The Complete Northanger Horrid Novel Collection (9 Books of Gothic Romance and Horror)

by Eliza Parsons

  "Far be it from me, to pry impertinently into your motives," returned Mr. D'Alenberg, "or urge you to favour us with your company one moment longer than is consistent with your inclinations and engagements. I must regret that both will not allow you to oblige me, but you must be masters of your own time and actions." The Count made suitable acknowledgments to the old gentleman, and lamented the necessity which forced them to relinquish their present happiness.

  The ladies spoke not a word; a general dejection pervaded at the table with a silence of some minutes. Mr. D'Alenberg was the first to recover. "Plague on it," said he, affecting a gay tone, 'that we cannot always command our wishes, though perhaps they may be sometimes extravagant, and militate against the interests of our friends. Aye, aye, we are not the best judges of the fit, and the unfit, I believe, and so must try to reconcile ourselves to present mortifications, looking forward to more pleasing expectations hereafter; and this hope, my friends, I will not relinquish, that we shall one day meet again, when the joy of meeting will amply recompense us for this temporary separation." They all joined cordially in 'this hope;" and the moment breakfast was ended, Miss D'Alenberg arose. "I have an utter aversion," said she, with a faint smile, 'to formal taking leave. You have my best wishes, gentlemen, for your health and happiness. I flatter myself you will sometimes remember us." With those words hastily pronounced, she quitted the room, followed by Louisa, who made them a similar compliment, without waiting for an answer.

  "The girls are sorry to lose their beaus," said the old gentleman: "Their pleasure has been very transient; and if I have any skill in physiognomy, this parting accords as little with your feelings as with ours; and yet it must be, I suppose?"

  "Dear Sir," cried Ferdinand, "how kindly is that question put, and what justice do you allow to our sentiments. Yes, we must go," added he, rising. "May every good angel guard you and your family, and uninterrupted happiness attend your lovely daughter and her suffering friend."

  "I thank you most cordially—I thank you," replied Mr. D'Alenberg; "health and success will, I hope, be your's. We may one day meet again."

  No more was said; they proceeded down the avenue which led to a gate, where their horses and servants were in waiting. The Count shook the old gentleman's hand, and vaulted into the saddle. As Ferdinand prepared to do the same, he whispered in the other's ear,

  "Pity two unfortunate men, both married, and unhappy. You will do justice to the motives which hastens our departure."

  He sprung upon the horse, and waving his hand, they were out of sight in a moment.—Mr. D'Alenberg stood all astonishment, looking after them, his lips half unclosed—words trembling on his tongue; but they were gone; he turned towards the house, deeply musing on Ferdinand's last words, and with a sigh of pity that two such men should be "married and unhappy."

  Count M*** and his friend pursued their route for some miles without stopping or speaking, absorbed each in his own painful reflections; the other was unheeded; until, coming out of a wood, and ascending a rising ground a little to the left, Ferdinand saw the hills on which the city of Baden was situated, and instantly recollected his little Charles. Ah! thought he, shall I not once more fold him in my arms; the dear, unhappy, forsaken boy, perhaps soon to be an orphan, without a father or a friend. He stopped his horse, and turning, saw the Count galloping towards him, who, observing his agitation, eagerly inquired if any accident had befallen him.

  "No," replied Ferdinand, "but do you not see those distant hills? A little beyond, you know, stands Baden: I have a son."——

  "I understand you," said the Count;—"and guess what passes in your heart. But my good friend, you have lately seen him; you know he is in safe and honourable hands.—Why then would you seek a renewal of sorrow to yourself, without conveying a single benefit to him?"

  "Enough," returned Ferdinand, pulling his hat over his eyes. "You have convinced me I ought not to seek a selfish gratification, which can only tend to harrow up my soul, and unman my resolutions; no, I will not go."

  He spurred on his horse, and was again silent, until they arrived at a small village, where they were obliged to halt, and refresh the poor animals, almost dead with fatigue.

  Each being desirous of amusing the other, they soon fell into a cheerful conversation, and sought to forget the past, by talking of their future plans. The war, which was now to be carried on with great vigour against the Turks; the marriage which the Emperor had projected for his daughter, afterwards so famous in history, as Queen of Hungary; and many other common topics, that carried them out of themselves.

  Thus they spent some hours, until they resumed their journey, purposing to sleep at a small town about twelve miles further; but the roads were so bad, and they were so much impeded in their progress, that they were constrained to halt at a wretched inn on the skirts of a small hamlet, and pass a sleepless night, without any tolerable accommodations; but they were going to the army, and therefore disdained to complain of hardships, though they paid the price of luxuries.

  The dawn of the morning saw them on horseback; and as they rode on, new scenes, and brighter prospects, gave a relief to their minds, and cheered their conversation. The remainder of their journey grew more pleasant; was passed without any accidents, and in due time they arrived in safety at Vienna.

  CHAPTER VII

  Here the busy preparations for the recruiting of the army, the Court of the Emperor, and the multitude of strangers resident there at that time, could not fail of attracting attention, and inspiring ardor in the bosoms of two brave men who wished to distinguish themselves in a cause against their common enemy. Count M*** was introduced to the Emperor, Charles the Sixth, who, having just received an account of the death of that brave and successful General, Prince Eugene, without knowing any one deserving, or capable of undertaking the command of his army, was at that time greatly perplexed, and gratefully acknowledged the volunteer services offered by the Count.—Ferdinand had heretofore been honoured with his approbation, and both gentlemen had abundant cause to be satisfied with their reception.

  They passed some weeks at Vienna, in the usual amusements of the city, before the army was ready to take the field; during which time, they had received letters from their friends that had helped to tranquillize their minds. Ferdinand heard from Mr. Dunloff, that his son, and the good old Ernest, were in health; and he had also a letter from his brother, informing him, 'that he was married to the Lady Amelia Bonhorff; but at the same time assuring him, that his present engagements did not weaken his regard for Ferdinand, who, whenever he was disposed to prefer services from a brother, to pecuniary obligations from a stranger, would always find his arms and purse open to his wishes."

  This letter, the tenor of which seemed so affectionate, was nevertheless worded with a stiffness and a sort of haughty upbraiding, an air of superiority that alarmed the pride of Ferdinand, and again recalled to his mind the scene which passed immediately following the death of his father, when he was told, 'that he was to be an equal sharer" in that fortune, solely bequeathed to Count Rhodophil, and the servants were ordered to remember they had two masters.——Ah! thought Ferdinand, in that moment, sorrow had softened his heart to the ties of nature, and a resolution to make me some reparation for the disappointment he supposed I must feel; but power and prosperity soon changed his sentiments, and chased the tender affections from his heart. He soon exulted in his superiority, and found gratification in ostentatiously bestowing as favors, those attentions, and that assistance, which at first he had taught me to expect as my right. Alas! how difficult is it for us to know our own hearts. Poor Rhodophil! that brother disposed to love and honour you. You have, by an ill-judged pride, by a duplicity unworthy of yourself and me—you have alienated from those ties that bound us, and compelled him to prefer that "stranger," whose generosity and spirit disdains the idea of an obligation, where his own nobleness of heart is abundantly gratified in making another happy. A stranger! No—Count M*** is my brother; we have congenia
l souls, superior to the ties of blood.

  This idea instantly cheered the mind of Ferdinand, and Count Rhodophil, with all his wealth and boasted happiness, neither excited his envy nor regret. His son and old Ernest were the only objects entitled to share his heart in Baden; not a word was mentioned relative to Claudina; and although a tender and sorrowful remembrance of a woman he once adored, frequently obtruded, yet he had ceased to think of her with those pangs, and that agonized affection, that had wholly occupied his mind previous to his connexion with the Count; and the silence observed by all parties concerning her, was sufficient evidence, that she wished to be forgotten: A sigh followed the conviction, but he endeavoured to divert his attention, by throwing his thoughts on other subjects.

  Count M*** had also received a letter from Eugenia: The contents breathed a spirit of piety and cheerfulness; her situation grew daily more pleasant and desirable; peace had once more returned to her bosom, and the performance of religious duties had composed her mind, and she trusted, would atone for her errors. One only regret had power to give her a moment's pain, the union between the Count and herself, which precluded his happiness in that state with a more deserving object: But even this only interruption to her perfect content, she did not despair of removing at some future period. Her health, she added, was perfectly restored, and she had acquired a friend whose nobleness of mind was a pattern for her constant imitation.

  The Count, who had, from the moment of their separation, exerted all his fortitude and resolution, to bear the decided plan Eugenia had fixed upon, who well knew her perseverance and courage, and saw all future expectations of enjoying her society would be equally vain and fruitless; whose passions, by sufferings, had been weakened and brought under control; though he was wounded to the soul by her determination to forsake him, no sooner found the event had taken place, and that no power or persuasion would avail to make any change in her plan, than he sought to call reason and resolution to his aid, to seek in an active life, and in a diversity of occupation, that variety of ideas which might preclude them from dwelling on one object; and this, with the friendship of Ferdinand, whose similarity of misfortunes, gentleness of manners, and goodness of heart, had gained his warm esteem, assisted him in subduing his sorrows, and restoring his mind to a comparative degree of ease.

  The two friends having made a mutual communication of their letters, found, in a reciprocity of sentiment, mutual consolation; they had little doubt but that the lady mentioned in such high terms by Eugenia, was the Countess of Wolfran; nor could they forbear execrating the wretch who had poisoned the happiness of such a woman, by degrading her to a connexion with himself.

  In a short time, the Emperor was ready to take the field; the friends were in one Regiment, and determined to share one fate:—They proceeded on their march, and soon came within view of the enemy's lines.—Here the Emperor halted; a council was convened, and the plan of attack settled, which was to take place the following day at sunrise. The intermediate time the Count and Ferdinand employed in sealing their papers, writing to their friends; and the former generously erased all anxiety from the mind of the latter respecting his little Charles, by a bequest of a handsome provision for him, and constituting Mr. D'Alenberg the protector of his fortune and person; to which trust Ferdinand gladly added his acquiescence and signature; embracing his noble friend in a silent transport, much more expressive than a flow of words.

  This necessary arrangement being completed, the Count wrote a tender adieu to his beloved Eugenia.—He had, from her first entrance into the convent, secured her future establishment.—Nothing, therefore, remained upon his mind to be performed.—She was already as dead to him; and he left no relatives to mourn his loss, should the chance of war deprive him of life. Their letters and papers were all deposited with the Emperor's private secretary, who was not unknown to the Count, and then they retired each to themselves for a few hours preparatory to the dreadful business of the following day.

  At the first dawn of day, the drums and shrill sounding trumpets gave the alarm, and called them to the field.—The friends embraced, and hastened to their posts. The Turkish army was a numerous host; ashamed and enraged at their former defeats, they seemed now resolved to conquer or die on the spot; to retrieve their former blasted laurels, or return no more to meet the fury of their monarch, or bend the neck to the fatal and ignominious bow-string. Their opponents, equally emulous of glory, and desirous to rid themselves of a troublesome enemy, advanced to meet them with eagerness and resolution. A hard fought battle ensued; dreadful was the carnage on both sides; but the multitude prevailed. The Turks poured in on all the ranks of the Imperialists with such velocity, that they were unable to sustain their posts; were compelled to retreat; were pursued, and a horrid slaughter marked their sanguinary fury.

  The Count and Ferdinand did all that men could do; they fought like lions; they were beat back several times: Again they rallied and returned to the charge; but though well supported, all availed not; the numbers were too powerful, and the friends fell desperately wounded among the dying and the dead.—The Imperialists were obliged to fly, and the honour of the day rested with the Turks.—By a piece of singular good fortune, the two wounded friends were discovered by a Turkish commander, who perceived they still breathed, though life seemed hovering on their lips, and their wounds pouring forth torrents of blood. The officer who observed their situation, was not deficient in the feelings of humanity; he exerted himself, and called in assistance to stop the bleeding, and bind up their wounds. They were carried to his tent, and properly attended. Insensible alike to his cares or their own danger, they remained for several days with very little signs of life, and with still less hopes of recovery.

  During this period, a truce had been agreed upon between the two armies, and the Emperor appeared to be very much inclined to make peace on the terms he had before rejected. The face of things was now changed; Prince Eugene, whose name alone carried with it terror to his enemies, no longer existed.—The Turks had recovered from their panic; their courage returned with their numbers: Charles had many interior enemies, whom it behoved him to guard against. The first wish of his heart was the establishment of the pragmatic sanction, in favour of his daughter Maria Theresa, afterwards Queen of Hungary. To carry this favourite point into execution, he was willing to give up some secondary ones, and finding the Turks were at that time too powerful for him to subdue, he readily was persuaded to make overtures for a truce preparatory to proposals for a peace.

  The Turks, though now victorious, had been so harassed, and exhausted in their treasures by former wars, that they made but a show of objections to the Emperor's advances; a truce was therefore speedily agreed upon for six months, and both armies withdrew from the field to their own homes. An exchange of prisoners was also settled, but unfortunately an officer, who had fought by the side of Ferdinand and the Count; seeing them both fall, to all appearance lifeless, reported their death in the army, and the bodies not being found, did not seem extraordinary, as few persons could be distinguished among the slain. The Turkish cavalry, in their pursuit of the vanquished, had rode over, and defaced most of the unhappy victims who lay in heaps upon the plain.

  So great was the slaughter on that day, and so many brave men and officers had the Emperor lost, that the news of Count M*** and Ferdinand being fallen with the rest, was only included in the general regret. The gentlemen entrusted with their letters to Mr. D'Alenberg, the Count's steward, and Mr. Dunloff, the good Ernest's nephew, sent them off with the melancholy account that those brave men no longer existed.

  Whilst those letters were on their way to cause a mortal affliction to their friends, the Count and Ferdinand were carried in a litter to the house of their preserver in Adrianople. This Turkish commander, as we have observed, had some traits of humanity in his composition, and following the impulse of the moment, had administered relief to the dying friends from compassion alone; but after they had been conveyed to his tent, the blood
washed from their persons; the contents of their pockets examined, in which were memorandums that denoted their being men of some condition, the predominant passion of self-interest was a greater stimulative than tenderness towards affording them that unremitted attention which most certainly conduced to the preservation of their lives.

  Ferdinand was the first restored to his senses, and a recollection of past events. He saw only Turks around him, and an elderly woman who officiated as a nurse. His reason returned for two or three days before he had strength to speak. He therefore made his silent observations, and was very soon sensible that he was a prisoner. His regret was greatly lessened, when he saw that his friend the Count was also alive, and in a similar situation, from which he derived a hope that they might be companions, and useful to each other. Within a very few days, both gentlemen were enabled faintly to express their gratitude to their preserver, and rejoice in the safety of each other.

  To their being together in one room, and capable of conversing now and then with each other, may doubtless be attributed their speedy recovery from a state so very dangerous, and even after the return of their senses, so very often fluctuating from the extreme weakness and debility occasioned by the great loss of blood.

  One morning, when Ismael, the Turkish commander, paid them a visit, after they had enjoyed a good night's rest, and found their spirits greatly revived, they entered into a conversation with him relative to the truce which he had informed them was agreed upon between the two powers. He spoke both the German and French languages tolerable well, and they found no difficulty in making him comprehend they were men of family and fortune, and were desirous of returning into Germany as soon as possible.—They besought him, therefore, to let letters be conveyed to their friends, and to let information of their existence be expedited to the Emperor, that they might hope soon to be included in an exchange of prisoners.