(CONCLUDED FROM PAGE 192.)
Several weeks passed away. Edward spared no pains to discover
some trace of the lady in question, but all in vain. No one in the
neighborhood knew the family; and he had already determined, as
soon as the spring began, to ask for leave of absence, and to travel
through the country where Ferdinand had formed his unfortunate
attachment, when a circumstance occurred which coincided strangely
with his wishes. His commanding-officer gave him a commission to
purchase some horses, which, to his great consolation, led him exactly
into that part of the country where Ferdinand had been quartered.
It was a market-town of some importance. He was to remain there some
time, which suited his plans exactly; and he made use of every leisure
hour to cultivate the acquaintance of the officers, to inquire into
Ferdinand's connections and acquaintance, to trace the mysterious name
if possible, and thus fulfill a sacred duty. For to him it appeared a
sacred duty to execute the commission of his departed friend--to get
possession of the ring, and to be the means, as he hoped, of giving
rest to the troubled spirit of Ferdinand.
Already, on the evening of the second day, he was sitting in the
coffee-room with burghers of the place and officers of different
regiments.
A newly-arrived cornet was inquiring whether the neighborhood were a
pleasant one, of an infantry officer, one of Hallberg's corps. "For,"
said he, "I come from charming quarters."
"There is not much to boast of," replied the captain. "There is no
good fellowship, no harmony among the people."
"I will tell you why that is," cried an animated lieutenant; "that is
because there is no house as a point of reunion, where one is sure
to find and make acquaintances, and to be amused, and where each
individual ascertains his own merits by the effect they produce on
society at large."
"Yes, we have had nothing of that kind since the Varniers left us,"
said the captain.
"Varniers!" cried Edward, with an eagerness he could ill conceal. "The
name sounds foreign."
"They were not Germans--they were emigrants from the Netherlands, who
had left their country on account of political troubles," replied the
captain.
"Ah, that was a charming house," cried the lieutenant, "cultivation,
refinement, a sufficient competency, the whole style of establishment
free from ostentation, yet most comfortable; and Emily--Emily was the
soul of the whole house."
"Emily Varnier!" echoed Edward, while his heart beat fast and loud.
"Yes, yes! that was the name of the prettiest, most graceful, most
amiable girl in the world," said the lieutenant.
"You seem bewitched by the fair Emily," observed the cornet.
"I think you would have been too, had you known her," rejoined the
lieutenant; "she was the jewel of the whole society. Since she went
away there is no bearing their stupid balls and assemblies."
"But you must not forget," the captain resumed once more, "when you
attribute everything to the charms of the fair girl, that not only
she but the whole family has disappeared, and we have lost that
house which formed, as you say, so charming a point of reunion in our
neighborhood."
"Yes, yes; exactly so," said an old gentleman, a civilian, who had
been silent hitherto; "the Varniers' house is a great loss in the
country, where such losses are not so easily replaced as in a large
town. First, the father died, then came the cousin and carried the
daughter away."
"And did this cousin marry the young lady?" inquired Edward, in a tone
tremulous with agitation.
"Certainly," answered the old gentleman; "it was a very great match
for her; he bought land to the value of half a million about here."
"And he was an agreeable, handsome man, we must all allow," remarked
the captain.
"But she would never have married him," exclaimed the lieutenant, "if
poor Hallberg had not died."
Edward was breathless, but he did not speak a word.
"She would have been compelled to do so in any case," said the old
man; "the father had destined them for each other from infancy,
and people say he made his daughter take a vow as he lay on his
death-bed."
"That sounds terrible," said Edward; "and does not speak much for the
good feeling of the cousin."
"She could not have fulfilled her father's wish," interposed the
lieutenant; "her heart was bound up in Hallberg, and Hallberg's in
her. Few people, perhaps, know this, for the lovers were prudent and
discreet; I, however, knew it all."
"And why was she not allowed to follow the inclination of her heart?"
asked Edward.
"Because her father had promised her," replied the captain: "you used
just now the word terrible; it is a fitting expression, according to
my version of the matter. It appears that one of the branches of the
house of Varnier had committed an act of injustice toward another, and
Emily's father considered it a point of conscience to make reparation.
Only through the marriage of his daughter with a member of the
ill-used branch could that act be obliterated and made up for, and,
therefore, he pressed the matter sorely."
"Yes, and the headlong passion which Emily inspired her cousin with
abetted his designs."
"Then her cousin loved Emily?" inquired Edward.
"Oh, to desperation," was the reply. "He was a rival to her shadow,
who followed her not more closely than he did. He was jealous of the
rose that she placed on her bosom."
"Then poor Emily is not likely to have a calm life with such a man,"
said Edward.
"Come," interposed the old gentleman, with en authoritative tone, "I
think you, gentlemen, go a little too far. I know D'Effernay; he is an
honest, talented man, very rich, indeed, and generous; he anticipates
his wife in every wish. She has the most brilliant house in the
neighborhood, and lives like a princess."
"And trembles," insisted the lieutenant, "when she hears her husband's
footstep. What good can riches be to her? She would have been happier
with Hallberg."
"I do not know," rejoined the captain, "why you always looked upon
that attachment as something so decided. It never appeared so to
me; and you yourself say that D'Effernay is very jealous, which I
believe him to be, for he is a man of strong passions; and this very
circumstance causes me to doubt the rest of your story. Jealousy has
sharp eyes, and D'Effernay would have discovered a rival in Hallberg,
and not proved himself the friend he always was to our poor comrade."
"That does not follow at all," replied the lieutenant, "it only proves
that the lovers were very cautious. So far, however, I agree with you.
I believe that if D'Effernay had suspected anything of the kind he
would have murdered Hallberg."
A shudder passed through Edward's veins.
"Murdered!" he repeated, in a hollow voice; "do you not judge too
harshly of this man when you hint the possibility of such a thing?"
"That does he, indeed," said the old man; "these gentlemen are all
angry with D'Effernay, because he has carried off the prettiest girl
in the country. But I am told he does not intend remaining where he
now lives. He wishes to sell his estates."
"Really," inquired the captain, "and where is he going?"
"I have no idea," replied the other; "but he is selling everything
off. One manor is already disposed of, and there have been people
already in negotiation for the place where he resides."
The conversation now turned on the value of D'Effernay's property, and
of land in general, &c.
Edward had gained materials enough for reflection; he rose soon, took
leave of the company, and gave himself up, in the solitude of his
own room, to the torrent of thought and feeling which that night's
conversation had let loose. So, then, it was true; Emily Varnier was
no fabulous being! Hallberg had loved her, his love had been returned,
but a cruel destiny had separated them. How wonderfully did all he
had heard explain the dream at the Castle, and how completely did
that supply what had remained doubtful, or had been omitted in the
officers' narrative. Emily Varnier, doubtless, possessed that ring, to
gain possession of which now seemed his bounden duty. He resolved not
to delay its fulfillment a moment, however difficult it might prove,
and he only reflected on the best manner in which he should perform
the task allotted to him. The sale of the property appeared to him a
favorable opening. The fame of his father's wealth made it probable
that the son might wish to be purchaser of a fine estate, like the one
in question. He spoke openly of such a project, made inquiries of the
old gentleman, and the captain, who seemed to him to know most about
the matter; and as his duties permitted a trip for a week or so, he
started immediately, and arrived on the second day at the place of his
destination. He stopped in the public house in the village to inquire
if the estate lay near, and whether visitors were allowed to see the
house and grounds. Mine host, who doubtless had had his directions,
sent a messenger immediately to the Castle, who returned before long,
accompanied by a chasseur, in a splendid livery, who invited the
stranger to the Castle in the name of M. D'Effernay.
This was exactly what Edward wished, and expected. Escorted by
the chasseur he soon arrived at the Castle, and was shown up
a spacious staircase into a modern, almost, one might say, a
magnificently-furnished room, where the master of the house received
him. It was evening, toward the end of winter, the shades of twilight
had already fallen, and Edward found himself suddenly in a room quite
illuminated with wax candles. D'Effernay stood in the middle of the
saloon, a tall, thin young man. A proud bearing seemed to bespeak
a consciousness of his own merit, or at least of his position. His
features were finely formed, but the traces of strong passion, or of
internal discontent, had lined them prematurely.
In figure he was very slender, and the deep-sunken eye, the gloomy
frown which was fixed between his brows, and the thin lips, had no
very prepossessing expression, and yet there was something imposing in
the whole appearance of the man.
Edward thanked him civilly for his invitation, spoke of his idea of
being a purchaser as a motive for his visit, and gave his own, and
his father's name. D'Effernay seemed pleased with all he said. He had
known Edward's family in the metropolis; he regretted that the late
hour would render it impossible for them to visit the property to-day,
and concluded by pressing the lieutenant to pass the night at the
Castle. On the morrow they would proceed to business, and now he would
have the pleasure of presenting his wife to the visitor. Edward's
heart beat violently--at length then he would see her! Had he loved
her himself he could not have gone to meet her with more agitation.
D'Effernay led his guest through many rooms, which were all as well
furnished, and as brilliantly lighted as the first he had entered.
At length he opened the door of a small boudoir, where there was no
light, save that which the faint, gray twilight imparted through the
windows.
The simple arrangement of this little room, with dark green walls,
only relieved by some engravings and coats of arms, formed a pleasing
contrast to Edward's eyes, after the glaring splendor of the other
apartments. From behind a piano-forte, at which she had been seated
in a recess, rose a tall, slender female form, in a white dress of
extreme simplicity.
"My love," said D'Effernay, "I bring you a welcome guest, Lieutenant
Wensleben, who is willing to purchase the estate."
Emily courtesied; the friendly twilight concealed the shudder that
passed over her whole frame, as she heard the familiar name which
aroused so many recollections.
She bade the stranger welcome, in a low, sweet voice, whose tremulous
accents were not unobserved by Edward; and while the husband made some
further observation, he had leisure to remark, as well as the fading
light would allow, the fair outline of her oval face, the modest
grace of her movements, her pretty, nymph-like figure--in fact, all
those charms which seemed familiar to him through the impassioned
descriptions of his friend.
"But what can this fancy be, to sit in the dark?" asked D'Effernay, in
no mild tone; "you know that is a thing I cannot bear." and with these
words, and without waiting his wife's answer, he rang the bell over
her sofa, and ordered lights.
While these were placed on the table the company sat down by the fire,
and conversation commenced. By the full light Edward could perceive
all Emily's real beauty--her pale, but lovely face, the sad expression
of her large blue eyes, so often concealed by their dark lashes, and
then raised, with a look full of feeling, a sad, pensive, intellectual
expression; and he admired the simplicity of her dress, and of every
object that surrounded her: all appeared to him to bespeak a superior
mind.
They had not sat long, before D'Effernay was called away. One of
his people had something important, something urgent to communicate
to him, which admitted of no delay. A look of fierce anger almost
distorted his features; in an instant his thin lips moved rapidly, and
Edward thought he muttered some curses between his teeth. He left the
room, but in so doing, he cast a glance of mistrust and ill-temper
on the handsome stranger with whom he was compelled to leave his wife
alone. Edward observed it all. All that he had seen to-day, all that
he had heard from his comrades of the man's passionate and suspicious
disposition, convinced him that his stay here would not be long, and
that perhaps a second opportunity of speaking alone with Emily might
not offer itself.
He determined, therefore, to profit by the present moment; and no
sooner had D'Effernay left the room, than he began to tell Emily she
was not so complete a stranger to him as it might seem; that long
before he had had the pleasure of seeing her--even before he had heard
her name--she was known to him, so to speak, in spirit.
Madame D'Effernay was moved. She was silent for a time, and gazed
fixedly on the ground; then she looked up; the mist of unshed tears
dimmed her blue eyes, and her bosom heaved with the sigh she could not
suppress.
"To me also the name of Wensleben is familiar. There is a link between
our souls. Your friend has often spoken of you to me."
But she could say no more; tears checked her speech.
Edward's eyes were glistening also, and the two companions were
silent; at length he began once more:
"My dear lady," he said, "my time is short, and I have a solemn
message to deliver to you. Will you allow me to do so now?"
"To me?" she asked, in a tone of astonishment.
"From my departed friend," answered Edward, emphatically.
"From Ferdinand?--and that now--after--" she shrunk back, as if in
terror.
"Now that he is no longer with us, do you mean? I found the message
in his papers, which have been intrusted to me only lately, since I
have been in the neighborhood. Among them was a token which I was to
restore to you." He produced the ring. Emily seized it wildly, and
trembled as she looked upon it.
"It is indeed my ring," she said at length, "the same which I gave
him when we plighted our troth in secret. You are acquainted with
everything, I perceive; I shall therefore risk nothing if I speak
openly."
She wept, and pressed the ring to her lips.
"I see that my friend's memory is dear to you," continued Edward. You
will forgive the prayer I am about to make to you: my visit to you
concerns his ring."
"How--what is it you wish?" cried Emily; terrified.
"It was _his_ wish," replied Edward. "He evinced an earnest desire
to have this pledge of an unfortunate and unfulfilled engagement
restored."
"How is that possible? You did not speak with him before his
death; and this happened so suddenly after, that, to give you the
commission--"
"There was no time for it! that is true," answered Edward, with an
inward shudder, although outwardly he was calm. "Perhaps this wish
was awakened immediately before his death. I found it, as I told you,
expressed in those papers."
"Incomprehensible!" she exclaimed. "Only a short time before his
death, we cherished--deceitful, indeed, they proved, but, oh, what
blessed hopes! we reckoned on casualties, on what might possibly
occur to assist as. Neither of us could endure to dwell on the idea
of separation; and yet--yet since--Oh, my God," she cried, overcome by
sorrow, and she hid her face between her hands.
Edward was lost in confused thought. For a time both again were
silent: at length Emily started up--
"Forgive me, M. de Wensleben. What you have related to me, what you
have asked of me, has produced so much excitement, so much agitation,
that it is necessary that I should be alone for a few moments, to
recover my composure."
"I am gone," cried Edward, springing from his chair.
"No! no!" she replied, "you are my guest; remain here. I have a
household duty which calls me away." She laid a stress on these words.
She leant forward, and with a sad, sweet smile, she gave her hand to
the friend of her lost Ferdinand, pressing his gently, and disappeared
through the inner door.
Edward stood stunned, bewildered; then he paced the room with hasty
steps, threw himself on the sofa, and took up one of the books that
lay on the table, rather to have something in his hand, than to read.
It proved to be Young's "Night Thoughts." He looked through it, and
was attracted by many passages, which seemed, in his present frame
of mind, fraught with peculiar meaning; yet his thoughts wandered
constantly from the page to his dead friend. The candles, unheeded
both by Emily and him, burned on with long wicks, giving little light
in the silent room, over which the red glare from the hearth shed a
lurid glow. Hurried footsteps sounded in the anteroom; the door was
thrown open.
Edward looked up, and saw D'Effernay staring at him, and round the
room, in an angry, restless manner.
Edward could not but think there was something almost unearthly in
those dark looks and that towering form.
"Where is my wife?" was D'Effernay's first question.
"She is gone to fulfill some household duty," replied the other.
"And leaves you here alone in this miserable darkness! Most
extraordinary!--indeed, most unaccountable!" and as he spoke he
approached the table and snuffed the candles, with a movement of
impatience.
"She left me here with old friends," said Edward, with a forced smile.
"I have been reading."
"What, in the dark?" inquired D'Effernay, with a look of mistrust.
"It was so dark when I came in, that you could not possibly have
distinguished a letter."
"I read for some time, and then I fell into a train of thought, which
is usually the result of reading Young's 'Night Thoughts.'"
"Young! I cannot bear that author. He is so gloomy."
"But you are fortunately so happy, that the lamentations of the lonely
mourner can find no echo in your breast."
"You think so!" said D'Effernay, in a churlish tone, and he pressed
his lips together tightly, as Emily came into the room: he went to
meet her.
"You have been a long time away," was his observation, as he looked
into her eyes, where the trace of tears might easily be detected. "I
found our guest alone."
"M. de Wensleben was good enough to excuse me," she replied; "and then
I thought you would be back immediately."
They sat down to the table; coffee was brought, and the past appeared
to be forgotten.
The conversation at first was broken by constant pauses. Edward saw
that Emily did all she could to play the hostess agreeably, and to
pacify her husband's ill-humor.
In this attempt the young man assisted her, and at last they were
successful. D'Effernay became more cheerful; the conversation more
animated; and Edward found that his host could be a very agreeable
member of society when he pleased, combining a good deal of
information with great natural powers. The evening passed away more
pleasantly than it promised at one time; and after an excellent and
well-served supper, the young officer was shown into a comfortable
room, fitted up with every modern luxury; and weary in mind and body,
he soon fell asleep. He dreamed of all that had occupied his waking
thoughts-of his friend, and his friend's history.
But in that species of confusion which often characterizes dreams,
he fancied that he was Ferdinand, or at least, his own individuality
seemed mixed up with that of Hallberg. He felt that he was ill. He lay
in an unknown room, and by his bedside stood a small table, covered
with glasses and phials, containing medicines, as is usual in a sick
room.
The door opened, and D'Effernay came in, in his dressing-gown, as
if he had just left his bed: and now in Edward's mind dreams and
realities were mingled together, and he thought that D'Effernay came,
perhaps, to speak with him on the occurrences of the preceding day.
But no! he approached the table on which the medicines stood, looked
at the watch, took up one of the phials and a cup, measured the
draught, drop by drop, then he turned and looked round him stealthily,
and then he drew from his breast a pale blue, coiling serpent, which
he threw into the cup, and held it to the patient's lips, who drank,
and instantly felt a numbness creep over his frame which ended in
death. Edward fancied that he was dead; he saw the coffin brought, but
the terror lest he should be buried alive, made him start up with a
sudden effort, and he opened his eyes.
The dream had passed away; he sat in his bed safe and well; but it was
long ere he could in any degree recover his composure, or get rid of
the impression which the frightful apparition had made on him. They
brought his breakfast, with a message from the master of the house
to inquire whether he would like to visit the park, farms, &c. He
dressed quickly, and descended to the court, where he found his host
in a riding dress, by the side of two fine horses, already saddled.
D'Effernay greeted the young man courteously; but Edward felt
an inward repugnance as he looked on that gloomy though handsome
countenance, now lighted up by the beams of the morning sun, yet
recalling vividly the dark visions of the night. D'Effernay was full
of attentions to his new friend. They started on their ride, in spite
of some threatening clouds, and began the inspection of meadows,
shrubberies, farms, &c. After a couple of hours, which were consumed
in this manner, it began to rain a few drops, and at last burst out
into a heavy shower. It was soon impossible even to ride through the
woods for the torrents that were pouring down, and so they returned to
the castle.
Edward retired to his room to change his dress, and to write some
letters, he said, but more particularly to avoid Emily, in order not
to excite her husband's jealousy. As the bell rang for dinner he
saw her again, and found to his surprise that the captain, whom he
had first seen in the coffee-room, and who had given him so much
information, was one of the party. He was much pleased, for they had
taken a mutual fancy to each other. The captain was not at quarters
the day Edward had left them, but as soon as he heard where his friend
had gone, he put horses to his carriage and followed him, for he said
he also should like to see these famous estates. D'Effernay seemed
in high good humor to-day, Emily far more silent than yesterday,
and taking little part in the conversation of the men, which turned
on political economy. After coffee she found an opportunity to give
Edward (unobserved) a little packet. The look with which she did so,
told plainly what it contained, and the young man hurried to his room
as soon as he fancied he could do so without remark or comment. The
continued rain precluded all idea of leaving the house any more that
day. He unfolded the packet; there were a couple of sheets, written
closely in a woman's fair hand, and something wrapped carefully in a
paper, which he knew to be the ring. It was the fellow to that which
he had given the day before to Emily, only Ferdinand's name was
engraved inside instead of hers. Such were the contents of the
papers:--
"Secrecy would be misplaced with the friend of the dead. Therefore,
will I speak to you of things which I have never uttered to a human
being until now. Jules D'Effernay is nearly related to me. We knew
each other in the Netherlands, where our estates joined. The boy loved
me already with a love that amounted to passion; this love was my
father's greatest joy, for there was an old and crying injustice which
the ancestors of D'Effernay had suffered from ours, that could alone,
he thought, be made up by the marriage of the only children of the two
branches. So we were destined for each other almost from our cradles;
and I was content it should be so, for Jules's handsome face and
decided preference for me were agreeable to me, although I felt no
great affection for him. We were separated: Jules traveled in France,
England, and America, and made money as a merchant, which profession
he had taken up suddenly. My father, who had a place under government,
left his country in consequence of political troubles, and came into
this part of the world where some distant relations of my mother's
lived. He liked the neighborhood; he bought land; we lived very
happily; I was quite contented in Jules's absence; I had no yearning
of the heart toward him, yet I thought kindly of him, and troubled
myself little about my future. Then--then I learned to know your
friend. Oh, then! I felt, when I looked upon him, when I listened to
him, when we conversed together, I felt, I acknowledged that there
might be happiness on earth, of which I had hitherto never dreamed.
Then I loved for the first time, ardently, passionately, and was
beloved in return. Acquainted with the family engagements, he did not
dare openly to proclaim his love, and I knew I ought not to foster
the feeling; but, alas! how seldom does passion listen to the voice
of reason and of duty. Your friend and I met in secret; in secret we
plighted our troth, and exchanged those rings, and hoped and believed
that by showing a bold front to our destiny we should subdue it to our
will. The commencement was sinful, it has met with a dire retribution,
Jules's letters announced his speedy return. He had sold everything
in his own country, had given up all his mercantile affairs, through
which he had greatly increased an already considerable fortune, and
now he was about to join us, or rather me, without whom he could not
live. This appeared to me like the demand for payment of a heavy debt.
This debt I owed to Jules, who loved me with all his heart, who was
in possession of my father's promised word and mine also. Yet I could
not give up your friend. In a state of distraction I told him all; we
meditated flight. Yes, I was so far guilty, and I make the confession
in hopes that some portion of my errors may be expiated by repentance.
My father, who had long been in a declining state, suddenly grew
worse, and this delayed and hindered the fulfillment of our designs.
Jules arrived. During the five years he had been away he was much
changed in appearance, and that advantageously. I was struck when
I first saw him, but it was also easy to detect in those handsome
features and manly bearing, a spirit of restlessness and violence
which had already shown itself in him as a boy, and which passing
years, with their bitter experience and strong passions, had greatly
developed. The hope that we had cherished of D'Effernay's possible
indifference to me, of the change which time might have wrought in
his attachment, now seemed idle and absurd. His love was indeed
impassioned. He embraced me in a manner that made me shrink from him,
and altogether his deportment toward me was a strange contrast to
the gentle, tender, refined affection of our dear friend. I trembled
whenever Jules entered the room, and all that I had prepared to say
to him, all the plans which I had revolved in my mind respecting
him, vanished in an instant before the power of his presence, and
the almost imperative manner in which he claimed my hand. My father's
illness increased; he was now in a very precarious state, hopeless
indeed. Jules rivaled me in filial attentions to him, that I can never
cease to thank him for; but this illness made my situation more and
more critical, and it accelerated the fulfillment of the contract.
I was now to renew my promise to him by the death-bed of my father.
Alas, alas! I fell senseless to the ground when this announcement
was made to me. Jules began to suspect. Already my cold, embarrassed
manner toward him since his return had struck him as strange. He began
to suspect, I repeat, and the effect that this suspicion had on him,
it would be impossible to describe to you. Even now, after so long a
time, now that I am accustomed to his ways, and more reconciled to my
fate by the side of a noble, though somewhat impetuous man, it makes
me tremble to think of those paroxysms, which the idea that I did not
love him called forth. They were fearful; he nearly sank under them.
During two days his life was in danger. At last the storm passed, my
father died; Jules watched over me with the tenderness of a brother,
the solicitude of a parent; for that indeed I shall ever be grateful.
His suspicion once awakened, he gazed round with penetrating looks
to discover the cause of my altered feelings. But your friend never
came to our house; we met in an unfrequented spot, and my father's
illness had interrupted these interviews. Altogether I cannot tell
if Jules discovered anything. A fearful circumstance rendered all
our precautions useless, and cut the knot of our secret connection,
to loose which voluntarily I felt I had no power. A wedding feast,
at a neighboring castle, assembled all the nobility and gentry, and
officers quartered near, together; my deep mourning was an excuse for
my absence. Jules, though he usually was happiest by my side, could
not resist the invitation, and your friend resolved to go, although he
was unwell; he feared to raise suspicion by remaining away, when I was
left at home. With great difficulty he contrived the first day to make
one at a splendid hunt, the second day he could not leave his bed.
A physician, who was in the house, pronounced his complaint to be
violent fever, and Jules, whose room joined that of the sick man,
offered him every little service and kindness which compassion and
good feeling prompted; and I cannot but praise him all the more for
it, as who can tell, perhaps, his suspicion might have taken the right
direction? On the morning of the second day--but let me glance quickly
at that terrible time, the memory of which can never pass from my
mind--a fit of apoplexy most unexpectedly, but gently, ended the
noblest life, and separated us forever! Now you know all. I inclose
the ring. I cannot write more. Farewell!"
The conclusion of the letter made a deep impression on Edward. His
dream rose up before his remembrance, the slight indisposition, the
sudden death, the fearful nursetender, all arranged themselves in
order before his mind, and an awful whole rose out of all these
reflections, a terrible suspicion which he tried to throw off. But
he could not do so, and when he met the captain and D'Effernay
in the evening, and the latter challenged his visitors to a game
of billiards, Edward glanced from time to time at his host in
a scrutinizing manner, and could not but feel that the restless
discontent which was visible in his countenance, and the unsteady
glare of his eyes, which shunned the fixed look of others, only fitted
too well into the shape of the dark thoughts which were crossing his
own mind. Late in the evening, after supper, they played whist in
Emily's boudoir. On the morrow, if the weather permitted, they were
to conclude their inspection of the surrounding property, and the next
day they were to visit the iron foundries, which, although distant
from the Castle several miles, formed a very important item in the
rent-roll of the estates. The company separated for the night.
Edward fell asleep; and the same dream, with the same circumstances,
recurred, only with the full consciousness that the sick man
was Ferdinand. Edward felt overpowered, a species of horror
took possession of his mind, as he found himself now in regular
communication with the beings of the invisible world.
The weather favored D'Effernay's projects. The whole day was passed
in the open air. Emily only appeared at meals, and in the evening when
they played at cards. Both she and Edward avoided, as if by mutual
consent, every word, every look that could awaken the slightest
suspicion or jealous feeling in D'Effernay's mind. She thanked him
in her heart for this forbearance, but her thoughts were in another
world; she took little heed of what passed around her. Her husband was
in an excellent temper; he played the part of host to perfection; and
when the two officers were established comfortably by the fire, in the
captain's room, smoking together, they could not but do justice to his
courteous manners.
"He appears to be a man of general information," remarked Edward.
"He has traveled a great deal, and read a great deal, as I told you
when we first met: he is a remarkable man, but one of uncontrolled
passions, and desperately jealous."
"Yet he appears very attentive to his wife."
"Undoubtedly he is wildly in love with her; yet he makes her unhappy,
and himself too."
"He certainly does not appear happy, there is so much restlessness."
"He can never bear to remain in one place for any length of time
together. He is now going to sell the property he only bought last
year. There is an instability about him; everything palls on him."
"That is the complaint of many who are rich and well to do in the
world."
"Yes; only not in the same degree. I assure you it has often struck me
that man must have a bad conscience."
"What an idea!" rejoined Edward, with a forced laugh, for the
captain's remark struck him forcibly. "He seems a man of honor."
"Oh, one may be a man of honor, as it is called, and yet have
something quite bad enough to reproach yourself with. But I know
nothing about it, and would not breathe such a thing except to you.
His wife, too, looks so pale and so oppressed."
"But, perhaps, that is her natural complexion and expression."
"Oh, no! no! the year before D'Effernay came from Paris, she was as
fresh as a rose. Many people declare that your poor friend loved her.
The affair was wrapped in mystery, and I never believed the report,
for Hallberg was a steady man, and the whole country knew that Emily
had been engaged a long time."
"Hallberg never mentioned the name in his letters," answered Edward,
with less candor than usual.
"I thought not. Besides D'Effernay was very much attached to him, and
mourned his death."
"Indeed!"
"I assure you the morning that Hallberg was found dead in his bed so
unexpectedly, D'Effernay was like one beside himself."
"Very extraordinary. But as we are on the subject, tell me, I pray
you, all the circumstances of my poor Ferdinand's illness, and awful
sudden death."
"I can tell you all about it, as well as any one, for I was one of the
guests at that melancholy wedding. Your friend, and I, and many others
were invited. Hallberg had some idea of not going; he was unwell, with
violent headache and giddiness. But we persuaded him, and he consented
to go with us. The first day he felt tolerably well. We hunted in
the open field; we were all on horseback, the day hot. Hallberg felt
worse. The second day he had a great deal of fever; he could not
stay up. The physician (for fortunately there was one in the company)
ordered rest, cooling medicine, neither of which seemed to do him
good. The rest of the men dispersed, to amuse themselves in various
ways. Only D'Effernay remained at home; he was never very fond of
large societies, and we voted that he was discontented and out of
humor because his betrothed bride was not with him. His room was next
to the sick man's, to whom he gave all possible care and attention,
for poor Hallberg, besides being ill, was in despair at giving so
much trouble in a strange house. D'Effernay tried to calm him on
this point; he nursed him, amused him with conversation, mixed his
medicines, and, in fact, showed more kindness and tenderness, than any
of us would have given him credit for. Before I went to bed I visited
Hallberg, and found him much better, and more cheerful; the doctor
had promised that he should leave his bed next day. So I left him and
retired with the rest of the world, rather late, and very tired, to
rest. The next morning I was awoke by the fatal tidings. I did not
wait to dress, I ran to his room, it was full of people."
"And how, how was the death first discovered?" inquired Edward, in
breathless eagerness.
"The servant, who came in to attend on him, thought he was asleep, for
he lay in his usual position, his head upon his hand. He went away
and waited for some time; but hours passed, and he thought he ought to
wake his master to give him his medicine. Then the awful discovery was
made. He must have died peacefully, for his countenance was so calm,
his limbs undisturbed. A fit of apoplexy had terminated his life, but
in the most tranquil manner."
"Incomprehensible," said Edward, with a deep sigh. "Did they take no
measures to restore animation?"
"Certainly; all that could be done was done, bleeding, fomentation,
friction; the physician superintended, but there was no hope, it was
all too late. He must have been dead some hours, for he was already
cold and stiff. If there had been a spark of life in him he would have
been saved. It was all over; I had lost my good lieutenant, and the
regiment one of its finest officers."
He was silent, and appeared lost in thought. Edward, for his part,
felt overwhelmed by terrible suspicions and sad memories. After a long
pause he recovered himself: "and where was D'Effernay?" he inquired.
"D'Effernay," answered the Captain, rather surprised at the question;
"oh! he was not in the Castle when we made the dreadful discovery: he
had gone out for an early walk, and when he came back late, not before
noon, he learned the truth, and was like one out of his senses. It
seemed so awful to him, because he had been so much, the very day
before, with poor Hallberg."
"Aye," answered Edward, whose suspicions were being more and more
confirmed every moment. "And did he see the corpse, did he go into the
chamber of death?"
"No," replied the captain; "he assured us it was out of his power to
do so; he could not bear the sight; and I believe it. People with such
uncontrolled feelings as this D'Effernay, are incapable of performing
those duties which others think it necessary and incumbent on them to
fulfill."
"And where was Hallberg buried?"
"Not far from the castle where the mournful event took place.
To-morrow, if we go to the iron foundry, we shall be near the spot."
"I am glad of it," cried Edward eagerly, while a host of projects rose
up in his mind. "But now, captain, I will not trespass any longer on
your kindness. It is late, and we must be up betimes to-morrow. How
far have we to go?"
"Not less than four leagues certainly. D'Effernay has arranged that we
shall drive there, and see it all at our leisure: then we shall return
in the evening. Good night, Wensleben."
They separated: Edward hurried to his room; his heart overflowed.
Sorrow on the one hand, horror and even hatred on the other, agitated
him by turns. It was long before he could sleep. For the third time
the vision haunted him; but now it was clearer than before; now he
saw plainly the features of him who lay in bed, and of him who stood
beside the bed--they were those of Hallberg and of D'Effernay.
This third apparition, the exact counterpart of the two former (only
more vivid), all that he had gathered from conversations on the
subject, and the contents of Emily's letter, left scarcely the shadow
of a doubt remaining as to how his friend had left the world.
D'Effernay's jealous and passionate nature seemed to allow of the
possibility of such a crime, and it could scarcely be wondered at, if
Edward regarded him with a feeling akin to hatred. Indeed the desire
of visiting Hallberg's grave, in order to place the ring in the
coffin, could alone reconcile Wensleben to the idea of remaining any
longer beneath the roof of a man whom he now considered the murderer
of his friend. His mind was a prey to conflicting doubts; detestation
for the culprit, and grief for the victim, pointed out one line of
conduct, while the difficulty of proving D'Effernay's guilt, and still
more, pity and consideration for Emily, determined him at length to
let the matter rest, and to leave the murderer, if such he really
were, to the retribution which his own conscience and the justice of
God would award him. He would seek his friend's grave, and then he
would separate from D'Effernay, and never see him more. In the midst
of these reflections the servant came to tell him that the carriage
was ready. A shudder passed over his frame as D'Effernay greeted him;
but he commanded himself, and they started on their expedition.
Edward spoke but little, and that only when it was necessary, and
the conversation was kept up by his two companions; he had made every
inquiry, before he set out, respecting the place of his friend's
interment, the exact situation of the tomb, the name of the village,
and its distance from the main road. On their way home, he requested
that D'Effernay would give orders to the coachman to make a round of
a mile or two as far as the village of ----, with whose rector he
was particularly desirous to speak. A momentary cloud gathered on
D'Effernay's brow, yet it seemed no more than his usual expression
of vexation at any delay or hindrance; and he was so anxious to
propitiate his rich visitor, who appeared likely to take the estate
off his hands, that he complied with all possible courtesy. The
coachman was directed to turn down a by-road, and a very bad one it
was. The captain stood up in the carriage and pointed out the village
to him, at some distance off; it lay in a deep ravine at the foot of
the mountains.
They arrived in the course of time, and inquired for the clergyman's
house, which, as well as the church, was situated on rising ground.
The three companions alighted from the carriage, which they left at
the bottom of the hill, and walked up together in the direction of the
rectory. Edward knocked at the door and was admitted, while the two
others sat on a bench outside. He had promised to return speedily,
but to D'Effernay's restless spirit, one-quarter of an hour appeared
interminable.
He turned to the captain and said, in a tone of impatience, "M. de
Wensleben must have a great deal of business with the rector: we have
been here an immense time, and he does not seem inclined to make his
appearance.
"Oh, I dare say he will come soon. The matter cannot detain him long."
"What on earth can he have to do here?"
"Perhaps you would call it a mere fancy--the enthusiasm of youth."
"It has a name, I suppose?"
"Certainly, but--"
"Is it sufficiently important, think you, to make us run the risk of
being benighted on such roads as these?"
"Why, it is quite early in the day."
"But we have more than two leagues to go. Why will you not
speak?--there cannot any great mystery."
"Well, perhaps not a mystery, exactly, but just one of those subjects
on which we are usually reserved with others."
"So! so!" rejoined D'Effernay, with a little sneer. "Some love affair;
some girl or another who pursues him, that he wants to get rid of."
"Nothing of the kind, I can assure you," replied the captain drily.
"It could scarcely be more innocent. He wishes, in fact, to visit his
friend's grave."
The listener's expression was one of scorn and anger. "It is worth the
trouble certainly," he exclaimed, with a mocking laugh. "A charming
sentimental pilgrimage, truly; and pray who is this beloved
friend, over whose resting-place he must shed a tear and plant a
forget-me-not? He told me he had never been in the neighborhood
before."
"No more he had; neither did he know where poor Hallberg was buried
until I told him."
"Hallberg!" echoed the other in a tone that startled the captain,
and caused him to turn and look fixedly in the speaker's face. It was
deadly pale, and the captain observed the effort which D'Effernay made
to recover his composure.
"Hallberg!" he repeated again, in a calmer tone, "and was Wensleben a
friend of his?"
"His bosom friend from childhood. They were brought up together at the
academy. Hallberg left it a year earlier than his friend."
"Indeed!" said D'Effernay, scowling as he spoke, and working himself
up into a passion. "And this lieutenant came here on this account,
then, and the purchase of the estates was a mere excuse."
"I beg your pardon," observed the captain, in a decided tone of voice;
"I have already told you that it was I who informed him of the place
where his friend lies buried."
"That may be, but it was owing to his friendship, to the wish to learn
something further of his fate, that we are indebted for the visit of
this romantic knight-errant."
"That does not appear likely," replied the captain, who thought it
better to avert, if possible, the rising storm of his companion's
fury. "Why should he seek for news of Hallberg here, when he comes
from the place where he was quartered for a long time, and where all
his comrades now are."
"Well, I don't know," cried D'Effernay, whose passion was increasing
every moment. "Perhaps you have heard what was once gossiped about
the neighborhood, that Hallberg was an admirer of my wife before she
married."
"Oh yes, I have heard that report, but never believed it. Hallberg was
a prudent, steady man, and every one knew that Mademoiselle Varnier's
hand had been promised for some time."
"Yes! yes! but you do not know to what lengths passion and avarice may
lead: for Emily was rich. We must not forget that, when we discuss
the matter; an elopement with the rich heiress would have been a fine
thing for a poor, beggarly lieutenant."
"Shame! shame! M. D'Effernay. How can you slander the character
of that upright young man? If Hallberg were so unhappy as to love
Mademoiselle Varnier--"
"That he did! you may believe me so far, I had reason to know it, and
I did know it."
"We had better change the conversation altogether, as it has taken
so unpleasant a turn, Hallberg is dead; his errors, be they what they
may, lie buried with him. His name stands high with all who knew him
Even you, M. D'Effernay--you were his friend."
"I his friend? I hated him!--I loathed him!" D'Effernay could not
proceed; he foamed at the mouth with rage.
"Compose yourself!" said the Captain, rising as he spoke; "you look
and speak like a madman."
A madman! Who says I am mad? Now I see it all--the connection of the
whole--the shameful conspiracy."
"Your conduct is perfectly incomprehensible to me," answered the
captain, with perfect coolness. "Did you not attend Hallberg in his
last illness, and give him his medicines with your own hand?"
"I!" stammered D'Effernay. "No! no! no!" he cried, while the
captain's growing suspicions increased every moment, on account of
the perturbation which his companion displayed. "I never gave his
medicines; whoever says that is a liar."
"I say it!" exclaimed the officer, in a loud tone, for his patience
was exhausted. "I say it, because I know that it was so, and I will
maintain that fact against any one at any time. If you choose to
contradict the evidence of my senses, it is you who are a liar!"
"Ha! you shall give me satisfaction for this insult. Depend upon it,
I am not one to be trifled with, as you shall find. You shall retract
your words."
"Never! I am ready to defend every word I have uttered here on this
spot, at this moment, if you please. You have your pistols in the
carriage, you know."
D'Effernay cast a look of hatred on the speaker, and then dashing
down the little hill, to the surprise of the servants, he dragged
the pistols from the sword-case, and was by the captain's side in a
moment. But the loud voices of the disputants had attracted Edward to
the spot, and there he stood on D'Effernay's return; and by his side a
venerable old man, who carried a large bunch of keys in his hand.
"In heaven's name, what has happened?" cried Wensleben.
"What are you about to do?" interposed the rector, in a tone of
authority, though his countenance was expressive of horror. "Are you
going to commit murder on this sacred spot, close to the precincts of
the church?"
"Murder! who speaks of murder?" cried D'Effernay. "Who can prove it?"
and as he spoke, the captain turned a fierce, penetrating look upon
him, beneath which he quailed.
"But, I repeat the question," Edward began once more, "what does all
this mean? I left you a short time ago in friendly conversation. I
come back and find you both armed--both violently agitated--and M.
D'Effernay, at least, speaking incoherently. What do you mean by
'proving it?'--to what do you allude?" At this moment, before any
answer could be made, a man came out of the house with a pick-axe
and shovel on his shoulder, and advancing toward the rector, said
respectfully, "I am quite ready, sir, if you have the key of the
churchyard."
It was now the captain's turn to look anxious: "What are you going
to do, you surely don't intend--?" but as he spoke, the rector
interrupted him.
"This gentleman is very desirous to see the place where his friend
lies buried."
"But these preparations, what do they mean?"
"I will tell you," said Edward, in a voice and tone that betrayed
the deepest emotion, "I have a holy duty to perform. I must cause the
coffin to be opened."
"How, what!" screamed D'Effernay, once again. "Never--I will never
permit such a thing."
"But, sir," the old man spoke, in a tone of calm decision, contrasting
wonderfully with the violence of him whom he addressed, "you have no
possible right to interfere. If this gentleman wishes it, and I accede
to the proposition, no one can prevent us from doing as we would."
"I tell you I will not suffer it," continued D'Effernay, with the same
frightful agitation. "Stir at your peril," he cried, turning sharply
round upon the grave-digger, and holding a pistol to his head; but the
captain pulled his arm away, to the relief of the frightened peasant.
"M. D'Effernay," he said, "your conduct for the last half-hour has
been most unaccountable--most unreasonable."
"Come, come," interposed Edward, "Let us say no more on the subject;
but let us be going," he addressed the rector; "we will not detain
these gentlemen much longer."
He made a step toward the churchyard, but D'Effernay clutched his arm,
and, with an impious oath, "you shall not stir," he said; "that grave
shall not be opened."
Edward shook him off, with a look of silent hatred, for now indeed all
his doubts were confirmed.
D'Effernay saw that Wensleben was resolved, and a deadly pallor spread
itself over his features, and a shudder passed visibly over his frame.
"You are going!" he cried, with every gesture and appearance of
insanity. "Go, then;" ... and he pointed the muzzle of the pistol to
his mouth, and before any one could prevent him, he drew the trigger,
and fell back a corpse. The spectators were motionless with surprise
and horror; the captain was the first to recover himself in some
degree. He bent over the body with the faint hope of detecting some
sign of life. The old man turned pale and dizzy with a sense of
terror, and he looked as if he would have swooned, had not Edward led
him gently into his house, while the two others busied themselves with
vain attempts to restore life.
The spirit of D'Effernay had gone to its last account!
It was, indeed, an awful moment. Death in its worst shape was before
them, and a terrible duty still remained to be performed.
Edward's cheek was blanched; his eye had a fixed look, yet he moved
and spoke with a species of mechanical action, which had something
almost ghastly in it. Causing the body to be removed into the house,
he bade the captain summon the servants of the deceased, and then
motioning with his hand to the awe-struck sexton, he proceeded with
him to the churchyard. A few clods of earth alone were removed ere the
captain stood by his friend's side.
Here we must pause. Perhaps it were better altogether to emulate the
silence that was maintained then and afterward by the two comrades.
But the sexton could not be bribed to entire secrecy, and it was a
story he loved to tell, with details we gladly omit, of how Wensleben
solemnly performed his task--of how no doubt could any longer exist
as to the cause of Hallberg's death. Those who love the horrible must
draw on their own imaginations to supply what we resolutely withhold.
Edward, we believe, never alluded to D'Effernay's death, and all the
awful circumstances attending it, but twice--once, when, with every
necessary detail, he and the captain gave their evidence to the legal
authorities; and once, with as few details as possible, when he had an
interview with the widow of the murderer, the beloved of the victim.
The particulars of this interview he never divulged, for he considered
Emily's grief too sacred to be exposed to the prying eyes of the
curious and the unfeeling. She left the neighborhood immediately,
leaving her worldly affairs in Wensleben's hands, who soon disposed
of the property for her. She returned to her native country, with the
resolution of spending the greater part of her wealth in relieving
the distresses of others, wisely seeking, in the exercise of piety
and benevolence, the only possible alleviation of her own deep
and many-sided griefs. For Edward, he was soon pronounced to have
recovered entirely from the shock of these terrible events. Of a
courageous and energetic disposition, he pursued the duties of his
profession with a firm step, and hid his mighty sorrow deep in the
recesses of his heart. To the superficial observer, tears, groans, and
lamentations are the only proofs of sorrow: and when they subside,
the sorrow is said to have passed away also. Thus the captive, immured
within the walls of his prison-house, is as one dead to the outward
world, though the gaoler be a daily witness to the vitality of
affliction.
* * * * *
Paris has been again emptied of its citizens to see M. Poitevin make
his second ascent on horseback from the Champ de Mars. To show that he
was not fastened to his saddle, the idiot, when some hundred yards
up in the air, stood upright on his horse, and saluted the multitude
below with both his hands.
* * * * *