In the latter years of the last century, two youths, Ferdinand Von
Hallberg and Edward Von Wensleben were receiving their education in
the military academy of Mariensheim. Among their schoolfellows they
were called Orestes and Pylades, or Damon and Pythias, on account
of their tender friendship, which constantly recalled to their
schoolfellows' minds the history of these ancient worthies. Both were
sons of officers who had long served the state with honor, both were
destined for their father's profession, both accomplished and endowed
by nature with no mean talents. But fortune had not been so impartial
in the distribution of her favors--Hallberg's father lived on a small
pension, by means of which he defrayed the expenses of his son's
schooling at the cost of the government; while Wensleben's parents
willingly paid the handsomest salary in order to insure to their
only child the best education which the establishment afforded.
This disparity in circumstances at first produced a species of proud
reserve, amounting to coldness, in Ferdinand's deportment, which
yielded by degrees to the cordial affection that Edward manifested
toward him on every occasion. Two years older than Edward, of a
thoughtful and almost melancholy turn of mind, Ferdinand soon gained
a considerable influence over his weaker friend, who clung to him with
almost girlish dependence.
Their companionship had now lasted with satisfaction and happiness to
both, for several years, and the youths had formed for themselves the
most delightful plans--how they were never to separate, how they were
to enter the service in the same regiment, and if a war broke out,
how they were to fight side by side, and conquer or die together. But
destiny, or rather Providence--whose plans are usually opposed to the
designs of mortals--had ordained otherwise.
Earlier than was expected, Hallberg's father found an opportunity to
have his son appointed to an infantry regiment, and he was ordered
immediately to join the staff in a small provincial town, in an
out-of-the-way mountainous district. This announcement fell like a
thunderbolt on the two friends; but Ferdinand considered himself by
far the more unhappy, since it was ordained that he should be the one
to sever the happy bond that bound them, and to inflict a deep wound
on his loved companion. His schoolfellows vainly endeavored to console
him by calling his attention to his new commission, and the preference
which had been shown him above so many others. He only thought of the
approaching separation; he only saw his friend's grief, and passed the
few remaining days that were allowed him at the academy by Edward's
side, who husbanded every moment of his Ferdinand's society with
jealous care, and could not bear to lose sight of him for an instant.
In one of their most melancholy hours, excited by sorrow and youthful
enthusiasm, they bound themselves by a mysterious vow, namely, that
the one whom God should think fit to call first from this world,
should bind himself (if conformable to the Divine will) to give some
sign of his remembrance and affection to the survivor.
The place where this vow was made was a solitary spot in the garden,
by a monument of gray marble, overshadowed by dark firs, which the
former director of the institution had caused to be erected to the
memory of his son, whose premature death was recorded on the stone.
Here the friends met at night, and by the fitful light of the moon
they pledged themselves to the rash and fanciful contract, and
confirmed and consecrated it the next morning by a religious ceremony.
After this they were able to look the approaching separation in the
face more manfully, and Edward strove hard to quell the melancholy
feeling which had lately arisen in his mind on account of the constant
foreboding that Ferdinand expressed of his own early death. "No,"
thought Edward, "his pensive turn of mind and his wild imagination
cause him to reproach himself without a cause for my sorrow and his
own departure. Oh, no, Ferdinand will not die early--he will not die
before me. Providence will not leave me alone in the world."
* * * * *
The lonely Edward strove hard to console himself, for after
Ferdinand's departure, the house, the world itself, seemed a desert;
and absorbed by his own memories, he now recalled to mind many a dark
speech which had fallen from his absent friend, particularly in the
latter days of their intercourse, and which betokened but too plainly
a presentiment of early death. But time and youth exercised, even
over these sorrows, their irresistible influence. Edward's spirits
gradually recovered their tone, and as the traveler always has the
advantage over the one who remains behind, in respect of new objects
to occupy his mind, so was Ferdinand even sooner calmed and cheered,
and by degrees he became engrossed by his new duties and new
acquaintances, not to the exclusion, indeed, of his friend's memory,
but greatly to the alienation of his own sorrow. It was natural, in
such circumstances, that the young officer should console himself
sooner than poor Edward. The country in which Hallberg found
himself was wild and mountainous, but possessed all the charms and
peculiarities of "far off" districts--simple, hospitable manners,
old-fashioned customs, many tales and legends which arise from
the credulity of the mountaineers, who invariably lean toward the
marvelous, and love to people the wild solitudes with invisible
beings.
Ferdinand had soon, without seeking for it, made acquaintance with
several respectable families in the town; and as it generally
happens in such cases, he had become quite domesticated in the best
country-houses in the neighborhood; and the well-mannered, handsome,
and agreeable youth was welcomed everywhere. The simple, patriarchal
life in these old mansions and castles--the cordiality of the people,
the wild, picturesque scenery, nay, the very legends themselves, were
entirely to Hallberg's taste. He adapted himself easily to his new
mode of life, but his heart remained tranquil. This could not last.
Before half a year had passed, the battalion to which he belonged was
ordered to another station, and he had to part with many friends. The
first letter which he wrote after this change bore the impression
of impatience at the breaking up of a happy time. Edward found this
natural enough; but he was surprised in the following letters to
detect signs of a disturbed and desultory state of mind, wholly
foreign to his friend's nature. The riddle was soon solved.
Ferdinand's heart was touched for the first time, and perhaps because
the impression had been made late, it was all the deeper. Unfavorable
circumstances opposed themselves to his hopes: the young lady was
of an ancient family, rich, and betrothed since her childhood to a
relation, who was expected shortly to arrive in order to claim her
promised hand. Notwithstanding this engagement, Ferdinand and the
young girl had become sincerely attached to each other, and had
both resolved to dare everything with the hope of being united. They
pledged their troth in secret; the darkest mystery enveloped not only
their plans, but their affections; and as secrecy was necessary to
the advancement of their projects, Ferdinand entreated his friend to
forgive him if he did not intrust his whole secret to a sheet of paper
that had at least sixty miles to travel, and which must pass through
so many hands. It was impossible from his letter to guess the name of
the person or the place in question. "You know that I love," he wrote,
"therefore you know that the object of my secret passion is worthy
of any sacrifice; for you know your friend too well to believe him
capable of any blind infatuation, and this must suffice for the
present. No one must suspect what we are to each other; no one here or
round the neighborhood must have the slightest clew to our plans. An
awful personage will soon make his appearance among us. His violent
temper, his inveterate obstinacy, (according to all that one hears of
him,) are well calculated to confirm in _her_ a well-founded aversion.
But family arrangements and legal contracts exist, the fulfillment
of which the opposing party are bent on enforcing. The struggle will
be hard--perhaps unsuccessful; notwithstanding, I will strain every
nerve. Should I fail, you must console yourself, my dear Edward,
with the thought, that it will be no misfortune to your friend to
be deprived of an existence rendered miserable by the failure of his
dearest hopes, and separation from his dearest friend. Then may all
the happiness which Heaven has denied me be vouchsafed to you and her,
so that my spirit may look down contentedly from the realms of light,
and bless and protect you both."
Such was the usual tenor of the letters which Edward received during
that period, His heart was full of anxiety--he read danger and
distress in the mysterious communications of Ferdinand; and every
argument that affection and good sense could suggest did he make use
of, in his replies, to turn his friend from this path of peril which
threatened to end in a deep abyss. He tried persuasion, and urged him
to desist for the sake of their long-tried affection--but when did
passion ever listen to the expostulations of friendship?
Ferdinand only saw one aim in life--the possession of the beloved
one. All else faded from before his eyes, and even his correspondence
slackened, for his time was much taken up in secret excursions,
arrangements of all kinds, and communications with all manner of
persons; in fact every action of his present life tended to the
furtherance of his plan.
All of a sudden his letters ceased. Many posts passed without a sign
of life. Edward was a prey to the greatest anxiety; he thought his
friend had staked and lost. He imagined an elopement, a clandestine
marriage, a duel with a rival, and all these casualties were the more
painful to conjecture, since his entire ignorance of the real state
of things gave his fancy full range to conjure up all sorts of
misfortunes. At length, after many more posts had come in without a
line to pacify Edward's fears, without a word in reply to his earnest
entreaties for some news, he determined on taking a step which he had
meditated before, and only relinquished out of consideration for his
friend's wishes. He wrote to the officer commanding the regiment,
and made inquiries respecting the health and abode of Lieutenant Von
Hallberg, whose friends in the capital had remained for nearly two
months without news of him, he who had hitherto proved a regular and
frequent correspondent.
Another fortnight dragged heavily on, and at length the announcement
came in an official form. Lieutenant Von Hallberg had been invited
to the castle of a nobleman whom he was in the custom of visiting, in
order to be present at the wedding of a lady; that he was indisposed
at the time, that he grew worse, and on the third morning had been
found dead in his bed, having expired during the night from an attack
of apoplexy.
Edward could not finish the letter--it fell from his trembling hand.
To see his worst fears realized so suddenly, overwhelmed him at first.
His youth withstood the bodily illness which would have assailed a
weaker constitution, and perhaps mitigated the anguish of his grief.
He was not dangerously ill, but they feared many days for his reason;
and it required all the kind solicitude of the director of the
college, combined with the most skillful medical aid, to stem the
torrent of his sorrow, and to turn it gradually into a calmer channel,
until by degrees the mourner recovered both health and reason. His
youthful spirits, however, had received a blow from which they
never rebounded, and one thought lay heavy on his mind, which he was
unwilling to share with any other person, and which, on that account,
grew more and more painful. It was the memory of that holy promise
which had been mutually contracted, that the survivor was to receive
some token of his friend's remembrance of him after death. Now two
months had already passed since Ferdinand's earthly career had been
arrested, his spirit was free, why no sign? In the moment of death
Edward had had no intimation, no message from the passing spirit, and
this apparent neglect, so to speak, was another deep wound in Edward's
breast. Do the affections cease with life? Was it contrary to the will
of the Almighty that the mourner should taste this consolation? Did
individuality lose itself in death, and with it memory? Or did one
stroke destroy spirit and body? These anxious doubts, which have
before now agitated many who reflect on such subjects, exercised their
power over Edward's mind with an intensity that none can imagine save
one whose position is in any degree similar.
Time gradually deadened the intensity of his affliction. The violent
paroxysms of grief subsided into a deep but calm regret. It was as
if a mist had spread itself over every object which presented itself
before him, robbing them indeed of half their charms, yet leaving them
visible, and in their real relation to himself. During this mental
change the autumn arrived, and with it the long-expected commission.
It did not indeed occasion the joy which it might have done in former
days, when it would have led to a meeting with Ferdinand, or at
all events to a better chance of meeting, but it released him from
the thraldom of college, and it opened to him a welcome sphere of
activity. Now it so happened that his appointment led him accidentally
into the very neighborhood where Ferdinand had formerly resided, only
with this difference, that Edward's squadron was quartered in the
lowlands, about a short day's journey from the town and woodland
environs in question.
He proceeded to his quarters, and found an agreeable occupation in the
exercise of his new duties.
He had no wish to make acquaintances, yet he did not refuse the
invitations that were pressed upon him, lest he should he accused of
eccentricity and rudeness; and so be found himself soon entangled in
all sorts of engagements with the neighboring gentry and nobility. If
these so-called gayeties gave him no particular pleasure, at least for
the time they diverted his thoughts; and with this view he accepted
an invitation (for the new-year and carnival were near at hand) to
a great shooting-match which was to be held in the mountains--a spot
which it was possible to reach in one day, with favorable weather
and the roads in good state. The day was appointed, the air tolerably
clear; a mild frost had made the roads safe and even, and Edward had
every expectation of being able to reach Blumenberg in his sledge
before night, as on the following morning the match was to take place.
But as soon as he got near the mountains, where the sun retires so
early to rest, snow-clouds drove from all quarters, a cutting wind
came roaring through the ravines, and a heavy fall of snow began.
Twice the driver lost his way, and daylight was gone before he had
well recovered it; darkness came on sooner than in other places,
walled in as they were by dark mountains, with dark clouds above their
heads. It was out of the question to dream of reaching Blumenberg that
night; but in this hospitable land, where every householder welcomes
the passing traveler, Edward was under no anxiety as to shelter.
He only wished, before the night quite set in, to reach some
country-house or castle; and now that the storm had abated in some
degree, that the heavens were a little clearer, and that a few
stars peeped out, a large valley opened before them, whose bold
outline Edward could distinguish, even in the uncertain light. The
well-defined roofs of a neat village were perceptible, and behind
these, half-way up the mountain that crowned the plain, Edward thought
he could discern a large building which glimmered with more than one
light. The road led straight into the village. Edward stopped and
inquired.
That building was indeed a castle: the village belonged to it, and
both were the property of the Baron Friedenberg. "Friedenberg!"
repeated Edward: the name sounded familiar to him, yet he could not
call to mind when and where he had heard it. He inquired if the family
were at home, hired a guide, and arrived at length by a rugged path
which wound itself round steep rocks, to the summit of them, and
finally to the castle, which was perched there like an eagle's nest.
The tinkling of the bells on Edward's sledge attracted the attention
of the inmates; the door was opened with prompt hospitality; servants
appeared with torches; Edward was assisted to emerge from under the
frozen apron of his carriage, out of his heavy pelisse, stiff with
hoar-frost, and up a comfortable staircase into a long saloon of
simple construction, where a genial warmth appeared to welcome him
from a huge stove in the corner. The servants here placed two large
burning candles in massive silver sconces, and went out to announce
the stranger.
The fitting-up of the room, or rather saloon, was perfectly simple.
Family portraits, in heavy frames, hung round the walls, diversified
by some maps. Magnificent stags' horns were arranged between; and
the taste of the master of the house was easily detected in the
hunting-knives, powder-flasks, carbines, smoking-bags, and sportsmen's
pouches, which were arranged, not without taste, as trophies of the
chase. The ceiling was supported by large beams, dingy with smoke
and age; and on the sides of the room were long benches, covered and
padded with dark cloth, and studded with large brass nails; while
round the dinner-table were placed several arm-chairs, also of
ancient date. All bore the aspect of the good old times, of a simple,
patriarchal life with affluence. Edward felt as if there were a
kind welcome in the inanimate objects which surrounded him, when the
inner-door opened, and the master of the house entered, preceded by a
servant, and welcomed his guest with courteous cordiality.
Some apologies which Edward offered on account of his intrusion, were
silenced in a moment.
"Come, now, Lieutenant," said the Baron, "I must introduce you to my
family. You are not such a stranger to us, as you fancy."
With these words he took Edward by the arm, and, lighted by the
servant, they passed through several lofty rooms, which were very
handsomely furnished, although in an old-fashioned style, with faded
Flemish carpets, large chandeliers, and high-backed chairs: everything
in keeping with what the youth had already seen in the castle. Here
were the ladies of the house. At the other end of the room, by the
side of an immense stove, ornamented with a large shield of the family
arms, richly emblazoned, and crowned by a gigantic Turk, in a most
comfortable attitude of repose sat the lady of the house, an elderly
matron of tolerable circumference, in a gown of dark red satin, with
a black mantle and a snow-white cap. She appeared to be playing cards
with the chaplain, who sat opposite to her at the table, and the Baron
Friedenberg to have made the third hand at ombre, till he was called
away to welcome his guest. On the other side of the room were two
young ladies, an elder person, who might be a governess, and a couple
of children, very much engrossed by a game at lotto.
As Edward entered, the ladies rose to greet him, a chair was placed
for him near the mistress of the house, and very soon a cup of
chocolate and a bottle of tokay were served on a rich silver salver,
to restore the traveler after the cold and discomfort of his drive:
in fact it was easy for him to feel that these "far away" people were
by no means displeased at his arrival. An agreeable conversation
soon began among all parties. His travels, the shooting-match, the
neighborhood, agriculture, all afforded subjects, and in a quarter
of an hour Edward felt as if he had long been domesticated with these
simple but truly well-informed people.
Two hours flew swiftly by, and then a bell sounded for supper; the
servants returned with lights, announced that the supper was on the
table, and lighted the company into the dining-room--the same into
which Edward had first been ushered. Here, in the background, some
other characters appeared on the scene--the agent, a couple of his
subalterns, and the physician. The guests ranged themselves round the
table. Edward's place was between the Baron and his wife. The chaplain
said a short grace, when the Baroness, with an uneasy look, glanced at
her husband over Edward's shoulder, and said, in a low whisper--
"My love, we are thirteen--that will never do."
The Baron smiled, beckoned to the youngest of the clerks, and
whispered to him. The youth bowed, and withdrew. The servant took the
cover away, and served his supper in the next room.
"My wife," said Friedenberg, "is superstitious, as all mountaineers
are. She thinks it unlucky to dine thirteen. It certainly has happened
twice (whether from chance or not who can tell?) that we have had to
mourn the death of an acquaintance who had, a short time before, made
the thirteenth at our table."
"This idea is not confined to the mountains. I know many people in the
capital who think with the Baroness," said Edward. "Although in a town
such ideas, which belong more especially to the olden time, are more
likely to be lost in the whirl and bustle which usually silences
everything that is not essentially matter of fact."
"Ah, yes, Lieutenant," replied the Baron, smiling good-humoredly,
"we keep up old customs better in the mountains. You see that by our
furniture. People in the capital would call this sadly old-fashioned."
"That which is really good and beautiful can never appear out of
date," rejoined Edward courteously; "and here, if I mistake not,
presides a spirit that is ever striving after both. I must confess,
Baron, that when I first entered your house, it was this very aspect
of the olden time that enchanted me beyond measure."
"That is always the effect which simplicity has on every unspoiled
mind," answered Friedenberg: "but townspeople have seldom a taste for
such things."
"I was partly educated on my father's estate," said Edward, "which was
situated in the Highlands; and it appears to me as if, when I entered
your house, I were visiting a neighbor of my father's, for the general
aspect is quite the same here as with us."
"Yes," said the chaplain, "mountainous districts have all a family
likeness: the same necessities, the same struggles with nature, the
same seclusion, all produce the same way of life among mountaineers."
"On that account the prejudice against the number thirteen was
especially familiar to me," replied Edward. "We also dislike it;
and we retain a consideration for many supernatural, or at
least inexplicable things, which I have met with again in this
neighborhood."
"Yes, here, almost more than anywhere else," continued the chaplain,
"I think we excel all other mountaineers in the number and variety of
our legends and ghost stories. I assure you that there is not a cave
or a church, or, above all, a castle, for miles round about, of which
we could not relate something supernatural."
The Baroness, who perceived the turn which the conversation was likely
to take, thought it better to send the children to bed; and when they
were gone, the priest continued, "Even here, in this castle--"
"Here!" inquired Edward, "in this very castle?"
"Yes, yes! Lieutenant," interposed the Baron, "this house has the
reputation of being haunted; and the most extraordinary thing is, that
the matter cannot be denied by the skeptical, or accounted for by the
reasonable."
"And yet," said Edward, "the castle looks so cheerful, so habitable."
"Yes, this part which we live in," answered the Baron; "but it
consists of only a few apartments sufficient for my family and these
gentlemen; the other portion of the building is half in ruins, and
dates from the period when men established themselves on the mountains
for greater safety."
"There are some who maintain," said the physician, "that a part of the
walls of the stern tower itself are of Roman origin; but that would
surely be difficult to prove."
"But, gentlemen," observed the Baroness, "you are losing yourselves in
learned descriptions as to the erection of the castle, and our guest
is kept in ignorance of what he is anxious to hear."
"Indeed, madam," replied the chaplain, "this is not entirely foreign
to the subject, since in the most ancient part of the building lies
the chamber in question."
"Where apparitions have been seen?" inquired Edward, eagerly.
"Not exactly," replied the Baroness; "there is nothing fearful to be
seen."
"Come, let us tell him at once," interrupted the Baron. "The fact is,
that every guest who sleeps for the first time in this room (and it
has fallen to the lot of many, in turn, to do so,) is visited by some
important, significant dream or vision, or whatever I ought to call
it, in which some future event is prefigured to him, or some past
mystery cleared up, which he had vainly striven to comprehend before."
"Then," interposed Edward, "it must be something like what is known
in the Highlands, under the name of second sight, a privilege, as some
consider it, which several persons and several families enjoy."
"Just so," said the physician, "the cases are very similar; yet the
most mysterious part of this affair is, that it does not appear to
originate with the individual, or his organization, or his sympathy
with beings of the invisible world; no, the individual has nothing to
say to it--the locality does it all. Every one who sleeps there has
his mysterious dream, and the result proves its truth."
"At least, in most instances," continued the Baron, "when we have had
an opportunity of hearing the cases confirmed. I remember once, in
particular. You may recollect, Lieutenant, that when you first came
in, I had the honor of telling you you were not quite a stranger to
me."
"Certainly, Baron; and I have been wishing for a long time to ask an
explanation of these words."
"We have often heard your name mentioned by a particular friend of
yours--one who could never pronounce it without emotion."
"Ah!" cried Edward, who now saw clearly why the Baron's name had
sounded familiar to him also--"ah! you speak of my friend Hallberg;
truly do you say, we were indeed dear to each other."
"Were!" echoed the Baron, in a faltering tone, as he observed the
sudden change in Edward's voice and countenance; "can the blooming,
vigorous youth be--"
"Dead!" exclaimed Edward; and the Baron deeply regretted that he had
touched so tender a chord, as he saw the young officer's eyes fill
with tears, and a dark cloud pass over his animated features.
"Forgive me," he continued, while he leaned forward and pressed
his companion's hand; "I grieve that a thoughtless word should have
awakened such deep sorrow. I had no idea of his death; we all loved
the handsome young man, and by his description of you were already
much interested in you before we had ever seen you."
The conversation now turned entirely on Hallberg. Edward related the
particulars of his death. Every one present had something to say in
his praise; and although this sudden allusion to his dearest friend
had agitated Edward in no slight degree, yet it was a consolation to
him to listen to the tribute these worthy people paid to the memory of
Ferdinand, and to see how genuine was their regret at the tidings of
his early death. The time passed swiftly away in conversation of much
interest, and the whole company were surprised to hear ten o'clock
strike, an unusually late hour for this quiet, regular family. The
chaplain read prayers, in which Edward devoutly joined, and then
he kissed the matron's hand, and felt almost as if he were in his
father's house. The Baron offered to show his guest to his room, and
the servant preceded them with lights. The way led past the staircase,
and then on one side into a long gallery, which communicated with
another wing of the castle.
The high-vaulted ceilings, the curious carving on the ponderous
doorways, the pointed gothic windows, through many broken panes of
which a sharp nightwind whistled, proved to Edward that he was in the
old part of the castle, and that the famous chamber could not be far
off.
"Would it be possible for me to be quartered there," he began, rather
timidly; "I should like it of all things."
"Really!" inquired the Baron, rather surprised; "have not our ghost
stories alarmed you?"
"On the contrary," was the reply, "they have excited the most earnest
wish--"
"Then, if that be the case," said the Baron, "we will return. The room
was already prepared for you, being the most comfortable and the best
in the whole wing; only I fancied, after our conversation--"
"Oh, certainly not," exclaimed Edward; "I could only long for such
dreams."
During this discourse they had arrived at the door of the famous room.
They went in. They found themselves in a lofty and spacious apartment,
so large that the two candles which the servant carried only shed a
glimmering twilight over it, which did not penetrate to the furthest
corner. A high-canopied bed, hung with costly but old-fashioned
damask, of dark green, in which were swelling pillows of snowy
whiteness, tied with green bows, and a silk coverlet of the same
color, looked very inviting to the tired traveler. Sofa and chairs
of faded needlework, a carved oak commode and table, a looking-glass
in heavy framework, a prie-dieu and crucifix above it, constituted
the furniture of the room, where, above all things, cleanliness and
comfort preponderated, while a good deal of silver plate was spread
out on the toilet-table.
Edward looked round. "A beautiful room!" he said. "Answer me one
question, Baron, if you please. Did he ever sleep here?"
"Certainly," replied Friedenberg; "it was his usual room when he
was here, and he had a most curious dream in that bed, which, as he
assured us, made a great impression on him."
"And what was it?" inquired Edward.
"He never told us, for, as you well know, he was reserved by nature;
but we gathered from some words that he let slip, that an early and
sudden death was foretold. Alas! your narrative has confirmed the
truth of the prediction."
"Wonderful! He always had a similar foreboding, and many a time has
he grieved me by alluding to it," said Edward; "yet it never made
him gloomy or discontented. He went on his way firmly and calmly, and
looked forward with joy, I might almost say, to another life."
"He was a superior man," answered the Baron. "whose memory will ever
be dear to us. But now I will detain you no longer. Good night. Here
is the bell"--he showed him the cord in between the curtains--"and
your servant sleeps in the next room."
"Oh, you are too careful of me," said Edward, smiling; "I am used to
sleep by myself."
"Still," replied the Baron, "every precaution should be taken. Now
once more good night."
He shook him by the hand, and, followed by the servant, left the room.
Thus Edward found himself alone, in the large, mysterious-looking,
haunted room, where his deceased friend had so often reposed; where
he also was expected to see a vision. The awe which the place itself
inspired, combined with the sad and yet tender recollection of the
departed Ferdinand, produced a state of mental excitement which was
not favorable to his night's rest. He had already undressed with the
aid of his servant (whom he had then dismissed,) and had been in
bed some time, having extinguished the candles. No sleep visited his
eyelids; and the thought recurred which had so often troubled him,
why he had never received the promised token from Ferdinand, whether
his friend's spirit were among the blest--whether his silence (so to
speak) proceeded from unwillingness or incapacity to communicate with
the living. A mingled train of reflections agitated his mind; his
brain grew heated; his pulse beat faster and faster. The castle clock
tolled eleven--half-past eleven. He counted the strokes: and at
that moment the moon rose above the dark margin of the rocks which
surrounded the castle, and shed her full light into Edward's room.
Every object stood out in relief from the darkness. Edward gazed, and
thought, and speculated. It seemed to him as if something moved in the
furthest corner of the room. The movement was evident--it assumed a
form--the form of a man, which appeared to advance, or rather to float
forward. Here Edward lost all sense of surrounding objects, and found
himself once more sitting at the foot of the monument in the garden
of the academy, where he had contracted the bond with his friend.
As formerly, the moon streamed through the dark branches of the
fir-trees, and shed its pale cold light on the cold white marble of
the monument. Then the floating form which had appeared in the room of
the castle became clearer, more substantial, more earthly-looking; it
issued from behind the tombstone, and stood in the full moonlight. It
was Ferdinand, in the uniform of his regiment, earnest and pale, but
with a kind smile on his features.
"Ferdinand, Ferdinand!" cried Edward, overcome by joy and surprise,
and he strove to embrace the well-loved form, but it waved him aside
with a melancholy look.
"Ah! you are dead," continued the speaker; "and why then do I see you
just as you looked when living?"
"Edward," answered the apparition, in a voice that sounded as if it
came from afar, "I am dead, but my spirit has no peace."
"You are not with the blest?" cried Edward, in a voice of terror.
"God is merciful," it replied; "but we are frail and sinful creatures;
inquire no more, but pray for me."
"With all my heart," cried Edward, in a tone of anguish, while he
gazed with affection on the familiar features; "but speak, what can I
do for thee?"
"An unholy tie still binds me to earth. I have sinned. I was cut off
in the midst of my sinful projects. This ring burns." He slipped a
small gold ring from his left hand. "Only when every token of this
unholy compact is destroyed, and when I recover the ring which I
exchanged for this, only then can my spirit be at rest. Oh, Edward,
dear Edward, bring me back my ring!"
"With joy--but where, where am I to seek it?"
"Emily Varnier will give it thee herself; our engagement was contrary
to holy duties, to prior engagements, to earlier vows. God denied
his blessing to the guilty project, and my course was arrested in a
fearful manner. Pray for me, Edward, and bring me back the ring, my
ring," continued the voice, in a mournful tone of appeal.
Then the features of the deceased smiled sadly but tenderly; then all
appeared to float once more before Edward's eyes--the form was lost
in mist, the monument, the fir-grove, the moonlight, disappeared; a
long, gloomy, breathless pause followed. Edward lay, half sleeping,
half benumbed, in a confused manner; portions of the dream returned
to him--some images, some sounds--above all, the petition for the
restitution of the ring. But an indescribable power bound his limbs,
closed his eyelids, and silenced his voice; mental consciousness alone
was left him, yet his mind was a prey to terror.
At length these painful sensations subsided--his nerves became more
braced, his breath came more freely, a pleasing languor crept over his
limbs, and he fell into a peaceful sleep. When he awoke it was already
broad daylight; his sleep toward the end of the night had been
quiet and refreshing. He felt strong and well, but as soon as the
recollection of his dream returned, a deep melancholy took possession
of him, and he felt the traces of tears which grief had wrung from
him on his eyelashes. But what had the vision been? A mere dream
engendered by the conversation of the evening, and his affection for
Hallberg's memory, or was it at length the fulfillment of the compact?
There, out of that dark corner, had the form risen up, and moved
toward him. But might it not have been the effect of light and shade
produced by the moonbeams, and the dark branches of a large tree close
to the window, when agitated by the high wind? Perhaps he had seen
this, and then fallen asleep, and all combined, had woven itself into
a dream. But the name of Emily Varnier! Edward did not remember ever
to have heard it; certainly it had never been mentioned in Ferdinand's
letters. Could it be the name of his love, of the object of that
ardent and unfortunate passion? Could the vision be one of truth? He
was meditating, lost in thought, when there was a knock at his door,
and the servant entered. Edward rose hastily, and sprang out of
bed. As he did so, he heard something fall with a ringing sound;
the servant stooped and picked up a gold ring, plain gold, like a
wedding-ring. Edward shuddered: he snatched it from the servant's
hand, and the color forsook his cheeks as he read the two words
"Emily Varnier" engraved inside the hoop. He stood there like one
thunderstruck, as pale as a corpse, with the proof in his hand that
he had not merely dreamed, but had actually spoken with the spirit
of his friend. A servant of the household came in to ask whether the
Lieutenant wished to breakfast in his room, or down stairs with the
family. Edward would willingly have remained alone with the thoughts
that pressed heavily on him, but a secret dread lest his absence
should be remarked, and considered as a proof of fear, after all
that had passed on the subject of the haunted room, determined him
to accept the proposal. He dressed hastily, and arranged his hair
carefully, but the paleness of his face, and the traces of tears in
his eyes, were not to be concealed, and he entered the saloon, where
the family were already assembled at the breakfast-table, with the
chaplain and the doctor.
The Baron rose to greet him: one glance at the young officer's face
was sufficient; he pressed his hand in silence, and led him to a
place by the side of the Baroness. An animated discussion now began
concerning the weather, which was completely changed; a strong south
wind had risen in the night, so there was now a thaw. The snow was all
melted--the torrents were flowing once more, and the roads impassable.
"How can you possibly reach Blumenberg, to-day?" the Baron inquired of
his guest.
"That will be well nigh impossible," said the doctor. "I am just
come from a patient at the next village, and I was nearly an hour
performing the same distance in a carriage that is usually traversed
on foot in a quarter of an hour."
Edward had not given a thought this morning to the shooting-match. Now
that it had occurred to him to remember it, he felt little regret at
being detained from a scene of noisy festivity which, far from being
desirable, appeared to him actually distasteful in his present frame
of mind. Yet he was troubled by the thought of intruding too long
on the hospitality of his new friends; and he said, in a hesitating
manner--
"Yes! but I must try how far--"
"That you shall not do," interrupted the Baron. "The road is always
bad: and in a thaw it is always dangerous. It would go against
my conscience to allow you to risk it. Remain with us: we have no
shooting-match or ball to offer you, but--"
"I shall not certainly regret either," cried Edward, eagerly.
"Well, then, remain with us, Lieutenant," said the matron, laying
her hand on his arm, with a kind, maternal gesture. "You are heartily
welcome; and the longer you stay with us, the better shall we be
pleased."