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.