"Hear me, Madam," said she; "it is a justice I demand; you have accused, condemned, and insulted me with the charge of crimes my soul abhors: You seek to murder my future happiness by destroying my reputation. You are deceived and abused. Neither my conduct or sentiments ever injured you, and the infamous accusation of an intrigue with your husband is as false as Heaven is true; to that Heaven I appeal for my innocence and integrity. I will leave your house, but not as a guilty wretch, nor until my uncle arrives to take me hence; confine me to this room if you please, I will only see the Count once more, and that shall be in your presence: He will do me justice; but you shall not drive me from hence until you have recalled your accusations, and that I can depart with a character unspotted, as my heart is unstained, with guilt."
That the Countess heard her so long without interruption proceeded not from patience, or a desire of hearing her in her own defence: On the contrary, surprise and increasing rage precluded speech for a few moments; but just as Caroline pronounced the last words, she sprang forwards, and struck her so violent a blow as laid her on the floor, and would have trampled upon her, had not the women with-held her by violence. The noise of the fall, her rage, and the screams of the servants, alarmed the whole household, and the Count, who had just entered from the garden, hearing and seeing the confusion, ran up stairs with them to learn the occasion.—What were his emotions on entering his wife's dressing-room, to behold Caroline on the floor weltering in her blood, and the Countess foaming, stamping with rage, and struggling with her servants.
He flew to the senseless Caroline: "My God! what—how is this? Is she killed?" he was going to say; but overpowered, he sunk into a chair, whilst those that had followed him raised the poor girl from the floor, and said, the blood proceeded from her nose.—The women, who held the Countess, now gave way to her ungovernable rage, and carried off the poor victim of it to another room. The shock actually suspended all powers in the Count, and he looked on his wife with an air of stupid wildness. She, mistaking the cause of his silence, vented her passion in such language, and spoke of Caroline in such infamous, opprobrious terms, that he was no longer at a loss to account for the scene he had witnessed. He started up like a mad-man, seizing her hands, he forced her into a chair: "Sit there, Madam," he cried, in a voice choked with rage and horror; "Stir not for your life till I have seen that angel you have so basely injured: Yes, she is an angel, innocent and spotless; dare not to quit this apartment. When I have seen the injured Caroline I shall know what treatment you deserve." He quitted the room, and on entering the apartment where the unhappy girl was carried, found her restored to her senses, and the blood stopped; but she had a violent bruise on the side of her head, and another on her shoulder; she was incapable of speaking, and whilst she was conveyed to bed, and a surgeon was sent for, the Count was nearly distracted. One of the women gave him complete information of the preceding scenes, which threw him into paroxysms of rage little short of madness.—He a thousand times protested the innocence of Caroline, and execrated her malicious accusers. Not a servant in the house but believed him, for her gentle, unoffending manners had gained her as much love and respect amongst them, as the Countess was beheld with hatred and dread.
But little respect or attachment can be expected from domestics, when their principals degrade themselves by the exercise of insolence and passion over those whose humble situation in life is perhaps the only circumstance in which they are inferior to their employers; for goodness of heart, and nobleness of principle, are by no means confined to the rich and titled, who derive their boasted superiority too often more from hereditary claims than from their own personal rights.
The Countess had servants, but she had no friends, and her ill humour and insolence was borne by them, because from habitude they had learned to despise it. Their master they loved, and a simple asseveration from him gained more credit than oaths, or the most plausible testimony could obtain for their Lady: No wonder, therefore, that every one was attentive to the unfortunate young Lady, and anxious for the arrival of the surgeon; he at length appeared, and to their great joy declared no material injury had been received, the bruises he hoped soon to remove, but the great loss of blood, and a tremor which he supposed was owing to the fall, rendered it necessary that the patient should be kept exceeding quiet. A little more composed by this report, the Count returned to his wife, whose rage had been succeeded by a fit of sullenness and reflections not very pleasant.
With very little ceremony he reproached her warmly for her inhuman treatment of Caroline, vindicated her innocence with energy and truth; insisted that she should publicly ask her pardon for the insults she had given her, or be assured that he would instantly separate himself from her for ever, and do justice to the character of a young Lady she had so wantonly injured, without the least provocation. Not deigning to make any reply, she drew from her pocket a letter, and gave it into his hand. How great was his astonishment to see, in spite of an endeavour to disguise it, the hand-writing of his mistress, who, as a friend to the Countess, accused her husband and Caroline of an intrigue, and repeated a number of bitter expressions, which had sometimes been drawn from him relative to his wife's person and disposition, as if spoken by him to Caroline, and by her repeated to her.—The whole information was calculated to inspire every diabolical idea that jealousy, personal resentment, and a sense of vile ingratitude, could animate a naturally irritable temper to indulge.
He put the paper into his pocket:—"I know your wicked informant," said he, "and she shall dearly repent the baseness of this attempt, to injure a character superior to the machinations of persons who hate the virtue they cannot copy. This letter, Madam, in a small degree, might excuse your suspicions; but nothing can atone for your improper and cruel treatment of a young woman, who, as a relation and a guest, had a claim to your hospitality."
"What!" interrupted the Countess, indignantly, "when I was informed she had violated the rights you talk of, and injured me irreparably?"
"At least," answered the Count, "you ought to have shown this letter to her or to me, to have judged, from your own conviction, before you took the liberty of being your own avenger, and not blindly have permitted your passions to be guided by a vile incendiary, and proceed to such outrages as the lowest of your sex should be ashamed of: However, Madam, you have still the power to atone for your aspersions on the young Lady's fame before your servants by a public recantation. The personal injury, the degrading blow, it is possible she may forgive; but if you have any feeling, you can never forgive yourself."
Ending those words he left her, and went to the house of his mistress, where he had not been for several days: To his astonishment he found it shut up, and on inquiry learned, that the Lady, with her child and nurse, had gone from thence two days before; that the furniture had been privately disposed of, and that a Gentleman came in a carriage and took them from the house without any one's knowing to what place they were gone. This information hurt the Count much, not on account of the Lady, who had been some time indifferent to him, but he was fond of the infant, and to have it taken away, solely in the power of a woman whose principles were not virtuous, distressed him greatly; and he painfully felt that the errors he had committed might too probably be retaliated on his own child, and that he had given existence to a being who might fall a victim to the vices of another, with passions as ungovernable as his own!
The conviction struck him with shame and remorse; he returned to the Castle overwhelmed with dejection, and more than ever anxious that the character of Caroline should be justified, that she might not be a sufferer through his attachment, which, however carefully concealed, it was evident, the jealous curiosity of his mistress had penetrated into, and possibly others might have made the same observations, though not impelled by the same motives. In consequence of these reflections, he sought a conversation with his Lady; to her he confessed the nature of his long attachment to his late mistress, the birth of a daughter, his growing indifference, a
nd little attention to her for some time past, which he supposed had induced her from pique and revenge, to give her the information contained in that letter she had delivered to him, in the hope of creating jealousies and disturbances to embitter their future days.
"You tell me nothing, Sir," answered she haughtily, "but what I have long since been informed of, except who was the writer of the letter; the conjecture is not wholly improbable, nor the motives which gave rise to it, at all unlikely. My passions carried me beyond the bounds of decency when I struck Caroline; but she intruded at an improper time, and was the sufferer. I have no objection to accede to your proposition, and declare her innocence as far as my own belief goes; but I expect that letter shall be produced as my justification. You see, Sir, to what meannesses you subject me by your attachments; I expect this to be the last folly of the kind; if you choose to make yourself ridiculous, I desire to be left out of the business."
She left the room with an air of disdain and superiority, that convinced him concessions on his part only served to make her more arrogant. In a few days Caroline was perfectly recovered; she sent for the Count and Countess to her apartment, the first time she had admitted either from the day of the quarrel.
"I expect my uncle," said she, 'tomorrow to take me from this house, which I hourly regret I ever visited! Your unjust suspicions and cruel accusations have wounded my character, have injured my health; but I take God to witness, that I would not be the guilty, ungrateful creature you supposed me for all the enjoyments this world can offer. From you, Madam, I have a right to expect more than an apology, an acknowledgment that you have wronged me: Your women heard me accused; it is fit also that they should hear me justified."
"I own it," replied the Countess, a little affected, and much confused, "I have used you ill, my dear Caroline, I entreat your forgiveness, and request you will hear the information which threw me into passions so injurious to you, and unbecoming in myself."—She drew the letter from her pocket; Caroline rejected it: "No, Madam, I am perfectly satisfied; if you believe yourself imposed upon, if you are convinced that I am incapable of being the wretched creature you supposed me to be; I am restored to your good opinion, and justified in the sight of others; self-approbation, thank Heaven, I have never forfeited."
The Countess withdrew soon after, the scene was disagreeable to her on many accounts; she had injured Caroline, and therefore could not love her, and it likewise gave her a conscious superiority which the Countess could not admit of in any other than herself. The Count was in a situation most deplorable, his love for Caroline exceeded all bounds, yet respecting her with equal fervor, he determined to confine his passion within his own bosom, and never to see her more after she had quitted his house. On the next day, this amiable and unfortunate young woman took leave of the family, carrying with her a barbed arrow which pierced her heart, and wrung it with sorrow, when the last adieus were pronounced between the Count and herself. She returned home, but for a long time her days were melancholy, and her nights restless.
The Count and his Lady were little less unhappy; there was nothing respectable or estimable in the Lady's character to conciliate esteem, nor any endeavours to render herself pleasing. No longer a favourite mistress to engross his hours, his reflections on the past were painful, and in prospect no less disagreeable: He grew reserved, solitary and unhappy; yet behaved with more attention and complacency to his Lady, and was extremely fond of his infant son. Nine months passed in a dull uniformity, when an accident happened that gave a new turn to his thoughts.
The Countess was again in the family way, and generally went out in the mornings to ride on horseback. One day, when attended only by two servants, she was riding through the forest not far from the Castle, by the sudden discharge of a gun her horse took fright, and flying between the trees, she was thrown off with great violence, and when the attendants came up, lay to all appearance dead. On a nearer inspection they found she still breathed; between them she was conveyed to the Castle, a surgeon was sent for, and the Count seemed greatly affected. She remained speechless, though sensible, and the surgeon apprehended some very dreadful inward bruises from the fall, which was really the case, for in spite of every medical assistance she expired before the next morning.
Having already described the Count's feelings, it is needless to say, that after the first shock was over, a thousand pleasing images floated on his brain, and every thought was full of Caroline. When decency authorised him to make known the situation of his heart, he applied to that young Lady's uncle for permission to address her; an offer so very advantageous could not be refused, and he was permitted to visit her; but, alas! how severely was he wounded when he first saw her, pale, emaciated, and dejected; she was no longer the blooming Caroline, whose animated charms had first inspired him with a real passion; but she was an object a thousand times more interesting, for all her sufferings were on his account, and that idea rendered her inexpressibly dear to him.
Conscious of the alteration in her person, the generous girl decided against her own wishes, and refused to marry him; but the Count was not so easily induced to give up a favourite point so essential to his happiness; her uncle seconded his wishes, and wearied out by his continued perseverance, and yielding as well to the tenderness of her own heart, she at length consented; they were united, and the happy Count thought his felicity was now complete.
Poor simple mortals as we are! that see not by every day's experience how often the accomplishment of our eager wishes proves the source of future misery!
The amiable Caroline was indeed the most desirable of women, the most engaging of wives; but unhappily her constitution had been too delicate to support her under a fatal passion which preyed upon her heart, and for which she had incessantly reproached herself; a slow but gentle decay imperceptibly weakened her lovely frame. She was sensible of her own situation before she gave her hand to the Count, but was persuaded by her friends that a happy union might restore her health. For a few weeks she appeared better, and being in the way of becoming a mother, a relapse into weakness, debility and languor, was attributed to that circumstance. She knew better, but she suffered them to mislead themselves, because she could not bear to see her friends unhappy. She struggled with her complaints until the hour arrived when nature made its last efforts, the same moment that gave birth to a son deprived the unhappy Count of its angelic mother, and the spirit of the amiable and too tender Caroline fled to Heaven!
It is impossible to paint the distraction of her miserable husband, who for many days was in that dreadful state, to give great cause for apprehension that he would quickly follow his beloved wife to the grave; but at length it pleased Heaven to restore his health, but his vivacity and cheerfulness were fled for ever. He devoted the remainder of his days to the education of his two sons, and the image of his lost Caroline was never absent from his thoughts. Sensible that his eldest boy, Rhodophil, would inherit his paternal estates, he determined to save a handsome fortune for his young Ferdinand, who was the perfect resemblance of his unfortunate mother. The Count retrenched every useless expense, and though he was benevolent and liberal to others, he denied himself every thing superfluous that he might benefit his darling son, who, as he grew up, discovered every trait of a good heart, and an excellent constitution.
Rhodophil was the counterpart of his mother, both in person and disposition.—Stern, haughty, insolent and unfeeling, no tenderness could move, no remonstrances avail, to make him unbend his temper, and grow more tractable in his juvenile days; but when advanced to manhood, he became all at once fond of and submissive to his father, and almost servilely attentive to his brother, who, open, generous and unsuspecting, really loved Rhodophil, and rejoiced at the alteration that appeared to have taken place in his disposition.
CHAPTER VI
Rhodophil was about one-and-twenty, and Ferdinand in his eighteenth year, when walking one evening in the suburbs of Baden, they met an elderly woman, plainly but cleanly dressed, with
a young one by her side, whose uncommon beauty instantly attracted the eyes of both the brothers. By mutual consent they turned and followed her; they observed them enter a mean-looking house correspondent to their appearance:—Both were eager to make inquiries, and were informed by a neighbour that the woman's name was Dupree, and the young girl, who was her niece, was called Claudina; they had only resided a few months in the town, and appeared to have but a very slender income. With this intelligence they returned home, both thoughtful, and each suspecting the sentiments of the other, which was, a desire of seeing and knowing a little more of this lovely Claudina.
When they met next morning, Rhodophil began to talk of the "pretty girl" they had seen; but in a lively manner, and in a tone of indifference that surprised Ferdinand, whose young heart had received a first impression, and who could not mention her but in terms of rapture that drew upon him the pleasantry of his brother. Ferdinand, incapable of art or dissimulation, openly avowed his intention of going in search of another view of his charmer; his brother laughed at his folly, and said he should take a different route.
Not to dwell too long on this part of the story, we shall only say, that Ferdinand found means to get acquainted with this young woman, and very soon engaged his heart to her, and acquired no small share of her's.—Mean time overtures were made to the woman by a friend of her's to sell her niece, or in other words, she was offered a handsome sum for herself, and a settlement on Claudina by a young Nobleman. Dupree, mercenary and poor, could not withstand the temptation; she endeavoured, to the utmost of her skill, to seduce the mind of her niece, by a display of all the advantages such an attachment would secure to her; but Claudina had the best security for the preservation of her honor, which was her love for Ferdinand, and the hope that, though not an elder brother, he would have a handsome fortune, and that his affection for her was an honourable one.—Those splendid overtures were therefore firmly rejected, though often renewed, and her lover felt himself under additional ties of love and obligation to a young woman, whose affection and good principles had stood the test of every temptation.
The Complete Northanger Horrid Novel Collection (9 Books of Gothic Romance and Horror) Page 152
