The Countess Ida a tale of Berlin |
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| 19. | CHAPTER XIX. |
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 | CHAPTER XIX. The Countess Ida |  |
19. 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 imperatively
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
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,
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
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,”
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
—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
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.”
“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 himself.
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.”
“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
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
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
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—
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
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?”
“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 respecting
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.
“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
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.
| CHAPTER XIX. The Countess Ida | |