University of Virginia Library

11. CHAPTER XI.

Some days passed away. Time goes on, however
it is with us. There are events which seem great
enough to stop him, but he still goes on. He stays
not for the lover. He whirls away all his light dreams,
and he equally carries on the wretch to the end. After
all, it does not so greatly matter how we fare in a
vessel which crosses but such a narrow sea, and which
no opposing wind can keep back a moment from its
destined and dark harbour.

Mrs. Denham recovered from the violence of her
grief. She was pale, thin, and haggard; but she was
again as others are, moving about, with her particular
grief treasured in her own bosom. It seems strange
how much we can endure, and yet eat, and drink, and
sleep, and smile, and run the daily routine of familiar
life. But the heart is made to endure. It is like a
ship sent abroad upon the ocean, framed not only to
glide over the smooth seas, but to cope with the billow
and the whirlwind. There are in it corresponding
principles of buoyancy. Behold it careering loftily,
with swollen canvass and flying banner, moving like a
god almost, over the beautiful, obedient deep. The
tempest bursts upon it, and fearful is the struggle. It
is worn, and torn, and broken. Its tall sails are rent,
its gay banner is gone, and its spars strew the ocean;
but, when the sunshine comes again, lo! it is there.
Not the same, but it is there.

To Claude this unhappy girl now owed everything.

She was actually penniless. The money they had
brought with them in cash was absorbed in the expenses
of the funeral, mourning purchases, paying servants,
of which they had two, a courier and a femme
de chambre, whom Mrs. Denham was now obliged to
pay. The courier was saucy, and demanded more
than was just. He would have been paid but for
Claude. The man was extremely insolent, and, seizing
the valuable watch which Mr. Denham had worn,
swore he would carry it off unless paid. Claude entered
the room at the moment, sent to the police, had
him arrested, and compelled him to make an humble
apology and to beg for pardon, which, but at the request
of her he had so brutally insulted, would not
have been accorded.

The letter of credit, usually carried by travellers,
Mrs. Denham instantly enclosed to the bankers who
had given it; knowing that the money she might draw
on it would not now be refunded.

“I am totally ruined,” said she to Claude. “I have
positively nothing. Even were we at home, I should
be in a state of destitution. My father has been unfortunate,
and is not in a situation to offer us a home.
Here I am worse; I am even in debt, and without the
means of returning to England.”

“No, madam,” said Claude. “You must excuse me
for the liberty I have taken, but I have procured you
another letter of credit upon my own account. I have
ordered in all your bills. They are paid. This is the
letter of credit. It is for one hundred pounds.”

“Mr. Wyndham!” faltered Mrs. Denham, while little
Ellen stole up to him, took his hand, and pressed
it against her lips.

“I am your husband's friend,” said Claude. “He
has, however rashly and unnecessarily, sacrificed his
life in my cause, and he has bequeathed you to my
care. I will hear of no denial. Indeed, it is already
done. You had better return to London at once. I
know a lady—the kindest, the best in the world—who

is going almost immediately; she will be a mother, a
sister, a friend to you. It is Madame Wharton, of
whom I have so often spoken.”

“But this money—I am entirely without resources
—I can never repay it. Propriety—delicacy—honesty,
all demand that I should decline it.”

“It is very well to talk in this way,” said Claude,
“but I must tell you plainly, if you were ever so disposed
to resist, you cannot. I must exert the authority
with which I am invested; and, if you will not permit
me to be your brother, I am, in my own right,
your guardian.”

“Dearest Mr. Wyndham,” said Ellen, coming to
him as he sat, and putting her arm round his neck,
“how good, how kind you are! God will bless you
for your generosity to us. If she will not take the
money, give it to me. I know you are sincere, and
that you will be glad to help us out of Berlin. Oh, if
uncle Charles had acted like you. What harm did
Mr. Elkington do him, after all, by striking him? You
were struck, and you are as well as you were before,
and as good; and if he had killed you too, we should
have had no friend. I'll take the money, and carry
sister Mary back to London, and we shall bless you
and pray for you, night and day, as long as we live.”

“Sweet child!” said Claude, folding to his bosom
the ingenuous little being, whose mind saw truth unclouded
by sophistry or worldly example; “and, since
I am to transact business hereafter with you, not with
your disobedient sister, I shall tell you what else I
have done. We need not care whether she likes it or
not.”

“No, indeed.”

“I have directed £100 to be annually held by my
banker, payable to your sister's order. See, she's going
to contradict us; but we must teach her obedience
to her new masters.”

Mrs. Denham buried her face in her handkerchief.

At nine o'clock the next evening, Claude conducted

Mrs. Denham and her young companion to the office
of the poste, where he presented them to Madame
Wharton. He had taken the coupé, and they were
comfortably arranged alone.

The merry horn sounded again, and the clattering
horses' hoofs struck fire from the pavement as they
stood stamping in the court. Madame Wharton and
Claude were already so knit in the bonds of friendship
that he seemed to have known her all his life. Their
parting was in a corresponding degree warm and affectionate.
She folded him to her bosom, and, somewhat
to his astonishment, imprinted a kiss upon his
forehead. He was going to make some lively comment
upon the rapid progress of their friendship, when
he perceived her cheeks bathed in tears. As he bade
farewell to Mrs. Denham, the poor girl's convulsive
movements betrayed how her soul was shaken; but
she took the handkerchief from her face one moment,
and her eyes met his.

“Mr. Wyndham,” she said, extending her hand, “I
cannot reply—I cannot—but God will bless your future
steps. There is one thing I must say before we
leave, if my heart breaks with it; in my delirium the
other day, I wronged you by charging upon you the
catastrophe—the fatal—the—”

She paused a moment, unable to proceed.

“I wronged you,” she at length continued; “and
every step I have heard of yours—every tone of your
voice since—and every act of kindness and generosity,
reproaches my folly and guilt in having done so.”

Claude was deeply moved by this address, though
it fell upon his burning soul like a balm.

“You have acted right—wisely—nobly. Charles
has—”

The new agony of grief impeded her utterance.

“Allons, messieurs, en route,” cried the conducteur,
cracking his whip.

“Mr. Wyndham — dearest Mr. Wyndham,” said
Ellen, putting up her lips, her eyes streaming with

tears, “good-by. Oh, I wish we could live with you
always.”

“And remember, dearest child,” Claude whispered
in her ear before he lifted her into the carriage, “in
me you have a friend. Write to me sometimes. My
address is at my banker's; and I promise, whatever
you ask, I will always comply, as if I were your father.”

The portières were closed with a slam. The voyageurs
in the voiture were ready. Adieus full of
mirth and joy were exchanged between parting friends.
The cumbrous vehicle dashed off into the street; a
handkerchief was waved to him out of the window as
it was lost in the shadow, he could not distinguish by
whom; and tears, sad but sweet, relieved his aching
heart, and enabled him to breathe more freely, now
that the curtain had fallen over the closing scene of
the tragedy in which he had borne such a painful rôle.
As he walked home through the crowded streets, the
cool air fell soothingly upon his face, as if the breath
of angels were mingled with it. He paced on through
the narrow König Strasse—crossed the bridge, where
the colossal equestrian statue of the great elector
frowned upon him through the shadows—and beheld
the vast Schloss rising against the summer heaven, as
it had stood for centuries, and beneath whose roof he
had spent so many happy hours amid those royal gayeties
which fascinated him so much on his first arrival.
He had calm but high thoughts of life, and, man as he
was, wended his lonely way homeward. He walked
the earth as one willing to quit it, and certain of a
brighter abode.

“Strange life!” he thought; “yet why should he
mourn who has done no wrong? Already the events
which have so harrowed me are swept into the past;
already they have become shadows. The frowns and
the cold looks of that gay society, who have condemned
me unheard for following the dictates of reason,
humanity, and religion—the blow of Elkington—the

thoughts of the rash—the sneers of the unfeeling—the
dead face of Denham—the bursting sobs of the newmade
widow — the horror and anguish of my own
soul, swerving from its path at the shocks of fortune—
already they have ceased to be realities. They are
memories—they are vanished dreams. Is it for these
that I would sacrifice right, which is eternal?”

It was ten when he reached his hotel. The responsibility
which had rested on him was now at an end.
He felt exhausted, and tired nature asked repose. The
thoughts which had preyed upon him ceased their task,
and a tender languor overspread his soul. The world
was against him. He had disregarded its rules—its
vile customs—its antique, bloody opinions. He had
received a blow! It had not stained him. It had
left him free to act, as the pale moon is free to keep
on her Heaven-appointed course, even when the dog
howls at her, and the maniac treads on her uninjured
light, and swears she is unchaste. Was he to blame,
that Denham, knowing his opinions, had sought his fate?
Well he knew (and the thought gave him perfect
quiet on that point), had he been able to prevent his
meeting his enemy by sacrificing his own life, he
would have done so without a moment's hesitation.
He had done all in his power, and the dark consequences
were shaped by Heaven's inscrutable decree,
which the blind mortal must bow to without seeking
a cause. It is the privilege of principle to be able to
turn to Providence, whatever may grow out of its conscientious
action, without fear. It can murmur to its
Creator, “It is not I, oh God! but thou.”

As he threw himself upon the bed, a voice beneath
the window—some wandering lover, perhaps, serenading
his mistress—broke forth into the following song
by Curran. The voice of the singer was clear, melodious,
and gave to the music, of no common sweetness,
the charm of taste and feeling.