CHAP. V.
And now, my dear Miss D'Alenberg, I am coming to the most melancholy part of my story, which indeed I dread to enter upon. Excuse the prolixity of my recital; the conclusion I shall endeavour to hasten over, as too painful to dwell upon.
I had resided in the convent near eighteen months, without any alteration having taken place in my circumstances. Twice, during that time, I had again written to my father, almost without hope, and as I thought, without effect. One day, about noon, a paper was delivered to the Abbess, brought by a stranger at the grate. She opened and read it, with surprise and confusion strongly marked in her countenance. She withdrew immediately. Very soon after she had left the room, I was desired to attend her. My heart fluttered strangely. Good Heavens! thought I, can that paper relate to me. What now is to become of me? I flew, rather than walked, to her apartment. She still held the paper in her hand.—"Miss," said she, "I have here an order to deliver you up to a gentleman, who calls himself Hautweitzer and ——— "My father," I exclaimed, and sunk to the ground.
By the assistance of an attending nun, I was soon recovered.—"Oh! let me fly; let me go to my father," I cried, the moment speech was lent me.—"Stop, Miss," said the Abbess, "you shall be properly conducted: your emotions convince me the claim is just, and that I have been imposed upon." By the bye, I never gave credit to that assertion, because she was deaf and callous to every thing I had urged, tending to convince her of the duplicity practised against me. This was no time, however, for words; I was requested to hasten in packing my trunks, as a person waited for me in the parlour. I had no doubt but that this was my father, and my agitations scarcely permitted me to waste a moment. One of the mothers assisted me; I took a hasty and incoherent leave of the community; slid a remembrance into the hand of the lay sister, and, with trembling impatience, run to the parlour, where I beheld—not my father, but a stranger.
I gave a scream, and sunk back in a chair, gasping with terror at my disappointment, uttering something about my father.———"Here, Madam," said the stranger, giving me a slip of paper: 'this will satisfy you as to my commission." I snatched the paper, and glancing my eyes over it, saw it was the writing of my father, with only these words: "Come to me, my dearest Louisa, I am at Ulm. My friend will conduct you to the arms of your father."
I no longer hesitated, but giving my hand to the stranger, incapable then of speaking, was by him placed in a carriage. Recovering, in a short time, from my first agitations, I asked some questions relative to my father's situation, and why he had not come for me himself. The gentleman viewed me with an air of compassion, I thought, and seemed embarrassed what answer to give me; but at length said, "he was sorry it fell to his lot to give an explanation of circumstances that must distress me, but that my father had requested him to prepare me for the disagreeable intelligence which must be communicated. Let me, however, assure you," said he, 'that Mr. Hautweitzer is entirely out of danger, in a state of convalescence that will soon restore him to perfect health."
Without attending to an exclamation I uttered, he went on—"Your father, Madam, some time since, fought a duel; he was dangerously wounded, but happily not mortally so. He lay long in a doubtful state. I have the pleasure to assure you, all apprehensions of his life are done away. Do not therefore alarm yourself," added he, observing my terror, and the emotions which affected my mind. "My friend wished you to be a little prepared, that the surprise might not too greatly distress you." "Ah! Sir," I exclaimed, "if indeed my father is out of danger, I return thanks to Heaven: But who, pray tell me, was his opponent? My heart already divines."
"It was Count Wolfran."—"The father or the son?" asked I, gasping for breath.—"The father," replied he, "who was the aggressor in every sense of the word."———"And does he live," said I.—"No, he survived but three days." This answer was like a bolt of ice; it threw me into a fit of trembling. Cold damps bedewed my limbs, and I thought my last hour was at hand.—My companion was extremely shocked;—but being a medical man, he had luckily some drops in his pocket, which revived me. He besought me to be composed. The event had turned out favourably for my father, who had been exculpated by the Count's own confession. This, indeed, was some ease to my mind; but the reflection that my folly and imprudent marriage had brought on such shocking events, wounded my very soul, and I was scarcely able to support myself when the carriage stopped at the gentleman's house.
He gave me drops and wine to restore my spirits, and I accompanied him to the apartment, where I found my dear parent supported by pillows in his bed. Our meeting cannot be described; it was most truly distressing to both. He neither blamed or upbraided me, but soothed me by his kindness, which was a thousand times more painful to a self-convicted mind, than the most bitter reproaches could have been. He saw what I felt. "Forgive yourself, my Louisa, for you are exculpated in my eyes. An ingenuous unsuspecting heart was no match for the dark designing arts of an accomplished villain. You erred, 'tis true, but you was young, in love, and a stranger to the world.—Your faults were venial ones, even in the eyes of prudence; for you preserved your virtue, and knew not that the man in whom you confided would prove a monster, a disgrace to human nature."
He then told me, that the army in Poland, being sent into winter quarters, he had repaired with all diligence to the house of the good Abbe, not having received either of his letters, or any intimation of his death. He was therefore excessively shocked at the news that awaited him, and my letters were put into his hands. 'Tis not possible to conceive the rage, indignation, and sorrow, which he experienced on reading them; he took his measures instantly, and departed for the house of Count Wolfran. On his arrival, he was informed that the old Count was gone on a visit to his son and daughter, at their estate near Ulm. Boiling with increased rage at this information, he pursued his journey, and came there when the whole family was rejoicing at the christening of an heir to the estate and title, the young Countess Theodosia having been brought to bed near six weeks.
My father requested to see the old Count on particular business, and was shown into an apartment to wait for him. In a few moments he appeared, and started on seeing the person before him, who, endeavouring to calm his passions, desired he would wave all former animosity, and hear him on an affair which concerned their mutual honour. The other, with a mixture of surprise and haughtiness, requested he would be seated, and hasten what he had to say, as he was particularly engaged with company. My father then drew out my first circumstantial letter, and gave it to him, saying, "read that, Sir, with candour, and give no answer until you have gone through it.—Although we are not friends, yet I trust you are a man of honour."
The Count looked hastily over the letter, several times smiling with an air of disdain and triumph, which the other could ill brook. At length, returning it to my father—"I am sorry the wild chimeras of your daughter should have engaged you in such a fruitless journey. Be assured, she never was the wife of my son, although it is very natural a young lady should wish to throw a veil over her own frailty." My father instantly took fire.—"How dare you," cried he, "insinuate the smallest reflection on the character of my child; her only act of frailty was in supposing truth or honour could inhabit the bosom of a son of your's; but her honour is unblemished, without any stain, but what must follow in being the wife of a villain."
He had raised his voice to a pitch of fury. The other, equally exasperated, exclaimed, "Your daughter was preserved from want and infamy, by my son. Yes," added he, "after having prostituted herself to him, he placed her in a convent, to preserve her from the vilest degradation." My unhappy father, raised almost to a state of madness, forgot every thing at that moment, sprung forwards, and struck the Count.—"Slanderous villain," he cried, "I will choke those words in their birth." That instant the young Count, the Countess, and some others, burst into the room. My father was seized, foaming with rage, whilst some ran to the old Count, whose nose and mouth bled profusely. The son demanded the cause of this outrage, little suspecting who the person was before him. My father exclaimed, "I came here to demand justice, to oblige the son of that man to acknowledge his legal wife. Yes, my daughter is the wife of Count Wolfran."
A faint shriek from the Countess caught the attention of her husband. He attempted to lead her from the room. "Stop," she cried; "if this man asserts a falsity, let it be proved such. I will abide the decision; I will not leave the room, when an assertion of such consequence to my fame and happiness has been publicly declared." The old Count now advanced.—"You have dared to degrade me; you have calumniated my son.—Though you are inferior in birth, in rank to me; yet, as having borne arms, I wave my privileges, and challenge you to meet me to-morrow at eight o'clock, in a field at the west end of the city. Your blood only can atone for this outrage."—"I accept the offer," replied my father. Then turning to the Countess—"I feel for you, Madam;—and nothing less than the justice I owe to my child could compel me to give you pain.—Read that letter, Madam, and judge for yourself." He gave my letter into her hands:—The Count exclaimed, "an impudent forgery," and attempted to take it from her.—"No, my Lord," said she—"no, I will read it; but strong indeed must be the proofs, e'er I can credit any thing to the disadvantage of your honour."
"Go," cried the old Count arrogantly—"go, Sir, after having interrupted the happiness of this family, to preserve the fame of a worthless daughter; leave it, whilst I can command myself; to-morrow, at eight, I shall expect you." Without deigning any other reply, but "I shall attend you, Sir," my father quitted the house.
He employed the intermediate time in writing to me; lamented his inability to provide for me, and advised me, rather than submit to be confined as a pensioner of the Count's, "to take the veil, if it might be allowed to me under my own name, or the one I bore in the convent." This letter he carried in his pocket to the field of action the next morning, and was very soon joined by the Count and a surgeon, the gentleman who had kindly taken me from the place of my confinement. This gentleman he was astonished to see. He had formerly been a surgeon to a regiment in which my father had a company. On recognizing my father, he advanced, and expressed his regret at being called to attend in such an affair between two gentlemen he respected, and inquired, with some earnestness, if the dispute could not be amicably settled.
"My father replied in the negative—"His own honour, and the peace and honour of his daughter, had been irreparably injured." "One favour, Sir," added he, "I will request, because in your power to serve me in. If I fall, in my pocket you will find a letter addressed to my child, under the name of Miss Sultsbach; promise me to convey that letter into her hands, under whatsoever name she may now bear. She is in the convent a few miles from the city;—but until I can do her character justice, I wish not to see her. Perhaps that blessing may be for ever denied to me." The friendly surgeon engaged to observe his request, and the two gentlemen presently engaged.
They fought desperately; several wounds were given and received on both sides, 'till at length each sheathed his sword in the body of his antagonist; both fell, to all appearance, lifeless. Two servants of the Count's had attended at some distance; to those the surgeon made a signal; and as they advanced, two peasants happened to pass through the field, and were likewise called upon to lend their assistance. My father the surgeon most humanely ordered to his own house, and the Count was conveyed to his son's. The blood had been stanched before their removal, and another skillful man was called in to attend upon my father, the surgeon being previously engaged by the Count.
The wounds of both were apprehended at first to be mortal. The Count's verified their fears; for on the third day, all hopes were over. Being informed of his situation, he sent for both surgeons, and the two servants who had carried him home; before them all, he declared he had wronged Mr. Hautweitzer, and had provoked his fate.—He was then sensible that he had injured him in his fame and in his fortune; and he bitterly regretted that his son's marriage put it out of his power to do Miss Hautweitzer justice.
After this, he had some serious conversation with his son; but there is every reason to believe, that son, so devoid of truth and honour, even in that awful hour, persisted in denying his marriage with me, to his father.
The Count's death was concealed from my father; and though he anxiously wished to see me, yet he would not consent that I should be acquainted with his situation.—The young Count and his family left Ulm on the same day the father died. It was above ten days after this event, before an application was made to the Bishop, for an order to the Abbess to liberate me, which was easily obtained; for the Bishop was nearly related to the Wolfran family, and wished to have the affair as little known or talked of as possible. Therefore the duel was generally supposed to have originated from a military quarrel, and the son's name not mentioned in the business."
This was the information that I received from my beloved parent. Alas! bitter were my self-reproaches; he was wounded both in mind and body; his situation afforded him no means of providing for himself or me; I could adduce no proofs of my marriage, and my assertions would but little avail against the power of an opulent family, who were all interested in preserving the character and honour of their worthless relation. The surgeon, to whom my father related my whole story, sympathized in our distresses. He saw no prospect of good to us in prosecuting my claims. The Count was married in the face of the world; had now a son and heir; no inducements, therefore, of honour or justice, would have any probability of success, where every thing militated against us. "My dear friends," added he, "to Heaven you must leave this unworthy man: Doubt not, but in it's own good time, providence will revenge your wrongs, and punish him. At this moment his feelings are not to be envied.—He must be callous, indeed, if the crimes he has committed, and the death of his father, who fell a victim to his deceptions, does not fill him with horror and hourly regret.
My dear father recovered very slowly;—and we held frequent consultations in what manner we should provide for our mutual support. I believe the anxiety of his mind retarded his recovery, and certainly undermined his constitution, which had long been delicate, from the difficulties and misfortunes he had to struggle with. For myself, a retrospection on the past, and the prospect of the future, was so dark, so afflictive, and so humiliating, that 'tis a miracle how I supported my health, or preserved my reason.
I had resided with my father near a month; he was yet unable to leave his bed, when I was one day informed a lady requested to see me. The message surprised me; but I went down to the apartment, and saw a very elegant woman in deep mourning, who rose at my approach. "Do I see Miss Hautweitzer?" said she, in a very plaintive voice. I answered in the affirmative, and requested she would be seated. She took a letter from her pocket—"Forgive me, Madam, for thus recalling to you such distressing events, but permit me to ask if this letter is of your writing?" I saw it was the letter I had written to my father, and immediately judged the lady before me was the Count's wife. I trembled excessively, and replied, in a faltering voice, "Yes, Madam, it was written by me, and the contents are a solemn truth."
"I do not doubt it," said she, tenderly; "your appearance sufficiently convinces me of it. I am, Madam, equally unfortunate, and equally innocent with yourself; but never will I stand between you and justice.—The cruelty of an unprincipled man cannot annihilate your rights. I have none—nor have I parents or relations. Fortunately I have still a large income in my own possession sufficient for my ill-star'd child, without any claims on his worthless father. I have quitted the Count, Madam, for ever.—Wretch as he is, he knows we cannot expose him without entailing disgrace on ourselves. You, for want of proofs, and myself on account of my child. To the justice of Heaven, therefore, we must leave him.
"My visit to you was to a sister in affliction; permit me the privileges of one.—I have made very minute inquiries into your character and circumstances; pardon the liberty. Fortune, I hear, has dealt unkindly by Mr. Hautweitzer, and unjust to his merit. From Count Wolfran, I am sure, you will accept no assistance, unless by repentance he restores you to your rights. Deign, then, to make me happy, by permitting me the inexpressible pleasure of preserving you from further distress. Accept an annuity that will place you above want, without having the weight of an obligation to cold unfeeling minds." She rose, embraced me, and burst into tears.
I was so astonished, so penetrated with wonder and admiration, at a generosity and greatness of mind so uncommon, that unable to move or speak, I mingled my tears with her's, and pressed her to my bosom with an ardor that spoke my whole soul. She understood the expression of my heart. "Compose yourself," said she, "my amiable friend. Tell me how your worthy father does?"—When speech was lent me, I was not backward in delineating the feelings of admiration with which she had inspired me, and related to her, without reserve, my dear father's situation. She desired to see him; I flew to acquaint him of the dear lady's visit, and the scene that ensued between us, beggars all description. Long my father resisted her generous offers; but at length her irresistible tenderness conquered. She then proposed our living at Stutgard. She had a small estate on the skirts of the city, with a neat house on it: That, and a moderate income, for my father would only accept a very moderate one, she declared should be ours, for our joint lives; and whenever I should have the misfortune to lose my father, she would claim me as a sister, and as an inmate of her dwelling, wheresoever it was.—At present, added she, I design to retire into the convent you have quitted, until I have deliberately fixed on my future plan of life. I am sorry to say, Baron Nolker, who is a worthy man, is yet so prepossessed in favour of his nephew, that your story is entirely discredited, and I am accused of injustice and caprice in separating myself from the Count. 'Tis impossible to argue against prejudice, or to open the eyes of the blind. I submit, therefore to the censures and opinions I cannot controvert; but I will judge for myself; and if I had ever entertained any doubts, your appearance, Madam, must instantly remove them."
I cannot repeat to you a tenth part of the kind and polite attentions we received from this noble-minded lady. My father was affected even to tears, and besought her to add additional value to her favours, by residing with us. She expressed herself obliged to our wishes, but said, the convent was for the present her preferable choice; that it was not unlikely but that hereafter she might pay us a visit; but even that depended on circumstances. "You are not the only one unhappy," said she, taking my hand kindly; "and you have a blessing I never enjoyed, a worthy father." Then rising and taking leave, she said, I should hear from her the following week, and she promised to herself much pleasure in my correspondence. When this dear generous lady had left me, I felt ready to have resigned my claims, to have submitted to bear the ignominy the Count wished to throw on me, rather than be the cause of distressing such a mind as her's.—Yet, on a retrospection of every thing, I could not perceive that sorrow or affection had any share in her regrets for the necessity she conceived that had obliged her to leave the Count, I was thoroughly persuaded her love for him never could have equalled mine, from the composure with which she mentioned him; and that idea afforded me no small consolation.
The next week, a gentleman came to us from our generous benefactress, and settled every thing relative to our taking possession of her gift at Stutgard, with a handsome sum for our present wants. This last I declined; for having still by me the money which the Count had left to me, and which was sent with my clothes; I resolved to make use of that without any scruple. My dear father had been so extremely reduced by loss of blood, and anxiety of mind, that his recovery was long, tedious, and fluctuating. Near three months we remained at the surgeon's, during which, I received three letters from the Countess. She had altered her intention of fixing in the convent near Ulm, by the persuasions of an old friend, who had professed in a convent not many miles from Baden; and from that situation, I had last the pleasure of hearing from her.
At length my father thought himself able to bear the fatigue of travelling. We took leave of the friendly gentleman to whose care and skill we had been so much indebted, and set off on our journey; but on the second day, it proved more than his strength could support; he was taken ill on the road, and was confined six weeks at an inn before we could proceed. Once more we continued our route, and by easy stages, had reached the skirts of the wood within two miles of this village, when suddenly we were attacked by five or six banditti, who rifled the carriage, took from us our portmanteau and money, cut the traces of the horses, and then bid us walk to the place of our destination, as we had now no baggage to encumber us.
There was no alternative; night was drawing on; and we were compelled to walk; for the horses being loosened, they run away through the wood, and the post boy went in pursuit of them. With infinite difficulty, my poor father crept to the inn, where his troubles in this life were to have an end. A very miserable bed was allowed for him, and I watched by the side of it in inexpressible agonies. The next morning the landlord told us, "we must turn out; he had no bed to spare for sick folkes." I sought to reason with him, and assured him I should soon have money amply to reward him, if he would accommodate my dying father: But in vain I tried to reason with a selfish brute. He insisted upon our departure before night; and though he assisted me in getting him down from the hovel which he called a bed-chamber, and saw that he was too weak even to stand alone, nothing could soften his obduracy. The rest you know. My dear, my suffering father, whose life had been a series of misery, was at length, by the folly and fond credulity of his imprudent daughter, cruelly destroyed. That fatal duel, the effects falling on a broken constitution and a wounded spirit, with fatigue and anxiety, at last terminated a life marked out with continual sorrows, from the day of his marriage.
Those sorrows, my misconduct, and the baseness of another, greatly aggravated, and must entail remorse upon my mind to the last day of my existence."
Thus concludes the narrative of the unfortunate Louisa, which she communicated at different periods, as her weakness permitted, and which Miss D'Alenberg was allowed to commit to paper, for the perusal of her father and his friend.