CHAPTER I.
I am not mad; this hair I tear is mine;
I am not mad; I would to heaven I were!
For then 'tis like I should forget myself.
Oh, if I could, what grief should I forget!
If I were mad, I should forget my son,
Or madly think a babe of clouts were he;
I am not mad; too well, too well I feel
Count Cohenburg was descended from one of the noblest houses of Saxony; his castle, situated on a branch of the river Elbe, was one of the most magnificent in the German empire; his income was large, and his character celebrated, as one of the first men of his age.
At an early period of his life he espoused the second daughter of the marquis of Brandenburgh, and she blessed her husband with five sons; the eldest and the youngest of whom alone survived their mother.
At the time of count Cohenburg's death, which did not happen till he had some years buried his countess, Alphonsus, his eldest son, was in his twenty-sixth, and Frederic, his youngest, in his nineteenth year.
Alphonsus, now count Cohenburg, in his person was rather pleasing than handsome; his height about the middle stature, his mind well cultivated in every branch of learning, his temper mild and benevolent, but withal addicted to suspicion.
Frederic was a man formed to captivate; his features were regular, his countenance handsome and prepossessing, his figure tall and elegant; the advantages of education had been bestowed on him equally with his brother, but he had not so eagerly drank in instruction,—he was, however, an agreeable and even a fascinating companion,—he was passionate, but his anger was of a moment.
Arrived at his twenty-second year, Frederic became enamoured of a lady of Luxemburg; she was beautiful, but delicate in the extreme; she was an orphan, and possessed of a large fortune:—Frederic purchased a mansion in the vicinity of his brother's castle, and having espoused his beloved Sophia, every earthly happiness seemed to smile on him and his newly-married bride.
Within the year Frederic was blessed by the birth of a son.
Count Alphonsus was a beholder of his brother's happiness: he felt a wish for the same felicity Frederic enjoyed; he accordingly determined to marry, and selected from amongst the beauteous maids who adorned the German court, Anna, the only daughter of the duke of Coblentz. She was a woman in whom every engaging attraction was centred; her form was elegant, her manners affable and polite; there was something in her countenance that outshone regular beauty, and a vivacity in her conversation, that chained the senses of the enraptured listener.
Alphonsus was now as happy as his brother; and in the course of ten months his Anna brought him a son, on the same day on which Sophia gave birth to a second infant, which proved a female.
The name of his father was given to the infant son of count Alphonsus.
The following year Sophia brought her husband a third child, but the period of its entrance into the world was dated by the death of its mother.
The passions of Frederic were strong, and this proved a stroke which went nigh to unman his fortitude; the soothings of his brother however tended greatly to raise his depressed spirits.
Anna proved herself a not less affectionate sister to Frederic, than a mother to his children; she soothed them, consoled their father, performed for them every lenient action; and in short so forcible were her attentions, that she succeeded in lightening the burden of their sorrow.
Count Alphonsus loved his brother tenderly; he looked on his sorrows with a feeling eye; he would have alleviated them at the expense of half his worth; by any means, rather than by the assiduities of his Anna,—he conceived too highly of her to suppose her capable of bestowing on another the minutest particle of that love which she bore him;—he even repeated to himself that it was her love for him, which induced her thus to attend to his brother;—he knew the evil tendency of suspicion, and had always struggled to combat against it; but suspicion was a part of his nature, and would not always be subdued.
He watched his brother, and every turn of the countess's features when in Frederic's presence; he was convinced of his mistake; he was even on the point of apologising to his wife for the wrong he had done her in his thoughts; but he considered that he should, by so doing, only lay open to her an error in his heart, with which she was unacquainted; and therefore contented himself with the resolution of never again admitting a thought to her discredit.
Frederic's youngest child had survived its mother but a few hours, and, in the third year after her death, his eldest fell a victim to the grave: he recovered from this severe shock only to feel a greater,—his daughter died in his arms!—Misfortune seemed to have marked him out for her sport—he resolved to leave the scene of all his woes, and travel:—a hasty farewell was said by him to his brother and sister, and he departed.
In four years he returned; his manners were much altered; he was become dissatisfied, uneasy, absent; in short, no single trace of the former count Frederic was left.
Count Alphonsus was moved by his appearance, but his suspicious temper could not forbear revolving a subject which it had once disclaimed;—he determined however to bear his thoughts in silence,—he did so,—and in the course of eight months, Frederic again left Saxony.
The chief emotion which now swayed the breast of Alphonsus was pity; he fancied he perceived his brother's love for his wife, and his struggle to conceal it. The countess spoke frequently of the change in Frederic's temper,—her language served to convince Alphonsus that his brother was indifferent to her,—this was a point gained that gave him great satisfaction, yet he wished Frederic never to return.
Five years elapsed ere Frederic revisited Germany; he stayed but a short time in Saxony, and was then absent two more years; on his last return, his former disquietude of temper seemed converted into a settled melancholy; he retired to his mansion, and said he had formed a resolution to live a life of seclusion.
Alphonsus now imagined that he had found some means of gaining Anna's love, and that by pretending to keep himself retired in his own mansion, he thought to elude his brother's suspicion; he still, however, determined to keep a seal on his lips, but to open wide his eyes and ears.
The count's only son, Alphonsus, was now in his seventeenth year; his form was manly and well turned, his countenance rendered interesting and handsome by a pair of black eyes, and finely arched eyebrows, his cheeks were ruddy, his lips wore the smile of good-humour, and his short black hair hung curling round his neck; his intellects were strong, his genius discerning, and his mind well informed.
Nearly a year had elapsed since the arrival of Frederic in his native country, when an affair of consequence, relating to the will of his late father, called count Alphonsus to the metropolis of the German empire.
He visited his brother the day prior to his departure;—he bade a tender farewell to his wife and son—"My Anna is now in Frederic's power!" This idea a moment arrested his steps, as he was crossing the hall of the castle to the vehicle that awaited him:—"but is he not bound in honour to protect her?—he is!—and I will not suspect him."—He left the castle and proceeded on his journey, accompanied by an old and faithful servant.
Nearly two months had elapsed since the departure of count Alphonsus, ere the period for his return to the castle of Cohenburg was mentioned by him in his letters to his wife: he had written frequently to her, and every letter was replete with his anxiety again to behold her.
At length the time for his arrival was fixed; and the countess awaited it with every mark of ardent love; when, on the morning of the day which he had stated for his arrival, the servant who had accompanied him came to the castle alone; the anxious looks of the countess demanded a speedy explanation of his business,—"Was he the harbinger of the count?" she asked.
"Alas! no," he answered.
"Oh, he is dead! he is murdered!" she exclaimed, and sunk lifeless on the ground.
Her fears were too well founded; the old servant brought the sorrowing information, that two ruffians, who had burst from a thicket about ten leagues distant from Cohenburg castle, had fallen upon him and stabbed him to the heart.
Tears came to the relief of Alphonsus; and the first words his sorrow permitted him to articulate, were an order to a domestic to convey the sad intelligence to his uncle, and request his immediate presence at the castle.
When recollection again returned to the unhappy Anna, she waved her hand in signal to the surrounding domestics to depart; and, upon being left alone with her son, thus addressed him:
"Alphonsus, thy uncle is the murderer of thy father.—Swear to me thou wilt revenge his death."
Alphonsus looked steadfastly on his mother in silent wonder.
Anna continued: "Thou marvellest at my words,—thou canst not think the smooth-tongued Frederic so great a villain! but he is blacker than thy darkest thoughts can paint him!—Oh! I could tell thee"——she paused.
"Explain thyself, my dearest mother," cried Alphonsus.
"No! I cannot—I will not let thee think so basely of thy father's brother,—time may come, that thou"—she paused a moment,——"I cannot prove what I've alleged; therefore bury it in thy breast.—But swear to me, by heaven, whenever the murderer stands confessed, thou wilt revenge thy father's death."
"Oh, my mother! do you then think I would be careless in so great a point of duty?—No! let me but know him, and by all my hopes of heaven, my sword shall pierce his heart."
"Thou art my child indeed! good angels guard thee," cried the countess, and embraced him.—"Oh thou dost not know count Frederic; but time will teach thee him."
In due time count Frederic arrived; his countenance bore the marks of assumed grief;—Alphonsus could ill brook his presence;—he saw his mother's conjecture confirmed;—his tongue laboured to accuse the count of his villainy;—his heart whispered him to await the proof of his guilt;—he bit his tongue in silence;—his sorrow burst into his eyes, and he rushed from the apartment inarticulately exclaiming, "Oh! my father!"
Towards the evening the count departed; the old servant who had brought the sorrowful intelligence was ordered instantly to return to the corpse, and get it conveyed to the castle with all convenient speed.
Count Frederic took upon himself to prepare for the obsequies of his brother.
After the departure of count Frederic, Alphonsus strongly solicited his mother to confide to him her cause for suspecting his uncle; "I must not—cannot, "—she replied: "time will develop and prove my words. Oh Alphonsus! remember what you have sworn."
"Sacredly I will maintain my vow."
On the next day, count Frederic again visited the castle of Cohenburg; Alphonsus shunned his presence, and retired on his arrival, to indulge his grief in solitude. After an interval of some time, thinking his uncle gone, he re-entered the apartment where he had left his mother: but what was his surprise, on his entrance, at seeing her kneeling before the count, and kissing his hand—she rose, and threw herself into a chair.—The count walked to the window:—"How does this conduct agree with the character my mother has given of the count," thought Alphonsus;—his mother perceived his eyes fixed on her; she wrung her hands, and lifted them in silent supplication to heaven.
In a short time Frederic departed.
"You have commanded me," said Alphonsus, after a pause, "not to ask an explanation of your suspicions"—he was proceeding, when the countess rose from her seat, and bursting into tears, left the apartment.
Alphonsus was stretched on the rack of doubt, suspicion, and perplexity; he traversed the apartment, he threw himself on the ground, he rose again, he walked about the room, he entered the garden; he walked, he sat: it was in vain; the mind cannot fly from itself.
The countess excused herself from appearing at supper;—Alphonsus knew not that the cloth was spread before him, though he leaned the arm on which he rested his head on the table.
At an early hour he retired to his chamber; it was in vain that he attempted to rest;—he read the letters he had received from his father during his absence; his tears ran swiftly down upon them;—he could read no more,—he threw himself upon his bed;—his lamp decayed in the socket, and the obscurity of the scene seemed in unison with his feelings.
The ghostly hour of midnight had just sounded, and all the castle of Cohenburg was wrapped in sleep, save the forlorn Alphonsus; the balm of wounded nature refused to heal his sorrows. Stretched on his restless bed, he lay ruminating on the occurrences of the preceding day, when a piercing shriek caught his ear, and roused him from his meditations,—it seemed to proceed from the chamber of his mother; he listened—it was not repeated—"Again her grief exceeds the bounds of reason!" he cried,—"Oh wretched woman! Kind heaven sooth her sorrows!" He sighed, dropped a tear, and sunk upon his pillow.
After a short interval, he fell into a restless slumber; he had not long enjoyed this first repose, since his father's death, when he was awakened by the opening of his chamber-door; the dawn of day was beginning to break, and served to show Alphonsus, that it was his mother who had entered his apartment;—her mien alarmed him,—her eyes were wildly fixed, her countenance betrayed the most visible signs of an agonized heart; she was wrapped in a loose garment, and her hair hung dishevelled on her shoulders.
"Alphonsus!" she exclaimed, "observe thy mother's words, nor ask their explanation:—instantly fly this castle, nor approach it more, as you value life!—as you value heaven!"
Alphonsus had lain down on the bed without undressing, and now starting from it,—"Why this sudden alarm?" he cried; "is it that you fear my uncle will perpetrate a second deed, horrid as the first?—fear not for me; I shall live to fulfil my oath."
She shrieked, then said, "You have undone yourself and me—your uncle is innocent—one only way can save us both—fly far from hence—fly from me—fly from your uncle—take that purse,—return not to the castle—saddle the fleetest courser in the stables, and depart while yet the earliness of the morn favours your escape unseen—embrace me—Oh! no! no! no!—it would—" a flood of tears prevented for a while her farther utterance; she then added, "Go! and may the blessings I can never hope from heaven fall on thee." She gave him the purse;—the palm of her hand was stained with blood! Alphonsus looked that he saw it; speech was refused him;—the countess met his eye; again she shrieked, "Oh, fly and save me!—I conjure you, fly!"—she cried; and, with a look that seemed to draw blood from her heart, she ran from Alphonsus's chamber, and locked herself within her own.
Thunderstruck by what he had heard and seen, Alphonsus debated some moments how to act; at last he cried,—"Has my unhappy mother lost her reason?—Oh, no! her manner is that of deep sorrow, not of frenzy; she undoubtedly has some strong cause for her commands; but then why conceal it from me?—My uncle, too, declared innocent!—what can she mean?—it is my duty to obey." He left his chamber; as he passed hers, she opened the door, and said,—"Speed thee, my beloved Alphonsus!"—He stopped, but she hastily closed it again. He descended into the hall, unbarred the heavy gates, and proceeded to the stables; having saddled his favourite horse, he mounted, and with a full and sorrowing heart left the castle of Cohenburg.
"Fly me,—fly this castle, as you value life,—as you value heaven." These words he repeated again and again,—he dwelt on them, till conjecture lost itself in a maze of thought;—he proceeded forwards about five leagues without slackening his pace, before he inquired of himself whither he was going,—and he then hesitated how to answer himself. In this dilemma, he perceived a distant village rising above some clustered trees on the brow of an easy hill: thither he directed his steed; the villagers were just risen to their labour as he reached it,—they looked at him with an eye of inquisitiveness:—he perceived that they knew him not, but that idle curiosity had attracted their attention; having refreshed his steed, he again set forward,—he wished, with all possible speed, to leave that part of the country where he was likely to be recognised; he felt that he had no cause for wishing to secrete himself, but he felt also, that he should experience an unconquerable embarrassment, should he encounter any friend, who might ask him whither he was journeying, or make inquiries relative to his family.
Towards noon he had proceeded many leagues into the heart of the country; his strength and spirits were equally exhausted; he dismounted from his horse; and having fastened him to the trunk of a tree, whose branches shaded him from the scorching rays of the mid-day sun, he threw himself down by his side.
Reflection, which clears not the point meditated on, wears away the time sorrowfully, but swiftly:—thus Alphonsus rose not from his bed of grass till the sun was far advanced towards the west; after riding three more weary leagues, a mean inn, where he meant to pass the night, received him; he drank a cup of wine, and was refreshed,—it was the first nourishment, except some water which he had drunk at a brook from the hollow of his hand, that had that day passed his lips; he ate also, but sparingly, and that without relish. At an early hour he saw his steed safely bestowed, and betook himself to his chamber, though not to sleep.