University of Virginia Library

24. CHAPTER XXIV.

General St. Hillaire was now called from the
side of Claude, and the latter, surrounded by so
many prying and unfriendly eyes, was thinking of
withdrawing from a scene where so little attraction
awaited him, when Miss Digby complained of faintness,
and Claude offered to lead her out. She desired,
however, that he should conduct her into the
boudoir of Madame de B—. He accordingly led
her to this distant room. It was a beautiful apartment,
entirely lighted with massive lamps, whose
beams, falling through thick shades and screens,
shed a light as soft and pale as that of the moon.
In one corner was a kind of bower, half buried under
vines, which crept luxuriantly over a light trellis-work,
and was surrounded by large jars and vases
of shrubs and flowers. The walls were hung
with damask satin of dark crimson, and adorned
with paintings of the best masters. The tables
were piled with magnificently-bound books and engravings,
writing materials, shells, pearl, portfolios,
figures in bronze, ivory, and gold, of exquisite workmanship;
statues of white marble stood in the corners,
and leaned from pedestals and cornices. In
the centre of this odour-breathing retreat, where the
fresh incense of a garden and the sylvan recesses of
a forest were brought, by the hand of taste, into a
lady's boudoir, was a colossal vase of porcelain,
from which rose a broad-leafed plant full of blossoms,
of which some had fallen and lay scattered
upon the thick carpet.

These charming apartments—soft, shadowy, silent—are
cool and delightful retreats from the glare
and noise of the ballroom and the movement of the
crowd. It happened that, at the moment when

Claude led in his pretty young charge, no one was
there. He supported her to a sofa, and would have
gone immediately in search of her mother, but she
grew so pale, and was so evidently about to faint,
that he could not quit her.

“It is the heat,” said Claude.

“No, no—the dreadful scene—Lord Elkington.
I fear—he is so rash—so brave—”

“Lord Elkington?”

“Oh, yes—he is so extremely brave—I am quite
afraid—I assure you! If anything should happen to
him—if you—”

“Fear nothing for Lord Elkington,” said Claude,
not without observing, more than usual, the weakness
of this young girl's mind.

“Promise me, then—promise me,” said she, “that,
if you fight—you won't fire at him.”

“Upon my word, I will not,” said Claude, smiling.

“Oh, dear Mr. Wyndham,” said she, seizing his
hand and raising it to her lips, “you give me new
life. Lord Elkington is so extremely brave. Do
you know he has killed two men already in a duel?”

“Two men!”

“Yes—he is such a very charming person. You
know he would have killed papa if it had not been
for—for—”

“And you find that so charming!”

“Oh, you know papa is so passionate—and he
was so rude to him—but you won't positively hurt
him?”

“I have no such intention, certainly,” said Claude.

“Oh, thank you,” she said again, seizing his hand
once more and pressing it to her lips. “I am so
much obliged to you—I shall never, never forget—
Ah! some one comes.”

She rose with a quickness which proved that her
strength had quite returned with the dissipation of
her fears for the “charming Lord Elkington,” and
she disappeared in a moment. The person who

had thus frightened her away was Ida. She could
not help seeing Claude, and the manner in which
he was engaged, as his hand was still in Mary's
when she entered. At first she hastily retreated,
but, on the withdrawal of Miss Digby, as if influenced
by a sudden thought, she returned. Her manner
was calm, but she was evidently agitated.

The sight of this young girl, thus alone with him,
and probably for the last time; the idea that he was
soon to leave her for ever, and with an opinion which
could not be other than contemptuous of his conduct
and character, and the coincidence by which he had
been thus discovered with Miss Digby, all threw
Claude once more into an embarrassment. These
new situations, he found, were too much for his
composure, they came upon him so unexpectedly
and in such quick succession. The return of Ida
to his side when she saw he was alone, was at once
so far beyond his hopes and fears, that he knew not
what inference to draw from it, nor how to act. It
appeared as if his guardian angel had thrown in his
way an opportunity, if not to declare his sentiments,
and request from the girl he so tenderly loved to
abandon her brilliant but unhappy position, and
tread the path of life with him, at least to bid her
farewell in a manner in some degree corresponding
with his anguish and his sacrifice; but the formal
promise he had given Madame Wharton was not an
instant absent from his memory; and with a firm
effort of self-command, and a secret prayer for aid
to that Power which sustains all who earnestly desire
it, he determined to guard every word and look
with conscientious care. For a moment both seemed
at a loss how to commence the conversation,
whether in the careless gayety of the ballroom, or
in a tone more suitable to the thoughts which filled
both their minds. At length Ida, with a dignity
which surpassed all that he could imagine of what
should be her demeanour on such an occasion, a

modesty as of an angel suffusing her cheek with a
faint colour, said,

“I fear Mr. Wyndham will scarcely forgive me
for the liberty of intruding into his affairs; but the
scene which has just occurred—the—Lord Elkington—my
father—in short, I am alarmed, you may
believe, for the result.”

The calmness of her manner, which almost became
coldness as she finished, restored Claude in
a moment to his usual composure, took from the interview
the character of a tender tête-à-tête, and placed
him at once in the position of a stranger—such
as he might have felt himself in on a first meeting.
All the audacious tenderness and wild tumult of his
soul fell beneath the modest firmness of this young
girl; all the idea that she had ever loved him disappeared
from his mind. He stood before her, less
a lover by his mistress than a subject before his
queen; and, although those two hearts were so deeply
touched with each other, and each felt secretly
all the tender ardour of love, yet—thus alone, unwatched,
under circumstances so interesting—perhaps
meeting for the last time on earth, and about
to separate in anger—so pure was the conscientiousness
which both put into their duty, so well-disciplined
and self-governed were their minds, that
their demeanour towards each other was as distant
and as guarded as if Madame Wharton or Count
Carolan had been observing them.

“If you allude to the safety of Lord Elkington—”
said Claude.

There was a moment's pause, which Ida did not
interrupt.

“I can assure you, my intentions are—”

“But my object in availing myself of this chance
opportunity to see you alone, was to inform you
frankly what I have understood; that it is Lord Elkington's
determination to offer you some farther
public insult, till he drives you into a quarrel.”

“And can you—” Claude began, but recollected
himself.

“You will not wonder that I should feel anxious
for him,” said Ida.

“I cannot imagine what farther insult his lordship
can offer me, but a multiplication of terms
which mean nothing, and but meant—”

He paused again, remembering that he was speaking
of her destined husband.

“In these extreme cases,” continued Ida, with a
slight change of colour, “I find perfect frankness
the best course, and I therefore add, the happiness
of all of us demands that you avoid Lord Elkington.
He is so resolute, so determined. His principles
on this point are so unalterable, that—”

“Is it your opinion that I should fly from this
persecution?”

“Yes; immediately and for ever!” She spoke
with eagerness.

“But—”

“I understand that you have expressly declined
to call out Lord Elkington, as he has expected.
Why subject yourself to farther annoyance? You
are a stranger in Berlin. You have never been here
before. You may never visit it again. My father
is alienated from you by Lord Elkington, and you
will leave none here whom you will ever regret or
remember.”

Claude's heart stood silent as if life was suspended,
and a thrill ran through his whole frame. So
beautiful did she look thus before him—the changing
of her feelings were reflected so clearly on her transparent
complexion and mobile features—the idea
that she required but a word from his lips, but a
glance from his eyes, to requite the deep love which
he at this moment felt for her more forcibly than
ever, nearly caused him to forget his resolution, and
to declare to her all the agitation and tenderness of
his soul. He perceived even, as Madame Wharton

had stated, that she was ignorant of his love for
her; that her innocence and artlessness had seen
in his manner only the partiality of a friend; and
that his appearance at Monsieur de B—'s with
Mary Digby, and the interview in which she had
found him engaged with that young lady, had completely
confirmed her in the belief of what Elkington
had told her respecting his intended marriage.
If she was ignorant of his love, she was almost as
much so of her own; and she fully believed that the
interest she took in him was but the result of a natural
admiration of his character—was but a true
friendship, and so, perhaps, it was; for in one so
pure, delicate, and modest, love itself was only
friendship until the object of it should teach her its
more sacred name.

“Let me be your friend, Mr. Wyndham,” said
she, with a faint smile; “I believe I can advise you,
and, if your own happiness cannot influence you, let
that of another.”

“Another!” said Claude, forgetting in a moment
all but the inference which, for an instant, he drew
from her words.

“Yes, the interesting and lovely girl, who suffers
more than yourself from these painful quarrels.
She nearly fainted on seeing your momentary interview
just now with Lord Elkington; go, Mr. Wyndham!
and believe me, your character is too well understood
to suffer more than a temporary shadow
from all that error or unkindness may breathe
against it.”

What would Claude have then given to inform
her that it was for Elkington that Miss Digby had
betrayed so much tender solicitude—that she was a
silly girl in whom he had not the slightest interest
—and that, in leaving her, he was tearing himself
from peace of mind for ever. He, however, made
no reply; and the music of the distant ballroom now
ceasing for a moment, several persons strolled into
the boudoir.