Ernest had nothing to answer against this resolution but affectionate regrets, he had but too much cause to think the intention would be as necessary as it was becoming in a young man of spirit and honour; therefore he only hoped, 'that his dear young master would do nothing rashly, but wait until his wife and children could have some certain independence secured to them."
"How! (replied Ferdinand) would you have me limit my brother's bounty, or seem to doubt his generosity and kindness? How contemptible should I appear in his eyes by a bare suggestion, by the remotest hint, that I wished for any certainty more than what I may rely on from his affection and generosity, so recently proved on an occasion, where not one out of a million would have conducted themselves with that nobleness of spirit, that true fraternal affection Count Rhodophil has manifested."
"I presume not, Sir," answered Ernest, respectfully, 'to dictate, or even to advise you; but, nevertheless, as we are all mortal, subject every hour to be suddenly deprived of health and life, as we can no more answer for our own hearts than for our own lives, as it is possible Count Rhodophil may marry, and new engagements may give birth to new sentiments; all these natural occurrences may happen, and both for your children's sake, and for his honour, it would be better to place a circumstance, of so much consequence to your family, beyond the power of chance to injure them."
"I own (said Ferdinand, after pausing a few minutes) I own what you say is both wise and prudent; but such a proposition as relates to any settlement must originate with my brother.—No selfish proposals, no narrowness of heart, shall mark my conduct, or render me less generous than himself."
Ernest sighed, but was silent.—The other observing his dejection, added: "You know, my old friend, that Rhodophil's mother was a woman of very superior birth, with a much larger fortune than my mother could boast, who, though by no means despicable, yet owed her elevation to my father's rank, more to her beauty than hereditary claims, therefore my brother's generosity is the more estimable."
"You, Sir, are the best judge (replied the steward) and I hope you will forgive my presumption, which is directed by true affection to your interest."
"I know it well (answered Ferdinand) but now, my good Ernest, return, and acquaint my kind brother of the event, which must preclude us from removing for some time. In the evening, or to-morrow morning, you may expect me, for I have a melancholy duty to perform, from which nothing shall divert me."
The steward bowed, and was about to retire, but stepped a few paces very reluctantly; then suddenly turned—"Sir (said he) I hope you will not be offended if I presume to leave this purse; when you are settled at the Castle, you may return it." He laid the purse upon a chair, and hastened out of the house.
"Good creature! (exclaimed Ferdinand) I will not now mortify thee by a refusal of proffered kindness, because now I know I shall have it in my power to repay the money, and reward thee tenfold in thy estimation, by my attentions and marks of gratitude."—He strove to stifle his painful reflections by procuring several little necessaries and indulgences for his Claudina, which in her situation were wanted, and which the fear of not being able to supply had tormented him for many preceding days. She received and enjoyed them with delight, as the proofs of a parent's returning affection.—In the evening, when Ferdinand was sitting by her bedside, and she observed the deep gloom that every now and then pervaded his features, in spite of all his efforts to appear happy. She looked at him several moments in silence, then pressing his hand: "My dearest husband (said she) from whence proceeds that sorrow which clouds your features, and seems to fill your eyes with tears? Tell me, have you deceived me into hope, or is your father's forgiveness fettered with conditions that distress your feelings? Your looks correspond not with the joyful intelligence you communicated this morning.—Tell me, I beseech you, what there is behind which is a drawback upon such an event as I thought must have insured your happiness."
Ferdinand endeavoured to recover himself, and by a little evasion prepare her for future communications.—"Your penetration, my dear Claudina, cannot be eluded; know then that the state of my father is such as inclines me to think it is almost past a doubt, that you will see him no more. I see you are affected (added he) but you know he has long been ill, and therefore such an event may be expected; compose yourself, however, and do not let me be doubly afflicted; to-morrow I shall see him again; perhaps, at my return I shall be in better spirits."—
"Heaven grant it (returned she, sighing.) Ah! what a world is this, so chequered, that seldom any good arises without its concomitant share of evil!"
"True, my love (answered Ferdinand;) but then reverse the picture, and thank our bounteous Father that almost every evil to our imperfect view, brings with it some alleviating circumstances we cannot always foresee."
"Yes (returned she) perhaps we are indebted to his increased weakness, and expectancy of death, the very pardon, and favour he has accorded to us. Would to Heaven, however, that I may once more see, and thank him on my knees for his goodness to you and my dear infants!"
Ferdinand could not stand this, tears gushed from his eyes, and, throwing his arms round her, he freely indulged them. She also wept, but not with that poignancy of sorrow to injure her health, the mutual indulgence relieved, and after a time, afforded them a melancholy composure.
CHAPTER 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. Sending 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 t
he 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 s
he 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."
The Complete Northanger Horrid Novel Collection (9 Books of Gothic Romance and Horror) Page 149
