A TALE OF BERLIN. BY THE AUTHOR OF “NORMAN LESLIE, ” “DREAMS AND REVERIES OF A QUIET MAN, ” &c. IN TWO VOLUMES. VOL. I. CHAPTER I.
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It was on a pleasant October evening, in the year
1790, that the public diligence which ran between
Hamburg and Berlin drew up in the evening at
the post of the former town preparatory to starting.
The clock struck nine. The four strong horses
clattered with their heavy hoofs against the pavement,
as if impatient to be off. The conducteur
blew an inspiring blast upon his horn, and a small
but observant circle of by-standers were collected to
gaze on the company of passengers, and the animated
scene in which they formed the principal actors.
The travellers for the night, who appeared to take
their places, were only five in number. The officer
of the post, to whom it was committed to superintend
the departure of the vehicle and its occupants,
appeared with a light, a pen behind his ear, and a
paper in his hand.
“Number one,” exclaimed he.
We shall take the liberty here, as during the
progress of our story, to render, without apology,
into our own language whatever conversation we
may have to impart.
At the call of “number one,” a young man of apparently
five-and-twenty stepped from the surrounding
groups. His umbrella and cane were thrust into
the netting suspended from the roof of the vehicle;
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a book, which he had carried under his arm, was
placed in one of the pockets; and he concluded by
depositing his own person in the right-hand corner
of the back seat, usually deemed the best in the carriage.
During these proceedings, the young man,
by the light of a lamp, underwent an attentive scrutiny
from the spectators, particularly that portion destined
to be his compagnons de voyage. He was a
person of a good appearance and an agreeable enough
countenance. He wore a not very handsome cloak,
but one which had a warm and serviceable look;
and he was no sooner seated than, relieving himself
from a travelling cap of blue cloth, he exchanged
the same for a stout white cotton nightcap, which
gave him a comfortable but not very romantic appearance.
It was easy to perceive that, although a
young man, he was an old traveller; and even such
of the by-standers as counted upon passing the night
in a good bed could scarcely help envying him the
manner in which he arranged himself for his nocturnal
journey.
The official's call for “number two” brought forth
a lady, respecting whom nothing more definite could
be discovered than a goodly equipage of muff, veil,
and cloak—making the tout ensemble of a female
apparently neither young nor old, but of a respectable
rank in life. Her effects had been already placed,
and she assumed her seat without delay.
A call for “number three, four, and five,” brought
into the foreground an English-looking individual of
the male gender, as might be particularly seen by
his whiskers. A lady hung on each arm. The audience,
who silently watched the progress of affairs,
gathered nothing more from the appearance of these
than that they were travellers well wrapped up from
the cold, that they spoke the English language, and
that the name of him of the nobler sex was “John.”
From the frequent and familiar manner in which the
epithet was applied by one of his fair companions,
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in the various remarks which she found it agreeable
to make, she was probably his wife, sister, or near
relative; though they among the spectators accustomed
to such observations were, from a certain asperity
in her tone and manner, rather inclined to set
her down as the first.
The passengers were at length all seated. The
doors were slammed to; the conducteur mounted to
his place; the blast of the horn broke above all other
noises; the renewed clattering of the horses' hoofs
against the pavement was followed by seven heart-rousing
cracks of the whip; and the “bon voyage”
of the dignitary, whose labours were thus happily
completed, was scarcely heard in the general clamour.
The diligence dashed on with a thundering noise.
Our fellow-travellers were sometimes visible to each
other for a moment by the glare of a street lamp or
an illumined shop-window, and sometimes in utter
darkness. At length the softened sound of the
wheels made it apparent that they were off the pavement,
and offered an opportunity of conversation to
such as desired it. “Numbers one and two” seemed,
for the present, disposed to enjoy their reveries in silence.
The others were less taciturn. The person
who has already been introduced to the reader as
“John,” made many exclamations of anger, which
were joined in by a hard, sharp female voice. The
cause seemed to be an overcharge in the bill, or
what at least they deemed such, at their hotel in
Hamburg. The gentleman's dissatisfaction was directed
against the maître d'hotel and the waiters,
while the lady included her husband in her animad-versions.
“I knew we should be overcharged the instant I
set eyes on the hotel,” said the lady. “Didn't I tell
you? I was right, you see!”
“Oh, certainly, my dear, you're always right! but
whose plan is it to come at all? to give up a
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comfortable house in London, where people are—are—
are at least civilized, in order to come here, and—
and—and with these poor savages?”
“Good gracious, John!” said the other voice,
“you are such an awful fool!”
“Oh, certainly, my dear; but—”
Here a third person interfered, in a low tone,
which seemed the soft and more sensible voice of a
young girl. She whispered something to the male
speaker.
“Who cares if they do!” replied the last.
“What is that you say, Mary?” said the lady.
“I say, perhaps our fellow-passengers may understand
English,” said the young girl, in an under
tone.
“Yes, indeed! but your father's such a fool; he
will go on making a ninny of himself.”
“Oh, certainly, my dear! I'm always in the
wrong; but whose idea was it to bring the carriage
and knock it to pieces before even it was got ashore?
I told you it would be broken!”
“Pray, madame, do you speak French?” said
“number one,” addressing, in that language, his silent
companion “number two.”
“Oui, monsieur.”
“We are fortunate in having such pleasant weather
for our journey.”
“Very.”
“Would not you prefer the seat I occupy?”
“Oh non, monsieur.”
“Do you go on to Berlin?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you reside there?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I am so much a stranger on this part of the Continent,
madame, that, if my conversation and questions
will not be disagreeable, I shall occasionally
beg some information as to the objects on our route.”
“It would give me pleasure to afford you any in
my power,” said the lady.
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There was a pause. “Number one” was pleased
with his companion, although he could not see her.
From her voice and manner of speaking during this
short colloquy in the dark, he concluded that she
was a lady of good breeding, and that he was favoured
with an agreeable companion.
“I think you said you were a resident of Berlin?”
at length resumed the young man.
“I did.”
“Have you ever been in England?”
“I have.”
“You speak English?”
“A little.”
“I shall beg, then,” said he, “to express myself
in that language.”
“Alas!” said the lady, in perfect English, only
rendered more graceful by a slight foreign accent,
“I scarcely know whether I can use, with sufficient
facility, a language which I have not practised habitually
for so many years.”
“Really, madame!” said her companion, “I could
mistake you for a countrywoman.”
“No, sir,” said the lady; “I am an Austrian.”
“But you have lived in England?”
“Some time.”
“Is it long since?”
“Twenty years.”
“Did you like it?”
“In some respects.”
“And do you never mean to return there?”
“Oh never!”
The last exclamation was uttered with a vehemence
which apparently the speaker herself did not
intend, and, perhaps, was not conscious of. It implied
a history, and at once piqued the curiosity and
awakened the interest of her companion.
“What kind of a place is Berlin, madame?” inquired
the young man, after another pause, “and how
is a stranger likely to amuse himself there?”
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“It is rather difficult to answer your question in
a satisfactory manner, unless one knows who puts
it.”
“If my name will throw any light upon the affair,”
said the first, good-humouredly, “I am called Mr.
Claude Wyndham.”
“You mistake me,” said the lady, hastily. “I
did not mean to be guilty of such a rude question.
I intended to say that, before I answered the query,
I should know whether he who puts it is in search
of knowledge or pleasure.”
“For me,” said the young man, now also in a
more serious tone, “I am travelling without any
fixed purpose, to see the world, and to fill up an interval
of leisure. I should like to perfect myself in
the German language, of which I have already some
knowledge. I have been also looking towards the
army.”
“What army?”
“That of France, madame. That great nation has
awakened my deepest sympathy. The stand she
has taken commands admiration; and I wish to join
the ranks of a people for the first time demanding
their rights.”
“I have no pretensions to offer you counsel,” said
the lady; “but if I had, I should warn you against
such a course. The revolution which has broken
out in France gives indications of an alarming kind;
and I fear, whatever necessity there may be for reform,
affairs may be hurried on with a precipitateness
dangerous to the peace of Europe. But we
wander from your question.”
“Yes, madame. And do you think I shall like
the metropolis of the great Frederic?”
“Unquestionably.”
“Is the society agreeable?”
“Quite so.”
“May I ask,” continued Mr. Wyndham, “whether
you are sufficiently acquainted there to give me
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information respecting the person to whom I bring
a letter. Do you know Count Carolan?”
“Count Carolan? Do you bring a letter to him?”
“I do.”
“Well, chance has brought us together in a singular
manner,” said the lady. “I am a member of
Count Carolan's family.”
“Then give me leave sincerely to hope,” said
Mr. Wyndham, “that an acquaintance so pleasantly
commenced may be continued.”
This discovery seemed to place Mr. Wyndham
and his complaisant friend on a new footing. They
had already been prepossessed in each other's favour;
and, now that the lady discovered her unknown
companion to be on the eve of appearing in the Berlin
circles under the auspices of Count Carolan, one
of the leading members of the haute societé; and
now, too, that Mr. Wyndham learned that his fellow-passenger
was a member of Count Carolan's
family, the doubts which exist between travellers,
however mutually agreeable when not acquainted
with each other's standing and character, were entirely
dispelled. There remained yet to be satisfied,
however, some curiosity on either side. Who
was Mr. Wyndham? and why the sadness with
which he had alluded to himself? Mr. Wyndham,
on the other hand, wondered what relation existed
between his companion and the Carolans, and whether
he was addressing a wife, a sister, or a poor relative.
She had the ease of manner and elegance of
conversation which familiar acquaintance with society
confers, and there was something about her
which arrested his attention. While these reflections
passed through their minds, the coach stopped
to change horses.
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CHAPTER II.
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The change of horses occupied but little time;
and, after a few fanciful flourishes on the horn, the
heavy vehicle dashed on again at a rapid pace
through the shadows of night.
“Have you been long from Berlin, madame?” resumed
Mr. Wyndham, when they found themselves
once more en route.
“But a few weeks, to visit a friend at Hamburg.”
“You can tell me, then, whether the Carolans
are in town?”
“They are.”
“Have I the honour of addressing a relative of
Count Carolan?” asked Claude.
“Oh no. I am the gouvernante of the young
Countess Ida—their only child.”
“You have been long a resident in Count Carolan's
family?”
“About twelve years; ever since my young pupil
required my services.”
“The Carolans are agreeable people, I think I
have heard.”
“I consider myself fortunate in residing with such
amiable persons, and particularly in having a pupil
so charming.”
“The young countess is pretty, then?”
“I meant to apply the term less to her personal
appearance than to her mind and heart. But she is
extremely beautiful.”
“And her age?”
“Eighteen; but it is her character which renders
her particularly interesting to me.”
“Desist, madame, for Heaven's sake!” cried
Wyndham, jestingly, “unless you mean to make
me wretched for life. Do you know you are talking
to one who disbelieves in the existence of beings
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so dangerous? I have numbered them among unicorns,
mermaids, and the fabulous images of poetry.
Should I encounter such a thing in real life, what
would become of me?”
“Indeed, if you are going to spend much time in
Berlin, Mr. Wyndham,” said Madame Wharton, “I
have been rash in colouring the portrait of my young
friend so highly; but, before it is too late, allow me
to repair my error.”
“As far as possible,” interrupted Wyndham, smiling.
“Smile if you please,” continued Madame Wharton;
“but, before you meet her and enter the hospitable
house of Count Carolan, it is proper you should
learn a fact which I beg to make you acquainted
with.”
“Ah! don't tell me—that this formidable Helen
is already married.”
“No.”
“I breathe again!” said Wyndham.
“Suspend your breath, then!” said Madame Wharton;
“for, although not actually married, she is
fiancée; and I think one of your English proverbs
runs, `forewarned, forearmed!”'
“Alas, then! I am positively not to fall in love?”
“Positively.”
“And there is no hope that a nameless pilgrim
may prove more acceptable than son futur?”
“No, indeed!”
“For another of our English proverbs is, `faint
heart never won fair lady!”'
“If the lady had anything to do with it; but here
the matter is made up between the friends of the
parties. The Count Carolan is a gentleman of
much intelligence and merit, but he carries pride
to hauteur; and he is so aspiring, as well as the
Countess Carolan, that they would both rather see
their daughter dead than united to a man not of high
rank and fortune. I fear `nameless pilgrims' would
stand a very poor chance with them.”
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“The happy gentleman, then, who has won her,
is himself in a high sphere?”
“He is Lord Elkington, son of the Earl of Beverly.
His father is infirm, and it is generally
thought he will soon receive the title and estates
himself.”
“Is the young countess at Berlin?”
“Oh yes.”
“And the fortunate adorer?”
“Of course.”
“And what kind of a person is this fortunate
Lord Elkington?”
“Lord Elkington is about two-and-twenty; a
fashionable, elegant young man, of distinguished
manners, and very fond of Ida. He will be able to
support her in a sphere of life even grander than
that to which she has been accustomed.”
“Ah! grander, my dear madame—as if grandeur
were happiness! I am sure I wish the young lady
all possible good, but—” He paused. Madame
W. made no answer; and a slight yawn, partly
suppressed, broke from the lips of Wyndham, announcing
that fatigue and drowsiness were becoming
too strong for even the attractions of the fair
young countess. A little shocked at such a breach
of decorum, he was about to make an apology, when,
by that mysterious contagion which, it is to be hoped,
will be one day better accounted for, his companion
followed his example. And a sudden short
snore, not unlike the snap of a very hungry dog at
a piece of meat, proceeding apparently from the
person of “John”—who, with his wife and daughter,
had, during the preceding confabulation, preserved a
profound silence—indicated that it was late, and that
the hour of sleep had arrived. The horses were
here changed again. Claude wrapped himself well
up in his cloak. Madame Wharton retreated yet
farther into her muff and shawl; and, ere long, both
fell into a slumber, which people who have never
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slept out of bed think only enjoyable in that luxurious
article of furniture, but which, notwithstanding,
may be both sound and sweet upon the broad
and soft cushions of a German Schnellpost.
CHAPTER III.
Hour after hour of the night rolled on, and found
our new acquaintances nodding and bobbing to each
other in the dark, not greatly disturbed by the frequent
change of horses, the sounding horn, and the
various other noises which one might suppose sufficient
to drive “tired nature's sweet restorer” from
any eyelids. Sometimes, on being awakened by
the crack of the postillion's whip, or the sudden
stopping of the coach, Madame Wharton would fall
into a train of reflection of which her young fellow-traveller
formed the subject. She had not yet fairly
seen him, and her curiosity was stimulated by
such a conversation with one of whose personal appearance
she had so vague an idea. For she remembered
nothing more of him than that he had
put on a very comfortable-looking nightcap. She
liked him more and more every instant. There
was a frankness about him which, while it bestowed,
also at once elicited confidence. She had been
in the habit for years of seeing many young men in
the circles in which the Carolans lived. She had
never dreamed of exchanging confidence with any
of them, and here she had been betrayed into allusion
to topics of a private nature by a feeling of congeniality
with one whom, in fact, she had never even
seen. There was something pleasing, and even
commanding, in his air and voice, which struck her
as uncommon.
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Claude also sometimes, refreshed by a sound
nap, would turn himself into a new position, and
suffer his mind to run on in advance to the Prussian
metropolis; to the scenes hallowed by the eccentricities
and genius of the great Frederic, then recently
deceased, and to the gay saloons where, ere
long, he was to behold the young person whom a
lady of such intelligence had pronounced so superior
in character and so lovely in person. Like many
a sanguine young man of his age, his heart acknowledged
a great interest in female beauty, and the
sportive warnings of Madame Wharton had not
been without effect, although different from that intended.
At length the darkness of night began to grow
less black, and the stars, by their “ineffectual fires,”
showed the matin to be near. The endless plains
which form the principal scenery between Hamburg
and Berlin became more visible. A gray light fell
coldly in through the carriage windows, promising
to reveal a more satisfactory view of each other than
Madame Wharton and Claude had yet been able to
obtain. In the houses of the black, dilapidated stone
villages through which the vehicle was whirled with
the noise of thunder, lights appeared, and sometimes
sleepy heads obtruded themselves, cased in
nightcaps, from the windows. Then the early
peasants were seen on the road, going cheerfully to
their toil, till at length the dusky shadows were
fairly put to flight from the sombre earth and now
brightening heavens; shafts of fire shot up from the
east through the clouds, which, aroused by these
heralds, seemed to awake and bestir themselves at
the appearance of the sun. The cold night-mists
rose from their resting-places in the wide heaths
and dark hollows, uncurtaining the silent and almost
desert plains, which, monotonous as they were,
had, in the eyes of Claude, a certain inexpressible
beauty, stretching off into azure distance like the
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ocean. As length, reddening and brightening as he
advanced, the sun rose above the sombre circle
which had so long hailed his coming, and shed a
rosy radiance over the scene.
While Claude watched the magnificent changes
going on over the heaven and earth, and lifted his
soul in humble adoration of Him before whose
brightness the sun himself is dim, the other occupants
of the diligence remained locked in profound
slumber.
Madame Wharton's veil had fallen aside and revealed
her features. She was a fine-looking woman
of about two or three-and-forty. Her countenance
was regular and handsome. Her dress was that of
one belonging to the higher classes of society, although
modest and unpretending. Besides Claude
and herself, there were three other persons in the diligence.
The gentleman was a red-faced little man
with large black whiskers. His countenance, heavy
in sleep, had fallen into an expression of grotesque
inanity. The wife was a lady of goodly proportions,
who looked as if she had passed her life in breaking
“John” into the traces. Upon turning his eyes to
the third person (although we do not vouch for the
fact that she was the last object of his examination),
Claude beheld a really very pretty girl, extremely
well dressed, round and graceful in her
form, her countenance feminine, soft, and even lovely,
and her whole air, though fast asleep, so much
superior to what our young traveller had anticipated,
that he somewhat hastily took off his cotton
nightcap, brushed back his hair, arranged it around
his forehead, and made as many other reformations
in his toilet as time and space permitted.
“I am sure,” thought he, as he indulged himself
with another gaze at this innocent face, on which
sleep, if it rendered it less charming, seemed to bestow
a peculiar grace of its own, “I'm sure this
wonderful young countess is not half so pretty.”
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The coach soon drew up at a dirty-looking inn,
out of which a dirty-looking man, with a long dirty
pipe, stepped to open the carriage door, as the conducteur,
in his usual bad French, put his head in to
awaken his charge with,
“Allons, messieurs, voulez-vous déjeuner ici un
peu?”
On meeting at breakfast-table, for which a period
of twenty minutes was allowed, the party were
drawn more familiarly together, particularly after a
cup of excellent coffee had driven away all traces
of fatigue and sleep. The renewal of an acquaintance,
which had been so auspiciously commenced
in the dark, was, by day, all that either of the parties
could wish, and, to say the truth, more than
they expected. Sober daylight dispels so many
agreeable visions which fancy raises in the shadow,
that both our lively fellow-travellers were relieved
by the result of, at length, a fair view of each other.
Madame Wharton appeared advantageously in a
room; her figure was tall and dignified, her face by
far handsomer than Claude had hitherto thought it,
and her manners full of elegance and ease. He
could not but again secretly congratulate himself
upon the acquisition of such a valuable companion.
Nor was Madame Wharton less pleased with his
appearance. His figure was taller than she had
supposed, and, when he threw off his old travelling
cloak, it appeared easy and noble. His countenance
was extremely prepossessing even in repose,
and, when he spoke, lighted up with mind and soul;
and his manners had that indefinite charm which
sometimes attaches us to a stranger with a feeling
of admiration and even friendship.
The rest of the party were presently found to be
a Mr. and a Mrs. Digby, with their daughter. The
first two were pleased to address some friendly remarks
to Madame Wharton and Claude, for whom
they appeared to entertain a profound respect, while
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the latter could not avoid proffering to Miss Digby
those attentions which youth loves to bestow, and
which it seems but natural for beauty to receive.
She was a pretty girl, with a very fair complexion,
cheeks tinged with a hue which princesses might
envy, and which, when she spoke or was spoken
to, heightened into a blush. The reader might also
like to know that her eyes, when opened, turned
out to be of the softest blue. It hardly seemed
possible that so fair and delicate a girl could be the
daughter of the two ordinary-looking people who
accompanied her.
Our travellers were soon interrupted in their
breakfast and their observations of each other by
the imperative cry of the conducteur, “Allons, messieurs,
en route!” and in a few moments they found
themselves once more in the coach, much refreshed
by the breakfast and the pause in their journey.
When they were reseated the conversation was
commenced by Mrs. Digby, who addressed herself
to Madame Wharton.
“Have you ever been in London, mem? It is a
very different place from any of those towns that one
sees on the Continent.”
“Why, you haven't seen any towns to enable you—
to—to—a — a — any comparison between them
and London,” said Mr. Digby.
Mrs. Digby pressed her lips a little more closely
together, and, after a quiet look of compassion upon
her better-half, said,
“I'm told Berlin is a beautiful town. Pray,
mem, what hotel do you advise us to put up at?”
“Why, although I reside in Berlin,” replied Madame
Wharton, “I know less of the hotels than a
stranger. `The King of Prussia' is at least in a good
part of the town.”
“Thank you, mem. That is the very one which
our guide-book mentions; but as the guide-book
mentions also, in very strong terms of praise, the
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`Golden Swan' at Hamburg, which we were at;
and as we found that one of the most abominable
places—a perfect den of thieves—and without so
much as a carpet on the floor, and such a nauseous,
filthy place, we didn't know how far the book might
be trusted. What do you think of the German
beds, mem?”
“I sleep in them very comfortably.”
“Well, mem, I can't say I've been half so lucky.
Do you know, mem, I would not believe the gar
çong when he told me it was a bed, although I
have seen the world, un poo, too. I thought it was
a settee. I did, upon my honour, mem, and so,
indeed, I found it, for I was in a sitting posture the
whole night long. I could not lie down at all, and,
besides that, I had a very handsome feather bed on
top of me. The fem-di-chambre insisted on it.
Ah, mem, if you want to see beds, you should come
to England. If you want to see comfort at all, you
must come there; cleanliness—doors to the houses—
civil servants, coal fires, and Brussels carpets—
England for ever, mem.”
“Well, there, for a wonder,” said Mr. D., “you
are right, my dear. Why, I have neither—a—a—
a-eaten—nor—a—a slept since I—I—from London.
I never saw such a set of—of—of fools as
we've met with; and as for carpets, I don't believe
they know what they are.”
“That's true enough, John,” said Mrs. D.
“Why, how should they?” resumed Mr. Digby,
“where, in half the inns, all the pigs and old hens
in the town are—are—are—all the time—eh—eh—
through the hall and kitchen.”
“You should not be quite so severe upon us
poor Continentals,” said Madame Wharton, smiling,
“because your hotel in Hamburg was not a good
one; and as for carpets, you must not forget that the
very ones which you boast of so much in England
are made in Brussels!”
“Brussels, mem?”
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“Certainly!”
“Oh, Brussels carpets! ah, that's a place, then.
Is it, indeed?”
Madame Wharton looked rather surprised at this
unsophisticated observation.
“Pray, mem, have you ever seen those relics of
Frederic the Great, about which so much is said in
the guide-book?”
“Yes; they are very interesting.”
“They must be, mem.”
“I am truly sorry,” said Claude, “to have lost the
opportunity of being presented to that great man.
His genius will endear him to posterity, and the
metropolis, which he so much aggrandized, will
long be hallowed by associations of him. It will be
many centuries before the world will see another
sovereign so good.”
“I am not so sure of that,” said Madame Wharton.
“His striking character unquestionably commands,
and will long continue to command, attention,
but I do not know that the true attributes of a sovereign
are not of a yet higher and calmer order.
Truth is not always conspicuous, nor wisdom dazzling.
A sovereign should not so much seek to distinguish
himself, as to protect his people. I believe
the nation would be happier under a monarch
more conscious of the blessings of peace, and the
tranquil, but lasting benefits of justice and moderation.”
“Frederic the Great built Berlin himself, I'm
told, on poles, mem.”
“On Poles!” said Madame Wharton.
“On poles!” echoed Claude.
“Perhaps you mean, figuratively speaking, on
the inhabitants of Poland!” suggested Madame
Wharton.
“Not in the least, I assure you, mem. I mean
on regular poles of wood.”
“I never heard that before,” said Claude, amused
by the oddities of the honest dame.
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“Didn't you, sir? Why, Lord! it's mentioned in
our guide-book positively—built Berlin on Poles!—
within a large wall—and then ordered the people to
go and live there. They talk a great deal about
this Frederic the Great; but I must say, that if he
ordered his subjects to do any such thing, he must
have been a very curious sort of a king, and they
must have been very obedient people. Why, do
you think, mem, that I would be ordered about in
that way by our old king, God bless him, or any
one else? No, no. If he should command anything
of that kind to us Londoners, I can just tell
you, and him too, that if he did not have St. James
about his ears pretty quick, it would not be our
fault.”
“I think,” said Digby, “you have made some
mistake; I don't see how a city could be—eh—
eh—on poles, I'm sure.”
“No mistake at all, I tell you, isn't it in the
book? on black and white, as plain as a pipe stem?
and I aint such a fool, I take it, but that I can read.”
“Well, I think you've made a mistake,” said
Digby, boldly.
“John, how can you be such a fool?”
“Well, just refer to the book, and see who's the
fool then.”
“You do injustice to our great Frederic,” said
Madame Wharton. “I believe some attempt has
been made to raise a building on some piles, in a
certain part of the town, where the ground is marshy;
but the order of the king was only that a certain
space of ground should be enclosed within walls
for the future city.”
“There,” said Mr. Digby, triumphantly, “who's
the fool now, my dear?”
“Ah, maybe so, mem!” said Mrs. Digby, rather
tartly. “I was never there myself; I only know
what I see printed, and our guide-book is called
one of the very best, mem!”
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CHAPTER IV.
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The conversation of a stagecoach is apt to run
on at length into a more confidential character than
would be the case under other circumstances. Our
travellers beguiled their time agreeably enough till
the hour of dinner. The loquacity of Mrs. Digby,
which might have been tiresome, if not offensive
elsewhere, was here an efficient protection against
ennui, and a prolific source of amusement. Claude
found in these two people an ignorance of things
most generally known, which surprised as much as
it amused him. It was on the part, at least, of the
lady, accompanied with the boldness which is so
often its companion. It is only the intelligent who
learn to doubt, and have the modesty to avoid
coming to conclusions except on good grounds.
Mr. Digby continued throughout the day dull and
stupid, and Mary silent and blushing. Claude's
good-natured endeavours to draw her into conversation
elicited nothing more than a change of colour
and monosyllabic replies, till at length he gave up
the undertaking as impossible. Mrs. Digby, on the
contrary, rattled on in edifying carelessness, stumbling
every ten minutes into an outrageous error,
which, even when by chance she discovered it, did
not embarrass her or make her more cautious for
the future. She seemed indifferent to every consideration
but that of a grand plan of pushing herself
into a circle of society abroad, higher than she
had been able to get into at home. Both Madame
Wharton and Claude were puzzled to comprehend
how so much wealth, and the relationship, to which
she several times alluded, to the lately deceased
Lord Clew, could be reconciled with so little education,
and such a singular ignorance of the forms of
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even third-rate polite life. It was impossible to
avoid being entertained by their mistakes. Travelling
through a country, with the language and customs
of which they were totally unacquainted, and
full of the prejudices which many English, even of
a superior condition, bring with them abroad, they
were always in trouble. Mr. Digby, who had
scraped together a few words of French, found it
impossible, as he said, to make those fools understand
him; and, at every new object which met
their eye, and of which they did not understand the
use, they were clamorous in their expression of
their surprise or indignation. On many occasions
Claude obligingly acted as their interpreter, the
more readily as the modest Mary looked her gratitude
in a very obvious manner, although she had
not yet found courage to put it in words. On stopping
for dinner, towards the close of that meal Digby
begged Claude to call for some beer, and the attention
of the strangers in the room was attracted by
his exclamation of, “Ho la, what the devil's the
fool at now?” called forth by the appearance of the
Prussian beerglass, which, without being greater in
circumference than a common tumbler, is about two
feet in height, for the purpose of affording room for
the superabundant foam of that pleasant beverage.
On tasting the beer, which is of the lightest kind,
more resembling ginger-pop than the solid drinks
which pass by the same name in London, he spit
it out with disgust, protesting that the idiots had
given him poison. He then insisted upon Claude's
calling for some “strong ale.” The waiter shook his
head in profound ignorance, though not without a
broad grin, and Digby swore he was more than ever
convinced that the “people of the Continent were
only half civilized.” In the midst of his expressions
of disappointment, the inevitable “Allons, messieurs,
en route!” called them to resume their journey before
he had half finished his dinner. Although he
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had eaten less, yet, owing to his hurry and ignorance
of the money of the country, he was obliged to pay
more than any of his fellow-passengers, and he kept
the diligence waiting till the conducteur addressed
him with a loud protestation and an inflamed countenance.
Reseated in the carriage, he commenced
a tirade against Germany and the Germans, their
towns, inns, beds, manners, and customs, among
which their beer was not forgotten. Mrs. Digby,
at length, after telling John to hold his tongue, and
that he was an “awful fool,” appropriated Madame
Wharton to herself, and talked down that lady's few
polite efforts to keep up a conversation with an untiring
energy, which might have been annoying, had
not the good dame's loquacity been seasoned with
so much food for mirth. It was not long before,
warmed by exertion, she began to give an account
of her past life and future plans, which let her auditors
a little into the mystery which had so perplexed
them.
“I assure you, mem,” she continued, “our history
is very interesting, and, for want of better
amusement in a stagecoach, I'll tell it you. You
see, mem, Mr. D., though no one would think so to
look at him, poor man—”
“Thank you, my dear,” said Mr. Digby.
“You see, mem, Mr. D., as I have, I believe, told
you before, is a relation of the late Lord Clew. I
suppose you have heard of Lord Clew, mem?”
“No, I do not think I remember him.”
“Well, mem, by that means, a few years ago,
we came into possession of about £100,000.”
“A pretty affair!” said Claude.
“Wasn't it, sir! I assure you, however, as far as
want goes, I never did; for we were in an excellent
business—which is neither here nor there, mem.
We didn't even know that Mr. D. was related to
my Lord Clew, any more than the child unborn;
when, one day, as we were sitting down to dinner—
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I remember it as if it had been yesterday; don't
you, John?”
“To be sure I do!”
“A good dinner of mutton and turnips, with mint
sauce.”
“And a hearty tankard of foaming ale,” interrupted
Digby.
“Rap, rap, rap, rap, goes the knocker,” said Mrs.
Digby. “A little old gentleman was let in and taken
into the back parlour, wanting to see Mr. D.
He was a gray-haired, hard-looking old gentleman,
of about three or four-and-fifty or so—says he, `I
want to see Mr. Digby—Mr. John Digby!' `That's
your man,' says I. Now anybody else might have
been afraid that he was a sheriff's officer, or something
of that sort, but not so I; for, as I told you,
we were in good circumstances, and I didn't care
the tip of my finger for any sheriff's officer of them
all. `I want to see Mr. John Digby,' says he.
`That's your man,' says I. `My name is Abraham
Hand,' says he. `Is it, sir?' says I. `Then
maybe you'll take a seat?' says I. `Mr. Digby's
father's name was Samuel?' says he. `It was so,'
says I. `And he came from Birmingham?' says
he. `That's as true as if you'd read it out of a
book,' says I. `And you, I take it, are Mrs. Digby,
' says he. `At your service,' says I. `Well—”'
“And this was Lord Clew?” said Madame Wharton,
when her companion paused a moment to take
breath.
“I beg your pardon, mem,” continued Mrs. Digby,
with some dignity. “I beg your pardon; it
was not my Lord Clew, by no manner of means—
for he was dead and buried, poor man—but it was
one of the most curious characters in the known
world. It was a person who, although no lawyer,
has spent his life in courts of justice and such places,
and who keeps one eye on all the great families
in the kingdom, and the other on all the wills—
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and other registers of property. He knows the state
of everybody's fortune, they say, better than they
do themselves; and where it came from, and where
it is to go, particularly everything that has been tergiversated
in courts of justice—or chancery I think
they call it, mem.”
“This is singular,” said Madame Wharton.
“I think I have heard of some such person,” said
Claude.
“Very probably, sir. Now you'll observe, mem,
in such a stupendious place as London, there are
some people who don't know their own rights, or
who they really are; and I'm told this individual not
only often has the pleasure of being the first to inform
people that they have fallen heirs to large estates,
but that, in the course of his explorations amid
old wills and other parchments, he frequently lights
upon property bequeathed or reverted to people who
neither court, nor jury, nor chancellor, nor anybody
else knows the least thing about, and whether
they are alive or dead, or in the country or in foreign
parts, mem.”
“This is really remarkable,” said Madame Wharton.
“Isn't it, mem? It turned out that Mr. Digby,
poor creature, was a distant relation of Lord Clew's,
without any one's knowing anything about it. My
lord himself knew there was such a relation living,
but had never taken the pains to ferret him out, and
died suddenly without a will. I'm afraid I don't
give a very clear account of it, but it all fell out
right, and we left it entirely to our solicitor, who
soon found matters to be just as Mr. Hand had said.
Mr. D. gave Mr. Hand £1000 like a great fool,
when, as I told him at the time, £100 would have
done just as well; but we received our £100,000,
and a very agreeable thing it was, I can assure you,
mem.”
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“Your story is like one of the Arabian Nights,”
said Claude.
“Night or day, sir, so it was; and we were much
obliged to Mr. Hand, who has been a great friend
to us ever since, and is, in fact, even now a sort of
agent of ours; for he knows more about law and
such things, I believe, than all the lawyers put together.
Now, mem, my passion is society. Mr.
D. isn't fond of it, but I am never easy unless I'm
in the bong-tong. This is one of my objects in
coming to Berlin; and, if you can make us acquainted
with a few genteel families—the Carolans, and
such kind of persons—in case of your coming to
London, I'll promise to return the compliment. I
have been told that we should enjoy more facilities
in the society abroad than at home. I don't know
how it is, but the London society is very difficult.
They're a proud set, and go in clusters like swarms
of bees. We never could git acquainted with our
own countrymen, even when they lived next door to
us. We have brot letters to Mounseer Godeau—
you know them, doubtless. They are very high
people in Berlin, I'm told, mem, and will introduce
us also everywhere into the ho-tong. Pray, how
do they stand there, mem?”
This long harangue being at length brought to a
conclusion, she paused a moment, partly for breath,
and partly for an answer to one of the various questions
contained in it; but, by a slight sound from
Madame Wharton, she perceived that that lady had
fallen asleep.
The second night in a diligence is generally more
easily got through with than the first. Fatigue of
body and mind produces an inevitable disposition
to sleep, and one becomes so accustomed to the
usual incidents and interruptions that they no longer
form any obstacle to repose. At length Mrs.
Digby's everlasting tongue stopped, and all sank to
sleep. The night rolled away, and the travellers
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were whirled rapidly on, doubtless edified by their
respective dreams. Those of Mrs. Digby were of
sweeping trains, nodding feathers, and long robes of
satin and velvet, with a magnificent young lord at
the feet of the ever-blushing Mary. The fancy of
Mr. Digby reverted back to less prosperous, but,
alas! more happy days, before fortune had elevated
him to the troublesome necessity of being “genteel.”
Claude, so much had they talked of the celebrated
town they were approaching, glided in imagination
through its streets, with temples, columns, and domes
everywhere around him; while Madame Wharton
herself was once more young and lovely—the admired
and observed of all—treading through scenes
which Time, that ruthless and ever-busy robber,
had long borne with him into his own dark realm
of the past. What had recalled to her those longforgotten
times? What had awakened in her imagination
the images of a reality which she had ever
wished to turn away from, or to regard as empty
dreams? By some strange and subtle association,
the phantoms of vanished years had started up once
more around her, and encircled her with the happy
and long-faded hours of youth, and hope, and joy.
At length the morning broke, and the idea of being
so near their journey's end aroused the sleepers
at an early hour. Claude turned his eyes towards
the dim, indistinct scenes flying past the carriage
window, and, letting down the glass, admitted the
cool, refreshing air. He began already to experience
that pleasing sensation with which one enters,
for the first time, a great foreign city. His mind
was stored with historical associations of the great
men who had lived and who still live there. The
approach to the capital, after his long travel over
the desert and apparently endless plains in which
northern Germany inclines towards the Baltic,
seemed like nearing land after a sea-voyage. Traces
of a neighbouring population began already to
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manifest themselves. Better houses, more cultivated
gardens, thicker and more regular avenues of
trees, higher walls, and various other tokens, not
only of the proximity of a large town, but of royalty
itself. As the Schnellpost entered the little village
of Charlottenburg, these indications grew more
numerous and striking, till the chateau and its beautiful
grounds broke upon his eyes, looking in that
early light like a scene of enchantment.
“This is very pretty and striking!” said Claude.
“The chateau is, of course, a royal residence?”
“It was built by his late majesty,” said Madame
Wharton.
“What late majesty, mem?” demanded Mr.
Digby.
“Frederic the Great!”
“Dear me, how new it looks,” said Mrs. Digby.
“New?”
“Certainly, mem. I did not know that any
houses built by Frederic the Great could yet have
as new an appearance as that.”
“And why not?”
“Why, I thought he lived a long time ago—in
the time of Brutus, and those fellows!”
The carriage now entered the Thiergarten, or
Berlin's Park, a beautiful and thick wood about
three miles in circumference, lying immediately
outside the city walls and the principal gate. The
pretty river Spree, a branch of the majestic Elbe,
after meandering through the city, comes bending
into the Thiergarten, bearing its cool breezes in
summer into the sylvan recesses of the wood, and
then stealing in to bathe the terraces of the Charlottenburg
chateau. From this river, by the taste
and care of royalty, streams are led in many devious
ways through the grounds, winding by and beneath
what the stranger thinks the prettiest banks
and bridges he ever saw. Carriage roads, lanes for
equestrians, and footpaths lead the eye and tempt
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the feet in a thousand different directions; while
the great road, as straight as an arrow, runs directly
through the forest to the Brandenburg gate, one of
the chief architectural ornaments of the city, and,
perhaps, the most magnificent portal in Europe.
Our travellers at length approached the walls, and
caught the scenic view through the tall columns of
this gate. The rising sun sent its beams through
the forest arcades (which, even at this season, from
the brightness and clearness of the day and the
number of evergreen trees, preserved something of
the effects of summer), and tipped with gold the
colossal bronze figure of Victory and her four horses
on the top, which has since witnessed such remarkable
changes, and even acted its part in the vicissitudes
of this interesting country. The city population
were now fairly forth in moving crowds. Peasants,
labourers, milkwomen with their little dogcarts,
soldiers, officers, sentinels, and droskies appeared
on every side. Suddenly a band of martial
music burst upon them, and a large company of infantry
were marched out of the gate; while a troop
of cavalry, their helmets, swords, and cuirassiers
glittering in the sun, dashed rapidly off in another
direction. This great military government, ever
destined to support a brilliant army, was now animated
by the prospect of a war with France; a war
whose interminable duration and eventful consequences,
how few of all then living could foresee!
The carriage, in passing the gate, entered a large
square, through which double rows of trees seemed
to continue the wood into the bosom of the town.
While the custom-house officers were examining
the passports, Madame Wharton informed them that
the street they were entering was called the “Linden,”
and pointed out the residences of several distinguished
people. They had time, however, for
few observations. The diligence almost immediately
dashed on once more, and, after a
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considerable ride through the town—which, from the hasty
views caught of it, the vistas of long streets, and
glimpses of churches, statues, bridges, and columns,
seemed a city of palaces and temples—they reached
the poste.
It was Claude's intention to attend Madame
Wharton home in a public coach; but, as he was
about making the offer, she saw Count Carolan's
carriage waiting for her, and a chasseur, in rich livery,
advanced to take charge of her. They therefore
bade each other adieu, and with a warmth
which showed to both the mutual sentiments of esteem
and friendship which had arisen between
them.
“Remember,” said Madame Wharton, “you have
already half chosen me for your Mentor; and really,
in the scenes through which you are about to pass,
you may find such a companion, although sometimes
troublesome perhaps, not altogether useless.”
Claude promised to take the earliest occasion to
see her; and then, at their earnest request, accompanied
the Digbys to the Hôtel du Roi de Prusse.
CHAPTER V.
Few pleasures are more agreeable than the first
arrival in a foreign city in good health and bright
weather; the change of toilet, the leisurely breakfast
at a comfortable hotel, after the hurry and fatigue
of a journey; and “last, but not least,” the
ramble through the town, amid things strange, fantastic,
and hallowed by historical associations.
After an excellent breakfast and a change of toilet,
which much improved the appearance of our
young traveller, he prepared to sally forth and see
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the town. As he intended a considerable stay in
Berlin, he required a servant; and, ignorant of its
localities, he concluded to procure one, if possible,
at once. Accordingly, he made inquiries of the
waiters, and was informed that there was then in
the house a valuable domestic, just by chance out
of place, and who would immediately present himself.
Claude decided to employ him for the day,
and, if he liked him, to keep him. A modest knock
at the door presently announced a young man of
agreeable countenance and altogether prepossessing
appearance. He was well furnished with recommendations
from a host of counts, barons, and ambassadors,
with whom he had lived different periods
of time, and who pronounced him everything that
was honest, zealous, active, and faithful. His manners
were engaging, and even what Mrs. Digby
would have called “genteel.” He was obviously
modest and intelligent, and Claude liked him at a
glance.
“You are a Berlinian?”
“Yes, your excellency!”
“Do you understand English?”
“No, your excellency!”
“You are, of course, well acquainted with the
town?”
“Perfectly, your excellency!”
“I will employ you to-day,” said Claude; “leave
your certificates. I will look them over, and perhaps
I will take you permanently into my service.”
“Monseigneur is very good.”
“Get ready to go out with me: I wish to walk
through the town. If you do not already know the
address of Count Carolan, find it. And—don't call
me `excellency,' or `monseigneur,' but plain monsieur.”
“Pardon, monsieur—milles pardons.”
“Your name?”
“Carl, monseign—monsieur.”
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Claude was pleased with the simplicity of this
young man. There was about him an air of artlessness
and good-nature which promised well. Accompanied
by him, he commenced his first ramble
through the town, then peculiarly interesting to
strangers from the brilliant and recently-closed career
of the great military genius who had rendered
the Prussian army formidable to Europe. Claude's
first care was to leave his letter of introduction at
Carolan's. The count resided in an imposing mansion,
which had a palace-like and almost royal appearance.
It was covered with sculpture. The
large court in front was adorned with vases and
statues, of which also a row looked down from the
ridges of the roof. An open archway revealed the
vista of a garden in the rear, extending back indefinitely,
and thickly planted with trees and shrubbery
in the English style. Several serving-men in
livery were lounging by the broad door. It was at
once recognised as the residence of one of those
grands seigneurs who live in the midst of royal
splendour without the grave cares and heavy responsibilities
of a throne.
“And so, then,” thought Claude, as the tout-ensemble
of this princely residence rose upon his eye,
and he caught through the windows indistinct views
of the interior magnificence—angles of large paintings
hung against the walls, snowy statues, golden
ceilings and shutters, and gorgeous curtains—“this
is the home of her whom Madame Wharton describes
as so beautiful and superior.”
“Where will monsieur go next?” said Carl, who
had been standing some time with his hat in his
hand, and who had concluded at length to interrupt
a revery which did not seem likely to have any particular
termination.
“Show me the town,” said Claude. “I wish to
see only its exterior to-day. Whatever there is
most attractive to a stranger.”
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Carl led the way through streets celebrated for
their architectural magnificence, the principal objects
of which the guide-books will give more in detail
than it would be possible for us to do. Suffice it
to say, that he was struck with the magnificence of
everything around him. Fountains which threw
their sparkling waters high into the air; ample
squares; level streets; long lines of sculptured facades,
temples, palaces, churches, statues, columns,
porticoes, and bridges, in a stately order, which recalled
the imperial splendours of old Rome, when
Augustus and Vespasian delighted to adorn the
capital. Among the rest, the large royal palace or
Schloss, a vast edifice, imposing from its size and
position, lifted its towering walls against the sky.
Carl pointed out each edifice and object worthy of
remark, and gave the necessary information respecting
them with respectful attention. While they
were thus employed, several elegant equipages,
each drawn by four horses, with outriders and postillions,
and all the pomp of royalty, drove by, their
occupants receiving the universal salutations of
the crowd, and returning them with great affability.
Among others, that of the king, the father of the
present beneficent sovereign, was announced by a
low-toned expression of Carl's, “Monsieur—sa
majesté!” and a yet more reverential salutation.
“Ah, well!” thought Claude, as everything wore
a bright aspect through the atmosphere of an unusually
clear day, “I have got here into a very pretty
town, and I will not leave it till I have laid out
for myself a plan of future conduct. I will no longer
sigh over the sad mystery of the past. I will adopt
some certain and honourable employment; and, if
nothing better presents itself, I will even make my
way into France, and aid that rising people in the
pursuit of national happiness. In the mean time I
am young, in health, my own master, and, at all
events, for the present, independent. Let me
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improve my time while I can. Why should I suffer
one secret misfortune to overbalance all these advantages?
He is the true philosopher who enjoys
life while he can, and quaffs the foaming drink before
the sparkle leaves the brim.”
While passing through a street on their way
home, they were interrupted by a group of several
persons around a print-shop window, where a number
of engravings and pretty paintings were the objects
of attention.
“Will monsieur pass in?” said Carl. “There
are often very pretty things here. All the Berlin
societé visit this shop.”
Casting his eyes through the door, he was struck
with some soft landscapes, and, stepping across the
threshold, he became too much interested to retire
without seeing the whole collection. Leaving Carl,
therefore, at the door, he entered; and perceiving—
by the little attention his appearance occasioned, and
the three or four other persons, apparently strangers
like himself, also engaged in their examination—
that it was a kind of public exhibition, he yielded
to the charm which he always found in works of
art. Paintings to him were another, a newer
world, created by the mind of the artist out of the
wide materials of this. There, all is either grand,
or soft, or wonderful. The yearnings which the
mortal has after something above the rude masses
amid which even the fairest things lie half buried,
are there unobscured. He who feels art finds an
enchanted world in a picture gallery. The homeliest
commonplaces there have a beauty not seen
before; it unlocks the secret sweetness of things;
opens their hidden meaning, draws aside the veil,
and makes the narrowest mind behold how beautiful
are even the homely ground and rough rocks—
the every-day trodden shore—the river that, in our
business hours, flows unregarded at our feet—the
rain-washed angles of old houses—the sky—the
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clouds—the very air. Claude gazed around him
with these reflections. Suddenly he found himself
by an open door, which led into a smaller apartment
or little cabinet, also filled with pieces, apparently
of a more valuable kind. At the end of this
room, in a conspicuous place, and where the light
fell across it with the best effect, was the portrait
of a young girl, so beautiful, that he paused before
it, and became presently unconscious of everything
else. It equalled, and went beyond his idea of complete
female loveliness. Nothing could be more simple.
A light but modest drapery fell around the
form. There was no ornament about it. He could
not tell whether it was a princess or a cottage maiden.
There was nothing on the canvass but youth,
innocence, happiness, and beauty.
His reveries were interrupted by a sigh. On
turning, he observed at his side a young man who
had before escaped his attention, and who, possibly,
also supposed himself alone. He was about the
middle height, slenderly formed, with a pale, melancholy
face. His hair and brows were black, and he
wore a large mustache. There was nothing remarkable
in his physiognomy except his eyes,
which were dark and large, and uncommonly brilliant.
His hat was worn low over them. His
clothes were old and faded. He was evidently very
poor.
“This is quite pretty!” said Claude, with a desire
to relieve the embarrassment which the stranger
appeared to feel on perceiving that his sigh had
been overheard.
“Yes, monsieur, quite.”
“Can you tell me who it is?”
“No, monsieur.”
“Do you know the artist?”
“Yes, monsieur—no, monsieur.”
“Can it be from nature?” continued Claude.
“No, monsieur,” said the stranger, “I believe it
is a fancy piece.”
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“Ah, very probably—and yet—it is a great pity—
for—”
He turned, and with some surprise observed that
his companion had disappeared.
Carl, with his usual bow, now approached, and
reminded him that the dinner-hour was four, and
that it had already arrived. Tired with his long
ramble, for there are few kinds of toil more laborious
than sight-seeing, the calls of appetite began to
counteract the claims of imagination, and he left the
pair of tender eyes to be gazed upon by some less
hungry admirer. As he approached the hotel, all minor
considerations were merged in the more important
one of dinner. The fumes of the fragrant dishes
already drove less substantial enjoyments from
his mind; and it may be recorded of our hero, without
the fear of contradiction (should any curious
reader choose to examine the manuscripts deposited
in “la Bibliothèque du Roi,” from which we have
drawn the materials of this history), that, notwithstanding
his habit of sentimentalizing before palaces,
paintings, &c., which might lower his reputation
with our more practical readers, he did nevertheless
partake, with as little delay as the ordinary
usages of polite life permitted, of a hearty meal,
during the whole period of which he was in a state
of beatitude as lively as when melting before the
art of the cunning painter. It is farther set down,
that a half bottle of “chateau la Rose,” or some
beverage equivalent (for here there is a blot in the
manuscript), which the waiter brought full, and
placed by his napkin at the commencement of the
dinner, was, in the course of an hour, so altered in
its condition, that the said waiter, on carrying it to
the kitchen and turning the same up-side-down,
with the neck slightly resting between his lips,
found nothing there sufficient to repay him for his
trouble.
-- 041 --
CHAPTER VI.
[figure description] Page 041.[end figure description]
On the day of Claude's arrival in Berlin there
was a ball and supper at Count Carolan's. The
company assembled at nine, and the elegant apartments
of this distinguished nobleman were crowded
with the beauty and fashion of the town.
In this brilliant atmosphere, the important questions
of the day were discussed with smiles and
jests. The war with France—the revolution—the
politics of England, were all alluded to gayly;
while, with diplomatic caution, nothing either one
way or the other was said about them. Some played
cards—some strolled about—crowds pressed to
the ballroom, where, conspicuous for her loveliness,
the young Countess Ida was led to the first dance
by Elkington; while Lady Beverly, a tall, dark-looking
woman of considerable beauty, although a
little faded, with black and large eyes, and a countenance,
through all the smiles of fashion, care-worn
and anxious, sat down to whist.
The principal topic of conversation, however, was
Ida and Elkington. They were such a striking
couple. The match was such an admirable one.
Was it settled? When would it take place? and
a hundred other questions were asked and answered
in various ways.
In the mean time, Elkington exerted all his powers
of fascination to render himself agreeable to his
lovely companion. This was the evening he had
fixed upon to solicit her consent, that of her father
and mother having been before obtained, on condition
of his being able to procure hers. The young
girl was obviously flattered with her influence over
a person so distinguished. She listened to his gay
and fluent conversation with delight. She heard
him breathe sentiments of refinement and honour,
-- 042 --
[figure description] Page 042.[end figure description]
and she knew that he was regarded with favour by
her parents. When he leaned towards her, she
scarcely turned away; when he held her hand in
his, she did not withdraw it. The music floated
around her—the glittering images of the dance, and
forms of splendour and pleasure passed before her.
Ignorant of his heart—ignorant of her own and of
the world, she knew not that she was capable of a
deeper feeling than the tranquil satisfaction which
she experienced at the attentions of her lover, and
the pleasure she saw their union would give to her
parents.
At length the dance was over, and the young girl,
trembling at the tenderness of Elkington's manner,
and at a crisis in her life so new and interesting,
withdrew from his too ardent flatteries. She passed
through half a dozen saloons. Never had she looked
so beautiful. There is something in the first
approaches of love which sheds a soft and dangerous
sweetness over even a homely face. What was
the charm which it added to that of Ida! She wished
to withdraw from every gaze, and most particularly
from that of Elkington. With this intention
she hastened through two or three more rooms
(now deserted, for the company had crowded into
the ballroom) into a little exquisitely furnished
boudoir, shaded with vines, and odorous flowers and
plants, where a dim light intentionally left all in
a shadow peculiarly grateful to the eye after the
glitter and glare of the ballroom. By chance she
found the boudoir unoccupied, and she entered a recess—
half bower, half grotto—at the farther end.
Here she sat down alone. The momentary solitude
was delicious to her. The darkness soothed
her eyes. The silence, coolness, and motionlessness,
after the flashing and shifting images of the crowd,
sunk into her soul with the breath of the flowers
that leaned fragrant and cool around. Her head
was bent down upon one hand, the other hung by
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[figure description] Page 043.[end figure description]
her side. She remained lost in thought, which,
however, ran in a stream of deep and peaceful joy,
for her heart had never known a fear or a care; she
sighed, but with happiness. Presently she felt a
gentle hadn introduced into her own. Starting, she
turned and saw Elkington; a beau chevalier whom
few female hearts as young as hers could resist—
as, alas! many an unhappy maid has proved.
“My charming girl,” said Elkington, “you fly
me. I have looked for you everywhere, but—oh,
happy moment, I find you here—and never shall
you leave this spot till you hear me tell how madly
I love you.”
“Oh, my lord, for Heaven's sake—should any one
come”—and she but lightly attempted to withdraw
her hand.
“Beautiful Ida, why should you hesitate? what
pleasure can a heart so gentle as yours take in keeping
in suspense one who adores you?”
“My dear Lord Elkington, I hear a step; leave
me, I entreat you, till to-morrow.”
“No, Ida,” said Elkington, in a voice of sadness,
which caused her to stop her attempt to release her
hand, in order that she might listen; “no, sweet
girl, I will hear my doom to-night. Tell me at
once whether you will be mine. I must learn from
your own lips whether I am happy or miserable.
I fear, indeed, from your flying my presence—from
your anxiety to withdraw from the hand that would
defend you with life—that you despise me—that
you—”
“Despise! oh, my lord, how can you use so
dreadful a word? Despise! oh no.”
“You are, I am sure, above the coquetry of your
sex, and will never trifle with the heart that loves
you. Speak to me. You have tried to withdraw
your hand. I resign it—I return it to you. If you
are ever going to bless me with it, dearest girl, be
frank on this transaction, as you are on all others;
-- 044 --
[figure description] Page 044.[end figure description]
do not prolong my suspense—my suffering. Deny
it to me for ever, or give it to me now.”
She lifted her eyes; they met his ardent gaze.
The earnestness and tenderness of his voice and
manner affected her. She raised her hand and placed
it in his.
“I am frank, my lord—as I will be true; and if I
forget the reserve proper in so young a girl, it is
only that—your feelings are—dearer to me than—
my own.”
“Ida! beloved angel!” said Elkington.
A crowd of young girls, laughing and talking, and
just returning from the dance, were now heard approaching,
and they burst noisily in, little dreaming
how well-timed had been their coming.
CHAPTER VII.
Lady Beverly and her son got into their carriage
at an early hour, and Elkington ordered the
coachman to drive round the Park. The night was
clear without being cold, and the fresh air was
pleasant after the heat and somewhat uncommon
excitement of the ball.
“Besides,” said Elkington, as they wheeled out
of the Brandenburg gate, “I have to inform you
of what may lead to a consultation, which had better
be enjoyed at a proper distance from keyholes
and the thin partitioned rooms of these hotels. I
have had du succés to-night. The pretty bird is
limed.”
“You have had a conversation with Ida?” demanded
Lady Beverly, with lively marks of pleasure.
“She has, rather, acknowledged my superior
-- 045 --
[figure description] Page 045.[end figure description]
charms,” replied Elkington, also in the highest spirits;
“and I do not greatly doubt that, if I pressed
the thing, it might take place any day I choose.”
“Then, for the love of Heaven, Edward, let it be
at once.”
“I see no reason to be so alarmingly hasty,” said
Elkington, “though I am not disposed myself to
make any delay. She is a devilish fine girl. I
haven't seen her match. You may settle matters as
soon as you please with the old people. I give you
carte blanche.”
“I will then see the countess in the morning.”
“But will you answer me one question?” asked
Elkington.
“Tant que vous voudrez,” said Lady Beverly.
“I have observed in you a degree of anxiety
respecting this partie which I can't account for.
What does it mean? What particular interest have
you in this young lady?”
“Singular question!” said Lady Beverly. “Is it
extraordinary that a mother should exhibit anxiety
on the subject of her son's settlement in life?”
“No, not any reasonable anxiety; but you seem,
by a kind of logic, to betray the greatest anxiety
precisely at the moment when I feel the least.”
“What in the world do you mean?”
“This, my good madame. When my amiable
father, Heaven preserve his life, is in good health,
and promises to last out the season, you settle down
into indifference. Now it is exactly when my father
promises to live long that I feel most desirous of
touching a fortune of my own. But, when the old
man is in one of his fits, and bids fair to pop suddenly
off, you are for marrying me to money in any
shape. Now I, not being at heart a marrying man,
would rather keep my freedom if I came into possession
of my inheritance, which, being entailed on
the eldest son, must come to me whether he will or
not.”
-- 046 --
[figure description] Page 046.[end figure description]
“Your imagination sees things which have no existence
in reality,” said Lady Beverly. “My empressement
to see you settled advantageously is always
equal; although, according to my mind, I may
not always betray it in the same degree. Only, Edward,
I want to see you married.”
“Much obliged to you, madame, I'm sure, for
your kind intentions; but, by Heaven, so mawkish
do I consider married life, that, if this charming
creature were less exquisite than she is, I would
bolt even yet. It's devilish lucky for her that she's
so pretty, or she would stand a slender chance of
being the Countess Beverly. A wife? bah! I am a
fool even now. The old man is ill; he must—d—n
it, he can't last long. I come in for my £50,000
a year; I pay my debts, and then what shall I do
with a wife? I shall be sick as death of her in
six months, and she, very likely, will run off from
me in twelve. She has too lovely a face to keep
out of danger. I shall have to shoot half a dozen
fellows on her account, to see her slip through my
fingers at last; for women, foul and fair, are all
alike at heart; and, though delicious creatures in
their proper places, are sad encumbrances when tied
to one by law. Partridge, always partridge.”
“I am afraid, it is true, that your disposition will
prevent your ever settling down into a happy husband;
but I trust it will correct some of your follies.
You will have no longer temptation to gamble;
at least, except at home, and more moderately.
Your debts once paid—”
“Ah, that's the question. If it were not for them,
I could leave this pretty thing to some more sentimental
adorer. Marriage sickens me. It's a damper.
But Shooter is getting impatient; and then—
the Jew; oh! how I hate and dread that man!”
“What are the amounts of these frightful liabilities?
You have often promised to tell me when
once in the way to discharge them. Your marriage
-- 047 --
[figure description] Page 047.[end figure description]
with Ida will do that at once, and enable you, moreover,
to be rich besides. What are the debts?”
“Oh, as things stand, I don't mind, if you think
your nerves can bear it!”
“I can bear anything, if you will conclude at
once your marriage with Ida. Come, frankly tell
me the amount.”
“Well, frankly, then, I owe Shooter £15,000.”
“And the other—the usurer?”
“£25,000.”
“Edward, my son!” cried Lady Beverly, equally
astonished and terrified.
“That's it,” said Elkington, lifting his foot against
the chariot cushion, and tapping it lightly with his
rattan. “I told you your nerves were not strong
enough.”
“£25,000?”
“Just, besides interest; which, by the time the
old man goes, if he doesn't go pretty quick, will
make it £40,000. Old Abraham is no half-way
man: he is, I believe, without intending to flatter
him, the most intense scoundrel that ever breathed.
He's got me hooked in such a way that all earth
can't help me; pay I must, and pay I shall.”
“Great Heaven! I had no idea of this; and if your
father should determine to—to—”
“He can't, madame; and, by Heaven, I don't understand
you; you have hinted this to me half a
dozen times. I am my father's heir, and neither he
nor any one else can help it. He won't last. He's
growing worse and worse. And, notwithstanding,
as usual, he goes on in the same way—living high,
drinking deep; and the doctor says it must be over
with him soon. With this prospect before me,
what's forty, fifty, a hundred, or even more thousands.
It is but living a year or two somewhere
abroad, or a lucky turn at cards, and all's right
again!”
“Listen to me, Edward,” said Lady Beverly, in
-- 048 --
[figure description] Page 048.[end figure description]
a tremulous voice. “But why do I advise you?”
She caught herself, as if on the eve of making a
disclosure respecting which she had changed her
mind. “Go on—play deep, as you have hitherto
done—heap yourself with debts—till one day you
may remember your mother's caution against the
wretched life of a gambler, and the danger of such
equivocal characters as Shooter—when, perhaps, it
may be too late to profit by it.”
“It's false, madame,” said Elkington; “the gambler's
life, if you honour me with that appellation, is
not wretched. That is a cry raised by cowards
who have not the courage to play, or by whining
asses that have lost. Play is life—happiness. Nothing
else gives me pleasure. I even deplore the
hours lost in attendance upon this little girl, and
which might be so much more delightfully employed.
The life of a player who has his wits about
him is one of continual pleasure. Its disappointments
come unattended with pain; for what you
lose to-day is, you know, only lent to be regained
to-morrow. Besides, some one must eventually
win, and why not I? Where so much money
changes hands, it must go somewhere. It doesn't
melt!”
“Ah, yes it does—and most effectually!” said
Lady Beverly.
“I allow something for your wit, madame, but
one may be facetious without being just; and as for
Shooter, he's a devilish fine fellow—true as steel—
and what's lost to him is fairly lost. As for Abraham—
there, I acknowledge, I've been duped; but
what's `without remedy should be without regard.'
I'll marry the girl if the fortune is, as you assure
me, large, and to be come at readily. This will
quiet them all, if it does not immediately pay them.
We'll go back to London, and—”
They had now reached their hotel. Scarlet threw
open the door. In the hall a gentleman was
-- 049 --
[figure description] Page 049.[end figure description]
coming out. Lady Beverly dropped her shawl. The
footman was hastening to pick it up, but it fell at
the stranger's feet. He raised it, politely handed it
to her, and passed on. At this moment Lady Beverly
staggered back against the wall, pale, and nearly
fainting.
“Madame, you are ill,” said Claude—for it was
he—hastening to her assistance.
“No, sir—thank you—it is the—air—the ball—
Scarlet—Edward—to my room—at once.”
Her fine appearance and splendid ball-dress, as
well as the distingué air of Elkington, and the richness
of the livery of the servants, excited Claude's
attention. On inquiring, he learned that he had
aided Lady Beverly and Lord Elkington. They
had the first floor of the hotel at which he had been
to make a call. He could scarcely repress a feeling
of envy, as the tall, handsome form of Elkington
disappeared from his view, and he thought what
a happy fate was his.
CHAPTER VIII.
The next morning, on coming in from a ramble,
Claude found Count Carolan's card, with an invitation
to dinner the next day. In the mean time he
amused himself exploring the town, ranging through
the immense and splendid palaces, lounging in the
Park, and seeing the various curiosities interesting
to travellers.
Returning from a walk later in the morning of the
same day on which he received Carolan's first note,
he found another from him, begging him to be at
home the next morning at twelve, as it would give
him pleasure to accompany him in the call usually
-- 050 --
[figure description] Page 050.[end figure description]
made by a stranger desirous of being introduced
into society. Claude knew not whether to ascribe
this attention to the representations of Madame
Wharton, or to the letter of introduction from Lord
Perceval. He felt that the former was cordially his
friend; and he knew that the latter, well disposed
towards him, had written a warm note, begging his
services in favour of a valued friend. Whatever it
might be ascribed to, he replied by accepting gratefully
a kindness offered with so much courtesy.
He had scarcely replied to it when a second note,
in a pretty female hand, was brought in by Carl.
He opened and read:
“My dear Mr. Wyndham:
“Mamma begs me to write you our address. We
have taken furnished rooms at No. 70 `sous les arbres.
' We are also in some difficulty with a horrid
man of whom papa bought some things this morning;
and mamma says, if you would call in the course
of the day, she should be particularly obliged.
“Yours truly,
“Mary Digby.”
It was about three o'clock, and Claude, who, in
the pleasure of seeing the town and reflections
upon his own prospects and plans, had forgotten
his honest fellow-voyagers and the modest Mary,
thought he could not better employ the leisure hour
before dinner than in paying the desired visit immediately.
Mrs. Digby, in accordance with her plan of making
a dash, had taken very elegant apartments; and
Claude found the new rooms in the broad and shaded
street called “the Linden,” or sometimes, also,
from the avenues of linden-trees which ornamented
its whole length, sous les arbres. The house was
in the most fashionable part of it and of the town.
A servant, in a gaudy livery, waited at the door and
admitted him. He could scarcely believe that he
-- 051 --
[figure description] Page 051.[end figure description]
was in the domicil of the Digbys, so much had they,
in the diligence, savoured of London low life. He
found them in a pretty boudoir, at the end of several
large and handsome rooms. They were so well
dressed that he could scarcely recognise his old
companions of the schnellpost. Mrs. Digby had
the appearance of a very respectable old lady. Mr.
Digby's toilet had also been carefully attended to,
and the timid Mary looked lovelier than ever.
Claude really admired her modest face, the beautiful
contour of her head, her clear and tender complexion,
and the Hebe-like proportions of her form.
For a moment he thought her almost as pretty as
the painting which had so much attracted his attention.
From the appearance of the whole party, he
saw at once that, with the aid of dress—if the two
parents would only hold their tongues a little more,
and Mary a little less—they might, with the aid of
their wealth, and under the protection of the name
of their “relative, the late Lord Clew,” pass through
the walks of fashion for a month or two as well as
others. His coming was warmly welcomed. Digby
rose from a person with whom he was sitting at
a little table, advanced cordially, and, after slapping
him on the back with hearty familiarity, told him
he was “devilish glad to see him.” Mrs. Digby was
loud in her pleasure, and Mary blushed with tenfold
grace, and lifted her eyes and cast them down
again with a timid embarrassment rather dangerous
to a susceptible youth who had never fallen in love
with anything more substantial than a picture.
“Well, I am devilish glad to see you, my boy,”
said Digby.
“Now, John, you just sit down to your lesson,”
said Mrs. Digby. “We'll take care of Mr. Wyndham.
You needn't think you're going to get clear
on his account. Only think, sir,” continued she,
turning to Claude again, “a person connected with
the late Lord Clew, and not to know a word of
-- 052 --
[figure description] Page 052.[end figure description]
French. He doesn't even know what turnips are.
But, by-the-way, Mr. Wyndham, you haven't been
introduced. This is our French master; you needn't
be afraid of what you say before him; for—he don't
understand a single word of English—we talk our
secrets before him, poor devil! just as we would
before a dumb beast; don't we, old bullfrog?”
The Frenchman, who perceived that he was spoken
to without knowing the meaning of the words,
made two low bows, and placed his hand on his
heart with an expression of grateful civility.
“We have such fun,” said Mary, for the first time
launching into a remark.
“I call him long pockets,” said Digby. “Don't
I, old beeswax?”
“Infinément obligé!” cried the Frenchman, again
turning to Digby with a violent bow.
“This is Mr. Wyndham,” said Mrs. Digby.
“Vinder?” echoed the poor man, not understanding.
“I say,” cried Mrs. Digby, raising her voice almost
to a scream, and putting her mouth close to
his ear, as if she could make him better comprehend
by speaking very loud; “I say, this is Mr. Wyndham—
Mounseer Wyndham—our intimate friend—
came in the diligence with us from Hamburg—because,
you know, our travelling carriage was broke
by that stupid John” (here she cast a look of indignation
on her unhappy husband)—“so he came on
with us. Do you understand that?”
The man cast a look of inquiry upon her features
for the sense which her words failed to convey, and
then looked in the faces of the rest; but, not succeeding
in getting the faintest glimpse of what she
had communicated, notwithstanding she went on
with greater vehemence to the last word, he shrugged
his shoulders, drew up his face into a dismal
look of regret and opaqueness, and said,
“Ma foi, madame—comprends pas!”
-- 053 --
[figure description] Page 053.[end figure description]
“Ah, the poor wretch!” said Mrs. Digby, laughing
heartily. “Let him alone. Did you ever see
such born fools as these foreigners are? And do you,
John, go on with your lesson.”
This scene afforded Claude an opportunity of observing
the gentleman in question. He was a lank,
weather-stained, long Frenchman, thinly clad in garments
of a threadbare appearance. His trousers
pockets reached nearly to his knees, and were obviously
empty, except when his large hands were
thrust into them, a peculiarity which had probably
drawn upon him the sobriquet of “long pockets”
from the humour of his interesting pupil. It is not
impossible that he might have worn a shirt, but it
is certain that there was no appearance of one, although,
from his peculiar style of dress, the eye was
easily able to penetrate a considerable way under
his stock down his bony throat, and up the sleeves
of his wristbands. His features were cast rather
in a striking than elegant mould. His mouth was
of great width; his lips so large as to have, perhaps,
afforded him the cognomen to which he usually
replied. His ears, like his nose, were of ample
size, and stood handsomely out from his head; and
his foot and hand were also of dimensions which
rivalled each other. He was, in short, a very odd,
but not a particularly ugly-looking person; and, for
the irregularities of physiognomy already stated,
fortune had favoured him with a good set of teeth;
bright, intelligent eyes; a head of hair remarkable
for its abundance, and the flourishing manner in
which, without tongs or pomade, it curled about his
head; and last, but not least, with a stock of self-approbation
never exhausted and not exhaustible,
flowing through all his veins, lurking in every angle
and shade of his face, and creating—happy mortal!—
in his interior bosom an everlasting sunshine.
“Well! the poor devil can't understand us,” said
Mrs. Digby, “so we can talk what we please. His
-- 054 --
[figure description] Page 054.[end figure description]
name is Lippe; a pretty good one, too, isn't it,
considering his mouth? You see, we expect to
travel a good deal, Digby—that is, Mr. D. and
I—before we settle down; for, since our relative,
Lord Clew—poor dear man—has left us plenty of
money, why shouldn't we have the good of it?
That's my idea—and it's necessary that some one
should understand French—for we do get so swindled.
I don't know how it is, but there must be
something about us which makes people mark us
out to cheat; and yet I am sure I don't know why,
for we seem formed like other people.”
She went on to give a long account, from which
Claude learned that this Mr. Lippe had presented
himself upon somebody's recommendation, they
didn't know whose, to give them a sufficient command
of the French, not only to travel with less inconvenience
than they had hitherto been accustomed
to, but to enable them to launch with becoming grace
and ease into the hitherto unexplored waters of
fashionable life. Digby, to do him justice, was not
ambitious of this distinction; and, although not wise,
had sufficient sense to see that neither he nor his
lady were exactly calculated for the sphere into
which she was dragging him. In obedience to her,
however—for he was too good-humoured to resist on
any ordinary occasion—and from a vague idea which
she had dinned into his ear, for many a day as well
as night, that such a course might be advantageous
to Mary, he had consented, in addition to his other
experiments, to learn French. The acquisition of
a new language is, alas! to any one a wearisome
task. To Digby the undertaking was peculiarly
unpromising. He had no memory — no ear — no
ambition, and no head; the even-handed Fortune,
which had sent him into the world “a relative of
the late Lord Clew,” and the heir to £100,000 sterling,
having withheld that article, or, at least, the
brains with which it is usually (if we do not use
-- 055 --
[figure description] Page 055.[end figure description]
the word in too general a sense) supplied. He
hated study, having never learned anything in his
life. The flattering visions of fashion, sufficient to
lead his wife through any possible effort, had no place
in his humbler imagination, and she half suspected
that all the labour they were taking to “get into society”
would be in vain. He had anticipated some
pleasure from his Continental tour, but as yet he
had suffered only a series of annoyances. He had
been cheated, abused, and laughed at; his carriage
had been broken, and once or twice he came near
having his head in the same predicament; and, now
that he found himself at length settled in apartments
in Berlin, instead of enjoying his leisure and independence,
he was set down with old “long pockets”
to a lesson of three or four hours a day. It was
too much; but he dared not, or, at least, did not resist;
and he inwardly hoped that the period when
the pleasure of travelling would begin, would come
one of these days. If anything could have lightened
his distress and perplexity, it would have been
the peculiar style of teaching French adopted by
Mr. Lippe. Like many vain men, he fancied he had
a particular genius, and enjoyed profound draughts
of self-praise in contemplating a new theory of
teaching which he had created. This new system,
exclusively his own, he lauded to the skies, and assured
the innocent and inexperienced Digbys that,
for one thaler a lesson, he would, in two months,
make the whole family speak French, if not like
natives, at least well enough for all the purposes
of travelling and fashion. This wonderful new system
consisted in teaching the pronunciation by imaginary
lines drawn on the table with the finger.
There sat poor Digby—his face red, the perspiration
beginning to start from his forehead, and every
now and then turning half aside to indulge in a
hearty yawn, which extended his jaws almost to
the dimensions of those of Lippe himself; while
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[figure description] Page 056.[end figure description]
the latter—who was of a sanguine and frisky temperament,
and who could not conceive how a man could
not pronounce “pu” instead of “poo,” and “monsieur”
instead of “mounsheer,” although he showed
him, as plain as the nose on his face (and that was
very plain indeed), the exact manner of pronouncing
it, by an acute angle, drawn twenty times, one after
the other, on the table—would jump up every two
minutes, borne away by the enthusiasm which genius
always feels in its art, thrust his hands into his
trousers pockets up to the elbows, his eyes flashing
fire, and then draw them out again to make new illustrative
angles, circles, rhomboids, and parallelograms,
on the table or in the air.
“Allons,” said he, as Claude a moment lost the
train of Mrs. Digby's chat, which, luckily, she did not
interrupt by any questions to obscure this scene;
“pour le mot `Ulysse.' Voyez vous, prononcez le de
cette manière-ici” (drawing a figure on the table),
“voilà! allons! commencez encore!”
“Kall—lip—why that's the fellow's own name,”
interrupted Digby. “Is this book about him?”
“Allons! monsieur!”
“Oui, munsheer, oui. Kall—lip—so, ner—poovey
sir, consolleydoo—”
“Du—” cried Lippe, with an acute angle.
“Doo.”
“Du, monsieur—” with flashing eyes—“du—du—
du.”
“Doo—doo—doo—do—part doo—lysse dong—”
“Dans, monsieur!” screamed the choleric Frenchman,
with a fiery face, and approaching him as if
he were going to knock him down.
“Well—d—n it—I say `dong,' ” said Digby, the
sweat rolling off his forehead.
“Ah! sacré diable! mais n'emporte,” he continued,
recollecting himself, “tout cela viendra—
allons! continuez! dans sa—”
“What's John bobbing his head in here for every
minute?” said Digby.
-- 057 --
[figure description] Page 057.[end figure description]
“Two tradesmen's boys—with bills—and a pine-board
bedstead,” said John.
“Ah,” said Mrs. Digby, “it's these bills again.”
The boys with their bills were admitted, and a
long wrangle ensued, in which the boys demanded
double charges. Mr. Lippe interpreted that the
three persons were ready to swear to everything,
and they wouldn't go away without being paid,
which at length they were.
“Well,” said Digby, “if this is what you call
travelling!”
Mrs. Digby was in a rage also, and Claude could
not himself help feeling indignant at the fraud which
had undoubtedly been practised against the English
strangers—the pine-board bedstead having been
sent instead of a mahogany one which they had
chosen and paid for.
While they were in the midst of the wrangle,
Tom announced dinner. Claude was going to take
leave, but the vehemence of their entreaties that he
would stay and dine left him no alternative. He
gave his arm, therefore, to Mrs. Digby, when, to his
surprise, Mr. Lippe offered his to Mary, and led her
in.
“Is Mr. Lippe a member of your family?” asked
he.
“Oh yes. He's going to live in the house—to interpret
for us—teach us French—shop with us—
and do a thousand little odd jobs. I am really
ashamed that he should dine at table with us in such
shocking clothes—but, poor wretch!—we have sent
for some new ones—and he'll be as spruce as any
of us to-morrow. Poor stupid fool!”
At this moment Tom appeared again at the door,
and announced a lady and gentleman to look at the
rooms.
“Tell them to come to-morrow morning,” said
Mrs. Digby.
“They have already been, they say, once, and
they will not come again.”
-- 058 --
[figure description] Page 058.[end figure description]
“Well, they can't come in now; we are at dinner.”
Tom returned immediately with—
“The lady and gentleman must see the rooms!”
“Must!” said Mr. Digby; “they cannot; the family
are very particularly engaged; and they are also
about going to dinner. They may see them at any
time before three; it is now nearly four.”
“Ah! bless me,” said Mrs. Digby at the window,
“what an elegant carriage—two footmen—splendid
liveries—coachman in cocked hat—silver lace—silk
stockings. Bless my soul!—who can they be?
Can they be the people who want to look at the
rooms?”
Tom now appeared again, in company with one
of the richly-dressed footmen.
“The gentleman insists upon coming in—the
rooms are to let—and he must see them.”
“Really, this is very singular!” said Claude.
“They speak English, ma'am,” said Tom.
“If he is a gentleman,” said Claude, “I will protect
you from this intrusion. Who is your master?”
said he to the footman.
“Lord Elkington,” replied the man, respectfully.
“Tell Lord Elkington that the rooms are at present
occupied by ladies who are about to dine, and
beg to decline any visit of this kind at so late an
hour.”
“His lordship has been turned away once before
on the same plea,” said the man.
“The doors are open, and he may come in,” said
Claude, “if he pleases; but it will be without the
consent, and contrary to the wishes of the family.
Say so to your master.”
A gentleman and lady now appeared at the head
of the stairs, having been below talking to the
landlady. The man delivered the message. When
he had done—
“Lead the way in, Scarlet,” said Lord Elkington;
“I think these would do for us.”
-- 059 --
[figure description] Page 059.[end figure description]
“I beg your pardon,” said he, bowing slightly to
the ladies, taking off his hat, and looking around the
room with his glass.
“Did you deliver my message?” said Claude to
the footman.
“Scarlet,” said Elkington, without giving the
man time to reply, “go down stairs!” He then
turned his glass carelessly to the ceiling, curtains,
carpets, fauteuils, and other furniture.
“Ah—ah—very well—but too small, I fear.”
Claude stood before him very angry, and probably
showing it in his attitude and manner; but the
intruder seemed to care very little for his wrath.
He passed his glass an instant over his face and
person, and then, as if he found nothing there worthy
of a second look, he prepared to leave the room
after a glance at the females, for he was one of
those men who subject every woman's face to an
examination. On seeing Mary he stopped, and
seemed evidently struck.
“I beg your pardon, my dear,” said he; “I fear
there has been some mistake. I was not aware
that these rooms were occupied by—by—I really
beg your pardon!”
“Oh, sir—my lord,” said Mrs. Digby, “you are
too good. If we had had the slightest idea that it
was Lord Elkington—my lord!”
Elkington's eyes, during this highly amiable address,
were less occupied by the courtesy of the
mother than by the beauty of Mary. He regarded
her with an admiration so obvious and rude as at
length to cause some embarrassment on the part of
the object of it, and some anger on that of Mr.
Digby.
“I have unfortunately, madame,” said Lord Elkington,
“an appointment at this moment which prevents
my explaining to you the mistake which has
caused an intrusion, I fear, rather abrupt; but, with
your kind permission, I will avail myself of the earliest
leisure to call again and do so.”
-- 060 --
[figure description] Page 060.[end figure description]
“There is not the slightest necessity,” said Mr.
Digby, rather bluntly.
“Oh, my lord,” said Mrs. Digby, “you are so
kind; I assure you, at any time—at all times—we
shall be most happy, sir—my lord, I mean—to—”
During this scene Claude had stood gazing on
the person thus rudely pressing into a private house,
and conducting himself so singularly; and the feeling
of indignation, which he could not repress, was
plainly marked on his countenance. As Elkington
withdrew, Claude perceived, for the first time, a female
figure in the corridor. He recognised, at a
glance, Lady Beverly, to whom he had rendered a
slight service on the previous evening; but his attention
was particularly drawn towards her attitude
and the expression of her features. She was standing
at her full height, the upper part of her body a
little drawn back, as if she had recoiled from some
object of surprise and terror. Her attitude was not
unlike that of one who has just perceived a basilisk
in his path, and her eyes were fixed so intently on
Claude, that, as if lost in thoughts not connected
with the present, she did not interrupt her gaze
even when his glance met hers. She looked pale
and shocked.
Elkington was by this time at her side, and they
hastened to the carriage.
Numerous were the comments upon this incident
as soon as the distinguished intruders were gone.
Mr. Digby, redder even with anger than his previous
exertions with the new system of Mr. Lippe
had been able to make him, swore he would go instantly
after him and “knock the puppy down.”
“A man,” said he, stammering, “to—to—himself
here into a private family, without either civility or—
or—and then to conduct himself to—to—towards
my daughter!”
“Nonsense,” said Mrs. Digby; “you are always
such a fool. I don't see any harm in his looking at
-- 061 --
[figure description] Page 061.[end figure description]
Mary, or any one else; and as for rudeness, I don't
think one of the first leaders of the ho-tong, as he
is, could—”
“Well, if this is what you call ho-tong!” said
Mr. Digby.
They now adjourned to dinner, where Mr. Lippe
explained the French for the various dishes, qualifying
himself for greater accuracy by devouring
goodly quantities of the same. Mrs. Digby talked
of many things which, “thank Heaven, she need not
be afraid to procure, as she could afford it;” intermingling
her numerous arguments upon all subjects
with allusions to “her relative, the late Lord
Clew.” Mr. Lippe, notwithstanding his shabby
clothes and his unhappily long ears, exhibited a satisfaction
and self-complacency really enviable; and
as for Mary, satisfied with her loveliness, without
attempting to increase it by the charms of wit or
conversation, she ate and blushed in silence. The
general talk was dull; neither pleasing by its lightness,
nor instructive by its intellectuality. Claude
was rendered almost nervous, as well by the profound
conceit of Lippe, and the painful and never
successful struggles of Digby to remember the principal
word in every sentence he uttered. He took
leave, therefore, at an early hour.
CHAPTER IX.
Glad to escape from a circle where he found so
little attraction, Claude strolled through the streets.
Almost unconsciously, his steps wandered towards
the cabinet where he had seen the portrait. At the
door he was surprised to find in his heart a kind of
anxiety, as if he were seeking an interview with a
-- 062 --
[figure description] Page 062.[end figure description]
real person, and was fearful of a disappointment.
He entered, and made his way to the little room.
The picture was still there. No one was present.
Only a boy had greeted him as he came in, and he
was busily writing in the front shop. A stream of
afternoon sunshine fell through the window. The
object of his attention was more striking than ever.
He continued gazing with new admiration, till,
whether from the fatigue of long fixed attention, or
from a feeling of actual tenderness, he sighed as
sincerely as if about to part for ever from a real
object of affection. It was now his turn to be embarrassed,
for, at a little distance, in the doorway,
stood the figure of the young man whom he had
met before gazing intently on this same painting.
His sallow, melancholy face was shaded by a kind
of stern surprise, and his eyes were fixed attentively
on him.
Claude recovered himself in an instant, and said,
“You will perceive I am a great amateur of
painting, monsieur. I have taken a fancy to this
piece—it is so pretty. I should really like to buy
it.”
“It is not for sale, monsieur,” said the stranger,
coldly.
“Then you know something of it?”
“Only that it is private property.”
“Is it yours?”
“No, monsieur!”
“You are the artist, perhaps?”
The young man made no reply. Modesty and
poverty are so often the companions of merit, that
Claude concluded at once—from his silence, his faded
clothes, his face thinned by application, and the
bright glances of his eyes, which seemed full of the
restless fire of genius—that he was the painter.
“I must really express my admiration,” said
Claude, “not only of the singular charm of the
countenance, but of the exquisite beauty of the production
as a work of art. If it were to be bought—”
-- 063 --
[figure description] Page 063.[end figure description]
“I have told you, monsieur, that it is not to be
bought.”
“Is it a fancy piece?”
“No, monsieur. He must have a very strange
imagination who could create such a face; and it
is, I think, quite a sufficient triumph for any artist
to imitate it.”
“You will confer a favour on me, then, by telling
me the name of the original.”
“Why so, monsieur? She can be nothing to
you?”
“Very likely,” said Claude; “but—”
“The person of whom this is a feeble copy,” said
the stranger, “exists; but you would regard her
without any of the enthusiasm which you show at
the sight of her picture.”
“You speak in enigmas,” said Claude, struck
with a certain earnestness in the voice and manner
of his companion.
“She is eighty years old at present,” said the
stranger; “and this is the copy of a portrait taken
sixty-five years ago; but I interrupt you. Bon jour,
monsieur.”
“Great Heaven!” thought Claude, “how singular!
Thus fade the dreams of youth, hope, and
love. An old woman! hobbling with a crutch, perhaps,
around a silent chamber; those tender eyes
dimmed; the sweetness of that mouth gone; the
pure hue of health and youth faded; infirmity—
wrinkles—age! and, instead of joy, and hope, and
artless affection, only the traces of faded dreams—
of broken affections—of lost friends—of vanished
pleasures. Oh! vanity of the world; oh! phantoms
of life!”
And thus all his reveries at last ended in a moral,
which, being duly digested, he went to the theatre.
-- 064 --
CHAPTER X.
[figure description] Page 064.[end figure description]
The next morning, at twelve, a richly-liveried
chasseur announced Count Carolan. It was the
hour of the appointment, and Claude was ready to
receive him. It was the first time they had met,
and they seemed mutually pleased with each other.
Claude's appearance was calculated to make a favourable
impression on a man of ton like Carolan.
Considerably above the middle height, and at once
striking the attention as a handsome man, he was
one of the few who to personal advantages add the
charm which springs from mind and character. His
form was erect and commanding, with that military
air which ensures respect; and his countenance, refined
and noble, conveyed an impression of a nature
whose gentler attributes were governed by a high
order of energy and courage. His voice was sweet
and well modulated, and his manners that of one
accustomed to society, and who had the repose and
polish, without the frivolity and mannerism, which
so often distinguish a mere homme à la mode.
Count Carolan was a different sort of person.
He also was a handsome man, not equal in height
to the ordinary standard, with the air and appearance
of a perfect gentleman, and unusually pleasing
in his manners. He made himself very agreeable,
asked Claude after Lord Perceval, and alluded to
the favourable impression he had left upon Madame
Wharton, whom he had declared to be a superior
woman. In reply to some inquiries after her, he
said,
“She has been in a higher position in life, but, I
fear, not in a happier; and we have, from delicacy,
always abstained from asking details of circumstances
which she appears anxious to banish
-- 065 --
[figure description] Page 065.[end figure description]
altogather from her mind. She is contented with us,
and she has been of inestimable service to my
daughter. By-the-way, I hope you will not forget
us to-day at four.”
The count's carriage was at the door, and they
proceeded to their calls without farther delay. It
was three o'clock before the count dropped him
again at his hotel. They had seen many, and left
cards on many more distinguished persons. He
was still more favourably impressed with his new
friend after this interview, and a sincere regard appeared
to have sprung up between them; a slight
pomposity of manner, which would scarcely attract
his attention if he had not heard it alluded to, occasionally
jarred upon the pleasures of the ride; but
Claude amiably reasoned that every man had his
foibles, and it was wise to shut one's eyes to all but
the good in those with whom we associate.
At four o'clock he was at the door of Carolan's
splendid palace, the exterior of which he had already
so much admired. A file of carriages, the
servants in full livery, were driving up and off again,
having set down their company upon a carpet which
extended into the street. A crowd was gathered
about the door to see them alight. He passed into
the broad and lofty hall, with large vases and graceful
statues rising around, and crowded with rows of
handsome men, glittering in liveries of velvet and
gold. Ascending the low flight of richly-carpeted
steps, and passing through an antechamber and
several other ample and magnificently furnished
rooms, of which the air was full of incense, and still
between files of domestics, stationed at short intervals
from each other, he at length reached that one
where such of the guests as were already arrived
awaited the coming of the rest. Count Carolan received
him at the door in the most gracious manner,
and, after shaking him heartily by the hand, led
him forward, and presented him to the countess:
-- 066 --
[figure description] Page 066.[end figure description]
a very fine-looking woman of five-and-forty, whose
unobtrusive dress and affable manners pleased him
at once. She made the usual inquiries, and was
evidently struck with his distinguished appearance.
He had time, however, to extend to her but a few
brief remarks, when Carolan, taking him again by
the arm, brought him to Madame Wharton, whose
face lighted with pleasure at the sight of him.
With a single shake of the hand, and a greeting on
either side more than friendly, he was led on and
presented to several other distinguished persons, on
whom he had called in the morning.
“But where is my daughter—where's Ida?” said
Carolan. “Oh—I see—let me beg you—my dear—
Mr. Wyndham.”
Claude turned and bowed, scarcely seeing to
whom, for the girlish figure to whom these words
were addressed was facing a lady who occupied a
seat by her on a divan. She lifted her eyes with a
slight salutation, and Claude was about to address
her with some commonplace remark, when, with
great surprise, he perceived the image of the portrait,
perfect as if reflected in a mirror, except that
the smile, as it came and passed away—the eyes,
as they were raised and lowered again modestly,
beneath his unguarded look of astonishment, brought
to it new beauties—the charm of motion—the loveliness
which the rising colour and the low sweet
voice alone can give. It was not till Count Carolan
had twice repeated “Mr. Wyndham,” in the act
of presenting him to Lady Beverly, and uttered the
word “Lord Elkington,” that he recovered from his
surprise to perceive the form of Lady Beverly drawn
up coldly to his half unconscious greeting; and to
behold Elkington gazing at him through his glass,
and returning his bow with a reserve which, little
regarded at the time, was subsequently recalled to
memory.
At this moment a servant announced dinner. The
-- 067 --
[figure description] Page 067.[end figure description]
ladies, escorted by those whose rank entitled them
to the honour, led the way into the dining-room.
Elkington gave his arm to the young Countess Ida.
Madame Wharton was among the last. No one
seemed disposed to conduct her. She was, for a
moment, slightly embarrassed. Claude hastened to
her side, and in a few moments they were seated
next each other at table.
The dinner-service corresponded with the other
marks of the munificent host's wealth. A royal table
could scarcely be more superbly laid with gold
and silver, in striking forms and of rich workmanship.
All this was rendered more splendid by the size and
magnificence of the hall and its furniture, the exquisite
master-pieces of paintings which adorned the
walls, the rich ceilings and inlaid floor. The Countess
Ida sat opposite Claude, a little on his left, and
Madame Carolan on his right. The conversation,
instead of being general, divided itself into little coteries,
with as much freedom as if each were at a
table of his own. Claude glanced at the young
girl whose appearance had so much surprised him.
She was talking with Elkington. He could not
hear what they said, but the tones of a sweet voice
reached him. He looked at her with perfect impunity,
for she never turned her eyes towards him, and
was obviously unconscious of his presence, as of
his existence. He watched her features to behold
if the faultless perfection, which rendered them so
lovely in repose, disappeared when she spoke or
laughed. But no; the charm which the artist had
seized was but a small part of that with which Heaven
had invested her. There was as much to bewilder
in the tone of her voice as in the expression
of her eyes. There was as much danger in her
motion as in the outline of her face and form. Who
could the stranger be who had so impudently misinformed
him? What was his reason? His eye
passed from her form and countenance to that of
-- 068 --
[figure description] Page 068.[end figure description]
her companion, Lord Elkington. There was something
in him which displeased him, he scarce knew
why. He was aroused by Madame Wharton, who,
in a tone full of playful kindness, uttered the word
“Well!”
He started as if detected in some culpable action.
“Upon my word,” said she, laughing, “you are
caught at last.”
“Indeed, madame,” said Claude, stammering in
spite of himself.
“Oh, monsieur — no apologies — no excuses.
Ought I not to say now, in my capacity of Mentor,
Are these the thoughts, oh Telemachus, which
should occupy the mind of the son of Ulysses?
Does it become you to yield at the first sight of the
enemy? you, who were so confident when no danger
was near?”
“I acknowledge, oh Mentor,” replied Claude,
laughing, “the justice of your reproof. It but shows,
by another example, how rash is youth in daring
danger, and how weak in overcoming it.”
“But, without jesting, how do you like my favourite.
Have I over-described her?”
“With your supernatural penetration,” said
Claude, “you would not believe me if I denied that
she greatly surpasses my expectations. But I am
already acquainted with her countenance.”
“You have seen the portrait, taken by the Professor—.
It is to appear at the exhibition.”
“And the gentleman is your famous Lord Elkington?”
“It is. How do you like him?”
Claude hesitated.
“Remember, you are my pupil,” continued she.
“I must have no secrets.”
“If I dared to form or express an opinion on such
slight grounds,” said Claude, “and in so short a
time.”
“You may express any opinion to me,” said Madame
Wharton; “I assure you I shall be discreet.”
-- 069 --
[figure description] Page 069.[end figure description]
“Well, then, I don't like him!”
“It is curious,” said Madame Wharton, “but he
makes the same impression upon me. At first I
liked him much. But, the more I see him, the more
this favourable impression wears off.”
“Shall I not be taking too great a liberty in asking
whether she is actually affianced?”
“It is so nearly settled that I regard it as irrevocable.
The count is very anxious. Madame de
Carolan is always submissive to her husband's
wishes, and Lady Beverly is singularly interested.”
“But the young lady herself?”
“Young ladies, in this part of the world, have not
much to say on these subjects. She would as soon
think of disobeying her parents in any other affair
of life as in this. She has been brought up so.
She considers it her duty, and I believe she would
sacrifice anything to that.”
“This will be a sacrifice, then?”
“Oh no, I do not say that; on the contrary, she
is evidently attached to Lord Elkington!”
If Claude had not before perceived that he was
considerably interested in the questions he was putting,
the disappointment which came over him, as
he received this annunciation, would have convinced
him. He turned his eyes upon her again. She
was still talking with Elkington. He had just said
something, apparently, which surprised and pleased
her; and she had drawn a little back, and was looking
in his face with an expression of earnest delight
and animation. There was in her countenance a
certain expression of confiding familiarity. He
withdrew his glance, determined to look no more.
He occupied himself the rest of the hour with Madame
Wharton, who gave him much information respecting
the principal persons at table; among whom
were many of the foreign ministers, some celebrated
travellers, the most fashionable women of the societé,
and two or three individuals who had a European
-- 070 --
[figure description] Page 070.[end figure description]
reputation, and whose names were destined to be
familiar to posterity.
The dinner was over in a short time. The gentlemen
rose with the ladies, and all adjourned once
more to the drawing-room, where coffee, &c., were
taken, during a conversation more social and gay
than that which had preceded the dinner. Claude
spoke again with Carolan, and with several others
who recognised him, or to whom he was presented.
Among them were several dashing young men. He
remarked particularly Count de Lavalle, Lord Beaufort,
and a Mr. Thomson. They were extremely
polite, particularly the latter, who begged to be presented
to him. He offered, in a very pressing manner,
all kinds of services and counsel, and asked to
be permitted the pleasure of calling on him at his
hotel. Lord Beaufort, after the usual greeting,
merely remarked that it was “devilish stupid;”
that “the people seemed all dying of ennui;” that
he thought “the dinner would last an eternity.”
Lavalle informed Claude that a fine opera was to be
given at six, which would be attended by “everybody.”
Two or three ambassadors, and other leaders
of the ton, told him they should be most happy
to see him at their houses on certain evenings of the
week; and both Madame and Monsieur Carolan
were particular in making him promise to come the
next evening at nine to their ball and supper, of
which they gave one a week through the winter.
While he was talking with Countess Carolan, the
latter called Ida to say something to her which demanded
a reply, and led to a kind of dispute. Claude
was appealed to. A feeling, not unnatural in one of
his character, but very ridiculous, threw over him a
kind of reserve—a hauteur—when he found himself
compelled to address her. As if she supposed this
either his natural manner, or perhaps timidity, with
a sweetness of nature which touched him with compunction
even while he replied, she added a few
-- 071 --
[figure description] Page 071.[end figure description]
words, which he answered with a distant politeness
so different from his air while conversing with others,
that the young girl observed it. A colour rose
to her cheek, and, as two persons who felt that there
was no congeniality between them, and almost a
dislike, they parted. A few moments afterward,
while he was laughing and talking very gayly with
a lovely woman, he saw Ida sitting alone; then
Elkington approached her, her face lighted up, and
he felt that this handsome young lord possessed her
affection.
CHAPTER XI.
From the Carolans, Claude went to the opera.
The house was already full; and he was surprised
to see the large proportion of officers, whose glittering
uniforms, combined with the elegant toilets of
the ladies, and the ample box in front, furnished with
chairs, and decorated with particular splendour for
the members and guests of the royal family, added
greatly to the effect of the scene. Presently the
royal box was filled with princes and princesses,
with their maréchals, chambellans, grande-maitresses,
and dames d'honneur, forming a circle extremely
imposing. It was, indeed, the whole Prussian
court, surrounded by the corps diplomatique and
the principal nobility of the town.
Claude had scarcely taken the seat which the
box-keeper procured for him, when a familiar “Bon
soir, Wyndham,” behind him, and a hand laid gently
on his shoulder, attracted his attention to Lord
Beaufort.
“How are you?” said he. “You don't mean to
stay here through the whole piece, I hope?”
-- 072 --
[figure description] Page 072.[end figure description]
“Certainly,” said Claude; “I came for that purpose.”
“You'll be suffocated,” said he. “I would not
remain through one act for a much better opera.”
“Indeed?”
“They murder music here. It's shocking, positively.”
“Why, I understood,” said Claude, disappointed,
“that I should hear some excellent music.”
“Nothing can be more horrid; however, it's better
than one of Carolan's dinners. Such bores. I
really—can't endure them. Can you?”
“On the contrary,” said Claude, “I—”
“Ah! I see—you're a stranger. They're very
well at first, but, after once or twice, they're epouvantables!
Carolan's such a pompous ass. It puts
me in mind of a phrase of Voltaire's: `I can never
talk with his excellency without wishing to horsewhip
him!' ”
“Oh, you are severe.”
“No, upon my honour; and then their exertions
to marry that girl of theirs. It's disgusting—positively.”
“Are you speaking of the young Countess Ida?”
“Yes; didn't you see all dinnertime? She's as
bad as they. A rich English lord, who is to be an
earl, is rather a fat fish in the net of a Prussian
count.”
“You don't mean to suspect that lovely girl of
fishing for Lord Elkington?” said Claude, with surprise.
“I know she does,” said Beaufort, coolly.
“They're all mad after him. She's got him, too,
they say. Though he's a complete puppy—entre
nous—and as great a—Ah, how are you, Elkington?”
The door had opened at the moment, and the
Carolans, with Elkington and Lady Beverly, came
in. He had scarcely exchanged salutations when
Lavalle and Thomson entered also.
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“Well, here comes that fool Thomson,” whispered
Beaufort. “I am off; he's a little too polite for
me. Adieu!” and he took his leave for another
box.
Lavalle saluted Claude warmly. They already
seemed, by a kind of presentiment, to mark each
other out for friends. Thomson, who had taken a
profound liking to Claude, made a profusion of bows,
shaking him most affectionately by the hand; begged
him to take another place nearer the stage,
which, he assured him, he would find more convenient;
asked if he had a bill, and, on finding that
he had not, resigned his own, insisting upon his
keeping it, as he perfectly well knew the piece, and
had not the slightest occasion for it. He even offered
to hold his hat, but this Claude objected to;
and, although his very amiable companion protested
that he “really liked to hold hats at an opera—it
was an occupation for him—it gave him something
to do,” Claude begged to be allowed to retain his
himself.
The house was now full and quietly seated. The
curtain had risen, and the opera was proceeding,
when, at a moment when there was an interval of
comparative silence, as well among the audience as
on the scene, the box door was opened, and a considerable
bustle and rustle announced the entrance
of new-comers. They proved to be the Digbys.
Madame was en grand toilet, and Digby was so
much over-dressed as to attract towards both a general
attention. They made also a good deal of noise.
The notice thus drawn upon them was not the less
continued from the appearance of Mary. She had
the taste to dress becomingly; and her very beautiful
face and form, exhibiting all the fulness of youth
and health, never appeared to more striking advantage.
It seemed that every eye and glass in the
house were turned towards them, and they excited,
indeed, such obvious remark—Digby and his
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honest dame by their conspicuous dress and the noise
they made, and Mary by the loveliness of a face not
seen before in the Berlin circles—that admiration by
the gentlemen, comments by the ladies, and inquiries
by both were quite audible, and the Carolans
turned to see who it was. At this moment, with
the eyes of the whole house upon them, and almost
in a position as public as that of the actors on the
stage, the Digbys recognised Claude, and nothing
would answer but a general and hearty shaking of
hands, and divers exclamations of delight and surprise.
Mrs. Digby thought, like many of her betters,
that notoriety was distinction, and that the more
she could be conspicuous the better effect she should
have upon this her début in the fashionable world.
As Claude and Mary stood together a moment, while
the party were arranging themselves in their seats,
various whispers flew through the house that they
were a rich and noble English family; that they
were intimate relatives of “Lord Clew;” that “la
jeune Anglaise” was about to marry Monsieur de
Wyndham, who had come with them to Berlin, that
the ceremony might be performed and the honeymoon
spent in this gay metropolis. Some said Mr.
Digby was Lord Clew himself. Mrs. Digby was
completely inflated and off her balance with the
delight of being, with her darling and lovely daughter,
the object of such general and respectful attention.
Claude saw Ida look at Mary with evident
admiration as the latter seated herself beside him,
and lifted her eyes with her usual blush to his face.
There was no reason why he should care what
opinion the young countess might form of him or of
his affairs, and yet he was a little embarrassed that
she should see him so apparently familiar with a
person who, however pretty, was, after all, a sad
simpleton. Elkington also, at the same time, turned,
and, as their eyes met, Claude bowed. Elkington
eyed him coolly through his glass, but did not
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make any reply. What rendered this more unpleasant
was, that Ida saw it, and obviously with surprise.
There is in nature no particular indignity in bowing
one's head to a person who does not choose to bow
in return, but there are few things more likely to
arouse one's indignation. This, with several other
circumstances, awakened his observation respecting
both Lord Elkington and his mother, of whom the
latter had several times regarded him with a fixed
attention, much more marked than anything in their
relative position rendered natural. He resolved to
avail himself of the very earliest opportunity to ascertain,
for his satisfaction at least, whether the
slight put upon him by Elkington was intended or
accidental. Elkington, as if conscious of his thought,
turned that instant, and Ida also. Claude leaned
forward, and said,
“Good evening, Lord Elkington.”
The young man resumed his original position
with such perfect coolness, that even yet, for a moment,
it was scarcely possible to believe his conduct
intentional.
“My dear Mr. Wyndham,” said Mrs. Digby, in a
voice too loud not to excite attention, “I can never—
do you know—remember the name of the thing
they look through—the spyglass. I always call
mine the spyglass.”
“The opera-glass, you mean.”
“Yes — the spyglass — or the opera-glass — in
English it's all the same thing, you know; but I
mean the French name.”
“Lorgnette,” said Claude.
“Milles remercimengs!” said Madame Digby,
with an affectation which Claude had never seen
in her before. “Do you know we've left ours chez
nous. That John of mine, as usual, forgot it.”
“Well—if she will be eternally giving me things
to—to—my pocket,” said Digby.
“John,” said Madame Digby, with a look of
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intense reproof; “pray, Mr. Wyndham, have you
one?”
“No,” said Claude, anxious to stop this interesting
conversation by whispered and monosyllabic
replies.
“Couldn't you borrow one? for I am positively
lost without it.”
“No,” said Claude.
“She bought it to-day—and never had one before
in her life,” whispered Mr. Digby, with a wry face,
aside to Claude.
“Do you speak English, mounseer?” said Mrs.
Digby to an old gentleman behind her, with a red
face and white hair, and a riband in his button-hole.
The old gentleman replied only by pursing up his
mouth and brows into a piteous expression of futile
politeness, and shrugging his shoulders to intimate
that he could not understand her.
“Do you, mounseer?” demanded Mrs. Digby of
another.
The last said some words which were entirely
unintelligible to her, but, bowing with great affability,
handed her a bill.
“Did you ever see such a set of born fools?” said
Madame Digby.
Claude cast his eyes towards Mary. She was
in the full crisis of a blush, and he smiled and leaned
over her to speak. From her awkward habit of
blushing, it was rather a dangerous matter to speak
to her in the presence of others without letting them
hear what was said, for it might be supposed, from
her manner of receiving the most indifferent remark,
that she was in the act of yielding to a red-hot declaration
of love. By one of those chances which
lovers complain of, Ida turned again at this moment
to speak to her father, who sat behind her, and she
saw the head of Claude bent over towards Mary's,
and the heightened colour of the silly girl could not
have been unnoticed. It seemed, however, as if she
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desired to exonerate herself from any participation
in the rudeness of Elkington, for she slightly bent
her head and smiled. There was kindness, there
was almost confidence in her expression. Their
eyes met, and Claude, with a sense of relief, was
satisfied that she was not only astonished, but displeased
at the rudeness of her companion. His
look of pleasure was so true and lively that it
seemed to surprise her. Claude looked at Elkington.
He could just perceive his features, and that
there was a cloud upon his brow. A sense of
pleasure kindled a moment in his heart, but died
away as he remembered that he was indulging in a
very unusual admiration for one who, in fact, was
all but the wife of another.
“Why, who on airth is that?” said Madame
Digby.
It was not in Claude's nature to do an unamiable
act, and he told her. The good dame was in such
a flutter of enjoyment, and so unconscious of doing
anything wrong, and she seemed to count with so
much confidence on his services, that, however annoyed
by her loud talk and fidgety manner, he did
not wish to offend her.
“What, are they the ones we talked about in the
stage-coach?”
“Yes.”
“Why, you don't say so!—dear me!—bless my
soul!”
Here she whispered John, who whispered Mary;
and then Mrs. Digby, fearful that Mary might not
hear, leaned over a little old gentleman's lap behind
her, and whispered Mary herself, and the word
“Carolan” was heard rather audibly repeated several
times. This must have been particularly edifying
to the count, who sat on the second seat and
heard it all, without being himself recognised by the
lady who was so anxiously scrutinizing the female
members of his family.
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“Well! I don't really think she is so very pretty,”
said Mrs. Digby. “She ain't to be compared
to our Mary!”
“If her nose was a little longer,” said Digby.
“And as for the countess—that big woman's the
countess, I suppose—ain't she, Mr. Wyndham?
And who's the tall one with long curls? Don't you
know her? Why—no—yes—no—it is—as sure
as you live,” continued Mrs. Digby, “there's Lord
Elkington.”
“D—n him—so he is!” said Digby.
“Well, I wonder he doesn't see Mary,” said Mrs.
Digby.
Here Mr. Digby half hummed over the air which
the singer was giving from the stage. It happened
to be a favourite one; and the noise in the box occasioned
a call for order and silence, accompanied
by one or two hisses from the pit; and the old gentleman,
upon whose lap Mrs. Digby had just rested,
and who had for some time leaned aside, with his
open hand to his ear by way of a trumpet, at once
to receive the sound of the music and to exclude
that of the conversation, which had thrown him into
a high state of angry excitement, turned upon Mr.
Digby with a glance so furious that he stopped
humming instantly, to listen to a harangue about
thirty seconds in duration, accompanied by corresponding
gestures, in the German language.
“Oh—certainly—by all means—mounseer!” said
Digby. “If that is really your opinion, I myself
think differently.”
And here Mrs. Digby and Mary fell into a fit of
laughing, which they could not at once repress.
Matters here rested for half an hour; but Claude
was next annoyed by Mrs. Digby's requesting to be
presented to the Countess Ida.
“I want to see if she's as pretty close as she is
far off. I don't believe a word of it.”
Claude assured her that it was out of the question
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to present people at the opera. And, with the view
of getting rid of her, he lifted the seat in front of
him, which by some accident had remained unoccupied,
and took the place. Although not in the same
box, this brought him by the side of Ida. A slight
salutation passed again between them. He then
carelessly cast his eyes over the surface of heads in
the pit. Every face there was turned towards the
scene with one exception. A young man in the
centre fixed his eyes on the box. He recognised
his face immediately. It was the poor and eccentric
artist who had misinformed him respecting the
portrait of Ida. At first he thought he was looking
towards himself; but, finding that he did not withdraw
his eyes when he returned it, he saw that Ida
was the object of his attention, and that his glance
was riveted upon her.
“Will you permit me to ask if you know the
young person in the pit whose face is turned towards
you?” said Claude.
Ida looked in the direction indicated, and perceived
him at once.
“Certainly—very well,” she replied, after saluting
affably the young stranger.
“He is a poor artist, I believe,” said Claude, “and
has painted a charming portrait of you; but I have
not heard his name.”
“An artist—he?” said Ida. “He paint my picture?
Not he—poor fellow! He is a teacher of
languages—Mons. Rossí.”
“Indeed!” said Claude.
“He has given me lessons in Italian for some
time, and continues still to do so. Papa pities him;
he is very poor; and he is, besides, so punctual,
so attentive, and takes such pains to please—”
As Claude looked on Ida, he conceived a suspicion
of the secret of this poor fellow's misery; his
gazing on the portrait—his refusal to name her—
his sigh—and his fixed attention to her during the
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[figure description] Page 080.[end figure description]
present evening. While he pitied, he could not
blame him. He felt that, were he himself called to
her side an hour every day, he might be as audacious
and as wild; and once more a cold reserve
came over his manner, and his abrupt transition
seemed to surprise and embarrass her.
“Do you speak English, mem?” said Madame
Digby, leaning over and addressing Ida.
“A little!” was the modest and polite reply.
“Well, mem, thank God! and so do I; and I'm
really glad, mem, to hear my own language so well
spoke in foreign parts.”
Ida slightly bowed, with a smile.
“Not but that I speak French, mem, also—un
poo, but I prefer the English infinitely, as any other
person of sense must. It's so much—so — so—
much—easier, mem.”
Ida looked at Claude as if for some explanation,
having already seen him on terms of such apparent
intimacy. That young gentleman's amiability was
ebbing fast. He began to wish he had cut the Digbys
long ago, and he felt as if the earth's opening
and swallowing him at once would be a fate altogether
too delightful.
“Will you be so good as to lend me your spyglass?”
said Mrs. Digby. “Thank you, mem; it's
so very far from here to the stage, that one does not
know whether the actors are there or not.”
After a considerable turning and twisting with
the “spyglass,” pulling it quite out and shutting it
quite in, and several “dear me's” and “bless my
souls,” Mrs. Digby handed it back with,
“Thank you, mem!”
And then, from the quiet manner of Ida, suspecting
that she had not made a favourable impression,
she added,
“I hope, mem, you'll not think me for'erd in
opening the conversation. I should not have presumed
to do so, only our very intimate friend, Mr.
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[figure description] Page 081.[end figure description]
Wyndham, has spoken so much of you, that I really
feel as if we were old acquaintances. I hope there's
no harm done, mem?”
“Not in the least,” said Ida.
“Well, mem, that's right. I was sure there
wasn't.”
Elkington, who had been looking and listening
during this conversation, here whispered the Countess
Carolan, and then to his mother, who sat next
to Ida. Lady Beverly also whispered Ida, and rose.
Claude heard Ida's voice: “No, I assure you, not
in the least!” and then Lady Beverly: “Yes, my
dear, your mother wishes it.” Ida accordingly
rose and changed places with Lady Beverly, while
Elkington took that just occupied by Ida. This
brought him next to Claude, but he turned his shoulder
towards him as he looked upon the scene, and
did not alter his position during the evening.
“I hope, mem,” commenced Mrs. Digby, about
to address a remark across Elkington's shoulder to
Lady Beverly; but that lady, with a start, and a
countenance of surprise and anger, regarded the
honest dame a moment in a way which effectually
discouraged her from farther proceedings.
CHAPTER XII.
When the opera was over, Claude was met in
the lobby by Lavalle and Beaufort. The Carolan
party came out, and the countess stopped to speak
with him.
“I have been requested to bring you this evening
with us to Madame de B—'s. Will you go?
Come to us, then, in half an hour. She is the lady
of the — ambassador, and she will expect you.
Adieu! I shall see you presently.”
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[figure description] Page 082.[end figure description]
Carolan then came out, and also said a few words
to Claude.
“You are to go with madame this evening to
Madame de B—'s. I am engaged; you will be
her chevalier.”
“I am too happy to be at her orders,” said Claude.
The footman now came up with the cloaks, and
announced the carriage.
Ida's “good-night” to Claude in his own language
sounded like music.
“Dieu! est elle belle?” said Lavalle, kissing the
ends of his gloved fingers, and turning up his eyes
in a sort of half affected rapture.
“She's well enough,” said Beaufort, “but her face
is silly. It wants expression.”
“Good-evening, mem!” said Mrs. Digby, as she
caught the eye of Ida; and then, brushing by Lady
Beverly, she followed the footman to her carriage,
while Digby, with Mary, came after.
The Carolans had gone on, and were out of sight
as Elkington came out of the box so as to meet
Mary. He stopped her.
“I hope you are well this evening, and that you
will permit me to call and make my excuses to you
for the apparent rudeness of which I was guilty the
other day?”
“Oh yes — always — certainly—my lord,” said
Mary, with a deep blush.
“Indeed, I shall take the liberty very soon,” said
he; and with a look of admiration, and without looking
at Claude, he gave his arm to his mother and
passed on.
The young men accompanied Claude a part of
the way to his hotel, and made various comments,
with much zest, upon persons, male and female, of
the society whose acquaintance he had not yet formed.
Monsieur de This, Mademoiselle de That, and
Madame de the Other, were here arraigned with
very little ceremony, and were occasionally
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dismissed with a lively or facetious estimate, probably far
short of their respective opinions of themselves.
The invitation which Claude had received from
Madame de Carolan was given and accepted in a
minute, and he scarcely understood its import.
Was he to escort that lady to Madame de B—'s?
and was Ida to be of the party?
The necessary alterations in his toilet were soon
made. In less than half an hour he was at Carolan's.
Ida and her father were in the drawing-room.
“You come in time,” said the count, “for I must
go;” and he left them almost immediately. Claude
found himself alone with the person with whom, in
spite of his general good sense and his sober principle
of right, he was, each hour, each moment, becoming
more fascinated. A short conversation ensued.
Claude was reserved and distant. He was
determined to give no token of the power which this
young girl already began to exercise over him. His
courtesy, while it was all that a gentleman could
bestow, made her think his character haughty and
his heart cold.
Their short interview was presently interrupted
by the entrance of Madame Wharton, and then of
the countess, and the carriage was announced at the
same moment. On their way to Madame de B—'s
a lively conversation was carried on between the
countess and himself. Ida remained silent. It was
the first time she had ever found herself almost
proudly repulsed, and her glance, so much valued,
so gratefully acknowledged by all she had met before,
not only unsought, but apparently undesired.
A feeling of dislike arose in her heart, but it was
mingled with pique and curiosity. With all her advantages
of person and character, she had a modest
opinion of herself; and it could not enter into her
inexperienced mind that the young stranger, who
almost rudely withdrew from her careless affability,
was more capable of appreciating her and more
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ready to admire, than any one she had met before,
and that it was a consciousness of her power and
his own danger which repelled a man of honour
from her side. Once, as a lamp cast its light upon
her face through the carriage window, Claude fixed
his eyes upon it, himself in the shadow. It was
thoughtful as of one alone, and as touched with perfect
beauty as a head by Guido. A sentiment of
admiration, of love, entered his breast. He felt
himself in the presence of one formed to impress
and sway him with a word or look, and yet so far
beyond his reach that it was a crime to think of
her. There was something in this hopeless passion—
thus full-born within him in an instant, as if
by inspiration—for a being so exalted, so lovely,
so guarded by all the haughty distinctions of rank
and wealth—which suited his romantic and melancholy
nature, his passionate and high imagination.
His course through the world had been alone. It
had been like a wanderer in a bark over a dark sea,
without companion by his side or light above; and
this young girl broke upon him like a star, whose
loved beams, however distant, however cold, might
cheer his gloom and guide him on his solitary track.
The spell was thrown over him in that careless moment.
He yielded that kind of tender and unqualified
worship which is one of the charms of youth,
genius, and purity of character.
At the Countess de B—'s he found all the society
assembled. The affable hosts received him
with pleasure. The half dozen saloons and ballroom
were thronged. He recognised, in a distant
corner of the room, Lady Beverly seated, with her
glass to her eye, and peering at him through the
crowd with an earnest watchfulness of his motions,
which again surprised him.
Presently Lavalle addressed him.
“You don't dance?”
“Oh yes!”
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“Let me make you acquainted with Mademoiselle
de Vigne.” The young lady was very pretty and
lovely, and spoke English perfectly well. She
had dark hair and eyes, and appeared enjoying a
state of health and spirits which had never been
disturbed by a care.
“You are very much lié with the Carolans,” said
she, as they paused in the dance.
“I like them much.”
“And what an angel Ida is!”
“Do you think her pretty?”
“Oh! I think her the most perfect creature in
the whole world; do not you?”
“She is certainly pretty,” said Claude, smiling
at her enthusiasm.
“Oh, I am sure. Such a heavenly countenance—
such an angelic figure—such a beautiful manner—
and then, oh Dieu! she draws and plays—and
sings and dances—all the gentlemen are in love
with her. They say a great many have broken
their hearts for her.”
“Yes?”
“Oh yes. Her father is an excellent person—but,
oh Dieu! so proud. But she has made a superb
partie, and she is so happy—everybody adores her!”
“Lord Elkington, then, is certainly going to marry
her?”
“Oh dear, yes.”
“And is she attached to Lord Elkington?”
“Oh, certainly. How can she help it? Do you
not think him very handsome?”
“Rather so.”
“And such a delightful person—so amiable—so
lovely and clever—such a good-hearted man—what
a beautiful and happy couple they will make! I
assure you, they are the talk and admiration of everybody;
and then Lady Beverly—such a charming
woman!”
Claude could not but compare the artlessness of
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this pretty child—who had known nothing of life but
its joys, and who was just emerging from the shelters
of her home into a world which she expected
to find for ever all sunshine and flowers—with Beaufort,
who piqued himself upon being blasé.
“Are you acquainted with Madame Wharton?”
asked she, after finishing another turn in the dance.
“Oh yes. She is a very great favourite of mine.”
“Everybody thinks her such an estimable woman.
She has brought Ida up so admirably—but do
you know,” she added, mysteriously, “that no one
can tell anything of her earlier history!”
“Indeed!”
“She was an English lady, they say—very rich—
but no one knows the least about her affairs.
They do say that—”
But here the fair narrator was obliged to resume
her dancing; and then the contre-dance was finished;
and then a tall, blooming-faced young officer,
with his clothes made very tight, so as to exhibit a
slender and elegant form to the utmost advantage,
came up in great haste, and claimed her hand for the
next dance, and Claude did not get near her again
during the evening, though he often saw her light
and girlish figure whirling in the waltz, in all the
unclouded enjoyment of innocence and youth.
Whenever Lavalle met him, he took occasion to
enter into conversation with him. He liked him
more and more, and discovered in him a mind superior
to the general order of more fashionable
men. Thomson annoyed him by a constant series
of civilities, which he could scarcely withdraw from,
as they seemed to be the result of an ever obliging
disposition. His principal pleasure, however, appeared
to be to talk of, or form a party at whist,
as this seemed to be the engrossing subject of his
reflection, and the principal enjoyment of his life.
In the course of the evening, Claude passed Elkington
several times without any sign of mutual
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[figure description] Page 087.[end figure description]
recognition. With Lady Beverly it was the same. She
was always stately and cold, and appeared to overlook
him, although more than once, when she did
not think herself observed, she regarded him with
a scrutiny for which he could not account.
At twelve the supper was over and the company
began to disperse. Claude found his ever faithful
Carl in the hall with his cloak, and was about returning
to his hotel, when Thomson insisted that he
should join Lavalle, Beaufort, and two or three others
at his rooms for a rubber of whist. Lavalle
urged his compliance. He found that Thomson,
who was an Englishman of respectable family,
lived with considerable style. A circle of young
men of independent fortune met there. Several
were elegant and highly cultivated persons, destined
subsequently to take their stand in the world,
and perhaps in history; while many were merely the
careless characters of a day, who pass their lives
without trouble or reflection, in a narrow circle of
amusements, taking little care to cultivate understandings
which they might have rendered useful
to their country. To him, however, they were all
alike affable, and he passed several gay hours at the
whist-table. They chatted, smoked, supped, and
played, and it was near three when Claude found
himself in the street alone on his return home.
CHAPTER XIII.
It was a pleasant night. The air was still and
clear without being cold, and very refreshing and
agreeable. The moon was in the wane, and had
just risen, casting a singular radiance over the earth
and heaven. Having supped heartily, and, with
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[figure description] Page 088.[end figure description]
several new and interesting topics of reflection, being
too fully awake to think of sleep, he determined
to prolong his stroll around the town. The streets
were silent and lonely. Here and there the night-watch
went slowly by, with his long, shrill whistle,
as if ingeniously contrived to disturb the sick, to
awaken the sleeping, and to do service to none except
thieves and robbers, who, thus warned, get to
their hiding-places till he is out of the way. Before
the palaces of princes and military officers of
high standing, and the public edifices, the guards
paced slowly to and fro, in their simple gray cloaks
and leathern caps, their muskets glittering in the
moonbeams; and once during his ramble he was
crossed by a company of fifteen or twenty soldiers,
on their rounds to relieve guard, their measured
tramp echoing on the pavement, and reminding him
that he was in the metropolis of one of the greatest
military governments of Europe.
Claude went on, now indulging in his own reveries,
now watching the broad, level streets, so beautiful
in the moonlight, and the sculptured palaces,
with their shadowy courts and half-unearthly company
of statues; now listening to the whistle of the
watch, as it retreated and died away in the distance.
At length he found himself before the Brandenburg
gate, and paused to admire the tall columns, the
stately outline, and the bronze group upon the top.
The guard at the gate made no question as he
passed out to extend a ramble so delightful into the
wood. It was the hour for calm thought, and he
had many subjects of reflection. The principal one
was the young girl with whom he had become acquainted
in so curious a manner, and who seemed
the imbodying of his fairest visions of woman. He
had been struck with her character as described by
Madame Wharton—an authority the best that could
exist on such a subject. That of a mother would
have been partial; that of a friend might have been
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drawn from imperfect sources. His own experience
he could have placed but little confidence in,
for he knew how different a thing woman often is
in her real mind from what she appears when invested
with the charm of beauty and seen in the
walks of pleasure. It is probable that, without the
previous eulogies of Madame Wharton, the grace
and loveliness of Ida would not have succeeded in
impressing him so seriously. Every one will not
sympathize with a young man who cannot fall in
love till assured by better authority than his own
observations of the merit of the object. But this
was Claude's character; imbued with thought, his
feelings, or at least his actions, were subservient to
his reason. His lonely life had rendered contemplation
almost too habitual to him. He had dwelt
too long and too much on the valuelessness of the
earthly objects so ardently sought by his fellow-creatures.
For, after all, the everlasting homilies
on the evanescence of existence, while they rarely
arrest the thoughtless in their pursuit of pleasure or
the wicked in their career of guilt, often render the
contemplative unnecessarily sad, and deprive the
unhappy of sources of distraction from solemn realities
which a benevolent Providence did not intend
should appal or overshadow us. To Claude most
of the objects of life were phantoms—most of its
joys illusions. He wanted the development of his
affections to balance and perfect his character, and
to counteract the results of a too exclusive development
of his intellectual faculties. He had lived in
a world of thought. He wanted to descend into the
warmer one of feeling. His mind had occupied
itself with subjects vast, high, and eternal. He
had not studied society and common life with sufficient
attention. Such a mind may be great if occasion
presents, but cannot be contented in the
world where we are destined to live. Some author
observes with a true philosophy, “Bad as men may
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be, Providence intends that we shall love them.”
The uncompromising energy of Claude's character,
and the independence of an original thinker, made
the path of youth one of danger, and caused him, in
many things, to stand aloof from other men.
As he wandered on, Elkington, his singular insolence—
Lady Beverly, her unaccountable curiosity,
which seemed to watch his actions and search into
his soul—recurred to his memory. The former he
resolved to avoid if possible, and he determined
never to deviate from the cold courtesy which
should avert a quarrel. The anger with which he
had received his rudeness passed away under the
fields of heaven. He reflected that it was not in the
power of such a man to insult him.
He paused at these thoughts and gazed upward.
The air was strangely clear; for nature, as if seeking
higher praise than man's, seems to put on more
wonderful beauty when his eye no longer gazes on
it. An indescribable peace and lustre reigned everywhere:
upon the piles of motionless and silver
clouds, the steady-beaming planets, and the far
off, ever-burning groups of stars. He gazed long
and intently with a fervid wonder. There flowed
the Milky Way, rolling its snowy and noiseless
waves through the track of blue. He gazed almost
breathless into its eternal depths. There was Orion,
mounting heavenward with his glittering belt; and
there—at rest amid this revolving multitude—the
point on which seemed to hang all this infinite
sphere of worlds—half seen, and undistinguished
by the common eye—the wanderer's guide—the
lover's hope—the type, in its constancy, of how few
hearts!—lay the polar star.
As he lost himself in the contemplation of this
sublime scene and the thoughts to which it gave
rise, a dog, not far behind him, howled. It caused
him to turn, and, with considerable surprise, he beheld
a figure by his side. The apparition was so
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sudden and unexpected, in that complete solitude
and in the dead of night, that it almost wore the
character of a supernatural visitation. The stranger
was a stout, rough-looking man, with a bold, bad
face, and a deformed, club nose. He was dressed
in a kind of frock or gabardine, open in front, and
bound with fur. The cuffs were bound with the
same material. He had on a low-crowned, broad-brimmed
hat. His cheeks were sallow and sunken,
and a long beard descended to his breast. By his
costume Claude recognised one of those Polish
Jews who are not unfrequently seen in the streets
of Berlin.
The stranger regarded him for a moment with a
fixedness which increased his astonishment.
“Who are you, and what do you want with me?”
demanded Claude, in German.
“It is a mistake, sir; I looked for another person,”
said the Jew, in English.
“How! You speak English! You know me for
an Englishman!” said Claude, more and more surprised.
The stranger, without answering, regarded him
again from head to foot, and, suddenly turning away,
disappeared in the shadows of the forest. Claude
was at a loss to conjecture whether this incident
was accidental, or whether it had any serious meaning.
The man's demeanour was not that of a robber,
but of one who had a desire to examine his
features. There was something insidious in his
manner; and his harsh and ugly face had an expression
singular and discomposed. As his approach
had been sudden and noiseless, so his retreat
was abrupt. Was he a robber or an assassin?
Had it been his design only to attack the careless
passenger for the risk of such booty as he might
chance to have about him? or had he intended to
strike down some particular individual from a motive
of revenge? and had he luckily discovered his
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mistake in time to withhold the blow? These were
serious questions; but, long ere he reached home,
they were forgotten in the new thoughts and fears—
for hopes there were none—of the fair young girl
whose presence already made Berlin the hallowed
spot of all the world to him.
CHAPTER XIV.
Claude to Mr. Denham.
“My dear Denham,
“Your affectionate letter is received, and I sit
down to answer it, half hesitating, notwithstanding
the sincere friendship I entertain for you, whether
I ought to comply with your wishes, and relate to
you all the adventures of my life, and all the apprehensions
which agitate my mind. You will not,
even from this confession, doubt the sincerity of my
sentiments; for you are, my dear Denham, the only
man on earth whom I consider my friend. It is
melancholy to reflect how few among all my acquaintance
I place complete reliance on. Some
who could, perhaps, appreciate the nature of true
friendship, have their affections occupied elsewhere;
and many, who exhibit a desire to become intimate,
are not recommended by qualities which alone can
make intimacy agreeable. Of the young men whom
I have here associated much with, there is one in
particular whom I have learned to esteem. Were
we together for some years, I fear you would have
a rival. But I am in this metropolis only for so
short a time, and he is so much engaged with other
avocations, that the interest we feel in each other
will probably never grow beyond mutual wishes;
for what would be the use of cultivating a
-- 093 --
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connexion, of which the short period could scarcely be more
pleasant than the inevitable termination would be
painful? I see in this young man, however, much
which resembles you. He is naturally noble and
superior, born amid all the advantages of prosperity,
and spending his life in a sphere of fashion and
pleasure, among men beneath him in intellect; and
yet, while he equals and surpasses them in the elegant
frivolities of fashion, he has the taste and resolution
to cultivate his understanding, and the wisdom
to reason with impartiality and truth upon subjects
generally the least understood in such circles.
To see him in the drawing-room, you would suppose
him only the gay and light homme du monde;
while in his study he is evidently fitting himself for
a career of usefulness. This much in reply to your
inquiry respecting `new friends.' To your entreaty
that I should leave off travelling and seek myself
out a good wife, I have also something to say. I
have many objections to marriage in my case.
They are not those which generally influence men
who remain bachelors. I have no prejudices
against women, or apprehensions of the married
state. On the contrary, I soberly believe no man
can fulfil his duty, and enjoy all the happiness intended
for him, without a family. The pleasures and
affections—even the responsibilities, restraints, and
cares which they produce, all tend to develop and
balance his character, to enlarge his mind, and to
keep his heart in a medium point of enjoyment most
favourable to health, content, and honour. An old
bachelor is almost sure to have some inaccurate notion
or loose principle, which the reflection consequent
on a family protects a husband and father from.
No, my friend, do not suspect me of such flippant
objections to matrimony; but there are others which
I cannot easily overcome. You are aware of my
general history, but I do not think I ever ventured
to tell it to you distinctly, for it has been a subject
not very agreeable for me to touch upon. I will
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sketch it for you, however, and let you judge whether
it does not offer me solid arguments against marrying.
“The earliest thing I can remember is a family
where I was badly treated, in the West Indies. I
was, at an early age, I scarce know how or why,
taken from thence. I crossed the ocean, and was
placed at an English school. I remained there till
I was prepared for the University. All these measures
concerning me were taken by invisible agents.
I saw no one, knew no one, suspected no one. I
became here acquainted with Lord Perceval, who
was considerably my senior, and whose friendship
has survived our school days. On leaving the University
I received a letter. I have preserved it. It
is in the keeping of Lord Perceval. The words are
engraven on my memory. The writing was in an
obviously disguised hand. It ran thus:
“`It is time you should know sufficient of your
history to keep you from inquiring more. You are
the child of guilt. You have been cast off by one
who for twenty years has kept a resolution, which
will be inviolable, never to see you. Your existence
is unknown to all but yourself and the writer
of this, who, from a sense of duty, will not throw
you utterly destitute upon the world, where all is
false, and that most false which seems most fair.
A yearly fund for your support, to the amount of
£500, shall be deposited in the hands of the London
bankers, N. B. & Co. You can draw it in half-yearly
instalments in advance. It is paid you from
one cause and on one condition. The cause is
this: You are said to have conducted yourself thus
far with rectitude and honour, and to be not unworthy
a better fate than the dishonour which you inherit,
and which, luckily for your peace, blackens
only on your forehead without festering in your
heart. The condition of this annuity is as follows:
You are never to seek to ascertain your real name
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and family. The first step you take with such a
view will occasion the withdrawal of the sum; and
your appropriation of it will be considered a pledge
to that effect. Perhaps your pride may not readily
accept a support under such circumstances. One
who, however, has a right to command; who has
educated you, and suffered for you, requests it. It
will be continued for your life. It will then cease.
Should you marry, it will be withheld. It is also
desirable that you should pass the greater part of
your time abroad. The strictest obedience will be
exacted in respect to any search after your family;
and you may the less reluctantly comply with this
request, since, if you discovered all, you would only
discover wretchedness, crime, and dishonour. May
you be more happy and more virtuous than the
wretches from whom you drew your being!'
“You will not be surprised that I can write this
communication from memory. I have read it over
so often; I have examined and weighed every word
with such careful scrutiny, and repeated it so frequently
to myself, that it is engraven on my mind,
and I have exhausted all the conjectures to which
it can give rise. Who are my parents? Am I the
offspring of some unhappy mother, who writes this
document, and who, perhaps, as a penance, denies
herself the sight of the being whom she has brought
into the world? or is it from the pen of a father,
who has been betrayed by the object of his confidence?
Is my family noble or low? From some
intimations, I almost infer that they are outcasts
from the laws of society, and have taken this method
of saving me from the odium and fatality of being
known to be their offspring. Perhaps they are robbers,
perhaps murderers. Perhaps the money I
spend is the tribute wrung from society at the hazard
of life and soul. These conjectures, and a thousand
others, cross me.
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“Thus adrift upon the world, I have, as you may
imagine, never had much temptation to marry. I
have even never had the wish, till now. And, to
cap the climax of the events with which fortune
clouds my life, who do you think is the person who
has first made me feel a weakness which I have so
often derided? One as far above my reach as a
queen; one in a dazzling sphere of rank; surrounded
by haughty friends, who would deem me a
lunatic for thinking of her, and who actually throw
me in her way with a stray carelessness, from the
very impossibility, as they suppose, of my ever having
the hardihood to regard her with warmer feelings
than respect. She is, moreover, affianced to
another; she has accepted him, and she loves him.
Her father himself told me so. He is our countryman,
Lord Elkington, whom you have probably
heard of, though I never did before. Do not suspect
me of the baseness of seeking to win this happy
girl's affections. No; I linger near her from a deep
fascination, of which I am heartily ashamed, and
which I shall by-and-by break through, leaving her
for ever, but bearing with me an impression which
will hereafter close my heart to all other women.
I linger near her, also, because I am welcomed by
the family with a kindness for which I know not
how to account. I have endeavoured to withdraw
from their hospitality, but could not without exciting
attention and awakening inquiry. Not only do they
oppose no obstacle to my being frequently in her
society, but it seems sometimes as if they took pains
to bring us together. Had she been but the poor
daughter of some husband-hunting mamma, and I
a rich noble, I might find here something more than
accident. But, alas! I see this perfect freedom arises
from the very antithesis of a design to entrap.
It is my insignificance; the distance between my
position and hers, which exempts me from all guards
and suspicion.”
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CHAPTER XV.
[figure description] Page 097.[end figure description]
There are few, even in the sanguine period of
youth, who look forward to a promised pleasure
with higher expectations than Mrs. Digby experienced
at the near prospect of her at length approaching
début in the world of real fashion. Not all the
wealth which the family had inherited could procure
her admission into those enchanted regions in England.
The very contemplation of them, however,
as they appeared recorded in the newspapers, had
disordered her imagination, as it does that of many
others, who might be so happy in the positions where
Providence has placed them, but who, failing in the
modest independence and wise content which render
men respectable and dignified in any situation,
abandon what they are, in vain attempts to appear
what they are not, and can never be—fashionable
people. Long before the event which had raised
her from comparative poverty to opulence, the
sparks of fashionable ambition had been lurking in
her heart, and they were fanned by her good fortune
into a flame which no reason could quench.
Poor Digby, although a blockhead out of his own
sphere, and totally without cultivation, had still the
sense to regret the tranquillity of his former life,
and only suffered himself to be drawn abroad and
to be implicated in his wife's schemes from good
nature. But she, imagining that all that was necessary
to become a stylish woman was money and
admission into stylish circles, overlooked the fact
that, without the gentility which nature gives, or,
at least, that acquired by an acquaintance with such
scenes, a person is only the more conspicuously excluded
from them by being in the midst of them.
She thought, good soul, that, once within the saloons
-- 098 --
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of a palace, every obstacle would be surmounted,
and her long-sighed-for triumph completely obtained.
Her delight, therefore, was great, after having
made the calls as suggested by Madame de Godeau,
and having received, in return for her own,
the cards of all the nobility and gentry of the metropolis.
She was honoured with an invitation to a—
what she called “deyjooney dangsang,” at Prince
R.'s. She was now at the summit of her bliss.
Carriage after carriage, for several days, had driven
up and driven away, to shower upon her the cards
of people whose dazzling titles made her head giddy
with pleasure. So completely occupied was she
with her grand design, that she paid no attention to
the morning visits of Elkington, and the delight
which the innocent and inexperienced Mary received
in the attentions of that dangerous and bad man;
and, if not blind to the fact that the blushes of her
cheek were of a deeper hue than ordinary at the mention
of his name, that the poor child bestowed double
her usual care upon her toilet, and that she contrived
to receive him often and long in the drawing-room,
when no one but herself was ready to see
him, she considered it as a token of her own success,
and an omen of the brilliant prospects of Mary.
In regard to expense, too, she became reckless.
Her dresses were the most extravagant that could
be procured. Her rooms were crowded with mantuamakers,
coutouriers, marchandes-de-modes, coiffeurs,
etc., etc., etc., and encumbered with furs,
silks, bandboxes, and all the paraphernalia of a fine
lady at the meridian of a fashionable season. In
her own mind she believed that Mary's every-day
increasing loveliness had ensnared the heart of Elkington,
and a thousand visions, such as a weak and
ignorant person in her situation might yield to, filled
her fancy.
The fête given by Prince R. was to comprehend
the royal family, as well as the nobility and gentry
-- 099 --
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of Berlin. The palace of the munificent host recalled
in splendour the creations of Aladdin. The
company assembled at twelve in the morning. The
presentation to the royal family generally occupied
the time till two or three o'clock, when a sumptuous
dinner was followed by dancing and cards.
At the appointed hour Claude entered the lofty
doors of the palace, amid armed horsemen stationed
at short intervals in the street, crowds of splendidly-dressed
ladies, and gentlemen in the richest
uniforms covered with orders—no one appearing in
the royal presence in a citizen's dress. Such as
have no military, official, or diplomatic character,
wore the quaint court costume still to be met in the
similar scenes of the present day. All the faces
which Claude had been accustomed to meet at the
nightly soirées of the past several weeks, he found
reassembled in these golden halls. Some of the
fair votaries of pleasure, who spend their lives in
the same round, losing a portion of their beauty
by the sober light of day, showed by their faces
that even pleasure is a wearing toil, while others
were only more pure and lovely in the searching
beams of the sun. The pomp and display everywhere
around him; the throngs of domestics, all in
rich, and some in very fanciful liveries; the large
scale on which everything seemed built; the numerous
suites of broad and lofty rooms, adorned
with every variety of splendour, and filled with exquisite
paintings and statues; the floors inlaid in
the most exquisite manner; the glittering crowds;
the military uniform of the officers, with their gay
plumes and clanking swords, all formed a coup d'œil
which threw even the elegant magnificence of Carolan
far into the shade. As Claude entered, a din
of gay voices was audible. Those already arrived
were gathered in three or four large saloons, waiting
the arrival of the royal family. So distant is
the reunion of the society, that, notwithstanding the
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short time he had spent in Berlin, he knew everybody.
At every moment he was stopped as he advanced
through the rooms. Many a hand welcomed
him, and many a fair face greeted him with a
smile. Lavalle, Beaufort, Thomson, and a score
of other young men, in their smart diplomatic or
court dresses, drew around him.
“How are you, Wyndham?” said Beaufort, with
a yawn. “It's devilish hot here. These déjeuners
are quite absurd.”
“Well, I think them, on the contrary,” said
Claude, “very gay and pretty.”
“Ah bah! you're so devilish amiable, there's no
getting along with you.”
“It is a very unfashionable fault,” said Claude.
“Ah!” (a yawn), “I beg your pardon. What did
you say? The fact is, it's such a horrid bore, being
obliged to stand here eight or ten hours, that, really,
I sha'n't get over it for a month. Why the devil
don't people give suppers and have done with it?”
“My dear Mr. Wyndham!” said Thomson, with
a great multiplicity of bows, “how are you? you
don't look well; let me get you a glass of orgeat—
now do, I entreat you.”
Claude thanked him.
“Well! if you want anything to-day — if you
wish to be presented to any one, lady or gentleman,
or to any of the princes, mind and call me. At dinner-time
I'll see that you have a good place, if you'll
only let me know where you are. You'll have to
be presented, too, won't you? I know all the chambellans
intimately, and all the grandes maitresses.
I'll look them up for you. I'll introduce you. It's
very difficult, I assure you. Here, boy, bring the
lemonade this way!”
Claude again thanked his officious friend, and
with some difficulty disentangled himself from his
polite offers.
“That fellow is perfectly in love with you,” said
Lavalle.
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“He is very obliging, certainly,” said Claude.
“He sounds your praises,” said Lavalle, “wherever
he goes.”
“What kind of a person is he?”
Lavalle shrugged his shoulders.
“A butterfly that flutters around the newest flower,
and will show his wings in your path as long as
it lies through the sunshine. One puff of wind will
blow him away instantly.”
“And Beaufort?” said Claude.
“There was once good in him. He had feeling,
if not sense, but it is merged in an insane desire to
be considered a perfectly fashionable man. He has
forgotten all standard of right or wrong but fashion.
It is his morality. His whole character, mind, and
heart are lost in it. To be blase is his happiness;
he sees no good in anything, no charm in nature,
no beauty in virtue, no excellence in character, but
what fashion points to. Of course, his understanding
must be weak to permit of such a transformation;
but his heart was good when I first knew him.
Now I believe he has none. It is not fashionable;
and I am sure, to become the object of notoriety in
his circle, he is now capable of any alienation from
right—of any unprincipled and cruel action. He
piques himself upon ridiculing all that is high and
noble, and in being totally callous to whatever
ought to touch his feelings. He considers himself
a perfect homme du monde. By-the-way, I see you
are very much lié with the Carolans!”
“Yes.”
“Take care there, my friend! It is dangerous
ground. That girl is too pretty and amiable to be
a friend to a person like you, without being something
more; and yet, I observe, you seem much together.”
“I do not think myself in serious danger,” said
Claude, though this chance remark of Lavalle's
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made him tingle to his finger ends. “Besides, she
is affianced.”
“Yes, to that puppy Elkington.”
“Puppy?”
“Most thoroughly. There isn't a man on earth
whom I detest more. He is going to marry Ida
with no more real affection for her than you have.”
“Impossible!” said Claude.
“He can't appreciate her, in the first place. The
match was made up by the families—and he has—
now—actually fallen in love with another.”
“What other?” said Claude.
“That pretty English girl, Mademoiselle Bigby—
or Digby.”
“Miss Mary Digby?”
“He is a man,” said Lavalle, “not only capable
of doing the basest action, but of boasting of it.”
“What do you mean?”
“He boasts in his own set that this poor girl
loves him. He is a frequent visiter at her home;
and I have heard that she is so far his dupe as to
have walked with him several times in the Park—
alone. You are acquainted with them, I believe.
It would be but right to put the family on their
guard. They seem to be simple people. If I were
the father of such a child, I would sooner see a viper
in my house.”
“I will tell him what you have heard,” said
Claude.
“But, for Heaven's sake, do so secretly,” said
Lavalle. “You know Elkington is a fatal shot.”
“No,” said Claude, “I will not do it secretly.
I will inform myself better on the point, and, if I
find it as you say, I will tell Digby the truth openly.
I am no duellist. I have nothing to fear from
him.”
“That is to say, you would not challenge; but,
were you to receive a message, you would go out,
of course.”
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[figure description] Page 103.[end figure description]
“No. It is one of those things which I have determined
never to do.”
“Well, you may be a very wise man,” said Lavalle,
after a moment's pause; “but all I can say
is, that, if you venture to carry that principle into
action, you stand the chance of being a very wise
man in a very embarrassing situation.”
“I regard a duel as an act of too great folly and
crime ever to be engaged in one,” said Claude.
“That it is, I grant,” said Lavalle; “but the customs
of society must be complied with.”
“Granting that it is a crime, no custom can render
it excusable.”
“Yet declining a message may ruin a man for
ever with the world, and, since we live in it—”
“When duty points a path,” said Claude, “we
have only to obey. The consequences I neither
foresee nor trouble myself about.”
“But the word coward!” said Lavalle; “the finger
of scorn—the whisper—the taunt—”
“Clouds,” said Claude, “which it is the business
of an honest and brave man to walk through undismayed,
and which will melt before his steady onward
path, as vapours before the sun. A man of
principle has an account between himself and God
alone.”
“Ah, this is very fine,” said Lavalle, “but I
fear—”
“Here is a partner wanted at whist!” said Thomson;
“Wyndham, will you play? Lavalle, will you
play?”
Both the young men declined.
“There's a useful person on these occasions,”
said Lavalle. “He knows everybody and everything
that is going on in society. He can tell you
more scandal in an hour than you would believe in
a month. I recommend you to accept his offer of
hunting up the chambellans. He is the very fellow
for it. And, as you have to be presented to several
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royal personages to-day, you have, I assure you,
a task, in such a crowd by no means easy. Their
royal highnesses are only to be caught in the intervals
of the dance; and, when they are not dancing,
the chambellans and grand maîtresses very often
are. I will aid you if I am near. Till then, adieu.
I see I am beckoned to.”
As Lavalle left him, Claude strolled around the
rooms as well as he could for the crowd. He met the
Carolans. Ida was not with them, but in a few
moments he saw her in another room. She was
surrounded by a crowd of ladies and several gentlemen,
among whom was Elkington, earnestly speaking
with her. Claude did not approach. He stood
aloof, with a feeling of tenderness and melancholy
which he had never experienced before. He regarded
her at a distance, unseen himself. She appeared
grave and sad. There was even a slight
paleness upon her countenance.
“Alas!” thought he, as he stood motionless and
gloomy, half withdrawn behind the pedestal of a
golden vase; his gaze fixed upon her as on something
sweet and lovely, lent a brief moment to his
sight to be snatched from it for ever. “Alas!” he
thought, “something has disturbed her. Would it
were an evil that I could destroy—even with my
life!”
He knew not that the shadow over this young
girl had been cast there unconsciously by himself.
Since the night when, obedient to the wishes of her
parents, and little dreaming that there was anything
in her own bosom which could rise up against her,
she had pledged her hand to Lord Elkington, new
thoughts and feelings had been born in her heart.
It was the very next day that she met Claude at her
father's table. There was something in his appearance
which struck her attention. The surprise and
lively pleasure visible in his countenance on their
meeting, the cause of which was unknown to her,
made him a subject of reflection. His conduct to
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her, his coolness, subsiding into a tone of gentle
courtesy, so different from the ordinary manner of
the fashionable young men about her, fastened her
thoughts still more upon him. The obvious jealousy
of Lady Beverly and Elkington, who had observed
the impression which he had made on her,
rendered her still more observing; and several petty
attempts to ridicule and injure him on the part of
Elkington, raised the former as much as it depressed
the latter in her esteem. In short, the inexplicable
influence of a high and noble character had
made upon her a new impression. The rudeness
of Elkington at the opera, and the haughty, yet
calm manner in which it was met, again placed the
two persons in contrast to each other. It seemed
that, since she sealed her fate by accepting the hand
of Elkington, her eyes had, for the first time, opened
to observation, her mind to reflection, and her
heart to feeling. Placing no value on rank and
wealth, since she had never known what it was to
be without them, the inequality in the situation of
Claude and herself did not enter her thoughts; nor,
indeed, had she any more definite ideas concerning
him, than that vague sentiment of admiration and
interest which fills a young girl's heart on the
threshold of womanhood, in the society of the man
to whom she is about to surrender her affections.
Claude presented to her in the real world a hero
which she had believed existed only in imagination.
She had given her hand to Elkington, supposing
that she loved him; ignorant at once that her nature
contained a deeper power of love, or the world a
more worthy object. By that kind of caprice with
which Fortune is apt to sport with human destinies,
she began to experience a change in her feelings
towards Elkington the moment it was too late, and
to be, for the first time, conscious of that passion
which has so much swayed the destinies of her sex.
Thus situated in regard to each other, each began
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to be cold and reserved in proportion as their hearts
were in reality drawn nearer together. Each began
to treat the other in a way which, without intending
it, hid their feelings from the general eye, while it
rendered them warmer and deeper. But this reserve,
even when most conscientiously persevered in,
could not always prevent their meeting at moments
when neither had the desire, nor the power to act
their assumed part; and all who have had occasion
to observe the boy-god's peculiar talent for transacting
a great deal of business in a short period of time,
will comprehend what changes were produced in
the hearts of these two young people during such
brief and sweet interviews. Many a confidence
never trusted to words, took place between them.
Many an opinion was communicated not committed
to the tongue. In short, they were just so far committed
to each other, as to afford no real evidence
that there existed a partiality between them, and to
leave that fact also doubtful in many moods of their
own minds.
It was in this state of mind that Claude met Ida
at the fête of Prince R., and indulged himself with a
long look at her beautiful face. Elkington was
importunately pursuing her with a conversation in
which she appeared to take no interest. Suddenly
her eyes, as they wandered around the room, met
his own. Her features were at once lighted with a
smile of pleasure, and suffused with a faint colour,
and she gave him one of those smiles which haunted
his imagination, and sunk into his heart like
poison. Elkington, who generally was too nearsighted
to see Claude when at his side, now bent a
keen glance on him. As he moved his eyes in another
quarter, he perceived Lady Beverly peering at
him through her glass. There was something of
confusion in the manner in which he turned away,
and, as if he were the object of some peculiar and
mysterious scrutiny, he encountered the fixed gaze
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of Madame Wharton. She looked graver than
usual. There was reproof, and almost severity in
her expression. He approached her.
“What does Mentor regard with such serious
eyes?” said he.
“I fear,” said Madame Wharton, coolly, “we are
to be interrupted, for here comes his majesty.”
At this moment the general clash of voices ceased
suddenly, and was succeeded by a deep silence.
An officer of the court entering with his baton, made
a passage for the royal family. There was, however,
little occasion for his exertions, for the crowd
fell back on either side, leaving a wide space for
his majesty Frederic William II., with the various
members and guests of his family. The monarch
advanced into the midst of the rooms, and
Claude was presented by Lavalle to Prince —,
the distinguished nobleman whose duty it was to
name to royalty those who aspired to the honour of
an interview. This ceremony was soon over, as
well as those which etiquette rendered proper to the
other illustrious personages. Having happily gone
through these preliminaries, he was struck with
the appearance of the Digbys. The good dame
was magnificently arrayed in a brimstone-coloured,
richly-embroidered satin dress, hat and feathers;
a toilet somewhat conspicuous on any occasion,
but unfortunately so on the present, since, the court
being in mourning, it was the height of indecorum
to appear in any other colour than black or white.
“Oh Dieu, madame,” said Madame de Godeau,
in an under tone, with consternation depicted in her
countenance; “you are not dressed in mourning—
when I tell you—mon Dieu—c'est épouvantable.”
“You told me — mem,” said Madame Digby.
“You never told me.”
“Yes, I told you the whole court were in mourning.”
“Ah, certainly, mem; I recollect that, perfectly,
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but I hadn't an idea you wanted me to go in mourning
too. Why, I don't even know who's dead.
I'm sure I have never seen the poor man in all my
life!”
It was, however, now too late for any remedy,
and she determined to carry it through. She therefore
followed the grande maîtresse, who had obligingly
waited till the end of her colloquy with Madame
de Godeau, and, with her elbows well protruded
from her ample body, made her way through
the opposing multitude with little ceremony. Here
and there Claude heard a nearly suppressed “Ah
diable, quel drole de figure!” or, “Dieu! qui est
cette madame là!” Mary was dressed in blue, but
she looked so extremely pretty, that even they who
laughed at were compelled to admire her.
Madame Digby, at length in good society—in the
very centre of her much-talked-of ho-tong—stood
in the presence of the princess with the air of one
who intended to show the world that she was not
to be intimidated. The distinguished lady to whom
she was about to be presented seemed scarcely
able to repress a smile, and the circle around were
still less successful, at the awkward air and ridiculous
affectation of the honest dame as she made her
opening salutation. But royal affability on these
occasions has no limit, and all in their presence are
greeted with the courtesy which forms one of the
ornaments of a throne. Half afraid of being encountered
by one of Lady Beverly's haughty stares,
Mrs. Digby was delighted to find the princess all
smiles and blandness, and, recovering all her ambition
with her ease, she cast a look around to assure
herself that the whole assembly were witnesses
of the honour she was enjoying.
“Have you been long in Berlin?” said her royal
highness, in French.
An address in an unknown language would have
abashed any one not blessed with considerable nerve;
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but bounteous nature had left no such deficiency in
the composition of Madame Digby. She only,
therefore, approached a step or two nearer—much
too close for the distance which more experienced
courtiers have a care to leave between royalty and
those in its presence—and, leaning her ear towards
the face of the princess, she merely pronounced, in
her own peculiar way, the word
“Mem?”
The princess repeated the question.
“I really beg your pardon, mem; but, if you could
speak English with the same trouble, I should be
more able to communicate with your ladyship,
mem—that is—with your royal highness. Madame
de Godeau informed me that you spoke English
like a native, mem—your royal highness.”
“I hope you find Berlin agreeable!” said her august
companion, in English, and with a good-natured
smile.
“Well, mem, I can't say but what I do.”
The princess began here another question, but
Mrs. Digby interrupted her to add, “Your royal
highness.”
“Are you pleasantly lodged?” inquired the princess.
“Why, mem, pretty fair, compared with where
we were at Hamburg; but the stoves give Mr.
Digby the headache, your royal highness!”
“We know you English never find on the Continent
the comforts which you enjoy in your own
country,” said the princess, politely.
“No, indeed, mem—your royal highness—that's
what we don't; and as for—”
“Are you attached to any embassy?” inquired
the princess.
“No, mem, not yet, but I believe we shall advertise
for something of that sort; my relative, Lord
Clew, was—”
She was cut short by a very affable courtesy on
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the part of the princess, and an exceedingly significant
look from the grande maîtresse on one side,
and Madame de Godeau on the other, intimating
that her interview was over. She accordingly made
a salutation, such as, in her mind, fitted the rank of
the person she addressed, and her own character as
a perfectly fine lady, who had at length arrived at
the very summit of the ho-tong; and, ignorant of the
conspicuous violation of etiquette of which she was
guilty, she stepped away, turning her shoulder and
back directly in the princess's face.
That lady not noticing, or not seeming to notice,
the last manœuvre, turned towards Mary, who stood
the next in the circle. The grande maîtresse led
the trembling girl forward. Her timidity was so
obvious, and she turned so pale, that the benevolent
heart of the princess was interested in her behalf;
and she addressed her so kindly, and led and sustained
the conversation with so much consideration
for her youthful and not ungraceful distress, that
Mary found herself fully exempted from the necessity
of making other remarks than her usual “yes”
and “no.”
The next object which attracted Claude's attention
was Digby, the perspiration standing on his
forehead, his face always rather rubicund from the
vivifying effect of good English beef and beer, now
heated beyond itself by the anxieties and horrors
which, poor fellow, he had undergone in his attempts
to be presented. Unacquainted with the
faces of the royal personages, even when by their
side, he sometimes ran against a prince, and sometimes
made an inquiry of a princess. Some one
whom he had never seen before was every moment
wheeling him violently round with, “Prenez garde!—
sa majesté!” or, “Monsieur, la princess!” At
length, tired, terrified, and internally swearing that
no one—not Mrs. Digby herself—should ever catch
him again in a scene for which his habits of life
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had so little fitted him, his knees aching, and his
feet in a state of torment from the effect of a pair
of high-heeled and very small new boots, which his
wife had persuaded him to purchase for the occasion,
he reached a broad crimson sofa, glittering
with gold, and occupied on the other end by a lady
and gentleman. Throwing himself down in an exhausted
state, he muttered half aloud,
“Well, thank God! I'm here at last. Here sit I
till dinner.”
Taking out a yellow silk pocket-handkerchief, he
deliberately wiped the moisture from his forehead
and blew his noise; and he had just finished taking
a comfortable pinch of snuff, and was proceeding to
offer the box to his neighbour, when he was struck
with the intensity of astonishment with which a little
military officer, with an enormous pair of mustaches,
an exceedingly rich uniform, a multitude of
orders, a high chapeau under his arm, and a long
sword, fixed his eyes sternly upon him. In some
surprise, not to say consternation, he hastily put up
his handkerchief and snuff box, and looked around
to see what he had done, when he perceived that
several others—indeed, all the surrounding spectators—
were regarding him attentively, and with visible
tokens of amazement. Among others, a person
half behind him, and partly withdrawn within the
embrasure of a window, began to make him significant
signs and violent gesticulations, and, at length
leaning over, addressed him. The remark was lost,
however, in a language which he did not understand.
At length he came to the conclusion that
he had torn his clothes, and, horrified at the idea, he
proceeded to examine his elegant court suit, when
his perplexity was terminated by Claude, who, perceiving
his dilemma and the cause of it, approached
him from behind and whispered,
“Get up. You are sitting with the prince and
princess.”
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If a bombshell had fallen at the poor fellow's feet,
he could not have been more alarmed. He started
up, and was darting off to hide his humiliation in
some distant corner, but Claude with a strong hand
very quietly withheld him.
“Good God! what now?” said Digby, afraid to
move.
“You are running directly against the prince
royal!”
“For Heaven's sake, then, let me go this way!”
And, with a spring, he would have ran full tilt against
another member of the royal family, had not Claude
again checked his course. He remained, therefore,
motionless, and resumed the task of wiping his forehead.
“Well, I say—Wyndham!” he muttered, “if this
is Mrs. Digby's ho-tong—!”
The circle dispersed and Claude released his
prisoner. It was not long before he observed him
planted in a corner, with his back held resolutely
against the wall, standing as straight as a grenadier
under review, occasionally making a wry face at
the pressure of his new boots, and now and then applying
his handkerchief to his temples.
At length a general movement of the crowd announced
the dinner-hour. The Digbys had succeeded
in finding each other. The quick eyes of
the long-talked-of ho-tong, skilful in detecting a
stranger to the forms of good society, had already
found in these honest people an object of attention,
and their various mistakes were scrutinized and repeated.
Many a keen jest and sarcastic comment
were passed at their expense. Every young officer
amused his vis-à-vis in the dance (which had long
been going on in the ballroom) with an account of
what he had seen and heard; and certain ladies,
whose lives are spent in a round of fashionable
pleasures, and to whom these golden halls are the
world, showed little mercy to the new, awkward
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intruders. The three hours which intervened till the
moment of dinner had so completely decided their
fate, that, had they been infested with the plague,
they could scarcely be more avoided. Mr. Digby,
aware that he had committed divers blunders, perceived
plainly enough that he was coolly cut by
many persons with whom he had previously enjoyed
a speaking acquaintance. They passed him,
and jostled him, and peered with their glasses into
his face and out again; spoke to each other under
his nose and over his shoulder, without taking any
more notice of him, his wife, or daughter, than if
they had been actually invisible. He strove to
catch the eye of several, but found it impossible.
The honest fellow, who, to do him justice, was
quite innocent even of a wish to mount into a
sphere for which his education had not fitted him,
blushed at the slights he received, and cast a look
upon Mrs. Digby in her brimstone-coloured gown
and hat, which threatened hereafter to bridle her
genteel aspirations, and never again to allow himself
or his daughter to be subjected to such an awkward
ordeal.
Mrs. Digby herself was also becoming conscious
that, although by management, aided by chance, one
may push into such circles, they are more excluded
while in the centre of them, by their different manners
and education, than while quietly enjoying their
natural sphere of society. She also had addressed
several, and found herself unaccountably invisible,
notwithstanding the numerous glasses which were
from time to time directed towards her.
Everybody was now advancing to the dining-rooms.
The Digbys had been borne by the current
into the centre of the largest saloon, in which
the king and the royal family were already seated at
tables. Here, at a loss where to go or what to do,
ignorant of the language in which alone they could
communicate with the servants, they found
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themselves deserted by all and standing alone, exposed
to the full gaze of the royal family and the highest
persons of the court. Mary's face was crimson
with terror, Mrs. Digby's with exertion and astonishment,
and Digby's with honest indignation. In
this extremity, which was really growing unpleasant,
he resolved to apply to Lord Elkington as a
countryman and a gentleman, and as one who had
been very often lately at his house, and who, when
alone with him, had honoured him with several condescending
remarks. He saw him just then coming
through the saloon, having just terminated a brief
conversation with Prince R—.
“I find myself really obliged to ask your lordship—
a—a—a—who—how—where—a—a—”
Elkington turned his glass into his face, and, as if
not recollecting him at all, said,
“Pardon, monsieur;” and, pushing by, cast his
eyes around as if in search of some one.
“I'll ask Lady Beverly,” said Mrs. Digby, “where
we are to go.”
She advanced towards her, therefore, with an appealing
look; but that lady drew herself up with
a forbidding frown, which so frightened the poor
woman that she had not a word to say.
At this moment Ida came in with Madame Wharton.
After their late rebuffs, the Digbys no longer
dared to address any one else, and, entirely losing
their presence of mind, as unable to withdraw as to
retreat, and ready to sink into the beautiful floors,
even Mrs. Digby began to regret the hour when she
left her own circle of friends to make acquaintances
with a rank of life so far above her own. At this
moment Ida, who comprehended the awkwardness
of their situation the moment she perceived them,
stepped across the room, and, approaching Mrs. Digby,
said,
“My dear madam, I fear you are at a loss for a
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place. May I assist you? It is sometimes unpleasant
here for strangers.”
“Oh, mem,” said Mrs. Digby, “we shall be so
very much obliged to you if you will show us where
to go.”
“With great pleasure,” said Ida. “I will tell a
servant. I hope you are enjoying yourself to-day,
Miss Digby.”
“Oh yes, very much!” said Mary, emphatically.
A servant coming by, Ida said something to him
in German. He bowed respectfully, and led the
way towards the door, while Ida, after a few more
kind words to them, resumed her place.
“That's an angel out of Heaven,” said Mrs. Digby,
“if ever there was one, and that hateful Lady
Beverly—”
“And that scoundrel Elkington—” said Digby.
“But, mamma, which was the servant the Countess
Ida gave us?”
“I did not look at him, I declare,” said Mrs.
Digby.
“And I was looking all the time at that beautiful
girl,” said Digby.
“You fool!” said Mrs. Digby, “what business
have you to be looking at girls? now, you see, we're
just as bad off as ever. I never did see such a
born fool as you are, John, in my life.”
“Oh, certainly, my dear; but who is the fool
that's got us into this scrape?”
The crowd, which for a few moments filled the
saloon, had now again disappeared, and they were
left once more alone; all the tables which they
could see in that, as well as the adjoining rooms,
being full.
“Ah, thank God—there's Wyndham,” said Digby,
taking a long breath, like a soldier who, set on by
numbers, at length sees a friend on whose prowess
and fidelity he can depend. He advanced to Claude,
but he also, at first, seemed affected with the general
defect of vision which prevented everybody
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else from seeing Digby's flaming physiognomy, although
dripping under their noses. The eyes of
our hero here were attracted to Ida and Madame
Wharton, with one vacant seat by their side. He
bowed, and the answering smile of Ida seemed to
invite him to approach her, when the appealing voice
of Digby arrested his attention. They explained
to him their painful situation. All the company were
now seated. In another minute they would have
been in a yet more awkward dilemma than ever.
Lady Beverly, who sat near, stopped from her soup
to direct her glass towards the group, and said something
which raised a laugh at the table where she
sat. Claude longed to take the seat by Ida. It
was, perhaps, the last hour of free intercourse with
her which he should ever have the opportunity to
enjoy. But had he a right, with such deep and now
uncontrollable feelings, to seek the society of a
young girl who, he already saw, was half aware of
his madness, and was touched with it? The homely
and awkward appearance, too, of the Digbys—for
even Mary's expressionless face now looked vulgar
contrasted with that of Ida.; the observation that
all shrunk from them because they had rendered
themselves ridiculous, and their obvious helplessness
and dependance upon him, decided his generous
nature to render them the assistance refused by
everybody else. It was with an astonishment, of
which the tokens were not wholly concealed from
the object of it, that the surrounding circle saw
Claude, who was among the most courted young
men in the society, offer himself as the guide of the
two ladies who were the subjects of such general
derision, and, with an air of kindness and respect,
lead them from the room. The broad stare and significant
smile of Lady Beverly, and a rather loud
remark from Elkington, which produced another
laugh among the persons to whom it was addressed,
neither intimidated nor embarrassed him, though he
felt almost a pang on perceiving, as he left the room,
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that Elkington had discovered the seat by Ida and
taken possession of it. The smile had left her face.
Was it his imagination, or had a sentiment of disappointment,
of sadness, come over her countenance?
As she bent her head to him in adieu, was
there a shade of sorrow, of reproach? While reason
disclaimed, his heart clung with a deep melancholy,
with a yet deeper delight, to the wild and
impossible, but still-recurring and ever-enchanting
thought.
It was with some difficulty, and only on calling
again the aid of a servant, that our party of strangers
found at length vacant seats in one of the rooms
down stairs. The kindness of Claude continued
with the sumptuous dinner, and, aided by the succession
of luxurious dishes and several glasses of
Champagne, partly restored the Digbys to spirits.
Not more than an hour and a half was spent at table,
after which the company returned to the saloons,
the cardrooms, and the ballroom.
In the course of the afternoon, Claude led Ida
through a contre-danse, for which he had already
engaged her. The last look she had exchanged
with him had been one of confidence, of tender reproach,
almost of love. To his astonishment, he
now found her cold and distant. He could not meet
her eye, and there was a striking change in her
whole manner. Nowhere is such a withdrawal of
kindly feelings more easily manifested and more
clearly perceived than in the continual interchange
of attentions during a dance. The lifeless hand,
the fingers given only at the last instant, when the
exigences of the moment demand, and withdrawn
the instant they are over; the eyes, the face turned
away; all this Claude perceived in his companion
with pain and surprise. He was chilled. How
much agony may be suffered in a dance, which
seems the emblem of happy feelings! He was the
more depressed as he felt that his short acquaintance
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with Ida was nearly at an end; that honour as
well as prudence demanded him to fly, and he had
no excuse for asking any explanation before he left
for ever the side of one who was dearer to him than
all things else but duty.
The dance was over. The candles were lighted.
Ida turned away coldly and silently, without even
looking on his face. He stood motionless, and forgot,
and, indeed, had no opportunity to offer, those
little marks of courtesy usual on such an occasion.
The iciness of her manner communicated itself to
his heart. A few moments afterward Elkington
addressed her. Her face lighted up. She smiled
again, gave him her hand kindly, and accompanied
him to a new dance.
During this scene Madame Digby was sitting
alone in one of the entering rooms, tolerably tired
of her ho-tong. Mary danced several times with
the young officers, of whom many spoke English.
Digby had sought shelter at the card-table, where
Claude, as he passed, saw his face redder even than
it had been before, with the troubles of that elegant
game, which, to a bad player, however, presents a
recreation not greatly different from being broken
on the wheel. Claude stopped a moment to observe
the poor fellow. Misery makes us superpathetic,
and he could not help pitying him. He
was playing with Thomson against two Prussian
generals who did not understand English. They
were large men in magnificent uniforms, with
full-sized mustaches, and that stolid expression of
countenance with which your avowed whist-player
follows alike the surprises, disappointments, and
triumphs of the play. A long line of tricks was
quietly gathered under the right elbow of one of
these taciturn gentlemen, which was momentarily
growing longer, while Thomson, whom a desperate
desire for a few rubbers had driven to take Digby
as a partner, was sitting with a dark frown upon his
face, and exclaiming every instant,
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“I don't understand your play at all!—What the
devil did you play that for? and, How—you put
your ace on my king?”
The party presently finished. Digby, of course,
had lost. Their adversaries had made “grand
slam;” and the poor fellow found that, in addition to
having been browbeaten and bullied by Thomson,
and to having sustained several threatening glances
when the rotation of the game made him the partner
of one of the strangers, he had lost fifty Louis.
“Well, thank Heaven! this is over at last,” said
Digby in a whisper to his wife, as he found himself
waiting on the stairs for the carriage, amid about
three hundred people, who had the precedence of
him; and, knocking his hat down emphatically on
his head, “If ever you catch me—a—a—in—”
He was interrupted by a cane with a large gold
head, which obtruded itself unceremoniously under
his arm, and pushed him gently and firmly aside,
with his face against the wall. A stranger very politely
took him by the shoulder, and whispering with
an intense anxiety, “Madame la Princesse B—,”
wheeled him round with his face to the front.
“Monsieur,” cried an officer of the court, addressing
to him a few rapid and angry words, which he
could not understand; but, by the eyes of the speaker
being fixed on the top of his head, he comprehended
at length that he was to take off his hat, which
he did. The princess, with her chambellan and
maids of honour, now advanced, bestowing on all
around the most affable smiles. The company
stood close with their backs against the wall, and
bowed respectfully. A little general, in his profound
reverence and violent salutation, planted a
foot nearly as large as himself upon Digby's instep,
already nearly in a state of mortification from the
effects of standing all day in too tight boots. The
good man's lips were seen to move, and a peculiar
expression passed over his countenance; but his
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voice was not heard, and the precise tenour of the
remark which he made upon the occasion must be
left to the imagination of the reader.
The princess was immediately followed by the
Carolans. Ida bowed politely as she passed, their
servant making way for them to their carriage
through the crowd of company and of footmen who
filled the hall, waiting with their masters' and mistress's
hats and cloaks. As they passed, Mrs. Digby
exclaimed,
“Why, where on airth is Mary?”
It was true. Mary was gone. The moment before
she had been at their side; she could not possibly
have advanced towards the door, and must,
therefore, have retreated. Astonished and vexed,
Digby was just hastening back, when one of the
princes appeared, and a stranger grasping his arm
firmly to prevent his proceeding, he was obliged to
remain standing where he was for about ten minutes,
till his royal highness, having finished a conversation
with an officer, passed out. He had no
sooner done so than Digby forced his way back
through the crowd till he again reached the rooms.
He traversed the now deserted saloons with a hasty
step, and fairly lost himself, so that he was unable
for some time to find the way to go, or the door by
which he had entered. At length, in a large apartment,
he saw a portion of the company waiting
till their carriages should be announced. Passing
through this into an adjoining room, he found himself
in a small but beautiful saloon, crowded with
vases, paintings, statues, tall plants, and flowers.
He saw no one there, and was about leaving it
again, when a low voice caught his ear, and drew
his attention to a deep recess, where, nearly concealed
behind a trellis of thick vines, so arranged as
to form a kind of bower, he caught a glimpse of figures.
Advancing without ado, he came suddenly
upon them. The first object which struck his eye
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was Mary. A gentleman was before her, holding
her hand, which he covered with kisses. At the
exclamation of the astonished father, he turned, and
disclosed the features of Elkington.
Digby knew that Lord Elkington was the affianced
husband of the Countess Ida. He remembered
his mean and rude conduct to himself and family a
few hours before; a thousand circumstances connected
with his visits to his home now rose suddenly
in his mind, and, already goaded to a state of
desperation by the mishaps of the day, he felt that
his last drop of patience was exhausted. Advancing
to him, with rage and vengeance depicted in
his countenance, he said,
“My lord, you will not be surprised if, discovering
you in such a—a—a—position—in—a—a—with
my daughter, I—a—ask—I—request—a—a—I demand
of your lordship what are your—your—your—
intentions respecting—connected with—a—concerning
her.”
Elkington saw in a moment that he was in a dilemma,
which might be injurious to him if it should
meet the ears of the Carolans; but, with the perfect
effrontery of one accustomed to similar contingencies,
and who knows himself possessed of a short
and sure, as well as a safe way out of them, he
said,
“My good fellow—really—I positively don't understand
you. My charming young friend will assure
you that this is a mere jest—a trifle. I should
have conducted her to her carriage in another minute.”
“Sir,” said Digby, “you'll find me—a—a—not a
person to be trifled with.”
“Upon my word, I have no desire to trifle with
you,” replied Elkington, laughing. “Your lovely
daughter is such a very agreeable substitute. I
believe, frankly, you have caught me rather off my
guard; but what can a man do? If you will bring
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such an enchanting creature into society, you must
expect her to turn our heads. Come, it is quite
absurd, I assure you. I will call in the morning,
and explain all; I will, positively!”
“My lord, you are a villain!” said Digby.
“How is that?” said Elkington, coolly, but losing
his affected mirth. “I make some allowance for
your temper and education, sir, but that is a word
which you must unsay.”
“I say you are a villain!” said Digby; “and, if we
were not under a—a—roof—where—a—propriety
restrains me, I would—whip you, sir—for your insolence—
and your dishonourable—a—conduct to my
daughter. I shall, however, write to Count Carolan
a statement of this affair, and warn him that he is
about admitting into his family a scoundrel in great
points, as well as—a—a—puppy—my lord—in small
ones. Then, sir, there is my card; you can send
whenever you please, but I will admit you no more
across—a—a—my threshold. You are a thoroughbred—
a—a—puppy—a—a—a—puppy, my lord.
Come with me, miss.”
Elkington advanced to within a single step of his
enraged adversary. He had very seldom, if ever,
been spoken to so plainly. The only instance—and it was a case similar to the present—when an
indignant father had thus poured out his wrath for
an insult offered to him through his daughter, he
had challenged him, and shot him through the heart
before the expiration of tweleve hours after the offence.
“My good friend,” said he, in a low voice, so that
Mary could not hear, “you are aware that this is
not a place for an affair of this sort. By giving
your card, I presume you mean to say you are
ready to offer me the satisfaction of a gentleman.
If you have any claims to be one, you will speak of
it to no one, and you shall hear from me in the
course of the evening.”
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“Yes, sir—a—a—as soon as you please. Any
satisfaction you desire is—a—a—at your disposal;
and permit me to add, my lord, that the sooner it is—
a—a—a—demanded, the sooner it will be—a—a—given.”
“Well,” said Elkington, “we understand each
other, then. I wish you a good-evening. Good-night,
my love,” and he left the room, twirling his
glove with an indifferent air.
Mary had thrown herself on the sofa, and covered
her face with her handkerchief, so that she did
not fully know what had taken place. Digby drew
her arm in his and hastened to the door, where he
found Mrs. Digby in a fury on account of his long
absence. She was, however, a little gratified to
perceive a large crowd of miscellaneous subjects
collected in the street before the palace, and to become,
for an instant, the object of their fixed gaze
and half-whispered admiration. As she stepped
into her carriage, she felt that they at least took her
for somebody, and that her peculiarly conspicuous
toilet had here all its desired effect.
Claude left these splendid halls with a heart as
heavy as poor Digby's. He felt that, from some
sudden cause, the half-woven tie of sympathy and
love, which had bound him to Ida, was rudely broken.
He was even willing that it should be so for
ever. What was it which had thus changed her?
As he got into his carriage he saw once more the
young man, Mr. Rossi, whom he had seen in the
pit of the opera and at the picture-shop. He was
paler than usual. With his faded clothes and melancholy
air, he looked poverty-stricken and diseased.
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CHAPTER XVI.
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Digby had scarcely got home, exhausted, hot,
nervous, hardly able to breathe in his new clothes,
which were too small for him, and completely mortified
and depressed by the events of the day—his
tight boots, not without difficulty, at length abstracted
from his swollen and inflamed feet, and displaced
by a pair of comfortable slippers, and his court suit
exchanged for a loose robe de chambre—when Peter
announced, with a respectful bow, “My Lord Beaufort.”
“My Lord Beaufort!” said Digby, turning pale.
“Why, what on airth can he want?” said Mrs.
Digby.
“Show him in,” said Digby, his head spinning
round like a top, and not distinctly knowing what
he had to expect.
Lord Beaufort came in. He had changed his
military court uniform for his usual dress, and he
entered with a cool and composed air.
“How are you, ladies? How are you, Mr. Digby?
You've got home, I see.”
“Yes, my lord!” said Mrs. Digby.
“Thank God!” added Digby.
“I hope you have enjoyed yourself, madam?”
“Oh, excessively; it was quite charming, my
lord,” said Mrs. Digby, feeling it as some remuneration
for her sufferings that she was, at least,
fairly in society with kings and princes, and lords
and countesses.
“You have not fatigued yourself dancing, I hope,
Miss Digby?”
“Oh no, sir.”
“You're very fortunate. I think that sort of thing
insufferable myself. They're horrid bores. The
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ladies frightful, with a few exceptions.” He intended
this for a compliment, and marked his meaning
with a smile to his fair companions, who both
bowed, particularly Mrs. Digby.
“Oh, my lord, you're so polite. It's quite charming!”
said Mrs. Digby.
“I positively don't get over one of these nuisances
in a week. I can stand anything but a breakfast.
Dinners, suppers, balls, soireés—we bear
these—they are natural—we are accustomed to
them—but—”
“Your lordship don't like the dejooney-dangsang,
then?” said Mrs. Digby.
“Not at all, I assure you.”
“Well, that's the only sensible thing I've heard
you say yet!” said Digby, bluntly.
“Ha! capital!” said Beaufort. “By-the-way,
Mr. Digby, I have a request to beg of you. May I
speak with you a moment? I will not detain you
long.”
“Is there a fire in the study?” asked Mrs. Digby;
for she dignified a little room, where they kept
the guide-book and the French grammar, with that
name.
“No, mamma,” said Mary.
“Well, then, I'll tell you what—”
“Well, what?” asked Digby, feeling it necessary
to say something.
“Mary and I will retire into our dressing-rooms.
Mary, ring for Peter. Peter, call the maids. Miss
Digby and myself wishes to change our toylettes.
Don't decompose yourself, my lord, on my account.”
“No, I won't!” said Beaufort.
“Mary, my love—good-morning, my lord—by-by,
Digby.” And, with an affected air before the handsome
young lord, who, she presumed, had very likely
called after Mary—perhaps to make a proposal—
and upon whom she wished to leave an impression as
a “personne distinguée,” she sailed out of the room.
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“A little trifle, I believe, has occurred between
you and my friend Elkington, which he has requested
me to arrange.”
“Your friend Elkington is an infamous scoundrel,”
said Digby; “an—a—a contemptible—a—a—
unprincipled—cowardly—a—a—a—puppy—a—
a—a—puppy, my lord.”
Beaufort tapped his foot with his rattan.
“I say, my lord, your friend is a rascal; a—a—
very great scoundrel; and the most infernal puppy
I ever saw.”
“Don't let me interrupt you, I beg,” said Beaufort;
“but, when you have sufficiently amused yourself
calling him names, perhaps you will receive his
message?”
“His message!” said Digby, opening his eyes;
for, so rapid had been the events of the day; so
sudden the discovery of a person at the feet of his
daughter, whom he knew he could not marry; so
great his indignation, and so obtuse his intellect,
that he had not, until this moment, distinctly conceived
what the whole was to lead to. He repeated
again, in a lower tone,
“His message!”
“Yes; allow me to hand it to you.”
Digby took it, and read:
“Sir:
“The circumstances under which we last parted
leave me only the alternative to beg you to name a
friend to arrange the terms of a meeting at your
earliest convenience.
“Your obedient servant,
“Elkington.
“Mr. Digby.”
“Why, this is—a—a—certainly—my lord—a—
are you aware—how this—a—a—of the circumstances
of the—a—a—that is—how this affair—a—a—
sprung up?”
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“Who! I? Certainly not. I only deliver my
friend's message.”
“But do you know, sir,” said Digby, with feeling,
“that I—I—I am a father—a husband—and a father,
my lord?”
“I certainly had not given the subject particular
reflection; but, from the appearance of the lady
called Madam Digby, and also the very pretty
young girl who is inscribed on her card as `sa
fille,' I am induced to think you are.”
“Well, sir—that is, my lord,” said Digby, “I have
only to tell you that I did not call your friend a
rascal till he had proved himself one; not till being,
in fact, all but—a—a—a—married to another lady—
I—found—I perceived—a—a—I detected him—
a—a—my lord, making—a—a—a—love—to my
daughter.”
“You may detect a gentleman in what you
please,” said Beaufort, in a tone of very condescending
explanation; “but you really ought to be aware
that you must not call him a villain. That is a
term to be answered only in one way.”
“One?”
“Unquestionably!” said Beaufort, laughing; “you
seem to be strangely unacquainted with the usages
of good society.”
“But, my lord, I don't wish to give my Lord El
kington the pleasure of that `one way.' Sir, I've
just stepped into a fortune of £100,000 sterling, and
I wish to enjoy myself a little. I am going to travel.
I'm going to educate my daughter—to educate—to
protect her—to settle her in life. What will Mrs.
Digby do without me? Why, d—n it, sir, she'd
make a greater fool of herself than she has done already.
What would Mary do without me? She—
an innocent, perfectly inexperienced girl, whom, even
when I'm alive, I can scarcely take care of; whose
beauty—and simplicity—and—a—a—helplessness
of character, my lord—expose to the duplicity
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of every scoundrel like your friend, my lord—what's
she to do when I'm dead? Her mother—so far from
being a protector, sir—would be the very one to lead
her into danger—into ruin—for, let me tell you, my
lord, that Mrs. Digby is a very weak woman, as, it's
my opinion, all the rest of them are.”
“I have heard you very patiently, I'm sure,” said
Beaufort. “And, for the confidence you have been
so obliging as to repose in me upon the subject of
your family affairs and prospects, and your opinion
of the female sex in general, and of Mrs. Digby in
particular, I must return you my grateful thanks;
but what I am here definitely for is to deliver to
you this note, and to request you to have the affair
over as soon as possible. Couldn't you arrange
matters this evening, and have it settled at day-break?”
“If I'm to be shot,” said Digby, sullenly, “because
I took my own daughter from the hands of a
scoundrel, I perfectly agree that the sooner it's done
the better.”
“Will you name a friend, then?”
“I haven't a friend in this infernal country, except,
indeed, Mr. Wyndham.”
“The very man! send him to me. I shall be at
my rooms for an hour. We shall be ready to-morrow.
Adieu!”
And, humming an air from the last new opera, he
took his leave.
Digby sat a few moments confounded. However
stupid in general matters, he had some feeling,
too, upon things connected with his own affairs, and
his heart swelled with anguish and indignation at
the unprincipled conduct of Elkington to Mary, and
his brutal intentions towards himself. His brain
swam at the idea of being upon the threshold of the
grave. It stunned him, and yet gave to his demeanour
a serious and even dignified air. He was now,
for almost the first time in his life, in danger; and
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he felt within his breast all the affection of a father,
all the indignation of a man trampled on, and all the
weakness of one unprepared to die, either in his
mind or in his temporal affairs. He had never
touched a pistol in his life, and he knew that Elkington
was an avowed duellist and a deadly shot.
Had he not known perfectly that he had no chance,
in case of a meeting, of saving his life, his wrath
was so great at the whole proceeding, that he would
have gone out, even with pleasure, and committed
the result to hazard. He had no moral scruples, no
religious objections. He viewed his situation merely
as it regarded his interest and that of his family;
and he saw that, while to Elkington the transaction
was but one of twenty similar ones, for which he
was, by his principles and practice, always ready,
which brought him comparatively no danger, and
which, even if it should terminate fatally to him,
would leave him in his last moment no regret but
that of a selfish nature—no helpless wife—no daughter
exposed, without defence, to the worst dangers
which can threaten youth and beauty. Not only
was the transaction to him certain death, but it
would bring on a train of consequences, whose dark
nature and vague extent were drawn in terrible perspective
by imagination.
Bitterly deploring his wife's folly in dragging him
into circles of society infested with such vices and
by such customs, with a trembling hand and a sinking
heart he rang for the servant, ordered Mr. Wyndham
to be sent for immediately, and requested his
daughter to be called into “the study” alone. The
poor girl appeared in a few moments. A faint suspicion
of what was going on had entered her mind,
and, at the sight of her father's pale face and gloomy
expression, so different from its usual gayety, she
felt that her fears were just.
“Come here, Mary,” said he. “Come here, my
daughter.”
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He drew her to him, and, passing his arm round
her waist, kissed her twice. It seemed that she
had apprehended a harsher reception; for at these
tokens of kindness the tears rose to her eyes, and,
throwing her arms around his neck, she said,
“My dear, dear father.”
“Have you said anything to your mother—about—
about—”
“Yes, sir; I have told her all. Indeed, she knew
it before.”
“Knew it before! why, what was there before?”
“Lord Elkington's passion for me.”
“Passion? Your mother—knew—”
“All, my dear father.”
“And has Lord Elkington dared—”
“Oh, sir, he is sincere and noble; indeed, indeed,
he is. He is one of the kindest, the best of men.
He is all goodness, all condescension, all purity.”
“And do you know that Lord Elkington is actually
engaged to another lady?”
“A match of interest—made up by his mother—
in which, he has assured me, his heart is not in the
least concerned, and which, since he has seen me,
he is almost determined to break off; mamma says
she's sure he will.”
“And you, Mary,” said Digby, in a lower voice,
trembling with rage, “have you been so—a—a—
so silly—as to believe—as to—allow your—your—
your—a—a—feelings to become interested in this
man?”
“Oh, sir—he—I—that is, mamma—”
She burst into tears, and hid her face in his bosom,
“The villain! The infernal profligate!” muttered
Digby.
“No, no, my father—”
“Yes—I will teach him—I will—”
But, ere he had completed his threat, all the absurdity
of attempting to teach him the desired lesson
by a duel rose to his mind. To-morrow, he
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reflected, at this hour, he might be a bloody corse.
Who then would lead this simple-hearted girl
through the snares laid for her? Here, in a foreign
country, with only her mother, who was less
wise, if possible, than herself. He actually trembled
at the thought, and, for a moment, forgot his own
danger in apprehension concerning his daughter.
“Hear me, Mary—and the time may come when
you will remember my words, and when the only
mark of affection you can show me will be to follow
their counsel—Lord Elkington is an unprincipled
scoundrel. He has no idea of marrying you.”
“He swore to me that he loved me—and only
me,” said Mary, sobbing,
“He is a liar and a scoundrel!” said Digby; “and
I forbid your ever having anything to do with him.
Mark me! I lay my command on you. If ever you
speak to him again when you can possibly avoid it,
I shall consider you as a disobedient and guilty
child; and the curse of your father—whom your imprudence,
perhaps, will consign to the grave—is all I
leave you. I will have no Elkington in my house—
I—I—a—a you—why, what's the matter, Mary?”
The form of the poor girl, which lay on his bosom,
pressed more and more heavily upon him, till he
perceived her slipping to the floor, upon which she
would have fallen had he not suddenly caught her
in his arms. She had fainted. He rang the bell.
Peter came to his call, and announced Mr. Wyndham,
who entered immediately. He started on seeing
the haggard and excited face of Digby, and the
state of insensibility of his daughter.
“What is it? what is the matter?” he exclaimed,
in a tone of true sympathy, which touched the
heart of Digby.
“I am a ruined man!” said Digby; and he laid
down his forehead upon the table, and hid his face
during a moment of uncontrollable agitation. Mrs.
Digby and two maids came running in at the confusion.
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“Take her, madam,” said Digby, “and see the
result of your fine fashionable plans.”
“Good God, John! what is the matter—and what
has the fool been about?”
“Leave the room, madam,” said Digby, with a
real dignity which he had never discovered before,
but which strong emotion sometimes arouses in the
plainest character. “Take your daughter where
you can recover her, and leave me.”
“Why, do you think,” said Mrs. Digby, “that
I'm a going to—”
“Your daughter, madam, is dying perhaps, while
you dispute your husband's orders; go, this instant,
or I will never see you more.”
The good dame, thunderstruck at the tone of authority
in which he spoke, and awed by a something
of determination in his manner which she had never
seen before, turned pale and obeyed. When she
was gone, Digby locked and double locked the door;
returned, fumbled a moment in his pockets, turned
pale as death, and, throwing down Elkington's note
upon the table, said,
“Read that letter, Mr. Wyndham.”
Claude opened and quietly perused it.
Digby then related the circumstances which had
led to it. When he had finished, Claude said,
“Well, and what of it?”
“What of it?” said Digby. “Mr. Wyndham—
sir—do you—a—a—inquire what of it—when I'm
a—a—going to—to—to—be shot, in about twelve
hours' time, through the head—and—a—a—with—
a—a—like a wild duck—do you sit there and ask
what of it? Upon my word—upon my honour—
this is the worst of all.”
“What is worst of all?” said Claude, calmly.
“Why—your unfeeling, singular answer—a—
a—and altogether—a—a—very unaccountable remark.
What of it? What of it, indeed! Why,
to such a friend as you, nothing perhaps; but, if you
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were called out to meet such a—a—a—infamous—
bloodthirsty ruffian and avowed cutthroat as this—
a—fellow—there would be, I presume, sir—a—a—
good deal of it.”
“No there wouldn't,” said Claude, with the utmost
composure, “because I would not meet any man in
a duel. I am not a married man myself, but—”
“For which you ought to thank God!” said Digby.
“Nor have I any one dependant on me for support
and protection; yet even I will never—never
meet a fellow-creature in a duel. It is a folly so
gross, a cruelty to others so unfeeling, a remedy so
inadequate, and a crime against man and God so
obvious and so solemn, that no circumstance, however
tempting, should make me commit it any more
than I would rob a traveller on the highway, or murder
an enemy in his bed.”
You—don't—a—a—advise me—to—a—a—refuse
this challenge!” said Digby.
“I do, most positively.”
“I was going to ask your services as a friend.”
“To decline it, I will render them; to conduct
any such negotiation with the alternative of a meeting
and a death—never!”
“But he will horsewhip me.”
“That would be unpleasant, and, if possible, I
would prevent it.”
“I will carry pistols.”
“No, I would not.”
“What, would you be horsewhipped?”
“Rather than commit a murder, or rather, particularly
in your case, than be killed, and leave my
family in such a defenceless state as yours would
be. Perhaps I could not better choose the moment
to inform you what I heard this morning of Lord
Elkington and your daughter. He boasts openly of
having acquired her confidence among the young
men of the town, and has even so far worked upon
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her inexperience, by his promises and fascinations,
as to persuade her into several walks with him.”
“I will meet him,” said Digby, his face inflamed
with rage. “I know not what may be the result—
I will meet him.”
“But I can tell you the result,” said Claude,
quietly.
“You can?”
“He will kill you, and he will consider your
death as an event of boasting and self-congratulation.
Your daughter would be left then without a
protector. You have—let me speak plainly to you,
my friend—you have left your own circle of society
to come into one where, unfortunately, a father may
behold his daughter torn from him at midday, and
be shot in attempting to defend her, without the
law's taking any real notice of the crime; and you
have brought this beautiful young child among men
who deem it no dishonour to ruin her happiness
and character, so long as they are ready to expose
their lives in defence of their guilt.”
“But if I refuse, what will everybody say? I
will be posted everywhere—I shall—be disgraced
and hissed at—as a—a—a—coward—and, moreover,
if he attacks me in the street—but I will carry
loaded pistols with me—and—”
The perspiration stood in large drops upon his
forehead as these alternatives succeeded each other
in his mind.
“Mr. Digby,” said Claude, “take my advice. I
have thought more upon this subject, I suspect, than
you. Duelling is not right in the eyes of God; it
is against the law, against reason, against the rights
and happiness of women. Your wife—your daughter—
you cannot expose them to such a stroke
without cruelty, selfishness, and real dishonour.
Proceed no farther in this matter. Break it off altogether.
If you are a man of sense as well as a
Christian, you will see that your presence is
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urgently required here to take care of your family. If
you are brave enough to die to save your name
from an unjust and absurd aspersion, you have not
the right to do so.”
“But—I have given him my card—I have told
him I would grant him any satisfaction—after this—
can I retreat? can I withdraw? can I bear the—
the—a—a—eye of the world? Won't the very—a—
boys hoot at me as I pass along?”
“What the boys or the world may do is not your
affair. I will have nothing to do with a duel. You
must seek some other friend!”
“Let me ask you one thing; upon your honour
as a gentleman, would you, in my place, refuse to
fight?”
“Upon my honour, I would.”
“And dare you assure me that you never will either
send or accept a challenge, under no matter
what circumstances?”
“I do, most solemnly.”
“And do you, as a friend, tell me that you suppose
there are other persons—respectable, good
men—who believe as you do upon the subject of
duelling, and who would not call a man a coward
because he refused to fight?”
“I do. I am certain there are many such. All
who are truly Christians on the globe will praise
you for it. All who have correct moral feelings
will support you in it. All women will bless you
for adding your influence to put out of fashion this
bloody, senseless, and terrible custom.”
“Will you carry my refusal to Lord Beaufort?
He is waiting for you at his lodgings.”
“I will. And I shall esteem myself too happy
in being instrumental in preventing such a painful
occurrence. Go, my friend, go back to your family.
Continue their protector, their guide. The
young girl who has unhappily occasioned this disagreement
is, among such men as Elkington,
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surrounded by dangers from which a father's watchfulness
can only preserve her. Let no false sense
of honour cause you to desert the post where Providence
has placed you; and, for the good opinion
of men whom you despise, do not alike violate the
dictates of sense, nature, and religion.”
“I will carry arms, though!” said Digby.
“No. Carry no weapon, not even a cane. Walk
freely abroad, with no other shield than the moral
influence of a good father and an honest man.”
“And if Elkington should strike me?”
“He will commit a crime against the law, for
which I would no more be ashamed to go to the
law for redress, than I would against any other act
of fraud or ruffianism.”
“Write me a reply, then.”
Claude sat down and wrote:
“Sir:
“This afternoon, when I found you soliciting from
my daughter promises of attachment incompatible
with your relations with the Countess Ida Carolan,
I used language which, if you did not deserve, the
provocation must sufficiently excuse, without other
apology from me. If, in anything which I said, you
found an acquiescence in your suggestion as to a
meeting, I must beg you to consider that I spoke
in a state of mind when a just passion predominated
over calm reason. Upon reflection, I find that my
sense of duty to my family and to my Creator will
not permit me to proceed farther in a course, where
I can see no possibility of gaining advantage or
honour, either in this world or in the next. I decline
giving you the meeting you desire, and, at the
same time, I forbid your future visits to my house.
If I have offered you any disrespect, it is more than
counterbalanced by the insult I have suffered at
your hands; and, in permitting the affair to drop
where it is, I do so, my lord, not without sacrificing
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some of the feelings of a man to the duties of a citizen,
a father, a husband, and a Christian.
“I am your obedient servant,
“John Digby.”
CHAPTER XVII.
It is to be hoped that the reader has had few opportunities
to observe the heart of a libertine, when
brought up in an opulence which offers the gratification
of every wish, and without the restraining influence
of principle or religious belief. His life
spent in one unceasing round of vices, following
every pleasure to its end, and with most zeal when
most forbidden; indulging all his passions, never
replenishing his mind with reading or instructive
conversation, or purifying it by calm self-examination
and wholesome reflection, he becomes at last
totally selfish and depraved. Perhaps no characters
could be more strikingly contrasted than those of
the two young men now about to come into contact.
The one was as completely base as the other was
noble and disinterested. The one was destitute of
all moral sense; the other would have died rather
than commit a wrong action.
Elkington was in every way Claude's antithesis,
and, in painting a character so abandoned, we should
fear the charge of exaggeration, did not history and
the less extended annals of private life furnish too
many examples. It is becoming a fashion in modern
novels to mingle the good and bad so ingeniously
in the characters of scoundrels, that one scarcely
knows whether they are objects of censure or admiration;
and Lady Macbeth has become the original
of a race of villains, who commit crimes by
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fortuitous coincidences and with amiable reluctance.
Experience has not led us to think that such examples
in the portraiture of character are to be too implicitly
followed. Unfortunately for human nature,
there are, and always will be, men who, if tried,
will be found utterly wanting; whose profligacy
never stops while it has power to proceed; and
whose very virtues only serve to render them more
inexcusable and disgusting. Elkington was one of
these—a libertine, a gambler, a duellist. He plunged
into every temptation, without a thought of
right or wrong. Ida had fewer attractions for him
than the less intellectual beauty of Mary Digby;
and, as far as such a person could be inspired with
love, he entertained it for that beautiful but simple
girl. The facility with which he impressed her
heart encouraged him to proceed, while the difficulties
in his path gave zest to the game, and furnished
a sort of pleasing excitement.
The answer of Digby to his challenge opened a
new field to his passions. Claude Wyndham was
the bearer of it, and he hated him with all his heart;
and, from some yet unexplained cause, his mother,
since their first meeting, had never ceased to speak
of him with contempt and hatred, and to call her
son's attention to everything which could cause him
to participate in her sentiments; of this the chief
cause was his standing with the Carolans, and his
visible progress in the good opinion of Ida. Several
circumstances, which had made Elkington suspect
Claude had placed Digby on his guard touching
his visits to Mary, would, without other grounds,
have awakened the resentment of a heart familiar
with plans of death. He had also reason to know
that the note from Digby, declining his challenge,
was written by Claude. From that moment he resolved
to fix the quarrel upon Claude, and to pursue
it to an extremity. No principle or religion checked
his bad passions. He wanted a rival out of the
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way. He desired the destruction of a man, whose
unbending rectitude rebuked his profligacy by its
contrast, and whose fearless chivalry of character
did not hesitate to thwart his unholy plans. The
custom of duelling, sanctioned by the opinion of
many, although denounced by the law, literature,
taste, and religion of the age, offered a safe and sure
means of executing his scheme. It is such men as
he alone who are interested in preserving this bloody
custom from the odium it merits. The honest man
requires no such remedy. His life is the witness
of his courage and honour; and the insults of the
rash, or the wrongs and slanders of the wicked, pass
from before his name, like clouds from the ever-unstained
and stainless moon.
Claude knew Elkington was base and malignant.
He saw he hated him, and in his own breast a secret
and strange dislike had risen with a strength
which he could not wholly repress. It had been
his wish to avoid any association with him. He
regarded him as a dark and dangerous man, ready
for any deed of open violence or secret fraud. Several
things of which Lavalle had informed him, added
to his own observations, enabled him to read his
character correctly. It was, therefore, not without
reluctance that he agreed to become the bearer of a
message which might place him in collision with a
person whom, from various considerations, he so
much wished to avoid. But the idea that he might
prevent a bloody catastrophe, that he might save
Digby and Mary from the snares of a murderer and
a libertine, induced him to forego his own desires.
He had, as Elkington suspected, long since put
Digby on his guard concerning his visits to his
house; and it was from a generous impulse to defend
the weak and to take part with the innocent,
that he had given his counsel, written the letter, and
borne it to Beaufort.
Claude saw Digby the next morning. The
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honest fellow had received another visit from Beaufort
of a conciliatory nature. Elkington begged to assure
him that, if his principles did not permit him
to adopt that mode of arranging a dispute, he would
not press it upon him, and that, on condition of a
mutual forgiveness, he would let the affair drop.
But, should he ever relate their disagreement or
the cause of it, he would consider it as a provocation
to resume the correspondence. The delighted
Digby—a mountain off his mind—promised everything,
and secretly resolved to withdraw his family
from Berlin as speedily as possible, and think of the
matter no more. He regarded Claude as his saviour,
and swore that, as long as he lived, he should
command him to any extent, and that his purse and
his life were, and ever should be, at his disposal.
The friend whose good sense had rescued him from
this disagreeable dilemma wanted neither, and took
his leave with the pleasing consciousness of having
prevented bloodshed.
CHAPTER XVIII.
It was a warm spring day. The sun was bright
on the pleasant Linden, and the gay population were
abroad enjoying the fine weather. Nothing is so
delightful as the approach of spring in these cold
climates. Claude was peculiarly alive to such impression;
and, as he passed out of the Brandenburg
gate into the universal and favourite promenade of
the Park, he perceived tokens of the spring visible
everywhere around him. This season had stolen
upon him unawares. He had been so occupied in
the world of fashion with operas, balls, soirées, and
breakfasts; with glittering crowds, the same
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everrecurring faces, and all the pomp, glare, and circumstance
of magnificent entertainments, that the soft
and exquisite forms of half-forgotten nature struck
his eye and touched his soul with a sense of happiness.
As the various incidents of the now vanished
winter rose to his memory—the constant succession
of brilliant fêtes—the numerous nights which
had found him wandering amid the half-fairy splendour
of royal saloons, till the breaking day at length
sent him to his bed—the new acquaintances he had
made—the dark face, full of meaning, of Lady Beverly—
the rudeness of Elkington—the bland courtesy
of Carolan—the dignified friendship of Madame
Wharton—and last, not least, the enchantment which
he had found in the society of Ida, and which had
daily grown more delicious and more dangerous—
all seemed a fantastic dream amid the surrounding
silence and solitude. This beautiful forest was now
deserted; the city population had not yet begun to
appear in its sylvan glades. Only the squirrel
paused and listened in the path; while the birds,
whose clear notes echoed through the wood, scarcely
flew at his approach. The grass had burst out
everywhere, and the buttons of the trees were fully
opened, disclosing the tender leaves and blossoms.
Flowers, some the spontaneous tribute of nature,
and some set by the hand of the gardener, were
peeping from the wayside or bending over the
streams. The earth, long dead, had a warm and
living look. Verdure was upon the ground and
perfume in the air. Two or three swans, stately
as their mistress Juno, came floating down the
stream, beneath the arch of a beautiful bridge which
hung reflected in the flood; and the air, entirely free
from the chill which generally accompanies even
the fairest promises of a spring day, as painful recollections
of the past sometimes disturb the pleasure
of the present, was altogether bland and balmy.
He walked on with a thoughtful pace. The con
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duct of Ida had been a kind of mystery to him.
Since their cold parting at the dejeuner of Prince
R., her manner had been generally so formal as to
relieve him from the necessity of being on his guard;
yet, at times, this reserve gave place to a gayety so
familiar and a kindness so gentle as to startle him
with the idea that, while he fancied himself only
subjecting his own heart to danger, he was, in reality,
also gaining the confidence of this artless and
inexperienced girl. He had parted from her the
day before, after an interview deeply interesting to
him. The passion which had now taken entire
possession of his soul had half betrayed itself in
her presence, and the sweet instincts of a heart
which had lost the power of directing itself, found
in her manner so much tenderness even in its reserve,
that he could not but doubt that his love was
returned. It was at this point that he walked forth
to reflect upon his position, with feelings which,
although filled with happiness, were not of an enviable
kind. What had he done? He had gained
the affections of one affianced to another. He had
weakly lingered by the side of one he could never
marry, till perhaps their separation would be as
much a source of unhappiness to her as to him.
This was little more than the act of a scoundrel;
and, in reflecting upon it, he experienced the humiliating
consciousness of having deviated from the
path of honour. Alas! so invisible are the lines
which separate innocence from guilt, that the most
honest sometimes find themselves over the limit before
they are aware of it. No mortal step can assure
itself against this danger; but, while the weak
and the depraved go on in their career of temptation,
the noble-minded start from the flowery road
the instant they see where it leads.
“Can I doubt it?” thought Claude, as he wandered
into the thickest and most solitary part of the
wood. “She shares my infatuation. Let me, for the
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first time, breathe to the air the secret which as yet
hovers only in our dreams. She loves me. What
power has aided my daring wishes? Some demon,
perhaps, to effect my ruin!”
In the ardour of his reveries, he had so far forgotten
himself as to utter this rhapsody aloud. It
was not without a guilty start that he heard a step
at his side, and, lifting his eyes, beheld Madame
Wharton.
CHAPTER XIX.
The shock which the sudden sight of Madame
Wharton sent through his frame, checked his hopes
and brought him down to earth. He saw from her
face that she had not only overheard his rhapsody,
but that she understood the full extent of its meaning.
Her countenance was grave and severe. Her
air quiet and dignified, but full of thought and melancholy.
There was something affectionate, but,
at the same time, compassionate and even solemn
in her manner. He remembered the playful contract
they had made together, and he felt, in truth,
like Telemachus, when the sober god reproved his
weakness or warned him of his danger. The same
recollection appeared to occur to Madame Wharton,
for she exclaimed,
“Oh youth! confident in times of safety, weak
and worthless in the moment of temptation, how
fortunate it should consider itself when age, which
has passed the allurements of passion, and wisdom,
which has learned to despise them, are near enough
to rescue it from shame. Little did I think, when
in sport I named you Telemachus, that, like the
rash boy in the story, you would so soon and so
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imperatively require the hand of a Mentor to tear you
from folly and sin, and cast you into the sea.”
“Madame,” said Claude, “I scarcely know
whether you are in jest or in earnest.”
“Jest!” said Madame Wharton, almost sternly;
and then, pausing and turning pale, she fixed her
eyes upon his face with a searchingness of gaze
which surprised and embarrassed him.
“How strange! How wonderful!” she continued,
in a tone almost of soliloquy.
“What,” said Claude, “since you have overheard
me, is it so strange that—”
He stopped, for he perceived she was not listening
to him.
“Mr. Wyndham,” resumed she, presently, in a
more familiar tone, “dare I hope I have read your
character aright? Among men I have rarely seen
one who could comprehend or fittingly reply to an
appeal to the morality, the religion of a rational
being, when it was opposed by his own interest or
passion.”
“Your opinion of human nature is a gloomy one,”
said Claude, relieved to find that the companion
who had acquired such influence over him did not
immediately enter upon the subject which most occupied
his mind.
“And yet I fear,” resumed she, “that it is too
just. I have not mingled actively in life, but I have
regarded it constantly as a spectator, and I have seen
much that made me despise, and much that made
me pity it; but I have rarely met a man who was
the being he was intended to be. I almost tremble
to test one for whom I have conceived a strange interest.
I almost shrink from searching into the
heart of Mr. Claude Wyndham, to find whether the
fair promise and the goodly outside are more than
a mask and an illusion.”
“Ah, madame! what would you say?”
“I have long wished an opportunity of speaking
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to you in private. In those gay scenes where alone
we meet, you are too much occupied with other
and more agreeable thoughts to pay much attention
to one of my age and attractions. But here—”
“Say on, madame, though you do me injustice.
There is not any one in Berlin whose acquaintance
I am more delighted to maintain.”
“Yes, one,” said Madame Wharton.
Claude coloured beneath the calm eyes of his almost
austere inquisitor.
“Mr. Wyndham will do me the justice to believe
me above idle curiosity or a vulgar desire to listen;
but, straying through the wood for a walk, I saw
you at a distance, and I have for some time followed
and watched you unobserved.”
“Watched me!”
“Yes; not only to-day, in the ramble which you
supposed a solitary one, but, since I first met you,
I have always watched you. In the scenes amid
which the winter has passed away, my former position
in society has gained me a place, and my present
relation with the family of Count Carolan has
made it necessary for me to go. But age and poverty
are not too openly welcomed in the gay halls
of fashion, and, when admitted, are apt to become
spectators of the pleasures of others rather than
participators in them. From my quiet seat, Mr.
Wyndham, I have followed your footsteps many and
many an hour. I have seen the light of joy chase
the shadow from your brow; I have seen despair
succeed hope, and hope again banish despair.”
“Madame!”
“Did you think that, amid the pressing crowd,
there were no minds but what were engaged in their
own amusements? Alas! in a ballroom there is but
a small part of the throng at ease. The fair scene,
which seems given up to mirth, is watched by eyes
which behold, without sharing, the enjoyment of innocence
and the gayety of youth. Envy, hatred,
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revenge, mingle amid the multitude, glide through
the dance, or sit watching from the walls; and with
them also, sad meditation, memory pale and way-worn,
to whom the giddy forms of pleasure only
recall hours long vanished, and loved ones long in
the world of spirits. Calm wisdom, too, my young
friend, looks coldly on, and detects the serpent coiled
amid the flowers—”
“I hope—I fear—that is, I feel assured, madame—”
“Hear me to the end, Mr. Wyndham. Among
these mute but not idle gazers I have held my place,
and you have been the principal object of my attention.
Will you be offended when I tell you that I
have followed your steps, read your actions, and
traced all your thoughts and feelings? It has been
the occupation of my winter.”
“Madame,” said Claude, “by what right, with
what object?”
“Be assured,” she continued, “that only the truest
friendship could make me think of becoming the
guide or preceptor of any gentleman, however young
or generous.”
“I will interrupt you no more,” said Claude, astonished
to find the reverence with which he listened
to such curious avowals from one almost a stranger
to him.
“The words in which your revery found vent
just now,” continued Madame Wharton, after a short
pause, “while they furnish me an opportunity of
addressing you, have betrayed to me nothing which
I had not discovered before. You love the young
Countess Ida. You will reveal to me the truth. I
shall take the liberty to bestow upon you my advice,
and I hope you will follow it.”
“I will,” said Claude, yielding to this extraordinary
proposal, and even with that feeling of relief
with which a fainting traveller leans on the first
passing stranger who offers to assist him.
“You love the young Countess Ida,” repeated
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Madame Wharton; “speak to me as to your own
heart.”
There was a short pause.
“I—I do,” said Claude, at length.
“Notwithstanding your resolutions to the contrary—
notwithstanding my warnings—notwithstanding
that you knew her to be the affianced bride of another—
notwithstanding the difference of rank between
yourself and her—notwithstanding—”
“Notwithstanding all,” said Claude; “since you
seek my confidence—since I feel assured you are
incapable of abusing it, I repeat, then, notwithstanding
all, I love her. We are not the masters
of our destiny—of our feelings. I cannot keep the
sun from warming me, the winter from chilling
me, nor such a mind and beauty as that of the
Countess Ida from filling and mastering my heart.”
“You have also,” resumed Madame Wharton,
coldly, “in various ways, if not actually declared,
at least betrayed, the passion you acknowledge.”
“I think—I fear—I do not suppose—I never intended—”
“Speak frankly and explicitly. I have ventured
upon this interview from the consideration that your
heart, if it is weak and wavering, is also noble; that
the same capacity which gives it the force to love,
tenderly bestows the yet higher power of acting heroically
when duty requires.”
Claude fixed his eyes on his inquisitor, as if he
feared some demand which would try his resolution
severely.
“Madame,” he answered, “I cannot doubt that
my admiration has been revealed in the long intercourse
which I have had with this young girl. It
has not been the result to intention, but my inability
to prevent it.”
“And you presume she has seen this?”
“What can I think—what dare I conjecture?”
“Let me put an end to your modest perplexity,”
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said Madame Wharton. “Ida does not know, does
not dream you love her.”
“How, madame!” said Claude, on whom this abrupt
assertion inflicted a pang as painful as it was
unexpected. “How can that be asserted? How
can it be known? Who can penetrate into the recesses
of a young girl's heart?”
“I can,” replied she, coldly. “I know her every
thought and wish.”
“But—it—is possible,” said Claude, “that she
may have never revealed—never confided even to
you—even to herself—”
“Secrets neither revealed to me nor confided to
herself,” said Madame Wharton, “can scarcely deserve
to become the foundation for such a fabric of
hope and bliss as, I fear, you have reared upon them.
But, to reply more definitely to your doubt; although
some young ladies may have such ethereal secrets,
Ida is not one who, even were she too timid to reveal
them, could be artful enough to conceal them
by any false statement; and she this day assured
me that you are the affianced husband of Miss Mary
Digby.”
Claude coloured to the temples.
“Madame,” he said, “I solemnly assure you there
is not the shadow of truth in this, and you will eternally
oblige me by—”
“Undeceiving her—”
“Instantly.”
“For what end?”
“For—for—in order that—” he stopped.
“Is it your intention to offer yourself to Count
Carolan as the candidate for the hand of his daughter?”
“No, certainly—no, madame.”
“Mr. Wyndham,” said Madame Wharton, “I
take you to be one of the few who will never, from
selfish considerations, deviate from the path of right.
Intervals of weakness—periods when the mists and
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fumes of error blind the eyes and mislead the steps—
I can grant you these. They are but tokens of
that mortality, which God, for his own purposes, has
made frail and feeble, and has sent adrift like a ship
at sea, to meet the wild tempest and the hidden
rock. I forgive you all the folly you have committed
up to this moment in loving my young charge.”
“Oh, madame, a thousand, thousand thanks,” said
Claude. “We are, indeed, weak and frail—cursed
with passions which we cannot command—placed
amid temptations which we cannot resist—we are
in the hands of fate—we are straws on the stream—
we go down unresistingly into the whirlpool.”
“You have pronounced here the silliest words
that ever fell from the lips of an honest man,” said
Madame Wharton. “You forget the character
which alone distinguishes man from the beast, when
you make him such a contemptible machine. No,
sir, we are gifted with passions for the purpose of
commanding them; we are placed amid temptations
in order that we may resist them. It is the narrow
mind and the vulgar heart alone which permit
themselves to become straws on the tide. The lofty
soul directs its course against the stream. It beholds
from afar the whirlpool, and avoids it by the
independent force lent by Heaven. The most sublime
sight in the universe is a man tempted by the
allurement of earth—the mental part within him urging
him to yield—and, with opportunity to grasp
that which he desires, yet, by the exercise of a self-controlling
sense of right, passing by the thing he
yearns for—living without it, and turning his back
upon it for ever.”
“I implore you, madame,” said Claude, “to speak
to me freely.”
“Then hear me! You cannot cherish an affection
for Ida without a selfish criminality incompatible
with the character of an honourable man.”
The heart of Madame Wharton almost failed as
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she felt herself inflicting the greatest pang of which
his nature was susceptible; but, like a skilful surgeon,
who knows that firmness is the truest kindness,
she went on.
“The idea that you are a warm and accepted
lover of Miss Digby, is generally received in Berlin.
It was formally communicated to Ida by one
who professed to have received the fact from your
own lips.”
“And that person was—”
“Lord Elkington.”
“I thought so,” said Claude. “It only confirms
my opinion of him as a perfidious scoundrel!”
“I did not myself believe it, and I give up the
last feeling of esteem for Lord Elkington, as for any
man capable of uttering a falsehood. But I must
tell you that the belief of this report has been Ida's
protection.”
“Ah, madame—”
“She does not love you—she does not think you
love her. Your conclusions have been rash and
impetuous; but, as yet, your actions have been
more guarded.”
“Oh, madame,” said Claude, “if I may—if I
dare
draw from your words the inference which they
seem to admit, I should be the happiest of men. If
I understand you correctly, she of whom you speak—
but for an error which any moment may rectify,
which cannot be long without exposure—would have
learned the interest I have conceived for her, and
that without displeasure.”
“I am not prepared to make such an ample admission;
but suppose it were true, what would be
your course?”
“I would throw myself at her feet—appeal frankly
to her father and mother.”
Madame Wharton smiled.
“Ah, sir, you little know Count Carolan.”
“Yes, madame; he is all bounty, all benevolence.
Already he is my friend.”
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“Alas!” said Madame Wharton, “how much you
require a guide! There is not in all Germany a
man more imperative, more sternly despotic in his
own family, more fixed and immutable in his prejudices,
passions, and plans. His determinations
once formed, all earth, all heaven cannot change
them. No one is more haughty, more unrelenting,
more aspiring, more devoted to rank than he. I
assure you—for we are speaking in confidence—he
would not only let you perish before he would hear
of such a thing, but he would see Ida perish also;
he would become himself her executioner, rather
than see her married out of her sphere in life.”
“What do you tell me?” cried Claude.
“What I have told you long before—what every
one would have told you, had you examined the subject
before you staked so much peace of mind upon
it; and as for his friendship for you, it is made up
partly of the love of patronising, partly of the pomp
of display. He is bland and familiar, because he
thinks the distance between you so immeasurable
that there can be no danger of your being confounded
as his equal. Were you a higher personage, you
would have found him more difficult and disagreeable.
Long prosperity, immense wealth, have inflated
his heart, and true sensibility is long ago extinguished
in his bosom. The moment you wound
the feelings, or especially the vanity of Count Carolan,
you will find him an enemy as implacable as
if you had committed against him the most flagrant
outrage.”
“Can it be possible? And where have been my
eyes? What has made me so blind?”
“You have not been blind, but only premature in
forming your opinions. Men must not be judged in
the drawing-room. They who are polite to you are
not consequently good men, and Count Carolan, unfortunately,
is a man of a conceited and cold heart,
and a very feeble understanding. His god is
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himself. He thinks of nothing else; and there is no
enemy so merciless as a fool. I give you these
hints frankly, that you may know your ground, and
not precipitate yourself publicly into any awkward
position.”
“And the Countess Carolan—?”
“Like her husband, she is the worshipper of rank.
It has become nature to them. Their tastes, or prejudices,
perhaps, you will be pleased to call them,
they have inherited, you must remember, from generations
of haughty ancestors; and the tendency of
their nature has been confirmed—if, indeed, it required
confirmation—by education and example.
You smile.”
“I cannot but wonder that people should disregard
the substance and realities of life, and sacrifice
hope, charity, and happiness for empty names and
glittering shadows.”
“Continue, if you please,” said Madame Wharton,
gravely, “to wonder and despise; but, till you
are beyond the danger of error yourself, you must
not be too severe upon those of others.”
“May I ask if Ida—if the Countess Ida shares
their opinions?”
“Frankly, no. She has pride as high as theirs,
but of a different kind, and she is perfectly safe
from more than a momentary pang while she supposes
herself less than the sole object.”
“I understand you,” said Claude.
“And now let me put this case to you,” said Madame
Wharton, “as the Carolans—as the world will
put it. You are a guest at Count Carolan's, recommended
by an intimate friend. It is generally
believed that you are all but the husband of another.
This report, so universal that it appears impossible
you could have overlooked it, is confirmed beyond
a doubt by your conduct—I believe accidental, but
others will not think so—towards the lady and her
eccentric family.”
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“You amaze me. Pray explain.”
“Your frequent visits to their house—your accompanying
them to the opera—your openly expressed
interest in the parents, which appeared possible
to originate only in attachment to the daughter—
their immense wealth—the girl's beauty, modesty,
and grace—and your obvious devotion to them,
and anxiety to be in their company at the déjeuner
of Prince R—”
“Gracious Heaven, madame—I assure you—”
“Pray do not interrupt me. Whether true or
false, this opinion prevailed; whether accidentally
or intentionally, your own actions sanctioned it.
Under these circumstances—thus the world will say—
you stole into a noble and wealthy family, where
your plausible demeanour gained you confidence, and
your very want of rank placed in your way facilities
which would have been cautiously withheld
from a person less insignificant.”
“Madame—”
“Here, sir, you stole—for every member of the
family believed you to be in a position in which, it
appears, you were not; trusted by the father, who
thought you above meanness—”
“Madame—”
“I am speaking not my own sentiments, and I
am risking your esteem, which I greatly value, in
order to let you learn, without delay or disgrace,
what the world will say.”
“Perhaps, madame, your imagination is too lively
in drawing sketches of the future,” said Claude,
haughtily.
Madame Wharton regarded him as he lifted his
tall form with an air of cold anger, and she grew
as pale as he. Several times, indeed, in the course
of this conversation, she interrupted herself to fix her
eyes upon his face, with an interest which seemed
independent of the subject on which she spoke.
“Well, then, what the world has said,” resumed
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she. “It is the talk of the town. Your attentions
to Ida have not been unobserved; and it is openly
asserted that, under a false character—that of the affianced
husband of another—which character you
have assumed deliberately and supported with skill—
nay, even under a false name—”
“Madame—”
“You have employed your winter in endeavouring
to win the affections of an inexperienced girl—
to raise yourself to a rank of life above your own—
to relieve your poverty with her princely fortune.”
Claude stood silent and haughty, scarcely knowing
whether to conceive his companion an enemy
or a friend.
“I need not add, that, for myself,” said Madame
Wharton, “I repose implicit confidence in the purity
of your intentions and the nobleness of your
character. You have unwarily allowed yourself to
be surrounded by the illusions of a passion, as far
removed from the possibilities of real life as perhaps
it is superior in enchantment. As to my confidence
in you, I have already given you tokens by
addressing you at all on the subject, by speaking to
you the language of moral right, by which a noble
mind alone could be governed. I shall presently
give you another, by preferring a second request.
In the mean time, I thought it my duty, as your sincere
friend, to make you acquainted (for there are
others besides these of a very serious kind) with
the calumnies going about respecting you; calumnies
so painfully mixed up with truth as to require
all your attention.”
“Ah, madame,” said Claude, “do you advise that
I refer them to the ordinary remedy in use among
gentlemen, and which would procure me a vengeance
which I do not desire, or render me a victim
without clearing my name?”
“No, sir. I have learned that you are from principle
placed beyond the possibility of ever fighting
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a duel. It is that which confirms my respect for
your character. It is that which makes you in my
eyes superior to the common class of men, who are
destitute of lofty and enlarged principles of action.
I am above the weakness of suspecting your courage;
but I rather admire it, because you have the
dignity and the humanity to decline a duel.”
“Tell me,” said Claude, after a pause, “what reports?
The character which is not above calumny
deserves it. An honest life is the only reply to a
slander. What reports?”
Yet, notwithstanding his efforts to remain composed,
he felt the blood flowing more impetuously
through his veins, and his cheek burn with shame
and indignation.
“It is asserted that you are not what you profess
to be!”
“Not?”
“That you are a wanderer—an adventurer—in
short, a chevalier d'industrie!”
“Ah, madame,” said Claude, “you have done me,
indeed, injustice if you supposed me likely to be
moved by a piece of scandal so idle and so easily
exposed.”
“But how is it to be exposed?”
“I should think Lord Perceval's letter—”
“It is asserted that Lord Perceval never wrote
that letter.”
“A reference to him will at once—”
“How—do you not know—you have not then
heard—”
“Heard what?”
“That Lord Perceval is dead?”
“Gracious Heaven!”
“He is dead, sir. The news came by yesterday's
mail.”
“He was almost my only friend,” said Claude,
his eyes filling with tears.
The obvious sincerity of his astonishment and
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anguish touched and convinced Madame Wharton.
Her own eyes also glittered through a hidden moisture
as she said,
“No, Mr. Wyndham; if you wish, if you will accept
it, you may depend upon the friendship of
another. I am in a position of life to do you little
service, but my friendship may not be worthless.
You are in a dangerous crisis. If I read you aright,
you are capable of any self-sacrifice, and you will
never shrink from duty unless the mists of passion
hide it from your view. Let it be my task to waft
these mists from before your eyes—to restore you to
the coolness and dignity of a moral being—to lead
you from hopes that destroy, and temptations that
degrade you. You are on the brink of a precipice;
one step, and you not only fall yourself, but—”
“Madame, go on.”
“She will perish with you!”
“I tremble at your words,” said Claude, greatly
moved; “a tumult of joy—hope—fear—despair—
takes from me the power to think of anything but
the half confession which you have twice made this
morning. What is your meaning? What is your
object? Have you come like my better angel, to
bestow upon me, after all, the prize which would
make me too happy for a mortal, or have you—”
“I have thought you a person who could be better
governed by honour than by other means. I have
determined to trust to that character, which I think
I perceive in you, to make no concealment; to lead
you by none of the intrigues and duplicity which
may be necessary in dealing with inferior minds.
I resolved to show you the whole ground as it lies
at your feet; to point to the path of passion, because
your comprehension is enlarged enough to see where
it leads; and to show you, on the other hand, that of
duty, which I believe you will choose the moment
you yield yourself to your habitual contemplations.”
“I will do anything—I will follow any path—
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make any sacrifice,” said Claude, “which may be
necessary for the happiness of Ida; but if she
loves me—”
“She does not love you,” said Madame Wharton,
coldly, “but she thinks of you too much. She
thinks you superior to other men. She has a mind
to comprehend the difference between yourself and
the gentleman to whom she is about to be united.
She—”
“Oh, go on.”
“Had Heaven not thrown between you a chasm
impassable—had no previous engagement existed
between Elkington and herself—had she not supposed
your affections devoted, your hand pledged
to another—had she not beheld that other pre-eminently
lovely, and beheld also, with all the world,
your attentions to her, Ida might—”
“Go on, madame, and I am your slave for ever.”
“Might have loved you; nay, more, I will speak
to you frankly, she would have known with you a
happiness she can never know with Elkington, for
I think you in character and disposition fitted for
each other.”
“It is the wildest vision of joy,” said Claude, “that
ever blessed the eyes of a mortal.”
“Relying on your honour as a gentleman,” continued
Madame Wharton, “I have made you, in confidence,
this confession, on two conditions. You
said you would obey me if I would go so far, and I
trust entirely to your honour.”
“I repeat it,” said Claude.
“Prepare to be put, then, to a severe test.”
Claude's colour left his cheek. His ardent triumph
had already subsided, and he almost held his
breath as she continued,
“In the first place, you will never act on the
strength of the confession I have made you?”
“I never will, madame.”
“In the next—and I would never have revealed to
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you what has fallen this minute from my lips, but
as an equivalent for the sacrifice I am about to ask
of you, and, if you please, as a reward—”
“Speak on; I know what you will demand. Banish
me, if you will, to the farthermost corner of the
globe. Indeed, I should have thus exiled myself of
my own accord. I will leave her. I will never see
her more. I will not even bid her one last adieu.
I will fly this instant.”
“I do not wish you to fly,” said Madame Wharton.
“Not fly?”
“I do not object to your seeing Ida again, as
usual, on your pledge as a gentleman to bear yourself
so towards her as if no such feelings had ever
been between you. On the contrary, I should oppose
any abrupt disappearance, which would only
excite suspicion, awaken curiosity, and produce,
perhaps, in her bosom an idea which I wish to
avoid. Flight, perhaps, would be the easiest course
for you—your mind once made up to suffer the interest
which Ida has felt for you to be extinguished,
without making an effort, even by a look, to rekindle
it. Flight would be easier, I know, than this
task; but it might leave in the heart of my young
friend feelings which must not exist there; an image
which must be entirely effaced. Her future
happiness, her future duties require it. Fly you
may, certainly, at the proper moment; but, before
you fly—”
She hesitated, and Claude also awaited, with a
feeling of dread, the conclusion of her harangue.
“Before you fly, you must assist in repairing the
evil your imprudence and weakness, if not your
guilt, have occasioned. You must aid me in extinguishing
utterly the first spark which may have
found its way into her bosom.”
“And how am I to assist in this self-sacrifice?”
said Claude. “How am I to immolate my reputation,
my honour?”
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“If your object be her happiness, whenever you
see the impossibility of her union with you, you
will, for her sake, wish her to forget you. The expression
of this wish in words is easy and unmeaning.
Contribute towards it, sir, by your actions.
Before you quit Berlin, she must believe you attached
to another.”
“That, you say, is already her opinion.”
“So it is; but your manner to her has sometimes
made it waver. Let it be so no more. Neither
seek nor avoid her society; make no attempt to inspire
her with a different opinion, but—”
“What will she think of me?—that I have trifled
with her peace in mere sport.”
“Never be dissuaded,” said Madame Wharton,
“from a course you know to be the right one by
an idea of consequences. Perhaps, if her esteem,
her respect for you were diminished—perhaps, if—
if—”
“She thought me a scoundrel,” said Claude, bitterly.
“You would save her from the pangs which now
tear your own heart, and may, perhaps, shade your
future life with sorrow. If your position is awkward,
you must remember your own rashness has
placed you in it. Are you capable of this sacrifice?
Have you the real love for her to sacrifice yourself—
your nicest feelings—for her happiness, even when
that happiness can never be shared by you; even
when it will lighten the path and cheer the heart
of your foe? Are you capable of acting from a
high moral sentiment, unrewarded but by the approbation
of your own heart and of Heaven?”
“May I ask if you are authorized by the Count
and Countess Carolan to procure from me these
concessions?” demanded Claude.
“Frankly, I am; and, more frankly, could you
but have heard the terms of astonishment and indignation
in which the count expressed himself
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respecting the affair, when at length informed of it by
Lady Beverly, you would thank me for having interfered
to spare you a collision with one who—
who—once offended, knows no bounds to his resentment.”
“And where originate the aspersions against my
character?”
“Have you no suspicion?”
“Lord Elkington?”
“Certainly. He and his mother have both perceived
the growing interest you have excited, and
are, I think, naturally enough, indignant at an interference
so unauthorized, and so fatal to their happiness.
Lord Elkington is, has been, and, though I
know not why, probably always will be, your enemy.
He is busy everywhere in blackening your
name.”
“I believe I know him!” said Claude.
“Will you then consent, for the happiness of
Ida, to the course I mark out for you? I speak,
Mr. Wyndham, as a mother to her son. I am
deeply interested in the happiness of this tender
girl, and she thinks too much of you. Whether
the feelings with which she now regards you deepen
into love or subside back to pique—to indifference—
to dislike, perhaps—depends upon yourself.
Marry her you never can, under any circumstances.
She is, moreover, affianced to Elkington, who is
chosen by her father; and Count Carolan cannot
be moved when he has made up his determination.
He is one of those men who are firm because they
are feeble-minded and cold-hearted. His vanity
points ever one way, and reason and feeling have
no influence over him. I should long since have
implored mercy for Ida on this subject, had I not
known that it would be useless. Besides, Lord Elkington's
wealth, his rank, his great expectations,
partly supply his deficiencies.”
“They are poor substitutes,” said Claude, bitterly.
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“If, then, by word or action—if, even by a look,
you exercise the power which you begin to possess
over this innocent and yet happy girl—if you light
the fire of hopeless passion in her now calm and
peaceful heart—if, for a selfish intoxication of your
own, you put that poison into her cool and healthy
veins which now flows burningly through yours—
if, without a higher or wiser object than the momentary
gratification of your weakness, you thus
darken and shipwreck her future life, young man,
you are a villain, or a creature so weak and unworthy,
that, to make her despise you, it will only be
sufficient to paint you as you are.”
“Spare me, madame,” said Claude, covering his
eyes with his hand.
“Give me your promise never to undeceive her
in the belief that you love another—however humiliating
to your pride, however harrowing to your
passion—or fly and see her no more. Your flight
will reveal to her the truth, rash and selfish boy;
and you may solace your own misery by the consciousness
that you have been the cause of hers.
Yes, she will love you; she will see, then, that you
love her. She is but too much inclined already.”
“Ah! why may she not requite the sincerest, the
holiest love that—”
“Do not mock truth with words so false,” said
Madame Wharton. “She will requite your love,
but how? From that moment she will be for ever
wretched. She will be given up to the tortures of
disappointed love. Too well I know her nature.
She might fly with you, perhaps, but she would
carry ruin with her, and leave misery behind. You
will be the means of introducing discord into the
family that welcomed you with open hospitality, and
of wilfully destroying the happiness of an inexperienced
girl, rash enough to love, weak enough to
trust you.”
“If I throw myself at Carolan's feet—” said
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Claude, agitated; for these half admissions of Madame
Wharton deprived him, in some degree, of his
usual self-possession and good sense.
“He will insult and spurn you. I have not
thought it necessary to repeat the expressions he
made use of when he learned the danger that
threatened his daughter. If her life depended on
her union with you, both her parents would rather
see her in her grave. No one not nobly born, not
able to support her in the sphere to which she has
been accustomed, and to perpetuate the family honours,
will ever receive the hand of Ida Carolan.
She is the last of her race. Upon that child depends
the continuation of one of the noblest families
of Europe; and you, Mr. Wyndham—I ask it not
in a spirit of unkindness—what have you to offer?”
“I oppose no more,” said Claude. “I yield.
From this time, neither by word nor look, will I
prevent the state of mind you wish to produce in
her. Ida is another's. Tell her of me what you
please; I will never contradict or explain. I have
been weak. I will be so no more.”
“I trust you implicitly,” said Madame Wharton.
“I hope you may do so, madame.”
“And you will not leave Berlin immediately?”
“I will remain till you yourself bid me go.”
“It is a perilous task, young man.”
“I will perform it!” said Claude.
“She will never know,” said Madame Wharton,
“how ready you have been to sacrifice your happiness
to hers; but I shall not forget; you have done
your duty. Not love itself, with all its charms,
would ever make you so truly happy. Adieu.”
She extended her hand. He raised it with reverence
to his lips, and they parted.
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CHAPTER XX.
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Claude stood a moment motionless, in the attitude
in which Madame Wharton had left him. He
was stunned with the unexpected turn his affairs
had taken, and the long and exciting interview he
had had with this singular person upon the most interesting
theme which could occupy his thoughts.
He could not account for the influence she exercised
over him. He sunk beneath her frown, and rejoiced
in her smile, as if she had, indeed, been the
Goddess of Wisdom in mortal form, descended from
heaven to point out to his eyes, blinded with passion,
the path of duty. Her tones swayed his mind
and touched his heart with a persuasive power; and
in her majestic countenance he traced lineaments
which, in a singular degree, riveted his attention,
and awakened his reverence and love. There are
people who strike the eye at the first glance; produce
an impression of beauty or dignity, which
grows weaker the more they are seen and known.
There are others who, without discovering themselves
at first, disclose in each subsequent interview
most interesting peculiarities of expression
and manner. The form, before unobserved, moves
with an increasing grace and charm, and the countenance
discloses hidden powers. Madame Wharton
was one of this kind. Claude could scarcely
recognise in her the unobtrusive lady whom he first
met in the diligence. The more he saw her, the
more he admired and wondered, the nobler became
her gait, the more impressive and intellectual
her countenance. Her smile discovered a sweetness,
and her eyes a light, which shed, even yet,
around her features a kind of mellow beauty more
imposing than the charms of youth. It was her
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character and mind which shone through her face
and actions. When she quitted him—her eyes, lately
so severe, bathed in tears—he could scarcely refrain
from throwing himself at her feet. Indeed,
he had done more. He had sworn to be her slave.
The playful compact, originally commenced in jest,
had suddenly turned to very serious earnest; and,
at the command of this poor and neglected stranger—
as if she had been an angry angel—he had pledged
himself to abandon for ever the prize which
seemed nearly within his reach, and upon which the
whole happiness of his life depended. As he reflected
upon the extent of this pledge, his feelings
rose against it, and already he began to regret it.
Under the fascination of this woman he had signed
his ruin.
“Yes,” he thought, “I have sworn an eternal
adieu to Ida. Had it been but separation, I could
have borne it with patience. The consciousness
that we understood and loved each other, would
have been, at least, one gleam of sunshine on my
path; but this is a tearing asunder of heart and
soul. And, if I feel pain, I know I shall inflict it.
I shall meet her coldly. Her gaze will once more
seek mine in vain. Her smile will be unreturned.
She will wonder. She will tremble. She will
think me capricious and treacherous. Horror at
such baseness will be succeeded by shame, and
shame by resentment. What will become of me?
and what will become of her, if she throw herself
away upon this profligate? Perhaps she will degenerate
into a mere woman of the world. With
him she cannot be happy, unless she ceases to be
what a woman should be. With me, even in poverty—
ah! dangerous and useless thoughts! some demon
breathes them into my mind. I must indulge in
them no more. Whatever pangs it may cost me,
the path I have chosen is right. I knew it even
before this strange being arose, as if out of the
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earth, to shame me from my weakness. Yes, I renew
the oath. Ida—sweet angel—for ever adieu!
Only image of earthly happiness, I waft thee to
the winds!”
As he walked on, the afternoon sunshine fell
bright and yellow upon the forest floor. The birds
warbled in the branches—all nature seemed full of
joy. His way led through devious paths and over
fairy-looking bridges; and, penetrating yet farther
into its hitherto unexplored recesses, the wood appeared
to grow deeper and lovelier every moment.
After a winter devoted merely to scenes of fashion,
the peaceful and familiar forms of nature struck his
long unaccustomed eye with a beauty which he had
never before so keenly perceived, and to which the
tender anguish of his soul only rendered him more
susceptible. Everything seemed bathed in enchanting
hues and disposed in graceful outlines. He
was gifted with a lively feeling of that exquisite
perfection which lies even in the rudest and commonest
forms of nature, and his eye did not fall
upon a spot of the earth or heaven without receiving
a sensation of wonder and delight. Sometimes,
through the long avenues, he caught a vista of the
meadows softened in the distance—the windmill
casting its broken shadow upon the ground—or the
sail gliding peacefully along the narrow Spree. The
leaning trees, with their rough-barked trunks immediately
around him, tinged with silver or clothed
with hoary moss; the brown earth, with its glittering
pebbles—the tender lawns—the soft clouds sailing
in the blue air, like swans on a transparent flood—
the whole scene, and the reflections of it, hanging
inverted in the water—all touched his soul with
pensive delight, and made him sigh to gaze on a
world so lovely, and to feel that, amid the thousands
who enjoyed it, he was an outcast and a wretch, to
whom its very charms only brought an augmenta
tion of sorrow.
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He stopped and looked around him. A piece of
rude timber, the half-hewn trunk of a tree lately
felled, and not yet removed by the workmen, lay
rough and silent beneath an old oak; but the light
fell upon it in such a way, that, had it been formed
of ivory or gold, it could not have been more beautiful.
A little farther on lay a plough, partly over-turned
in a track of black earth—its print left in an
unfinished furrow—its bright steel edges glittering
in the yellow light through the heavy pieces of
mould which adhered to it. In the mellow sunshine
its worn handle looked like amber. There was
something in the sight of it which aroused a new
train of reflection. He gazed on this rude utensil.
It seemed to reproach the idle and careless life
which he had led in the pursuit of fashionable
pleasures; of a luxurious and vain mode of life, as
little suited to his means and condition as to the
true dignity of human nature. What had he to do
with fashion—with costly pleasure—with weak love?
This simple image rose in his path like a rebuke—
a type of that toil to which the guilt of the first
criminals consigned the human race, and which he
had never known. For how many ages had it been
consecrated by the sweat of honest and humble
hands, of which some, perhaps, with equal firmness,
might have held the helm of state or the truncheon
of war—the monarch's sceptre—the poet's pen?
“Sturdy emblem,” he thought, as he continued
to muse, for it was in musing, instead of action, that
his life had passed away—“simple type of manly
labour and independence—ancient instrument which
a benevolent Creator has given to a race he wishes
to save—at whose touch the brown earth opens and
gives the golden harvest, that sheds joy and splendour
over the fields and valleys, and sends peace,
and sleep, and plenty into the cottage of the poor.
Ah! why did not fate make me but the contented
master of one of these!”
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And he went on, dreaming as youth dreams, till
aroused by the cold touch of reality to less pleasing
occupations.
CHAPTER XXI.
He was interrupted in his reveries by a sudden
burst of military music, and he presently found
himself arrived safe at a road which was thronged
by the beau monde who drive from the town, and,
leaving their carriages, here walk to enjoy the fresh
air and sunshine. At the present moment it was
occupied by a body of troops stationed on one side.
A crowd of spectators were ranged in a large square.
Among them he saw Digby with a party. They
were on the opposite side; and the honest fellow,
discovering Claude, immediately started to join him.
He took the shortest way, which was through the
hollow square. He had not advanced many steps
when two or three sub-officers shouted to him; then
two or three more. Not understanding the language,
and not supposing their shouts directed to
him, the honest fellow walked on, leisurely twirling
his glove, and his face lighted with pleasure at the
sight of his friend. His pertinacity, however, in
continuing to advance, after the sentinels had ordered
him to come back, awakened strong symptoms
of wrath in those arbitrary personages. Seven at a
time started off after the rebel who so coolly put
them and their commands at defiance. Digby had
got about two thirds of the way, when he was surprised
by a heavy blow across the shoulder, and, on
turning round, the self-satisfied smile at once vanished
from his countenance, as he beheld seven soldiers,
each nearly as many feet in height, the lower
part of their faces half hidden beneath mustaches,
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and their countenances red and their eyes flashing
with rage, and making violent gesticulations at him,
in the course of which their drawn swords sometimes
flourished so near to his ears as to put him
in considerable trepidation. One took him by the
shoulder and twirled him round with little ceremony,
while he asked him a vociferous question totally
unintelligible, which he had scarcely heard, before
he was spun round by another, and then by a third,
to his infinite indignation and dismay. At length—
upon shouting out, at the top of his voice, in horrible
German, that he did not speak that language, and
making his persecutors comprehend that the reason
why he had not turned back when they called him,
was, that he did not understand what they said, or
knew that they were speaking to him—one gave him
a shove, and another honoured him with what was
very nearly a kick, and he was hauled and thrust
back into the nearest point of the crowd before
Claude could get to his aid.
“Did you ever—a—a—Mr.—a—a—Wyndham—
see anything—so—so—a—a—infamous as the
proceedings of those gentlemen? If I don't—a—a—
understand their—a—a—cursed, stupid language—
is that—a—a—reason—I appeal to you—for them
to—offer—a—a—a—to kick me in that style? If
there's justice in Europe, I'll—a—a—have it.”
It was with difficulty that Claude could refrain
from laughing at the intense indignation of his
friend; but he endeavoured to sooth him by telling
him that, after he had got through the French,
he could learn the German in a short time. If anything
could have added to Digby's rage, it was the
idea of learning more languages.
“No,” said he, “I have quite enough with the
French, I assure you; and a more ridiculous and—
a—a—a—absurd and—a—a—I never heard. The
infamous scoundrels! Ah! yonder comes my wife
with old `long pockets.' ”
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As he spoke, Mrs. Digby, with her daughter and
Mr. Lippe, came up.
“Well, Mr. Wyndham,” said Mrs. Digby, “did
you ever see such an awful fool as John is? I told
him he could not go across there, and yet he thinks
he knows best. Did not you catch it, now? To be
kicked and cuffed in that style before all Berlin—
but he thinks nobody knows anything but himself.”
“Agreeable, ain't it?” said Digby, in a whisper.
“To be first knocked about like a shuttlecock by
those infernal scoundrels, and then bullied in this
style by one's wife. The fact is, Mrs. Digby's a
very excellent woman; but—”
And he placed his finger significantly on his forehead,
and made a grimace intended as an insinuation
against the sane state of that lady's understanding.
“But bless me! how pale you are, Mr. Wyndham!”
said Mrs. Digby. “You must be unwell!”
“No, not in the least!”
“You do, indeed, look very pale,” said Mary.
“Now join us—do; and take a little walk—do,”
said Mrs. Digby. “It'll do you good, I'm sure it will.
Mary, take Mr. Wyndham's arm. Now I sha'n't
wait for an invitation. Any one as knows me knows
I'm all above board, and no nonsense; so I'll take
the other. Now, John, you and old Lippe can take
a stroll across the square, if you've a mind to, and
have another tussle with those gentlemen. Ha!
ha! ha!”
“I must say, my dear,” said Digby, “that I think
your — a — a — wit is considerably more—a—a—
conspicuous than your—a—a—manners.”
“By-the-way, they say your great friend, my Lord
Elkington, is getting on famously. They say his
father's at the last gasp.”
“Do you call that getting on famously?” said
Claude.
“Why, he thinks so, I'll be sworn,” said Mrs.
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Digby. “They say that they ain't the peaceablest
family in the world, and, when the old fellow pops
off, then my lord will be the Earl of Beverly, and so
rich that he won't be able to count the guineas.”
“But, holla!” said Digby, “here he comes on
horseback.”
“And the whole set of them,” said Mrs. Digby.
As she spoke, Elkington and Carolan, with Ida
between them, rode up. The Digbys saluted them
very ostentatiously. Ida bowed. Her eyes fell on
Claude, and her sunshiny smile went to his heart.
It had been his first impulse to step back, so as not
to be seen with Miss Digby, after the report which
he had just heard was current upon the subject;
but he remembered himself in time to prevent such
a step, which, trifling as it was, would not have been
in strict accordance with his promise. She saw
him, therefore. He bowed carelessly. It seemed
as if Mary hung more closely on his arm as she
passed. He saw that Ida had perceived her, and
that it would confirm her belief. Elkington and
Carolan both evidently recognised the party, but
neither bowed; and, as they were riding at a brisk
pace, they were soon out of sight.
“Well, she is a pretty creature,” said Digby,
“and a kind one.”
“Do you go to Monsieur de B—'s to-night?”
asked Claude, by way of saying something.
“Not I,” said Digby, bluntly. “I go nowhere
in society again.”
“Well, I do,” said Mrs. Digby, bridling up.
“As you please, Mrs. Digby—as you please—
but I don't—and that's as unchangeable—as—as—
a—a—I don't budge an inch.”
“Are you to be there, Mr. Wyndham?” inquired
Mrs. Digby.
“Yes, madam!” said Claude.
“Well, I sha'n't,” said Digby.
“Now, my dear papa—”
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“Now, John—”
“I've said, it, ma'am,” said Digby, with an air of
fierce determination. “I'll have nothing more to
do with your ho-tong. Why, a man can't even sit
down there, sir, and he can't stand up, for fear of—
a—a—turning his back to some one; and he can't
go away, for fear of leaving some one behind him;
and he can't walk, for fear—of—a—a—finding some
one—a—a—before him; and I can't dance, and I
can't talk. I lost thirty Louis the other night by
attempting to play. Thirty Louis in—a—a—a—
one night!”
“John,” said Mrs. Digby, “how can you be such
a fool?”
“Well, fool or no fool, Mrs. D., I tell you, once
for all, I won't go. I won't — a — a — a — go —
ma'am.”
“Why, mamma,” said Mary, as if suddenly
struck with a good idea, “why can't Mr. Wyndham
take us? He just said he was going, and we
can call for him in our carriage!”
“Why, good Lord! so we can,” said Mrs. Digby;
“what a set of fools we are, to be sure. Certainly—
plain as day. Pray do us the kindness, Mr.
Wyndham.”
“If you please, madam,” said Claude; and he
reflected upon the pleasure his appearance with
them would give Madame Wharton; how it would
gratify Elkington and Lady Beverly; how it would
confirm the opinion and alienate the feelings of Ida.
It was arranged, therefore, according to the proposal
of Mary, that he should attend the Digbys to
Monsieur de B—'s, the minister.
Claude now looked up from a brown study, and
observed Monsieur Lippe, to whom he addressed
some commonplace observation.
“Ah! you've got hold of our Mr. Lippe, have
you?” said Mrs. Digby. “Well, he's a droll fellow,
to be sure. You needn't look so astonished;
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he don't understand a word we say, poor devil. It's
just like being with a dumb beast. He's a most
useful person, though, I assure you. He lives with
us now altogether.”
“Indeed!”
“Oh, yes. He interprets for us—teaches us German
and French—does a great many useful jobs
about the house—orders the things we want from
the shops—buys everything—pays all our bills—
makes all our bargains—and reads the French tactics
to Mary.”
“The French tactics!”
“Classics, mamma,” said Mary.
“Well, child—classics—tactics—it's all the same,
you know, in Dutch; we never stir without him;
in short, he's our right-hand man—our chief cook
and bottle-washer; and, what's very remarkable,
too, he doesn't charge scarcely anything for his services.
He only gets three thalers a week, besides
his board. He offered to come for that; and it was
so scandalously cheap, I could not refuse it. Now
this was one of my bargains. It would have been
a long while before John would have had the wit to
make such a one.”
“Yes, a confounded long while,” said Digby.
“I believe he knows everybody and everything
in the world. He is the most agreeable, honest,
simple creature. He has, I assure you, no more
idea of taking care of himself than a child of six.
The other day I gave him twelve groschen to buy
something for himself; and what do you think—he
came and returned me back a groschen, saying he
had got the article for eleven. He is the greatest
prize in the world; and we're so much pleased with
him, that I made John let him go to a tailor and
choose himself a complete suit of clothes. You see
he's very fine about these days.”
Indeed, now that his attention was directed towards
him, Claude observed that he was certainly
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improved in appearance. He was very showily
dressed, in the height of the fashion; smelled strongly
of eau de Cologne, and had more the air of a dandy
than a person of his unobtrusive profession. Thus
apparelled, he had assumed the character of a favourite
steward or man of charge, taking this interesting
family under his guidance as we see a
cicerone take a party of bewildered and obedient
travellers. Sometimes he made them stop to point
out the residence of a great man; sometimes to call
their attention to a view through the long arcades
of trees, which here and there, like the aisles of a
Gothic church, extend for a mile or two beneath
the arched branches, till the straight line fades to a
point in the perspective. Here he made them walk
a long way round to avoid a damp place, and there
he conducted them, even contrary to their wishes,
where they might feel the sunshine. But what
pleased Madame Digby more than all was, that he
frequently addressed the family, or spoke of them
as “monseigneur” and “milady.” In short, Mr.
Lippe was fairly installed, and began to grow fat
and sleek upon sleep, cessation from care, and hearty
living. His late meager face had filled up into a
very respectable outline; and his complexion, from
a dry olive, had assumed a more rubicund and greasy
look.
No one gave more elegant soirées than Monsieur
de B—, and he received in the same splendid
manner once a week. In the evening, as had been
arranged, the Digbys called for Claude, and he accompanied
them to one of those entertainments.
Often before had he entered this spacious palace,
and ascended to those very rooms with a heart beating
with hope and love. How bitterly did he now
lament his folly in having indulged such dreams
and still more in having betrayed them to the confiding
girl whom he was now to meet with assumed
coldness! How strange was his position. In order
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to be worthy of her, he was to throw her away.
His clear reason whispered that the surest way to
leave her to happiness was to inflict upon her what
he knew would be a severe present misery. It is
not every young lover who would have the resolution
to attempt such an undertaking.
“Yes,” he reflected, as he ascended the steps, “I
will render myself despicable in her eyes; and, when
I see she despises me, I will leave her and these
scenes for ever.”
And, amid gay voices and happy smiles, the
forms of the careless crowd pressing by him in their
pursuit of pleasure, and the music from the distant
ballroom already floating on the air, with Mrs. Digby
on one side of him and Mary on the other, he
entered the saloons of Monsieur de B—.
CHAPTER XXII.
The growing passion between Claude and Ida
had not been unobserved. Lovers are like the ostrich,
who, when his head is under the bush, thinks
himself unseen. The report that Mr. Wyndham
was engaged to Mary Digby had at first arisen naturally
from the circumstances; had been strengthened
by Elkington and his mother, at first, from a
mere malicious desire to injure him in the fashionable
world, where the strange intrusion of Mr. and
Mrs. Digby had been the occasion of much merriment.
His own conduct, as Madame Wharton remarked,
had, however, unintentionally confirmed the
idea. In his frequent intercourse with the Carolans
he had soon become an object of close attention to
more persons than one. Madame Wharton had
watched him with various emotions, such as a good
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spirit might feel in beholding from the heavens the
course of a beloved friend over this dangerous earth.
Lady Beverly had fixed her eyes on him, as a malignant
being waiting an occasion to injure or ruin
him. Among her stronger influences was that of
envy. She was so weakly bound up in her son as
to be almost blind to his moral worthlessness; and
she regarded with disgust the elegance of Claude's
person, and the superior intelligence and grace of
his mind and manners; and she could not but see
that there was “a daily beauty” in his life and character,
in the presence of which Elkington appeared
to the greatest disadvantage. Other thoughts, of a
much deeper and darker nature, there were, half-floating
in her mind, which deepened her dislike of
Claude into serious apprehension and hatred. As
for Elkington, although he commenced by slighting
and despising Claude as a man of no fortune, rank,
or fashionable pretension—as a mere stranger, whose
sphere of life was sufficiently indicated by his intimacy
with the Digbys, he found, upon a nearer contact,
something about his rival which, while it rendered
him less insignificant, also rendered him more
hateful in his eyes. The unconscious delicacy and
warmth of his manner towards Ida, he perceived,
was met on her part by a congeniality which he
himself had never excited in this young person;
and as the match was, he well knew, one of mere
convenience, he at first feared, and then felt, that
the love which he had failed to inspire was bestowed,
although unacknowledged, and perhaps unknown
by either party, upon Claude. The quiet
contempt with which his rudeness had been returned
by the latter, the sentiment of inferiority which
he could not help being conscious of in his presence,
and the arts of his mother, who, for reasons of her
own, desired to widen the breach between them,
even to any extremity, all nourished in his bosom a
hatred which grew with every day, and was by no
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means abated by his rival's success in society,
where, from his own merit and obvious superiority,
he was received with the liveliest welcome. Both
he and his mother had made secret attempts to find
out something definite respecting his family and
history which might be used to his disadvantage,
and had thus far been partially successful. By
certain means they had discovered the mystery
which involved his birth. This was openly hinted
in every company, in a way calculated to cast suspicion
on him. The occurrence already related between
Digby and Elkington suggested to the latter
a new mode of gratifying his resentment. He had
dropped Digby in the affair, and was determined to
provoke Claude to a challenge by the most open
and insulting statements respecting him. Several
persons had mentioned them to Claude, but he persisted
in the determination not to call his slanderer
to account. This refusal to fight was carefully
revealed to all the society, accompanied by every
term of exaggeration and contempt, and hence
arose the reports to which Madame Wharton had
alluded, that he was an adventurer, without even
the pecuniary means to support the life he was
leading, or the courage to resent the most unequivocal
insult. It was said that he had come to Berlin
only on a speculation of marriage, and that the letter
from Lord Perceval had been forged. These
calumnies were so openly spread by Elkington that
they were generally believed. The very height at
which Claude had stood in society—the admiration
with which he had been received—a certain air of
nobleness and independence which marked his manner
and conversation, and the favour of the Carolans,
were all against him. Envy chooses the fairest
victim, and slander loves a shining mark. It is
astonishing with what facility the world at large
grasps at the vaguest calumny against those who
have appeared superior, and how instantly a
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whisper against an innocent woman is hatched into a tale
of guilt, or a hint of evil is caught and bandied about
when directed against an obviously honest man.
But poor Claude—who had lived, since his arrival
in Berlin, in a kind of enchantment, spellbound by
the side of Ida, welcomed in circles which may become
dangerously attractive to persons of his lively
temperament, and lingering amid scenes of wealth,
rank, and love, so magnificent and fair, that it seemed
as if he stood by the open gate of Paradise, where
a word from the lips of Ida might establish him for
ever—poor Claude had not such obvious evidences
of his standing and character as to put a stop to
the allegations against him. After the first impression,
caused by lies, as to his powers as a man of
superior mind and education, had subsided, people
began to wonder that they did not find out who and
what he was. Since Carolan had been made to
comprehend that there was danger in his society to
Ida, he had, without inquiry or discrimination, resolved
at once to consider him as an enemy, and, as
such, to speak of and treat him. This had a most
injurious effect upon him, as the withdrawal from
him of the first patron who had introduced him into
society could not but be received as a confirmation
of the unfavourable rumours current respecting him.
In the game of whist there occur periods when
one finds every chance obstinately against him.
Fortune seems not only accidentally capricious, but
malignant; and the best player is beaten, not by the
skill of his adversary, but by an unseen power in
the air. How often is it thus in the more important
game of human life? The poor mortal finds
his utmost exertions vain, and contends against un-friendly
influences, which mock his wisest efforts,
and turn them against himself. It seemed now thus
with Claude; he was placed in a most painful position.
Principle called upon him to make sacrifices
almost beyond his strength. First, to turn
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from the person he loved, and even to behold her
about to despise him, without making an effort
against it; and then to repel a direct charge against
his character only with the mild weapons of explanation
and forbearance. How little did they know
him who suspected him of cowardice! It would
have been a relief to call into the field the insolent
calumniator who had so often insulted him by his
manner, and was now endeavouring to complete his
destruction. In his present state of mind, death
would not have been unwelcome; but he felt that
the ball which laid low the slanderer of his honour
would not clear his name; nor did he, the moment
he reflected, really wish to take the blood even of
Elkington. His thoughtful mind recoiled from the
image of a fellow-creature stretched in death by his
hand, and his very conviction of the profligacy of
Elkington rendered him averse to send him, “with
all his imperfections on his head,” into the presence
of his God. Whatever might be the temptation or
the consequences, a long cherished habit of implicit
submission to the dictates of reason and duty, an innate
delicacy and magnanimity, and a profound piety,
made him firm in the resolution to go through
life without imbruing his hands in human blood, or
without consenting to offer his own to blind error or
profligate passion. Where he knew he was pursuing
the course of duty, no earthly consequences could
make him shrink.
“I have sacrificed my love to a sense of right,”
said he; “shall I not sacrifice my hate? And does
my reputation demand that I shall kill or be killed?
Will the death of Elkington prove my honesty—my
fortune—my claims to respect? Will it even clear
my name? Will it not, on the contrary, consign it to
infamy, and deprive me of the opportunity of disproving
by my actions the aspersions against it?”
He therefore determined to persevere in his
course—to pass the slanders of Elkington without
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other notice than an offer of such proofs of his real
character as were necessary, to Count Carolan or
any other friend or friends—to avoid being drawn
into a quarrel with his enemy—to disentangle himself
as imperceptibly, but as completely as possible,
from the sweet ties which were beginning to exist
between him and Ida, and then to withdraw himself
from the scene of so much trouble. He scarcely
knew how difficult was his task.
On entering the apartments of Monsieur de B—
with Mrs. Digby and Mary, he perceived immediately
that he was an object of attention; nor did it
require many moments to discover that this attention
was not of the flattering kind to which he had been
accustomed. Slander had done its work, and of all
those who had been till now so affable and friendly,
scarcely one recognised him without a coolness
which formed an obvious contrast to their usual
manner. Inexperienced in life, although he had
heard of calumny, he was not really acquainted with
it. He had not thought of its effects. In paying
his addresses to Monsieur and Madame de B—,
he fancied he saw in both a change not to be mistaken.
Madame de B— was a beautiful but proud
woman, careful of her smiles, and disciplined even
in the art of directing her looks only according to the
fashionable worth of the object. She was an interesting
and delightful companion among her friends—
Claude himself had, till now, been her peculiar
favourite—but her eye, as she coldly returned his
greeting without encountering his, was cast down,
and immediately lifted to a person behind him, with
whom she entered into a sudden conversation. Although
this was apparently accidental, Claude felt
it was a manner of avoiding him. The reception
extended to Mrs. Digby and her daughter was equally
cold.
Monsieur de B— bowed slightly to each of the
three, and extended his hand to a gentleman who
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passed before Claude. He felt the blood mounting
to his temple. It was his first impulse to turn on
his heel, and never again to enter this or any other
Berlin mansion; but he checked these hasty emotions
with a calmer pride, and the independence belonging
to his character. He reflected that he did
not know how far this slander was credited—that
perhaps the manner of Monsieur de B— and his
lady might have been accidental—that flight would
countenance the falsehoods respecting him—that he
had resolved not to seek, but also not to avoid Elkington—
that he had a duty to perform towards Ida—
and—for he was in the habit of thinking of others
as well as himself—he had brought Mrs. Digby and
Mary, and they would not wish to be abandoned.
He resolved, therefore, to remain. He felt also that
his high spirit would meet the incivility of the whole
assembly, if necessary, without shrinking, conscious
as he was that he did not deserve it.
As he turned he found himself next to Carolan.
If the scarce perceptible change in the manner of
Monsieur and Madame de B— and several others
had surprised him, he was much more struck with
that in the demeanour of Carolan. All the bland
suavity of that gentleman had disappeared. It was
scarcely possible to recognise him. His figure was
drawn up with an ostentatious hauteur on seeing
Claude, which left no doubt of his changed sentiments.
His manner was stiff and pompous, his
nose elevated in the air, and his features expressive
of self-satisfaction, superciliousness, and contempt.
The instant Claude's eye fell on him, he perceived
that his polite and agreeable friend was no more;
but that the folly of his character, now brought out
by circumstances, had left in his place a very different
person. He scarcely knew whether to address
him or not; but, as he had yet received no cause to
withhold from him the ordinary courtesies of society,
he bowed as usual. The count looked him full
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in the face without offering the least sign of recognition.
A slight laugh at his shoulder caused Claude
to turn; he found that it proceeded from Elkington.
At his side was the Countess Carolan. Calmly,
but proudly, Claude bowed to her. It seemed that
he required from each one the evidence that they
could so wantonly insult him before he could believe
it. His dignity and manly composure carried a
kind of conviction to the heart of the Countess Carolan.
She believed in that instant that he was calumniated,
and she bowed to him with her usual
kindness, and held out her hand. There is something
of intuitive perception in the eye of a sweet
woman, which, in such matters, reaches the truth
through the darkest clouds. Gratitude was one of
the strongest sentiments of Claude's soul, and it was
expressed in his countenance, as he took her hand
and returned her salutation. The change in his expression,
from haughty scorn to sincere pleasure,
was not lost upon her, and a perceptible moisture
in her eye betrayed the feeling with which she sympathized
with him in this, the most trying moment
of his life. At a little distance stood Ida. She was
very pale, and turned away her face as she perceived
that his eyes were directed towards her; but, as
if unable to complete the effort, she looked back
once again, and that look glanced to his heart, and
thrilled him with an unutterable delight, which was
instantly quenched in anguish as he remembered
what he had undertaken to do.
At this moment Thomson came up. This young
man had been so violently his friend as to have even
annoyed him with attentions. He had perceived
long ago the enmity growing between him and Elkington,
and had spoken to him in the strongest terms
of disgust of Elkington's character and insolence.
Claude, ill read in human nature, held out his hand
to him as one of whose support in the hour of need
he was secure; but, to his surprise and
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embarrassment, the young man passed his extended hand
unnoticed, and, seizing that of Elkington, shook it
heartily, with many expressions of pleasure at seeing
him. A few moments afterward he saw him
taking Elkington's cup to carry it to a table, and ordering
a servant to bring his lordship more tea.
“And is this human nature?” thought Claude to
himself, as he quietly regarded the young sycophant,
and remembered the importunity with which he had
besieged him in a happier hour, and particularly
the expressions of contempt and disgust which he
had made use of to him concerning this very Elkington,
whom he was now serving with the assiduity
of a valet.
It was plain that a total change had taken place
in the general opinion respecting the once admired
Mr. Wyndham. Nearly all chilled him by the coldness
of their manner. Some, although gazing
through their glasses, found him as invisible as they
had found Digby. A few addressed him without
apparent knowledge of what was going on; and two
or three made it a point to come up to him, to speak
with him long and familiarly, and, by more than
usual kindness, seemed desirous of soothing his
feelings, of counteracting the effect of the conduct
of the rest, and of showing him that they gave no
credit to the calumnies in circulation. He remarked
that these persons were generally those who had
been the least forward to make his acquaintance
when he was in the meridian of favour. They
were the sensible, the amiable, and the truly virtuous,
of whom Providence has scattered a few
through the world, like flowers in a field, and who,
like flowers, often bloom unseen in retired places,
never courting the public gaze, and blessing with
their odorous breath and perfect beauty only those
who have the fortune to find and the heart to appreciate
them. Others there were who—probably
absorbed in more important subjects, mere
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spectators of these scenes, where they came to divert
themselves from abstruse labours, and to make their
observations upon the world—met him exactly as
usual; one gentleman, a tall, noble-looking officer,
came up to him, and, giving his hand, said,
“Mr. Wyndham, without ceremony, I make myself
acquainted with you. I am General St. Hillaire.
I have heard certain calumnies respecting
you, which, by Madame Wharton, an old friend
of mine, I am taught to believe totally unfounded.
I learn also that you have had, from principle, the
magnanimity to refuse sending a challenge, and to
leave a slanderer to the contempt he merits. Sir,
I honour you for it. I wish other young men had
your firmness; although I have had no token of your
courage, I do not suspect you of cowardice, because
a coward in your situation would either fight or fly.
I shall esteem myself honoured if you will permit
me to cultivate your acquaintance.”
“I assure you, Monsieur le General,” said Claude,
“your words give strength to a resolution which almost
fails; but the approbation of one like you
would more than sustain me against the insults of
a thousand fools. It is such as you, sir, who give
morality a stamp, and prevent honest men from being
put out of countenance. I am aware that slander
has been busy with my name, and that I am not approved
in declining a duel, although I do so in obedience
to a principle which, right or wrong, I have
adopted. As for other matters, I owe it to your
generous confidence to assure you, that I have never
been guilty of an action or a thought which should
bring a blush to my cheek, and I am ready to give
such explanation respecting the points in dispute
as a natural curiosity may require or justice demand.”
“I require no proofs,” said General St. Hillaire.
“Madame Wharton has assured me that she knows
you—that is enough—and I only require to see you
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to understand that she is right. I believe I have
had the honour of exchanging cards with you before,
but not of meeting you. That is a pleasure which,
however, I promise myself soon again.”
They were interrupted by the chambellan of the
Prince —, who addressed to the general a few
words, and then conducted him to his royal highness.
After some moments' conversation, during which
Claude could not help remarking the frank dignity
of General St. Hillaire's address to the prince, and
the easy and friendly familiarity with which he was
received by that distinguished person, the general
once more returned, and, taking Claude by the arm,
led him forward, and the chambellan presented him.
Although astonished at this unexpected proceeding,
Claude was pleased with an opportunity of receiving
such a compliment after the cold stiffness
perceptible in the manner of every one else. His
royal highness spoke of various subjects. His remarks
were lively and affable, and Claude replied
to them with a frankness which seemed to give pleasure.
The interview was prolonged beyond the
usual time generally allotted to similar conversations;
and, when the prince bowed at the conclusion,
and General St. Hillaire led him away, Claude saw
a new change in the demeanour of the company.
Several ventured so far as to say “Bon soir.” A
gentleman “très repandu,” who had looked him full
in the face several times before, without being able
to see any one there, although availing himself of
his glass, now came to him from across the room
with, “Eh bien, mon chèr; comment ça va-t-il?”
while even Thomson, with several irresistible salutations,
remarked that “it was horribly hot!” a
proposition innocent in itself, and so extremely true
that Claude did not offer any denial.
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CHAPTER XXIII.
[figure description] Page 185.[end figure description]
The prince had left the room, and Claude was
preparing to do the same with General St. Hillaire,
whose determination to support him appeared evident
to everybody. They had reached a small cabinet
in which were only one or two persons, when
he was not a little surprised by a bland “good-evening,
Mr. Wyndham,” from the lips of Lady Beverly.
This was almost the first time that lady had
ever deigned to extend towards him any civility.
Both he and the general stopped. He replied coolly,
but politely.
“Are we going to lose you?” said she, in her
mildest tone. “I have heard that it is your intention
to continue your tour?”
“I have not made any definite decision, madam,”
said Claude.
“You have been quite a traveller, I believe?”
Surprised at the friendly familiarity with which
she spoke, and wondering what it could mean, he replied
that “he had lived much abroad.”
“You are an Englishman?”
“Certainly, madam.”
“But you have lived mostly on the Continent?”
“In France.”
“Paris?”
“Yes, madam.”
He reddened perceptibly at the pertinacity of these
inquiries upon a subject on which he felt an extreme
sensibility, and which he had confided to no
human being in Berlin. Her questions, from which
he could not retreat, appeared to possess the formality
and imperativeness of a cross-examination before
a legal tribunal, and several by-standers had drawn
nearer and fixed their attention upon him. Among
them were Elkington, Carolan, and the countess,
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Ida, Beaufort, and Thomson. The circle seemed to
open and enclose him as she continued her interrogatories
with a smile which had mischief in it.
“Were you not last from London, Mr. Wyndham?”
resumed Lady Beverly.
“I was.”
“I fear you will think me very inquisitive; but I
have the pleasure of knowing some of your friends
in England. Your father, I think.”
“It is probable—that is—I am quite unable to
say,” said Claude, with an embarrassment so obvious
as to be perceived by everybody. He now saw
that this singular and bad woman had a design in
pursuing him, and that several of those around were
probably aware of it. The Countess Carolan regarded
him with a calm gravity; Carolan stood stiff
and proud, with his nose in the air. General St.
Hillaire looked surprised, and Lady Beverly's face
was lighted with the delight of a tigress about to
spring upon her prey. Ida, a little retired, bent her
eyes upon him with an anguish and tenderness
which sunk into his soul. She had not yet learned
the art of disguising the emotions of her heart.
“The Wyndhams are from Devonshire, I believe?”
Claude was silent.
“I think I met your father, General Wyndham.
He was General Wyndham—was he not?”
“No, madam—that is—he is not living—that is—
that I know of.”
“But your mother?”
He had never so completely lost his self-possession.
He was aware that these questions did not
originate in mere curiosity, but were obviously put
by one who knew, by whatever means, that they
could not be readily answered. The surprise with
which he discovered this cool and deliberate intention
to pursue and injure him, and the difficulty
which he had in conjecturing what could be the
cause and origin of such a course, added to his
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dilemma. He could neither retreat, nor answer, nor
decline answering, without affording the desired triumph
to his malignant and mysterious enemy; and
the consciousness that the eyes of all around were
fixed upon him, and that even they who were most
his friends regarded his hesitation with astonishment,
if not suspicion, did not increase his presence
of mind. He cast a glance around, and beheld each
countenance expressive of their various sentiments,
and his head absolutely turned dizzy when a low
laugh was heard from Elkington, and Lady Beverly
continued,
“Pray, Mr. Wyndham, if not General Wyndham,
what was your father's name? I am sure I have
met him somewhere.”
There was a moment's silence, and a laugh was
once more heard from Elkington, while Ida's countenance
showed all the anguish and sympathy of
her soul. The sight of it restored him to himself,
and, ashamed of his weakness, he replied calmly,
“Madam, you must not be surprised if, under
an examination so searching and unexpected, I have
betrayed the embarrassment and distress which misfortune
must ever suffer on being made the object
of public attention. It was not my wish to relate
to strangers the secrets of my family; but truth is
better than any equivocation; and it may gratify
your curiosity to learn that I am a poor orphan,
thrown upon the world by a chance which I cannot
explain with clearness, nor think of without pain.
The name I bear was the gift of a stranger, and the
face of father or mother I never saw. But, isolated
as that name is from all that cheers the life of other
men, it has never been allied to wrong, or sullied,
madam, by dishonour!”
An expression of admiration broke from the lips
of several at the dignity of this reply, full of composure
and conscious innocence.
“Do you mean to insult my mother?” said Elkington,
advancing close to him.
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The flashing eyes of Claude fell upon him, but
did not intimidate him. St. Hillaire withdrew
Claude into the corner of the cabinet.
Elkington, following them, approached, and, in
such a whisper as only Claude and his new friend
could hear, said,
“You are a scoundrel, sir!”
The general frowned. Claude calmly replied,
“If your own actions, my lord, proved you to
possess a judgment sound enough to form just opinions,
or a character pure enough to give them any
importance, I should feel more regret in knowing
what you think of me; as it is—”
“Well,” said Elkington, his face growing red,
and his whole frame trembling with a passion which
he could not control, “as it is—”
“I consider the terms in which they are expressed
a sufficient indication of the person who utters
them, and of the attention they deserve.”
This short dialogue had taken place in so private
a manner as to elude the observation of every one
but General St. Hillaire, to change whose opinion
of Claude it was probably intended; but several
persons now approaching, Elkington only remarked
in a low tone, and with more self-command,
“At a proper time I shall request an explanation
of your remark,” and withdrew.
“Well, this is certainly an odd scene,” said the
general. “I don't know the circumstances of the
affair; but I see yonder fellow is a puppy and a
blockhead, and the mother is malice itself.”
Madame Wharton here came up. She was extremely
agitated, and held out her hand with an
emotion which might have been easily accounted
for by the accident which just passed.
The music and dancing were going on all the
time, and the feelings which had been awakened in
more than one bosom were not visible upon the surface
of the glittering society.
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CHAPTER XXIV.
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General St. Hillaire was now called from the
side of Claude, and the latter, surrounded by so
many prying and unfriendly eyes, was thinking of
withdrawing from a scene where so little attraction
awaited him, when Miss Digby complained of faintness,
and Claude offered to lead her out. She desired,
however, that he should conduct her into the
boudoir of Madame de B—. He accordingly led
her to this distant room. It was a beautiful apartment,
entirely lighted with massive lamps, whose
beams, falling through thick shades and screens,
shed a light as soft and pale as that of the moon.
In one corner was a kind of bower, half buried under
vines, which crept luxuriantly over a light trellis-work,
and was surrounded by large jars and vases
of shrubs and flowers. The walls were hung
with damask satin of dark crimson, and adorned
with paintings of the best masters. The tables
were piled with magnificently-bound books and engravings,
writing materials, shells, pearl, portfolios,
figures in bronze, ivory, and gold, of exquisite workmanship;
statues of white marble stood in the corners,
and leaned from pedestals and cornices. In
the centre of this odour-breathing retreat, where the
fresh incense of a garden and the sylvan recesses of
a forest were brought, by the hand of taste, into a
lady's boudoir, was a colossal vase of porcelain,
from which rose a broad-leafed plant full of blossoms,
of which some had fallen and lay scattered
upon the thick carpet.
These charming apartments—soft, shadowy, silent—
are cool and delightful retreats from the glare
and noise of the ballroom and the movement of the
crowd. It happened that, at the moment when
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Claude led in his pretty young charge, no one was
there. He supported her to a sofa, and would have
gone immediately in search of her mother, but she
grew so pale, and was so evidently about to faint,
that he could not quit her.
“It is the heat,” said Claude.
“No, no—the dreadful scene—Lord Elkington.
I fear—he is so rash—so brave—”
“Lord Elkington?”
“Oh, yes—he is so extremely brave—I am quite
afraid—I assure you! If anything should happen to
him—if you—”
“Fear nothing for Lord Elkington,” said Claude,
not without observing, more than usual, the weakness
of this young girl's mind.
“Promise me, then—promise me,” said she, “that,
if you fight—you won't fire at him.”
“Upon my word, I will not,” said Claude, smiling.
“Oh, dear Mr. Wyndham,” said she, seizing his
hand and raising it to her lips, “you give me new
life. Lord Elkington is so extremely brave. Do
you know he has killed two men already in a duel?”
“Two men!”
“Yes—he is such a very charming person. You
know he would have killed papa if it had not been
for—for—”
“And you find that so charming!”
“Oh, you know papa is so passionate—and he
was so rude to him—but you won't positively hurt
him?”
“I have no such intention, certainly,” said Claude.
“Oh, thank you,” she said again, seizing his hand
once more and pressing it to her lips. “I am so
much obliged to you—I shall never, never forget—
Ah! some one comes.”
She rose with a quickness which proved that her
strength had quite returned with the dissipation of
her fears for the “charming Lord Elkington,” and
she disappeared in a moment. The person who
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had thus frightened her away was Ida. She could
not help seeing Claude, and the manner in which
he was engaged, as his hand was still in Mary's
when she entered. At first she hastily retreated,
but, on the withdrawal of Miss Digby, as if influenced
by a sudden thought, she returned. Her manner
was calm, but she was evidently agitated.
The sight of this young girl, thus alone with him,
and probably for the last time; the idea that he was
soon to leave her for ever, and with an opinion which
could not be other than contemptuous of his conduct
and character, and the coincidence by which he had
been thus discovered with Miss Digby, all threw
Claude once more into an embarrassment. These
new situations, he found, were too much for his
composure, they came upon him so unexpectedly
and in such quick succession. The return of Ida
to his side when she saw he was alone, was at once
so far beyond his hopes and fears, that he knew not
what inference to draw from it, nor how to act. It
appeared as if his guardian angel had thrown in his
way an opportunity, if not to declare his sentiments,
and request from the girl he so tenderly loved to
abandon her brilliant but unhappy position, and
tread the path of life with him, at least to bid her
farewell in a manner in some degree corresponding
with his anguish and his sacrifice; but the formal
promise he had given Madame Wharton was not an
instant absent from his memory; and with a firm
effort of self-command, and a secret prayer for aid
to that Power which sustains all who earnestly desire
it, he determined to guard every word and look
with conscientious care. For a moment both seemed
at a loss how to commence the conversation,
whether in the careless gayety of the ballroom, or
in a tone more suitable to the thoughts which filled
both their minds. At length Ida, with a dignity
which surpassed all that he could imagine of what
should be her demeanour on such an occasion, a
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modesty as of an angel suffusing her cheek with a
faint colour, said,
“I fear Mr. Wyndham will scarcely forgive me
for the liberty of intruding into his affairs; but the
scene which has just occurred—the—Lord Elkington—
my father—in short, I am alarmed, you may
believe, for the result.”
The calmness of her manner, which almost became
coldness as she finished, restored Claude in
a moment to his usual composure, took from the interview
the character of a tender tête-à-tête, and placed
him at once in the position of a stranger—such
as he might have felt himself in on a first meeting.
All the audacious tenderness and wild tumult of his
soul fell beneath the modest firmness of this young
girl; all the idea that she had ever loved him disappeared
from his mind. He stood before her, less
a lover by his mistress than a subject before his
queen; and, although those two hearts were so deeply
touched with each other, and each felt secretly
all the tender ardour of love, yet—thus alone, unwatched,
under circumstances so interesting—perhaps
meeting for the last time on earth, and about
to separate in anger—so pure was the conscientiousness
which both put into their duty, so well-disciplined
and self-governed were their minds, that
their demeanour towards each other was as distant
and as guarded as if Madame Wharton or Count
Carolan had been observing them.
“If you allude to the safety of Lord Elkington—”
said Claude.
There was a moment's pause, which Ida did not
interrupt.
“I can assure you, my intentions are—”
“But my object in availing myself of this chance
opportunity to see you alone, was to inform you
frankly what I have understood; that it is Lord Elkington's
determination to offer you some farther
public insult, till he drives you into a quarrel.”
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“And can you—” Claude began, but recollected
himself.
“You will not wonder that I should feel anxious
for him,” said Ida.
“I cannot imagine what farther insult his lordship
can offer me, but a multiplication of terms
which mean nothing, and but meant—”
He paused again, remembering that he was speaking
of her destined husband.
“In these extreme cases,” continued Ida, with a
slight change of colour, “I find perfect frankness
the best course, and I therefore add, the happiness
of all of us demands that you avoid Lord Elkington.
He is so resolute, so determined. His principles
on this point are so unalterable, that—”
“Is it your opinion that I should fly from this
persecution?”
“Yes; immediately and for ever!” She spoke
with eagerness.
“But—”
“I understand that you have expressly declined
to call out Lord Elkington, as he has expected.
Why subject yourself to farther annoyance? You
are a stranger in Berlin. You have never been here
before. You may never visit it again. My father
is alienated from you by Lord Elkington, and you
will leave none here whom you will ever regret or
remember.”
Claude's heart stood silent as if life was suspended,
and a thrill ran through his whole frame. So
beautiful did she look thus before him—the changing
of her feelings were reflected so clearly on her transparent
complexion and mobile features—the idea
that she required but a word from his lips, but a
glance from his eyes, to requite the deep love which
he at this moment felt for her more forcibly than
ever, nearly caused him to forget his resolution, and
to declare to her all the agitation and tenderness of
his soul. He perceived even, as Madame Wharton
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had stated, that she was ignorant of his love for
her; that her innocence and artlessness had seen
in his manner only the partiality of a friend; and
that his appearance at Monsieur de B—'s with
Mary Digby, and the interview in which she had
found him engaged with that young lady, had completely
confirmed her in the belief of what Elkington
had told her respecting his intended marriage.
If she was ignorant of his love, she was almost as
much so of her own; and she fully believed that the
interest she took in him was but the result of a natural
admiration of his character—was but a true
friendship, and so, perhaps, it was; for in one so
pure, delicate, and modest, love itself was only
friendship until the object of it should teach her its
more sacred name.
“Let me be your friend, Mr. Wyndham,” said
she, with a faint smile; “I believe I can advise you,
and, if your own happiness cannot influence you, let
that of another.”
“Another!” said Claude, forgetting in a moment
all but the inference which, for an instant, he drew
from her words.
“Yes, the interesting and lovely girl, who suffers
more than yourself from these painful quarrels.
She nearly fainted on seeing your momentary interview
just now with Lord Elkington; go, Mr. Wyndham!
and believe me, your character is too well understood
to suffer more than a temporary shadow
from all that error or unkindness may breathe
against it.”
What would Claude have then given to inform
her that it was for Elkington that Miss Digby had
betrayed so much tender solicitude—that she was a
silly girl in whom he had not the slightest interest—
and that, in leaving her, he was tearing himself
from peace of mind for ever. He, however, made
no reply; and the music of the distant ballroom now
ceasing for a moment, several persons strolled into
the boudoir.
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CHAPTER XXV.
[figure description] Page 195.[end figure description]
On returning that night to his lodgings, Claude
found a letter from Denham. By a mischance it
had miscarried, it having been committed to the hand
of a gentleman who, on leaving London, had intended
to come directly to Berlin, but who had so altered
his route as to avoid visiting that city. The letter
reached Claude at last by the post from Vienna.
It was in reply to the one written in the commencement
of the winter, requesting information respecting
Elkington. It threw a new aspect over Claude's
affairs.
“As for Elkington,” thus the letter proceeds, “by
a peculiar chance I have been made acquainted with
some circumstances concerning him which ought to
be communicated to Count Carolan, and which I
beg you to do on my behalf, if you are reluctant to
do it on your own. You may then tell Count Carolan
that, if I had a daughter, a sister, or a young
female friend in the greatest destitution, I should
rather see her perish from the effects of want, than
to see her the wife of Lord Elkington. His father,
the Earl of Beverly, will scarcely admit him into
his presence, although he has but a partial knowledge
of his vices. He is a desperate gambler, and
there is a circumstance which happened between
him, two other gentlemen, and myself, which enables
me to assure you he is a cheat at cards. The cards
were sealed when he left the table, and examined
the next morning. It was clear, to the satisfaction
of all present, that he had marked them. We taxed
him with it. He was at first disposed to fight, and
made several attempts; but he had to deal with cool
and determined men, and he went abroad, and will
probably remain there till the affair has blown over.
This immunity was allowed him at the earnest
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entreaties of the Earl of Beverly, who was informed
of the affair, and who declared to us, during an interview
which we had with him on the subject, that he
would disinherit him, if the estates were not entailed
to descend to the eldest son. He is also deeply
in debt, principally to gamblers and usurers.
“There is yet another circumstance. He won
the affections of a young girl, the daughter of a poor
officer, and a person of the purest character and extreme
loveliness. He only succeeded in obtaining
her confidence by a marriage which, I assure you,
was a real one, so that this interesting fellow has in
reality already a wife. On learning the affair, the
father called upon him, and demanded that his
daughter should be publicly acknowledged. Elkington
evaded him as long as he could; but the father—
a high-tempered old man—demanded satisfaction,
although his friends advised him to pursue legal
measures. Elkington met him, and at the first
shot the unhappy father fell. The daughter lost
her senses, and is now in a madhouse, where it is
probable she will not long survive. They had no
money, no friends; and the affair is hushed up, no
other notice being taken of it than the usual flippant
announcement in the newspaper, that `an affair
of honour had taken place yesterday morning
between Lord Elkington and Captain Atwood,
which, unfortunately, had a fatal termination; the
ball of his lordship, at the first fire, passing through
his opponent's head. We learn that the quarrel
originated in some attentions which his lordship had
paid to a young lady, a near relative of the deceased.
It is said that his lordship went reluctantly
into the field, and behaved with great coolness; and
that he felt the deepest regret that the choleric rashness
of his former friend rendered such a course inevitable.
His lordship, it is said, has started on a
tour to the Continent.'
“You may tell your friend Count Carolan these
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circumstances, and he may give my name, if he
pleases, to Elkington, who knows well I do not fear
him, and that I have but to open my lips to blast
his name. This I would not do, except in a circumstance
like that you have informed me of; and
where he is about to marry into a family so distinguished
and so little acquainted with him, I readily
consent to put them on their guard.
“And now, having disposed of the profligate of
whom you inquire, let me add a few words respecting
myself. Since you left London I have become
a married man. You know the young lady; she
has no rank nor fortune, but she is all beauty and
sweetness, and looks up to me with respect and gratitude,
as well as affection. She has nothing on earth.
Her father is a poor clergyman—one of the best and
most delightful of men. He has given her a perfect
education. You know I have no property but the
life annuity bequeathed to me by my eccentric uncle,
who hated the marriage state so much, because
he happened to be afflicted with a bad wife himself,
that he wished, by this manner of bequeathing his
fortune, to discourage me from forming any matrimonial
alliance. I am worth, therefore, £1000 a
year till the day of my death, when my beloved wife,
and whatever family Providence may bless us with,
will be left with only the amount of savings which
we can put by from our current expenses. Notwithstanding
these inducements to economy, we are
coming abroad in the spring, and we mean to take
Berlin in our way.”
CHAPTER XXVI.
Claude read with various emotions this account
of Elkington's character, and the more so, as it coincided
with the estimation he had formed of him.
Yet he could not, under the circumstances which he
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found himself, reveal it to Carolan without subjecting
himself to the imputation of an interested motive.
Perhaps it would be deemed a mere slander
upon a successful rival, who had openly insulted
him, and whom he dared not meet in the field.
Madame Wharton rose to his memory; but sending
the letter to her would be in fact the same as sending
it to the count. What if he gave it to Ida? But
the objections to this at once presented themselves.
With what propriety could he secretly dissuade the
daughter from marrying a man selected by her family—
even did he, in the eyes of that family, stand
himself less in the attitude of a rejected lover?
What if he should not interfere at all in the matter?
There seemed an indelicacy in any interference;
and Count Carolan was not a man of sense, but of
prejudices so fixed and conceit so strong, that it was
not certain he would listen to any proof, and perhaps
he would insult him who should presume to
offer any. Yet with what propriety could he, from
a false idea of delicacy, keep concealed a secret
which affected the happiness of Ida, and which
might materially change the intentions of her family?
Would it not, in fact, be a favour to any one thus
situated, to inform them of circumstances so well authenticated,
and in which they were so much interested?
Would it not look even as cowardly to
withhold, as it might appear base to reveal it? He
thought of an anonymous letter, but his manly frankness
instantly rejected the idea. Anonymous writers
rarely receive attention, and still more rarely
deserve it. A middle course presented itself, viz.,
to enclose the letter to Count Carolan, with permission,
if he pleased, to state to Lord Elkington who
had communicated the facts in question. He instantly
addressed the following note to Carolan:
“Monsieur le Comte:
“I am on the eve of leaving Berlin, where I shall
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probably never return again. It is possible that you
may misinterpret the motives with which I send you
the enclosed letter. I received it from a person of
trust, and can vouch for its truth. Mr. Denham, as
you will perceive, offers his name also; but I beg
you to withhold it from Lord Elkington, as I am
willing, should there be any serious responsibility,
to take it upon myself. My sole object is to put
you in possession of facts which affect the interests
of your family. You are at liberty to state that you
received them from me; for, while I have nothing
to hope from your decision, I have nothing to fear
from Lord Elkington's resentment. If any passing
weakness has ever caused me to seem to swerve
from the path which I ought to pursue in relation
to yourself and everything connected with you, that
weakness is at an end. If I have ceased, as with
pain I perceive I have, to receive your esteem, I
hope I have not ceased to deserve it.
“I am, etc., etc.”
He sealed and instantly despatched this note by
Carl, telling him to deliver it to Count Carolan, and
only into his own hand.
It was now late at night. He was too much excited
by the circumstances of the evening to sleep.
Indeed, he felt a sense of heated and painful wakefulness.
He then opened the window. It was a
calm and pleasant night, and he determined to walk
forth to indulge in the reflections to which his singular
position gave rise.
“I will quit this place,” he thought, as he wandered
slowly up the Linden towards the Brandenburg
gate. “I will quit this spot for ever. It has
been fatal to my peace—almost to my honour. I
will wait the answer of this letter to Carolan, and
then turn my back on this proud portal—on these
thoughtless crowds—who believe so readily slander
from the lips of a scoundrel—and who look
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coldly on a man because he refuses to shed his fellow-creature's
blood, or to pour out his own at the
call of every rash fool or designing villain. I am
what I am.”
The evening seemed to grow softer and brighter
as he advanced. The sky had at first been dashed
over with small white clouds disposed in airy waves,
a sea rippled by a summer breeze, through which
the moon steadily and peacefully held her course,
even as an unswerving and patient mind pursues
the path appointed by Heaven. As he walked on,
these fleecy shapes broke silently apart, gentle as
thought, and, like it, mingling and separating with
a noiseless motion, till, dissolved into torn fragments,
like the vanishing doubts of a pure and settled
mind, they at length disappeared entirely, and
left the void all stainless and still—its fathomless extent
glittering with those wonderful systems which
God has hung before our eyes—a revelation of his
immensity, benevolence, and power.
“It is virtue,” thought he; “it is truth. What
an emblem! what a lesson! God spreads it above
our heads to teach us to look up! to raise our eyes
from the earth, whose magnificence and grandeur
are so infinitely surpassed, that we may daily view
it and nightly study it. It shadows forth not only
what he is, but what we may be, trusting to him,
and lifting our eyes above the earth!”
These and similar contemplations tranquillized his
soul, and seemed to establish between him and his
Maker a kind of communion, which made his approbation
far more necessary than all the uncertain and
useless applause of the world; useless, at least, unless
bestowed upon what is right.
He wandered on and on, till he presently found
himself before the palace of Count Carolan. He
paused to look on it thus in the silence of night.
The moonbeams fell across its yellow and richly-sculptured
façade, and tall, closed windows, leaving
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one of its heavy wings in the shadow, and glancing
across the overhanging buttresses, and the company
of statues which stood speechless and stirless upon
its eaves and in the court. There is something in
a noble edifice which seems touched with human
sympathy, and partakes of the character of those
who erect and those who inhabit it. Architecture
is so full of mind and grandeur, that those stately
colonnades and slender columns speak to the soul
almost with a language. Claude gazed upon the
rooms which he had so often seen blazing with light
and animated with gay crowds, upon the silent pavé
so often thronged with glittering carriages and trampling
horses—now all gone. “So anon,” thought
the solitary muser, “will fade from the green earth
all that inhabit it, into shadows—into memories of
the past.”
Beneath that roof slept Ida. It was possible he
might never see her again.
“Farewell,” he said, “lovely and ever beloved.
Thou sleepest! Sleep on! Hover over her, ye
guardian angels! Shield her from every care!
Lead her light step over a summer path. Spring
every flower to her beautiful feet. If pain threaten
her, send it instead to my heart. Let never that
young smile be shaded by a thought of me; and
the misery she has inflicted, oh! may she never
share—may she never even know!”
In the weakness of the moment, it seemed to him
as if he were taking that farewell which he dare not
do in reality, and as if this solitary moment were
rendered more sacred by a parting which was to
separate them for ever. He walked on. His steps
were bent almost unconsciously towards the Park;
and, passing the Brandenburg gate, its stately form
lifted against the glittering heavens, and the magnificent
group on its top showing in that soft light
as if some goddess had descended, indeed, upon
earth, in her airy car, down that star-paved road.
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The wood looked lonely and beautiful at that “dead
waist and middle of the night;” some parts lying
clear and white in the moonlight, and some leading
the eye into deep recesses and deserted glades,
steeped in black shadows. He entered this lonely
spot, which had been the scene of his rash hopes,
and which was now the mute witness of his despair.
Claude was one of those strongly acted upon by
the various aspects of nature. It was not necessary
for him to seek Alpine cliffs, Italian shores, and distant
deserts, to thrill beneath the beauty and power
which, to those formed to be touched by these divine
mysteries, lie ever around, above their heads,
and beneath their feet. Where the common mind
wanders unstirred, beholding only common things,
his finer spirit saw God's footstep and the writing
of his hand; and he entered this perfectly-abandoned
forest, with its heavy piles of foliage and shadows—
its dark aisles—its grassy and flower-enamelled floor—
its arched and leafy vaults, and its utterly hushed
recesses, with a feeling of solemn delight and awe,
which made him move slowly, as over enchanted
ground. The trees, as they stood grouped around,
to his aroused imagination half seemed a company
of unearthly beings, communing with each other in
a wordless language, and reaching forth to the earth
and to the stars their ancient and appealing arms.
“Who knows,” thought our ever-musing wanderer,
“but that the spirit of consciousness, which lies
in so many forms—which God has shed into matter
in such various ways, may lurk in these dim shapes—
may flow through their twisted and gently moving
limbs—may warm their aged hearts, and sparkle in
their outbursting buds and leaves! Why should not
the tree feel the breeze that wakes its branches—
the tempest that threatens to tear up its `earth-bound
roots?' Who knows but they are spirits watching
the ways of men—bending with pity over the pining
lover—calmly watching the conqueror's car—
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shading the boy at his happy and fleeting sports—or,
when life is done, waving over his grave, and knowing
more of earth and its mysteries than we its masters?
Who can pretend to possess the deep secrets
that lie around us?”
There came over his memory recollections of his
youthful hours, when it had been his delight to climb
into the branches. Ah! they then brought to his
careless mind no such dim and fearful thoughts!
His heart then saw in the earth around him only the
bright colours of happiness and hope; and the wondrous
objects now startling him with mysterious
meaning and with strange beauty, but half seen before,
struck his delighted eye, without printing themselves
so solemnly on his soul.
As he proceeded, he came to a spot, the surpassing
beauty of which caused him again to pause. A
narrow path wound close to the edge of a stream,
which here, spreading out into a pretty lake, lay, a
moveless sheet of silver light, in which the surrounding
objects discovered themselves with perfect
distinctness. Behind him was a mass of thick
shrubbery. A small bridge crossed the water, and
a few seats, now deserted, had been placed around
for the convenience of pedestrians. The full moon,
riding in her meridian splendour, poured a flood of
light upon the scene, reflecting the thick wall of foliage
which rose by the water, and leaving the interior
recesses in the blackest shadow. Immediately
by his side a white-barked tree leaned over the flood,
in such a way that the moonbeams, glancing from its
white bark, rendered it as brightly visible as a column
of silver. Claude stopped beside this tree to
admire a night-scene, which, in its soft and simple
beauty, seemed disposed for the study of a painter.
He leaned over and gazed into the water. A part
of the adjoining wood rose tall and clear in that inverted
world—each delicate fibre and finely pencilled
leaf drawn in lines of soft light—the bridge
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hung beneath with wondrous beauty, every bending
arch and slender line strangely distinct. There lay
the shores leaning back from the edge—there hung
the budding foliage and silent flowers, as soft as light
itself. There rose the tall trunks glimmering in
the radiant air—the tree beside which he stood—his
own form and features—and yet deeper, beyond
imagination, to infinity, were the blue and bending
heavens—the glittering stars—the sleeping clouds—
the spotted moon.
“Exquisite! incredible!” broke from his lips.
He almost held his breath as he gazed, a sense of
unutterable delight filling his heart; when, with a
thrill that froze his blood, he saw beneath him, in
the starless mirror, a hand—and a dagger glittering
in the moonbeams, raised aloft to strike. He had
only time to commit himself to God, when a loud
shriek rose close behind him, like a voice awaken
ing one struggling with the nightmare. He was instantly
drawn back, and staggered against the tree,
the reflection of which a few moments before he
had been observing in the water. It was a moment
ere he quite recovered from the stupor into which
this incident had thrown him. On turning, he found
himself alone, but the figure of a female at some
distance appeared approaching him. As he advanced
towards her, he perceived she was breathless
and fainting with terror. She sunk upon one of the
seats, and, lifting her face, pale with fright, discovered
the features of Madame Wharton.
“Thank God!” she exclaimed, as soon as her agitation
would permit her to speak. “Oh, let us hasten
from this dreadful spot.”
“Madame Wharton!” said Claude, “I am amazed.
How came you here—at this extraordinary
hour—at a moment so strange?—and where is he
who attempted my life?”
“Oh, Mr. Wyndham! what a singular chance!”
“It was your shriek that saved me. I had lost
my balance.”
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“Merciful Providence! Let us hasten away and
call the guard,” said Madame Wharton.
“But, madame—you—how came you here?—by
what extraordinary chance?—I am quite at a loss to
conjecture!”
“I will tell you as we proceed; but, for Heaven's
sake, do not delay your return. I am painfully
alarmed—this is shocking.”
“It might have been much worse though,” said
Claude, smiling.
“But the ruffian may return—”
“Pray be under no apprehension. If he does, I
will be more ready for him. He would not fire a
pistol so near the town, and with a dagger he cannot
do much harm when seen; but I have no words
to express my amazement. What can this mean?
Whom have I offended? What ill have I done to
call for such vengeance? I have never had a serious
quarrel except with one person; and, much as
I despise that person, I really dare not utter his
name in connexion with such an affair.”
“It is mysterious—it is frightful,” said Madame
Wharton; “but let us hasten towards the gate. I
tremble lest the assassin should return. We must
give notice to the guard.”
“No,” said Claude; “the man by this time is
probably long past pursuit, and most likely has entered
by some other gate. He would scarcely undertake
an affair like this without being prepared
for a retreat.”
“Had he succeeded, you would have been precipitated
into the water. It might have been
months—perhaps years—before your fate could be
known.”
“But pray satisfy my curiosity,” said Claude,
“for I scarcely find this attempt on my life so extraordinary
as your being here so opportunely to
save me—and at such an unseasonable hour!”
“I went to your hotel,” said Madame Wharton.
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“I had something of importance to inquire of you.
I could not come before, and my impatience would
not permit me to wait till to-morrow: wishing to
see you in secret, I took with me no servant, and I
had no idea that I should be less safe about the town
in the night than in the day. On inquiring at your
hotel, they told me you had gone out. I returned
home and was entering the house, when I thought I
perceived you at a distance, walking towards the
Park. The extreme loveliness of the night seemed
to render this place peculiarly appropriate as the
scene for the conversation I wished to have with
you, and I followed you. On drawing near, I perceived
a figure on the shady side of the way moving
at some distance behind you, with an air of one
watching you—pausing when you paused—advancing
when you advanced—stooping and lurking back
in the shadow, and hiding behind the nearest object
twice when you turned. This strange apparition,
dogging your steps with such a stealthy determination,
awakened first my curiosity and then my alarm.
He skulked after you till you approached and passed
through the gate; then pausing a considerable
time, he assumed a careless air, and went also
through the portal. I followed. For a long time,
as you walked, I perceived him skulking after you
till you approached the dark grove which ended
by the stream. He then hid behind a tree. The
moonlight streamed upon the spot where you stood,
and, as you leaned over the water, I saw him steal
cautiously up. I should have called, but even then
I was not sure he might not be one of your acquaintance,
practising some merry surprise; till,
with a terror which for a moment took from me the
power of speech, I saw him dart from the thicket
to your side, and something in his hand flashed in
the moonlight as he lifted it over your head. My
horror scarcely enabled me to utter the shriek which
arrested him; when, starting and muttering a deep
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oath in English, he passed very near me with great
rapidity, and disappeared.”
“Did you see his face?”
“I did not.”
“And could you at all recognise his form?”
“No. Terror blinded me. I have no distinct
impression of his appearance.”
“It is certainly very singular—and recalls to me
an incident which happened soon after my arrival
in Berlin. I was walking also late at night, as I
have a custom of doing, and also in the Park, when
a strange, coarse-looking man presented himself
suddenly at my back as I turned accidentally on
hearing the howl of a dog.”
“You are, then, the object of an assassin's dagger;
you are certainly marked for some one's victim.”
“But whose?”
“Alas!” said Claude, with emotion, “I know
not. I scarcely care. My life is full of mystery and
pain. I have nothing which cheers the existence of
other men.”
“But,” said Madame Wharton, “we are nearly
at the gate; and, before we proceed, let me ask you
some information respecting your family and situation.
A wonderful coincidence has brought you
before my eyes; and with you, Mr. Wyndham, such
singular associations and vague hopes as make me
tremble.”
“Associations—with me?” echoed Claude.
“I heard your replies this evening,” continued
Madame Wharton, “to that odious Lady Beverly.
Who this woman is I do not know. But I perceive
she has conceived an enmity against you
which excites my curiosity. Let me be indeed your
friend. Confide in me your whole history. You
are strangely misrepresented here now. You stand
in the attitude of a suspected person. Very painful
statements are going the rounds of the whole
society concerning you. Elkington openly avows
that you are an impostor and a coward, and has
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deliberately expressed his determination to drive you
from Berlin in disgrace. Count Carolan believes
him. He says you are here under an assumed
name. Your attachment to Ida is beginning to be
talked of, and Carolan has declared that you shall
never again enter his house. He has solemnly forbidden
Ida even to speak to or of you, under the
pain of his lasting displeasure; and he is capable
of turning her adrift upon the world for the slightest
act of disobedience. What is the origin of these
reports?”
“If to be nameless and friendless—if to be without
family or resources, except one which chance
has given and may withdraw at any moment—if to
have loved rashly one whom I knew I could never
obtain—and if to feel myself bound by principles of
action from which not disgrace itself shall make me
swerve, against calling out into the field, and killing
or being killed, by the man who makes no secret of
his wish to ruin me; if this be guilt, then I am
most guilty. If this be cowardice, then I am a
coward.”
“Who are you, then?” said Madame Wharton,
with increasing agitation.
“You are ill,” said Claude; “you are exhausted
with the terror of this night.”
“No. I earnestly entreat you to go on.”
“Then, madame, I fear that I am the child of
guilt; and I fear that, if I had a family, I should be
more degraded than I am without one. I remember
little of my infancy. It passed among strangers.
I crossed the ocean in my earliest years to
England, where I was placed at a good school, and
where subsequently I received an education which
I owed to charity. Lord Perceval, the friend I
have lately lost, and his estimable lady, some time
since deceased, brought me up out of friendship.
On leaving the university I received a letter which
could only have proceeded from a heart filled with
loathing, and directed against one whose existence
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it regarded as a misfortune and a shame. It informed
me that I was the child of guilt; that only
one person on the earth knew who I was, and that
person was and ever would be prevented by disgust
and horror from owning or seeing me; that I sprung
from the lowest, the vilest class of society; that my
father was a wretch covered with dishonour, and my
mother a—being yet lower; that she had paid the
penalty of her crimes—and that, if ever I made an
attempt to discover my origin, I should but bring
down on my head all the detestation and shame
which criminal parents could bequeath to a miserable
child. An annuity of £450 was settled on me
through a certain banker, on the condition that I
should never take measures to find out from whence
it came, or anything concerning it. It was to cease
instantly upon the first inquiry. I was requested
to pass most of my time abroad. I have been compelled
thus to live a kind of idle life. I have travelled
about the globe, and occupied myself with
my own thoughts and observations, and endeavoured
to find a recompense for these disadvantages,
and to repair, as far as possible, by a stainless life,
the woes and guilt of those mysterious persons from
whom I drew my being.”
“Have you that letter?”
“It is among the papers of Lord Perceval. I
have long made up my mind to pursue the subject no
farther. A father who could thus cast me off, and
doom me to a life of suspicion—to be branded by
every malicious foe with mysteries which I cannot
explain—I confess I would not meet if I could, and
I should tremble lest, in discovering him, I should
but find some unfortunate whose hands are imbrued
with blood and crime, and the spoils of whose sin
I myself am perhaps sharing. My curiosity to unravel
these secrets—to know what sin my mother
has committed, and what was the manner in which
she expiated it—this curiosity is quenched by the
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misgivings to which it gives rise. Oh, my mother!
if your shade hovers in the air, or pines in hopeless
wo for a life of crime, cannot the sacrifices of
your unhappy son soften your anguish or sooth
your remorse? And oh, my father! if your dark
eyes follow the course of him whom you have thus
so long cast off, are there no moments when nature
pleads in a heart hardened only by chance,
and you behold through tears of affection one who
obeys and loves, even when he trembles at the
thought of you?”
“Have you no knowledge of your real name?”
“None. A complete mystery enshrouds it. Often,
when I read of the execution of some female, I
shudder lest it might be the being who gave me
birth; often, when I hear of some criminal, I wonder
whether a father's heart be not bursting in that
death-doomed form.”
“Horrible thought!” said Madame Wharton.
“I am encircled by awful mysteries,” said Claude.
“I feel as if borne by destiny along a dark tide, I
know not whither.”
“It is dark indeed,” said Madame Wharton. “I
am as bewildered as yourself. There are strange
things in life—and wild—which sometimes hover
around the paths of mortals—and which are never
dreamed of by others.”
“But come,” said Claude, “I have been excited
and weak. I do not allow myself often to give way
to these thoughts. Perhaps my imaginations and
apprehensions are equally unfounded. There is a
bright side as well as a dark to my fate; but will
you allow me to ask, madame, what object you have
in pursuing these inquiries?”
“Because I am your friend,” said Madame
Wharton, in a low and tremulous tone; and she
held out her hand. He pressed it to his lips.
“You are,” said he, “the only one on earth who
takes an interest in my lonely fate, and I thank you.”
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“Promise me, then,” said Madame Wharton, “to
be guided by me. Do not yield to the temptations
which Elkington will throw in the way of your passion,
and to Ida—be as a stranger. The path of
right is sometimes steep and dreary, but leads to
true happiness.”
“I have promised,” said Claude. He felt that he
yielded to her influence as a mortal to a superior
being, sent thus by Heaven to save his life in the
moment of peril, and to support his resolution with
the inspired words of hope and virtue.
CHAPTER XXVII.
Lady Beverly and Elkington drove home from
the ball at Mr. de B—'s in no very amiable mood.
The inquiries which Lady Beverly had so pertinaciously
put to Claude respecting his family, had
been the result of a settled plan to embarrass and
disgrace him, and it perfectly well succeeded till his
last reply, which, with the dignity of truth, turned
the tables against them, carried conviction to every
heart, and rather created sympathy than the distrust
and derision intended. In proportion to their disappointment
at their failure, their detestation increased.
On reaching the hotel after the ball, instead of
retiring to bed, they sat up, engaged in a conversation
upon the state of their affairs, in which Claude
now began to play an important rôle.
“If ever two young fools on earth loved each
other,” said Lady Beverly, “they are mutually in
love. They both conceal it as far as they can;
but, in my opinion, they privately understand each
other, and have already formed a plan to break off
your engagement. Is it likely that they should be
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together so much as they have been, with such feelings
as they evidently entertain for each other, without
a mutual explanation?”
“If I can drive on this affair with Carolan,” said
Elkington, “I shall have something to stand on till
the old man dies. I can keep Shooter quiet, and
arrange my other affairs till the event, which cannot
be far off, comes to relieve me. At the moment
of success, this detested coward steps between me
and my hopes. He slights and insult me with every
look. Before Ida knew him she was quite decided.
She would have married me at any moment.
But now she's shy—cool—timid. I find her sometimes
abstracted and melancholy — sometimes in
tears—and lately she has even frowned in a way
which I don't like. I'll marry her, whether she will
or not; that is in my power. She shall be my wife
if it break her heart; and if I could but blow this
scoundrel's brains out, and marry her afterward, I
would hasten back to London, pay my debts, hush
up those two cursed affairs, and in future conduct
operations a little more cautiously. As for this
Wyndham, he needn't think to escape me. I have
lived two-and-twenty years in the world, and very
possibly I have overlooked a favour, but, by —, I
never forget an injury or an insult.”
“But this man won't fight.”
“Won't?” said Elkington, starting from his seat,
and pacing the room with a hurried step. “He
can't avoid it. I'll make him. No man, be his
principles what they may, can escape it. Won't
fight? I have heard of this before; but I never yet
found the person whom, when I chose, I could not
force to it, and whom, when once there, I could not
teach the danger of crossing me with impunity.
Claude Wyndham has insulted, injured, and thwarted
me. I am not to be trampled on with impunity,
nor am I one of those who shrink from availing
themselves of means which every gentleman sanctions
and adopts.”
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“But human life—my son,” said Lady Beverly,
“have you not already too much stained your
hands?”
“No. It is a prejudice. What is human life
more than other life? It was made to be extinguished
by a thousand chances. Men are but insects,
who are born by millions—who come and
go like gnats in the breeze. They perish in the
field of battle—in the wreck—by famine—by pestilence,
and their own excesses. They are like the
reptiles which lie across our path as we walk; we
cannot help treading on them. What avails one
more or less? Yet these cautious cowards would
have us believe that earth and heaven are moved
when a miserable creature like this Wyndham is
turned into his grave a few years before his time.”
“But your own life, my son.”
“I care not for my own life. What is life to me,
that I should value, or death, that I should fear it?
My youth is past, and with it all my hopes of pleasure.
I have quaffed the cup till sated with its cloying
sweets. What, after all, has life to offer me
but a few enjoyments; startling, because full of
danger; or sweet, only to sicken me the sooner? I
confess, on this miserable earth I find no great attraction.
Every real pleasure is forbidden by law,
by society, or by the narrow limits of our own natures.
We can't enjoy as we would. Internal diseases
follow every feast which is spread before the
eyes of poor mortals; and, as if the world had been
created by a fiend, a youth of pleasure is sure to be
followed by an age of pain. Already I begin to feel
the effects of plucking the fruit that hangs around
me, and of drinking the stream which flows at my
feet. Yet what is it there for, if not for us? No.
If I don't value the lives of others, neither do I my
own. I have nothing to regret—nothing to regret
me. When I die, it will be but the falling off of a
leaf unmourned, unmissed. If I have nothing to
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regret in life, neither have I anything to fear in
death. I believe in no hereafter!”
“Alas! who can tell?” said Lady Beverly.
“I can, madam, My common sense tells me
that this is an idle dream—a folly of the nursery—
a tale of priests and poets—an impossibility. What!
live without life? be crushed by a piece of granite,
like a trodden fly, and yet exist, and breathe, and
see, and move? bah! It is ridiculous. It is a lie.
When we die, we die. Things to us are ended.
The spider that we tread on, and the man we kill—
once gone, are gone. It is all black—blank—void—
and who cares? What difference does it make
whether he or I go a day or two sooner or later?
Who watches over us—our fates—our actions?
Who will care if I kill him, or he me? Who sees—
who knows—who takes note of all the multifarious
incidents of mankind, age after age? No, no—
thank God!—if life has few charms for me, death
has fewer terrors. It is but a bullet—a flash—a
leap—and then—a sound sleep. The rest is a bugbear!”
A knock at the door interrupted him, and Scarlet
entered with a letter, which, he said, had been left
by a person enveloped in a cloak, so that his face
could not be seen. Elkington took the letter, dismissed
the servant, broke the seal, and read.
“For God sake, Edward, what is it?” said Lady
Beverly, as she watched his countenance. He made
no reply till he had finished perusing it; then he
struck his hand violently upon the table and said,
“It only wanted this. I'll tread that man beneath
my heel like an adder.”
“Edward, what does this mean?”
“Read, and tell me whether this is not enough to
sanction any step?”
She read aloud. It was Claude's letter to Count
Carolan, enclosing that from Denham. The two
had been sent by another hand in a third envelope.
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“I will silence him,” said Elkington.
“But how?”
“He must meet me before another day is passed.”
“He will not.”
“He shall; he must be made to. I'll insult him.
I'll choose the most public scene to heap on him all
the odium he merits. I'll insult every lady who
walks with him. There is no provocation which
one man can offer another which I will not thrust
upon him. I'll ring in his ears, and in the ears of
all around him, that he is a coward and a villain.
I'll brand him aloud with every epithet of scorn.”
“Edward! Edward!” said Lady Beverly, following
him backward and forward through the room.
“And if,” said he, “he refuses to fight, I'll—”
The door was suddenly thrown open, and Scarlet
announced “Mr. Wyndham.”
“Mr. Wyndham?” cried Lady Beverly, with astonishment.
“It is certainly some mistake. Mr.
Wyndham?”
“You are a fool,” said Elkington. “Who is it?
what is it?”
“It is Mr. Wyndham, my lord, with another
person.”
“Great Heaven!” exclaimed Lady Beverly,
“what can this mean?”
“Admit them!” said Elkington, sternly, and with
a feeling at his heart which even he, wide as had
been his experience in human sensations, had never
known before.
At the word of the servant Claude entered, dragging
in with an iron grasp an individual who, although
he resisted, seemed scarcely to require an
effort of his athletic arm. Thrust into the middle
of the floor, he lifted a pale countenance, so much
altered that he was with difficulty recognised as the
complaisant and even amiable Carl. Claude advanced
to the table where Lady Beverly and Elkington
had been sitting. He was calm, and even
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courteous in his demeanour, but his face, as eminently
formed to express sternness as gentleness, exhibited
determination which, for a minute, awed both the
persons whose midnight privacy he had so unexpectedly
and unceremoniously interrupted. Lady
Beverly leaned for support upon the table. Elkington
stood half stupified with indignation, yet, for the
moment, too thunderstruck to speak, but his eyes
glittered with a passion more terrible from its stillness.
“I might offer an apology to Lady Beverly,” said
Claude, “for this abrupt and unseasonable visit, but
the occasion must be its own excuse.”
“Speak on, sir,” said Lady Beverly, for Elkington
seemed speechless with astonishment and rage.
“Passing accidentally your door but this instant,
I saw my servant approach it, muffled in a cloak—
hand a letter—and hastily retreat with signs of guilty
caution. I followed and seized him as he was
creeping stealthily back to his home. I demanded
whom he had been to see—what employment he
was charged with from other persons than myself—
whom else he served—what letter he had delivered—
and why this air of guilty secrecy. The boy is
a coward as well as a scoundrel, and, terrified at
being detected, he instantly made a confession so
singularly involving the honour of yourself, madam,
and Lord Elkington, that, as much from respect to
you as from justice to myself, I determined that
you should confront him on the instant and convict
him of the falsehood.”
“This insult—this outrage,” cried Lady Beverly.
“D—tion, sir!” said Elkington, reaching from a
bookcase at his side a pair of duelling pistols, and
laying them with a quaking hand and an ashy face
upon the table, “if you are not a scoundrel—”
“Repeat, sir,” said Claude to Carl, “what you
have just confessed to me.”
“I confess—” said Carl, in excellent English.
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“How!” said Claude. “Do you speak English?”
“Yes, monsieur; pardon me—forgive me—do not
put me in prison. I will relate all, indeed, indeed
I will—”
“If you utter one word, you cowardly rascal, respecting
me or my affairs, I'll send this bullet through
your head,” said Elkington.
“Oh, mon Dieu!” said Carl, whining and crying,
“what shall I do, what shall I do?”
“He declares that for some time past he has
been in your pay; that you have promised to take
him with you to England in your employ; that
he has rendered you an account of my actions—
conversations—journals—and private letters and
papers—”
“He is an infamous liar!” said Elkington, “and
you are the same; and I will so proclaim you in public
wherever I meet you.”
“Your language, my lord, convinces me that, however
vile may be my servant, he has employers yet
more so.”
“Coward! you shall give me satisfaction for
this; you shall hear from me before you sleep, and
in a way which, if you are not dead to every feeling
of honour—”
“Of my honour, my lord,” said Claude, “I am
the guardian, and I believe you are not the judge.”
“Then I brand the words coward and liar upon
your forehead. I will thunder them in your ear—
I will write them beneath your name in all companies,
at all hours—I will never meet you in the
streets, in the ball, in the church even, without
pointing, and hissing, and proclaiming aloud, There
stands a coward!”
“If you can point your finger,” said Claude, with
perfect composure, “at one action of my life which
dishonours me, I shall feel annoyed by the terms
you make use of. Otherwise they pass by me `as
the idle wind,' and I shall avoid you as a madman,
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or take measures to secure myself against you as a
ruffian. The words of a man like you can neither
awake my passion nor permanently injure my character.
As for the charge I make against you, I wish
I could believe it untrue.”
“It is untrue, I solemnly declare,” said Lady
Beverly.
“And I so pronounce it, on the faith of a gentleman
and a man of honour,” said Elkington; “and
let any one but an outcast like yourself, deny, nay,
doubt it, at his peril. The good name of a nobleman
and a lady are not to be destroyed by the raving
of a valet-de-chambre, nor the malignant plots of a
miserable impostor, without rank, fortune, or family;
a child of guilt and chance, whose father is probably
in a convict's cell—whose mother—”
Claude laid his hand on the pistol nearest him,
and Elkington, with a sneer of triumph and hate,
grasped his, and continued, “Whose mother, after a
life of pollution, has died, amid hisses and jeers,
on the scaffold.”
It was obvious that this coarse language was the
mode by which Elkington hoped to taunt and lash
his foe to desperation; for he knew in his heart
that he was no coward, and that he had only to give
passion one moment an ascendancy over that calm
reason and high principle which inspired his life,
and shed a kind of divine protection around him, to
push him into a duel, and quench the hate which
had now taken possession of his soul to a fearful extent.
It is not certain that Claude, thus goaded beyond
example and almost beyond bearing, might not
have consented to arrangements for an immediate
meeting; but he remembered his promise given to
Madame Wharton, and laid down the deadly weapon.
At the same moment he perceived something
which again reminded him that he was dealing with
a man beneath his notice.
“You deny, then, that you have had any private
communication with my servant?” asked Claude.
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“Most positively,” said Elkington, “and I pronounce
him—”
“Spare your invectives, my lord,” said Claude.
“That he who could be base enough to do such a
thing, would be mean enough to deny it, does not
surprise me; but I am astonished that such a skilful
practitioner as Lord Elkington should make the denial
without at least first dropping from his hand
the evidence of his guilt.”
Elkington looked down, and beheld the letter
which Claude had written to Carolan, and which, in
his confusion, he had retained in his hand. It was
open, and the signature, “Claude Wyndham,” was
conspicuously visible. The letter from Denham
was also lying open on the table.
“You will excuse my resuming my own property,”
said Claude, reaching forward and taking the
two letters.
Elkington's eyes absolutely flashed with fury as
Claude moved to take the letter from his hand, and
he cocked the pistol and raised it, his face whitening
with his dreadful purpose. But the act of deliberately
shooting an unarmed man, of sending
headlong into eternity the human being who stands
erect before him, in all the loveliness of life, requires
a nerve which can scarcely be the gift but of
madness, and which even this reckless villain had
not yet become sufficiently frantic to acquire. Besides,
there are consequences. The law is awakened
when such a deed is openly done. There is no
hushing it up; and a vision of a dungeon and a crowded
court—of a felon's chain and a felon's fate—
formed a restraint upon the hand of Elkington which
neither generosity nor religion would have excited.
He muttered in a voice choked and husky with
rage,
“Wyndham, you shall hear from me to-morrow.
You shall not carry it off in this manner.”
“No, my lord, your message will be useless.
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You may murder me if you will, and take the consequences.
My life, like that of every other man,
is exposed to the attempt of an assassin. Your
threats I despise—your calumnies I defy. A
peaceful conscience will secure me from the one,
and a pure life from the other. For my courage,
my lord, you may think and speak of it as you
please; but I shall expose your baseness without
hesitation or fear, and perhaps call upon the law of
our common country to protect me against the falsehood
of so unprincipled a slanderer. Should you
dare to direct against an unarmed man the blind fury
of an assassin, I leave those laws to punish you as
a murderer merits.”
“Cautious coward!” said Elkington, and again
raised his arm. The demon in his soul whispered
him to fire, and thus plunge with so mortal an enemy
down the chasm of death. It is possible that,
had his foe shown any symptom of fear or retreat,
he might so far have lost his reason as to have accomplished
his dark intention; but Claude was a
man of strong nerve as well as of perfect courage,
and he really feared death as little and much less
than his rival. To him life was now bereft of its
charm, and perhaps secretly he was scarce displeased
at the thought of a sudden blow, which
would terminate an existence doomed to such sad
despair. This real indifference to death shed
around him a calm grandeur. He stood firm and
cool—the very smile on his lips unchanged—and the
sternness of his brow softening into something of derision
and contempt, while his clear, searching eye
bent on his antagonist a gaze that pierced and cowed
his soul; and his unprotected breast lay so unshrinkingly
open to the blow, that, in addition to the
idea of a gibbet, a sentiment of shame touched the
villain's heart and caused him to lower his weapon.
Lady Beverly, after an ineffectual attempt to arrest
his arm, fell back fainting on the sofa.
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“We shall meet again,” said Elkington. “There
will be a time!”
Claude withdrew without haste. Again he found
himself alone in the cool, silent night. His eye
was cast again over the tranquil streets and up to
the starry sky. One motion of Elkington's finger,
and he would have never gazed on these fair objects
more.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
It is often observed that events of peculiar interest
come crowding upon us together. The man
who has inherited a rich legacy is not unlikely to
draw a prize in the lottery, or he who has just lost
a ship at sea, to have his house burned down at
about the same period. One might almost be
tempted to think that superior beings wove, in a
kind of sport, the destinies of mortals; conscious,
perhaps, that hereafter the objects of their amusement
will be raised so far above their present condition
as to join in the merriment which all that belongs
merely to earth is alone worthy to excite.
Elkington, after pacing his room all night in a
state which precluded the possibility of sleep, sent
early the next morning for a gentleman whom he
knew he might trust with the commission he intended
to ask of him. This was a retired French
officer, who, like himself, was a duellist in principle
and by profession, having in his time sent to a
bloody grave several persons who had inadvertently
trodden on his toe, occupied his seat at the opera,
looked at his female companions, or committed some
other heinous offences, without offering in reparation
exactly the kind of apology which he thought
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becoming. He was a fierce-looking little man, with
an ugly face and a still more disagreeable person.
He had no qualities which rendered him pleasing.
He did not pay his debts, nor serve his friends with
fidelity, unless when he thought his interest required
him to do so. Nobody really liked him. But
he was invited everywhere. He was a brave man,
and had performed some gallant feats in action; but,
having been shot through the body in one duel with
a brother officer, because he would not disown an
expression which he afterward confessed he had
never used, and having received a cut across the
cheek in another, from a person who said he was
an ass, and who, upon being called upon to retract,
declared himself ready to abide by what he had said,
and accordingly left on his physiognomy this visible
record of his opinion—having received these disqualifications
for the service, he had retired on a
small fortune, and had become a kind of authority
in affairs of honour. The name of this gentleman
was General Le Beau, although one can scarcely
imagine a name less expressive of the appearance
of the individual who bore it.
On receiving the commands of Elkington, he
twirled his long red mustache between his thumb
and finger, gave a significant smile, took the note,
and proceeded to fulfil his task.
Scarcely had he gone when Scarlet entered with
three letters. The first was in a hand with which
he was not acquainted. It ran thus:
“Although Lord Elkington is ignorant of the
name and existence of the writer of this note, the
latter has the most accurate knowledge of your
lordship and his affairs. It is not impossible that
your lordship may be at first incredulous on reading
it, but a few moments' conversation with your lordship's
mother will entirely convince you of its truth.
I ain't a rich or a great man like your lordship, but
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fortune has made me the possessor of a secret which
has been for some time a source of profit, and which,
I freely tell your lordship, I shall use to my own
advantage. Your lordship is aware that your noble
father, the Earl of Beverly, was married before he
united himself to your mother, the present Lady
Beverly. That match was unfortunate, as the world
well knows; but—I beg to call your lordship's attention
to this fact—there is a circumstance connected
with it which neither your lordship nor the world
knows, viz., that the issue of that marriage yet survives,
in the person of a son, who is, in reality, the
heir of your father's estate. This secret exists
solely and exclusively in my bosom. The son of
the Earl of Beverly, for causes which doubtless can
be explained, should it be necessary to investigate
the matter in a court of justice, went with his mother
to the West Indies. The vessel in which they
sailed was wrecked, and all on board perished but
two persons. One was the child, who was picked
up senseless from a spar (to which the mother had
attached him, being herself washed overboard and
drowned before she could make herself fast); the
other individual saved was myself. We were picked
up by the same ship, and I was carried, with the
child, into Boston. It had happened that I knew
the Earl of Beverly having had a boyish passion for
a young female in his household, who, before I left
England, had revealed to me certain family secrets
of a highly important nature, and, among others,
that the mother of this child had fled from her husband
in consequence of charges against her honour
of the vilest kind. I had seen her in the earl's family
(then Mr. Lawson), and I recognised her on board
the ship which bore us to the New World, although
she was there under an assumed name, and was totally
unknown to all but myself. Here, then, I found
myself with this boy, whom no one in America knew
anything of. Being aware that his father had
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disowned him, I thought that I might serve both the
boy and myself by keeping, for a time, the secret of
his birth. For years I kept my eye on him, for a
finer fellow never walked. His beauty and character
at length attracted the attention of a lady, who,
hearing of his desolate situation, took him with her
to England, at the age of eight years. Dying, she
bequeathed him as a legacy to a lady, who educated
him till he left the University. It was then that I
informed the Earl of Beverly of his existence. That
nobleman arranged with me never to reveal the secret,
and has paid me for my silence.
“Your lordship will probably learn, on the same
day which brings you this, that your noble father
has been seized with another fit, which will probably
end his existence long before the arrival of my
letter. Your lordship, on beholding such an inheritance
within your grasp, would not like to be dispossessed
by a stranger—a misfortune which would
not only leave your lordship penniless, but, I believe,
deeply in debt. I have not intrusted this letter to
the hands of a third person, upon a question so extremely
embarrassing and important, but have come
to Berlin in person, and am waiting your lordship's
leisure. As this is purely a matter of business, we
had better discard all ceremony, and come directly
to the point. I received an annuity of £100 from
the earl, on condition of keeping this secret, and he
assured me that a provision to that effect would be
found in his will. A life of idleness, however, has
caused me to contract expensive habits, and I no
longer find this allowance sufficient. Just at this
time, too, I am unfortunately in debt to a considerable
amount. I expect from your lordship the immediate
means of relief. A note left at the postoffice,
to the address of Mr. Oliver Richards, will
procure you an interview with me, at the hour and
place most convenient to your lordship. I need not
hint that, should your lordship be reluctant to
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negotiate with me, I shall be able, probably, to procure
better terms from the other party.
“Your lordship's obedient servant,
“Oliver Richards.”
Elkington's first impulse on reading this strange
epistle was to laugh at it as a hoax, and he dropped
it on the table as a thing requiring no more attention,
while he opened the second letter. It came
from the Marquis of Manby. Its contents were as
follows:
“My dear Elkington:
“The melancholy duty has devolved upon me of
informing you of the sudden, and, I fear, fatal malady
which has attacked your father. He was reading
this morning in his library; a violent ringing of
the bell called the servants to his side, when he was
found struggling in his fauteuil in a fit of the most
alarming description. Doctor B—and Sir Richard
L—have pronounced his case incurable. It
is not impossible, they say, that he may recover so
far as to retain life for months, and perhaps a year;
but that he can never again leave his bed, or recover
his senses except as a prelude to immediate dissolution,
is quite certain. I need not say that we
deeply sympathize with the distress which this
event will occasion your amiable mother, and the
pain it will inflict upon you particularly, as I have
been told some coolness had unhappily arisen between
your esteemed parent and yourself. I need
only say, my dear Elkington, that, while I sympathize
profoundly with your grief, I am the most sincere,
as I am the first of your friends to congratulate
you upon the magnificent inheritance which is about
to descend to you, and which, I am quite certain,
could not have fallen into more worthy hands. Command
me in any way, should necessity detain you
some days longer on the Continent.
“Ever faithfully yours,
“Manby.
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“P.S.—Sir Richard L — has just told me that
his patient is beyond the danger of any immediate
change; he is quite senseless, and will probably
thus remain for an indefinite period.”
The perusal of this letter threw a more serious
character over the first. He took it up, and read it
again with greater attention. It was written in a
rude, unpractised hand, as by one not used to a pen;
and there was about it a sort of bold familiarity, and
an insolence, checked at times by an assumed air of
respect, which seemed natural enough under such
circumstances. The writer, at least, was aware of
the incident related by the Marquis of Manby. He
had, it seems, started, the instant the earl's dangerous
illness was known, from London to Berlin; and,
if it were a hoax, by the offer of an interview he had
placed in his reach the means of ascertaining at once
whether such a person was in existence. But, should
some one present himself in the character of Mr.
Oliver Richards, and with such a demand for money,
was not the story he had told evidently a bungling
and absurd tissue of improbabilities, if not of
impossibilities, trumped up by some of those hackneyed
London swindlers who, from the recesses of
that vast Babel, ever watch, in the goings on of the
world around them, an opportunity of making some
one their prey? Possibly few heirs have acceded
to such brilliant possessions as that magnificent,
long-sighed-for inheritance now about to become
his own, without being made the object of some
audacious fraud of this kind.
“It is a contemptible scheme to extort money,”
said he, although pale with the ideas which it had
conjured up. “It is a stupid, infamous fabrication,
and, if the scoundrel presents himself, I'll—”
With a shaking hand—for debauchery and unbridled
passion had long ago destroyed his nerves,
and deprived him of the power of self-command on
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the most trivial agitation—he broke the seal of the
third letter. It was from Mr. Pennington, his father's
solicitor; and as he read, the last drop of blood
ebbed from his face, and the last spark of courage
from his heart. Poverty—sudden disgrace—debt—
destitution—the enmity of Shooter, to whom he
owed so much, and who was desperate enough to
revenge himself in any way—the dreaded Abraham,
with his enormous claims—a jail, with all its dismal
misery, rushed upon his mind, and with them a thousand
other horrors, vague, startling, and insupportable.
The letter of the solicitor was in the following
words:
“My Lord,
“You are probably aware of the event which has
reduced your distinguished father to a bed of death,
from which I am advised by his medical attendant
he can never rise, and which precludes all idea of
his again assuming the care of his affairs. I beg
leave, therefore, my lord, to address myself to you,
and shall await your orders.
“The point upon which I first request your directions
relates to the annuity which, your lordship
is probably aware, has been for several years paid
by the earl to a certain person by the name of Claude
Wyndham. The affair has been conducted with
secrecy from reasons never communicated to me,
but which, I presume, your lordship is aware of. I
have been instructed to deposite yearly, in the hands
of Messrs. N. B. & Co., the sum of £500 in advance,
without letting these gentlemen or any other
person know from whose hand it comes. As the
usual period of the deposite is now arrived, I delay
making it only till I hear from your lordship; and I
beg your lordship to furnish me, at your earliest convenience,
with instructions as to future proceedings.
“I have the honour to be, etc, etc,
“John Pennington.'
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The whole truth was now before him. It broke
upon him with a force which made his head reel.
So sudden, so unexpected and blasting was the
stroke, that it completely appalled his heart. It seemed
like a judgment hurled upon him from Heaven
to arrest his guilty and bloody course. Thoughts
that made him start now rose upon his mind. The
resemblance which he had often perceived in
Wyndham to some one he had seen before, particularly
when sternness came over his countenance
and indignation flashed to his eyes—this singular
resemblance, curious as it may appear, he now for
the first time perceived, was to his father; but in the
smooth face of youth and health, the expression had
not been traced to that of the earl, now worn with
grief, thought, and age, and his head covered with
white hairs. It was, undoubtedly, more a resemblance
to the earl as he had been in his youth than
as he was now. Lady Beverly's unaccountable
anxiety respecting him, too—her pale watchfulness—
her morbid curiosity to ascertain who he was—
her hatred of him—her unceasing endeavours to
ruin him—her unaccountable eagerness to conclude
the union with Ida—her half-hinted fears as to the
possibility of his losing his father's estates, which
had often struck him, and which had always been
inexplicable—the letters and journals he had been
enabled to read by the aid of Carl—a thousand circumstances
rose to his memory, all never particularly
reviewed before, all pointing to one astounding
truth, that the man he most hated and pursued was
his brother—was the destined master of Ida's hand—
was the true heir of his father's estates and title—
was in every way his successful rival—his superior—
his evil demon. His inflated heart, so proud,
so vain, so brave in a moment of personal danger,
so ready to tax others with cowardice, so ready to
inflict every kind of pain on those around him—this
bad heart—without religion, principle, or virtue, and
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therefore without the real courage which springs
from Heaven and which leads to it—quailed and
sunk into a state of entire helplessness and agony.
The thought of misfortune to himself cowed him,
and in that moment the fashionable and gallant Elkington
shook like the meanest coward.
He was aroused by the voice of Lady Beverly, who
entered suddenly. She was in a rich morning dress,
going to call on the Carolans and drive in the Park.
Scarlet announced the carriage, and she came in to
give him the usual morning salutations in high spirits.
CHAPTER XXIX.
The first thing which met the eyes of Lady Beverly
as she entered the room was Elkington; his
face pallid, his whole manner marked by extraordinary
agitation, and three open letters upon the table.
“Good Heaven! Edward,” cried she, “what is
the matter?” And the sight of his distress banished
the smile from her lips.
“Shut the door!” said he, in a husky voice.
She obeyed.
“Where's Scarlet?”
“He waits with the carriage.”
“Dismiss the carriage.”
“Great Heaven! what does this mean? From
whom are these letters? What is the matter?”
“Do as I bid you!” said he, sternly.
Startled to be addressed in so rude a manner, the
affrighted woman obeyed without speaking.
“Look to the two outer room doors,” said he;
“we must be alone, and no eyes must peer at us
through cracks and keyholes, as your trusty Carl
makes his observations of Mr. Claude Wyndham!
Now, madam, I have news for you.”
“For the love of Heaven—!”
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“You have taken, as you thought, very efficient
measures to ascertain who is your friend Mr. Claude
Wyndham?”
“Yes,” said Lady Beverly, turning deadly pale;
“what do you know of him?”
“That he is the son of my father,” said Elkington—
“that he is my brother—that he is the heir of the
Beverly estates and titles! The clothes we wear,
the carriage we drive, our luxuries, our fortunes, our
expectations, are his, and we are beggars!”
Lady Beverly stared wildly at her son as he made
this abrupt communication with the air of a ruffian,
for vice, debauchery, and passion had entirely brutalized
his nature. She made an attempt to laugh,
but, with an hysterical gasp, she staggered back,
and his arm only saved her from falling upon the
floor. He bore her to the sofa, and threw her upon it.
“D—tion!” said he; “she has been up to this
before. I knew she had something in her mind. I
wish to God she might lie there till—”
He finished in an under tone his dire imprecation,
and, taking a glass of water, dashed it in her face.
In a few moments she recovered.
“Oh, God!” cried she, “what is all this? Is it
a dream? Edward, my son—my beloved Edward—
you are pale—you tremble—your eyes glitter with
unnatural light—say I am raving—say it is a dream—
what—when—”
“It is no dream, madam,” and he pointed to the
letters. “I tell you we are beggars, unless—”
Lady Beverly seized the letters, and read them
with shaking hands and choking breath. When she
had finished she pressed her hands against her forehead
with a gesture of deep despair.
“Is it true?” demanded Elkington, fiercely.
“It is. It is the judgment of Heaven. God's
own hand is in it. The bolt which has been so long
hovering over my head has fallen at last. We are—
we are beggars. Claude Wyndham is—”
“Silence, madam,” said Elkington, in a voice of
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thunder. “Breathe not a word, if you do not wish
me to inflict upon you instant death, and to finish
the morning by blowing my own brains out.”
He opened a case and took down a pair of pistols.
Lady Beverly, by the greatness of the danger, and
with the effort of a mind, although darkly stained
with guilt, yet greatly superior in strength to that
of her son, caught his arm.
“Let me go, madam. By —, I will never
live to be taunted with dishonour—to be the victim
of poverty—of debt—of derision—of pity. One single
blow, and I shall rest in peace.”
“When other means fail,” said Lady Beverly, in
a low voice, but one full of calmness, and which arrested
and awed him for a moment—“when the
world knows what we know—when Claude Wyndham
himself knows it—when he has his estates—
when no other means are left to save us from poverty,
I will, with you, by a single act, end all my
shame and misery; but you are giving up the battle
before it is fought. Claude Wyndham may be
kept ignorant—this Richards may be kept silent.
What cause is there for despair yet, even should
this secret transpire? Before that event can take
place, you may become the husband of Ida, or Claude
Wyndham may die! You are then the rightful holder
of a fortune of your own.”
“But this Richards!” said Elkington, a glance
of hope shooting across his gloomy countenance;
“with such an insolent cutthroat at my side, how
can I secure myself against his demands? Will two—
three — five — ten thousand pounds satisfy him?
What limits are there to his voracity? The more
I give, the more he will require. I shall live a
slave with this cursed thing hanging over me. I
shall tremble at every whisper!”
“There is one thing which you can do to secure
an independence, and rescue you from Richards and
all other fears; but, before you can comprehend the
subject in all its bearings, I must tell you, at length,
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the fearful and black secret which has preyed upon
my mind for so many years, and which, but for you
and your interest, I should long ago have revealed,
for I am not totally lost to principle.”
“To what, madam?”
“Do not sneer, my son!”
“When you begin to cant, I cannot help it. Tell
your story plainly; I really want to hear it, since I
am, it appears, so much interested.”
“Are the doors perfectly safe?” said Lady Beverly.
Elkington rose and opened the door of the drawing-room
where they sat. It was a corner chamber,
looking on two sides upon the street, and on the
other two sides opening into two other rooms, both
appropriated by themselves. These outer doors
were firmly locked.
“You may speak,” said he; “no one can overhear
us.”
Lady Beverly threw off her shawl and opened
her dress, as if with a sense of heat and suffocation;
a paleness overspread her countenance like that of
death, and she made one or two ineffectual attempts
to speak before her voice would perform its office.
CHAPTER XXX.
“We are in a desperate extremity,” said she,
“and I am going to confess to you the story of a
life which has been wrecked with passion and
blackened with guilt. Two motives sustain me in
thus laying naked to the eyes of any human being,
and especially of a son, the abasement to which I
have been sunk. One of these motives is a hope
that such a task will be received as a kind of penance,
and the other, that the full knowledge of this
subject may influence you to acquiesce in what I
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shall propose, and thus disburden my heart of a portion
of its load of guilt.”
“Oh bah! madam,” said Elkington, with a brutal
sneer; “pray spare your episodes, and set to the
point at once.”
“When your father was Mr. Lawton,” commenced
Lady Beverly, “I met him by chance at a ball
at Lady C—'s. He was the most brilliant and
dangerous man of the day. His personal attraction,
manners, and character were so peculiar, that few
female hearts could withstand his fascinations. He
was on friendly terms with my father, General Carlton,
and came often to our home; we were not rich,
but we were not poor; we lived happily, and even
elegantly; and I flattered myself that, if the qualities
of the father had first attracted so distinguished
a visiter, he was retained, ere long, by those of the
daughter. I was sixteen, and very beautiful. Do
not think me vain; for my beauty now has passed
away; and it was that beauty which depraved my
character and darkened my destiny. A fatal gift it
often is to woman. I conceived for your father a
passion so devoted, that it partook of the fervour of
adoration. No Persian ever worshipped the sun
with more fidelity, admiration, and faith, than I hung
on the changes of his noble face, drank the tones of
his voice, and felt the beams of his eyes penetrating
into all the virgin depths of my soul. This passion
was not alone the affection which a guileless woman
bears to the object of her attachment. It was mingled
with a deep-seated ambition—a love of admiration—
a vanity—a mania, which all combined to
render him the sole object of my wishes. He was
my life. He was my god. The attention which
my beauty excited had already ruined my disposition.
I thought alone of my charms—of how I should
appear—of my renown as the loveliest girl of the
day—of the power which this gave me over all
around—of the envy of the women, and the sighs of
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the men. I thought alone of these. My character
was never weeded—my moral nature never developed—
my heart disciplined—my mind guided—my
passions governed. I was given up to the accidental
effects of universal admiration upon a heart not
easily touched by feeling, and never instructed in
the way of duty. The passion which Mr. Lawton
inspired me with became known to him. I do not
think he at first loved me; but the idea that a lovely
girl had given him her heart—that he had won it
without knowing it—softened his feelings towards
me into something very like love, and gave me hopes
which kept alive, in all its intensity, the love I bore
him.
“At this period his affairs called him to the Continent,
where he made a tour of several years. I
heard of him from time to time; at first he wrote
often to my father. Then his letters grew less frequent.
At length I learned that he was married.
The effect was to throw me into a fever, from which
I did not recover in many months.
“In a year he returned with his wife. I sought
information respecting her—this blaster of my hopes.
She was lovely beyond my worst fears; lovelier, by
far, than I. Without brilliancy, she had softness;
and, with few superficial accomplishments, she possessed
a mind trained to the loftiest virtue, and stored
with solid information. She was far less likely
to dazzle in a gay circle than I; but, once known,
she was more sure to charm. The peculiar enchantment
of her character was a modest and yet
perfect intelligence, and an innocence guileless and
pure. Both of these qualities shone in her countenance,
inspired her words and actions, and shed
around her whole manner an enchantment which
entirely mastered the high and susceptible heart of
Mr. Lawton. Besides this, she was an orphan, left
entirely destitute, under circumstances the most
likely to touch the ever-generous feelings of your
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father, which started always at the thought of another's
wo. She had always lived in the family of
a rich Italian nobleman, whose carriage fell from
one of the precipices which beetle over the Mediterranean
between Nice and Genoa. Her patron
and his lady were dashed to pieces. By a curious
chance, she had become alarmed a few moments
previous to the accident, and requested permission
to walk up the mountain. She was thus saved; but
she found herself alone, without friends, without resources.
Beautiful beyond description, and trembling
at a position so full of danger, your father,
who had known the family in Venice, upon whom
the merits of this remarkable young girl had before
made an impression, and who, through the enthusiastic
representations of her unfortunate patron, had
conceived a high idea of her character and mind,
met her again by accident, and heard with horror
of the event which had left her so isolated, and of
her entire destitution. He visited her. The modest
reserve of her manners did not permit her to see
him often; but, in banishing him from her presence,
she only heightened its effect and increased his ardour.
A profligate English nobleman at the same
time persecuted her with attentions the most unprincipled,
and offers the most gross. He was a
villain, such as affluence and debauchery often produce
upon a bad heart and a shallow understanding.
Terrified and in despair, she was about to throw
herself into a convent, when your father, gifted with
an exquisite impression of beauty and moral worth,
and ever above interested considerations, offered her
his hand, which she accepted, for he had long made
upon her the impression which he could always
make when he pleased.
“But the very perfection of his happiness rendered
it fleeting. The honeymoon had scarcely passed,
when plans were set on foot by the young nobleman
in question, Lord M—, to poison his envied
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bliss; to ruin the peace and reputation of his wife,
and at once to revenge, and perhaps gratify, the unrequited
passion which she had inspired. Whispers
of the darkest import were put in circulation. The
character of her late patron was indirectly attacked;
Lord M— openly boasted of the progress of his
suit before the sudden arrival of Lawton had caused
her to change her plans, and to play for an honourable
marriage with a man whose expectations were
so brilliant. Of these expectations, however, the
poor child knew nothing. She married your father
because she loved him, and saw that he loved her;
and she would have been far happier to pass her
life with him in some peaceful middle rank, than
to accompany him to the dazzling yet dangerous
heights of London fashionable society.
On their arrival in London, Lord M— followed
them. He was a profligate in want of excitement.
His soul was aroused by a game worthy of him, and
he resolved not to abandon the object of his pursuit,
but to complete his revenge by alienating from her
the affections of a husband whom he feared and envied.
I heard these whispers with trembling rapture.
They were the first relief my soul had known
since the moment I learned that your father had
forgotten me in the arms of another, whose simple
sweetness so far eclipsed my renowned beauty. By
every means in my power I watched and aided this
gradual enstrangment. I scarcely knew at first
whether or not it was true. A burning hope had
risen within me, that even yet Lawton and I might
be united. I will not—I dare not—go into the dark
details. It is sufficient to say the end was accomplished.
My father had recently died and left me
my own mistress, with an old aunt who was superannuated,
but yet sufficed as my matron, and who soon
afterward died. I had become acquainted with this
young roué, Lord M—, and, by half convincing
him of the truth of his charges, he made me the
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sharer of them. I managed once to secrete him in
my house while Mrs. Lawton was there, and to produce
the sudden interruption of her husband. By
other means most artfully managed, this was made
to wear a conclusive aspect, and Mr. Lawton was
convinced, and rushed from his wife with a look of
horror and despair. If you will believe me, this
was the first intimation the innocent and artless creature
had of what was going on. On returning
home—alone—terrified—bewildered by some wild
and anguish-stricken expressions from the lips of her
husband, she received a brief note, ordering her to
repair immediately to my house. She did so.
There she received another letter, commanding her
to leave England immediately, and never to call
herself by his name. An annuity was offered her—
anything she might choose—but on condition of her
quitting London, and never making inquiries after
him again. She was advised to remain till her departure
at my house (if I would receive her), and
thence to make her arrangements for an immediate
embarcation for the Continent. I remember the
letter ended with, `Go, guilty, lost being; you are
free—you are no longer my wife. I raised you from
poverty—from despair. Serpent! you have stung
me; come no more across my path, or I shall, with
the honest indignation of virtue, put my foot upon
you, and trample you into the ground.'
“I handed her this letter. Never shall I forget
the look of dignity, the heavenly radiance which
shone around her as she dropped the paper upon
the floor, and stood a moment in mute horror and
agony. Then the tears gushed from her eyes and
streamed through her fingers as she endeavoured to
stop their flow. She sank upon her knees, hid her
face for several moments in silent prayer, and then
rose calmly. Her face was pale all day, as yours
and mine, alas! are now. Her eyes were filled with
tears half shed; but there was a native dignity—
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a heavenly pride, which prevented all other outward
show of grief or agitation. What most astonished
me was, there was no indignation—no noise—no
demands to see her lord—no violent protestations
of innocence; she took the blow mutely and unresistingly,
as an affliction from Heaven. The extreme
loveliness of her appearance only made me
hate her more, with all the fury of a jealous soul, inspired
with the hope of supplanting her in her husband's
love. This, and more other dark deeds I
was ready to do, goaded as I was by my rapturous
hopes and unbridled passions.
“One act more I must confess, if the thunder of
Heaven will permit me to proceed. There was a
vile woman, known as such by all the town, whom
Lord M— brought into the plot without giving
her any knowledge of the persons. To her house,
the constant resort of wild young men, we sent this
unsuspecting girl, to remain till she could embark
for Calais. By this house Lord M— managed
to have Lawton conducted, as if accidentally, so that
he saw his once adored wife talking with a person,
with whom to speak was to acknowledge all. In
this house she was delivered of a son. Lawton was
made acquainted with the fact. He was one of
those men whose high sense of honour admit of no
compromise, and who, in their abhorrence of vice,
go to the last extreme. This hapless girl had so utterly
possessed his confidence—had so completely
mastered his soul—that nothing short of what he
had seen could have determined him to believe her
unworthy. He had, however, seen. He had heard
of the heir to his house, brought into the world in
shame and dishonour; and kneeling down, he swore
solemnly to his Maker to banish them both from his
heart—to hear nothing from them—to ask nothing
of them—to tear them off—and let them `down the
wind, a prey to fortune.'
“It was scarcely possible to believe that a
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creature so soft and inexperienced possessed a character
so firm and high. These qualities were indeed
as conspicuous in her as they were in her husband.
Neither, when once insulted and injured, as they
each believed themselves to be, was capable of the
slightest attempt at compromise or explanation.
He, although it crushed his heart, never pronounced
her name again—never asked after her—never wavered
in his resolution to turn his face and his soul
from her loveliness and her guilt for ever. Whatever
might have been her fate, whether she broke
her heart, or starved to death in the street, it was
the same to him; and I believe—so deeply had the
blow wounded him—that if he had seen her, in all the
power of her charms, upon a scaffold, and known
that a word from his lips would have rescued her,
that word would not have been spoken. He had
sworn to make her a stranger; and he is one, as you
know, who, when fully roused to a resolution, never
breaks it. There are wavering natures, who may be
melted by the sight of extreme wretchedness to pardon
any injury. Injuries of an ordinary kind no
one would have been more ready to forget than he;
but she had not only destroyed his happiness and
his confidence in human nature, but she had abased
his name—blasted his honour— broken his heart.
He had cast her off to plague, famine, and suicide—
to guilt and wo, here and hereafter.
“Like him, she was also firm. I am convinced
that innocence more pure never appeared upon the
earth; but in her tender and trusting soul she possessed
till then, as undreamed of by herself as by
others, a nature as inflexible, as unbending and
haughty, as that of her husband. The parting letter
of him whom she so tenderly loved came upon her
like the trumpet of death. All the other evils of
the world, bursting together upon her head, could
not equal this sudden blow. She had been raised
by him from poverty. She had loved him with a
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trustingness which such women often put into their
love. She had committed her happiness and honour
to his care. She had supposed that, all mankind
uniting against her, and believing evil of her,
he would never be shaken by any proof; and yet,
upon some hearsay—for she little knew the extent of
the intrigue against her—without notice—without a
hearing—without one word of explanation, he had
cast her off—had published her ruin—had cruelly
turned her adrift, friendless and bewildered, upon
the world from whose dangers he had rescued her.
If his confidence in human nature was shaken, so
was hers; but her resolution was instantly conceived
and put in practice. The annuity he offered she
did not apply for. Though left penniless in her
painful situation—about to become a mother—and
not knowing where to go, she would have died with
her infant rather than accept relief from the hand
that had thus spurned her. The plausible lady to
whose house I had recommended her, offered her,
as she thought, from simple benevolence, an asylum
till her illness should be over. This she accepted
with tearful gratitude, as aid from Heaven.
The letter of her husband she returned in an envelope
to the hand that sent it, with no other comment
than the stains of tears which had half effaced its
fierce and burning words. When her health and
that of her child permitted, she wrote me her desire
to set off instantly for the Continent. As eager
as herself to hasten her departure, I furnished her
the means. She sailed, without seeing me again,
for Havre, and there, I understood, she met a family
by chance who had formerly known her. Whether
she related to them her whole story, or what
means she took to excite their sympathy, I do not
know; but they kept her, I understand, as a governess
for two or three years, when, from what
cause I never learned, she embarked for the West
Indies. As a sad end to so sad a life, the ship was
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wrecked, and most of the crew and passengers perished.
She particularly was mentioned among the
rest as having been washed overboard and drowned
in the early part of the storm. This news found
Mr. Lawton an altered man. Having striven long
and unsuccessfully against the impression the affair
had left on his mind, it was more a relief than a
pang; and he learned, without allowing himself even
the weakness of a sigh, that these two unfortunate
beings, who had so painfully clouded his bright
youth and stamped his name with dishonour, were
swallowed in the sea, which, if it could not wash
out their stains, buried them for ever beneath its
waves. I thought, then, that he had succeeded, or
would succeed, in forgetting her; but I now know
his attempts were vain, and that his apparent indifference
was a mere effort of mind, concealing, not
destroying, the feeling of his heart. He did, however,
try to efface her image; and, as a means, he
resolved to marry again. It needed no great art in
me to become the object of his choice. Love again,
I believe, he never could. But he hoped, by creating
himself a new home and new duties, to succeed
in turning from the past. A short time after
the flight of his wife he succeeded to the title and
estates of his father, and was subsequently created
Earl of Beverly by his late majesty. Immediately
after this event we were married, and I thus attained
the summit of my wishes. But, alas! what I
had done so much to obtain gave me no happiness.
Instead of the tender husband I had pictured, I have
found in your father a cold and gloomy companion.
He seemed shocked at marrying as soon as the indissoluble
knot was tied; and in less than a year,
immediately on your birth, conceived an aversion
both for you and myself, which has but strengthened
with every succeeding hour. A thousand times
I have wished the past undone; for my doom, in
being obliged to live with the man I loved only as
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an object of dislike, has been a penalty for all my
crimes. I have only to relate that, before our marriage,
he called out Lord M—, who shot him
through the thigh, which has rendered him lame
ever since, and from which wound, on taking the
slightest cold, he suffers, as you have seen, the most
dreadful pain. These circumstances combined, ruined
his temper and character. He at length resorted
to the pleasures of the table and cards to divert
his attention from himself. From one of the most
intellectual and firm-minded men, he has become a
voluptuary and a slave of violent passions. His
heart wants all the softening and purifying influences
of the affections. He loves nothing, and probably
the greatest objects of his dislike are his wife
and son.
“More than twenty years have thus passed away.
The news of the death of his wife and child were
confirmed, and the subject was only remembered
by me as one of shame, guilt, repentance, and self-reproach.
Many a sleepless night it has cost me.
Many a wretched hour, passed even in the midst of
gayety and fashion. Often and often I have wished
for an opportunity of repairing the evil I have
done—of revealing to your father the whole truth—
and of surrendering the ill-gotten wealth, which,
even while I enjoy it, cries out against me. I have
lived long enough to know that nothing can compensate
for the loss of self-approbation. It is the
secret fountain of cheerfulness and contentment.
But what opportunity had I to accomplish this end?
Your father, if he knew the truth, would only be
more wretched; I feared also his dreadful temper;
and they who, alive, could profit by my confession,
were dead. By revealing it, also, I should disinherit
you, to throw those vast estates upon a stranger.
It is one of the curses of vice, that when at
length we discover that its path is beset with horrors,
retreat itself sometimes becomes wicked as
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well as dangerous, and we cannot recover the
straight road, where alone our happiness lies, without
sacrificing others besides ourselves. You may
imagine my sensations on beholding, one evening,
here in Berlin, this Claude Wyndham rise like an
apparition on my path. The moment I saw him,
I saw your father as he was in his youth. The
same dignified and noble carriage—the same beauty
and intellect of countenance—the same calm, clear
eye—now gentle as a woman's, and now full of a
sternness which quails before nothing, but gazes
steadily, like the eagle, into the very sun. In his
character I perceive, too, the same magnificent
scorn of everything paltry and mean—the same invincible
energy of resolution, which places itself
against all mankind and against its own happiness,
rather than sacrifice one of his proud prejudices—
rather than lower a hair's-breadth his lofty head. I
saw all this in Wyndham. On informing myself, I
ascertained to a certainty that he was your father's
son; and when I saw him obviously touched with
the beauty and character of Ida—who is not unlike
her who had his father's first vows—I trembled for
her and for you. It seemed a double judgment
upon me, that the phantom of the very man whom
I had so loved in youth should rise before me now
as my greatest enemy; and that a sweetness and
beauty, like that which had once withered beneath
my look, should now appear to baffle all our hopes,
and take from us the last certainty of independence.
Now you comprehend the reason of the agitation
which you have so often remarked in me since our
arrival in Berlin. I have, indeed, lived in a kind of
hell, which, if they who sin could see it, would for
ever after keep stainless every human being. I did
hope that this denouément might be avoided. I
bribed his servant Carl to learn how far he was
himself acquainted with his history. I saw he was
totally ignorant of it, but that his father knew of his
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existence, and has furnished him the means of support,
although in a way which marks the stern fidelity
of his abhorrence, and proves that he would never
be willing to receive him but on being acquainted
with the innocence of his unhappy mother. I will
confess farther, Edward. Notwithstanding my remorse,
I cannot overcome the strange passions
which are now habitual to me. On the appearance
of the true heir of your father's estates, instead of
seizing the often desired occasion to undo a part of
what I have done, I felt the baleful passions of my
youth resume their sway over my heart. I wished
him dead, and I wished your hand might remove
from our path such a dangerous enemy in an honourable
meeting. Surely there would have been
no guilt in this, at least on your part; for gentlemen
fight and kill each other every day. I strove
to make you hate him as much as myself; for I did
hate as much as I feared him. I endeavoured to
produce a duel; and I hoped that he would render
our task more easy by challenging you. He has,
however, wrapped himself up in an idea that this
species of combat is wrong; and I feel now that
nothing will make him forego this opinion, or act
contrary to it. It is the very nature of his father.
“In the midst of my plans come these dreadful
letters, and ruin stares us in the face. I am now
about to make a proposition to you, which at first
you will doubtless reject, but which, upon reflection,
you will find the safest course. You must remember
I have given this subject years of meditation,
and have prepared myself for every event.”
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CHAPTER XXXI.
[figure description] Page 245.[end figure description]
Elkington, with his elbows on the table, and
his chin leaning on his two clinched fists, had listened
to this long and astounding recital with an
attention which scarcely allowed him leisure to
breathe. His eyes were fixed on his mother, and
his bloodless face betrayed his despair. On the
conclusion he drew a long breath, and changed his
attitude for the first time since its commencement.
His motions were slow and thoughtful, and his agitation
seemed to have subsided into gloomy reflection.
“What is your proposition?” said he, in a husky
voice.
“Let us first see how the case stands!” said his
mother, placing the end of her fore finger on her
thumb by way of calculation. “This secret is already
known to—”
“Tell me your proposition at once,” said he, “and
in the fewest words possible.”
There was a fierceness in his manner, now deeply
agitated as he was, which partook of the savageness
of a wild beast.
“This is it, then,” said she, tremblingly. “Ask an
interview with Claude Wyndham. Bind him previously
by oath, whatever may be the result, not to
betray the subject discussed. Offer to put him in
possession of the history of his family—to present
to him a father who will receive him with love, and
a fortune beyond his wildest imagination—this, on
condition of his binding himself to allow you one
half of the estate received. It will be his interest
to do so; and if he says he will make the allowance,
he will. I hate, I loathe him, but I know that if he
gives his simple word, it is stronger than other men's
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bonds. This is an offer which he cannot refuse.
From a nameless traveller he will become a nobleman
of rank. From almost a beggar he will suddenly
become immensely rich. The dearest wish
of his life will be gratified. He can then marry Ida,
whom you only value for her fortune. You will
then be above want, my bosom will be disburdened
of the load which oppresses it. Your father, if
he lives, will be happy. You and I will retire to
Florence or Naples, where we can lead the remainder
of our lives in pleasure uninterrupted by the
fears which have destroyed me ever since I wandered
from the innocence of youth. Think of this, my
son, I conjure you. It is the only, the last request
your guilty mother makes you. Say you consent,
and let Claude Wyndham assume his station in society.
I shall die then in peace, feeling that Heaven
has forgiven me all my guilt.”
“You are a fool!” said Elkington.
“Edward, how strange, how fierce you are!
Have you no consideration for the mother who—”
“No, none. It is to your accursed passions, then,
that I am what I am. Your vices cursed me before
I came into the world. I might have been as free,
as noble, as pure from evil as this man, who now
stands scornfully between me and every hope, ready
to tear from me my rank and fortune, and—for God
knows whether the mother too is not saved—to brand
me—me, madam—with the name which I have so
often hurled at him. And now, because you are
tired of the wages of sin—now that you are old, and
hackneyed, and near your death, perhaps—I must
descend from my rank—I must fling away my wealth—
and, just as I am entering into one of the most
brilliant positions possible, I must turn back—sneak
away—become an exile from my country—the mark
of scorn and the victim of dishonour—in order that
you may have pleasant dreams—that your heart
may enjoy the luxury of peace—that your dying
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bed may be solaced by canting priests and idle visions
of hereafter. No, madam. The mercy you
have shown to others you must expect. I disclaim
you as a mother if you proceed in your design. I
command you to suffer me to be the master of my
own affairs. I will not enter into any compromise
with this fellow, nor with any man. I will play for
the whole stake. I will be all or nothing. I will
be the Earl of Beverly and master of this inheritance,
or I will blow my brains out. I will have
no middle course. I won't go to this high-born minion
to sue—and kneel—and to be spurned—pitied—
forgiven, perhaps. D—n! He shall learn what
it is to deal with a man. I play for the whole, and
wo betide—”
“Edward, my son—my beloved son, you rave—
you are mad—you know not what you say—what
you do. I will comply with all your wishes. I am
guilty—I will become more so—I will live in anguish—
I will die in despair—only do not look on
me in that frightful manner!”
“Then listen to me! Claude Wyndham must
be put out of the way!”
Lady Beverly turned pale, and sunk back upon
the sofa.
“What do you mean?” she faltered forth; “would
my son become an assassin? Rather than that, I
will myself seek him—I will tell him all—I will—”
A fierce blow from the hand of her desperate son
nearly struck her down, and she staggered back
upon the sofa.
“Oh God!” she cried, covering her face with her
hands, “do not take me yet!”
“You drive me to desperation,” muttered Elkington,
with a sulky composure; “and when I am
goaded—you wonder—you—”
There was a dead pause.
“Forgive me, my mother!” said Elkington, tears
springing from his eyes; “some demon has possessed
me.”
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Lady Beverly made no reply; but the deadly
paleness of her neck, ears, forehead, and all that her
hands, still pressed against her face, suffered to be
visible, and of the hands themselves, showed the effect
which this act had had upon her.
“Forgive me!” said Elkington. “Forget it!
Forgive me, my mother! I am a brute.”
“I forgive you, Edward,” said Lady Beverly, in
a voice altered with agony, and yielding one of her
hands to his grasp; “but forget, alas! it is not in
my power. I forgive you, for I am myself to blame.
These fierce passions, unbridled by principle or
religion—that fearful disrespect of all things, human
and divine—it is I who have suffered them to reach
their present state unchecked. I forgive you, my
poor, my wretched son.”
“Then hear me,” said he, “and hear me with
calmness; and, since you see the violence of my
temper—which I know as well as any one, but
which I cannot now help—do not oppose me. I
cannot bear contradiction. I cannot, and I will not.”
“I will be in your hands as wax,” said Lady
Beverly.
“Then hear me. I have no design of taking the
life of my arch enemy but in an honourable way—
in such a way as becomes a gentleman—and as gentlemen
acknowledge to be right and necessary. He
shall meet me. He shall, or I will pursue him like
a bloodhound.”
“He will not.”
“But I tell you he shall; no man can refuse if
another chooses to pursue him. If he does, it must
be at the sacrifice of his honour—his fame—his
place in society—his friends—the respect of men—
the companionship of women. I have sworn he
shall meet me, and he shall. The annuity allowed
him by my father shall be instantly stopped. It
will leave him a beggar, and perhaps in debt. I
will drive him to desperation and destitution; and,
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since he has chosen to insult me in so open a way,
as no man shall do and live, I feel myself excusable
in going to any extremity. Once in the field,
it shall be my care to silence his claim, and then no
one stands between me and my rights.”
“You must choose your own course,” said Lady
Beverly; “I have said what I should do. But you
are now the master, and I will not oppose you.”
“Good-by, then,” said Elkington, “for the present;
I have letters to write.”
Lady Beverly left the room; but, having passed
the door, she looked back. Elkington had already
sat down and seized a pen. She gazed at him a moment,
raised her eyes to heaven full of tears, and a
deep sigh broke from her bosom as she slowly withdrew
to hide, in her own room, her various emotions.
Elkington wrote a letter, sealed it, and handed it
to Scarlet, with orders to put it instantly into the
post. Having finished this brief task, he mounted
his horse, and dashed off into the endless and shadowy
alleys of the Park, to lose, if possible, in rapid
motion the sense of his perilous position. He had
no sooner gone than a form crept stealthily from
under the bed, and Carl, with a silent caution which
eluded all observation, his face somewhat pale with
the interest excited by what he had heard, glided out
of the room.
CHAPTER XXXII.
The letter which Claude had taken from Elkington
he sent again, by a more faithful messenger,
to Count Carolan, without stating anything of
the scene which we have described respecting it.
The same hour he received a challenge from little
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General Le Beau. The general was made acquainted
with the resolution of Claude not to receive it.
The alternative to meet Le Beau himself was
then submitted to him. This was also politely declined;
upon which General Le Beau declared his
intention to horsewhip Mr. Wyndham in the street,
if he did not punish him more seriously.
“I shall certainly horsewhip you or shoot you,”
said General Le Beau, with a nervous twist of the
body, which awkward habit he had acquired from
the wound already mentioned.
“I am extremely obliged to you,” said Claude,
“for notifying me of your intention; and as being
shot, from what I see, is a disagreeable thing, I shall
instantly take measures to protect myself from a
calamity which seems as little favourable to grace
as temper.”
“You are a coward, sir!” said Le Beau. The
fierce little general believed that this word would
cause his antagonist to explode like a powder-magazine
at the application of a torch; and he even
stepped slightly back, as if, being secure of his ultimate
course, he was willing, either from curiosity
or prudence, to observe, at a reasonable distance,
the first burst which was to follow this cabalistic
epithet. Though obviously prepared to be astonished,
his surprise more than equalled his anticipations,
when, instead of turning deadly pale or furiously
red, trembling in the knees, and endeavouring
to knock his (the general's) brains out or his own
with the first adequate utensil within his reach,
Wyndham, with a very quiet smile and a wave of
the hand, which actually had some appearance of
being intended for satirical, replied,
“You will not be offended, general, if I remark,
that I differ from your opinion of me as much as I
do from that which you appear to entertain of yourself.”
“You shall be posted, sir!” said the general, with
a prodigious twist; “and since, sir, you are—”
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“I am very sorry, general,” said Claude, “to be
unable at present to listen to your interesting observations,
especially as your ideas are so extremely
sensible. I have at present the misfortune to be
occupied with more important duties. There is
one thing, however, upon which I should really like
your candid opinion.”
“I am not afraid to give my opinion upon any
subject, and to stand by it like a gentleman,” said
the general, with a formidable frown.
“Well, then, you have, I believe, had time to examine
fully the interior of my apartment. I now
wish you to direct your attention to—”
“To what, sir? to what, sir?” demanded the
general, the gash upon his cheek becoming doubly
inflamed by the effects of rage.
“The outside!” said Mr. Wyndham, rising quietly
and opening the door.
The formidable little man opened his eyes, or,
rather, his eye, for one of them was so drawn down
by the wound as to be always extended to about
twice the size of its companion; and never did Jupiter,
in one of his grand fits of fury, look more indignant
and threatening. Luckily, however, he
possessed his rage without his thunder. If he had
been gifted with that dangerous weapon, at Claude's
order to his servant to show the general down stairs!
our hero's merriment would have probably received
a check which must have ended him, and these volumes
as a consequence. It was evident that the
general had some desperate intention; so, while he
was gone to render an account of his mission to
Elkington, Claude quietly presented himself at the
police, and laid a statement of the affair before that
tribunal, after which General Le Beau gave him no
farther trouble. On meeting him in the street a few
days afterward, he looked exceedingly ferocious, and
gave an unusually violent twist with his body, which,
with his wounded cheek, rendered him a formidable
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object, although his enmity did not proceed farther
than several glances of a decidedly indignant kind.
The general was subsequently heard to say, that, if
it had not been for the interference of the police, he
would have sent Monsieur Claude Wyndham to the
devil, au plus vîte! He at the same time lamented
that he lived in an age so far sunk in barbarism
as not to allow intrepid little generals like him to
shoot people, without subjecting them to that sort of
ungentlemanly annoyance.
Claude had scarcely arranged this affair, which
he did much to his amusement, and without making
any mention to the police of Elkington, when he
received a roughly-written, dirty note in German.
It was from a stranger, in the following words:
“Mr. Claude Wyndham:
“Sir: I take the liberty of addressing you, to
ask you to come to my house and visit a certain
Monsieur Rossi, a teacher of languages, who lies
at my lodgings in a very distressed state. He has
begged me to send for you, as he says, although
but slightly acquainted with you, you are the only
person in town of whom he dare ask a favour, or
who knows anything of him. You can see him at
any time.
“Your obedient servant, etc., etc., etc.”
This letter was odd, and, taken in connexion with
his last night's adventure in the Park, might possibly
be a snare. He knew no Monsieur Rossi, and
at first he determined not to go. In a few moments,
however, he took a different view of the subject.
This might be some poor fellow in distress, from
which his hand might relieve him; and the idea of
leaving unnoticed an appeal from some unhappy
being, perhaps on the bed of death, who had selected
him from the crowd as one not likely to be callous
to such an appeal, induced him to change his
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mind. It was late in the day, and nearly the hour
of dinner; but, having no other occupation, he determined
to go at once. He had not walked far,
when he met Digby, who was passing him without
recognising him, so busily was the poor fellow engaged
in his own thoughts. Whoever watches the
ever-flowing current of a city population, will often
observe persons who, although borne by their corporeal
legs along the street and through the crowd,
are, in fact, as far as their minds are concerned, acting
some part in a different scene. Many go on
talking to themselves, moving their lips, and showing,
by the changes of their features, how entirely
they are absorbed in their own cogitations. Digby
was one of these. As he went by he was evidently
engaged in some violent imaginary dispute, probably
with Mrs. Digby, or perhaps with Elkington,
who now received a more fluent setting-down than
he had been able to give him on the real occasion
of their quarrel. His brows were contracted, his
face was red, his lips were in rapid motion, and he
was swinging his arms backward and forward, not
without their occasionally and unconsciously coming
in contact with a passer by; more than one face
was turned to take a second look at him. The shopkeepers,
lounging at their doors, arched their eye-brows;
and more than one little boy—those acute
observers—stopped to gaze with astonishment into
his face; and, when he was at a reasonable distance,
gave a hearty laugh or a loud whoop, which the
honest fellow little thought directed against himself.
Suddenly he appeared in the crisis of his conversation,
and, inattentive to everything else, he strided
on in the path of a rough-looking man, who turned
out half way, but against whom, notwithstanding
this courtesy, Digby ran with such force that each
was whirled round by the violence of the collision.
The stranger turned back, with a fierce countenance
and clinched fist, and demanded in German
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what he meant. Digby stood stupidly gazing at
his angry face. The question was repeated in a
more furious tone, and answered in English with a
stammering hesitation which would have rendered
any language unintelligible; and the insulted pedestrian,
losing patience at the idea that the insult was
intentional, seized Digby by the collar, amid a crowd
which had already began to collect, and was in the
act of inflicting a summary vengeance, when Claude
stepped up to his relief. He explained that he was
a stranger, ignorant of the language, and that he
could answer for his absence of mind, which had
occasioned the accident. The good man willingly
received the apology from one of Claude's appearance
and manners, and respectfully assured him of
his satisfaction. The parties separated, the crowd
dispersed, and Digby said he would accompany
Claude on his walk.
“Did you ever see such — a — a — born fools,”
said Digby, “as these Germans are? Only to—to
think, now, of that great fellow setting on me in that
style. In England such a thing would be impossible.”
“In England he would probably have knocked
you down without a word!” said Claude.
“Well—if he had—I should have had—him up—
and—a—a—punished him. But here—no laws—
no newspapers—no courts—no Parliament—no—
a—a—no nothing.”
“You must not be so severe upon my good
friends here,” said Claude; “and remember that a
poor Prussian in London would be even worse off
than you are here.”
“Ah! if I could catch one of these fellows there,
wouldn't I let him have it? Why, I haven't met
one here who hasn't either—a—a—cheated me—a—
a—kicked me, or tried to knock me — a — a —
down. It's infamous! I think I've done with travelling
this king's reign. So I've made up my mind,
and I'm going up to London.”
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“But will madam consent?”
“I've turned over a new leaf with Mrs. D—.
She's a woman, and women are all alike, and must
be treated in the same way. They must be governed.
Don't you think so?”
“Why, as to their being all alike—” said Claude,
Mrs. Digby's form recurring to his memory by the
side of Ida's.
“Oh, I mean,” interrupted Digby, “not in person;
some are tall—some are short—some lean—some
fat—some handsome—and some ugly; but I mean
in their hearts. Come afoul of any of their kinks,
and they're as like as two peas. They're all of 'em
women—and that's the whole of it.”
“They certainly are women,” said Claude, “but
we must, on that account, not be too hard upon them.
Heaven has made them of a finer material—a more
fragile construction—and we should accommodate
ourselves” (he was thinking of Ida) “to their softer
and more delicate natures.”
“Why, so I do,” said Digby; “but, d—n her!
it's of no use. `Delicate nature!' `fragile construction!!
' Ah! if you had to deal with my wife one
week!”
“Pooh! pooh! I should get along with her charmingly.”
“Egad, I should like to see you try it. She? the
devil himself couldn't manage her. If she gets a
knot in her head, there it sticks, in spite of the old
Satan. She's now got an idea that she is a fine
woman—her head's as full as it can cram of ho-tong—
and bong-tong—and boo-monde—and all that sort
of thing. Then she thinks to marry Mary to a lord,
and that Elkington is to be the man. Now, between
you and me, I wouldn't have that fellow in my
house. He's a—a—” (Digby looked around to assure
himself that the formidable object of his displeasure
might not be within hearing) “a puppy,
and thinks just as much of marrying Mary as he
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does her interesting mamma. I've told Mrs. Digby
so—but no, nothing'll do. She must push into every—
a—a—soirry where she can get an invitation.
There she goes a gallivanting about with old Beeswax.”
“Beeswax?”
“Yes, old `long pockets'—Lippe, you know—a
buying all sorts a things—and she's got all the milliners
and mantuamakers in Berlin about her—and
she and Moll are so transmogrified, that, egad, I don't
know 'em when I meet 'em in the street. What do
you think I caught 'em at yesterday?”
“Indeed, I hope nothing seriously disagreeable.”
“Yes, very seriously. I returned home from a
ride, and went into my wife's room. There she
stood—half undressed—and Mary in the same predicament;
and by their side—what do you think?—
a man, sir—a great man—with a pair of mustaches
as long as my arm—a standing between them—as—
cool, sir—as—as a—a cucumber; pleasant, wasn't
it?”
“A man!”
“A man, sir—a tailor, sir—a lady's tailor! While
I was staring at him the door opened, and old `long
pockets' poked his ears in, walks me up to the ladies,
with a pair of gamborge coloured gloves on—
and they in that situation. They had sent for him
to enterpret for them. I stood by, and heard `long
pockets' explaining to the tailor how their frocks
were to be cut higher here—and lower there—and
not to have any wrinkles in this place—and to be
made a little fuller in that. If you catch me a travelling
for pleasure again, you may eat me, sir.”
“Oh, nonsense; you're too serious about it.”
“The tailor had no sooner gone than in steps a
strapping fellow dressed like a duke, and with a
pair of mustaches that you might have tied in a
bowknot behind his ears—the fellow! and down sat
my interesting females to have their heads dressed,
and a bushel basket full of wheat, and flowers, and
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things stuck in. `Madam Digby,' says I, `ain't you
ashamed of yourself—to admit men—in this fashion
into—into your room?' `Good gracious, John,' says
she, `how can you be such an awful fool?' You
know that's a very favourite expression of hers.
`Don't you see,' says she, `these poor creatures are
no more than dumb beasts, and don't understand a
word we say!' `And, papa!' says Mary, `everybody
does so—and what everybody does can't be wrong!'
Then comes a bill for dresses, three hundred thalers—
then a subscription ticket for the theatre and
the opera—and the French theatre. Then their
learning to play whist—and Mrs. Digby loses a few
guineas a night; and, to cap all, some fellow is a
going to give a ball costoomy, and Mary's going as
Hebe, and Madam Digby as Mary, Queen of Scots.”
“I should think Mrs. Digby would look Queen
Elizabeth better,” said Claude, smiling.
“No, sir—she'll look back to London — that's
what she'll look—and old `long pockets' 'll look for
some other place. I've cut the French. It's the
greatest trash on earth. Did you ever candidly see
such a pack of stuff as it is? If these fellows can
get a que—and a se—and a lui, and a y huddled
in, neck and heels together, and always the cart before
the horse, they think they're elegant; and then
old `long pockets'—how horribly he talks through
his nose! He never says no—he says non so non.
I believe that's one reason he has such large nostrils.
The fellow has them like a horse. He kept
me half an hour the other day trying to say non. I
wouldn't do it, sir.”
“I fear you have not been much pleased with
Berlin.”
“Berlin—I utterly detest it! I don't understand
anything nor anybody. There isn't a newspaper
that I can read—a sign that I can make out—all the
bills and things pasted up along the street. There,
now! look at all that trash yonder!—see that!—
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that's all Greek to me—though there's always a
crowd about them a reading them with their mouths
wide open. I can't buy anything, for they don't
understand me. When a bill comes in, I pay it
without knowing what it is; and I've no doubt I
pay one two or three times over. Yesterday I
walked out and came to a place where there were a
thousand people collected—all greatly excited about
something. `What's the matter here?' says I, forgetting
that the poor wretches couldn't speak English.
The man began palavering to me, with his
eyes starting out of his head, and pointed at somebody
who was going along. `Thank you, sir,' says
I, `for your information.' Then I asked another—
and another; no one could talk to me in a civilized
tongue. All of a sudden, up jumped a great big fellow
on a barrel—and began to shout. The crowd
gathered around him, I among the rest. He went
on at a violent rate for five minutes, then they all
began to clap. He went on a little longer, then
they set up a laugh; and when he had said something
more, they gave three cheers, and then cleared
out. Now what the devil all that was about, I
shall never know to my dying day. `Give me old
England yet,' says I. But this I found out a short
time after, namely, that my watch was gone. Some
infernal, infamous scoundrel had picked my pocket.”
“Oh, you must not mind these trifles!” said
Claude; “when you are an older traveller, you'll
think nothing of them.”
“I don't know what you call trifles—but I don't
call them—a—a—any such things. Last night I
went to the opera alone. I went into the pit, and
it being early, I got a good seat near the stage. Just
as the house was full, there came a man and—a—
a—began to talk to me. I told him I couldn't understand
him, and there was no use o' his going on.
But, notwithstanding that, he continued a talking on,
louder and louder; and at length, taking me by the
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shoulder, hauled me out of my seat, and shoved me
along away to the back part of the pit, where I
couldn't see anything, pointing at the same time to
a number on the seat and to a number on the ticket
I had given him.”
“Have you been much into society lately?”
“No; once I allowed my women to wheedle me
into one soirry, and that was the last. Why, sir,
the people that knew me perfectly well in my own
house wouldn't speak to me. `Can you tell me
who yonder gentleman is?' said I to one. `Bon
soir,' said he, and he passed me. `Are we to have
a supper?' said I to another. `Bon soir,' said he,
and off shot he. `Good-evening,' said I to a lady
whom I had talked to half an hour the evening before.
She opened her eyes, looked right over my
shoulder, and began a talking to a big man behind
me in a uniform. `Well,' says I, `don't be discouraged,
' says I to myself; so I went up to a very remarkably
civil young gentleman, who had come to
my house with Elkington—drank my Champagne,
and won ten Louis of me at whist—with an eyeglass
stuck into his cheek, and held up by wrinkling
his eyebrow over it, without holding on to it with his
fingers. `This is rather a curious sort of a company,
' says I to the very civil young gentleman;
`don't you think so, Mr. Whattle?' What do you
think he did?”
“Contradicted your opinion, I suppose,” said
Claude.
“No, sir—he wheeled about—stuck his face right
plump into mine—peering at me through his glass,
with his eyebrow all wrinkled up; so, egad, I
thought he was going to butt me over like a ram,
after regarding me a little while in this way, so that
he will know me again if he meets me in Jerusalem;
and, just as I had began to smile in a very familiar
way, and held out my hand, thinking he was
a going to say, `How are you, my dear Digby—is
this you?' what do you think he did?”
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“Turned away, I suppose,” said Claude, scarcely
suppressing a smile.
“Flat as a flounder!” said Digby, in a tone of indignation;
“and, holding out his hand to a person
standing next to him, he says, says he, `Devilish
hot! ain't it?' says he. `Devilish!' says the other;
and then he told another fellow on the other side of
me that he had called on him that afternoon, and the
other fellow said he was `enchanté.' Do you think
I'll submit to such impertinence? Not I.”
At length they reached the house designated by
the note. It was a wretched building; a filthy gutter
ran from the court into the street through the
archway which formed the principal entrance. The
walls were dirty, black, and dilapidated, the stairs
broken and unswept, the doors hanging on one
hinge, the court full of offals and stagnant water.
When they arrived at the third story, they were
received by a man of indigent appearance, and
ushered into rooms desolate and almost unfurnished.
On making particular inquiries respecting the
young invalid, the good man informed him that this
poor fellow was a teacher of languages, who had
lived with him for a long time, exciting his curiosity
by his eccentricities; at first he denied himself
the common comforts of life, but laid out what little
money he could gain at his precarious occupation
on his toilet.
“He seemed always particularly anxious to appear
well dressed,” said the man; “in this, for some
time, he succeeded, but latterly he had grown less
and less tidy; his old and much-worn clothes were
no longer renewed. His manners, from cheerful
gayety, became deeply serious. He avoided all society
and amusement, and appeared plunged in profound
grief. One day, not long ago, he had been
brought home in a state of insensibility, which was
succeeded by a raging delirium. He screamed and
raved all night. He had no money to pay a
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physician, and I was as poor as he. We thought of carrying
him to the asylum for lunatics, on the idea
that he had grown mad, when his malady took a
new turn; he became dangerously ill, grew weak
and subdued, and gave us no farther trouble than the
necessity of taking care of him and feeding him.
I would willingly continue to do this, sir,” continued
the poor man, “for I never saw a more unhappy
creature, and I sincerely pity him; but I am a
poor labourer myself, and have a wife and child
also, occupied with their own tasks; we have no
time, and no money to spend upon him more; and
we were thinking of having him removed to the
hospital, when he got an inkling of our design, which
I believe he did by listening through the keyhole—
for he's as cunning as a fox. He taxed me with it;
begged, entreated, and prayed so earnestly that we
would spare him from such a fate—for I think, sir,
he has an idea that being in an hospital is worse than
it is—that I told him, if he had means of paying anything,
ever so small, for his board and lodging—if
he had any friend who would aid him, I would consent
to charge nothing for trouble, and to take care
of him without profit, only in case of being secured
against loss. Well, he then said there was a
gentleman who perhaps would assist him if he knew
his situation, and he mentioned the name of Mr.
Claude Wyndham; a name which, in his delirium,
he had often uttered in many various tones.”
“Indeed!” said Claude. “This is strange. I
am not aware that I know any such person.”
“So, in short, sir, I took the liberty of complying
with his request, and sending you a note. He told
me your address himself. Now, sir, I would only
say that, unless you are prepared to do something
for the poor devil, you might as well not see him;
for he counts upon you. He told me that you were
rich, and had powerful friends, and that you could
easily gratify his wishes. Will you see him, sir?
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I really do not believe he will tax your charity
long.”
Claude explained this to Digby, and asked him if
he would go in.
“A—a—I—a—beg your pardon,” said the latter,
looking at his watch. “I am—a—a—I have an
appointment at this very moment—and I shall have
to go a mile. You must excuse me from going in
to see this poor creature. Besides, I cannot bear—
any—a—a—scene of distress. It always hurts—a—
my feelings. But don't let me—a—interrupt you.
Probably he has something to say to you in private.
Good-morning. Adieu.”
And, with some marks of precipitation, he withdrew.
Claude drew an unfavourable opinion of his
friend's character from this little incident; for, under
all his stupidity and vulgarity, he had conceived an
idea that he was generous and charitable. Being,
however, thus deserted, he allowed himself to be
ushered into the patient's room. It was a sad home
for any one, but struck Claude's feelings with peculiar
mournfulness when he reflected that it was
the abode, and perhaps the last one on earth, of the
dying. There was no furniture but a rough pine-board
bedstead and a wooden bench. The cobwebs
hung around the smoked and broken ceiling, and the
summer light and fresh air were kept out of the
little window by a high black wall which excluded
the view. Upon this miserable pallet lay a
young man of a sallow and pale complexion, much
emaciated, and so absorbed in thought that he was
totally unconscious that any one had interrupted his
gloomy solitude. His hair was black, and very thick
and long. His large and dark eyes were fixed upon
the ceiling as he was extended on his back. His
beard was unshorn, and had grown rank and stiff
about his cheeks, mouth, and throat. A faint recollection
of such a countenance, scarcely recognisable
through the alterations of disease and the
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overgrown beard, crossed Claude's mind; and the invalid,
at a gentle shake from his host, had no sooner
started, turned his eyes towards the new-comers,
and fixed them with a stern and bewildered look on
Claude, than he recognised the young man whom
he had first seen planted before the portrait of Ida;
whom he had afterward met in the same place and
position; who had so oddly deceived him as to the
original of the portrait; and who, Ida had informed
him, was her Italian master. The recognition was
mutual; and a faint suffusion of red over the pallid
countenance of the invalid, succeeded almost immediately
by a hue more ashy than before, indicated
that he knew his guest, and that his image called up
some agitating reflection.
“How strange!” said the young man; “I didn't
think you'd come. I never had any claim on you;
but something whispered me to try you—to catch at
you, as a drowning man catches at a spar. Oh, sir,
what must you think of me?”
“My friend,” said Claude, with much sympathy,
“you are unfortunate, and ill; and you have done
very right to claim the assistance of others. I beg
you will not distress yourself, or excite yourself to
speak. I have heard your whole story from your
friend here; and I agree to furnish you the means
not only to remain here, but, if you please, to seek
more comfortable lodgings.”
“God bless you! You are the only being on all
this wide and crowded earth that—some angel surely
whispered me to send for you—but you have not
heard my whole story.”
“Well, well, some other time; now you are
weak; you are—”
“Some other time may be too late,” said the
young man, peevishly; “I do not believe I am long
for this world. I must tell you now, and the more
so as my story partly concerns yourself.”
“What can you mean?”
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Rossi motioned the landlord to retire, and they
were alone.
“There is something about you, Mr. Wyndham,
which makes me feel I can unbosom myself to you—
my weaknesses—my crimes even—without being
ridiculed or betrayed. Perhaps I may have assistance
from your hand or counsel from your lips.
There is something in you which gives me confidence.
I shall therefore tell you my story. It deeply
concerns you, and I tell it partly in gratitude, and
partly to relieve my own bosom.”
Claude for a moment forgot the invalid in the
interest excited by his words. Confused hopes
that something respecting his family might be the
subject of the promised revelation—that it might refer
to the late mysterious attempt upon his life—
in short, he scarce knew what to think, and he betrayed
his curiosity in his countenance.
“I came to Berlin,” said Rossi, “from France, a
poor exile. Count Carolan, to whom I had been
recommended, employed me as the Italian master
of his daughter; for I am Italian by birth and education,
though I have spent the latter years of my
life in France, and there rendered myself obnoxious
to a great man, who compelled me to abandon the
country at the peril of the Bastile. For two years
I was in the habit of reading one hour a day with
the young Countess Ida. We read the most eloquent
and romantic works in our literature. I was
friendless and wretched, and very soon after we
commenced our lessons, the beauty and character
of my young pupil began to sink into my heart like
enchantment. We were almost alone at these periods.
Madame Wharton always sat with us, but
neither she nor Ida dreamed of the feelings I concealed
under my calm, cold manner, needy dress,
and respectful air. I was thus often left, by a fearful
and fatal privilege, to watch daily—at my leisure—
in almost uninterrupted solitude, the
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bewildering charms of a mind and form, for which half the
nobility of Berlin sighed—for one familiar hour in
whose company many a young noble would have
perilled his life. She was with me all grace, modesty,
and gentle sweetness. There was no reserve—
no pride--no supercilious dignity in her demeanour.
She was kind and unguarded before me as if I had
been a brother. My very insignificance gained me
her bounty, and created a kind of delightful intimacy,
fascinating and dangerous beyond my power of
resistance. She was also the only female I spoke
to—the only friend I had. Her sunshiny and loving
nature made her take an interest in me—from my
history—my loneliness—my extreme melancholy—
and perhaps, unsuspected by herself, from the deep
fervour of my respect and submission to her. It
sometimes happened, at moments, that our minds
and souls met in a kind of equality over some scene
in poetry—of intellectual beauty — of passionate
love. Then we conversed together in my own language,
as two young girls might upon such subjects—
of the world—of the vicissitudes and distinctions
of society. It seemed to me, sometimes, that she
blushed to find that fate had placed her on such an
elevation of rank and fortune, and that her heart
wandered beyond their gorgeous precincts, to seek
simple nature and sweet human happiness, as they
lie around the steps and in the heart of cottage
maidens.”
There was something in this rhapsody of Rossi
that awakened singular emotions in the heart of
Claude, and, at the same time, exceedingly interested
him in the ardour and eloquence with which
the poor fellow opened his history.
“No one can conceive,” continued Rossi, “the
deep enchantment of these interviews to me. The
hour spent with her was the only one of the twenty-four
not a burden. It was the single star in the
sky elsewhere blank. It was the ray of sunshine
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in the subterranean dungeon of the captive; the
sole link which holds him from utter darkness, and
connects him with earth and heaven. Month after
month rolled away—oh God! how sweetly. I had
the address to conceal the fire in my veins, though
it only burned stronger for being hidden. Her numerous
acts of bounty, sympathy, and gentle consideration
only added to its power. She had no
prejudices—no pride. She bestowed upon me the
same real courtesy which she would have bestowed
upon a prince; which, by the absence of formality,
was only the more ravishingly sweet to my soul.
All other human beings were to me despots, tyrants,
and fiends. They frowned on me—trampled on
me—put me aside as a useless, worthless thing.
Among them I shrank—I crawled—I skulked like
a beaten dog. I hated the very sight of my fellow-beings
worse than a boar or an adder. Oppression
and poverty had taken from my spirit its natural
courage and erectness, and made me such a sycophant
that I loathed myself. It was only with her
that I felt myself a human being, and formed in the
image of Him who made my soul immortal. Yes,
the truth at last forced itself upon me. I loved this
young girl. A blissful madness took possession of
me. I never thought how it was to end; that I
must one day be separated from her, and banished
from her presence, even when residents of the same
city, as effectually as if I had been in another continent.
I never thought that she regarded me as
she might have done, a poor mendicant, totally unconscious
that my ideas were other than to receive
the recompense of my daily toils, and that I was
pleased when it was given kindly. I never imagined
that this sweetness—these gentle words—these
sunshiny smiles, were not mine alone, but were
only shed around on the common air, as the perfume
of a flower or the beams of a star. It never
occurred to me that this light and happy being
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might—nay, must, at some time—love—and love
another—till, one day, I came at my usual hour, and
entered the boudoir where I usually gave my lesson.
She was not there. I found myself alone, in
that gorgeous and hallowed spot, full of traces of
her hand and tokens of her presence. Her drawings—
her music—her paintings—her books—her
flowers—her writing utensils—her gloves—her embroidery.
Sweet objects! they filled my heart
with joy, and my eyes with tears. I could not but
offer up my humble prayer to Heaven, that, although
this beloved creature was not destined for me, I was
thus permitted to see her sometimes—to behold the
places she inhabited—the things she touched. I
approached some of them. I kissed them with
wild rapture. The guilty stealth with which I did
this inflamed my soul to go on farther with my tender
thefts. I pressed her embroidery against my
bosom. I approached a rose; it leaned, sweet and
odorous, amid the fresh verdure. I touched its cool
leaves with my audacious and burning lips. I felt
that I was embracing her image; the soothing odour
I inhaled as her breath, and the soft and crimson
leaves seemed her mouth. I fancied her soul was
hidden in this half-opened flower. Lost in a kind
of ecstasy, I cast my eyes upon her table. They
fell upon a letter. It was addressed to her father.
On the corner was your name. A half-instinctive,
half-imagined dream that you had made an impression
on her heart, had already crossed me. This
letter recalled it to me, and made me start. It lay
there like a snake amid the flowers. Suddenly her
step was heard—light as the young fawn that scarcely
brushes the morning dew; and a low-hummed
air, from a voice that thrilled my heart, had the melody
of the birds' warble in the silent wood.”
“Poor fellow!” said Claude, his eyes scarcely
discerning the anguish-stricken countenance of the
young madman through his rising tears.
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“I do not know what induced me to step back.
Perhaps it was a sense of guilt. I felt like Satan
caught in Paradise; for I had become accustomed
to consider my poverty as the bitter badge of meanness,
misery, and shame. I stepped behind a heavy
curtain. She entered and looked around. There
is a sensation in watching a young girl like her,
when she believes herself perfectly alone—a rapture
I never felt before. It seemed as if I—an
earthly wanderer—had, by some daring chance,
climbed the gates of heaven and gazed into its sacred
groves. Alas! alas! for such a blasphemy,
the sudden thunder struck me. Breathless—trembling,
I knew not why—I fixed my eyes upon her.
She went to a broad mirror, and gazed a moment
at her full-length form. She then took from her
bosom a paper, and read aloud a verse. It was the
tender blessing of a girl upon one unnamed. In the
weakness and folly of my nature, I thought for one
exquisite moment—and it almost paid me for any
suffering—that I was shadowed forth in this short
and girlish expression of feeling; but, as she finished
it, she reached forth her hand to the letter written
by you—opened it—read your name aloud—
and pressed it to her lips. The step of Madame
Wharton startled her. She left the room by one
door. I came from my place of concealment.
Madame Wharton entered, and presently afterward
Ida, once more all gentleness—all gayety—the little
hypocrite!
“We proceeded with our lesson, but the incident
had almost unseated my reason. Madame Wharton
sat at some distance with a book. Ida's hand
lay so near my own on the table as to touch it.
Love and despair combined to take from me all
command over myself. I determined that this
should be the last time I should see her, but that
I would not leave her without once touching that
charming hand with a kiss of love. The
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impudence—the folly—the guilt of such an act did not
restrain me. I was mad. I knelt at her feet—I
seized her hand—I raised it to my lips—I covered
it with wild and burning kisses. She started back,
turned very pale, and uttered a faint shriek.
“`Mr. Rossi,' said Madame Wharton, starting forward,
with a dignity and indignation that abashed
me at once, `what do you mean?'
“`Farewell for ever!' said I. `Forgive my delirium.
'
“`Unhappy boy,' said Madame Wharton; `what
fatal infatuation!'
“`Yes—it is infatuation. It is—madness,' said I;
`but never more shall your sight be polluted by the
presence of a wretch who must ever after be hated
and despised.'
“I turned to leave the room, when Lord Elkington
stood before me. He had seen the whole incident.
He is a demon—that man; and, as such, one
day I will pursue him. He advanced and took me
by the throat. I was a child in his grasp. He
dragged me to the door, and there struck me. The
ruffian struck me!” The poor fellow's face flushed
crimson at the recollection. “A blow! and before
her! I could not resent it. My life failed me. I
rushed out of the house. I fell senseless long before
I reached home. This is my story. I am dying.
I shall not long be here, to suffer a life which
has always been a shame and curse to me. Should
I ever recover, my first task shall be to be revenged
on Elkington. It is that alone which makes me
wish for life. It is his heart's blood which alone
can wash out the stain I have received. I have
now,” continued Rossi, sinking back exhausted on
his pillow, “given you my history, and I don't give
it you for nothing! I expect that you will supply
me with the comforts of life while life lasts. For
my part, if I could but end at once the existence
of Elkington and Ida—and my own—I should die
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happy; and that is my nightly dream and my daily
prayer!”
It would be difficult to describe the emotion with
which Claude heard this long recital, and the secret
rapture which the passage concerning himself awakened
in his heart. He was, then, beloved. He
had but to present himself to Ida, and her innocent
and gentle nature would not conceal the impulses
of her soul. But the restraints upon him were invincible.
He felt that, instead of triumphing, he
ought to lament that he had so far won the affections
of a young girl, whom her happiness, as well
as his own duty, compelled him to desert, and to
seem to betray. There were some parts of the
narration, and particularly the manner of relating it,
which suggested the idea that Rossi was not yet
altogether in his right mind; and that, in its turn,
caused a doubt of the truth of the statement. He,
however, assured him and the landlord that every
care should be taken of him; that he might send in
bills to him to the amount of three thalers a week;
and that he would, in addition, procure him a physician,
and certain other comforts. The landlord, on
being called in, agreed to this proposition; and
Rossi discovering an inclination to sleep, Claude
gave his card to the host, begging him to send for
Doctor B— in his name, and to let him know in
case anything should occur. Thus having done
everything for the present which he could think of
towards satisfying both host and tenant, he retraced
his steps towards home.
END OF VOL. I.
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Fay, Theodore S. (Theodore Sedgwick), 1807-1898 [1840], The countess Ida: a tale of Berlin, Volume 1 (Harper & Brothers, New York) [word count] [eaf098v1].
