IT was past midnight, the Opera was just over, and the few privileged
guests who were permitted to pay their visits to Lady Hester Onslow
were assembled in the little drawing-room and boudoir sacred to these
exclusive receptions. Nothing could be in stronger contrast than the
gorgeous splendor of the apartment and the half-dressed, careless,
lounging ease of the men as they stretched themselves on the ottomans,
lounged on the sofas, or puffed their cigars, alike indifferent to the
place and the presence of two ladies who, dressed in the very perfection
of “toilette,” did the honors of the reception.
Lady Hester, who wore a small embroidered velvet cap, coquettishly set
on one side of the head, and a species of velvet jacket, such as is
common in Greece, lay upon a sofa beneath a canopy of pink silk covered
with lace; a most splendidly ornamented hooka, the emerald mouthpiece of
which she held in her hand, stood on a little cushion beside her; while
grouped around in every attitude that taste and caprice suggested on
chairs, on cushions, squabs, “Prie-Dieu” and other drawing-room devices
of a like nature were some half-dozen men, whose air and bearing
pronounced them long habituated to all the usages of society. One stamp
of feature and style pervaded all; pale, dark-eyed, black-bearded,
and weary-looking, they seemed as though they were tired of a life of
dissipation, and yet utterly incapable of engaging in any other.
All born to high rank, some to large fortune, they found that no other
career was open to them except vice in one shape or other. The policy
of their rulers had excluded them from every road of honorable ambition;
neither as statesmen nor soldiers could they hope to win fame or glory.
Their habits of life and the tone of society gave no impulse to the
cultivation of science or literature. The topics discussed in their
circle never by chance adverted to a book; and there they were, with
heads whose development indicated all that was intellectual, with brows
and foreheads that betokened every gift of mental excellence, wearing
away life in the dullest imaginable routine of dissipation, their minds
neglected, their hearts corrupted, enervated in body, and deprived of
all energy of character; they wore, even in youth, the exhausted look of
age, and bore in every lineament of their features the type of lassitude
and discontent.
In the adjoining room sat Kate Dalton at a tea-table. She was costumed
for we cannot use any milder word in a species of “moyen-age” dress,
whose length of stomacher and deep-hanging sleeves recalled the
portraits of Titian's time; a small cap covered the back of her head,
through an aperture in which the hair appeared, its rich auburn masses
fastened by a short stiletto of gold, whose hilt and handle were studded
with precious stones; a massive gold chain, with a heavy cross of the
same metal, was the only ornament she wore. Widely different as was the
dress from that humble guise in which the reader first knew her, the
internal change was even greater still; no longer the bashful, blushing
girl, beaming with all the delight of a happy nature, credulous,
light-hearted, and buoyant, she was now composed in feature, calm, and
gentle-mannered; the placid smile that moved her lips, the graceful
motion of her head, her slightest gestures, her least words, all
displaying a polished ease and elegance which made even her beauty and
attraction secondary to the fascination of her manner. It is true the
generous frankness of her beaming eyes was gone; she no longer met you
with a look of full and fearless confidence: the cordial warmth, the
fresh and buoyant sallies of her ready wit, had departed, and in their
place was a timid reserve, a cautious, shrinking delicacy, blended with
a quiet but watchful spirit of repartee, that flattered by the very
degree of attention it betokened.
Perhaps our reader will not feel pleased with us for saying that she was
more beautiful now than before; that intercourse with the world, dress,
manners, the tact of society, the stimulus of admiration, the assured
sense of her own charms, however they may have detracted from the moral
purity of her nature, had yet invested her appearance with higher and
more striking fascinations. Her walk, her courtesy, the passing motion
of her hand, her attitude as she sat, were perfect studies of grace.
Not a trace was left of her former manner; all was ease, pliancy,
and elegance. Two persons were seated near her: one of these, our old
acquaintance, George Onslow; the other was a dark, sallow-visaged man,
whose age might have been anything from thirty-five to sixty, for, while
his features were marked by the hard lines of time, his figure had all
the semblance of youth. By a broad blue ribbon round his neck he wore
the decoration of Saint Nicholas, and the breast of his coat was covered
with stars, crosses, and orders of half the courts of Europe. This was
Prince Midchekoff, whose grandfather, having taken an active part in
the assassination of the Emperor Paul, had never been reconciled to
the Imperial family, and was permitted to reside in a kind of honorable
banishment out of Russia; a punishment which he bore up under, it was
said, with admirable fortitude. His fortune was reputed to be immense,
and there was scarcely a capital of Europe in which he did not possess
a residence. The character of his face was peculiar, for while the
forehead and eyes were intellectual and candid, the lower jaw and mouth
revealed his Calmuck origin, an expression of intense, unrelenting
cruelty being the impression at once conveyed by the thin, straight,
compressed lips, and the long, projecting chin, seeming even longer
from the black-pointed beard he wore. There was nothing vulgar or
common-place about him; he never could have passed unobserved anywhere,
and yet he was equally far from the type of high birth. His manners
were perfectly well bred; and although he spoke seldom, his quiet and
attentive air and his easy smile showed he possessed the still rarer
quality of listening well.
There was another figure, not exactly of this group, but at a little
distance off, beside a table in a recess, on which a number of prints
and drawings were scattered, and in the contemplation of which he
affected to be absorbed; while, from time to time, his dark eyes
flashed rapidly across to note all that went forward. He was a tall and
singularly handsome man, in the dress of a priest. His hair, black and
waving, covered a forehead high, massive, and well developed; his eyes
were deep-set, and around the orbits ran lines that told of long and
hard study, for the Abbe D'Esmonde was a distinguished scholar; and, as
a means of withdrawing him for a season from the overtoil of reading,
he had been attached temporarily as a species of Under-secretary to
the Mission of the “Nonce.” In this guise he was admitted into all the
society of the capital, where his polished address and gentle manner
soon made him a general favorite.
Equally removed from the flippant levity of the abbe as a class, and
the gross and sensual coarseness of the “old priest,” D'Esmonde was a
perfect man of the world, so far as taking a lively interest in all the
great events of politics, watching eagerly the changeful features of the
times, and studying acutely the characters of the leading men, at whose
dictates they were modified. Its pleasures and amusements, too, he was
willing to partake of moderately and unobtrusively; but he held himself
far apart from all those subjects of gossip and small-talk which, in a
society of lax morality, occupy so considerable a space, and in which
the great dignitaries who wear scarlet and purple stockings are often
seen to take a lively and animated share. Some ascribed this reserve
to principle; others called it hypocrisy; and some, again, perhaps with
more truth, deemed it the settled line of action of one who already
destined himself for a high and conspicuous station, and had determined
that his character should add weight and dignity to his talents.
It might have been thought that he was a singular guest to have
been admitted to receptions like the present; but Jekyl, who managed
everything, had invited him, on the principle, as he said, that a
gourmand has a decanter of water always beside him at dinner, “not to
drink, but because it looks temperate.” The abbe's presence had the same
effect; and, certainly, his calm and dignified demeanor, his polished
address, and cultivated tone, were excellent certificates of good
character for the rest.
At the tea-table the conversation languished, or only went forward at
intervals. Onslow's French was not fluent, and he was silent from
shame. Kate felt that she ought not to take the lead; and the Prince,
habitually reserved, spoke very little, and even that in the discursive,
unconnected tone of a man who was always accustomed to find that any
topic he started should be instantly adopted by the company.
The cold and steady stare with which he surveyed her would, but a short
time back, have covered her face with a blush; she could not have borne
unabashed the glance of searching, almost insolent meaning he bestowed
upon her; but now, whatever her heart might have felt, her features
were calm and passionless; nor did she in the slightest degree show any
consciousness of a manner that was costing Onslow a struggle whether to
laugh at or resent.
In one sense these two men were rivals, but each so impressed with
proud contempt for the other, their rivalry was unknown to both. Kate,
however, with her woman's tact, saw this, and knew well how her least
smile or slightest word inclined the balance to this side or to that.
The Prince was inveighing against the habit of wintering in Italy as one
of the most capital blunders of the age.
“We forget,” said he, “that, in our present civilization, art is always
first and nature second, as we see evidenced in all the results of
agriculture. It is not the most fertile soil, but the highest-labored
one which produces the best fruits. So with respect to climate, we never
bear in mind that, where nature does most, man always does least.”
“According to that rule, Prince, we should winter at St. Petersburg, and
spend the dog-days at Calcutta,” said Kate, smiling.
“So we should,” replied he; “the appliances to resist heat or cold, of
man's invention, are far better adapted to enjoyment than the accidental
variations of climate.”
“In my country,” said Onslow, tartly, “men study less how to avoid the
inclemencies of weather than to become indifferent to them. Hunting,
shooting, and deer-stalking are very sure methods to acquire this.”
The Prince paid no attention to the remark, but turned the conversation
into another channel, by asking Kate if she had ever read Fourier's
book. From this he wandered away to the characteristic differences
of national music, thence to the discoveries then making in Central
America, and lastly, engaged her in an animated discussion of the
question of slavery. On none of these points was he deeply or even well
informed, but he possessed that fluency and facility which intercourse
with society confers; and as all his knowledge was derived from men,
and not from books, it bore a certain stamp of originality about it
that secured attention. Not, indeed, from George Onslow; he was the most
bored of men. None of the topics were his topics. Of Tattersall's, the
Guards' Club, the society of London, the odds on the “Derby,” he could
have discoursed well and pleasantly. From what was “wrong” with the
Sa'nbucca filly to what was not right with Lady Flutterton's niece, he
could have told you everything; but all these other themes were, in his
estimation, but sheer pedantry, and, indeed, they only lacked a little
knowledge a very little would have sufficed to be so.
“He is gone,” said the Prince, with a caustic smile which revealed a
plan; “gone at last.”
“So, then, this was a device of yours, Prince,” said she, laughing. “I
really must call my cousin back and tell him so.”
“No, no,” said he, seriously. “I have won my battle, let me profit by
my victory. Let me speak to you on another subject.” He drew his chair
a little nearer to the table as he spoke, and laid his arm on it. Kate's
heart beat fast and full; and the color came and went rapidly in her
cheek. A vague sense of fear, of shame, and of triumphant pride were all
at conflict within her. There was but one theme in the world that
could have warranted such a commencement, so serious, so grave, so
purpose-like. Was this, then, possible?
The glittering stars all a blaze of brilliants that shone beside her
seemed an emblem of that high state which was now within her reach; and
what a torrent of varied emotions rushed through her heart! Of home, of
her father, of Nelly, of Frank; and, lastly, what thoughts of George,
poor George, whom she knew loved her, and to whom, without loving, she
was not altogether indifferent. “Do not be agitated, Mademoiselle,” said
the prince, laying the slightest touch of his jewelled fingers on her
arm. “I ask a little patience and a little calm consideration for what I
am about to say.”
“Is that really like an Irish peasant's cottage, Miss Daiton?” said the
abbe, as he held before her a drawing of one, in all the details of its
most striking misery.
“Yes, perfectly; not exaggerated in the least,” said she, hurriedly
blushing alike at the surprise and the interruption.
“You have no such misery, Monsieur le Prince, in Russia, I believe?”
remarked the priest, with a courteous bend of the head.
“We are well governed, sir; and nothing displays it more palpably than
that no man forgets his station,” said the prince, with an insolent
hauteur that made Kate blush over neck and forehead, while D'Esmonde
stood calm and passionless under the sarcasm.
“So I have always heard, sir,” said he, blandly. “I remember, when at
Wredna--”
“You have been at Wredna?” asked the Prince, in an altered voice.
But the other, not heeding the interruption, went on:
“I remember, when at Wredna, to have heard an anecdote which strikingly
illustrates the rigid obedience yielded to power, and the condition of
public opinion at the same time. A manumitted slave, who was raised to
high rank and wealth by the favor of the Czar, had returned to Wredna
in the capacity of governor. A short time after his arrival he was
tormented by applications and letters from a woman in great poverty
who asserted that she was his mother. Fedeorovna, of course in secret,
proved the truth of her assertion; but the only answer she received was
a significant caution to be silent, and not appeal to a relationship
which could only prove offensive. Perhaps incredulous of the authentic
character of so cruel a reply, perhaps stung to angry indignation by it,
she carried the humble basket of fruit and vegetables that she hawked
for a livelihood before the door of the great mansion where her son
resided; but, instead of advertising her wares, as is customary in these
Muscovite markets, by some picture of a saint or some holy inscription,
she carried a little placard, with the inscription, 'The Mother of
Alexovitch,' the name of the Governor. A crowd soon gathered around this
singular booth, heralded by so strange an announcement, and as speedily
the police resorted to the spot, and carried the offender before the
judge. The defence was the simple one that she had merely averred the
truth. I need not weary you with the mockery of investigation that
followed; the result is all I need tell. This woman was knouted and sent
away to Siberia. So much for the Governor. As for the governed, they
were enthusiastic in praise of his justice and clemency; for he might
have ordered her to be beheaded.”
“Do you tell the story as a fact, sir?” said the Prince, whose dark
cheek became almost green in its sallowness as he spoke.
“I tell it distinctly as a fact. The Papa who received the woman's
confession repeated the tale on his own deathbed, from whence it reached
me.”
“Priests can be liars, whether Greek or Roman,” said the Prince, in a
voice almost suffocated with passion; and then, suddenly checking the
course of his anger, he turned to Kate with a sickly smile, and said,
“Mademoiselle will pardon a rudeness in her presence which nothing short
of so gross a calumny could have elicited.”
“I will furnish you with all the names to-morrow, Monsieur le Prince,”
said D'Esmonde, in a whisper; and sauntered away into the adjoining
room.
“You look pale, Miss Dalton,” said the Prince.
“That shocking story--”
“Which of course you don't believe.”
“The Abbe D'Esmonde I have always heard to be a person of strict
veracity and of extreme caution.”
“Be careful of him, Miss Dalton. It is not without good reason that I
say this.”
There was a degree of solemnity in the way he uttered these words that
made Kate thoughtful and serious. Unaccustomed to see, in society,
anything but features of pleasure and amusement, she was suddenly
awakened to the conviction that its calm waters covered rocks and
quicksands as perilous as stormier seas. Could people so full of
amiabilities be dangerous acquaintances? Was there poison in this
charmed cup? Was the doubt which sprang to her mind But she had not time
for the inquiry, as the Prince offered her his arm to the supper-room.