Thus autumn stole upon us unawares. We postponed our departure from time to time till we could delay it no longer if we wished to go to the capital. Having informed Count S****** of my marriage, he wrote almost every past day, urging me to come as soon as possible to Paris. We departed, at last; and at the latter end of November arrived at the capital. The political situation of France was, at that time, not yet arrived at that critical state as to cause a great alteration in the sociable circles. I found my old friends again, united by the bonds of intimacy, and was welcomed with cordial joy. The Count appeared to be cheerful; and, although not completely happy, yet satisfied with his Caroline.
It may be easily conceived what a noise the appearance of my wife made at Paris, where every new face charms and attracts the general notice of the fashionable circles. She easily found out the proper sociable tone which suited every circle to which she was introduced; became soon the favourite of all assemblies, and the idol of her acquaintances. She grew in a short time very intimate with Caroline, notwithstanding the disparity of their characters. The Baron was animated with new vigour, joined in all our diversions, and forgot the imbecillities of his advanced age. S******i was his constant attendant and companion; and Don Bernhard was an agreeable addition to our domestic circle. We all were happy, or at least, appeared to be so, when a new accident seemed to be going to disturb our pleasure. Count S****** became, soon after our arrival at Paris, a riddle to myself and all his acquaintances. He grew sad, dissatisfied, absent, and irascible. His whims were soon very troublesome to us, and he frequently treated his lady in a very harsh manner. I perceived that he preferred Adelheid's company to all other society; but without concluding therefrom upon the real cause of his extraordinary change, looked upon it as the effect of the familiarity of their characters, and as an encouragement of his melancholy. I cemented, therefore, that friendship as much as possible, instead of throwing the least impediment into his way. Adelheid; confiding in me and my knowledge of the Count's character, made no difficulty to admit his visits without restraint, and to receive from him an attention which she considered as a matter of course in a friend of her husband. I do not know what particular information S******i had received of the secret cause of his behaviour: in short, he, as well as Don Bernhard, grew every day colder to him, and jointly endeavoured to interrupt his intimacy with my wife, by throwing many little impediments into his way. This served, however, only to add fuel to the flame: he intruded himself every where upon her; and at length provoked the voice of slander to such a degree, by the violence of his passion, that S******i and Don Bernhard thought it their duty to inform me of it in plain terms. I did, indeed, ridicule them for their suspicion, but resolved to keep a watchful eye over him, and to take the first opportunity to speak to Adelheid about it.
This opportunity offered itself sooner than I imagined; for she came one evening, after my return from company, to my apartment, holding a paper in her hand, and shedding a torrent of tears.
"Dearest Adelheid!" I exclaimed, "what is the matter?" Having sent my valet away, she sat down by my side, and began, with a trembling voice, "Carlos, I cannot conceal the insult I have received any longer from you. It would be criminal in me to spare your friend on the present occasion. You certainly have observed how Count S****** has behaved to me for some time. Read this note, which I have found this moment on my dressing table." She gave me the note and I read: "Don't fear, beautiful Marchioness, that I shall betray the secret your eyes have confessed to me. Will you receive tomorrow night, at eight o'clock beneath the large lime tree, a vow which my looks have made to you some time since? Lewis, Count of S******."
It was the Count's hand writing; I could not be mistaken. My indignation was, at first, so vehement, that I flung it rather violently upon the table, and knocked a glass down. The servant, whom I had sent out of the room, returned, asking if I had rung for him? Having ordered him to retire, I embraced my wife, and promised to remove that little interruption of her tranquillity, without having recourse to violent measures. I only begged her not to change her deportment to the Count, and to leave every thing to me.
She seemed, indeed, to leave me with great tranquillity, but was actually far from being easy, and could not help informing her father of it. The Baron could conceal nothing from S******i, and the latter communicated it to Don Bernhard. They all agreed that I ought to meet the Count in the room of my wife, and the latter promised to be present on that occasion.
I was of the same opinion, and resolved to adopt their advice. The Count was, during the day, rather easier than usual. I repaired to the great lime tree before it had struck eight o'clock, and was astonished to find S****** already there. He read a paper, and kissed it repeatedly; but no sooner did he see me, than he exclaimed, with the greatest fury, "Hell and damnation! I am betrayed: but you, monster in human shape, shall not escape me a second time." With these words he rushed upon me sword in hand.
I was not unarmed, and defended myself against his furious attack; taking all possible care that he should not run against the point of my sword. I exclaimed uninterruptedly, "For God's fake, Lewis, desist, and hearken to me!" But all my entreaties were fruitless. He uttered-dreadful curses, foaming and grinding his teeth. I disarmed him, at length, and flung his sword into the adjacent thicket. He looked up to heaven, and ejaculated the most shocking execrations.
Loud cries behind me now attracted my attention. I looked round, and discerned Bernhard's red coat through the gloom of night. He was wrestling with a white figure, and on the point of sinking to the ground. Now he actually dropped down. I hastened, half frantic, to assist him: a dagger glittered over his head in one hand of his antagonist, while the other endeavoured to stop his mouth with a handkerchief. I pierced his opponent in the first violence of my passion, and in that moment perceived that he was Amanuel. Tearing the bandage from his head, I beheld Alfonso my faithful servant, at my feet.
THE END
THE MYSTERIOUS WARNING
BY ELIZA PARSONS
Editor's Note
The book is referenced in Northanger Abbey as "Mysterious Warnings", which caused some debate regarding the book's identity. However, it is now almost certain that Eliza Parsons' book is the one meant. A popular book of the early 19th Century, it was re-printed several times, including at least twice posthumously. Like The Castle of Wolfenbach, the story is set in Germany, which the English of the time considered a strange and exotic land, peopled by a dark and mysterious folk. The Mysterious Warning has many of the features that typify the Gothic novel, including a female protagonist, family mysteries, incest, ghosts and castles.
THE MYSTERIOUS WARNING
A GERMAN TALE
Contents
VOLUME ONE
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
CHAPTER IX
CHAPTER X
CHAPTER XI
CHAPTER XII
CHAPTER XIII
CHAPTER XIV
VOLUME TWO
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
CHAPTER IX
CHAPTER X
VOLUME THREE
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
CHAPTER IX
CHAPTER X
CHAPTER XI
VOLUME FOUR
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
&n
bsp; CHAPTER IX
CHAPTER X
CHAPTER I
NO sooner had the struggling soul escaped from the clay-cold body of Count Renaud, than his eldest son, Count Rhodophil, hastened to the library, and opening the secret cabinet, where his late father usually deposited his papers of consequence, after a strict examination of the contents, returned to the anti-chamber, on the floor of which lay extended his brother, the deeply-afflicted Ferdinand, just recovering from a fainting fit, and overwhelmed with inexpressible anguish.
"Brother!" said Rhodophil, in an accent of grief and tenderness, "Brother! here is my father's will, and I have little doubt but that you will find he was your father also, and that, however severely his resentment was expressed in his life-time, he has not extended it beyond the grave, nor forgotten, in the disposal of his effects, that he had a younger son, and a grand-child."
Ferdinand, who had been lifted from the floor, turning his eyes on his brother with a look of fixed sorrow, exclaimed, "His will! Alas! what have I to do with that? He expired without seeing me, without granting me, all I ever wished for, or expected, his pardon, and his blessing! O, Rhodophil! my friend—my brother—why, why did you not urge him to pronounce me forgiven in his last moments, to revoke that curse, which now weighs me down to the earth with sorrow and remorse!"
"Did I not urge him," replied the Count, "Did I not supplicate him on my knees in your behalf? Did I not beseech him to consider your situation and his own? Unjust Ferdinand to reproach me—me, who have for three years wearied my father with tears, supplications and entreaties, to forgive and receive you to his paternal arms! What have I left unsaid, or undone, to convince you of my brotherly affection?"
"Pardon me," cried Ferdinand, extending his hand: "Forgive me, my dear brother, I know my inexpressible obligations to you; but grief, despair, and heart-rending retrospections, deprive me of my reason. O, my father! to the grave, even beyond this world, hast thou carried thy hatred and reprobation of thy wretched son! How great, how good, how benevolent, how forgiving to all, was Count Renaud! What then must my crimes have been, in what magnitude must they have appeared to him, thus to draw down everlasting resentment!"
He covered his face with his hands, and throwing his head upon the bosom of his brother, wept aloud; his whole frame was convulsed, and Rhodophil was obliged to call for assistance, that he might be conveyed to a bed, where it was some hours before the extreme violence of his feelings subsided into a melancholy silent sorrow. His brother and the steward of the late Count remained with him, and when they found the turbulence of grief had a little abated, the Count again mentioned the will.
"As it may be possible some particular orders may be given respecting the funeral, and more than probable that the contents of this packet may speak peace to your wounded mind, it is necessary, my dear brother (continued he) that we break the seals."——Ferdinand bowed an assent; speech was denied him at that moment, the principal domestics being summoned to the apartment, Rhodophil broke the seals, and delivered the packet to the steward.
"Do you read it," said he; "neither my eyes or my heart will permit me to do it."—The steward obeyed. There was a schedule of his estate and effects, which in a few words Count Renaud gave to the entire possession of his dear and dutiful son Rhodophil, "a few legacies only excepted to his servants."
"How!" cried the Count, "all, what all to me! Impossible! Is there no mention made of my brother?"
"No, my Lord," replied the old man, delivering the papers with a look of sorrow; "no, I have too truly read all the contents."
Not a word escaped from the lips of Ferdinand; at that moment riches or poverty was indifferent to him, nor could the wealth of nations have given him peace or comfort, when unaccompanied with the forgiveness of a parent.
"How cruel, how unjust!" cried Rhodophil; "but he knew my heart. Yes, my dear brother," added he, embracing Ferdinand, "our father well knew that in giving all to me, he had procured to me the inexpressible delight of voluntarily sharing it with my brother. Henceforth (looking round on the servants) know you have two masters; my brother is equal with me in fortune, power, and command."
The servants bowed and withdrew, all but the faithful and affectionate Ernest, who had been upwards of twenty years steward to the late Lord, and had ever fondly loved the unhappy, reprobated, Ferdinand.—Rhodophil reiterated his caresses, and tender expressions: "We will no longer be separated (said he;) your Claudina, your little Charles, shall be equally dear to me, as to yourself."
Ferdinand started up:—"Claudina! my Claudina!" repeated he, "Well, have you reminded me, I left her oppressed with sickness and sorrow."
"Hasten to her, then," said the Count; "let her be removed to the Castle immediately; accommodated here, she will soon be restored to health."
Rhodophil withdrew; his brother taking Ernest by the hand, "My worthy old man, your looks bespeak a sympathizing soul.—You read my heart: Oh! Ernest, it is not the loss of riches I deplore, my brother's kindness will relieve me there; but a father's curse, carried beyond the grave! there, there's the wound that never can be healed. My wife, poor, poor Claudina! how shall I return to tell her the sad event, already sinking under sorrows she thinks she has deserved—in her situation too!"
"Dear master, dear Sir," cried Ernest, "I beg you to take comfort, the worst is now past, I am sure, I know my late good master forgave you in his heart, his mind never, never, harboured eternal displeasure and resentment. Things are contrary to my expectation; but—I dare not say all I think, nor will it avail now; but I beseech you, Sir, to hasten home to your poor dwelling, from whence you shall quickly return with all that is dear to you; I will prepare every thing, and then follow you."—With a heavy sigh that seemed to burst his heart-strings, a look of inexpressible grief, Ferdinand wrung his hand, and with slow and trembling steps repaired to his humble habitation in the suburbs of Baden, about a mile from the Castle of Renaud.
When his footsteps reached the threshold, he stopped, and paused: "The truth will kill her (cried he:) Sure, if ever deception was pardonable, it may be now; yet how dearly have I already paid for the violation of truth! Heaven pardon me, for I must deceive her. Alas! one deviation from rectitude is productive of innumerable errors which spring from each other, and plunge us rapidly into guilt!" He entered the house at the very moment when his unfortunate wife had given birth to a daughter. The intelligence pierced his heart: "Another burden on the bounty of a brother!" exclaimed he, softly as he passed to the room where his Claudina lay. The sight of her instantly banished every idea, but anxiety for her safety.
He flew to her, "My love! my wife!" She fixed her feeble eyes upon him: "I am become a mother to another poor unfortunate. Ah! Ferdinand, have you found a father?" What a dagger to the heart of her husband was this question!
"All is well, my love," answered he, struggling to repress his emotions: "Compose your mind, and expect happier days; the moment you can be removed without danger, we shall reside at the Castle."—She uttered a faint exclamation of joy, and fainted. Ferdinand was terrified, and blamed himself for his abrupt communication; but happily she was soon restored, and capable of rejoicing at such unhoped-for intelligence.
"You are no longer reprobated then," said she, tenderly kissing his hand, "no longer consigned to misery, and our dear infants will not endure the pinching gripe of poverty. Blessed, blessed Count! you have at length relented, and I may think existence a blessing." This apostrophe was more than the unhappy Ferdinand could bear. Unable to speak, he hastily left the room; his poor deceived wife judging what he must feel from such a (supposed) revolution in his circumstances, imagined he had withdrawn, that their mutual transports might not too much agitate her spirits; a thousand pleasing visions floated in her brain, and to have her husband restored to a father's love, to have her dear children rescued from want and misery, were such delightful considerations, that she was not sorry she could indulge them freely, and repressed her curiosity for particulars, satisfied that
the event was certain.
Mean time Ferdinand sat lost in thought, and overwhelmed in wretchedness, the kindness of his brother afforded no compensation for the unalterable displeasure of his father, nor could he reconcile to himself, that determined hatred which one error (in his eyes a venial one, and not deserving such everlasting resentment) had drawn upon him, as at all consistent with the benevolence which had always formed a distinguished feature in the character of the late Count Renaud. Tormented by these painful conjectures he was found by Ernest, who came to acquaint him, that he had given orders for apartments to be instantly prepared for him and his family, and was come to wait on his Lady to the Castle.
Ferdinand, roused by the entrance of his good old friend, soon informed him of the impossibility of their immediate removal, from his wife's situation, and also of the deception he had been compelled to give into.—"She does not as yet know of my father's death (continued he;) her too susceptible heart would sink under the knowledge of what my sufferings must be in such circumstances; by degrees, as her strength returns, I must reveal the dreadful truth:—But, oh! my friend, I cannot live a burden on the bounty of a brother, something I must resolve on, and if his kindness protects my wife and children, I will endeavour to support a separation from all that is dear to me, and carve out my own fortune by my sword."
The Complete Northanger Horrid Novel Collection (9 Books of Gothic Romance and Horror) Page 148