CHAP. IX.
The Count and Ferdinand soon made themselves known to some of their acquaintance, and were received with as much surprise as if they had risen from the dead; so firmly was it credited, that they had perished in battle. Proper clothes were soon procured for themselves, Heli and the wo- man both readily conforming to wear the German dress, though both persevered in their own tenets of religion, and the worship of the prophet Mahomet.
Heli now displayed a great many valuable jewels, worth five or six thousand pounds at least. How he had acquired them, he never thought proper to divulge; nor had they any right to inquire. He had sufficient to live on, in a moderate independence, and proposed retiring into the country, to reside free from observation. The gentlemen sent off letters to their friends immediately on their arrival, as they were very doubtful that their former ones had never gone forward from Adrianople. They purposed waiting on the Emperor, and as there was now no occasion for their active services, to obtain his permission for returning into Suabia.
The morning following, after all their clothes were brought home, Heli entered their apartment, and asked leave to introduce his Fatima in her proper habit. They readily accorded to his request, being desious of seeing a woman whom he had preferred to all others, and who had changed her own form of worship for that of the man she loved.
He quickly returned, leading in a very beautiful woman, whom he no sooner introduced to Ferdinand, than the latter recoiled a few paces back, with all the marks of strong surprise, and even terror, in his countenance. Heli, observing his emotions, was instantly seized with a jealous fit. He changed colour, and pulled down her veil, drawing her on one side, as if to leave the room.
"Be not offended or hurt, my friend," said Ferdinand, recovering himself, "nor leave the room, I beseech you.—To account for my emotions, I must tell you that this lady bears the strongest resemblance to my late dear and honoured father, that ever I beheld in two persons of different ages and sex. Very striking it must be, to have such an effect on my mind. Let me entreat you, Heli, to uncloud that face, and permit me to ask your lady a few questions."
Heli complied, but it was with an ill grace, his looks betraying suspicion and vexation.
"You say, Madam," said Ferdinand, "that you are a German.—Have the goodness to inform me who, and what you are;—for I am strongly persuaded you are somehow connected with my father's family.—Do not hesitate," added he, seeing she appeared in great confusion.—"Whoever you are, in me you will find a friend ready to promote your happiness with Heli, since he is the man of your choice."
Those words he repeated in the Turkish language to him, to quiet a little the turbulence of his agitations. After some little hesitation, Fatima began the following little narrative:—
"I have heard my mother say, that I was born in Baden; that my father was a nobleman, who had an estate near that city, and seduced her, at an early part of her life, under a promise of being faithful to her, and never marrying, as the difference in their rank precluded him from giving his hand to her."
"Did she never mention his name to you?" asked Ferdinand eagerly.
"She did," resumed Fatima; "it was Count Renaud."
Ferdinand struck his breast, greatly agitated, but requested she would proceed without attending to him.
"My mother informed me, that after my birth, he grew fonder of her every hour; but at length his father compelled him to marry a lady of rank and fortune, under the penalty of being disinherited, if he refused. This caused equal grief to both; and it was long before my mother could be reconciled to see him, or receive his visits; but her dependence on him, and affection for me, at length prevailed, and she had every reason to be convinced that all his real love was confined to her. Under this conviction, she submitted to her situation.
"After some time, she perceived a coldness in his attentions, and a profound melancholy in his looks, for which he assigned no cause, and pretended it was her fancy only; but being convinced, she said, that his dejection must spring from a new attachment, as he was daily more negligent towards her.—She had him carefully watched, and at length discovered that he was passionately in love with a young lady, on a visit to his wife, who, being of family, and virtuous, repulsed him, though it was believed she was equally attached.
"My mother, made desperate by this discovery, gave his wife information of the attachment, and driven to despair, in a fit of madness and jealousy, she accepted the protection of a German officer, who had long persecuted her with his addresses, and accompanied by me and my nurse, quitted Baden for ever, without deigning to see or to reproach him.
"With this officer she resided some years; and although she had a daughter by him, she loved me most affectionately, and has often said I was a perfect resemblance of her once beloved Count. We lived very happily, until I was about twelve years old, my sister only ten, when my mother's protector died, leaving his property divided between her and his daughter, with a small legacy to me. My sister and her fortune was left in the care of my mother, and the latter always assured me, her share should be mine at her death; which unfortunately happened in less than a twelvemonth after, and so suddenly, that she had not time to make a will; and as she had lived very retired, and her situation had prevented her from having proper acquaintance, whose honour and integrity might have been useful to us, we were left solely in the care of my old nurse, and a man who had been a kind of humble friend and dependant on the Colonel.
"How they managed I know not; but in less than four years we were informed our fortunes were spent, and that we must seek some employment for our support. Within the last twelvemonth, I had been noticed and followed by a nobleman, who was very amiable, and held high rank in the army.—Want of birth was an invincible obstacle to our marriage, and I had rejected, with disdain, every other overture; but when my nurse explained our situation, I confess, with shame, I no longer kept him at that distance which I ought to have done, and gave him but too much encouragement.
"One morning my nurse came into my room; said she, "we will sell the furniture, turn everything into money, and leave this place. I have been making inquiries; your father still lives; we will go to Baden; I will find some way of making you known to him, without alarming his family, and oblige him to provide for you, which either fear or affection will make him do. Your sister has also an uncle in Suabia—I will find him out; 'tis fit those relations should maintain you."
"This proposal of Dupree's.—"
"Dupree!" exclaimed Ferdinand;———"Great God! what do I hear—but go on."
"This proposal," resumed Fatima, "did not please me. I was not willing to run the risk of being rejected as a burden, or treated with contempt, when I had the alternative of independence, pleasure, and an agreeable lover. I therefore accepted the nobleman's proposals, put myself under his protection, and one evening quitted the house to reside in a more elegant one. In a few days, Dupree found me out, and made such an uproar, and behaved so clamorous, that my protector was compelled to give her a handsome sum to hold her tongue, which perfectly contented her.
"My lover was obliged to join the army. I accompanied him. The General was compelled to give battle; he was victorious, and the Turks defeated; but unhappily a party of them, headed by Heli, had, in the mean time, surrounded the tents, where the women and officers" baggage remained, pillaged them, beat off the guards, and carried me and several other women off in triumph.
"At first I was in despair, and expected death. We were put into a covered wagon, and carried to Adrianople, where I remained in close confinement upwards of two months, and had well nigh fretted myself to death; but the arrival of Heli saved my life; his generosity and affection won my heart;—'tis true, the recluse life I was compelled to lead suited very little with my inclinations; but there was no remedy; and after giving myself up some time to sorrow and regret, which availed nothing, I got the better of my trouble, and resigned myself to my fate.
"When Heli was appointed to the government of Philippo, I gladly accompanied him.—I have had no reason to repent; and thank Heaven, I am once more unexpectedly restored to my own country. What is become of my sister, Dupree, and Keilheim, her friend, I know not. Thus, Sir, I have related my story, and now you know whether I am any ways related to your family or not."
When Fatima ceased speaking, Ferdinand was for a few moments silent, he found but little cause to congratulate himself on the discovery of a relation so nearly connected by blood; whose conduct, even by her own acknowledgment, had been so faulty and reprehensible; but when he viewed that face, whose every look reminded him of his dear and much regretted father, a rush of tenderness sprung to his heart, that obliterated her errors, and rising hastily, he was about to embrace her, forgetful of Heli's presence and uneasy conjectures; he who had needfully observed his emotions during Fatima's relation, and had watched him with an eye of suspicion, furiously rushed between them, darting a look of vengeance at Ferdinand, and muttering curses on her, roughly pulling her from her seat.
"Stop, Heli," cried Ferdinand; "judge not rashly from appearances.———Fatima is—my sister!"
The last word seemed unwillingly pronounced, and to Heli rather the effect of a sudden duplicity, than a serious truth; but Fatima sunk back, evidently shocked and confused repeating the word sister, sister.—"Oh! if that is true, you must despise and hate me."
She burst into tears, and drew down her veil. Heli stood suspended between passion and curiosity. Ferdinand took his hand.
"My friend, compose yourself; I will relate every circumstance to you that indisputably proves your Fatima to be my half sister. Strange, indeed, are the events which have brought us to the knowledge of each other; but her features stamp the credibility of her story; and though the situation in which I find her must be wounding to the feelings of a brother, yet, as I can claim no right to control her inclinations, you have nothing to fear from me; she is free to act as she pleases."
Those words, in some degree, calmed the turbulent passions of Heli; he reseated himself without speaking, visibly impatient for the promised explanation. This Ferdinand entered upon; and at the conclusion, addressing Fatima, he said—"If necessity, and not choice, is now the tie that binds you to Heli, I think it my duty to offer to you a more eligible situation; from preceding circumstances, delicacy, and honour, equally militate against a hope of an honourable connexion with any other man; but I have the power to procure for you either a residence in the country with some worthy retired family, or to place you in a convent, where I will pay for your pension.
"In providing thus for you, I secure to you the liberty of choosing your own destiny. I pretend to no rights over you beyond what you are willing to allow me. If you voluntarily throw yourself on my protection, your interest shall be as dear to me as my own.—Decide, therefore, for yourself."
"I am very sensible of your kindness," replied Fatima, "but my choice is made.—In Turkey, perhaps the desire of liberty might have guided me to embrace your offers with transport; but I am now free; and whilst Heli behaves well, gratitude for his preference of me to all my companions, and for the affection he has displayed towards me during our late dangerous undertaking, induces me to declare, that I will partake of his destiny."
"Yes" Heli, added she in the Turkish language, giving him her hand, "with you I will remain, and trust that I shall never repent refusing my brother's offers to live with you."
The Turk appeared to be transported;—his doubts and suspicions were instantly dispelled, and he thanked her with an air of tenderness and gratitude. Ferdinand was concerned, but not surprised; the libertine life in which she had been engaged by her own confession, gave but small hopes that she could be reconciled to a retired and regular mode of conduct; and from several little traits that escaped her unguardedly, he conceived she had much natural levity that would ill brook restraint: What he could not control, therefore, he was resigned to; but assuming some degree of freedom, from his connexion with Fatima, he asked Heli in what manner he intended to regulate his future conduct.
"I design," answered he, 'to live quietly in the country, not ostentatiously, to avoid observation: To regard Fatima as my wife, and mistress of the other women. I pretend not to have a seraglio here; but as I am unknown, I shall have no visitors, nor will Fatima be exposed to the eyes of men."
Ferdinand accidentally turned his eyes on Fatima at those words, and observed a suppressed smile playing on her lips, and an archness in her looks, that but ill accorded with the plan Heli had designed, nor at all correspondent to the mortified and afflicted air she had assumed, when he first discovered himself to her as a brother. This observation tended to confirm his first suspicions, that she had a light mind, and was capable of much duplicity.
He was mortified, by the conviction from the affinity between them, but he had no power to control her inclinations, nor influence to effect a change in habits she had long since ceased to think vicious or blamable: Therefore, after a long conversation, in which she avowed her partiality for Heli, and a decided preference for his tenets of religion, Ferdinand left them to their own determinations, recommending to both constancy in their attachment, and the practise of good actions towards others. He added a few words of advice to Fatima in German, and concluded with assuring her, that if she should ever want a friend, the daughter of a respected father should always claim his attention and assistance.
When retired to his apartment, he was painfully affected by the recollection of such circumstances in the story of Fatima, as convinced him that his wife Claudina must have been that sister she mentioned, and the daughter of the officer by a woman his father had once been connected with. He shuddered at the idea. Yet surely, he thought, there cannot be that degree of consanguinity between us, which should raise the dead;—to bid me "fly from her arms as I would avoid sin and death." Or why, if our union was sinful, why was the warning so late.
"Ah!" cried he, "if my father knew her, ought he not to have discovered the secret? But no, it was impossible; had he known she was the child of a woman he once fondly loved, surely he would have made inquiries after her and his own child, nor have left even Claudina in indigence; no, he could not have known this painful mystery, and my fatal impetuous passion blindly led me to credit any tale that the wretch Dupree might invent, and to unite myself to the daughter of an infamous woman, who has blighted all my prospects of happiness for ever. Yes, that woman, that mother, if from the grave she can behold the misery that has developed on me, will rejoice, perhaps, that her wrongs from the father are retaliated with bitterness on the son, and that her own offspring has revenged her injuries." This idea led him into a train of unpleasant reflections, that concluded with lamenting his youthful rashness, and an ungovernable passion, of which he was the victim; nor could he help reverting to his father's connexion with the mother of Fatima and Claudina.
Could the libertine, or to speak in the softened term which fashion has established, could the man of gallantry look forward to the consequences of his errors; did he see the unfortunate innocents born of vicious parents; brought into the world under the stigma of criminality; subject to the eye of scorn;—nourished in vice; corrupted by example;—grow up lovely to the eye, but with minds depraved.—Subject to temptations, they have neither fortitude nor inclination to resist;—sink into a vortex of misery, guilty, hardened, despised, forsaken; and to close the climax, see those unfortunate children of guilty parents abandoned by the world; and when youth and beauty is no more, left to die in wretchedness, without relief, without pity, and without a friend to close their eyes, or speak one word of consolation in that awful moment, when the retrospection of a misspent life, fills them with unutterable sorrow and despair.
"Surely," thought Ferdinand, on reviewing this melancholy picture, which his misfortunes delineated to his mind's eye in the most gloomy colouring; "surely, if the sins of the fathers are visited upon their children, I am marked out as an object for retribution and vengeance. How far my marriage with Claudina may be criminal, I know not.———That union, so rashly entered into, and followed by a father's curses, wants not the aggravation of criminality to add to my wretchedness; and if she is a lost, a guilty creature, the sins of the mother have fallen upon us both."
These, and such like reflections, threw him into a profound reverie, from which he was roused by the entrance of the Count.
"I left you, for a few moments, my dear Ferdinand," said he, "because I thought you would wish to recover from the surprise and vexation that visibly affected you during the relation Fatima gave of herself; her subsequent choice of attaching herself to Heli, I think ought not to afflict you; for perhaps had she given him up, you would have found it a very unpleasant task to regulate a young woman like her, accustomed to a gay desultory kind of life."
"Your observation is undoubtedly just," replied he.—"I am convinced she is a stranger to all principles of decorum, and would ill brook that regularity I should naturally have expected. I am mortified, I confess, to find a person who owes her existence to my father, under such reprehensible circumstances; but that is not the only cause of the surprise and concern you remarked; I am still more nearly concerned in her story." He then acquainted the Count with every particular relative to Claudina, and severely condemned his own impetuous passion, which wildly pursued its object, regardless of such information as is generally found essential to confidence, if not absolutely necessary to happiness, that of knowing the family, character, and connexions of those with whom we form a union for life."
"Unquestionably," said the Count; "a prudent man would consider such knowledge highly requisite: But my dear friend, I fear, whilst all-powerful love had such an absolute dominion in your breast—had you really been informed that Claudina was born of worthless or vicious parents, passion would have suggested a thousand alleviating circumstances in her favour, and under the flattering guise of compassion for an unfortunate and innocent young woman, you would have deemed it a meritorious act to rescue her from ruin."
"Perhaps so," answered Ferdinand;—"for the heart, by its pleadings for a beloved object, is generally too hard for the frigid lessons of prudence; and I have given sufficient proofs of my weakness to warrant the severest conclusions against my understanding."
"We will drop the subject, if you please," said the Count, "as it can lead to no pleasurable reflections; and as we propose taking leave of this city in a few days, let us make some visits to diversify our ideas."
Ferdinand very readily consented to a proposal, calculated to draw him from a train of painful retrospections.
In the course of a week, no material incidents happened to the friends. They accompanied Heli in several little excursions round the environs of Vienna, to discover some pleasant retirement that might coincide with his wishes of living unknown and unobserved.
One morning, taking their usual ride, they passed a carriage, which was driving very quick; two gentlemen were in it; and from the transient view they had, Ferdinand thought he had some knowledge of them, but could not ascertain who, or what they were. Presently, however, a servant overtook them, and requested to know if Count M——— was one of the company? The Count, though surprised, readily announced himself, when the man respectfully presented the compliments of Baron Reiberg and his son, who, he said, were waiting in their carriage, to know if their conjectures were right, and hoped the gentlemen would return, if fortunately he was not mistaken.
The Count and Ferdinand readily accompanied the servant back, and were recognized with great pleasure by the Baron, who congratulated himself upon this desired and little expected meeting.
He, with many others, had heard the report of their deaths; but struck with their appearance, as they passed on the road, had stopped his carriage, and dispatched a servant to know whether the resemblance that surprised him was the illusion of his senses or not.
He told them he had a house at Vienna, to which he hoped they would accompany him and his son, and give them the pleasure of considering it as their own, whilst business or amusement induced them to remain in that city. They made proper acknowledgments for this politeness; told him, their stay would be short, and that they had friends with them.
"If your friends will accept of the same accommodations I can offer you, gentlemen," said the Baron, "they are heartily at their service; and I feel so much interest and curiosity to know by what means you preserved your lives, when your death was generally credited, that I really cannot relinquish my earnest wish to have you inmates of my mansion. Come, come," added he, seeing they hesitated, and looked at each other, you know I am in possession of your promise to pay me a visit, and I now claim the performance of it."
This obliging earnestness was irresistible, and they readily accorded with the request, assuring him, that they would wait of him in the evening. Taking the Baron's address with his invitation to their friends, they parted with him for the present, and returned with speed to Heli. Before they rejoined him, Ferdinand observed, "that he could not think of introducing Fatima to the Baron's house, nor did he suppose it would be at all agreeable to Heli. I hope, therefore, said he, the little estate he is now in view of will answer his wishes."
As he spoke, they saw Heli slowly returning back to meet them.
The Count told him of their meeting with a friend, and took notice the other seemed very thoughtful, which, on demanding the cause, he said he longed for retirement; that the increase of their acquaintance was painful to him, and their self-denial, in giving up so much of their time to his accommodation, was too great a tax upon their kindness.—He had therefore come to a resolution to take the small solitary cottage they had seen the day before; and as it was furnished, he could have immediate possession.
To this plan no objection was made.—They called on the owner of the cottage, and presently concluded the bargain. The house, and a small farm belonging to it, lay extremely retired, on the side of a rising wood, which afforded shelter from the sharp air of the north; and on the south was a delightful garden, with grounds attached to it for their cattle, and other necessaries of life, whilst a small but beautiful rivulet run almost round the house, and fertilized the earth.
Heli, having made the purchase, was impatient to take possession; and on their return to Fatima, bid her prepare for her removal the following morning. It was easy to see she received this mandate with dissatisfaction; nor did a description of her future residence at all tend to lessen her chagrin.—The gay multitudes, which she saw from her windows, were far more gratifying to her than woods or gardens, where she was not likely to see the "human face divine."
Ferdinand easily penetrated into the workings of her mind, and saw but little prospect of happiness to Heli, if it was dependant on the constancy of Fatima. For the present she was silent, because the alternative he had offered to her was also retirement; and therefore, of the two evils, she submitted to accompany Heli, but without ever pretending to a satisfaction she did not feel.
In the evening, the Count and his friend took leave of Heli and his lady. To the latter, Ferdinand ventured a few serious admonitions, but they were heard with a look of careless contempt, and a silent bow.—Heli requested they would sometimes visit him, as themselves would be the only persons he should receive. This they readily promised, and parted with mutual good wishes.
The Baron welcomed them with much cordiality; the young Baron with equal attention; but he had not that pleasant frankness of manners which seemed to characterize his father. On the contrary, it was obvious to both gentlemen, that something oppressive lay upon his spirits, and that tho" he behaved with much complacency and politeness; yet it appeared an effort upon his natural disposition, more inclined to reserve and taciturnity.
The father, who was a man of the world, had travelled a good deal, and profited by his observations on men and manners, exerted himself to entertain his guests; and, by his endeavours, they passed a very pleasant evening.
When the Count and Ferdinand met in the morning, the former took notice of the young Baron's want of spirits, and a disposition so entirely opposite to his father's.
"I made the same observation at the time they passed with us in the solitary Castle," replied Ferdinand—"He then spoke little, and rather avoided than courted society.—But as some characters do not open themselves at once, as we were strangers, and every circumstance there unpleasant, and indeed melancholy, I allowed much for his reserve, and supposed it might be rather accidental than habitual; but I was mistaken I see now; for certainly he has a natural tendency towards an unsocial disposition, and 'tis on the father we must draw for our entertainment here."
They were soon after joined by the Baron. He introduced them to several of his friends; was sedulous to show his esteem, by every gratification he could procure to them.—Sought every possible mode of entertainment, and delicately avoided any reference to the former unhappy situation of the Count, or his irreparable loss of the lady Eugenia.
Once only that day they saw the young Baron; but they found by the conversation, when he appeared at the dinner table, that he spent his hours chiefly in the library. They remarked his father's extreme solicitude to draw him out, and to amuse him; but the few marks of cheerfulness, which now and then broke off, were evidently forced, and the effects of complaisance only.—After the dinner hour, they saw no more of him.
On the second day of their residence with the Baron, when his son had withdrawn from the table, turning to his guests with a suppressed sigh—"Although you are too polite my friends, to express any curiosity, yet 'tis impossible but that you must observe the peculiar disposition of my son; that unsociability, that dejection of spirits so very visible to every eye, is the only thing that disturbs the tranquillity of my life. Poor unfortunate boy, an early and a strong attachment has embittered every hour of his life for upwards of two years past. Hopeless as it is, he cannot drive the fatal passion from his heart.—All my efforts to restore his spirits are fruitless.
"I flattered myself your conversation would tend to lighten the anguish of his mind, and your example animate him to rise superior over unavoidable and irremediable evils; but I see no change, and therefore feel it necessary to apologize to you for his conduct, by explaining the cause of it."
"I feel deeply interested for the unfortunate young gentleman," replied Ferdinand; "and being a fellow-sufferer, can sympathize with him. As I am nearly of his own age, and know his situation, if you will allow me, I shall use all my endeavours to obtain his notice; and if I succeed, I may, by sharing his confidence, divert the current of his thoughts from dwelling always on one object. That a communication of grief, which hangs heavy on the heart, certainly tends to lighten it, I know by experience."
"You kindly anticipate my wishes," said the Baron.—"If you will condescend to fall in with his humour, and attach yourself to him, 'tis the only chance I can see likely to succeed in drawing him from himself."
This plan being agreed upon, the Baron and Count ordered their horses to ride; and after their departure, Ferdinand ventured to dispatch a servant with his compliments to the young Baron, requesting the honour of his company to take a walk.—Or if that was disagreeable to him, would he permit him to join him in the library. He had waited but a few moments for the return of his message before Reiberg appeared. He politely, tho" distantly, apologized for not making a tender of his services, as he thought his father had taken that office upon himself.
"I have indeed a hundred obligations to the Baron for his attentions," replied Ferdinand; "but my spirits are not always calculated to give or receive pleasure from a mixed society: I often prefer a solitary ramble, or the company of a serious rational companion, to mixing with the great world."
"An uncommon turn of mind in so young a man," observed Reiberg, eying him with a more complacent look; "and what is altogether as singular, I am very much of your opinion: Therefore, Sir, I am at your command, either for a walk, or for the library."
"At present," said Ferdinand, "I prefer the former; let us visit some of the gardens in the suburbs."
The other readily complied. They took a long walk, being absent near three hours; and, on coming back, met the Baron and Count just returned.
"Ah!" said the former, "like minds will mingle.—How natural for youth to court the society of each other."
"And yet I have my doubts," replied Reiberg, "whether the entertainments of these youths have not been of a much graver cast than what you may have engaged in."
"Not unlikely," answered the Count—"My friend is of a sedentary turn, and the amusements he seeks are generally of that complexion."
Reiberg viewed his companion with an air of graciousness, that seldom had pervaded his features, and, in the course of the evening, attached himself to Ferdinand with evident satisfaction.
From that day, the young friends were much together; and in the course of conversation, had both thrown out hints of mutual unhappiness, but each was too delicate to express a desire of prying into the secrets of the other. One morning it had been agreed upon between the Count and Ferdinand, that they would visit Heli and Fatima. They set off at an early hour, and soon reached the cottage.
At the door, reclining on a kind of sofa, lay Heli; the noise of the horses made him start: Discerning who they were, he hastened to meet them.
"Ah!" cried he, "never more wished for, nor more welcome. The prophet has sent you to my wishes, or this night I should have sent for you."
"Have you then particularly wanted us?" asked Ferdinand.
"Yes," replied Heli.—"Strange things have happened; but come into this little room, and I will unfold the whole to you."
As they dismounted and entered, the Count asked for Fatima.
"Ah! the ingrate," cried he; "she is but too well, I believe."
This reply induced them to suppose she had behaved ill, if not deserted him; but they waited a farther explanation from him; and when they were seated, he thus began, addressing Ferdinand, as the Count was not so well acquainted with the language.
"From the first day that we came here, the ungrateful Fatima was sullen and discontented.—I did my best to amuse her; we had only two women slaves, or servants; they attended the business of the house, and to please her, I took no notice of them."
"Two nights ago, at midnight, I was alarmed by a loud knocking at the door; I opened the window, and demanded the cause. I was not understood; but hearing a voice, a woman spoke in a tone of terror and supplication. Without disturbing Fatima in the next room, I took my lamp, and went down, opening the door: A young woman rushed in, and directly swooned at my feet.
"I was then obliged to call for assistance; the women soon came about me; the poor creature was helped, and recovered.—I saw she was very pretty, though pale and thin.—Fatima did her best to revive and console her.
"When she was able to speak, she said she had escaped from a small house in the wood, where she had reason to fear it was intended to murder her. We did not ask many questions; but she was put to bed, and yesterday morning I was told she appeared to be a good deal revived; that she earnestly requested, should any person make inquiry after her, we would deny our knowledge of her. I began to think the prophet had thrown this young woman in my way, to be a solace to me, and a companion for Fatima, so I let them be together.
"About noon, two horsemen, like a gentleman and his servant, appeared at the door.—They asked me had I seen a young woman; I kept her secret.—Whilst they were talking, Fatima came out.—I was very much displeased, and commanded her, pretty roughly, to retire.—She refused, and said some words to the stranger I did not understand.—He smiled, and answered her with great quickness. Highly provoked, I pushed her in, and shut the door.—The traitress opened the window above, and talked again. Enraged to madness, I flew in, dragged her from the window, and gave her a little chastisement, though not what she deserved.
"Her cries brought in the men, who, forcing the door, came up, and snatched her from my hands.—She directly run down stairs.—One of the horsemen took her before him, and they galloped off, regardless of my cries or imprecations.—'Twas in vain to pursue them; I had no horse, and was unacquainted with the turnings in the roads, if I had.
"Whilst I was tearing my beard, and cursing the vile ungrateful wretch, one of the servants came in, and said the young woman was in fits; so here was another plague upon me.—However, I had not lost my charity, so I ascended to help her, but she did not recover 'till night, and has continued very ill ever since; hardly speaks at all, but sighs from the bottom of her heart.—It seems 'twas the voices and bustle those vile Christians made, which occasioned her fits.—This is the state of things here; I am almost mad, and your treacherous wicked sister has basely deserted me; me who preserved her life, and gave her liberty at the hazard of my own!"
"I am more concerned than surprised," said Ferdinand; "for I had no dependence upon her constancy, as she evidently wanted principle.—Retirement suited not with her disposition, and I think you have little cause to regret the loss of such a woman. The young person you speak of may want friends and assistance; if we can be of use to her, I am sure the Count will readily join in offering his services."
"You Christians," answered Heli, "are like the knights in romance, in your wishes to serve women.—Was you more discreet, and less complaisant, they would behave better; but women, having no souls, can practise no virtues, and only subjection and confinement can keep them within bounds."
"Why then accuse Fatima of ingratitude or levity?" said Ferdinand.—"If she has no soul, she may give unbounded loose to her inclinations; and where there exists no virtues, vice and folly only can be expected.—Gratitude is a virtue that flourishes in a noble mind; the produce of the soul, that feels a conscious sense of benefits concerned. If the freedom you procured for Fatima was solely to gratify yourself, she owes you no obligation; nor can you claim any merit from the deed."
"'Tis well," returned Heli, with a lowering brow; "I see what kindness I may expect from you; I have been a tool to all.—Oh! prophet," cried he, with a furious menacing air——
"Stop, Heli," said Ferdinand.—"Spare your appeal to Mahomet; I am more your friend that you are willing to believe; I despise and detest Fatima; she is a worthless woman; you may rejoice to get rid of one who would have proved a constant source of trouble to you; I vindicate her not; nor do I desire ever to hear of her more, because I am convinced she is incorrigible; but any services we can render you, command us, and you shall see that Christians know how to be grateful and hospitable to strangers."
Heli was affected by the earnest tone in which the other addressed him.—He unbent his angry brow, and lowering his voice—
"I believe I may judge too rashly; if so, may our holy prophet, and you, forgive me. I feel that I loved Fatima, but I will try to despise her: If this young woman lives—but I fear she will not; we cannot understand each other.—The few things I know in your language I have said to comfort her; but either she does not, or will not understand me."
"I would ask to see her," said Ferdinand, "and learn who and what she is, if it is agreeable to you."
"Yes," answered Heli, after a little hesitation—"Yes, you shall see her; but remember I already design her to supply the place of Fatima."
"Fear me not," replied Ferdinand; "I will deserve your confidence."
Heli then preceded them, to announce to her a visit from two of her countrymen.—Ferdinand followed him.—The sick person, who lay fronting the door, at his entrance gave a sudden shriek, and fainted. They advanced hastily to assist her, and in the same moment both recognized the unfortunate young woman, notwithstanding the alteration of her person, and the improbability of her being near Vienna, and both exclaimed, "Louisa! Good Heavens! Louisa!"
"How," said Heli, "do you know her too?"
They were too busy in getting water and other things to restore her, immediately to attend to him; but when she began to show signs of returning life, Ferdinand turned to him—"We do indeed know this lady, one of the most unfortunate of her sex. We left her a few months back under the protection of a worthy family, far from hence. How, or by whom she was brought here, is very extraordinary."
Louisa, for her it was, opened her eyes.—"The shadows are gone," said she, faintly, "or was it the phantom of my brain?"
The Count instantly recollected that it was possible she might have heard of their deaths. Therefore, without advancing, he said, "fear nothing, Madam; two friends of your's are yet alive, and eager to serve you."
"This is happiness indeed!" she exclaimed.—"Where are you?"
Both drew near the sofa, and bowed before her.—Pleasure danced in her eyes, but for a moment she had not the power of speech.
"Take comfort, Madam," said Ferdinand, "you are in safe hands—Mr. and Miss D'Alenberg———."
"Ah!" cried she, much affected, "I have been torn from them; they are on the road."
"What! to Vienna?" asked he.
"I believe so—I left them at Ens; there I was discovered—That villain the Count—he—he got me into his power to destroy me."
She had not strength to proceed, and they requested she would not exhaust herself by the attempt; and turning to Heli, (who was pacing the room, and cursing his malicious stars, and his own folly, for introducing them into the room) "it will be necessary to send a physician to this lady."
The Count offered to fetch one, and immediately set off for that purpose, though Louisa tried to oppose the design. Ferdinand, who was eagerly desirous of hearing some intelligence of the D'Alenberg family, remained with Heli in the apartment.
The latter, greatly agitated, had thrown himself upon a sofa. Louisa looked at him with evident terror, and appeared to shrink from his menacing aspect.
"My evil genius seems to predominate," said he to Ferdinand.—"I am to be robbed of this young woman too by Christian artifices."
"Heli," replied the latter, "do not repine that you are made the instrument to rescue an unfortunate lady from villainy. She is of birth and character; has powerful friends, and is married.—She is under the protection of a family I respect, and who will feel the warmest gratitude for her preservation, and can be nothing more to me, or any man, than an object of reverence and admiration.
"You cannot suppose, my good Heli, that every lady, who may eventually be thrown in your way, must be subservient to you; a thousand causes may impede any attentions of your's in a particular light; but for your humanity and kindness, you will ever experience a grateful return."
Heli heard him, but answered not.—A sullen silence denoted a mind but ill satisfied. The remembrance of Fatima's charms, and her elopement, sat heavy at his heart; for he had now no companion that he could converse with, or who even understood his language.
The Count was not long before he returned with a physician, who confirmed Louisa's own judgment, that terror and surprise had caused the great agitation of her spirits, and a shock to her constitution, which was extremely delicate and languid, but that no immediate danger need be apprehended.—He ordered her some light cordials, and had no doubt but that she would soon be better.
This opinion of the doctor's was gratifying to all parties; but Ferdinand felt some perplexity on the score of leaving Louisa under the care of Heli.—He asked, could she be removed? the physician thought there would be no danger in a proper conveyance.———Where she could be carried to, was the next question. The medical gentleman, finding that they were strangers on a visit in the city, and that the lady was a person of fashion, and had powerful friends, very humanely offered an apartment in his own house, an offer most readily accepted, and he hastened off to send a carriage, and an aunt, who resided with him, to attend on the lady, whilst he prepared for her reception.
No sooner was this plan communicated to Heli, than he grew quite furious; upbraided the gentlemen in the most opprobrious words passion could suggest; but finding that they were resolute, and not to be intimidated, his fury fell upon himself; he cursed his own folly, in preserving two Christian wretches, whose acquaintance had been the ruin of his peace; ungenerously ascribing Fatima's desertion from him as originating from the offers Ferdinand had made of providing for her.
The Count, who was apprehensive of some revengeful stroke from the mad passion of Heli, kept a steady eye upon all his actions; while Ferdinand endeavoured, by reason, to calm his transports; and among other things observed to him, that as there were many Turks in Vienna, he might easily find such as would be useful to him in his domestic arrangements, and plenty of women who would accept of his protection.
This last argument seemed to have some weight with him; he grew less agitated; and before the carriage came for Louisa, told them he would take their advice; and having now nobody to guard, he would come into the city the next day, to seek out some of his countrymen, and purchase two or three beautiful women, that he might no longer think of the unfaithful woman who had abandoned him.
This resolved on, he assisted in carrying Louisa to the carriage.—A middle aged respectable lady waited to receive her; cushions were placed for her to recline on; and moving very slowly, she was safely conveyed to the physician's house, under whose care the gentlemen left her for the remainder of the day, that quiet might help to restore her;—and although both were dying with curiosity, yet they suppressed all appearance of it, in consideration of her weakness.