LET us now return to Kate Dalton, whose life, since we last saw her, had
been one round of brilliant enjoyment. To the pleasure of the journey,
with all its varied objects of interest, the picturesque scenery of the
Via Mala, the desolate grandeur of the Splugen, the calm and tranquil
beauty of Como, succeeded the thousand treasures of art in the great
cities where they halted. At first every image and object seemed
associated by some invisible link with thoughts of home. What would
Nelly think or say of this? was the ever-recurring question of her mind.
How should she ever be able to treasure up her own memories and tell
of the wonderful things that every moment met her eyes? The quick
succession of objects, all new and dazzling, were but so many wonders to
bring back to that “dear fireside” of home. The Onslows themselves, who
saw everything without enthusiasm of any kind, appeared to take pleasure
in the freshness of the young girl's admiration. It gave them, as
it were, a kind of reflected pleasure, while, amid galleries and
collections of all that was rare and curious, nothing struck them as
half so surprising as the boundless delight of her unhackneyed nature.
Educated to a certain extent by watching the pursuits of her sister,
Kate knew how to observe with taste, and admire with discrimination.
Beauty of high order would seem frequently endowed with a power of
appreciating the beauty of art, a species of relation appearing almost
to subsist between the two.
Gifted with this instinct, there was an intensity in all her enjoyments,
which displayed itself in the animation of her manner and the elevated
expression of her features. The coldest and most worldly natures are
seldom able to resist the influence of this enthusiasm; however hard the
metal of their hearts, they must melt beneath this flame. Lady Hester
Onslow herself could not remain insensible to the pure sincerity and
generous warmth of this artless girl. For a time the combat, silent,
unseen, but eventful, was maintained between these two opposite natures,
the principle of good warring with the instincts of evil. The victory
might have rested with the true cause there was every prospect of its
doing so when Sydney Onslow, all whose sympathies were with Kate, and
whose alliance had every charm of sisterhood, was suddenly recalled to
England by tidings of her aunt's illness. Educated by her aunt Conway,
she had always looked up to her as a mother, nor did the unhappy
circumstances of her father's second marriage tend to weaken this
feeling of attachment. The sad news reached them at Genoa; and Sydney,
accompanied by Dr. Grounsell, at once set out for London. If the sudden
separation of the two girls, just at the very moment of a budding
friendship, was sorrowfully felt by both, to Lady Hester the event was
anything but unwelcome.
She never had liked Sydney; she now detested the notion of a
step-daughter, almost of her own age, in the same society with herself;
she dreaded, besides, the influence that she had already acquired over
Kate, whose whole heart and nature she had resolved on monopolizing.
It was not from any feeling of attachment or affection, it was the pure
miser-like desire for possession that animated her. The plan of carrying
away Kate from her friends and home had been her own; she, therefore,
owned her; the original title was vested in her: the young girl's whole
future was to be in her hands; her “road in life” was to be at her
dictation. To be free of Sydney and the odious doctor by the same event
was a double happiness, which, in spite of all the decorous restraints
bad news impose, actually displayed itself in the most palpable form.
The Palazzo Mazzarini was now to be opened to the world, with all the
splendor wealth could bestow, untrammelled by any restriction the taste
of Sydney or the prudence of the doctor might impose. Sir Stafford, ever
ready to purchase quiet for himself at any cost of money, objected
to nothing. The cheapness of Italy, the expectations formed of an
Englishman, were the arguments which always silenced him if he ventured
on the very mildest remonstrance about expenditure; and Jekyl was
immediately called into the witness-box, to show that among the
economies of the Continent nothing was so striking as the facilities of
entertaining. George, as might be supposed, had no dislike to see their
own house the great centre of society, and himself the much sought-after
and caressed youth of the capital.
As for Kate, pleasure came associated in her mind with all that
could elevate and exalt it, refinement of manners, taste, luxury, the
fascinations of wit, the glitter of conversational brilliancy. She had
long known that she was handsome, but she had never felt it till now;
never awoke to that thrilling emotion which whispers of power over
others, and which elevates the possessor of a great quality into a
species of petty sovereignty above their fellows. Her progress in
this conviction was a good deal aided by her maid; for, at Jekyl's
suggestion, a certain Mademoiselle Nina had been attached to her
personal staff.
It was not easy at first for Kate to believe in the fact at all that she
should have a peculiar attendant; nor was it without much constraint and
confusion that she could accept of services from one whose whole air and
bearing bore the stamp of breeding and tact. Mademoiselle Nina had been
the maid of the Princess Menzikoff, the most distinguished belle
of Florence, the model of taste and elegance in dress; but when the
Princess separated from her husband, some unexplained circumstances
had involved the name of the femme de chambre, so that, instead of
“exchanging without a difference,” as a person of her great abilities
might readily have done, she had disappeared for a while from the scene
and sphere in which habitually she moved, and only emerged from her
seclusion to accept the humble position of Kate Dalton's maid. She was a
perfect type of her own countrywomen in her own class of life. Small
and neatly formed, her head was too large for her size, and the forehead
over-large for the face, the brows and temples being developed
beyond all proportion. Her eyes, jet black and deeply set, were cold,
stern-looking, and sleepy, sadness, or rather weariness, being the
characteristic expression of the face. Her mouth, however, when she
smiled, relieved this, and gave a look of softness to her features. Her
manner was that of great distance and respect, the trained observance of
one who had been always held in the firm hand of discipline, and never
suffered to assume the slightest approach to a liberty. She contrived,
however, even in her silence, or in the very few words she ever uttered,
to throw an air of devotion into her service that took away from the
formality of a manner that at first seemed cold and even repulsive.
Kate, indeed, in the beginning, was thrown back by the studied reserve
and deferential distance she observed; but as days went over, and she
grew more accustomed to the girl's manner, she began to feel pleased
with the placid and unchanging demeanor that seemed to bespeak a mind
admirably trained and regulated to its own round of duties.
While Kate sat at a writing-table, adding a few lines to that letter
which, began more than a week ago, was still far from being completed,
Nina, whose place was beside the window, worked away with bent-down
head, not seeming to have a thought save for the occupation before her.
Not so Kate; fancies came and went at every instant, breaking in
upon the tenor of her thoughts, or wending far away on errands of
speculation. Now she would turn her eye from the page to gaze in
wondering delight at the tasteful decorations of her little chamber, a
perfect gem of elegance in all its details; then she would start up to
step out upon the terrace, where even in winter the orange-trees were
standing, shedding their sweet odor at every breeze from the Arno. With
what rapturous delight she would follow the windings of that bright
river, till it was lost in the dark woods of the Cascini! How the sounds
of passing equipages, the glitter and display of the moving throng,
stirred her heart; and then, as she turned back within the room, with
what a thrill of ecstasy her eyes rested on the splendid ball-dress
which Nina had just laid upon the sofa! With a trembling hand she
touched the delicate tissue of Brussels lace, and placed it over her
arm in a graceful fold, her cheek flushing and her chest heaving in
consciousness of heightening beauty.
[Illustration: 262]
Nina's head was never raised, her nimble fingers never ceased to ply;
but beneath her dark brows her darker eyes shot forth a glance of deep
and subtle meaning, as she watched the young girl's gesture.
“Nina,” cried she, at last, “it is much too handsome for me; although
I love to look at it, I actually fear to wear it. You know I never have
worn anything like this before.”
“Mademoiselle is too diffident and too unjust to her own charms;
beautiful as is the robe, it only suits the elegance of its wearer.”
“One ought to be so graceful in every gesture, so perfect in every
movement beneath folds like these,” cried Kate, still gazing at the fine
tracery.
“Mademoiselle is grace itself!” said she, in a low, soft voice, so
quiet in its utterance that it sounded like a reflection uttered
unconsciously.
“Oh, Nina, if I were so! If I only could feel that my every look and
movement were not recalling the peasant girl; for, after all, I have
been little better, our good blood could not protect us from being poor,
and poverty means so much that lowers!”
Nina sighed, but so softly as to be inaudible; and Kate went on:
“My sister Nelly never thought so; she always felt differently. Oh,
Nina, how you would love her if you saw her, and how you would admire
her beautiful hair, and those deep blue eyes, so soft, so calm, and yet
so meaning.”
Nina looked up, and seemed to give a glance that implied assent.
“Nelly would be so happy here, wandering through these galleries, and
sitting for hours long in those beautiful churches, surrounded with all
that can elevate feeling or warm imagination; she, too, would know
how to profit by these treasures of art. The frivolous enjoyments
that please me would be beneath her. Perhaps she would teach me better
things; perhaps I might turn from mere sensual pleasure to higher and
purer sources of happiness.”
“Will Mademoiselle permit me to try this wreath?” said Nina, advancing
with a garland of white roses, which she gracefully placed around Kate's
head.
A half cry of delight burst from Kate as she saw the effect in the
glass.
“Beautiful, indeed!” said Nina, as though in concurrence with an
unspoken emotion.
“But, Nina, I scarcely like this it seems as though I cannot tell what
I wish as though I would desire notice I, that am nothing that ought to
pass unobserved.”
“You, Mademoiselle,” cried Nina, and for the first time a slight warmth
coloring the tone of her manner, “you, Mademoiselle, the belle, the
beauty, the acknowledged beauty of Florence!”
“Nina! Nina!” cried Kate rebukingly.
“I hope Mademoiselle will forgive me. I would not for the world fail in
my respect,” said Nina, with deep humility; “but I was only repeating
what others spoke.”
“I am not angry, Nina, at least, not with you,” said Kate, hurriedly.
“With myself, indeed, I 'm scarcely quite pleased. But who could have
said such a silly thing?”
“Every one, Mademoiselle, every one, as they were standing beneath the
terrace t' other evening. I overheard Count Labinski say it to Captain
Onslow; and then my Lady took it up, and said, 'You are quite right,
gentlemen; there is nothing that approaches her in beauty.'”
“Nina! dear Nina!” said Kate, covering her flushed face with both hands.
“The Count de Melzi was more enthusiastic than even the rest. He vowed
that he had grown out of temper with his Raffaelles since he saw you.”
A hearty burst of laughter from Kate told that this flattery, at least,
had gone too far. And now she resumed her seat at the writing-table.
It was of the Splugen Pass and Como she had been writing; of the first
burst of Italy upon the senses, as, crossing the High Alps, the land of
the terraced vine lay stretched beneath. She tried to fall back upon the
memory of that glorious scene as it broke upon her; but it was in vain.
Other and far different thoughts had gained the mastery. It was no
longer the calm lake, on whose mirrored surface snow-peaks and glaciers
were reflected; it was not of those crags, over which the wild-fig and
the olive, the oleander and the mimosa, are spreading, she could think.
Other images crowded to her brain; troops of admirers were before her
fancy; the hum of adulation filled her ears; splendid salons, resounding
with delicious music, and ablaze with a thousand wax-lights, rose before
her imagination, and her heart swelled with conscious triumph. The
transition was most abrupt, then, from a description of scenery and
natural objects to a narrative of the actual life of Florence:
“Up to this, Nelly, we have seen no one, except Mr. Jekyl,
whom you will remember as having met at Baden. He dines here
several days every week, and is most amusing with his funny
anecdotes and imitations, for he knows everybody, and is a
wonderful mimic. You 'd swear Dr. Grounsell was in the next
room if you heard Mr. Jekyl' s imitation. There has been
some difficulty about an opera-box, for Mr. Jekyl, who
manages everybody, will insist upon having Prince
Midchekoff's, which is better than the royal box, and has
not succeeded. For this reason we have not yet been to the
Opera; and, as the Palace has been undergoing a total change
of decoration and furniture, there has been no reception
here as yet; but on Tuesday we are to give our first ball.
All that I could tell you of splendor, my dearest Nelly,
would be nothing to the reality of what I see here. Such
magnificence in every detail; such troops of servants, all
so respectful and obliging, and some dressed in liveries
that resemble handsome uniforms! Such gold and silver plate!
such delicious flowers everywhere on the staircase, in the
drawing-room, here, actually, beside me as I write! And, oh,
Nelly, if you could see my dress! Lace, with bouquets of red
camellia, and looped up with strings of small pearls. Think
of me, of poor Kate Dal ton, wearing such splendor! And,
strange enough, too, I do not feel awkward in it. My hair,
that you used to think I dressed so well myself, has been
pronounced a perfect horror; and although I own it did shock
me at first to hear it, I now see that they were perfectly
right. Instead of bands, I wear ringlets down to my very
shoulders; and Nina tells me there never was such an
improvement, as the character of my features requires
softening. Such quantities of dress as I have got, too! for
there is endless toilette here; and although I am now
growing accustomed to it, at first it worried me dreadfully,
and left me no time to read. And, a propos of reading, Lady
Hester has given me such a strange book, 'Mathilde,' it is
called; very clever, deeply interesting, but not the kind of
reading you would like; at least, neither the scenes nor the
characters such as you would care for. Of course I take it
to be a good picture of life in another sphere from what I
have seen myself; and if it be, I must say there is more
vice in high society than I believed. One trait of manners,
however, I cannot help admiring, the extreme care that every
one takes never to give even the slightest offence; not only
that the wrong thing is never said, but ever even suggested.
Such an excessive deference to others' feelings bespeaks
great refinement, if not a higher and better quality. Lady
Hester is delightful in this respect. I cannot tell you how
the charm of her manner grows into a fascination. Captain
Onslow I see little of, but he is always good-humored and
gay; and as for Sir Stafford, he is like a father in the
kindliness and affection of his cordiality. Sydney I miss
greatly; she was nearly of my own age, and although so much
superior to me in every way, so companionable and
sisterlike. We are to write to each other if she does not
return soon. I intended to have said so much about the
galleries, but Mr. Jekyl does quiz so dreadfully about
artistic enthusiasm, I am actually ashamed to say a word;
besides, to me, Nelly, beautiful pictures impart pleasure
less from intrinsic merit than from the choice of subject
and the train of thoughts they originate; and for this
reason I prefer Salvator Rosa to all other painters. The
romantic character of his scenery, the kind of story that
seems to surround his characters, the solemn tranquillity of
his moonlights, the mellow splendor of his sunsets, actually
heighten one's enjoyment of the realities in nature. I am
ashamed to own that Raffaelle is less my favorite than
Titian, whose portraits appear to reveal the whole character
and life of the individual represented. In Velasq'uez there
is another feature--”
Here came an interruption, for Nina came with gloves to
choose, and now arose the difficult decision between a fringe of silver
filigree and a deep fall of Valenciennes lace, a question on both
sides of which Mademoiselle Nina had much to say. In all these little
discussions, the mock importance lent to mere trifles at first amused
Kate, and even provoked her laughter; but, by degrees, she learned not
only to listen to them with attention, but even to take her share in
the consultation. Nina's great art lay in her capacity for adapting a
costume to the peculiar style and character of the wearer; and, however
exaggerated were some of her notions on this subject, there was always
a sufficiency of shrewd sense and good taste in her remarks to overbear
any absurdity in her theory. Kate Dalton, whose whole nature had been
simplicity and frankness itself, was gradually brought to assume
a character with every change of toilette; for if she came down to
breakfast in a simple robe of muslin, she changed it for a costume
de paysanna to walk in the garden, and this again for a species of
hunting-dress to ride in the Cascini, to appear afterwards at dinner in
some new type of a past age; an endless variety of these devices at last
engaging attention, and occupying time, to the utter exclusion of topics
more important and interesting.
The letter was now to be resumed; but the clew was lost, and her mind
was only fettered with topics of dress and toilette. She walked out upon
the terrace to recover her composure; but beneath the window was rolling
on that endless tide of people and carriages that swells up the great
flood of a capital city. She turned her steps to another side,
and there, in the pleasure-ground, was George Onslow, with a great
horse-sheet round him, accustoming a newly purchased Arabian to the
flapping of a riding-skirt. It was a present Sir Stafford had made her
the day before. Everything she saw, everything she heard, recalled but
one image, herself! The intoxication of this thought was intense.
Life assumed features of delight and pleasure she had never conceived
possible before. There was an interest imparted to everything, since in
everything she had her share. Oh! most insidious of all poisons is that
of egotism, which lulls the conscience by the soft flattery we whisper
to ourselves, making us to believe that we are such as the world affects
to think us. How ready are we to take credit for gifts that have
been merely lent us by a kind of courtesy, and of which we must make
restitution, when called upon, with what appetite we may.
For the time, indeed, the ecstasy of this delusion is boundless. Who has
not, at some one moment or other of his life, experienced the entrancing
delight of thinking that the world is full of his friends and admirers,
that good wishes follow him as he goes, and kind welcomes await his
coming? Much of our character for good or evil, of our subsequent
utility in life, or our utter helplessness, will depend upon how we
stand the season of trial. Kate Daiton possessed much to encourage this
credulity; she was not only eminently handsome, but she had that species
of fascination in her air which a clever French writer defines as the
feminine essence, “plus femme que les autres femmes.” If a very critical
eye might have detected in her manner and address certain little
awkwardnesses, a less exacting judgment would have probably been
struck with them as attractions, recalling the fact of her youth, her
simplicity, and the freshness of her nature. Above all other charms,
however, was the radiant happiness that beamed out in every word and
look and gesture; such a thorough sense of enjoyment, so intense a
pleasure in life, is among the very rarest of all gifts.
There was enough of singularity, of the adventurous, in the nature of
her position, to excel all the romance of her nature; there was more
than enough of real splendor around her to give an air of fact and
truth to the highest flights of her imagination. Had she been the sole
daughter of the house and name, flatteries and caresses could not have
been lavished on her more profusely; her will consulted, her wishes
inquired, her taste evoked on every occasion. And yet, with all these
seductions about her, she was not yet spoiled not yet! Home and its dear
associations were ever present to her mind; her humble fortune, and
that simple life she used to lead, enforcing lessons of humility not yet
distasteful. She could still recur to the memory of the little window
that looked over the “Murg,” and think the scenery beautiful. Her dear,
dear papa was still all she had ever thought him. Nelly was yet the
sweet-tempered, gentle, gifted creature she worshipped as a sister; even
Hanserl was the kind, quaint emblem of his own dreamy “Vaterland.” As
yet no conflict had arisen between the past and the present, between the
remembrance of narrow fortune and all its crippling exigencies, and the
enjoyment of wealth that seems to expand the generous feelings of the
heart. The lustre of her present existence threw, as yet, no sickly
light over the bygone; would it might have been always so!