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