CHAP. VII.
That night was past without rest by any part of the family at the Castle. Every breath of wind, the least motion of the trees, was magnified into the sound of feet, and murmuring of voices. Day-light at last came, and their terrors began a little to subside; they met dejected and unrefreshed; Ferdinand, ashamed of his credulity, tortured by the recollection of the man's information, and grieved at the painful situation his imprudence had thrown the family into, who had so kindly attended to him, with many other additional causes of inquietude, appeared with a countenance so truly dejected, an air of such anxious concern for them, that instead of affording them any comfort, he more completely alarmed their fears.
He found it impossible to raise his own spirits, or recall to his friends that cheerfulness his folly had deprived them of. On that day or the next, the passage boat was expected; but could he leave them in such a perilous situation, forsake them in the prospect of danger they incurred by complying with his wishes? Impossible, neither honour nor humanity would permit it.
He had written to his friends at Vienna, he had little doubt but that some of them would come to him, at any rate he must remain where he was a few days, and share the danger, or, if contrary to their apprehensions, the robbers should have fled the country, he would then have the satisfaction of leaving them as happy as he found them.
Waving therefore all considerations of self-interest, and repelling the extreme solicitude he felt for returning into Suabia, he frankly told the steward, "he would not leave them until he saw the event of what they so much dreaded. A day or two (said he) will, I hope, do away all your fears; there is nothing in this Castle to tempt their avarice, and surely they will scarcely neglect their own safety, and hazard a discovery, solely from a desire of revenge." They heard him, and were pleased at the moment; but when fear has taken absolute possession of the mind, hope is but a temporary guest, and is soon clouded with redoubled terrors at the slightest circumstance that justifies their first emotions.
Thus it happened to them, for soon after he had succeeded in raising them from their dismal apprehensions of death and murder, one of the men came in with a small box he had found in the wood just behind the Castle. This box was opened, and, to their infinite surprise, contained a gold watch, three diamond rings, of no very great value, a purse with thirty Louis-d'ors, and two embroidered handkerchiefs.
"This box was certainly dropped by the robbers," exclaimed the steward; "they are hid in the wood, and when they have secured all their property they will come and be revenged on us." His wife instantly caught the alarm; she cried, and wrung her hands, "lamented the day that ever they had indulged people's curiosity to be their own destruction."
Ferdinand was obliged to give way to the torrent, and remained silent till the turbulence of grief and passion had exhausted itself; then he told them, "he had no doubt but that the gang had dropped the box; at the same time he still believed they were gone from that neighbourhood without any intention of returning, and advised sending the two men at the different post towns to gain intelligence.
But their fears would not let them part with the men beyond sight of the house, and they passed that day and the succeeding night under the same horrors, and with as little rest as the former ones. When the second morning came, it brought a return of spirits, and a glimmering of hope, which Ferdinand encouraged, as indeed his own apprehensions were now done away, and therefore the serenity of his aspect gave weight to his words, and had the desired effect of restoring some degree of tranquillity to their minds.
In the course of the day the steward's wife was capable of admiring the contents of the box, and asked, with some little earnestness, what was to be done with them, and to whom they must belong?
"To you, undoubtedly," said Ferdinand; "it is impossible to guess at, or to find the owner, as they may have been years in the robber's possession; nor is the value of that magnitude to make them of any mighty consequence to a person, such as we may suppose the owner to have been. The watch and rings you will keep; should any inquiry be made, you can restore them; but the money you may use without scruple."
This opinion of Ferdinand's so exactly corresponded with her's, that in a moment her countenance cleared, and if she had any fears, the loss of her riches was the most predominant one. A tolerable quiet night succeeded, and the third day restored them all to so much composure, that the good woman now praised Ferdinand for his courage in "routing the robbers, and convincing the neighbourhood that no ghosts had lived there."
She was one of those very prudent persons, who, feeling their own interest concerned, choose always to judge by the event of things in their own favour, without considering the causes of the fit, or the unfit.
Matters being thus returned into the accustomed channel with the steward and his family, Ferdinand was impatient to leave them, particularly as he had no letters from Vienna. He wrote a second time to the Count, declaring his intention of going immediately to Baden, and to remain in the house of Mr. Dunloff, until apprised of the Count's and Mr. D'Allenberg's arrival at their seats.———That same evening he had the satisfaction to hear, he might embark the next morning for Ulm. He took leave of his hospitable friends with much kindness, and requested to hear from them, should they gain any information of the robbers.
With an eager desire to return, but with the most tormenting ideas and suspicions, that wrung his very soul with sorrow, he entered that boat which was to convey him to his own country, where he was to investigate such events as must realize those suspicions, or involve him in a cloud of doubt for the remainder of his days.
So many, and so various, were the causes that produced sorrow and misery to Ferdinand, that there existed no possibility of future comfort, or any cure for those wounds severally inflicted by those he had loved.
The weather was favourable, and he was soon landed at Ulm, where, on application to a Gentleman who knew his family, he as furnished with money to pay his passage, and carry him on his journey.
Without meeting any accident on the road, he at length arrived at Baden; but as he drew near to the spot inhabited by his brother, once in the possession of a beloved and revered father, he turned his head from the Castle of Renaud, shrunk with horror from the ideas that crowded on his mind, and, as if blasted by the view, almost flew on to the city, and arrived at the house of Mr. Dunloff sick and breathless.
The good man flew out to receive him: "Heaven be praised!" said he, and seeing his situation he conducted him to a room, making him drink a bumper of wine, which a little restored him.
"Oh! Sir," cried Mr. Dunloff, "Heaven has sent you in a critical minute, Providence often permits the wicked man to triumph for a time, only to make its justice more conspicuous in the punishment of the offender."
"What do you mean?" said Ferdinand:—"Tell me, how are my dear children?"
"Do not grieve to be told, Sir, that your little daughter is in Heaven. Master Charles is well, and every thing the fondest father can wish him to be. Your little girl has been recalled to its native skies about a fortnight since, no care was wanting, but a weak constitution sunk under the malady of the measles, and—she is at rest."
Seeing Ferdinand was affected, he went on to divert his ideas into another source.—"You must prepare your mind, Sir, for a shocking and interesting discovery, my uncle ———-"
"The good Ernest?" cried Ferdinand.—"I am ungrateful not to have asked for him." "He is wonderfully recovered, Heaven has heard his prayers, and prolonged his life to see the completion of his wishes. Ah! Sir, your brother"—"What of him?" said Ferdinand, starting at the name—"is in a state of distraction; for this week past he raves incessantly; he has deeply injured you, and now all is discovered."
"Has he then confessed, is it possible it can be true, that he hired a villain to murder me? But before I hear more (said he) let me see my poor Charles." Mr. Dunloff, who stood in an attitude of wild amazement, started, and rung the bell. The lovely boy soon appeared, and flew into the arms of his father. His features were too like the deceased Claudina's not to make Ferdinand's heart bleed at the recollection; he pressed him to his bosom, and for a few moments the tender feelings of nature precluded speech.
Dunloff, who was impatient to explain every thing of so much importance, besought him to let Charles retire for the present.—The other consented in silence, when the tutor said, "Your last words, Sir, overpowered me! Is it possible the Count can have proceeded to such terrible lengths as your question seemed to imply?"
"I hope not (said Ferdinand) for gladly would I believe the villain wronged him."—"Before I request a more explicit account of this alarming business, let me send to my uncle, and rejoice him with the news of your safe arrival."
"I understood," said Ferdinand, 'that he had quitted my brother———."
"Yes, Sir, but the Countess sent for him again when the Count was seized with this dreadful disorder of his senses."
Mr. Dunloff being returned into the room, after he had dispatched a messenger, respectfully entreated Ferdinand to explain those words which had so greatly shocked him.—He very readily took up his story from the arrival of his brother's messenger to the present hour, repeating the particulars which the assassin had told him in his momentary fit of penitence.
During this recital Mr. Dunloff expressed the utmost surprise and horror.—"How true is the observation (exclaimed he) that one crime leads to a thousand others, and that when a man has made his mind familiar with guilt, he proceeds on to the most detestable actions, and plunges headlong into the blackest enormities! Gracious Heaven! that jealousy and avarice should gradually tend to robbery and murder!
"I would prepare you, Sir, for the scenes you must witness, and the shocking discovery that will wound every feeling of your heart; but I know not where or how to begin, the packet must speak for itself."
"What packet?" demanded Ferdinand.
"It was written and delivered by Madam Claudina to my uncle, with a strict charge not to deliver it to you till after her death, and then you was to have it without delay.
"This packet my uncle entrusted, sealed up, to me for you, lest death should suddenly cut him off, and his papers fall under the inspection of his master. When Madam Claudina was seized with her last illness, the consequence of the general report, and belief of your death, for it threw her into fits that at last occasioned the termination of her existence. She wrote a letter to Count Rhodophil, conjuring my uncle to deliver it himself, and at the same time permitted him to open the packet entrusted for you, to read it, and keep the bond enclosed for the benefit of her son.
"She expired in true penitence for her sins, and I humbly hope the Almighty will extend his mercy towards her. My uncle, borne down with sorrow for your supposed death, though he would sometimes indulge a hope against all apparent probability, was so overcome with the sad scene of her last hour, that he fell ill, and could not attend on the Count; I was commissioned to do it, and accordingly waited upon him: I found him in high spirits, the Countess in the room.
"I had only sent in my name: I took the letter from my pocket, which had been superscribed by my uncle, and delivered it. He broke the seal, and opened it; instantly his colour changed, his hands trembled, and his whole frame was agitated."
"Bless me, Sir (said the Countess) what ails you?" The hypocrite struggled to recover himself; he falteringly told her, "it was a letter that announced the death of an old friend, whom he was grieved to lose."
"I thank you, Sir (said he to me;) be so good to tell your uncle I shall call at his apartment, and ask how he does by and bye."
To give you an idea of his confusion and tremulous voice is impossible. The Countess looked extremely surprised: I gave him a penetrating glance, and withdrew.
The next morning he saw my uncle; he first soothed him, and tried to get the packet Claudina had given him; but in vain were persuasions and threats, for he at length told him it was not in his possession. This highly irritated him; many words passed, which ended in his bidding my uncle to leave his house.—Nothing could be more impolitic, knowing how much he was in his power; but he trusted to the honour of a man he treated ill, and soon repented of his behaviour.
That night my uncle was removed to this house; the Count heard of it, and met him as he was carrying out. He pressed him to turn back.
"No, Sir," said he, "an old and faithful servant can be turned out but once.—You fear me, and therefore you hate me; but I never shall disturb the peace of your family." My uncle continued a long time in a fluctuating way, which at last turned to a fit of the gout, and held him many weeks.
During this time your letter came, I could scarcely credit my senses when I saw the address, and prepared my uncle well as I could; but indeed he almost expired with joy when I presented it to him. The next day, Peter, the Count's man, called "to ask after Mr. Ernest," he said; but I believe to observe whether we had received a letter, which was made no secret of.—"This will be bad news to somebody," said he, and withdrew not much pleased I thought.
A few days after he called again; the Count, he said, was very low spirited, eat nothing, and he believed was going fast. 'He talks of sending for his brother to make his peace with him before he dies.'—'Indeed! (said my uncle) well, then I shall think he does repent; my poor master must know all, for I pledged myself to deliver Madam Claudina's letter after her death.—Peter said it would be better not, it would only make Mr. Ferdinand unhappy. Away he went, and a day or two after we heard you were sent for.
About a week ago Peter came again in a violent hurry; his master was desperately ill in a bad fever, seized the day before, just after writing a letter to Vienna to Mr. Ferdinand's friends, to know why he did not come as he expected. That night the fever grew worse, he was light-headed, and talked at random, often called for his brother and Ernest, therefore the Countess begged my uncle would come to the Castle. He was but poorly, yet thought it his duty to go, and has remained there from that time.
Your brother still continues in a deplorable way, sometimes furious, at other times melancholy, and has made such discoveries of his crimes, as though they must prove beneficial to you, yet, will, I am sure, give you infinite deal of pain, I mean with respect to the will he destroyed, and which your father, the late Count Renaud, made a few days before his death.
"Is it possible," cried Ferdinand, "and was I remembered in that will?"
"Yes, Sir, he gave you his blessing, and pardoned all your undutiful conduct, and persevering obstinacy, and left a handsome fortune to your children."
Before Ferdinand could reply, so greatly was he agitated, the messenger returned from Ernest, and Ferdinand was desired to hasten to the Castle. He obeyed the summons, and was first conducted to the Countess; they met with a little confusion on both sides; she was greatly affected.
"Your unhappy brother (said she) has, within the last two hours, been restored to his reason; the physicians say it is the last effort of nature, and bespeaks approaching death: He has been informed of your arrival; much caution was used to break it to him, but he bore it without any great emotion. He said he wished to be private with Ernest, and I withdrew. Now I will inform him you are here."
Ferdinand was so inexpressibly shocked, and so reluctant to see a man in the agonies of death, whose life had been so culpable, that when the Countess returned in tears, and besought him to hasten into the room, his legs trembled under him, and with great difficulty he tottered into the apartment, where a sight met him sufficiently dreadful to appal the stoutest resolution.
Rhodophil was supported by pillows, his face long, pale, and distorted, his eyes wildly rolling then on Ernest, who supported him on one side, as Peter did on the other, and then throwing them upwards with an earnest supplicating stare. Ferdinand stopped a moment irresolute whether to proceed or not.—Rhodophil's eye dropping, fixed on him, "Save me! save me! (he cried) he comes to strike daggers to my soul!"
"Compose yourself, Sir" (said Ernest.)—Ferdinand advanced to the bed, the scene before him, the horrors of his brother's mind penetrated to his heart. He threw himself on his knees, "I beseech you, Rhodophil, to be composed, to forgive yourself; Heaven is my witness, that of whatsoever nature, and however great, are the injuries you have done me, I forgive you, and most earnestly pray that Heaven may extend its mercy towards you."
"You know not what you say (cried he, looking wildly on his brother;) my crimes are beyond pardon, cannot be forgiven, here or hereafter."
"And who shall dare to limit the mercy of Heaven?" said Ferdinand; "the magnitude of your crimes may deserve punishment, but what can exceed the torments you now feel?"
"O, it is horror indeed!" cried the wretched man: "Let the guilty look on me and tremble, foul deeds will come to light; see, see, there is Claudina calling on me, imprecating curses on my head, me, the seducer of innocence, the destroyer of my brother's honour."
"Gracious Heaven!" cried Ferdinand, and sunk on the floor. This sight threw Rhodophil into ravings: "Now, now, I have murdered him again! See! how the blood streams, it covers me, hide, hide me, from his blood!" During this dreadful paroxysm they had recovered Ferdinand, and placed him in a chair by the bedside. He viewed the guilty Rhodophil with averted looks of mingled horror and compassion.
He again recovered a temporary interval of reason on seeing his brother raised from the floor: "Ferdinand (said he) I have been a most atrocious villain—I have ever deceived and betrayed you; my father's spirit, for I have heard his voice more than once, has warned, has upbraided me, for my crimes: Hark! hark! I hear him now. O, pardon! pardon!" Again he fell into ravings, till again exhausted, by the use of cordials, reason weakly returned. At this moment Ernest fell on his knees: "Do you, Sir, pardon me, and compose your spirits—it was my voice that has occasionally alarmed you."
"How!" cried Ferdinand, "was it your voice that addressed itself to me?"
"I confess it, Sir," said Ernest, "I had many suspicions, and some proofs that you were most unfairly dealt with; excluded from my good master's sight long before he died, by misrepresentations, I could gain no access to him either in person or by letter. I had heard much, but not enough to found proofs upon, nor would my single testimony avail. I saw your misery and despair when cut off from all hope of a last forgiveness. I concealed myself in a closet, and in the agony of the moment, the words I pronounced, you thought proceeded from the dead body of your father. Heaven forgive me, if I did wrong; but it tranquillized your mind, and that was my only object.
"Twice afterwards I made use of the same device; the last time, the deceit was surely meritorious, for then I was master of a secret that froze me with horror; but to spare you, I had recourse to that method of warning you from———."
"O, Heavens!" said Ferdinand, "what a black scene of iniquity opens before me! Unhappy man!" cried he, violently agitated; "What indeed must be the torture of your mind!" Rhodophil gasped for breath, every feature seemed convulsed, he struggled for speech.
"Pray for me, pray for the wretch who cannot pray for himself."—More cordials were administered, and a temporary strength returned: "Now, now, I can speak; I always hated you," said he, hastily addressing Ferdinand; "I sought to warp our father's mind against you, and pretended love to wound more deeply.
"I saw and loved Claudina; I tried to buy her of Dupree through an agent; she loved you; my offers were rejected. In revenge I persuaded you to marry, knowing that would ruin you with your father. I informed him of it. He disbelieved it. He sent for you; all was discovered, and drove you from the house.
"I intercepted every letter, and represented you careless of his affection, and deficient both in love and duty, yet I pleaded with him to forgive you when I had worked him to a pitch of fury that made him outrageous.
"I kept Ernest from his confidence, by assuring him he had encouraged you. Under these impressions, one day, in a great fury, he made a will in my favour; but I believe grief, for your supposed neglect of him, preyed upon his mind, he fell into a swift decay.
"I told him you knew of his illness, but never inquired for him; once or twice Ernest petitioned for you, but he disregarded him.
"A week before his death he one day called me to his bed—'Tell the ungrateful Ferdinand (said he) that on my death-bed I forgive him: I revoke a curse that has preyed upon my spirits; may Heaven forgive his unnatural behaviour, as I do.'
"The next day he sent for his lawyer; I was alarmed; the lawyer was from home, the clerk came; he would make a new will, he did so: I pretended to rejoice at it. He left your children his estate in Bavaria, and you a thousand crowns a year, with the small farm on the skirts of the Forest; also an annuity to Ernest of two hundred crowns.
"Those bequests were not much in comparison to what I became heir to, but it made you independent, and that was death to me.
"I sounded the clerk; I found him fit for my purpose; he was friendless and venal. The will was destroyed. I kept every one from the room till my father expired; the rest you know.
"Then to complete my revenge I had you at the Castle.
"I poisoned the mind of Claudina; I told a thousand falsehoods; you assisted my designs by going to the army; I made her believe you repented of your marriage, which occasioned your melancholy; in short I succeeded, I corrupted her mind, and dishonoured her person.
"Revenge was complete—she was pregnant—you returning—I sought to persuade her to destroy the child—she was taken ill—miscarried—and all we thought was well.
"You returned; the voice, which she thought supernatural, threw her into horrors. She sent for Ernest, confessed she had wronged you, and, having sworn him to secrecy, got him to procure her escape.
"I had reason to fear Ernest, therefore did not dare to discharge him. My mind was always distracted, terror and guilt my constant companions, for I always dreaded a discovery.
"The clerk who had made the will went into Austria—he spent the money in dissipation—joined with a set of gamblers—frequently made demands upon me for money, accompanied with threats.
"At length news arrived of your death; then I thought my misery at an end, and my fears all done away. One only trouble remained: I had married solely that you nor your children should be benefited after my death: My wife seemed not likely to have children; your boy must inherit, that distracted me; I could not come at him, he was too well taken care of, and I was still in the power of Ernest during the life of Claudina.
"Happily, as I thought, she died soon after; but her letter spoke daggers to my soul, and made me fearful of my own shadow.
"Whilst I was struggling with this imbecility of mind, came an account of your being still in existence which rendered me desperate, and resolve on your death as the only chance of escaping shame and punishment, Claudina having informed me that she had left a packet for you, confessing all her crimes.
"I wrote to the man who had before but too well served me, and held out such advantages, promised such a sum as I knew he would not resist, and when he had completed your destruction, he was to meet me at Ulm, and receive his reward.
"I made an excuse of business to go there, and wait the event. He came, assured me that you was murdered, and thrown into the river; and added, that being associated with a set of men, who were both gamblers and robbers, it was their intention on his return to leave the country with their booty, and go into England, and as banditti were known to infest those mountains, it would be generally believed both you and him had been plundered and murdered.
"I hugged myself in security, gave him the promised reward, returned home, and pretended to be uneasy that you did not arrive: I believed myself safe from a discovery, when the avenging hand of Heaven was uplifted to overwhelm me with the punishment due to my crimes.
"Eternal justice preserved you, and the day of retribution is at hand; a life of deceit, crimes and falsehoods, will soon be terminated here, and my soul trembles for its doom hereafter."