CHAP. X.
Ferdinand was impatient to be gone from the Castle, and within ten days after Claudina had disappeared he saw his son fixed, heard from Ernest that his mother and the little Claudina were well, and having taken leave of his brother, who requested to hear often from him, one fine morning, equipped only with a change or two of linen, which he contrived to put in his pockets, a stout stick, and a small pair of pocket pistols, he set off on his intended pedestrian tour.—Ernest accompanied him to the entrance of the forest, and when Ferdinand embraced the good old man, tears rolled down his aged cheeks: "May Heaven preserve you, my dearest master, when there is only a choice of evils, we must endeavour to bear with that which appears the lightest; I therefore trust you to Providence rather than to the wicked and malignant. Take care of yourself, and depend upon my love and fidelity." His increasing emotions precluded farther words on either side. Ferdinand wrung his hand affectionately, and unable to repress his own tears, they, as if by mutual consent, turned and walked hastily from each other, the one to the Castle, the other pursued his way through the forest.
He walked leisurely on for some hours without feeling fatigue, for his mind was wholly occupied with revolving on all the extraordinary occurrences that had happened since the death of the late Count, and although he had never given credit to the improbable stories of ghosts, or believed in the old legends handed down to posterity by the slaves of fear and monkish superstition; yet there was such a conviction in his mind, that he could not be deceived in the voice which three times had startled him; and the last time was not only heard by Claudina, but appeared from her own letters to have struck her with a sense of conscious guilt, (though of what nature he could not divine) that it was impossible there could be any misapprehension, where there was no fear, or expectation of terror. All was strange and inexplicable, and he found himself involved in a labyrinth of perplexity, without any clue to guide him through it.
He at length came to a side of the forest which had a very steep hill, or rather mountain, rising from a narrow valley, which was watered by a small stream that seemed to meander slowly round the sides of the hill beyond the view; here Ferdinand stopped, and for the first moment recollected that he was tired and faint for want of refreshment, which, though a very natural occurrence, he had never apprehended; and Ferdinand concluded, without inquiring, that he would take the right-hand side of the forest, where two or three little hamlets lay dispersed, and would afford him some accommodation.—He viewed the mountain with a wearied eye, beyond the little valley the forest was very thick, nor did he know its termination; the other side he was acquainted with, but here he was entirely at a loss: Whilst he deliberated, he seated himself on a piece of the rock, where he had rested but a few moments before he heard the tinkling of a bell, and presently several sheep came to the opposite side of the rivulet; they stopped, looking at him, as if afraid of a stranger:—"Poor, simple animals! (exclaimed he) fear not a wretched, powerless man! Alas! thy very looks claim pity, so void of guile, hard and callous must that heart be grown, whose profession leads him to put the murderous knife to a throat so unoffending!"
He had scarcely finished those words, when he saw a young shepherdess descending from the mountain to attend the watering of her flocks. He marked her as she came nearer; plain and humble was her attire, simple and unfashioned her air; a good height, and a clear brown skin, with a ruddy complexion, were all her attractions. "Behold the child of nature! (thought he;) innocence of heart, simplicity of manners!" She came down to her sheep, the small rivulet only parted them. He saluted her. She returned a rustic bow, looking earnestly on him: "I have lost my way, shepherdess, and am faint and tired."
"Go round the hill (said she, pointing with her finger) there is a little bridge, cross it, follow the path way, it will bring you up to our cottage, my father is there, and you may rest yourself."
"And you (said he) where do you dwell?"
"There also (answered she.) When I have watered and housed my sheep, I shall come there too."
Ferdinand did not hesitate; he walked slowly to the bridge, and with difficulty began to climb the winding ascent. After much fatigue he reached a kind of platform in the middle of the hill, where he saw a small cottage, a deep hanging brow of the mountain seemed suspended over it, and appeared as if every moment it would fall, and crush the humble dwelling into dust. He shuddered as he beheld it; but advancing to the cottage, saw a venerable looking man sitting to enjoy the breezes that played over the hills.
The old man viewed him with evident surprise; Ferdinand related the direction he had obtained from the shepherdess, and appeared so very much spent with toil, that the shepherd desired he would walk in, gave him his own stool as being the best, brought him some milk, and a cake, he said, of his Maria's baking. Never was repast more delicious than this milk, when almost choked with thirst; Ferdinand drank the wholesome beverage, looked at the simple shepherd, and his humble dwelling clean and comfortable, though unadorned, with delight. "My good father (said he) I thank your hospitality, you have revived my fainting spirits."
"You are truly welcome (replied the shepherd;) but may I inquire, son, where you are going to on foot, and alone, for it is too late to reach Baden now before the close of night?"
"I came from Baden (said Ferdinand) and am going I know not whither; going to travel."
"To travel?"
"Yes."
"What on foot—alone?"
"And why not, father? I go to see the country, to amuse myself, a horse would be sometimes inconvenient, for instance, a horse could not have brought me here."
"No (replied the old man;) but was there a necessity that you should come here?"
"Not a necessity to come here particularly; but I am on a tour of curiosity, and therefore the lowly valley, or the towering mountain, will equally attract me; I can never be out of my way."
"Strange (said the shepherd, eying him attentively) strange, that a young man, who seems formed for the world, should take a fancy to roam the forests on foot, without a companion or necessaries to refresh him!"
"The first I want not (said Ferdinand) and for the last I trust to benevolence and hospitality, such as I now experience."
"But suppose you had not met my daughter, your trust would have been a very feeble one, for I know not another hut for a great way off, and you would have been benighted in the forest. Think of your danger in that case."
"Could we always foresee (observed Ferdinand) we might possibly avoid many disagreeable accidents, many melancholy circumstances; but no such prescience is allowed to man, and if it was, and the evils of life unavoidable, we should be still more wretched than we are."
"True (answered the old man;) but had I guessed you was coming here, I might have been better prepared, for we eat up our eggs at dinner; bread and milk is all your fare."
"I desire no better, and if you will permit me to lay on that bench till the morning dawns, I shall be still more obliged to you."
"Thank Heaven (said the shepherd) I can treat you better; to lay on the floor, wrapped up in warm skins, is nothing new, nor uncomfortable to me, and my poor bed is at your service; it is clean, though homely." Ferdinand was going to refuse, when the shepherdess entered.———After some conversation on their simple way of life, which he found they had always been accustomed to, they overpowered all his refusals, and obliged him to take the old man's bed, which was in one corner of the room; the other room was the young woman's and those two rooms were all they had.
He asked "if they were not apprehensive of the rock breaking over their cottage?" They said, "Sometimes, when sudden thunderstorms broke over them they were alarmed; but they trusted in Heaven for protection." "I have only one fear, one care (said the shepherd;) it is some years now since I lost my wife; should I be taken suddenly too, what must become of my poor child?"
"Whenever that day arrives, father, which I hope is yet far off, I will sell my sheep, and go to service; all my fear is, lest I should be sick, and not able to help you; but then I hope good Mr. Ernest, our Lord's steward, will consider you."
"What! (cried Ferdinand) do you know Ernest? Are you tenants to Count Rhodophil?"
"To be sure, Sir (answered the girl;) we know Mr. Ernest, for he buys our sheep.—As to tenants, Sir, we pay no rent, because the mountain is free to live in; but we are vassals to the Count, his estate lies round the forest."
"Do you ever go to the Castle?" asked he again.
"I never did but once (replied the shepherdess) and the walk is too long for my father; but Mr. Ernest sends to us sometimes, and we meet him in the valley, and agree about our sheep. He is a good man, and never drives a hard bargain with the poor."
"Well (said Ferdinand) I know him too, and will take care that both you and your father shall be more safely provided for in future." Each looked at the other with wonder, but spoke not. They soon after retired to rest, contented and happy; not so their guest, he flung himself on the bed, a prey to the most melancholy reflections; and it was near morning when nature exhausted, gave him a temporary repose for about three hours, which seemed to refresh him, and after breakfasting on milk, he prepared to renew his ramble.
He was but very little acquainted with that side of the country which being rocky and mountainous, was unfavourable to excursions on horseback, and therefore had not fallen under his observation; but just as he was taking leave of his hospitable entertainers, he remembered to have heard there was a convent situated somewhere beyond this mountain; that certainly (thought he) is the retreat of Claudina: I will go to it, perhaps she will not see me, but it will be a satisfaction to know where she is. He inquired of the shepherdess if his conjecture was right respecting the convent? She told him it was, that about seven miles off there was a convent so remote and dreary, that it seemed shut out from the world, and was almost as much unknown as if in a desert.
"I have never been near it (said she) for, indeed, what I have heard about it is enough for me, and I have something else to do than to ramble into such places, where one may get nothing but a great fright for one's pains." "Ah! (concluded Ferdinand) this is the very place which seems to be designed for an entire seclusion from the world, there I will direct my steps." Having bid adieu to the good girl and her father, and taking a direction towards the convent, he began to descend the hill. The morning was fine, the dew drops still hung upon the under-wood, sparkling as the rising sun glittered among the trees, the birds were singing on the lofty branches, and the whole scene was calculated to inspire pleasure and serenity; even Ferdinand felt the enthusiasm of the moment; he looked round with delight:—"Ah! (said he) the face of nature shines on all its children; happy is the mind that can enjoy the pure pleasures that it so freely offers, free from corroding care, or guilty self-upbraidings! How much happier is the lowly peasant than his proud guilty Lord, who riots in unlawful pleasures, forgetful of the sting that follows in the voice of conscience; whilst the humble shepherd rises blithe and innocent, pursues his daily occupation, blessed with content, he gathers in his flock at night, thankfully partakes the healthful food his family provides, and sinks to rest undisturbed and happy!"
Full of these thoughts he pursued his way until he reached the foot of the mountain, and descended into a narrow, wild and obscure glen, where nothing relieved the eye but high and lofty hills covered with trees which threw a dark shade beneath, and entirely obscured the sun from penetrating through; he heard the sound of distant waters, but knew not from whence they came. He walked on a considerable way, until by a sudden turning he found himself at the foot of another mountain, from whence issued the most beautiful water-fall he had ever seen, descending into two or three natural basins, which fell from one to the other until they came to the bottom, and formed the lake, which winding itself around the mountain on the opposite side, divided into smaller streams of which the rivulet he had first seen was one. Here he sat down to rest, and to admire the course of the water. He had another hill to mount, and he observed there was something like a path-way in a gradual ascent round the side of it; he could see it was not much trodden upon by the weeds, but they were not so high as to impede his steps, and therefore, after resting about half an hour, he followed the direction, made his way through the weeds and under-wood, and, with infinite labour, arrived at the summit.
Here he stopped to look round him, another valley was beneath, which seemed to terminate in a thick wood on the right, and more hills to the left. Heartily tired of ascending and descending, he resolved to go into the woods from the vale beneath, rather than climb another mountain: Descending, however, to the valley, his attention was arrested by the beauty of the vines, which entirely covered the southern side of the hill; and several small streams, which had forced their way from the cascade on the other side, here crossed each other in the valley, and divided it into many parts like a cluster of small vales, which had a beautiful effect upon the eye, and agreeably amused Ferdinand till he came to the entrance of the wood, which he found uncommonly thick, and seemingly difficult to penetrate. He hesitated a moment, supposing that it might be the retreat of a troop of banditti, which had for some time past committed many outrages in the neighbourhood of Baden: "But what have I to fear? (exclaimed he) my life is not worth the taking; from a single man they can expect no booty, and the basest of cowards only would attack a defenceless being that cannot injure them."
Fortified by these considerations, he proceeded through the wood, in which there was no path-way, and in many places so difficult to pervade, that he more than once repented of his attempt, which he was fearful would at last prove fruitless; persevering, however, with infinite difficulty, he walked on. The trees were very lofty, and it appeared as if he descended gradually all the way. For three hours he kept on, till quite exhausted, he was obliged to rest himself at the foot of a tree, and eat a small cake the shepherdess had given him. "I have no doubt (thought he) but that I must be near the convent, as it certainly lies in this direction, though most probably there may be a less troublesome road to it. They informed me at the cottage it was about seven miles from the hill, surely I must have walked over more ground than that:" But he considered not how much time he had lost in forcing his way through the wood, which impeded his steps, and made him advance but very slowly.
Having a little refreshed himself he went on, and at length the wood opened into a deep and narrow valley, with lofty thick pines on each side, which threw a gloom over it sufficient to create horror in the mind of the boldest traveller.
Ferdinand felt its influence, but he was not easily intimidated, nor, indeed, could he now well retreat. Walking forward, he saw at the bottom another thick cluster of trees, which, when he came up to them, seemed to terminate the valley, and to be impervious to any human being. These were chestnut trees, so interwoven with each other, that he looked round in vain for an opening, for the under-wood formed a thick fence that was impassable.—Extremely disconcerted, and apprehensive lest he should have the same road through the valley to retrace, he turned a little to the left, forcing his way down by the side of the trees, and after persevering near a quarter of a mile with infinite difficulty, to his great joy he discovered a small stream of water, over which was an old wooden bridge that led the way to a narrow path made through the wood. This track he followed, and, after walking near an hour, came to another dark avenue, at the end of which stood an old building encompassed with very high walls.
"At last (thought he) I have reached the convent;" and exhausted as he was with toil and want of refreshment, the appearance of those mouldering walls, gave him more pleasure than he might at another time have received from a view of the most superb palace. A pair of iron gates, which seemed rusted on their hinges, with a bell on one side, flattered him with the hopes of obtaining an entrance: He rang the bell with some force, and heard its sound, though at some distance. After waiting a considerable time, he was about to repeat the pull, when a very small wicket was opened (for the inside of the gates were lined with wood) and the meagre face of an old man appeared, who demanded, in a deep, feeble voice, "Who was there?"
"A wearied and unfortunate traveller, (replied Ferdinand) who entreats rest and refreshment."
"I fear (replied the man) neither can be obtained here."
"Is not this a convent?" asked Ferdinand.
"No (answered the other) there is a convent about five miles to the right of the valley you have passed."
"What then is this place?"
"Once a castle, now a heap of ruins!"
"Yet it is inhabited it seems, and I am really so overcome with fatigue, that if you can procure me entrance, I shall be most truly thankful to rest an hour."
"I will inquire," said the man, and withdrew.
Ferdinand was extremely mortified to find he had taken a wrong direction, from the convent as it appeared, by keeping to the left; yet he was so very languid and tired, that he found it hardly possible to measure his steps back without some rest or sustenance; for, however grief may fill up the mind, or weaken the appetite, nature will assert her rights, and remind the woe-begone traveller that something is necessary for her support. He waited some minutes, not with the patience of a Socrates, when at length the same face appeared through the hole: "I will let you in for a short time to the huntsman's room, but no farther." He proceeded to unbar the gate, which from its creaking noise, and the difficulty attending its opening, gave evident proofs that the practice of hospitality was not customary in that ruinous building.
When the gate was opened Ferdinand absolutely started at the figure of his conductor; he even hesitated whether he should follow him; haggard, emaciated and tottering, was the man before him. A large court, overgrown with weeds, led to another wall, with a pair of gates similar to those he had passed, and discovered no more of the building than the lofty battlements and high turrets he had discerned on his first approach. On one side of the court was an old low building, to which the man conducted him. They entered a hall lined with the huntsman's trophies, covered with dust; through that they went into a smaller room, where a table, some benches, and a fire place, had the appearance of having been once inhabited.———"You may rest here (said the man) and I will bring you some food; but if you stir one step beyond, your death will be the consequence."
Ferdinand, instead of being intimidated found his curiosity greatly excited, and though he quietly acquiesced with the prohibition, yet his thoughts were employed in considering on means to obtain further knowledge of these ruins and its inhabitants. Some time elapsed before the man returned with bread, wine, and grapes, which, whilst Ferdinand gladly devoured, he was observed, with the most scrutinizing attention, by his entertainer; nor were the other's eyes unemployed.—When he put the flask of wine to his mouth, for no cup had been thought necessary, he drank to the other's health, which was returned with a bow of the head; but no persuasions could induce him to return the compliment. "I drink no wine," said he, in a mournful voice.
"Indeed, my good friend, I think you need it," said Ferdinand, "weak and feeble as you are, wine seems absolutely necessary for you."
"I have sworn to the contrary," replied the other, with an increased dejection.
"It appears to me," returned Ferdinand, "to have been a very cruel injunction, if forced upon you, and a very unwise one, if voluntarily made, for the good things of this life were given to us by a bounteous Creator to be our support and comfort; the abuse of them is only improper, and when advanced in age, as you appear to be, such things as nourish the body and enliven the spirits, are highly requisite."
"To some persons," answered the man, "it may be so; but not to a man to whom the hours that he drags here are a weary pilgrimage, such a one seeks not by stimulatives to prolong a life long since grown hateful to him."
"Alas!" cried Ferdinand, "few men can be more wretched than myself; recent afflictions have driven me from my home, and from my friends; yet do I hold it cowardly to desert my post, I have no power over that life I could not give myself; and to neglect the means of its preservation, is little less sinful than to destroy it at once.—But, pardon me one question, are you the owner of this Castle?"
"I am not," returned the other; "but do not be curious in matters that cannot concern you, nor by an idle curiosity which can receive no gratification, oblige me to repent of my charity."
"You must at least," said Ferdinand, "forgive me one observation; your first appearance, and manner of bringing me here, led me to suppose you a domestic; your language convinces me I was mistaken: Whoever, or whatever you are, if you are unfortunate, as your words seem to imply, I most sincerely pity you; unhappy myself, I can feel for every child of sorrow." The tone, in which those words were uttered, with the look that accompanied them, had a powerful effect upon his auditor. He turned from him, clasped his hands, tears ran in torrents down his furrowed cheeks, and, with a heart-breaking sigh, he flung himself upon a bench almost suffocated with the excess of his emotions.
Ferdinand approached him:—"If I have been, though involuntarily, the cause of exciting those tears, and of recalling ideas that perhaps were faded on the memory, I entreat you to forgive me; indebted to your hospitality and kindness, I am exceedingly concerned to have made a return so unworthy to create pain in the bosom of my benefactor."
"You stand acquitted in my opinion," answered he, endeavouring to recover from his first transports; "sympathy, perhaps, led you to observations you could not foresee would plunge me into sorrow. It is now twelve years since I have seen a human being to interest me; twice only during that period have those gates, by which you entered, been opened to admit any one within them: Society is hateful to me, and I thought this place sufficiently hidden from the world to preclude all possibility of intrusion; the sound of a bell is but seldom heard, and only at stated times: I was therefore alarmed at the circumstance, and when I opened the wicket had no thoughts of admitting you; but the expression of your countenance struck me, the mournful accents of your supplication vibrated to my heart, and in one moment overturned the scrupulous caution of twelve years."
"I feel (replied Ferdinand) that my obligations to you are infinite, nor will I abuse them by an expression of curiosity which is improper to be gratified; not one step beyond the boundaries of your injunctions will I attempt to stray.
May Heaven give you comfort, and sooth your mind to ease and tranquillity. I am rambling to forget myself, and those most dear to me. I have incurred the heaviest maledictions, and am a victim to the severity of them. A cruel mystery hangs over me, and has driven me from every prospect of happiness."
"Poor youth!" exclaimed the old man, "how many are the unfortunate beings compelled to exist in this world of cares, either from their own misconduct, or through the crimes of others? I can afford you no comfort, for within these walls misery, oppression, and despair, have fixed their seat for ever!"
"Then," cried Ferdinand, "I should be an inmate; for equally wretched and hopeless is the being before you: I know not why it is, but methinks I am driven by an irresistible impulse to open my heart to you, if you can allow me to intrude so long upon your patience."
"The communication of sorrow, it is said, relieves the mind; if such may be the effect, I will readily listen to you; but must premise before-hand that of whatsoever nature your sorrows may be, it is impossible that I can either comfort, or serve you."
"They will at least prove to you," answered Ferdinand, "that you are not alone unhappy, and though you cannot, indeed it is impossible you should, serve me, you may at least give me the benefit of your advice."
The old man shook his head, but with a deep sigh requested he would proceed. The other obeyed, and took up his story from the first time he had seen Claudina, as the epoch from which originated all his subsequent troubles, and from which he dated her misfortunes and his own. He related every event without palliation or exaggeration, and complained heavily of the mystery which hung over the interview with his wife on his return from the army, and the self-accusation contained in her letters, her flight, and his ignorance of her situation.