13. CHAPTER XIII.
My situation was now one of considerable awkwardness, and
it did not lessen my annoyance to reflect that it was one into
which I had been hurried by my own unregulated passions and
imprudent vanity. But this was no moment for reflections such
as these. It was evident that I now had no business there, even
if the business had been legitimate which had carried me there
at first. To remain longer in the house of one who had ordered
my departure in language of brutality, and whose conduct had
provoked me to violence, was surely against all received rules of
gentility. And yet, how to leave the poor woman to his rage?
Would he not wreak upon her weak person and unoffending
head, all the venom which would be idly shown against the
bosom of superior manhood? This was my apprehension—the
apprehension that made me linger,—it was evident that the Prima
Donna, herself, was not entirely without it.
“Do not—do not leave me,” she exclaimed passionately, as
she beheld his departure, while with hands clasped in something
like a mortal agony of fear, she approached me. “He will soon
return—he is terrible in his anger—he will do some dreadful act.”
“Fear nothing—I will protect—I will stand by you to the
last.”
I spoke with the look and language of a knight of the middle
ages. Forgetful of the matter-of-fact and every-day character of
the busy world around me—the age of money-changers and their
greatest mart,—I was hurried away by my boyish feelings, and
utterly lost in the seventh heaven of heroism. I would have
taken her hand in mine as I addressed her; but the attempt
brough about an instant change in her manner. The fear of
doing, seemed suddenly greater than that of suffering, wrong;
and in tears no less energetic if less passionate than before, she
now entreated my deaprture.
“Go, for God's sake, and leave me, leave me for ever. I do
not blame you—no, no! But you cannot know the mischief
you have done. My husband will never forgive me for this
folly; and every moment of your longer stay will increase the
difficulties, perhaps the dangers, in my way.”
I told her there should be no difficulties—no dangers—that I
would stand by and shield her from all harm. At that moment
I felt myself equal to every danger; and would have faced the
giant Ascaparte himself in her battle. But she knew her own
relation to her jealous liege, and resolutely insisted upon my
departure. I lingered until longer delay would have been impertinence,
and then prepared to comply with her demand. But
before leaving I proffered my assistance in the event of any
further difficulty. I put my card into her hand. She calmly
tore it into fragments which she threw into the grate.
“No, sir, no: I thank you, but you can render me no help—I
shall need no assistance. I only ask you not to see me—not to
know me any more. Forget that you have ever seen me.”
“Impossible!”
She silenced my raptures by an impatient movement of her
hand, and the sad sorrow of her countenance was exchanged to
an expression of dignified purity, as she thus rebuked my extravagance.
My passion yielded to respect. Her beauty and
talent aroused the one—her virtuous and becoming conduct
commanded the other. I bowed and was turning away, when,
as if moved by some fear that her sternness had given pain, her
features softened—she advanced—gave me her hand for a moment,
then left me hurriedly for an inner chamber.
