Days, however, passed by, and nothing unusual happened. It looked as if they had resolved, after that crisis, to give her a short respite4, and time to recover.
Even the watch kept upon her movements was not quite as strict as heretofore. The countess kept out of her way. Mrs. Brian had given up the desire to frighten her by her incessant5 remarks. Her father she saw but rarely; for he was entirely6 absorbed in the preparations for the Pennsylvania Petroleum7 Society. Thus, a week later, all seemed to have entirely forgotten the terrible explosion produced by the letter to the Duke of Champdoce.
All? By no means. There was one of the inmates8 of the palace who recalled it daily,—M. Thomas Elgin.
On the very evening after the scene, his generous indignation had so far gotten the better of his usual reserve, and his pledge of neutrality, that he had taken the Countess Sarah aside, and overwhelmed her with sharp reproaches.
“You will have to eat your own words,” he had told her, among other things, “if you use such abominable9 means to gratify your hatred10.”
It is true, that, when he thus took his kinswoman aside, he also took pains to be overheard by Henrietta. And besides, for fear, perhaps, that she might not fully2 appreciate his sentiments, he had stealthily pressed her hand, and whispered into her ear,—
“Poor, dear girl! But I am here. I shall watch.”
This sounded like a promise to afford her protection, which certainly would have been efficient if it had been sincere. But was it sincere?
“No; most assuredly not!” said M. de Brevan when he was consulted. “It can be nothing but vile11 hypocrisy12 and the beginning of an abominable farce13. You will see, madam.”
What Henrietta really saw was, that the Hon. M. Elgin suddenly underwent a complete metamorphosis. A new Sir Thorn appeared, whom no one would have ever suspected under the cloak of icy reserve which the former had worn. His sympathetic pity of former days was succeeded by more tender sentiments. It was not pity now, which animated14 his big, blue-china eyes, but the half-suppressed flame of a discreet16 passion. In public he did not commit himself much; but there was no little attention which he did not pay Henrietta by stealth. He never left the room before her; and, on the reception-evenings, he always took a seat by her, and remained there till the end. The most direct result of these manoeuvres was to keep M. de Brevan from her. The latter became naturally very indignant at this, and began to dislike Sir Thorn to such an extent, that he could hardly contain himself.
“Well, madam,” he said to Henrietta on one of the few occasions when he could speak to her,—“well, what did I tell you? Does the wretch17 show his hand clearly enough now?”
Henrietta discouraged her curious lover as much as she could; but it was impossible for her to avoid him, as they lived under the same roof, and sat down twice a day at the same table.
“The simplest way,” was M. de Brevan’s advice, “would be, perhaps, to provoke an explanation.”
But he did not wait to be asked. One morning, after breakfast, he waited for Henrietta in the vestibule; and, when she appeared, he said in an embarrassed manner,—
“I must speak to you, madam; it is absolutely necessary.”
She did not manifest any surprise, and simply replied,—
“Follow me, sir.”
She entered into the parlor18, and he came with her. For about a minute they remained there alone, standing19 face to face,—she trying to keep up her spirits, although blushing deeply; he, apparently20 so overcome, that he had lost the use of his voice. At last, all of a sudden, and as if making a supreme21 effort, Sir Thorn began in a breathless voice to declare, that, according to Henrietta’s answer, he would be the happiest or the most unfortunate of mortals. Touched by her innocence22, and the persecutions to which she was exposed, he had at first pitied her, then, discovering in her daily more excellent qualities, unusual energy, coupled with all the charming bashfulness of a young girl, he had no longer been able to resist such marvellous attractions.
Henrietta, still mistress of herself, because she was convinced that M. Elgin was only playing a wretched farce, observed him as closely as she could, and, when he paused a moment, began,—
“Believe me, sir”—
But he interrupted her, saying with unusual vehemence,—
“Oh! I beseech24 you, madam, let me finish. Many in my place would have spoken to your father; but I thought that would hardly be fair in your exceptional position. Still I have reason to believe that Count Ville- Handry would look upon my proposals with favor. But then he would probably have attempted to do violence to your feelings. Now I wish to be indebted to you only, madam, deciding in full enjoyment26 of your liberty; for”—
An expression of intense anxiety contracted the features of his usually so impassive face; and he added with great earnestness,—
“Miss Henrietta, I am an honorable man; I love you. Will you be my wife?”
By a stroke of instinctive27 genius, he had found the only argument, perhaps, that might have procured28 credit for his sincerity29.
But what did that matter to Henrietta? She began, saying,—
“Believe me, sir. I fully appreciate the honor you do me; but I am no longer free”—
“I beseech you”—
“Freely, and among all men, I have chosen M. Daniel Champcey. My life is in his hands.”
He tottered30 as if he had received a heavy blow, and stammered31 with a half-extinct voice,—
“Will you not leave me a glimpse of hope?”
“I would do wrong if I did so, sir, and I have never yet deceived any one.”
But the Hon. M. Elgin was not one of those men who despair easily, and give up. He was not discouraged by a first failure; and he showed it very soon. The very next day he became a changed man, as if Henrietta’s refusal had withered32 the very roots of his life. In his carriage, his gestures, and his tone of voice, he betrayed the utmost dejection. He looked as if he had grown taller and thinner. A bitter smile curled on his lips; and his magnificent whiskers, usually so admirably kept, now hung down miserably33 on his chest. And this intense melancholy34 grew and grew, till it became so evident to all the world, that people asked the countess,—
“What is the matter with poor M. Elgin? He looks funereal35.”
“He is unhappy,” was the answer, accompanied by a sigh, which sounded as if it had been uttered in order to increase curiosity, and stimulate36 people to observe him more closely. Several persons did observe him; and they soon found out that Sir Thorn no longer took his seat by Henrietta as formerly37, and that he avoided every occasion to address her a word.
For all that he was not resigned; far from that. He only laid siege from a distance now, spending whole evenings in looking at her from afar, absorbed in mute ecstasy38. And at all times, incessantly39 and everywhere, she met him, as if he had been her shadow, or as if he had been condemned40 to breathe the air which had been displaced by her petticoats. One would have thought him endowed with the gift of multiplying himself; for he was inevitably41 seen wherever she was,—leaning against the door-frame, or resting his elbow on the mantlepiece, his eyes fixed42 upon her. And, when she did not see him, she felt his looks still weighing her down. M. de Brevan, having been made aware of his importunate43 attentions, seemed to check his indignation only with great difficulty. Once or twice he spoke25 of calling out this wretched fellow (so he called Sir Thorn); and, in order to quiet him, Henrietta had to repeat to him over and over again, that, after such an encounter, he would no longer be able to appear at the palace, and would thus deprive her of the only friend to whom she could look for assistance.
He yielded; but he said after careful consideration,—
“This abominable persecution23 cannot go on, madam: this man compromises you too dreadfully. You ought to lay your complaint before Count Ville-Handry.”
She decided44 to do so, not without great reluctance45; but the count stopped her at the first word she uttered.
“I think, my daughter, your vanity blinds you. Before M. Elgin, who is one of the most eminent46 financiers in all Europe, should think of a little insignificant47 person like you, he would look a long time elsewhere.”
“Permit me, father”—
“Stop! If you should, however, not deceive yourself, it would be the greatest good luck for you, and an honor of which you ought to be very proud indeed. Do you think it would be easy to find a husband for you, after all the unpleasant talk to which you have given occasion?”
“I do not wish to marry, father.”
“Of course not. However, as such a marriage would meet all my wishes, as it would serve to tighten48 the bonds which unite us with this honorable family (if M. Thomas Elgin should really have such intentions as you mention), I should know, I think, how to force you to marry him. However, I shall speak to him, and see.”
He spoke to him indeed, and soon; for the very next morning the countess and Mrs. Brian purposely went out, so as to leave Henrietta and Sir Thorn alone. The honorable gentleman looked sadder than usually. He began thus,—
“Is it really true, madam, that you have made complaint to your father?”
“Your pertinacity49 compelled me to do so,” replied Henrietta.
“Is the idea of becoming my wife so very revolting to you?”
“I have told you, sir, I am no longer free.”
“Yes, to be sure! You love M. Daniel Champcey. You love him. He knows it; for you had told him so, no doubt: and yet he has forsaken50 you.”
Sometimes, in her innermost heart, Henrietta had accused Daniel. But what she thought she would permit no one else to think. She replied, therefore, haughtily,—
“It was a point of honor with M. Champcey, and it was so with me. If he had hesitated, I would have been the first one to say to him, ‘Duty calls; you must go.’”
Sir Thorn shook his head with a sardonic51 smile, and said,—
“But he did not hesitate. It is ten months now since he left you; and no one knows for how many more months, for how many years, he will be absent. For his sake you suffer martyrdom; and, when he returns, he may have long since forgotten you.”
Her eyes beaming with faith, Henrietta rose to her full height, and replied,—
“I believe in Daniel as surely as in myself.”
“And if they convinced you that you were mistaken?”
“They would render me a very sad service, which would bring no reward to any one.”
Sir Thorn’s lips moved, as if he were about to answer. A thought seemed to stop him. Then in a stifled52 voice, with a gesture of despair, he added,—
“Keep your illusions, madam; and farewell.”
He was going to leave the room; but she threw herself in his way, crossed her arms, and said to him in an imperative53 tone,—
“You have gone too far, sir, to retrace54 your steps. You are bound now to justify55 your insidious56 insinuations, or, to confess that they were false.”
Then he seemed to make up his mind, and said, speaking rapidly,—
“You will have it so? Well, be it so. Know, then, since you insist upon it, that M. Daniel Champcey has been deceiving you most wickedly; that he does not love you, and probably never did love you.”
“That is what you say,” replied Henrietta.
Her haughty57 carriage, the disdain58, rather than disgust, with which she spoke, could not fail to
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