CHAP. IV.
When he had left me, I gave a free indulgence to my tears, and those emotions I had so hardly repressed. I saw too plainly the duplicity of his character, and that I was to be the most unfortunate of women. Yet the conduct I had adopted appeared to be the only mode I could pursue. Reproaches would avail nothing, and only harden a depraved mind; whilst, by dis- crediting the authenticity of the letter, I gave him time for reflection, and an opportunity to disavow it, should honour or tenderness soften him to do me justice.
In a thousand reflections of this kind, I passed the intervening time of his absence; and when I heard his voice at the door speaking to a servant, my heart fluttered almost from its enclosure. He entered the room with an air of haughtiness, mixed with complacency, rather assumed than natural, and bespoke different feelings from those I had observed when he left me. I had time for those remarks, as he deliberately shut the door, took off his hat, and drew a chair close to mine.
"Louisa," said he, in a firm tone, "I come not now to indulge in foolish expressions of a romantic passion, which your own understanding must inform you cannot long exist. I do not pretend to exculpate myself from blame, by pleading the violence of love as an excuse for duplicity; now that the veil is withdrawn, when passion has subsided, I can see and acknowledge my errors. I have misled you. I have imposed upon your reason, and for my own gratification, have sacrificed your peace; yet I hope it will prove only a temporary suspension." He stopped.—I felt almost choked with indignation:—However, I commanded myself, and said, "Go on, Sir, as yet I do not comprehend you."
"To be brief, then," resumed he hastily, "for the subject cannot be expatiated upon; My father commands me to marry a young lady of fortune and connexions, to whom my uncle is guardian. I dare not refuse him." Here I started and exclaimed, "How! dare not?" "No," answered he, "I dare not: I deceived you as to my fortune; I have a very small independence;—my father can dispose of his property as he pleases: My uncle assures me his, only on condition that I comply with my father's commands. Thus I am compelled to obey; for I have no possibility of maintaining you or myself, if I brave their requisitions, and must be for ever reprobated, if I indulge my own desires by a further connexion with a lady, who, however dear to me, is the daughter of a man hateful to my father, and obnoxious to my family.
"The compulsatory acquiescence I have been drawn into, has given me an infinite deal of pain; the letter you have given to me I must acknowledge (at this moment I was absolutely speechless). Let me add, that on yourself depends your future happiness.—Your father is unacquainted with what has past between us. I have not had the temerity to mention any particulars to mine.—You must know, that you can produce no claims upon me, if I choose to disavow them. Therefore, both for your honour and interest, you must relinquish all idea of making such claims as you cannot justify: By so doing, you will retain my friendship, and a handsome allowance, which I will settle on you for life. If, on the contrary, you persist in your present plan, to expose yourself, and compel me publicly to throw you off, you will make an irreconcilable enemy of me. Your father will hear the reputation of his daughter for ever destroyed, and the hatred of my father will find gratification in the dishonour attached to a family he dislikes.—Consider deliberately on all the arguments I have adduced, for the preservation of your character and future independence."
Here the base deceiver stopped, after having completely unmasked his character, and developed his dark designs. The latter part of this long speech had driven all foolish tenderness from my heart. Conscious innocence, pride, and indignation, raised me to a spirit above all fond complainings.—I viewed the man before me with a contempt that superseded affection: For when once an ingenuous mind feels the object of its tenderness in a despicable point of view, as void of integrity or honour, it is not difficult to change the nature of its sentiments, since true love must be founded upon esteem; and when that is annihilated, the other ceases to exist in a well informed mind. The errors, the imprudence I had been guilty of, in forming this too hasty connexion, perhaps deserved a punishment, but not from him. His behaviour had lifted me above myself, and conveyed more knowledge to my understanding in one hour, than from my little experience I had acquired in years. But to return.
I saw he impatiently and anxiously waited for my answer, as he took a turn or two about the room; whilst I was endeavouring to acquire composure, and some degree of dignity, which might cover him with confusion.—This at length was my reply, with as much calmness as I could assume.
"When I undertook this journey, Sir, it was with a faint hope that some one spark of virtue might inhabit your bosom, and that recollection had before now been my friend, to give you a just sense of your duty to me. I therefore gave you an opportunity to recall yourself to honour, and to do me justice.—No such spark of virtue lay dormant: I see all is treachery, deceit, and sordid interest.—Unhappily my weak mind and unguarded heart was captivated by an exterior too fascinating, and a semblance of honour I had not the penetration to discover from a reality.—But those days of weakness are no more.—I will preserve the honour of my father, whatever is the consequence to myself. I have been weak and imprudent, but never will I consent to appear a guilty creature in his eyes, for any worldly advantages offered as a compensation for lost innocence.—No, Sir—my fame, my character, shall be justified."
"And pray," said he, interrupting me, "who is to justify it? Have you any witnesses to prove it; any testimonies to produce?" "The last, Sir, you know, you have basely robbed me of; my best friend is indeed no more:—But your servant" ——— "is a stranger to every thing between us," answered he with a sneer.—"More than that, you left the Abbe, and resided with me under a false name. You will find, upon inquiry, his knowledge extends no farther."—"'Tis well, Sir," said I, rising.—"I comprehend all your schemes perfectly; I have no more to say to you: Leave me, Sir, and see me no more."
"Louisa," cried he, much agitated, "consider well what you are about; I will not have my future happiness destroyed by a rash unthinking girl; do not therefore oblige me to take such measures as must inevitably hurt your peace, and make your father miserable." "Do what you please," I returned; "as your wife, I must obey you: And though I utterly despise you, I never will forego my claims." He looked at me with a contemptuous smile. "And pray what is the plan you intend to pursue?" "That I shall deliberate upon, and you will doubtless know the result soon." He took up his hat—"You have decided your own fate, Louisa, and must abide the consequence." I made no reply, and he left the room.
No sooner was the door shut, than my spirits sunk; and though I no longer loved the base betrayer, yet the difficulties, the prejudices I had to encounter with; the malevolence of the world, and above all, the hatred of the old Count, who would doubtless shut his ears against conviction, to gratify his malice. All these considerations arose to my view; overpowered the little resolution I had laboured to support, and threw me into the most pitiable state of distress. I determined, however, to see the Baron the following morning, and disclose every circumstance that had passed between his nephew and myself.
I was now alone at an inn, a stranger, without a companion or a servant. The kind of doubtful appearance that I must make to the people, now first occurred; and when I desired to be conducted to my bed-room, I thought the hostess threw a scornful and scrutinizing look at me. Confused and mortified, I hastened to the apartment alloted for me, which was through a short enclosed gallery or passage, that served for a dressing-room, the inner apartment being small. I sent away the servant, locked the bed-room door, and threw myself down in my clothes, so truly miserable, that I had neither inclination or power to take them off.
Towards the morning, I fell into a short slumber, from which I was awakened by a knocking at the door. I hastily opened it. The servant said, a gentleman waited for me below: I could not mistake the person, and my first intention was to refuse seeing him; but presently I conceived the idea that it was possible he might repent of his unjust behaviour, and wished to acknowledge it. After a moment's hesitation, therefore, I said, I would attend him, and very soon followed her down stairs. When I entered the room, the Count met me, and seizing my reluctant hand—"Louisa, you have conquered: I have ventured to hazard my best hopes for your happiness.—Success, beyond my expectations, has attended me. My uncle forgives me, and has promised to be my advocate with my father. He even consents to receive you, and his carriage will soon be here to fetch you. Forgive my past conduct, which has wrung my heart as much as it has wounded your's.
This address, so unexpected, penetrated to my heart. Joy, hope, fear, and doubt, by turns assailed me.—Love had but a small share in my emotions; for that had received too rude a shock; but my fame, my character, was of far too much consequence to reject the possibility of its being established.—Yet still I involuntarily hesitated. He saw the conflict in my mind.—"I do not blame your want of confidence," said he; "I have deserved it; but respect yourself, if you no longer esteem me." Those words were like a talisman. My dear father recurred to my mind, softened my heart, and I burst into tears, yielding up my, 'till then, repulsive hand to him, with a look, that I saw covered him with confusion, and which I then thought was the effusion of a self-convicted mind.—He desired to breakfast with me. I readily complied, but very little conversation ensued. I was afraid of saying too much on my present prospects, lest it should be a tacit reproach on past transactions. His silence, doubtless, proceeded from other ideas, but he was extremely attentive and tender in his manners.
A carriage at length was announced:—"'Tis my uncle's," said he in a quick tone. "Hasten, my dear Louisa, to be received as you may wish for." My preparations were few, as I had brought but a small trunk with me. He discharged the expenses at the house, and with trembling limbs, and a beating heart, I seated myself in the carriage. As it drove off, he asked me, for the first time, to whom I had entrusted the management of my house, and who were acquainted with my journey. The first I told him, was given up; my effects in the house of our old friend, and the cause of my journey, a secret to every one. He praised my conduct and prudence; adding, that he hoped that day would see a termination to all my doubts and fears. I thanked him with fervor, and began to make a thousand excuses in my mind for his past unjustifiable behaviour, trying to restore to him my love and confidence.
When suddenly awaking from a deep reverie, I remarked, we were in a narrow gloomy road.—"I thought," said I, 'that your uncle's house was not a mile from the town?" "His town house is not," replied he, "but another house to which he set off this morning, is about two miles further on." A sudden chill seized on my heart; but checking a rising apprehension, I remained silent, until we entered a narrow road through a thick wood, and I saw the spires of a large building through the trees.—"Is that the house?" asked I.—"No; my uncle's is about half a mile further; but he talked of calling here, to take up a young lady, a relation, as a companion for you." I, blind and credulous, ready to believe what I wished for to be a truth, simply congratulated myself on his uncle's kind consideration. We soon stopped at the outside of a large building with a pair of iron gates.—"Bless me!" said I, "surely this is a convent."—"Yes, you are right; it is in this convent your future companion resides. I will step out and inquire if my uncle has been, or is here." He jumped out of the carriage; was wanting about ten minutes, which I thought an age, when coming up to the door of the chaise, with a smiling countenance—"Step out into the parlour, my dear Louisa; Miss Nolker will attend you instantly. We are before my uncle."
Where was my reason and prudence at that moment, when a duplicity so obvious, a scheme so ill contrived, never struck me as a fallacy. I readily gave my hand to the base betrayer; entered the gates, and in a moment was in the great Court, surrounded by eight or ten nuns, and my companion gone. For the instant I put my foot inside the outer gate, and turned towards the parlour. He dropped my hand; the other gate opened, and the nuns appeared. The whole was so quick, that I scarcely missed his hand before I lost sight of his person.
I looked on the nuns.—"Where am I going, and where is Miss Nolker?" I turned, as if going back to the parlour.—"This way, Miss," said one of the mothers; 'this way, if you please." Surrounding me, and urging me forwards—"What is it you mean?" I exclaimed, turning on every side. "What is become of the Count? Where is Miss Nolker?" One of the nuns took my hand.—"Do not distress yourself, by inquiries which cannot be answered to your satisfaction. Accompany us to the Abbess; you will there have every thing explained." I no longer resisted their entreaties. Conviction struck me at once of the vile treachery that had made me it's victim. I saw I was trepanned into a convent to be confined. It was useless to complain to the sisterhood.—I followed them in silence to the apartment where the Abbess was seated in state.
"My dear child," said she, in a soothing voice; "my dear child, you are welcome.—I hope you will find here every thing that can contribute to your peace and tranquillity." Without taking any notice of this "hope," I requested to speak with her alone. She nodded her head, and the nuns retired. I then briefly told her who, and what I was; related the cruelty and imposition of my husband; the crime he meditated of marrying another; and warned her to beware how she became a partner in an action so atrocious, as she might assure herself I had friends who would move Heaven and earth to trace me out, and bring my persecutors to justice.
When I stopt—"Bless me," said she, "This is a very extraordinary story, and totally foreign to the representation I have from Baron Nolker."—"How, Madam!" cried I: "From Baron Nolker?" "Yes, my child," replied she; "'tis by his orders I receive you here. He is a good man, and he will pay your pension here to preserve you from evil, and the deceits of the world." "If this be true," I exclaimed, "then is he imposed upon by the basest of mankind; but I rather think his name has been used without his permission. What, Madam is the information you have received concerning me?" "Excuse me, my dear child, I am not at liberty to answer your question.—Make yourself easy; here you will find friends, and meet with good treatment. If your own story is true, time will elucidate every thing to your advantage. At present, opposition will be in vain. I am amenable for your safety, and if you behave with prudence, in me you shall find a friend."
This speech of her's convinced me at once, that indeed all "opposition would be in vain," and that the plot was laid too deeply, though hastily conceived, for me to countermine at that time. I therefore contented myself with again warning her of the consequences, when my confinement should be known to my friends, and hastily left her presence. I came so quick into the outer room, that I discovered some of the nuns in the act of listening through the cracks of the wainscot. How erroneous is the opinion generally entertained, that those persons detached from the world, and shut up in cloisters, are dead to all the passions which agitate the human frame. On the contrary, all the little mean passions, such as envy, malice, curiosity, and selfishness, are to be found inhabiting the bosoms of too many who have apparently retired from all worldly concerns. The good mothers were confused; but as I addressed them civilly, they soon recovered, and paid me much attention.
When I had been about three weeks in the convent, I was one day much surprised by the information, that my trunks of clothes had been brought that morning, and left without any message or inquiries. On examining them, I found all was perfectly right; my ivory cabinet was also in one of the trunks; but not a single paper of any kind remained. Convinced now that I was to be confined for life, without some miracles should effect my deliverance, my spirits no longer supported me. I fell into a low nervous fever, that reduced me extremely, both in body and mind. One of the lay sisters, who occasionally attended me, appeared to compassionate my situation. She shrugged her shoulders, shook her head, and calling me poor child, gave such indications of pity, that I ventured one day to complain of the cruel deception that had brought me there.
"Have you any friends," asked she, in a low voice, as if fearful of being heard.—"I believe," I replied, 'that I have a father, but I know not in what place he resides."—"That's bad, indeed," said she.—"If, however, you can write to any friend, I will find means to get your letter conveyed; the porteress is my aunt; she will not refuse to pass a letter of mine to a relation in the city, and she shall forward one for you." It instantly occurred to me to write to the relation of the Abbe, give her an account of my being forced into a convent, and enclose a letter of information to my father. As it was most probable he would either write or come there, when he had the power of being absent from his duty. I eagerly accepted her good offices, and promised to have my letter ready the following day. In the small trunk that I had brought with me to Ulm, I had packed up my writing box; and most fortunately, when the nuns, as is customary, examined the trunk, they had not deprived me of this treasure; whether from complaisance, or because they were fearful of doing it, I know not, but now this box was to me of inestimable value.
I lost no time in writing, and anxious to exculpate myself from the charge of guilt in the eyes of my father, I gave him a very circumstantial account of every occurrence that had befallen me since our separation, without, at that time, considering what might be the consequences of such information to a man of honour and a parent. The lay sister performed her promise; my spirits revived, and gay hope once more shed her illusive smiles over my mind. But this temporary ease was of short duration. Week after week rolled away, and brought no change in my situation: Continual expectations wore me to a shadow; 'till months passing by, and no letters or intelligence respecting my father, I all at once entertained an idea of his death.
Despondency then took fast hold of me.—I was a prisoner for life, sacrificed by the basest and most avaricious of mankind. Madness and despair worked me to a kind of frenzy; and one day, after a fit of gloomy recollection, I rose in a hurry, flew to the apartment of the Abbess, and insisted, in very peremptory terms, upon being liberated;—bid her, at her peril, detain a wife forced into confinement, and the daughter of an officer who would soon demand me from her hands. She appeared terrified at the state of my mind, tried to sooth, to reason with me; but finding I grew quite outrageous, she called for assistance: I fought like a tiger with three of the nuns; but being overpowered by numbers, I was carried speechless and senseless to an apartment used as a prison, when any of the boarders deserved punishment.
Here I was left alone upon a miserable bed, with some bread and water for my support. Being exhausted by the violence of my passions, and the resistance I had made to the nuns, the turbulence of my emotions subsided, and I fell into a paroxysm of tears, that in all probability preserved me from a state of insanity, so much apprehended by the nuns. After this relief to the oppression of my heart, I dropped asleep, and having some hours rest, waked to a more composed state both of body and mind. I remained alone the remainder of the day, and all night. I was terrified at my situation; the melancholy place where I lay was indeed sufficiently gloomy to inspire terror. Convinced that I should gain nothing by menaces or force, I resolved to adopt a different line of conduct, to subdue my resentment and impatience, if possible, and try the effects of a more conciliatory manner, as if I grew reconciled to what I could not overcome.
Never was the approach of day more welcome than it appeared to me. I had passed such a night of weak, and indeed foolish apprehension, that I am confident the fear of continuing there would have deranged my intellects. When the nuns came to me, and observed the alteration in my temper, they retired, to make, as they said, a favourable report, and obtain my liberty, which, through their interposition, was effected by the dinner hour, when I appeared vexed and mortified, and with a heart throbbing with grief and disappointment. I endured a short lecture from the Abbess (who persisted always in calling me Miss) with a sort of restrained pride, that sat very ill, I believe on my features; as she gently cautioned me against indulging improper notions or visionary expectations. I made no reply, but from that hour, gave myself up as a lost creature, disclaimed or forgotten by all my connexions.
Once or twice after this, when I was upon tolerable terms with the Abbess, I ventured to question her, whether Baron Nolker, or his nephew the Count, was still at Ulm.—She assured me they were not; that they had quitted the country within a month after my residence in the convent. She knew not where they were gone to, as she had received a twelvemonth's pension in advance for me. Indeed, I have no doubt but that she had received a handsome douceur besides. This information gave the finish to all my hopes of a release, unless some very unforeseen event should take place. I had forgot to mention, that in my cabinet, among my trinkets, I found the money which the Count mentioned in his letter; for which, indeed, I could have no use, unless hereafter to purchase necessaries.