LET us now return to Kate Dalton, whose life, since we last saw her, had been one round of brilliant enjoyment. To the pleasure of the journey, with all its varied objects of interest, the picturesque scenery of the Via Mala, the desolate grandeur of the Splugen, the calm and tranquil beauty of Como, succeeded the thousand treasures of art in the great cities where they halted. At first every image and object seemed associated by some invisible link with thoughts of home. What would Nelly think or say of this? was the ever-recurring question of her mind. How should she ever be able to treasure up her own memories and tell of the wonderful things that every moment met her eyes? The quick succession of objects, all new and dazzling, were but so many wonders to bring back to that “dear fireside” of home. The Onslows themselves, who saw everything without enthusiasm of any kind, appeared to take pleasure in the freshness of the young girl's admiration. It gave them, as it were, a kind of reflected pleasure, while, amid galleries and collections of all that was rare and curious, nothing struck them as half so surprising as the boundless delight of her unhackneyed nature.
Educated to a certain extent by watching the pursuits of her sister, Kate knew how to observe with taste, and admire with discrimination. Beauty of high order would seem frequently endowed with a power of appreciating the beauty of art, a species of relation appearing almost to subsist between the two.
Gifted with this instinct, there was an intensity in all her enjoyments, which displayed itself in the animation of her manner and the elevated expression of her features. The coldest and most worldly natures are seldom able to resist the influence of this enthusiasm; however hard the metal of their hearts, they must melt beneath this flame. Lady Hester Onslow herself could not remain insensible to the pure sincerity and generous warmth of this artless girl. For a time the combat, silent, unseen, but eventful, was maintained between these two opposite natures, the principle of good warring with the instincts of evil. The victory might have rested with the true cause there was every prospect of its doing so when Sydney Onslow, all whose sympathies were with Kate, and whose alliance had every charm of sisterhood, was suddenly recalled to England by tidings of her aunt's illness. Educated by her aunt Conway, she had always looked up to her as a mother, nor did the unhappy circumstances of her father's second marriage tend to weaken this feeling of attachment. The sad news reached them at Genoa; and Sydney, accompanied by Dr. Grounsell, at once set out for London. If the sudden separation of the two girls, just at the very moment of a budding friendship, was sorrowfully felt by both, to Lady Hester the event was anything but unwelcome.
She never had liked Sydney; she now detested the notion of a step-daughter, almost of her own age, in the same society with herself; she dreaded, besides, the influence that she had already acquired over Kate, whose whole heart and nature she had resolved on monopolizing. It was not from any feeling of attachment or affection, it was the pure miser-like desire for possession that animated her. The plan of carrying away Kate from her friends and home had been her own; she, therefore, owned her; the original title was vested in her: the young girl's whole future was to be in her hands; her “road in life” was to be at her dictation. To be free of Sydney and the odious doctor by the same event was a double happiness, which, in spite of all the decorous restraints bad news impose, actually displayed itself in the most palpable form.
The Palazzo Mazzarini was now to be opened to the world, with all the splendor wealth could bestow, untrammelled by any restriction the taste of Sydney or the prudence of the doctor might impose. Sir Stafford, ever ready to purchase quiet for himself at any cost of money, objected to nothing. The cheapness of Italy, the expectations formed of an Englishman, were the arguments which always silenced him if he ventured on the very mildest remonstrance about expenditure; and Jekyl was immediately called into the witness-box, to show that among the economies of the Continent nothing was so striking as the facilities of entertaining. George, as might be supposed, had no dislike to see their own house the great centre of society, and himself the much sought-after and caressed youth of the capital.
As for Kate, pleasure came associated in her mind with all that could elevate and exalt it, refinement of manners, taste, luxury, the fascinations of wit, the glitter of conversational brilliancy. She had long known that she was handsome, but she had never felt it till now; never awoke to that thrilling emotion which whispers of power over others, and which elevates the possessor of a great quality into a species of petty sovereignty above their fellows. Her progress in this conviction was a good deal aided by her maid; for, at Jekyl's suggestion, a certain Mademoiselle Nina had been attached to her personal staff.
It was not easy at first for Kate to believe in the fact at all that she should have a peculiar attendant; nor was it without much constraint and confusion that she could accept of services from one whose whole air and bearing bore the stamp of breeding and tact. Mademoiselle Nina had been the maid of the Princess Menzikoff, the most distinguished belle of Florence, the model of taste and elegance in dress; but when the Princess separated from her husband, some unexplained circumstances had involved the name of the femme de chambre, so that, instead of “exchanging without a difference,” as a person of her great abilities might readily have done, she had disappeared for a while from the scene and sphere in which habitually she moved, and only emerged from her seclusion to accept the humble position of Kate Dalton's maid. She was a perfect type of her own countrywomen in her own class of life. Small and neatly formed, her head was too large for her size, and the forehead over-large for the face, the brows and temples being developed beyond all proportion. Her eyes, jet black and deeply set, were cold, stern-looking, and sleepy, sadness, or rather weariness, being the characteristic expression of the face. Her mouth, however, when she smiled, relieved this, and gave a look of softness to her features. Her manner was that of great distance and respect, the trained observance of one who had been always held in the firm hand of discipline, and never suffered to assume the slightest approach to a liberty. She contrived, however, even in her silence, or in the very few words she ever uttered, to throw an air of devotion into her service that took away from the formality of a manner that at first seemed cold and even repulsive. Kate, indeed, in the beginning, was thrown back by the studied reserve and deferential distance she observed; but as days went over, and she grew more accustomed to the girl's manner, she began to feel pleased with the placid and unchanging demeanor that seemed to bespeak a mind admirably trained and regulated to its own round of duties.
While Kate sat at a writing-table, adding a few lines to that letter which, began more than a week ago, was still far from being completed, Nina, whose place was beside the window, worked away with bent-down head, not seeming to have a thought save for the occupation before her. Not so Kate; fancies came and went at every instant, breaking in upon the tenor of her thoughts, or wending far away on errands of speculation. Now she would turn her eye from the page to gaze in wondering delight at the tasteful decorations of her little chamber, a perfect gem of elegance in all its details; then she would start up to step out upon the terrace, where even in winter the orange-trees were standing, shedding their sweet odor at every breeze from the Arno. With what rapturous delight she would follow the windings of that bright river, till it was lost in the dark woods of the Cascini! How the sounds of passing equipages, the glitter and display of the moving throng, stirred her heart; and then, as she turned back within the room, with what a thrill of ecstasy her eyes rested on the splendid ball-dress which Nina had just laid upon the sofa! With a trembling hand she touched the delicate tissue of Brussels lace, and placed it over her arm in a graceful fold, her cheek flushing and her chest heaving in consciousness of heightening beauty.
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Nina's head was never raised, her nimble fingers never ceased to ply; but beneath her dark brows her darker eyes shot forth a glance of deep and subtle meaning, as she watched the young girl's gesture.
“Nina,” cried she, at last, “it is much too handsome for me; although I love to look at it, I actually fear to wear it. You know I never have worn anything like this before.”
“Mademoiselle is too diffident and too unjust to her own charms; beautiful as is the robe, it only suits the elegance of its wearer.”
“One ought to be so graceful in every gesture, so perfect in every movement beneath folds like these,” cried Kate, still gazing at the fine tracery.
“Mademoiselle is grace itself!” said she, in a low, soft voice, so quiet in its utterance that it sounded like a reflection uttered unconsciously.
“Oh, Nina, if I were so! If I only could feel that my every look and movement were not recalling the peasant girl; for, after all, I have been little better, our good blood could not protect us from being poor, and poverty means so much that lowers!”
Nina sighed, but so softly as to be inaudible; and Kate went on:
“My sister Nelly never thought so; she always felt differently. Oh, Nina, how you would love her if you saw her, and how you would admire her beautiful hair, and those deep blue eyes, so soft, so calm, and yet so meaning.”
Nina looked up, and seemed to give a glance that implied assent.
“Nelly would be so happy here, wandering through these galleries, and sitting for hours long in those beautiful churches, surrounded with all that can elevate feeling or warm imagination; she, too, would know how to profit by these treasures of art. The frivolous enjoyments that please me would be beneath her. Perhaps she would teach me better things; perhaps I might turn from mere sensual pleasure to higher and purer sources of happiness.”
“Will Mademoiselle permit me to try this wreath?” said Nina, advancing with a garland of white roses, which she gracefully placed around Kate's head.
A half cry of delight burst from Kate as she saw the effect in the glass.
“Beautiful, indeed!” said Nina, as though in concurrence with an unspoken emotion.
“But, Nina, I scarcely like this it seems as though I cannot tell what I wish as though I would desire notice I, that am nothing that ought to pass unobserved.”
“You, Mademoiselle,” cried Nina, and for the first time a slight warmth coloring the tone of her manner, “you, Mademoiselle, the belle, the beauty, the acknowledged beauty of Florence!”
“Nina! Nina!” cried Kate rebukingly.
“I hope Mademoiselle will forgive me. I would not for the world fail in my respect,” said Nina, with deep humility; “but I was only repeating what others spoke.”
“I am not angry, Nina, at least, not with you,” said Kate, hurriedly. “With myself, indeed, I 'm scarcely quite pleased. But who could have said such a silly thing?”
“Every one, Mademoiselle, every one, as they were standing beneath the terrace t' other evening. I overheard Count Labinski say it to Captain Onslow; and then my Lady took it up, and said, 'You are quite right, gentlemen; there is nothing that approaches her in beauty.'”
“Nina! dear Nina!” said Kate, covering her flushed face with both hands.
“The Count de Melzi was more enthusiastic than even the rest. He vowed that he had grown out of temper with his Raffaelles since he saw you.”
A hearty burst of laughter from Kate told that this flattery, at least, had gone too far. And now she resumed her seat at the writing-table. It was of the Splugen Pass and Como she had been writing; of the first burst of Italy upon the senses, as, crossing the High Alps, the land of the terraced vine lay stretched beneath. She tried to fall back upon the memory of that glorious scene as it broke upon her; but it was in vain. Other and far different thoughts had gained the mastery. It was no longer the calm lake, on whose mirrored surface snow-peaks and glaciers were reflected; it was not of those crags, over which the wild-fig and the olive, the oleander and the mimosa, are spreading, she could think. Other images crowded to her brain; troops of admirers were before her fancy; the hum of adulation filled her ears; splendid salons, resounding with delicious music, and ablaze with a thousand wax-lights, rose before her imagination, and her heart swelled with conscious triumph. The transition was most abrupt, then, from a description of scenery and natural objects to a narrative of the actual life of Florence:
“Up to this, Nelly, we have seen no one, except Mr. Jekyl,whom you will remember as having met at Baden. He dines hereseveral days every week, and is most amusing with his funnyanecdotes and imitations, for he knows everybody, and is awonderful mimic. You 'd swear Dr. Grounsell was in the nextroom if you heard Mr. Jekyl' s imitation. There has beensome difficulty about an opera-box, for Mr. Jekyl, whomanages everybody, will insist upon having PrinceMidchekoff's, which is better than the royal box, and hasnot succeeded. For this reason we have not yet been to theOpera; and, as the Palace has been undergoing a total changeof decoration and furniture, there has been no receptionhere as yet; but on Tuesday we are to give our first ball.All that I could tell you of splendor, my dearest Nelly,would be nothing to the reality of what I see here. Suchmagnificence in every detail; such troops of servants, allso respectful and obliging, and some dressed in liveriesthat resemble handsome uniforms! Such gold and silver plate!such delicious flowers everywhere on the staircase, in thedrawing-room, here, actually, beside me as I write! And, oh,Nelly, if you could see my dress! Lace, with bouquets of redcamellia, and looped up with strings of small pearls. Thinkof me, of poor Kate Dal ton, wearing such splendor! And,strange enough, too, I do not feel awkward in it. My hair,that you used to think I dressed so well myself, has beenpronounced a perfect horror; and although I own it did shockme at first to hear it, I now see that they were perfectlyright. Instead of bands, I wear ringlets down to my veryshoulders; and Nina tells me there never was such animprovement, as the character of my features requiressoftening. Such quantities of dress as I have got, too! forthere is endless toilette here; and although I am nowgrowing accustomed to it, at first it worried me dreadfully,and left me no time to read. And, a propos of reading, LadyHester has given me such a strange book, 'Mathilde,' it iscalled; very clever, deeply interesting, but not the kind ofreading you would like; at least, neither the scenes nor thecharacters such as you would care for. Of course I take itto be a good picture of life in another sphere from what Ihave seen myself; and if it be, I must say there is morevice in high society than I believed. One trait of manners,however, I cannot help admiring, the extreme care that everyone takes never to give even the slightest offence; not onlythat the wrong thing is never said, but ever even suggested.Such an excessive deference to others' feelings bespeaksgreat refinement, if not a higher and better quality. LadyHester is delightful in this respect. I cannot tell you howthe charm of her manner grows into a fascination. CaptainOnslow I see little of, but he is always good-humored andgay; and as for Sir Stafford, he is like a father in thekindliness and affection of his cordiality. Sydney I missgreatly; she was nearly of my own age, and although so muchsuperior to me in every way, so companionable andsisterlike. We are to write to each other if she does notreturn soon. I intended to have said so much about thegalleries, but Mr. Jekyl does quiz so dreadfully aboutartistic enthusiasm, I am actually ashamed to say a word;besides, to me, Nelly, beautiful pictures impart pleasureless from intrinsic merit than from the choice of subjectand the train of thoughts they originate; and for thisreason I prefer Salvator Rosa to all other painters. Theromantic character of his scenery, the kind of story thatseems to surround his characters, the solemn tranquillity ofhis moonlights, the mellow splendor of his sunsets, actuallyheighten one's enjoyment of the realities in nature. I amashamed to own that Raffaelle is less my favorite thanTitian, whose portraits appear to reveal the whole characterand life of the individual represented. In Velasq'uez thereis another feature—”
Here came an interruption, for Nina came with gloves to choose, and now arose the difficult decision between a fringe of silver filigree and a deep fall of Valenciennes lace, a question on both sides of which Mademoiselle Nina had much to say. In all these little discussions, the mock importance lent to mere trifles at first amused Kate, and even provoked her laughter; but, by degrees, she learned not only to listen to them with attention, but even to take her share in the consultation. Nina's great art lay in her capacity for adapting a costume to the peculiar style and character of the wearer; and, however exaggerated were some of her notions on this subject, there was always a sufficiency of shrewd sense and good taste in her remarks to overbear any absurdity in her theory. Kate Dalton, whose whole nature had been simplicity and frankness itself, was gradually brought to assume a character with every change of toilette; for if she came down to breakfast in a simple robe of muslin, she changed it for a costume de paysanna to walk in the garden, and this again for a species of hunting-dress to ride in the Cascini, to appear afterwards at dinner in some new type of a past age; an endless variety of these devices at last engaging attention, and occupying time, to the utter exclusion of topics more important and interesting.
The letter was now to be resumed; but the clew was lost, and her mind was only fettered with topics of dress and toilette. She walked out upon the terrace to recover her composure; but beneath the window was rolling on that endless tide of people and carriages that swells up the great flood of a capital city. She turned her steps to another side, and there, in the pleasure-ground, was George Onslow, with a great horse-sheet round him, accustoming a newly purchased Arabian to the flapping of a riding-skirt. It was a present Sir Stafford had made her the day before. Everything she saw, everything she heard, recalled but one image, herself! The intoxication of this thought was intense. Life assumed features of delight and pleasure she had never conceived possible before. There was an interest imparted to everything, since in everything she had her share. Oh! most insidious of all poisons is that of egotism, which lulls the conscience by the soft flattery we whisper to ourselves, making us to believe that we are such as the world affects to think us. How ready are we to take credit for gifts that have been merely lent us by a kind of courtesy, and of which we must make restitution, when called upon, with what appetite we may.
For the time, indeed, the ecstasy of this delusion is boundless. Who has not, at some one moment or other of his life, experienced the entrancing delight of thinking that the world is full of his friends and admirers, that good wishes follow him as he goes, and kind welcomes await his coming? Much of our character for good or evil, of our subsequent utility in life, or our utter helplessness, will depend upon how we stand the season of trial. Kate Daiton possessed much to encourage this credulity; she was not only eminently handsome, but she had that species of fascination in her air which a clever French writer defines as the feminine essence, “plus femme que les autres femmes.” If a very critical eye might have detected in her manner and address certain little awkwardnesses, a less exacting judgment would have probably been struck with them as attractions, recalling the fact of her youth, her simplicity, and the freshness of her nature. Above all other charms, however, was the radiant happiness that beamed out in every word and look and gesture; such a thorough sense of enjoyment, so intense a pleasure in life, is among the very rarest of all gifts.
There was enough of singularity, of the adventurous, in the nature of her position, to excel all the romance of her nature; there was more than enough of real splendor around her to give an air of fact and truth to the highest flights of her imagination. Had she been the sole daughter of the house and name, flatteries and caresses could not have been lavished on her more profusely; her will consulted, her wishes inquired, her taste evoked on every occasion. And yet, with all these seductions about her, she was not yet spoiled not yet! Home and its dear associations were ever present to her mind; her humble fortune, and that simple life she used to lead, enforcing lessons of humility not yet distasteful. She could still recur to the memory of the little window that looked over the “Murg,” and think the scenery beautiful. Her dear, dear papa was still all she had ever thought him. Nelly was yet the sweet-tempered, gentle, gifted creature she worshipped as a sister; even Hanserl was the kind, quaint emblem of his own dreamy “Vaterland.” As yet no conflict had arisen between the past and the present, between the remembrance of narrow fortune and all its crippling exigencies, and the enjoyment of wealth that seems to expand the generous feelings of the heart. The lustre of her present existence threw, as yet, no sickly light over the bygone; would it might have been always so!
THE great ball at the Mazzarini Palace “came off” just as other great balls have done, and will continue to do, doubtless, for ages hence. There was the usual, perhaps a little more than the usual, splendor of dress and diamonds; the same glare and crash and glitter and crowd and heat; the same buoyant light-heartedness among the young; the same corroding ennui of the old; taste in dress was criticised, looks were scanned, flirtations detected, quarrels discovered, fans were mislaid, hearts were lost, flounces were torn, and feelings hurt. There was the ordinary measure of what people call enjoyment, mixed up with the ordinary proportion of envy, shyness, pretension, sarcasm, coldness, and malice. It was a grand tournament of human passions in white satin and jewels; and if the wounds exchanged were not as rudely administered, they were to the full as dangerous as in the real lists of combat. Yet, in this mortal conflict, all seemed happy. There was an air of voluptuous abandonment over everything; and whatever cares they might have carried within, as far as appearance went, the world went well and pleasantly with them. The ball was, however, a splendid one; there was everything that could make it such. The salons were magnificent in decoration; the lighting a perfect blaze. There was beauty in abundance, diamonds in masses, and a Royal Highness from the Court, an insignificant little man, it is true, with a star and a stutter, who stared at every one, and spoke to nobody. Still he was the centre of a glittering group of handsome aides-de-camp, who displayed their fascinations in every gesture and look.
Apart from the great flood-tide of pleasure, down which so many float buoyantly, there is ever on these occasions a deeper current that flows beneath, of human wile and cunning and strategy, just as, in many a German fairy tale, some curious and recondite philosophy lies hid beneath the little incidents related to amuse childhood. It would lead us too far from the path of our story were we to seek for this “tiny thread amid the woof;” enough for our present purpose if we slightly advert to it, by asking our reader to accompany us to the small chamber which called Albert Jekyl master, and where now, at midnight, a little table of three covers was laid for supper. Three flasks of champagne stood in a little ice-pail in one corner, and on a dumbwaiter was arranged a dessert, which, for the season, displayed every charm of rarity. A large bouquet of moss-roses and camellias ornamented the centre of the board, and shed a pleasant odor through the room. The servant, whose dress and look bespoke him a waiter from a restaurant in the neighborhood, had just completed all the arrangements of the table, placing chairs around it, and heaped fresh wood upon the hearth, when a carriage drew up at the door. The merry sound of voices and the step of feet were heard on the stairs, and the next moment a lady entered, whose dress of black lace, adorned with bouquets of blue flowers, admirably set off a figure and complexion of Spanish mould and character. To this, a black lace veil fastened to the hair behind, and worn across the shoulders, contributed. There was a lightness and intrepidity in her step, as she entered the room, that suited the dark, flashing, steady glance of her full black eyes. It would have, indeed, been difficult to trace in that almost insolent air of conscious beauty the calm, subdued, and almost sorrow-struck girl whom we have seen as Nina in a former chapter; but, however dissimilar in appearance, they were the same one individual; and the humble femme de chambre of Kate Dalton was the celebrated ballet-dancer of the great theatre of Barcelona.
The figure which followed was a strange contrast to that light and elegant form. He was an old, short man, of excessive corpulence in body, and whose face was bloated and purple by intemperance. He was dressed in the habit of a priest, and was in reality a canon of the Dome Cathedral. His unwieldy gait, his short and labored respiration, increased almost to suffocation by the ascent of the stairs and his cumbrous dress, seemed doubly absurd beside the flippant lightness of the “Ballarina.” Jekyl came last, mimicking the old canon behind his back, and putting the waiter's gravity to a severe test by the bloated expansion of his cheek and the fin-like motion of his hands as he went.
“Ecco me!” cried he out, with a deep grunt, as he sank into a chair and wiped the big drops from his forehead with the skirt of his gown.
“You tripped up the stairs like a gazelle, padre,” said the girl, as she arranged her hair before the glass, and disposed the folds of her veil with all the tact of coquetry.
A thick snort, like the ejaculation a hippopotamus might have uttered, was the only reply, and Jekyl, having given a glance over the table to see all was in order, made a sign for Nina to be seated.
“Accursed be the stairs and he that made them!” muttered the padre. “I feel as if my limbs had been torn on the rack. I have been three times up the steps of the high altar already to-day, and am tired as a dog.”
“Here is your favorite soup, padre,” said Jekyl, as he moved the ladle through a smoking compound, whence a rich odor of tomato and garlic ascended. “This will make you young again.”
“And who said I would wish to be young again?” cried the priest, angrily. “I have experience of what youth means every day in the confessional, and I promise you age has the best of it.”
“Such a ripe and ruddy age as yours, padre!” said the girl, with affected simplicity.
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“Just so, minx,” rejoined he; “such ripeness as portends falling from the tree! Better even that than to be worm-eaten on the stalk; ay, or a wasp's nest within, girl, you understand me.”
“You will never be good friends for half an hour together,” said Jekyl, as he filled their glasses with champagne, and then touching his own to each, drank off a bumper.
“These are from Savoy, these truffles, and have no flavor,” said the padre, pushing away his plate. “Let me taste that lobster, for this is a half-fast to-day.”
“They are like the priests,” said Nina, laughing; “all black without and rotten within!”
“The ball went off admirably last night,” interposed Jekyl, to stop what he foresaw might prove a sharp altercation.
“Yes,” said Nina, languidly. “The dresses were fresher than the wearers. It was the first time for much of the satin, the same could not be said for many of the company.”
“The Balderoni looked well,” said Jekyl.
“Too fat, caro mio, too fat!” replied Nina.
“And she has eight penances in the week,” grunted out the canon.
“There 's nothing like wickedness for embonpoint, padre,” said Nina, laughing.
“Angels always are represented as chubby girls,” said the priest, whose temper seemed to improve as he ate on.
“Midchekoff, I thought, was out of temper all the evening,” resumed Jekyl; “he went about with his glass in his eye, seeking for flaws in the lapis lazuli, or retouches in the pictures; and seemed terribly provoked at the goodness of the supper.”
“I forgive him all, for not dancing with 'my Lady,'” said Nina. “She kept herself disengaged for the prince for half the night, and the only reward was his Russian compliment of, 'What a bore is a ball when one is past the age of dancing!'”
“Did the Noncio eat much?” asked the padre, who seemed at once curious and envious about the dignitary.
“He played whist all night,” said Jekyl, “and never changed his partner!”
“The old Marchesa Guidotti?”
“The same. You know of that, then, padre?” asked Jekyl.
A grunt and a nod were all the response.
“What a curious chapter on 'La vie privee' of Florence your revelations might be, padre!” said Jekyl, as if reflectingly. “What a deal of iniquity, great and small, comes to your ears every season!”
“What a vast amount of it has its origin in that little scheming brain of thine, Signor Jekyli, and in the fertile wits of your fair neighbor. The unhappy marriages thou hast made; the promising unions thou hast broken; the doubts thou hast scattered here, the dark suspicions there; the rightful distrust thou hast lulled, the false confidences encouraged, youth, youth, thou hast a terrible score to answer for!”
“When I think of the long catalogue of villany you have been listening to, padre, not only without an effort, but a wish to check; when every sin recorded has figured in your ledger, with its little price annexed; when you have looked out upon the stormy sea of society, as a wrecker ranges his eye over an iron-bound coast in a gale, and thinks of the 'waifs' that soon will be his own; when, as I have myself seen you, you have looked indulgently down on petty transgressions, that must one day become big sins, and, like a skilful angler, throw the little fish back into the stream, in the confidence that when full-grown you can take them, when you have done all these things and a thousand more, padre, I cannot help muttering to myself, Age, age, what a terrible score thou hast to answer for!”
“I must say,” interposed Nina, “you are both very bad company, and that nothing can be in worse taste than this interchange of compliments. You are both right to amuse yourselves in this world as your faculties best point out, but each radically wrong in attributing motives to the other. What, in all that is wonderful, have we to do with motives? I'm sureIhave no grudges to cherish, no debts of dislike to pay off, anywhere. Any diablerie I take part in, is for pure mischief sake. I do think it rather a hard case, that, with somewhat better features, and I know a far shrewder wit than many others, I should perform second and third rate parts in this great comedy of life, while many without higher qualifications are 'cast for the best characters.' This little score I do try and exact, not from individuals, but the world at large. Mischief with me is the child's pleasure in deranging the chessmen when the players are most intent on the game.”
“Now, as to these Onslows, for we must be practical, padre mio,” said Jekyl, “let us see what is to be done with them. As regards matrimony, the real prize has left for England, this Dalton girl may or may not be a 'hit;' some aver that she is heiress to a large estate, of which the Onslows have obtained possession, and that they destine her for the young Guardsman. This must be inquired into. My Lady has 'excellent dispositions,' and may have become anything or everything.”
“Let her come to 'the Church,' then,” growled out the canon.
“Gently, padre, gently,” said Jekyl, “you are really too covetous, and would drag the river always from your own net. We have been generous, hugely generous, to you for the last three seasons, and have made all your converts the pets of society, no matter how small and insignificant their pretensions. The vulgar have been adopted in the best circles, the ugly dubbed beautiful, the most tiresome of old maids have been reissued from the mint as new coinage. We have petted, flattered, and fawned upon those 'interesting Christians,' as the 'Tablet' would call them, till the girls began to feel that there were no partners for a polka outside the Church of Rome, and that all the 'indulgences' of pleasure, like those of religion, came from the Pope. We cannot give you the Onslows, or, at least, not yet. We have yet to marry the daughter, provide for the friend, squeeze the sou.”
“Profligate young villain! Reach me the champagne, Nina; and, Nina, tell your young mistress that it is scarcely respectful to come on foot to the mid-day mass; that the clergy of the town like to see the equipages of the rich before the doors of the cathedral, as a suitable homage to the Church. The Onslows have carriages in abundance, and their liveries are gorgeous and splendid!”
“It was her own choice,” said Nina; “she is a singular girl for one that never before knew luxury of any kind.”
“I hate these simple tastes,” growled out the padre; “they bespeak that obstinacy which people call a 'calm temperament.' Her own dress, too, has no indication of her rank, Nina.”
“That shall be cared for, padre.”
“Why shouldn't that young soldier come along with her? Tell him that our choir is magnificent; whisper him that the beautiful Marchesa di Guardoni sits on the very bench beside Miss Dalton.”
Nina nodded an assent.
“The young girl herself is lax enough about her duties, Nina; she has not been even once to confession.”
“That comes of these English!” cried Nina; “they make our service a constant jest. There is always some vulgar quizzing about saint-worship, or relic reverence, or the secrets of the confessional, going on amongst them.”
“Does she permit this?” asked the priest, eagerly.
“She blushes sometimes, occasionally she smiles with a good-humor meant to deprecate these attacks, and now and then, when the sallies have been pushed too far, I have seen her in tears some hours after.”
“Oh, if these heretics would but abstain from ridicule!” cried the canon. “The least lettered amongst them can scoff and gibe and rail. They have their stock subjects of sarcasm, too, handed down from father to son, poor, witless little blasphemies, thefts from Voltaire, who laughed at themselves, and much mischief do they work! Let them begin to read, however, let them commence to 'inquire,' as the phrase has it, and the game is our own.”
“I think, padre,” said Jekyl, “that more of your English converts are made upon principles of pure economy. Popery, like truffles, is so cheap abroad!”
“Away with you! away with you!” cried the padre, rebukingly. “They come to us as the children seek their mother's breast. Hand me the maccaroni.”
“Padre mio,” broke in Jekyl, “I wish you would be Catholic enough to be less Popish. We have other plots in hand here, besides increasing the funds of the 'Holy Carmelites;' and while we are disputing about the spoil, the game may betake themselves to other hunting-grounds. These Onslows must not be suffered to go hence.”
“Albert is right,” interposed Nina. “When the 'Midchekoff' condescends to think himself in love with the Dalton girl, when the Guardsman has lost some thousands more than he can pay, when my Lady has offended one half of Florence and bullied the other, then the city will have taken a hold upon their hearts, and you may begin your crusade when you please. Indeed, I am not sure, if the season be a dull one, I would not listen to you myself.”
“As you listened once before to the Abbe D'Esmonde,” said the canon, maliciously.
The girl's cheek became deep red, and even over neck and shoulders the scarlet flush spread, while her eyes flashed a look of fiery passion.
“Do you dare are you insolent enough to—”
Her indignation had carried her thus far, when, by a sudden change of temper, she stopped, and clasping her hands over her face, burst into tears.
Jekyl motioned the priest to be silent, while, gently leading the other into the adjoining room, he drew the curtain, and left her alone.
“How could you say that?” said he, “you, padre, who know that this is more than jest?”
“Spare not the sinner, neither let the stripes be light, 'Non sit levis flagella,' says Origen.”
“Are the ortolans good, padre?” asked Jekyl, while his eye glittered with an intense appreciation of the old canon's hypocrisy.
“They, are delicious! succulent and tender,” said the priest, wiping his lips. “Francesco does them to perfection.”
“You at least believe in a cook,” said Jekyl, but in so low a voice as to escape the other's notice.
“She is sobbing still,” said the canon, in a whisper, and with a gesture towards the curtained doorway. “I like to hear them gulping down their sighs. It is like the glug-glug of a rich flask of 'Lagrime.'”
“But don't you pity them, padre?” asked Jekyl, in mock earnestness.
“Never! never! First of all, they do not suffer in all these outbursts. It is but decanting their feelings into another vessel, and they love it themselves! I have had them for hours together thus in the confessional, and they go away after, so relieved in mind and so light of heart, there 's no believing it.”
“But Nina,” said Jekyl, seriously, “is not one of these.”
“She is a woman,” rejoined the padre, “and it is only a priest can read them.”
“You see human nature as the physician does, padre, always in some aspect of suffering. Of its moods of mirth and levity you know less than we do, who pass more butterfly lives!”
“True in one sense, boy; ours are the stony paths, ours are the weary roads in life! I like that Burgundy.”
“It 's very pleasant, padre. It is part of a case I ordered for the Onslows, but their butler shook the bottle when bringing it to table, and they begged me to get rid of it.”
“These wines are not suited to Italy generally,” said the canon; “but Florence has the merit of possessing all climates within the bounds of a single day, and even Chambertin is scarcely generous enough when the Tramontana is blowing!”
“Well, have you become better mannered? May I venture to come in?” cried Nina, appearing at the doorway.
“'Venga pure! Venga pure!'” growled out the canon. “I forgive thee everything. Sit down beside me, and let us pledge a friendship forever.”
“There, then, let this be a peace-offering,” said she, taking the wreath of flowers from her own head and placing it on the brows of the padre. “You are now like the old Bacchus in the Boboli.”
“And thou like—”
“Like what? Speak it out!” cried she, angrily.
“Come, come, do, I beseech you, be good friends,” interposed Jekyl. “We have met for other objects than to exchange reproaches.”
“These are but the 'iras amantium.' boy,” said the priest; “the girl loves me with her whole heart.”
“How you read my most secret thoughts!” said she, with a coquettish affectation of sincerity.
“Lectiones pravissimae would they be!” muttered he, between his teeth.
“What is that? What is he mumbling there, Albert?” cried she, hastily.
“It is a benediction, Nina,” replied Jekyl; “did you not hear the Latin?”
Peace was at last restored, and what between the adroit devices of Jekyl and the goodness of his champagne, a feeling of pleasant sociality now succeeded to all the bickering in which the festivity was prolonged to a late hour. The graver business which brought them together the Onslows and their affairs being discussed, they gave way to all the seductions of their exalted fancies. Jekyl, taking up his guitar, warbled out a French love song, in a little treble a bullfinch might have envied; Nina, with the aid of the padre's beads for castanets, stepped the measure of a bolero; while the old priest himself broke out into a long chant, in which Ovid, Petrarch, Anacreon, and his breviary alternately figured, and under the influence of which he fell fast asleep at last, totally unconscious of the corked moustaches and eyebrows with which Nina ornamented his reverend countenance.
The sound of wheels in the silent street at last admonished them of the hour, and opening the window, Jekyl saw a brougham belonging to Sir Stafford just drawing up at the door.
“Francois is punctual,” said Nina, looking at her watch; “I told him five o'clock.”
“Had we not better set him down first?” said Jekyl, with a gesture toward the priest; “he does not live far away.”
“With all my heart,” replied she; “but you're not going to wash his face?”
“Of course I am, Nina. The jest might cost us far more than it was worth.” And so saying, Jekyl proceeded to arrange the disordered dress and dishevelled hair of the padre, during the performance of which the old priest recovered sufficient consciousness to permit himself to be led downstairs and deposited in the carriage.
An hour later and all was still! Jekyl slumbering peacefully on his little French bed, over which the rose-colored mosquito curtains threw a softened half-sunset hue; a gentle smile parted his lips, as in his dreams the dreams of a happy and contented nature he wove pleasant fancies and devised many a future scheme.
In his own dreary little den, behind the “Duomo,” the padre also slept heavily, not a thought, not a single passing idea breaking the stagnant surface of his deep lethargy.
Nina, however, was wakeful, and had no mind for repose. Her brilliant costume carefully laid aside, she was arranging her dark hair into its habitually modest braid; her very features composing themselves, as she did so, into their wonted aspect of gentleness and submission.
All the change of dress being little in comparison with the complete alteration now observable in her whole air and demeanor, she seemed a totally different being. And she was so, too; for while hypocrites to the world, we completely forget that we share in the deception ourselves.