The castle of Mazzini was still the scene of dissension and misery.
The impatience and astonishment of the marquis being daily increased
by the lengthened absence of the duke, he dispatched servants to the
forest of Marentino, to enquire the occasion of this circumstance.
They returned with intelligence that neither Julia, the duke, nor any
of his people were there. He therefore concluded that his daughter had
fled the cottage upon information of the approach of the duke, who, he
believed, was still engaged in the pursuit. With respect to
Ferdinand, who yet pined in sorrow and anxiety in his dungeon, the
rigour of the marquis's conduct was unabated. He apprehended that his
son, if liberated, would quickly discover the retreat of Julia, and by
his advice and assistance confirm her in disobedience.
Ferdinand, in the stillness and solitude of his dungeon, brooded over
the late calamity in gloomy ineffectual lamentation. The idea of
Hippolitus--of Hippolitus murdered--arose to his imagination in busy
intrusion, and subdued the strongest efforts of his fortitude. Julia
too, his beloved sister--unprotected--unfriended--might, even at the
moment he lamented her, be sinking under sufferings dreadful to
humanity. The airy schemes he once formed of future felicity,
resulting from the union of two persons so justly dear to him--with
the gay visions of past happiness--floated upon his fancy, and the
lustre they reflected served only to heighten, by contrast, the
obscurity and gloom of his present views. He had, however, a new
subject of astonishment, which often withdrew his thoughts from their
accustomed object, and substituted a sensation less painful, though
scarcely less powerful. One night as he lay ruminating on the past, in
melancholy dejection, the stillness of the place was suddenly
interrupted by a low and dismal sound. It returned at intervals in
hollow sighings, and seemed to come from some person in deep distress.
So much did fear operate upon his mind, that he was uncertain whether
it arose from within or from without. He looked around his dungeon,
but could distinguish no object through the impenetrable darkness. As
he listened in deep amazement, the sound was repeated in moans more
hollow. Terror now occupied his mind, and disturbed his reason; he
started from his posture, and, determined to be satisfied whether any
person beside himself was in the dungeon, groped, with arms extended,
along the walls. The place was empty; but coming to a particular spot,
the sound suddenly arose more distinctly to his ear. He called aloud,
and asked who was there; but received no answer. Soon after all was
still; and after listening for some time without hearing the sounds
renewed, he laid himself down to sleep. On the following day he
mentioned to the man who brought him food what he had heard, and
enquired concerning the noise. The servant appeared very much
terrified, but could give no information that might in the least
account for the circumstance, till he mentioned the vicinity of the
dungeon to the southern buildings. The dreadful relation formerly
given by the marquis instantly recurred to the mind of Ferdinand, who
did not hesitate to believe that the moans he heard came from the
restless spirit of the murdered Della Campo. At this conviction,
horror thrilled his nerves; but he remembered his oath, and was
silent. His courage, however, yielded to the idea of passing another
night alone in his prison, where, if the vengeful spirit of the
murdered should appear, he might even die of the horror which its
appearance would inspire.
The mind of Ferdinand was highly superior to the general influence of
superstition; but, in the present instance, such strong correlative
circumstances appeared, as compelled even incredulity to yield. He had
himself heard strange and awful sounds in the forsaken southern
buildings; he received from his father a dreadful secret relative to
them--a secret in which his honor, nay even his life, was bound up.
His father had also confessed, that he had himself there seen
appearances which he could never after remember without horror, and
which had occasioned him to quit that part of the castle. All these
recollections presented to Ferdinand a chain of evidence too powerful
to be resisted; and he could not doubt that the spirit of the dead had
for once been permitted to revisit the earth, and to call down
vengeance on the descendants of the murderer.
This conviction occasioned him a degree of horror, such as no
apprehension of mortal powers could have excited; and he determined,
if possible, to prevail on Peter to pass the hours of midnight with
him in his dungeon. The strictness of Peter's fidelity yielded to the
persuasions of Ferdinand, though no bribe could tempt him to incur the
resentment of the marquis, by permitting an escape. Ferdinand passed
the day in lingering anxious expectation, and the return of night
brought Peter to the dungeon. His kindness exposed him to a danger
which he had not foreseen; for when seated in the dungeon alone with
his prisoner, how easily might that prisoner have conquered him and
left him to pay his life to the fury of the marquis. He was preserved
by the humanity of Ferdinand, who instantly perceived his advantage,
but disdained to involve an innocent man in destruction, and spurned
the suggestion from his mind.
Peter, whose friendship was stronger than his courage, trembled with
apprehension as the hour drew nigh in which the groans had been heard
on the preceding night. He recounted to Ferdinand a variety of
terrific circumstances, which existed only in the heated imaginations
of his fellow-servants, but which were still admitted by them as
facts. Among the rest, he did not omit to mention the light and the
figure which had been seen to issue from the south tower on the night
of Julia's intended elopement; a circumstance which he embellished
with innumerable aggravations of fear and wonder. He concluded with
describing the general consternation it had caused, and the consequent
behaviour of the marquis, who laughed at the fears of his people, yet
condescended to quiet them by a formal review of the buildings whence
their terror had originated. He related the adventure of the door
which refused to yield, the sounds which arose from within, and the
discovery of the fallen roof; but declared that neither he, nor any of
his fellow servants, believed the noise or the obstruction proceeded
from that, 'because, my lord,' continued he, 'the door seemed to be
held only in one place; and as for the noise--O! Lord! I never shall
forget what a noise it was!--it was a thousand times louder than what
any stones could make.'
Ferdinand listened to this narrative in silent wonder! wonder not
occasioned by the adventure described, but by the hardihood and
rashness of the marquis, who had thus exposed to the inspection of his
people, that dreadful spot which he knew from experience to be the
haunt of an injured spirit; a spot which he had hitherto scrupulously
concealed from human eye, and human curiosity; and which, for so many
years, he had not dared even himself to enter. Peter went on, but was
presently interrupted by a hollow moan, which seemed to come from
beneath the ground. 'Blessed virgin!' exclaimed he: Ferdinand listened
in awful expectation. A groan longer and more dreadful was repeated,
when Peter started from his seat, and snatching up the lamp, rushed
out of the dungeon. Ferdinand, who was left in total darkness,
followed to the door, which the affrighted Peter had not stopped to
fasten, but which had closed, and seemed held by a lock that could be
opened only on the outside. The sensations of Ferdinand, thus
compelled to remain in the dungeon, are not to be imagined. The
horrors of the night, whatever they were to be, he was to endure
alone. By degrees, however, he seemed to acquire the valour of
despair. The sounds were repeated, at intervals, for near an hour,
when silence returned, and remained undisturbed during the rest of the
night. Ferdinand was alarmed by no appearance, and at length, overcome
with anxiety and watching, he sunk to repose.
On the following morning Peter returned to the dungeon, scarcely
knowing what to expect, yet expecting something very strange, perhaps
the murder, perhaps the supernatural disappearance of his young lord.
Full of these wild apprehensions, he dared not venture thither alone,
but persuaded some of the servants, to whom he had communicated his
terrors, to accompany him to the door. As they passed along he
recollected, that in the terror of the preceding night he had forgot
to fasten the door, and he now feared that his prisoner had made his
escape without a miracle. He hurried to the door; and his surprize was
extreme to find it fastened. It instantly struck him that this was the
work of a supernatural power, when on calling aloud, he was answered
by a voice from within. His absurd fear did not suffer him to
recognize the voice of Ferdinand, neither did he suppose that
Ferdinand had failed to escape, he, therefore, attributed the voice to
the being he had heard on the preceding night; and starting back from
the door, fled with his companions to the great hall. There the uproar
occasioned by their entrance called together a number of persons,
amongst whom was the marquis, who was soon informed of the cause of
alarm, with a long history of the circumstances of the foregoing
night. At this information, the marquis assumed a very stern look, and
severely reprimanded Peter for his imprudence, at the same time
reproaching the other servants with their undutifulness in thus
disturbing his peace. He reminded them of the condescension he had
practised to dissipate their former terrors, and of the result of
their examination. He then assured them, that since indulgence had
only encouraged intrusion, he would for the future be severe; and
concluded with declaring, that the first man who should disturb him
with a repetition of such ridiculous apprehensions, or should attempt
to disturb the peace of the castle by circulating these idle notions,
should be rigorously punished, and banished his dominions. They shrunk
back at his reproof, and were silent. 'Bring a torch,' said the
marquis, 'and shew me to the dungeon. I will once more condescend to
confute you.'
They obeyed, and descended with the marquis, who, arriving at the
dungeon, instantly threw open the door, and discovered to the
astonished eyes of his attendants--Ferdinand!--He started with
surprize at the entrance of his father thus attended. The
marquis darted upon him a severe look, which he perfectly
comprehended.--'Now,' cried he, turning to his people, 'what do you
see? My son, whom I myself placed here, and whose voice, which
answered to your calls, you have transformed into unknown sounds.
Speak, Ferdinand, and confirm what I say.' Ferdinand did so. 'What
dreadful spectre appeared to you last night?' resumed the marquis,
looking stedfastly upon him: 'gratify these fellows with a description
of it, for they cannot exist without something of the marvellous.'
'None, my lord,' replied Ferdinand, who too well understood the manner
of the marquis. ''Tis well,' cried the marquis, 'and this is the last
time,' turning to his attendants, 'that your folly shall be treated
with so much lenity.' He ceased to urge the subject, and forbore to
ask Ferdinand even one question before his servants, concerning the
nocturnal sounds described by Peter. He quitted the dungeon with eyes
steadily bent in anger and suspicion upon Ferdinand. The marquis
suspected that the fears of his son had inadvertently betrayed to
Peter a part of the secret entrusted to him, and he artfully
interrogated Peter with seeming carelessness, concerning the
circumstances of the preceding night. From him he drew such answers as
honorably acquitted Ferdinand of indiscretion, and relieved himself
from tormenting apprehensions.
The following night passed quietly away; neither sound nor appearance
disturbed the peace of Ferdinand. The marquis, on the next day,
thought proper to soften the severity of his sufferings, and he was
removed from his dungeon to a room strongly grated, but exposed to the
light of day.
Meanwhile a circumstance occurred which increased the general discord,
and threatened Emilia with the loss of her last remaining comfort--the
advice and consolation of Madame de Menon. The marchioness, whose
passion for the Count de Vereza had at length yielded to absence, and
the pressure of present circumstances, now bestowed her smiles upon a
young Italian cavalier, a visitor at the castle, who possessed too
much of the spirit of gallantry to permit a lady to languish in vain.
The marquis, whose mind was occupied with other passions, was
insensible to the misconduct of his wife, who at all times had the
address to disguise her vices beneath the gloss of virtue and innocent
freedom. The intrigue was discovered by madame, who, having one day
left a book in the oak parlour, returned thither in search of it. As
she opened the door of the apartment, she heard the voice of the
cavalier in passionate exclamation; and on entering, discovered him
rising in some confusion from the feet of the marchioness, who,
darting at madame a look of severity, arose from her seat. Madame,
shocked at what she had seen, instantly retired, and buried in her own
bosom that secret, the discovery of which would most essentially have
poisoned the peace of the marquis. The marchioness, who was a stranger
to the generosity of sentiment which actuated Madame de Menon, doubted
not that she would seize the moment of retaliation, and expose her
conduct where most she dreaded it should be known. The consciousness
of guilt tortured her with incessant fear of discovery, and from this
period her whole attention was employed to dislodge from the castle
the person to whom her character was committed. In this it was not
difficult to succeed; for the delicacy of madame's feelings made her
quick to perceive, and to withdraw from a treatment unsuitable to the
natural dignity of her character. She therefore resolved to depart
from the castle; but disdaining to take an advantage even over a
successful enemy, she determined to be silent on that subject which
would instantly have transferred the triumph from her adversary to
herself. When the marquis, on hearing her determination to retire,
earnestly enquired for the motive of her conduct, she forbore to
acquaint him with the real one, and left him to incertitude and
disappointment.
To Emilia this design occasioned a distress which almost subdued the
resolution of madame. Her tears and intreaties spoke the artless
energy of sorrow. In madame she lost her only friend; and she too well
understood the value of that friend, to see her depart without feeling
and expressing the deepest distress. From a strong attachment to the
memory of the mother, madame had been induced to undertake the
education of her daughters, whose engaging dispositions had
perpetuated a kind of hereditary affection. Regard for Emilia and
Julia had alone for some time detained her at the castle; but this was
now succeeded by the influence of considerations too powerful to be
resisted. As her income was small, it was her plan to retire to her
native place, which was situated in a distant part of the island, and
there take up her residence in a convent.
Emilia saw the time of madame's departure approach with increased
distress. They left each other with a mutual sorrow, which did honour
to their hearts. When her last friend was gone, Emilia wandered
through the forsaken apartments, where she had been accustomed to
converse with Julia, and to receive consolation and sympathy from her
dear instructress, with a kind of anguish known only to those who have
experienced a similar situation. Madame pursued her journey with a
heavy heart. Separated from the objects of her fondest affections, and
from the scenes and occupations for which long habit had formed claims
upon her heart, she seemed without interest and without motive for
exertion. The world appeared a wide and gloomy desert, where no heart
welcomed her with kindness--no countenance brightened into smiles at
her approach. It was many years since she quitted Calini--and in the
interval, death had swept away the few friends she left there. The
future presented a melancholy scene; but she had the retrospect of
years spent in honorable endeavour and strict integrity, to cheer her
heart and encouraged her hopes.
But her utmost endeavours were unable to express the anxiety with
which the uncertain fate of Julia overwhelmed her. Wild and terrific
images arose to her imagination. Fancy drew the scene;--she deepened
the shades; and the terrific aspect of the objects she presented was
heightened by the obscurity which involved them.
[End of Vol. I]