CHAP. III.
The next day came, and my agitations every hour in the hope of a letter, cannot be expressed. Alas! every succeeding hour, both on that day and the next, brought with it disappointment and sorrow. I grew almost frantic; my servants were astonished at my emotions, which, however, I sought to suppress, were but too visible, as I could neither eat nor sleep. In this state of wretchedness and suspense, I past five days; the sixth put an end to the last, and completed the first. I had scarcely left my pillow, where my wearied head had in vain sought repose, before I was informed a man on horseback at the door had brought a packet for me. I snatched it with trembling eagerness. It was the Count's writing: Even now I sicken at the recollection of what my feelings were, when I perused the contents. Indeed, I could not get through the whole, before I lost my senses, having just time to pull the bell, as I found myself sinking from my chair.
Let me briefly hurry over this part of my story, so dreadful even at this distance of time, that I wonder my life or reason had not been the sacrifice to such inhuman baseness. The letter informed me—
"That his father, having in the most peremptory manner forbidden our marriage, in consequence of an engagement he had entered into with another family, and also because of the insuperable aversion he entertained for Mr. Hautweitzer; he (the Count) was inexpressibly grieved to acquaint me, that in obedience to the author of his being, he was compelled, though with extreme reluctance, to relinquish the hopes he had indulged of passing his life with a lady he so truly loved and esteemed; but the sacred commands he had received, with the insurmountable difficulties that impeded such a union from ever taking place, obliged him to take this method of conveying to me the information, in compassion to both our feelings. As he must ever be interested in my happiness, he had taken care to leave four hundred crowns in his writing desk, which he hoped would be a sum sufficient to convey me to my father, or support me in the hamlet until his arrival."
Such were the cruel contents of this horrid letter, so deeply imprinted in my memory, never to be erased. The moment I regained my senses, I called for the messenger. No such person was to be found.—While the servant came to me, he had taken the opportunity to disappear. My cruel destiny now unfolded itself at once. I had no witness to my marriage; my certificate had been basely stolen by the most inhuman of mankind: I had assumed a fictitious name, which, when known, must at best give me a questionable and doubtful character, and I had no one being interested enough for me to assert my rights, or chastise the author of my wrongs.
Continual faintings brought me into such a state of weakness by the following day, that my servants thought it necessary to call in a physician, with which I was much displeased; for I most earnestly wished for death; but it pleased Heaven to restore me to health, or at least a comparative health, that I might endure yet greater miseries, if possible, the consequences of my credulity and folly. What bitter self-reproach have I not suffered, and must ever feel to the end of my existence.
As soon as I was able to leave my bed, I determined to pursue my cruel husband, and try, by gentleness, to restore him to a sense of his duty to me; but that, if he still persisted in refusing to acknowledge me as his wife, I would then boldly assert my claims upon him, and publish his baseness to all the world. I knew not where to find my father; but even if I had known, I shrunk from the idea of meeting him under my present humiliating circumstances. When I grew collected enough to form my plan, passion and resentment contributed to give me unusual courage; and from the timid love-sick Louisa, I became the haughty injured wife of Count Wolfran, and assumed a character very unlike my former self.
As he had, in the early days of our marriage, mentioned the residence of his relation, I did not hesitate a moment in forming a resolution to follow him there. I therefore hired a carriage for my journey, dismissed my servants, gave up the house, and prevailed on the relation of my late worthy friend, the Abbe, who resided in the village to take charge of my trunks and other effects. Despair gave me spirits, fortitude, and perseverance, astonishing even to myself, and enabled me, within a very few days, to set off for Ulm, the residence of Baron Nolker, the worthy uncle of a most unworthy man.—Happily, I met with no interruptions or accidents, but arrived safe at a capital inn in the city of Ulm.
It was not difficult to gain information of the Baron's house, or his character; the first was not far from the city, and the landlady of the inn spoke warmly in praise of the latter. I was now to reflect on a proper mode of introducing myself, whether to send for the Count, or go boldly to the house.—Whilst I was deliberating, turning my eyes involuntarily towards the street, I saw him pass with a lady and a gentleman. My whole soul seemed in tumults, racked by love and indignation. I hastily rung the bell, and sent a servant after him, to say that a gentleman, an old friend, wished to speak with him immediately: He, knowing the natural timidity of my character, had not, at the moment, the smallest suspicion of my having undertaken such a journey. He turned back, and was in an instant before me.
Never shall I forget the guilt and confusion portrayed in his countenance; he started, and was about to retire without uttering a word, scarcely, I believe, knowing his own intentions; but I was too quick, for laying hold of his arm.—"Stop, Count," I cried, endeavouring to repress my emotions.—"Stop, my dear Count, do you not know your Louisa.—Be not offended; I am here unknown, without you choose to acknowledge me." More astonished, if possible, by this address, than even by my presence, he led me in silence to a chair, doubtless considering in what manner to impose on my credulity, or bring me over to his wishes.—"Louisa," said he at length, in a voice soft and agitated, "Louisa, I am surprised and concerned to see you here. You have taken a very wrong step, which may materially injure me and yourself." "I hope not," I replied with quickness; "for certainly what affects you must concern me. Man and wife can have but one interest; but I felt a necessity for coming here, that you might disavow a vile forgery in your name, calculated, no doubt, to make me miserable. I have too firm a reliance on your love, honour, and integrity, to be for a moment imposed upon by an attempt so impudent and so improbable. Here, my love," added I, drawing out the letter I had received; "read this horrid scroll, and then you will not be surprised that your Louisa determined to afford you an opportunity to vindicate your honour, and trace the infamous hand which sought to destroy our happiness."
He took the letter; his hand trembled, and every feature in his face betrayed the agitation of his mind.—"You ought," said he, falteringly, "to have written to me, if there was a necessity for so doing: You must be sensible, that, in the present state of things, your journey here was highly impolitic, to say no worse of it.—"Ah!" cried I, "could you think it possible for me to be composed, when thus convinced that we have some unknown enemy, who, having gone such lengths as to assume your name, and imitate your hand, will surely hesitate at nothing to make us wretched, and may possibly try to practise on your judgment, as he designed to do on my credulity."
At the moment, when tracing this scene, I am astonished at the fortitude and dissimulation I had the power to acquire over my feelings, and never, I believe, was a man so truly perplexed and confused as the Count. My behaviour was so unexpected, that he was entirely at a loss what answer to frame; whether to own or deny the letter, which he still held without opening it. I saw the workings of his mind, and exulted in the propriety of my plan.—"Why do you not read that detestable scroll?" I asked.—"My dear Louisa," said he, "I have not time now to attend to that or to you; a particular engagement obliges me to leave you, but I will return in the evening, and explain every thing to your satisfaction."—"Well, my love," I replied, "I wish not to intrude on your time or engagements: You will find me perfectly obedient to all your wishes;—now that I see you forgive this apparent rash step, and are convinced that the necessity justified my proceeding." He made me some vague and trifling answer; again promised to see me in the evening, and requested I would keep myself concealed.