CHAP. XIII.
In forming and rejecting a thousand plans to gratify his curiosity Ferdinand passed the night, and obtained but a very few hours sleep in the morning, though they were none of them early risers. His looks unrefreshed, were observed by his entertainer, who asked him, "If he had not rested well?"
"No," replied Ferdinand, "I did not."
"Did any thing particular disturb you?"
"No, only my own uneasy thoughts; you will allow I have sufficient vexations, which, if reflected on, must sometimes preclude rest."
"At your time of life," answered the other, 'the activity of the mind cannot be confined by particular circumstances, or local situations. Retirement will not do for you; travelling will amuse the eye, and give a diversity to your ideas; variety is absolutely necessary to keep the mind alive, and prevent it from dwelling on such circumstances as might, if indulged, overwhelm it with despair, and stagnate the senses: The snow growing firm will be no impediment to your travelling, and for the cold, a soldier should be accustomed to bear it."
"I am not apprehensive of fatigue, or incapable of bearing cold," answered Ferdinand; "but perfectly a stranger to this side of the country, there would be some danger of losing my way, as there are no tracts in the snow to guide me: I think, however, that if the weather continues fair, I will pursue my ramble to-morrow, if you will allow me to partake of your hospitality another day?"
"Certainly," returned the other; "but I think your scheme a very desultory and unsatisfactory one. As you are now acquainted with the residence of your wife, and her determination to see you no more, what is it you pursue? Why not return, and pass your winter at the Castle, look after your son, if you think him such, and prepare yourself for returning in the spring to the army?"
"The mansion of my brother is hateful to me on many accounts," replied Ferdinand, "it would continually remind me of every misfortune: No, there I cannot reside; and to live near my boy, for mine I am sure he is, could be no benefit to him, and having placed him in the hands of integrity, I am entirely easy on that head. I once thought that retirement would make me at least resigned; but I am now of your opinion, that a diversity of objects is more likely to amuse my mind, and that, where peace and contentment are for ever fled to procure a chance of temporary ease, variety of places and objects are absolutely necessary; yet will you pardon me for observing, that either your advice proceeds from a conviction that you have yourself chosen wrong in devoting yourself to solitude, or that you are weary of my company."
"You conclude wrong in the first instance," answered he: "I have never repented my residence here, on the contrary, it is the only circumstance that enables me to support the burden of existence; on the other point I will not deceive you; I long since thought every passion, every feeling, but one, was annihilated in my bosom.—Your appearance, your voice and manner, was unexpected, was touching; a few dormant embers of sensibility procured you entrance at first, and a particular consideration, in which I have been disappointed, induced me to receive you a second time. I now feel that I have been too long secluded from the world to find any satisfaction in a companion, and therefore I frankly confess I do not solicit your stay here. In the advice I have given you I am governed rather by what I think more agreeable to your own feelings than mine, for we differ on particular subjects, and I, in your case, should act otherwise than you do: But—I have no more to say. You may stay a week, or depart to-morrow; consult your own convenience, and do as you please." He left the room as he ended these words, without waiting for an answer.
Ferdinand stood some moments in astonishment; he would have given the world to have known who this extraordinary man was, and to have penetrated into the mystery that enveloped him; but he saw no prospect of gaining the smallest intelligence to gratify his curiosity by remaining there, and after the civil dismission he had received, he could feel no inclination to a longer residence—being left alone, a thing not usual since he had been in the house; he went into the next apartment, which had a door opening into, what had once been a very spacious garden, though now entirely overgrown with weeds; a very narrow path-way, where they seemed to be trodden down but not cleared, went by the side of the building, close under the windows, and here he walked on, observing the dreadful ruinous state the rooms were in, the glass broken, the floors had been long entirely exposed to the weather, and bore every mark of decay and desolation.
He proceeded till he came to the other wing, and immediately recollected that the feeble cries he had heard seemed to have issued from thence. He walked slowly round, and elevating his voice, "What cruel neglect has this once noble mansion endured: Surely whoever is, or was the master of it, must have met with uncommon misfortunes; and to what a wretched state must that mind be brought that can support existence in this desolated place." He had scarcely pronounced those last words, when he heard a heavy groan and an articulate voice, which appeared to be at no great distance from him. He stopped: "Did I not hear a voice?" said he aloud.
"The voice of misery!" was the answer, in a feeble voice, that sounded as if underneath him.
"Whoever you are, speak; I am a friend, can I come to you?"
"I fear not," was the reply, and at the same moment Ferdinand observed Francis at the steps of the glass doors, as if looking for him. "I am called," said he, softly, "what hour of the night is safe?"
"Not till after twelve," repeated the same voice, with a kind of groan.—Ferdinand turned short round, and met Francis advancing as quick as his feeble frame would permit.
"Oh! Sir, make haste, pray make haste."
"What is the matter?" demanded the other.
"My master, Sir, O! pray make haste." He turned back quickly, Ferdinand following him, and being more nimble got before, and run mechanically to the library, where lay extended on the floor the Solitary, apparently insensible. On advancing towards him, he perceived one side of his face distorted; he fixed his eyes on Ferdinand, and attempted to speak, but his words were inarticulate, and gave evident marks of a paralytic affection. On the entrance of Francis they attempted to raise him; but succeeded with infinite difficulty, as he had received a partial stroke which entirely disabled one side; with much trouble they got him upon the bed, and not knowing what else to do, they poured some wine down his throat, though he strove with one hand to prevent it.
"What can be done?" cried Ferdinand; "Is there any help to be procured?"
"I know of none," answered Francis: "I am unable to get to the village." Before the other could reply, a sort of convulsive motion seized on the unhappy man, and in a few moments he was no more!
"O, good Lord!" exclaimed Francis, "he is gone, he is dead, and all his cruelties unrepented of!"
"He is indeed no more!" said Ferdinand, struck with horror at the sudden event, "and may Heaven have mercy on him, whatever may have been his errors. Follow me down stairs," added he to the old man, who appeared to be planet struck, "I wish to talk with you." They each took a glass of wine, and then looking steadfastly on Francis, "Tell me," said he, "who is confined in this Castle, whose cries are those I have nightly heard?"
"How, Sir!" cried the other, "have you heard their cries? Who, or what they are, I know not, nor their place of confinement; but that there are some poor souls some where underground is sure enough."
"What," said Ferdinand, "were not you in your master's secrets? Have you not resided with him many years?"
"I have lived with him nine years; Sir; but I never knew his secrets, for he never conversed with me more than to ask for what he wanted, nor ever sent me out of the Castle. Whenever the man, who brings things from the village twice a week, rings at the bell, he always went himself, and so, Sir, I could speak to nobody."
"How came you to be with him?" asked Ferdinand.
"Why, Sir, it is now better than nine years ago since I had been reduced by sickness and the rheumatism, to be unable to work for my bread, and lived by the charity of the village, which was little enough; so one day a farmer, who now and then gave me milk, said to me, Francis, if you would like to have a good bed, plenty of milk and eggs, and neither labour or trouble, I can get it for you; so, Sir, my heart leaped for joy, for many a day I had nothing, because my rheumatism would not let me walk; so I said, I should be heartily obliged to him. He then told me the Gentleman in the Castle, whom we had often heard of, and all the village was afeared to come near the place; so he said, this Gentleman wanted an old man to be with him, whom he would treat kindly, if he could bear confinement. At first, Sir, I was dashed, and much afeared; but the farmer said he was a very quiet good sort of a Gentleman, and I might live very comfortable; so I thought again he could mean no harm to such a poor fellow as me, and besides, if I didn't like him, I could come away with the farmer again—but there I was out of my reckoning; so, Sir, persuaded, at last I ventured to come to the gates on the other side the house towards the village; so when the farmer told him, he opened the gate and let me in: God help me, I little thought I should not go out again; and so, Sir, to be sure he always behaved kindly to me, but it was so lonesome that I grew tired; but what could I do? every time the farmer came he went with me to the wicket. Once I did venture to say, I would rather go back; so says he, what have you to complain of? So I said 'twas so cruel dull. O, said the farmer, if that's all, Francis, an old man (like you) may be glad to be quiet, you can want nothing with the world; and so, Sir, I saw plain enough he was glad to be rid of me, and, as I thought I might not live long, and to be sure had good usage, I rested quiet, and have been here ever since."
"Well," said Ferdinand, a little impatiently, "but what do you know of the persons confined?"
"Nothing, Sir, but this: One day, after I had been here about a month, I walked down where you was this morning, and I thought I heard some groans, so deadly affrighted I hasted back, and told my master.—Ah! (said he) don't go that way again, Francis, I have heard the same noise sometimes; but 'tis no where else to be heard, so don't go again.
"I said no, I would take care of that; but I was terribly scared, because I believed it was ghosts, and I could not sleep all night, and in the middle of the night I thought I heard some cries, so, Lord help me, I was in a terrible fright; but taking courage I got out of bed to go towards master's room, t'other side of the gallery, when, just as I opened the door very softly, I saw master go into his room, with a lamp in his hand, and a little whip and a basket, which I had always seen on a shelf, in t'other hand; so he went in and shut the door without seeing me, being in the dark: I thought it was cruel strange, so next day I looks in the basket, and seed crumbs of bread, so then I looked at the loaf, and some of it was gone. Well, Sir, I said nothing, but I made a hole on one side of my chamber door, and when I went to bed I marked the loaf; so instead of going in to bed I watched at the hole, and at midnight I saw him come out with the same things in his hands, and go down stairs, and after a little time I heard the same cries.—Lord! how I was afrightened; so after a time back he came, and next morning I looked at the loaf—a good piece was gone; so when I carried it in to breakfast, I said I believes the fairies or ghosts eat our bread, for I am sure it goes faster than we eat it. That's nothing to you, said he, with such a terrible look as made me shake again; you don't pay for it, and no matter which way it goes; so, Sir, from that day I said no more. I was for a good while always afeared, but at last, as I may say, I grew used to it, and so I was content as well as I could.
"When he came and told me your honour was at t'other wicket, and made me fasten the outer gate, and ordered me into t'other room to shoot you, if you forced your way farther. Dear me, what a fright I was in, the pistol was of no use to me, and when you came again my heart rejoiced, in the hope that you was going to live with us; but after the first day master told me you must go again, which made me cruel sorrowful, and this, Sir, is all I know."
Ferdinand, heartily tired of this prolix account began to consider how he could find the way to this unhappy person, or persons, who were confined. He returned to the room where the deceased lay, and searching his pockets found only one crown and a key, which key Francis said belonged to the library bookcase, where he kept all the keys of the Castle; they again descended to the library, and opening the desk saw a bunch of keys, which for the present was all he sought for. They went towards the other wing through a long gallery, which terminated with a large door; here they tried their keys, and at length found the right; on opening it a dark staircase was before them; they now concluded a light would be necessary, and Francis was sent back to procure one.
On his return with a lamp, they descended the stairs into a long vaulted passage. On one side were three rooms that had once been inhabited as domestic offices; they proceeded until their progress was impeded by an iron door: Here also they tried their keys, and opened it, there was another descent of a few steps, and the bottom seemed a damp, cold dungeon.—Ferdinand stopped, and speaking aloud, "Is there any person confined in this place?"
A faint voice replied, "Yes, two wretched beings!" The sound appeared to be near them, but still deeper; they moved a little onward, and perceived another door, with two strong bolts drawn across; these were easily removed, and another descent of three steps brought them to a vaulted room, but cautious in advancing, for their lamp emitted but a very faint glimmer.—"Is this your prison, are we right?" asked Ferdinand.
"Yes," answered a voice, so close to him that he started, and extending the light perceived a figure that made him shudder, and Francis scream with terror.
It had the appearance of a man, from an immense long beard that reached almost to his knees as he sat upon a bench, with a small table before him, on which was a wooden plate, and a little wooden basin: He had a blanket wrapped round him, and his hair covered his shoulders down to the bottom of his back; his features they could make nothing of, but his eyes, from the meagre countenance, looked sunk, yet wild; they now perceived a glimmering lamp was fastened against the wall on one side.
"Gracious Heaven!" exclaimed Ferdinand, "can a human being have existed here?"
"Yes," replied the poor wretch; "many years I have struggled with life, but wonder not at me, look yonder;" he pointed to the other side, where on advancing they perceived another iron door, and a little on one side a small opening in it, through which another human face was visible, but more emaciated than the other.—"Have we a key for this door?" cried Ferdinand, inexpressibly shocked.
"That door," answered the man, "is seldom opened," in fact none of their keys were large enough.
"O," said Francis, "I recollect a large heavy key hangs on one side of the chimney piece."
"Will you venture to fetch it, or will you remain here whilst I go back?" asked Ferdinand.
"O Lord, Sir, I'll fetch it; stay here!" repeated he, looking fearfully round the place, and at the shocking figure before him, "No, no, I'll make what haste I can." He took the lamp and hastened off. The faint one that glimmered against the wall served only to make "darkness visible," and to throw additional horrors on the place.
"Good Heaven!" cried Ferdinand, "is it possible human nature could support a long confinement in this place!"
"Ah! Sir," replied the man, feebly, "we know not till put to the test what very severe trials nature can sustain. Death is not so ready to relieve the wretched. Our cruel persecutor found out a way to make us support, nay even wish for life. That dear, unhappy woman! think what must have been her sufferings; upwards of twelve years, as the avenging monster told us a few days since, have we been here. Long, long ago, we lost all power of computing time. O, Eugenia, shall I live to see you free!"—"To be spared the misery of seeing you die," answered a faint but sweet voice, "is all the boon I ask of Heaven!"
Mutual sighs succeeded this tender expression, and Ferdinand, overcome with emotions at a scene so replete with horror, could not suppress audible proofs of his sensibility.—"O!" cried the wretched man, "how piercing, how inexpressibly sweet, to the heart, is the voice of compassion! Heaven only knows how you obtained entrance here; but should that cruel monster discover you?———"
"Fear not," said Ferdinand, hastily, "he is no more; death has stopped his career of wickedness at last."
The man was about to reply, when Francis entered with the key, for so strongly was his mind impressed with terror, that, though he dared not stay in the vault, he was almost equally afraid to go back, and return alone. Much quicker than he had attempted to move for many years did he exert himself on his errand, and heartily rejoiced to find he was once more safe by the side of Ferdinand, who eagerly snatching the key unlocked the other iron door, and entered a dungeon still more frightful, with only a few rays of light that served not even to distinguish objects, and proceeded from a small iron grating at the very top of the vault, which grating was almost covered by rust and weeds.
His own lamp guided him to the woman, for such he found she was, her hair almost covering her whole figure: She was also seated on a bench with a table, plate and basin, similar to the man's, a blanket round her also.—"For Heaven's sake!" exclaimed he, "let us remove you from this wretched place."
"I know not," said she, feebly, "how it can be done—we are chained."
"Chained!"
"Yes, each hand and foot is chained together, so as not to prevent our moving; but the Count will show you."
"The Count!" cried Ferdinand, returning again to the man, who opening the blanket, the other saw a stout chain was fastened to each leg, which went round the opposite arm, not preventing the movement, but yet confined them so as to preclude any exertions, by pulling them cross ways when they attempted to walk.
"Is there no way of getting off those chains?" said Ferdinand.
"Only by a key or a file," answered the man.
"Have patience, my good friends," returned Ferdinand; "I will return, and seek for something that may answer the purpose."
"Yes," added Francis, darting out first, lest he should be asked to stay there, "we will find something I warrant you."
Notwithstanding the extreme agitation of Ferdinand's mind, he could not choose, but observe the great alacrity with which Francis hastened his steps. When they had reached the library, they searched about for a file; nothing of that kind was to be seen, but they found two odd constructed keys, which they supposed might belong to the chains; having recruited the fire with wood, taking a bottle of wine, their keys, and two or three old knives, they soon returned to the wretched prisoners, and to their great joy found they could relieve them from their chains. Ferdinand supported the woman into the next dungeon, they rushed into each other's arms, and fell to the ground. With the assistance of Francis they were lifted up: Ferdinand prevailed on them to take some wine.
"We are not strangers to this liquor," said the man, gratefully pressing the hand of his preserver; "once a week we have had a half-pint each of us, not as a favour, but with a degree of refined cruelty, to support and enable us to bear the miseries inflicted on us."
Without shoes, only coarse flannel stockings, a kind of petticoat of the same, and the blanket round their shoulders, they had only been accustomed to struggle rather than walk to the end of their dungeons, where a small partition was contrived to afford a proper separation from the place they were to sit and lye on, for beds they had none. With infinite difficulty Ferdinand and Francis got them out of the dungeon, and up the steps into the vaulted passage: Here they rested for some time, and at length reached its termination; but no sooner did the light and air dart upon them, than the woman fainted, and the man was almost blinded. By proper applications they recovered the Lady, and Francis, by shutting some of the windows, rendered the light less offensive; yet so extremely feeble were the unhappy prisoners, that it was a considerable time before their deliverers could get them into the library, where placed in two old easy chairs at some distance from the fire, that it might not operate too powerfully upon them, and being refreshed with a little bread and wine, their spirits began to return, and the Lady burst into a torrent of tears, that flowed for some time with such violence as frightened Ferdinand; but the man thanked Heaven for the relief. "Be not uneasy, Sir," said he, "not one tear has fallen from those eyes for years; I thought those sources of relief to the overcharged mind were entirely dried up; the indulgence will, I trust, be attended with happy effects."
Indeed it proved so, for after the first turbulence was abated, she recovered sufficiently to thank her deliverer in the warmest terms. Ferdinand proposed her retiring to bed, the one he had slept in Francis had prepared for her; he lamented the impossibility of procuring her linen and necessaries for the present.
"It is not impossible," said the Gentleman suddenly, "but that our trunks and clothes are still here, though perhaps decayed by time."
"I'll be hanged," cried Francis, "if those trunks, in a room next to this Gentleman's, ben't the very ones, for there they have been locked up ever since I came here."
On this hint Ferdinand sallied forth with his bunch of keys to the room mentioned, where the trunks were deposited, and after trying several keys to no purpose, Francis was dispatched for an instrument of some kind to break them open, which with much difficulty they at last effected, and found them full of clothes and linen for both sexes; also some children's necessaries, which last rather surprised Ferdinand; they however selected some for both persons, which seemed less injured by time than might have been expected; these were carried down, and when aired, the Lady was helped to her apartment, and linen left for her, which, from the stiffness of her arms and general debility of her limbs, she was a considerable time before she could put on; and when covered, and she was laid down, the sudden transition from such extreme misery to hope and comfort, affected her so forcibly as to preclude sleep for many hours: At length, however, she fell into a refreshing slumber; such as she had very long been a stranger to.
Mean time Francis had prepared his bed for the Gentleman, for though there were many other beds in the house, it was thought improper to put him into a room without first airing it. Being accommodated with comfortable linen, he very readily accepted their assistance to retire; and, after having seen him into bed, Ferdinand and Francis returned to the library to talk over this extraordinary affair, which afforded much room for observation and conjecture.
"Lord have mercy on us!" cried Francis, "how could they two poor souls live so for twelve years, naked and starving? O, dear me, I used to think my lot hard, but to be sure, Sir, it was Paradise to what they had. What a shame for me to think of trouble!"
"True, Francis," replied Ferdinand, "if we could, when afflicted, but examine into many circumstances that tend to lighten our own calamities, and compare them with the more painful disadvantages which others labour under, we should learn patience and resignation under the evils we suffer; but the human mind is too apt to view their own situation, and that of others under the medium of error, make partial comparisons, and draw unjust conclusions to increase their own misery.
"It appears to me that the Gentleman and Lady are the owners of this Castle, and had their persecutor died before I came here, doubtless they must have been starved in that horrid dungeon, for it is not likely you would have discovered them."
"Me, Sir! O, no, I should have crept out of the Castle as fast as I could if he had died when I was alone with him, though the Lord knows how I should have managed, for I could not walk to the village I am sure, and he might have died many days before our market man came, and I should never have been able to stay in this place with a dead corpse by myself.—So Providence sent you here, Sir, to save them poor souls from starvation, and me from dying of fear or fatigue." During this time Ferdinand had opened the bookcase to replace the keys, and curiosity induced him to search if there were any papers or memorandums relative to the deceased. Opening one drawer he met with a manuscript, the pages being open as if lately written, his eye caught the words: "The stranger, who calls himself Ferdinand."—"Ah!" exclaimed he, "this is doubtless a kind of journal, and may develop the whole mystery." Turning to the back, he saw it was entitled, "Memoirs of the Baron S******." The writing was extremely bad, and many pages seemed hardly legible, evidently written with a weak and trembling hand. He ordered Francis to make a fire in another apartment, air more linen, and get refreshments for the Lady and Gentleman against they should awake; then kindling a fresh blaze for himself, he prepared with eager curiosity to peruse the manuscript before him, which contained the following Narrative.