CHAP. V.
I will briefly relate to you those events with which you are unacquainted. My father and the late Count Zimchaw were neighbours, and once good friends. Eugenia and myself, at an early period in life, felt a mutual attachment, which death only can dissolve. There was nothing to impede the progress of our affections; age, circumstances, and the approbation of our parents, gave a sanction to our love, and we arrived at an age, when it was determined upon, that in a very few months our marriage should take place. Alas! what revolutions may occur in a short space of time to overthrow the best formed plans for happiness! One evening the two Gentlemen entered into a conversation on the war, on the conduct of the Ministers in the Imperial Court, and such other topics as frequently produce disputation from different opinions. My father had retired from Court in disgust; he thought himself ill-treated, and his services neglected; he spoke therefore with some acrimony, and much warmth against the measures adopted for carrying on the war; Count Zimchaw, formerly a moderate man, having, by his interest not long before, procured a handsome establishment for his nephew, felt himself called upon to be the champion in defence of his friends: Their dispute was carried on for some time without personal resentment; but unhappily growing animated on both sides, they forgot the ground of their first argument, and turned every thing into intended insults on each other; they lost sight of friendship, and even good manners, and had not some company unexpectedly entered the room, it is more than probable the sword would have terminated the dispute. Every effort was used by their mutual friends to bring about a reconciliation, but they had gone too far on both sides to make any concessions; they parted with an avowed hatred to each other, and in the same hour Eugenia and myself were commanded to avoid all future intercourse with the respective families, and never to converse or see the object of our dearest affections more.
"Eugenia, who held the commands of a parent in the utmost veneration, promised implicit obedience, though her heart and spirits sunk under the effort, and she fell dangerously ill. Almost distracted with her situation and my own, I exhausted myself in fruitless endeavours to restore harmony between our fathers: I left nothing unsaid or undone to soften their resentments; but the remembrance of their long friendship only served to increase their animosity to each other, and the asperity with which both the one and the other accused his opponent, could neither be forgiven or forgotten. I wrote to my dear Eugenia; I conjured her 'not to give me up a sacrifice to her father's resentments, to consider that we were not amenable for their unjust quarrels, nor could compulsatory obedience be any virtue, where the commands were cruel and unjustifiable.' In short, I omitted no arguments I could adduce to over-rule the resolution she had taken to obey her father. Her answer was short but decisive: 'She never would marry, much less encourage a clandestine correspondence, contrary to the commands of her father; and as there existed no hope that his consent would coincide with her wishes, she conjured me, if her peace was dear to me, from that hour to cease all further desire of an intercourse between us, which could only be productive of misery to both; that her promise was already given, and her fixed resolution taken at the same time, that if not permitted to be my wife, I might assure myself she would never be the wife of another."
This answer was conclusive, for I knew her too well to hope for any change in a plan she had once decided upon: As soon as I heard therefore she was in a convalescent state, I resolved to quit my father's mansion, and by travelling give some diversity to that load of anguish seated at my heart. My father did not oppose my design, conscious of the misery his intemperate conduct had produced, I believe it grew painful to him to see me, and that a separation was little less desired by him than by myself.
My journies were by no means interesting, for I sought not pleasure, and received but little amusement: I preserved that respect due to a parent, of sometimes writing to my father, who concealed the increasing weakness of a broken constitution from me, until the faculty had given up all hopes of his life. This intelligence, quite unexpected, recalled all that dormant affection and respect I had once so warmly entertained. I hastened my return, but came too late; the night preceding my arrival my father expired. I was deeply affected, and still more so when the steward, and an intimate friend of our family, informed me, that a day or two previous to my return, he accused himself as the destroyer of my happiness, and entreated his friend to exert his best endeavours to procure a reconciliation between Count Zimchaw and myself; acquainting the former, that he lamented the part he had acted, and besought him to spare himself a similar regret in his last stage of life, by consenting to the union so long projected by both families, and so hastily and unwarrantably broken off by passion and prejudice."
"But, alas! in the same moment that I had this pleasing acknowledgment on the part of my father, I was told Count Zimchaw had taken his daughter into Bavaria, and that a report was current in the country that she was married to Baron S———. Distracted at this intelligence, I sent to the Count's mansion to know the exact truth, and was shocked by a confirmation of the report. My hopes of happiness were now annihilated: I sunk into a gloomy despondency for a long time, from which no endeavours of my friends could rouse me.—I was dragged about a lifeless body without a soul, from one friend to another, till at length, tired with exerting unsuccessful kindness, they left me to myself.
"About this time Count Zimchaw returned into Suabia, and his daughter's marriage was beyond a doubt. No longer desirous of his returning friendship, I avoided all intercourse with himself or his friends.—He was soon afterwards taken ill, and I was informed his son-in-law was sent for, to whom he had secured all his personal fortune. This intelligence gave me indescribable sensations, I doubted not but that Eugenia would accompany her husband, and I had not resolution enough to leave the country, though sure of suffering extreme torture by seeing her in the arms of another. The Baron, however, arrived too late to see the Count, and came without Eugenia, whose particular situation was mentioned as an apology for her absence."
"Will you pardon me, Sir, for interrupting you?" said Ferdinand; "but in the Baron's memoirs your meeting is mentioned, and every circumstance until his return to Bavaria."
"I thank you," replied the Count.—"Well, then, the Baron had left Suabia, I believe, a fortnight, when one day I received a note in an unknown hand, 'requesting me to be at the end of my Park, next the village, about twilight, when I should meet an old friend.' I hesitated for some time whether I ought to comply with this singular request; but at length determined to go, and grew quite impatient for the hour.
"At the appointed time I hastened to the spot, and descried through the gloom two young men, in an ordinary garb, approaching towards me: Not being entirely devoid of suspicions, I had a pair of pocket pistols, one of which I held in my hand, and as they drew near, and their features were not distinguishable, I cried out, stop, and announce yourselves, whoever you are."
"Ah!" exclaimed a sweet but tremulous voice, "does not your heart inform you it is Eugenia?" I heard no more, but flew, and caught the trembling fugitive to my breast. Neither could speak, for words were inadequate to our feelings. O, the rapture of that moment never to be forgotten! "Lead the way to your house (said she) and every thing shall be explained." In an instant I recollected that I had embraced the wife of Baron S———: I withdrew my arms, but she retained one as her support, and with hasty steps, and mutual silence, we proceeded through the Park.
When we entered the saloon she sunk into a chair, and bursting into tears, "I see," exclaimed she, "that I am no longer the object of your love or esteem!"
"Not love you," I cried, dropping at her feet, "not love you, Eugenia!" I could say no more, for I was overpowered by a variety of emotions difficult to describe, and dared to entertain suspicions unfavourable to the purity of an angel. She saw the tumults the disorder of my soul: "Rise, Count," said she, assuming an air of dignity, "I forgot, that in your eyes I must appear as a runaway wife, as a degraded character; compose yourself, and listen to me without interruption.
She then entered into a detail of all the circumstances attending her meeting with the Baron to the conclusion of her marriage; with all which particulars I find you are acquainted, I shall therefore confine myself to a relation of the subsequent events. Soon after her arrival at the Baron's, she perceived that Agnes was warmly attached to her, and she did not conceal the strong aversion she had to an union with her master. The good woman attempted not to lessen the prejudice she had conceived against him, on the contrary she ingenuously confessed, that the severity of his manners, and harshness of his temper, were but little calculated to render a marriage life happy. Thus strengthened in her dislike, which grew more confirmed every day, she concerted with Agnes the plan of her elopement, which was first intended to have been previous to the ceremony; but her father having been in the act of denouncing his malediction against her, if she did not give her hand to Baron S———; she was so extremely shocked as to promise unreserved obedience, and in that moment determined to become a sacrifice to her duty.
She retired to her apartment overwhelmed with sorrow, and meeting Agnes, told her, "She now gave up all idea of quitting that house, which henceforth she considered as the tomb of her happiness." This faithful creature (whose untimely death we have never ceased to lament) heard with surprise a resolution, which gave her equal pain; in her zeal to serve Eugenia, she disclosed some particular circumstances relative to her master, displayed his odious character, and cruel disposition, in such strong colours, as again staggered the fortitude the former had endeavoured to acquire; and at length she was persuaded by Agnes to adhere to her former design, and, by a kind of sophistry, not perhaps altogether defensible, she was induced to keep the promise made to her father of giving her hand to the Baron, and afterwards to effect her escape. This plan you know was executed, and it only remains to mention the manner in which she was so effectually secreted from all discovery.
"The Castle in which the Baron resided was large, and some parts of it entirely out of repair. At the back of the building were some ruinous apartments on the ground floor, which served for no other purpose than as a temporary shelter for the poultry, and a depository for their grain. The farthest of those apartments had a door, which opened to a descent down a flight of steps to a long passage which led underneath to an old Chapel, long before shut up, and entirely disused.—Here it was resolved upon that Eugenia should reside, until the search naturally expected to be made for her should subside, that she might be enabled to get undiscovered to a convent; and to this place, in this passage, Agnes had already conveyed several necessaries. She had procured, from a long-neglected wardrobe of her master's, a complete suit of man's apparel, with several other precautions taken from time to time previous to that day they were now obliged to decide upon for the execution of their design.
"After the marriage ceremony, when Eugenia retired to her room, she lost no time in escaping to this passage. The window of her apartment was opened that it might be supposed she had escaped from thence into the wood adjoining the garden, and the door, which led through an anti-chamber to a gallery on the other side, was locked on the outside. Agnes accompanied her to the dark passage, where a lamp, a stool, and a piece of matting for her feet, were previously prepared. Eugenia has often mentioned the horror that took possession of her whole frame when she was left alone in this dismal place, she foresaw not how many tedious years she was to exist in one still more horrid! When the discovery of her flight took place, when the house and out-houses had undergone a strict search, and the Baron, with his servants, were sat off, Agnes stole to her with refreshments, and conducted her to the little room assigned for the priest's use, in the Chapel where she passed the night, and indeed both day and night when the Baron was not at home; but as he employed many persons to scour the roads, she was obliged to remain in this painful situation, particularly as he had set a watch on all the neighbouring convents. At length the Baron set off on his journey to Suabia (Agnes concealed from Eugenia the illness of her father) and when he had been gone about three days, disguised in her masculine dress, her eye-brows blacked, and, with a pretended lameness in her gait, she repaired to the house of a peasant in the neighbouring village, where she hired a miserable apartment, giving out that ill-health had driven her to that situation for change of air; this account, which her pale countenance and lameness confirmed, evaded all curiosity among those ignorant people:—Agnes never came to her, but they used to meet in the wood frequently; the good creature being busy in finding out some asylum, some convent, where she had not been described, and where she might hope to rest concealed.
The sudden return of the Baron, with an account of the Count's death, his succession to his fortune, with the circumstance of his meeting me, which he related to Agnes when he questioned her if any intelligence had been gained relative to her mistress.—Those occurrences determined Agnes to be ingenuous with Eugenia respecting her father, and persuade her to accept of an asylum with me. Hitherto my father's death, and my return, were unknown to Eugenia, and therefore she had no idea of my being in Suabia, though possibly if she had, whilst Count Zimchaw had lived, her vows would have been a barrier to our meeting. The information of Agnes caused her much sorrow, nor could she for a long time be persuaded to adopt the plan of Agnes, and repair to my estate. At length, however, when her grief for the death of her father was a little subsided, she accorded with the wishes of the other. Agnes pretended to be sent for by her parents, and applied for her discharge from the Baron, which was granted. Among her own clothes she conveyed Eugenia's, which had remained in the dark passage till that time, and having procured another suit of men's clothes, after she had left the Baron, she disguised herself, and came as the brother of the lame man to fetch him home.
So thoroughly was Eugenia altered by her dress, and the precautions she had taken, that there was little room for apprehension that she would be discovered, and the Baron having relaxed in his inquiries since his return from Suabia, they contrived to have their clothes sent by a wagon to Stutgard, only nine miles from my house, and then quitted the village together on horseback, until they came to the next town, where they took a chaise to the small Hamlet adjoining to my Park, from whence they dispatched the note to me that I have already mentioned. Thus, Sir, I have briefly repeated what Eugenia related to me.
"You may judge of my transports in thus unexpectedly recovering the woman I adored, and to find she was not more than a nominal wife to the man I had detested. My raptures soon removed every doubt she had expressed of my affection, and brought her to confess, that the death of her father having released her from those vows, passion and prejudice had compelled her to make, she no longer scrupled to become my wife, as she could in no light think the ceremony binding which had passed between the Baron and herself.—All that now remained to be decided upon, was our future residence, for although I would not have hesitated a moment to have asserted and defended my rights in the face of the world, yet her timid mind shrunk from the idea of being the public theme, or of hazarding any revengeful machinations naturally dreaded from the Baron.
I proposed going to France or England to reside, unhappily she objected, unacquainted with the language, and dreading the eye of observation, knowing that the Baron talked of travelling, she was fearful some unlucky chance might throw him in our way, she therefore wished to reside for some time in a profound retirement. Although I was still of an opinion that we should be much safer in a foreign country, yet finding her repugnance to that plan was not easily to be overcome, and being naturally of a studious disposition myself, and fond of domestic comforts, certain that in the society of my loved Eugenia, I could feel no wish for the amusements and trifling conversations which engage the frivolous part of mankind, I consented without reluctance to her desire of retirement. In our solitude I determined to make her acquainted with the English language, as I perfectly understood it, and hoped, by effecting that, to obviate her objections in time to a residence in that country.
This estate had belonged to my mother's family, but being in a situation so remote from either pleasure or comfort, so little capable of cultivation; it had been entirely neglected by my father, and the Castle suffered gradually to decay. What grounds were tenantable had been let off on long leases, and an old man and his family were permitted to reside in the house without expense. Some little time before the death of my father, he received an account of the old man's death, and that the widow and family were going to live in Bohemia with her friends; from that time no one had lived in the house. My steward had mentioned it to me, but from inattention, or other thoughts, I had neglected to concern myself about it.
The anxiety Eugenia expressed to live, secluded from observation, recalled this Castle to my mind, and I resolved to send over a trusty person to see what state it was in.—This step was perfectly agreeable to her; she and Agnes were to retain their masculine dress, and remain as visitors with me until the affair was settled, which, as I was impatient to be united to Eugenia, you may suppose I lost no time in forwarding it. I was very soon informed, that part of the Castle was habitable, and that some of the furniture, though old and faded, was tolerable.—On this intelligence I told my steward I had bestowed it on an unfortunate couple of my acquaintance, who were so far reduced in circumstances as to think it a comfortable asylum, and that they were to take immediate possession. This account precluded him from any farther care or inquiry about the place.
I restrained my impatience more than a fortnight after this, for as I was not sure but the Baron might have spies upon me, I was resolved to be very circumspect. I gave out that I intended returning to England: I collected together a good deal of money, and also made remittances to England, from whence I could draw at any time. When every thing was completed, the trunks of Agnes were removed from Stutgard to the neighbouring village under a disguised name, and they took leave of me three days previous to my intended departure, as if going back to Bohemia, but were to wait for me at the village. After those precautions for their safety, I settled every thing with my steward, whose integrity I could rely on, and telling him that I might possibly travel a year or two before he would hear from me, bid him not be uneasy, but act with unlimited authority for my interest during my absence; that I should take no servant with me, as a German, unacquainted with the language would be useless, but intended to hire servants in England.
Having thus eluded both curiosity and discovery, I soon joined my beloved Eugenia, and we proceeded to the Castle. I believe we both felt similar emotions on entering this solitary mansion. We threw our eyes round, and then looked at each other, but both were silent: Agnes, however, made her observations without ceremony, at the same time qualifying her first exclamations by saying, that 'when she had been a few days in the place she would give things another sort of countenance.' I shall not trouble you with our proceedings, to render it a little comfortable, we all exerted our endeavours, and the fourth day after our arrival, I had the happiness of being united to my loved Eugenia in the village church, she dressed in the plainest garb belonging to Agnes, and myself in a great coat. I then ventured to the village, and procured a boy to assist Agnes in the domestic business, and she proposed sending for Arnulph: It was doubtless a presentiment that made me shudder when she mentioned it; but we were too much obliged to her, and indeed too much in her power to refuse her request, and had really a strong affection for her that would not admit of an objection to her being equally happy with ourselves; we therefore consented: Arnulph came, and we enjoyed so perfect a contentment, made our rooms so commodious, and our garden and poultry-yard so pleasant and profitable, that I grew entirely reconciled to a seclusion from the world.
Eugenia in due time brought to the world a little cherub, the image of herself; (here the Count's voice faltered at the recollection of its untimely and miserable death, but soon recovering himself, he went on) and as she advanced in infantile knowledge, we had a source of entertainment that engaged many of our hours, and enlivened our solitude.—We agreed that when this little darling should arrive at the age of five years, we would go to England, under the belief that before that period the Baron would cease to concern himself about Eugenia, and perhaps form another connexion. Thus in a deceitful calm, in the midst of future happy prospects, that dreadful storm burst upon us, so unexpected and terrible, as to overwhelm us with complete misery.
"As it appears you are perfectly well informed, Sir," said the Count, addressing Ferdinand, "of every step that revengeful monster took to gratify his malice, I shall not trouble you with a repetition, and as to our feelings and sufferings, they will not admit of a description, for the horrors of our situation were beyond all conception or credibility. I shall only observe, that whilst our dear child existed, we endeavoured to support our own strength for her sake; nor indeed did we imagine our persecutor would long submit to a situation so painful to himself merely to punish us. The cruel death of Agnes was a severe stroke; but when we saw our dear infant began to droop, a slow fever consuming her, from the close and humid air, which we received only through a few iron bars on the top of our prison, from whence fell all the inclemencies of the winter season, and so small a quantity of air and light, as only rendered our abode the more terrible. When we saw our beauteous babe in danger of sinking a victim to the malice of our cruel gaoler; we then forgot our wrongs and our pride. What supplications, what entreaties, did we not use! but all was vain, not a drop of water to wet its parched lips in the hour of death.
"O, my God! never, never shall I forget that hour, and the calamity which followed! Its wretched mother lost her reason for years, yet at times seemed sensible of our miserable fate, and always knew me when she heard my voice. In this situation she never refused her poor pittance of bread and water, but rather took it eagerly; and I, Sir, I strove to repress my feelings, strove to live for her sake, for to die and leave her was a distracting thought that harrowed up my soul. Thus the monster had found the means to prolong our misery, and make me dread that death which otherwise I should have devoutly prayed for.
"Such a refinement of cruelty could only have been practised by himself, who, far from being tired out, or satiated, appeared to receive fresh gratification every day. It was very remarkable, that from the hour in which Eugenia's intellects were deranged, and even after the accident which I mentioned to you had restored her, from the night of the child's death, she never saw him enter without screaming, until silenced by fear. Often have I dreaded that the villain would have been provoked to strike her; many times has he threatened it, but yet never could subdue the terror that vented itself in shrieks whenever he appeared. Thus, Sir, I have related to you this strange story, which almost exceeds probability; for never, I believe, was the diabolical passion of revenge carried to such extremes before, for a man to resign every comfort in life, and be a wretch himself to punish others."
Just as the Count had concluded his relation, and before Ferdinand could make any observations, Francis came in, and said the Lady was awake, and wished to see the Count. Ferdinand assisted him to ascend the stairs (his legs being too stiff to accomplish it alone) and then returned to enjoy his own reflections on the extraordinary occurrences of the day, and the story he had heard.—The Count and Eugenia being now restored to life and liberty by the death of their tormentor, the Castle their own, and free to enjoy their fortune in whatever situation they liked, were now likely to feel the happiness that awaited them to a much greater extent than if they had known more tranquil days, and had been exempt from their former sufferings.
In this perfect content, thought Ferdinand, I shall leave them, for their felicity will throw a comparative wretchedness upon me, by reminding me of what I have enjoyed, and what I have for ever lost. Overwhelmed by a retrospection on his misfortunes, he sat for some time lost in thought, until the return of the Count and Francis; the latter withdrew.
"I have seen Eugenia in such a state of comfort," said the former, 'that it has given transports to my heart, long, very long, a stranger there. I have persuaded her to continue in bed, the warmth of which must be of service to her limbs, and I trust by to-morrow she will be a new creature. O, Sir! next to Heaven, you are entitled to our warmest gratitude. May you never know sorrow, or, if such an exemption is not the lot of mortals, may you always meet with minds good and sympathetic like your own, ready to communicate happiness, and restore you to peace!"
"I thank you, Sir," replied Ferdinand, "for your good wishes, which, in my case, must, I fear, prove fruitless; however, let me not sadden his hour of pleasure: I rejoice to hear your Lady is so much recovered, and we must endeavour to procure for her some refreshment."
"Wine and toast," said the Count, "will be sufficient this night, and to-morrow we shall have assistance."—After taking proper refreshments, the Count was helped to his apartment, and Francis having made good fires in two other rooms, and aired some necessaries, he and his master, as he called Ferdinand, retired to rest, after the fatigues of this eventful day.