CHAP. VI.
Father joseph, having concluded his story, was informed by Ferdinand of the motives which had brought him to the Monastery, and that having been successful in his commission he might possibly accompany the Lady, if within a short time she was capable of the undertaking: "After what I have said to you," returned the good Father, "I hope you will inform yourself thoroughly of the Lady's motives for secluding herself from the world, and advise her to commune with her own heart deliberately and seriously, and not from a temporary disgust seek to find peace and happiness in a Convent; the mind should have shaken off worldly considerations, and have no objects to regret before it is fitted to devote all its faculties to religious duties. For yourself, you have dear connexions, you are a father, you have no right to quit the station in which Providence has placed you, and I hope are determined by active duties to deserve, if you cannot obtain, happiness. The one is in your own power, and if you are disappointed in your wishes and expectations, be assured it is for wise and good reasons calculated for your real benefit, though short-sighted mortals judging only of the present, ungratefully repine in those moments when they ought to be most thankful."
"My good Father," said Ferdinand, with a sigh, "I bow to the justice of your observations; but the human heart is refractory, and often errs against reason and conviction: I promise you, however, that I will no longer indulge my wishes for retirement, and that if I ramble a short time in search of novelty to amuse my thoughts, I will endeavour so far to profit by your advice as to determine on reassuming my station in the army when the campaign opens; and in that field for action I may either obtain a comparative degree of peace, or lose the remembrance of my sorrows altogether."—He added, that the Father might depend upon his observance of the kind cautions he had given respecting the Lady.—They now parted with mutual blessings and good wishes, as they had no hope of holding any farther conversation in the morning.
At a very early hour Ferdinand arose, and appeared in the room where the Friars were assembled after their first matins. Father Ambrose received him with much complacency, and again renewed his promise of introducing the Lady to the neighbouring sisterhood, who he was certain "would make no objections, as she had sufficient property to answer the necessary expenses her admission would draw upon the house." Ferdinand took leave, and though he cast a longing, lingering look towards the Convent, yet, convinced that of himself he could obtain no satisfactory information, and that all his hopes must rest upon Eugenia, he vented a few anxious sighs, and proceeded with all haste to the Castle.
His arrival was welcomed with much pleasure by all parties, for the intermediate time of his absence had been spent in fruitless endeavours by the Count and Eugenia to suppress their own feelings, and to reconcile and console each other; but each saw the painful emotions neither could disguise, and Eugenia had occasion for abundant resolution and fortitude to withstand the silent grief of the Count, the tenderness of her own heart, and to exert that apparent firmness in her determination as might effectually annihilate every hope, that they could be weakened by affection or arguments; their situation was therefore so distressing, that the company of a third person, particularly Ferdinand's, was a most desirable relief. He entered upon the success of his commission, and failed not to repeat, in the strongest terms, the advice and admonitions of Father Joseph. The Count fixed his eyes on Eugenia with a look that penetrated to her soul. She was greatly agitated for a moment, but struggling for composure, "I thank the good Father, and you, my amiable friend; but I have no doubts of my own resolution, no fear of future regrets: Only one object can claim a share in my thoughts with the Deity, to whose service I mean to dedicate the remaining days of my existence; and every remembrance of that too dearly beloved object will more strongly enforce the necessity for pursuing my present plan, by reminding me of my errors, and pointing out the strict observance of my religious duties, as the only means of procuring pardon from Heaven, and of obtaining future tranquillity to myself."
"To a mind resolved like your's, Madam (replied Ferdinand) I have no more to urge, and shall most readily attend you to the destined place when it shall appear convenient to you."—She bowed, and looking on the Count with a tearful eye, rose and retired.
"Come, my friend (said Ferdinand to the Count, perceiving that he was fixed in a profound reverie, with all the marks of extreme sorrow on his features) come, assert that fortitude so becoming in a noble mind, and which for many years has supported you: How delighted would you have felt under the pressure of your sufferings had life and liberty been offered to you on the single condition of the Lady Eugenia's retiring from the world: Would the alternative have admitted of the least hesitation? Certainly not: And can you now repine that she has the power of her own election, and in her own words, 'only prefers her duty to Heaven to her earthly happiness with you?' Let us both unite as fellow sufferers to comfort each other."
"I accept your offer (said the Count, hastily interrupting him.) From this hour you are my friend and brother; we will together seek the path to glory, and in the din of arms forget our private sorrows!"—His eyes sparkled as he spoke, and every feature grew animated; he seemed as if suddenly informed by a new soul, and from that moment struggled to subdue his grief, and assume an appearance of resignation and content.
Several days passed with cheerfulness, tho" not entirely free from anxiety by either party, for the return of their several messengers:—The first that arrived was Ferdinand's, with a letter from Count Rhodophil, and another from the good old Ernest: Respect superseded affection and curiosity. He opened the Count's letter first; it was not a long one.
"He was glad to hear from his brother, whose strange whim of rambling among unfrequented paths on foot had exposed him to so many dangers: He approved of his design of returning to the army, and repeated his readiness to furnish him with money upon all emergencies—congratulated him upon the welfare of his son, without making a single observation on the late occurrences at the Castle, or once mentioning Claudina. He added, that his health not being very good he had some thoughts of travelling, as the spring advanced, therefore might possibly not be so regular in his correspondence, but earnestly requested, that his brother would inform him when it was his intention to join his quarters at Vienna."
This letter was so cold, so uncircumstantial, and in some respects so inconsistent, that Ferdinand, after looking it twice over, felt a dissatisfaction that he could hardly account for.—"He does not press my return (said he) nor lament my absence; it is true, had he done so, I should not have acceded to his wishes; yet methinks he ought to have done it; but perhaps I expect too much, for I have no absolute claims either upon his affection or fortune; the first I can perceive is much weakened, and I may have already intruded too far on the latter; yet why should I think so, when he still makes me such liberal offers? The stile in which those offers are made is what hurts me. Alas! few men that confer obligations have the graceful art of making the obliged person satisfied with the favours he receives; 'tis the manner, more than the act, that strikes a mind of sensibility."
Musing in this manner, with the letter in his hand, he had forgotten, for a few minutes, that there lay another, from which he might hope to derive more information, and greater gratification. Turning his eyes from the letter to the table, he hastily caught up the one written by Ernest: "Ah! (cried he) here at least I shall read the dictates of the heart, of pure affection without reserve."—He broke it open with precipitation, and read what follows:
honoured sir,
"How my heart rejoiced at the sight of your well-known hand! Ah! my dear young master, hard is your lot to wander about in search of peace; sad, sad doings to be sure: But your dear son, master Charles, is well, and my nephew dotes upon him, he is so good, and so clever; he will live, I hope, to be a blessing to you.—You ask, Sir, about Madam Claudina; she is as well as she can be, but desires to be forgotten by all the world. At a proper age your daughter will be restored to you, till then I beseech you, Sir, to make no farther inquiries. Madam Claudina is dead to you.
"The Count, my master, seems oppressed with melancholy: He has also received some unknown caution, advice, or reproof, from the same voice which astonished you; for a few days ago, after being about an hour in bed, the servants were alarmed by the ringing of his bell; all flew to his room, I among the rest; we found him in the anti-chamber in his shirt, terror in every feature. He asked wildly if any one had been in the chamber or closet? All replied, No.—Had any one heard any groans, or a voice? No, was the answer. He walked the room very fast, regardless of his situation. At length he dismissed all but his valet, who was ordered to stay by him the remainder of the night, and since that a bed has been put up in the anti-chamber for him to sleep close to the Count. These are strange things, my dear Master. I see and hear a great deal, but it does not become me to repeat more than is necessary. Yesterday Peter told me that his Master was courting the Lady once offered to you, the daughter of Count Benhorff.—You know, Sir, the Count died some time ago, and left the Lady a great fortune. Peter said, that after you had refused the Lady, your father offered Count Rhodophil, but the young Countess would not hear of him, and has continued unmarried ever since.—Your brother used to visit there sometimes, and since your departure has been to see the Lady every day, and Peter thinks that she likes him, and that it will be a match at last. So much the worse for the Lady.
"As to the Count's love for you, Sir, you know what I think; what he has done, and what he offers to do, is more for fear of the world's blame for his being unnatural, than from any affection: I am sure of it, and I must speak my mind, though I dare not speak all my mind; but I hope I shall live to see you happy, my dear Master; if I die, I have taken care to leave such things in my nephew's hands as will explain every thing. As you are in a friend's house I wish you would stay there, and not go to the wars; indeed I can't bear to think you should be driven to that, although any place is better, aye and safer too, than Renaud Castle. Do pray, Sir, write often to your old servant under cover to my nephew, and fear not for Master Charles or your interest, whilst I live I will watch over both. God bless you, Sir; may you be happy, and live to triumph over your enemies, prays,
Your faithful servant,
This letter from the old steward occasioned various emotions in the mind of Ferdinand, several expressions were to him inexplicable, and infused suspicions, though unable to fix on the nature of them. That voice, which still continued its supernatural admonitions, filled him with equal terror and wonder.—Those secrets, which Ernest dared not to reveal, perplexed and astonished him, and his expressions concerning Claudina were equally extraordinary. The latter part of the letter seemed to imply a doubt of his being safe under his brother's roof: He then reverted back to the conversation Ernest had told him past between the Count and Peter; a conversation which his brother's subsequent conduct and seeming kindness had almost obliterated from his memory, though he had felt hurt at the indifference of his behaviour when they parted; those circumstances now returned with double force, and seemed strengthened by the coldness of the letter just received.
Distracted with doubt, curiosity and anxiety, he communicated his sentiments, and the letters to Count M———, who had been some days before acquainted with his story. The Count perused the letters, and heard his comments, and being pressed to give his judgment, replied, "There undoubtedly hangs a mystery over every circumstance relative to your brother, that without a clue it is impossible to unravel; but I have no doubt in my mind to pronounce that he is not the friend he would appear to be; and I am also convinced, that, however improbable it may appear to you, your wife has been unfaithful to you; whether your brother is acquainted with the circumstance cannot be known, I should rather think he is not, otherwise his affection, or delicacy, would not have prevented him from disclosing it: But since you have now given me a fair opening, I have two proposals to make, which I have been revolving in my mind to submit on the first opportunity to your consideration.
"To you, under Heaven, I am indebted for liberty and life, and for the preservation of Eugenia's, much dearer to me than my own: For some days past I have struggled with my affection and regret; reason, or perhaps despair, has, in some degree, tranquillized my mind to bear the idea of being separated for ever from the only object I ever did, or ever can love. I have no near or dear connexions, perhaps scarcely an acquaintance that may remember me. My fortune is not inconsiderable, and however my estates may be disposed of from a supposition of my death, they must be restored to me: Condescend then, my dear friend, to complete the work of your generous hand, restore my mind, my peace, as you have liberated my body. If I must live in the world, do you make that world estimable in my eyes, by the value of your company: Let us never be separated, mutually unfortunate, let us console each other, reject the paltry assistance offered by an ungenerous brother, and share the fortune of a faithful friend."
Seeing Ferdinand was going to speak, he continued, "Hear my proposals: If retirement is your choice, go with me to Suabia; if you prefer an active life, I will either accompany you to the army, or I will travel with you wherever you please; the instant I hear how my affairs stand, you shall be independent, and then your home shall be mine, and your choice of situation shall meet my approbation, whatever it may be: Thus you will make my life valuable if you consent; but your refusal will cloud my hopes and prospects for ever. I leave you to reflection; a single Yes, or No, is all I will hear on the subject, and on those two monosyllables rest my future happiness."
The Count rose to leave the room.—Ferdinand caught his hand: "Stop, generous friend, no consideration is necessary, I can distinguish between favours coldly offered, and the effusions of benevolence and friendship; the proud heart that would refuse the latter feels not a generous enthusiasm.—I accept with transport your offers, because I know you feel a delight, a gratification superior, even to mine, in the pleasure of bestowing favours.—Yes (added he, embracing the Count) we will indeed console each other; with such a companion I will travel through the painful journey of life with patience and resignation, and to you be indebted for every comfort without feeling myself degraded by the acceptance." The Count was delighted, and withdrew to acquaint Eugenia with the acquisition he had fortunately obtained of a friend and a companion for his future days; whilst Ferdinand retired to reflect on his letters, and the generosity of the friend, so infinitely superior to the obligations frigidly bestowed by a brother.