate Henderson and her former pupil; she knew it, and
she felt it. All her self-esteem could not get over this consciousness;
but it was a humiliation reserved for her own heart, since nothing in
Kate's manner indicated even a suspicion of the fact. On the contrary,
never had she shown herself more submissive and dependent. The duties
of her office, multiplied as they were tenfold by her Ladyship's
engagements, were all punctually acquitted, and with a degree of tact
and cleverness that obtained from Lady Dorothea the credit of a charming
note-writer. Nor was she indifferent to the effect Kate produced in
society, where her beauty and fascination had already made a deep
impression.
Reserving a peculiar deference and respect for all her intercourse with
Lady Dorothea, Kate Henderson assumed to the world at large the ease and
dignity of one whose station was the equal of any. There was nothing in
her air or bearing that denoted the dependant; there was rather a dash
of haughty superiority, which did not scruple to avow itself and bid
defiance to any bold enough to question its claims. Even this was a
secret flattery to Lady Dorothea's heart; and she saw with satisfaction
the success of that imperious tone which to herself was subdued to
actual humility.
Lady Dorothea Martin and her beautiful companion were now celebrities
at Paris; and, assuredly, no city of the world knows how to shower
more fascinations on those it favors. Life became to them a round of
brilliant festivities. They received invitations from every quarter, and
everywhere were met with that graceful welcome so sure to greet those
whose airs and whose dress are the ornaments of a salon. They “received”
at home, too; and her Ladyship's Saturdays were about the most exclusive
of all Parisian receptions. Tacitly, at least, the whole management and
direction of these “Evenings” was committed to Kate. Martin strictly
abstained from a society in every way distasteful to him. The Captain
had come to care for nothing but play, so that the Club was his only
haunt; and it was the rarest of all events to see him pass even a few
minutes in the drawing-room. He had, besides, that degree of shrinking
dislike to Kate Henderson which a weak man very often experiences
towards a clever and accomplished girl. When he first joined his family
at Paris, he was struck by her great beauty and the elegance of a manner
that might have dignified any station, and he fell partly in love,--that
is to say, as much in love as a captain of hussars could permit himself
to feel for a governess. He condescended to make small advances, show
her petty attentions, and even distinguish her by that flattering stare,
with his glass to his eye, which he had known to be what the poet calls
“blush-compelling” in many a fair cheek in provincial circles.
To his marvellous discomfiture, however, these measures were not
followed by any success. She never as much as seemed aware of them, and
treated him with the same polite indifference, as though he had been
neither a hussar nor a lady-killer. Of course he interpreted this as a
piece of consummate cunning; he had no other measure for her capacity
than would have been suited to his own. She was a deep one, evidently
bent on drawing him on, and entangling him in some stupid declaration,
and so he grew cautious. But, somehow, his reserve provoked as little
as his boldness. She did not change in the least; she treated him with a
quiet, easy sort of no-notice,--the most offensive thing possible to one
bent upon being impressive, and firmly persuaded that he need only wish,
to be the conqueror.
Self-worship was too strong in him to suffer a single doubt as to his
own capacity for success, and therefore the only solution to the mystery
of her manner was its being an artful scheme, which time and a little
watching would surely explain. Time went on, and yet he grew none the
wiser; Kate continued the same impassive creature as at first. She never
sought,--never avoided him. She met him without constraint,--without
pleasure, too. They never became intimate, while there was no distance
in their intercourse; till at last, wounded in his self-esteem, he
began to feel that discomfort in her presence which only waits for the
slightest provocation to become actual dislike.
With that peevishness that belongs to small minds, he would have been
glad to have discovered some good ground for hating her; and a dozen
times a day did he fancy that he had “hit the blot,” but somehow he
always detected his mistake erelong; and thus did he live on in that
tantalizing state of uncertainty and indecision which combines about as
much suffering as men of his stamp are capable of feeling.
If Lady Dorothea never suspected the degree of influence Kate silently
exercised over her, the Captain saw it palpably, and tried to nourish
the knowledge into a ground for dislike. But somehow she would no more
suffer herself to be hated than to be loved, and invariably baffled
all his attempts to “get up” an indignation against her. By numberless
devices--too slight, too evanescent to be called regular coquetry--she
understood how to conciliate him, even in his roughest moods, while she
had only to make the very least possible display of her attractions to
fascinate him in his happier moments. The gallant hussar was not much
given to self-examination. It was one of the last positions he would
have selected; and yet he had confessed to his own heart that, though he
'd not like to marry her himself, he 'd be sorely tempted to shoot any
man who made her his wife.
Lady Dorothea and Kate Henderson were seated one morning engaged in the
very important task of revising the invitation-book,--weeding out the
names of departed acquaintance, and canvassing the claims of those who
should succeed them. The rigid criticism as to eligibility showed how
great an honor was the card for her Ladyship's “Tea.” While they were
thus occupied, Captain Martin entered the room with an open letter in
his hand, his air and manner indicating flurry, if not actual agitation.
“Sorry to interrupt a privy council,” said he, “but I've come to ask
a favor,--don't look frightened; it's not for a woman, my Lady,--but I
want a card for your next Saturday, for a male friend of mine.”
“Kate has just been telling me that 'our men' are too numerous.”
“Impossible. Miss Henderson knows better than any one that the success
of these things depends on having a host of men,--all ages, all classes,
all sorts of people,” said he, indolently.
“I think we have complied with your theory,” said she, pointing to the
book before her. “If our ladies are chosen for their real qualities, the
men have been accepted with a most generous forbearance.”
“One more, then, will not damage the mixture.”
“Of course, Captain Martin, it is quite sufficient that he is a friend
of yours--that you wish it--”
“But it is no such thing, Miss Henderson,” broke in Lady Dorothea. “We
have already given deep umbrage in many quarters--very high quarters,
too--by refusals; and a single mistake would be fatal to us.”
“But why need this be a mistake?” cried Captain Martin, peevishly. “The
man is an acquaintance of mine,--a friend, if you like to call him so.”
“And who is he?” asked my Lady, with all the solemnity of a judge.
“A person I met at the Cape. We travelled home together--saw a great
deal of each other--in fact--I know him as intimately as I do--any
officer in my regiment,” said the Captain, blundering and faltering at
every second word.
“Oh! then he is one of your own corps?” said her Ladyship.
“I never said so,” broke he in. “If he had been, I don't fancy I should
need to employ much solicitation in his behalf; the--they are not
usually treated in that fashion!”
“I trust we should know how to recognize their merits,” said Kate,
with a look which sorely puzzled him whether it meant conciliation or
raillery.
“And his name?” asked my Lady. “His name ought to be decisive, without
anything more!”
“He's quite a stranger here, knows nobody, so that you incur no risk as
to any impertinent inquiries, and when he leaves this, to-morrow or next
day, you 'll never see him again.” This the Captain said with all the
confusion of an inexpert man in a weak cause.
“Shall I address his card, or will you take it yourself, Captain
Martin?” said Kate, in a low voice.
“Write Merl,--Mr. Herman Merl,” said he, dropping his own voice to the
same tone.
“Merl!” exclaimed Lady Dorothea, whose quick hearing detected the words.
“Why, where on earth could you have made acquaintance with a man called
Merl?”
“I have told you already where and how we met; and if it be
any satisfaction to you to know that I am under considerable
obligations--heavy obligations--to this same gentleman, perhaps it might
incline you to show him some mark of attention.”
“You could have him to dinner at your Club,--you might even bring him
here, when we're alone, Harry; but really, to receive him at one of
our Evenings! You know how curious people are, what questions they will
ask:--'Who is that queer-looking man?'--I 'm certain he is so.--'Is he
English?'--'Who does he belong to?'--'Does he know any one?'”
“Let them ask me, then,” said Martin, “and I may, perhaps, be able to
satisfy them.” At the same moment he took up from the table the card
which Kate had just written, giving her a look of grateful recognition
as he did so.
“You 've done this at your own peril, Miss Henderson,” said Lady
Dorothea, half upbraidingly.
“At _mine_, be it rather,” said the Captain, sternly.
“I accept my share of it willingly,” said Kate, with a glance which
brought a deep flush over the hussar's cheek, and sent through him a
strange thrill of pleasure.
“Then I am to suppose we shall be honored with your own presence on this
occasion,--rare favor that it is,” said her Ladyship.
“Yes, I 'll look in. I promised Merl to present him.”
“Oh, you need n't!” said she, peevishly. “Half the men merely make their
bow when they meet me, and neither expect me to remember who they are
or to notice them. I may leave your distinguished friend in the same
category.”
A quick glance from Kate--fleeting, but full of meaning--stopped Martin
as he was about to make a hasty reply. And, crumpling up the card with
suppressed passion, he turned and left the room.
“Don't put that odious name on our list, Miss Henderson,” said Lady
Dorothea; “we shall never have him again.”
“I 'm rather curious to see him,” said Kate. “All this discussion has
imparted a kind of interest to him, not to say that there would seem
something like a mystery in Captain Martin's connection with him.”
“I confess to no such curiosity,” said my Lady, haughtily. “The taste
to be amused by vulgarity is like the passion some people have to see an
hospital; you may be interested by the sight, but you may catch a malady
for your pains.” And with this observation of mingled truth and fallacy
her Ladyship sailed proudly out of the room in all the conscious
importance of her own cleverness.