A day now scarcely elapsed that the fair Ida was not visited by Angelo.
Unconsciously he had abandoned all thought of hastening his departure,
and felt himself gradually and irresistibly attracted towards this newly
discovered magnet. Still, however, the fair one was only Ida to him,
still her manners were the same—frank, and graceful, and delicately
modest; all around her still wore the self same air, and still
impenetrable to the foot of other man than himself, appeared her fair
abode. Inclined to suspect, yet unable to ascertain; involuntarily
admiring, yet afraid to trust, Angelo revolved in vain in his mind some
means of deciding at once the real character of the mysterious recluse;
he could not deny but there shone in all her actions a beautiful
simplicity—yet was it real? or was it not rather merely assumed?
Having dined one day with a party of his gay associates, and enjoying in
the unrestrained spirit of conviviality, his wine and ices in the
fresco, it occurred to him, as he found his vivacity elevated to a
higher pitch than it had ever been since the death of Gabrielle, that he
had never yet visited his beauteous solitary at a late hour of the
evening. As he pondered on this idea, and continued drinking, he
determined, exhilirated as he was, that the present would furnish him
with the opportunity he had long sought of ascertaining her character
in its true light: should he, as he expected, be refused admittance, he
should immediately infer that her lover was with her, and his suspicions
would be at once confirmed; but should he, on the contrary, be admitted,
and find her as heretofore entirely alone, then, by a change of
deportment towards her, would he prove if she were really the innocent
and virtuous creature she appeared to be.
Thus is it with man—if a female wears the semblance of being virtuous,
if even calumny’s self cannot prove her otherwise, then do they require
some proof stronger even than truth itself; but if being not equally
wary as virtuous, if unable to resist or circumvent various
temptation and ceaseless manœuvre, at length she fall, then do they
despise her for her weakness, triumphantly and cruelly adducing it in
confirmation of their assertion, that “she could never have been
virtuous.”
Flushed with wine, heated in the anticipation of expected victory,
Angelo stole silently from his companions, and bent his steps towards
the residence of Ida. Instantly he was admitted, and found her alone; he
approached her with an air gayer than usual, and was received with the
same artless and undisguised pleasure as ever by her.—“Ha!” thought
Angelo, “she is not displeased with my visit at this unusual hour; she
is perhaps the discarded mistress of some fickle Italian—lovely to a
degree though, who could forsake her?”
Ida, who either did not observe, or was not aware of the situation of
Angelo, and who had ever considered the disparity of their years as
sufficient to obviate the idea of impropriety in receiving his visits,
attributed this unwonted vivacity to an overflow merely of animal
spirits, and thought not of an attempt to repress them. This
forbearance, while it strengthened his suspicions against her,
emboldened him in the pursuit of his intentions; his respect began
gradually in appearance to diminish, his language became more tender and
familiar, and his looks declared to Ida that he entertained sentiments
which she had been incapable of suspecting.
In proportion as he became less respectful, she grew more reserved; and
when at length she found it necessary to be seriously indignant, Angelo
attributing it all to intolerable affectation, seized her suddenly in
his arms, and swore that she appeared if possible more beautiful in
anger than in kindness.
Mortified, indignant not less at his manner than at his action, for she
wished to regard him as a tender, rational, and respectful friend,
rather, than a lover, she broke from him, and viewing him with eyes
flashing scorn and indignation, commanded him instantly to quit the
house.
“What,” cried Angelo, essaying again to clasp her in his arms, “and
leave you thus offended?”
The delicate Ida struggled violently to escape from his grasp; while
Angelo, ravished at her beauty and unmoved by her distress, gazed
eagerly upon her. Finding every effort vain against his superior
strength, she made a last desperate effort to disengage herself, and in
so doing, a portrait which had been concealed in her bosom, escaped from
its confinement, and would have fallen to the ground, but that Angelo,
catching it from the broken chain, exclaimed,
“Ah! behold the secret of your severity to me!—let us see at least the
object of your preference.”
So saying, he brought the picture near the light; he held it to his
eyes, while Ida, overcome by shame, horror and exhaustion was unable to
offer resistance.—He gazed—gazed wildly!—he gasped for breath. Could
it be?—ah! it was no delusion—the portrait of his father met his
view!—of his mother!—those he had given himself to
Gabrielle!—Distracted, overcome with terrible emotion, scarce knowing
what he did, he sought the well known spring—he touched it—the
portraits divided—he beheld himself in childhood! ah, far less
changed indeed in feature than in mind!
Now he looked eagerly on the creature before him; the heart which had
beat tumultuous with unholy passion, now thrilled with horror! she could
be no other than his daughter whom he beheld, whom he would have
destroyed!
In a faint faltering voice he said, “Speak, speak? who gave you
this;—are you not called—Montmorency?”
Ida, who on beholding in the countenance of Angelo the sudden change
from the high blush of licentious transport to the pale agony of terror,
had recovered from personal apprehension, and found her feelings
attracted in a different channel. With eager glances, and in an
irregular tone, anticipating she knew not what, she replied to the
question of Angelo—“It was a mother gave it to me—it was all she had
to give.”
“Her name! her name!” gasped Angelo.
“Gabrielle de Montmorency!”
Angelo flew towards her, he clasped her to his breast, while Ida, still
trembling, unknowing what to think, endeavoured to withdraw from his
strict embrace.
“Oh you need not—you need not,” cried Angelo in agony, and almost
suffocated by conflicting emotion, horror, confusion, remorse,—“I—I
am—your Father—your name is not Ida, but Agnes.”
Ida shrieked, and nearly fell to the ground—her father caught her in
his arms—she feared no longer, she reposed upon his bosom. With
transport, then, how much more pure and delightful, did he press to his
heart as a daughter her whom he had viewed with other eyes, and sought
for the ignoble purpose of unhallowed passion.
Agnes was the first to recover from their mutual and overpowering
sensations; for the fearful lesson which Angelo had received, the awful
check which had been given to his libertine pursuit, kept him silent, in
inward contemplation and remorseful horror, justly alloying the refined
delight he would otherwise have felt in the recovery of a daughter. She
fixed her eyes upon him, and with an air of inquietude and timidity
said, “Inform me, my lord, how can you be my father, yet be called il
Marchese di Orbino!”
“No, no, my beloved child,” answered Angelo, near sinking with shame and
confusion, “I am not so called,—it was that unwarrantable, that
dangerous deception on my side that has kept us so long in ignorance of
each other, that, by permitting you to remain in an error respecting my
name, was near making me curse myself for a wretch steeped in
irremediable sin!”
“Ah! my father, your name is then Angelo D’Albini,” cried Agnes gazing
on him with eyes swimming in tears, because of the perfect resemblance
she traced between him and his youthful portrait—then taking it up, she
examined first one, then the other, exclaiming “How little your features
appear changed, my father; the expression of the countenance is almost
the same!”—Then bursting into tears, “how unhappy am I,” she added,
“never to have beheld my mother, that celestial mother, of whom Madame
Bertrand was continually speaking to me—Tell me, my father, how soon
may I hope to behold her?”—
Angelo, who had been gazing on her with tender delight, and listening to
her artless effusions, now felt his heart-strings suddenly contract, and
uttering a cry of renewed anguish, he said, “Ah! you will never behold
her; you—you have no mother!”
“No mother!” cried Agnes, in an accent of bitter grief.
“No, no, my love; she has long since mingled with her kindred
angels—I—I it was”—the self accusation died on his lips—for where is
the father who can bear to be thought guilty by his child? He covered
his face with his hands, and bursting sobs rent, without relieving his
heart. Agnes respected the renewed anguish of her father; she did not
speak, but laying her head upon his bosom, mingled her tears with his.
Angelo pressed her with a sacred fervour to his heart; through his eyes,
misty with tears, he gazed upon those lovely and noble features, which
often he had fancied bore a fugitive resemblance to those of the
departed Gabrielle, such as when first he had beheld her; now he
discerned in them an evident correspondence with those of that angelic
being, though still the animated expression of her entire countenance
more nearly resembled his own.
When the excess of their mutual feelings had somewhat subsided, Angelo
found that he had a thousand inquiries to make, that he was on the rack
to know how his beloved child could be thus situated, seemingly alone
and unprotected, and by what mystery she was enabled to appear thus
independent of the world. But the hour was late, and now the father of
her he had lately beheld with feelings and sentiments so opposite to
those of the parent, was tremblingly alive to even the semblance of
impropriety in the conduct of his daughter, and punctilious to the
slightest trifle that might concern her fame. So, often with the
libertine, whose moral feelings are seldom outraged by seeking to
destroy the wife, sister, or daughter of another, yet who are ever on
the watch to guard their own, and up in arms if the shadow of an insult
be cast upon them.
Thus then, Angelo resolved to sacrifice his longing anxiety for an
explanation from Agnes, to the interest he now felt in her reputation,
and tore himself away, determined to wait till the following day for its
gratification, and the solution of every uneasy doubt that involuntarily
preyed upon his mind.
He scarcely slept during the night, or if he did, momentarily started
up, in the thrilling remembrance of having found a daughter; now in the
terror that she was being torn away from him, and now in the painful
thought that all was but delusion. Her probable situation sometimes
presented itself to his mind; he shuddered at the idea of what she
might have encountered, or burned in the agonizing apprehension that she
might be infamous. Now he pondered on her seeming lovely innocence, and
now writhed in anguish, lest it should have been the prey of the
seducer. So passed the hours till morning, for which he waited with
intolerable anxiety, and as soon as his sense of decorum, influenced as
it was by strong impatience, would permit, he hastened to the abode of
his daughter, almost yielding to the superstitious dread that he should
no longer find her there. But the fair Agnes was at her door, eagerly
expecting him; yet the delight with which she received him was mingled
with embarrassment, and in her fine countenance he read the traces of
uneasy sadness.—He looked at her, and unknowing why, his heart misgave
him; he took her hand with tender seriousness, and led her into the
house.
The impatience of Angelo to learn the particulars of her situation, was
controuled by an invincible yet inexplicable sensation, that made him
shrink from inquiry;—he longed, yet dreaded to hear, and feared he knew
not what. The manner of Agnes too was far from tending to reassure him;
it was hesitating, distressed, confused; her eyes filled momentarily
with tears, and her cheeks were dyed with blushes at every word he
addressed to her, when there seemed no visible cause of emotion. At
length Angelo could support no longer this dreadful uncertainty; he
determined to lead at once to the subject so near his heart, and to know
the truth, even though death or madness must ensue. When therefore a
mutual and embarrassed pause had ensued, during which he almost fancied
he could behold the heart of Agnes beat beneath her robe, while his too
throbbed with violent and answering emotion, he took her hand, and in a
faltering voice said, “But, my dear child has not yet informed me, she
has not said wherefore—what has befallen her since her departure from
the roof of Madame Bertrand.”—He paused.—
“My father! my father!” replied Agnes in broken accents, “I was then
very young—but I—it is my duty to inform you of every thing.”
“I am most anxious to hear indeed, my love,” replied Angelo, imagining
already his worst fears verified, yet desirous to reassure her by his
manner, and obtain her confidence. “Begin your relation from the moment
of your departure from the roof of Madame Bertrand, and let me
understand likewise why you called yourself Ida instead of Agnes.”
The face of Ida was deep crimson,—she trembled and replied, “I—I will
endeavour to relate all, my father,—I will commence from the period you
mention,—I will open my heart to you if I can acquire courage,—promise
me, promise me only,” she added, while the tears fell fast on her bosom,
“that you will be merciful in judging your child.”
At this appalling preface the soul of Angelo shook within him, but he
remembered that he had forsaken his child, that therefore her faults
were his, and that if he could not be merciful in his judgment of her,
what must he himself merit at the bar of eternal justice,
but—perdition! Fearful to trust his feelings to many words, he only
pressed her hand, and murmured, “Proceed.”
After a few moments more of harrowing pause, Agnes in faltering accents
spoke thus:
“I believe I was not more than eleven years of age when I left Madame
Bertrand, for so I still continued to call her after her marriage with
M. Boffuet. This man treated me so cruelly, that, child as I was, I
wished to die that I might escape from his tyranny. My dear Madame
Bertrand used to weep over me, and that I might not render her more
miserable than she was from the conduct of her husband, I always
endeavoured to disguise from her his treatment of me in her absence,
which was infinitely worse than when she was present. He considered me
as an intruder in his house, and one whom it was not incumbent on him to
support, in consequence of which he scrupled not to seize every
opportunity of depriving me of food.”
Already the heart of Angelo bled at every word uttered by his deserted
child, the child whom he, rich in every luxury, possessing ample means
to cherish and protect, had abandoned even before she was born, and
resigned to the mercy of strangers, who, insensible to the tenderness of
parental feelings, could without pity aggrieve and wrong her. Terrible
is the thought to a fond parent, that his tender child is left among
those who love it not, and to Angelo, though late inflicted, this pang
was not to be for ever spared. Perceiving the grief she excited in her
father, yet knowing well, keen as it was, it was the least, alas, which
she must cause him to suffer; she hastened over this part of her
narrative, and proceeded to later events.
“It was not however till extreme terror in the apprehension of a
threatened severe chastisement from the unfeeling Boffuet, for a
trifling fault, that knowing it would be impossible ultimately to escape
his vengeance, which would acquire increased fury only, from being
delayed, I seized an opportunity of flying secretly from the house,
unknowing where to bend my steps, and indifferent if I but escaped the
dreaded punishment. I wandered about among the most unfrequented
vallies, and mountains I had never trod before, till as the shades of
evening came on, I sat myself by a little rivulet behind the projecting
part of a rock; alarmed at the prospect before me, yet still more
alarmed at the idea of returning, and yielding to childish weakness, I
could not restrain myself from weeping bitterly. Presently I heard
footsteps approaching the spot; dreading lest it should be Boffuet in
pursuit of me, I started up, and with the wildest speed began to ascend
the rock, when a gentle female voice arrested my flight. ‘Do not be
alarmed, my child,—do not fly.’”
I ventured to turn, and beheld an elegant female leaning on the arm of a
gentleman, whose tender and compassionate looks helped to dispel my
fears and induced me to stop. The lady drew nigh, and taking my hand,
gazed earnestly in my countenance, then exclaimed to her companion,
“Steinhaussen—my God—how much like our dear Ida!”
“I thought so the instant I beheld her,” returned the Baron
Steinhaussen; then addressing me, “who are your parents, my sweet
child?”
“Alas, I know not,” answered I, bursting into tears—“I never saw them.”
“How!” exclaimed they both at once, “you are an orphan then?”
“No,” answered I, “I have an angelic mother, of whom I have heard much;
I have a father too, but he never saw me.”
“Tell me, sweet child,” cried the Baroness hastily, “why do we find you
here?—if you belong to any one, why do you not return home?”
“No, no,” cried I in agony, “that I will never do—sooner would I remain
here to perish with hunger or”——
“But wherefore?” interrupted the Baron in a soothing voice, “why would
you shun your home, my child?”
“I have no home,” I replied, “none at least that I have a right to
claim, and it is better to die here with hunger, where no one cares for
me, than of ill treatment where I should grieve at least one heart by
my death.”
“But explain to us,” said the Baron; “we may find some means of
reconciling you to return home, or of”——
“My dear Steinhaussen,” cried the Baroness, “this poor child seems
determined not to return home; perhaps she has good reason; the
probability is, if she even yielded to our persuasions, she would not
long remain, or might be driven out when she would meet with none to
sympathise in her forlorn situation, or to protect her.—Let us then
take her with us for the present, and hear the particulars of her story
afterwards; if then we still deem it eligible for her to return to her
friends, or those at least who have the care of her, we will ourselves
accompany her to them, and do whatever we may conceive best to ensure
her future comfort. If, on the contrary, the reasons she adduces for
having fled, appear to us just and reasonable, we will keep her with us,
and she shall be to us instead of our dear departed Ida, whom she so
strongly resembles.”
“What say you, my child?” cried the Baron, “are you inclined to go with
us?”
“Oh, yes, yes,” I eagerly replied, “I should be too happy,” and running
to the Baroness, I seized her hands, and kissed them, exclaiming, “You
are so good, so like Madame Bertrand, whom I have been forced to quit.”
“Sweet child,” cried she, infinitely affected, “come with us at once,
and unless you wish it you shall quit us no more.”
“She took me by the hand, and I returned between them to their inn; the
kindness of the Baroness, and her endearing manners, induced me to tell
her all I knew of my history, while upon the ill treatment I had
received from Boffuet, as it had made the deepest impression upon my
mind, I expatiated with heartfelt bitterness. When I had concluded, the
Baroness, who had more than once shed tears during my recital, took me
in her arms, and exclaimed, “Poor deserted innocent—is it not a pity,
Steinhaussen, that this lovely child should return to be treated with
cruelty? neither do I perceive what purpose it can answer, since she is
not consigned to her parents—perhaps even they may never claim her.—It
will be mercy, sure, to keep her with us—let us determine then, we will
call her Ida in memory of our dear lost child; to-morrow early we take
our departure hence, no one in the interim can trace her hither; and
when we arrive in Germany, all search, should any be made after her,
will be useless.”
“I could perceive in the Baron’s countenance as he gazed on me, that he
had a strong desire to accede to the proposal of the Baroness, but
could not entirely reconcile himself to the idea. On observing this, I,
who desired ardently to remain with them, for Madame Bertrand had always
told me that perhaps I should never see my parents, and that they had
agreed to let me remain with her, yet inspired with courage, for the
thought of Boffuet was appalling to me, and in remaining with her I must
remain with him likewise; this terrible reflection was enough; I cast
myself on my knees before the Baron, and exclaimed, ‘Ah, I intreat you
do not leave me—do not force me back—yet if you determine, be assured
that I will not long remain, and then what may be my fate?’”
Angelo felt indignant at discovering that Madame Bertrand had concealed
from Agnes the repeated solicitations of her parents to have her
returned to them, but unwilling to prejudice her tender friend in his
daughter’s estimation, whose love for her alone had led her into the
error of this otherwise inexcusable concealment, he checked his anger
and forbore remark. Agnes proceeded.
“Well, I yield,” cried the Baron, “but upon one condition only, that
should we ever learn her parents desire to reclaim her, we may
unhesitatingly return her to them.”
“Be it so,” cried the Baroness, embracing me again, “I consider her now
as my own, and henceforth adopt her; for sure am I those parents who
could so long permit such a daughter to reside among strangers, without
a thought of reclaiming her, will never at a later period find renovated
affection springing up in their hearts, or desire to make search after
her.” Then turning to me, “Say, my dear child, will you in future permit
me to call you Ida? I shall look upon you as a daughter.”
“Oh, call me what you will,” answered I, “suffer me but to remain with
you.”
“The Baron and Baroness Steinhaussen were making the tour of
Switzerland, they had penetrated far into its interior, they had visited
its most sublime, romantic, and unfrequented parts, they were on the eve
of departing, when in one of their farewell rambles along the borders of
the lake they had encountered me. I considered myself supremely happy in
this accidental occurrence, and joyfully accompanied them on the
following morning, (the period which had been already fixed for their
departure). One thing alone embittered my happiness, it was the idea of
the sufferings of my dear Madame Bertrand, when she should find that I
no more returned. I longed to give her some intelligence respecting my
situation, but fear lest the tyrannical Boffuet, for the purpose of
making me endure some horrible punishment, should insist on my being
restored, was sufficient to deter me from, and make me shudder at the
thought.
“I shall pass over, my dear father, a period of several years, during
which time I was treated by my protecting friends in every respect as
their daughter, and was universally esteemed as such. They gave me the
name of Ida, which had been that of an only beloved daughter, who had
died in their arms at nearly the same age as myself, when first I
became known to them. Thus was I as happy as circumstances would permit,
and no inquiries respecting me having from that period reached them,
they had no other idea but that of considering me for ever as their own,
the Baroness frequently assuring me that she was uncertain which she
most loved, her son, still absent at Gottingen perfecting his education,
or myself.
“But although I was unclaimed by my parents, perhaps even my existence
unknown to them, not a day elapsed that they were absent from my mind;
of my sainted mother I loved to think, I remembered and cherished all
that Madame Bertrand had told me concerning her, and considering her as
something above mortality, I even addressed my prayers to her, and in
fond enthusiasm implored her influence to direct my conduct.
“That beloved portrait which Madame Bertrand had informed me her dear
hands had placed round my neck, when for the last time she saw me, I
gazed on every night with the holy fervour of a bigot, kissed and
piously worshipped. It was all I could call mine, it was almost my only
care. If accidentally I stumbled, unmindful of the pain or injury I
might feel, I examined eagerly my portrait; if that was safe, I was
indifferent to every other consideration. In sorrow it consoled me, in
sickness it cured me, if despondent I but gazed on it, hope and pleasing
prospects danced in my view. I lamented that it was only the gift of
my dear mother, and that her own fair image was not added to the group;
in default, however, I would gaze on that of the Countess D’Albini, and
would endeavour to persuade myself that it was hers, or resembled her at
least. I had shown it to the Baroness Steinhaussen, as a miser shews his
gold; scarcely could I endure that she should touch it. “My dear child,”
said she to me, “you will lose this valuable ornament, and it is not
impossible but that at some future period its possession might be
material to you; give it into my hands, I will carefully preserve it for
you; you run great risk indeed in carrying it thus about you.”
“Ah, dear madam,” cried I, “by accident I can never lose it, I guard it
as it were my life, neither fraud nor violence could wrest it from me,
but if that were possible, I should never live to regret its loss; do
not then desire me to resign it to you, for with no one can it be more
safe than with myself.” The Baroness pressed me no further, and my
cherished treasure remained in my bosom.
Angelo raised his eyes to Heaven in grateful acknowledgment for the
happiness he had gained, and for the horrors he had avoided by its
fortunate preservation. Agnes proceeded.
“I had never yet beheld Darlowitz, the son of the Baron Steinhaussen;
all I knew of him was from his parents, who spoke of him in terms of
rapture; and I learnt that he was affianced to a beautiful female who
frequently visited at the house, and never failed to make the minutest
inquiries respecting his health, pursuits, and when he would return
home. At length he returned.”—
Agnes paused—“He was elegant and accomplished”—deep blushes covered
her ingenuous face, and bosom; she cast her tearful eyes upon the
ground; the soul of Angelo grew sick within him—he trembled, and his
emotion incapacitated him from speaking.
Agnes continued in a faltering voice, “He conceived an attachment for
me, in preference to her to whom he was betrothed—I—I—oh God! my
father, will you not spare me?” she exclaimed in an agony, and bursting
into tears.
“Oh, wretch! monstrous, and accursed wretch! that I am,” cried the
father, starting on his feet with the wild looks of despair—“Agnes,
Agnes, you are then infamous!”—
Agnes sobbed aloud, and casting herself at the feet of her
father—“Infamous do you call me, oh, my father!” she murmured,
“Speak, speak,—are you not?—oh! if you are not, say at once, and save
my brain from bursting!”
“—I—I—Darlowitz—I loved him—he—”
“He made you his wife—say that he did—oh! say it, Agnes!”—
“No, no”—cried Agnes, “I cannot say it, but”—
“But what?”—
“With joy he would have made me so.”
“Oh, God!—tremendous God!” cried Angelo in a wild voice, and sinking
on his knees, beside his daughter, “I have deserved all this—yes, yes,
I feel that I have. Agnes! my girl, my deserted helpless girl,” he
added, pressing her in his arms—“I will not—I dare not reproach
thee. Speak to me in confidence then,—proceed, and let me know all. I
will endeavour to hear thee, and not yield to madness;—and for the
anguish I may feel, it is my merited portion. Rise, my beloved—rise,
and proceed.”
The drooping Agnes tremblingly arose, leaning on the extended hand of
her father,—he pressed her in his arms—re-seated her, and she thus
continued. “Though the Baroness loved me as a daughter, no sooner did
she discover the secret of her son’s attachment to me, than she became
half frantic; accident had revealed it to her, and one day when
Darlowitz was in my apartment conversing to me of his passion, she
entered and surprised us. “Is it thus, ungrateful girl!” she cried,
“that you reward my love? and you, Darlowitz, is it thus you respect
the honour of your father?”
“I burst into tears; grief, shame, humiliation debarred me of the power
of speech; but Darlowitz approaching, took my hand, which on the
entrance of his mother he had relinquished, and said—“Weep not, my
beloved Ida, for are you not in reality my wife? and have I not sworn
never to consider as such, other than yourself? Madam,” proceeded he,
addressing the Baroness, “I loved Ida almost from the moment I beheld
her; she loved me in return, and she became mine. When you speak of the
honour of my father, remember the honour of your son, and feel that he
is bound by every tie to her, moral, human, and divine.”
“Oh! great God! Darlowitz,” exclaimed the Baroness, “you have become a
wretch, you are the seducer of innocence, of an unfortunate orphan
protected beneath the roof of the Baron; and while you have been guilty
of so abominable a crime, you will have the additional one of destroying
your father.”
“Ah, my dear mother,” cried Darlowitz, “my father possesses a firm mind:
if he be offended with his son, he can cast him from his heart; but
after what you have yourself said, you are a powerful advocate in the
cause of Ida, since if I have been already the wretch you describe, how
much more infamous should I become by forsaking her? What reparation
can I make but swearing to be her’s for ever?”
“Retire, and leave me with Ida,” cried the Baroness indignantly to her
son.
“I will, madam,” Darlowitz replied; “but first, Ida, hear me,” he cried,
falling at my feet; “beware, my love and my wife, how you are prevailed
on to resign me; remember that I live but for you—by rash and fancied
heroism you may precipitate a fate you may regret, and gain no meditated
end.” So saying, he left the room; when the Baroness approaching me,
took me in her arms and wept over me: “My dear and injured child,” she
cried, “I can make you no reproach, you have suffered sufficiently; and
I alone, who should have foreseen that no one could behold without
loving you, I alone am to blame. Miserable am I, that a creature every
way so worthy, one whom I tenderly love, can yet never become in reality
my daughter. Listen to me with patience, and I will explain to you some
particular circumstances of which you are not aware, and which will
sufficiently show you, how impossible it is for Darlowitz, consistently
with honour and duty, to become your husband, or the husband of any but
Julia Falkenheim, to whom he is affianced.” At these words I covered my
face with my hands and groaned, for I considered Darlowitz as already my
husband.
“Hear me, my child,” pursued the Baroness, endeavouring to subdue her
own emotion—“the Baron Steinhaussen is peculiarly situated with the
Baron Falkenheim, father of Julia. Some years since he lost to him at
the gaming table nearly the whole of his personal property; he was
overwhelmed with despair, as the payment of the debt must be his ruin,
and perhaps have exiled him in shame and sorrow to a land where he might
live unknown. Under these circumstances it was that the Baron
Falkenheim, who courted an alliance with our family, which is more noble
than his, proposed to Steinhaussen to wave for ever his claims upon his
fortune, upon condition that he would promise his son in marriage to
Julia, adding that if he would accede to this proposition he should
consider the honour that would be done him more than an equivalent for
the debt.
“Though the family of Falkenheim is not so ancient as ours, it is highly
respectable, and Steinhaussen after some consideration yielded to the
terms proposed; the debt was in consequence cancelled, and Darlowitz
became the betrothed husband of Julia. Think, then, my dearest Ida, how
impossible it is for the Baron at this late period, to think of
retracting without appearing at once the most contemptible and
dishonourable of mankind. Should he discover the attachment of our son
to you, and the mutual vows which you have uttered, I am convinced he
would die at once with rage, or be bowed down to the grave with shame
and disappointment.”
“What could I reply to this? It was evident the Baroness desired me to
say the words, “I resign your son;” and perhaps, had I considered myself
alone, I should have yielded to the sacrifice. But I remembered the
powerful adjuration of Darlowitz, the wild yet disordered look with
which he had uttered, “Remember, I live but for you—by yielding to rash
and fancied heroism, you may precipitate my fate.” My heart was torn
with conflicting sensations, my brain was shaken by a confusion of
tormenting idea, and I could only utter, “For myself I care not—no one
cares for me—do with me as you will—but think of your son.”
“What hopes the Baroness might gather from these expressions of my
despair I know not, but she embraced me with an animated tenderness, and
blessed me a thousand times. Her hopes were however destined to receive
a check; while she had been conversing with me, Darlowitz, half frantic,
had flown to the Baron, acknowledged all that the Baroness had been so
anxious to conceal, and sworn before him that none but me should be his
wife!
“At this rash communication, which appeared to him not only to threaten
the destruction of his best prospects, but to render him a villain in
the eyes of the world, he raved with wildest passion, and reprobating
his son in the severest terms, swore in his turn, that if he did not
instantly retract his oath, he would consider him no longer as a son.
But Darlowitz remained firm, and to the alledged honour of his father
opposed his own. Boiling with terrible rage, he sought the Baroness, and
in broken sentences informed her of that which she already knew. It was
in vain that by her mild representations she sought to calm him, and
alledged her sanguine hope, that all would yet be well; she could
obtain only in return the most frantic ravings, or the peremptory
command, “Bid him then—force your son to retract at once!” Darlowitz
was unchanged by this violence, he vowed, fervently vowed, that his own
death or mine should alone separate us, and reiterating his vows to me,
dared to oppose them as a shield to the despair and indignation of his
father.
“The fearful emotion of the Baron Steinhaussen, and the shock his mind
had received, threw him into a raging fever and delirium; and in a few
days his physicians announced that his recovery was next to impossible.
“Now the time was nearly arrived that the marriage of Darlowitz with
Julia was intended to take place. The Baroness Steinhaussen finding the
attempt vain to move her son, directed the whole of her efforts to
induce me to resign him; while Darlowitz, distracted between his
conflicting duties, rushed like a maniac, from the apartment of his
father to mine, from mine to his father’s, knelt in deep remorse by his
bedside, wept in agony over me, and appeared no longer guided in his
conduct but by an impulse, which in the confusion of his feelings he
could scarcely identify.
“For me, I knew not how to act; the life of both father and son were
dearer to me than my own, and I only hesitated how to decide, from the
fear of sacrificing one or the other. At length the malady of the Baron
Steinhaussen encreased to such a degree that his end seemed rapidly
approaching; he had recovered his senses, and desired to behold his
son, and that I might accompany him; at this mandate my heart almost
died within me, for I felt as though I were going to witness the last
moments of one whom I had precipitated to the grave; and conscience
already loaded me with reproaches, far more severe than any I could
anticipate.—I attended however, and when, like an arraigned culprit, I
entered, I beheld with an acute pang, Darlowitz and the Baroness
kneeling by the bedside of the dying Baron, each holding a hand.
“As I drew nigh, the Baron turned on me his mournful eyes of tender
reproach, and faltered out my name. At this appalling sight, to behold
my benefactor dying, and through my means; to feel that but for their
benevolence to a friendless orphan, they might have lived for ever a
happy and united family, whereas from the ingratitude and baseness of
the viper they had cherished, it was doomed to prove their curse:—
“No, never!” I exclaimed as these ideas rushed through my mind, “No,
never, never shall the lowly object of your bounty prove a wretch so
vile! Live, my lord! live!” I pursued, throwing myself on my knees at
the foot of the bed, and stretching out my arms towards him, “live yet a
thousand years, for be assured that Ida shall not shorten your days.”
“The Baron endeavoured to raise himself in the bed, but could not, and
faintly murmured, “What is that I hear?”
“That Ida resigns Darlowitz!” I cried with increased animation, “and
will never mar the happiness of her benefactors.”
A sudden beam of joy illumined the dim eyes of the Baron, and in broken
accents he uttered, “Oh, generous Ida, you have saved my
life—Darlowitz, Darlowitz, my son!” Darlowitz sprang from his knees,
and with a solemn air approached me.
“Ida,” said he, “do you resign me?”
“I do, dear Darlowitz, I am no longer your wife, but henceforth your
sister only.”
“It is enough,” cried Darlowitz with a look of despair—“My father,”
turning towards the Baron, “Ida wills it—live—for I swear to become
the husband of Julia.”
“At these words the Baron uttered a faint cry, and sank into a swoon:
the agitation of sudden joy had overpowered his weak frame, and
threatened to terminate a life that grief had already so much
endangered. By proper applications he revived however, the sovereign
balm of hope filled his veins with fresh life, and rapid as had been his
illness, his recovery was almost equally so.
“I had solemnly resigned Darlowitz, and I resolved to behold him no
more; not that I dreaded my own weakness, but the wildness of his
despair. I therefore immured myself in my chamber, and to the intreaties
of Darlowitz for the admission of only a moment, remained inexorable.
“Though I had resolution to debar myself of the sight of my lover, I was
not equal to the harrowing idea of remaining in the house till he should
become the wife of another. I wrote therefore a few lines to the
Baroness, intreating that she would come to me without the knowledge of
Darlowitz. She hastened to obey my request, when I communicated to her
the anxious desire which I felt to quit an abode, where the heart-wrung
sacrifice I had made was continually present to my mind; adding, that
when removed from beneath the same roof with Darlowitz, he might think
less of me, and more of Julia Falkenheim.
“Heroic child,” cried the Baroness, “in every thing like yourself. The
Baron and myself have had it in contemplation to address you upon this
subject, but feared the possibility of wounding delicacy so noble and so
refined as yours. Too surely Darlowitz can never recover the passion
with which you have inspired him, while he knows that you remain beneath
the same roof with him; it is only by your absence that we may presume
to hope he may in time obtain a victory over his heart. But, my dearest
Ida, another motive prevented us from hinting to you what you have of
yourself proposed; we desired to render our beloved girl, the child of
our adoption, for ever independent of contingencies; and we feared that
if we declared to her our wish and intention of doing so, that her
delicate mind would feel wounded, conceiving we meant to compensate her
for a sacrifice beyond all price, or bribe her never more to reclaim it.
Now however there is no further cause of hesitation—learn then, my
child, that the Baron determines to secure to you a pension during your
life, more than adequate to your wants, and sufficient to enable you to
sustain an appearance befitting his daughter, for such he will ever
consider you, in whatever part of the globe you may fix your residence.
Further have I to add, my beloved Ida, that if you refuse this small
memorial of an eternal gratitude from your parents, so far below what
you have a right to claim, that you will have the reproach of
embittering our future lives, of humbling us to the earth, and of
robbing your noble sacrifice of half its value in our eyes; nay, so much
would your refusal wound the love and pride of the Baron, that perhaps
all would be rendered useless which you have done to secure his
happiness.”
“I threw myself into the arms of the Baroness. “Be assured,” said I,
“that I will refuse nothing which can add to your felicity; I believe
you know and value me too well, to propose to me any thing which you
would despise me for acceding to; for myself, I consider you, and ever
shall, in the light of parents, to whom I can never be humiliated; but,
my dear benefactress, perhaps I may not long exist to be a care either
to myself or you.”
“Ah, say not so, my beloved,” cried the Baroness, tenderly embracing me,
“have better thoughts, and live to close the eyes of one who loves you
as a mother.”
“Let me pass over certain events which I can never think of but with
renovated pangs; my secret departure, secret at least to Darlowitz, from
the dear cherished abode of my protectors; the agony with which I bade
adieu to the asylum of my hapless youth; but above all, let me hasten
over the marriage of Darlowitz with Julia, while I, a disguised and
secret wretch, hovered near the altar, saw him, and heard him with pale
anguished looks, air wild and abstracted, pronounce to another those
vows which once I had fondly hoped would have been mine alone. Yet I it
was exacted the sacrifice, it was to me that Darlowitz made it—— to me
that he sacrificed——” the anguish of Agnes would not allow her to
proceed; at the fond agonizing recollections her relation had called
forth, her heart bled afresh, and the tears which had been long
trembling in her eyes, now streamed down her pale cheeks, and she
audibly sobbed.
Angelo, unable to resist pity, took her in his arms; his soul was
tortured at the sufferings, while it gloried in the heroism of his
child.—“Weep not, my beloved Agnes,” he cried, “weep not over the past;
be consoled in the reflection that you have been more unfortunate than
guilty, and that your dignified conduct has been some expiation for an
error which is less yours, in effect, than mine, who should have been
near to protect and to preserve you.”
Agnes still wept upon the bosom of her father; her tears were an
innocent tribute to the past, for her heart was guiltless of even an
improper idea for him who was now the husband of another. Angelo
succeeded in soothing her, and she resumed.
“Much more remains not for me to say. Finding myself alone in the world,
destitute of friends, or of natural protectors, I determined to travel
into Switzerland, there to seek the dear mother of my childhood, the
only one I had ever known, and enquire if she had heard aught of my
parents, or could give me some intelligence respecting them. But, alas,
my dear father, I arrived at the well known spot, her cottage still
remained, but its former occupant dwelt in it no more, Madame Bertrand
had ceased to exist.”
“Madame Bertrand no more!” exclaimed Angelo, “not long since I heard
from her.”
“She is no more, my father,” answered Agnes, “it is three months since I
returned from Switzerland; when I arrived and enquired for her, M.
Boffuet met me at the door—he looked at me a minute and
exclaimed,—“Oh! is it you returned again?—but Madame Boffuet is dead.”
“What do I hear,” cried I, bursting into tears, “my dearest mother
dead?”
“Yes, yes,” replied Boffuet—“and I am growing old, and have occasion
for what little I have got.”
“I do not desire to intrude upon you,” said I, “admit me only for a
moment, and let me once more behold the interior of a dwelling where
passed my childhood with one who loved me.”
Boffuet still hesitated.
“I do not want any thing of you, M. Boffuet,” said I—“I am not at this
juncture quite so destitute as I have been.”
“Oh, if that be the case,” answered this mercenary and illiberal being,
“come in, Mademoiselle, and remain as long as you chuse.”
“I entered with a beating heart, and desired to be conducted to the
chamber where my dear friend had died. I knelt beside the bed where she
had breathed her last, I kissed the pillow where her poor head had lain,
bedewed it with my tears, and blessed God that she was now where
persecution and suffering could reach her no more.
“All this time Boffuet left me to myself; when I returned to him I found
his manners considerably changed, from gross rudeness to still grosser
adulation and the most constrained politeness.
“Mademoiselle de Montmorency,” said he, “I am happy to hear that you are
no longer in need of the bounty of strangers. I confess, when I first
beheld you, I thought you had come to reclaim that trifling sum
entrusted to Madame Boffuet for you against a time of necessity, but I
am pleased, for your own sake, that you had no such idea, as I must have
contested the claim.—Since you have no occasion for it, you cannot but
allow that it is a very inadequate return for the many years of
protection and support afforded you by myself and Madame Boffuet, who,
poor woman, was not certainly the wisest of her sex.”
“If I could have viewed with scorn or detestation any one who was
hallowed in my eyes, by having lived with, and conversed with my dear
departed friend, it would have been this wretch; but I pitied the
miserable meanness of his disposition, and without noticing his
observation, enquired of him if my dear Madame Bertrand had heard from
my parents since my departure, or if he could inform me of aught
respecting them.
“Madame Boffuet,” answered he, “certainly informed your parents of your
departure; I believe they were at that time in England; but excuse me if
I acknowledge that I never much participated in these interests of my
wife, and that she therefore seldom or ever shewed me the letters which
she received. Some little time back she had a letter from Italy, over
which she wept most bitterly, poor weak woman. Who was the author I
cannot pretend to determine, but in all probability it came from some
friend of your parents, informing her of a terrible calamity, for
nothing else surely could excite such immoderate grief.”
“And tell me, tell me,” cried I eagerly, “what became of that letter?
Oh! if you have it still, give it me; it may be the means of leading me
to my parents!”
“Why, I should be extremely happy, Mademoiselle,” returned he,
hesitatingly, “but in truth I was never a friend to concerning myself in
affairs which did not concern me; and when my wife died I destroyed all
her papers, and among them I suppose all the letters she had ever
received from your mother.”
“Oh! my God!” exclaimed I, “was it possible that you could act thus?
and was that last letter which you speak of among them?”
“Why, as to that, Mademoiselle—I cannot say it was.”—
“Oh then you have preserved it?” I cried; “give it to me.”
“No, indeed,” he replied with a frightful smile, “that met its fate
prematurely: since you are so inquisitive, Mademoiselle, I must tell
you. Madame Boffuet, poor woman, could never attend like another wife to
the concerns of her house. One day I had been out, and returning home
required my dinner; I found nothing prepared, and Madame Boffuet no
where to be seen. In a fit of rage I flew to her chamber, there I found
her shut up weeping over this very letter.—I own, I am now sorry for
what I did, but furious as I was, I snatched the letter from her hand,
exclaiming, “Is it thus that you attend to the concerns of strangers, in
preference to those of your husband? at least, you shall no longer have
this excuse for neglect;” so saying, with an uncontrollable passion I
threw the letter into the flames, and compelled her immediately to quit
her chamber, and attend to her domestic duties.”
“Poor Madame Bertrand!” exclaimed I, “dear persecuted friend!” when
perceiving the brow of Boffuet beginning to lower, I added, “Ah! had
that letter but been preserved, I think I could have forgiven the loss
of all the rest.”
“Oh, but I was glad to destroy my old tormentors, the letters,” answered
the unfeeling Boffuet, “it was the only revenge I could take for the
inconvenience they had caused me during her lifetime; but who expected
ever to see you again? you might have had them, Mademoiselle, if I had
known.”
“What could be said to a savage like this? I hastily took my leave of
him, with coolness indeed, but avoided reproaches which he would have
been incapable of feeling. I lingered a few days about my dear native
land, I wandered among the mountains of my childhood, among the fruitful
vallies, and along the magnificent borders of the Genevan lake. Unable
however to remain in a spot where I had no longer aught to interest or
attach me, and feeling that by perpetual change of scene alone could I
hope to banish ideas no longer to be indulged without crime, I departed
from Switzerland, and fondly dwelling on the slender shadow of hope
excited by the intimation of Boffuet, that the last letter my dear
parental friend had received had been from Italy, I determined thither
to bend my course, in the flattering idea that some chance might perhaps
occur, which might direct me to my parents, or at least discover to them
that their daughter still existed.
“It was owing to chance alone that I fixed my residence on this spot;
its retired situation pleased me, I thought it a more safe and proper
habitation than any which a gay town could afford me, and determined for
a time at least to remain in it. The features of every stranger of
either sex that passed my door, or that I accidentally encountered, I
have examined with an eager and impatient interest, as though some
secret intelligence should perhaps reveal a parent, or some one at least
connected with them: I can account no otherwise for the singular
sensation I experienced on beholding my father than from that powerful
instinct originating in force of blood, as it were, by which nature
draws resistlessly towards each other those connected by her sacred
ties.
“I can safely aver that I felt involuntarily drawn towards you; and
though I entertained a conviction that my admission of your visits must
impress you with an unfavourable idea of me, it was impossible for me to
resist an attraction which acquired fresh strength each time that I
beheld you. When absent I thought of you perpetually with an indefinable
interest, and when present, my heart would sometimes experience a
sudden emotion which I cannot describe, but which almost tempted me to
throw myself into your arms, and exclaim ‘Great God! I know not why, but
I love you, as if you were my father!’”
Agnes concluded, and in a sweet enthusiasm threw herself into the arms
of her real parent, who, overpowered by her tender and sacred emotion,
pressed her to his breast, and wept over her tears, which, though not
unmingled with bitter feelings, were yet the sweetest that for long he
had shed.
