Chapter XXVII

A day now scarcely elapsed that the fair Ida was not visited by Angelo. Unconsciously he had abandoned all thought of hastening his departure, and felt himself gradually and irresistibly attracted towards this newly discovered magnet. Still, however, the fair one was only Ida to him, still her manners were the same--frank, and graceful, and delicately modest; all around her still wore the self same air, and still impenetrable to the foot of other man than himself, appeared her fair abode. Inclined to suspect, yet unable to ascertain; involuntarily admiring, yet afraid to trust, Angelo revolved in vain in his mind some means of deciding at once the real character of the mysterious recluse; he could not deny but there shone in all her actions a beautiful simplicity--yet was it real? or was it not rather merely assumed?

Having dined one day with a party of his gay associates, and enjoying in the unrestrained spirit of conviviality, his wine and ices in the fresco, it occurred to him, as he found his vivacity elevated to a higher pitch than it had ever been since the death of Gabrielle, that he had never yet visited his beauteous solitary at a late hour of the evening. As he pondered on this idea, and continued drinking, he determined, exhilirated as he was, that the present would furnish him with the opportunity he had long sought of ascertaining her character in its true light: should he, as he expected, be refused admittance, he should immediately infer that her lover was with her, and his suspicions would be at once confirmed; but should he, on the contrary, be admitted, and find her as heretofore entirely alone, then, by a change of deportment towards her, would he prove if she were really the innocent and virtuous creature she appeared to be.

Thus is it with man--if a female wears the semblance of being virtuous, if even calumny’s self cannot prove her otherwise, then do they require some proof stronger even than truth itself; but if being not equally _wary_ as _virtuous_, if unable to resist or circumvent various temptation and ceaseless manœuvre, at length she fall, then do they despise her for her weakness, triumphantly and cruelly adducing it in confirmation of their assertion, that “she could never have been virtuous.”

Flushed with wine, heated in the anticipation of expected victory, Angelo stole silently from his companions, and bent his steps towards the residence of Ida. Instantly he was admitted, and found her alone; he approached her with an air gayer than usual, and was received with the same artless and undisguised pleasure as ever by her.--“Ha!” thought Angelo, “she is not _displeased_ with my visit at this unusual hour; she is perhaps the _discarded_ mistress of some fickle Italian--lovely to a degree though, who could forsake her?”

Ida, who either did not observe, or was not aware of the situation of Angelo, and who had ever considered the disparity of their years as sufficient to obviate the idea of impropriety in receiving his visits, attributed this unwonted vivacity to an overflow merely of animal spirits, and thought not of an attempt to repress them. This forbearance, while it strengthened his suspicions against her, emboldened him in the pursuit of his intentions; his respect began gradually in appearance to diminish, his language became more tender and familiar, and his looks declared to Ida that he entertained sentiments which she had been incapable of suspecting.

In proportion as he became less respectful, she grew more reserved; and when at length she found it necessary to be seriously indignant, Angelo attributing it all to intolerable affectation, seized her suddenly in his arms, and swore that she appeared if possible more beautiful in anger than in kindness.

Mortified, indignant not less at his manner than at his action, for she wished to regard him as a tender, rational, and respectful friend, rather, than a lover, she broke from him, and viewing him with eyes flashing scorn and indignation, commanded him instantly to quit the house.

“What,” cried Angelo, essaying again to clasp her in his arms, “and leave you thus offended?”

The delicate Ida struggled violently to escape from his grasp; while Angelo, ravished at her beauty and unmoved by her distress, gazed eagerly upon her. Finding every effort vain against his superior strength, she made a last desperate effort to disengage herself, and in so doing, a portrait which had been concealed in her bosom, escaped from its confinement, and would have fallen to the ground, but that Angelo, catching it from the broken chain, exclaimed,

“Ah! behold the secret of your severity to me!--let us see at least the object of your preference.”

So saying, he brought the picture near the light; he held it to his eyes, while Ida, overcome by shame, horror and exhaustion was unable to offer resistance.--He gazed--gazed wildly!--he gasped for breath. Could it be?--ah! it was no delusion--the portrait of his father met his view!--of his mother!--those he had given himself to Gabrielle!--Distracted, overcome with terrible emotion, scarce knowing what he did, he sought the well known spring--he touched it--the portraits divided--he beheld _himself_ in childhood! ah, far less changed indeed in feature than in mind!

Now he looked eagerly on the creature before him; the heart which had beat tumultuous with unholy passion, now thrilled with horror! she could be no other than his _daughter_ whom he beheld, whom he would have destroyed!

In a faint faltering voice he said, “Speak, speak? who gave you this;--are you not called--Montmorency?”

Ida, who on beholding in the countenance of Angelo the sudden change from the high blush of licentious transport to the pale agony of terror, had recovered from personal apprehension, and found her feelings attracted in a different channel. With eager glances, and in an irregular tone, anticipating she knew not what, she replied to the question of Angelo--“It was a _mother_ gave it to me--it was all she had to give.”

“Her name! her name!” gasped Angelo.

“Gabrielle de Montmorency!”

Angelo flew towards her, he clasped her to his breast, while Ida, still trembling, unknowing what to think, endeavoured to withdraw from his strict embrace.

“Oh you need not--you need not,” cried Angelo in agony, and almost suffocated by conflicting emotion, horror, confusion, remorse,--“I--I am--your _Father_--your name is not Ida, but Agnes.”

Ida shrieked, and nearly fell to the ground--her father caught her in his arms--she feared no longer, she reposed upon his bosom. With transport, then, how much more pure and delightful, did he press to his heart as a _daughter_ her whom he had viewed with other eyes, and sought for the ignoble purpose of unhallowed passion.

Agnes was the first to recover from their mutual and overpowering sensations; for the fearful lesson which Angelo had received, the awful check which had been given to his libertine pursuit, kept him silent, in inward contemplation and remorseful horror, justly alloying the refined delight he would otherwise have felt in the recovery of a daughter. She fixed her eyes upon him, and with an air of inquietude and timidity said, “Inform me, my lord, how can you be my father, yet be called il Marchese di Orbino!”

“No, no, my beloved child,” answered Angelo, near sinking with shame and confusion, “I am not so called,--it was that unwarrantable, that dangerous deception on my side that has kept us so long in ignorance of each other, that, by permitting you to remain in an error respecting my name, was near making me curse myself for a wretch steeped in irremediable sin!”

“Ah! my father, your name is then Angelo D’Albini,” cried Agnes gazing on him with eyes swimming in tears, because of the perfect resemblance she traced between him and his youthful portrait--then taking it up, she examined first one, then the other, exclaiming “How little your features appear changed, my father; the expression of the countenance is almost the same!”--Then bursting into tears, “how unhappy am I,” she added, “never to have beheld my mother, that celestial mother, of whom Madame Bertrand was continually speaking to me--Tell me, my father, how soon may I hope to behold her?”--

Angelo, who had been gazing on her with tender delight, and listening to her artless effusions, now felt his heart-strings suddenly contract, and uttering a cry of renewed anguish, he said, “Ah! you will never behold her; you--you have no mother!”

“No mother!” cried Agnes, in an accent of bitter grief.

“No, no, my love; she has long since mingled with her kindred angels--I--I it was”--the self accusation died on his lips--for where is the father who can bear to be thought guilty by his child? He covered his face with his hands, and bursting sobs rent, without relieving his heart. Agnes respected the renewed anguish of her father; she did not speak, but laying her head upon his bosom, mingled her tears with his. Angelo pressed her with a sacred fervour to his heart; through his eyes, misty with tears, he gazed upon those lovely and noble features, which often he had fancied bore a fugitive resemblance to those of the departed Gabrielle, such as when first he had beheld her; now he discerned in them an evident correspondence with those of that angelic being, though still the animated expression of her entire countenance more nearly resembled his own.

When the excess of their mutual feelings had somewhat subsided, Angelo found that he had a thousand inquiries to make, that he was on the rack to know how his beloved child could be thus situated, seemingly alone and unprotected, and by what mystery she was enabled to appear thus independent of the world. But the hour was late, and now the _father_ of her he had lately beheld with feelings and sentiments so opposite to those of the parent, was tremblingly alive to even the semblance of impropriety in the conduct of his _daughter_, and punctilious to the slightest trifle that might concern her fame. So, often with the libertine, whose moral feelings are seldom outraged by seeking to destroy the wife, sister, or daughter of _another_, yet who are ever on the watch to guard their own, and up in arms if the shadow of an insult be cast upon them.

Thus then, Angelo resolved to sacrifice his longing anxiety for an explanation from Agnes, to the interest he _now_ felt in her reputation, and tore himself away, determined to wait till the following day for its gratification, and the solution of every uneasy doubt that involuntarily preyed upon his mind.

He scarcely slept during the night, or if he did, momentarily started up, in the thrilling remembrance of having found a daughter; now in the terror that she was being torn away from him, and now in the painful thought that all was but delusion. Her probable situation sometimes presented itself to his mind; he shuddered at the idea of what she might have encountered, or burned in the agonizing apprehension that she might be infamous. Now he pondered on her seeming lovely innocence, and now writhed in anguish, lest it should have been the prey of the seducer. So passed the hours till morning, for which he waited with intolerable anxiety, and as soon as his sense of decorum, influenced as it was by strong impatience, would permit, he hastened to the abode of his daughter, almost yielding to the superstitious dread that he should no longer find her there. But the fair Agnes was at her door, eagerly expecting him; yet the delight with which she received him was mingled with embarrassment, and in her fine countenance he read the traces of uneasy sadness.--He looked at her, and unknowing why, his heart misgave him; he took her hand with tender seriousness, and led her into the house.

The impatience of Angelo to learn the particulars of her situation, was controuled by an invincible yet inexplicable sensation, that made him shrink from inquiry;--he longed, yet dreaded to hear, and feared he knew not what. The manner of Agnes too was far from tending to reassure him; it was hesitating, distressed, confused; her eyes filled momentarily with tears, and her cheeks were dyed with blushes at every word he addressed to her, when there seemed no visible cause of emotion. At length Angelo could support no longer this dreadful uncertainty; he determined to lead at once to the subject so near his heart, and to know the truth, even though death or madness must ensue. When therefore a mutual and embarrassed pause had ensued, during which he almost fancied he could behold the heart of Agnes beat beneath her robe, while his too throbbed with violent and answering emotion, he took her hand, and in a faltering voice said, “But, my dear child has not yet informed me, she has not said wherefore--what has befallen her since her departure from the roof of Madame Bertrand.”--He paused.--

“My father! my father!” replied Agnes in broken accents, “I was then very young--but I--it is my duty to inform you of every thing.”

“I am most anxious to hear indeed, my love,” replied Angelo, imagining already his worst fears verified, yet desirous to reassure her by his manner, and obtain her confidence. “Begin your relation from the moment of your departure from the roof of Madame Bertrand, and let me understand likewise why you called yourself Ida instead of Agnes.”

The face of Ida was deep crimson,--she trembled and replied, “I--I will endeavour to relate all, my father,--I will commence from the period you mention,--I will open my heart to you if I can acquire courage,--promise me, promise me only,” she added, while the tears fell fast on her bosom, “that you will be merciful in judging your child.”

At this appalling preface the soul of Angelo shook within him, but he remembered that he had _forsaken_ his child, that therefore her faults were _his_, and that if he could not be merciful in his judgment of her, what must he _himself_ merit at the bar of eternal justice, but--perdition! Fearful to trust his feelings to many words, he only pressed her hand, and murmured, “Proceed.”

After a few moments more of harrowing pause, Agnes in faltering accents spoke thus:

“I believe I was not more than eleven years of age when I left Madame Bertrand, for so I still continued to call her after her marriage with M. Boffuet. This man treated me so cruelly, that, child as I was, I wished to die that I might escape from his tyranny. My dear Madame Bertrand used to weep over me, and that I might not render her more miserable than she was from the conduct of her husband, I always endeavoured to disguise from her his treatment of me in her absence, which was infinitely worse than when she was present. He considered me as an intruder in his house, and one whom it was not incumbent on him to support, in consequence of which he scrupled not to seize every opportunity of depriving me of food.”

Already the heart of Angelo bled at every word uttered by his deserted child, the child whom he, rich in every luxury, possessing ample means to cherish and protect, had abandoned even before she was born, and resigned to the mercy of strangers, who, insensible to the tenderness of parental feelings, could without pity aggrieve and wrong her. Terrible is the thought to a fond parent, that his tender child is left among those who love it not, and to Angelo, though late inflicted, this pang was not to be for ever spared. Perceiving the grief she excited in her father, yet knowing well, keen as it was, it was the least, alas, which she must cause him to suffer; she hastened over this part of her narrative, and proceeded to later events.

“It was not however till extreme terror in the apprehension of a threatened severe chastisement from the unfeeling Boffuet, for a trifling fault, that knowing it would be impossible ultimately to escape his vengeance, which would acquire increased fury only, from being delayed, I seized an opportunity of flying secretly from the house, unknowing where to bend my steps, and indifferent if I but escaped the dreaded punishment. I wandered about among the most unfrequented vallies, and mountains I had never trod before, till as the shades of evening came on, I sat myself by a little rivulet behind the projecting part of a rock; alarmed at the prospect before me, yet still more alarmed at the idea of returning, and yielding to childish weakness, I could not restrain myself from weeping bitterly. Presently I heard footsteps approaching the spot; dreading lest it should be Boffuet in pursuit of me, I started up, and with the wildest speed began to ascend the rock, when a gentle female voice arrested my flight. ‘Do not be alarmed, my child,--do not fly.’”

I ventured to turn, and beheld an elegant female leaning on the arm of a gentleman, whose tender and compassionate looks helped to dispel my fears and induced me to stop. The lady drew nigh, and taking my hand, gazed earnestly in my countenance, then exclaimed to her companion, “Steinhaussen--my God--how much like our dear Ida!”

“I thought so the instant I beheld her,” returned the Baron Steinhaussen; then addressing me, “who are your parents, my sweet child?”

“Alas, I know not,” answered I, bursting into tears--“I never saw them.”

“How!” exclaimed they both at once, “you are an orphan then?”

“No,” answered I, “I have an angelic mother, of whom I have heard much; I have a father too, but he never saw me.”

“Tell me, sweet child,” cried the Baroness hastily, “why do we find you here?--if you belong to any one, why do you not return home?”

“No, no,” cried I in agony, “that I will never do--sooner would I remain here to perish with hunger or”----

“But wherefore?” interrupted the Baron in a soothing voice, “why would you shun your home, my child?”

“I have no home,” I replied, “none at least that I have a right to claim, and it is better to die here with hunger, where no one cares for me, than of ill treatment where I should grieve at least _one_ heart by my death.”

“But explain to us,” said the Baron; “we may find some means of reconciling you to return home, or of”----

“My dear Steinhaussen,” cried the Baroness, “this poor child seems determined not to return home; perhaps she has good reason; the probability is, if she even yielded to our persuasions, she would not long remain, or might be driven out when she would meet with none to sympathise in her forlorn situation, or to protect her.--Let us then take her with us for the present, and hear the particulars of her story afterwards; if then we still deem it eligible for her to return to her friends, or those at least who have the care of her, we will ourselves accompany her to them, and do whatever we may conceive best to ensure her future comfort. If, on the contrary, the reasons she adduces for having fled, appear to us just and reasonable, we will keep her with us, and she shall be to us instead of our dear departed Ida, whom she so strongly resembles.”

“What say you, my child?” cried the Baron, “are you inclined to go with us?”

“Oh, yes, yes,” I eagerly replied, “I should be too happy,” and running to the Baroness, I seized her hands, and kissed them, exclaiming, “You are so good, so like Madame Bertrand, whom I have been forced to quit.”

“Sweet child,” cried she, infinitely affected, “come with us at once, and unless you wish it you shall quit us no more.”

“She took me by the hand, and I returned between them to their inn; the kindness of the Baroness, and her endearing manners, induced me to tell her all I knew of my history, while upon the ill treatment I had received from Boffuet, as it had made the deepest impression upon my mind, I expatiated with heartfelt bitterness. When I had concluded, the Baroness, who had more than once shed tears during my recital, took me in her arms, and exclaimed, “Poor deserted innocent--is it not a pity, Steinhaussen, that this lovely child should return to be treated with cruelty? neither do I perceive what purpose it can answer, since she is not consigned to her parents--perhaps even they may never claim her.--It will be mercy, sure, to keep her with us--let us determine then, we will call her Ida in memory of our dear lost child; to-morrow early we take our departure hence, no one in the interim can trace her hither; and when we arrive in Germany, all search, should any be made after her, will be useless.”

“I could perceive in the Baron’s countenance as he gazed on me, that he had a strong desire to accede to the proposal of the Baroness, but could not entirely reconcile himself to the idea. On observing this, I, who desired ardently to remain with them, for Madame Bertrand had always told me that perhaps I should never see my parents, and that they had agreed to let me remain with her, yet inspired with courage, for the thought of Boffuet was appalling to me, and in remaining with her I must remain with him likewise; this terrible reflection was enough; I cast myself on my knees before the Baron, and exclaimed, ‘Ah, I intreat you do not leave me--do not force me back--yet if you determine, be assured that I will not long remain, and then what may be my fate?’”

Angelo felt indignant at discovering that Madame Bertrand had concealed from Agnes the repeated solicitations of her parents to have her returned to them, but unwilling to prejudice her tender friend in his daughter’s estimation, whose love for her alone had led her into the error of this otherwise inexcusable concealment, he checked his anger and forbore remark. Agnes proceeded.

“Well, I yield,” cried the Baron, “but upon one condition only, that should we ever learn her parents desire to reclaim her, we may unhesitatingly return her to them.”

“Be it so,” cried the Baroness, embracing me again, “I consider her now as my own, and henceforth adopt her; for sure am I those parents who could so long permit such a daughter to reside among strangers, without a thought of reclaiming her, will never at a later period find renovated affection springing up in their hearts, or desire to make search after her.” Then turning to me, “Say, my dear child, will you in future permit me to call you Ida? I shall look upon you as a daughter.”

“Oh, call me what you will,” answered I, “suffer me but to remain with you.”

“The Baron and Baroness Steinhaussen were making the tour of Switzerland, they had penetrated far into its interior, they had visited its most sublime, romantic, and unfrequented parts, they were on the eve of departing, when in one of their farewell rambles along the borders of the lake they had encountered me. I considered myself supremely happy in this accidental occurrence, and joyfully accompanied them on the following morning, (the period which had been already fixed for their departure). One thing alone embittered my happiness, it was the idea of the sufferings of my dear Madame Bertrand, when she should find that I no more returned. I longed to give her some intelligence respecting my situation, but fear lest the tyrannical Boffuet, for the purpose of making me endure some horrible punishment, should insist on my being restored, was sufficient to deter me from, and make me shudder at the thought.

“I shall pass over, my dear father, a period of several years, during which time I was treated by my protecting friends in every respect as their daughter, and was universally esteemed as such. They gave me the name of Ida, which had been that of an only beloved daughter, who had died in their arms at nearly the same age as myself, when first I became known to them. Thus was I as happy as circumstances would permit, and no inquiries respecting me having from that period reached them, they had no other idea but that of considering me for ever as their own, the Baroness frequently assuring me that she was uncertain which she most loved, her son, still absent at Gottingen perfecting his education, or myself.

“But although I was unclaimed by my parents, perhaps even my existence unknown to them, not a day elapsed that they were absent from my mind; of my sainted mother I loved to think, I remembered and cherished all that Madame Bertrand had told me concerning her, and considering her as something above mortality, I even addressed my prayers to her, and in fond enthusiasm implored her influence to direct my conduct.

“That beloved portrait which Madame Bertrand had informed me her dear hands had placed round my neck, when for the last time she saw me, I gazed on every night with the holy fervour of a bigot, kissed and piously worshipped. It was all I could call mine, it was almost my only care. If accidentally I stumbled, unmindful of the pain or injury I might feel, I examined eagerly my portrait; if that was safe, I was indifferent to every other consideration. In sorrow it consoled me, in sickness it cured me, if despondent I but gazed on it, hope and pleasing prospects danced in my view. I lamented that it was only the _gift_ of my dear mother, and that her own fair image was not added to the group; in default, however, I would gaze on that of the Countess D’Albini, and would endeavour to persuade myself that it was hers, or resembled her at least. I had shown it to the Baroness Steinhaussen, as a miser shews his gold; scarcely could I endure that she should touch it. “My dear child,” said she to me, “you will lose this valuable ornament, and it is not impossible but that at some future period its possession might be material to you; give it into my hands, I will carefully preserve it for you; you run great risk indeed in carrying it thus about you.”

“Ah, dear madam,” cried I, “by accident I can never lose it, I guard it as it were my life, neither fraud nor violence could wrest it from me, but if that were possible, I should never live to regret its loss; do not then desire me to resign it to you, for with no one can it be more safe than with myself.” The Baroness pressed me no further, and my cherished treasure remained in my bosom.

Angelo raised his eyes to Heaven in grateful acknowledgment for the happiness he had gained, and for the horrors he had avoided by its fortunate preservation. Agnes proceeded.

“I had never yet beheld Darlowitz, the son of the Baron Steinhaussen; all I knew of him was from his parents, who spoke of him in terms of rapture; and I learnt that he was affianced to a beautiful female who frequently visited at the house, and never failed to make the minutest inquiries respecting his health, pursuits, and when he would return home. At length he returned.”--

Agnes paused--“He was elegant and accomplished”--deep blushes covered her ingenuous face, and bosom; she cast her tearful eyes upon the ground; the soul of Angelo grew sick within him--he trembled, and his emotion incapacitated him from speaking.

Agnes continued in a faltering voice, “He conceived an attachment for me, in preference to her to whom he was betrothed--I--I--oh God! my father, will you not spare me?” she exclaimed in an agony, and bursting into tears.

“Oh, wretch! monstrous, and accursed wretch! that I am,” cried the father, starting on his feet with the wild looks of despair--“Agnes, Agnes, you are then infamous!”--

Agnes sobbed aloud, and casting herself at the feet of her father--“Infamous do you call me, oh, my father!” she murmured,

“Speak, speak,--are you not?--oh! if you are not, say at once, and save my brain from bursting!”

“--I--I--Darlowitz--I loved him--he--”

“He made you his wife--say that he did--oh! say it, Agnes!”--

“No, no”--cried Agnes, “I cannot say it, but”--

“But what?”--

“With joy he would have made me so.”

“Oh, God!--_tremendous_ God!” cried Angelo in a wild voice, and sinking on his knees, beside his daughter, “I have deserved all this--yes, yes, I _feel_ that I have. Agnes! my girl, my deserted helpless girl,” he added, pressing her in his arms--“I will not--I _dare_ not reproach thee. Speak to me in confidence then,--proceed, and let me know all. I will endeavour to hear thee, and not yield to madness;--and for the anguish I may feel, it is my merited portion. Rise, my beloved--rise, and proceed.”

The drooping Agnes tremblingly arose, leaning on the extended hand of her father,--he pressed her in his arms--re-seated her, and she thus continued. “Though the Baroness loved me as a daughter, no sooner did she discover the secret of her son’s attachment to me, than she became half frantic; accident had revealed it to her, and one day when Darlowitz was in my apartment conversing to me of his passion, she entered and surprised us. “Is it thus, ungrateful girl!” she cried, “that you reward my love? and you, Darlowitz, is it thus _you_ respect the honour of your father?”

“I burst into tears; grief, shame, humiliation debarred me of the power of speech; but Darlowitz approaching, took my hand, which on the entrance of his mother he had relinquished, and said--“Weep not, my beloved Ida, for are you not in reality my wife? and have I not sworn never to consider as such, other than yourself? Madam,” proceeded he, addressing the Baroness, “I loved Ida almost from the moment I beheld her; she loved me in return, and she became mine. When you speak of the honour of my father, remember the honour of your son, and feel that he is bound by every tie to her, moral, human, and divine.”

“Oh! great God! Darlowitz,” exclaimed the Baroness, “you have become a wretch, you are the seducer of innocence, of an unfortunate orphan protected beneath the roof of the Baron; and while you have been guilty of so abominable a crime, you will have the additional one of destroying your father.”

“Ah, my dear mother,” cried Darlowitz, “my father possesses a firm mind: if he be offended with his son, he can cast him from his heart; but after what you have yourself said, you are a powerful advocate in the cause of Ida, since if I have been already the wretch you describe, how much _more_ infamous should I become by forsaking her? What reparation can I make but swearing to be her’s for ever?”

“Retire, and leave me with Ida,” cried the Baroness indignantly to her son.

“I will, madam,” Darlowitz replied; “but first, Ida, hear me,” he cried, falling at my feet; “beware, my love and my wife, how you are prevailed on to resign me; remember that I live but for you--by rash and fancied heroism you may precipitate a fate you may regret, and gain no meditated end.” So saying, he left the room; when the Baroness approaching me, took me in her arms and wept over me: “My dear and injured child,” she cried, “I can make you no reproach, you have suffered sufficiently; and I alone, who should have foreseen that no one could behold without loving you, I alone am to blame. Miserable am I, that a creature every way so worthy, one whom I tenderly love, can yet never become in reality my daughter. Listen to me with patience, and I will explain to you some particular circumstances of which you are not aware, and which will sufficiently show you, how impossible it is for Darlowitz, consistently with honour and duty, to become your husband, or the husband of any but Julia Falkenheim, to whom he is affianced.” At these words I covered my face with my hands and groaned, for I considered Darlowitz as already my husband.

“Hear me, my child,” pursued the Baroness, endeavouring to subdue her own emotion--“the Baron Steinhaussen is peculiarly situated with the Baron Falkenheim, father of Julia. Some years since he lost to him at the gaming table nearly the whole of his personal property; he was overwhelmed with despair, as the payment of the debt must be his ruin, and perhaps have exiled him in shame and sorrow to a land where he might live unknown. Under these circumstances it was that the Baron Falkenheim, who courted an alliance with our family, which is more noble than his, proposed to Steinhaussen to wave for ever his claims upon his fortune, upon condition that he would promise his son in marriage to Julia, adding that if he would accede to this proposition he should consider the honour that would be done him more than an equivalent for the debt.

“Though the family of Falkenheim is not so ancient as ours, it is highly respectable, and Steinhaussen after some consideration yielded to the terms proposed; the debt was in consequence cancelled, and Darlowitz became the betrothed husband of Julia. Think, then, my dearest Ida, how impossible it is for the Baron at this late period, to think of retracting without appearing at once the most contemptible and dishonourable of mankind. Should he discover the attachment of our son to you, and the mutual vows which you have uttered, I am convinced he would die at once with rage, or be bowed down to the grave with shame and disappointment.”

“What could I reply to this? It was evident the Baroness desired me to say the words, “I resign your son;” and perhaps, had I considered myself alone, I should have yielded to the sacrifice. But I remembered the powerful adjuration of Darlowitz, the wild yet disordered look with which he had uttered, “Remember, I live but for you--by yielding to rash and fancied heroism, you may precipitate my fate.” My heart was torn with conflicting sensations, my brain was shaken by a confusion of tormenting idea, and I could only utter, “For myself I care not--no one cares for me--do with me as you will--but think of your son.”

“What hopes the Baroness might gather from these expressions of my despair I know not, but she embraced me with an animated tenderness, and blessed me a thousand times. Her hopes were however destined to receive a check; while she had been conversing with me, Darlowitz, half frantic, had flown to the Baron, acknowledged all that the Baroness had been so anxious to conceal, and sworn before him that none but me should be his wife!

“At this rash communication, which appeared to him not only to threaten the destruction of his best prospects, but to render him a villain in the eyes of the world, he raved with wildest passion, and reprobating his son in the severest terms, swore in his turn, that if he did not instantly retract his oath, he would consider him no longer as a son. But Darlowitz remained firm, and to the alledged honour of his father opposed his own. Boiling with terrible rage, he sought the Baroness, and in broken sentences informed her of that which she already knew. It was in vain that by her mild representations she sought to calm him, and alledged her sanguine hope, that all would yet be well; she could obtain only in return the most frantic ravings, or the peremptory command, “Bid him then--force your son to retract at once!” Darlowitz was unchanged by this violence, he vowed, fervently vowed, that his own death or mine should alone separate us, and reiterating his vows to me, dared to oppose them as a shield to the despair and indignation of his father.

“The fearful emotion of the Baron Steinhaussen, and the shock his mind had received, threw him into a raging fever and delirium; and in a few days his physicians announced that his recovery was next to impossible.

“Now the time was nearly arrived that the marriage of Darlowitz with Julia was intended to take place. The Baroness Steinhaussen finding the attempt vain to move her son, directed the whole of her efforts to induce me to resign him; while Darlowitz, distracted between his conflicting duties, rushed like a maniac, from the apartment of his father to mine, from mine to his father’s, knelt in deep remorse by his bedside, wept in agony over me, and appeared no longer guided in his conduct but by an impulse, which in the confusion of his feelings he could scarcely identify.

“For me, I knew not how to act; the life of both father and son were dearer to me than my own, and I only hesitated how to decide, from the fear of sacrificing one or the other. At length the malady of the Baron Steinhaussen encreased to such a degree that his end seemed rapidly approaching; he had recovered his senses, and desired to behold his son, and that I might accompany him; at this mandate my heart almost died within me, for I felt as though I were going to witness the last moments of one whom I had precipitated to the grave; and conscience already loaded me with reproaches, far more severe than any I could anticipate.--I attended however, and when, like an arraigned culprit, I entered, I beheld with an acute pang, Darlowitz and the Baroness kneeling by the bedside of the dying Baron, each holding a hand.

“As I drew nigh, the Baron turned on me his mournful eyes of tender reproach, and faltered out my name. At this appalling sight, to behold my benefactor dying, and through my means; to feel that but for their benevolence to a friendless orphan, they might have lived for ever a happy and united family, whereas from the ingratitude and baseness of the viper they had cherished, it was doomed to prove their curse:--

“No, never!” I exclaimed as these ideas rushed through my mind, “No, never, never shall the lowly object of your bounty prove a wretch so vile! Live, my lord! live!” I pursued, throwing myself on my knees at the foot of the bed, and stretching out my arms towards him, “live yet a thousand years, for be assured that Ida shall not shorten your days.”

“The Baron endeavoured to raise himself in the bed, but could not, and faintly murmured, “What is that I hear?”

“That Ida resigns Darlowitz!” I cried with increased animation, “and will never mar the happiness of her benefactors.”

A sudden beam of joy illumined the dim eyes of the Baron, and in broken accents he uttered, “Oh, generous Ida, you have saved my life--Darlowitz, Darlowitz, my son!” Darlowitz sprang from his knees, and with a solemn air approached me.

“Ida,” said he, “do you resign me?”

“I do, dear Darlowitz, I am no longer your wife, but henceforth your sister only.”

“It is enough,” cried Darlowitz with a look of despair--“My father,” turning towards the Baron, “Ida wills it--live--for I swear to become the husband of Julia.”

“At these words the Baron uttered a faint cry, and sank into a swoon: the agitation of sudden joy had overpowered his weak frame, and threatened to terminate a life that grief had already so much endangered. By proper applications he revived however, the sovereign balm of hope filled his veins with fresh life, and rapid as had been his illness, his recovery was almost equally so.

“I had solemnly resigned Darlowitz, and I resolved to behold him no more; not that I dreaded my own weakness, but the wildness of his despair. I therefore immured myself in my chamber, and to the intreaties of Darlowitz for the admission of only a moment, remained inexorable.

“Though I had resolution to debar myself of the sight of my lover, I was not equal to the harrowing idea of remaining in the house till he should become the wife of another. I wrote therefore a few lines to the Baroness, intreating that she would come to me without the knowledge of Darlowitz. She hastened to obey my request, when I communicated to her the anxious desire which I felt to quit an abode, where the heart-wrung sacrifice I had made was continually present to my mind; adding, that when removed from beneath the same roof with Darlowitz, he might think less of me, and more of Julia Falkenheim.

“Heroic child,” cried the Baroness, “in every thing like yourself. The Baron and myself have had it in contemplation to address you upon this subject, but feared the possibility of wounding delicacy so noble and so refined as yours. Too surely Darlowitz can never recover the passion with which you have inspired him, while he knows that you remain beneath the same roof with him; it is only by your absence that we may presume to hope he may in time obtain a victory over his heart. But, my dearest Ida, another motive prevented us from hinting to you what you have of yourself proposed; we desired to render our beloved girl, the child of our adoption, for ever independent of contingencies; and we feared that if we declared to her our wish and intention of doing so, that her delicate mind would feel wounded, conceiving we meant to compensate her for a sacrifice beyond all price, or bribe her never more to reclaim it. Now however there is no further cause of hesitation--learn then, my child, that the Baron determines to secure to you a pension during your life, more than adequate to your wants, and sufficient to enable you to sustain an appearance befitting his daughter, for such he will ever consider you, in whatever part of the globe you may fix your residence. Further have I to add, my beloved Ida, that if you refuse this small memorial of an eternal gratitude from your parents, so far below what you have a right to claim, that you will have the reproach of embittering our future lives, of humbling us to the earth, and of robbing your noble sacrifice of half its value in our eyes; nay, so much would your refusal wound the love and pride of the Baron, that perhaps all would be rendered useless which you have done to secure his happiness.”

“I threw myself into the arms of the Baroness. “Be assured,” said I, “that I will refuse nothing which can add to your felicity; I believe you know and value me too well, to propose to me any thing which you would despise me for acceding to; for myself, I consider you, and ever shall, in the light of parents, to whom I can never be humiliated; but, my dear benefactress, perhaps I may not long exist to be a care either to myself or you.”

“Ah, say not so, my beloved,” cried the Baroness, tenderly embracing me, “have better thoughts, and live to close the eyes of one who loves you as a mother.”

“Let me pass over certain events which I can never think of but with renovated pangs; my secret departure, secret at least to Darlowitz, from the dear cherished abode of my protectors; the agony with which I bade adieu to the asylum of my hapless youth; but above all, let me hasten over the marriage of Darlowitz with Julia, while I, a disguised and secret wretch, hovered near the altar, saw him, and heard him with pale anguished looks, air wild and abstracted, pronounce to another those vows which once I had fondly hoped would have been mine alone. Yet I it was exacted the sacrifice, it was to me that Darlowitz made it---- to me that he sacrificed----” the anguish of Agnes would not allow her to proceed; at the fond agonizing recollections her relation had called forth, her heart bled afresh, and the tears which had been long trembling in her eyes, now streamed down her pale cheeks, and she audibly sobbed.

Angelo, unable to resist pity, took her in his arms; his soul was tortured at the sufferings, while it gloried in the heroism of his child.--“Weep not, my beloved Agnes,” he cried, “weep not over the past; be consoled in the reflection that you have been more unfortunate than guilty, and that your dignified conduct has been some expiation for an error which is less yours, in effect, than mine, who should have been near to protect and to preserve you.”

Agnes still wept upon the bosom of her father; her tears were an innocent tribute to the past, for her heart was guiltless of even an improper idea for him who was now the husband of another. Angelo succeeded in soothing her, and she resumed.

“Much more remains not for me to say. Finding myself alone in the world, destitute of friends, or of natural protectors, I determined to travel into Switzerland, there to seek the dear mother of my childhood, the only one I had ever known, and enquire if she had heard aught of my parents, or could give me some intelligence respecting them. But, alas, my dear father, I arrived at the well known spot, her cottage still remained, but its former occupant dwelt in it no more, Madame Bertrand had ceased to exist.”

“Madame Bertrand no more!” exclaimed Angelo, “not long since I heard from her.”

“She is no more, my father,” answered Agnes, “it is three months since I returned from Switzerland; when I arrived and enquired for her, M. Boffuet met me at the door--he looked at me a minute and exclaimed,--“Oh! is it you returned again?--but Madame Boffuet is dead.”

“What do I hear,” cried I, bursting into tears, “my dearest mother dead?”

“Yes, yes,” replied Boffuet--“and I am growing old, and have occasion for what little I have got.”

“I do not desire to intrude upon you,” said I, “admit me only for a moment, and let me once more behold the interior of a dwelling where passed my childhood with one who loved me.”

Boffuet still hesitated.

“I do not want any thing of you, M. Boffuet,” said I--“I am not at this juncture quite so destitute as I have been.”

“Oh, if that be the case,” answered this mercenary and illiberal being, “come in, Mademoiselle, and remain as long as you chuse.”

“I entered with a beating heart, and desired to be conducted to the chamber where my dear friend had died. I knelt beside the bed where she had breathed her last, I kissed the pillow where her poor head had lain, bedewed it with my tears, and blessed God that she was now where persecution and suffering could reach her no more.

“All this time Boffuet left me to myself; when I returned to him I found his manners considerably changed, from gross rudeness to still grosser adulation and the most constrained politeness.

“Mademoiselle de Montmorency,” said he, “I am happy to hear that you are no longer in need of the bounty of strangers. I confess, when I first beheld you, I thought you had come to reclaim that trifling sum entrusted to Madame Boffuet for you against a time of necessity, but I am pleased, for your own sake, that you had no such idea, as I must have contested the claim.--Since you have no occasion for it, you cannot but allow that it is a very inadequate return for the many years of protection and support afforded you by myself and Madame Boffuet, who, poor woman, was not certainly the wisest of her sex.”

“If I could have viewed with scorn or detestation any one who was hallowed in my eyes, by having lived with, and conversed with my dear departed friend, it would have been this wretch; but I pitied the miserable meanness of his disposition, and without noticing his observation, enquired of him if my dear Madame Bertrand had heard from my parents since my departure, or if he could inform me of aught respecting them.

“Madame Boffuet,” answered he, “certainly informed your parents of your departure; I believe they were at that time in England; but excuse me if I acknowledge that I never much participated in these interests of my wife, and that she therefore seldom or ever shewed me the letters which she received. Some little time back she had a letter from Italy, over which she wept most bitterly, poor weak woman. Who was the author I cannot pretend to determine, but in all probability it came from some friend of your parents, informing her of a terrible calamity, for nothing else surely could excite such immoderate grief.”

“And tell me, tell me,” cried I eagerly, “what became of that letter? Oh! if you have it still, give it me; it may be the means of leading me to my parents!”

“Why, I should be extremely happy, Mademoiselle,” returned he, hesitatingly, “but in truth I was never a friend to concerning myself in affairs which did not concern me; and when my wife died I destroyed all her papers, and among them I suppose all the letters she had ever received from your mother.”

“Oh! my God!” exclaimed I, “was it possible that you could act thus? and was that last letter which you speak of among them?”

“Why, as to that, Mademoiselle--I cannot say it was.”--

“Oh then you have preserved it?” I cried; “give it to me.”

“No, indeed,” he replied with a frightful smile, “that met its fate prematurely: since you are so inquisitive, Mademoiselle, I must tell you. Madame Boffuet, poor woman, could never attend like another wife to the concerns of her house. One day I had been out, and returning home required my dinner; I found nothing prepared, and Madame Boffuet no where to be seen. In a fit of rage I flew to her chamber, there I found her shut up weeping over this very letter.--I own, I am now sorry for what I did, but furious as I was, I snatched the letter from her hand, exclaiming, “Is it thus that you attend to the concerns of strangers, in preference to those of your husband? at least, you shall no longer have this excuse for neglect;” so saying, with an uncontrollable passion I threw the letter into the flames, and compelled her immediately to quit her chamber, and attend to her domestic duties.”

“Poor Madame Bertrand!” exclaimed I, “dear persecuted friend!” when perceiving the brow of Boffuet beginning to lower, I added, “Ah! had that letter but been preserved, I think I could have forgiven the loss of all the rest.”

“Oh, but I was glad to destroy my old tormentors, the letters,” answered the unfeeling Boffuet, “it was the only revenge I could take for the inconvenience they had caused me during her lifetime; but who expected ever to see you again? you might have had them, Mademoiselle, if I had known.”

“What could be said to a savage like this? I hastily took my leave of him, with coolness indeed, but avoided reproaches which he would have been incapable of feeling. I lingered a few days about my dear native land, I wandered among the mountains of my childhood, among the fruitful vallies, and along the magnificent borders of the Genevan lake. Unable however to remain in a spot where I had no longer aught to interest or attach me, and feeling that by perpetual change of scene alone could I hope to banish ideas no longer to be indulged without crime, I departed from Switzerland, and fondly dwelling on the slender shadow of hope excited by the intimation of Boffuet, that the last letter my dear parental friend had received had been from Italy, I determined thither to bend my course, in the flattering idea that some chance might perhaps occur, which might direct me to my parents, or at least discover to them that their daughter still existed.

“It was owing to chance alone that I fixed my residence on this spot; its retired situation pleased me, I thought it a more safe and proper habitation than any which a gay town could afford me, and determined for a time at least to remain in it. The features of every stranger of either sex that passed my door, or that I accidentally encountered, I have examined with an eager and impatient interest, as though some secret intelligence should perhaps reveal a parent, or some one at least connected with them: I can account no otherwise for the singular sensation I experienced on beholding my father than from that powerful instinct originating in force of blood, as it were, by which nature draws resistlessly towards each other those connected by her sacred ties.

“I can safely aver that I felt involuntarily drawn towards you; and though I entertained a conviction that my admission of your visits must impress you with an unfavourable idea of me, it was impossible for me to resist an attraction which acquired fresh strength each time that I beheld you. When absent I thought of you perpetually with an indefinable interest, and when present, my heart would sometimes experience a sudden emotion which I cannot describe, but which almost tempted me to throw myself into your arms, and exclaim ‘Great God! I know not why, but I love you, as if you were my father!’”

Agnes concluded, and in a sweet enthusiasm threw herself into the arms of her real parent, who, overpowered by her tender and sacred emotion, pressed her to his breast, and wept over her tears, which, though not unmingled with bitter feelings, were yet the sweetest that for long he had shed.