"Yes," I replied with some earnestness; "I have one material one, a certificate drawn up, and signed by the good Abbe."—"Have you, indeed?" answered he with surprise, strongly marked in his countenance,—"I am rejoiced to hear it; I hope you take great care of it." "Most certainly," I returned, "I keep it in my little ivory cabinet, presented to me at the convent, and lock that safely in my escritoire."—"That's right, my love, we may one day find it necessary to produce so unequivocal a proof of our marriage." He then changed the subject, and sought to amuse me by repeating some entertaining anecdotes, that he remarked in his travels. Two days after this event, a messenger came from the late Abbe's, with a letter to the Count, which he had left orders should be forwarded to him for his friend the Count; as we still retained the name of Sultsbach.
I trembled at the sight of this letter, and absolutely gasped for breath whilst he perused it. I watched the turn of his countenance, and saw it promised no good to me.—"Tell me," I cried, "what answer has your father given to your request?"—"One that surprises me as much as it hurts me," he replied. "He refuses his consent to our marriage, not merely because you are portionless, but because you are the daughter of a man he hates; one whose insolence obliged him to complain against him, and to have dismissed from the army."—"Good Heavens!" I exclaimed; "is it possible Count Wolfran was that destroyer of my father's happiness! Oh! my dear father, why, why did you not name your cruel enemy to me!" "You mistake the matter," said my husband, very coolly: "It appears that the insolence of Mr. Hautweitzer drew upon himself the just indignation of Count Wolfran."
The tone in which he pronounced these words, had more in it than the words themselves: It pierced my heart, and I burst into tears. He seemed affected—besought me not to be uneasy; time might do much for us.—The mutual hatred between our fathers was certainly an unlucky business; but as he found that the Count his father would soon return to his estate, no endeavours on his side should be wanting to do away the prejudice conceived against me. I endeavoured to be content with this assurance; but from that fatal hour, thought I could perceive a change in his disposition; he grew thoughtful, capricious, and often left me for hours alone, without apologizing or accounting for his frequent absences. No letters arrived from my father, nor did I know where to direct to him. The house of the late Abbe was now occupied by a stranger, and it was a million to one if any letters would ever reach us. This reflection gave me great pain, and I often requested the Count to set an inquiry on foot relative to the Polish army, that I might obtain some intelligence of my father's destination. This, he assured me, he had done without effect.
One day he told me, that as his father might soon return, he thought it would be most expedient for him to visit the relation on whose fortune he had such great expectancies, and prevail on him to interest himself in his behalf. "He also," said he, "will doubtless be displeased with me; but I know my influence over him; his anger will be but momentary, and I shall easily persuade him to coincide with my wishes." This proposal from my husband appeared wise and plausible; I had nothing to object to it, but being left alone. This fear and reluctance of being separated for a week or two, he treated as childish, until, ashamed of my folly, I gave into the plan, and a short day was fixed on to begin his journey, which I learnt was at least a hundred and fifty miles distance; but he promised me a letter from every post town.
The day came; I saw him depart with a sad foreboding that some untoward circumstance would intervene between us. I suffered unutterable anguish, and retired to my apartment overwhelmed with grief. After giving way to my sorrow for some time, I tried to shake off the despondency that oppressed me; and having begun some time before to embroider a sword knot for him, I drew out my work to employ myself. I wanted some silver thread, and recollected a parcel of it was in a drawer of my small ivory cabinet, which had been presented to me by my dear Miss D'Alenberg.
I opened the escritoire, where this cabinet was deposited, and easily found the thread.—A sudden inclination seized me to peruse the certificate of my marriage. I opened the private drawer, and found it empty. Astonishment, for a moment, overpowered me; but recollecting myself, I conceived I had mistaken the drawer. I hastily explored every part of it; but the object of my search could not be found. What my feelings were, I cannot describe; nor can I recollect the anguish of that moment without horror.—What was become of my treasure, or on whom could my suspicions fall? was the first questions that presented themselves to my mind, and caused an universal trembling through my whole frame.
I had some little ornaments of value,—those were all safe; the locks of the trunk and cabinet I found in good order, yet it was a fatal truth that the certificate, which not many days previous to this I had seen in the drawer, was lost, and must have been taken by some one who knew of its importance to me. "Good Heavens!" I exclaimed—"Surely the Count——."—The words died on my tongue; the idea was horrible; the extent of misery which that thought might lead to, overcame my senses, and for a moment rendered me insensible. When my reason returned, in a state little short of distraction, I again renewed my search, but in vain; the fatal certainty of my loss was confirmed, and a thousand dreadful images rushed upon my mind at the same time.
With difficulty I descended to my apartment: I had never entrusted my keys with either of the servants; nor could it be probable they would have taken a paper of no consequence to them, and have left several valuable baubles, which, as I did not wear them, might not have been presently missed. There was but one person that I could suspect; and what his motives could have been, to rob me of a paper he had allowed to be very essential to me, after the death of the good Abbe, was a doubt, the solution of which tortured me almost to madness. Yet so fervent was my affection—so perfect my confidence in the love and honour of my husband, that I strove even against conviction to believe I wronged him by my suspicions, and endeavoured to support my spirits until the following day, when, as I expected to hear from him, so I intended to write, and inform him of this extraordinary event.
CHAPTER III
The next day came, and my agitations every hour in the hope of a letter, cannot be expressed. Alas! every succeeding hour, both on that day and the next, brought with it disappointment and sorrow. I grew almost frantic; my servants were astonished at my emotions, which, however, I sought to suppress, were but too visible, as I could neither eat nor sleep. In this state of wretchedness and suspense, I past five days; the sixth put an end to the last, and completed the first. I had scarcely left my pillow, where my wearied head had in vain sought repose, before I was informed a man on horseback at the door had brought a packet for me. I snatched it with trembling eagerness. It was the Count's writing: Even now I sicken at the recollection of what my feelings were, when I perused the contents. Indeed, I could not get through the whole, before I lost my senses, having just time to pull the bell, as I found myself sinking from my chair.
Let me briefly hurry over this part of my story, so dreadful even at this distance of time, that I wonder my life or reason had not been the sacrifice to such inhuman baseness. The letter informed me—
"That his father, having in the most peremptory manner forbidden our marriage, in consequence of an engagement he had entered into with another family, and also because of the insuperable aversion he entertained for Mr. Hautweitzer; he (the Count) was inexpressibly grieved to acquaint me, that in obedience to the author of his being, he was compelled, though with extreme reluctance, to relinquish the hopes he had indulged of passing his life with a lady he so truly loved and esteemed; but the sacred commands he had received, with the insurmountable difficulties that impeded such a union from ever taking place, obliged him to take this method of conveying to me the information, in compassion to both our feelings. As he must ever be interested in my happiness, he had taken care to leave four hundred crowns in his writing desk, which he hoped would be a sum sufficient to convey me to my father, or support me in the hamlet until his arrival."
Such were th
e cruel contents of this horrid letter, so deeply imprinted in my memory, never to be erased. The moment I regained my senses, I called for the messenger. No such person was to be found.—While the servant came to me, he had taken the opportunity to disappear. My cruel destiny now unfolded itself at once. I had no witness to my marriage; my certificate had been basely stolen by the most inhuman of mankind: I had assumed a fictitious name, which, when known, must at best give me a questionable and doubtful character, and I had no one being interested enough for me to assert my rights, or chastise the author of my wrongs.
Continual faintings brought me into such a state of weakness by the following day, that my servants thought it necessary to call in a physician, with which I was much displeased; for I most earnestly wished for death; but it pleased Heaven to restore me to health, or at least a comparative health, that I might endure yet greater miseries, if possible, the consequences of my credulity and folly. What bitter self-reproach have I not suffered, and must ever feel to the end of my existence.
As soon as I was able to leave my bed, I determined to pursue my cruel husband, and try, by gentleness, to restore him to a sense of his duty to me; but that, if he still persisted in refusing to acknowledge me as his wife, I would then boldly assert my claims upon him, and publish his baseness to all the world. I knew not where to find my father; but even if I had known, I shrunk from the idea of meeting him under my present humiliating circumstances. When I grew collected enough to form my plan, passion and resentment contributed to give me unusual courage; and from the timid lovesick Louisa, I became the haughty injured wife of Count Wolfran, and assumed a character very unlike my former self.
As he had, in the early days of our marriage, mentioned the residence of his relation, I did not hesitate a moment in forming a resolution to follow him there. I therefore hired a carriage for my journey, dismissed my servants, gave up the house, and prevailed on the relation of my late worthy friend, the Abbe, who resided in the village to take charge of my trunks and other effects. Despair gave me spirits, fortitude, and perseverance, astonishing even to myself, and enabled me, within a very few days, to set off for Ulm, the residence of Baron Nolker, the worthy uncle of a most unworthy man.—Happily, I met with no interruptions or accidents, but arrived safe at a capital inn in the city of Ulm.
It was not difficult to gain information of the Baron's house, or his character; the first was not far from the city, and the landlady of the inn spoke warmly in praise of the latter. I was now to reflect on a proper mode of introducing myself, whether to send for the Count, or go boldly to the house.—Whilst I was deliberating, turning my eyes involuntarily towards the street, I saw him pass with a lady and a gentleman. My whole soul seemed in tumults, racked by love and indignation. I hastily rung the bell, and sent a servant after him, to say that a gentleman, an old friend, wished to speak with him immediately: He, knowing the natural timidity of my character, had not, at the moment, the smallest suspicion of my having undertaken such a journey. He turned back, and was in an instant before me.
Never shall I forget the guilt and confusion portrayed in his countenance; he started, and was about to retire without uttering a word, scarcely, I believe, knowing his own intentions; but I was too quick, for laying hold of his arm.—"Stop, Count," I cried, endeavouring to repress my emotions.—"Stop, my dear Count, do you not know your Louisa.—Be not offended; I am here unknown, without you choose to acknowledge me." More astonished, if possible, by this address, than even by my presence, he led me in silence to a chair, doubtless considering in what manner to impose on my credulity, or bring me over to his wishes.—"Louisa," said he at length, in a voice soft and agitated, "Louisa, I am surprised and concerned to see you here. You have taken a very wrong step, which may materially injure me and yourself." "I hope not," I replied with quickness; "for certainly what affects you must concern me. Man and wife can have but one interest; but I felt a necessity for coming here, that you might disavow a vile forgery in your name, calculated, no doubt, to make me miserable. I have too firm a reliance on your love, honour, and integrity, to be for a moment imposed upon by an attempt so impudent and so improbable. Here, my love," added I, drawing out the letter I had received; "read this horrid scroll, and then you will not be surprised that your Louisa determined to afford you an opportunity to vindicate your honour, and trace the infamous hand which sought to destroy our happiness."
He took the letter; his hand trembled, and every feature in his face betrayed the agitation of his mind.—"You ought," said he, falteringly, 'to have written to me, if there was a necessity for so doing: You must be sensible, that, in the present state of things, your journey here was highly impolitic, to say no worse of it."—"Ah!" cried I, "could you think it possible for me to be composed, when thus convinced that we have some unknown enemy, who, having gone such lengths as to assume your name, and imitate your hand, will surely hesitate at nothing to make us wretched, and may possibly try to practise on your judgment, as he designed to do on my credulity."
At the moment, when tracing this scene, I am astonished at the fortitude and dissimulation I had the power to acquire over my feelings, and never, I believe, was a man so truly perplexed and confused as the Count. My behaviour was so unexpected, that he was entirely at a loss what answer to frame; whether to own or deny the letter, which he still held without opening it. I saw the workings of his mind, and exulted in the propriety of my plan.—"Why do you not read that detestable scroll?" I asked.—"My dear Louisa," said he, "I have not time now to attend to that or to you; a particular engagement obliges me to leave you, but I will return in the evening, and explain every thing to your satisfaction."—"Well, my love," I replied, "I wish not to intrude on your time or engagements: You will find me perfectly obedient to all your wishes;—now that I see you forgive this apparent rash step, and are convinced that the necessity justified my proceeding." He made me some vague and trifling answer; again promised to see me in the evening, and requested I would keep myself concealed.
CHAPTER IV
When he had left me, I gave a free indulgence to my tears, and those emotions I had so hardly repressed. I saw too plainly the duplicity of his character, and that I was to be the most unfortunate of women. Yet the conduct I had adopted appeared to be the only mode I could pursue. Reproaches would avail nothing, and only harden a depraved mind; whilst, by discrediting the authenticity of the letter, I gave him time for reflection, and an opportunity to disavow it, should honour or tenderness soften him to do me justice.
In a thousand reflections of this kind, I passed the intervening time of his absence; and when I heard his voice at the door speaking to a servant, my heart fluttered almost from its enclosure. He entered the room with an air of haughtiness, mixed with complacency, rather assumed than natural, and bespoke different feelings from those I had observed when he left me. I had time for those remarks, as he deliberately shut the door, took off his hat, and drew a chair close to mine.
"Louisa," said he, in a firm tone, "I come not now to indulge in foolish expressions of a romantic passion, which your own understanding must inform you cannot long exist. I do not pretend to exculpate myself from blame, by pleading the violence of love as an excuse for duplicity; now that the veil is withdrawn, when passion has subsided, I can see and acknowledge my errors. I have misled you. I have imposed upon your reason, and for my own gratification, have sacrificed your peace; yet I hope it will prove only a temporary suspension." He stopped.—I felt almost choked with indignation:—However, I commanded myself, and said, "Go on, Sir, as yet I do not comprehend you."
"To be brief, then," resumed he hastily, "for the subject cannot be expatiated upon; My father commands me to marry a young lady of fortune and connexions, to whom my uncle is guardian. I dare not refuse him." Here I started and exclaimed, "How! dare not?" "No," answered he, "I dare not: I deceived you as to my fortune; I have a very small independence;—my father can dispose of his property as he pleases: My uncle assures me his, only on condi
tion that I comply with my father's commands. Thus I am compelled to obey; for I have no possibility of maintaining you or myself, if I brave their requisitions, and must be for ever reprobated, if I indulge my own desires by a further connexion with a lady, who, however dear to me, is the daughter of a man hateful to my father, and obnoxious to my family.
"The compulsatory acquiescence I have been drawn into, has given me an infinite deal of pain; the letter you have given to me I must acknowledge (at this moment I was absolutely speechless). Let me add, that on yourself depends your future happiness.—Your father is unacquainted with what has past between us. I have not had the temerity to mention any particulars to mine.—You must know, that you can produce no claims upon me, if I choose to disavow them. Therefore, both for your honour and interest, you must relinquish all idea of making such claims as you cannot justify: By so doing, you will retain my friendship, and a handsome allowance, which I will settle on you for life. If, on the contrary, you persist in your present plan, to expose yourself, and compel me publicly to throw you off, you will make an irreconcilable enemy of me. Your father will hear the reputation of his daughter for ever destroyed, and the hatred of my father will find gratification in the dishonour attached to a family he dislikes.—Consider deliberately on all the arguments I have adduced, for the preservation of your character and future independence."
Here the base deceiver stopped, after having completely unmasked his character, and developed his dark designs. The latter part of this long speech had driven all foolish tenderness from my heart. Conscious innocence, pride, and indignation, raised me to a spirit above all fond complainings.—I viewed the man before me with a contempt that superseded affection: For when once an ingenuous mind feels the object of its tenderness in a despicable point of view, as void of integrity or honour, it is not difficult to change the nature of its sentiments, since true love must be founded upon esteem; and when that is annihilated, the other ceases to exist in a well informed mind. The errors, the imprudence I had been guilty of, in forming this too hasty connexion, perhaps deserved a punishment, but not from him. His behaviour had lifted me above myself, and conveyed more knowledge to my understanding in one hour, than from my little experience I had acquired in years. But to return.
The Complete Northanger Horrid Novel Collection (9 Books of Gothic Romance and Horror) Page 176