CHAP. II.
The next morning, Claudina having past a tolerable night, and her spirits being much better, Ferdinand left her avowedly to visit his father. On his arrival at the Castle, he saw the solemn preparations for an event that filled him with horror. Send- ing for the steward, "My dear Ernest (said he) I must see my father, he shall not be committed to the earth without my tears bedewing his clay-cold form, without supplicating his hovering spirit to speak peace and pardon to his most wretched son! Let me not be interrupted in my last duties; I will not be long, but I must be alone."
Ernest bowed in silence, and conducted him to the chamber of death, calling from thence those whose duty it was to watch the sacred remains. All departed; Ferdinand shuddered involuntarily at the scene before him, day-light was excluded, the glimmering tapers, the solemn stillness, the black pall thrown over the bed which concealed a lifeless form, once so beloved and revered, accustomed to smile upon a then darling son, and hold him to his heart with unutterable fondness.
"Oh! (cried Ferdinand, agonized by the painful recollection) oh! just Heaven, how severe has been my punishment for one act of disobedience!"—He advanced hastily to the bed, withdrew the pall, and saw a face from which death had excluded no trait of mild benevolence; the features were placid and serene, yet Ferdinand thought, on a near investigation, that an air of sorrow was diffused over the countenance, and that the very serenity wore more the face of pious resignation than perfect content. He gazed with inexpressible sensations, threw himself on his knees in an agony of grief:—"O, father, ever revered and beloved! forgive your unhappy son, let not my offence be remembered against me in the land of spirits; for, oh! severe has been my punishment, misery has followed hard upon my disobedience!"
His head fell upon the bed, and he wept aloud; but his almost stagnated senses were instantly recalled by a deep and heavy groan that vibrated to his heart: He started up, and eagerly gazed on the lifeless body, all was still as death; he looked fearfully round the room, the gloom seemed increased, the tapers burnt more dimly, horror took possession of his soul; the groan was not a chimera, not the illusion of fancy; but from whence could it proceed, for it seemed very near to him? Again he turned his eyes to the bed, busy imagination, agitated spirits, and unsteady eyes, made him conceive the lips moved; overcome with every sensation that terror, panting expectation, and trembling apprehension, could inspire, he sunk again on his knees, attempted to speak, to look, but the words died on his lips, and involuntarily he hid his face by the side of the pall. Almost instantly a low and hollow voice pronounced the words "Pardon and peace!" He heard the words distinctly, attempted to rise, but with a faint shriek fell senseless on the floor!
On his recovery, he found himself supported in the anti-chamber by Ernest and a maid-servant; the voice still seemed to vibrate in his ears; he looked earnestly from one to the other: "How came I in this apartment?" demanded he.
"We heard a sudden scream," answered Ernest, "and entering the next room found you on the floor; we brought you here, and, thank Heaven, you are recovered."
"Recovered!" repeated Ferdinand,—"Good God! what have I——."
"You may leave the room," said Ernest to the girl.—She obeyed.—"Dear master," continued he, "compose yourself, why, would you wound your heart by a sight?"—
"A sight!" repeated he again: "Ernest, dear Ernest, deem me not visionary or mad; but credit me, when I declare to you I have heard my father's voice pronouncing the blessed words 'Pardon and peace.'"—Yes, such were the words; it was not the effect of fancy but a reality; the voice still hangs upon my ear, and I will now believe, that the spirit of the good and just man may be permitted to convey happiness sometimes to the wretched. My bosom seems lightened, my heart beats more freely, and I already feel returning peace."
"Thank Heaven!" cried Ernest, "I have no doubt, Sir, of your veracity, for you were never given to indulge visionary or superstitious notions. Extraordinary things do happen sometimes to be sure, but, if what you have heard was to be related, it might injure weak and credulous minds, and cause many ridiculous stories; it will be best therefore, my dear master, to conceal the whole affair, and submit with resignation to the stroke that now afflicts you, comforting yourself with the remembrance of those words which were spoken to console your mind, and relieve you from the oppression of that imprecation which has so long and so cruelly disturbed you."
"I am relieved," answered Ferdinand, 'that painful stroke is removed, at least, I hope so: Alas! happy I can never be; yet, my good Ernest, had my lamented father sanctioned my marriage by his forgiveness, had I been considered as a child, few men would have known more true felicity, for my Claudina justifies my choice; she is the best of women, and of wives."
"Then, Sir, you have more happiness than falls to the lot of thousands, and therefore should be content; but pray walk down, your brother, my Lord, the Count, is expecting you." With a look of awful veneration and sorrow, Ferdinand threw his eyes on the opposite room, and without speaking descended to the saloon.
Rhodophil rose and embraced him, and, without reverting to the melancholy visit he had been paying, congratulated him on the safety of his wife, and the birth of his daughter. "I trust (said he) she will soon be in a state of health to be removed hither, and will consider this house as her own:—Mean time, I hope, I shall be admitted to pay my respects to her."
Ferdinand, whose mind was in a state of agitation, equally susceptible to joy, or grief, was painfully affected by his brother's kindness, his heart overflowed at his eyes; but a little abashed at such womanish weakness, which the other seemed superior to, he hastily dispersed the drops that forced their way down his cheeks, and, in a faltering voice, thanked the Count for his attention to his wife, and assured him she would rejoice to behold him. One thing, however, he must promise to him, previous to the visit.
He then explained to him the necessity he had been under to disguise the truth of the late events. "She believes (said he) my father has forgiven me; that he still exists, and that I may probably be included in his will. I dare not yet acquaint her with the extent of our obligations to you; the death of my father I shall announce to her, the rest must follow some time hence: I know so well her sensibility, and the delicacy of her affection for me, that, was she now informed I was unpardoned, portionless and dependent, she would accuse herself as the cause of my misfortunes, and her constitution, which has been impaired already by her regrets on this head, would be unable to sustain the shock. Will you then, my dear brother, vouchsafe to countenance the deceit, and excuse the omission of those grateful effusions you are so justly entitled to?"
"Mention it not (cried the Count) you owe me no obligations, I have merely performed a duty, and a sacred trust; I beg therefore neither you nor your wife will ever pain me by acknowledgments I am no ways entitled to; for had our situation been reversed, would you have done less for me?"
"No, by Heavens! (exclaimed Ferdinand, with fervor) that wealth would have been worthless to me without the participation of my beloved Rhodophil."
"I believe you (said the other) therefore here ends the chapter of obligations and thanks, for we are friends as well as brothers."
They then entered upon some consultations on domestic affairs, after which Ferdinand retired to break the death of his father to his wife; but not before the Count had pressed upon him a sum of money, that made Ernest's grateful service useless for the present, and which he repaid before he left the house.—On his way home, the recollection of the scene in his late father's apartment, a scene which, however strange and improbable it would appear on relation, he was perfectly convinced was not the illusion of his senses, and which seemed to him the voice of the dead speaking peace to his wounded mind.
The more he reflected on the circumstance, the more extraordinary it appeared. The refusal of Count Renaud to admit him to his presence in his last moments, to bestow one consoling word, nor yet even to recall the heavy curse that he had laid upon him when his union with Claudina was declared. Such stern, such unrelenting anger, seemed as inconsistent with his natural goodness of heart, as a pardon pronounced after death.—"All supernatural interpositions (thought he) I have ever discredited, but I cannot resist conviction; possibly my father did not think his dissolution so very near, strong resentments cling to the heart, and he thought I deserved to suffer. Perhaps, at the very moment when he felt the awful separation between the soul and body, he might wish to pronounce my pardon; and how that wish has been granted is a mystery incomprehensible to me, and possibly improper for me to desire a solution of." The agitation of his spirits was visible in his countenance, and when he entered his wife's humble apartment, the disorder of his air caught her attention.
"Ah! (cried she) my dear Ferdinand, I fear to ask.—Your father———!"
"You already anticipate the event (said he, throwing himself into a chair) your conjectures are but too just."
"Alas! (returned she, softening into tears) how painful the reflection, that we cannot now have the power to show our love and gratitude, and that the pardon he has accorded to us, was more, perhaps, an act of piety than the result of filial affection."
"We must not be too nice (answered he) in our search after the motives of our best actions, but be content to judge of them by their effects: If he condescended, in his own good time, to reconcile us to ourselves, and to forgive us in his last moments, it is our duty to be thankful, and to examine no farther."—Claudina, who saw his mind was disturbed, and knew how to allow for it, made no reply; but after she had indulged those tears she found it impossible to repress, held up her sweet infant to his view, and exulted in the resemblance she traced between its unformed features and himself. Melted by her tenderness, and gazing on the lovely child, he embraced both with ardour, and, in grateful acknowledgments for the blessings before him, forgot, for a short time, both recent afflictions, and puzzling conjectures.
The funeral obsequies of Count Renaud, being over, Claudina able to leave her bed, and her husband more composed, though far from being tranquillized as his brother seemed to be, they began to think of a removal to the Castle, where in truth Claudina was very anxious to reside; nor is it to be wondered at when she contrasted her miserable apartment with the noble and splendid rooms at the Castle. Her humble dwelling was in the suburbs of the city, a lowly roof, small circumference, and meanly furnished; there she had known the extreme of wretchedness; now she was invited to partake of grandeur, to consider herself as the mistress of that superb mansion, and to see her dear children clothed, and attended suitable to their father's birth: 'Tis not surprising therefore that she exerted unusual strength to bear the removal, nor that, when she was settled at the Castle, the satisfaction of her mind should communicate itself to her body, and render her recovery equally rapid and perfect.
Rhodophil treated them with the highest degree of tenderness and consideration; every wish was anticipated, and he doted on the children. Near a month was passed in a most delightful manner on the part of Claudina, but a deep and increased melancholy clouded the mind of Ferdinand; to live idle and inactive, dependent on the bounty of a brother, even the small allowance which his late father had afforded him, he could no longer call his own. The Count, indeed, was profuse in his presents of money and valuables to his wife; but was there not something mean and selfish in the acceptance? Could they last for ever? Might not his brother marry, and, if so, what then might be their fate? He recollected the advice of Ernest, but could he condescend to ask, what, if agreeable to his brother's inclinations, he would voluntarily offer—a settlement? No, he would die first. He was resolved to enter into the Emperor's service; but what could be done for his wife and children during his absence, and before he had the power to assist them?
Under these, and a thousand other painful reflections, he used to escape from the observation of his brother and his wife, and range from the gardens to the wilderness, and from thence into an adjoining forest, where he commonly spent hours every day, forming a thousand schemes, and rejecting them as quickly from their uselessness or impracticability. One morning, as he was taking his customary ramble, at the entrance of the forest he met Ernest. He started, "Pardon me, my dear master (said he) if I have broken upon you abruptly; I have long observed your solitary walks."
"You have watched me then (cried Ferdinand, rather haughtily) it is an unbecoming liberty."
"Pardon me, Sir (returned Ernest, in a tremulous voice, and with a look of humble sorrow) pardon your poor servant, if duty and affection———."
"My good old friend (exclaimed the other, instantly recollecting himself, and ashamed of his petulance) my faithful Ernest, pardon me; I know your attachment, and truly love you; but indeed I am altered, vexation and perplexity sour my disposition, I grow hateful to myself and to others." The old man, overcome by this condescension, could have humbled himself at his feet, but being pressed for time, and anxious to know if his "poor endeavours" could in any shape be useful, he earnestly besought Ferdinand to explain the cause of his melancholy.
He very readily acknowledged to him every feeling of his heart, and added, 'that he was come to a determination to quit the Castle, but was distracted on account of his wife and children."
"As you resolve not to speak to your brother about any partition of my late master's effects, or any settlement for your children, I beseech you, Sir, to suspend your resolution for a few days, and, perhaps, I may obtain some information that may be of consequence. Fear not, Sir (added he, seeing Ferdinand was going to speak) do not be apprehensive I mean to say any thing to the Count; I am not honoured with his notice sufficiently to authorise any freedom of speech on my part; but I have other designs, and the result you shall know in a day or two."
With a low bow the good man departed, leaving Ferdinand penetrated with gratitude for the affectionate concern this faithful follower of his broken fortunes had ever manifested towards him and his family.