LADY HESTER ONSLOW had passed a day of martyrdom. There was scarcely
a single contrariety in the long catalogue of annoyances which had not
fallen to her share. Her servants, habitually disciplined to perfection,
had admitted every bore of her acquaintance, while, to the few she
really wished to see, admittance had been denied. The rumor of an
approaching departure had got wind through the servants, and the
hall and the courtyard were crowded with creditors, duns, and begging
impostors of every age and class and country. It seemed as if every
one with a petition or a bill, an unsatisfied complaint or an unsettled
balance, had given each other a general rendezvous that morning at the
Mazzarini Palace.
It is well known how the most obsequious tradespeople grow peremptory
when passports are signed and posthorses are harnessed. The bland
courteousness with which they receive “your Ladyship's orders” undergoes
a terrible change. Departure is the next thing to death. Another country
sounds like another world. The deferential bashfulness that could not
hint at the mention of money, now talks boldly of his debt. The solvent
creditor, who said always “at your convenience,” has suddenly a most
pressing call “to make up a large sum by Saturday.”
All the little cajoleries and coquetries, all the little seductions and
temptations of trade, are given up. The invitations to buy are converted
into suggestions for “cash payment.” It is very provoking and very
disenchanting! From a liberal and generous patron, you suddenly discover
yourself transformed into a dubious debtor. All the halo that has
surrounded your taste is changed for a chill atmosphere of suspicion
and distrust. The tradesfolk, whose respectful voices never rose above
a whisper in the hall, now grew clamorous in the antechamber; and more
than once did they actually obtrude themselves in person within those
charmed precincts inhabited by Lady Hester.
What had become of Miss Dalton? where could she be all this while? Had
not Mr. Jekyl called? what was he about that he had not “arranged” with
all these “tiresome creatures”? Was there no one who knew what to do?
Was not Captain Onslow, even, to be found? It was quite impossible that
these people could be telling the truth; the greater number, if not all
of them, must have been paid already, for she had spent a world of
money latterly “somehow.” Ce'lestine was charged with a message to this
effect, which had a result the very opposite to what it was intended;
and now the noisy tongues and angry accents grew bolder and louder.
Still none came to her rescue; and she was left alone to listen to the
rebellious threatenings that murmured in the courtyard, or to read
the ill-spelled impertinences of such as preferred to epistolize their
complaints.
The visitors who found their way to the drawing-room had to pass through
this motley and clamorous host; and, at each opening of the door, the
sounds swelled loudly out.
More than once she bethought her of Sir Stafford; but shame opposed the
resolution. His liberality, indeed, was boundless; and therein lay
the whole difficulty. Were the matter one for discussion or angry
remonstrance, she could have adventured it without a dread. She could
easily have brought herself to confront a struggle, but was quite
unequal to an act of submission. Among the numerous visitors who now
thronged the salons, Lord Norwood, who had just returned from his
shooting excursion in the Maremma, was the only one with whom she had
anything like intimacy.
“I am but a poor counsellor in such a case,” said he, laughing. “I was
never dunned in my life, personally, I mean, for I always take care not
to be found; and as to written applications, I know a creditor's seal
and superscription as well as though I had seen him affix them. The very
postmark is peculiar.”
“This levity is very unfeeling at such a moment,” said Lady Hester,
angrily; “and when you see me so utterly deserted, too!”
“But where 's Jekyl? He ought to know how to manage this!”
“He has never been here since morning. His conduct is inexcusable!”
“And George?”
“Out the whole day!”
“And the 'Dalton'? for she has rather a good head, if I don't mistake
her.”
“She took the carriage into town, and has not returned.”
“By Jove! I'd write a line to Sir Stafford; I 'd tell him that I was
going for change of ah--, and all that sort of thing, to Como for a week
or two, and that these people were so pestering and pressing, and all
that; that, in fact, you were worried to death about it; and finding
that your means were so very limited--”
“But he has been most liberal. His generosity has been without bounds.”
“So much the better; he'll come down all the readier now.”
“I feel shame at such a course,” said she, in a weak, faint voice.
“As I don't precisely know what that sensation is, I can't advise
against it; but it must needs be a very powerful emotion, if it prevent
you accepting money.”
“Can you think of nothing else, Norwood?”
“To be sure I can--there are twenty ways to do the thing. Close the
shutters, and send for Buccellini; be ill dangerously ill and leave this
to-morrow, at daybreak; or give a ball, like Dashwood, and start when
the company are at supper. You lose the spoons and forks, to be sure;
but that can't be helped. You might try and bully them, too though
perhaps it 's late for that; and lastly and, I believe, best of all
raise a few hundreds, and pay them each something.”
“But how or where raise the money?”
“Leave that to me, if it must be done. The great benefactor of mankind
was the fellow that invented bills. The glorious philanthropist that
first devised the bright expedient of living by paper, when bullion
failed, was a grand and original genius. How many a poor fellow might
have been rescued from the Serpentine by a few words scrawled over a
five-shilling stamp! What a turn to a man's whole earthly career has
been often given, as his pen glided over the imaginative phrase
'I promise to pay'!”
Lady Hester paid no attention to the Viscount's moralizings. Shame
indignant shame monopolized all her feelings.
“Well,” said she, at last, “I believe it must be so. I cannot endure
this any longer. Jekyl has behaved shamefully; and George I 'll never
forgive. They ought to have taken care of all this. And now, Norwood, to
procure the money what is to be done?”
“Here 's the patent treasury for pocket use the 'Young Man's Best
Companion,'” said he, taking out of a black morocco case three or four
blank bill-stamps, together with a mass of acceptances of various kinds,
the proceeds of various play debts, the majority of which he well knew
to be valueless. “What amount will be sufficient, how much shall we draw
for?” said he, seating himself, pen in hand, at the table.
“I cannot even guess,” said she, trembling with embarrassment and
confusion. “There are all these people's accounts and letters. I suppose
they are all horrid cheats. I 'm sure I never got half the things, and
that the rest are already paid for. But no matter now; let us have done
with them at any cost.”
“'Morlandi, coachmaker' pretty well for Signer Morlandi!” said Norwood
“eleven hundred scudi for repairs to carriages for destroying your
patent axles, and replacing English varnish by the lacquer of a tea-tray
something less than two hundred and fifty pounds!”
“He is an obliging creature,” said Lady Hester, “and always punctual.”
“In that case we 'll deal generously with him. He shall have half his
money, if he gives a receipt in full.”
“'Legendre, coiffeur; eight thousand francs.' Pas mal, Monsieur
Legendre! kid gloves and perfumes, Madonna bands and Macassar oil, are
costly things to deal in.”
“That is really iniquitous,” said Lady Hester. “I see every bouquet is
put down at a hundred francs!”
“A conservatory, at that rate, is better property than a coal-mine.
Shall we say one thousand francs for this honest coiffeur?”
“Impossible! He would scorn such an offer.”
“Pardon me. I know these people somewhat better and longer than you do;
and so far even from suffering in his estimation if that were a matter
of any consequence you will rise in his good opinion. An Italian always
despises a dupe, but entertains a sincere respect for all who detect
knavery. I 'll set him down for one thousand, to be increased to fifteen
hundred if he'll tell me how to cut down his neighbor, Guercini.”
“What of Guercini? How much is his claim?”
“A trifle under five thousand crowns.”
“Nearly one thousand pounds!” exclaimed she. “Say, rather, eleven
hundred and upwards,” said Norwood.
“It is incredible how little I've had from him: a few trifling rings and
brooches; some insignificant alterations and new settings; one or two
little presents to Kate; and, I really believe, nothing more.”
“We are getting deeper and deeper,” said Norwood, turning over the
bills. “Contardo, the wine-merchant, and Frisani, table-decker, are both
large claimants. If pine-apples were the daily food of the servants'
hall, they could scarcely cut a more formidable figure in the reckoning,
indeed, if the whole establishment did nothing but munch them during all
their leisure hours, the score need not be greater. Do you know, Hester,
that the rogueries of the Continent are a far heavier infliction than
the income-tax, and that the boasted economy of a foreign residence is
sensibly diminished by the unfortunate fact that one honest tradesman
is not to be found from Naples to the North Pole? They are Spartans in
deceit, and only disgraced whenever the rascality is detected. Now, it
is quite absurd to read such an item as this: 'Bonbons and dried fruits,
three hundred and seventy crowns!' Why, if your guests were stuffed with
marrons glaces, this would be an exaggeration.”
“You are very tiresome, Norwood,” said she, peevishly. “I don't want to
be told that these people are all knaves; their character for honesty is
no affair of mine; if it were, Buccellini could easily mesmerize any one
of them and learn all his secrets. I only wish to get rid of them, it
's very distressing to hear their dreadful voices, and see their more
dreadful selves in the court beneath.”
“The task is somewhat more difficult than I bargained for,” said
Norwood, thoughtfully. “I fancied a few 'hundreds' would suffice, but we
must read 'thousands' instead. In any case, I 'll hold a conference with
them, and see what can be done.”
“Do so, then, and lose no time, for I see Midchekoff s chasseur below,
and I 'm sure the Prince is coming.”
Norwood gave her a look which made her suddenly become scarlet, and then
left the room without speaking.
If he had not been himself a debtor with the greater number of those who
waited below, few could have acquitted themselves more adroitly in such
a mission. He was an adept in that clever game by which duns are foiled
and tradesmen mollified; he knew every little menace and every flattery
to apply to them, when to soothe and when to snub them. All these
arts he was both ready and willing to exercise, were it not for the
unpleasant difficulty that his own embarrassments rendered him a
somewhat dubious ambassador. In fact, as he himself phrased it, “it was
playing advocate with one leg in the dock.”
He lingered a little, therefore, as he went; he stopped on the landing
of the stairs to peep out on the tumultuous assemblage beneath, like
a general surveying the enemy's line before the engagement; nor was he
over-pleased to remark that little Purvis was bustling about among
the crowd, note-book and pencil in hand, palpably taking evidence and
storing up facts for future mention. As he was still looking, the
great gate was thrown open with a crash, and a caleche, dirty and
travel-stained, was whirled into the court by three steaming and panting
posters. After a brief delay, a short, thick-set figure, enveloped in
travelling-gear, descended, and putting, as it seemed, a few questions
as to the meaning of the assembled throng, entered the house.
Curious to learn who, what, and whence the new arrival came, Norwood
hurried downstairs; but all that he could learn from the postilion was
that the stranger had posted from Genoa, using the greatest speed all
the way, and never halting, save a few minutes for refreshment. The
traveller was not accompanied by a servant, and his luggage bore neither
name nor crest to give any clew as to his identity. That he was English,
and that he had gone direct to Sir Stafford's apartments, was the whole
sum of the Viscount's knowledge; but even this seemed so worthy of
remark that he hastened back with the tidings to Lady Hester, instead of
proceeding on his errand.
She treated the announcement with less interest. It might be Proctor,
Sir Stafford's man. Was he tall and black-whiskered? No, he was short;
and, so far as Norwood saw, he thought him fair-haired. “She knew of
nobody to bear that description. It might be an English physician from
Genoa, there was one there, or in Nice, she forgot exactly which, who
was celebrated for treating gout, or sore eyes, she could not remember
precisely, but it was certainly one or the other. On recollection,
however, it was probably gout, because he had attended Lord Hugmore, who
was blind.”
“In that case,” said Norwood, “Onslow would seem to be worse.”
“Yes, poor man, much worse. George sat up with him the night before
last, and said he suffered terribly. His mind used to wander at
intervals, too, and he spoke as if he was very unhappy.”
“Unhappy, a man with upwards of thirty thousand a year unhappy!” said
Norwood, clasping his hands over his head as he spoke.
“You forget, my Lord, that there are other considerations than moneyed
ones which weigh at least with some persons; and if Onslow's fortune
be a princely one, he may still feel compunctious regrets for his
detestable conduct to me!”
“Oh, I forgot that!” said Norwood, with a most laudable air of
seriousness.
“It was very kind of you, my Lord, very considerate and very kind,
indeed, to forget it. Yet I should have fancied it was the very
sentiment uppermost in the mind of any one entering this chamber,
witnessing the solitary seclusion of my daily life, beholding the
resources by which the weary hours are beguiled, not to speak of the
ravages which sorrow has left upon these features.”
“On that score, at least, I can contradict you, Hester,” said he, with a
smile of flattering meaning. “It is now above eight years since first--”
“How can you be so tiresome?” said she, pettishly.
“Prince Midchekoff, my Lady, presents his compliments,” said a servant,
“and wishes to know if your Ladyship will receive him at dinner to-day,
and at what hour?”
“How provoking! Yes, say, 'Yes, at eight o'clock,'” said she, walking up
and down the room with impatience. “You 'll stay and meet him, Norwood.
I know you 're not great friends; but no matter, George is so uncertain.
He left us t' other day to entertain the Prince alone, Kate and
myself, only fancy; and as he takes half-hour fits of silence, and Kate
occasionally won't speak for a whole evening together, my part was a
pleasant one.”
“How Florence wrongs you both!” said Norwood. “They say that no one is
more agreeable to your Ladyship than the Midchekoff,” said he, slowly
and pointedly.
“As Miss Dalton's admirer, I hope rumor adds that,” said she, hastily.
“What? are you really serious? Has the Dalton pretensions?”
“Perhaps not; but the Prince has,” interrupted Lady Hester. “But you
are forgetting these people all the while. Do pray do something anything
with them; and don't forget us at eight o'clock.” And with this Lady
Hester hurried from the room, as if admonished by her watch of the
lateness of the hour, but really anxious to escape further interrogatory
from the Viscount.
When Norwood reached the court, he was surprised to find it empty; not
one of the eager creditors remained, but all was still and silent.
“What has become of these good people?” asked he of the porter.
“The stranger who arrived in the caleche awhile ago spoke a few words to
them, and they went.”
This was all that he knew, and being a porter, one of that privileged
caste whose prerogative it is never to reveal what takes place before
their eyes, his present communication was remarkable.
“Would that the good genius had remembered me in his moment of generous
abandonment!” muttered Norwood, as he took his road homeward to dress
for dinner.
Little scrupulous about the means of getting out of a difficulty,
provided it were only successful, Norwood scarcely bestowed another
thought upon the whole matter, and lounged along the streets, as
forgetful of the late scene as though it had passed twenty years before.
As the Viscount strolled along towards his lodgings, Kate Dalton, with
trembling limbs and palpitating heart, threaded her way through the
thronged streets, now wet and slippery from a thin rain that
was falling. So long as her road lay through the less-frequented
thoroughfares, her appearance excited little or no attention in the
passers-by; but when she entered the Piazza Santa Trinita, all ablaze
with gas-lamps and the reflected lights from brilliant shops, many
stopped, turned, and gazed at the strange sight of a young and beautiful
girl, attired in the very height of fashion, being alone and afoot at
such an hour. Unaccountable even to mystery, as it seemed, there was
something in her gait and carriage that at once repelled the possibility
of a disparaging impression, and many touched or removed their hats
respectfully as they made way for her to pass. To avoid the carriages,
which whirled past in every direction and at tremendous speed, she
passed close along by the houses; and, in doing so, came within that
brilliant glare of light that poured from the glass doors of the great
Cafe of the Piazza. It was exactly the hour when the idle loungers of
Florence society that listless class who form the staple of our club
life in England were swarming to talk of the plans of the evening, what
resources of pleasure were available, and what receptions were open.
The drizzling rain, and the cold, raw feeling of the air prevented their
being seated, as their custom was, before the doors, where in every
attitude of graceful languor they habitually smoked their cigars and
discussed the passersby, in all the plenitude of recreative indolence.
The group consisted of men of every age and country.
There were princes and blacklegs and adventurers; some with real rank
and fortune, others as destitute of character as of means. Many owned
names great and renowned in history; others bore designations only
chronicled in the records of criminal jurisprudence. All were well
dressed, and, so far as cursory notice could detect, possessed the ease
and bearing of men familiar with the habits of good society. Although
mixing in very distinct circles, here, at least, they met every day on
terms of familiar equality, discussing the politics of the hour and the
events of the world with seeming frankness and candor.
From a small chamber at the back of the cafe, a little tide of loungers
seemed to ebb and flow; while the sharp rattling sound of a dice-box
indicated the nature of the occupation that went forward there. The
small apartment was thronged with spectators of the game; and even
around the door several were standing, content to hear the tidings of a
contest they could not witness.
“To sit upon the Ponte Carraja, and chuck rouleaux of gold into the
Arno, would be to the full as amusing, and not a more costly pastime,”
said a sharp, ringing voice, which, once heard, there was no difficulty
in recognizing as Haggerstone's.
“But Onslow plays well,” said another.
“When he's in luck, sir,” said the Colonel. “Let him always have the
winning horse to ride, and I don't say he 'll lose the saddle; but
Maraffi would win on a donkey.”
“Is he a Russian?” asked one.
“No, sir, he 's worse; he 's a Greek. I know everything about him. His
mother was a Finlander, and the father a Cephalonian. I don't think
Satan himself would ask a better parentage.”
“What luck! By Jove! I never saw such luck!” said a voice from within
the door. “Onslow has no chance with him.”
“Nor will you, sir, if you persist in expressing your opinion in
English,” said Haggerstone. “Maraffi speaks every language, plays every
game, and knows the use of every weapon, from a jereed to a Joe Manton.”
“I 'll not test his abilities at any of them,” said the other, laughing.
“_Per Baccho!_ there goes something new,” said a young Italian, from the
window that looked into the street. “Who's she?”
“_Diantre!_” said the old Duc de Parivaux. “That is something very
exquisite, indeed. She was splashed by that carriage that passed, and I
just saw her foot.”
“She's the prima donna from Milan.”
“She 's the Cipriani. I know her figure perfectly.”
“She 's very like the Princesse de Raoule.”
“Taller, and younger.”
“And fifty times handsomer. What eyes! By Jove! I wish the drosky would
never move on! She is regularly imprisoned there.”
“You are very ungallant, gentlemen, I must say,” said the young Count
de Guilmard, the French secretary of legation, who, having finished his
coffee and liquor, coolly arranged his curls beneath his hat before the
glass, “very ungallant, indeed, not to offer an arm to an unprotected
princess. We Frenchmen understand our devoirs differently.” And, so
saying, he passed out into the street, while the rest pressed up closer
to the window to observe his proceedings.
“Cleverly done, Guilmard!” cried one. “See how he affects to have
protected her from the pole of that carriage.”
“She 'll not notice him.” “She will.” “She has.” “She has n't.” “She is
moving his way!” “Not at all.”
“She 's speaking!” “There, I told you he 'd succeed.”
“But he hasn't, though.” Amid all these phrases, which rattled on more
rapidly than we can write them, Onslow joined the party, one heavy
venture on a single card having involved him in a tremendous loss.
“Is that a countrywoman of yours, Onslow?” asked a young Russian noble.
“If so, the entente cordiale with France seems scarcely so secure as
statesmen tell us.”
Onslow gave one glance through the window, and dashed into the street
with a bound like the spring of a wild animal. He threw himself between
Guilmard and Kate. The Frenchman lifted his cane, and the same instant
he fell backwards upon the pavement, rather hurled than struck down
by the strong arm of the young Guardsman. Before the lookers-on could
hasten out, George had hailed a carriage, and, assisting Kate in, took
his seat beside her, and drove off.
So sudden was the whole incident, and so engrossing the terror of
poor Kate's mind, that she saw nothing of what passed, and was merely
conscious that by George's opportune coming she was rescued from the
insolent attentions of the stranger.
“Did he speak to you? Did he dare to address you?” asked Onslow, in a
voice which boiling passion rendered almost unintelligible.
“If he did, I know not,” said she, as she covered her face with shame,
and struggled against the emotion that almost choked her.
“He took your arm; he certainly laid hold of your hand!”
“It was all so rapid that I can tell nothing,” said she, sobbing; “and
although my courage never failed me till you came, then I thought I
should have fainted.”
“But how came you alone, and on foot, and at such an hour, too? Where
had you been?”
These questions he put with a sort of stern resolution that showed no
evasive answer would rescue her.
“Did you leave home without a carriage, or even a servant?” asked he
again, as no answer was returned to his former question.
“I did take a carriage in the morning; and and--”
“Sent it away again,” continued George, impetuously. “And where did you
drive to, where pass the day?”
Kate hung her head in silence, while her heart felt as if it would burst
from very agony.
“This is no idle curiosity of mine, Miss Dalton,” said he, speaking with
a slow and measured utterance. “The society you have mixed with here is
not above any reproach nor beneath any suspicion. I insist upon knowing
where you have been, and with whom? So, then, you refuse to speak, you
will not tell. If it be Lady Hester's secret--”
“No, no! The secret is mine, and mine only. I swear to you, by all we
both believe in, that it has no concern with any one save myself.”
[Illustration: 470]
“And can you not confide it to me? Have I no right to ask for the
confidence, Kate?” said he, with tenderness.
“Know you any one more deeply and sincerely your friend than I am, more
ready to aid, protect, or counsel you?”
“But this I cannot--must not tell you,” said she, in accents broken by
sobbing.
“Let me know, at least, enough to refute the insolence of an imputation
upon your conduct. I cannot tamely sit by and hear the slanderous
stories that to-morrow or next day will gain currency through the town.”
“I cannot, I cannot,” was all that she could utter.
“If not me, then, choose some other defender. Unprotected and undefended
you must not be.”
“I need none, sir; none will asperse me!” said she, haughtily.
“What! you say this? while scarce five minutes since I saw you outraged,
insulted in the open street?”
A burst of tears, long repressed, here broke from Kate; and for some
minutes her sobs alone were heard in the silence.
“I will ask but one question more, Miss Dalton,” said George, slowly,
as the carriage passed under the arched gateway of the Palace, “and then
this incident is sealed to me forever. Is this secret whatever it be in
your own sole keeping; or is your confidence shared in by another?”
“It is,” murmured Kate, below her breath.
“You mean that it is shared?” asked he, eagerly.
“Yes, Mr. Jekyl at least knows--”
“Jekyl!” cried George, passionately; “and is Alfred Jekyl your adviser
and your confidant? Enough; you have told me quite enough,” said he,
dashing open the door of the carriage as it drew up to the house. He
gave his hand to Kate to alight, and then, turning away, left her,
without even a “good-bye,” while Kate hurried to her room, her heart
almost breaking with agony.
“I shall be late, Nina,” said she, affecting an air and voice of
unconcern, as she entered her room; “you must dress me rapidly.”
“Mademoiselle must have been too pleasantly engaged to remember the
hour,” said the other, with an easy pertness quite different from her
ordinary manner.
More struck by the tone than by the words themselves, Kate turned a look
of surprise on the speaker.
“It is so easy to forget one's self at Morlache's, they say,” added the
girl, with a saucy smile; and although stung by the impertinence, Kate
took no notice of the speech. “Mademoiselle will of course never wear
that dress again,” said Nina, as she contemptuously threw from her the
mud-stained and rain-spotted dress she had worn that morning. “We have
a Basque proverb, Mademoiselle, about those who go out in a carriage and
come back on foot.”
“Nina, what do you mean by these strange words and this still more
strange manner?” asked Kate, with a haughtiness she had never before
assumed towards the girl.
“I do not pretend to say that Mademoiselle has not the right to choose
her confidantes, but the Principessa de San Martello and the Duchessa di
Rivoli did not think me beneath their notice.”
“Nina, you are more unintelligible than ever,” cried Kate, who still,
through all the dark mystery of her words, saw the lowering storm of
coming peril.
“I may speak too plainly, too bluntly, Mademoiselle, but I can scarcely
be reproached with equivocating; and I repeat that my former mistresses
honored me with their secret confidence; and they did wisely, too, for I
should have discovered everything of myself, and my discretion would not
have been fettered by a compact.”
“But if I have no secrets,” said Kate, drawing herself up with a proud
disdain, “and if I have no need either of the counsels or the discretion
of my waiting-woman?”
“In that case,” said Nina, quietly, “Mademoiselle has only perilled
herself for nothing. The young lady who leaves her carriage and her maid
to pass three hours at Morlache's, and returns thence, on foot, after
nightfall, may truly say she has no secrets, at least, so far as the
city of Florence is concerned.”
“This is insolence that you never permitted yourself before,” said Kate,
passionately.
“And yet, if I were Mademoiselle's friend instead of her servant, I
should counsel her to bear it.”
“But I will not,” cried Kate, indignantly. “Lady Hester shall know of
your conduct this very instant.”
“One moment, Mademoiselle, just one moment,” said Nina, interposing
herself between Kate and the door. “My tongue is oftentimes too ready,
and I say things for which I am deeply sorry afterwards. Forgive me, I
beg and beseech you, if I have offended; reject my counsels, disdain my
assistance, if you will, but do not endanger yourself in an instant of
anger. If you have but little control over your temper, I have even less
over mine; pass out of that door as my enemy, and I am yours to the last
hour of my life.”
There was a strange and almost incongruous mixture of feeling in the way
she uttered these words; at one moment abject in submission, and at the
next hurling a defiance as haughty as though she were an injured equal.
The conflict of the girl's passion, which first flushed, now left her
pale as death, and trembling in every limb. Her emotion bespoke the most
intense feeling, and Kate stood like one spellbound, before her. Her
anger had already passed away, and she looked with almost a sense of
compassion at the excited features and heaving bosom of the Spanish
girl.
“You wrong yourself and me too, Nina,” said Kate Dalton, at last. “I
have every trust in your fidelity, but I have no occasion to test it.”
“Be it so, Mademoiselle,” replied the other, with a courtesy.
“Then all is forgotten,” said Kate, affecting a gayety she could not
feel; “and now let me hasten downstairs, for I am already late.”
“The Prince will have thought it an hour, Mademoiselle,” said the girl;
the quiet demureness of her manner depriving the words of any semblance
of impertinence. If Kate looked gravely, perhaps some little secret
source of pleasure lay hid within her heart; and in the glance she gave
at her glass, there was an air of conscious triumph that did not escape
the lynx-eyed Nina.
“My Lady is waiting dinner, Miss Dalton,” said a servant, as he tapped
at the door; and Kate, with many a trouble warring in her breast,
hastened downstairs, in all the pride of a loveliness that never was
more conspicuous.