considerably indebted, seeing no other probable means to recover his
money, introduced Fathom to the acquaintance of a young widow who
lodged at his house, and was said to be in possession of a considerable
fortune. Considering the steps that were taken, it would have been
almost impossible for him to miscarry in his addresses. The lady had
been bred in the country, was unacquainted with the world, and of a
very sanguine disposition, which her short trial of matrimony had not
served to cool. Our adventurer was instructed to call at the
tradesman’s house, as if by accident, at an appointed time, when the
widow was drinking tea with her landlady. On these occasions he always
behaved to admiration. She liked his person, and praised his
politeness, good-humour, and good sense; his confederates extolled him
as a prodigy of learning, taste, and good-nature; they likewise
represented him as a person on the eve of eclipsing all his competitors
in physic. An acquaintance and intimacy soon ensued, nor was he
restricted in point of opportunity. In a word, he succeeded in his
endeavours, and, one evening, on pretence of attending her to the play,
he accompanied her to the Fleet, where they were married, in presence
of the tradesman and his wife, who were of the party.
This grand affair being accomplished to his satisfaction, he, next day,
visited her brother, who was a counsellor of the Temple, to make him
acquainted with the step his sister had taken; and though the lawyer
was not a little mortified to find that she had made such a clandestine
match, he behaved civilly to his new brother-in-law, and gave him to
understand, that his wife’s fortune consisted of a jointure of one
hundred and fifty pounds a year, and fifteen hundred pounds bequeathed
to her during her widowhood, by her own father, who had taken the
precaution of settling it in the hands of trustees, in such a manner as
that any husband she might afterwards espouse should be restricted from
encroaching upon the capital, which was reserved for the benefit of her
heirs. This intimation was far from being agreeable to our hero, who
had been informed, that this sum was absolutely at the lady’s disposal,
and had actually destined the greatest part of it for the payment of
his debts, for defraying the expense of furnishing an elegant house,
and setting up a new equipage.
Notwithstanding this disappointment, he resolved to carry on his plan
upon the credit of his marriage, which was published in a very pompous
article of the newspapers; a chariot was bespoke, a ready furnished
house immediately taken, and Doctor Fathom began to reappear in all his
former splendour.
His good friend the empiric, alarmed at this event, which not only
raised our adventurer into the sphere of a dangerous rival, but also
furnished him with means to revenge the ill office he had sustained at
his hands on the adventure of the former match—for, by this time,
Fathom had given him some hints, importing, that he was not ignorant of
his treacherous behaviour—roused, I say, by these considerations, he
employed one of his emissaries, who had some knowledge of Fathom’s
brother-in-law, to prejudice him against our adventurer, whom he
represented as a needy sharper, not only overwhelmed with debt and
disgrace, but likewise previously married to a poor woman, who was
prevented by nothing but want from seeking redress at law. To confirm
these assertions, he gave him a detail of Fathom’s encumbrances, which
he had learned for the purpose, and even brought the counsellor into
company with the person who had lived with our hero before marriage,
and who was so much incensed at her abrupt dismission, that she did not
scruple to corroborate these allegations of the informer.
The lawyer, startled at this intelligence, set on foot a minute inquiry
into the life and conversation of the doctor, which turned out so
little to the advantage of his character and circumstances, that he
resolved, if possible, to disunite him from his family; and, as a
previous step, repeated to his sister all that he had heard to the
prejudice of her husband, not forgetting to produce the evidence of his
mistress, who laid claim to him by a prior title, which, she pretended,
could be proved by the testimony of the clergyman who joined them. Such
an explanation could not fail to inflame the resentment of the injured
wife, who, at the very first opportunity, giving a loose to the
impetuosity of her temper, upbraided our hero with the most bitter
invectives for his perfidious dealing.
Ferdinand, conscious of his own innocence, which he had not always to
plead, far from attempting to soothe her indignation, assumed the
authority and prerogative of a husband, and sharply reprehended her for
her credulity and indecent warmth. This rebuke, instead of silencing,
gave new spirit and volubility to her reproaches, in the course of
which she plainly taxed him with want of honesty and affection, and
said that, though his pretence was love, his aim was no other than a
base design upon her fortune.
Fathom, stung with these accusations, which he really did not deserve,
replied with uncommon heat, and charged her in his turn with want of
sincerity and candour, in the false account she had given of that same
fortune before marriage. He even magnified his own condescension, in
surrendering his liberty to a woman who had so little to recommend her
to the addresses of the other sex; a reflection which provoked this
mild creature to such a degree of animosity, that, forgetting her duty
and allegiance, she lent him a box on the ear with such energy as made
his eyes water; and he, for the honour of manhood and sovereignty,
having washed her face with a dish of tea, withdrew abruptly to a
coffee-house in the neighbourhood, where he had not long remained, when
his passion subsided, and he then saw the expediency of an immediate
reconciliation, which he resolved to purchase, even at the expense of a
submission.
It was pity that such a salutary resolution had not been sooner taken.
For, when he returned to his own house, he understood, that Mrs. Fathom
had gone abroad in a hackney-coach; and, upon examining her apartment,
in lieu of her clothes and trinkets, which she had removed with
admirable dexterity and despatch, he found this billet in one of the
drawers of her bureau:—“Sir, being convinced that you are a cheat and
an impostor, I have withdrawn myself from your cruelty and
machinations, with a view to solicit the protection of the law; and I
doubt not but I shall soon be able to prove, that you have no just
title to, or demand upon, the person or effects of the unfortunate
Sarah Muddy.”
The time had been when Mr. Fathom would have allowed Mrs. Muddy to
refine at her leisure, and blessed God for his happy deliverance; but
at present the case was quite altered. Smarting as he was from the
expense of lawsuits, he dreaded a prosecution for bigamy, which, though
he had justice on his side, he knew he could not of himself support.
Besides, all his other schemes of life were frustrated by this unlucky
elopement. He therefore speedily determined to anticipate, as much as
in him lay, the malice of his enemies, and to obtain, without delay,
authentic documents of his marriage. With this view, he hastened to the
house of the tradesman, who, with his wife, had been witness to the
ceremony and consummation; and, in order to interest them the more
warmly in his cause, made a pathetic recital of this unhappy breach, in
which he had suffered such injury and insult. But all his rhetoric
would not avail. Mrs. Muddy had been beforehand with him, and had
proved the better orator of the two; for she had assailed this honest
couple with such tropes and figures of eloquence, as were altogether
irresistible.
Nevertheless, they heard our hero to an end, with great patience. Then
the wife, who was the common mouth upon all such occasions, contracting
her features into a very formal disposition, “I’ll assure you,” said
she, “Doctor Fathom, my husband and I have been in a very great
terrification and numplush, to hear such bad things of a person, whom,
as one may say, we thought a worthy gentleman, and were ready to serve
at all times, by day and by night, as the saying is. And besides, for
all that, you know, and God knows, as we are dustrious people, and work
hard for what we get, and we have served gentlemen to our own harm,
whereby my husband was last Tuesday served with a siserary, being that
he was bound for an officer that ran away. And I said to my husband,
Timothy, says I, ’tis a very hard thing for one to ruin one’s self for
stranger people—There’s Doctor Fathom, says I, his account comes to
nine-and-forty pounds seven shillings and fourpence halfpenny; and you
know, doctor, that was before your last bill began. But, howsomever,
little did I think, as how a gentleman of your learning would go to
deceive a poor gentlewoman, when you had another wife alive.”
In vain did our adventurer endeavour to vindicate himself from this
aspersion; the good woman, like a great many modern disputants,
proceeded with her declamation, without seeming to hear what was said
on the other side of the question; and the husband was altogether
neutral. At length, Ferdinand, finding all his protestations
ineffectual, “Well,” said he, “though you are resolved, I see, to
discredit all that I can say in opposition to that scandalous slander,
of which I can easily acquit myself in a court of justice, surely you
will not refuse to grant me a certificate, signifying that you were
present at the ceremony of my marriage with this unhappy woman.” “You
shall excuse us,” replied the female orator; “people cannot be too wary
in signing their names in this wicked world; many a one has been
brought to ruination by signing his name, and my husband shall not,
with my goodwill, draw himself into such a primmineery.”
Fathom, alarmed at this refusal, earnestly argued against the
inhumanity and injustice of it, appealing to their own consciences for
the reasonableness of his proposal; but, from the evasive answers of
the wife, he had reason to believe, that, long before the time of
trial, they would take care to have forgotten the whole transaction.
Though he was equally confounded and incensed at this instance of their
perfidy, he durst not manifest his indignation, conscious of the
advantage they had over him in divers respects; but repaired, without
loss of time, to the lodging of the clergyman who had noosed him,
resolved to consult his register, and secure his evidence. Here too his
evil genius had got the start of him; for the worthy ecclesiastic not
only could not recollect his features, or find his name in the
register, but, when importuned by his pressing remonstrances, took
umbrage at the freedom of his behaviour, and threatened, if he would
not immediately take himself away, to raise the posse of the Fleet, for
the safety of his own person.
Rather than put the pastor to the trouble of alarming his flock, he
retreated with a heavy heart, and went in quest of his mistress, whom
he had dismissed at his marriage, in hopes of effecting a
reconciliation, and preventing her from joining in the conspiracy
against him. But, alas! he met with such a reception as he had reason
to expect from a slighted woman, who had never felt any real attachment
for his person. She did not upbraid him with his cruelty in leaving her
as a mistress, but, with a species of effrontery never enough to be
admired, reproached him with his villany, in abandoning her, who was
his true and lawful wife, to go and ruin a poor gentlewoman, by whose
fortune he had been allured.
When he attempted to expostulate with this virago, upon the barbarity
of this assertion, she very prudently declined engaging in private
conversation with such an artful and wicked man; and, calling up the
people of the house, insisted upon his being conducted to the door.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
IN WHICH HIS FORTUNE IS EFFECTUALLY STRANGLED.
The last resource, and that upon which he least depended, was the
advice and assistance of his old friend the empiric, with whom he still
maintained a slight correspondence; and to whose house he steered his
course, in great perplexity and tribulation. That gentleman, instead of
consoling him with assurances of friendship and protection, faithfully
recapitulated all the instances of his indiscretion and misconduct,
taxed him with want of sincerity in the West India affair, as well as
with want of honesty in this last marriage, while his former wife was
alive; and, finally, reminded him of his notes, which he desired might
be immediately taken up, as he (the quack) had present occasion for a
sum of money.
Ferdinand, seeing it would be impracticable to derive any succour from
this quarter, sneaked homewards, in order to hold a consultation with
his own thoughts; and the first object that presented itself to his
eyes when he entered his apartment, was a letter from the tradesman,
with his account inclosed, amounting to forty-five pounds, which the
writer desired might be paid without delay. Before he had time to
peruse the articles, he received a summons, in consequence of a bill of
indictment for bigamy, found against him in Hicks’ Hall, by Sarah
Muddy, widow; and, while he was revolving measures to avert these
storms, another billet arrived from a certain attorney, giving him to
understand, that he had orders from Doctor Buffalo, the quack, to sue
him for the payment of several notes, unless he would take them up in
three days from the date of this letter.
Such a concurrence of sinister events made a deep impression upon the
mind of our adventurer. All his fortitude was insufficient to bear him
up against this torrent of misfortunes; his resources were all dried
up, his invention failed, and his reflection began to take a new turn.
“To what purpose,” said he to himself, “have I deserted the paths of
integrity and truth, and exhausted a fruitful imagination, in
contriving schemes to betray my fellow-creatures, if, instead of
acquiring a splendid fortune, which was my aim, I have suffered such a
series of mortifications, and at last brought myself to the brink of
inevitable destruction? By a virtuous exertion of those talents I
inherit from nature and education, I might, long before this time, have
rendered myself independent, and, perhaps, conspicuous in life. I might
have grown up like a young oak, which, being firmly rooted in its
kindred soil, gradually raises up its lofty head, expands its leafy
arms, projects a noble shade, and towers the glory of the plain. I
should have paid the debt of gratitude to my benefactors, and made
their hearts sing with joy for the happy effects of their benevolence.
I should have been a bulwark to my friends, a shelter to my neighbours
in distress. I should have run the race of honour, seen my fame
diffused like a sweet-smelling odour, and felt the ineffable pleasure
of doing good. Whereas I am, after a vicissitude of disappointments,
dangers, and fatigues, reduced to misery and shame, aggravated by a
conscience loaded with treachery and guilt. I have abused the
confidence and generosity of my patron; I have defrauded his family,
under the mask of sincerity and attachment; I have taken the most cruel
and base advantages of virtue in distress; I have seduced unsuspecting
innocence to ruin and despair; I have violated the most sacred trust
reposed in me by my friend and benefactor; I have betrayed his love,
torn his noble heart asunder, by means of the most perfidious slander
and false insinuations; and, finally, brought to an untimely grave the
fairest pattern of human beauty and perfection. Shall the author of
these crimes pass with impunity? Shall he hope to prosper in the midst
of such enormous guilt? It were an imputation upon Providence to
suppose it! Ah, no! I begin to feel myself overtaken by the eternal
justice of Heaven! I totter on the edge of wretchedness and woe,
without one friendly hand to save me from the terrible abyss!”
These reflections, which, perhaps, the misery of his fellow-creatures
would never have inspired, had he himself remained without the verge of
misfortune, were now produced from the sensation of his own calamities;
and, for the first time, his cheeks were bedewed with the drops of
penitence and sorrow. “Contraries,” saith Plato, “are productive of
each other.” Reformation is oftentimes generated from unsuccessful
vice; and our adventurer was, at this juncture, very well disposed to
turn over a new leaf in consequence of those salutary suggestions;
though he was far from being cured beyond the possibility of a relapse.
On the contrary, all the faculties of his soul were so well adapted,
and had been so long habituated to deceit, that, in order to extricate
himself from the evils that environed him, he would not, in all
probability, have scrupled to practise it upon his own father, had a
convenient opportunity occurred.
Be that as it may, he certainly, after a tedious and fruitless exercise
of his invention, resolved to effect a clandestine retreat from that
confederacy of enemies which he could not withstand, and once more join
his fortune to that of Renaldo, whom he proposed to serve, for the
future, with fidelity and affection, thereby endeavouring to atone for
the treachery of his former conduct. Thus determined, he packed up his
necessaries in a portmanteau, attempted to amuse his creditors with
promises of speedy payment, and, venturing to come forth in the dark,
took a place in the Canterbury stage-coach, after having converted his
superfluities into ready money. These steps were not taken with such
privacy as to elude the vigilance of his adversaries; for, although he
had been cautious enough to transport himself and his baggage to the
inn on Sunday evening, and never doubted that the vehicle, which set
out at four o’clock on Monday morning, would convey him out of the
reach of his creditors, before they could possibly obtain a writ for
securing his person, they had actually taken such precautions as
frustrated all his finesse; and the coach being stopped in the borough
of Southwark, Doctor Fathom was seized by virtue of a warrant obtained
on a criminal indictment, and was forthwith conducted to the prison of
the King’s Bench; yet, not before he had, by his pathetic
remonstrances, excited the compassion, and even drawn tears from the
eyes of his fellow-passengers.
He no sooner recollected himself from the shock which must have been
occasioned by this sinister incident, than he despatched a letter to
his brother-in-law, the counsellor, requesting an immediate conference,
in which he promised to make such a proposal as would save him all the
expense of a lawsuit and trial, and, at the same time, effectually
answer all the purposes of both. He was accordingly favoured with a
visit from the lawyer, to whom, after the most solemn protestations of
his own innocence, he declared, that, finding himself unable to wage
war against such powerful antagonists, he had resolved even to abandon
his indubitable right, and retire into another country, in order to
screen himself from persecution, and remove all cause of disquiet from
the prosecutrix, when he was, unfortunately, prevented by the warrant
which had been executed against him. He said he was still willing, for
the sake of his liberty, to sign a formal renunciation of his
pretensions to Mrs. Fathom and her fortune, provided the deeds could be
executed, and the warrant withdrawn, before he should be detained by
his other creditors; and, lastly, he conjured the barrister to spare
himself the guilt and the charge of suborning evidence for the
destruction of an unhappy man, whose misfortune was his only fault.
The lawyer felt the force of his expostulations; and though he would by
no means suppose him innocent of the charge of bigamy, yet, under the
pretext of humanity and commiseration, he undertook to persuade his
sister to accept of a proper release, which, he observed, would not be
binding, if executed during the confinement of Fathom; he therefore
took his leave, in order to prepare the papers, withdraw the action,
and take such other measures as would hinder the prisoner from giving
him the slip. Next day, he returned with an order to release our hero,
who, being formally discharged, was conducted by the lawyer to a tavern
in the neighbourhood, where the releases were exchanged, and everything
concluded with amity and concord. This business being happily
transacted, Fathom stept into a hackney-coach, with his baggage, and
was followed by a bailiff, who told him, with great composure, that he
was again a prisoner, at the suit of Doctor Buffalo, and desired the
coachman to reconduct him to the lodging he had so lately discharged.
Fathom, whose fortitude had been hitherto of the pagan temper, was now
fain to reinforce it with the philosophy of Christian resignation,
though he had not as yet arrived to such a pitch of self-denial as to
forgive the counsellor, to whose double dealing he imputed this new
calamity. After having received the compliments of the jailer on his
recommitment, he took pen, ink, and paper, and composed an artful and
affecting epistle to the empiric, imploring his mercy, flattering his
weakness, and demonstrating the bad policy of cooping up an unhappy man
in a jail, where he could never have an opportunity of doing justice to
his creditors; nor did he forget to declare his intention of retiring
into another country, where he might have some chance of earning a
subsistence, which he had so long toiled for to no purpose in England.
This last declaration he made in consequence of the jealous disposition
of the quack, who he knew had long looked upon him in the odious light
of an interloping rival. However, he reaped no benefit from this
supplication, which served only to gratify the pride of Buffalo, who
produced the extravagant encomiums which Fathom had bestowed upon him,
as so many testimonials of his foe’s bearing witness to his virtue.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
FATHOM BEING SAFELY HOUSED, THE READER IS ENTERTAINED WITH A
RETROSPECT.
But now it is high time to leave our adventurer to chew the cud of
reflection and remorse in this solitary mansion, that we may trace
Renaldo in the several steps he took to assert his right, and do
justice to his family. Never man indulged a more melancholy train of
ideas than that which accompanied him in his journey to the Imperial
court. For, notwithstanding the manifold reasons he had to expect a
happy issue to his aim, his imagination was incessantly infected with
something that chilled his nerves and saddened his heart, recurring,
with quick succession, like the unwearied wave that beats upon the
bleak, inhospitable Greenland shore. This, the reader will easily
suppose, was no other than the remembrance of the forlorn Monimia,
whose image appeared to his fancy in different attitudes, according to
the prevalence of the passions which raged in his bosom. Sometimes he
viewed her in the light of apostasy, and then his soul was maddened
with indignation and despair. But these transitory blasts were not able
to efface the impressions she had formerly made upon his heart;
impressions which he had so often and so long contemplated with
inconceivable rapture. These pictures still remained, representing her
fair as the most perfect idea of beauty, soft and tender as an angel of
mercy and compassion, warmed with every virtue of the heart, and
adorned with every accomplishment of human nature. Yet the alarming
contrast came still in the rear of this recollection; so that his soul
was by turns agitated by the tempests of horror, and overwhelmed by the
floods of grief.
He recalled the moment on which he first beheld her, with that pleasing
regret which attends the memory of a dear deceased friend. Then he
bitterly cursed it, as the source of all his misfortunes and
affliction. He thanked Heaven for having blessed him with a friend to
detect her perfidy and ingratitude; and then ardently wished he had
still continued under the influence of her delusion. In a word, the
loneliness of his situation aggravated every horror of his reflection;
for, as he found himself without company, his imagination was never
solicited, or his attention diverted from these subjects of woe; and he
travelled to Brussels in a reverie, fraught with such torments as must
have entirely wrecked his reason, had not Providence interposed in his
behalf. He was, by his postillion, conducted to one of the best inns of
the place, where he understood the cloth was already laid for supper;
and as the ordinary is open to strangers in all these houses of
entertainment, he introduced himself into the company, with a view to
alleviate, in some measure, his sorrow and chagrin, by the conversation
of his fellow-guests. Yet he was so ill prepared to obtain the relief
which he courted, that he entered the apartment, and sat down to table,
without distinguishing either the number or countenances of those who
were present, though he himself did not long remain so unregarded. His
mien and deportment produced a prepossession in his favour; and the air
of affliction, so remarkable in his visage, did not fail to attract
their sympathy and observation.
Among the rest, was an Irish officer in the Austrian service, who
having eyed Renaldo attentively, “Sir,” said he, rising, “if my eyes
and memory do not deceive me, you are the Count de Melvil, with whom I
had the honour to serve upon the Rhine during the last war.” The youth,
hearing his own name mentioned, lifted up his eyes, and at once
recognising the other to be a gentleman who had been a captain in his
father’s regiment, ran forwards, and embraced him with great affection.
This was, in divers respects, a fortunate rencontre for young Melvil;
as the officer was not only perfectly well acquainted with the
situation of the Count’s family, but also resolved, in a few days, to
set out for Vienna, whither he promised to accompany Renaldo, as soon
as he understood his route lay the same way. Before the day fixed for
their departure arrived, this gentleman found means to insinuate
himself so far into the confidence of the Count, as to learn the cause
of that distress which he had observed in his features at their first
meeting; and being a gentleman of uncommon vivacity, as well as
sincerely attached to the family of Melvil, to which he had owed his
promotion, he exerted all his good-humour and good sense in amusing the
fancy, and reasoning down the mortification of the afflicted Hungarian.
He in particular endeavoured to wean his attention from the lost
Monimia, by engaging it upon his domestic affairs, and upon the wrongs
of his mother and sister, who, he gave him to understand, were
languishing under the tyranny of his father-in-law.
This was a note that effectually roused him from the lethargy of his
sorrow; and the desire of taking vengeance on the oppressor, who had
ruined his fortune, and made his nearest relations miserable, so
entirely engrossed his thoughts, as to leave no room for other
considerations. During their journey to Austria, Major Farrel, (that
was the name of his fellow-traveller,) informed him of many
circumstances touching his father’s house, to which himself was an
utter stranger.
“The conduct of your mother,” said he, “in marrying Count Trebasi, was
not at all agreeable either to the friends of the Count de Melvil, or
to her own relations, who knew her second husband to be a man of a
violent temper, and rapacious disposition, which the nature of his
education and employment had served rather to inflame than allay; for
you well know he was a partisan during the whole course of the late
war. They were, moreover, equally surprised and chagrined, when they
found she took no step to prevent his seizing upon that inheritance
which of right belonged to you, and which, by the laws of Hungary, is
unalienable from the heir of blood. Nevertheless, they are now fully
convinced, that she hath more than sufficiently atoned for her
indiscretion, by the barbarity of her husband, who hath not only
secluded her from all communication with her friends and acquaintance,
but even confined her to the west tower of your father’s house, where
she is said to be kept close prisoner, and subjected to all sorts of
inconvenience and mortification. This severity she is believed to have
incurred in consequence of having expostulated to him upon his unjust
behaviour to you and Mademoiselle, whom he hath actually shut up in
some convent in Vienna, which your relations have not as yet been able
to discover. But the memory of your noble father is so dear to all
those who were favoured with his friendship, and the sufferings of the
Countess and Mademoiselle have raised such a spirit of resentment
against her cruel jailor, that nothing is wanted but your presence to
begin the prosecution, and give a sanction to the measures of your
friends, which will in a little time restore your family to the
fruition of its rights and fortune. For my own part, my dear Count, I
consider myself as one wholly indebted to your house for the rank and
expectation I now enjoy; and my finances, interest, and person, such as
they are, I dedicate to your service.”
Renaldo was not slow in making his acknowledgments to this generous
Hibernian, whom he informed of his scheme, recounting to him his
uncommon transaction with the benevolent Jew, and communicating the
letters of recommendation he had received by his means to some of the
first noblemen at the Imperial court. Meanwhile, he burned with
impatience to chastise Count Trebasi for his perfidious conduct to the
widow and the fatherless, and would have taken the road to Presburg,
without touching at Vienna, in order to call him to a severe account,
had not he been strenuously opposed by Major Farrel, who represented
the imprudence of taking such a step before he had secured a proper
protection from the consequences with which it might be attended.
“It is not,” said he, “your own life and fortune only which depend upon
your behaviour in this emergency, but also the quiet and happiness of
those who are most dear to your affection. Not you alone, but likewise
your mother and sister, would infallibly suffer by your temerity and
precipitation. First of all, deliver your credentials at court, and let
us join our endeavours to raise an interest strong enough to
counterbalance that of Trebasi. If we succeed, there will be no
necessity for having recourse to personal measures. He will be
compelled to yield up your inheritance which he unjustly detains, and
to restore your sister to your arms; and if he afterwards refuses to do
justice to the Countess, you will always have it in your power to
evince yourself the son of the brave Count de Melvil.”
These just and salutary representations had a due effect upon Renaldo,
who no sooner arrived at the capital of Austria, than he waited upon a
certain prince of distinction, to whose patronage he was commended; and
from whom he met with a very cordial reception, not only on account of
his credentials, but also for the sake of his father, who was well
known to his highness. He heard his complaints with great patience and
affability, assured him of his assistance and protection, and even
undertook to introduce him to the empress-queen, who would not suffer
the weakest of her subjects to be oppressed, much less disregard the
cause of an injured young nobleman, who, by his own services, and those
of his family, was peculiarly entitled to her favour.
Nor was he the only person whose countenance and patronage Melvil
solicited upon this occasion; he visited all the friends of his father,
and all his mother’s relations, who were easily interested in his
behalf; while Major Farrel contributed all his efforts in strengthening
the association. So that a lawsuit was immediately commenced against
Count Trebasi, who on his side was not idle, but prepared with
incredible industry for the assault, resolving to maintain with his
whole power the acquisition he had made.
The laws of Hungary, like those of some other countries I could name,
afford so many subterfuges for the purposes of perfidy and fraud, that
it is no wonder our youth began to complain of the slow progress of his
affair; especially as he glowed with the most eager desire of
redressing the grievances of his parent and sister, whose sufferings he
did not doubt were doubled since the institution of his process against
their tormentor. He imparted his sentiments on this head to his friend;
and, as his apprehensions every moment increased, plainly told him he
could no longer live without making some effort to see those with whom
he was so nearly connected in point of blood and affection. He
therefore resolved to repair immediately to Presburg; and, according to
the intelligence he should procure, essay to see and converse with his
mother, though at the hazard of his life.
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
RENALDO ABRIDGES THE PROCEEDINGS AT LAW, AND APPROVES HIMSELF THE SON
OF HIS FATHER.
The Major, finding him determined, insisted upon attending him in this
expedition, and they set out together for Presburg, where they
privately arrived in the dark, resolving to keep themselves concealed
at the house of a friend, until they should have formed some plan for
their future operations. Here they were informed that Count Trebasi’s
castle was altogether inaccessible; that all the servants who were
supposed to have the least veneration or compassion for the Countess
were dismissed; and that, since Renaldo was known to be in Germany, the
vigilance and caution of that cruel husband was redoubled to such a
degree, that nobody knew whether his unfortunate lady was actually
alive or dead.
Farrel perceiving Melvil exceedingly affected with this intimation, and
hearing him declare that he would never quit Presburg until he should
have entered the house, and removed his doubts on that interesting
subject, not only argued with great vehemence against such an attempt,
as equally dangerous and indiscreet, but solemnly swore he would
prevent his purpose, by discovering his design to the family, unless he
would promise to listen to a more moderate and feasible expedient. He
then proposed that he himself should appear in the equipage of one of
the travelling Savoyards who stroll about Europe, amusing ignorant
people with the effects of a magic lanthorn, and in that disguise
endeavour to obtain admittance from the servants of Trebasi, among whom
he might make such inquiries as would deliver Melvil from his present
uneasy suspense.
This proposal was embraced, though reluctantly, by Renaldo, who was
unwilling to expose his friend to the least danger or disgrace; and the
Major being next day provided with the habit and implements of his new
profession, together with a ragged attendant who preceded him,
extorting music from a paltry viol, approached the castle gate, and
proclaimed his show so naturally in a yell, partaking of the scream of
Savoy and the howl of Ireland, that one would have imagined he had been
conductor to Madam Catherina from his cradle. So far his stratagem
succeeded; he had not long stood in waiting before he was invited into
the court-yard, where the servants formed a ring, and danced to the
efforts of his companion’s skill; then he was conducted into the
buttery, where he exhibited his figures on the wall, and his princess
on the floor; and while they regaled him in this manner with scraps and
sour wine, he took occasion to inquire about the old lady and her
daughter, before whom he said he had performed in his last
peregrination. Though this question was asked with all that air of
simplicity which is peculiar to these people, one of the domestics took
the alarm, being infected with the suspicions of his master, and
plainly taxed the Major with being a spy, threatening at the same time
that he should be stripped and searched.
This would have been a very dangerous experiment for the Hibernian, who
had actually in his pocket a letter to the Countess from her son, which
he hoped fortune might have furnished him with an opportunity to
deliver. When he therefore found himself in this dilemma, he was not at
all easy in his own mind. However, instead of protesting his innocence
in an humble and beseeching strain, in order to acquit himself of the
charge, he resolved to elude the suspicion by provoking the wrath of
his accuser, and, putting on the air of vulgar integrity affronted,
began to reproach the servant in very insolent terms for his unfair
supposition, and undressed himself in a moment to the skin, threw his
tattered garments in the face of his adversary, telling him he would
find nothing there which he would not be very glad to part with; at the
same time raising his voice, he, in the gibberish of the clan he
represented, scolded and cursed with great fluency, so that the whole
house resounded with the noise. The valet’s jealousy, like a smaller
fire, was in a trice swallowed up in the greater flame of his rage
enkindled by this abrupt address. In consequence of which, Farrel was
kicked out at the gate, naked as he was to the waist, after his
lanthorn had been broke to pieces on his head; and there he was joined
by his domestic, who had not been able to recover his apparel and
effect a retreat, without incurring marks of the same sort of
distinction.
The Major, considering the risk he must have run in being detected,
thought himself cheaply quit for this moderate discipline, though he
was really concerned for his friend Renaldo, who, understanding the
particulars of the adventure, determined, as the last effort, to ride
round the castle in the open day, on pretence of taking the air, when,
peradventure, the Countess would see him from the place of her
confinement, and favour him with some mark or token of her being alive.
Though his companion did not much relish this plan, which he foresaw
would expose him to the insults of Trebasi, yet, as he could not
contrive a better, he acquiesced in Renaldo’s invention, with the
proviso that he would defer the execution of it until his father-in-law
should be absent in the chase, which was a diversion he every day
enjoyed.
Accordingly they set a proper watch, and lay concealed until they were
informed of Trebasi’s having gone forth; when they mounted their
horses, and rode into the neighbourhood of the castle. Having made a
small excursion in the adjoining fields, they drew nearer the walls,
and at an easy pace had twice circled them, when Farrel descried, at
the top of a tower, a white handkerchief waved by a woman’s hand
through the iron bars that secured the window. This signal being
pointed out to Renaldo, his heart began to throb with great violence;
he made a respectful obeisance towards the part in which it appeared,
and perceiving the hand beckoning him to approach, advanced to the very
buttress of the turret; upon which, seeing something drop, he alighted
with great expedition, and took up a picture of his father in
miniature, the features of which he no sooner distinguished, than the
tears ran down his cheeks; he pressed the little image to his lips with
the most filial fervour; then conveying it to his bosom, looked up to
the hand, which waved in such a manner as gave him to understand it was
high time to retire. Being by this time highly persuaded that his kind
monitor was no other than the Countess herself, he pointed to his
heart, in token of his filial affection, and laying his hand on his
sword, to denote his resolution of doing her justice, he took his leave
with another profound bow, and suffered himself to be reconducted to
his lodging.
Every circumstance of this transaction was observed by the servants of
Count Trebasi, who immediately despatched a messenger to their lord,
with an account of what had happened. Alarmed at this information, from
which he immediately concluded that the stranger was young Melvil, he
forthwith quitted the chase, and returning to the castle by a private
postern, ordered his horse to be kept ready saddled, in hope that his
son-in-law would repeat the visit to his mother. This precaution would
have been to no purpose, had Renaldo followed the advice of Farrel, who
represented the danger of returning to a place where the alarm was
undoubtedly given by his first appearance; and exhorted him to return
to Vienna for the prosecution of his suit, now that he was satisfied of
his mother’s being alive. In order to strengthen this admonition, he
bade him recollect the signal for withdrawing, which was doubtless the
effect of maternal concern, inspired by the knowledge of the Count’s
vigilance and vindictive disposition.
Notwithstanding these suggestions, Melvil persisted in his resolution
of appearing once more below the tower, on the supposition that his
mother, in expectation of his return, had prepared a billet for his
acceptance, from which he might obtain important intelligence. The
Major, seeing him lend a deaf ear to his remonstrances, was contented
to attend him in his second expedition, which he pressed him to
undertake that same afternoon, as Trebasi had taken care to circulate a
report of his having gone to dine at the seat of a nobleman in the
neighbourhood. Our knight-errant and his squire, deceived by this
finesse, presented themselves again under the prison of the Countess,
who no sooner beheld her son return, than she earnestly entreated him
to be gone, by the same sign which she had before used; and he, taking
it for granted that she was debarred the use of pen, ink, and paper,
and that she had nothing more to expect, consented to retire, and had
already moved to some distance from the house, when, in crossing a
small plantation that belonged to the castle, they were met by Count
Trebasi and another person on horseback.
At sight of this apparition, the blood mounted into Renaldo’s cheeks,
and his eyes began to lighten with eagerness and indignation; which was
not at all diminished by the ferocious address of the Count, who
advancing to Melvil, with a menacing air. “Before you proceed,” said
he, “I must know with what view you have been twice to-day patroling
round my enclosures, and reconnoitring the different avenues of my
house. You likewise carry on a clandestine correspondence with some
person in the family, of which my honour obliges me to demand an
explanation.”
“Had your actions been always regulated by the dictates of honour,”
replied Renaldo, “I should never have been questioned for riding round
that castle, which you know is my rightful inheritance; or excluded
from the sight of a parent who suffers under your tyranny and
oppression. It is my part, therefore, to expostulate; and, since
fortune hath favoured me with an opportunity of revenging our wrongs in
person, we shall not part until you have learned that the family of the
Count de Melvil is not to be injured with impunity. Here is no
advantage on either side, in point of arms or number; you are better
mounted than I am, and shall have the choice of the ground on which our
difference ought to be brought to a speedy determination.”
Trebasi, whose courage was not of the sentimental kind, but purely
owing to his natural insensibility of danger, instead of concerting
measures coolly for the engagement, or making any verbal reply to this
defiance, drew a pistol, without the least hesitation, and fired it at
the face of Renaldo, part of whose left eyebrow was carried off by the
ball. Melvil was not slow in returning the compliment, which, as it was
deliberate, proved the more decisive. For the shot entering the Count’s
right breast, made its way to the backbone with such a shock, as struck
him to the ground; upon which the other alighted, in order to improve
the advantage he had gained.
During this transaction, Farrel had well-nigh lost his life by the
savage behaviour of Trebasi’s attendant, who had been a hussar officer,
and who, thinking it was his duty to imitate the example of his patron
on this occasion, discharged a pistol at the Major, before he had the
least intimation of his design. The Hibernian’s horse being a common
hireling, and unaccustomed to stand fire, no sooner saw the flash of
Trebasi’s pistol, than, starting aside, he happened to plunge into a
hole, and was overturned at the very instant when the hussar’s piece
went off, so that no damage ensued to his rider, who, pitching on his
feet, flew with great nimbleness to his adversary, then, laying hold on
one leg, dismounted him in a twinkling, and, seizing his throat as he
lay, would have soon despatched him without the use of firearms, had he
not been prevented by his friend Renaldo, who desired him to desist,
observing that his vengeance was already satisfied, as the Count seemed
to be in the agonies of death. The Major was loth to quit his prey, as
he thought his aggressor had acted in a treacherous manner; but
recollecting that there was no time to lose, because, in all
probability, the firing had alarmed the castle, he took his leave of
the vanquished hussar, with a couple of hearty kicks, and, mounting his
horse, followed Melvil to the house of a gentleman in the
neighbourhood, who was kinsman to the Countess, and very well disposed
to grant him a secure retreat, until the troublesome consequences of
this rencontre should be overblown.
Trebasi, though to the young gentleman he seemed speechless and
insensible, had neither lost the use of his reason nor of his tongue,
but affected that extremity, in order to avoid any further conversation
with the victor. He was one of those people who never think of death
until he knocks at the door, and then earnestly entreat him to excuse
them for the present, and be so good as to call another time. The Count
had so often escaped unhurt, in the course of his campaigns, that he
looked upon himself as invulnerable, and set all danger at defiance.
Though he had hitherto taken no care of the concerns of his soul, he
had a large fund of superstition at bottom; and, when the surgeon, who
examined his wound, declared it was mortal, all the terrors of futurity
took hold on his imagination, all the misdemeanours of his life
presented themselves in aggravated colours to his recollection.
He implored the spiritual assistance of a good priest in the
neighbourhood, who, in the discharge of his own conscience, gave him to
understand that he had little mercy to expect, unless he would, as much
as lay in his power, redress the injuries he had done to his
fellow-creatures. As nothing lay heavier upon his soul than the cruelty
and fraud he had practised upon the family of Count Melvil, he
earnestly besought this charitable clergyman to mediate his pardon with
the Countess, and at the same time desired to see Renaldo before his
death, that he might put him in possession of his paternal estate, and
solicit his forgiveness for the offence he had given.
His lady, far from waiting for the priest’s intercession, no sooner
understood the lamentable situation of her husband, and found herself
at liberty, than she hastened to his apartment, expressed the utmost
concern for his misfortune, and tended him with truly conjugal
tenderness and fidelity. Her son gladly obeyed the summons, and was
received with great civility and satisfaction by his father-in-law,
who, in presence of the judge and divers gentlemen assembled for that
purpose, renounced all right and title to the fortune he had so
unjustly usurped; disclosed the name of the convent to which
Mademoiselle de Melvil had been conveyed, dismissed all the agents of
his iniquity, and being reconciled to his son-in-law, began to prepare
himself in tranquillity for his latter end.
The Countess was overwhelmed with an excess of joy, while she embraced
her long-lost son, who had proved himself so worthy of his father. Yet
this joy was embittered, by reflecting that she was made a widow by the
hands of that darling son. For, though she knew his honour demanded the
sacrifice, she could not lay aside that regard and veneration which is
attached to the name of husband; and therefore resolved to retire into
a monastery, where she could spend the remainder of her life in
devotion, without being exposed to any intercourse which might
interfere with the delicacy of her sentiments on that subject.
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
HE IS THE MESSENGER OF HAPPINESS TO HIS SISTER, WHO REMOVES THE FILM
WHICH HAD LONG OBSTRUCTED HIS PENETRATION, WITH REGARD TO COUNT FATHOM.
As the most endearing affection had always subsisted between Renaldo
and his sister, he would not one moment deny himself the pleasure of
flying to her embrace, and of being the glad messenger of her
deliverance. Soon, therefore, as he understood the place of her
retreat, and had obtained a proper order to the abbess, signed by Count
Trebasi, he set out post for Vienna, still accompanied by his faithful
Hibernian, and, arriving at the convent, found the abbess and the whole
house so engrossed in making preparations for the ceremony of giving
the veil next day to a young woman who had fulfilled the term of her
probation, that he could not possibly see his sister with that leisure
and satisfaction which he had flattered himself with enjoying at this
meeting; and therefore he was fain to bridle his impatience for two
days, and keep his credentials until the hurry should be over, that
Mademoiselle might have no intimation of her good fortune, except from
his own mouth.
In order to fill up this tedious interval, he visited his friends at
court, who were rejoiced to hear the happy issue of his excursion to
Presburg; the prince, who was his particular patron, desired he would
make himself perfectly easy with regard to the death of Count Trebasi,
for he would take care to represent him in such a light to the
empress-queen, as would screen him from any danger or prosecution on
that account. His highness, moreover, appointed the following day for
performing the promise he had made of presenting him to that august
princess, and in the meantime prepossessed her so much in his favour,
that when he approached her presence, and was announced by his noble
introductor, she eyed him with a look of peculiar complacency, saying,
“I am glad to see you returned to my dominions. Your father was a
gallant officer, who served our house with equal courage and fidelity;
and as I understand you tread in his footsteps, you may depend upon my
favour and protection.”
He was so much overwhelmed with this gracious reception, that, while he
bowed in silence, the drops of gratitude trickled from his eyes; and
her imperial majesty was so well pleased with this manifestation of his
heart, that she immediately gave directions for promoting him to the
command of a troop of horse. Thus fortune seemed willing, and indeed
eager to discharge the debt she owed him for the different calamities
he had undergone. And as he looked upon the generous Hebrew to be the
sole source of his success, he did not fail to make him acquainted with
the happy effects of his recommendation and friendship, and to express,
in the warmest terms, the deep sense he had of his uncommon
benevolence, which, by the bye, was still greater, with regard to
Renaldo, than the reader as yet imagines; for he not only furnished him
with money for his present occasions, but also gave him an unlimited
credit on a banker in Vienna, to whom one of his letters was directed.
The ceremony of the nun’s admission being now performed, and the
convent restored to its former quiet, Melvil hastened thither on the
wings of brotherly affection, and presented his letter to the abbess,
who having perused the contents, by which she learned that the family
disquiets of Count Trebasi no longer subsisted, and that the bearer was
the brother of Mademoiselle, she received him with great politeness,
congratulated him on this happy event, and, begging he would excuse her
staying with him in the parlour, on pretence of business, withdrew,
saying, she would immediately send in a young lady who would console
him for her absence. In a few minutes he was joined by his sister, who,
expecting nothing less than to see Renaldo, no sooner distinguished his
features, than she shrieked aloud with surprise, and would have sunk
upon the floor, had not he supported her in his embrace.
Such a sudden apparition of her brother at any time, or in any place,
after their long separation, would have strongly affected this sensible
young lady; but to find him so abruptly in a place where she thought
herself buried from the knowledge of all her relations, occasioned such
commotions in her spirits as had well-nigh endangered her reason. For
it was not till after a considerable pause, that she could talk to him
with connexion or coherence. However, as those transports subsided,
they entered into a more deliberate and agreeable conversation; in the
course of which, he gradually informed her of what had passed at the
castle; and inexpressible was the pleasure she felt in learning that
her mother was released from captivity, herself restored to freedom,
and her brother to the possession of his inheritance, by the only means
to which she had always prayed these blessings might be owing.
As she had been treated with uncommon humanity by the abbess, she would
not consent to leave the convent until he should be ready to set out
for Presburg; so that they dined together with that good lady, and
passed the afternoon in that mutual communication with which a brother
and sister may be supposed to entertain themselves on such an occasion.
She gave him a detail of the insults and mortifications she had
suffered from the brutality of her father-in-law, and told him, that
her confinement in this monastery was owing to Trebasi having
intercepted a letter to her from Renaldo, signifying his intention to
return to the empire, in order to assert his own right, and redress his
grievances. Then turning the discourse upon the incidents of his
peregrinations, she in a particular manner inquired about that
exquisite beauty who had been the innocent source of all his
distresses, and upon whose perfections he had often, in his letters to
his sister, expatiated with indications of rapture and delight.
This inquiry in a moment blew up that scorching flame which had been
well-nigh stifled by other necessary avocations. His eyes gleamed, his
cheeks glowed and grew pale alternately, and his whole frame underwent
an immediate agitation; which being perceived by Mademoiselle, she
concluded that some new calamity was annexed to the name of Monimia,
and, dreading to rip up a wound which she saw was so ineffectually
closed, she for the present suppressed her curiosity and concern, and
industriously endeavoured to introduce some less affecting subject of
conversation. He saw her aim, approved of her discretion, and, joining
her endeavours, expressed his surprise at her having omitted to signify
the least remembrance of her old favourite, Fathom, whom he had left in
England. He had no sooner pronounced this name, than she suffered some
confusion in her turn; from which, however, recollecting herself,
“Brother,” said she, “you must endeavour to forget that wretch, who is
altogether unworthy of retaining the smallest share of your regard.”
Astonished, and indeed angry, at this expression, which he considered
as the effect of malicious misrepresentation, he gently chid her for
her credulity in believing the envious aspersion of some person, who
repined at the superior virtue of Fathom, whom he affirmed to be an
honour to the human species.
“Nothing is more easy,” replied the young lady, “than to impose upon a
person, who, being himself unconscious of guile, suspects no deceit.
You have been a dupe, dear brother, not to the finesse of Fathom, but
to the sincerity of your own heart. For my own part, I assume no honour
to my own penetration in having comprehended the villany of that
impostor, which was discovered, in more than one instance, by accidents
I could not possibly foresee.
“You must know, that Teresa, who attended me from my childhood, and in
whose honesty I reposed such confidence, having disobliged some of the
inferior servants, was so narrowly watched in all her transactions, as
to be at last detected in the very act of conveying a piece of plate,
which was actually found concealed among her clothes.
“You may guess how much I was astonished when I understood this
circumstance. I could not trust to the evidence of my own senses, and
should have still believed her innocent, in spite of ocular
demonstration, had not she, in the terrors of being tried for felony,
promised to make a very material discovery to the Countess, provided
she would take such measures as would save her life.
“This request being complied with, she, in my hearing, opened up such
an amazing scene of iniquity, baseness, and ingratitude, which had been
acted by her and Fathom, in order to defraud the family to which they
were so much indebted, that I could not have believed the human mind
capable of such degeneracy, or that traitor endowed with such
pernicious cunning and dissimulation, had not her tale been congruous,
consistent, and distinct, and fraught with circumstances that left no
room to doubt the least article of her confession; on consideration of
which she was permitted to go into voluntary exile.”
She then explained their combination in all the particulars, as we have
already recounted them in their proper place, and finally observed,
that the opinion she had hence conceived of Fathom’s character, was
confirmed by what she had since learned of his perfidious conduct
towards that very nun who had lately taken the veil.
Perceiving her brother struck dumb with astonishment, and gaping with
the most eager attention, she proceeded to relate the incidents of his
double intrigue with the jeweller’s wife and daughter, as they were
communicated to her by the nun, who was no other than the individual
Wilhelmina. After those rivals had been forsaken by their gallant,
their mutual animosities and chagrin served to whet the attention and
invention of each; so that in a little time the whole mystery stood
disclosed to both. The mother had discovered the daughter’s
correspondence with Fathom, as we have formerly observed, by means of
that unfortunate letter which he unwittingly committed to the charge of
the old beldame; and, as soon as she understood he was without the
reach of all solicitation or prosecution, imparted this billet to her
husband, whose fury was so ungovernable, that he had almost sacrificed
Wilhelmina with his own hands, especially when, terrified by his
threats and imprecations, she owned that she had bestowed the chain on
this perfidious lover. However, this dreadful purpose was prevented,
partly by the interposition of his wife, whose aim was not the death
but immurement of his daughter, and partly by the tears and
supplication of the young gentlewoman herself, who protested, that,
although the ceremony of the church had not been performed, she was
contracted to Fathom by the most solemn vows, to witness which he
invoked all the saints in heaven.
The jeweller, upon cooler consideration, was unwilling to lose the last
spark of hope that glittered among the ruins of his despair, and
resisted all the importunities of his wife, who pressed him to consult
the welfare of his daughter’s soul, in the fond expectation of finding
some expedient to lure back the chain and its possessor. In the
meantime Wilhelmina was daily and hourly exposed to the mortifying
animadversions of her mamma, who, with all the insolence of virtue,
incessantly upbraided her with the backslidings of her vicious life,
and exhorted her to reformation and repentance. This continual triumph
lasted for many months, till at length, a quarrel happening between the
mother and the gossip at whose house she used to give the rendezvous to
her admirers, that incensed confidante, in the precipitation of her
anger, promulgated the history of those secret meetings; and, among the
rest, her interviews with Fathom were brought to light.
The first people who hear news of this sort are generally those to whom
they are most unwelcome. The German was soon apprised of his wife’s
frailty, and considered the two females of his house as a couple of
devils incarnate, sent from hell to exercise his patience. Yet, in the
midst of his displeasure, he found matter of consolation, in being
furnished with a sufficient reason for parting with his helpmate, who
had for many years kept his family in disquiet. He therefore, without
hazarding a personal conference, sent proposals to her by a friend,
which she did not think proper to reject; and seeing himself restored
to the dominion of his own house, exerted his sway so tyrannically,
that Wilhelmina became weary of her life, and had recourse to the
comforts of religion, of which she soon became enamoured, and begged
her father’s permission to dedicate the rest of her life to the duties
of devotion. She was accordingly received in this convent, the
regulations of which were so much to her liking, that she performed the
task of probation with pleasure, and voluntarily excluded herself from
the vanities of this life. It was here she had contracted an
acquaintance with Mademoiselle de Melvil, to whom she communicated her
complaints of Fathom, on the supposition that he was related to the
Count, as he himself had often declared.
While the young lady rehearsed the particulars of this detail, Renaldo
sustained a strange vicissitude of different passions. Surprise,
sorrow, fear, hope, and indignation raised a most tumultuous conflict
in his bosom. Monimia rushed upon his imagination in the character of
innocence betrayed by the insinuations of treachery. He with horror
viewed her at the mercy of a villain, who had broken all the ties of
gratitude and honour.
Affrighted at the prospect, he started from his seat, exclaiming, in
the most unconnected strain of distraction and despair, “Have I then
nourished a serpent in my bosom! Have I listened to the voice of a
traitor, who hath murdered my peace! who hath torn my heart-strings
asunder, and perhaps ruined the pattern of all earthly perfection. It
cannot be. Heaven would not suffer such infernal artifice to take
effect. The thunder would be levelled against the head of the accursed
projector.”
From this transport, compared with his agitation when he mentioned
Monimia, his sister judged that Fathom had been the occasion of a
breach between the two lovers; and this conjecture being confirmed by
the disjointed answers he made to her interrogations upon the affair,
she endeavoured to calm his apprehensions, by representing that he
would soon have an opportunity of returning to England, where the
misunderstanding might be easily cleared up; and that, in the meantime,
he had nothing to fear on account of the person of his mistress, in a
country where individuals were so well protected by the laws and
constitution of the realm. At length he suffered himself to be
flattered with the fond hope of seeing Monimia’s character triumph in
the inquiry, of retrieving that lost jewel, and of renewing that
ravishing intercourse and exalted expectation which had been so cruelly
cut off. He now wished to find Fathom as black as he had been
exhibited, that Monimia’s apostasy might be numbered among the
misrepresentations of his treachery and fraud.
His love, which was alike generous and ardent, espoused the cause, and
he no longer doubted her constancy and virtue. But when he reflected
how her tender heart must have been wrung with anguish at his
unkindness and cruelty, in leaving her destitute in a foreign land; how
her sensibility must have been tortured in finding herself altogether
dependent upon a ruffian, who certainly harboured the most baleful
designs upon her honour; how her life must be endangered both by his
barbarity and her own despair—I say, when he reflected on these
circumstances, he shuddered with horror and dismay; and that very night
despatched a letter to his friend the Jew, entreating him, in the most
pressing manner, to employ all his intelligence in learning the
situation of the fair orphan, that she might be protected from the
villany of Fathom, until his return to England.
CHAPTER SIXTY
HE RECOMPENSES THE ATTACHMENT OF HIS FRIEND; AND RECEIVES A LETTER THAT
REDUCES HIM TO THE VERGE OF DEATH AND DISTRACTION.
This step being taken, his mind in some measure retrieved its former
tranquillity. He soothed himself with the prospect of a happy
reconciliation with the divine Monimia, and his fancy was decoyed from
every disagreeable presage by the entertaining conversation of his
sister, with whom in two days he set out for Presburg, attended by his
friend the Major, who had never quitted him since their meeting at
Brussels. Here they found Count Trebasi entirely rid of the fever which
had been occasioned by his wound, and in a fair way of doing well; a
circumstance that afforded unspeakable pleasure to Melvil, whose manner
of thinking was such, as would have made him unhappy, could he have
charged himself with the death of his mother’s husband, howsoever
criminal he might have been.
The Count’s ferocity did not return with his health. His eyes were
opened by the danger he had incurred, and his sentiments turned in a
new channel. He heartily asked pardon of Mademoiselle for the rigorous
usage she had suffered from the violence of his temper; thanked Renaldo
for the seasonable lesson he had administered to him; and not only
insisted upon being removed from the castle to a house of his own in
Presburg, but proffered to make immediate restitution of all the rents
which he had unjustly converted to his own use.
These things being settled in the most amicable manner, to the entire
satisfaction of the parties concerned, as well as of the neighbouring
noblesse, among whom the house of Melvil was in universal esteem,
Renaldo resolved to solicit leave at the Imperial court to return to
England, in order to investigate that affair of Monimia, which was more
interesting than all the points he had hitherto adjusted. But, before
he quitted Presburg, his friend Farrel taking him aside one day,
“Count,” said he, “will you give me leave to ask, if, by my zeal and
attachment for you, I have had the good fortune to acquire your
esteem?” “To doubt that esteem,” replied Renaldo, “were to suspect my
gratitude and honour, of which I must be utterly destitute before I
lose the sense of those obligations I owe to your gallantry and
friendship—obligations which I long for a proper occasion to repay.”
“Well then,” resumed the Major, “I will deal with you like a downright
Swiss, and point out a method by which you may shift the load of
obligation from your own shoulders to mine. You know my birth, rank,
and expectations in the service; but perhaps you do not know, that, as
my expense has always unavoidably exceeded my income, I find myself a
little out at elbows in my circumstances, and want to piece them up by
matrimony. Of those ladies with whom I think I have any chance of
succeeding, Mademoiselle de Melvil seems the best qualified to render
my situation happy in all respects. Her fortune is more than sufficient
to disembarrass my affairs; her good sense will be a seasonable check
upon my vivacity; her agreeable accomplishments will engage a
continuation of affection and regard. I know my own disposition well
enough to think I shall become a most dutiful and tractable husband;
and shall deem myself highly honoured in being more closely united to
my dear Count de Melvil, the son and representative of that worthy
officer under whom my youth was formed. If you will therefore sanction
my claim, I will forthwith begin my approaches, and doubt not, under
your auspices, to bring the place to a capitulation.”
Renaldo was pleased with the frankness of this declaration, approved of
his demand, and desired him to depend upon his good offices with his
sister, whom he sounded that same evening upon the subject,
recommending the Major to her favour, as a gentleman well worthy of her
choice. Mademoiselle, who had never been exercised in the coquetries of
her sex, and was now arrived at those years when the vanity of youth
ought to yield to discretion, considered the proposal as a philosopher,
and after due deliberation candidly owned she had no objection to the
match. Farrel was accordingly introduced in the character of a lover,
after the permission of the Countess had been obtained; and he carried
on his addresses in the usual form, so much to the satisfaction of all
concerned in the event, that a day was appointed for the celebration of
his nuptials, when he entered into peaceable possession of his prize.
A few days after this joyful occasion, while Renaldo was at Vienna,
where he had been indulged with leave of absence for six months, and
employed in making preparations for his journey to Britain, he was one
evening presented by his servant with a package from London, which he
no sooner opened, than he found enclosed a letter directed to him, in
the handwriting of Monimia. He was so much affected at sight of those
well-known characters, that he stood motionless as a statue, eager to
know the contents, yet afraid to peruse the billet. While he hesitated
in this suspense, he chanced to cast his eye on the inside of the
cover, and perceived the name of his Jewish friend at the bottom of a
few lines, importing, that the enclosed was delivered to him by a
physician of his acquaintance, who had recommended it in a particular
manner to his care. This intimation served only to increase the
mystery, and whet his impatience; and as he had the explanation in his
hand, he summoned all his resolution to his aid, and, breaking the
seal, began to read these words: “Renaldo will not suppose that this
address proceeds from interested motives, when he learns, that, before
it can be presented to his view, the unfortunate Monimia will be no
more.”
Here the light forsook Renaldo’s eyes, his knees knocked together, and
he fell at full length insensible on the floor. His valet, hearing the
noise, ran into the apartment, lifted him upon a couch, and despatched
a messenger for proper assistance, while he himself endeavoured to
recall his spirits by such applications as chance afforded. But before
the Count exhibited any signs of life, his brother-in-law entered his
chamber by accident, and as soon as he recollected himself from the
extreme confusion and concern produced by this melancholy spectacle, he
perceived the fatal epistle, which Melvil, though insensible, still
kept within his grasp; justly suspecting this to be the cause of that
severe paroxysm, he drew near the couch, and with difficulty read what
is above rehearsed, and the sequel, to this effect:—
“Yes, I have taken such measures as will prevent it from falling into
your hands, until after I shall have been released from a being
embittered with inexpressible misery and anguish. It is not my
intention, once loved, and ah! still too fondly remembered youth, to
upbraid you as the source of that unceasing woe which hath been so long
the sole inhabitant of my lonely bosom. I will not call you inconstant
or unkind. I dare not think you base or dishonourable; yet I was
abruptly sacrificed to a triumphant rival, before I had learned to bear
such mortification; before I had overcome the prejudices which I had
imbibed in my father’s house. I was all at once abandoned to despair,
to indigence, and distress, to the vile practices of a villain, who, I
fear, hath betrayed us both. What have not I suffered from the insults
and vicious designs of that wretch, whom you cherished in your bosom!
Yet to these I owe this near approach to that goal of peace, where the
canker-worm of sorrow will expire. Beware of that artful traitor; and,
oh! endeavour to overcome that levity of disposition, which, if
indulged, will not only stain your reputation, but also debauch the
good qualities of your heart. I release you, in the sight of Heaven,
from all obligations. If I have been injured, let not my wrongs be
visited on the head of Renaldo, for whom shall be offered up the last
fervent prayers of the hapless Monimia.”
This letter was a clue to the labyrinth of Melvil’s distress. Though
the Major had never heard him mention the name of this beauty, he had
received such hints from his own wife, as enabled him to comprehend the
whole of the Count’s disaster. By the administration of stimulating
medicines, Renaldo recovered his perception; but this was a cruel
alternative, considering the situation of his thoughts. The first word
he pronounced was Monimia, with all the emphasis of the most violent
despair. He perused the letter, and poured forth incoherent execrations
against Fathom and himself. He exclaimed, in a frantic tone, “She is
lost for ever! murdered by my unkindness! We are both undone by the
infernal arts of Fathom! execrable monster! Restore her to my arms. If
thou art not a fiend in reality, I will tear out thy false heart.”
So saying, he sprung upon his valet, who would have fallen a sacrifice
to his undistinguishing fury, had not he been saved by the
interposition of Farrel and the family, who disengaged him from his
master’s gripe by dint of force; yet, notwithstanding their joint
endeavours, he broke from this restraint, leaped upon the floor, and
seizing his sword, attempted to plunge it in his own breast. When he
was once more overcome by numbers, he cursed himself, and all those who
withheld him; swore he would not survive the fair victim who had
perished by his credulity and indiscretion; and the agitation of his
spirits increased to such a degree, that he was seized with strong
convulsions, which nature was scarce able to sustain. Every medical
expedient was used to quiet his perturbation, which at length yielded
so far as to subside into a continual fever and confirmed delirium,
during which he ceased not to pour forth the most pathetic complaints,
touching his ruined love, and to rave about the ill-starred Monimia.
The Major, half distracted by the calamity of his friend, would have
concealed it from the knowledge of his family, had not the physician,
by despairing of his life, laid him under the necessity of making them
acquainted with his condition.
The Countess and Mrs. Farrel were no sooner informed of his case than
they hastened to the melancholy scene, where they found Renaldo
deprived of his senses, panting under the rage of an exasperated
disease. They saw his face distorted, and his eyes glaring with frenzy;
they heard him invoke the name of Monimia with a tenderness of accent
which even the impulse of madness could not destroy. Then, with a
sudden transition of tone and gesture, he denounced vengeance against
her betrayer, and called upon the north wind to cool the fervour of his
brain. His hair hung in dishevelled parcels, his cheeks were wan, his
looks ghastly, his vigour was fled, and all the glory of his youth
faded; the physician hung his head in silence, the attendants wrung
their hands in despair, and the countenance of his friend was bathed in
tears.
Such a picture would have moved the most obdurate heart; what
impression then must it have made upon a parent and sister, melting
with all the enthusiasm of affection! The mother was struck dumb, and
stupefied with grief; the sister threw herself on the bed in a
transport of sorrow, caught her loved Renaldo in her arms, and was,
with great difficulty, torn from his embrace. Such was the dismal
reverse that overtook the late so happy family of Melvil; such was the
extremity to which the treachery of Fathom had reduced his best
benefactor!
Three days did nature struggle with surprising efforts, and then the
constitution seemed to sink under the victorious fever; yet, as his
strength diminished, his delirium abated, and on the fifth morning he
looked round, and recognised his weeping friends. Though now exhausted
to the lowest ebb of life, he retained the perfect use of speech, and
his reason being quite unclouded, spoke to each with equal kindness and
composure; he congratulated himself upon the sight of shore after the
horrors of such a tempest; called upon the Countess and his sister, who
were not permitted to see him at such a conjuncture; and being apprised
by the Major of his reason for excluding them from his presence, he
applauded his concern, bequeathed them to his future care, and took
leave of that gentleman with a cordial embrace. Then he desired to be
left in private with a certain clergyman, who regulated the concerns of
his soul, and he being dismissed, turned his face from the light, in
expectation of his final discharge. In a few minutes all was still and
dreary, he was no longer heard to breathe, no more the stream of life
was perceived to circulate, he was supposed to be absolved from all his
cares, and an universal groan from the bystanders announced the decease
of the gallant, generous, and tender-hearted Renaldo.
“Come hither, ye whom the pride of youth and health, of birth and
affluence inflames, who tread the flowery maze of pleasure, trusting to
the fruition of ever-circling joys; ye who glory in your
accomplishments, who indulge the views of ambition, and lay schemes for
future happiness and grandeur, contemplate here the vanity of life!
behold how low this excellent young man is laid! mowed down even in the
blossom of his youth, when fortune seemed to open all her treasures to
his worth!”
Such were the reflections of the generous Farrel, who, while he
performed the last office of friendship, in closing the eyes of the
much-lamented Melvil, perceived a warmth on the skin, which the hand of
death seldom leaves unextinguished. This uncommon sensation he reported
to the physician, who, though he could feel no pulsation of the heart
or arteries, conjectured that life still lingered in some of its
interior haunts, and immediately ordered such applications to the
extremities and surface of the body, as might help to concentrate and
reinforce the natural heat.
By these prescriptions, which for some time produced no sensible
effect, the embers were, in all probability, kept glowing, and the
vital power revived, for, after a considerable pause, respiration was
gradually renewed at long intervals, a languid motion was perceived at
the heart, a few feeble and irregular pulsations were felt at the
wrist, the clay-coloured livery of death began to vanish from his face,
the circulation acquired new force, and he opened his eyes with a sigh,
which proclaimed his return from the shades of death.
When he recovered the faculty of swallowing, a cordial was
administered, and whether the fever abated, in consequence of the
blood’s being cooled and condensed during the recess of action in the
solids, or nature, in that agony, had prepared a proper channel for the
expulsion of the disease, certain it is, he was from this moment rid of
all bodily pain; he retrieved the animal functions, and nothing
remained of his malady but an extreme weakness and languor, the effect
of nature’s being fatigued in the battle she had won.
Unutterable was the joy that took possession of his mother and sister
when Farrel flew into her apartment to intimate this happy turn. Scarce
could they be restrained from pouring forth their transports in the
presence of Renaldo, who was still too feeble to endure such
communication; indeed, he was extremely mortified and dejected at this
event, which had diffused such pleasure and satisfaction among his
friends, for though his distemper was mastered, the fatal cause of it
still rankled at his heart, and he considered this respite from death
as a protraction of his misery.
When he was congratulated by the Major on the triumph of his
constitution, he replied, with a groan, “I would to heaven it had been
otherwise, for I am reserved for all the horrors of the most poignant
sorrow and remorse. O Monimia! Monimia! I hoped by this time to have
convinced thy gentle shade, that I was, at least intentionally,
innocent of that ruthless barbarity which hath brought thee to an
untimely grave. Heaven and earth! do I still survive the consciousness
of that dire catastrophe! and lives the atrocious villain who hath
blasted all our hopes!”
With these last words the fire darted from his eyes, and his brother,
snatching this occasional handle for reconciling him to life, joined in
his exclamations against the treacherous Fathom, and observed, that he
should not, in point of honour, wish to die, until he should have
sacrificed that traitor to the manes of the beauteous Monimia. This
incitement acted as a spur upon exhausted nature, causing the blood to
circulate with fresh vigour, and encouraging him to take such
sustenance as would recruit his strength, and repair the damage which
his health had sustained.
His sister assiduously attended him in his recovery, flattering his
appetite, and amusing his sorrow at the same time; the clergyman
assailed his despondence with religious weapons, as well as with
arguments drawn from philosophy; and the fury of his passions being
already expended, he became so tractable as to listen to his
remonstrances. But notwithstanding the joint endeavours of all his
friends, a deep fixed melancholy remained after every consequence of
his disease had vanished. In vain they essayed to elude his grief by
gaiety and diversions, in vain they tried to decoy his heart into some
new engagement.
These kind attempts served only to feed and nourish that melancholy
which pined within his bosom. Monimia still haunted him in the midst of
these amusements, while his reflection whispered to him, “Pleasures
like these I might have relished with her participation.” That darling
idea mingled in all the female assemblies at which he was present,
eclipsing their attractions, and enhancing the bitterness of his loss;
for absence, enthusiasm, and even his despair had heightened the charms
of the fair orphan into something supernatural and divine.
Time, that commonly weakens the traces of remembrance, seemed to deepen
its impressions in his breast; nightly, in his dreams, did he converse
with his dear Monimia, sometimes on the verdant bank of a delightful
stream, where he breathed, in soft murmurs, the dictates of his love
and admiration; sometimes reclined within the tufted grove, his arm
encircled and sustained her snowy neck, whilst she, with looks of love
ineffable, gazed on his face, invoking Heaven to bless her husband and
her lord. Yet, even in these illusions was his fancy oft alarmed for
the ill-fated fair. Sometimes he viewed her tottering on the brink of a
steep precipice, far distant from his helping hand; at other times she
seemed to sail along the boisterous tide, imploring his assistance,
then would he start with horror from his sleep, and feel his sorrows
more than realised; he deserted his couch, he avoided the society of
mankind, he courted sequestered shades where he could indulge his
melancholy; there his mind brooded over his calamity until his
imagination became familiar with all the ravages of death; it
contemplated the gradual decline of Monimia’s health, her tears, her
distress, her despair at his imagined cruelty; he saw, through that
perspective, every blossom of her beauty wither, every sparkle vanish
from her eyes; he beheld her faded lips, her pale cheek, and her
inanimated features, the symmetry of which not death itself was able to
destroy. His fancy conveyed her breathless corse to the cold grave,
o’er which, perhaps, no tear humane was shed, where her delicate limbs
were consigned to dust, where she was dished out a delicious banquet to
the unsparing worm.
Over these pictures he dwelt with a sort of pleasing anguish, until he
became so enamoured of her tomb, that he could no longer resist the
desire that compelled him to make a pilgrimage to the dear hallowed
spot, where all his once gay hopes lay buried; that he might nightly
visit the silent habitation of his ruined love, embrace the sacred
earth with which she was now compounded, moisten it with his tears, and
bid the turf lie easy on her breast. Besides the prospect of this
gloomy enjoyment, he was urged to return to England, by an eager desire
of taking vengeance on the perfidious Fathom, as well as of acquitting
himself of the obligations he owed in that kingdom, to those who had
assisted him in his distress. He therefore communicated his intention
to Farrel, who would have insisted upon attending him in the journey,
had not he been conjured to stay and manage Renaldo’s affairs in his
absence. Every previous step being taken, he took leave of the Countess
and his sister, who had, with all their interest and elocution, opposed
his design, the execution of which, they justly feared, would, instead
of dissipating, augment his chagrin; and now, seeing him determined,
they shed a flood of tears at his departure, and he set out from Vienna
in a post-chaise, accompanied by a trusty valet-de-chambre on
horseback.
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
RENALDO MEETS WITH A LIVING MONUMENT OF JUSTICE, AND ENCOUNTERS A
PERSONAGE OF SOME NOTE IN THESE MEMOIRS.
As this domestic was very well qualified for making all the proper
dispositions, and adjusting every necessary article on the road,
Renaldo totally abstracted himself from earthly considerations, and
mused without ceasing on that theme which was the constant subject of
his contemplation. He was blind to the objects that surrounded him; he
scarce ever felt the importunities of nature; and had not they been
reinforced by the pressing entreaties of his attendant, he would have
proceeded without refreshment or repose. In this absence of mind did he
traverse a great part of Germany, in his way to the Austrian
Netherlands, and arrived at the fortress of Luxemburg, where he was
obliged to tarry a whole day on account of an accident which had
happened to his chaise. Here he went to view the fortifications; and as
he walked along the ramparts, his ears were saluted with these words:
“Heaven bless the noble Count de Melvil! will not he turn the eyes of
compassion on an old fellow-soldier reduced to misfortune and
disgrace?”
Surprised at this address, which was attended with the clanking of
chains, Renaldo lifted up his eyes, and perceived the person who spoke
to be one of two malefactors shackled together, who had been sentenced
for some crime to work as labourers on the fortifications. His face was
so covered with hair, and his whole appearance so disguised by the
squalid habit which he wore, that the Count could not recollect his
features, until he gave him to understand that his name was Ratchcali.
Melvil immediately recognised his fellow-student at Vienna, and his
brother-volunteer upon the Rhine, and expressed equal surprise and
concern at seeing him in such a deplorable situation.
Nothing renders the soul so callous and insensible as the searing
brands of infamy and disgrace. Without betraying the least symptoms of
shame or confusion, “Count,” says he, “this is the fate of war, at
least of the war in which I have been engaged, ever since I took leave
of the Imperial army, and retreated with your old companion Fathom.
Long life to that original genius! If he is not unhappily eclipsed by
some unfortunate interposition, before his terrene parts are purified,
I foresee that he will shine a star of the first magnitude in the world
of adventure.”
At mention of this detested name, Renaldo’s heart began to throb with
indignation; yet he suppressed the emotion, and desired to know the
meaning of that splendid encomium which he had bestowed upon his
confederate. “It would be quite unnecessary,” replied Ratchcali, “for a
man in my present situation to equivocate or disguise the truth. The
nature of my disgrace is perfectly well known. I am condemned to hard
labour for life; and unless some lucky accident, which I cannot now
foresee, shall intervene, all I can expect is some alleviation of my
hard lot from the generosity of such gentlemen as you, who
compassionate the sufferings of your fellow-creatures. In order to
engage your benevolence the more in my behalf, I shall, if you will
give me the hearing, faithfully inform you of some particulars, which
it may import you to know, concerning my old acquaintance Ferdinand
Count Fathom, whose real character hath perhaps hitherto escaped your
notice.”
Then he proceeded to give a regular detail of all the strokes of
finesse which he, in conjunction with our adventurer, had practised
upon Melvil and others, during their residence at Vienna, and the
campaigns they had made upon the Rhine. He explained the nature of the
robbery which was supposed to have been done by the Count’s valet,
together with the manner of their desertion. He described his
separation from Fathom, their meeting at London, the traffic they
carried on in copartnership; and the misfortune that reduced Ferdinand
to the condition in which he was found by Melvil.
“After having gratified the honest lawyer,” said he, “with a share of
the unfortunate Fathom’s spoils, and packed up all my own valuable
effects, my new auxiliary Maurice and I posted to Harwich, embarked in
the packet-boat, and next day arrived at Helvoetsluys; from thence we
repaired to the Hague, in order to mingle in the gaieties of the place,
and exercise our talents at play, which is there cultivated with
universal eagerness. But, chancing to meet with an old acquaintance,
whom I did not at all desire to see, I found it convenient to withdraw
softly to Rotterdam; from whence we set out for Antwerp; and, having
made a tour of the Austrian Netherlands, set up our rest at Brussels,
and concerted a plan for laying the Flemings under contribution.
“From our appearance we procured admission into the most polite
assemblies, and succeeded to a wonder in all our operations; until our
career was unfortunately checked by the indiscretion of my ally, who,
being detected in the very act of conveying a card, was immediately
introduced to a magistrate. And this minister of justice was so
curious, inquisitive, and clear-sighted, that Count Maurice, finding it
impossible to elude his penetration, was fain to stipulate for his own
safety, by giving up his friend to the cognisance of the law. I was
accordingly apprehended, before I knew the cause of my arrest; and
being unhappily known by some soldiers of the Prince’s guard, my
character turned out so little to the approbation of the inquisitors,
that all my effects were confiscated for the benefit of the state, and
I was by a formal sentence condemned to labour on the fortifications
all the days of my life; while Maurice escaped at the expense of five
hundred stripes, which he received in public from the hands of the
common executioner.
“Thus have I, without evasion or mental reservation, given a faithful
account of the steps by which I have arrived at this barrier, which is
likely to be the ne plus ultra of my peregrinations, unless the
generous Count de Melvil will deign to interpose his interest in behalf
of an old fellow-soldier, who may yet live to justify his mediation.”
Renaldo had no reason to doubt the truth of this story, every
circumstance of which tended to corroborate the intelligence he had
already received touching the character of Fathom, whom he now
considered with a double portion of abhorrence, as the most abandoned
miscreant that nature had ever produced. Though Ratchcali did not
possess a much higher place in his opinion, he favoured him with marks
of his bounty, and exhorted him, if possible, to reform his heart; but
he would by no means promise to interpose his credit in favour of a
wretch self-convicted of such enormous villany and fraud. He could not
help moralising upon this rencontre, which inspired him with great
contempt for human nature. And next day he proceeded on his journey
with a heavy heart, ruminating on the perfidy of mankind, and, between
whiles, transported with the prospect of revenging all his calamities
upon the accursed author.
While he was wrapped up in these reveries, his carriage rolled along,
and had already entered a wood between Mons and Tournay, when his dream
was suddenly interrupted by the explosion of several pistols that were
fired among the thickets at a little distance from the road. Roused at
this alarm, he snatched his sword that stood by him, and springing from
the chaise, ran directly towards the spot, being close followed by his
valet, who had alighted and armed himself with a pistol in each hand.
About forty yards from the highway, they arrived in a little glade or
opening, where they saw a single man standing at bay against five
banditti, after having killed one of their companions, and lost his own
horse, that lay dead upon the ground.
Melvil seeing this odds, and immediately guessing their design, rushed
among them without hesitation, and in an instant ran his sword through
the heart of one whose hand was raised to smite the gentleman behind,
while he was engaged with the rest in front. At the same time the valet
disabled another by a shot in the shoulder; so that the number being
now equal on both sides, a furious combat ensued, every man being
paired with an antagonist, and each having recourse to swords, as all
their pieces had been discharged. Renaldo’s adversary, finding himself
pressed with equal fury and skill, retreated gradually among the trees,
until he vanished altogether into the thickest of the wood; and his two
companions followed his example with great ease, the valet-de-chambre
being hurt in the leg, and the stranger so much exhausted by the wounds
he had received before Renaldo’s interposition, that, when the young
gentleman approached to congratulate him on the defeat of the robbers,
he, in advancing to embrace his deliverer, dropped down motionless on
the grass.
The Count, with that warmth of sympathy and benevolence which was
natural to his heart, lifted up the wounded cavalier in his arms, and
carried him to the chaise, in which he was deposited, while the
valet-de-chambre reloaded his pistols, and prepared for a second
attack, as they did not doubt that the banditti would return with a
reinforcement. However, before they reappeared, Renaldo’s driver
disengaged him from the wood, and in less than a quarter of an hour
they arrived at a village, where they halted for assistance to the
stranger, who, though still alive, had not recovered the use of his
senses.
After he was undressed, and laid in a warm bed, a surgeon examined his
body, and found a wound in his neck by a sword, and another in his
right side, occasioned by a pistol-shot; so that his prognostic was
very dubious. Meanwhile, he applied proper dressings to both; and, in
half an hour after this administration, the gentleman gave some tokens
of perception. He looked around him with a wildness of fury in his
aspect, as if he had thought himself in the hands of the robbers by
whom he had been attacked. But, when he saw the assiduity with which
the bystanders exerted themselves in his behalf, one raising his head
from the pillow, while another exhorted him to swallow a little wine
which was warmed for the purpose; when he beheld the sympathising looks
of all present, and heard himself accosted in the most cordial terms by
the person whom he recollected as his deliverer, all the severity
vanished from his countenance; he took Renaldo’s hand, and pressed it
to his lips; and, while the tears gushed from his eyes, “Praised be
God,” said he, “that virtue and generosity are still to be found among
the sons of men.”
Everybody in the apartment was affected by this exclamation; and
Melvil, above all the rest, felt such emotions as he could scarcely
restrain. He entreated the gentleman to believe himself in the midst of
such friends as would effectually secure him from all violence and
mortification; he conjured him to compose the perturbation of his
spirits, and quiet the apprehensions of his mind with that reflection;
and protested, that he himself would not quit the house while his
attendance should be deemed necessary for the stranger’s cure, or his
conversation conducive to his amusement.
These assurances, considered with the heroic part which the young
Hungarian had already acted in his behalf, inspired the cavalier with
such a sublime idea of Melvil, that he gazed upon him with silent
astonishment, as an angel sent from heaven for his succour; and, in the
transport of his gratitude, could not help exclaiming, “Sure Providence
hath still something in reserve for this unfortunate wretch, in whose
favour such a miracle of courage and generosity hath interposed!”
Being accommodated with proper care and attendance, his constitution in
a little time overcame the fever; and, at the third dressing, the
surgeon declared him out of all danger from his wounds. Then was
Renaldo indulged with opportunities of conversing with the patient, and
of inquiring into the particulars of his fortune and designs in life,
with a view to manifest the inclination he felt to serve him in his
future occasions.
The more this stranger contemplated the character of the Count, the
more his amazement increased, on account of his extraordinary
benevolence in favour of a person whose merit he could not possibly
know; he even expressed his surprise on this subject to Renaldo, who at
length told him, that, although his best offices should always be ready
for the occasions of any gentleman in distress, his particular
attachment and regard to him was improved by an additional
consideration. “I am no stranger,” said he, “to the virtues and honour
of the gallant Don Diego de Zelos.”
“Heaven and earth!” cried the stranger, starting from his seat with
extreme emotion, “do I then live to hear myself addressed by that
long-lost appellation! my heart glows at the expression! my spirits are
kindled with a flame that thrills through every nerve! Say, young
gentleman, if you are really an inhabitant of earth, by what means are
you acquainted with the unhappy name of Zelos?”
In answer to this eager interrogation, Renaldo gave him to understand,
that in the course of his travels, he had resided a short time at
Seville, where he had frequently seen Don Diego, and often heard his
character mentioned with uncommon esteem and veneration. “Alas!”
replied the Castilian, “that justice is no longer done to the wretched
Zelos; his honours are blasted, and his reputation canker-bitten by the
venomous tooth of slander.”
He then proceeded to unfold his misfortunes, as they have already been
explained in the former part of these memoirs; at the recapitulation of
which, the heart of Melvil, being intendered by his own calamities, was
so deeply affected, that he re-echoed the groans of Don Diego, and wept
over his sufferings with the most filial sympathy. When he repeated the
story of that cruel fraud which was practised upon him by the faithless
Fadini, Melvil, whose mind and imagination teemed with the villanies of
Fathom, was immediately struck with the conjecture of his being the
knave; because, indeed, he could not believe that any other person was
so abandoned by principle and humanity as to take such a barbarous
advantage of a gentleman in distress.
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
HIS RETURN TO ENGLAND, AND MIDNIGHT PILGRIMAGE TO MONIMIA’S TOMB.
He considered the date of that unparalleled transaction, which agreed
with his conjecture, and from the inquiries he made concerning the
person of the traitor, gathered reasons sufficient to confirm his
supposition. Thus certified, “That is the villain,” cried the Count,
“whose infernal arts have overwhelmed me with such misery as Heaven
itself hath made no remedy to dispel! To revenge my wrongs on that
perfidious miscreant, is one of the chief reasons for which I deign to
drag about an hateful being. O Don Diego! what is life, when all its
enjoyments are so easily poisoned by the machinations of such a worm!”
So saying, he smote his breast in all the agony of woe, and besought
the Spaniard to relate the steps he took in consequence of this
disaster.
The Castilian’s cheeks reddened at this information, which enforced his
own resentment, and casting up his eyes to heaven, “Sacred powers!”
cried he, “let him not perish, before you bring him within my reach.
You ask me, noble cavalier, what measures I took in this abyss of
misery? For the first day, I was tortured with apprehensions for the
friendly Fadini, fearing that he had been robbed and murdered for the
jewels which he had, perhaps, too unwarily exposed to sale. But this
terror soon vanished before the true presages of my fate, when, on the
morrow, I found the whole family in tears and confusion, and heard my
landlord pour forth the most bitter imprecations against the fugitive,
who had deflowered his daughter, and even robbed the house. You will
ask, which of the passions of my heart were interested on this
occasion? they were shame and indignation. All my grief flowed in
another channel; I blushed to find my judgment deceived; I scorned to
complain; but, in my heart, denounced vengeance against my base
betrayer. I silently retired to my apartment, in order to commune with
my own thoughts.
“I had borne greater calamities without being driven to despair; I
summoned all my fortitude to my assistance, and resolved to live in
spite of affliction. Thus determined, I betook myself to the house of a
general officer, whose character was fair in the world; and having
obtained admission in consequence of my Oriental appearance, ‘To a man
of honour,’ said I, ‘the unfortunate need no introduction. My habit
proclaims me a Persian; this passport from the States of Holland will
confirm that supposition. I have been robbed of jewels to a
considerable value, by a wretch whom I favoured with my confidence; and
now, reduced to extreme indigence, I come to offer myself as a soldier
in the armies of France. I have health and strength sufficient to
discharge that duty. Nor am I unacquainted with a military life, which
was once my glory and occupation. I therefore sue for your protection,
that I may be received, though in the lowest order of them that serve
the King; and that your future favour may depend upon my behaviour in
that capacity.’
“The general, surprised at my declaration, surveyed me with uncommon
attention; he perused my certificate; asked divers questions concerning
the art of war, to which I returned such answers as convinced him that
I was not wholly ignorant in that particular. In short, I was enlisted
as a volunteer in his own regiment, and soon after promoted to the rank
of a subaltern, and the office of equerry to his own son, who, at that
time, had attained to the degree of colonel, though his age did not
exceed eighteen years.
“This young man was naturally of a ferocious disposition, which had
been rendered quite untractable by the pride of birth and fortune,
together with the licence of his education. As he did not know the
respect due to a gentleman, so he could not possibly pay it to those
who were, unfortunately, under his command. Divers mortifications I
sustained with that fortitude which became a Castilian who lay under
obligations to the father; till, at length, laying aside all decorum,
he smote me. Sacred Heaven! he smote Don Diego de Zelos, in presence of
his whole household.
“Had my sword been endowed with sensation, it would of itself have
started from its scabbard at this indignity offered to its master. I
unsheathed it without deliberation, saying, ‘Know, insolent boy, he is
a gentleman whom thou hast outraged; and thou hast thus cancelled the
ties which have hitherto restrained my indignation.’ His servants would
have interposed, but he commanded them to retire; and, flushed with
that confidence which the impetuosity of his temper inspired, he drew,
in his turn, and attacked me with redoubled rage; but his dexterity
being very unequal to his courage, he was soon disarmed, and
overthrown; when, pointing my sword to his breast, ‘In consideration of
thy youth and ignorance,’ said I, ‘I spare that life which thou hast
forfeited by thy ungenerous presumption.’
“With these words, I put up my weapon, retired through the midst of his
domestics, who, seeing their master safe, did not think proper to
oppose my passage, and, mounting my horse, in less than two hours
entered the Austrian dominions, resolving to proceed as far as Holland,
that I might embark in the first ship for Spain, in order to wash away,
with my own blood, or that of my enemies, the cruel stain which hath so
long defiled my reputation.
“This was the grievance that still corroded my heart, and rendered
ineffectual the inhuman sacrifice I had made to my injured honour. This
was the consideration that incessantly prompted, and still importunes
me to run every risk of life and fortune, rather than leave my fame
under such an ignominious aspersion. I purpose to obey this internal
call. I am apt to believe it is the voice of Heaven—of that Providence
which manifested its care by sending such a generous auxiliary to my
aid, when I was overpowered by banditti, on the very first day of my
expedition.”
Having in this manner gratified the curiosity of his deliverer, he
expressed a desire of knowing the quality of him to whom he was so
signally obliged; and Renaldo did not scruple to make the Castilian
acquainted with his name and family. He likewise communicated the story
of his unfortunate love, with all the symptoms of unutterable woe,
which drew tears from the noble-hearted Spaniard, while, with a groan,
that announced the load which overwhelmed his soul, “I had a daughter,”
said he, “such as you describe the peerless Monimia; had Heaven decreed
her for the arms of such a lover, I, who am now the most wretched,
should have been the most happy parent upon earth.”
Thus did these new friends alternately indulge their mutual sorrow, and
concert measures for their future operations. Melvil earnestly
solicited the Castilian to favour him with his company to England,
where, in all probability, both would enjoy the gloomy satisfaction of
being revenged upon their common betrayer, Fathom; and, as a farther
inducement, he assured him, that, as soon as he should have
accomplished the melancholy purposes of his voyage, he would accompany
Don Diego to Spain, and employ his whole interest and fortune in his
service. The Spaniard, thunderstruck at the extravagant generosity of
this proposal, could scarce believe the evidence of his own senses;
and, after some pause, replied, “My duty would teach me to obey any
command you should think proper to impose; but here my inclination and
interest are so agreeably flattered, that I should be equally
ungrateful and unwise, in pretending to comply with reluctance.”
This point being settled, they moved forwards to Mons, as soon as Don
Diego was in a condition to bear the shock of such a removal, and there
remaining until his wounds were perfectly cured, they hired a
post-chaise for Ostend, embarked in a vessel at that port, reached the
opposite shore of England, after a short and easy passage, and arrived
in London without having met with any sinister accident on the road.
As they approached this capital, Renaldo’s grief seemed to regurgitate
with redoubled violence. His memory was waked to the most minute and
painful exertion of its faculties; his imagination teemed with the most
afflicting images, and his impatience became so ardent, that never
lover panted more eagerly for the consummation of his wishes, than
Melvil, for an opportunity of stretching himself upon the grave of the
lost Monimia. The Castilian was astonished, as well as affected, at the
poignancy of his grief, which, as a proof of his susceptibility and
virtue, endeared him still more to his affection; and though his own
misfortunes had rendered him very unfit for the office of a comforter,
he endeavoured, by soothing discourse, to moderate the excess of his
friend’s affliction.
Though it was dark when they alighted at the inn, Melvil ordered a
coach to be called; and, being attended by the Spaniard, who would not
be persuaded to quit him upon such an occasion, he repaired to the
house of the generous Jew, whose rheum distilled very plentifully at
his approach. The Count had already acquitted himself in point of
pecuniary obligations to this benevolent Hebrew; and now, after having
made such acknowledgments as might be expected from a youth of his
disposition, he begged to know by what channel he had received that
letter which he had been so kind as to forward to Vienna.
Joshua, who was ignorant of the contents of that epistle, and saw the
young gentleman extremely moved, would have eluded his inquiry, by
pretending he had forgot the circumstance; but when he understood the
nature of the case which was not explained without the manifestation of
the utmost inquietude, he heartily condoled the desponding lover,
telling him he had in vain employed all his intelligence about that
unfortunate beauty, in consequence of Melvil’s letter to him on that
subject; and then directed him to the house of the physician, who had
brought the fatal billet which had made him miserable.
No sooner did he receive this information than he took his leave
abruptly, with promise of returning next day, and hied him to the
lodgings of that gentleman, whom he was lucky enough to find at home.
Being favoured with a private audience, “When I tell you,” said he,
“that my name is Renaldo Count de Melvil, you will know me to be the
most unfortunate of men. By that letter, which you committed to the
charge of my worthy friend Joshua, the fatal veil was removed from my
eyes, which had been so long darkened by the artifices of incredible
deceit, and my own incurable misery fully presented to my view. If you
were acquainted with the unhappy fair, who hath fallen a victim to my
mistake, you will have some idea of the insufferable pangs which I now
feel in recollecting her fate. If you have compassion for these pangs,
you will not refuse to conduct me to the spot where the dear remains of
Monimia are deposited; there let me enjoy a full banquet of woe; there
let me feast that worm of sorrow that preys upon my heart. For such
entertainment have I revisited this (to me) ill-omened isle; for this
satisfaction I intrude upon your condescension at these unseasonable
hours; for to such a degree of impatience is my affliction whetted,
that no slumber shall assail mine eyelids, no peace reside within my
bosom, until I shall have adored that earthly shrine where my Monimia
lies! Yet would I know the circumstances of her fate. Did Heaven ordain
no angel to minister to her distress? were her last moments
comfortless? ha! was not she abandoned to indigence, to insults; left
in the power of that inhuman villain who betrayed us both? Sacred
Heaven! why did Providence wink at the triumph of such consummate
perfidy?”
The physician, having listened with complacency to this effusion,
replied, “It is my profession, it is my nature to sympathise with the
afflicted. I am a judge of your feelings, because I know the value of
your loss. I attended the incomparable Monimia in her last illness, and
am well enough acquainted with her story to conclude that she fell a
sacrifice to an unhappy misunderstanding, effected and fomented by that
traitor who abused your mutual confidence.”
He then proceeded to inform him of all the particulars which we have
already recorded, touching the destiny of the beauteous orphan, and
concluded with telling him he was ready to yield him any other
satisfaction which it was in his power to grant. The circumstances of
the tale had put Renaldo’s spirits into such commotion, that he could
utter nothing but interjections and unconnected words. When Fathom’s
behaviour was described, he trembled with fierce agitation, started
from his chair, pronouncing, “Monster! fiend! but we shall one day
meet.”
When he was made acquainted with the benevolence of the French lady, he
exclaimed, “O heaven-born charity and compassion! sure that must be
some spirit of grace sent hither to mitigate the tortures of life!
where shall I find her, to offer up my thanks and adoration?” Having
heard the conclusion of the detail, he embraced the relater, as the
kind benefactor of Monimia, shed a flood of tears in his bosom, and
pressed him to crown the obligation, by conducting him to the solitary
place where now she rested from all her cares.
The gentleman perceiving the transports of his grief were such as could
not be opposed, complied with his request, attended him in the vehicle,
and directed the coachman to drive to a sequestered field, at some
distance from the city, where stood the church, within whose awful
aisle this scene was to be acted. The sexton being summoned from his
bed, produced the keys, in consequence of a gratification, after the
physician had communed with him apart, and explained the intention of
Renaldo’s visit.
During this pause the soul of Melvil was wound up to the highest pitch
of enthusiastic sorrow. The uncommon darkness of the night, the solemn
silence, and lonely situation of the place, conspired with the occasion
of his coming, and the dismal images of his fancy, to produce a real
rapture of gloomy expectation, which the whole world would not have
persuaded him to disappoint. The clock struck twelve, the owl screeched
from the ruined battlement, the door was opened by the sexton, who, by
the light of a glimmering taper, conducted the despairing lover to a
dreary aisle, and stamped upon the ground with his foot, saying, “Here
the young lady lies interred.”
Melvil no sooner received this intimation, than falling on his knees,
and pressing his lips to the hallowed earth, “Peace,” cried he, “to the
gentle tenant of this silent habitation.” Then turning to the
bystanders, with a bloodshot eye, said, “Leave me to the full enjoyment
of this occasion; my grief is too delicate to admit the company even of
my friends. The rites to be performed require privacy; adieu, then,
here must I pass the night alone.”
The doctor, alarmed at this declaration, which he was afraid imported
some resolution fatal to his own life, began to repent of having been
accessory to the visit, attempted to dissuade him from his purpose, and
finding him obstinately determined, called in the assistance of the
sexton and coachman, and solicited the aid of Don Diego, to force
Renaldo from the execution of his design.
The Castilian knowing his friend was then very unfit for common
altercation, interposed in the dispute, saying, “You need not be afraid
that he will obey the dictates of despair; his religion, his honour
will baffle such temptations; he hath promised to reserve his life for
the occasions of his friend; and he shall not be disappointed in his
present aim.” In order to corroborate this peremptory address, which
was delivered in the French language, he unsheathed his sword, and the
others retreating at sight of his weapon, “Count,” said he, “enjoy your
grief in full transport; I will screen you from interruption, though at
the hazard of my life; and while you give a loose to sorrow, within the
ghastly vault, I will watch till morning in the porch, and meditate
upon the ruin of my own family and peace.”
He accordingly prevailed upon the physician to retire, after he had
satisfied the sexton, and ordered the coachman to return by break of
day.
Renaldo, thus left alone, prostrated himself upon the grave, and poured
forth such lamentations as would have drawn tears from the most savage
hearer. He called aloud upon Monimia’s name, “Are these the nuptial
joys to which our fate hath doomed us? Is this the fruit of those
endearing hopes, that intercourse divine, that raptured admiration, in
which so many hours insensibly elapsed? where now are those attractions
to which I yielded up my captive heart? quenched are those genial eyes
that gladdened each beholder, and shone the planets of my happiness and
peace! cold! cold and withered are those lips that swelled with love,
and far outblushed the damask rose! and ah! forever silenced is that
tongue, whose eloquence had power to lull the pangs of misery and care!
no more shall my attention be ravished with the music of that voice,
which used to thrill in soft vibrations to my soul! O sainted spirit! O
unspotted shade of her whom I adored; of her whose memory I shall still
revere with ever-bleeding sorrow and regret; of her whose image will be
the last idea that forsakes this hapless bosom! now art thou conscious
of my integrity and love; now dost thou behold the anguish that I feel.
If the pure essence of thy nature will permit, wilt thou, ah! wilt thou
indulge this wretched youth with some kind signal of thy notice, with
some token of thy approbation? wilt thou assume a medium of embodied
air, in semblance of that lovely form which now lies mouldering in this
dreary tomb, and speak the words of peace to my distempered soul!
Return, Monimia, appear, though but for one short moment, to my longing
eyes! vouchsafe one smile! Renaldo will be satisfied; Renaldo’s heart
will be at rest; his grief no more will overflow its banks, but glide
with equal current to his latest hour! Alas! these are the raving of my
delirious sorrow! Monimia hears not my complaints; her soul, sublimed
far, far above all sublunary cares, enjoys that felicity of which she
was debarred on earth. In vain I stretch these eyes, environed with
darkness undistinguishing and void. No object meets my view; no sound
salutes mine ear, except the noisy wind that whistles through these
vaulted caves of death.”
In this kind of exclamation did Renaldo pass the night, not without a
certain species of woful enjoyment, which the soul is often able to
conjure up from the depths of distress; insomuch that, when the morning
intruded on his privacy, he could scarce believe it was the light of
day, so fast had fleeted the minutes of his devotion.
His heart being thus disburdened, and his impatience gratified, he
became so calm and composed, that Don Diego was equally pleased and
astonished at the air of serenity with which he came forth, and
embraced him with warm acknowledgments of his goodness and attachment.
He frankly owned, that his mind was now more at ease than he had ever
found it, since he first received the fatal intimation of his loss;
that a few such feasts would entirely moderate the keen appetite of his
sorrow, which he would afterwards feed with less precipitation.
He also imparted to the Castilian the plan of a monument, which he had
designed for the incomparable Monimia; and Don Diego was so much struck
with the description, that he solicited his advice in projecting
another, of a different nature, to be erected to the memory of his own
ill-fated wife and daughter, should he ever be able to re-establish
himself in Spain.
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE