Lord Kilgobbin | Page 8

to send for a
surgeon--they met at the end of the garden of the legation. The Russian

fired first, and though a consummate pistol-shot, agitation at the insult
so unnerved him that he missed: his ball cut the knot of Kostalergi's
cravat. The Greek took a calm and deliberate aim, and sent his bullet
through the other's forehead. He fell without a word, stone dead.
Though the duel had been a fair one, and the procès-verbal drawn up
and agreed on both sides showed that all had been done loyally, the
friends of the young Russian had influence to make the Greek
Government not only recall the envoy, but abolish the mission itself.
For some years the Kostalergis lived in retirement at Palermo, not
knowing nor known to any one. Their means were now so reduced that
they had barely sufficient for daily life, and though the Greek
prince--as he was called--constantly appeared on the public promenade
well dressed, and in all the pride of his handsome figure, it was
currently said that his wife was literally dying of want.
It was only after long and agonising suffering that she ventured to write
to her brother, and appeal to him for advice and assistance. But at last
she did so, and a correspondence grew up which, in a measure, restored
the affection between them. When Kostalergi discovered the source
from which his wretched wife now drew her consolation and her
courage, he forbade her to write more, and himself addressed a letter to
Kearney so insulting and offensive--charging him even with causing
the discord of his home, and showing the letter to his wife before
sending it--that the poor woman, long failing in health and broken
down, sank soon after, and died so destitute, that the very funeral was
paid for by a subscription amongst her countrymen. Kostalergi had left
her some days before her death, carrying the girl along with him, nor
was his whereabouts learned for a considerable time.
When next he emerged into the world it was at Rome, where he gave
lessons in music and modern languages, in many in which he was a
proficient. His splendid appearance, his captivating address, his
thorough familiarity with the modes of society, gave him the entrée to
many houses where his talents amply requited the hospitality he
received. He possessed, amongst his other gifts, an immense amount of
plausibility, and people found it, besides, very difficult to believe ill of

that well-bred, somewhat retiring man, who, in circumstances of the
very narrowest fortunes, not only looked and dressed like a gentleman,
but actually brought up a daughter with a degree of care and an amount
of regard to her education that made him appear a model parent.
Nina Kostalergi was then about seventeen, though she looked at least
three years older. She was a tall, slight, pale girl, with perfectly regular
features--so classic in the mould, and so devoid of any expression, that
she recalled the face one sees on a cameo. Her hair was of wondrous
beauty--that rich gold colour which has reflets through it, as the light
falls full or faint, and of an abundance that taxed her ingenuity to dress
it. They gave her the sobriquet of the Titian Girl at Rome whenever she
appeared abroad.
In the only letter Kearney had received from his brother-in-law after his
sister's death was an insolent demand for a sum of money, which he
alleged that Kearney was unjustly withholding, and which he now
threatened to enforce by law. 'I am well aware,' wrote he, 'what
measure of honour or honesty I am to expect from a man whose very
name and designation are a deceit. But probably prudence will suggest
how much better it would be on this occasion to simulate rectitude than
risk the shame of an open exposure.'
To this gross insult Kearney never deigned any reply; and now more
than two years passed without any tidings of his disreputable relative,
when there came one morning a letter with the Roman postmark, and
addressed, 'À Monsieur le Vicomte de Kilgobbin, à son Château de
Kilgobbin, en Irlande.' To the honour of the officials in the Irish
post-office, it was forwarded to Kilgobbin with the words, 'Try Mathew
Kearney, Esq.,' in the corner.
A glance at the writing showed it was not in Kostalergi's hand, and,
after a moment or two of hesitation, Kearney opened it. He turned at
once for the writer's name, and read the words, 'Nina Kostalergi'--his
sister's child! 'Poor Matty,' was all he could say for some minutes. He
remembered the letter in which she told him of her little girl's birth, and
implored his forgiveness for herself and his love for her baby.' I want
both, my dear brother,' wrote she; 'for though the