The Mysterious Warning/Chapter 38
CHAP. III.
"Now, then," said Ferdinand, "I begin to breathe; and unless Fatima should be apprehended, the preceding circumstances may as well remain untold to Heli."
His friends were of the same opinion, and then mentioned to him the little resentment Mr. d'Allenberg had expressed, and his subsequent uneasiness.
"I expect him every moment," said the Baron; "for I would not send him word of your return, whilst we had so much business in hand; but I am persuaded his anxiety for your safety will bring him here very shortly."
The Baron was right; for in less than a quarter of an hour afterwards, Mr. d'Allenberg was announced. On entering the room, the first object that met his eyes was Ferdinand, who rose to receive him.
"What a truant you are," exclaimed he, embracing him.—"I hope you can well account for your absence, or I know not what punishment you do not deserve, for giving so much uneasiness to your friends."
"A consciousness of that," replied Ferdinand, "would be as severe a one as you can wish, since I never yet gave a pain to the bosom of a friend, that did not tenfold wound my own."
"I believe you" returned the other;—"and therefore, without being impertinently inquisitive, or arrogating to myself the power of punishing you, for depriving us of a comfortable breakfast, I shall only say that I am glad to see you returned in safety."
"Most cordially, Sir, I thank you; but I should ill deserve your indulgence, if I held any reserves to you."
He then briefly recapitulated the events which had happened, down to the conclusion of them, just before Mr. d'Allenberg had entered the house.
"This has indeed been a busy day," said that gentleman; "for the young Baron has had an infinity of perplexities on his hands to procure Heli's freedom, and the grant of an indulgence to the man who made a confession.
"He is under a gentle restraint at present; and if, at the expiration of three weeks, Fatima and the Count's valet cannot be found, he is to have his liberty, when the Baron has promised to provide for him; though, for my own part," continued Mr. d'Allenberg, "I think it is showing too much indulgence to vice, to set them on a footing with honest men."
"Not if they repent, my dear Sir," said Ferdinand; "you will allow it possible, I hope, that a wicked person may, from conviction, repent of his crimes; and if the world is merciless, if no good humane man holds out a hand to help the humble and contrite spirit; if they are shunned, reprobated, and despised, where can they seek for shelter, from the sting of conscience, and the scorn of the world? Desperate, wretched and undone; renounced by the good, they are driven—they are compelled to return to the society of the wicked.—Hopeless, enraged, and disappointed, a hundred to one but they grow more wicked, more abandoned, than in their first career; and are lost, perhaps, body and soul, because the too fastidious, or uncharitable good man, conceives it an abomination to show mercy to the sinner, or stretch forth his hand to drag him from the vortex of vice, into which he is sinking."
"You are right my young monitor," said Mr. d'Allenberg; "I acknowledge my error; your system is consistent with humanity and our duty; and whether our endeavours to reform the wicked succeed or not, the consciousness of having performed that duty, is a sufficient recompense to us, and over-pays all our trouble. You see I am your convert at least, and will remember your short lesson as long as I live.
"But to return to ourselves, I must inform you, two fair ladies think themselves extremely neglected, and I fancy you will find it difficult to exculpate a gallant young man who has proved so very un gallant as not to pay his devoirs to a young lady that has come post here to see her friends."
"If I have been deficient in those duties, I, Sir, am the sufferer; and the circumstances that has impeded my attendance on the ladies, will, I hope, acquit me in your eyes. Doubtless, my friend, the Count has made his peace there, and then my presence or absence can be of little consequence."
The moment these words escaped from the lips of Ferdinand, he would have given the world to have recalled them, apprehensive that he had betrayed the Count's secret, and the confidence of Louisa.
Mr. d'Allenberg looked at him with a keen and penetrating eye; the Count, with much surprise, and was for a moment silent.
"I take shame to myself," said he at last, 'that I have not performed a duty gratitude, respect, and esteem, claimed from me; but in truth, the business of the day, your unexpected elopement this morning, and a variety of perplexing thoughts, totally unqualified me for paying visits. You see, therefore, that you have not only been guilty of omissions yourself, but are the cause of other people's deficiencies."
The Count spoke the last words with a gay air, that a little reconciled Ferdinand to himself for the petulancy of his answer to Mr. D'Alenberg, which he sought to cover by saying, "To-morrow, Sir, I hope we shall have the honour of waiting upon the ladies, and apologizing for our seeming neglect."
"Very well," replied he, "I shall so report it, that you may receive a tolerable welcome; and now that I see you safe, I bid you good evening; remember to come early, as I wish to confer with you respecting Louisa's affairs."
Mr. d'Allenberg having left them, the Baron expressed some surprise at the absence of his son.—He had scarcely spoken before he entered, and was rejoiced to see Ferdinand.—He said that he had been with Heli, who was in a very gloomy way for the loss of his riches: Fortunately they had not stripped his person; he had a snuff-box of value, a watch, and two rings, that were in his pocket; the whole might be worth about eight hundred Louis d'ors; but this, he said, was a trifle; what could he do with a sum like that.
"I then," continued Reiberg, "told him of the generous intentions the Count and Ferdinand had adopted.—I saw he was by no means grateful; and the interpreter told me, that he peremptorily declined all favours from them.—I did not urge the point, from an idea, that when he is in better health, his temper may lose its present ferocity. The women servants had called there, under some apprehensions at having concealed themselves in a small cottage on one side of the wood, and two days being elapsed, they prevailed upon a man and woman to accompany them back.
The poor creatures were rejoiced to find their little property untouched; one of these he discharged; the other, with the interpreter, remains; I have promised to send an honest jeweller to him tomorrow; for he is resolved to dispose of his property, and lodge the money in safe hands; and when he is well, he intends to give up the cottage, and lodge with the interpreter. So much for Heli." The gentlemen retired at an early hour, with a strict injunction to Ferdinand, not to steal away at day-break again.
"The next morning, when they met at breakfast, all seemed to have recovered their spirits, except Ferdinand; his looks denoted a mind ill at ease; he eat little, and soon left them to write letters, previous to their purposed visit to Mr. d'Allenberg.
"He wrote to Mr. Dunloff, to Ernest, and a short epistle to his brother; he mentioned, that he hoped, in a fortnight or three weeks, he should revisit Suabia; that however earnestly he wished to be at Baden, and see his dear children, the painful remembrance of past scenes, made him dread an interview that must renew all his sorrows.
"Having a little relieved his mind by communicating his thoughts, he rejoined his friends, and prepared to accompany them.
"They soon arrived at the Doctor's, who had kindly accommodated them all.—Mr. D'Alenberg was ready to introduce them;—the two Barons, as strangers, were first announced; but when the Count and Ferdinand approached Miss D'Alenberg, the latter observed her emotions; she blushed, turned pale, trembled, and, with difficulty, replied to the compliment the Count made her; he, guessing at the situation of her heart, felt extremely for her and the Count; to relieve both, he advanced, and paid his respects;—congratulated himself on the happiness of seeing her; and then turning to Louisa, "I rejoice, my amiable friend, to see you so perfectly recovered."
"I am, indeed," said she, "much better in health, and cannot be otherwise than happy, when blessed with the society of my friends and benefactors."
"The two Barons were charmed with the ladies, and Mr. D'Alenberg, studious to avoid any retrospection to unpleasant scenes, entered into a spirited conversation on Germanic affairs; the peace concluded with the Turks, the Emperor's schemes in favour of his daughter, Maria Theresa, and such themes as carried them out of their own concerns.
"But on talking more fully about the late war, Louisa cried out, "will you forgive me, gentlemen, for interrupting your politics, I long to hear the story of our friends" captivity, and how they amused themselves in Turkey."
"Our amusements, Madam," said the Count, "were very limited; but Ferdinand had certainly the advantage of me, and therefore is best qualified to gratify your curiosity."
"Will you have the goodness to indulge us," Sir, asked Miss d'Allenberg, in a voice so low and tremulous, that it touched Ferdinand, who passed the momentary thought, "What an amazing alteration between Miss d'Allenberg and Louisa! the ladies seem to have changed characters."
Then addressing himself to her—"There is so little to entertain you, Madam, in the relation, that it is soon made; for no great variety could be thrown into a life of confinement; he very readily obeyed her, however, and gave a brief recital of particulars, which have been already noticed."
When he had concluded, the ladies thanked him; Louisa observed archly, "You were peculiarly unfortunate, in not being noticed by some Turkish beauty, who might have broken your chains, and become a partner in your flight.—What a pretty romantic tale is here spoiled for want of a lady to embellish it."
"You will recollect, Madam," answered he, 'that I never was permitted to walk, but when Heli was with me; and the side where the ladies resided, was far distant from the apartments I inhabited; therefore I cannot, with any plausibility, violate truth, by boasting of ladies favours; indeed I have no obligations of that kind."
"How!" returned she; "are you so vain as to consider our friendship and good opinion so entirely your due, that it confers neither favour nor obligation?" "Pardon me, Madam, to deserve the friendship of two such ladies, would be my highest ambition; and to obtain it, I must consider as an honour that will gratify my vainest wishes."
"You have extorted a compliment, my dear Louisa," said Miss D'Alenberg, "and now I hope are satisfied."
Ferdinand ought to have replied to this "extorted," but he was out of spirits, and gladly availed himself of some trivial observation of young Reiberg's, to change the subject. This evasion passed not unobserved, which, with the melancholy air of his countenance, made them feel great compassion for him.
For his part, he was not sorry when the visit ended; Mr. d'Allenberg was requested by the Baron to accompany them back to dinner, as the ladies were engaged in making preparations for their appearance in public the next day, Louisa's health being much restored, and company and amusement being indeed indispensables towards removing the dejection of Miss d'Allenberg's spirits.
In their walk home, Ferdinand and the Count being together, the former remarked how thin and pale Miss d'Allenberg was grown.
"She is much altered," added he; "yet I think her more captivating than ever:—There is something so interesting in the softness of her looks, and the melody of her voice."
"You are partial to melancholy beauties," said the Count, smiling.—"I remember you admired Louisa much when she was sorrowful, and apparently declining into her grave; now, that the goddess, health, deigns to revisit, she seems to have lost her estimation with you."
"Not so," quickly replied Ferdinand, apprehensive that his friend was jealous of his attention to Miss d'Allenberg; "I am rejoiced to see her so unexpectedly recovered, and admire her as greatly as ever I did; her pleasing vivacity will, I hope, be of service to her friend.—Yet you must allow, the Count's death so recent, a man whom she so passionately loved, 'tis rather extraordinary that she appears to be so little affected."
"Not at all," answered the Count; "she had long ceased to esteem him; his conduct merited her scorn; and his late attempt against her must have eradicated every trait of affection; nor could she think herself safe from his machinations whilst he had existed. Her behaviour, therefore, is very natural;—she is freed from a villain, who had cruelly used her, and relieved from that fear and anxiety which must have embittered every hour in his life time. I applaud her for not pretending to a regret or sorrow, it was impossible she should feel."
"Do you suppose, then," said Ferdinand, "'tis so easy a matter to teach the heart to resign its affections; can the unworthiness of a beloved object so soon eradicate all tenderness from a bosom accustomed to love?"
"I know at least, that it ought to be so," replied the Count; "because love ought to be grafted on esteem; and the loss of one should be the death of the other."
"Should be," repeated Ferdinand with a sigh.—"Alas! how seldom is the refractory heart under the guidance of reason."
Being joined by their friends, the conversation became general, and they walked together to the Baron's house.
They had hardly dined, when a servant entered and said, a man on horseback had a letter for Count Ferdinand, which he refused to deliver to any but himself.—Surprised, he hastily run to the door; the man respectfully gave him the letter "from my master, Count Rhodophil Renaud." Ferdinand, with a trembling hand, broke the seal:—The contents were these:
"My Dear Brother,
"Life is ebbing fast; all hopes are over; if you ever wish to see me more, lose no time; set off directly; I have things of consequence to impart, for your interest; if you ever loved me, hasten to the dying
"Good God!" exclaimed Ferdinand, "how long has my brother been ill?"
"He has been drooping some time," answered the servant; "but 'tis only a week since the doctor told him his danger, and the Countess is half distracted; for I have heard that day and night he wishes to see you."
"Go to the next inn," said Ferdinand; "refresh yourself; order post horses from the post house; I will be ready in two hours to accompany you."
Excessively agitated, he returned to his friends, produced the letter, and announced his intention of quitting Vienna immediately.
This design produced a general concern; every face was clouded.
"I will go with you," said the Count.
"Indeed you will not," replied Ferdinand; "it was your intention to stay some time longer; the business we have been engaged in may require your presence here; I cannot ask you to my brother's castle; a short time may decide how I am at liberty to act; I shall write the moment I get home."
"Indeed," said Mr. d'Allenberg, "this is very unlucky, and will shorten our stay in Vienna."
"Perhaps, then," said the Baron, "we may all soon follow you; for I have business that calls me into Bavaria, though I postponed it until the time for your departure was fixed, and which indeed I concluded would not happen for some time."
"I wish," said the Count, "you would permit me to go with you; I feel as if I ought to go."
"Not a word on the subject," returned Ferdinand; "I leave you here to answer for me to Miss d'Allenberg, to her friend, and all other claims upon me; have the kindness to acquaint the ladies of the necessity which tears me from them for the present, though I hope it will not be long before we meet again."
"I hope the same," said Mr. d'Allenberg; "for you possess my warmest esteem and best wishes."
Ferdinand felt the kindness of his friends, and withdrew, to hide his emotions, and prepare for his journey.
"You will excuse me," said Mr. d'Allenberg, "if I leave you; I like not the parting minute, and have an unpleasant task to perform, in preparing my young folks to receive you in the evening without your friend. I shall expect you, however; we will mingle our regrets."
He left them; the Count repaired to Ferdinand's apartment; again urged his wish to accompany him; but the other as firmly refused it.
"Stay here," said he, "'till you hear from me, and then perhaps I shall solicit, as the first wish of my heart, what I now refuse, the company of my friend."
The Count was silenced, though not satisfied, and assisted very reluctantly in settling things for their separation. The moment arrived; the post horses were at the door, and they parted with equal regret on all sides. Ferdinand determined to take no rest until he arrived at Lintz, but merely changed horses, and proceeded with the greatest expedition. The servant informed him he had business of consequence to do for Madam, the Countess, at Lintz, but which would not detain him many hours.
Here then Ferdinand thought he might rest, and to Lintz they at length arrived, excessively fatigued with long and hard riding. When Ferdinand had ordered some refreshment, the servant left him, and he seized five minutes to write a few lines to Count M———; the man was not long absent; they retired for a few hours to sleep, and then rose to pursue their journey with fresh spirits.
They had got near five miles from Lintz, and had ascended a steep hill, which was covered with trees.—On one side, you saw the plain through which the road lay; on the other side was a craggy mountain, at the foot of which run the river: The path-way was narrow; one horse only could with safety proceed at a time: Ferdinand was turning his horse round a clump of trees, when he received a shot, that brought him tumbling on the earth, and in the same moment, before he had recovered any recollection, he was precipitated down the broken mountain, and fell into the river, so bruised and senseless, that when he recovered his reason, he could scarcely recollect what had befallen him, nor the smallest idea from what hand he had received the injury.
Providentially, in rolling into the river, one of his hands got entangled in some low bushes, that grew on the edge of the water, that he was suspended from sinking, as he might otherwise have done, and the chill of the water restored his senses, but he saw the water was coloured with his blood, and felt that he was growing very faint; he therefore made an effort, by clinging fast to the wood and weeds, to drag himself out, and with some difficulty succeeded.
He found the shot had gone through the fleshy part of his right arm, and slightly wounded his side. With no small labour he got his coat off; for he had many bruises which began to grow painful; he tore his shirt, and with that and his handkerchief, bound up the wound as well as pain would enable him to do; but the effort, loss of blood, and the soreness of his limbs, rendered him extremely faint, and he had just time to drag himself farther on the bank, when he again felt his senses leaving him, and supposed death was at hand.
He returned a second time to life, but so enfeebled, and in so much pain, that he found it impossible to rise, and saw no prospect of relief: He looked round to see if the servant was in a similar situation, but no object met his view, and he had much reason to fear that he was killed upon the spot, and thrown into the river, where he sunk; for he had no doubt upon his mind but that he received the wound from some banditti, and even seemed to have an idea of seeing some objects among the trees just as he was wounded; and he supposed, by falling from the horse, he had accidentally rolled down the mountain, as their intention was doubtless to plunder him. Having settled the matter in his own mind, he pitied the fate of the servant, and lamented the distress his brother and friends would feel, when hearing no intelligence of him.
Hopeless of assistance, he thought his struggles for life, had only protracted his fate a few short hours, when he must inevitably perish; his only chance of help was the passing of a boat, and that hope was a very feeble one.
He happened to have two small biscuits, which he had put into his pocket at one of their last stages, but which he found broken in pieces by his fall; for the present he wanted no refreshment; his faintness arose from pain, and the sickness occasioned by rolling down such a tremendous height, which, when he raised his eyes to view it, he considered it as next to a miracle that he had not been dashed to pieces.
For some hours, he remained comfortless and despairing on the bank, when suddenly he saw a figure issue from a cavity in one of the hanging fragments of the rock, that appeared like something human, though bent almost double with age; a blanket wrapped round him, with holes to let out his arms, and tied round the middle with a cord; a long beard, and feeble steps, proclaimed his age and weakness. As this object approached nearer, Ferdinand saw his head was uncovered, exposed to the weather, his venerable silver locks flowing round his shoulders.
He was so struck with wonder and admiration, that he had no power to cry out; and, as he lay, the weeds and wild shrubs almost hid him from being seen. The old man was passing on slowly, and seemingly deeply meditating, when the other exerted himself to say, "Stop! Oh! stop!"
The man started.—"From whence comes that voice?" said he, advancing, and presently discovered Ferdinand.
"Gracious Father!" exclaimed he, "who are you, and how came you here, my son?"
"I fell from the brow of the hill into the river."
"Wonderful Providence! What, unhurt?"
"I cannot say that," replied he; "I am very much bruised, I believe, besides being wounded by a pistol in my arm and side, which occasioned my falling."
"Alas! my son, how shall I help you;—you cannot rise."
"Indeed I cannot; but perhaps I may endeavour to crawl a small distance, if there is any place to receive me."
"Try, then, my child; for I have a comfortable cell, if 'tis possible for you to reach it."
Ferdinand, suddenly inspired with hope, and fresh desires for life, exerted himself with uncommon resolution, and though he felt agonies of pain, he bore it without a groan, so anxious was he to obtain rest and help.
Such is the natural fondness for life implanted in the mind of man, that when sickness and despair has annihilated hope, and taught the suffering wretch to look forward to the close of his existence, as his only refuge from misery, if some unlooked for crisis changes the nature of his disorder, or a dawn of better prospects is presented to his view—he no longer courts death as the end of his troubles, but with new desires, new hopes, he struggles to retain and preserve life, though sure of encountering future ills, and of going through the same sad scene again.
So was it with Ferdinand, to whom an existence for many months, nay, even for years, had been an evil, he thought, he should have felt grateful to be released from, but the near prospect of death had taught him a different lesson; he found he had still some ties on earth that clung to his heart, and whom he shuddered to think of parting with for ever.
Eager, therefore, to profit by the old man's offer, he so successfully laboured, that he got to the part of the rock from whence he saw him emerge; but it was a work of extreme difficulty, and with all the assistance that old age was capable of lending, that he crawled up the broken fragments, and at length crept through the cavity into a spacious cell. The moment he entered, the spirit that had supported him failed, and he fainted.
The venerable man poured water upon him, and when he perceived returning life, forced a little wine down his throat, that revived him.—He next examined his bruises, and anointed them with some oil, the only thing he had that could do good, and having shook up his mattress of straw, he covered it with a blanket, and laid Ferdinand upon it. In a very short time, overcome with fatigue and weakness, he dropped asleep, and enjoyed comfortable rest for more than six hours.
When he awoke, though stiff and sore, yet his spirits and strength seemed much recruited; the good man gave him some bread and wine, and with a few simple herbs and oil, prepared to dress his wound and bruises.—Luckily the ball passed quite through his arm, and wounded his side, without lodging in it; therefore his venerable host gave him hopes no ill consequences would ensue from that; the bruises would be more troublesome than the wound; but as he observed, 'twas a miracle that every bone had not been broken.
Ferdinand mentioned to him the accident as well as he could recollect; for the whole was so momentary, that he was hardly sensible how it happened. The old man paused, and considered.
"Possibly," said he, "there may be banditti in the neighbouring hills and woods, but I never heard of any accident there; 'tis a strange business; but thank Heaven, my son, whatever was their evil intent, you have escaped with life; and if in a few days you are able to walk, there is a castle not far off, where you will be better taken care of than by me."
Ferdinand thanked the venerable man, and was grateful to Heaven, who had so wonderfully preserved him. The simple remedies applied to his hurts, agreed perfectly well with them; and in the course of two days he began to feel considerably better.