20. CHAPTER XIX.
Ida had no sooner been safely conveyed to her
apartment, than Carolan returned to seek Claude, with
an embarrassment which he could scarcely conceal.
He had not an understanding sufficiently enlarged to
teach him how to act on such an occasion; and the
dictates of his heart, however naturally good, had so
long been subservient to his vanity, that it had ceased
to serve him as a useful guide. He thanked the preserver
of his daughter with a gratitude which was not
free from condescension; and, in acknowledging the
debt, he showed that he wished it had not been incurred.
He had neither learned to forgive nor to ask forgiveness;
graces which belong only to sense and feeling.
On the day after this event Ida had quite recovered
from the effects of her fright, and Carolan sent a
servant to Claude's humble lodging to say she would
be happy to see and thank her preserver. The note
was couched in terms of cold pride, in which the inflated
character of the count was easily visible. Claude
was carefully informed that the meeting was at the request
of the count himself.
Without taking umbrage at the eccentric weakness
of a character in which he felt little interest, on the
next day he repaired to Carolan's house at the appointed
hour. The count met him in the study. He
wished his daughter, he said, to thank him for her deliverance,
as he did himself, with a stately gratitude
and an offer of his purse to any amount.
“After the great service you have rendered me,”
said he, “I will freely supply your pecuniary wants
to any extent. You may call upon my banker during
my absence in France, whither a high public duty calls
me. My daughter is weak, and I trust you will not
trespass too much—”
“Were it left to my choice,” said Claude, “I should
prefer not to oppress her with the useless task of returning
thanks, which you consider so requisite.”
“You will permit me to say this is at your request?”
asked the count.
“Certainly.”
His brow cleared up.
“Well, then, be it so; to say the truth, she is not
well, and we start early to-morrow morning. Such
men as I are demanded by the perilous state of affairs
in France, where all the chivalry and talent of Europe
ought to concentrate itself; and I deem it proper
—as well due to myself as from an imperative sense
of duty to his gracious majesty the King of France,
and, indeed, to the cause of royalty over the world—to
offer my poor talents, such as they are. I believe the
cause will not be lighter for my attaching myself to it.
A high consciousness of the manner in which I have
performed all my duties, makes me hope that I shall
not be an unacceptable accession to his majesty's
strength. It would afford me pleasure to ask you to
drive with me to-day; but Prince L—has begged to
come, and—”
“It would be impossible for me to avail myself of
your politeness,” said Claude, his feelings towards the
daughter scarcely enabling him to preserve a decent
exterior of respect before the father.
“Then, Mr. Wyndham, adieu; and if, as I trust I
may hope, you deem my friendship worth accepting”—
he held out his fore finger for Claude to shake—
“it may be a pleasure for you to know that you have
it. I am going out—shall I set you down?”
Claude declined the offer, bowed, and, without receiving
the fore finger so condescendingly offered, took
his leave.
The next day the Carolans took their departure for
France.
In the mean time, the town rang with the gallantry
of the action he had performed, and he suddenly became
a kind of lion. This ill suited his simple habits,
and he withdrew from attentions which he did not
greatly value, and could not accept without embarrassment
from his limited pecuniary means.
Poor Rossi had been taken from Carolan's to the
asylum, where, in a week, although everything possible
was done for him, and Claude visited him every
day, he died. With him a strange life was closed—endured
without profit to himself or others—a mind undisciplined—a
heart not cultivated properly—passions
without restraint or religion to govern them. His
weak understanding had been rendered weaker by the
want of education and moral principle; and to such a
being the world is so full of dangers and pains—to be
incurred without support, or endured without recompense—that
even pity could scarcely sigh over his
early grave. It was observed, in his last ravings, that
the prominent incident in his imagination was the blow
he had received from Elkington. He fancied it had
left a festering spot upon his forehead—that the disgrace
was one which could be washed out, not by a
life of equal courage and simple virtue, but by revenging
himself on Elkington, either by the sacrifice of
himself or some one dear to him. “There must be
blood,” thought the poor maniac, “ere I shall be able
to recover from the humiliation.” Claude witnessed
his closing scene with many serious reflections; and
he was startled to remember what similar thoughts of
blind revenge and reckless passion had filled his own
mind the night when he himself had been struck by
Elkington. He too had been tainted with the Gothic
idea that anything could stain an immortal soul but its
own evil passions, and that it was permitted one weak
human being to solace his own rage by shedding the
blood of another. He too had thought of a duel—of
self-destruction—of murder—of madness. But his
calmer nature had recovered itself amid its communings
with the elements, had listened to the voice of
God in the air, and seen his lessons in the heaven.
Thus the master of himself, he turned from the temptations
of the world; and, depending on his Creator
alone, trod the painful path of right with the hisses of
all around him ringing in his ears.
