(Seven months after the date of Letter 1.)
“AUGSBURG.
“DEAR M. LE MARQUIS,—I thank you for your kind little note
informing me of the pains you have taken, as yet with no result, to
ascertain what has become of my unfortunate uncle. My life since I
last wrote has been a very quiet one. I have been teaching among a
few families here; and among my pupils are two little girls of very
high birth. They have taken so great a fancy to me that their
mother has just asked me to come and reside at their house as
governess. What wonderfully kind hearts those Germans have,—so
simple, so truthful! They raise no troublesome questions,—accept
my own story implicitly.” Here follow a few commonplace sentences
about the German character, and a postscript. “I go into my new
home next week. When you hear more of my uncle, direct to me at the
Countess von Rudesheim, Schloss ————, near Berlin.”
“Rudesheim!” Could this be the relation, possibly the wife, of the Count von Rudesheim with whom Graham had formed acquaintance last year? LETTER III.
(Between three and four years after the date of the last.)
“You startle me indeed, dear M. le Marquis. My uncle said to have
been recognised in Algeria under another name, a soldier in the
Algerian army? My dear, proud, luxurious uncle! Ah, I cannot
believe it, any more than you do: but I long eagerly for such
further news as you can learn of him. For myself, I shall perhaps
surprise you when I say I am about to be married. Nothing can
exceed the amiable kindness I have received from the Rudesheims
since I have been in their house. For the last year especially I
have been treated on equal terms as one of the family. Among the
habitual visitors at the house is a gentleman of noble birth, but
not of rank too high, nor of fortune too great, to make a marriage
with the French widowed governess a misalliance. I am sure that he
loves me sincerely; and he is the only man I ever met whose love I
have cared to win. We are to be married in the course of the year.
Of course he is ignorant of my painful history, and will never learn
it. And after all, Louise D—— is dead. In the home to which I am
about to remove, there is no probability that the wretched
Englishman can ever cross my path. My secret is as safe with you as
in the grave that holds her whom in the name of Louise D—— you
once loved. Henceforth I shall trouble you no more with my letters;
but if you hear anything decisively authentic of my uncle’s fate,
write me a line at any time, directed as before to Madame ——,
enclosed to the Countess von Rudesheim.
“And accept, for all the kindness you have ever shown me, as to one
whom you did not disdain to call a kinswoman, the assurance of my
undying gratitude. In the alliance she now makes, your kinswoman
does not discredit the name through which she is connected with the
yet loftier line of Rochebriant.”
To this letter the late Marquis had appended in pencil. “Of course Rochebriant never denies the claim of a kinswoman, even though a drawing-master’s daughter. Beautiful creature, Louise, but a termagant. I could not love Venus if she were a termagant. L.‘s head turned by the unlucky discovery that her mother was noble. In one form or other, every woman has the same disease—vanity. Name of her intended not mentioned—easily found out.”
The next letter was dated May 7, 1859, on black-edged paper, and contained but these lines: “I was much comforted by your kind visit yesterday, dear Marquis. My affliction has been heavy: but for the last two years my poor husband’s conduct has rendered my life unhappy, and I am recovering the shock of his sudden death. It is true that I and the children are left very ill provided for; but I cannot accept your generous offer of aid. Have no fear as to my future fate. Adieu, my dear Marquis! This will reach you just before you start for Naples. Bon voyage.” There was no address on this note-no postmark on the envelope-evidently sent by hand.
The last note, dated 1861, March 20, was briefer than its predecessor. “I have taken your advice, dear Marquis; and, overcoming all scruples, I have accepted his kind offer, on the condition that I am never to be taken to England. I had no option in this marriage. I can now own to you that my poverty had become urgent.—Yours, with inalienable gratitude. This last note, too, was without postmark, and was evidently sent by hand.
“There are no other letters, then, from this writer?” asked Graham; “and no further clue as to her existence?”
“None that I have discovered; and I see now why I preserved these letters. There is nothing in their contents not creditable to my poor father. They show how capable he was of good-natured disinterested kindness towards even a distant relation of whom he could certainly not have been proud, judging not only by his own pencilled note, or by the writer’s condition as a governess, but by her loose sentiments as to the marriage tie. I have not the slightest idea who she could be. I never at least heard of one connected, however distantly, with my family, whom I could identify with the writer of these letters.”