CHAP. II.
Thus my father finished the painful recital of his injuries, and I assured him of my perfect sensibility of his affectionate cares for me, and my resolution to improve my small talents, that I might be enabled to provide for my own maintenance, without being a burden on so good a father. It would be tiresome to repeat our conversations that evening when he gave me to the care of his good friends. As he had not determined what Prince he should apply to, his journey was undertaken without being able to point out for us any channel of information, until we could hear from himself. The hour of separation was dreadful; but I sought to acquire fortitude, that my father might not have my sufferings to contend with, added to his own.
The next day he left us. It was three weeks before we heard from him, and learnt, he was in the service of the King of Poland. Four months past in a quiet uniform manner, that had tranquillized my mind; and as we had heard several times from my father, whose spirits appeared to return with a ray of hope, from the nature of his employment, my mind naturally partook of the complexion of his, and I grew cheerful and easy, in proportion as his letters breathed content and returning vivacity.
It was about this period when I had been near five months with the good Bouvilles, when we heard that a small hunting seat, situated in a most beautiful park about two miles from the village, was repairing for the reception of a young nobleman, just returning from his travels. This information seemed perfectly immaterial to me; nor had I the least curiosity respecting our neighbour, when told of his arrival.
One morning, coming out of my little apartment, which was in the garden, and entering the parlour, I saw a very genteel young man talking to the Abbe with earnestness; I retired in confusion, muttering some trifling apology; but before I had got three steps from the door, the stranger was at my side; taking my hand respectfully, he entreated my return, protesting he would leave the house instantly, if his presence had driven me from the room. I was so extremely confused, that unable to utter a word, I suffered him to lead me quietly back, and seat me in a chair, before I could recollect myself to make any return to a hundred polite things, that he addressed to me with an astonishing rapidity. After some time, however, I recovered, and on the entrance of Madame Bouville, ventured to join in the conversation. I was soon informed this gentleman was the young Count Wolfran, our neighbour. He made an extreme long visit, and departed with visible reluctance.
The effect that his figure, his compliments, and extreme attention, had upon a young and susceptible heart like mine, need not to be described. A thousand new ideas broke in upon my mind; I passed the night sleepless, and arose without that cheerfulness natural to my disposition. When we met at breakfast, the conversation turned upon our neighbour. The Abbe informed me, that in a hunting party the day before the Count's visit, some of his domestics had greatly injured a small enclosure belonging to the good father, of which he had sent notice to the Count, and which had brought him the preceding day to the house, with a view of persuading the Abbe to part with this field, as it lay contiguous to his grounds. This requisition the other had resisted, and they were growing warm in the argument, when I unhappily broke in upon them, and not another word was said on the subject.
I apologized for interrupting them; my friend said he was much obliged to me; for, added he, smiling, as I had just given my negative in a very decided manner, and he neither renewed the proposition, nor appeared to be displeased when he took leave. I hope I shall hear no more of it. The second day after this, the Count made his appearance, attended by a servant with some game, which he entreated Madame Bouville's acceptance of in terms so friendly and persuasive, that she was obliged, however reluctantly, to receive his presents, and of course to pay him attention and respect.
From that day, he never neglected a single one of making us a visit; and his extreme politeness to me grew so very marked, that the good Abbe thought it requisite to have some conversation with me relative to his attentions. And here let me, with confusion, acknowledge my own weakness and folly. I had suffered my eye to forerun my judgment; was already greatly prejudiced in favour of the Count; and I believe had but too plainly discovered these favourable sentiments towards him, by my unguarded looks and behaviour. The good Abbe soon discovered the secret of my heart, which afforded him no satisfaction, because he was apprehensive of the consequences. He explained the nature of his sentiments to me very freely, but with great delicacy. Alas! how unequal was the dictates of prudence, or the cautious advice of age, to combat with a growing partiality in a young mind, a stranger to the world, and entangled by the dangerous superficial advantages of person, and that softness, that insinuating tenderness, which so easily makes its way into an unsuspecting bosom.
I heard my friend, indeed, with respect, but not with conviction, and the first moment that I saw the Count again, one look, one tender expression, overthrew all the poor Abbe's arguments, and confirmed the seducer's power over my heart. My prudent guardians saw too plainly the danger of my situation, and despairing of gaining any ascendancy over me, they one day took an opportunity of an early visit, when I was not in the way to talk to him, in a manner they conceived to be their duty, and to request that he would refrain from any future visits.
He was too closely pressed to allow of any disguise or subterfuge, and was at length driven to own his attachment to me in very unequivocal terms. He said, "that he had a small independency from his father securely settled. He had also great expectations from a relation, exceeding old, whose death might daily be expected, besides what he must enjoy hereafter as his paternal fortune; but that he was sensible his father must, and would, disapprove of his marriage with so young a person as Miss Hautweitzer, who, however beautiful and accomplished, was deficient in those requisites which parents too generally looked upon as absolutely essential in a union for life. His own sentiments were far more liberal: Convinced that he should possess a very handsome fortune in his own right, he was perfectly indifferent to the want of it in a person from whom he was to derive his future happiness, which could not be dependent on money. He besought the Abbe's interest with me; said, that he would immediately write to his father of his intentions, and ask his consent, a compliment certainly due to him, but from which he frankly owned he expected nothing agreeable to his wishes, knowing too well the disposition of his father in such matters. However, be the event what it might, it should make no alteration in his sentiments; his present income would be sufficient for competency and happiness; his paternal fortune could not be alienated from him."
All this, and much more, he urged to the Abbe and Madam Bouville; and though their judgment disapproved of a further intimacy, without the sanction of our parents, yet so seductive were his persuasions, so irresistible his solicitations, that if not convinced, they were at least overborne by his eloquence, and at length gave a tacit permission to his visits, because they had not resolution to deny him.
This great point gained: He forgot not to make his advantages with me on the open and candid declarations he had made to my friends; whilst I, young and unsuspecting, gloried in the affection of a man so amiable and so disinterested, and gave up my heart without reserve, to the indulgence of passion, for an object so worthy. The Abbe, however, was not quite easy; he felt himself responsible to his friend for the honour and happiness of the child committed to his care; and although the prospect was fascinating, and such as he conceived must be for my interest; yet knowing my father's high notions of honour, he was very doubtful that his approbation to our union would not be obtained, if the Count's father refused his consent. He therefore wrote to my beloved parent on the subject; unhappily this letter never reached him, as he had been ordered on duty to a different part of the country.
Mean time, the Count continued his assiduities to me, and daily insinuated himself more into the favourable opinion of my friends. At this period, the good Madame Bouville caught a violent cold, by being out too late one evening in her garden, when the damps arose imperceptibly round her; the consequence was, a violent rheumatic and inflammatory fever, which in nine days terminated a life that had been uniformly good, pious and charitable.
The poor Abbe felt this stroke most severely; he had lost a parent and a friend,—his own health had been always delicate, and subject to frequent asthmatic spasms; he was of a remarkable studious and retired disposition, but ill calculated to struggle with the common affairs of life in a domestic way, in which he was as unknowing as a child.—My situation with him was another subject of distress, without a companion or an adviser, no female acquaintance to countenance me, alone in the house with him, visited by a young man of fashion avowedly my lover.—What an improper, a dangerous situation!—When the last duties were paid to the respectable woman we had lost, he wrote again to my father, and ventured to hint to me before the Count, that as there certainly was an impropriety in my residence there, he conceived it would be most for my advantage in every sense of the word, to retire into a convent, until some arrangement should be concluded upon by my father.
This opinion was a thunder stroke to us both; so infatuated was I by my fatal passion, that it superseded every sense of decorum and propriety, and I considered only the pangs I must feel in being separated from my lover. After a few moments silence, the Count requested the Abbe to walk with him into the garden: They were absent near an hour: I was almost sick with suspense and apprehension what this conference could mean. At length they returned: Joy shone in the eyes of the Count: he flew towards me; and kissing my hand with transport,—"My love—my Louisa!" exclaimed he, "the dear Abbe has consented to our union."—"Conditionally, only," said the latter, with an embarrassed air; "and I expect you do not interrupt me, Sir, whilst I speak my whole mind to my dear ward."
He then told me, that the Count had urged him to unite us immediately, as the only way to secure my happiness and reputation: That, should his father refuse to gratify his wishes, all he would desire was, that our marriage might be concealed until he had either softened him, or obtained the sanction of his relation, whose fortune would amply support us; whose tender regard for him he had little doubt would incline him to use his influence with his father. In short, every argument love and ingenuity could suggest, he had assailed the Abbe with, and he fairly repeated them all. "Now, added he, "attend, Louisa, to my objections; let reason and dispassionate judgment direct you. I have, I own, very reluctantly, been compelled by an eloquence I could neither silence nor resist, to promise an acquiescence with your determination. Consider well, therefore, before you give your final answer, in which my peace and your own is so deeply involved."
He then represented the disgrace and attendant disagreeable consequences to me, which must inevitably wait on a private marriage; the pain which must follow the disapprobation of our friends—the possible repentance and coldness of my husband, when passion subsided; and he found himself an alien from his family, and reflected on the sacrifices he had made to love. In fine, the Abbe said enough to have convinced the reason of a prudent young woman, and to make even a thoughtless one deliberate on the rash step suggested to her by the impetuous passion of a very young man. But alas! with the most painful conviction of my imprudence, I candidly own, I heard him only with impatience, and attended to nothing but the flattering idea of being married to the Count, and being inseparably united to a man, who, I was persuaded, would love me for life with unabating affection. Childish, romantic expectation! how bitterly have I been convinced of its fallacy, since the very concession I made in his favour, and submitting to the humiliation of a private marriage, must of itself lessen his esteem, when he reflected on my want both of prudence and delicacy. Rarely, indeed, I believe are such marriages happy, as need concealment, or are unsanctioned by the approbation of our parents; but I was to be convinced of this truth by experience; for I refused to listen to the voice of prudence.
When, therefore, the Abbe had exhausted himself, and borne hard upon the patience of the Count, without, to my shame be it confessed, having made the least impression upon me, by all the arguments he adduced against a private marriage. I replied to him with a courage that I saw surprised and hurt him; "that I was very sensible of his regard for my interest and happiness; but that, as the Count had honoured me with an offer of his hand, situated as I was, and with the esteem I felt for him, I could neither be so ungrateful to him, nor so much an enemy to my own happiness, as to decline the offer, which it was impossible my father could disapprove, when declared publicly; and when that time arrived, all apprehensions of the old Count's disapprobation must be done away." My lover threw himself in raptures at my feet, to thank me, and in the same breath, claimed the Abbe's promise. He heaved a deep sigh. "I own," said he, "that I am disappointed, and thought I might trust to the gentle and delicate mind of Louisa for a more proper regard to circumstances: But since my own confidence in her has misled me, and I see that you have acquired an unbounded influence over her heart, I shall no longer oppose your union, because I am now convinced all opposition would be fruitless. Heaven grant that I may have no cause to regret the hour that you first saw each other, and that your marriage may be productive of mutual happiness." We were both too happy to attend much to the evident chagrin of the good Abbe; the Count only replied to what was pleasing to himself, and entered into a consultation in what manner we should live together, without betraying our secret to the world, until it was convenient for our interest to make it known."
After much deliberation, and several schemes formed, and rejected as inexpedient, it was concluded upon, that, as I was scarce known in that neighbourhood, and the Count still less; that he should give up his hunting seat, discharge his servants, all but his valet, in whose secrecy he could depend, and take a small house in a neighbouring hamlet, where, as Mr. and Mrs. Sultsbach, we might live unknown and unobserved, until the Count had softened his family into a compliance with his wishes. His letters to be all addressed to and from the Abbe's house, which, being only four miles from the house proposed for our residence, would quickly afford us every intelligence.
This scheme being adopted, the Count lost no time in putting it into execution; his valet took the house, which, belonging to an officer in the army, whose wife had died in his absence, was let ready furnished, and was very suitable for us. Two maid servants were hired in the hamlet, which, with the valet, was to be all our domestics. Every arrangement was completed in about ten days; and on the morning when we were to take possession of our house, the good Abbe joined our hands before Heaven in his parish church. After the ceremony, when returned to his house, the servant of the Count being the only witness to our union, he seized an opportunity to draw me, for a few moments, into his little study. Taking my hand, the large drops falling from his eyes—"My amiable friend," said he, "I have this day done an act my better judgment condemns; but such are the existing circumstances, that I saw evidently there was no alternative to pursue. The great error I have committed, was admitting the Count as a visitor into my house. All other subsequent events was the result of my weakness in that point; Heaven grant that you may, as now, ever consider it as a fortunate hour for your happiness; and that I may never upbraid myself for my conduct, I hope soon to hear from your father; and if he does not disapprove of your union, as you hope, I shall then be better reconciled to myself than I now am. Here is a paper I have drawn up, and signed as a certificate of your marriage, and I entreat you carefully to preserve it." He embraced me with great tenderness, and blessed me with much fervency, promising to be a frequent visitor.
Elated with my marriage, anticipating future scenes of happiness and independence, and enjoying the pleasure my father must feel, when acquainted with a settlement so advantageous to me, not one gloomy idea presented itself in the chapter of possibilities that could for a moment cloud my prospects of felicity. Poor, wretched deluded creature; how soon was thy vain and high raised expectations tumbled into the dust! A month past away on eagle's wings; for every moment brought with it fresh instances of my husband's affection. No letters had as yet arrived from either of our fathers; but both being in the army, though in the service of different princes, we knew they could not always command their time, or be in the route to receive letters; therefore we patiently waited, without feeling any disappointment, as the days past by us.
I had been married nearly five weeks, when one morning, at breakfast, we were surprised by seeing a man on horseback ring at the gate, and presently a message was delivered from the Abbe, who then lay in his bed hopeless of recovery, from the return of his dreadful spasms. He requested to see us without delay. This moment was the first since I had left him that I felt pain, and I prepared instantly to attend him, the Count equally desirous with myself to see our mutual friend. We were not long before we arrived at his house, and beheld him upraised in his bed, struggling for breath, and so amazingly changed in the course of a week's illness, that I was more shocked than ever I had been in my whole life. He ordered the servant to withdraw, and then with extreme difficulty, agonized by the spasms in his side, he addressed us in these words:—"I believe my days, I may say hours of existence, now draw towards a period. I have little to regret but my neglect of duties, which, however, I hope I have not violated, and trust in a merciful God to pardon all my omissions.
"My dear children, you are now happy in each other; let me entreat you to attend to the duties of your situations, and you will continue so. Count, remember I joined you to my dear charge; her happiness, her honour, are a deposit in your hands, which you are accountable for to the Supreme Being, and to her respectable father. To your honour and generosity I bequeath her. And you, my once dear Louisa, now the wife of a noble gentleman, who has proved his affection for you by disregarding all selfish considerations: Do you give him credit for his judgment, and prove, by your amiable conduct through life, how much superior virtue and native goodness are to the boasted advantages of riches and titles.—May the Almighty bless you both, and may your union often occasion you to recollect a man to whom, in his last moments, your happiness was his only concern."
With a faltering voice, and infinite labour, the poor Abbe pronounced this affectionate farewell. A relation of his had been sent for, the heir to his small possessions, who entered the house just as he became speechless, and our attendance was no longer necessary.
We returned home oppressed with melancholy: The Count was thoughtful; and I felt more poignant sorrow than I had ever before experienced. My spirits sunk, and a heavy gloom seemed to hang over me, which I could not shake off—too sure a presage that my happiest days were flown to return no more. At supper, I tried to appear cheerful; 'twas an attempt only; for sighs surcharged my bosom in spite of my endeavours to repress them. The Count saw my emotions, and made an effort to be talkative:—At length he said, "We both feel sorrow for our good father, but you know, my love, he often suffered such misery, as his real friends cannot be sorry that he is released from ——— Most fortunately for us, he lived long enough to give you a husband and a protector. Had he died before that period, how much more cause would you have had for sorrow, without a friend in the world near you." There was something in this speech that displeased me, and I was considering what answer to make, when he added; "except our Frank, there remains no witness now of our union."
"Yes," I replied with some earnestness; "I have one material one, a certificate drawn up, and signed by the good Abbe."—"Have you, indeed?" answered he with surprise, strongly marked in his countenance,—"I am rejoiced to hear it; I hope you take great care of it." "Most certainly," I returned, "I keep it in my little ivory cabinet, presented to me at the convent, and lock that safely in my escritoire."—"That's right, my love, we may one day find it necessary to produce so unequivocal a proof of our marriage." He then changed the subject, and sought to amuse me by repeating some entertaining anecdotes, that he remarked in his travels. Two days after this event, a messenger came from the late Abbe's, with a letter to the Count, which he had left orders should be forwarded to him for his friend the Count; as we still retained the name of Sultsbach.
I trembled at the sight of this letter, and absolutely gasped for breath whilst he perused it. I watched the turn of his countenance, and saw it promised no good to me.—"Tell me," I cried, "what answer has your father given to your request?"—"One that surprises me as much as it hurts me," he replied. "He refuses his consent to our marriage, not merely because you are portionless, but because you are the daughter of a man he hates; one whose insolence obliged him to complain against him, and to have dismissed from the army."—"Good Heavens!" I exclaimed; "is it possible Count Wolfran was that destroyer of my father's happiness! Oh! my dear father, why, why did you not name your cruel enemy to me!" "You mistake the matter," said my husband, very coolly: "It appears that the insolence of Mr. Hautweitzer drew upon himself the just indignation of Count Wolfran."
The tone in which he pronounced these words, had more in it than the words themselves: It pierced my heart, and I burst into tears. He seemed affected—besought me not to be uneasy; time might do much for us.—The mutual hatred between our fathers was certainly an unlucky business; but as he found that the Count his father would soon return to his estate, no endeavours on his side should be wanting to do away the prejudice conceived against me. I endeavoured to be content with this assurance; but from that fatal hour, thought I could perceive a change in his disposition; he grew thoughtful, capricious, and often left me for hours alone, without apologizing or accounting for his frequent absences. No letters arrived from my father, nor did I know where to direct to him. The house of the late Abbe was now occupied by a stranger, and it was a million to one if any letters would ever reach us. This reflection gave me great pain, and I often requested the Count to set an inquiry on foot relative to the Polish army, that I might obtain some intelligence of my father's destination. This, he assured me, he had done without effect.
One day he told me, that as his father might soon return, he thought it would be most expedient for him to visit the relation on whose fortune he had such great expectancies, and prevail on him to interest himself in his behalf. "He also," said he, "will doubtless be displeased with me; but I know my influence over him; his anger will be but momentary, and I shall easily persuade him to coincide with my wishes." This proposal from my husband appeared wise and plausible; I had nothing to object to it, but being left alone. This fear and reluctance of being separated for a week or two, he treated as childish, until, ashamed of my folly, I gave into the plan, and a short day was fixed on to begin his journey, which I learnt was at least a hundred and fifty miles distance; but he promised me a letter from every post town.
The day came; I saw him depart with a sad foreboding that some untoward circumstance would intervene between us. I suffered unutterable anguish, and retired to my apartment overwhelmed with grief. After giving way to my sorrow for some time, I tried to shake off the despondency that oppressed me; and having begun some time before to embroider a sword knot for him, I drew out my work to employ myself. I wanted some silver thread, and recollected a parcel of it was in a drawer of my small ivory cabinet, which had been presented to me by my dear Miss D'Alenberg.
I opened the escritoire, where this cabinet was deposited, and easily found the thread.—A sudden inclination seized me to peruse the certificate of my marriage. I opened the private drawer, and found it empty. Astonishment, for a moment, overpowered me; but recollecting myself, I conceived I had mistaken the drawer. I hastily explored every part of it; but the object of my search could not be found. What my feelings were, I cannot describe; nor can I recollect the anguish of that moment without horror.—What was become of my treasure, or on whom could my suspicions fall? was the first questions that presented themselves to my mind, and caused an universal trembling through my whole frame.
I had some little ornaments of value,—those were all safe; the locks of the trunk and cabinet I found in good order, yet it was a fatal truth that the certificate, which not many days previous to this I had seen in the drawer, was lost, and must have been taken by some one who knew of its importance to me. "Good Heavens!" I exclaimed—"Surely the Count ———."—The words died on my tongue; the idea was horrible; the extent of misery which that thought might lead to, overcame my senses, and for a moment rendered me insensible. When my reason returned, in a state little short of distraction, I again renewed my search, but in vain; the fatal certainty of my loss was confirmed, and a thousand dreadful images rushed upon my mind at the same time.
With difficulty I descended to my apartment: I had never entrusted my keys with either of the servants; nor could it be probable they would have taken a paper of no consequence to them, and have left several valuable baubles, which, as I did not wear them, might not have been presently missed. There was but one person that I could suspect; and what his motives could have been, to rob me of a paper he had allowed to be very essential to me, after the death of the good Abbe, was a doubt, the solution of which tortured me almost to madness. Yet so fervent was my affection—so perfect my confidence in the love and honour of my husband, that I strove even against conviction to believe I wronged him by my suspicions, and endeavoured to support my spirits until the following day, when, as I expected to hear from him, so I intended to write, and inform him of this extraordinary event.