The Mazzarini Palace was now a proverb for all that was dissipated and
extravagant throughout Florence, and in proportion as the society which
frequented it was select and few in number, the more absurd were the
rumors that went abroad of its dissipations and excesses. In default
of a real, good, tangible scandal the world invented a thousand shadowy
little slanders, that, if not as deadly to reputation at once, were just
as certain to kill character in the long run.
Sir Stafford's gout, of which he was confined to his bed or a sofa, was
pronounced the lingering agonies of a broken heart. “My Lady's” late
dinners were orgies where every licentiousness held sway. George was
a reckless gambler, who had already jeopardized all the wealth of
his family; and, as for Kate, she was at the mercy of that amiable
temperament of the human mind which always believes the worst, and as
constantly draws the darkest inference from its belief.
Now, Sir Stafford was very gouty, very irritable, and very unhappy to
boot, about a number of matters, which, however deeply interesting to
himself, should have had no concern for the world. My Lady did dine at
eleven o'clock at night, and the company was assuredly not that from
which a discriminating public would have selected archbishops, or even
minor canons, consisting for the most part of that class of which we
have already made mention in a former chapter, with now and then some
passer-through of rank, or some stray diplomate on his way to or from
his post. George Onslow was a large loser at play, but without having
recourse to those stratagems for payment which were so generally
ascribed to him. While Kate poor Kate was neither better nor worse than
the reader has hitherto known her.
We do not in this admission seek to conceal the fact that she was very
different from what first we saw her. Society had taught her tact,
grace, and elegance of deportment. Admiration had rendered her yes,--we
say it advisedly admiration had rendered her very attractive, drawing
forth a thousand resources of fascination, and a thousand arts of
pleasing, that often wither and die in the cold chill of neglect. The
most fastidious critic could not have detected a fault in her manner;
an ill-natured one might have objected to what seemed an excess of
gracefulness; but even this was relieved by a youthful freshness and
buoyancy of temperament, the last the very last remnant of her former
self.
She was the belle of Florence. Her sovereignty admitted of nothing like
a rival. Whether she drove, or rode, or danced, or walked, the same
admiring throng surrounded her; some sincere in all their admiration,
others but following the lead which fashion took, and others, again,
watchful observers of a manner in which they fancied they could trace
the settled plan of a daring and ambitious character. Vanity had been
the foible of her childish years; it was now the vice of her womanhood.
Lady Hester ministered to this failing in a hundred ways. Liking Kate
as well as it was possible for her to like anything, she took an intense
pleasure in all the admiration she met with.
As an actor is said to “create the part” which is written for him, when
he impresses the personation with traits peculiarly his own, so did
she fancy that Kate was but a reflected image of all her own graces and
fascinations; and probably the proudest days of her own triumphs never
yielded more enjoyment than she now felt in the flattering praises
bestowed upon Kate Dalton.
There were good-natured people who said that Lady Hester's admiration
had another source, and that, as a somewhat passee beauty, she knew the
full value of a younger and handsomer woman in attracting to her circle
and society all that was distinguished by rank or station. We are not
prepared to deny some force to this argument, but, assuredly, it had
less weight than other reasons. Lady Hester's own claims, besides, were
higher than these detractors admitted. She was, although not very young,
still very handsome, her rank and wealth both considerable, and her
manner the perfection of that school to which she belonged. If her
affection for Kate was only another form of selfishness, it was not the
less strong on that account. She was the confidante of her sorrows, by
no means a sinecure office; the chief counsellor in all her plans;
she was the lay-figure on which she experimented a hundred devices
in costume and toilet; and lastly, greatest charm of all, she was a
dependant. Not, indeed, that Kate herself so understood her position;
pride of family, the Dalton heritage, was too powerful in her to admit
of this. Deeply, sincerely grateful she was for all Lady Hester's
kindness; her affection she returned tenfold, but no sense of
inferiority mingled with this feeling, save that which arose from her
own devoted admiration of her friend.
The homage amid which she passed her life, the unceasing flow of
flatteries around her, were not very likely to undeceive her on this
point. A more respectful devotion could not have waited on a princess of
the royal house. The great Midchekoff gave balls in her honor. The Arab
horses of Treviliani were all placed at her disposal. The various visits
to objects of curiosity or taste were arranged for her pleasure, and
nothing omitted that could tend to stimulate her vanity and heighten her
self-esteem.
The utmost we can say for her all this while is, that if she was carried
away by the excitement of this adulation, yet, in her heart, she was
as little corrupted as was well possible. She could not be other
than enamored of a life so unchanging in its happiness, nor could
she disconnect the enjoyments around her from the possession of great
wealth. She thought of what she had been a few months back: the “same
Kate Dalton,” braving the snows of a dark German winter, with threadbare
cloak and peasant “sabots,” an object of admiration to none except poor
Hanserl, perhaps! And yet now, unchanged, unaltered, save in what gold
can change, how different was her position! It had been well if her love
of splendor had stopped here. It went further, however, and inspired a
perfect dread of humble fortune.
Over and over again did she hear disparaging remarks bestowed upon the
striving efforts of “respectable poverty,” its contrivances derided, its
little straits held up to ridicule. In dress, equipage, or household,
whatever it did was certain to be absurd; and yet all of these people,
so laughed at and scorned, were in the enjoyment of means far above her
own father's!
What a false position was this! How full of deceit must she become to
sustain it! She invoked all her sophistry to assure herself that their
condition was a mere passing state; that at some future perhaps not even
a remote one they should have “their own again;” and that as in family
and descent they were the equals of any, so they were not inferior in
all the just claims to consideration and respect. She tried to think of
her father and Nelly moving in the circles she now lived in; but, even
alone, and in the secrecy of her own thoughts, her cheek became scarlet
with shame, and she actually shuddered at the very notion. And even
Frank, her once ideal of all that was graceful and noble-looking,
how would he pass muster beside these essenced “fashionables” who now
surrounded her! She endeavored to console herself by thinking that her
father would have despised the lounging, unmanly lives they led, that
Ellen would have retired in bashful modesty from a society whose tone
of freedom and license would have shocked her, and that Frank would
have found no companionship in a class whose pleasures lay only in
dissipation; and yet all her casuistry could not reassure her. The
fascinations amid which she lived were stronger than her reason.
She became first aware of the great change in herself on recognizing
how differently a letter from home affected her to what it had done some
months before. At first she would have hastened to her room, and locked
the door, in an ecstasy of delight to be alone with dearest Nelly, to
commune with her own sweet sister in secret, to hang on every line,
every word, with delight, fancying herself once more with arms clasped
around her, or bending down beside her cheek as she leaned over her
work-table. How every little detail would move her; how every allusion
would bring up home before her, the snug little chamber of an evening,
as the bright fire glowed on the hearth, and Nelly brought out her tools
for modelling, while Hanserl was searching for some passage, a line, or
a description that Nelly wanted; and then the little discussions that
would ensue as to the shape of some weapon, or the fashion of some
costume of a past age, so often broken in upon by her father, whose
drolleries would set them laughing!
With what interest, too, she would follow each trifling occurrence of
their daily life; the progress Nelly was making in her last group; its
difficulties how would she ponder over, and wonder how to meet them!
With what eager curiosity would she read the commonest details of the
household, the dreary burden of a winter's tale! and how her heart
bounded to hear of Frank the soldier although all the tidings were that
he was with his regiment, but “spoke little of himself or the service.”
Now, however, the glow of delight which a letter used to bring up was
changed for a deep blush of anxiety and shame, anxiety, she knew not
wherefore or how; of shame, because Nelly's writing on the address was
quaint and old-fashioned; while the paper and the seal bespoke the very
lowliest acquaintance with epistolary elegance. The letter she used
to grasp at with a high-beating heart she now clutched with greater
eagerness, but in terror lest others should see and mark its vulgar
exterior!
How differently, too, did the contents affect her! So long as they
referred to herself, in her own latest narrative of her life, she
read with avidity and pleasure. Nelly's innocent wonderment was a very
delightful sensation; her affectionate participation in her happiness
was all grateful; even her gentle warnings against the seductions of
such a career were not unpleasing; but the subject changed to home, and
what an alteration came over her spirit! How dark and dismal became the
picture, how poverty-stricken each incident and event, what littleness in
every detail, how insignificant the occupations that interested them!
How great the surprise she felt at their interest in such trifles; how
astonished that their hopes and fears, their wishes or their dreads,
could take so mean a form! This came with peculiar force before her,
from a paragraph that closed Nelly's last letter, and which ran thus:
“Think of our happiness, dearest Kate! We have just seen one who saw
you lately, one of your Florence acquaintances; and I believe I might go
further and say friends, for the terms in which he spoke of you evinced
sincere and true regard. It was so kind of him to find us out, just to
come and tell us about you; indeed, he remained a day here for no other
purpose, since his diplomatic duties were urging him to England with
speed.”
When Kate had read thus far, she stopped, her face and neck crimson with
shame, and her heart beating almost audibly. With lightning rapidity she
ran over to herself three or four names of ministers and envoys who
had lately left Florence, trembling to think it might be the gorgeous
Russian, Naradskoi, the princely Neapolitan, Carnporese, or the haughty
Spaniard, Don Hernandez Orloes, who had visited their humble interior.
What a humiliation for her, if she were ever to see them again! Home,
at that instant, presented itself before her but as the witness of her
shame: how sordid and miserable did its poverty appear, and with what
vulgarity associated! Her poor old father, around whose neck but a
moment before she would have hung with rapture, she shrank from with
very terror: his dress, his look, his accent every word he spoke, every
allusion he made, were tortures to her; and Nelly even Nelly how she
blushed to fancy her humble guise and poor exterior; the little dress of
colored wool, from the pockets of which her carving-tools appeared; and
then how the scene rose before her! her father producing Nelly's last
work, some little group in clay or wood. She pictured to herself his
pride, her sister's bashfulness, the stranger's pretended admiration!
Till now, these emotions had never seen a counterfeit. Oh, how she
shuddered as her thoughts took more and more the colors of reality, and
the room itself, and its poverty-struck furniture, rose before her! At
last she read on:
“His visit was of course a great honor, and probably, had he come on any
other errand but to speak of you, we should have been half overwhelmed
with the condescension; but in very truth, Kate, I quite forgot all
his greatness and his grandeur, and lost sight of his ever holding any
higher mission than to bring news of my dearest sister. Papa, of course,
asked him to dinner. I believe he would have invited the Czar himself
under like circumstances; but, fortunately for us, for him, and perhaps
for you too, he was too deaf to hear the request, and politely answered
that he would send my letter to you with pleasure, under his own
diplomatic seal; and so we parted. I ought to add that Mr. Foglass
intends speedily to return to Florence.”
Three or four times did Kate read this name over before she could
persuade herself that she had it aright. Foglass! she had never even
heard of him. The name was remarkable enough to remember, as belonging
to a person of diplomatic rank, and yet it was quite new to her. She
turned to Lady Hester's invitation book, but no such name was there.
What form her doubts might have taken there is no knowing, when Mr.
Albert Jekyl was seen to cross the courtyard, and enter the house.
Knowing that if any could, he would be the person to resolve the
difficulty, she hastened downstairs to meet him.
“Mr. Jekyl,” cried she, hurriedly, “is there such a man as Mr. Foglass
in this breathing world of ours?”
“Of course there is, Miss Dalton,” said he, smiling at her eagerness.
“A minister or an envoy at some court?”
“Not that I have ever heard,” repeated he, with a more dubious smile.
“Well, a secretary of embassy, perhaps? something of that kind? Who is
he? what is he? where does he belong to?”
“You mean Bob, Miss Dalton,” said he, at once puffing out his cheeks
and running his hand through his hair, till it became a very good
resemblance of the ex-Consul's wig, while, by a slight adjustment of
his waistcoat, he imitated the pretentious presence of the mock royalty.
“'You mean Bob, madam,'” said he, mimicking his measured intonation and
pompous tone, “'Old Fogey, as Mathews always called me. Mathews and
I and Townsend were always together, dined at Greenwich every Sunday
regularly. What nights they were! Flows of reason, and feasts of eh?
yes, that's what they were.'”
“I must remind you that I never saw him,” said she, laughing; “though
I'm certain, if I should hereafter, it will not be very hard to
recognize him. Now, who is he?”
“He himself says, a grandson of George the Fourth. Less interested
biographers call him a son of Foglass and Crattles, who, I believe, were
not even coachmakers to royalty. He was a consul at Ezmeroum, or some
such place. At least, they showed him the name on a map, and bade him
find it out; but he found out something more, it seems, that there was
neither pay nor perquisites, neither passports nor peculation; and he
has brought back his wisdom once again to besiege the Foreign Office.
But how do you happen to ask about him?”
“Some of my friends met him in Germany,” said she, hesitatingly. She
might have blushed, had Jekyl looked at her; but he knew better, and
took pains to bestow his glances in another direction.
“It would be kind to tell them that the man is a most prying,
inquisitive sort of creature, who, if he only had the sense of hearing,
would be as mischievous as Purvis.”
“I fancy they will see but little of him,” said she, with a saucy toss
of the head. “He made their acquaintance by affecting to know me. I 'm
sure I 've no recollection of having ever seen him.”
“Of course you never knew him, Miss Dalton!” replied he, with a subdued
horror in his voice as he spoke.
“A letter for you, Mademoiselle,” said the servant to Kate; “and the man
waits for an answer.”
Kate broke the seal with some trepidation. She had no correspondents
nearer than her home, and wondered what this might mean. It was in a
strange commotion of spirit that she read the following lines:
“Mrs. Montague Ricketts presents her respectful compliments to Miss
Dalton, and begs to know at what hour to-day Mrs. M. R. may wait upon
Miss D., to present a letter which has been committed to Mrs. R.'s hands
for personal delivery. It may secure an earlier hour of audience if Mrs.
R. mentions that the precious document is from Miss D.'s father.”
What could this possibly mean? It was but that very same day the post
brought her a letter from Nelly. Why had not her father said what he
wished to say, in that? What need of this roundabout, mysterious mode of
communicating?
The sight of the servant still in waiting for the answer recalled her
from these cross-questionings, and she hurried away to consult Lady
Hester about the reply.
“It's very shocking, my dear child,” said she, as she listened to the
explanation. “The Ricketts, they tell me, is something too dreadful; and
we have escaped her hitherto. You could n't be ill, could you?”
“But the letter?” said Kate, half smiling, half provoked.
“Oh, to be sure the letter! But Buccellini, you know, might take the
letter, and leave it, with unbroken seal, near you; you could read
it just as well. I 'm sure I read everything Sir Stafford said in his
without ever opening it. You saw that yourself, Kate, or, with
your scepticism, I suppose, you 'd not believe it, for you are very
sceptical; it is your fault of faults, my dear. D'Esmonde almost shed
tears about it, the other day. He told me that you actually refused to
believe in the Madonna della Torre, although he showed you the phial
with the tears in it!”
“I only said that I had not seen the Virgin shed them,” said Kate.
“True, child! but you saw the tears; and you heard D'Esmonde remark,
that when you saw the garden of a morning, all soaked with wet, the
trees and flowers dripping, you never doubted that it had rained during
the night, although you might not have been awake to hear or see it.”
Kate was silent; not that she was unprepared with an answer, but dreaded
to prolong a discussion so remote from the object of her visit.
“Now, Protestant that I am,” said Lady Hester, with the triumphant tone
of one who rose above all the slavery of prejudice, “Protestant that I
am, I believe in the 'Torre.' The real distinction to make is, between
what is above, and what is contrary to, reason, Kate. Do you understand
me, child?”
“I'm sure Mrs. Ricketts's visit must be both,” Kate said, adroitly
bringing back the original theme.
“Very true; and I was forgetting the dear woman altogether. I suppose
you must receive her, Kate; there 's no help for it! Say three o'clock,
and I'll sit in the small drawing-room, and, with the gallery and the
library between us, I shall not hear her dreadful voice.”
“Has she such?” asked Kate, innocently.
“I'm sure I don't know,” said Lady Hester, pettishly; “but of course
she has! Those dreadful people always have! Make the visit as brief as
possible, Kate. Let it not be a pretext for anything after. Use your
eyeglass on every occasion, so that you can be short-sighted enough
never to know her again. I have seen you very supercilious at times,
child, it is precisely the manner for this interview. It was really very
wrong of your papa to write in this fashion; or your sister, or whoever
it was. Nobody thinks of anything but the post, nowadays. Pray tell them
so; say it makes me quite nervous; you see I am nervous to-day! There,
there! I don't want to fret you, child but everything has gone wrong
to-day. Midchekoff has given away his box, and I have promised mine to
the Lucchesini; and that blond flounce is much too narrow, so Celestine
tells me; but I 'm sure she has cut a piece off it to make a 'berthe'
for herself. And then the flowers are positively odious. They are
crimson, instead of cherry-color, although I told Jekyl twice over they
ought to be the very tint of Lady Melgund's nose! There, now; goodbye.
Remember all I've been saying, and don't forget that this is a 'giorno
infelice,' and everything one does will prove unlucky. I hope D'Esmonde
will not come today. I 'm really not equal to controversy this morning.
I should like to see Buccellini, however, and have a globule of the
Elysian essence. Bye-bye; do think better about the 'Madonna della
Torre,' and get rid of that odious Ricketts affair as speedily as may
be.”
With these injunctions, Kate withdrew to indite her reply to Mrs.
Ricketts, appointing three o 'clock on that same afternoon for a visit,
which she assuredly looked forward to with more of curiosity than
pleasure.