CHAP. VI.
When Ferdinand had gone through this long story with an indignation and pity natural to a feeling and well-disposed mind, there were some circumstances that struck him in the perusal of it, which led him to believe the lady in the convent where Eugenia was, whom he had supposed to be Claudina, was the Countess of Wolfran, and that she had mistaken him from a coincidence in particular points, for the Count. He was charmed with the character of this lady, and lamented her destiny little less than he grieved for the ill-treated Louisa. Yet it appeared very unaccountable to him that the Count should think of paying his address to another lady, when his recent marriage at Ulm could not be forgotten; and when his uncle was so well acquainted with all those circumstances, was it not natural to suppose that Mr. D'Alenberg would take care to be well informed of the character and connexions of a man with whom he entrusted the happiness of his daughter, previous to the marriage; and if he had made any investigation, by what means had the Count escaped detection, or how could any man expect that he should go unpunished, or not be exposed by those he had already deceived?
In short, the conduct and character of the Count was strange and inexplicable to him; the more he sought to penetrate into either, the more he was puzzled to account for his baseness and folly. Reflecting deliberately on the story of Louisa, he traced the misfortunes of her father to an imprudent marriage in early life, and the subsequent distress of his daughter to the same source. Reverting then to his own perplexities, he could not but acknowledge, that, in forming a union for life with prudence, on the approbation of friends, as well as the mutual affection of the parties concerned, eventually depended the happiness of themselves and all their connexions.
"Yes," said he, with a sigh; "I am now sensible, that out of a thousand instances of wretchedness in a marriage state, there is scarcely one that does not originate from the imprudence of youth, in forming connexions contrary to the advice and inclination of their parents and friends. Parents may sometimes be selfish, arbitrary, and unfeeling; but youth is too generally impetuous, obstinate, and inconsiderate. They permit their passions to lord it over their reason, and are only convinced, by sad experience and painful consequences, of their own too hasty determinations in such points, as must decide their future happiness or misery."
Whilst he sat ruminating on past occurrences, the Count, having finished his business, entered the library, and roused him from his reverie. "Happily," said he, "I have now concluded all my engagements with my tenantry, and in two days shall be at liberty to attend you wherever you please."—"Indeed," cried Ferdinand, "it will be necessary to enter upon some field of action that may change the present current of my thoughts; for an indulgence of them would, in a short time, I believe, turn me into a complete misanthrope." "Nay," returned the Count, "if you are inclined to turn hermit, I am ready to concur in the design. I promise you the world holds forth no allurements to me; and it is only with a wish to forget myself, that I propose going into a public situation, if therefore you incline to solitude."
"No, no," said Ferdinand, rising hastily. "Solitude is only the nurse of discontent.—I am equally desirous with yourself to forget that "such things have been;" and in the busy din of arms, to seek that diversity of thought which may tend to lessen my present vexations. That you may not wonder at the captious manner in which I spoke just now, I entreat you to look over that manuscript I have just finished reading of, whilst I take a walk in the park, and harmonize my mind by a view of the sun, now breaking through the clouds, and shining on the verdant lawn, which refreshed by the passing showers; by its additional enlivening verdure, captivates the eye, and tranquillizes the human breast."
Quitting the library, he strolled through the gardens and park, until the first dinner-bell warned him to return and adjust his dress. At table, he met the Count, who, with an honest energy, and a warmth of heart, which did him honour, expressed his indignation against the villainy of Count Wolfran, and equal astonishment, that in so short a period, in the same country, and in the hazard of continual detection, he should have the effrontery to pay his addresses to Miss D'Alenberg. "'Tis a temerity, indeed a mystery," cried Ferdinand, "which I cannot develop. He is neither a madman nor a fool, and yet his rashness would tempt one to believe his senses must have deserted him, or his strong attachment to the sex has thrown him into situations he has not the fortitude, I may say honesty, to decline making an advantage of." "He is a worthless wretch," replied the Count, "and will doubtless meet with a severe retribution; but I am enchanted with the unfortunate lady who bears his name.—Her conduct is so generous, so noble, and so becoming a truly great mind, that I cannot enough admire her. How few women in her situation would have sought out the unhappy Louisa, after having her happiness broken in upon, her own claims let aside, and her child stigmatized, by her connexion with an infamous seducer."
"But what is still more admirable," returned Ferdinand, "is her voluntary secession from the Count, when her rights were indisputable; her marriage witnessed—allowed of; and when, by so doing, she threw up her child's claim to his inheritance, which Louisa never could have contested, from want of proof. Such heroism, such delicacy and disinterestedness, is certainly very uncommon." "True," answered the Count, "her whole conduct evinces a greatness of soul superior to any woman I ever heard of. A mind like her's never could be contented with a doubtful title, or respect a man whose honour was at least equivocal. And what a wretch must he be, who, losing such an angel, could so soon pay court to another."
"Miss D'Alenberg," said Ferdinand, "by the little I have seen of her, is both in person and mind beautiful and captivating; such as might well warrant the warmest passion; and he must be a thousand times a villain that would seek to entangle such a woman in the black catalogue of those who have suffered by his artifices. But," added he, "you see what are the wishes of Mr. D'Alenberg. Have you any curiosity; do you feel interest enough for those worthy persons, to step out of the way, and pay them a visit?" "With all my soul," replied his friend;—"we are not circumscribed as to time, and I shall be happy to see such characters as may put one in good humour with human nature."—This point settled, on the second day after, the Count, having taken leave of his tenantry, and recommended them to the kind offices of his steward, whose integrity was beyond all doubt, and whose attachment to his interest had stood the test of time and temptation. He readily accorded with what he saw was the inclination of Ferdinand, and they took the route towards the mansion of Mr. D'Alenberg.
Their presence was equally welcome as unexpected; they were no sooner announced, than the good old gentleman hastened to meet them with a cordiality that was truly gratifying to his visitors. "You have agreeably surprised me," said he to Ferdinand, after saluting the Count.—"My wishes were stronger than my hopes, and I am pleased to find that you gave due credit to my sincerity. You have enhanced the obligation of this visit, by affording me an opportunity of paying my respects to Count M———." Neither of the gentlemen were deficient in proper acknowledgments for the kindness of this reception, and, after a little desultory conversation, Mr. D'Alenberg introduced them to the ladies. Surprise and pleasure were strongly blended in the features of his daughter; nor did the melancholy Louisa appear less gratified, though the languor which hung over her whole frame, gave her less animation. Mr. D'Allenberg, in a cheerful voice, bid them "rally their spirits; and now that he had been fortunate enough to take two gallant knights prisoners, he expected the ladies of the Castle would do their best to make their chains easy, and their captivity light."
Theresa answered her father in his own style; and in a short time, the conversation became animated and entertaining. Even Louisa sometimes joined in it when applied to, though it was pretty evident that the effort was painful, and that she had a mind but ill at ease.
In the evening, after the ladies had retired, Mr. d'Allenberg of himself reverted to Louisa's story, and observed that he had to congratulate himself on the discovery of Count Wolfran's baseness, and also, that the heart of his daughter was much less attached to him than might have been expected from his handsome person and insinuating manners. "She has even told me," said he, "that her predilection was never decidedly strong in his favour; but that, having no attachment to another, no reasonable objection could be made against him. On the contrary, all appearances being to his advantage, and seeing that his addresses met with my approbation, she thought herself happy in complying with my wishes, where there was every prospect of future happiness to herself.—What a fortunate escape has my dear child experienced," added he.
"But my dear Sir," cried Ferdinand, "will you pardon me for observing, that it appears rather extraordinary you should not have well informed yourself of the Count's character and circumstances, previous to your consent for addressing Miss d'Allenberg." "You cannot suppose, my young friend," answered he, 'that I neglected a duty so important to a parent. I actually did make inquiries, the gentleman at whose house we met with him, told me, that he was a widower; that he had married some time ago a ward of his uncle's, who died soon after she was brought to bed. His father, he said, had been killed in a duel by an officer, on account of an old regimental quarrel;—and that he had the misfortune to lose his worthy uncle very shortly after, for whom he then wore mourning. In short, my friend represented him as a worthy young man, who had met with great distresses from the premature death of his connexions, and congratulated me on the power of restoring him to happiness, by giving him the hand of my daughter."
I have not the smallest doubt but that my friend implicitly believed every syllable he told me. Louisa's story was known to none but such whose interest it was to keep it secret. The Countess, or more properly speaking, the lady he had married, withdrawing herself and child, declaredly to him, for ever. The death of his uncle soon after that of his father, to whom only he was accountable for his actions, left him at liberty to promulgate what stories he pleased. None were interested either to doubt or to investigate them.—From our earliest acquaintance, I had understood he was going to make a tour to England; and when he had obtained my permission to address Theresa, he warmly solicited us both to join in his intended plan, which coinciding with our inclinations.—When you met with me at the village, I was returning to this house, with the double purpose of making preparations for the wedding, and at least a twelvemonth's absence. The Count and my friend were to join us in a week, when the marriage was to be completed, and we were directly to have set off on our tour. Thus you see he run no risk of an immediate detection, and doubtless would have remained abroad some time, or have changed his usual residence.
But providence often defeats the deep-laid schemes of villainy, and unmasks the contriver to the world. I have written a circumstantial account to my friend, and besought him to treat the base betrayer with the contempt and ignominy he deserves, nor as he values my friendship to engage in any personal resentment with a wretch so unworthy of his sword, but to let disgrace mark his steps, and his character fly before him. To the Count I disdained to write. Louisa and my daughter have both written to the Countess; the former, at our request, gratefully declining the generous settlement designed for her father and herself; my daughter, in terms of the warmest admiration of her noble conduct, relating to her the late occurrences, and earnestly entreating her to pay us a visit. Should she do us that favour, there will be a singular trio, two wives, and one intended to make a third.
"Upon my word," said Count M———, "I know not which to admire most, the temerity, or the villainy of the man. Such unprecedented baseness in the same province, among his own acquaintance, where so many doubtful circumstances must have appeared against him, had any particular inquiry been set on foot, is truly astonishing." "It would have been more so," observed Ferdinand, "had not many points coincided in his favour. Mr. Hautweitzer's assertions before the old Count and the company, bore no proofs of the marriage which the young one disclaimed. He represented Louisa as his mistress; his father and uncle doubtless believed her to be such. She could adduce no evidence to prove the contrary. Therefore, though his connexion with her was reprehensible, even from his own acknowledgment, yet it bore not the marks of guilt attending a double marriage; nor had his lady sufficient conviction to authorize her withdrawing herself and child from him, had he persisted in his claims. But her honour and delicacy could not be satisfied with a disputed title; and from the Count's subsequent conduct, there is but too much reason to believe, that in possession of her fortune, and weary of being confined to one object, and to a dissembled regularity of life, inconsistent with his libertine principles, he made use of no endeavours to reconcile her doubts, or establish her claims, but left her to her own painful conjectures, the termination of which was in all probability little less satisfactory to him than to herself, as it left him at liberty to form fresh projects, and seek for new objects."
"Upon my word," returned Mr. D'Alenberg, "I believe you have represented the affair in its true point of view; and as a man, without honour or principle, governed by the most sensual and selfish passions, his conduct wants no further explanation; nor can we wonder he should succeed with the ladies, when setting aside his personal attractions, he certainly has the most insinuating address, the most plausible manners I ever beheld; so much so, that you would scarce feel an inclination to make inquiries that you must consider as equally an insult to him, and to your own discernment. But enough of this disgrace to society; let him no more be remembered among us."
Two days past away in this hospitable mansion with such celerity, from the delightful suavity and uncommon cheerfulness which Mr. D'Alenberg exerted to entertain his guests, and the more refined and elegant conversation of the ladies; that, on the third day, which the gentlemen had fixed upon for their departure, they felt infinite reluctance to give up the charms of such society, and relinquish domestic happiness for the clangor of arms, and destructive war. A sigh of heart-felt regret, and painful retrospection, escaped from both, when they met at the breakfast table, prepared for their journey.
"How," said Mr. D'Alenberg; "do you mean to throw a cloud over our little party, by deserting us? Did you come here with the ill-natured purpose of engaging our esteem, of giving us a relish for those pleasures arising from entertaining and improving conversation, and then suddenly leave us to regret and disappointment? In truth, my good friends, this is not well done of you;—and I expect you will give up your intention and your boots together, unless you will escort the ladies in an airing this morning."—"I hope, Sir," replied Ferdinand, with a look of earnestness, and in a tone of dejection; "I hope, Sir, you will believe there needs no persuasion to induce us to comply with your kind wishes, which so well accords with our own inclinations; but there are particular circumstances—motives of honour and delicacy—feelings which impel us to give up the happiness we have found in this society, and to follow that plan we have chalked out for ourselves, from whence we expect to derive neither profit nor pleasure, but, in the tumult of a camp, to lose the remembrance of ourselves."
"Far be it from me, to pry impertinently into your motives," returned Mr. D'Alenberg, "or urge you to favour us with your company one moment longer than is consistent with your inclinations and engagements. I must regret that both will not allow you to oblige me, but you must be masters of your own time and actions." The Count made suitable acknowledgments to the old gentleman, and lamented the necessity which forced them to relinquish their present happiness.
The ladies spoke not a word; a general dejection pervaded at the table with a silence of some minutes. Mr. D'Alenberg was the first to recover. "Plague on it," said he, affecting a gay tone, 'that we cannot always command our wishes, though perhaps they may be sometimes extravagant, and militate against the interests of our friends. Aye, aye, we are not the best judges of the fit, and the unfit, I believe, and so must try to reconcile ourselves to present mortifications, looking forward to more pleasing expectations hereafter; and this hope, my friends, I will not relinquish, that we shall one day meet again, when the joy of meeting will amply recompense us for this temporary separation." They all joined cordially in "this hope;" and the moment breakfast was ended, Miss d'Allenberg arose. "I have an utter aversion," said she, with a faint smile, 'to formal taking leave. You have my best wishes, gentlemen, for your health and happiness. I flatter myself you will sometimes remember us." With those words hastily pronounced, she quitted the room, followed by Louisa, who made them a similar compliment, without waiting for an answer.
"The girls are sorry to lose their beaus," said the old gentleman: "Their pleasure has been very transient; and if I have any skill in physiognomy, this parting accords as little with your feelings as with ours; and yet it must be, I suppose?"
"Dear Sir," cried Ferdinand, "how kindly is that question put, and what justice do you allow to our sentiments. Yes, we must go," added he, rising. "May every good angel guard you and your family, and uninterrupted happiness attend your lovely daughter and her suffering friend."
"I thank you most cordially—I thank you," replied Mr. D'Alenberg; "health and success will, I hope, be your's. We may one day meet again."
No more was said; they proceeded down the avenue which led to a gate, where their horses and servants were in waiting. The Count shook the old gentleman's hand, and vaulted into the saddle. As Ferdinand prepared to do the same, he whispered in the other's ear,
"Pity two unfortunate men, both married, and unhappy. You will do justice to the motives which hastens our departure."
He sprung upon the horse, and waving his hand, they were out of sight in a moment.—Mr. d'Allenberg stood all astonishment, looking after them, his lips half unclosed—words trembling on his tongue; but they were gone; he turned towards the house, deeply musing on Ferdinand's last words, and with a sigh of pity that two such men should be "married and unhappy."
Count M——— and his friend pursued their route for some miles without stopping or speaking, absorbed each in his own painful reflections; the other was unheeded; until, coming out of a wood, and ascending a rising ground a little to the left, Ferdinand saw the hills on which the city of Baden was situated, and instantly recollected his little Charles. Ah! thought he, shall I not once more fold him in my arms; the dear, unhappy, forsaken boy, perhaps soon to be an orphan, without a father or a friend. He stopped his horse, and turning, saw the Count galloping towards him, who, observing his agitation, eagerly inquired if any accident had befallen him.
"No," replied Ferdinand, "but do you not see those distant hills? A little beyond, you know, stands Baden: I have a son."———
"I understand you," said the Count;—and guess what passes in your heart. But my good friend, you have lately seen him; you know he is in safe and honourable hands.—Why then would you seek a renewal of sorrow to yourself, without conveying a single benefit to him?"
"Enough," returned Ferdinand, pulling his hat over his eyes. "You have convinced me I ought not to seek a selfish gratification, which can only tend to harrow up my soul, and unman my resolutions; no, I will not go."
He spurred on his horse, and was again silent, until they arrived at a small village, where they were obliged to halt, and refresh the poor animals, almost dead with fatigue.
Each being desirous of amusing the other, they soon fell into a cheerful conversation, and sought to forget the past, by talking of their future plans. The war, which was now to be carried on with great vigour against the Turks; the marriage which the Emperor had projected for his daughter, afterwards so famous in history, as Queen of Hungary; and many other common topics, that carried them out of themselves.
Thus they spent some hours, until they resumed their journey, purposing to sleep at a small town about twelve miles further; but the roads were so bad, and they were so much impeded in their progress, that they were constrained to halt at a wretched inn on the skirts of a small hamlet, and pass a sleepless night, without any tolerable accommodations; but they were going to the army, and therefore disdained to complain of hardships, though they paid the price of luxuries.
The dawn of the morning saw them on horseback; and as they rode on, new scenes, and brighter prospects, gave a relief to their minds, and cheered their conversation. The remainder of their journey grew more pleasant; was passed without any accidents, and in due time they arrived in safety at Vienna.