Chapter XXVIII

Angelo had recovered a long lost daughter; but how recovered her? The fond gratulations of the father were checked by bitter anguished reflections on the past; and while he wished to remember only that he had found a child, he was doomed to feel that she could never be his boast. Her who might have flourished a fair blooming rose beneath the fostering hand of a parent, was blighted by the storm, and broken by the foot of the stranger. Conscience whispered that the fault was his, and that he who forsakes in infancy his offspring, must not hope to be _blessed_ by them in glorious pride upon a future day!

Angelo viewed his daughter with the fondest affection; he idolized the lovely artlessness of her character, admired her singular beauty, and was charmed with her just and noble sentiments; yet still, still he could not _triumph_ in her. In the midst of her brilliant qualities his tenacious eye discerned a blemish, and such was his pride, selfish and unjust, that he could not bear to acknowledge to the world that this long-lost, long-sought daughter was not _perfect_! that the child, left for years unaided on the wide desert of the world, had fallen a prey to inevitable fate; he could not even endure the idea of passing her on society for a creature perfect in character as in form, lest in an evil hour her secret should be betrayed, and he be covered with a dreadful shame, which, however merited, he felt that he could never support.

Thus tremblingly alive was the libertine to his _own_ dishonour, and thus minutely sensible, could he feel and judge of a calamity that he had entailed upon many a doting parent, fond husband, or honourable brother, whose best hopes might have been fixed upon the fair female he had destroyed. To a very few and select friends therefore alone was Agnes by the apprehensive Angelo introduced, and even those he examined with a lynx-eyed fearful anxiety, lest in the innocent looks of the lovely Agnes they should read what he so trembled to have surmised. Even the homage which was paid her, yielded him a pleasure alloyed by an impatient and uneasy dread, lest some accident should occur to prove her unworthy of it, and change it into scorn; if (indeed any could have viewed with scorn a creature like Agnes), or when informed of her story, have beheld her with other eyes than those of a respectful pity. No one indeed could think of his daughter half so severely as did Angelo himself.

Often did he pause on the idea of quitting with her the world, and burying himself in a profound retirement, “where,” thought he, “I might without fear or restraint admire the virtues of my Agnes; no worldly considerations would then intervene to cover my cheek with the burning blush of shame; forgetting her errors I might dwell only on her excellencies, while the society of one so beloved, would be a sufficient preservative against lassitude or ennui.”

But these reflections faded by degrees from the mind of Angelo; though entering deep the vale of years, he still loved the world, and to think seriously of quitting it for ever, was, he found, impossible. His was not a mind to be thrown upon itself; frivolous habits and long residence in society had unfitted him for the delights of solitude, which, so far from possessing any charms to him, appeared replete with horrors.

At length upon a sincere investigation of his sentiments, he discovered that he was in reality anxious for seclusion for his daughter only, while he shuddered at it for himself. Could he induce her to leave the world, where he durst not exhibit her in the proud light he wished, he would procure for her some elegant retirement, and consider himself supremely happy in her acquiescence. Thus with an unbecoming and morbid pride, did he shrink from accompanying into society the child for whose errors he alone was accountable, and with a selfish weakness still more unpardonable at his period of life, hesitate to abandon a world from which yet he wished to exile a young and lovely being, that but for his own conduct would never have given him cause even for this shadow of reproach.

Such had been the extremity to which his pride had prevailed, that he had ordered Agnes to address the Baron Steinhaussen in a letter which he dictated, thanking him for the protection which had been so long afforded her, and simply intimating that an occurrence of recent date had rendered it longer unnecessary for her to avail herself of their continued bounty; requesting at the same time, that it might be instantly withdrawn. Thus carefully avoiding throughout all recurrence to the name of Darlowitz, and all mention of her having found a parent.

From that period the name of Steinhaussen was hateful to him; and when Agnes would sometimes innocently dwell upon the kindness they had demonstrated towards her, the impatient looks of her father would speedily shew her that she touched upon a string which vibrated only discord: by degrees, therefore, she dreaded, without knowing why, and ultimately ceased altogether to allude to them.

It became necessary however to decide: either Agnes, being constantly with her father, must at once be unequivocally introduced as his daughter, or else some other situation must be thought of for her; for in this desultory and unsettled state, liable to a thousand inconveniences, subject to eternal alarm, it was impossible to continue. One day when she was sitting in the same room with him, Angelo, who had long had it in contemplation to propose to her a plan on which he suffered himself to dwell with peculiar complacency, thought he had now discovered a mode by which, without appearing to desire it, he could lead her on, not only to yield but joyfully to accede to what he had in view.

“Agnes, my dear child,” said he tenderly, taking her hand, “among all those of my friends whom you have seen, which do you prefer?”

“I have no preference for any one, my dear father,” replied Agnes, “but I esteem them all equally.”

“And is there not any one among them, Agnes, that you could esteem sufficiently for a husband?” Agnes started back, and the colour forsook her cheeks, then with her native artlessness she cried, tears rushing to her eyes, “Ah, my dear father, I only implore you, talk not to me of marriage; I hope and trust that your daughter cherishes no sentiment which should be banished from her breast; but ah! she feels that her heart cannot be offered to another--that--that it has been wedded once, and can take no second husband.”

Angelo bit his lips, and his determination to pursue his purpose acquired fresh strength. “Agnes,” said he, with a serious air, “him to whom your heart was wedded, is now the husband of another.”

“’Tis true,” cried Agnes, bursting into tears, “and I love him for the virtue which caused him to become so.”

“It is a point,” replied Angelo, with encreasing gloom, “that I have no desire to hear discussed.”

“Oh! my father,” cried Agnes in a mournful voice, “I feel nothing which you _ought_ not to hear confessed.”

“It is enough,” replied Angelo. “Time, I have often thought, might effect a revolution in your sentiments, yet if not--”

“In the sentiments which I feel it no crime, but a glory to cherish, my father,” interrupted Agnes, “time never can--then what----”

“Why then,” interrupted Angelo in return--“in the seclusion of a convent should you learn that your present sentiments are in reality criminal! There too should you expiate the offence of having entertained them.”

“Great God!” cried Agnes, sinking on her knees, and raising her hands to heaven, “have I been so long in error then, and has conscience failed to reproach me? can I be indeed the guilty creature which my father represents me? Ah! if it be indeed so, in the gloom of a convent let me hide my head; if I am innocent, that awful gloom will have no terrors for me! but in uninterrupted communion with my own heart, I may behold it as it is, repent over its sins, or rejoice in its purity.”

The heart of Angelo smote him at the pious and artless appeal of the daughter he had so unjustly accused; but raising her from the ground, he said, “Well do I know my sweet Agnes sins not voluntarily, even in thought; but the holy solitude of a convent, by teaching her to look into herself, will purify from every venial error, a mind already so good, so desirous to be perfect; besides, to you, my daughter, the world can wear no charms, you love not to mingle in society, you will never become by marriage a material link in its great chain; when I die therefore, you will have nor friends, nor husband, nor children, to console you, and hence the retirement I propose must at all events be for you a situation most eligible; there no petty ills can disquiet you, no cares for the future annoy you, in every sister you will find a friend, and when I quit this world it will be in the chearing reflection of having left my child in the midst of the best and purest society, among whom she shall have been honoured during my life, and shall prove a benefactress to after it. One thing more I must add: my Agnes knows, that she has a brother; he too is my child--having recovered my long-lost daughter, to regain him must be now my care;--my anxious search may lead me I know not whither, from land to land, perhaps even to different quarters of the globe; could a tender female accompany me in these incessant wanderings? for rest I shall not, while life remains, from the attempt, vain as it may prove; but placed in a secure asylum, for my other child I shall have no fears, and my mind will continually turn to the chearing remembrance that _she_ is protected and safe.”

Angelo paused; the picture which he had drawn pleased the imagination of his daughter, and soothed without alarming her mind. For her, monastic seclusion had no terrors; with the charms of the world she was but little acquainted, she saw too that her father wished her acquiescence, and could not but acknowledge the justice of his last observation. If she remained in the world she might at some future period be pressed again to marry, an idea from which, above every other, her unhealed heart revolted; by yielding to monastic seclusion she preserved her fidelity to her first love, she yielded his place in her heart to no mortal image, but to _that_ of God alone!

It was this last reflection which raised her to enthusiasm. Religion and obedience spoke through the medium of an unconquered love, and while influenced singly by that, she believed it was to them, she yielded: she embraced her father, and in an animated voice, with glowing cheeks and sparkling eyes, exclaimed, “Do with me as you will, my father! you have recovered your daughter, you rejoiced when you did so, let her not prove that she is unworthy of your love by being hostile to your wishes.”

With a mixed sensation of pleasure and remorse, Angelo returned the fervid embrace of the innocent Agnes, who little surmised the complex movements of her father’s heart, or the secret springs which actuated his conduct. The strong power of her first love made perpetual seclusion seem easy to Agnes, and robbed it of its repulsive terrors; but pure indeed must be the love which takes refuge in _religion_, and innocent the tenderness which may be animated by devotion!