The Countess Ida a tale of Berlin |
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| 15. | CHAPTER XV. |
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 | CHAPTER XV. The Countess Ida |  |
15. CHAPTER XV.
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
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
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
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.
“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
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.”
“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
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
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
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
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,
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;
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
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
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.”
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 intruders.
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 themselves
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
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
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,
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
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,
“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
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
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
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.”
“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.
| CHAPTER XV. The Countess Ida | |