Frank was so full of his own reflections that he almost forgot his
sister's absence; nor did he notice how the time went oyer, when he
heard the sound of voices and the noise of a door closing; and, on
looking up, perceived a handsome man, something short of middle-aged,
who, dressed in the deep black of a priest, wore a species of blue
silk collar, the mark of a religious order. His features were perfectly
regular, and their expression the most bland and courteous it was
possible to imagine. There was a serene dignity, too, in his gait, as
he came forward, that showed how thoroughly at home he felt on the soft
carpet, and in the perfumed atmosphere of a drawing-room.
Bowing twice to Frank, he saluted him with a smile, so gentle and
so winning, that the boy almost felt as if they had been already
acquainted.
“I have come,” said the priest, “to pay my respects to the Princesse
de Midchekoff, and, if my eyesight is not playing me false, I have the
honor to recognize her brother.”
Frank blushed with pleasure as he bowed an assent.
“May I anticipate the kindness--which your sister would not refuse me,”
continued he, “and introduce myself. You may, perhaps, have heard of the
Abbé D'Esmonde?”
“Repeatedly,” cried Frank, taking the proffered hand in his own. “Nelly
spoke of you in almost every letter. You were always so kind to Kate in
Italy.”
“How amply am I recompensed, were not the pleasure of knowing
Miss Dalton a sufficient reward in itself. It is rare to find that
combination of excellence which can command all the homage of fashion,
and yet win the approbation of a poor priest.”
There was a humility, deep enough to be almost painful, in the tone in
which these words were uttered; but Frank had little time to dwell on
them, for already the Abbé had taken a seat on the sofa beside him, and
was deep in the discussion of all Kate's attractions and merits.
There was a sincerity, an ardor of admiration, chastened only by the
temper of his sacred character, that delighted the boy. If allusion were
made to her beauty, it was only to heighten the praise he bestowed on
her for other gifts, and display the regulated action of a mind proof
against every access of vanity. Her correct judgment, her intuitive
refinement, the extreme delicacy of her sensibilities,--these were
the themes he dwelt upon, and Frank felt that they must be rare gifts
indeed, when the very description of them could be so pleasurable.
From what the Abbé said, so far from her marriage with the great Russian
being a piece of fortune, she had but to choose her position amid the
first houses of Europe.
“It was true,” he added, “that the 'Midchekoff's' wealth was like
royalty, and as he united to immense fortune great claims of personal
merit, the alliance had everything to recommend it.”
“And this is so?” cried Frank, eagerly. “The Prince is a fine fellow?”
“Generous and munificent to an extent almost fabulous,” said D'Esmonde,
who seemed rather to resume his own train of thought than reply to
Frank's question. “The splendor of his life has already canonized a
proverb.”
“But his temper--his manner--his disposition?”
“Like all his countrymen, he is reserved, almost cold to strangers; his
intimates, however, talk of him as frankness and candor itself. Even on
political themes, where Russians are usually most guarded, he gives his
opinions freely and manfully, and, strange enough too, with a liberality
which, though common enough in our country, must be very rare indeed in
his.”
“That is strange!” said Frank, thoughtfully.
“Yes,” said D' Esmonde, dropping into the tone of one who insensibly
poured out his inmost thoughts in soliloquizing,----“Yes, he feels,
what we all do, that this state of things cannot last,--disparity of
condition may become too palpable and too striking. The contrast between
affluence and misery may display itself too offensively! Men may one
day or other refuse to sign a renewal of the bond of servitude, and
then--and then----”
“A civil war, I suppose,” cried Frank, quietly; “but the troops will
always give them a lesson.”
“Do you think so, my dear young friend?” said the Abbé, affectionately;
“do you not rather think that soldiers will begin to learn that they are
citizens, and that, when forging fetters for others, the metal can be
fashioned into chains for themselves?”
“But they have an oath,” said the boy; “they 've sworn to their
allegiance.”
“Very true, so they have; but what is the oath?--the one half of the
compact which cannot be supposed binding when the other half be broken.
Let the social policy of a government fail in its great object,----the
happiness of a people; let a whole nation gradually cease to enjoy the
advantages for the sake of which they assumed the responsibilities
and ties of family; let them day-by-day fall lower in the scale of
civilization and comfort, and after surrendering this privilege to-day,
and that to-morrow, at last take their stand on the very verge of the
precipice, with nothing but abject slavery beneath,--what would you say
of the order to charge them with the bayonet, even though the formality
of a recruiting oath should seem to warrant the obedience?”
“I 'd do it; if I was ordered,” said Frank, sternly.
“I don't think you would,” said D'Esmonde, smiling. “I read your nature
differently. I can trace, even in the flashing of your eye this instant,
the ambition of a bold and energetic spirit, and that when the moment
came you would embrace the losing cause, with all its perils, rather
than stand by tyranny, in all its strength. Besides, remember, this is
not the compact under which you entered the service, although it might,
under certain peculiar circumstances, appeal to your sense of duty. An
army is not--at least it ought not to be--a 'gendarmerie.' Go forth
to battle against the enemies of your country, carry the flag of your
Vaterland into the plains of France, plant the double eagle once more
in the Place da Carrousel,--even aggressive war has its glorious
compensations in deeds of chivalry and heroism----But here is the
Princesse,” said the Abbé, rising, and advancing courteously towards
her.
“The Abbé D'Esmonde!” cried Kate, with an expression of delight, as she
held ont her hand, which the priest pressed to his lips with all the
gallantry of a courtier. “How pleasant to see the face of a friend in
this strange land!” said she. “Abbé, this is my brother Frank, of whom
you have heard me talk so often.”
“We are acquaintances already,” said D'Esmonde, passing his arm within
the soldier's; “and albeit our coats are not of the same color, I think
many of our principles are.”
A few moments saw him seated between the brother and sister on the sofa,
recounting the circumstances of his journey, and detailing, for Kate's
amusement, the latest news of Florence.
“Lady Hester is much better in health and spirits, too,” said the Abbé;
“the disastrous circumstances of fortune would seem to have taken a
better turn; at least, it is probable that Sir Stafford's losses will
be comparatively slight. I believe her satisfaction on this head arises
entirely from feeling that no imputation of altered position can now be
alleged as the reason for her change of religion.”
“And has she done this?” asked Kate, with a degree of anxiety; for she
well knew on what feeble grounds Lady Hester's convictions were usually
built..
“Not publicly; she waits for her arrival at Rome, to make her confession
at the shrine of St. John of Lateran. Her doubts, however, have all been
solved,--her reconciliation is perfect.”
“Is she happy? Has she found peace of mind at last?” asked Kate,
timidly.
“On this point I can speak with confidence,” said D'Esmonde, warmly;
and at once entered into a description of the pleasurable impulse a new
train of thoughts and impressions had given to the exhausted energies
of a “fine lady's” life. It was so far true, indeed, that for some
days back she had never known a moment of _ennui_. Surrounded by sacred
emblems and a hundred devices of religious association, she appeared to
herself as if acting a little poem of life, wherein a mass of amiable
qualities, of which she knew nothing before, were all developing
themselves before her. And what between meritorious charities, saintly
intercessions, visits to shrines, and decorations of altars, she had
not an instant unoccupied; it was one unceasing round of employment; and
with prayers, bouquets, lamps, confessions, candles, and penances, the
day was even too short for its duties.
The little villa of La Rocca was now a holy edifice. The drawing-room
had become an oratory; a hollow-cheeked “Seminariste,” from Como, had
taken the place of the Maestro di Casa. The pages wore a robe like
acolytes, and even Albert Jekyl began to fear that a costume was in
preparation for himself, from certain measurements that he had observed
taken with regard to his figure.
“My time is up,” said Frank, hastily, as he arose to go away.
“You are not about to leave me, Frank?” said Kate.
“Yes, I must; my leave was only till four o'clock, as the
Field-Marshal's note might have shown you; but I believe you threw it
into the fire before you finished it.”
“Did I, really? I remember nothing of that. But, stay, and I will write
to him. I 'll say that I have detained you.”
“But the service, Kate dearest! My sergeant--my over-lieutenant--my
captain--what will they say? I may have to pass three days in irons for
the disobedience.”
“Modern chivalry has a dash of the treadmill through it,” said
D'Esmonde, sarcastically; and the boy's cheek flushed as he heard it.
The priest, however, had already turned away, and, walking into the
recess of a window, left the brother and sister free to talk unmolested.
“I scarcely like him, Kate,” whispered Frank.
“You scarcely know him yet,” she said, with a smile. “But when can you
come again to me,--to-morrow^ early?”
“I fear not We have a parade and a field-inspection, and then 'rapport'
at noon.”
“Leave it to me, then, dear Frank,” said she, kissing him; “I must try
if I cannot succeed with the 'Field' better than you have done.”
“There's the recall-bugle,” cried the boy, in terror; and, snatching up
his cap, he bounded from the room at once.
“A severe service,--at least, one of rigid discipline,” said D'Esmonde,
with a compassionating expression of voice. “It is hard to say whether
it works for good or evil, repressing the development of every generous
impulse, as certainly as it restrains the impetuous passions of youth.”
“True,” said Kate, pointedly; “there would seem something of priestcraft
in their _régime_. The individual is nothing, the service everything.”
“Your simile lacks the great element,--force of resemblance, Madame,”
said D'Esmonde, with a half smile. “The soldier has not, like the
priest, a grand sustaining hope, a glorious object before him. He
knows little or nothing of the cause in which his sword is drawn; his
sympathies may even be against his duty. The very boy who has just left
us,--noble-hearted fellow that he is,--what strange wild notions of
liberty has he imbibed! how opposite are all his speculations to the
stern calls of the duty he has sworn to discharge!”
“And does he dare--”
“Nay, Madame, there was no indiscretion on his part; my humble walk in
life has taught me that if I am excluded from all participation in the
emotions which sway my fellow-men, I may at least study them as they
arise, watch them in their infancy, and trace them to their fruit of
good or evil. Do not fancy, dear lady, that it is behind the grating of
the confessional only that we read men's secrets. As the physician gains
his knowledge of anatomy from the lifeless body, so do we learn the
complex structure of the human heart in the deathlike stillness of the
cell, with the penitent before us. But yet all the knowledge thus gained
is but a step to something further. It is while reading the tangled
story of the heart,--its struggles, its efforts, the striving after good
here, the inevitable fall back to evil there, the poor, weak attempt at
virtue, the vigorous energy of vice,--it is hearing this sad tale from
day to day, learning, in what are called the purest natures, how deep
the well of corruption lies, and that not one generous thought, one
noble aspiration, or one holy desire rises unalloyed by some base
admixture of worldly motive. It is thus armed we go forth into the
world, to fight against the wiles and seductions of life. How can we be
deceived by the blandishments that seduce others? What avail to us those
pretentious displays of self-devotion, those sacrifices of wealth, those
proud acts of munificence which astonish the world, but of whose secret
springs we are conversant? What wonder, then, if I have read the artless
nature of a boy like that, or see in him the springs of an ambition he
knows not of himself? Nay, it would be no rash boast to say that I have
deciphered more complicated inscriptions than those upon his heart I
have traced some upon his sister's!” The last three words he uttered
with a slow and deep enunciation, leaving a pause between each, and
bending on her a look of intense meaning.
Kate's cheek became scarlet, then pale, and a second time she flushed,
till neck and shoulders grew crimson together.
“You have no confidences to make me, my dear, dear child,” said
D'Esmonde, as, taking her hand, he pressed her down on a sofa
beside him. “Your faltering lips have nothing to articulate,----no
self-repinings, no sorrows to utter; for I know them all!” He paused for
a few seconds, and then resumed: “Nor have you to fear me as a stern or
a merciless judge. Where there is a sacrifice, there is a blessing!”
Kate held down her head, but her bosom heaved, and her frame trembled
with emotion.
“Your motives,” resumed he, “would dignify even a rasher course. I know
the price at which you have bartered happiness,--not your own only, but
another's with it!”
She sobbed violently, and pressed her hands over her face.
“Poor, poor fellow!” cried he, as if borne away by an impulse of candor
that would brook no concealment, “how I grieved to see him, separated,
as we were, by the wide and yawning gulf between us, giving himself
up to the very recklessness of despair, now cursing the heartless
dissipation in which his life was lost, now accusing himself of
golden opportunities neglected, bright moments squandered, petty
misunderstandings exaggerated into dislikes, the passing coldness of the
moment exalted into a studied disdain! We were almost strangers to each
other before,--nay, I half fancied that he kept aloof from me.
Probably,”--here D'Esmonde smiled with a bland dignity,--“probably he
called me a 'Jesuit,'--that name so full of terror to good Protestant
ears; but, on his sick-bed, as he lay suffering and in solitude, his
faculties threw off the deceptive influences of prejudice; he read me
then more justly; he saw that I was his friend. Hours upon hours have we
passed talking of you; the theme seemed to give a spring to an existence
from which, till then, all zest of life had been withdrawn. I never
before saw as much of passion, with a temper so just and so forgiving.
He needed no aid of mine to read your motives truly. 'It is not for
herself that she has done this,' were words that he never ceased to
utter. He knew well the claims that family would make on you, the
heartrending appeals from those you could not but listen to! 'Oh! if I
could but think that she will not forget me; that some memory of me will
still linger in her mind!'--this was his burning prayer, syllabled by
lips parched by the heat of fever; and when I told him to write to
you--”
“To write to me!” cried she, catching his arm, while her cheeks trembled
with intense agony; “You did not give such counsel?”
“Not alone that,” said D'Esmonde, calmly, “but promised that I would
myself deliver the letter into your hands. Is martyrdom less glorious
that a cry of agony escapes the victim, or that his limbs writhe as the
flame wraps round them? Is self-sacrifice to be denied the sorrowful
satisfaction to tell its woes? I bade him write because it would be good
for him and for you alike.”
She stared eagerly, as if to ask his meaning.
“Good for both,” repeated he, slowly. “Love will be, to him, a
guide-star through life, leading him by paths of high and honorable
ambition; to you it will be the consolation of hours that even splendor
will not enliven. Believe me,”----here he raised his voice to a tone
of command and authority,--“believe me that negation is the lot of
all. Happiest they who only suffer in their affections! And what is the
purest of all love? Is it not that the devotee feels for his protecting
saint,--that sense of ever-present care, that consciousness of a
watching, unceasing affection, that neither slumbers nor wearies,
following us in our joy, beside us in our afflictions? Some humble
effigy, some frail representation, is enough to embody this conception;
but its essence lies in the heart of hearts! Such a love as this--pure,
truthful, and enduring--may elevate the humblest life into heroism, and
throw a sun-gleam over the dreariest path of destiny. The holy bond that
unites the grovelling nature below with glory above, has its humble type
on earth in those who, separated by fate, are together in affection. I
bade him write to you a few lines; he was too weak for more; indeed, his
emotion almost made the last impossible. I pressed him, however, to do
it, and pledged myself to place them in your hands; my journey hither
had no other object.” As he spoke, he took forth a small sealed packet,
and gave it to Kate, whose hands trembled as she took it.
“I shall spend some days in Vienna,” said he, rising to take leave;
“pray let me have a part of each of them with you. I have much to say
to you, and of other matters than those we have now spoken.” And kissing
her hand with a respectful devotion, the Abbé withdrew, without ever
once raising his eyes towards her.
Sick with sorrow and humiliation,--for such she acutely felt,----Kate
Dalton rose and retired to her room. “Tell Madame de Heidendorf, Nina,”
said she, “that I feel tired to-day, and beg she will excuse my not
appearing at dinner.”
Nina courtesied her obedience, but it was easy to see that the
explanation by no means satisfied her, and that she was determined to
know something more of the origin of her young mistress's indisposition.
“Madame knows that the Archduke is to dine here.”
“I know it,” said Kate, peevishly, and as if desirous of being left in
quiet.
Nina again courtesied, but in the brilliant flashing of her dark eyes it
was plain to mark the consciousness that some secret was withheld from
her. The _soubrette_ class are instinctive readers of motives; “their
only books are '_ladies_' looks,” but they con them to perfection. It
was, then, with a studied pertinacity that Nina proceeded to arrange
drawers and fold dresses, and fifty other similar duties, the discharge
of which she saw was torturing her mistress.
“I should wish to be alone, Nina, and undisturbed,” said Kate, at last,
her patience being entirely exhausted.
Nina made her very deepest reverence, and withdrew.
Kate waited for a few seconds, till all sound of her retiring steps had
died away, then arose, and locked the door.
She was alone; the packet which the Abbé had delivered lay on the table
before her; she bent down over it, and wept. The utter misery of sorrow
is only felt where self-reproach mingles with our regrets. All the pangs
of other misfortunes are light in comparison with this. The irrevocable
past was her own work; she knew it, and cried till her very heart seemed
bursting.