The countenance of Rhodophil underwent many changes whilst his brother was speaking, nor was his answer quite ready when he stopped. At last, "I know not (replied he) whether I should be most grieved or offended at your unaccountable proposition. Is not Claudina my sister? Are not your children my heirs? I never intend to marry; but supposing I should, would not my honour and fraternal affection compel me to make a handsome provision for you and your family?"
"A handsome provision I neither expect nor am entitled to (answered Ferdinand.) In this commission, you have procured for me, lies the extent of my wishes for myself. My wife has no right to splendid expectations, and my children shall be taught by industry to provide for themselves. The greatest misery of life is to be accustomed in early youth to indulgences which enervate both the mind and body, and lead to hopes which may be blighted by a thousand accidents.—My children shall indulge no hopes independent of their own exertions, and that I am convinced is the surest road to competency and happiness."
"What, then (said the Count) you would bring them up to trade, to disgrace their family?"
"No (replied Ferdinand, warmly) I will, if I live, prevent them from disgracing their family, by teaching them a spirit of independence, and a mediocrity of expectations; their minds shall be noble, though their fortunes may be humble; they shall be superior to base actions from an integrity of heart; and capable of providing for their own maintenance, they never can disgrace their connexions, though they may mortify pride."
"Your language and sentiments are very strange (replied Rhodophil, in a tone of pique and vexation;) but methinks you promise too much for your children, whose ideas may not happen to coincide with your's."——
"At least," said Ferdinand, "I will endeavour to inculcate my sentiments, and form their young minds agreeable to my wishes; there is no dependence upon the human heart it is true: I may fail of success, but I will not abate of my endeavours; the rest I must leave to Providence."
"Well," returned Rhodophil, "since you have no reliance on me, and insist upon an independence, be so good to name your terms." The spirit of Ferdinand revolted against this demand, and he was on the point of refusing every assistance; but the recollection of his family timely interposed, and with evident reluctance he named four hundred crowns yearly.
"Four hundred crowns!" repeated the Count, with surprise, "why, such a sum will scarcely find them bread!" "It is double, however, to any advantages I have had for them for those last two years, and I should despise myself if I considered your fortune more than their real wants."
"You are much too moderate," said the Count; "but I will enter into a compromise with you; I will settle that sum upon them during their residence in this Castle, and double it should I marry; but then I expect that you will permit them to remain here in your absence, during your first campaign. Deprive me not of all my comforts at once; let me sooth the sorrows of my sister on your first separation; your children are too young to imbibe any prejudices against your intended frugal system, and I expect, as a proof of your brotherly affection, that those sweet pledges of your dearest love may be confided to me."
Ferdinand hesitated a little, but at length said, equivocally, "Your kindness is truly painful to me, but Claudina shall decide on this point; and now my wish, as to a small provision for them being generously acceded to, I have only to hasten preparations for my departure."
"A small provision, indeed!" repeated the Count, "however, it will be always in my power to augment it, for I shall ever consider we have equal claims to the fortune of our ancestors."
He now withdrew at Ferdinand's request to reveal every particular to Claudina, and left him variously affected by the preceding conversation. "If I have wronged him by giving credit to erroneous reports, or suspicious observations, I must appear as an ungrateful and most unworthy character; and ought I to believe the perhaps mistaken representation of Ernest against a series of kind actions, particularly within those last two years, when interest could have no share in directing them to me, then under my father's malediction? Good Heavens! if I have wronged him, how shall I detest myself!" For some time Ferdinand dwelt on every favourable side of his brother's character with self-indignation, but soon other ideas obtruded. If he really had been sincere in the equality he talked of, would he not have seized the first moment to ensure it to me? Would he not have hastened to relieve me from a sense of obligations by nobly making me independent, and rendering my separation from my family unnecessary?—Could he not have resigned over one of his estates to me as a residence I might have called my own? Does he seem to have a feeling heart, or regret the loss of a parent ever good and bountiful to him? Has he not discharged the old servants, grown grey in the service of the family, with only the small legacies (much less, indeed, than I expected the munificent spirit of my father would have bequeathed to them) so insufficient for the support of their old age? Are not these many proofs of a heart deficient in generosity, and a right way of thinking? Tormented by these and many other doubts, he exclaimed, "Would to Heaven I could read his heart, that I might do him justice!" A deep and hollow voice cried, "It is a corrupt one!!!"
Ferdinand sprung from his seat, looked wildly round the room: "Astonishing! (he cried) again that voice, sure it is, it must be, more than human!" He opened the door that led into the next apartment; the room was empty, and universal silence reigned:—Again he reseated himself, in trembling expectation of the same sounds, but he heard no more. Extremely agitated, though he endeavoured to assume a composed air, he feebly crept to the dressing room of Claudina, where he found the Count. His blood grew chill at the sight; both started, and exclaimed at his appearance; with difficulty he supported himself till assisted by his wife to a chair; she blamed him for attempting to leave his apartment: "You are too weak (said she) to walk as yet; I was coming to you."
"I shall soon recover (replied he) and gain strength by the change of air; I already feel better."
Indeed, the first shock being over, though the voice still vibrated on his ear, he viewed Rhodophil with a scrutinizing eye, and traced, as he thought, duplicity in every line of his countenance, so governed are our ideas by accidental circumstances! His love, his reverence for his brother, shrunk into nothing, and he believed the voice of the dead against all those superficial appearances which had hitherto lulled him into an unsuspecting confidence. After a short pause, "I have been complying with your wishes, my dear brother," said the Count, "and had just opened the business to your wife as you appeared."
"Ah! Ferdinand," cried Claudina, "can you think of leaving me, of exposing your life to the uncertain chance of war?"
"The hand of Providence is there, is here, and every where," answered Ferdinand. "Fear not for me, my dear Claudina, divest yourself of prejudice, consider my situation dispassionately, and you will be reconciled to an inevitable necessity."—"I leave you," said the Count, 'to discuss the subject between yourselves; my prayers and wishes have been unsuccessful; you, Madam, may have more influence." He bowed, and left the room.
CHAPTER IV
For a few moments they were silent; at length Ferdinand explained to her his motives without entering into any strictures on his brother's conduct; and by the arguments he adduced in support of his plan, brought her to be convinced, or at least to appear convinced, that he was perfectly right. He mentioned his intention to take a small cottage for her and his children, at the same time that he told her of the Count's wishes that she would remain at the Castle.—"On this head, my dear Claudina, your inclinations shall decide, for I wish to leave you perfectly contented with your situation in my absence, determine therefore as you feel most inclined."
"I own, then," answered she, 'that I prefer staying here; to remove into a strange house, among strange people, unaccustomed to manage for myself, would be altogether unpleasant. Here, as our good brother solicits our stay, I can at least be as comfortable as it is possible I can be in your absence, and make myself useful enough to do away any sense of obl
igation."
"As you please, so let it be," returned Ferdinand, rather hurt at her choice, but determined not to control her, "and I hope a few days will finish all our preparations, and give me strength to repair to Vienna." A further conversation took place relative to domestic matters; but he cautiously concealed the two extraordinary occurrences that had befallen him, because he had never yet undeceived her, with respect to the pardon which, she believed, the late Count had accorded to him before his death.
In the course of the evening Ferdinand saw Ernest, and related to him, not only what had past between his brother and himself, but the words which he had a second time heard in his apartment. "It was the same voice that I heard before in the room where my father's body lay. You, Ernest, will believe me, to no one else would I mention the circumstance, for from no one else should I gain credit; but it is wondrous strange!"
"True, Sir," answered the steward; "but nothing is impossible, and now forewarned, you may guard against any evil practices."—"Would to Heaven my wife had otherwise decided," cried Ferdinand.
"Do not be uneasy, Sir," replied Ernest, "whilst I have life and limbs I will be faithful to your family, nothing shall escape my observation." "But if you should be discharged?"
"I have some cause to think that cannot well take place, and should I quit the house, I have an infallible method of knowing what passes here; whilst I live, therefore, you need not fear."
This cheerful assurance calmed the tumult of Ferdinand's mind, and enabled him with alacrity to prepare for his journey. The following day Ernest waited on him by the Count's order with a handsome sum of money for his necessary expenses; the colour mounted to Ferdinand's cheeks, he hesitated, paced about the room, and seemed in violent agitations.—"Pray, dear Sir," cried Ernest, 'take the money, think of it less as your brother's present, than as a small part of your father's property, to which you have unquestionably a right."
"Not so," replied Ferdinand, "I can have no right to what he has bequeathed from me, and to receive pecuniary favours from a man I think capable of duplicity, lowers me in my own esteem."
"Be not so scrupulous, Sir, I beseech you," returned Ernest; 'take it, fortune may enable you to return it, and I'll pledge my life you will not hereafter regret accepting the money, or think much of the obligation as you call it."
"You persuade me," said Ferdinand, "and against my inclinations I comply; (then seeing the largeness of the sum, ) good Heavens! can this man have a bad heart? Is there not munificence in this present? O, Rhodophil, if concurrent circumstances have led me into an error, if I injure you by doubt and suspicion, how severe will be my repentance!"—Ernest was silent, indeed he could not view the necessary arrangement for the departure of a man he loved and revered, without feeling the deepest sorrow; yet he thought the plan he had adopted was most suitable to his birth, his age and situation, and therefore only regretted the necessity for its execution, whilst Ferdinand painfully looking forward to the hour of separation from a wife and children that he doted on, sought, in the bustle of preparation, to blunt the severity of his feelings.
The day of parting at length arrived, and as such scenes can afford no gratification to minds of sensibility, we shall not dwell upon them: Sorrow was reciprocal on all sides, at least to appearance, and we cannot penetrate into the remotest corner of the heart, therefore give those appearances due credit. To follow Ferdinand would be unnecessary, we shall then take this opportunity to look back into the family history of his father, the late Count Renaud.
CHAPTER V
Descended from a noble and an opulent family, Count Renaud succeeded to the estates of his ancestors at the age of five-and-twenty: Two years previous to which he had, to please his family, married a Lady of noble birth and great riches, her only recommendations. Proud, fastidious, and violent, she sought, by the haughtiness of her demeanour, to exact that respect and servility as substitutes for veneration and esteem, to which her manners and conduct laid no claims. The Count, who had another attachment, conscious that he was deficient in tenderness to her, and afraid of irritating a spirit so ungovernable by any opposition to her plans, quietly permitted her to conduct his household as she pleased, nor ever interfered with her pursuits or expenses. Nearly at the same period, when he came into the possession of his father's fortune, his wife presented him with an heir in the person of Rhodophil. The birth of a son made him for some time more attentive to his Lady, but his affection for a dearer object soon drew him into his customary distant civilities. Happily the Countess had no violent susceptibilities, her heart had never been softened by love, and though she was often provoked at the neglect of her Lord, yet her feelings arose more from disappointed pride, than from any warmth of affection, consequently, though displeased, she was not grieved, and offended pride found a relief in the imperiousness of her manners to all those who were subjected to her caprice.
When her son was about a twelvemonth old, a young Lady, who was a near relation to the Countess, and had just been liberated from a convent where she had resided from childhood for education, came to pay them a visit: She was received with kindness by the Countess, with politeness by the Count; but in less than a fortnight the sentiments of both parties underwent a total alteration.
Caroline, the name of this young Lady, had one of the finest forms imagination could paint; her face was handsome, her air and manners captivating, from a certain kind of bashful naivete which joined to a natural elegance, was extremely fascinating. At first sight you admired her, on an acquaintance an unprejudiced mind must love her. By imperceptible degrees, even to himself, the Count grew enchanted with the charms of Caroline, he delighted in her society; she was sensible, gentle, and unassuming; she was to him a new character; his Lady proud of her birth and riches, with a natural violence of temper, and devoid of personal attractions, was more than indifferent; she was disgusting to him: His mistress, vain of her charms, conscious of the power she had long held over his affections, and which had received additional strength from the birth of a daughter, had for some time past relaxed in her endeavours to please, and by her little solicitude to amuse him in those hours which he devoted to her, had insensibly weakened her powers of attraction, and rendered the visits he paid her rather a retreat from the more disagreeable society at the Castle, than the effects of that violent passion he had once and for a long while felt for her, and which, perhaps, only her own folly and caprice caused an abatement of.
His passions were therefore in that dormant state which of all others is the most dangerous in a susceptible mind, because, if once roused into action, they blaze with more uncontrolled fury than when kept in constant agitation. Such was the Count's situation when first Caroline became an inmate in his house; nor did her person at first sight appear particularly charming; he sought her company and conversation more as a pleasing variety than from any expectation of delight; but a short time convinced him how dangerous an indulgence was the society of a young and beautiful girl, who, new to the world, was grateful for the attentions he paid her, pleased with his conversation, and desirous of profiting by the information his understanding daily unfolded to her. Every hour her attractions gained upon his heart, and he was sensible that he had conceived a passion more delicate and violent than any he had ever before admitted to his bosom.
Unhappily the young and inexperienced Caroline caught the infection, the contagion spread itself through her innocent mind, and she grew melancholy and unhappy; for a long time insensible of the nature of her disease, until one morning that some unguarded expressions, and too tender looks of the Count, too fully explained his sentiments, and taught her to develop the secret of her own. Extremely shocked at the discovery, when she withdrew to her apartment she took herself severely to task for her involuntary crime, and directly determined to quit the house, and fly the dangerous society of its master. Whilst she was forming this prudent resolution the Countess entered her apartment, her features deformed by passion, her eyes flashing fire: "Insolent, depr
aved, ungrateful girl!" exclaimed she, "so, you have formed a vile intrigue with my husband; under a pretence of visiting me you carry on your shameless connexion in my very house. Abandoned wretch! I have seen, I have heard enough; you shall quit it this day, base as you are, I will expose you to my servants, to your friends, and to the world."
She was stopped in the midst of her threats by seeing the unhappy girl fall senseless at her feet. She rang the bell for assistance, but on the entrance of the servants continued her exclamations and upbraidings. "Recover the infamous creature who has so basely injured me; pack up her rags, and the moment her senses return, turn her out of the house to her base paramour my husband, whom she has seduced from me. I have discovered their intrigue, nor shall she sleep again under this roof. Disobey me at your peril," said she to the servants, who stood aghast at her fury; "let her be thrust out from my house within this hour." She flew out of the room at the moment when returning life visited the cheeks of the much-injured Caroline.
She opened her eyes and beheld the servants; she looked with terror round the room, her ears still holding the dreadful words which had deprived her of her senses. Seeing only the two women who looked on her with compassion, though believing her guilty: "Am I a base, infamous wretch?" said she: "Is my character lost, my innocence blasted, by vile suspicions? O, Heavens! what is to become of me, injured and undone, whither can I fly? But no, I will not go, I will see the Countess, she must, she shall hear me. I am innocent, indeed I am," added she, bursting into a torrent of tears that greatly affected the women, who endeavoured to sooth her into a composure impossible to be obtained. One of them, more courageous than the other, offered to go in search of her Lady, and entreat an audience for the poor afflicted.—"No," said she, rising hastily from the bed, "I will not entreat, I will demand to be heard, and you shall accompany me." She rather flew than walked towards the Countess's dressing room, who was at that moment abusing her in the vilest terms to her own woman. Caroline burst into the room, surprise chained the Countess to her chair, and stopped her tongue.
The Complete Northanger Horrid Novel Collection (9 Books of Gothic Romance and Horror) Page 151