Carmilla

"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.