Once only that day they saw the young Baron; but they found by the conversation, when he appeared at the dinner table, that he spent his hours chiefly in the library. They remarked his father's extreme solicitude to draw him out, and to amuse him; but the few marks of cheerfulness, which now and then broke off, were evidently forced, and the effects of complaisance only.—After the dinner hour, they saw no more of him.
On the second day of their residence with the Baron, when his son had withdrawn from the table, turning to his guests with a suppressed sigh—"Although you are too polite my friends, to express any curiosity, yet 'tis impossible but that you must observe the peculiar disposition of my son; that unsociability, that dejection of spirits so very visible to every eye, is the only thing that disturbs the tranquillity of my life. Poor unfortunate boy, an early and a strong attachment has embittered every hour of his life for upwards of two years past. Hopeless as it is, he cannot drive the fatal passion from his heart.—All my efforts to restore his spirits are fruitless.
"I flattered myself your conversation would tend to lighten the anguish of his mind, and your example animate him to rise superior over unavoidable and irremediable evils; but I see no change, and therefore feel it necessary to apologize to you for his conduct, by explaining the cause of it."
"I feel deeply interested for the unfortunate young gentleman," replied Ferdinand; "and being a fellow-sufferer, can sympathize with him. As I am nearly of his own age, and know his situation, if you will allow me, I shall use all my endeavours to obtain his notice; and if I succeed, I may, by sharing his confidence, divert the current of his thoughts from dwelling always on one object. That a communication of grief, which hangs heavy on the heart, certainly tends to lighten it, I know by experience."
"You kindly anticipate my wishes," said the Baron.—"If you will condescend to fall in with his humour, and attach yourself to him, 'tis the only chance I can see likely to succeed in drawing him from himself."
This plan being agreed upon, the Baron and Count ordered their horses to ride; and after their departure, Ferdinand ventured to dispatch a servant with his compliments to the young Baron, requesting the honour of his company to take a walk.—Or if that was disagreeable to him, would he permit him to join him in the library. He had waited but a few moments for the return of his message before Reiberg appeared. He politely, tho" distantly, apologized for not making a tender of his services, as he thought his father had taken that office upon himself.
"I have indeed a hundred obligations to the Baron for his attentions," replied Ferdinand; "but my spirits are not always calculated to give or receive pleasure from a mixed society: I often prefer a solitary ramble, or the company of a serious rational companion, to mixing with the great world."
"An uncommon turn of mind in so young a man," observed Reiberg, eying him with a more complacent look; "and what is altogether as singular, I am very much of your opinion: Therefore, Sir, I am at your command, either for a walk, or for the library."
"At present," said Ferdinand, "I prefer the former; let us visit some of the gardens in the suburbs."
The other readily complied. They took a long walk, being absent near three hours; and, on coming back, met the Baron and Count just returned.
"Ah!" said the former, "like minds will mingle.—How natural for youth to court the society of each other."
"And yet I have my doubts," replied Reiberg, "whether the entertainments of these youths have not been of a much graver cast than what you may have engaged in."
"Not unlikely," answered the Count—"My friend is of a sedentary turn, and the amusements he seeks are generally of that complexion."
Reiberg viewed his companion with an air of graciousness, that seldom had pervaded his features, and, in the course of the evening, attached himself to Ferdinand with evident satisfaction.
From that day, the young friends were much together; and in the course of conversation, had both thrown out hints of mutual unhappiness, but each was too delicate to express a desire of prying into the secrets of the other. One morning it had been agreed upon between the Count and Ferdinand, that they would visit Heli and Fatima. They set off at an early hour, and soon reached the cottage.
At the door, reclining on a kind of sofa, lay Heli; the noise of the horses made him start: Discerning who they were, he hastened to meet them.
"Ah!" cried he, "never more wished for, nor more welcome. The prophet has sent you to my wishes, or this night I should have sent for you."
"Have you then particularly wanted us?" asked Ferdinand.
"Yes," replied Heli.—"Strange things have happened; but come into this little room, and I will unfold the whole to you."
As they dismounted and entered, the Count asked for Fatima.
"Ah! the ingrate," cried he; "she is but too well, I believe."
This reply induced them to suppose she had behaved ill, if not deserted him; but they waited a farther explanation from him; and when they were seated, he thus began, addressing Ferdinand, as the Count was not so well acquainted with the language.
"From the first day that we came here, the ungrateful Fatima was sullen and discontented.—I did my best to amuse her; we had only two women slaves, or servants; they attended the business of the house, and to please her, I took no notice of them."
"Two nights ago, at midnight, I was alarmed by a loud knocking at the door; I opened the window, and demanded the cause. I was not understood; but hearing a voice, a woman spoke in a tone of terror and supplication. Without disturbing Fatima in the next room, I took my lamp, and went down, opening the door: A young woman rushed in, and directly swooned at my feet.
"I was then obliged to call for assistance; the women soon came about me; the poor creature was helped, and recovered.—I saw she was very pretty, though pale and thin.—Fatima did her best to revive and console her.
"When she was able to speak, she said she had escaped from a small house in the wood, where she had reason to fear it was intended to murder her. We did not ask many questions; but she was put to bed, and yesterday morning I was told she appeared to be a good deal revived; that she earnestly requested, should any person make inquiry after her, we would deny our knowledge of her. I began to think the prophet had thrown this young woman in my way, to be a solace to me, and a companion for Fatima, so I let them be together.
"About noon, two horsemen, like a gentleman and his servant, appeared at the door.—They asked me had I seen a young woman; I kept her secret.—Whilst they were talking, Fatima came out.—I was very much displeased, and commanded her, pretty roughly, to retire.—She refused, and said some words to the stranger I did not understand.—He smiled, and answered her with great quickness. Highly provoked, I pushed her in, and shut the door.—The traitress opened the window above, and talked again. Enraged to madness, I flew in, dragged her from the window, and gave her a little chastisement, though not what she deserved.
"Her cries brought in the men, who, forcing the door, came up, and snatched her from my hands.—She directly run down stairs.—One of the horsemen took her before him, and they galloped off, regardless of my cries or imprecations.—"Twas in vain to pursue them; I had no horse, and was unacquainted with the turnings in the roads, if I had.
"Whilst I was tearing my beard, and cursing the vile ungrateful wretch, one of the servants came in, and said the young woman was in fits; so here was another plague upon me.—However, I had not lost my charity, so I ascended to help her, but she did not recover 'till night, and has continued very ill ever since; hardly speaks at all, but sighs from the bottom of her heart.—It seems 'twas the voices and bustle those vile Christians made, which occasioned her fits.—This is the state of things here; I am almost mad, and your treacherous wicked sister has basely deserted me; me who preserved her life, and gave her liberty at the hazard of my own!"
"I am more concerned than surprised," said Ferdinand; "for I had no dependence upon her constancy, as she evidently wanted principle.—Retirement suited
not with her disposition, and I think you have little cause to regret the loss of such a woman. The young person you speak of may want friends and assistance; if we can be of use to her, I am sure the Count will readily join in offering his services."
"You Christians," answered Heli, "are like the knights in romance, in your wishes to serve women.—Was you more discreet, and less complaisant, they would behave better; but women, having no souls, can practise no virtues, and only subjection and confinement can keep them within bounds."
"Why then accuse Fatima of ingratitude or levity?" said Ferdinand.—"If she has no soul, she may give unbounded loose to her inclinations; and where there exists no virtues, vice and folly only can be expected.—Gratitude is a virtue that flourishes in a noble mind; the produce of the soul, that feels a conscious sense of benefits concerned. If the freedom you procured for Fatima was solely to gratify yourself, she owes you no obligation; nor can you claim any merit from the deed."
"'Tis well," returned Heli, with a lowering brow; "I see what kindness I may expect from you; I have been a tool to all.—Oh! prophet," cried he, with a furious menacing air——
"Stop, Heli," said Ferdinand.—"Spare your appeal to Mahomet; I am more your friend that you are willing to believe; I despise and detest Fatima; she is a worthless woman; you may rejoice to get rid of one who would have proved a constant source of trouble to you; I vindicate her not; nor do I desire ever to hear of her more, because I am convinced she is incorrigible; but any services we can render you, command us, and you shall see that Christians know how to be grateful and hospitable to strangers."
Heli was affected by the earnest tone in which the other addressed him.—He unbent his angry brow, and lowering his voice—
"I believe I may judge too rashly; if so, may our holy prophet, and you, forgive me. I feel that I loved Fatima, but I will try to despise her: If this young woman lives—but I fear she will not; we cannot understand each other.—The few things I know in your language I have said to comfort her; but either she does not, or will not understand me."
"I would ask to see her," said Ferdinand, "and learn who and what she is, if it is agreeable to you."
"Yes," answered Heli, after a little hesitation—"Yes, you shall see her; but remember I already design her to supply the place of Fatima."
"Fear me not," replied Ferdinand; "I will deserve your confidence."
Heli then preceded them, to announce to her a visit from two of her countrymen.—Ferdinand followed him.—The sick person, who lay fronting the door, at his entrance gave a sudden shriek, and fainted. They advanced hastily to assist her, and in the same moment both recognized the unfortunate young woman, notwithstanding the alteration of her person, and the improbability of her being near Vienna, and both exclaimed, "Louisa! Good Heavens! Louisa!"
"How," said Heli, "do you know her too?"
They were too busy in getting water and other things to restore her, immediately to attend to him; but when she began to show signs of returning life, Ferdinand turned to him—"We do indeed know this lady, one of the most unfortunate of her sex. We left her a few months back under the protection of a worthy family, far from hence. How, or by whom she was brought here, is very extraordinary."
Louisa, for her it was, opened her eyes.—"The shadows are gone," said she, faintly, "or was it the phantom of my brain?"
The Count instantly recollected that it was possible she might have heard of their deaths. Therefore, without advancing, he said, "fear nothing, Madam; two friends of your's are yet alive, and eager to serve you."
"This is happiness indeed!" she exclaimed.—"Where are you?"
Both drew near the sofa, and bowed before her.—Pleasure danced in her eyes, but for a moment she had not the power of speech.
"Take comfort, Madam," said Ferdinand, "you are in safe hands—Mr. and Miss D'Alenberg——."
"Ah!" cried she, much affected, "I have been torn from them; they are on the road."
"What! to Vienna?" asked he.
"I believe so—I left them at Ens; there I was discovered—That villain the Count—he—he got me into his power to destroy me."
She had not strength to proceed, and they requested she would not exhaust herself by the attempt; and turning to Heli, (who was pacing the room, and cursing his malicious stars, and his own folly, for introducing them into the room) "it will be necessary to send a physician to this lady."
The Count offered to fetch one, and immediately set off for that purpose, though Louisa tried to oppose the design. Ferdinand, who was eagerly desirous of hearing some intelligence of the D'Alenberg family, remained with Heli in the apartment.
The latter, greatly agitated, had thrown himself upon a sofa. Louisa looked at him with evident terror, and appeared to shrink from his menacing aspect.
"My evil genius seems to predominate," said he to Ferdinand.—"I am to be robbed of this young woman too by Christian artifices."
"Heli," replied the latter, "do not repine that you are made the instrument to rescue an unfortunate lady from villainy. She is of birth and character; has powerful friends, and is married.—She is under the protection of a family I respect, and who will feel the warmest gratitude for her preservation, and can be nothing more to me, or any man, than an object of reverence and admiration.
"You cannot suppose, my good Heli, that every lady, who may eventually be thrown in your way, must be subservient to you; a thousand causes may impede any attentions of your's in a particular light; but for your humanity and kindness, you will ever experience a grateful return."
Heli heard him, but answered not.—A sullen silence denoted a mind but ill satisfied. The remembrance of Fatima's charms, and her elopement, sat heavy at his heart; for he had now no companion that he could converse with, or who even understood his language.
The Count was not long before he returned with a physician, who confirmed Louisa's own judgment, that terror and surprise had caused the great agitation of her spirits, and a shock to her constitution, which was extremely delicate and languid, but that no immediate danger need be apprehended.—He ordered her some light cordials, and had no doubt but that she would soon be better.
This opinion of the doctor's was gratifying to all parties; but Ferdinand felt some perplexity on the score of leaving Louisa under the care of Heli.—He asked, could she be removed? the physician thought there would be no danger in a proper conveyance.——Where she could be carried to, was the next question. The medical gentleman, finding that they were strangers on a visit in the city, and that the lady was a person of fashion, and had powerful friends, very humanely offered an apartment in his own house, an offer most readily accepted, and he hastened off to send a carriage, and an aunt, who resided with him, to attend on the lady, whilst he prepared for her reception.
No sooner was this plan communicated to Heli, than he grew quite furious; upbraided the gentlemen in the most opprobrious words passion could suggest; but finding that they were resolute, and not to be intimidated, his fury fell upon himself; he cursed his own folly, in preserving two Christian wretches, whose acquaintance had been the ruin of his peace; ungenerously ascribing Fatima's desertion from him as originating from the offers Ferdinand had made of providing for her.
The Count, who was apprehensive of some revengeful stroke from the mad passion of Heli, kept a steady eye upon all his actions; while Ferdinand endeavoured, by reason, to calm his transports; and among other things observed to him, that as there were many Turks in Vienna, he might easily find such as would be useful to him in his domestic arrangements, and plenty of women who would accept of his protection.
This last argument seemed to have some weight with him; he grew less agitated; and before the carriage came for Louisa, told them he would take their advice; and having now nobody to guard, he would come into the city the next day, to seek out some of his countrymen, and purchase two or three beautiful women, that he might no longer think of the unfaithful woman who had abandoned him.
This r
esolved on, he assisted in carrying Louisa to the carriage.—A middle aged respectable lady waited to receive her; cushions were placed for her to recline on; and moving very slowly, she was safely conveyed to the physician's house, under whose care the gentlemen left her for the remainder of the day, that quiet might help to restore her;—and although both were dying with curiosity, yet they suppressed all appearance of it, in consideration of her weakness.
CHAPTER X
On their return to the Baron's house, they found him under a good deal of surprise at their long absence; for so much had their minds been occupied, that they had entirely forgotten the necessary compliment of accounting to the Baron. They apologized for their neglect, by a relation of the cause, and described Louisa as a much injured deserving young woman.
Young Reiberg appeared greatly interested; there was a novelty in the case, which, added to his natural humanity, roused him from the apathy that generally predominated over his conduct, and induced him to be particularly anxious in his inquiries, and offers of assisting them to discover, and punish, if possible, the offenders.
Ferdinand was pleased with the warmth he expressed, but not conceiving himself at liberty to disclose the story of Louisa, he only observed, that until she was in a state to elucidate facts, and give them full information, no steps could be taken to do her justice.—"I have my suspicions," added he, "as to the person, but do not think it fair to communicate them, lest I should be wrong."
Reiberg seemed pleased with the discretion of Ferdinand, and attached himself to him with an appearance of regard, very flattering to the other, and highly pleasing to the Baron, who presaged the happiest consequences to the peace of his son, should he conceive a friendly regard for Ferdinand, and unlock his bosom to the sympathizing attentions, and disinterested advice of a friend.
Early the following morning, they sent to inquire into the state of Louisa's health, and had the satisfaction to hear she had rested tolerably, was better, and would be happy to see her preservers in the course of the day. This pleasing account diffused general content to the gentlemen, and gave promise that their curiosity might be gratified.
The Complete Northanger Horrid Novel Collection (9 Books of Gothic Romance and Horror) Page 185