University of Virginia Library

6. CHAPTER VI.

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,

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

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;

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.