The interior of the building into which the young man now entered,
afforded a strange contrast to the wild and fearful scenes through
which he had just passed. It was like life and death side by side--the
world and the grave; and the change struck him as much, or perhaps
more, than if the particulars had been reversed. It was a little cell,
dependent upon the neighbouring monastery, with a chapel attached to
it, dedicated to Our Lady; but the room into which the door
immediately led was one of the two dwelling-chambers of the priests,
who came up there in weekly turn to officiate at the chapel. It was
low-roofed and small; but, nevertheless, it had an air of comfort and
cheerfulness about it; and the large well-trimmed lamp showed the
whole extent, and left not one corner in obscurity. A little table
stood in the midst, with the good priest seated at it: a book open
before him, and another closed at his side; but besides these objects
of study or devotion, the table bore several things connected with our
corporeal comfort, which showed that at all events the chapel was not
a hermitage. There was a well-roasted capon, and two or three rolls or
small loaves of white bread--a rarity in that part of the country, and
at that time; and besides these, there appeared two or three neat
glasses with twisted stalks, and a capacious green bottle, large in
the bulb, flattened at the sides, and with a neck towering like a
minaret. It was a very promising vessel indeed, for its peculiar
shape, form, and thickness, were too expensive to be in general
bestowed upon bad wine; and the monks were supposed in those days, as
at present, to be very accurate judges of what was really good.
Amongst the most cheerful things in the place, however, was the
countenance of the priest himself. He was a man of somewhat more than
sixty years of age, but fresh, firm, and unbroken, with a complexion
which, originally fair and smooth, seemed only to have grown fairer
and more smooth with years; and though the untonsured part of his hair
was as white as driven snow, his blue eye was as clear and bright as
in youth. His features were high and somewhat aquiline; his eyebrows
long and white; but that which denoted age more than aught else, was
the falling in of the lips by the sad ravages of time upon those
incessant plagues of life--the teeth. His countenance was a cheerful
and contented one; not without lines of thought, and perhaps of care;
but to the eye of one accustomed to read the character upon the face,
the expression would have indicated a temperament and disposition
naturally easy and good-humoured, without any want of mental energy
and activity.
"Ah! Ferdinand," he said, as soon as he beheld his visitor, "you have
kept me long, my son, but that matters not--it is a terrible night,
and the way somewhat troublesome to find. But, all good angels! what
makes you look so pale, boy? Yours is not a cheek to turn white at a
flash of lightning. Sit down, sit down, my son, and refresh yourself.
See, I have provided for your entertainment."
"The way is a terrible one, good Father," replied the young man,
seating himself, and resting his arm upon the table, "and it is one I
will never tread willingly again, unless it be to return home this
night, though that I would not do, if there were any way of avoiding
it."
"Why, how now, how now?" asked the priest. "Never let it be said that
you have been frightened by a score of old monuments, and a few dry
bones."
"That's not all, good Father, that's not all," answered the young man;
and he proceeded to relate, in a low voice, all that he had heard and
seen as he came thither.
"Phantasms of the imagination!" exclaimed the priest. "Voices in the
serfs burying-place! lights in the chapel vaults! No, no, good youth,
such things are quite impossible; these are but tales of the castle
hall, told in the winter's evening round the fire, which have so
filled your imagination that you realize them to yourself in a dark,
stormy night, and a gloomy place. I have gone up there a hundred
times, by night and day, and never yet saw aught but old crumbling
stones and mouldy arches, and fleshless bones here and there; things
fitted, surely, to produce solemn thoughts of the mortality of man's
frame, of the vanity of all his works, and the emptiness of his glory,
but not to fill your head with fancies such as these."
"But, Father, I tell you I heard the voices as distinctly as I hear
you speak," the youth rejoined, in a half angry tone; "that I saw the
light as plainly as I see this before me."
"A flash of lightning," replied the priest.
"No, no," answered his companion, "I never saw a flash of lightning
that lasted uninterrupted, calm, and quiet, for five minutes, nor you
either, Father; nor did I ever hear the thunder ask, 'Who is he?' nor
laugh and hoot like a devil. I would not have believed it myself, had
I not had eyes and ears to witness; and so I cannot blame you for
doubting it. I never was a believer in ghosts or phantoms, or spirits
visiting the earth, till now. I thought them but old women's tales, as
you do."
"Nay, nay," exclaimed the priest, eagerly, "I did not say that;" and
he fell into a deep fit of thought before he proceeded farther. At
length he continued, in a grave tone, saying, "You must not suppose,
Ferdinand, that I doubt, in any degree, that spirits are at times
permitted to visit or revisit this world. We have the warrant of
Scripture for it, and many facts of the kind are testified by fathers
of the church, and holy men, whom it would be a sin to suspect of
falsehood, and a presumption to accuse of foolishness. But I do think
that in thousands of instances where such apparitions are supposed to
have taken place, especially in the present day, there is much more
either of folly or deception than of truth. In this case, although I
have heard the women, and some of the boors, declare that they have
seen strange sights about the castle, I have always fancied the report
mere nonsense, as I never beheld anything of the kind myself; but
there certainly was something odd and unaccountable in the Graf
suddenly shutting up the great hall where his brother used always to
feast with his retainers; and people did say that he had seen a sight
there which had made him dread to enter it again; yet I have passed
through the vaults and the hall, many a time since, without ever
beholding aught to scare me.
"But take some food, my son, aye, and some wine too,--it will refresh
and revive you."
The young man did not object, for, to say truth, he much needed
refreshment, the agitation of the mind being always much more
exhausting than mere corporeal fatigue. The good priest joined in his
supper with moderation, but with evident satisfaction; for, alas that
it should be so! yet, nevertheless, it is a fact, that as we advance
in life, losing pleasure after pleasure, discovering the delusions of
the imagination, which are mixed up with so many of our joys, and the
deceitful character of not a few even of our intellectual delights,
there is a strong tendency to repose upon the scanty remnant of mere
material gratifications that are left to us by the infirmities of the
body. He helped himself and his guest to a glass of the good wine,
took another without hesitation, and then insisted upon Ferdinand
replenishing his glass, and, encouraging him to do so, bore him
company. The young man's spirits rose; the scenes he had just passed
through were partially forgotten, and the feelings and impressions
which he had felt before he set out, and which, indeed, had brought
him thither, once more became predominant. Finishing his meal, he
wiped his dagger, and thrust it back into the sheath; and then turning
to the monk, he said, "Well, good Father George, I have come at your
bidding, and would come further to please you, though I know not well
what you want, even if I suspect a little. There was nothing very
wrong, though I saw you gave me a frown."
"I never thought there was anything wrong, my son," replied the
priest, gravely. "I saw the lady's hand in yours, it is true. I saw
her eyes turned up to yours, with a very beaming look. I saw yours
bent down on her, as if your knee would have soon bent also, but I
never thought there was anything wrong--of course not."
His tone was perfectly serious; but whether it was conscience, or a
knowledge that Father George did not altogether dislike a jest, even
upon grave matters, Ferdinand could not help suspecting that his
companion spoke ironically. He did not feel quite sure of it, however,
and after considering for a moment, he replied, "Well, whatever you
may think, Father, it was all very simple. Her horse had fallen with
her in the morning; I had not seen her since I had aided to raise her,
and I was only asking how she had fared after the accident."
"Nothing more, I doubt not," replied the priest, in the same tone.
"On my life, on my honour!" exclaimed the young man.
"And yet you love her, and she loves you, Ferdinand," rejoined Father
George, with a quiet smile. "Deny it not, my boy, for it is a fact."
"Well," answered the youth, with a glowing cheek, "it may be true that
I love her, but I love without hope, and I do trust--though perhaps
you may not believe me when I say so--I do trust that she does not
love me, for I would not, for my right hand, that she should ever know
the bitterness of such hopeless passion."
"But why hopeless?" demanded the priest, and paused for an answer.
The young man gazed upon him in surprise, almost amounting to
irritation; for deep feeling, except when it is so intense as to lose
all sense of external things, will not bear to be trifled with, and he
thought the old man was jesting with his passion.
"Why hopeless!" he exclaimed at length. "By difference of station, by
difference of wealth, by all the cold respects and icy mandates of the
world. Who am I, Father, that I should dare to lift my eyes to the
daughter of a high and mighty lord like this! Noble I may be--you have
told me so--but--"
"As noble as herself," replied the priest. "Nay, if blood be all,
higher in station. True, fortune has not befriended you, but that same
goddess was ever a fickle and capricious dame, and those she raises
high one day she sinks low the next, to lift up others in their stead.
How many a mighty lord has been pulled from his chair of state, to end
his days in dungeons. We have heard of emperors confined to a poor
cell, and of princes and heroes begging their bread. The time may
come, boy, when upon your arm may hang the fortunes of that lady's
house, when to you she may cling for protection and support; and the
sun that now shines for her father, may shine for you."
Ferdinand shook his head with a desponding smile, as if it were nigh a
mockery to talk of such things. "Whence should those golden days come,
Father?" he asked. "Even opportunity, the great touchstone of the
heart and mind, the gate of all success, the pathway of ambition,
love, and hope, is closed and barred to me. But yesterday--it seems
but yesterday I was her father's page; and a day earlier, a boy
running through the abbey grounds, under your kind care and good
instruction--the object of your bounty, of your charity, I do
believe--"
"Nay, not so," exclaimed the priest, quickly; "you had your little
store of wealth when you fell to my charge, Ferdinand. I have doled it
out as I thought best in your nurture and education, but I have still
some remaining, which I have invested for you in land near the abbey,
and am ready to account for all. But still, even if all were as you
say, I see not why you should be in so hopeless a mood; all ladies may
be won, all difficulties overcome. There is a chance given to every
man in life, his be the fault if he do not seize it."
"The distance is too far, Father," answered the young man. "I have
often, when I was a boy, stood and looked at the sun rising through
the clouds, and when a bright, broad ray has travelled forth like a
pall laid for some emperor's tread, stretching from the golden canopy
hung over the ascending monarch of the day, and reaching well nigh to
my feet, I have almost thought that I could tread upon it, and wend my
way to heaven. But such fancies have passed now, Father; such suns no
longer shine for me; and in the broad, harsh noonday of manhood, I
dream such dreams no more."
"But you dream others no less bright, Ferdinand," replied the priest.
"Visions of triumph in the field, and mighty deeds, and great renown,
and service to the State, and beauty's smile; fame, happiness, and
joy, float even now before your eyes, and those visions may prove
true. Did I want proof that such things still are busy in your heart,
your very gay and flowery words would show them to me. I am the last
to bid you banish them, my son; when well directed and kept within
reasonable bounds, they are often the harbingers of great success."
"But who shall direct them for me?" asked his young companion, who had
heard encouragement so little expected with evident marks of surprise;
"who shall fix the bounds to be called reasonable? To me most of those
dreams seem foolish, especially that which is sweetest."
"I will direct, if you will let me," answered the priest. "I will fix
the bounds; and to begin, I tell you that the hope you fancy the most
visionary is the least so. But leave the matter to me, my dear
Ferdinand; follow my counsel, and Adelaide shall be yours, and that
speedily."
"Oh, Father!" exclaimed the young man, stretching forth his hand, and
grasping that of the priest, "do not--do not, I beseech, you, raise in
me such hopes, if there be a probability of their failure."
"There is none," replied Father George. "Pursue the course before you
boldly; seek her resolutely, though calmly and secretly; tell her of
your love; win her confidence, gain whatever ascendency you can over
her mind, and leave all the rest to me."
"But, Father, what will be said of my honour, when all is discovered,
as it must be?" rejoined the young man. "What torrents of reproach
will fall upon me,--what disgrace, what indignity, will not be heaped
upon me! Danger I do not fear, death itself I would encounter, but for
the chance of possessing her; but shame--I cannot bear shame, Father."
"Think you, my son," asked the priest, somewhat sternly, "that I would
counsel you to anything that is disgraceful? I only advise you to
caution and secrecy, because you would meet with opposition in the
outset. Have no fear, however, as to the result. I will justify you
fully. I have told you that you are her equal in birth, if not at
present in wealth; that you have a right to seek her hand; nay, more,
that if your heart goes with it, it is expedient both for you and her
that you should do so."
"This is all a mystery to me," replied the young man, thoughtfully.
"Ay," answered the priest; "but there are many mysteries in this life,
which it is well not to scan. However, if there be blame, your blame
be upon me. Still, it is right that you should be able to show that
you have not yielded to mere passion; and before you go, I will give
you, under my hand, authority for what you do, for you must neither
doubt nor hesitate."
"I do not hesitate, Father," said Ferdinand, with a smile. "Heaven
knows that my heart prompts me only too eagerly to follow such
pleasant counsel. I will go on, then; but you must be ever ready to
advise and assist me; for, remember, I am working in the dark, and may
need aid and direction in a thousand difficult circumstances, which
neither I nor you foresee."
"Advice shall be ever at your command," answered Father George, "and
aid, stronger and better than perhaps you expect; only pursue
implicitly the course I point out, and I will be answerable for the
end. Now let us talk of other things. How goes the party at the
castle--well and cheerfully?"
"Nay," replied the young man, "never very cheerful, good Father. The
Count,[1] you know, is not of a merry disposition."
--------------------
[Footnote 1: I shall adopt the word Count instead of Graf, as the
English translation of the title; and shall also follow throughout the
same course with regard to other honorary designations, as more
convenient.]
--------------------
"No, indeed," said the priest, "he never was so, even from a youth; a
dark, stern heart throws its shadow far around, as a bright and
benevolent one casts light on everything. He's a very different man
from his brother, the last Count, who was cheerfulness itself, full of
gay jest and merry happiness, looking lightly and mirthfully upon all
indifferent things, yet not without due reverence and feeling for the
essential duties of a Catholic Christian and a man. Ah, those were
merry days at the old castle, then. The board was always well filled
in the great hall; good meat, good wine, gay guests, and pleasant
talk--in which the noble lord himself still led others on to enjoy,
and seemed to find a pleasure in their pleasure--those were things
always to be found where there is now nothing but gloom, and state,
and cold service. There were no ghosts then, Ferdinand; no spirits but
cheerful ones haunted hall or bower;"--and the old man fell into a fit
of thought, seeming to ponder pleasantly upon the times past, though
they might contrast themselves in his mind with the darker aspect of
the present.
Ferdinand also remained thoughtful for several minutes, but then rose,
saying, "I must be wending my way homeward, Father, though I doubt I
shall hardly find it, as I have now no lamp, and those vaults are
intricate."
"Stay a while, stay a while," answered Father George, "the storm will
not last long, and I will go with you. No spirits will show themselves
in my presence, I am sure."
"Oh, I fear them not now," replied Ferdinand; "such hopes as you have
given me to-night, Father, will be a spell to lay them."
The old man smiled, well knowing that, notwithstanding the boast, his
young companion would not at all object to his company; but he merely
replied, "I will take my lantern, youth; for without a light you might
lose yourself in the caves, as some have done before you. Look out,
and see how the sky appears. The thunder has ceased, I think."
The young man opened the door, and took a step forth, and then
returning, said, "It lightens still, but faintly; and it rains a
little. It will soon be over though, I think;" and seating himself
again, he spent about half an hour more in conversation with the
priest. At the end of that time, the rain having ceased, they set out
together for the castle, while the faint flashes of the electric
fluid, with which the air was still loaded, gleamed over the sky from
time to time, and a distant roar to the westward told that the storm
was visiting other lands. It was a toilsome journey up the steep
ascent, rendered slippery by the wet, for a man of Father George's
years, but he bore up stoutly, and at length they reached the entrance
of the crypt below the chapel. Pushing the door open boldly, the old
man went in, and advancing some twenty or thirty steps, held up the
lantern and looked round. Nothing was to be seen, however, and no
sound but the fall of their own footsteps reached the ear of either of
the two wanderers, as they pursued their way through the chapel-vaults
and the excavations in the rock against which the building was raised.
In the midst of what was called the Serfs' Burying-place, however,
close by the spot where the skeleton was chained to the column, Father
George paused, and gazed for an instant at the sad sight which it
presented. "Ah, poor fellow!" he said, "they bound him there, and
strangled him against the pillar, for murdering his master, the last
Count, when fighting far away; but to the last he declared, that
whatever hand had done it, it was not his act--and I believed him, for
he loved the Count well, and the Count loved him. 'Tis twenty years
ago, and yet see how the bones hold together. Come on, my son; I will
see you to the hall door, and then leave you."
Ferdinand, who was not at all partial to a prolonged stay in the
vaults, readily followed, and when they reached the little door that
led into the hall, the good priest remarked, with a quiet smile, "We
have seen no ghosts, my son, nor heard them either."
"True, Father, true," replied the young man; "but those who have heard
and seen must believe. I trust that you may pass back as unmolested as
we came."
"I fear not, Ferdinand," answered Father George; "and what is more,
you must also shake off all apprehensions; for in order to win her you
love, you may have often to tread these same paths."
"If there were a devil in every niche, Father," replied Ferdinand, "I
would face them all for her sake."
"Well, well, good night," said the priest, shaking his head: "love is
the religion of a young man, and if it lead him not to wrong, it may
lead him to things higher than itself. Keep the key as a treasure,
good youth, for it may prove one to you in case of need."
Thus saying, the old man suffered him to light his lamp at the
lantern, which was not done without difficulty, as the drops of rain
had somewhat wetted the wick; and ere Ferdinand had reached the
opposite end of the hall, after leaving the priest, his light was
extinguished again, and he had to feel his way to his own chamber,
along the dark corridors and staircases of the building. He was wet
and tired, but he felt no inclination to sleep, even though darkness
continued for more than one hour after he had returned to the castle.
There was a brighter light in his heart than that of morning, and in
it the new-born hopes sported like gay children at their play. The
hour passed away; and having cast off his wet garments, the youth lay
down for a few minutes on the bed, but half dressed, thinking--"I will
sleep if I can; for it is better they should accuse me of late rising
than see from my pillow that it has not been pressed all night." But
sleep, like all the pleasant things of life, will not come for much
seeking. In vain he shut his eyes; the grey light of dawn found its
way between the lashes, sounds were heard in the castle, showing that
some of the inferior attendants had risen; and the night watch was
relieved under the window of the tower in which he slept. A moment
after, however, came another noise; a distant horn sounded, there was
a cry of dogs borne from a distance on the air; and with all the quick
temerity of aristocratic blood in regard to the sports of the field,
the youth started up on his couch and listened. Again the deep
melodious music of hound and horn was heard, and bounding from his
bed, he threw open the casement and called to the guard, asking--"Is
the Count abroad?"
The answer was in the negative, and throwing on hastily the rest of
his dry clothes, the youth rushed out as if to combat an enemy.