University of Virginia Library

2. CHAPTER II.

The change of horses occupied but little time;
and, after a few fanciful flourishes on the horn, the
heavy vehicle dashed on again at a rapid pace
through the shadows of night.

“Have you been long from Berlin, madame?” resumed
Mr. Wyndham, when they found themselves
once more en route.

“But a few weeks, to visit a friend at Hamburg.”

“You can tell me, then, whether the Carolans
are in town?”

“They are.”

“Have I the honour of addressing a relative of
Count Carolan?” asked Claude.

“Oh no. I am the gouvernante of the young
Countess Ida—their only child.”

“You have been long a resident in Count Carolan's
family?”

“About twelve years; ever since my young pupil
required my services.”

“The Carolans are agreeable people, I think I
have heard.”

“I consider myself fortunate in residing with such
amiable persons, and particularly in having a pupil
so charming.”

“The young countess is pretty, then?”

“I meant to apply the term less to her personal
appearance than to her mind and heart. But she is
extremely beautiful.”

“And her age?”

“Eighteen; but it is her character which renders
her particularly interesting to me.”

“Desist, madame, for Heaven's sake!” cried
Wyndham, jestingly, “unless you mean to make
me wretched for life. Do you know you are talking
to one who disbelieves in the existence of beings

so dangerous? I have numbered them among unicorns,
mermaids, and the fabulous images of poetry.
Should I encounter such a thing in real life, what
would become of me?”

“Indeed, if you are going to spend much time in
Berlin, Mr. Wyndham,” said Madame Wharton, “I
have been rash in colouring the portrait of my young
friend so highly; but, before it is too late, allow me
to repair my error.”

“As far as possible,” interrupted Wyndham, smiling.

“Smile if you please,” continued Madame Wharton;
“but, before you meet her and enter the hospitable
house of Count Carolan, it is proper you should
learn a fact which I beg to make you acquainted
with.”

“Ah! don't tell me—that this formidable Helen
is already married.”

“No.”

“I breathe again!” said Wyndham.

“Suspend your breath, then!” said Madame Wharton;
“for, although not actually married, she is
fiancée; and I think one of your English proverbs
runs, `forewarned, forearmed!”'

“Alas, then! I am positively not to fall in love?”

“Positively.”

“And there is no hope that a nameless pilgrim
may prove more acceptable than son futur?”

“No, indeed!”

“For another of our English proverbs is, `faint
heart never won fair lady!”'

“If the lady had anything to do with it; but here
the matter is made up between the friends of the
parties. The Count Carolan is a gentleman of
much intelligence and merit, but he carries pride
to hauteur; and he is so aspiring, as well as the
Countess Carolan, that they would both rather see
their daughter dead than united to a man not of high
rank and fortune. I fear `nameless pilgrims' would
stand a very poor chance with them.”

“The happy gentleman, then, who has won her,
is himself in a high sphere?”

“He is Lord Elkington, son of the Earl of Beverly.
His father is infirm, and it is generally
thought he will soon receive the title and estates
himself.”

“Is the young countess at Berlin?”

“Oh yes.”

“And the fortunate adorer?”

“Of course.”

“And what kind of a person is this fortunate
Lord Elkington?”

“Lord Elkington is about two-and-twenty; a
fashionable, elegant young man, of distinguished
manners, and very fond of Ida. He will be able to
support her in a sphere of life even grander than
that to which she has been accustomed.”

“Ah! grander, my dear madame—as if grandeur
were happiness! I am sure I wish the young lady
all possible good, but—” He paused. Madame
W. made no answer; and a slight yawn, partly
suppressed, broke from the lips of Wyndham, announcing
that fatigue and drowsiness were becoming
too strong for even the attractions of the fair
young countess. A little shocked at such a breach
of decorum, he was about to make an apology, when,
by that mysterious contagion which, it is to be hoped,
will be one day better accounted for, his companion
followed his example. And a sudden short
snore, not unlike the snap of a very hungry dog at
a piece of meat, proceeding apparently from the
person of “John”—who, with his wife and daughter,
had, during the preceding confabulation, preserved a
profound silence—indicated that it was late, and that
the hour of sleep had arrived. The horses were
here changed again. Claude wrapped himself well
up in his cloak. Madame Wharton retreated yet
farther into her muff and shawl; and, ere long, both
fell into a slumber, which people who have never

slept out of bed think only enjoyable in that luxurious
article of furniture, but which, notwithstanding,
may be both sound and sweet upon the broad
and soft cushions of a German Schnellpost.