"A wearied and unfortunate traveller, (replied Ferdinand) who entreats rest and refreshment."
"I fear (replied the man) neither can be obtained here."
"Is not this a convent?" asked Ferdinand.
"No (answered the other) there is a convent about five miles to the right of the valley you have passed."
"What then is this place?"
"Once a castle, now a heap of ruins!"
"Yet it is inhabited it seems, and I am really so overcome with fatigue, that if you can procure me entrance, I shall be most truly thankful to rest an hour."
"I will inquire," said the man, and withdrew.
Ferdinand was extremely mortified to find he had taken a wrong direction, from the convent as it appeared, by keeping to the left; yet he was so very languid and tired, that he found it hardly possible to measure his steps back without some rest or sustenance; for, however grief may fill up the mind, or weaken the appetite, nature will assert her rights, and remind the woe-begone traveller that something is necessary for her support. He waited some minutes, not with the patience of a Socrates, when at length the same face appeared through the hole: "I will let you in for a short time to the huntsman's room, but no farther." He proceeded to unbar the gate, which from its creaking noise, and the difficulty attending its opening, gave evident proofs that the practice of hospitality was not customary in that ruinous building.
When the gate was opened Ferdinand absolutely started at the figure of his conductor; he even hesitated whether he should follow him; haggard, emaciated and tottering, was the man before him. A large court, overgrown with weeds, led to another wall, with a pair of gates similar to those he had passed, and discovered no more of the building than the lofty battlements and high turrets he had discerned on his first approach. On one side of the court was an old low building, to which the man conducted him. They entered a hall lined with the huntsman's trophies, covered with dust; through that they went into a smaller room, where a table, some benches, and a fire place, had the appearance of having been once inhabited.——"You may rest here (said the man) and I will bring you some food; but if you stir one step beyond, your death will be the consequence."
Ferdinand, instead of being intimidated found his curiosity greatly excited, and though he quietly acquiesced with the prohibition, yet his thoughts were employed in considering on means to obtain further knowledge of these ruins and its inhabitants. Some time elapsed before the man returned with bread, wine, and grapes, which, whilst Ferdinand gladly devoured, he was observed, with the most scrutinizing attention, by his entertainer; nor were the other's eyes unemployed.—When he put the flask of wine to his mouth, for no cup had been thought necessary, he drank to the other's health, which was returned with a bow of the head; but no persuasions could induce him to return the compliment. "I drink no wine," said he, in a mournful voice.
"Indeed, my good friend, I think you need it," said Ferdinand, "weak and feeble as you are, wine seems absolutely necessary for you."
"I have sworn to the contrary," replied the other, with an increased dejection.
"It appears to me," returned Ferdinand, 'to have been a very cruel injunction, if forced upon you, and a very unwise one, if voluntarily made, for the good things of this life were given to us by a bounteous Creator to be our support and comfort; the abuse of them is only improper, and when advanced in age, as you appear to be, such things as nourish the body and enliven the spirits, are highly requisite."
"To some persons," answered the man, "it may be so; but not to a man to whom the hours that he drags here are a weary pilgrimage, such a one seeks not by stimulatives to prolong a life long since grown hateful to him."
"Alas!" cried Ferdinand, "few men can be more wretched than myself; recent afflictions have driven me from my home, and from my friends; yet do I hold it cowardly to desert my post, I have no power over that life I could not give myself; and to neglect the means of its preservation, is little less sinful than to destroy it at once.—But, pardon me one question, are you the owner of this Castle?"
"I am not," returned the other; "but do not be curious in matters that cannot concern you, nor by an idle curiosity which can receive no gratification, oblige me to repent of my charity."
"You must at least," said Ferdinand, "forgive me one observation; your first appearance, and manner of bringing me here, led me to suppose you a domestic; your language convinces me I was mistaken: Whoever, or whatever you are, if you are unfortunate, as your words seem to imply, I most sincerely pity you; unhappy myself, I can feel for every child of sorrow." The tone, in which those words were uttered, with the look that accompanied them, had a powerful effect upon his auditor. He turned from him, clasped his hands, tears ran in torrents down his furrowed cheeks, and, with a heart-breaking sigh, he flung himself upon a bench almost suffocated with the excess of his emotions.
Ferdinand approached him:—"If I have been, though involuntarily, the cause of exciting those tears, and of recalling ideas that perhaps were faded on the memory, I entreat you to forgive me; indebted to your hospitality and kindness, I am exceedingly concerned to have made a return so unworthy as to create pain in the bosom of my benefactor."
"You stand acquitted in my opinion," answered he, endeavouring to recover from his first transports; "sympathy, perhaps, led you to observations you could not foresee would plunge me into sorrow. It is now twelve years since I have seen a human being to interest me; twice only during that period have those gates, by which you entered, been opened to admit any one within them: Society is hateful to me, and I thought this place sufficiently hidden from the world to preclude all possibility of intrusion; the sound of a bell is but seldom heard, and only at stated times: I was therefore alarmed at the circumstance, and when I opened the wicket had no thoughts of admitting you; but the expression of your countenance struck me, the mournful accents of your supplication vibrated to my heart, and in one moment overturned the scrupulous caution of twelve years."
"I feel (replied Ferdinand) that my obligations to you are infinite, nor will I abuse them by an expression of curiosity which is improper to be gratified; not one step beyond the boundaries of your injunctions will I attempt to stray.
"May Heaven give you comfort, and sooth your mind to ease and tranquillity. I am rambling to forget myself, and those most dear to me. I have incurred the heaviest maledictions, and am a victim to the severity of them. A cruel mystery hangs over me, and has driven me from every prospect of happiness."
"Poor youth!" exclaimed the old man, "how many are the unfortunate beings compelled to exist in this world of cares, either from their own misconduct, or through the crimes of others? I can afford you no comfort, for within these walls misery, oppression, and despair, have fixed their seat for ever!"
"Then," cried Ferdinand, "I should be an inmate; for equally wretched and hopeless is the being before you: I know not why it is, but methinks I am driven by an irresistible impulse to open my heart to you, if you can allow me to intrude so long upon your patience."
"The communication of sorrow, it is said, relieves the mind; if such may be the effect, I will readily listen to you; but must premise before-hand that of whatsoever nature your sorrows may be, it is impossible that I can either comfort, or serve you."
"They will at least prove to you," answered Ferdinand, 'that you are not alone unhappy, and though you cannot, indeed it is impossible you should, serve me, you may at least give me the benefit of your advice."
The old man shook his head, but with a deep sigh requested he would proceed. The other obeyed, and took up his story from the first time he had seen Claudina, as the epoch from which originated all his subsequent troubles, and from which he dated her misfortunes and his own. He related every event without palliation or exaggeration, and complained heavily of the mystery which hung over the interview with his wife on his return from the army, and the self-accusation contained in her letters, her flight, and his ignorance of her situation.
CHAPT
ER XI
The stranger heard him with much attention, and when the narrative was concluded made the following reply. "Your imprudent marriage with a stranger, unknown to your father, was the source from whence flowed all your misfortunes, consequently from that wrong step you may trace every ill in progression. I do not however exculpate him from blame in being so rash and unadvised, as to draw upon you the evils of life by a father's curses; the idea is horrible, it is usurping the power of the Most High, to whom only curses belongeth; yet I have rarely observed through life, that an union, contracted contrary to a parent's approbation, has been fortunate or happy; to a mind of sensibility there must ever be a drawback from felicity, when conscious of giving pain, and disappointing the best hopes of those so nearly interested for our happiness, and who have a right to more than a negative obedience, if I may so express myself, when a marriage is contracted without consulting the parents; but when completed, contrary to their wishes and commands, few, I am convinced, are the instances of matrimonial happiness: But I see I oppress you, therefore, to drop that point, permit me to observe, you did wrong in not seeking opportunities to soften your father. Was your brother a warm advocate, think you? I fear not; much less can I believe that a good man could have left the world without being in charity with it, and revoking, as far as he could, the imprecation his passion had dictated.
"As to the other circumstances, the voice at different times, so applicable to your situations, I shall only observe, that they were very extraordinary, but not impossible.—Respecting your wife, I fear much black treachery remains concealed, beyond your penetration; her flight, after hearing the prohibition of the voice, confirms my conjectures. O, you know not (said he, starting from his seat) you know not to what excesses a corrupted heart may be driven!"
He paced about the room for two or three minutes, then suddenly stopping:—"The leading features towards explaining the particular circumstances of your story are wanting; it is impossible I can give any advice that ought to influence you in your future conduct or sentiments. Your wife may be in the neighbouring convent, but I see not what you can promise yourself from the discovery, because it is not at all probable that she will see you: I sincerely wish you returning happiness, and am sorry I must remind you that your departure from hence is necessary before the day is too far advanced; you must return through the valley, and take the opposite direction towards the convent, which is nearly as much retired as this melancholy place."
Ferdinand arose: "I beg your pardon," said he, "for obliging you to remind me that I have trespassed too long on your kindness: I feel regret at leaving you in this solitary desolated mansion, and yet, such is the complexion of my mind, I could be contented to remain in it myself with such a companion."
"Leave me (replied the other) add not to the horrors of my situation by permitting me to taste the solace of a companion from which I am for ever excluded."
"How! (said Ferdinand) are you then here alone? Did you not say that you was not master here?"
"I told you that I was not the owner of this castle: I spoke truth; inquire no farther." As his brow grew contracted, his eyes wild, and his whole figure agitated, Ferdinand repressed his curiosity, and prepared to depart. The other attended him to the gate with a sort of sullen civility, and opened it without speaking. Ferdinand took his hand, "Heavens bless you," said he, "I thank your charity. Must we never meet again?" The supplicating tone melted the hardened heart of the stranger, his features relaxed:—"Why should you wish it?"
"Not from an unwarrantable curiosity," returned the other, "not from a wish to penetrate farther into your secrets, or your habitation, than you would choose to allow of; but from sympathy, from a desire of participating in sorrow, and a wish to render your situation less deplorable by the converse of a fellow sufferer."
The man paused, viewed Ferdinand from head to foot with a searching eye, opened his mouth to speak, again paused, and turned from him. The other seeing his emotions, was also affected: "I have afflicted you undesignedly; pardon me (added he) I will not be intrusive, I submit to your restrictions." He was turning from the gate, the stranger caught his hand: "You have overcome (said he) my hitherto invincible resolutions; you have awakened sensations long, very long strangers to my bosom: I will consider, I must have time to reflect, and to determine, I can promise nothing; go to the convent, satisfy your anxiety respecting your wife.—Return to this gate to-morrow, I shall by that time decide on your wishes, and either wholly repress my own rising inclination, or gratify it without reserve; but expect nothing, for I make no promises." He hastily shut the gate without waiting for an answer, and left Ferdinand under a great perturbation of spirits.
He had now to retrace his steps, through the gloomy valley, and force his way through the woodlands. The various conjectures that occupied his mind relative to the old man, and his ruinous solitary mansion, lessened the apparent difficulties, and tedious length of the road. He regained the foot of the mountain, and turned to the right, where he met with a chain of small rocky hills both painful and dangerous to climb, and to descend from, and which so far impeded his haste, that he saw the twilight drawing on fast, and the appearance of the heavy clouds portending rain or snow. He redoubled his speed, and on coming over a pretty high hill discovered a grove of chestnut trees before him, in the midst of which he saw something rising above them like a turret. "At last (cried he, almost exhausted with fatigue) at last I have found the convent." The object in view seemed to diminish the distance, and he walked for some time through the grove before he arrived at a large moat, which extended round the walls of the building.—He took a circular walk, in the hope, which was not disappointed, of finding a bridge.—On one side was a narrow stone causeway made on piles, but more resembling a path-way than a bridge; this he crossed to the gate that appeared in the wall, and rung the bell.
The door was almost instantly opened by the porteress, and to his great joy he found himself at the desired port. She seemed extremely surprised at seeing him, and demanded his business. "Was there not a young Lady brought here within this fortnight?" said he.
"There was (she replied) and what then?"
"I beseech you (said he) to tell her, her nearest relation wishes to speak with her."
"'Tis very improbable a relation should come here to see her. Young man, you have not spoken the truth; nor will you, whoever you are, be permitted to see her."
"Oh! (cried Ferdinand, off his guard, and agonized by vexation and fatigue) oh! tell her it is her husband, it is the father of her child; she has no right to withdraw herself from me, nor can you answer it, to detain a wife from her husband without his knowledge or consent."
The porteress seemed staggered. "What you assert (replied she) seems very strange and improbable; I will, however, report it to the Abbess, which is all I can do in the business."
She shut the grate, and left him overwhelmed with vexation. He was now convinced that Claudina was here, and could he see her, and obtain from her satisfaction relative to her self-accusation, and a confession of the real motives which had induced her to leave the Castle under such an appearance of mystery, he concluded that he should be much easier in his mind, and submit patiently to a separation which seemed to have been commanded, though why at that particular period he could not conceive, and was what he supposed a conversation with her would clear up. During the absence of the porteress, his mind dwelt on these circumstances; the grate was at length opened, and the old woman appeared.
"The young Lady refuses to see you; she denies that you have any authority over her; bids you remember the dreadful circumstances lately passed, and never presume to trouble her more. The letter she left for you sufficiently explained her sentiments: Her child is with her, but it has no longer a father, nor after this day will any messages from you be received or delivered here."
"Barbarous woman!" exclaimed Ferdinand, "ungrateful and unjust! Would she but explain herself with openness and candour, I could submit to the 'dreadful ci
rcumstances' she alludes to; but this silence, this mystery, and my child too! 'It has no longer a father!' Just Heaven, how am I punished!"
"I am sorry for you," said the porteress; "but I cannot help you. Night is drawing on; a short distance to the left is a convent of Friars, there you may be accommodated for the night; but return no more here, for it avails nothing to complain where you cannot be heard." She shut the grate, and left Ferdinand standing in an attitude of fixed despair.
He stood for some moments insensible to every thing around him, when the sound of a distant bell roused him from the torpor that had seized him, and instantly recollecting the convent mentioned by the old Nun, with reluctant steps, and an oppressed mind, he walked through the wood, keeping to the left as she had directed him; but overwhelmed by a thousand doubts and painful conjectures, he proceeded so slowly that night overtook him, and it was with much difficulty he espied through the trees a rising hill before him which terminated the wood, and on reaching to the foot of it, he perceived an old building on one side of the declivity, with large pieces of rock suspended over it, which seemed to threaten hourly danger: He recollected the shepherd's cottage; "strange (thought he) that people should choose such dangerous situations to erect dwellings on! It appears to me a daring presumption, or a total insensibility." He rang the bell, a small gate was opened by a Friar, Ferdinand announced himself as an unfortunate and wearied traveller seeking shelter from the inclemencies of the night.
"Enter, my son, and welcome," said the father. "Seldom does the traveller find his way to our solitary mansion, so remote and distant from any great road; enter therefore freely, and partake of our homely fare, and humble lodging." Ferdinand followed his conductor to a large room, where several of the Fathers were assembled just returned from their evening vespers. All but one saluted him, and withdrew, that one advanced, and requested he would be seated. Some bread, salad, milk and fruit, were brought in, of which Ferdinand partook very sparingly, for the uneasiness of his mind had destroyed his appetite.
The Complete Northanger Horrid Novel Collection (9 Books of Gothic Romance and Horror) Page 157
