Chapter XXIX

Having so far compassed his purpose in gaining the acquiescence of the gentle Agnes, Angelo, unnecessarily apprehensive that she might retract, or desire at least to do so, hastened every necessary measure, and shortly established her in the convent della Trinita delle Monache, one of the most splendid receptacles in all Italy for the daughters of the nobility, and accounted one of the richest in its ornaments, and pictures. But to remain in Italy during the whole year of her noviciate, was a circumstance which would materially derange the plans of Angelo, who was now desirous of quitting it as early as possible.

He confided to an intimate friend his embarrassment, who instantly proposed to exert whatever influence he possessed individually, and all besides that he could command, to procure a dispensation from the Pope for limiting the time of her noviciate to six months. Angelo hailed this idea with rapture, and immediately put in motion every engine to facilitate it.

He was soon given to understand that he need not doubt of success, and he resolved therefore to remain in Naples during the indispensable period, to visit his daughter in her convent, but never permit her to leave it, lest intercourse with the world should make the contrast on her return to it appear too forcible, and give her a distaste to the idea of passing her life within its gloomy walls.

Thus, while Angelo hushed, without appeasing his conscience, in the reflection that he was faithfully performing his promise to the departed Gabrielle in seeking their children, while he exulted in the idea of having discovered one, and how her spirit, could it look down, would bless him, he did not, or would not think, what must have been her feelings had she still lived, or what if from her sainted abode she could have viewed his actions, to behold him forcing his only daughter, in the pride of youth and beauty, into the wretched gloom of a convent!--to look into his heart, and behold the unworthy feelings that propelled the deed! to punish with unfeeling severity for his own pride’s sake (what yet had originated in his own guilt), a creature who might still have done him honour, and who was formed to have become an ornament to society. Was this, ah! was this! fulfilling the fond wishes of the tender mother? was this to cherish and protect the daughter whom Providence had directed to him, that he might atone to her, for his past injustice? that he might triumph in her, and that she might prove a solace to his age! was this his atonement? his gratitude? to despise the mercy he had received, and with sacrilegious pride, hasten to bury her in the profoundest gloom?

But Angelo examined not so narrowly the secret recesses of his heart; he took not to himself the full shame he merited; he was not impartial in self-investigation; he loved not to view his actions in the worst light, consequently considered his conduct as neither heinous nor unjustifiable.

During the six months previous to the confirmation of the devoted Agnes, he visited her daily. When a young girl is once within the convent walls, no artifices are spared to induce her to desire to take the veil; a monastic life is painted to the eyes of a novice in all those fascinating colours calculated to excite the most fervent enthusiasm of an ardent mind. Nothing trivial, nothing earthly is suffered to intervene; all appears celestial, sublime, above mortality! the imagination is deluded, the senses are entrapped, the heart is softened, the resolution yields! Few who enter the gates reluctant even escape the delusion; few can resist the fancied glory, but real vanity, of seeming to soar _above_ the world!

The devoted Agnes however had not entered them reluctant; all therefore conveyed to her mind redoubled fascination, while the worthy nuns, superior as they appeared to worldly considerations, had yet their vanities to gratify, among which not the least of them was to increase the riches of their convent, already the richest in Naples--the brilliancy of its decorations, of its altars, its sumptuous plate, the jewels of the Virgin, the splendid offerings which adorned her shrine. In courting the young Agnes they had a double vanity to gratify, the vanity of having made a convert to their holy order, and of adding through her means to the splendid riches of their house, by the magnificent presents which they expected Il Conte D’Albini to bestow upon them, as soon as she should have concluded her noviciate.

The period at length arrived; the fair Agnes, resigned, composed, forming no wish to the contrary, yielded to every ceremony, submitted her meek head to be despoiled of its treasures of waving gold, exchanged her white veil for a black one, and immolating at the altar, reared by frenzied superstition, the vanities of the world, and its pleasures also, bowed before it a holy nun, yet not in the eye of Heaven a purer being than before!

Satisfied, but not happy at the sacrifice to which the devoted Agnes had submitted, Angelo returned home from the eventful ceremony, which had raised an insurmountable barrier between her and the world, and learned that a stranger had been extraordinarily solicitous to see him, during his absence. Angelo gave orders that when next he came, he should be admitted, and retired to his room.

In less than an hour he was informed that the stranger had returned, and was waiting anxiously to see him. Angelo repaired to the apartment where his visitor had been introduced; he beheld a stranger clad in deep mourning, young and of an elegant, interesting appearance, who to his polite request to be favoured with his name, appeared from agitation incapable of reply. Observing his confusion, he paused a few moments, and then in a gentle conciliating tone repeated his enquiry.

“My name,” at length faltered the stranger, addressing him in Italian, “is _Steinhaussen_!”

Angelo started back, and muttered, “Hateful name!”

“Oh! hear me, my Lord,” cried Darlowitz; “as the father of my Ida, hear me!--Ask me not at present how I have developed every circumstance, how discovered you, for the relation at this juncture would be too long--but I come--I come to atone, (if a wretch worthless as myself can atone,) to the loveliest, the best of beings, for the miseries which my destructive love brought on her!--The premature death of a wife by a fatal accident, who had no fault, but that she was not Ida, has rendered me unexpected freedom. I come then to implore pardon of the father, to beseech him that he will not refuse me his heavenly daughter--that he will not refuse to me the name of her husband!”

Angelo, who had been endeavouring to restrain the rage which was kindling in his breast till Darlowitz should have concluded, that he might at once strike him to the earth, by the dreadful intelligence of his daughter’s fate, stepped back a few paces, and waving his hand, exclaimed with a proud fierceness,--“Go, go, young man--your Ida is _a nun_!”

“What do I hear?” exclaimed the unhappy Darlowitz, “My Ida a nun?”

“I have _said_,” haughtily replied the unmoved Angelo, “and have no time to waste in useless words.”

“I’ll not believe it!” cried the half frantic lover, “I’ll not believe it! cruel father!--you never could compel my young and spotless beauty to the eternal gloom of a cloister!”

“Spotless she would have been, but for _thee_!” cried Angelo in a rage; “having then destroyed the daughter by thine artifices, dare not to insult the father by insolent reproach! Depart at once!--my blood boils to take revenge on thee!--Hasten, I say--I would not willingly _murder_ even the seducer of my child!”

“Language such as this,” cried Darlowitz, “affects me not; hear me, my lord; if it be indeed true that you have consigned my Ida to a living death--that never now I may possess her--surely--surely you will not refuse to despair such as mine that I should behold her once more; let my own eyes convince me that she is removed from me for ever; then solemnly do I promise to molest you no more.”

There was an expression of mournful wildness in the eyes of Darlowitz as he uttered these words, that softened even the heart of Angelo; conscience brought for an instant before his eyes the crowded mirror of his past life--did it become _him_ to be thus rigidly severe? He paused, then answered, “Well,---- well, I agree to your request; you shall, since you wish it, convince yourself of the truth of what so idly you appear to doubt; but it must be upon certain conditions.”

“Name them!” exclaimed Darlowitz.

“You shall see her, but she must not know it; you must be disguised, and promise not to approach too near the grate.”

“I accept your conditions, my lord, with gratitude accept them, and promise not to infringe----”

“Enough,” cried Angelo with returning haughtiness--“To-morrow, an hour before noon, I will await you here;” then slightly bowing he quitted the room; and the wretched Darlowitz, who had entered it, his heart panting with hope, departed from it oppressed by despair.

On the following morning, somewhat before the appointed time, he made his appearance before Angelo; he was wrapped in a loose coat, a large hat was pulled over his eyes, and his purpose being to have only a last look at Ida, he agreed to remain almost behind Angelo, during the short moment he was to remain.

They walked on in silence to the convent, Angelo not even deigning a look on his despairing companion,--they were admitted, approached the grate, and the fair Agnes was informed that her father awaited her. Instantly she obeyed the summons, and drawing near the grate, put through her hand for her father.

At sight of that lovely countenance enveloped in a sable veil, as the fair moon dimly appears through a gloomy cloud, its beauty shaded, but not concealed,--at sight of that well known hand thrust through the iron bars of her prison--at sight of that delicate form, immured in an eternal captivity, the miserable Darlowitz forgot in an instant his promise! his resolution, his disguise! he rushed towards the grate, uttering a loud cry, and no longer master of himself, he seized the hand intended for her father, and covered it with kisses and with tears! “Oh! Ida, Ida! my beloved!” he exclaimed in a voice of piercing anguish, “is it _thus_ that I behold thee?--thou who mightest have been my wife, whom on the wings of unbridled hope I flew to make for ever mine!”

But who can describe the emotion of Agnes on recognizing her lover? She uttered a shriek of despair, and would have fallen to the earth had she not caught the bars of the grate; while Angelo, fired with uncontrollable rage at the frantic imprudence of Darlowitz, and his infringement of his promise, seized him with violence by the arm, and exclaimed, “Villain! unworthy villain! you have forfeited your honour!--Unhand my daughter instantly, or dread my vengeance!”

“I despise your threats! I despise your vengeance!” answered Darlowitz: “inhuman father! thus to have precipitated your child into the abode of eternal misery!”

“Wretch! is it for _you_, who have destroyed her, to talk thus!” raved Angelo in fury, and half drawing forth his stiletto.

“Take back the reproach, unnatural parent!” cried Darlowitz, “it is _you_ that have destroyed a creature, who but for your interference, might have been happy!”

“By holy heaven! if thou speakest another word,” cried Angelo looking fiercely upon him--“if thou dost not instantly quit this sacred spot profaned by thy presence, I will bury my poniard in thy heart!”

“Do so!” said Darlowitz with bitterness, “add _murder_ to thy crimes, for I am unarmed, and would not, if I could, lift my hand against the father of Ida! but this spot I will not quit while mine eyes may gaze upon my adored beauty!”

“Oh I entreat thee! Ida entreats thee to go, Darlowitz!” cried Agnes in a voice of agony.

“My beloved!--my _wife_!--do you bid me quit you?” cried Darlowitz in mournful anguish, “Oh, thou! who shouldst have been my bride--thou hast wedded the tomb!--thou who art my affianced wife--what ties more holy, more sacred can exist that should sever us?--none!”

“Monster of sacrilege!” cried Angelo--springing upon him, no longer master of himself--“I have heard too much!” and plunging with frantic rage his poinard in his heart, “take,” he added, “the fate thou hast courted, and I have too long delayed!”

The hand of Darlowitz, that in passionate eagerness had been twisted round the grate that enclosed his love, still essayed to support him, that he might obtain of her a last look! But the powers of nature were not sufficient to keep pace with the desires of his soul, he was compelled to relinquish his hold, as the faintness of death came over him; his eyes still dwelt in dying fondness upon Agnes, till bathed in blood he sunk to the earth no more to rise!

The shrieks of the devoted Agnes, when she beheld her lover fall, resounded through the silent cloister, along the vaulted echoing aisles, and recalling Angelo to his senses he beheld what he had done! Horror possessed his soul! and he deplored the rashness of which he had been guilty. Self, however, began to predominate in the wild confusion of his ideas--he saw that to remain an instant where he was, might be fatal to him; for he had not only committed murder, but sacrilege, of which a moment before he had accused with scarce a shadow of reason the wretched Darlowitz; he saw that punishment must be the inevitable consequence of prompt detection, and that by immediate flight alone, could he hope to avoid both.

These reflections passed through his mind like lightning--he heard footsteps approaching, and swayed by the resistless impulse of self preservation, he darted from the spot.

Scarce knowing what he did, he directed his guilt-sped steps to the residence of a friend, and with looks pale and frenzied imparted to him what he had done. This friend, Il Conte Verospi, one with whom he was in habits of strictest confidence, and the same who had advised him with respect to Agnes, to procure a dispensation from the usual term of noviciate, again employed his powers for the service of Angelo, and firm, collected, recommended to him that he should instantly use his utmost speed to gain the dominions of the Pope, for which purpose he proposed to lend him one of his fleetest horses, promising that he would take every possible care of his interest during his absence, and send him the earliest intimation of all that might occur respecting him.

“And my daughter! my poor Agnes!” cried Angelo with a wild abstracted air.

“Be assured I will early inform myself respecting her;--I will hasten to the convent the moment you are gone, and send you intelligence;--Fly! fly at once! if life is still dear to you!”

Angelo felt that it was, his silence was sufficient acknowledgment that it had not yet lost all its charms for him; his friend seized him hastily by the arm, led him through a private way to his stables, not chusing even to entrust a servant with the least particle of his situation, with his own hands made ready for him one of his best horses, and hastened him to mount. Angelo was unable to speak, he pressed in silence the hand of Verospi, and set forward at full speed in the direction which he had pointed out to him.