I knocked twice before I heard the permission to enter; but scarcely
had I closed the door behind me, than the old lady advanced, and,
courtesying to me with a manner of most reverential politeness, said,
“When you learn, sir, that my conduct has been dictated in the interest
of your safety, you will, I am sure, graciously pardon many apparent
rudenesses in my manner towards you, and only see in them my zeal to
serve you.”
I could only bow to a speech not one syllable of which was in the least
intelligible to me. She conducted me courteously to a seat, and only
took her own after I was seated.
“I feel, sir,” said she, “that there will be no end to our
embarrassments if I do not go straight to my object and say at once that
I know you. I tell you frankly, sir, that my brother did not betray
your secret. The instincts of his calling--to _him_ second nature--were
stronger than fraternal love, and all he said to me was, 'Martha, I have
found a gentleman who is going south, and who, without inconvenience,
can see you safely as far as Como.' I implicitly accepted his words, and
agreed to set out immediately. I suspected nothing,--I knew nothing. It
was only before going down to dinner that the paragraph in the 'Courrier
du Dimanche' met my eye, and as I read it, I thought I should have
fainted. My first determination was not to appear at dinner. I felt
that something or other in my manner would betray my knowledge of
your secret. My next was to go down and behave with more than usual
sharpness. You may have remarked that I was very abrupt, almost, shall I
say, rude?”
I tried to enter a dissent at this, but did not succeed so happily as I
meant; but she resumed:--
“At any cost, however, sir, I determined that I alone should be the
depositary of your confidence. Miss Herbert is to me a comparative
stranger; she is, besides, very young; she would be in no wise a
suitable person to intrust with such a secret, and so I said, I will
pretend illness, and remain here for a day; I will make some pretext of
dissatisfaction about the expense of the journey; I will affect to
have had some passing difference, and he can thus leave us ere he
be discovered. Not that I desire this, sir, far from it; this is the
brightest episode in a long life. I never imagined that I should have
enjoyed such an honor; but I have only to think of your safety, and if
an old woman, unobservant and unremarking as myself, could penetrate
your disguise, why not others more keen-sighted and inquisitive? Don't
you agree with me?”
“There is much force in what you say, madam,” said I; with dignity, “and
your words touch me profoundly.” I thought this a happy expression, for
it conveyed a sort of grand condescension that seemed to hit off the
occasion.
“You would never guess how I recognized you, sir,” said she.
“Never, madam.” I could have given my oath to this, if required.
“Well,” said she, with a bland smile, “it was from the resemblance to
your mother!”
“Indeed!”
“Yes; you are far more like her, than your father, and you are scarcely
so tall as he was.”
“Perhaps not, madam.”
“But you have his manner, sir, the graceful and captivating dignity that
distinguished all your house; this would betray you to the eyes of all
who have enjoyed the high privilege of knowing your family.”
The allusion to our house showed that we were royalties, and I laid my
hand on my heart, and bowed as a prince ought, blandly but haughtily.
“Ah, sir,” said she, with a deep sigh, “your present enterprise fills me
with apprehension. Are you not afraid, yourself, of the consequences?”
I sighed, too; and if the truth were to be told, I was very much afraid.
“But, of course, you are acting under advice, and with the counsel of
those well able to guide you.”
“I cannot say I am, madam; I am free to tell you that every step I am
now taking is self-suggested.”
“Oh, then, let me implore you to pause, sir,” said she, falling on her
knees before me; “let me thus entreat of you not to go further in a path
so full of danger.”
“Shall I confess, madam,” said I, proudly, “that I do not _see_ these
dangers you speak of?”
I thought that on this hint she would talk out, and I might be able to
pierce the veil of the mystery, and discover who I was; for though very
like my mother, and shorter than my father, I was sorely puzzled about
my parentage; but she only went off into generalities about the state of
the Continent and the condition of Europe generally. I saw now that my
best chance of ascertaining something about myself was to obtain from
her the newspaper that first suggested her discovery of me, and I said
half carelessly, “Let me see the paragraph which struck you in the
'Courrier.'”
“Ah, sir, you must excuse me, these ignoble writers have little delicacy
in alluding to the misfortunes of the great; they seem to revenge the
littleness of their own station on every such occasion.”
“You can well imagine, madam, how time has accustomed me to such petty
insults: show me the paper.”
“Pray let me refuse you, sir; I would not, however blamelessly, be
associated in your mind with what might offend you.”
Again I protested that I was used to such attacks, that I knew all about
the wretched hireling creatures who wrote them, and that instead of
offending, they positively amused me,--actually made me laugh.
Thus urged, she proceeded to search for the newspaper, and only after
some minutes was it that she remembered Miss Herbert had taken it away
to read in the garden. She proposed to send the servant to fetch it,
but this I would not permit, pretending at last to concur in her own
previously expressed contempt for the paragraph,--but secretly promising
myself to go in search of it the moment I should be at liberty,--and
once more she resumed the theme of my rashness, and my dangers, and
all the troubles I might possibly bring upon my family, and the grief I
might occasion my grandmother.
Now, as there are few men upon whom the ties of family and kindred
imposed less rigid bonds, I was rather provoked at being reminded of
obligations to my grandmother, and was almost driven to declare that she
weighed for very little in the balance of my plans and motives. The old
lady, however, rescued me from the indiscretion by a fervent entreaty
that I would at least ask a certain person what he thought of my present
step.
“Will you do this?” said she, with tears in her eyes. “Will you do it
now?”
I promised her faithfully.
“Will you do it here, sir, at this table, and let me have the proudest
memory in my life to recall the incident.”
“I should like an hour or two for reflection,” said I, pushed very hard
by this insistence of hers, for I was sorely puzzled whom I was to write
to.
“Oh,” said she, still tearfully, “is it not the habit of hesitating,
sir, has cost your house so dearly?”
“No,” said I, “we have been always accounted prompt in action and true
to our engagements.”
Heaven forgive me! but in this vainglorious speech I was alluding to the
motto of the Potts crest,--“Vigilanti-bus omnia fausta;” or, as some one
rendered it, “Potts answers to the night-bell.”
She smiled faintly at my remark. I wonder how she would have looked had
she read the thought that suggested it.
“But you _will_ write to him, sir?” said she, once more.
I laid my hand over what anatomists call the region of the heart, and
tried to look like Charles Edward in the prints. Meanwhile my patience
was beginning to fail me, and I felt that if the mystification were
to last much longer, I should infallibly lose my presence of mind.
Fortunately, the old lady was so full of her theme that she only asked
to be let talk away without interruption, with many an allusion to the
dear Count and the adored Duchess, and a fervent hope that I might be
ultimately reconciled to them both,--a wish which I had tact enough to
perceive required the most guarded reserve on my part.
“I know I am indiscreet, sir,” said she, at last; “but you must pardon
one whose zeal outruns her reason.”
And I bowed grandly, as I might have done in extending mercy to some
captive taken in battle.
“There is but one favor more, sir, I have to beg.”
“Speak it, madam. As the courtier remarked, if it be possible it _is_
done, if impossible it _shall_ be done.”
“Well, sir, it is that you will not leave us till you hear from--” She
hesitated as if afraid to say the name, and then added, “the Rue St.
Georges. Will you give me this pledge?”
Now, though this would have been, all things considered, an arrangement
very like to have lasted my life, I could not help hesitating ere I
assented, not to say that our dear friend of the Rue St Georges, whoever
he was, might possibly not concur in all the delusions indispensable
to my happiness. I therefore demurred,--that is, in legal acceptance, I
deferred assent,--as though to say, “We'll see.”
“At all events, sir, you 'll accompany us to Como?”
“You have my pledge to that, madam.”
“And meanwhile, sir, you agree with me that it is better I should
continue to behave towards you with a cold and distant reserve.”
“Unquestionably.”
“Barely meeting, seldom or never conversing.”
“I should say never, madam; making, in fact, any communication you may
desire to reach me through the intervention of that young person,--I
forget her name.”
“Miss Herbert, sir.”
“Exactly; and who appears gentle and unobtrusive.”
“She is a gentlewoman by birth, sir,” said the old lady, tetchily.
“I have no doubt of it, madam, or she would not be found in association
with you.”
She courtesied deeply at the compliment, and I bowed as low, and,
backing and bowing, I gained the door, dying with eagerness, to make my
escape.
“Will you pardon me, sir, if, after all the agitation of this meeting, I
may not feel equal to appear at dinner to-day?”
“You will charge that young person to give news of your health,
however,” said I, insinuating that I expected to see Miss Herbert.
“Certainly, sir; and if it should be your pleasure that she should dine
with you, to preserve appearances--”
“You are right, madam; your remark is full of wisdom. I shall expect
to meet her.” And again I bowed low, and ere she recovered from another
reverential courtesy I had closed the door behind me, and was half-way
downstairs.