presentiments, have not deceived me!"
Mr. Tyss came somewhat to himself, so that he was able to say, with great plainness and distinctness, "But, most respected lady, if I only knew to whom in all the world I had the honour–"
"Cunning man," said the stranger, gently tapping his cheeks,–"to pretend as if you did not know your faithful Alina! But it is time that we should leave the good folks here to their own pleasures. Accompany me, Mr. Tyss."
On hearing the name Alina, Peregrine naturally reverted to his old attendant, and he felt exactly as if a wind-mill were going round in his head.
The strange Alina now took the kindest and most gracious leave of the family, while the bookbinder, from pure wonder and respect, could only stammer out a something unintelligible; but the children made as if they had been long acquainted with her, and the wife said, "Such a kind, handsome man as you are, Mr. Tyss, well deserves to have so kind and handsome a bride, who, even at this hour, assists him in doing acts of benevolence. I congratulate you with all my heart."–The strange lady thanked her with emotion, protesting that the day of her wedding should also be a day of festival to them; and then, strictly refusing all attendance, took a taper from the Christmas table to light herself down the stairs.
It is easy to imagine the feelings of Peregrine at all this, on whose arm she leant.–"Accompany me, Mr. Tyss,"–that is,–he thought within himself,–down the stairs to the carriage which stands at the door, and where the servant, or perhaps a whole set of servants, is in waiting, for in the end it must be some mad princess, who–Heaven deliver me with speed from this strange torture, and keep me in my right senses, such as they are!
Mr. Tyss did not suspect that all, which had yet happened, was only the prologue to a most wonderful adventure, and had therefore, without knowing it, done exceedingly well in praying to Heaven for the preservation of his senses.
No sooner had the couple reached the bottom of the stairs, than the door was opened by invisible hands, and, when they had got out, was shut again in the same manner. Peregrine, however, paid no attention to this, in his astonishment at finding not the slightest appearance of any carriage before the house, or of any servant in waiting.–"In the name of Heaven," he cried, "where is your coach, lady?"
"Coach!" replied the stranger–"Coach! what coach? Did you think, dear Peregrine, that my impatience, my anxiety, to find you, would allow me to come riding here quite quietly? No; hurried on by hope and desire, I ran about through the storm till I found you. Thank Heaven that I have succeeded! And now lead me home; my house is not far off."
Peregrine resolutely avoided all reflection on the impossibility of the stranger going a few steps only, tricked out as she was, and in white silk shoes, without spoiling her whole dress in the storm, instead of being, as now, in a state that showed not the slightest trace of discomposure; he reconciled himself to the idea of accompanying her still farther, and was only glad that the weather was changed. The storm, indeed, had past, not a cloud was in the heaven, the full moon shone down pleasantly, and only the keen air made the midnight to be felt.
Scarcely had they gone a few steps, when the maiden began to complain softly, and soon burst out into loud lamentations, that she was freezing with the cold. Peregrine, whose blood glowed through his veins, who had therefore been insensible to the weather, and never thought of her being so lightly clad, without even a shawl or a tucker, now on a sudden saw his folly, and would have wrapt her in his cloak. This, however, she rejected, exclaiming piteously, "No, my dear Peregrine, that avails me nothing: my feet!–Ah, my feet! I shall die with the dreadful agony."
And she was about to drop, half senseless, as she cried out with a faint voice, "Carry me, carry me, my sweet friend!"
Without more ado, Peregrine took up the light little creature in his arms like a child, and wrapt her in his cloak. But he had not gone far with his burthen, before the wild intoxication of desire took more and more possession of him, and, as he hurried half way through the streets, he covered the neck and bosom of the lovely creature, who had nestled closely to him with burning kisses. At last he felt as if waking with a sudden jerk out of a dream: he found himself at a house-door, and, looking up, recognised his own house, in the Horse-market, when, for the first time, it occurred to him that he had not asked the maiden where she lived; he collected himself therefore with effort, and said, "Lady–sweet, angelic creature where is your abode?"
"Here, my dear Peregrine," she replied, lifting up her head; "here, in this house: I am your Alina; I live with you; but get the door open quickly."
"No–never!" cried Peregrine, in horror, and let her sink down.
"How!" exclaimed the stranger–"how! Peregrine, you would reject me? and yet know my dreadful fate,–and yet know that, child of misfortune as I am, I have no refuge, and must perish here miserably if you will not take me in as usual! But perhaps you wish that I should perish? Be it so then! Only carry me to the fountain, that my corse may not be found before your door. Ha!–the stone dolphins may, perchance, have more pity than you have. Woe is me!–woe is me!–The bitter cold!"
She sank down in a swoon; Peregrine was seized with despair, and exclaiming wildly, "Let it be as it will, I cannot do otherwise–" he lifted up the lifeless little thing, took her in his arms, and rang violently at the bell. No sooner was the door opened than he rushed by the servant, and instead of waiting, according to his usual custom, till he got to the top of the stairs, and then tapping gently, he shouted out, "Alina! Alina! light!" and, indeed, so loudly, that the whole floor re-echoed it.
"How!–what!–what's this?–what does this mean?" exclaimed the old woman, opening her eyes widely as Peregrine unfolded the maiden from his cloak, and laid her with great care upon the sofa.
"Quick, Alina, quick! Fire in the grate!–salts!–punch!–beds here!"
Alina, however, did not stir from the place, but remained, staring at the stranger, with her "How!–what!–what's this?–what does this mean?"
Hereupon Peregrine began to tell of a countess, perhaps a princess, whom he had met at the bookbinder's, who had fainted in the streets, whom he had been forced to carry home; and, as Alina still remained immoveable, he cried out, stamping with his feet, "Fire, I tell you, in the devil's name!–tea!–salts!"
At this, the old woman's eyes glared like a cat's, and her nose was lit up with a brighter phosphorus. She pulled out her huge black snuff-box, opened it with a tap that sounded again, and took a mighty pinch. Then, planting an arm in either side, she said with a scoffing tone, "Oh yes, to be sure, a countess!–a princess! who is found at a poor bookseller's, who faints in the street! Ho! ho! I know well where such tricked-out madams are fetched from in the night-time. Here are fine tricks! here's pretty behaviour! to bring a loose girl into an honest house; and, that the measure of sin may be quite full, to invoke the devil on a Christmas night!–and I, too, in my old days am to be abetting! No, Mr. Tyss–you are mistaken in your person; I am not of that sort: to-morrow I leave your service."
With this she left the room, and banged the door after her with a violence that made all clatter again. Peregrine wrung his hands in despair. No sign of life showed itself in the stranger; but at the moment when, in his dreadful distress, he had found a bottle of Cologne water, and was about to rub her temples with it, she jumped up from the sofa quite fresh and sound, exclaiming, "At last we are alone! At last I may explain why I followed you to the bookbinder's–why I could not leave you to-night! Peregrine! give up to me the prisoner whom you have confined in this room. I know that you are not at all bound to do so; I know that it only depends upon your goodness; but I know, too, your kind affectionate heart; therefore, my good, dear Peregrine, give him up–give up the prisoner!"
"What prisoner?" asked Peregrine, in the greatest surprise. "Who do you suppose is a prisoner with me?"
