The Count of Ehrenstein tossed uneasily on his bed, in that state
between sleeping and waking, when the mind neither enjoys quiet
repose, nor yet lives as an active being dissevered from the body, in
continuous and regular dreams--when scattered and disjointed fragments
of visions cross the imagination--when voices call and suddenly sink
away from the ear--when figures appear for an instant, and are lost
before we can accurately see what they are. Often his bosom heaved and
panted, as if oppressed with some terrible load. Often murmured words
and smothered cries broke low and indistinctly from his lips. Often
the eyeballs would roll under their filmy curtain, as if some sight of
horror presented itself to fancy.
At length the grey light of day streamed through the narrow window,
and fell upon the sleeping man's countenance; and then having turned
for a moment from side to side, he started up and gazed towards the
casement, with a bewildered look, as if he knew not where he was.
After leaning his head upon his hand, and apparently thinking deeply
for several minutes, he rose and dressed himself without aid. Then
walking to the little dark anteroom, in which two of his attendants,
or _knechts_, were sleeping, he drew back the bolt of the door--for
his was not a heart without suspicion--and stirred one of the men with
his foot, as he lay upon the ground, bidding him go and tell Ferdinand
of Altenburg to come down upon the eastern rampart immediately. Having
given these orders, he himself issued forth, and walked slowly up and
down, now casting his eyes upon the stones beneath his feet, now
gazing at the rising sun. But few minutes had elapsed, however, ere
Ferdinand was at his side, and the Count turned towards him, saying,
"What! up so early? You should have no dreams, young man, to break
your rest."
"Nay, my lord," replied Ferdinand, "every one dreams, I suppose. Have
you been disturbed?"
"That have I," answered the Count. "I have seldom passed a more
troublous night, and yet I was weary, too, when I went to rest."
"Were they good or evil visions, my lord," asked the young man. "Mine
were all bright."
"Would that mine had been so!" answered the Count. "But they were wild
and whirling things, and 'tis no matter--and yet these undigested
thoughts," he continued, after a short pause, "these fanciful nothings
of the dreaming brain, trouble us as much at the time as fierce
realities--nay, perhaps more. I have suffered more bitterly, at
times, in some dark vision of the night--yes, even in my corporeal
frame,--than even choking death itself could inflict. I cannot but
think that there is a land to which the spirits of the sleeping travel
for a time, and undergo a strange and wayward fate, till they are
called back again. I've often fancied there must be such a place: a
kingdom of dreams, as it were, to which all the strange actions and
thoughts of the world are sent as soon as done, as a sort of commodity
or merchandise, and there are mingled up by some fantastic power with
the productions of the land itself. There go the images of the dead,
the voices that are lost upon the earth, the passionate loves and
follies of our youth, the thirsty ambition of our manhood, the crimes
and the temptations of all years, even the very thoughts of infancy,
and there we find them all, when the spirit is summoned from the
slumbering body to visit that strange country. Else, how is it, that
when we lie with darkness all around us, no sight, no sound, no scent,
to wake up memory, things long forgotten, faces that no effort of the
waking mind could call before the eye of fancy, voices that have long
ceased to ring in the deafened ear of forgetfulness, come upon us, all
strong and vivid as reality; ay, even the feelings also no longer
suited to our state of being, totally dissonant to the condition of
our corporeal frame or to our mental age:--such as the joys and
pastimes of our early boyhood, and the prattled pleasures of our baby
days? Yet there they all are--bright as if in life, though strangely
mixed with other wilder things, and cast into mad impossible array.
Last night it seemed as if every action of my life, charmed by some
frantic Orpheus, danced around me in wild and grotesque forms--never
pausing till I had leisure to taste one joy, or power to resist one
pang. Would to Heaven! I could be a boy again, and, with the knowledge
of each act's results, live over life anew--It would be a very
different one!"
Ferdinand had let him proceed without observation or question; indeed
he was too much surprised to answer, for he had never before heard the
Count speak thus to any one. It seemed, in truth, more as if he were
talking to himself than to his companion; as if the weight of thought
overpowered him, and he cast down the burden where he could. But the
young man's surprise was not less excited by the matter of the
confidence, than by the confidence itself. He knew the Count was
learned far beyond most of the nobles of his day. He knew that he was
thoughtful; but he had ever seemed in disposition, worldly, grasping,
avaricious; evil qualities, as he thought, perfectly incompatible with
fancy. In his inexperience of the world, he was not aware how
frequently habits of thought and of desire often produced in us by the
operation of a long train of ruling circumstances--overbear the
natural bent of the mind, and lead us to a course of life, and to
innumerable actions, utterly inharmonious with the original tone of
the character. It is so; and there is scarcely any man who is not thus
walled in by circumstances in his course; scarcely any tree that,
however upright its original shoot, is not bent by the prevailing
wind. Nevertheless, when the mind is left free for a moment from the
habitual influences,--when the passions that have been indulged are
not called into play,--when the desires that have usurped a sway over
us, are for a time without either object or opposition, the original
character of the mind is suffered to indulge itself for a brief space,
like a prisoner allowed a few moments of free air. So was it with the
Count of Ehrenstein. Busy with the thoughts which had succeeded to his
dreams, he forgot not only his motives for sending for the young man
at his side, but also his habitual reserve; and led from one feeling
to another, as he discoursed imaginatively of the visions of the
night, he was hurried on to admit those sensations of regret which,
sooner or later, visit every one of Adam's race, but which the pride
that entered in us at the Fall forbids us to acknowledge.
Ferdinand had walked on by his side, thoughtful and interested, with
his eyes, too, bent down upon the pavement of the rampart, and eager
to hear more. But soon after the Count paused, the young man brought
the confession, if it may be so called, to a conclusion, by asking a
question which would naturally rise in any simple and straightforward
heart, saying,--"Is it not very easy to repair, my lord, that which
has been done amiss?"
"No, no, youth," answered the Count, turning upon him, and speaking
almost bitterly, "that is a foolish error. It is never possible to
repair aught that has been done amiss. Each act, once performed, is
irrevocable. It is more,--it is a foundation-stone upon which, under
the lash of the stern taskmaster, Fate, we must, whether we will or
not, build up a part of the fabric of our life. Now do not go, silly
boy! and from what I have said raise up in your fanciful brain a
belief that I have committed great crimes, and bitterly repent them.
It is with me as with all men who have power to think, and who try
from the past to extract guidance for the future. I see small errors
producing greater evils; I see pitiful mistakes, which were thought
nothing at first, swelling with bitter consequences,--but nothing
more. Every man, Ferdinand," and he laid his hand upon his shoulder
with a sort of monitory gesture, "every man who has passed through a
great part of life, is like one who has climbed a mountain and is
destined to descend on the other side. If he turns round to look at
the country he has travelled, he sees it spread forth beneath him,
with all its roads and passes, rivers and valleys, laid out as in a
map, and he will ever find he has often lost his way; that there were
paths which would have led him to his object shorter than those he has
taken; that the objects on which he has fixed his eyes to guide him
on, were often wide of the right course; and, in a word, that he has
not accomplished, in, the summer day of life, one-half he might have
done, with less labour, and by easier means. And now let us speak of
other things. You would not say last night what you had seen in the
old hall; now tell me what befell you there. We were then in the hour
of fanciful conceits, when the imagination wanders and easily receives
false impressions. We are now in the broad light of the real day, and
you can better tell, and I can better understand whatever you may have
witnessed there."
"I did not wish to speak last night, my lord," replied Ferdinand, in a
clam and easy tone, "because all the people about us have filled
themselves with fears which would be quite as well away; and all I had
to say would only have made them more afraid. I went straight to the
hall as you directed--I do not mean to say that I would not rather
have had a light--but neither flesh nor spirit shall turn me from
doing what I have undertaken to perform. I found the door fastened,
however, and after having lifted the latch, I shook it hard, but it
did not give way. For a minute, I thought of coming back to tell you;
but then I fancied that you and the rest might doubt me, and I tried
again. Just then I think I heard a heavy grating sound, but, however,
the door opened, and I went in. At first I could hardly see--"
"Why, the moon shone, and must have given plenty of light through the
windows," replied the Count.
"There was too much light, my good lord," answered Ferdinand. "I came
out of the dark vestibule, and when I entered the hall, it was all in
a blaze of light. The suits of old armour that stand against the wall
had, each one, a gauntleted hand extended, and in it was a torch. It
seemed, indeed, that there were more suits than usual, but I did not
stay to count them, for as soon as I could see, I hurried on, passing
the table where they were seated--"
"Who?" exclaimed the Count, "who were seated?"
"Nay, my lord, I cannot tell you," answered Ferdinand. "Some six or
eight tall figures, each wrapped in a strange garment like a shroud,
dusty and soiled; as if they had lain long in the earth, covering the
head, and falling down to the eyes. My heart felt very heavy, and beat
fast, and I dared not look narrowly at them. But I drew my sword, and
hurried on, mounting into the great chair to reach the banner; when,
just as I laid my hand upon it, the voices of those round the table
said, 'Health to the Count of Ehrenstein! health to the living dead!'
and looking round, I saw that they had cups raised high, as if they
were pursuing their unearthly wassail without seeing or noticing my
presence. I felt somewhat faint and sick, but I tore down the banner,
breaking, I fear, the rest that held it, and hurried out as fast as I
could go. As I paused to take breath, I heard a loud clang behind, but
what it was I do not know."
"We will see, we will see," said the Count, sternly; "six or eight,
did you say?
"Ay, my good lord, at the least," replied Ferdinand.
"Can there be some trick in this?" rejoined the Count, and fell into a
fit of deep thought, which occupied him for several minutes. "And yet
all the men were in the hall," he continued, evidently showing which
way his suspicions turned. "I marked the absence of none, except the
horse boys."
"They would not dare, my lord," replied Ferdinand. "There is scarce a
man in the whole castle would venture thither in the broad day, and
surely none at night."
"True, true," rejoined the Count, "but yet they shall venture thither
if I live till supper time. What could this clang be that followed
your coming out? We all heard it, even at that distance."
"I shall soon see, my lord, if it have left any trace behind it, for
should you hold your intention of feasting in the hall to-night, they
shall not stop me from decking it forth as I have promised."
"You seem right willing to venture with these ghosts," said the Count,
with his habitual sharp suspicion.
"They have done me no harm as yet, my lord," answered Ferdinand
boldly, well understanding what was passing in the Count's mind. "When
you have seen some such sight yourself, you will believe, but,
doubtless, not till then. I would not myself unless I had seen."
"Well, I will try," replied the Count. "Come with me now, and perhaps
we may discover what was the cause of this clatter, which shook the
whole castle as you were returning."
He spoke somewhat scornfully, and Ferdinand made no reply, but
followed as his lord led on, with hasty strides, as if either
impatient to see the state of the hall with his own eyes, or fearful
that his resolution would fail before his intention was fulfilled.
On their way they passed through the lesser hall, where their meals
were now usually taken, and thence through a long stone passage, which
crossed the entrance from the great gates, down a broad flight of
steps, and into the vestibule by one of the smaller doors opposite to
that the great hall. There the Count paused for a moment, as if he
hesitated, then putting his hand upon the latch, he lifted it, and
flung back the ponderous mass of wood-work, which yielded at once to
his hand. With an eager and straining gaze, his eye ran round the wide
vaulted chamber, which was vacant of every living thing; but still the
sight that it presented offered strange confirmation of the tale which
Ferdinand had told. The twelve suits of old armour, no longer in the
mode and fashion of the time, which had been for many years ranged
along the wall opposite to the windows, upon wooden standards that
kept them in an erect position, were now cast prone upon the pavement,
and the lances, swords, and axes, which had been arranged in fanciful
devices, between them, were likewise strewed upon the ground as if
they had been flung down at once by an earthquake. The old banners
remained waving overhead, but that which had formerly hung over the
chair of state, and which the Count had sent Ferdinand to fetch on the
preceding night, was no longer to be seen. The chair which had been
the only piece of furniture left in the hall, stood there still, with
its cushion of crimson velvet, affording a strange contrast to the air
of desolation presented by the whole of the rest of the scene; the
broken casements, the mouldering banners, the rusty suits of armour
cast down, and the disjointed pavement, with the green grass growing
up between the crevices of the stone.
The Count took a step across the threshold, and then stopped short,
repeating several times, "This is very strange!" To have supposed that
Ferdinand himself had cast the armour down, was out of the question,
for it would have taken him half an hour to do it, and the first
impression upon the Count's mind was evidently one of awe, if not of
terror. But still there seemed to be doubts, or else he thought fit to
assume them to cover the emotions which he really felt; for after
remaining for several minutes in the same position, he turned suddenly
round to his young companion, inquiring, "Where sat these things you
saw? Here is neither board nor bench, for them to hold their revels."
Ferdinand's face was very grave, and even sad, but he replied at once,
walking some ten paces forward, to a spot on the left-hand side of the
hall; "Here they were seated, my lord, or appeared to be so."
The Count followed him, and gazed upon the ground. "They have left no
traces of their presence," he said, at length, and then looking up to
the vacant space where his banner had formerly hung, he asked, "And
did you really take that thing you brought me from that place. The
rest does not seem broken."
"I thought I heard it break, my lord," replied the young man, walking
on towards the chair; but then, stopping as he came up to it, he said,
"Here are the marks of my feet, my lord, in the dust upon the
cushion."
"Well, well, I do not doubt you," said the Count, who had followed;
and then crossing his arms upon his chest, he fell into thought again,
from which he did not rouse himself for a long time. In the end he
exclaimed, with a start, "He shall not drive me hence--I have done him
no wrong," and with a slow pace he trod his way back towards the door.
"There, that will do," he continued, as Ferdinand followed him out; "I
do not want you more; say nothing of what has happened to any one; and
go fly your hawk, or wheel your horse till breakfast time; I will
speak to you further afterwards."
When the hour of breakfast came, and the household were assembled in
the hall, the Count again called Ferdinand up to his own table, and
seemed to regard him with much more favour than he had ever done
before; but the young man remarked that his lord's eye wandered round
the chamber in which they sat, and then rested on the groups of his
followers and attendants, as if calculating whether, with the numbers
which were to be added that day to the party there assembled, the hall
where they then were would contain them all. A fairer object of
contemplation, indeed, was before the young man's eyes, for he was
seated opposite to the Lady Adelaide, on Seckendorf's left hand. She
was a little paler, perhaps, than on the preceding morning, but that
was the only trace which her temporary sickness seemed to have left.
She was more than commonly gay; indeed, though there was a thoughtful
and a feeling tone mingled with her cheerfulness, making it like the
song of a lark, in which, though blithe and happy on the whole, may be
heard sad minor tones by any ear that listens for them.
When the meal was over, the Count rose, saying, "Come with me,
Ferdinand. Come hither, Adelaide;" and walking forth, he led the way
to the corridor above, into which the different apartments occupied by
himself, his daughter, and the maids, opened either directly, or
through their several anterooms. There, after taking a turn backwards
and forwards, he turned to his two young companions, who had followed,
speaking with their looks, and said, "To you two I must trust the
arrangement of the great hall for our guests this evening. It is vain
to ask these dastardly men below, who are frightened at mere shadows;
and the other hall will not hold one-half--that is clear enough."
"Oh, ask them not, my dear father," answered Adelaide. "I and
Ferdinand can do it all, and we have no fears."
"Good faith! dear lady," rejoined Ferdinand, "though I fear not, yet I
somewhat doubt whether unaided we can accomplish all, at least in
time. The armour has somehow fallen down, many of the lozenges of
glass require to be replaced, and, in truth, I hardly know how I am to
manage that. All the rest we might accomplish easily enough."
"That shall be done for you," said the Count, "if you and Adelaide can
do the rest. I would not have my jesting friend and his gay followers
come hither, and say, that they found the Castle of Ehrenstein in
ruins, and its banquet hall as if it never saw a feast. Do the best
you can to give it some air of cheerfulness, wreathe the crescets and
corbels with flowers--there are many in the woods just now--and with
green branches; strew the pavement over thickly with rushes, so that
no flaws be seen. As I go, I will send one to repair the casements who
would beard the devil himself."
"He must come from far, my lord," answered Ferdinand, "for all the
people near have got this tale. I first heard it down at the Abbey;
and not one of the people of the village, I believe, would come up to
save his soul."
"Not very far either," replied the Count; "within a mile of the Abbey,
on the other side. You know Franz Creussen, the great blacksmith?
He'll not fear, I warrant. Why look you so surprised, youth?"
"Because, my lord, I one day heard you threaten to split his skull,"
said Ferdinand, "when he refused to shoe your horses; and certainly he
never showed you any great reverence."
"It would take a sharp sword to split his skull," rejoined the Count.
"A thick-headed blockhead, as rude and as hard as the iron that he
hammers, but if he answers my purpose that is all I heed. He that
doesn't fear me within ten miles around, is not likely to be easily
frightened--I must set forth in half an hour, to meet my noble guest
by the way; and as I go, I'll speak to the man, so that he shall be up
before mid-day. Now, Adelaide, my child, go with your girls and gather
the flowers and tender branches, so that you may make the dull old
hall look light and cheerful as yourself, for there will we all sup
to-night, even if the fiend says, Nay."
Thus saying, he left her standing with Ferdinand. It is strange--it is
very strange, that blindness which in some circumstances comes over
the most clear-sighted upon the questions in which they feel the
deepest interest. But yet it is so common--I might say, so
invariable--that let no one think it unnatural the Count of Ehrenstein
should actually throw his daughter into the way of one to whom he
would never have consented to give her. It was perhaps because he
thought it impossible that such presumptuous love could enter into the
young man's thoughts, It was the blindest of all passions--pride that
dimmed even his keen eyes; and there he left them to the brief caress,
the low spoken words of love, the looks far more eloquent. They both
said they must part at once, yet they both lingered; they both thought
it was no use to risk aught by staying there when they were to meet
again so soon in the old hall, yet the near future could not win them
from the sweet present. They both knew it was dangerous to be seen in
close companionship, and yet the hands met and the thrilling fingers
clasped upon each other. Adelaide would fain hear what had befallen
Ferdinand in the old hall; and he answered by telling how he loved
her. She urged him to go, and to let her go, and he tried--oh, vain
endeavour!--to explain to her the burning thirst of a young lover's
heart to be near her he loves. He told her that one might as well
expect the parched traveller over the Syrian sands to forbear the well
as to ask him to quit her while she would stay; and Adelaide believed
it without difficulty. They said much one way or another, and yet
their conference was not long; for some noise upon the staircase
scared them, and with a fresh spring of joy in their hearts from their
brief interview, they parted for the time and hurried to their several
tasks with the glad hope of meeting soon again.