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310 Three years after my arrival he brought his little motherless Ida, his only child, to stay with us. A most friendly feeling had always existed between Rupert and his ‘aunt,’ as he termed me, during these brief visits, but nothing more. During my first enjoyment of independence, I had occupied myself so entirely with studies, that books were the realities of my life, and persons took a very secondary position with me. But, after the first six or seven years, I became wearied, and, as I said before, I yearned to love and be loved. The arrival of this lovely little creature was a boon to me. How very happy it made me! How ceaselessly I watched over her and tended her in all her little childish ailments. She was a very delicate child. I have watched night after night beside her bed; I have held her in my arms for hours when no other place gave her repose; in short, I lived, moved, breathed but for her. When I rose in the morning I devised some service for her by which I could consecrate the day; when I closed my eyes at night, it was with the remembrance of her dear face asleep on its pillow, charming my last conscious thought.

“About this time I received a letter from my husband—a letter which should have touched and softened me. It prayed for my return; it expressed the most unqualified regret for the past, and offered love, devotion, happiness, for the future. I was inexorable. I said I could not and would not forgive. I said that with will, knowledge and courage, a woman could live alone. I should do so. Friendship would console me for the privation of love, and I had friends at Schlos-stein whom I had elected and chosen for myself, with whom I had cast my lot, and I should abide by them. I do not think I should have been so hard, had it not been that I felt it impossible to leave Ida. The strongest feeling of my nature, a capacity for maternal love, was called out for the first time, and I was resolved to indulge it to its full extent.

“This was the turning-point of my life. Rupert was staying at the Schloss at the time. He saw me thoughtfully perusing the letter. The Chanoinesse told him my husband wished for my return.

“He looked eagerly up, and his dark face flushed.

‘You return?’

‘No.’ I paused.

‘You are happier here?’

‘Yes, with Ida.’

‘But Ferdinand would allow you, I have no doubt, to take Ida back with you. He seems so sincerely anxious to make you happy,’ said the Chanoinesse.

‘Excuse me,’ interrupted Rupert, ‘no child of mine shall ever live under the same roof as Count Ferdinand. Ida stays here.’

“Those words settled the question. I could not, would not part from Ida. I was as wrong in this resolve as I had been right in the determination of preferring a solitary, dull, but safe home at the Schloss to a luxurious, flattering, perilous one at Vienna. My sense of having been right there, blinded me to the wrong here. The retribution for this act of self-pleasing—this refusal to fulfil a positive duty—was, as you will see, not long delayed.

“The Chanoinesse ridiculed me without ceasing for my love for Ida. She was one of those positive persons who would place limits to everything. As Ida was not my own child, my immoderate love for her seemed unnatural. What cared I? I let her talk, and held Ida only the closer to my heart. Ida had been with us two years when a few lines from Rupert told us that he was coming for a visit of greater length than usual. He had met with an accident, and thought he had lamed himself for life. He came for rest and to recruit his strength. The Chanoinesse was indignant. She suspected the most extraordinary motives for this visit, though she never approached the right one, but could not avoid receiving him. I was jealous for Ida’s sake, lest he should withdraw some portion of her love for me; otherwise I looked forward with pleasure to the arrival of an inmate who would have more mental sympathy with me than I had hitherto met with.

“He arrived. My love for his child was a great tie between us. He and I were naturally thrown much together. We differed entirely in many opinions, but our tastes were alike. Personally, perhaps, no two persons—both handsome—could have pleased each other less; nevertheless, we were attracted to each other.

“It was a peculiarity in my fate that I was always thrown among ambitious people; my husband, my brother, and now this Rupert, who possessed more ambition than anyone I ever knew. At first, however, I was only aware of it as the aspiration of a noble nature. He studied me narrowly, and did me the honour to think I could be of considerable use to him. His keen eyes perused my face and watched my gestures. He listened to my conversation, he read to their depths both mind and heart, and saw exactly how he could ‘exploiter’ both. I must say, however, not from selfish motives entirely.

“He belonged to one of those secret societies which have so long existed in Germany, Italy, and France, who work together for the redemption of nations. His indomitable industry, his cool intellect, his powers of physical endurance, made him one of its most valuable members. It was in an expedition in its service that he had met with the accident which had lamed him. When he arrived he was almost helpless. There was something peculiarly touching to me in the equanimity with which he bore the pain and the privation which it imposed. A strong healthy man, in the bloom and pride of youth, condemned to months of inactivity, naturally appealed to my womanly compassion. During these months I devoted myself to him. Ida would play round the couch on which he lay, while I nursed him as I had nursed her; or she would sit on my knee with her soft cheek against mine while I read to him.

“For the first time I met with an intelligence which could direct, deepen, and stimulate my own. Rupert soon found that I possessed certain powers which would be useful to him, and he hesitated not to make use of them. A certain ruthlessness, I find, always takes possession of those engaged in secret plots and conspiracies. It is possible that the