The Second Macabre Megapack

by Various Writers

  One moment more to assure me that all was over! Reverently, I pressed a single, long, and tender kiss upon the still swarm lips of my beloved, and then I made way for the father and mother. They could not harm us now.

  That night I hid in the forest. I wept, oh! wept in the very tenderness of sorrow, even till the morning sun shone once more upon the world. That night I lived over all the hours I had past with Mary. I sometimes so lost myself in the remembrance of her innocent beauty, her gentleness of mirth, that a smile stealing over my swollen features would remind me of my desolation. I tried to remember all that we had thought, and spoken together; and if I could recall aught in my deeds or language that had pained her, I wept again in agony of heart. But the sun came again, and brought the memory of a wild and terrible purpose, and I dried my tears, and bent my steps to my home.

  It was night when I arrived there too, though I travelled fast—deep night, and my father’s doors were locked against me. But the old man was dead. If he had lived, I think I could have laid my head upon his bosom, and sobbed my soul to sleep!

  I climbed to a window. I raised it softly, and sprang in. Silently I won my way through the well-known house. I went first to my own accustomed room. A lamp burned upon a table. My desk, my furniture, my very arms remained in the places where I had left them. Reverence seemed to have guarded every vestige of my former self, whilst I had been groaning in madness worse than death. I took up a knife that lay on the table, but my hands shook. I had feelings revived by the sight of the care that preserved my memory, which I had fancied were dead forever! But the scourge!

  I heard breathings, soft and quiet; I turned to the couch. There slept the brother who had given me over to torment! I drew near, and bent over him. There, then, he slept, quietly as when in the days of boyhood I had shared his resting-place, loved him as my soul—his head resting as it then was wont upon his arm. Ah! how the spell of those days came over me! the happy days when we walked together, half embraced in fraternal arms, or together loitered at our father’s knee! There were but two of us, and how he loved us! how equally did we share his fondness! Whether we played in the summer shade, or heard the evening story by the winter hearth, still were we ever together, ever bound by the same links of brotherly affection. Even when diversity of pursuits would sever us for the day, how side by side on this couch had we lain, and recounted to each other, at night, all it had brought of pleasure or of interest. I thought of this brother in after years, when I had watched by his fevered bed, and felt that if he were lost to me, the wide world could not supply to me his place. I thought of him beside our father’s grave, and in our after union of kindred grief, how we had ever been knit together in love, and how for the other either would have died. Had he waked then, I think I should have forgotten all injury, and wept with him, in full confidence of sympathy for all I had lost in Mary. As it was, I could not harm him! He was my brother—the mate of my childhood—the friend and support of my youth. The world has no tie more sacred, and now, in my weakness of heart—my destitution of affection, I could not loose it. I pressed with my lips the brow of my living brother, as I had done the night before the lips of my dead Mary, and I passed from his chamber, and from my father’s roof forever.

  I know not what yearning of the heart led me back to what had been the home of Mary Howard, but the morning of the third day after that of her death found me hunting the wood-paths we had trod together, and catching from whatever point it was possible, a view of that dwelling in which she still lay in the cold, cold slumber of death. I dared no more draw near it. But when the sun was high in the heavens, I chanced to stand upon the edge of a coppice from which the front of the house was clearly visible. A black vehicle with its sable horses and a long line of other carriages, told too plainly what as yet my heart had not foreseen. They would bear to the dim and silent grave that young and fair form in which my sum of hope had been comprehended! I threw myself upon the ground, and I “wept bitterly.” Alas! how full of tears has been my life since then.

  I rose, for the train passed near enough to my resting-place to rouse me from my passion of distress. At a distance, I followed to the old churchyard the procession, in which many were wretched—but not miserable like me. I hid myself in a corner of the yard behind a tomb, and there, subdued and quiet, I heard the words which consigned her to the dust. I heard the first shovelful of earth that rattled upon her coffin, but then I could bear no more. I hurried, torn, wan, mad as I was, to the side of that grave. I knelt beside it. I stretched my hands to the attendants, and prayed them to bury with her, me, and all my miseries!

  Her father’s eyes overflowed—his lips were white and trembling—and yet he could deny me this last prayer! They approached—they laid upon me violent hands. I could not mar the peace of her obsequies. They filled up her grave, they buried her out of my sight, and led me away unresisting! I am again in my cell, but my spirit is broken, and I submit in silence!

  * * * *

  “And what became of our patient, Dr. Milman? He seems to have been mad after no common fashion.”

  “He died, sir, two years ago, and was buried in the city. His brother happened to be here at the time.”

  “Is it possible that his attendants could be careless enough to permit his escape in the manner described in his manuscript?”

  “Oh! dear me, no, indeed!—never was out of the asylum a night after he came into it. But don’t you see that the whole tale is an invention of his own, in which he figures as hero. Never was “first in promise in his native state!” Oh! no—nothing of the sort!—never was a lawyer; and if he ever was in the Hall of Representatives as an auditor, that was as much. Same way about the “scourge,” which he says he endured here. There’s not such an article about the house. But he himself was fully persuaded of the truth of the whole romance.”

  “And was it disappointed affection that caused Miss Howard’s death?”

  “Death! why, sir, she is alive and merry! Bless me! sir, in our days, young ladies are much too sensible to die for love—especially for love of a fellow too crazy to understand the sentiment of the catastrophe. No, indeed. Miss Howard acquired a deal of celebrity by the fact of Lindsay’s running mad because she refused his hand.”

  “Did she refuse it?”

  “Yes, certainly. Their engagement was only one of his fancies. As I told you, the eclat of his derangement, rendered Miss Mary quite a belle, and she is now the fashionable Mrs. St. Quentin of South-Carolina.”

  “And yet how much of delicate feeling and beautiful thought may have mingled with this poor fellow’s wanderings,” I thought—; and I regarded Dr. Milman’s merriment with some disgust, and with wonder that we can so thoroughly deaden our apprehension of our fellow-creature’s sufferings—especially when to those sufferings we ourselves are liable. For the rest of the evening, I was sad and absent, and the physician and I parted mutually displeased. I felt that he considered me a romantic blockhead, for what he probably thought “a waste of sentiment”—whilst, on my side, I confess, as I walked to my lodgings, I found sundry ugly words, such as “brute,” “callous dog,” &c. &c., upon the very tip of my tongue. But the world judges variously, and probably more will be found to sympathise with Dr. Milman, than to partake the sorrowful interest with which I had listened to the “Manuscript of Mr. Lindsay.”

  ROSAURA AND HER RELATIONS, by Baron Friedrich de la Motte Fouqué

  FROM THE GERMAN.

  Grieved and offended at the capricious humours of his beloved—the beautiful Lady Rosaura Von Halderbach—the young Captain, Count Julius Wildech, had withdrawn himself from the company, and stood leaning against a window, wholly forgetful of the elegant circle at tea around him. The glorious, but sad destiny of his ancient house rose before his troubled mind, and he asked himself, what would be his fate?—the sole surviving twig of this illustrious stem. The long peace had given him no opportunity for deeds of arms; he saw no prospect of future fame opening before him; and for the love which
glowed in his knightly bosom, it offered him in place of the happy myrtle, a crown of thorns; for though amongst all the admirers that Rosaura’s wealth and beauty brought to her feet, he was the only one whose devotion was ever rewarded by a kind look; yet that look, without any imaginable cause, was always followed by a harshness and severity which cut him to the heart. Today this had again happened, and it was the more bitter, as tomorrow Rosaura left home for a month, and he now saw her the last time for long weeks to come. True, she was not going far—she was to accompany her aunt to one of her mountain castles—;but it was well known that at such times Rosaura would not be visited or spoken with. She made this journey every half year, observing in it the strictest seclusion, and every one believed it was in performance of some vow made to her dead parents; and they thought so the more, as always before the journey she became very grave and returned from it with a pale face and weeping eyes. Julius felt himself only more bound by this sad mystery to his beloved; he felt as if he were destined to relieve her from this silent grief, and today—even this day—had he looked on her sad, pale, angel face with unutterable love and hope; but now one of her worst humours had come between them; and his thoughts were painfully driven back to his own orphan state; he had never known a parent’s love, and now he murmured low to himself:

  “Why, unfortunate scion of a noble old stock, live longer, when the world offers you neither fame nor happiness?”

  “You should hunt,” said a kind voice. “that is and always will be a pleasant recreation.”

  Astonished, Julius looked around. There stood near him a grey-haired old man, in an old-fashioned uniform; tall, with sparkling eyes, and a countenance which showed so much suffering one forgave its scornful expression, and looked at its possessor only with pity. The unknown appeared to have spoken to a Privy-counselor, who left him smiling; and then the old man turned to Julius and said with kindness,

  “You do not appear to have understood me, Count.”

  “Oh, yes!” answered Julius, half-pleased and half-surprised, “it is much better than the tilting ring, as it is much more dangerous.”’

  “Bravo! you please me much,” said the old man; “will you not come next week and hunt with me at my old Castle Musterhorn? these are times when one likes not to go without a true companion. I believe I have the honor to speak to the Count Lovach?”

  “Pardon me,” answered Julius, “Count Lovach stands there;” and looking across the room, he saw with painful feelings this man, his rival, conversing very pleasantly with Rosaura.

  Before he accepted this strange invitation, which appeared to him very kind, he determined to announce himself.

  “I am Count Wildech, and if your invitation belongs not to the name but to the person, I shall have the honor to visit you at your castle, if it is not too distant; the name Musterhorn I have never heard.”

  “My castle is only three miles from here,” said the stranger, with visible embarrassment. “I will send one of my hunters to meet you in the little village of Waldhof. So you are Count Wildech! Count Wildech! Now, God be with us, that surprises me. I am the discharged Colonel Halderbach. I speak somewhat confusedly; have the goodness to excuse me; my head is confused. Day after tomorrow I shall expect you. Day after tomorrow certainly.”

  He pressed the Count’s hand warmly, and with a coarse laugh went out of the door. Julius remained astonished; he had long since heard of this strange uncle of Rosaura’s, who lived like a hermit: some people thought him a melancholy and very unfortunate being; others held him for wholly mad. His manners were so strange—sometimes polite—then cold and repulsive. “His beautiful niece has, to some extent, inherited them,” murmured Julius thoughtfully.

  Rosaura just then passed by him.

  “What had you to do with my uncle, Count Wildech?” she whispered in anxious haste: “for God’s sake, this time be perfectly open with me.”

  “Ah, heaven! that I always am,” sighed the enamoured youth. “The Colonel professes much kindness for me, and I must promise to visit him at his Castle Musterhorn.”

  Rosaura turned deadly pale; she bent down to him, and he felt her breath on his cheek, with these words—

  “Tomorrow, in the Prince’s park, at the hermitage, in the evening hour.”

  She vanished.

  Intoxicated with joy, and yet perplexed with the fearful mystery, Julius went home.

  A warm autumn evening lay golden over the porch. With beating heart, Julius rode his graceful Arabian to the garden hedge, and looked through the rows of deep green firs, to see if the beloved form was at the appointed place. She appeared suddenly out of a near walk; but oh, heavens! seven or eight laughing and talking females at her side. Bitterly offended, Julius drew the bridle and struck his spurs in his horse’s sides. The noble animal at this harsh and unusual treatment, reared high in the air. The ladies screamed. Julius greeted them with grave politeness and rushed on.

  “Good Abdul, I was a fool to treat you so for this heartless woman’s humour; be not angry, my Abdul, it shall never be so again;” and as if he understood his master, the noble horse went joyfully and obediently in a light, quiet trot.

  Very angry, Julius went quickly back to the town; then recollecting his vexation would but increase the triumph of his beautiful enemy, he called his groom to take his horse, and went with an appearance of cheerfulness to the appointed hermitage, where he saw from a distance the ladies collected at the tea-table.

  At a turn of the walk he met the gay Countess Alwine, with one of her companions on her arm. After the first greeting she said to him quickly and confidentially,

  “We have a jest in which you must help us, Count Wildech. We have long known that the Halderbaches have borne a very wonderful surname, but Rosaura would never tell it, and raised our curiosity by her evident displeasure at any allusion to it: now, yesterday, my brother heard the strange old Count name his whole name, with the title Halderbach and the surname Merdbrand; I pray you now introduce the name Merdbrand in conversation; or you may take one syllable and we will take the other and form a play upon the words, which Rosaura will understand.”

  Julius bowed with a consenting smile, and the ladies vanished, to appear from another side, that they might not be suspected of any collusion with him.

  He found Rosaura very pale—very grave. She greeted him with an indescribable, quiet movement, raising her dark eyes from under her long eyelashes to him, and quietly sinking them again on the ground. Julius repented from his heart that he had promised to engage in the sport of the princess; he knew how Rosaura disliked jests of this kind, and now he felt reluctant to vex this pale, mournful beauty; yet the impossibility of a single word passing between them, surrounded as they were by her silly prattling companions, gave to her appointment with him the appearance of a silly, vexatious trick; his anger rose again, and he began the play with the question:

  “Whether the ‘Brand’ of the setting sun, falling on a beautiful figure, was not a true ‘Merd’ of beauty?”

  Rosaura connected the syllables together and looked painfully at him.

  Then stepped up the Countess Alwine and her companions, and they kept up the play on the words “Merd” and “Brand” so long and so ingeniously, that Alwine could scarcely restrain her laughter. Paler and always paler, Rosaura became. At last she stood up and said very gravely,

  “Count Wildech, two words with you.” Then she went slowly into a broad linden walk; the whole company remained silent; and Julius almost trembling followed her.

  They remained awhile silent. At last she spoke-

  “Truly you have done well in learning from my unhappy, talkative uncle, the frightful surname of our family, in order to gratify and amuse this idle, gossipping circle. I thank you, Count; I thank you—now that I am better acquainted with your disposition and that of others, I can more quietly regard my journey tomorrow. Also, you were very right to be so plain with me yesterday, as no doubt you always are.”

  Julius’ heart swell
ed at the reproaches of his beloved; hitherto he had walked at her side with his head bowed and in silence, but now, at this false accusation, he raised it.

  “Upon my honor, Lady Halderbach, I spoke yesterday but the simple truth. I never heard from your uncle that your name was Merdbrand. I learned it only a few moments since.”

  As he pronounced the wonderful surname, it struck him very frightfully, and he silently shuddered. At the commencement of his answer, Rosaura’s angry look sunk before the clear eye of the knight, and she now answered him with a low voice:

  “It distresses me to have done you injustice; it would have been a pity for you, Count Wildech, and even for that reason—ah! heaven! I speak confusedly; but even for that reason I called you here; you must not go tomorrow to my uncle’s Castle of Musterhorn, as indeed you must never go: your hand upon it, Count Julius.”

  She offered him her wonderfully beautiful right hand; for the first time she called him Julius: her hand was so soft, so heavenly soft.

  “Oh, dear heaven!” said the young man, gently pressing the hand of his adored angel; “Oh, dear Rosaura, permit me to visit you during your absence.”

  “Dear Rosaura!” cried the Lady Halderbach scornfully, and drew her hand away. “Truly there is nothing in the world so vain as a young coxcomb in our time, and the whole small prayer, travel where you will, Count, but not to me.”