Two of
the horses were on the ground, the carriage lay upon its side with two
wheels in the air; the men were busy removing the traces, and a lady
with a commanding air and figure had got out, and stood with clasped
hands, raising the handkerchief that was in them every now and then to
her eyes. Through the carriage door was now lifted a young lady, who appeared to
be lifeless. My dear old father was already beside the elder lady, with
his hat in his hand, evidently tendering his aid and the resources of
his schloss. The lady did not appear to hear him, or to have eyes for
anything but the slender girl who was being placed against the slope of
the bank. I approached; the young lady was apparently stunned, but she was
certainly not dead. My father, who piqued himself on being something of
a physician, had just had his fingers on her wrist and assured the
lady, who declared herself her mother, that her pulse, though faint and
irregular, was undoubtedly still distinguishable. The lady clasped her
hands and looked upward, as if in a momentary transport of gratitude;
but immediately she broke out again in that theatrical way which is, I
believe, natural to some people. She was what is called a fine looking woman for her time of life, and
must have been handsome; she was tall, but not thin, and dressed in
black velvet, and looked rather pale, but with a proud and commanding
countenance, though now agitated strangely. “Who was ever being so born to calamity?” I heard her say, with clasped
hands, as I came up. “Here am I, on a journey of life and death, in
prosecuting which to lose an hour is possibly to lose all. My child
will not have recovered sufficiently to resume her route for who can
say how long. I must leave her: I cannot, dare not, delay. How far on,
sir, can you tell, is the nearest village? I must leave her there; and
shall not see my darling, or even hear of her till my return, three
months hence.”

I plucked my father by the coat, and whispered earnestly in his ear:
“Oh! papa, pray ask her to let her stay with us—it would be so
delightful. Do, pray.”

“If Madame will entrust her child to the care of my daughter, and of
her good gouvernante, Madame Perrodon, and permit her to remain as our
guest, under my charge, until her return, it will confer a distinction
and an obligation upon us, and we shall treat her with all the care and
devotion which so sacred a trust deserves.”

“I cannot do that, sir, it would be to task your kindness and chivalry
too cruelly,” said the lady, distractedly. “It would, on the contrary, be to confer on us a very great kindness at
the moment when we most need it. My daughter has just been disappointed
by a cruel misfortune, in a visit from which she had long anticipated a
great deal of happiness. If you confide this young lady to our care it
will be her best consolation. The nearest village on your route is
distant, and affords no such inn as you could think of placing your
daughter at; you cannot allow her to continue her journey for any
considerable distance without danger. If, as you say, you cannot
suspend your journey, you must part with her tonight, and nowhere could
you do so with more honest assurances of care and tenderness than
here.”

There was something in this lady’s air and appearance so distinguished
and even imposing, and in her manner so engaging, as to impress one,
quite apart from the dignity of her equipage, with a conviction that
she was a person of consequence. By this time the carriage was replaced in its upright position, and the
horses, quite tractable, in the traces again. The lady threw on her daughter a glance which I fancied was not quite
so affectionate as one might have anticipated from the beginning of the
scene; then she beckoned slightly to my father, and withdrew two or
three steps with him out of hearing; and talked to him with a fixed and
stern countenance, not at all like that with which she had hitherto
spoken. I was filled with wonder that my father did not seem to perceive the
change, and also unspeakably curious to learn what it could be that she
was speaking, almost in his ear, with so much earnestness and rapidity. Two or three minutes at most I think she remained thus employed, then
she turned, and a few steps brought her to where her daughter lay,
supported by Madame Perrodon. She kneeled beside her for a moment and
whispered, as Madame supposed, a little benediction in her ear; then
hastily kissing her she stepped into her carriage, the door was closed,
the footmen in stately liveries jumped up behind, the outriders spurred
on, the postilions cracked their whips, the horses plunged and broke
suddenly into a furious canter that threatened soon again to become a
gallop, and the carriage whirled away, followed at the same rapid pace
by the two horsemen in the rear. III. We Compare Notes


We followed the _cortege_ with our eyes until it was swiftly lost to
sight in the misty wood; and the very sound of the hoofs and the wheels
died away in the silent night air. Nothing remained to assure us that the adventure had not been an
illusion of a moment but the young lady, who just at that moment opened
her eyes. I could not see, for her face was turned from me, but she
raised her head, evidently looking about her, and I heard a very sweet
voice ask complainingly, “Where is mamma?”

Our good Madame Perrodon answered tenderly, and added some comfortable
assurances. I then heard her ask:

“Where am I? What is this place?” and after that she said, “I don’t see
the carriage; and Matska, where is she?”

Madame answered all her questions in so far as she understood them; and
gradually the young lady remembered how the misadventure came about,
and was glad to hear that no one in, or in attendance on, the carriage
was hurt; and on learning that her mamma had left her here, till her
return in about three months, she wept. I was going to add my consolations to those of Madame Perrodon when
Mademoiselle De Lafontaine placed her hand upon my arm, saying:

“Don’t approach, one at a time is as much as she can at present
converse with; a very little excitement would possibly overpower her
now.”

As soon as she is comfortably in bed, I thought, I will run up to her
room and see her. My father in the meantime had sent a servant on horseback for the
physician, who lived about two leagues away; and a bedroom was being
prepared for the young lady’s reception. The stranger now rose, and leaning on Madame’s arm, walked slowly over
the drawbridge and into the castle gate. In the hall, servants waited to receive her, and she was conducted
forthwith to her room. The room we usually sat in as our drawing room
is long, having four windows, that looked over the moat and drawbridge,
upon the forest scene I have just described. It is furnished in old carved oak, with large carved cabinets, and the
chairs are cushioned with crimson Utrecht velvet.