University of Virginia Library

23. CHAPTER XXIII.

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,

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 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.

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.