LADY DESMOND.

A sketch of the life and character of the lady, whose name stands at the head of this chapter, is necessary for the right understanding of what follows; so while she talks of Italian skies, and her reminiscences of Naples with her reserved visitor, whose well timed observations and profound attention drew forth her most brilliant conversational powers, we will draw upon the reader's imagination, and transport her or him, to the West of Ireland, twenty years back from the period of which we write. Dungar was then at its highest point of gaiety and apparent prosperity, when intelligence reached Colonel Vernon of the death, at sea, of a certain Lieutenant O'Brien, of whom he had an indistinct recollection, as having incurred the displeasure and disapprobation of a large circle of relatives, amongst whom the Colonel himself was numbered, by eloping, and consequent marriage, with a very beautiful but low-born and penniless girl.

Of course the hundred cousins, never having done anything, "worthy of death or bonds," themselves, were unanimous as to their right of casting, not only the first, but the last stone at the imprudent couple, who were left to expiate in unpitied and unmitigated poverty the unpardonable error they had committed.

Colonel Vernon's knowledge of O'Brien's circumstances was very limited; he knew he had lost his wife when their only child was still a mere baby, and he had, more than once, unsought, sent handsome presents to the improvident father; but the news of his decease was soon forgotten, in the terrible affliction which threw a shadow over Dungar, for many months. The Colonel's eldest son, the only survivor of three children, a wild, extravagant young scapegrace, of whom none, save his wife and his father, prophesied good, was drowned in some fishing expedition, a sudden squall having capsized his boat. Kate was born a few weeks after her unfortunate father was lost, and, although Mrs. Vernon for her child's sake, strove to drag on a saddened and debilitated existence, she died while Kate was yet too young to remember a mother's caresses.

The Colonel was just beginning to rally from the severe trial which had robbed him of a son, who, though often a source of anxiety and mortification, was still very dear to him, when some gossiping guest mentioned having seen "that unfortunate O'Brien's little daughter" at the house of an aunt, whose close connection with the deceased Lieutenant, could not permit her to ignore the demand of a much enduring school-mistress, that Miss O'Brien should be removed, as she could not afford to encumber herself with a young lady who had no claims on her charity. "You may imagine the sort of life the unhappy little devil leads," concluded the Colonel's informant, "snubbed, by her aunt, cuffed by her cousins, a perfect souffre douleur for the whole family."

Colonel Vernon made no remark at the time, but the picture of the little orphan, thus carelessly drawn, sank deep into his kindly heart, already softened by his recent bereavement.

A hospitable invitation was despatched for the friendless girl, and Georgina O'Brien was soon established in what proved to be her happy home. The Colonel's natural kindness, first attracted to her because she stood in need of it, was confirmed by the little girl's winning ways and dauntless spirit. She was about twelve years old when she first made her appearance at Dungar; tall, thin, sallow, her pale face looked all eyes, and strangers were almost startled at the wild, shy, proud, restlessness of those large, dark orbs that appeared constantly on the alert to resent insult or fly from injury. Gradually all this softened in the balmy atmosphere of gentleness and good breeding, which was soon imbibed by the young stranger, whose bearing, from the first, though hers had been a childhood of galling poverty, bespoke an innate grandeur and dignity, inexpressibly attractive to her patrician host.

Soon it became a pleasing divertissement to the Colonel's sombre thoughts, to teach Georgy her lessons, and undo much that had been done at Fogarty's "select establishment," Mellefort View, Kingstown. He found an apt pupil, though scarcely so diligent as she proved to Pat Costello, the huntsman, who, in rapturous admiration of her firm seat, steady hand, and intuitive comprehension of his instructions, exclaimed to the whipper. "Faith, Miss Georgy's the raal ould stock; sure enough, it comes quite nathral to her to ride, there's nothin', good nor bad, would stop her; if any one would take Craig na Dhioul, be the powers she'd rise her horse at Croagh Pathrick!"

To the Colonel, the huntsman, nurse, and little Kate, the whole stream of her affections flowed; but though, she would willingly send the greater part of all that she possessed as gifts to her cousins, who had tyrannized over and insulted her; the air of supreme indifference, of quiet civility with which she treated them, on those rare occasions when they met, was much more calculated to impress them with the idea, that they were far too insignificant for their misconduct to occupy her memory than that they were forgiven. Indeed Mrs. O'Toole used often to say that, "though she would lay down her life for a friend, the devil himself could not be more scornful to an inemy."

After young Mrs. Vernon's death, the Colonel engaged a governess of higher acquirements than could have been necessary for his baby grand-child, in order that the Lieutenant's orphan might have the advantages of a good education; but amid the irregularity of a household, without a female head, Georgy's imperious ways, and resolute will, enabled her to gain a degree of authority, marvellous in one so young, and displeasing to many of the old retainers, who, nevertheless, bore this assumption of authority, on the part of a dependent, far more unmurmuringly than a similar class in England, would have done. The rigid maxim of working for oneself, however incontrovertible, and admirably suited to national independence, and advancement, is capable of some cruel and unjust applications; and if the sense of independence may be somewhat wanting, in Ireland, there is, at all events, more indulgence—more tolerance—more kindliness for those, with whom fortune has dealt hardly; and it was seldom—very seldom, even Miss O'Brien's keen glance, rendered by early experience morbidly quick at discovering an insult, could perceive even covert disrespect. And so she progressed into luxuriantly beautiful girlhood, unpruned, almost unchecked; already ambitious, she knew not for what—already pining to leave the happy valley, where she had found so tranquil a haven, from the rude storms that shook her infancy—the recollection of the sufferings, and mortifications of her early youth; had sunk deep into her proud heart, and longed to obtain some vantage ground, secured and self-acquired, from which she might look down upon the past—some social eminence, independent even of her kind, beloved, self-constituted guardian. Nor did she long revolve these wishes, in silent, wistful reverie, amongst the bold cliffs, or in the deep, shady glens, with which the country about Dungar abounded, and which might have taught her truer and purer aspirations.

Kate was a mere plaything—confidante, she had none—she was too young to find in books, sufficient companionship; when just as the dearth of excitement, and occupation was most oppressive, Major General Sir Thomas Desmond, K.C.B., arrived on a visit to Colonel Vernon.

There was a scarcity of ladies at Dungar, when Sir Thomas Desmond made his appearance; and the Colonel, banishing Georgina, as too young to take any part in society, to Kate's particular region, the nursery and school-room, collected a shooting party for the General's entertainment.

It was therefore more than probable, that he would leave, without ever encountering the "concealed jewel," of the old mansion, but it was otherwise fated.

Wearied of her unusual seclusion, Miss O'Brien, one fine autumn morning, having watched the departure of the whole party, to shoot or fish, summoned her faithful squire, Pat Costello, and mounting a favourite hunter of the Colonel's, started on a long ride over the wildest part of the wild country round. Occupied by her own thoughts, she forgot time and distance, nor was it till honest Pat ventured to hint, that "maybe, Miss Kate would be cryin' for her," that she thought of returning.

"It must be getting late, Pat—see, the sun is behind Craughmore."

"It is so, miss."

"Let us cross the Priest's field, and get into the lawn that way, the mare will take any of those fences—eh, Pat?"

"Is it the mare? God bless ye, she'd walk over them without knowing it, miss."

Miss O'Brien turned her horse's head without reply, and gradually quickening her pace, from a trot to a canter, from a canter to a gallop, finding a wild pleasure, in the rapid and easy movement of the beautiful animal, on which she was mounted, cleared the last fence which separated the priest's domains, from her guardian's, just as Sir Thomas Desmond, and two or three other gentlemen, the latest of the party were hastening their return to dinner, after a capital day's sport.

"Ha! Colonel," exclaimed Sir Thomas, who narrowly escaped being overturned. "The race of Amazons is not yet extinct in the west, I perceive."

"Georgina!" cried the Colonel. "I had no idea you were out, and on Brown Bess too! She will pull your arms off, my dear girl. Pat, I'm surprised you would let Miss O'Brien ride so fiery an animal."

"Do not blame Pat, dearest Colonel—of course he did as I liked; besides, I can ride every horse in your stable."

"And Pat would be more than mortal if he could refuse your commands," quoth the gallant General, with the gay manner, so often assumed by gentlemen of a certain age, to very young girls.

"Sir Thomas Desmond, my dear Georgy, is returning thanks that his life was spared, in that desperate leap of yours."

"I fear I nearly rode over you," said she, addressing the veteran, who stood gazing with admiration at her beautiful face, glowing with the rich color, imparted by her gallop—her luxuriant black hair falling in masses from under her hat, and her large dark eyes beaming with the excitement of her own thoughts, though little shown by the careless ease of her manner. "I fear I almost rode over you."

"Pray do not mention it; what is an old general more or less, compared to the gratification of so charming a young lady's taste for crossing the country?"

"You will forgive me?" said she smiling.

"Georgy, you know Mr. ——, and Lord Arthur," said the Colonel, waving his hand towards the other gentlemen of the party, and Miss O'Brien acknowledged them with a careless grace, a certain, wild, natural dignity, that did not escape the observant Sir Thomas.

From this time, the General constantly, and avowedly sought the society of his host's protÉgÉe; and she, pleased by his kindly admiration, and flattered by the notice of an individual in his distinguished position, found a new charm in the rides and walks she was beginning to tire of.

But never, in her dreams of the future, had she an instant thought of using matrimony as a stepping stone to position; and the pleasant, polite Chevalier Bayard, but elderly General, whom she looked upon as a second Colonel Vernon, and of whom, in a short time she made a confidant, was the last person she would have dreamt of espousing—meantime Sir Thomas prolonged his visit, and when at length he departed, leaving Georgina, inconsolable for his loss—it was only for a short period.

His return was heralded by the announcement in Saunders' Newspaper of the death of the Dowager Countess of C——, "who has, we understand bequeathed large estates, both here and in England, to her ladyship's nephew, Sir Thomas Desmond, K.C.B., who served with great distinction at——, &c., &c."

Miss O'Brien, overjoyed as she was to see him again, could not help being struck by an indefinable change of manner in her faithful ally. He seemed more deferential and less gaily cordial; still she was unspeakably astonished, when, after a few words of, to her, unintelligible preamble, Colonel Vernon, in a private and solemn interview, informed her that Sir Thomas Desmond had made proposals to him for her hand, as her guardian and next friend.

"I confess I was a good deal startled when he broached the subject," continued the Colonel; "nevertheless, Georgy, I would have you weigh the proposition; there are few men who would show such disinterestedness as to fly back to lay his newly-acquired fortune at the feet of an obscure though very charming girl; and although the disparity—"

"I have made up my mind," said Miss O'Brien, deliberately, as if of her own thoughts, and deaf to the Colonel—"I will accept him."

"But," returned the Colonel, not quite satisfied with this hasty decision, "have you thought of the consequences of a marriage with a man old enough to be your father? can you give him your whole heart? Take a little time, dear Georgy. You have, I trust, a comfortable home here, where you will be always welcome; do not rush on anything that may hereafter prove repugnant; are your affections your own? is—"

"Dear, kind, considerate guardian, yes. Who could I have lost them to? The young lordlings, the county squires, who assiduously avoid the penniless girl, too well protected to be trifled with? no, I never yet thought of loving Sir Thomas; but I will love him heartily; he has the soul of a man, and dares to consult his heart in his choice of a wife. I have something in common with such a soul; I will make him happy, ay, and proud too, though his lot may be cast amongst the nobles of the land."

And drawing her splendid form to its full height, she glanced proudly at the opposite mirror.

"Then I may tell Sir Thomas you accept him? With your proper appreciation of his worth you will be a happy woman; I congratulate you, my dear love."

And they were married; and Kate was bridesmaid; the tenantry were feasted; bonfires blazed, &c., &c.

But did the young and beautiful bride find her heart thus obedient to her will? Heaven alone knows. During the eight or nine years of their union, however, Sir Thomas and Lady Desmond led a halcyon life; and if she ever felt a void in her brilliant existence, she scarce had time, amid her varied pleasures or occupations, to note it. True and deep was the sorrow with which she mourned for the kind husband, the considerate friend, for whom alone she seemed to live; but these long years of unbroken prosperity had not softened the imperious will which distinguished her girlhood; while they somewhat tainted, with their hardening influence, the warmth of heart formerly so true and so unselfish. Meantime, the full leisure of an unoccupied spirit was devoted to the cultivation of intellect, more brilliant than profound, and accustomed to scorn, as interested, the motives of the other sex, her fancy was still unawakened, her strong, deep passions still slept, when the fated current of her life led her to Naples.

At this time, Lord Effingham was the engrossing subject of scandal and gossip at Naples; his luxurious villa, rarely opened to any, save a few select companions, his unrivalled yacht, his strange and almost lawless doings, indicative of a character half cynic, half epicurean, but wholly English in its energy and profusion, each furnished an inexhaustible theme of wonder and exaggeration, to the opera boxes and conversaziones. Rarely he honoured the beau-monde of Naples with his presence; but shortly after Lady Desmond's arrival, some national anniversary dinner, at the English Ambassador's, drew him from his seclusion; and whether he found society more agreeable, after this interval of retirement, or that the proud indifference of Lady Desmond's manner interested a fancy cloyed by adulation, is problematical; but from that period he was more frequently to be met in the brilliant circles adorned by the presence of the beautiful widow, but whether the slumber of her heart, had been broken by the eccentric Englishman, before whose commanding spirit her own involuntarily bent, none could tell, though Mrs. Wentworth surmised.

"But even Italy one tires of," said Lord Effingham, rising to depart after a lengthened visit; "and I confess I am ready to try England, at least, while summer and the novelty of my late revered uncle's villa last; besides, had I been undecided, your presence would have fixed me."

Lady Desmond smiled.

"I fear I frightened away a very studious young lady, whom I found deep in the perusal of some trash—Dickens, I believe," taking up the number Kate had been reading.

"My cousin, Miss Vernon—poor Kate is not in the mood for any profound literature; she has had great sorrows. But I trust you will sometimes look in on us, it will do us both good."

"I shall certainly make my dÉbut in the, to me, new character of consoler."

And he bowed ironically.

"My sweet god-daughter will teach you not to be satirical—she is so good."

"Your god-daughter! why you could not have learned your own catechism when she was christened."

"I was very young, and was only a proxy; but I have called her my god-child ever since."

"Well, addio Lady Desmond, I will bring you some flowers to-morrow; I see you have no conservatory."

And he departed.

Kate was rather startled by the expression, half fright, half exultation in Mrs. O'Toole's countenance, as she entered her room before dinner, to assist her in dressing.

"Och thin, Miss Kate, agrah; who do you think has just rode off, on a horse fit for a prence?"

"I am sure I cannot imagine. Oh, Lord Effingham, I suppose."

"Didn't I tell ye, he was a lord? faith, I niver was mistaken in wan yet; and fur all I spoke up so bould, ses I to meself, he's a lord, no less."

"But, nurse, what do you mean? who did you speak up bold to?"

"To the earl there, him that has jist rode off."

"Where?" demanded Kate, fearful of some strange outbreak on the part of Mrs. O'Toole.

"There, in that banishmint we wor in, at that onlooky Bayswather, whin he wanted me to take the note to ye."

"Why, dear nurse, you do not mean to—Oh, yes, now I recollect, I thought his face and voice were familiar to me. I was dull, very dull, not to notice it before; he is the same person who spoke to me in Kensington Gardens."

"An' did he spake to ye to-day, jewil?"

"Yes; and now I remember, he seemed embarrassed; it is curious; perhaps I ought to mention it to Georgina; yet, no, it would be useless; he amuses her now; and she is just the person who would resent such conduct, warmly. No, I am but a sorry companion as it is; but I will interfere with her amusement as little as I can."

"Faith, ye'r in the right iv it, Miss Kate; for all Lady Desmond loves ye, she loves her own way betther nor all the world itself."

"Hush, hush, you must not speak in that way of our kind, good friend, nurse."

"Well, well, it's thruth I'm tellin' ye; an' see, jewil, ye'll think it quare to be spakin' cool an' asy to that thief iv the world, though he looks like a prence, an' rides like a king."

"Queer! Oh, no, I feel as if that adventure happened years ago; that I have grown old and dispassionate since. Then he will never notice me, when Georgy is there; at least, not much; and, I confess, I feel pleased that he should meet me, in my natural position; but his presence, and the memories it calls up, will never be very welcome to me, now especially."

"Well, we'll see, there's the divil's own timper in thim fiery eyes iv his. I'll go bail he's a dead shot with the pistils."

"Very likely; but there is the dinner bell."

Lady Desmond was thoughtful and distrait; that evening; she spoke little of Lord Effingham, and only conversed by an effort. After tea, she entreated Kate, who had already recommenced her practising, to sing some of the airs she had been arranging previous to her grandfather's death; and Kate, anxious to conquer the repugnance she had felt of late to her favourite occupation, complied, till the tears pouring down her cheeks interrupted her.

"Dearest, forgive me," cried Lady Desmond, roused from her thoughts by the sudden cessation of the music, and flying to her side, "how selfish, how thoughtless I am," and winding her arm round Kate's waist, drew her to the window, through which the moonlight streamed, and the breeze wafted a thousand perfumes.

They stood there a few moments in silence, till Kate, recovering her composure, pressed a kiss upon her cousin's cheek. Lady Desmond started, and a sudden tremor ran through her frame.

"You are cold, dear Georgy? come from the window."

"Oh, no, no! I wish I was cold and calm! Ah, Kate, I am not happy! I would fain change with you!"

"With me! surely not with one so lonely and——."

"Lonely! Who can be more lonely than I am? You have been so much loved; I would give any thing for even the memory of such affection, as the dear Colonel had, for you; some one to live for, some one to die for, who would understand your every glance!"

"But, dearest Georgy, you had all this in your husband!"

"Yes! Oh, heaven forgive my forgetfulness, but now I feel so wearied with this vain struggle! If I had been blessed with children I should have something to live for." She paused and pressed her hand against her eyes. "Come, I will give myself rest and freedom, I will live for you, and you only, my Kate, you shall be my daughter."

And she held her with a wild firm pressure to her heart.

And Kate, puzzled by this unaccountable outbreak, returned her embrace, silently praying to God to direct her beautiful but wayward kinswoman aright.