CHAP. IX.
Ferdinand had a month's leave of absence; he had been promoted to a higher rank than he could have hoped for, his prospects in the army were such as to inspire a hope of being in a short time able to provide for his family. He returned to them enlivened by expectation, and transported to embrace a darling wife, and a generous brother. In the evening, when retired to the apartment of his Claudina, when expressing his raptures at seeing her so well and happy, a deep and hollow groan made him start from his chair, and threw his wife into a trembling fit.—"What, or where does that groan come from?" cried she. He was about to answer, when a second, still more alarming, was followed by those words from the same voice Ferdinand had twice before heard:—Fly, fly from her arms, as you would avoid sin and death!"—Claudina shrieked and fainted. Her husband rang the bell for assistance. She relapsed from one fit into another for several hours; all was fright and confusion, for he did not choose to account for her disorder among the servants: One, however, observed these were worse fits than she had lately, because they lasted longer.
"What then," asked Ferdinand, "has she before now had such seizures as this?"
"Yes, Sir," answered the servant, "a short time ago, and my master told us, as to be sure you know, that Madame was often troubled with them."
This information surprised him, the conclusion in his own mind was, that she had before now been alarmed in a similar manner; but the words dwelt upon his memory:—What could be their import—"As you would avoid sin and death!" Good God! how shocking! He had not time, however for much reflection, the state his wife lay in chiefly engrossed his attention; he insisted upon medical advice, and a physician was sent for. Before he could make his appearance distraction had seized her brain; she talked wild and incoherent, of death, murder, Rhodophil and Ferdinand! When the Doctor came he declared her in a frenzy fever, and methods were taken to lower it so effectually, that in a few hours she lay quite in a torpid state, insensible to every thing round her.—Poor Ferdinand withdrew for a few moments at the request of Rhodophil.
"Alas!" cried he, "is this my welcome! Have I returned home with the dear delight of being happy in the bosom of my family, and must this dreadful prohibition cause me consummate wretchedness!"
"What prohibition?" asked Rhodophil, eagerly. Ferdinand was sensible that he had said too much, that he had excited a curiosity he knew not how to elude. After a little pause and consideration, he acquainted Rhodophil with the preceding circumstance, adding, 'that the voice seemed to be his father's." The other sunk back in his chair, pale and trembling, unable to utter a syllable, his eyes fixed on his brother with a wild inquiring look.—"I see," said Ferdinand, "you are extremely shocked; had not Claudina been present with me, I should hardly have ventured to relate to you so strange and improbable a circumstance, fearful lest you should have ridiculed my visionary ideas; but I am too well assured of the reality."
"Of what?" cried the Count, falteringly: "What did you hear else?"
"No more than the words I have repeated, words sufficient to harrow up my soul, to fill me with dreadful apprehensions, and terrifying images. What they mean, Heaven only knows, for I am not conscious of any crimes, and after having so long lived with my wife, why this alarming caution now? Why, I am forbidden to return to her arms by supernatural powers, is beyond my comprehension to define; I see only that there is, there must be, some dreadful cause, and that I am marked out for misery. O, Rhodophil! wretched are the days of those who fail in their first duties, obedience to a parent; and sure destruction follows a father's curse." No longer able to repress his emotions Ferdinand wept aloud.
Rhodophil, who was by this time a little recovered (though his eye was still wandering with an affrighted glance, and his limbs no longer boasted their usual steadiness) sought to speak comfort to his brother: "I will not (said he) tell you that it is possible your senses might be deceived; I am neither credulous, nor superstitious, yet I think you would do right to pay some observance to a warning from the dead, and all that we can infer is, that the union between you and your wife is displeasing to Heaven."—"Wherefore," cried Ferdinand, "the want of birth and riches is no crime in the sight of God; I married unknown to my father, that was a sin against his authority; but can it be a crime of that magnitude to draw down the displeasure of Heaven?"
"Oh! yes, if it provoked a father's malediction, it rendered both criminal, and I am the wretched victim; I am singled out from hundreds who have committed the same error, the same unpardonable act of disobedience, to be held up as a pharos to warn unthinking youth of the miseries attending a too hasty connexion unsanctioned by a parent's approbation. Oh! my father, I am indeed severely punished!"
This apostrophe drove Rhodophil from the room; he could not support the sight of his brother's distress. Ernest immediately entered; the afflicted heart clings for consolation to the first sympathizing friend; the old man was shocked to see him; he rested his head on the shoulder of Ernest, whilst he repeated what had happened in Claudina's apartment. "Dear unhappy creature!"—added he, "I have destroyed her peace, my fatal love has undone her; in humble obscurity she might have been happy, and I have dragged her into wretchedness."
"My dear master (said Ernest) do not reproach yourself on her account; your wife cannot, ought not to blame you, whatever the circumstances may be that renders your union improper; to her you have always done your duty. If she is unhappy, you are not to blame; the offence against your father was designed to promote her happiness as well as your own, why it has failed, we are not to inquire; but remember this, that the same voice which bid you 'fly' from your wife, pronounced the words 'Pardon and peace;' if there is credibility in one, there is in the other."
Ferdinand raised his head, and looking earnestly in his face, "There is an implication in your words that shock me, that would fill me with the most torturing apprehensions, but that I know the impossibility of there being any grounds for them. The 'pardon and peace' has never been one day absent from my memory, strange if it should, when it is the ground-work, the only hold I have to reconcile me to myself: But, alas! if I lay hold on that for consolation, if I look on those words as a sacred command, what must I now sacrifice to the same mandate? My wife, my dear innocent wife, the mother of my children, the sweet comforter under all my misfortunes, must I give up her society, fly her arms? Oh! stern and cruel!"
"Stop, Sir (said Ernest, interrupting him) reflect, who you are accusing, remember that, to us short-sighted mortals, the events which often appear most distressing, are intended for our greatest blessings."
"Ernest," replied Ferdinand, "you are a natural philosopher, you know not the difficulty of being a practical one, and at your age the passions have lost their turbulence. O, that I also was old, or laid peaceably in my grave! But I forget Claudina," (added he, rising briskly, and rushing to her apartment.) She had just began to show some signs of recollection, but the moment he appeared she shrieked and turned from him. His little boy Charles was in the room; he ran to his father: "My mamma will not speak to me, will not kiss me; indeed, papa, I have not been naughty."—The artless voice of innocence overcame Ferdinand; he struggled to repress his emotions, but the big drops rolled down his face. He embraced his child, then turning to her, "Claudina! my dear Claudina, will you not speak to us?" She turned her head, her eyes met his, she groaned, and averted them to the child. "My poor boy!" exclaimed she. He ran to her arms. She embraced him: "Go, go, my child, to your father." Ferdinand was deeply affected. He ordered the attendants to withdraw, then seating himself by her: "My best, my only love (said he) take comfort, you have been terrified, recover yourself, my Claudina." He would have taken her hand; she withdrew it. "Revere the voice of Heaven," cried she, greatly agitated, "obey its decrees, pollution is in my touch, and unless you wish me mad indeed approach me not. Poor unhappy man! well may you curse the hour you first saw me."
"Who, I!" cried he, "I curse; alas! too well I know the horrors of that rash impetuosity of the mind. No, but for your sake I have no regrets; I have drawn down the wrath of Heaven and you, innocent as you are, must suffer the sad effects."
"Innocent!" repeated she, "leave me, Ferdinand, I beseech you to leave me; once more, if you would preserve us both from everlasting perdition, reverence that sacred command, fly me as you would do a scorpion that might sting you to death." Inexpressibly shocked, and apprehensive that her senses were again wandering, he rang the bell, and on the entrance of the servants withdrew: Regardless of what constructions might be put on the orders she gave, she insisted that neither her husband or Rhodophil should be again admitted to her apartment.
The house was melancholy, for every one in it was gloomy and unhappy; they shunned each other; the two brothers met at meals, but those meals were short and unsociable; each feared to inquire into particulars they had reason to dread; yet they heard Claudina was better. The third day, when torturing suspense, and disappointed love, had worn Ferdinand almost to a shadow, Ernest entered the room: "I am come, Sir, from Madame Claudina."
"What (cried the other) have you been admitted?"
"I was sent for, Sir, and have had a long conversation."
"O, tell me, quickly tell, the result, my mind is in tumults."
"I know it, Sir, and therefore am I come. Pray, Heaven, that what I have to relate may compose it. I received an order to attend on your Lady; I obeyed, and my old heart ached to see the ravages grief had made. She ordered every one from the room; she was sitting on the side of the bed: Ernest (said she, with much solemnity) you are the faithful servant and friend of the family; on your fidelity I rely, and your assistance I solicit."
"Assistance! (repeated Ferdinand) of what nature, pray?"
"Have the goodness to hear me, Sir, without interruption," resumed Ernest: "I assured the Lady she might depend upon my readiness to serve her in every thing consistent with my duty." This was her answer.
"Some circumstances have arisen that render it absolutely necessary I should quit this house, and be separated from my husband; I wish to go away equally unknown to him or his brother: I am not destitute of money, and for this purpose shall use it without scruple. I intend to retire into a convent, will you assist me privately?" I assured her I would, and immediately took an oath never to reveal the place of her abode without her consent."
"How! (cried Ferdinand) is this your affection for me? And do you think I will herself in a convent, she to be the sacrifice for my errors? Do you think I will ever suffer this?"
"I do, Sir (answered he, calmly) I think you respect the will of Heaven, that you will consider, you must separate to be happy.—I shall this day set about an inquiry for a proper residence for her, and when I have found it, neither force nor persuasions shall oblige me to reveal the secret without her permission. What I say to you is in confidence which she allows of; but it is her earnest request you do not mention it to your brother."
Ernest withdrew, leaving Ferdinand overwhelmed with grief, astonishment, and irresolution. He resolved, however, to watch her apartment and Ernest also, that they might not elude his observation, and that he might at least have the satisfaction of knowing her place of residence.
The next day the old man was absent, and Ferdinand rightly conjectured he was about making preparations for her departure. He kept his eye on her apartment, his heart was in great agitations, he found the "awful voice" had effectually terrified Claudina, and that her resolution was taken; he could not but applaud her fortitude, though he was overwhelmed with anguish. Sometimes it occurred to him as very extraordinary, that having resided several months together after his father's death in that house, in that same apartment, without the least disturbance; why now, after so much time had elapsed, a supernatural being should command him to 'fly from her arms, as he would avoid sin and death." The more he reflected, the more he was puzzled, the whole was so very wonderful, so much exceeding credibility, that he was sometimes tempted to think it was all illusion; but then the proofs returned, Claudina heard the last fatal command as well as himself, there could be no doubt of it: If then he admitted the one, he could not be mistaken in the other: Had his brother then a 'corrupt heart?' His brother, who had ever been his friend, the protector of his wife and children, whose conduct had ever appeared so fair, so open? Then he recollected his information from Ernest, and other circumstances, as a counterbalance to those acts of generosity. Puzzled, lost in conjecture, and miserably unhappy, Ferdinand passed that day and night, having inquired, previous to his retiring, how his wife did, and heard that she was much better, but desired to be undisturbed; they will then proceed on their plan, thought he, in a day or two, and it behoves me to be attentive to their motions.
The morning came, weak and unrefreshed, he threw on his clothes, and proceeded to the gallery, which communicated with Claudina's apartment, there he met Ernest:—"Return, Sir (said he) if you please, to your apartment, I wish to speak to you."—Ferdinand complied; they entered, and shut the door. "Now, my dear master, collect your fortitude, be governed by reason; Claudina is gone."
"Gone!" exclaimed the other, "how—where—when?"
"She went from hence last night, and is already in a place of safety."
"Then she cannot be far off," cried Ferdinand.
"Pardon me, Sir, when I said she was in a place of safety; it did not imply that she was at the end of her journey; but, however, here, Sir, is a letter, which she ordered me to deliver to you."—He hastily tore it open, and read the following lines:
"Adieu, my amiable and too tender husband:—Husband! O Heavens! my tears blot out the name; adieu then best, and most injured of men—warned by a miraculous event, I fly from you, from guilt and misery. Forget me and be happy: I am dead to you and the world; on the verge of the grave, the prospect was dreadful: I devote the rest of my days to penitence and prayer. My infant I take with me; she may one day emerge into the world if she lives; should she die, her happiness is secured.
"You shall from time to time hear of me, but you will never see me more. I have darkened all your prospects of felicity; I have returned the tenderest attachment with ingratitude. I am now no more. You have my full and entire consent to marry again under more fortunate auspices, for I again repeat that I am dead to you, solemnly devoted to a solitary life. May you live and be happy. Let not my dear boy detest the memory of his mother, he is young, and may believe I am dead; I wish not to be remembered. Return to the army, let glory be your mistress; she will amuse your mind, and lead you in the road to happiness, by teaching you to forget Claudina. Heavens bless you, and my dear, dear boy, for ever. I have written to the Count; the letter is of little consequence. May my name never more pass your lips. Hasten from hence; confide in the faithful Ernest; forgive and forget the unworthy Claudina."
Ferdinand perused this letter with all the marks of the wildest astonishment. "What fatal mystery lurks beneath the expressions in this paper!" cried he, "Of what crimes has she been guilty, but her attachment to me, and wherefore does she accuse herself of ingratitude? Marry again! Oh! Claudina, you little know my heart. There is, there must be some secret with which I am unacquainted, every line in her letter discovers it, why else call me injured? Oh! Ernest, declare this secret, whatever it is, the knowledge cannot make me so miserable as this dreadful uncertainty, this painful imagination."
"From me, Sir," answered Ernest, "you can learn nothing, for I have nothing to reveal; reconcile your mind to this event, which must be for the advantage of both.—Nothing on earth shall make me betray my trust, nor, whilst I live, discover the place of her abode. Should I die, when you are from me, I will take care you shall then, through a particular channel, still hear from, or of her, if you desire it; but I hope time will have its usual effects to restore your tranquillity, and forget the object that now causes your distress."
"Impossible!" exclaimed Ferdinand,—"impossible that I should ever forget my wife, the mother of my children, the choice of my heart! O, why, wherefore am I marked out to be the veriest wretch that crawls the earth, cut off from every endearing tie, and from some fatal unknown cause interdicted from enjoying the only blessing my misfortunes had left me!"
"My dear master," answered the old man, tears in his eyes, "recollect you have still one tie, one blessing, your son; to the dispensations of Providence it is our duty to submit, it avails nothing to inquire into the causes of things beyond our comprehension.
"Had she died, I trust, I should have borne my sorrows like a man; but this strange, incomprehensible mystery———. My child too! a blessing! O, Ernest, may he not live to wring a father's heart with grief, to retaliate upon me! He may, and I deserve it should be so, but, he may make me wretched, he may shorten my days by disobedience and affliction; but never, never shall he experience a father's curse, nor struggle under a malediction registered in Heaven, and never to be expunged!" "Do not indulge that idea, Sir, Heaven hears not, confirms not, man's rash imprecations, uttered in a moment of frenzy; their confirmation must depend upon circumstances; Heaven heeds not the curses of disappointed ambition."
"I have no longer any business here," cried Ferdinand, starting from a reverie, and hardly attending to the words of Ernest;—"nor will I return to the army, I care not what becomes of me, but I will see my brother."—He flew out of the room to Rhodophil's apartment, which entering without ceremony, he found him gazing on a letter that he held in his hand, fixed like a statue. The entrance of Ferdinand startled him; he rose, crushed the paper into his pocket,—"Well, Sir!" was all he could say.—"O, my brother! O, Rhodophil! Claudina's gone, fled, I know not whither."
This address occasioned an alteration in the looks of the other, from a haughty fierceness, they softened into an appearance of compassion and curiosity. "Is it possible (asked he) that she has not acquainted you with her motives for withdrawing, nor where she intends to reside?"
"Neither (replied he;) she bids me adieu for ever, will never see me more, and desires me to forget her as unworthy of my affection; for Heaven's sake tell me if you can divine the cause of this cruel, unaccountable conduct."
"Indeed I cannot (answered Rhodophil.) Some weeks ago she was low spirited and melancholy, then she had fits one night, but in two or three days got better, and seemed more tranquil; it is certain her disposition has been very unequal, the cause of which I could never rightly comprehend."
"Good God! (exclaimed the other) it is very strange, her letter seems to imply as if she had behaved imprudently, yet surely it is impossible."
"Something certainly lay heavy upon her mind (said the Count;) women are inexplicable beings; she may have deceived you; I do not say she has, because I know nothing; but some cause there must be, and all that I can advise you is, to forget her."
"How easy to advise where the heart is not interested! To forget is a hard lesson, memory given to us for a blessing, but too often proves the source of the bitterest sorrow; and my hopes of happiness are clouded for ever. One only request I have now to make."
"What is it?" asked Rhodophil, with some emotion. "As the unfortunate Claudina has entirely secluded herself, tell me, has she the means for her support?" The other hesitated a moment, then taking the paper from his pocket, which he had been gazing on, he gave it into his hands, that will satisfy you," said he. These were the contents:
to count rhodophil.
"When this reaches you, I shall have bid the world adieu for ever; my much injured husband never will incur the wrath of Heaven for his attachment to a worthless woman after this day—I shall see him no more.
"The settlement you made on me is in the hands of Ernest; half of that sum I shall send for quarterly, but no clue will be found by that means to trace me; I have taken my measures too securely for any possibility of a discovery: The other half of that settlement I have made over in trust to Ernest for the education of my son. May he never hear that he has a mother existing! Two persons only know the place of my retreat, they know all! They are sworn to secrecy, and never will be bribed to betray their trust; if provoked they may say too much.
"May Heaven comfort, bless, and preserve Ferdinand and my child! I would extend my blessings, but they may prove curses;
from a wretch like me all good wishes may be reversed; yet Heaven will distinguish between the innocent and the guilty; the 'awful voice' convinced me of that truth, and bids me fly from the world for ever! May the warning be extended to others guilty as myself.
"Strange mystery!" cried Ferdinand; those two persons that 'know all!' What is that dreadful all? O, how torturing is this doubt! Ernest is one (he has confessed it) that enjoys her confidence; but he has declared no force on earth shall induce him to betray her. Who the other is I know not; but no doubt she was well advised in her choice of confidants. Her own words pronounce her 'guilty,' but of what? What guilt can she have committed? Where had she the opportunity?"
"It is in vain to puzzle ourselves with conjectures," answered Rhodophil; "time only can develop the mystery, and we must endeavour to be content until that period arrives; some unexpected incident may bring all things to light. You see she will not be without a support, which I shall regularly pay. As for your son Charles, I take upon me the care of his fortune, and will send him to a school at my own expense; the moiety of his mother's settlement shall be paid to Ernest, and be left to accumulate for his expenses hereafter.
"This has been a melancholy visit to you, my dear Ferdinand; but I entreat you to endeavour, if possible, to overcome this shock, to think of Claudina as dead, and as one whom you ought not, from her own confession, to lament."
With a deep sigh Ferdinand replied, "I will endeavour; but the more I think, the more the mystery increases, and the more wretched I am. I thank you for my poor Charles; the little Claudina, I trust, her mother will not neglect. Within three days I shall leave you."
"How! (cried the Count) in three days? Surely my brother will not desert me: Let us comfort each other, resign your commission, partake an equal share with me, and let me have the satisfaction of contributing to your returning peace. We will take a tour into Hungary; I have an estate there I have never seen. You will be amused. Pray oblige me."
"I thank you most sincerely (answered Ferdinand;) but my resolution is taken, and I intend to ramble, I neither know nor care where, chance shall be my guide."
"That is a ridiculous, romantic idea (said the Count;) you may encounter a thousand accidents by such a scheme, with scarce a possibility of being amused without a companion, or any plan in view." Ferdinand made but a slight answer, yet sufficient to convey his determination, and the entrance of company drove him from the room.
Ernest only was admitted into his confidence, and with him he consulted about the disposal of his son Charles. As there was an excellent academy at Baden, they thought it best he should be there, because Ernest would have him under his eye.—"My years are great (said the good old man) between sixty and seventy, and my days may be few, but whilst I live, never will I remit my attention to him. I have a nephew, a young man of integrity, who is the third master in that very academy: I can depend upon his care there, and here I will watch over his interests. I am certain the Count will not discharge me now."
"Why now, more than before?" asked Ferdinand.
"Because, because (said he, a little confused, conscious that he had said too much) he does justice to my fidelity, and is certain of my attachment to his family." Satisfied with this answer, the other consulted with him on his projected ramble, and as Ernest found him determined, he made no efforts to oppose him in a pursuit that he thought would amuse him for a time, and, like all other novelties, soon subside; and what made him the more readily come into it was, that an account arrived of a truce being agreed upon between the Emperor and his opponent, and that the troops were ordered into winter quarters, consequently there was no necessity for resigning his commission, as he might have leave of absence for a few months.
Rhodophil appeared to regret his design, yet nevertheless furnished him with a handsome sum for his expenses, and requested he would draw freely upon him whenever it was necessary. Charles was informed his mother was gone a journey (and after a time Ernest was to acquaint him that she was dead.)—The same information was circulated in the family, though not as readily believed, for every one concluded she was run away from her husband unknown to them all: But Charles, who was only three years old, gave easy credit to any thing he was told, and in his new situation, where Mr. Dunloff, the nephew of Ernest, paid him the attention of a father, and he had a variety of young companions (a thing quite new to him) he soon ceased to lament the loss of his real parents, and was delighted with the change of residence.