CHAP. X.
She had repeated every circumstance with such exactitude, and without the least hesitation, there seemed a degree of probability in the story not easily to be controverted, that both the Count and Ferdinand were staggered and confused.
The Count well remembered, that his elder brother was said to have taken a mistress with him from Baden, and he now was struck with the recollection that when he beheld little Charles, the features seemed familiar to him, his was an exact copy of his mother's face, and he had no doubt but she resembled her father.
Turning to Ferdinand, Claudina then was my brother's child, and I have an interest in your sweet boy.
Ferdinand was deeply engaged in revolving Dupree's story. Quickly recollecting himself, said he, "You say, that you left us suddenly to spare Claudina the pain of parting; but was it necessary to rob us, to carry off the few valuables we had, and leave us in distress? Was it consistent with your love for her, never to write, or give any account of yourself?"
"What (said the Count) was you robbed?"
"Yes (answered Ferdinand) on rising one morning we found the door on the latch, and the drawers emptied."
"I know nothing of that (said Dupree) I cannot answer for any person's getting into the house after I left it."
"But you shall answer for it (cried the Count, with joy dancing in his eyes.) Within there!" The officers entered, and instantly seized all three. Ferdinand then spoke:—"I charge you, Dupree, with robbing me, with entering into a vile conspiracy against me, and these persons as your accomplices."
"You shall instantly go to prison, and remain confined on my charges, till I have discovered the whole of your vile plot, which will not be long first (added the Count.)—There is a Gentleman in Baden, you little think of, who will witness to your frauds."
This last speech threw the man and woman into great confusion, though merely an impromptu of the moment.
"For you (said Ferdinand to Fatima)—whatever is your name, base, unprincipled woman, foolish as wicked; by gentleness and contrition for your errors, I may say crimes, you might have obtained from me a comfortable provision for life; by fabricating this compilation of falsehoods, by joining with this worthless pair, whose abandoned principles early sowed the seeds of corruption in your mind, you have entirely shut my heart against you, and the robbery you committed on Heli will prove the depravity of your mind.
The valet of Count Wolfran now lives with a friend of mine. The villains who robbed you of the diamonds which you plundered from your benefactor, they are now in custody, and soon will your story come before the public, as Heli has instituted a criminal process against you.
That name I have been so solicitous to save from the disgrace of giving birth to a wretch like you, can no longer be injured, for such a mother may be supposed to have given many fathers to her children, and any depositions from such infamous persons can only be treated with contempt. Officers take them to prison.
Fatima stood with a sullen intrepidity that both shocked and surprised them. The man changed colour, and was silent, not a syllable had he spoken; but when the officer led Dupree to the door, that cowardice generally attendant on a conviction of crimes, at once took from her all the courage she had assumed. "Stop, stop," she cried, and falling on her knees, "Save me from a prison, preserve me from punishment, and I will confess all."
That moment Fatima, who stood near her, snatched a dagger from her side, and quick as thought stabbed Dupree, and then plunged it into her own bosom; both fell. The action was so sudden, so unexpected, that no one was in time to prevent her.
Ferdinand was inexpressibly alarmed; he ran to her, as the Count did to Dupree:—"Rash, unhappy Fatima! what have you done? Let some one fly for a surgeon."
"He is at hand," said she, faintly, "death will soon preserve me from the shame of detection and punishment; that abandoned wretch is the cause of this, she suggested the scheme to ruin you. I lived long enough in Turkey to learn the use of a dagger."
"Wretched girl!" said Ferdinand, agonized by this scene, "why did you doubt my mercy, or generosity?"
"Because I scorned to humble myself, or sue for favours.
"Heli, you, and all are revenged, and I am beyond your power."—These were the last words she spoke; in a few minutes all was over!
Ferdinand, agitated in the most dreadful manner, accused himself for rashly irritating such a mind as her's, and was exceedingly shocked at so dreadful a catastrophe to the life of an unprincipled woman.
Dupree's wound did not appear to be so dangerous, the blood was stopped, and she was taken to another room; the man was detained in custody in the house for the present. The surgeon came, and examined the wound; it was a doubtful case, he said, and could not as yet be decided upon. After it was dressed, she desired to see Ferdinand and the Count.
"I may now (said she) confess the truth; the story of the marriage was false. My mistress left a good sum of money behind her. Keilheim is my brother: We lived upon it while it lasted, but he gambled a good deal, and it soon went. I had intended to make a good price of Charlotte, but she disposed of herself, and I had only a trifle; then I determined to apply to Count M———, who really is uncle, by the father, to your late wife; but he was abroad.
"Keilheim went as a valet de chambre to an English Gentleman, and left me what he could. I settled at Baden, and had an intention of applying to Count Renaud, and passing Claudina upon him as his daughter, by saying she was older than she was; but then I feared he might take her from me to provide for her, and I should only get a trifle, as I know he never liked me; therefore I thought the only way was to sell her for a good price. You fell in love with her; I had other offers which I wanted her to accept; but she loved you, thought as you would marry her she might one day have a title, and a fortune; the rest you know.
"I heard from my brother; his master was dead, and he had secured to himself all his effects. He was returned to Ratisbon, and proposed I should come and live with him, as he had opened a gambling-house. I did take from you—all I could, and went to him.
"One day, going through the streets, a short time since, I passed a young woman, who seemed to look earnestly at me, and presently pronounced my name; I turned, it was Charlotte.
"Overjoyed at meeting, I took her home. She there told me her whole story of being carried to Turkey, meeting with you, returning to Vienna, and being carried off from the Turk by a Count, who was killed by Heli; upon which she fled from him with a box of jewels the Count had given to her.—She intended to go to England, but crossing some mountains she was set upon by ruffians, and robbed of all her property, and had travelled on to Ratisbon, by the little trifle left in her pocket. In this city she that day arrived with a design to make the most of her beauty, with an Englishman if possible, and then leave Germany.
"Keilheim had been unlucky at play; we were something distressed; the kindness you had shown to Charlotte made me believe it easy to impose upon you. We set an inquiry on foot about you, heard that Claudina and your brother were dead; we then formed this scheme, which has turned out so fatal to Charlotte, and, I fear, to myself."
This confession was made at intervals, as she had power to speak, and amazed the Gentlemen at such a regular system of vice as those wretches had long pursued; but Providence had at length overtaken them, nor would suffer the innocent to be a victim to such abominable duplicity.
In vain may the wicked hope to deceive the virtuous and unsuspecting mind, unobserved and undiscovered; there is a watchful and unerring eye, to whom all their black and artful schemes are laid open, and who, in its own good time, defeats the machinations of the wicked, and brings the offenders to the punishment they deserve.
The wretched Dupree languished three days, and then expired of a mortification.—Keilheim was taken to prison, and being convicted of entering into a conspiracy to injure Ferdinand, was condemned to perpetual imprisonment, which happily prevented him from extending his crimes in future.
This strange and tumultuous business exceedingly deranged and hurried Ferdinand; the Count had written a detail of it to Mr. D'Alenberg, who was greatly concerned for the anxiety it must have given to his friend; nor was his lovely daughter less affected; she added a postscript to her father's letter that more effectually calmed his spirits, and restored his serenity, than a hundred arguments from the Count on the folly of indulging regret for such a character as Charlotte's.
"I must ever pity her fate (said Ferdinand) deprived by her birth of the precepts and example of a virtuous parent, her mind was contaminated before she was of an age to acquire any fixed principles. No father to own, or support her, left, deserted by every connexion, and consigned to the trust of such depraved wretches: Ah! my friend, who can wonder at the excesses that followed, and the ruin that befell two unfortunate young women!
"Let the seducer of innocence but reflect one moment on the crimes he propagates, the destruction he meditates, and the dreadful consequences of his success; let him but reflect on the accumulated sins which may be multiplied on his head by the unfortunate beings he may give existence to; let him but extend his views beyond his own selfish gratifications, and he will shrink with horror from the seduction of innocence, and be himself the guardian of that honour, on which depends the happiness or misery of those unborn!"
"The Count most readily subscribed to the truth of those observations, but to change the immediate subject that distressed him, he congratulated himself on the connexion he claimed with little Charles.
"When you marry (said he) I claim him as my companion, nor must you deny me; Mr. Dunloff shall reside with him; we shall, I trust, often enjoy each other's society, and you will judge whether I perform my duty or not."—Ferdinand could not, without wounding the feelings of his friend, refuse a request so generous and affectionate; he therefore accepted it in the warmest terms of acknowledgment: "He shall have two fathers (said he) and hold a divided affection that will gratify us both."
"It is time now (added he) that I should perform a duty that both affection and gratitude demand. I know it was the intention of my late dear father to have provided handsomely for my worthy Ernest; that trust happily devolves on me: Souls like his are above pecuniary reward, nor does he want it, farther than to have the power of enlarging his benevolent purposes; therefore I must add other gratifications to prove my sense of his worth." He then rang the bell, and requested to speak with Mr. Ernest. The good old man came in, pleasure dancing in every feature to attend the commands of his loved master.
Ferdinand desired he would be seated.—Ernest looked at the Count. He translated the look: "My good friend, pray be seated." He immediately complied. "My dear Ernest (said Ferdinand) the packet Mr. Dunloff delivered to me, after the death of my brother, contained little more than he himself acquainted me with, and when I had perused the contents I committed it to the flames, and with it all resentment for past injuries.
"I have forborne from that time to enter on the subject. This Gentleman you know to be the unfortunate Claudina's uncle, I therefore speak freely before him; it can be attended with no ill consequences now, if I ask you where she resided? where she died?"
"In a small house, Sir, on the skirts of the Forest, with a worthy man and woman, who had known better days; but were reduced to be pensioners to your good father, the late Lord; it was one of the things that gave me a suspicion against that will, that no mention was made of this worthy pair: I had recollected the sending for the lawyer, and the clerk's being shut up, and my heart presaged that a will, dictated by resentment, would be cancelled or altered.
"The will produced therefore surprised me, because I knew it was the hasty work of a moment. After the funeral I inquired for this clerk; he had left his master. This confirmed me in my suspicions, but they availed nothing. I once or twice dropped a hint to the late Count, which I saw alarmed him; I believe he feared and hated me.—Pardon my prolixity, Sir.
"This worthy couple that I was speaking of, were strangers to every one in the Castle but myself. When Madam Claudina opened her mind to me, and resolved to quit the house, I went there, said it was an unfortunate sick Lady and her child, who wished to remain entirely unknown and unseen. They received her with pleasure; there she lived repentant, and her health soon fell a sacrifice to the remembrance of her errors. The news of your death closed the scene."
"And where is this worthy pair at present?" asked Ferdinand.
"In the same house, Sir."
"Who supports them?"
"Their wants are very few; their little garden and a cow supply the chief of them."
"And you the rest, good and respectable man! (cried Ferdinand) what a heart is yours! Kings might envy your feelings, for justice and charity preside over them."
At that moment dinner was announced. Ernest arose: "Stop, my friend, (said he) this day ends all other distinctions between us; my heart swells to imitate your's; henceforth be always near me; teach me by your example to be loved in my youth, and revered in my decline of life, like you." Yes, you are the father of my affections, the friend of my friend," putting his hand into the Count's, who pressed it with both of his; "no longer my steward, but my companion and benefactor."
Ernest, overcome by emotions that swelled to his throat, and almost burst his bosom, had just strength to pull open a button or two, and sunk into a chair:—"Too much (said he, sobbing) it is too much, this graciousness!" A friendly shower of tears fell down his venerable face, and relieved the oppressed heart; neither of them had dry eyes for the moment.
"Come (said Ferdinand, trying to recover himself) come, the dinner waits, we dine together," taking Ernest by the arm.
"Excuse me, Sir, good Sir excuse me, not to-day, I cannot; give me time to recover myself; I cannot obey you now."
"Dear Ernest, obedience and command exists no longer between us; I will oblige you now, but from this day we have no separate tables. Within an hour I hope you will join us to drink a health to all our friends."
"I will, I will attend you, Sir (cried he, still sobbing) but spare me for the present." The friends withdrew.
"I honour you, my dear friend (said the Count) for the deserved kindness you have shown that good man. Would to Heaven that such instances were more frequent, that virtue, and goodness of heart, should be the only distinguishing mark to exact respect and attention; hereditary honours, when disgraced by improper and disorderly conduct, ought, in my opinion, to be classed far beneath the poorest upright man, whilst principles, and a mind like Ernest's would grace a diadem."
That evening the Count received a letter from Eugenia, who continued in tolerable health and spirits. She much regretted the loss of her friend, the Countess; but loved her too well not to rejoice in her opening prospects of happiness, though she was the sufferer.
Two days after Mr. D'Alenberg wrote to them that the Countess was arrived, and that the family party wanted their agreeable society, of which due notice had been sent to Baron Reiberg.
The friends wanted no further persuasions to a visit so gratifying to their wishes; Ernest no longer the steward, but friend of Ferdinand, undertook all necessary arrangements for the reception of a Lady, whose society was to constitute the happiness of his beloved master, a name ever dear to his heart.
Ferdinand paid a visit to his sister-in-law, the Countess, entreated her friendship in very sincere terms, saying, "he hoped shortly to bring home a Lady who would feel happy to cultivate her acquaintance."—Her reply was equally affectionate and polite.
He commissioned Ernest to make that family comfortable, who had given an asylum to Claudina. He wrote to the steward of Danfelt Castle, offering him the same situation in his family, if he still was desirous of a change, sending him a handsome present, which, if he preferred remaining at the Castle, he would remit to him annually.
Thus, having settled all the demands of gratitude and civility, with a light heart, and a thousand transporting hopes, he accompanied the Count to Mr. D'Allenberg's.
It is needless to say their arrival was announced to the general satisfaction of the family, and Ferdinand thanked the old Gentleman, with the warmest gratitude, for shortening the time of his probation, and permitting him the happy opportunity of cultivating that esteem his lovely daughter had so generously avowed. In less than a week the young Baron made an addition to their society.
Two months was spent by this agreeable party in all the delights that love and friendship could bestow; and, at the expiration of that time, Mr. D'Allenberg prevailed on his daughter and the Countess to make their lovers happy.—"Enough has been sacrificed to decorum (said he) it is now time to satisfy the demands of a tender attachment; life is short, and I wish to enjoy what remains of it, in the contemplation of my children's felicity."
The plea was unanswerable, and Miss D'Allenberg resigned her hand without the smallest reluctance to the happy Ferdinand. On the same day the Baron and the Countess were also united.
Previous to which, that Lady insisted upon disclosing to him the story of Louisa, and her own situation.—"I could not feel happy (said she) to know there was a transaction of such consequence in my life, a secret to my husband, where mutual confidence must be the basis for mutual happiness; it would also be a treason against Louisa, which I could never forgive myself, not to do justice to a nobleness of mind that has few examples." The Baron was indeed surprised, but having heard the precedent the Countess had set Louisa, when the latter was distressed and unhappy; he said, his admiration was so equally divided between both Ladies, that it was difficult to pronounce where the preference lay."
Ferdinand before his marriage heard from the steward of Danfelt Castle, who gratefully thanked him for his goodness; but said a great alteration had taken place there; his master was reconciled to his Lady after a separation of fifteen years, it being found out by the confession of a servant that the Lady was innocent, and accused only out of revenge; he was therefore now preparing the Castle for their reception. He added, that the robbers, having been convicted by the evidence of several persons, had all suffered death, and the box of jewels was claimed by a Gentleman of Vienna to remit into Turkey.—Thus ended all future concern, either for Heli, or the robbers.
Peter, who had been valet to Rhodophil, who had been privy to most of his bad actions, yet had always felt gratitude to Ernest for preserving his life, and to whose information Ernest was often obliged, him Ferdinand could not retain in his family, but in the hope that a grateful mind could not be ultimately a bad one, he settled on him an annuity sufficient to maintain him with comfort, for so long as his conduct should deserve it.
The Gentlemen and their Ladies resided one month with Mr. D'Allenberg after their marriage, and then separated, with a promise of paying each other an annual visit. Louisa, at her own request, remained with Mr. D'Allenberg to supply the place of his daughter.
The Count accompanied Ferdinand and his Lady to Castle Renaud, where the worthy Ernest was presented to the Countess in such flattering terms, that the good creature almost expired with joy.—"Now (cried he, tears stealing down his face) now I have lived to see my master happy; I have lived long enough for myself; the remainder of my days must be devoted to the service of that Master, whose gracious Providence has defeated the schemes of the wicked, and having punished one error in early youth, which was productive of so many evils, has at length purified him to a fullness of joy!"
Ferdinand, from the day of his marriage with the charming Theresa, had nothing wherewith to reproach himself, or to interrupt their mutual happiness; he found, in the sweets of that union, that perfect felicity, which must result from a connexion formed on the principles of reason and virtue; whilst, generally speaking, those marriages, contracted contrary to the wishes of parents, influenced chiefly by transient personal charms, and hurried on by rash tumultuous passions, seldom fail to be productive of sorrow, regret and reproach—perhaps of punishment and shame.—We have only to add, that in less than three years after the marriage of Ferdinand, the once unfortunate, but then happy Eugenia, was translated from a state of resignation and piety, to a life of blessed immortality:—From her melancholy story may be deduced two observations of equal importance to society; when a parent exercises an undue authority over his child, and compels her to give a reluctant hand without a heart; by giving his sanction in the outset to deception and perjury; he has little to expect but that the consequences will be fatal to her honour and happiness.
A parent has an undoubted right to a negative voice, to persuade, to reason, and direct a young and unexperienced mind; but to force a child to the altar, from motives of ambition, interest, or to gratify any selfish passions, too generally lays the foundation for that indifference, and neglect of the domestic duties, which terminates in folly, vice, and the ruin of all social happiness.
In the conduct of Baron S———, may be traced the fatal effects of indulging that gloomy misanthropy, which feeds a proud spirit and a callosity of heart, insensible to every feeling but its own gratification, which, when opposed, may lead to the most determined cruelty and revenge.
Count M——— was greatly affected at the death of Eugenia; but by their separation he had been long weaned from that excess of passion he had felt in early life, and which had been productive of so much sorrow to both; his grief had less poignancy than he must otherwise have known, and the society of his friends contributed to restore his peace, though he ever preserved a tender remembrance of his first love.
In less than a twelvemonth after her decease, he offered himself to, and was accepted by, the amiable Louisa. They had no children, and Charles, the son of Ferdinand, was the worthy successor to the Count's fortune.
The compulsive marriage of Count Renaud, from which originated all the misfortunes that attended himself and his family, and the very rash and imprudent one which Ferdinand contracted, hold out lessons of equal importance to the consideration of parents and children.
But our hero, having been severely punished for the impetuosity and folly which marked his first attachment, found, in his union with Theresa, that unclouded happiness so seldom the lot of mortals.
Sensible of the blessings he received, it was his unremitting endeavour, by rectitude of conduct, by generosity to the deserving, and by benevolence to the unfortunate, to communicate an equal portion of felicity to all within the circle of his acquaintance.
From the characters of Rhodophil and Fatima, we may trace the progression of vice, and its fatal termination!
"Vice to be hated,
"Needs but to be seen."