University of Virginia Library

26. CHAPTER XXVI.

Claude read with various emotions this account
of Elkington's character, and the more so, as it coincided
with the estimation he had formed of him.
Yet he could not, under the circumstances which he

found himself, reveal it to Carolan without subjecting
himself to the imputation of an interested motive.
Perhaps it would be deemed a mere slander
upon a successful rival, who had openly insulted
him, and whom he dared not meet in the field.
Madame Wharton rose to his memory; but sending
the letter to her would be in fact the same as sending
it to the count. What if he gave it to Ida? But
the objections to this at once presented themselves.
With what propriety could he secretly dissuade the
daughter from marrying a man selected by her family—even
did he, in the eyes of that family, stand
himself less in the attitude of a rejected lover?
What if he should not interfere at all in the matter?
There seemed an indelicacy in any interference;
and Count Carolan was not a man of sense, but of
prejudices so fixed and conceit so strong, that it was
not certain he would listen to any proof, and perhaps
he would insult him who should presume to
offer any. Yet with what propriety could he, from
a false idea of delicacy, keep concealed a secret
which affected the happiness of Ida, and which
might materially change the intentions of her family?
Would it not, in fact, be a favour to any one thus
situated, to inform them of circumstances so well authenticated,
and in which they were so much interested?
Would it not look even as cowardly to
withhold, as it might appear base to reveal it? He
thought of an anonymous letter, but his manly frankness
instantly rejected the idea. Anonymous writers
rarely receive attention, and still more rarely
deserve it. A middle course presented itself, viz.,
to enclose the letter to Count Carolan, with permission,
if he pleased, to state to Lord Elkington who
had communicated the facts in question. He instantly
addressed the following note to Carolan:

He sealed and instantly despatched this note by
Carl, telling him to deliver it to Count Carolan, and
only into his own hand.

It was now late at night. He was too much excited
by the circumstances of the evening to sleep.
Indeed, he felt a sense of heated and painful wakefulness.
He then opened the window. It was a
calm and pleasant night, and he determined to walk
forth to indulge in the reflections to which his singular
position gave rise.

“I will quit this place,” he thought, as he wandered
slowly up the Linden towards the Brandenburg
gate. “I will quit this spot for ever. It has
been fatal to my peace—almost to my honour. I
will wait the answer of this letter to Carolan, and
then turn my back on this proud portal—on these
thoughtless crowds—who believe so readily slander
from the lips of a scoundrel—and who look

coldly on a man because he refuses to shed his fellow-creature's
blood, or to pour out his own at the
call of every rash fool or designing villain. I am
what I am.”

The evening seemed to grow softer and brighter
as he advanced. The sky had at first been dashed
over with small white clouds disposed in airy waves,
a sea rippled by a summer breeze, through which
the moon steadily and peacefully held her course,
even as an unswerving and patient mind pursues
the path appointed by Heaven. As he walked on,
these fleecy shapes broke silently apart, gentle as
thought, and, like it, mingling and separating with
a noiseless motion, till, dissolved into torn fragments,
like the vanishing doubts of a pure and settled
mind, they at length disappeared entirely, and
left the void all stainless and still—its fathomless extent
glittering with those wonderful systems which
God has hung before our eyes—a revelation of his
immensity, benevolence, and power.

“It is virtue,” thought he; “it is truth. What
an emblem! what a lesson! God spreads it above
our heads to teach us to look up! to raise our eyes
from the earth, whose magnificence and grandeur
are so infinitely surpassed, that we may daily view
it and nightly study it. It shadows forth not only
what he is, but what we may be, trusting to him,
and lifting our eyes above the earth!”

These and similar contemplations tranquillized his
soul, and seemed to establish between him and his
Maker a kind of communion, which made his approbation
far more necessary than all the uncertain and
useless applause of the world; useless, at least, unless
bestowed upon what is right.

He wandered on and on, till he presently found
himself before the palace of Count Carolan. He
paused to look on it thus in the silence of night.
The moonbeams fell across its yellow and richly-sculptured
façade, and tall, closed windows, leaving

one of its heavy wings in the shadow, and glancing
across the overhanging buttresses, and the company
of statues which stood speechless and stirless upon
its eaves and in the court. There is something in
a noble edifice which seems touched with human
sympathy, and partakes of the character of those
who erect and those who inhabit it. Architecture
is so full of mind and grandeur, that those stately
colonnades and slender columns speak to the soul
almost with a language. Claude gazed upon the
rooms which he had so often seen blazing with light
and animated with gay crowds, upon the silent pavé
so often thronged with glittering carriages and trampling
horses—now all gone. “So anon,” thought
the solitary muser, “will fade from the green earth
all that inhabit it, into shadows—into memories of
the past.”

Beneath that roof slept Ida. It was possible he
might never see her again.

“Farewell,” he said, “lovely and ever beloved.
Thou sleepest! Sleep on! Hover over her, ye
guardian angels! Shield her from every care!
Lead her light step over a summer path. Spring
every flower to her beautiful feet. If pain threaten
her, send it instead to my heart. Let never that
young smile be shaded by a thought of me; and
the misery she has inflicted, oh! may she never
share—may she never even know!”

In the weakness of the moment, it seemed to him
as if he were taking that farewell which he dare not
do in reality, and as if this solitary moment were
rendered more sacred by a parting which was to
separate them for ever. He walked on. His steps
were bent almost unconsciously towards the Park;
and, passing the Brandenburg gate, its stately form
lifted against the glittering heavens, and the magnificent
group on its top showing in that soft light
as if some goddess had descended, indeed, upon
earth, in her airy car, down that star-paved road.

The wood looked lonely and beautiful at that “dead
waist and middle of the night;” some parts lying
clear and white in the moonlight, and some leading
the eye into deep recesses and deserted glades,
steeped in black shadows. He entered this lonely
spot, which had been the scene of his rash hopes,
and which was now the mute witness of his despair.

Claude was one of those strongly acted upon by
the various aspects of nature. It was not necessary
for him to seek Alpine cliffs, Italian shores, and distant
deserts, to thrill beneath the beauty and power
which, to those formed to be touched by these divine
mysteries, lie ever around, above their heads,
and beneath their feet. Where the common mind
wanders unstirred, beholding only common things,
his finer spirit saw God's footstep and the writing
of his hand; and he entered this perfectly-abandoned
forest, with its heavy piles of foliage and shadows—
its dark aisles—its grassy and flower-enamelled floor
—its arched and leafy vaults, and its utterly hushed
recesses, with a feeling of solemn delight and awe,
which made him move slowly, as over enchanted
ground. The trees, as they stood grouped around,
to his aroused imagination half seemed a company
of unearthly beings, communing with each other in
a wordless language, and reaching forth to the earth
and to the stars their ancient and appealing arms.

“Who knows,” thought our ever-musing wanderer,
“but that the spirit of consciousness, which lies
in so many forms—which God has shed into matter
in such various ways, may lurk in these dim shapes—
may flow through their twisted and gently moving
limbs—may warm their aged hearts, and sparkle in
their outbursting buds and leaves! Why should not
the tree feel the breeze that wakes its branches—
the tempest that threatens to tear up its `earth-bound
roots?' Who knows but they are spirits watching
the ways of men—bending with pity over the pining
lover—calmly watching the conqueror's car—shading

the boy at his happy and fleeting sports—or,
when life is done, waving over his grave, and knowing
more of earth and its mysteries than we its masters?
Who can pretend to possess the deep secrets
that lie around us?”

There came over his memory recollections of his
youthful hours, when it had been his delight to climb
into the branches. Ah! they then brought to his
careless mind no such dim and fearful thoughts!
His heart then saw in the earth around him only the
bright colours of happiness and hope; and the wondrous
objects now startling him with mysterious
meaning and with strange beauty, but half seen before,
struck his delighted eye, without printing themselves
so solemnly on his soul.

As he proceeded, he came to a spot, the surpassing
beauty of which caused him again to pause. A
narrow path wound close to the edge of a stream,
which here, spreading out into a pretty lake, lay, a
moveless sheet of silver light, in which the surrounding
objects discovered themselves with perfect
distinctness. Behind him was a mass of thick
shrubbery. A small bridge crossed the water, and
a few seats, now deserted, had been placed around
for the convenience of pedestrians. The full moon,
riding in her meridian splendour, poured a flood of
light upon the scene, reflecting the thick wall of foliage
which rose by the water, and leaving the interior
recesses in the blackest shadow. Immediately
by his side a white-barked tree leaned over the flood,
in such a way that the moonbeams, glancing from its
white bark, rendered it as brightly visible as a column
of silver. Claude stopped beside this tree to
admire a night-scene, which, in its soft and simple
beauty, seemed disposed for the study of a painter.
He leaned over and gazed into the water. A part
of the adjoining wood rose tall and clear in that inverted
world—each delicate fibre and finely pencilled
leaf drawn in lines of soft light—the bridge

hung beneath with wondrous beauty, every bending
arch and slender line strangely distinct. There lay
the shores leaning back from the edge—there hung
the budding foliage and silent flowers, as soft as light
itself. There rose the tall trunks glimmering in
the radiant air—the tree beside which he stood—his
own form and features—and yet deeper, beyond
imagination, to infinity, were the blue and bending
heavens—the glittering stars—the sleeping clouds—
the spotted moon.

“Exquisite! incredible!” broke from his lips.
He almost held his breath as he gazed, a sense of
unutterable delight filling his heart; when, with a
thrill that froze his blood, he saw beneath him, in
the starless mirror, a hand—and a dagger glittering
in the moonbeams, raised aloft to strike. He had
only time to commit himself to God, when a loud
shriek rose close behind him, like a voice awaken
ing one struggling with the nightmare. He was instantly
drawn back, and staggered against the tree,
the reflection of which a few moments before he
had been observing in the water. It was a moment
ere he quite recovered from the stupor into which
this incident had thrown him. On turning, he found
himself alone, but the figure of a female at some
distance appeared approaching him. As he advanced
towards her, he perceived she was breathless
and fainting with terror. She sunk upon one of the
seats, and, lifting her face, pale with fright, discovered
the features of Madame Wharton.

“Thank God!” she exclaimed, as soon as her agitation
would permit her to speak. “Oh, let us hasten
from this dreadful spot.”

“Madame Wharton!” said Claude, “I am amazed.
How came you here—at this extraordinary
hour—at a moment so strange?—and where is he
who attempted my life?”

“Oh, Mr. Wyndham! what a singular chance!”

“It was your shriek that saved me. I had lost
my balance.”

“Merciful Providence! Let us hasten away and
call the guard,” said Madame Wharton.

“But, madame—you—how came you here?—by
what extraordinary chance?—I am quite at a loss to
conjecture!”

“I will tell you as we proceed; but, for Heaven's
sake, do not delay your return. I am painfully
alarmed—this is shocking.”

“It might have been much worse though,” said
Claude, smiling.

“But the ruffian may return—”

“Pray be under no apprehension. If he does, I
will be more ready for him. He would not fire a
pistol so near the town, and with a dagger he cannot
do much harm when seen; but I have no words
to express my amazement. What can this mean?
Whom have I offended? What ill have I done to
call for such vengeance? I have never had a serious
quarrel except with one person; and, much as
I despise that person, I really dare not utter his
name in connexion with such an affair.”

“It is mysterious—it is frightful,” said Madame
Wharton; “but let us hasten towards the gate. I
tremble lest the assassin should return. We must
give notice to the guard.”

“No,” said Claude; “the man by this time is
probably long past pursuit, and most likely has entered
by some other gate. He would scarcely undertake
an affair like this without being prepared
for a retreat.”

“Had he succeeded, you would have been precipitated
into the water. It might have been
months—perhaps years—before your fate could be
known.”

“But pray satisfy my curiosity,” said Claude,
“for I scarcely find this attempt on my life so extraordinary
as your being here so opportunely to
save me—and at such an unseasonable hour!”

“I went to your hotel,” said Madame Wharton.

“I had something of importance to inquire of you.
I could not come before, and my impatience would
not permit me to wait till to-morrow: wishing to
see you in secret, I took with me no servant, and I
had no idea that I should be less safe about the town
in the night than in the day. On inquiring at your
hotel, they told me you had gone out. I returned
home and was entering the house, when I thought I
perceived you at a distance, walking towards the
Park. The extreme loveliness of the night seemed
to render this place peculiarly appropriate as the
scene for the conversation I wished to have with
you, and I followed you. On drawing near, I perceived
a figure on the shady side of the way moving
at some distance behind you, with an air of one
watching you—pausing when you paused—advancing
when you advanced—stooping and lurking back
in the shadow, and hiding behind the nearest object
twice when you turned. This strange apparition,
dogging your steps with such a stealthy determination,
awakened first my curiosity and then my alarm.
He skulked after you till you approached and passed
through the gate; then pausing a considerable
time, he assumed a careless air, and went also
through the portal. I followed. For a long time,
as you walked, I perceived him skulking after you
till you approached the dark grove which ended
by the stream. He then hid behind a tree. The
moonlight streamed upon the spot where you stood,
and, as you leaned over the water, I saw him steal
cautiously up. I should have called, but even then
I was not sure he might not be one of your acquaintance,
practising some merry surprise; till,
with a terror which for a moment took from me the
power of speech, I saw him dart from the thicket
to your side, and something in his hand flashed in
the moonlight as he lifted it over your head. My
horror scarcely enabled me to utter the shriek which
arrested him; when, starting and muttering a deep
oath in English, he passed very near me with great
rapidity, and disappeared.”

“Did you see his face?”

“I did not.”

“And could you at all recognise his form?”

“No. Terror blinded me. I have no distinct
impression of his appearance.”

“It is certainly very singular—and recalls to me
an incident which happened soon after my arrival
in Berlin. I was walking also late at night, as I
have a custom of doing, and also in the Park, when
a strange, coarse-looking man presented himself
suddenly at my back as I turned accidentally on
hearing the howl of a dog.”

“You are, then, the object of an assassin's dagger;
you are certainly marked for some one's victim.”

“But whose?”

“Alas!” said Claude, with emotion, “I know
not. I scarcely care. My life is full of mystery and
pain. I have nothing which cheers the existence of
other men.”

“But,” said Madame Wharton, “we are nearly
at the gate; and, before we proceed, let me ask you
some information respecting your family and situation.
A wonderful coincidence has brought you
before my eyes; and with you, Mr. Wyndham, such
singular associations and vague hopes as make me
tremble.”

“Associations—with me?” echoed Claude.

“I heard your replies this evening,” continued
Madame Wharton, “to that odious Lady Beverly.
Who this woman is I do not know. But I perceive
she has conceived an enmity against you
which excites my curiosity. Let me be indeed your
friend. Confide in me your whole history. You
are strangely misrepresented here now. You stand
in the attitude of a suspected person. Very painful
statements are going the rounds of the whole
society concerning you. Elkington openly avows
that you are an impostor and a coward, and has deliberately

expressed his determination to drive you
from Berlin in disgrace. Count Carolan believes
him. He says you are here under an assumed
name. Your attachment to Ida is beginning to be
talked of, and Carolan has declared that you shall
never again enter his house. He has solemnly forbidden
Ida even to speak to or of you, under the
pain of his lasting displeasure; and he is capable
of turning her adrift upon the world for the slightest
act of disobedience. What is the origin of these
reports?”

“If to be nameless and friendless—if to be without
family or resources, except one which chance
has given and may withdraw at any moment—if to
have loved rashly one whom I knew I could never
obtain—and if to feel myself bound by principles of
action from which not disgrace itself shall make me
swerve, against calling out into the field, and killing
or being killed, by the man who makes no secret of
his wish to ruin me; if this be guilt, then I am
most guilty. If this be cowardice, then I am a
coward.”

“Who are you, then?” said Madame Wharton,
with increasing agitation.

“You are ill,” said Claude; “you are exhausted
with the terror of this night.”

“No. I earnestly entreat you to go on.”

“Then, madame, I fear that I am the child of
guilt; and I fear that, if I had a family, I should be
more degraded than I am without one. I remember
little of my infancy. It passed among strangers.
I crossed the ocean in my earliest years to
England, where I was placed at a good school, and
where subsequently I received an education which
I owed to charity. Lord Perceval, the friend I
have lately lost, and his estimable lady, some time
since deceased, brought me up out of friendship.
On leaving the university I received a letter which
could only have proceeded from a heart filled with
loathing, and directed against one whose existence

it regarded as a misfortune and a shame. It informed
me that I was the child of guilt; that only
one person on the earth knew who I was, and that
person was and ever would be prevented by disgust
and horror from owning or seeing me; that I sprung
from the lowest, the vilest class of society; that my
father was a wretch covered with dishonour, and my
mother a—being yet lower; that she had paid the
penalty of her crimes—and that, if ever I made an
attempt to discover my origin, I should but bring
down on my head all the detestation and shame
which criminal parents could bequeath to a miserable
child. An annuity of £450 was settled on me
through a certain banker, on the condition that I
should never take measures to find out from whence
it came, or anything concerning it. It was to cease
instantly upon the first inquiry. I was requested
to pass most of my time abroad. I have been compelled
thus to live a kind of idle life. I have travelled
about the globe, and occupied myself with
my own thoughts and observations, and endeavoured
to find a recompense for these disadvantages,
and to repair, as far as possible, by a stainless life,
the woes and guilt of those mysterious persons from
whom I drew my being.”

“Have you that letter?”

“It is among the papers of Lord Perceval. I
have long made up my mind to pursue the subject no
farther. A father who could thus cast me off, and
doom me to a life of suspicion—to be branded by
every malicious foe with mysteries which I cannot
explain—I confess I would not meet if I could, and
I should tremble lest, in discovering him, I should
but find some unfortunate whose hands are imbrued
with blood and crime, and the spoils of whose sin
I myself am perhaps sharing. My curiosity to unravel
these secrets—to know what sin my mother
has committed, and what was the manner in which
she expiated it—this curiosity is quenched by the

misgivings to which it gives rise. Oh, my mother!
if your shade hovers in the air, or pines in hopeless
wo for a life of crime, cannot the sacrifices of
your unhappy son soften your anguish or sooth
your remorse? And oh, my father! if your dark
eyes follow the course of him whom you have thus
so long cast off, are there no moments when nature
pleads in a heart hardened only by chance,
and you behold through tears of affection one who
obeys and loves, even when he trembles at the
thought of you?”

“Have you no knowledge of your real name?”

“None. A complete mystery enshrouds it. Often,
when I read of the execution of some female, I
shudder lest it might be the being who gave me
birth; often, when I hear of some criminal, I wonder
whether a father's heart be not bursting in that
death-doomed form.”

“Horrible thought!” said Madame Wharton.

“I am encircled by awful mysteries,” said Claude.
“I feel as if borne by destiny along a dark tide, I
know not whither.”

“It is dark indeed,” said Madame Wharton. “I
am as bewildered as yourself. There are strange
things in life—and wild—which sometimes hover
around the paths of mortals—and which are never
dreamed of by others.”

“But come,” said Claude, “I have been excited
and weak. I do not allow myself often to give way
to these thoughts. Perhaps my imaginations and
apprehensions are equally unfounded. There is a
bright side as well as a dark to my fate; but will
you allow me to ask, madame, what object you have
in pursuing these inquiries?”

“Because I am your friend,” said Madame
Wharton, in a low and tremulous tone; and she
held out her hand. He pressed it to his lips.

“You are,” said he, “the only one on earth who
takes an interest in my lonely fate, and I thank you.”

“Promise me, then,” said Madame Wharton, “to
be guided by me. Do not yield to the temptations
which Elkington will throw in the way of your passion,
and to Ida—be as a stranger. The path of
right is sometimes steep and dreary, but leads to
true happiness.”

“I have promised,” said Claude. He felt that he
yielded to her influence as a mortal to a superior
being, sent thus by Heaven to save his life in the
moment of peril, and to support his resolution with
the inspired words of hope and virtue.