"As it appears you are perfectly well informed, Sir," said the Count, addressing Ferdinand, "of every step that revengeful monster took to gratify his malice, I shall not trouble you with a repetition, and as to our feelings and sufferings, they will not admit of a description, for the horrors of our situation were beyond all conception or credibility. I shall only observe, that whilst our dear child existed, we endeavoured to support our own strength for her sake; nor indeed did we imagine our persecutor would long submit to a situation so painful to himself merely to punish us. The cruel death of Agnes was a severe stroke; but when we saw our dear infant began to droop, a slow fever consuming her, from the close and humid air, which we received only through a few iron bars on the top of our prison, from whence fell all the inclemencies of the winter season, and so small a quantity of air and light, as only rendered our abode the more terrible. When we saw our beauteous babe in danger of sinking a victim to the malice of our cruel gaoler; we then forgot our wrongs and our pride. What supplications, what entreaties, did we not use! but all was vain, not a drop of water to wet its parched lips in the hour of death.
"O, my God! never, never shall I forget that hour, and the calamity which followed! Its wretched mother lost her reason for years, yet at times seemed sensible of our miserable fate, and always knew me when she heard my voice. In this situation she never refused her poor pittance of bread and water, but rather took it eagerly; and I, Sir, I strove to repress my feelings, strove to live for her sake, for to die and leave her was a distracting thought that harrowed up my soul. Thus the monster had found the means to prolong our misery, and make me dread that death which otherwise I should have devoutly prayed for.
"Such a refinement of cruelty could only have been practised by himself, who, far from being tired out, or satiated, appeared to receive fresh gratification every day. It was very remarkable, that from the hour in which Eugenia's intellects were deranged, and even after the accident which I mentioned to you had restored her, from the night of the child's death, she never saw him enter without screaming, until silenced by fear. Often have I dreaded that the villain would have been provoked to strike her; many times has he threatened it, but yet never could subdue the terror that vented itself in shrieks whenever he appeared. Thus, Sir, I have related to you this strange story, which almost exceeds probability; for never, I believe, was the diabolical passion of revenge carried to such extremes before, for a man to resign every comfort in life, and be a wretch himself to punish others."
Just as the Count had concluded his relation, and before Ferdinand could make any observations, Francis came in, and said the Lady was awake, and wished to see the Count. Ferdinand assisted him to ascend the stairs (his legs being too stiff to accomplish it alone) and then returned to enjoy his own reflections on the extraordinary occurrences of the day, and the story he had heard.—The Count and Eugenia being now restored to life and liberty by the death of their tormentor, the Castle their own, and free to enjoy their fortune in whatever situation they liked, were now likely to feel the happiness that awaited them to a much greater extent than if they had known more tranquil days, and had been exempt from their former sufferings.
In this perfect content, thought Ferdinand, I shall leave them, for their felicity will throw a comparative wretchedness upon me, by reminding me of what I have enjoyed, and what I have for ever lost. Overwhelmed by a retrospection on his misfortunes, he sat for some time lost in thought, until the return of the Count and Francis; the latter withdrew.
"I have seen Eugenia in such a state of comfort," said the former, 'that it has given transports to my heart, long, very long, a stranger there. I have persuaded her to continue in bed, the warmth of which must be of service to her limbs, and I trust by to-morrow she will be a new creature. O, Sir! next to Heaven, you are entitled to our warmest gratitude. May you never know sorrow, or, if such an exemption is not the lot of mortals, may you always meet with minds good and sympathetic like your own, ready to communicate happiness, and restore you to peace!"
"I thank you, Sir," replied Ferdinand, "for your good wishes, which, in my case, must, I fear, prove fruitless; however, let me not sadden his hour of pleasure: I rejoice to hear your Lady is so much recovered, and we must endeavour to procure for her some refreshment."
"Wine and toast," said the Count, "will be sufficient this night, and to-morrow we shall have assistance."—After taking proper refreshments, the Count was helped to his apartment, and Francis having made good fires in two other rooms, and aired some necessaries, he and his master, as he called Ferdinand, retired to rest, after the fatigues of this eventful day.
CHAPTER VI
The next morning the farmer arrived with a young woman, and necessary people to attend the dead: The Count was with Ferdinand, and appeared as the heir of the deceased, who from a long and habitual melancholy had secluded himself, until finding his end approaching he had sent for his relations, who on their arrival found he had expired that very morning. This account was given and believed, because Francis had been previously prepared to corroborate it. The Lady's weakness was accounted for from fatigue, and a very violent rheumatic cold; the young woman was to attend her, and another was ordered to officiate as a cook.—In short, in the course of the morning, every proper arrangement was made. Francis was informed that the Count was the owner of the Castle from the late Baron's memoirs, and he heartily rejoiced that he had made such a desirable change in the person he was to serve.
At noon the Lady Eugenia, assisted by her female attendant, made her appearance below: She appeared like a fine statue that had long been exposed to the injuries of time, and lost the beautiful polish that first adorned it; a most elegant form reduced to that delicate thinness which the slightest blast of air might dissolve;—a face, the contour of which was inexpressibly beautiful; but the roses and lilies that once adorned it were all fled; the eyes hollow and sunk in the head, a sickly hue over the countenance, and a solemnity in every feature, altogether gave her whole appearance such an image of a woe-worn mind, that it was impossible to behold her without being deeply affected.
She returned the civilities which Ferdinand involuntarily paid her with some hesitation, but much sweetness. "Pardon me, Sir," said she, "if I am deficient in expressing my obligations to you for liberty and life; I have almost forgotten the use of language, but to utter words of misery and despair."
"Words," cried the Count, kissing her hand, "words which, I trust, my dear Eugenia, will never have cause to utter again: We have no longer cause for sorrow, no longer an enemy to fear, we may emerge into the world, return to our country like long-absent friends, and elude curiosity by saying we have resided in a foreign state."—"But your estate," said she, "by this time may have passed into other hands, your steward may be dead, and much trouble and perplexity may still await you to prove, and to enjoy your rights."
"Fear nothing, my dear Eugenia," replied the Count, "all my friends cannot be dead; I shall find no difficulty in proving my identity, and in being acknowledged."—She sighed, but made no reply.
Ferdinand then mentioned having seen in the cabinet the will and papers relative to the estate of the late Count Zimchaw, which, said he, "I was surprised to find there."
"It is rather singular," answered the Count; "but I suppose he had them with him when he set off on his travels; with those, however, we have nothing to do. If he has any heirs, they may have possessed themselves of his fortune by this time, and in justice to them and ourselves I think a paper should be drawn up, briefly mentioning his residence here, your arrival, and his sudden death, which, with the testimony of Francis, will be sufficient, and preclude any necessity for our names being mentioned at all."
"I agree with you," said Ferdinand, 'that such a paper is absolutely proper; it is an awkward affair, and I think an express should be sent to the Baron's estate immediately of his demise."
In this opinion Eugenia coincided, and it was a matter concluded upon: Ferdinand resolved also to procure a
messenger on his own account, to carry letters from him to his brother and his faithful Ernest. He was anxious to know what had passed in the Castle since his departure, and to hear of his little son; but how great was his surprise when questioning the farmer (who was now their oracle) of the distance to Baden on horseback, he was informed that it was five days journey.—"Five days!" repeated he, "impossible! Why, I came here in two days over the hills and through the woods."
"It may be so," replied the farmer;—"but I believe, Sir, no man but yourself would have made the attempt: I am sure I have never heard of any body that has penetrated the woods, or crossed those rugged hills, nor indeed did I think it could be done; but horses, Sir, can go no such places, and the road is a very troublesome one, because great part of the way, by the skirts of the Forest, has never yet been levelled."
"Well," cried Ferdinand, "be the distance what it may, I must have a messenger." This was promised him the next morning, and as he conceived the Count and his Lady would gladly be alone together, he retired into another apartment to write. Having given Ernest a brief recital of his travels through the woods and valleys until his arrival at the Castle, he mentioned nothing of his adventures there, though he confessed his visit to the convent, and the strange and unsatisfactory answer he had received from Claudina. He besought Ernest to be unreserved, to develop the mystery that hung over him, let the consequence be what it would, for that the most painful truths could not give him greater misery than the suspense he now endured. He recommended the old shepherd and his daughter to his care, and desired he would, if possible, procure for them a safer habitation than among those impending rocks, which seemed to threaten them with hourly destruction.
Having finished his letters he returned to the other apartment, and was surprised at his entrance to mark an increased air of trouble about the Count, and deep sorrow trembling in the eyes of Eugenia; he was too delicate to make any observations; they sat down to a slight repast, of which the others partook but very sparingly, and exchanged but a very few words.
Some time after, when they were alone, the Count addressing Ferdinand, "Your penetrating eye, my good friend, must observe the gloom that pervades my countenance, it is a transcript of my mind; from you I ought not to have any reserve, you are impartial, you shall judge fairly between us:—Now, when the heavy cloud that has so long involved us in night and wretchedness, seems to be withdrawn, and the prospects brighten to our view. Will you believe it possible that Eugenia, she who has a thousand times told me that I was dearer to her than life, who in a horrid prison felt her own woes but lightly, when she considered what her husband suffered—can you, will you believe, that this wife ever adored, and a million times dearer to me than ever from her unparallel'd sufferings, can, now that happiness is in our power, tell me, 'that on the most mature deliberation this past day and night, she has determined to retire to a convent for the remainder of her days; beseeches me to make no opposition to her choice, but rather strengthen a resolution founded on the purest principles of religion and virtue.'
"I will not tell you what were my feelings, nor repeat to you the arguments I have used; as a husband I can command, and I can prevent the accomplishment of her strange unkind intention; but I disclaim all power, if her heart no longer acknowledges me, if the years of misery we have suffered together has worn out all traces of her former affection, I submit to be the victim; but let an unprejudiced person judge between us, and say whether I have deserved to lose the affection of my wife."
"Oh! Count," cried Eugenia, the tears no longer restrained from dropping on her face, "ever beloved of my heart, spare the unkind reproach: Hear me, Sir," added she to Ferdinand, "you have candour, you will judge me fairly. You know our story, you know I had vowed never to marry the Count without my father's consent: I did more, at his command I accompanied the Baron to the altar. Ah! was I not guilty of sacrilege, of profanation, when I uttered with my lips vows I rejected in my heart? Say they were compelled, could that excuse my subsequent conduct? Passion blinded me to the impropriety of my intentions; I ought never to have approached the altar, or when I had done so, I should have fulfilled my vows; my father's prejudice, or cruelty, could be no excuse for my depravity:—Heaven approved not of my broken vows, and Heaven was pleased to punish me; but was I the only sufferer? O, no! When I look back, how many innocent victims bled for my crimes! Arnulph, the faithful Agnes, Peter, and, O misery, my child! my dear innocent babe! let me not dwell on that;—even the wretch who was ordained to be my punisher, he lived, he died, miserable! And can I return to the world, can I talk of happiness, and trample on the memory of those unfortunates who suffered for me? No, it is impossible: Great have been my miseries, but great have been my faults; let me then expiate them as I ought; let me retire to peace, penitence and prayer; let me pray for the souls of those who fell by an untimely death on my account, and let me make my peace with Heaven by devoting my future days to retirement. You, who are, who ever will be dear to my heart, who will be a principal object in my orisons, you must strengthen my resolutions; you must approve of my conduct, and though the heart murmurs, the reason must be convinced. And now, Sir," concluded she, addressing Ferdinand, "now I have explained my motives, speak with candour; tell me, does not your judgment approve my determination? Do you not see that in the world my life would be embittered, by painful retrospections that must preclude happiness, and that in devoting myself to retirement, I pursue the only path that points to peace and tranquillity?"
Ferdinand was for a few moments silent, astonished at such a revolution, so little expected, from that plan of felicity he had so lately thought them possessed of, and which to him seemed an enviable situation. He paused a little, but seeing they both impatiently expected his reply:—"Forgive me, my dear Sir," said he to the Count, "if thus called upon, I confess that my esteem, my admiration for the Lady Eugenia, rises in equal proportion with my compassion for you; for the more I approve her exalted resolution, and admire her virtues, the more I feel must be your distress at the idea of being separated from an object so truly deserving your esteem; but I must be free to confess, that this Lady's reasons are unanswerable, and that however innocent she may be of any actual guilt, yet as the death of so many persons was in consequence of her flight from the Baron, a feeling mind like her's would constantly revert to the primary cause, and never cease to accuse herself;—therefore under such circumstances, her intention of retiring from a busy deceitful world, to devote her days to the duties of religion, is surely praise-worthy, and commands our approbation."
"It is well, Eugenia," said the Count, in a mournful tone, "you have found a champion to support your opinions, and I have no more to do than to acquiesce; but since you have chosen your path towards happiness, I may be allowed to chalk out one for myself. I shall take this night to consider of it, and to-morrow will acquaint you with my final resolution." "May Heaven, who knows the fervency of my affection, inspire you to choose that which may conduce both to your present and future happiness." Ending these words Eugenia desired to retire, for the weakness of her body, and the agitations of her mind, overpowered her fragile form, which could hardly support the transitions she had experienced, and was unequal to the sight of that melancholy, but too visible, in the Count's pale face, that seemed silently to reproach her of cruelty.
When she had left the room, Ferdinand observing the sorrow that seemed fixed in the features of the Count, strove to change the current of his thoughts by speaking more freely of his own affairs than he had yet done, and at length, encouraged by the interest the Count appeared to take in his concerns, he made an unreserved communication of his whole story.
"Indeed, my young friend," observed the Count, when Ferdinand had concluded his relation, "indeed, there are some very extraordinary and unaccountable circumstances in your story, that one cannot elucidate by any conjectures on the subject. I do not blame you for seeking to amuse your mind by travelling, but you are wrong in choosing this mode of doing it; wandering t
hrough woods, and over almost impassable hills, may be attended with more danger than you are aware of, and in an evil moment you may fall a sacrifice to some concealed ruffian, or a troop of banditti; besides the natural inconvenience of suffering both cold and hunger."
"What you observe is very just doubtless," answered the other; "but you should remember I am not a man of fortune, an independent man, and that it behoves me to avoid all unnecessary expenses in my rambles, for travelling, in the general sense of the word, is beyond my abilities to undertake; I wish to forget myself at present, and when the campaign opens, may possibly resume my station in the army, yet, that must depend upon circumstances.—With your leave I will remain here until my messenger returns, and then the world will be once more before me."
"This conversation," said the Count, "has given a different turn to my thoughts from what I entertained an hour ago; I already feel that interest and affection for you, that it shall not be my fault if we are separated; but more of that to-morrow."—Having sent off their different expresses, one to Baron S***"s estate, another to Count M***, and a third to Count Rhodophil's Castle, it was thought most advisable to delay the funeral of the Baron until the return of the messenger.
The following day, when they all assembled at table, the Lady Eugenia appeared less feeble, and with a more placid countenance, than on the preceding day. When the servants were withdrawn Ferdinand congratulated her on the visible amendment.
"I do indeed feel better both in mind and body," said she, 'the one is generally dependent on the other. Since I have determined on my plan, and my dear Count has given up his objections to it, I find a composure in my soul to which it has very long been a stranger. The dreadful malady which I laboured under for years, has certainly weakened my intellects, as I frequently experience a confusion in my ideas, and very odd sensations in my head; the world therefore would be a very unfit place for me, and the sooner I can find a retirement, such as I wish for, the better; the pang of separation must be felt, and I am anxious to have it over."
The Complete Northanger Horrid Novel Collection (9 Books of Gothic Romance and Horror) Page 167