CHAPTER II.
Canst thou not minister to a mind diseas'd,
Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow,
Raze out the written troubles of the brain,
And, with some sweet oblivious antidote
Cleanse the stuff'd bosom of that perilous stuff,
The night was spent by him, as the day had been passed, in vain lamentations and conjectures; towards morning he enjoyed a short slumber.
On waking, he turned his thoughts to find some means by which he might gain a reputable maintenance in life; the army appeared to him the most likely to afford him the asylum he wished, and he trusted to the change of dress and situation, for passing unnoticed in the world.
The German power was at that period engaged in a war against Poland, and he resolved to offer himself as a volunteer in one of the regiments which were then daily raising; for this purpose he determined immediately to proceed to Berlin; accordingly, having settled with the host of the miserable inn, he mounted his horse, and set forward.
His journey of the preceding day had been partly in an opposite angle to the high road leading to Berlin: he accordingly struck into a bye path, which was to conduct him to the high road.
With mournful thoughts he proceeded solitarily along, and gained the desired road about the middle of the day.
Two days served to complete his journey; on the evening of the second he entered the busy city of Berlin; he took up his abode for the night in a small inn, and on the following morning made inquiries for a purchaser for his steed; with this he had determined to part ere he entered into the service of his country, well aware that his pay would ill suffer him to support it.
He walked about the city, he admired the public edifices, he inquired who had been their founders and builders; and for the first two days, found a sufficient stock of amusement to divert his thoughts, in some measure, from the sad subject on which they were too forcibly bent; but as the novelty of the scene began to subside, reflection returned with redoubled perplexities and griefs;—sometimes he resolved to return to the castle:—"My uncle," he said, "my mother avows to be innocent,—why should I fear him?—but still, she conjures me not to see him:—some secret cause doubtless actuates her conduct,—why hide it from me?—Should she have leagued with him to murder my father!—have taken him to her bed, and driven me from the castle, that I might not be a witness of her shame!"—The thought went nigh to madden him. "She is not so base," he cried: "would she, had this been so, have supplicated the count on her knees?—it could not have been done to deceive me, for she expected not my entrance.—What cause could there have been for that mysterious conduct?—for her still more strange appearance on the morning she sent me from the castle?—for the blood that stained her hand?" Imagination could wander no farther:—"Some secret misery wrings her heart,—I cannot alleviate it, or she would call for my assistance,—and I will not aggravate her calamities by disobeying her commands." He prayed fervently for her happiness, and wafted up his prayers to heaven in a heart-felt sigh.
On the third day after his arrival in Berlin, his landlord found him a purchaser for his horse at a fair price; Alphonsus hesitated to strike the bargain; he had no friend left on earth; it had endeared his horse to him, and he felt a reluctance to part from the last remains of his late happy days. He debated in his mind:—what money he possessed would soon be gone, and then——! He cast a glance at the road before him, the path was gloomy—"He is yours," he cried; "take him, but use him kindly." He rushed into the house, refusing again to behold his favourite steed. The most needful article was then the last in his thoughts,—he recollected not the money, till the landlord awakened him from his reverie by pouring it from his hand upon the table.
His first step was now to offer himself for service; he received the bounty bestowed on a volunteer, and taking the military habit, found it made an alteration in his person which he little expected.
He felt an inexplicable unwillingness to lead to any discourse which might give him information of the general opinion of the world, if any tale relative to his family was current in it,—but of this he was ignorant; he resolved to drive the subject from his thoughts; it only became the more constant attendant on his solitary moments.
He had been about three months in the service of the empire, when the regiment in which he served, was ordered to march to a village about four leagues east of Berlin, till they should be called into action, for which they were commanded to hold themselves in readiness at a short notice.
In the course of another month they were called to the field; Alphonsus was strong, active, and possessed of much natural courage; he acquitted himself in the toils of war with the most becoming spirit and fortitude, insomuch that he gained the favour of his commanding officer, and was by him promoted in the regiment.
The name of the commander was Arieno; the Italian name struck Alphonsus; he was serving in the German army, beloved by his soldiers, had risen to his present rank by the favour of the emperor, fought with peculiar bravery in the German cause, and yet he was palpably an Italian.
Arieno became more and more attached to Alphonsus: he showed him his favour on every occasion. Alphonsus even began to be apprehensive that he was discovered:—but he was deceived.
When the army retired into winter quarters, Arieno invited Alphonsus to pass the winter with him; Alphonsus accepted the offer with gratitude, and retired with Arieno in the quality, as he supposed, of an attendant.
His imagination was pleasurably deceived; Arieno was himself the child of sorrow;—he had perceived by the dejected air, hesitating speech, and pensive mien of Alphonsus, that he was a prey to grief equally with himself: sympathy inclined him to regard the young count,—and the engaging mien of Alphonsus, though his brow was clouded with sorrow, had won Arieno's heart; and he resolved to make him his friend and companion.
The habitation of Arieno was a small retired mansion on the skirts of a village about three leagues east of Frankfort; an old woman, to whom the care of the house had been entrusted during the summer, was the only one of whom the family consisted in addition to the two friends.
Arieno was a man whose person, on first acquaintance, was little prepossessing; but as the virtues of his heart, which was the seat of every good quality, shone forth, he rapidly gained the love and esteem of those who had any knowledge of him: his conversation instructed whilst it pleased the hearer, and Alphonsus hung with delight on his accents, as he spoke of the vicissitudes of life, the fallacy of this world, and the stability of hopes placed in a future state.
Many days passed, ere Arieno touched on the string which tingled to the heart of Alphonsus; he then thus addressed him,—"I think my young friend, there is something in your manner, together with your knowledge of many abstruse subjects, that bespeaks your real rank in life to be far above that in which I first knew you."
Alphonsus was silent; but his reddening countenance betrayed to Arieno the truth of his observations, who thus went on:—"Some secret sorrow preys upon your heart; impart to me your cause of grief; I may have the ability to alleviate your sorrows; if not, I will sooth them."
Alphonsus was still silent.
"Do you not know me sufficiently," Arieno continued, "to be well assured, that the interest I take in your happiness, and not the gratification of an idle curiosity, renders me thus inquisitive?"
"Oh, my friend!" cried Alphonsus, taking Arieno's hand, "I owe you more than my gratitude can ever repay:—you are worthy to be trusted with my inmost concerns; but I would rather forego the comforts which I enjoy from your kindness and conversation, than impart to you the secrets of my heart;—indeed, indeed, they must lie buried in my breast."
"Far be it from me to distress you," returned Arieno; "fear not a repetition of these words from me."
A long silence ensued.
"You are an Italian," said Alphonsus, breaking silence.
"You are right," said Arieno; "and marvel, I doubt not, at my serving under the emperor of these dominions."
"I must confess, it has often excited my wonder."
"You shall conjecture no longer; my story is short, and I will tell it to you."
"I have no right to expect such a communication from you."
"I doubt not but you have good reasons for your secrecy; I wish my story to be known to the world."
Alphonsus bowed, and Arieno thus began.
"My father, count Arieno, was one of the richest noblemen in the state of Venice; his mansion, which was situated nearly a league distant from Venice, was magnificent in the extreme; his gardens were extensive and beautiful, and his gondolas rivalled in elegance any before seen. At an early age he espoused the daughter of a rich senator of Genoa, whom he had accidentally seen at the carnival: she was an only child; and at her father's death, which happened three months after her marriage with my father, she inherited his entire property.
"In the course of six years she brought my father four children, three sons and a daughter; my sister was the first born, I was the second son, my brother Stefano was the eldest. At an early age my youngest brother died; at the period from which I date my story, my brother Stefano was in his nineteenth and I in my eighteenth year. Stefano was in his temper haughty, proud, subtle, and very avaricious; his person was well calculated to hide the deformities of his mind; he was the darling of his mother, whom he much resembled in disposition; and she had entire dominion over her husband.
"In addition to this, when I tell you that from my childhood my brother showed his dislike of me by every means in his power, I have, I think, said enough to convince you, that my life was far from being enviable.
"Not far distant from the mansion of my father, resided a widow lady, Signora Bartini, with her two daughters; their fortunes were small, indeed barely sufficient to support them with any degree of credit; but they possessed a treasure, superior to riches, in their beauty and virtue; the eldest captivated a French chevalier; he married her, and she departed with him into France.
"The youngest, Camilla by name, had given me a wound which it was not in the power of art to heal. Convinced, however, that the inferiority of her condition in life to my own, would prove an unconquerable obstacle to my espousing her in the eyes of my family, I resolved to bury my passion in my own heart;—into my eyes it would, however, sometimes force its way, I even thought Camilla perceived it, and blushed congenial feelings. It was one evening, towards the end of summer, that, as I entered the small garden leading to the house of Signora Bartini (for I sometimes ventured to call, and enjoy the conversation of Camilla), my brother came from the house; as he passed me, he exclaimed, 'My visit is just ended in proper time, I perceive;' and passed on laughing.
"I had been so much accustomed to taunts of this kind from my brother, that I heeded but little what he said, and entered the house: I found Camilla weeping by the window, and her mother standing by her.
"Suspicion, of I know not what, immediately flashed upon my mind in the form of my brother; I tenderly inquired what had disturbed her; her mother gave some trivial and unsatisfactory reason for her tears, and immediately turned the conversation to another subject.
"I could not conceal the emotions of my heart, and in a short time took my leave.
"My father, mother, and brother, were just assembled at supper as I joined them.
"'I knew not whether we were to expect the pleasure of your company this evening,' said my mother.
"'Why, madam?'
"'Nay, perhaps you were not invited with Signora Bartini, and lovers must not be too forward.' She laughed loudly, and my brother did the same.
"I bit my lips with rage, then said, 'I could conceive no impropriety in visiting where my elder brother showed me the example.'
"They were at a loss for an answer, and again laughed.
"My father looked sternly at me, and said, 'You had best beware how you marry contrary to my inclinations;—remember that Camilla Bartini is the last woman I should choose for your wife.'
"I knew my combat was unequal, and remained silent.
"I now found myself more disagreeably situated than ever under my father's roof, and accordingly determined to travel; I asked his permission; he readily granted it, and likewise advanced me a handsome sum of money. His easy consent distressed me, though I wished to obtain it; affection seemed to have no part in so hasty a compliance.
"I went to Camilla's house: but what was my surprise to find that she had left it; she was gone on a visit to her sister in France.—There seemed something mysterious in her conduct; I could not summon resolution to ask signora Bartini to explain it to me. I took my leave of her; and the next morning I departed from my father's mansion.
"Ten months elapsed, and I heard not from any one of my father's family: I wrote to my mother, to inquire the cause of this long silence, instructing her to direct for me in Sicily. In about six weeks after, I received from her a few lines, informing me that my father had paid the debt of nature, and requesting my immediate presence.
"I lost no time in reaching Venice, and arrived at my late father's mansion, on the day of his funeral: the will was then opened; but conceive, if you can, my astonishment, when the following paragraph was read: 'To my second son Philip, in consequence of his disobedience to my commands, I bequeath only five hundred zechins, that he may know I have not forgotten him, but wilfully cut him off from all other share of my property.'
"It was a bolt of ice shot at my heart—it benumbed my vitals. Muttering curses on the villain who had belied me to my father, I left the mansion, darting a look at my brother, which I gloried in perceiving that he felt.
"I flew to the house of Signora Bartini: a female servant was standing by the door; she informed me that her mistress was gone to her daughter's in France.
"'Where does she reside?'
"'At Montpelier.'
"'What is the Chevalier's name, who married her daughter?'
"'The Chevalier D'Albert.'
"I will not trouble you with my reflections during the time that I was journeying to Montpelier: suffice it to say, that my suspicions were irrevocably fixed on my brother, as the villain who had taken from me the esteem of my father.
"Arrived at Montpelier, Madame D'Albert received me at the house of her husband.
"'You will wonder to see me, Madam,' I exclaimed; 'but'——
"At this moment Signora Bartini entered the apartment: I saluted her; she made a sign to her daughter to leave us; I sat down by her; I hesitated how to address her.—What I had studied to say during my journey, had now fled from my thoughts, and I could only inquire for Camilla.
"'Ah! Signor,' she cried, 'my child will soon, I hope, be well; the hand of death is heavy on her.'
"Till that moment, I knew not what misery was—my other sufferings had been light.
"I fell from the chair on which I was seated—a dead coldness seized me; and it was with difficulty that Signora Bartini restored me to life.
"When she perceived my senses were returned, she cried, 'Did you then really love my poor girl, Signor?'
"'Love her! oh God, grant me words to prove how tenderly I loved her!'
"'She loved you, but was taught to believe you wedded to another.'
"This was an additional wound to my already lacerated heart.
"She then proceeded to inform me, that, on the evening that I had met my brother coming from her house, and found her daughter weeping, he had been making the basest proposals to my Camilla, and that, fearing her refusal should incense his haughty spirit to any unwarrantable act of revenge, she had removed Camilla to her sister's in France: that Camilla, having heard that I had left Venice, had supposed that I had forgotten her, and given up herself to melancholy; and that, about two months before my arrival at Montpelier, she had received a letter, as from me, informing her that I was married. 'This,' said Signora Bartini, 'has driven her to despair; her faculties are impaired; and we hourly await her death, as the greatest blessing heaven can bestow on her.'
"The letter was shown me:—it was the hand-writing of my villainous brother.
"I informed her of the contents of my father's will, relating to me; I showed her how I conceived myself to have been doubly injured by my brother: she sympathised in my fate, and I in hers; our sorrow flowed from the same source.
"In the course of that day, my beloved Camilla breathed her last. How shall I relate my anguish on receiving the bitter intelligence? you, my friend, must conjecture what I have not words to describe.
"On the following morning, I was permitted to visit her corpse: oh, how altered was her once beautiful countenance! Oh, my God, what did I undergo during the moments I gazed upon her cold form! In an ecstasy of sorrow, I kissed her icy lips.—The scene was too much—it overpowered me;—I was dragged from her, I know not by what means, never again to behold the innocent and unhappy victim of falsehood, my loved Camilla!
"When her funeral obsequies were performed, I returned to Venice; a short time developed to me the perfidy of my brother; I learnt that he had gained the credit of my father to my marriage with Camilla, by showing him a forged certificate of our having been united in a parish church at Montpelier:—how did my heart pant for revenge!—cooler reflection taught me not to spill a brother's blood.—I disdained, however, to ask of him the small legacy portioned out to me by my father, and resolved for ever to leave the Venetian dominions; and having passed over into Germany, I offered myself a volunteer in the service of the emperor.—I have served under him about thirty-two years, and his goodness has raised me to the rank I now hold.—My brother possesses riches; but I enjoy a treasure whose blessings he will never know—an approving conscience."
Alphonsus thanked him for his recital, sympathised with him in his sufferings, and inquired if he had ever heard any tidings of his brother since the period of his leaving Venice.
"By accident I heard, about fourteen years ago, that he had married a woman of fortune immediately on his father's death; that my mother had not long survived her husband, and that his wife died in child-birth of her first infant, which was a female; I heard it by means of an officer who had visited Venice, and mentioned that the discourse of the city, whilst he was there, had turned solely upon the disappearance of the only daughter of one count Arieno. 'He is an avaricious fellow,' said he, 'and was bent on espousing his daughter to a noble as rich as himself, while the poor girl had fallen in love with a German count, whom she had seen at the carnival. Her father forced her to marry the noble; and a short time after she was missed, and no inquiries could discover whither she had fled.'—The name of her lover, I think the officer said, was count Cohenburg, a descendant of a noble family of Saxony:—thus providence punished his avarice by depriving him of his only child."
Alphonsus changed colour at the mention of his name; but Arieno perceived it not; and Alphonsus ventured to inquire, what was conjectured to have been the young lady's fate.
Arieno answered, that she was supposed to have fled with her lover, and eluded the diligence of her father's and husband's search.
Alphonsus's brain was now on the rack to decide on some part of his father's or uncle's conduct, that might tally with this account; his father had never been a sufficient time together absent from his castle to have formed any engagement of the kind; indeed, had opportunity been ever so favourable, he had always loved his mother too tenderly to wrong her in the regard she bore him;—his uncle, he recollected, had been much absent from Saxony about the time mentioned by Arieno; but he had several times at intervals returned to his mansion; and no one had accompanied him;—there were no others of their name in Germany;—he was convinced it was not his father—thus suspicion rested on his uncle;—his next thought was, whether what he had now heard could by any means be made to account for the death of his father, and the conduct of his mother, or in any way be supposed to be connected with either.—Here thought again lost itself in a maze of uncertain conjecture.