All count Byroff's former plans of obstinate perseverance into the mystery in which the castle was enveloped, were put to flight by what he had seen: awe and reverence for the solemnity of the religious worship in which he had seen the friars and the suffering person engaged, whose salvation their prayers seemed meant to effect, had forbade him to interrupt their devotions; and when they were ended he felt an insurmountable objection to introducing himself to those who might have a right to dispute his unlicensed entrance into the castle, and refuse to attend to his excuse.
Some minutes were lost by him in reflection how to proceed, when he heard footsteps at a distance in the gallery; but they were no sooner heard, than they died away, and he doubted not, from what Jacques had told him he had seen on the night of his waiting without the castle for Alphonsus, that the friars were now departing; the shutting of a gate, with the sound of which the castle immediately after rang, confirmed him in his opinion.
He resolved to enter the chapel, and if possible, discover whither was gone the figure whom he had seen; for he strongly conceived, he knew not why, that it had not left the castle: as to who the figure was, his mind wavered between count Frederic, and the countess Anna; the former his own ideas taught him to believe it; but the words uttered by Alphonsus seemed to assign a degree of probability to its being the latter: arrived at the end of the chapel, he found that the door through which the persons he had just beheld had passed, was an iron grating; he pulled at it, but it resisted his efforts, being fastened by a spring, which he was not acquainted how to open. As he stood by it, a glimmering of light, at some distance, caught his eyes; he hid his lantern; the light advanced, and showed him that the iron gate led into a long and narrow passage; at the extremity of which, in a few seconds, appeared, bearing a lamp, the figure he had lately beheld in the chapel: it opened a door facing him, and having entered, immediately closed it, and all was again dark.
He again produced his lantern; but the door through which the figure had passed, was too far removed for him to distinguish it with the aid only of the light in his hand: he determined, however, if possible to find it; and, if he could, to address the person who had so strongly excited his attention and surprise.
After entering many chambers and passages in vain, a suite of rooms brought him to a chamber, from a door in which, a small closet, through which he passed, led him into the passage, at the extremity of which was the grated door from the chapel: he moved hastily to the other end, in search of the door by which the figure had vanished from his sight: the form of the wall was a semicircle, constituting, as he concluded, part of one of the turrets, of which there were four at the angles of the castle; but his most minute investigations could discover in it no door, or even crevice.
He placed his lantern on the ground, and for some time continued to pass his hands over every part of the wall, in the hope of discovering some clue to the object of his search; at length he imagined that he felt through the plaster a small elevation, which appeared to the touch like a flat hinge: he took up his lantern in order to examine the spot where he felt it, when, to his great disappointment, he perceived that his wick was dying out in the socket: he now found it necessary to return to the gallery as quickly as possible, whilst he had light to conduct him, lest from his being delayed a longer time than he wished, by searching his way in the dark, his absence should be learned by Lauretta, and add additional fears on his account, to her already too much afflicted mind: he accordingly precipitately retraced the path which had conducted him to this passage, and arrived in the gallery at the moment the last spark in his lantern became extinguished.
Day was fortunately for him beginning to dawn, and he easily descended into the hall, and gained, by recollecting his way, the postern gate, when, what had never occurred to him till he experienced it, the gate was locked, and thus all means of departing excluded from him.
He upbraided himself for not having forestalled the friars' departure, which, had he but considered the matter, Jacques's narrative of the occurrences of the night before the last had warned him to do; he returned to the hall, and attempted to open the great gates, but they baffled his endeavours; how had Alphonsus got out after the departure of the friars? was a question he next asked himself, but he found it not less a difficult matter to answer this demand, than at the present moment to effect his escape.
All he now felt was anxiety for what Lauretta would experience, should she discover his absence, and learn whither he was gone.
Nearly two hours were spent by him in vain attempts to leave the castle, and unavailing lamentations; on a sudden he imagined he heard a key turn in the lock of the postern gate; he stopped a few seconds to listen; no sound followed it; and he almost feared his expectations to have been falsely raised; he determined, however, to ascertain the truth, and accordingly proceeded to the postern gate; it was partly open, his heart leaped with joy, and eagerly crossing the threshold, he set forward without stopping to consider by whom, or from what cause, the gate had been opened.
Arrived at the inn panting for breath, count Byroff instantly inquired of the landlord whether Lauretta had asked for him, and with much satisfaction he learned that she had not. The host had, by the count's desire, sat up till his return, and count Byroff having, in recompense for his complacency, satisfied his curiosity in regard to the tolling of the wonderful bell, they both retired to their respective apartments.
Count Byroff threw himself on the bed, and immediately began to re-examine in his mind the occurrences of which he had been a witness in the castle; and severely did he task himself for not having, at all hazards, aimed at a development of the mystery which it seemed so necessary to the welfare of those with whom he was concerned to have explained; and yet he conceived that he had but acted consistently with the respect due to religious offices.
Unable long to bear this contest of opinions within his own breast, on a matter of so great importance, and of so tender a nature, he entered the chamber of Alphonsus, who was still lulled by the soothing influence of the draught he had taken; Lauretta refused to retire to bed that night; Jacques readily accepted the offer of leaving for a few hours his post of watching.
The count determined not to impart to Lauretta his visit to the castle, as he wished to make one more attempt at solving the enigma, now more perplexing to him than ever, and which he feared her entreaties and alarm for his safety, were she acquainted with his intention, or even surmised it, might induce him to abandon.
It was some hours ere Alphonsus spoke, though he had been long awake: he then called Lauretta to him and embraced her; the tears ran down his cheeks. "Is the holy friar here?" he asked.
Lauretta answered, that she every moment expected his arrival.
"Would he were come!" continued Alphonsus. "I would unburden to him my heart: his counsel might relieve me, if his prayers and intercession cannot obtain my pardon."
"Am not I equally worthy the participation of your secret thoughts?" said Lauretta tenderly.
"Oh my Lauretta!" returned Alphonsus, "it is my love for you, that causes me to hide them from you."
"Do you then suppose that I am less moved to see you unhappy, than if you had acquainted me with all the particulars for your present anxiety?—Oh Alphonsus! can you believe my heart less feeling towards you, than yours has been to me?"
"You are too good, too kind," cried Alphonsus, "to one who, choked by melancholy and despair, has never given you a cheerful smile, in gratitude for those endearments, which have been his only comfort."
"Indeed you wrong yourself. I have been happy, very happy—witness heaven, very happy," said Lauretta, stifling her tears.
"I fear I have said too much," replied Alphonsus, looking steadfastly in her face; "I have already told you what afflicts me; have I not?"
"Forget it, I entreat you," answered Lauretta.
"Never! never!" he exclaimed. "My senses have been lately so disordered, that I scarcely know what has passed; did I tell you that I ha
d seen my mother's shade?"
Lauretta was at a loss how to answer for the best: she looked at count Byroff for advice; she saw he was perplexed not less than herself; the door of the chamber opened, and father Nicholas entered to their relief.
The father passed on to that side of the bed opposite to which Lauretta was standing; "A good and blessed day to thee, my son!" he said.
Alphonsus turned towards him, and said, "Wouldst thou indeed bless me?"
"Thou hast my most fervent prayers to heaven," returned the holy man.
"If thou hast my welfare at heart, thou wilt be secret, if I confess to thee my sorrows," said Alphonsus, with more composure than he had yet spoken.
"Secrecy is a bond of my office; speak freely my son and fear me not."
"Go to the castle of Cohenburg to-night; when the midnight bell has sounded, thou wilt find the postern gate open to thee: enter the chapel, and pray for me forgiveness for my disobedience, of my mother's shade: if thou seest her not, she will hear thee, for she inhabits there; tell her I repent my forbidden visit, though I have learned no secret by it; and if she refuse to pardon me, I will die to prove my penitence."
"Are you indeed the heir of Cohenburg castle?" said father Nicholas, surprise and pleasure mingling in his countenance.
"Oh no! no!" replied Alphonsus, "I am only the lost, abandoned, cursed Alphonsus."
"When did you visit the castle?" asked the friar.
"It was"—said Alphonsus:—he paused: "It was by night; but I cannot recollect whether last night, or not."
"It was two nights ago," said the count.
Lauretta had retired to the window; the friar went to her—"Are you the wife of this young man?"
"I am, father."
"Dry your tears, be comforted; happiness is yet in store for you."
"God grant your words be true."
"Trust to his mercy; through me he compassionates your afflictions."
He again approached the bed: "I will pray for you, my son; rest assured, and place faith in my endeavours;—I shall visit you again to-day; till then peace be with you: farewell."
He departed, and his words for some time occupied, in silent reflection, those he had left.
CHAPTER XXV
There is but one, one only thing to think on,
My murder'd lord, and his dark gaping grave,
That waits unclos'd, impatient of my coming.
-ROWE
Towards evening father Nicholas returned; he found Alphonsus risen: his health was materially restored; but his spirits were still depressed, and a degree of wildness was at times visible in his countenance.
"Didst thou know my mother?" said Alphonsus, first reverting to the subject on which all were thinking, but none had yet touched.
"Full well," returned the holy man. "Is it possible you do not recollect me?" continued he with some hesitation.
"No," replied Alphonsus, "no; and yet methinks that scar above your eye claims place in my remembrance; pardon me, that my harassed brain excludes all thought but on one subject; I pray you tell me your name."
"Father Nicholas, many years your mother's confessor."
"I know you now." He took his hand, pressed it in his, then kissed it. "You saw my mother then before she died?"—The friar hesitated to answer; Alphonsus perceived it not, and continued—"Did she wish again to see her son?"—The friar was still silent; Alphonsus went on, "You doubtless know my sad story?"
"I do."
"Oh! why did she discard me from her affections? wretched forlorn Alphonsus! my mother cruel! my father murdered!—Oh God! grant me to know his assassin!—Father, I have a vow in heaven of vengeance against his murderer, and here again I swear——"
The friar interrupted him, "Calm thy agitation, my son: thou canst not recall him into life by shedding another's blood; why then stain thy hands in murder?"
"Thou sayst true: heaven will avenge the deed better than I can; my hate and curses must fall on him.—Oh, if he must have fallen, would he had fallen by any hand rather than that he did!"
Father Nicholas sighed deeply.
"Who that knew him, could have believed that count Frederic would have murdered his brother?"
"If you believe he did, you wrong his memory."
"Is he too dead?—none left to bear a load of grief but me!—I recollect my mother told me, when she sent me from her, he was innocent; but she had first taught me to believe him guilty:—'twas strange!"
A pause ensued.
Suddenly recollecting himself, Alphonsus exclaimed, "If you can exculpate the innocent, you can arraign the guilty:—confess to me, I conjure you, whom I ought to hate; and guide my vengeance by your own discretion."
"Lay aside all thoughts of revenge; we are enjoined to be charitable to all; and who more strongly claims our pity, than he who suffers from the pangs of a conscience, that reproves him with the commission of murder?"
"It is a sentiment too refined to bias the heart of a son, bleeding at the recollection of a father's untimely death."
"The more severe our trials, the greater will be the reward bestowed on us, if amidst their severity we still do not deviate from the exercise of christian duty."
"If my mother knew the murderer!" Alphonsus exclaimed wildly, without having seemed to attend to father Nicholas's last words; and suddenly he interrupted himself—"Did she know him?" he added.
The holy man was silent.
"Say rather that she killed him,—burst my swelling heart, and end at once my agonies in death, than torture me by this mysterious hesitation."
The old man was affected to tears, by the transports of Alphonsus's feelings.—"Wouldst thou not rather that thy father lived, though thou couldst never see him more, than know him dead?" he asked.
"If he were happy, witness heaven, I would."
"And if thy absence from him constituted but his negative comfort, and even caused thy sorrow, hast thou enough of filial piety in thee to obey him?"
"Oh yes! on any terms, 'twere happiness to know he lived. But to what end avail these questions? I know he lives not, and yet you dazzle my imagination with ideas of what cannot be?"
"You once thought a mother had an equal claim on your obedience."
"Forbear, forbear to rack my heart, by telling me I wanted fortitude to obey her commands."
"Rouse your strength of mind to execute them now."
"What mean you?—explain yourself, I conjure you."
"Know then she lives,—but you must never see her more."
Alphonsus had till this moment been comparatively calm:—"Lives!" he re-echoed, in the most piercing accents; then falling on his knees, and raising his hands to heaven—"Angels of mercy, I thank you!—It was then her living self I saw; my disobedience did not call her from the grave. The eyes she fixed upon me, were not those of death.—Oh God, I thank thee!"—A flood of tears relieved his full heart, swelled with a multiplicity of indescribable sensations.
A general silence prevailed for some moments, when Alphonsus could again articulate, "May I not once more see her,—only once, to implore her forgiveness?" he said.
"You have her pardon; rest satisfied in that assurance," returned the friar.
"Tell me, then," cried Alphonsus, "tell me why she refuses again to behold me?—And hard, very hard as I feel the struggle between duty and inclination, I will not press to see her."
"There is a just cause for her refusal. I have her permission to reveal it to you; and much I think, when you have learnt it, you will no longer press your late entreaty."
"Speak it, I beseech you."
"Have you fortitude to hear a tale of horror, which is nearly related to yourself?"
"Oh yes: my heart has felt too much substantial misery, to sink beneath recited ills."
"I need not warn a wife to secrecy, on a point of tender interest to her husband," said the friar, raising his eyes to Lauretta, and then passing them on to count Byroff.
"Nor her father," said the count, "to act
for the welfare of both."
The friar gently inclined his head, in token of his satisfaction, and thus began:—"On the death of your aunt, count Frederic's wife, the kind attentions which the goodness of your mother's heart inclined her to use towards his children, raised in the breast of your deceased father a suspicion that her regards were bestowed on his offspring from the love which she bore their father.
"How this unhappy suspicion ever gained way into his thoughts, I can no otherwise account for, than that the single foible of his nature was an inclination towards distrust; and I am certain that your uncle and mother were both innocent of the false imputation which your father laid on them.
"The three first years after the loss of his wife were sorrowfully marked to count Frederic by the death of his children; and, unable to remain in the midst of scenes which gave him such ample scope for poignant reflection, he resolved to travel. He visited Venice; and here chance introduced him to a lady who seemed to promise a reparation of the loss he had sustained; but a mercenary father doomed her to the arms of a man she disliked, who carried her away from Venice; and his repeated journeys and inquiries could never lead him to discover whither she had been conveyed."
The agitation here expressed by the count and Lauretta, induced the friar to break off his narrative, and inquire the cause of their emotions: count Byroff briefly explained it, to the great surprise of the friar, who in return informed them, that, after the count's departure from Venice, a report had been circulated by Arieno's servants, that count Byroff, having killed the son of a senator in a duel, had fled with his wife into Spain, to which kingdom count Frederic's researches after his Lauretta were then confined.
The Complete Northanger Horrid Novel Collection (9 Books of Gothic Romance and Horror) Page 277