HOME LIFE AT THE CASTLE
The life of that quaint old country-house was something very strange and
odd to Nina Kostalergi. It was not merely its quiet monotony, its unbroken
sameness of topics as of events, and its small economies, always appearing
on the surface; but that a young girl like Kate, full of life and spirits,
gay, handsome, and high-hearted--that she should go her mill-round of these
tiresome daily cares, listening to the same complaints, remedying the same
evils, meeting the same difficulties, and yet never seem to resent an
existence so ignoble and unworthy! This was, indeed, scarcely credible.
As for Nina herself--like one saved from shipwreck--her first sense of
security was full of gratitude. It was only as this wore off that she began
to see the desolation of the rock on which she had clambered. Not that
her former life had been rose-tinted. It had been of all things the most
harassing and wearing--a life of dreary necessitude--a perpetual struggle
with debt. Except play, her father had scarcely any resource for a
livelihood. He affected, indeed, to give lessons in Italian and French to
young Englishmen; but he was so fastidious as to the rank and condition of
his pupils, so unaccommodating as to his hours and so unpunctual, that it
was evident that the whole was a mere pretence of industry, to avoid the
reproach of being utterly dependent on the play-table; besides this, in
his capacity as a teacher he obtained access to houses and acceptance
with families where he would have found entrance impossible under other
circumstances.
He was polished and good-looking. All his habits bespoke familiarity with
society; and he knew to the nicest fraction the amount of intimacy he might
venture on with any one. Some did not like him--the man of a questionable
position, the reduced gentleman, has terrible prejudices to combat. He
must always be suspected--Heaven knows of what, but of some covert design
against the religion or the pocket, or the influence of those who admit
him. Some thought him dangerous because his manners were insinuating, and
his address studiously directed to captivate. Others did not fancy his
passion for mixing in the world, and frequenting society to which his
straitened means appeared to deny him rightful access; but when he had
succeeded in introducing his daughter to the world, and people began to
say, ‘See how admirably M. Kostalergi has brought up that girl! how nicely
mannered she is, how ladylike, how well bred, what a linguist, what a
musician!’ a complete revulsion took place in public opinion, and many
who had but half trusted, or less than liked him before, became now his
stanchest friends and adherents. Nina had been a great success in society,
and she reaped the full benefit of it. Sufficiently well born to be
admitted, without any special condescension, into good houses, she was in
manner and style the equal of any; and though her dress was ever of the
cheapest and plainest, her fresh toilet was often commented on with praise
by those who did not fully remember what added grace and elegance the
wearer had lent it.
From the wealthy nobles to whom her musical genius had strongly recommended
her, numerous and sometimes costly presents were sent in acknowledgment of
her charming gifts; and these, as invariably, were converted into money
by her father, who, after a while, gave it to be understood that the
recompense would be always more welcome in that form.
Nina, however, for a long time knew nothing of this; she saw herself sought
after and flattered in society, selected for peculiar attention wherever
she went, complimented on her acquirements, and made much of to an extent
that not unfrequently excited the envy and jealousy of girls much more
favourably placed by fortune than herself. If her long mornings and
afternoons were passed amidst solitude and poverty, vulgar cares, and
harassing importunities, when night came, she emerged into the blaze of
lighted lustres and gilded salons, to move in an atmosphere of splendour
and sweet sounds, with all that could captivate the senses and exalt
imagination. This twofold life of meanness and magnificence so wrought upon
her nature as to develop almost two individualities. The one hard, stern,
realistic, even to grudgingness; the other gay, buoyant, enthusiastic, and
ardent; and they who only saw her of an evening in all the exultation of
her flattered beauty, followed about by a train of admiring worshippers,
addressed in all that exaggeration of language Italy sanctions, pampered by
caresses, and honoured by homage on every side, little knew by what dreary
torpor of heart and mind that joyous ecstasy they witnessed had been
preceded, nor by what a bound her emotions had sprung from the depths of
brooding melancholy to this paroxysm of delight; nor could the worn-out and
wearied followers of pleasure comprehend the intense enjoyment produced
by sights and sounds which in their case no fancy idealised, no soaring
imagination had lifted to the heaven of bliss.
Kostalergi seemed for a while to content himself with the secret resources
of his daughter’s successes, but at length he launched out into heavy play
once more, and lost largely. It was in this strait that he bethought him of
negotiating with a theatrical manager for Nina’s appearance on the stage.
These contracts take the precise form of a sale, where the victim, in
consideration of being educated, and maintained, and paid a certain amount,
is bound, legally bound, to devote her services to a master for a given
time. The impresario of the ‘Fenice’ had often heard from travellers of
that wonderful mezzo-soprano voice which was captivating all Rome, where
the beauty and grace of the singer were extolled not less loudly. The great
skill of these astute providers for the world’s pleasure is evidenced in
nothing more remarkably than the instinctive quickness with which they
pounce upon the indications of dramatic genius, and hasten away--half
across the globe if need be--to secure it. Signor Lanari was not slow to
procure a letter of introduction to Kostalergi, and very soon acquainted
him with his object.
Under the pretence that he was an old friend and former schoolfellow,
Kostalergi asked him to share their humble dinner, and there, in that
meanly-furnished room, and with the accompaniment of a wretched and
jangling instrument, Nina so astonished and charmed him by her performance,
that all the habitual reserve of the cautious bargainer gave way, and he
burst out into exclamations of enthusiastic delight, ending with--‘She is
mine! she is mine! I tell you, since Persiani, there has been nothing like
her!’
Nothing remained now but to reveal the plan to herself, and though
certainly neither the Greek nor his guest were deficient in descriptive
power, or failed to paint in glowing colours the gorgeous processions of
triumphs that await stage success, she listened with little pleasure to it
all. She had already walked the boards of what she thought a higher arena.
She had tasted flatteries unalloyed with any sense of decided inferiority;
she had moved amongst dukes and duchesses with a recognised station, and
received their compliments with ease and dignity. Was all this reality of
condition to be exchanged for a mock splendour, and a feigned greatness?
was she to be subjected to the licensed stare and criticism and coarse
comment, it may be, of hundreds she never knew, nor would stoop to know?
and was the adulation she now lived in to be bartered for the vulgar
applause of those who, if dissatisfied, could testify the feeling as openly
and unsparingly? She said very little of what she felt in her heart, but no
sooner alone in her room at night, than she wrote that letter to her uncle
entreating his protection.
It had been arranged with Lanari that she should make one appearance at a
small provincial theatre so soon as she could master any easy part, and
Kostalergi, having some acquaintance with the manager at Orvieto, hastened
off there to obtain his permission for her appearance. It was of this brief
absence she profited to fly from Rome, the banker conveying her as far as
Civita Vecchia, whence she sailed direct for Marseilles. And now we see
her, as she found herself in the dreary old Irish mansion, sad, silent, and
neglected, wondering whether the past was all a dream, or if the unbroken
calm in which she now lived was not a sleep.
Conceding her perfect liberty to pass her time how she liked, they exacted
from her no appearance at meals, nor any conformity with the ways of
others, and she never came to breakfast, and only entered the drawing-room
a short time before dinner. Kate, who had counted on her companionship and
society, and hoped to see her sharing with her the little cares and duties
of her life, and taking interest in her pursuits, was sorely grieved at
her estrangement, but continued to believe it would wear off with time
and familiarity with the place. Kearney himself, in secret, resented
the freedom with which she disregarded the discipline of his house, and
grumbled at times over foreign ways and habits that he had no fancy to
see under his roof. When she did appear, however, her winning manners,
her grace, and a certain half-caressing coquetry she could practise to
perfection, so soothed and amused him that he soon forgot any momentary
displeasure, and more than once gave up his evening visit to the club at
Moate to listen to her as she sang, or hear her sketch off some trait of
that Roman society in which British pretension and eccentricity often
figured so amusingly.
Like a faithful son of the Church, too, he never wearied hearing of the
Pope and of the Cardinals, of glorious ceremonials of the Church, and
festivals observed with all the pomp and state that pealing organs,
and incense, and gorgeous vestments could confer. The contrast between
the sufferance under which his Church existed at home and the honours
and homage rendered to it abroad, were a fruitful stimulant to that
disaffection he felt towards England, and would not unfrequently lead him
away to long diatribes about penal laws and the many disabilities which had
enslaved Ireland, and reduced himself, the descendant of a princely race,
to the condition of a ruined gentleman.
To Kate these complainings were ever distasteful; she had but one
philosophy, which was ‘to bear up well,’ and when, not that, ‘as well as
you could.’ She saw scores of things around her to be remedied, or, at
least, bettered, by a little exertion, and not one which could be helped
by a vain regret. For the loss of that old barbaric splendour and profuse
luxury which her father mourned over, she had no regrets. She knew that
these wasteful and profligate livers had done nothing for the people either
in act or in example; that they were a selfish, worthless, self-indulgent
race, caring for nothing but their pleasures, and making all their
patriotism consist in a hate towards England.
These were not Nina’s thoughts. She liked all these stories of a time of
power and might, when the Kearneys were great chieftains, and the old
castle the scene of revelry and feasting.
She drew prettily, and it amused her to illustrate the curious tales the
old man told her of rays and forays, the wild old life of savage chieftains
and the scarcely less savage conquerors. On one of these--she called it
‘The Return of O’Caharney’--she bestowed such labour and study, that her
uncle would sit for hours watching the work, not knowing if his heart
were more stirred by the claim of his ancestor’s greatness, or by the
marvellous skill that realised the whole scene before him. The head of the
young chieftain was to be filled in when Dick came home. Meanwhile great
persuasions were being used to induce Peter Gill to sit for a kern who had
shared the exile of his masters, but had afterwards betrayed them to the
English; and whether Gill had heard some dropping word of the part he was
meant to fill, or that his own suspicion had taken alarm from certain
directions the young lady gave as to the expression he was to assume,
certain is it nothing could induce him to comply, and go down to posterity
with the immortality of crime.
The little long-neglected drawing-room where Nina had set up her easel
became now the usual morning lounge of the old man, who loved to sit and
watch her as she worked, and, what amused him even more, listen while she
talked. It seemed to him like a revival of the past to hear of the world,
that gay world of feasting and enjoyment, of which for so many years he
had known nothing; and here he was back in it again, and with grander
company and higher names than he ever remembered. ‘Why was not Kate like
her?’ would he mutter over and over to himself. Kate was a good girl,
fine-tempered and happy-hearted, but she had no accomplishments, none of
those refinements of the other. If he wanted to present her at ‘the Castle’
one of these days, he did not know if she would have tact enough for the
ordeal; but Nina!--Nina was sure to make an actual sensation, as much by
her grace and her style as by her beauty. Kearney never came into the
room where she was without being struck by the elegance of her demeanour,
the way she would rise to receive him, her step, her carriage, the very
disposal of her drapery as she sat; the modulated tone of her voice, and a
sort of purring satisfaction as she took his hand and heard his praises
of her, spread like a charm over him, so that he never knew how the time
slipped by as he sat beside her.
Have you ever written to your father since you came here?’ asked he one day
as they talked together.
‘Yes, sir; and yesterday I got a letter from him. Such a nice letter,
sir--no complainings, no reproaches for my running away; but all sorts of
good wishes for my happiness. He owns he was sorry to have ever thought
of the stage for me; but he says this lawsuit he is engaged in about his
grandfather’s will may last for years, and that he knew I was so certain
of a great success, and that a great success means more than mere money,
he fancied that in my triumph he would reap the recompense for his own
disasters. He is now, however, far happier that I have found a home, a real
home, and says, “Tell my lord I am heartily ashamed of all my rudeness with
regard to him, and would willingly make a pilgrimage to the end of Europe
to ask his pardon”; and say besides that “when I shall be restored to
the fortune and rank of my ancestors”--you know,’ added she, ‘he is a
prince--“my first act will be to throw myself at his feet, and beg to be
forgiven by him.”’
‘What is the property? is it land?’ asked he, with the half-suspectfulness
of one not fully assured of what he was listening to.
‘Yes, sir; the estate is in Delos. I have seen the plan of the grounds and
gardens of the palace, which are princely. Here, on this seal,’ said she,
showing the envelope of her letter, ‘you can see the arms; papa never omits
to use it, though on his card he is written only “of the princes”--a form
observed with us.’
‘And what chance has he of getting it all back again?’
‘That is more than I can tell you; he himself is sometimes very confident,
and talks as if there could not be a doubt of it.’
‘Used your poor mother to believe it?’ asked he, half-tremulously.
‘I can scarcely say, sir; I can barely remember her; but I have heard papa
blame her for not interesting her high connections in England in his suit;
he often thought that a word to the ambassador at Athens would have almost
decided the case.’
‘High connections, indeed!’ burst he forth. ‘By my conscience, they’re
pretty much out at elbows, like himself; and if we were trying to recover
our own right to-morrow, the look-out would be bleak enough!’
‘Papa is not easily cast down, sir; he has a very sanguine spirit.’
‘Maybe you think it’s what is wanting in my case, eh, Nina? Say it out,
girl; tell me, I’d be the better for a little of your father’s hopefulness,
eh?’
‘You could not change to anything I could like better than what you are,’
said she, taking his hand and kissing it.
‘Ah, you ‘re a rare one to say coaxing things,’ said he, looking fondly on
her. ‘I believe you’d be the best advocate for either of us if the courts
would let you plead for us.’
‘I wish they would, sir,’ said she proudly.
‘What is that?’ cried he suddenly; ‘sure it’s not putting myself you are in
the picture!’
‘Of course I am, sir. Was not the O’Caharney your ancestor? Is it likely
that an old race had not traits of feature and lineament that ages of
descent could not efface? I’d swear that strong brow and frank look must be
an heirloom.’
‘’Faith, then, almost the only one!’ said he, sighing. ‘Who’s making that
noise out there?’ said he, rising and going to the window. ‘Oh, it’s Kate
with her dogs. I often tell her she ‘d keep a pair of ponies for less than
those troublesome brutes cost her.’
‘They are great company to her, she says, and she lives so much in the open
air.’
‘I know she does,’ said he, dropping his head and sitting like one whose
thoughts had taken a brooding, despondent turn.
‘One more sitting I must have, sir, for the hair. You had it beautifully
yesterday: it fell over on one side with a most perfect light on a large
lock here. Will you give me half an hour to-morrow, say?’
[Illustration: ‘One more sitting I must have, sir, for the hair’]
‘I can’t promise you, my dear. Peter Gill has been urging me to go over to
Loughrea for the fair; and if we go, we ought to be there by Saturday, and
have a quiet look at the stock before the sales begin.’
‘And are you going to be long away?’ said she poutingly, as she leaned over
the back of his chair, and suffered her curls to fall half across his face.
‘I’ll be right glad to be back again,’ said he, pressing her head down till
he could kiss her cheek, ‘right glad!’