Chapter XXVI

Pursuing his original intention, he directed his course to Italy; nor till he breathed the pure air of his father’s native country, did he begin to revive from the dreadful effects of the blow he had received, or feel lighter of the weight of woe that had oppressed him. Arrived at Naples, again he was at home, escaped as it were from the fangs of demons who tormented him, to be received with joy, among friends who loved him. His mourning habit, his melancholy air, his evident wretchedness, drew towards him the warm hearts who should most relieve him from himself, and from the contemplation of misfortunes now irremediable.

By degrees the unhappiness of Angelo diminished, though a corroding anxiety to discover his children still remained, and actuated him to use every effort; all however proved unhappily fruitless, every inquiry vain, to a dispiriting degree; and in despair he began to believe that the curse of Heaven was visited upon him, and that his offspring, unnoticed, and unclaimed were doomed in sad dishonour to wander through the earth. At length, after remaining a considerable time at Naples, the project of seeking Madame Bertrand in Switzerland again occurred to him; but when he prepared to put his plan in execution his courage failed, and the thought that he was about to of his Italian friends, and each sought revisit the scenes where first in the bloom of youth and innocence, in placid content and peace he had beheld the lovely ill fated Gabrielle; where too he had first blighted the hopes of that youth, destroyed that innocence, marred for ever its blissful content, and become a villain, though not a deliberate one perhaps, beneath the roof of trusting hospitality;--the deep consciousness of the wrongs he had committed, was too strong for the heart of Angelo, and his mind was too weak to endure the retrospection of them amid scenes and in shapes so harrowing. He had not fortitude to inflict upon himself the renovated pangs of conscience, nor to bow beneath those pangs as just, or hail them as expiatory; to feel that he was a wretch was already too much; to have it confirmed to him in a thousand different damning ways, would have driven him to absolute distraction, or at once have annihilated him.

His friends (some of whom were sufficiently interested in him to endeavour to read his mind, and consequently discovered its anguished workings,) dissuaded him from the idea altogether, and proposed instead that he should address Madame Bertrand by letter on the subject nearest his heart, and which would answer every purpose to be gained equally with a visit. To this alternative Angelo, appearing convinced of its eligibility, yielded with secret joy, happy to have an excuse for sparing himself those terrible pangs, which, on anticipation only, had already shaken him to the very centre. In Naples beside he was as much at ease as the nature of circumstances and the occasional intrusion of sad remembrances would permit; every one studied to cheer and amuse him, and none more than those who, having known Gabrielle, appreciated in a degree the greatness of his loss, and sympathized in his grief: in short, there was nothing which could render his residence in this country otherwise than pleasing.

The wretched Oriana, whose continuance in it would have been to him not only a source of extreme uneasiness, but a perpetual reproach, no longer existed on the face of the earth; she had paid the debt of her vices and profligacy in a premature death. Having met with a lover who proved a second Fiorenza, but to whom she was determined not equally to submit, the contest, carried on with obstinacy by her, was repaid with violence and equal obstinacy from him, till wearied by her stubborn perseverance, and impatient at her presumption, he one day, during a furious quarrel, plunged his stiletto in her breast: she languished for a time under the wound, and then expired in agony, while the dastard who had inflicted the blow hastily secured the whole of what she possessed, and fled. Such had been the fate of Oriana, who had ended her career of infamy by a miserable death, and whose dissolute life had merited no better catastrophe.

A letter was dispatched to Madame Bertrand, or rather Boffuet, and Angelo awaited her reply in anxious impatience; it arrived, but contained nothing, alas! to renovate his hopes. In it he had only the painful and discouraging repetition of having never yet heard the least tidings of her beloved Agnes, since the hour of her departure; bitter lamentations, that opened afresh his own wounds, for the death of her adored Gabrielle, (which event he had in his letter made known to her); horrible apprehensions, vividly pourtrayed, which conjured too before the mind of Angelo, the most appalling images of what might be the probable fate of her dear lost child; and then, with that pardonable egotism so natural to human nature, did she revert to her own unfortunate situation, the folly she had been guilty of in marrying, at her years, a brutal, selfish and passionate wretch like Boffuet, and the merited punishment of harsh and cruel treatment which she had in consequence experienced.

Angelo could read nothing with indifference that fell from the pen of her who had been the dearest friend of Gabrielle, and tender protectress of his child; he therefore after shedding bitter tears over what more immediately regarded those so dear to him, paid the tribute of a few to the unhappiness of an excellent woman, in whose unmerited misfortunes he could not but sincerely sympathise.

Some short time further having now elapsed, notwithstanding his agreeable situation in Italy, and that no other country could have for him equal charms, Angelo determined to quit this terrestrial paradise, and to return to England, where if after every possible means through the most public channels should have been resorted to, to develope some trace, or obtain some intelligence of his children, he could still obtain not the remotest information of either, he resolved to traverse all Europe in search of them, and even to penetrate into other quarters of the globe, if the shadow of a probability offered that researches so distant might not prove ineffectual. So long as he was inactive, he considered that he was not obeying the injunctions of the sainted Gabrielle, and in the midst of those little festivities with which his friends sometimes contrived to entertain him, suddenly he would start up, and rush from the gay scene, as considering that he was not pursuing her last desires, and secretly accuse himself of a sacrilegious negligence. Such was the high influence and triumph, though late obtained, of virtue and excellence, over the wandering and unsteady mind of a libertine.

It was in vain for those who prized the society of Angelo, and desired to retain him among them, to represent to him the wildness of his proposed plan, or seek to impress upon his mind, that the ideas of Gabrielle in entreating him to think of his children, and endeavour to trace them, never extended to the length that he imagined; he persevered in his determination, alledging that he should not religiously fulfil her dying request, or his promise to her, if while he had life, he desisted from the unremitting search. He fixed then a period for his departure, and while the time rapidly approached, his friends, anxious at least to procrastinate it, imagined an endless variety of entertainment, calculated to have dissipated lesser cares, and have shaken resolutions less firm.

One evening walking solitary among some of the beautiful environs of Naples, he beheld at a slight distance before him a young female, who though veiled from head to foot, betrayed a figure of such exquisite symmetry that involuntarily he was attracted towards her. Angelo was no longer young, and tumultuous passion for the fair had long ceased to agitate his heart; yet still was he not insensible to their attractions, and was an enthusiastic admirer of beauty, without being a lover.

Desirous if possible to behold the fair countenance which he conceived must appertain to a form so divine, he quickened his pace, and had nearly reached the object of an idle curiosity, when by accident she stumbled and fell. Angelo, no longer entertaining an idea but that of rendering assistance, flew to raise her from the ground, and with the most delicate attention offered his services; the veil of the fair incognita had fallen aside, and discovered a countenance which exceeded if possible the expectations which her figure had raised. Without being absolutely what is termed beautiful, there was in it an expression which surpassed beauty’s self, and conveyed to the mind an idea of loveliness, such as its most enthusiastic imagery could never have conceived. Angelo gazed with an admiration that almost deprived him of the ease and self possession acquired by long intercourse with polished society; while the young female modestly, thanking him for the assistance he had rendered her, turned in another direction from that in which she had been walking, for the purpose of returning home.

This movement recovered Angelo, and with that gracefulness of manner peculiarly his own, which no time could diminish, he offered her his arm, entreating that she would deign to lean upon it, till she had in some degree recovered the agitation occasioned by her accident.

“Indeed, Signor,” answered she with an enchanting naïveté, and deeply blushing, “if it would not materially inconvenience you, I would accept your kind offer, as in truth I feel so much hurt as to be scarcely capable of walking.”

The heart of Angelo felt an emotion of pleasure; he presented his arm for her acceptance with an air of respectful interest, and requested that she would support herself wholly upon it. A female needed his assistance--this was enough for the highly bred and polished Angelo to keep a watchful guard over his language, and not to embarrass or oppress, even by his admiration, one who had honoured him so far as to believe she ran no risk by accepting his protection. The fair female consequently found herself at ease. The appearance of Angelo, though strictly elegant, was no longer that of a young man; this circumstance contributed likewise to increase her confidence; he spoke little, but that little with delicacy and reserve, seeming scarcely to exact a return; he confined himself to general observations, or adverted to such topics as the most lovely and innocent female might have participated in without a blush.

At length, at the entrance of a small villa, which had nothing in its exterior to recommend it, but a modest simple elegance, the fair stranger stopped. “This,” said she, with an air slightly embarrassed, “is my residence, Signor.”

Angelo bowed, and perceiving her confusion, relieved her instantly by saying, “I will not ask permission to intrude at present, Signora; but if I might to-morrow be suffered to inquire if you have sustained any ill effects from your accident--”

“I--I live entirely alone, Signor, and--and”--she stopped and deeply blushed.

Angelo knew women well; by this time he had acquired experience, and was well versed in their various artifices. A new light broke upon his mind, he gazed upon the fair creature before him with altered eyes; she appeared innocent, but it must be delusion; he beheld in her no longer a virtuous female, but the gay Cleopatra of some Italian noble, retained according to their custom in a favourite and retired villa, as the soft companion of their lighter hours. Immediately at this conception, whether just or unjust, and which had its source in the prejudice of Angelo against the sex, from his knowledge (with a single exception only) of the worser part, his real respect vanished; the discovery which he considered he had made, arrested on his lips the avowal of his name, which had hovered on them, and determined him not to commit himself to the frantic jealousy of an enraged lover, through the weakness of a frail female. But though his respect had vanished, his politeness, deceptive semblance! remained, and while he could scarcely avoid lamenting that such peculiar beauty should want the intrinsic ornament of innocence, his admiration did not subside, and he felt an unconquerable desire once more to behold, and learn further of the lovely stranger.

With a gay air therefore, but devoid of levity, he observed, “I trust, Signora, that your being alone forms no obstacle to the favour I have solicited.”

“Gratitude commands that I should see you again, indeed, Signor; but I know not if it is warranted by a strict propriety.”

Angelo deeming this a flight of affectation merely, smiled archly as he answered: “The _idea_ is every thing, Signora; the feeling which would prompt you to admit me is a virtue; how then, in yielding to it, can you be guilty of an impropriety?”

“Farewell, for the present, Signor,” cried the young female, gracefully waving her hand, as she entered the house. Angelo returned her courtesy with a smile. “She will not _say_ she wishes to see me again,” said he mentally, “but it is sufficiently evident without.” Impressed with this idea, and others no more favourable to the fair incognita, he slowly retraced his way home.

The next morning he failed not to be punctual to his self-invited appointment; he beheld her walking in the garden before her house, and was not displeased to remark that she received him with an air of pleasure; she invited him into the house with that mixture of frankness and politeness that, while it placed him entirely at ease, repressed at the same time improper familiarity. Thus, though surrounding circumstances encouraged suspicion, her own manners, appearance, and conduct, repelled every calumnious idea.

The interior of the dwelling corresponded to its exterior; it was simple, tasteful, elegant; an air of ease and comfort reigned throughout, and no second inhabitant was visible, save an ancient female domestic. Still would cruel suspicion intrude into the mind of Angelo. “Why did this lovely creature live in such profound solitude? why, if a respectable female, did she not mix in society, or draw around her a select circle of appropriate companions? why, this air of mystery? why, if her sources of livelihood were such, and her means of indulgence such as need not shrink from the broad eye of investigation, why young, polished, elegant and entitled to a high seat in society, still prefer (at least) an equivocal retirement, unnoticed, and unsanctioned by the world?”

That her situation was such as he had at first suspected, he still continued to believe, and still therefore was unwilling to acknowledge himself for who he was; for the present he had evaded rendering his name, by having first recognized the fair stranger in her garden, and having addressed her while there. But desirous as he was to wrap _himself_ in concealment, knowing how easily the jealousy of an Italian lover is excited, he could perceive no reason for a similar reserve on the part of the fair one, whose divulgement of her name to him must be considered a matter of no import whatever. When therefore on the point of departing, he took her hand with an air of respect and said, “So delighted have I been, I have not even asked the name of the fair creature who has yielded me the pleasure of her conversation.”

“My name, Signor, is Ida,” returned the young female, slightly blushing.

“Ida!” repeated Angelo, with an air that seemed to say, “and nothing more?”

“Ida,” she replied again to his inquiring glance.

“Ida only,” thought Angelo; “more mystery!”

“But, Signor,” added Ida timidly, “I hope I am not incorrect in asking whom I have had the honour of conversing with?”

Angelo was wholly unprepared for this natural question, for with the pride incidental to man, he thought it only right that his own curiosity should be gratified, while he did not infer the necessity of gratifying that of others in return. But Ida, with all her unassuming naïveté, appeared to expect an answer; and Angelo, in confusion, seeing no longer the possibility of escape, mechanically sought for his card, and with a constrained bow presented it to the fair inquirer. She glanced her eye slightly over it, and exclaimed,

“Il Marchese di Orbino,” at the same time bowing gracefully towards Angelo.

Angelo was instantly sensible of the error of Ida, and of his own involuntary mistake, in having given her in his confusion the card of a friend, (which he had accidentally about him,) in lieu of his own. With a start of surprise he was about to explain, when the idea suddenly struck him, that by permitting her to remain in her error, he was hidden beneath an impenetrable veil, while at the same time he promised himself that he would neither disgrace the name of his friend, nor make an improper use of the covert which it lent him. It was not that Angelo shrunk from the probability of a duel, for he wanted neither courage nor bravery, nor that he dreaded secret assassination; but he wished not at this period to have his name involved in a ridiculous affray about a woman, or unnecessarily to be pointed out as a rival, when at present he felt no inclination to become one. Further he reconciled his mind to the practice of the deception, in the reflection, that Ida observed mystery towards him, in having given him only half her name.

But thus yielding to the temptation to act with duplicity, was under any circumstances unpardonable, and unworthy in Angelo, and brought with it a punishment duly proportioned to the dereliction from honour and propriety.