The Midnight Bell/Volume III/Chapter XXIV

CHAPTER XXIV.

When Jacques returned, count Byroff immediately saw by his countenance that he was brimful of some intelligence which he wished to communicate to him; and accordingly, a few minutes after he had left the chamber, he followed him out.

"Ah, monsieur," cried Jacques, on beholding him, "I am glad you are come down, I have got something so unaccountable to tell you, and I did not know whether I might mention it before madame."

"To what does it relate?" asked the count anxiously.

"Why, monsieur, you shall hear. When I got to the monastery, the old friar desired me to wait in the refectoire, in one corner of which was a door a little way open, and behind it I could hear glasses jingling, and people talking and laughing; so, when the friar was gone, I crept a little nearer to the door to listen what they were after, for my curiosity was a good deal raised, I must confess: when I first overheard them, one was telling a story about the pope, I fancy; for it was a man that they said was a good deal like an old woman, and the cardinals wished him dead; so when it was done, says another, 'Come, father Francisco, give us a toast.' 'I will,' says he:—'Here's the ghost at the castle, and wishing it may ring as long as we all live.' Well, monsieur, they all laughed, and I could hear them pouring out the liquor, and then they repeated what father Francisco had said, and then I could hear them set down the empty glasses. 'I wonder where the young count is,' says another, after a minute or two's silence. 'Why, as to that,' said another—and just then I heard the old man coming back with the draught; so I stepped forward to meet him, and when I had got it he let me out, and so I heard no more."

Count Byroff having told Jacques to wait within Lauretta's call, walked out upon the green before the little inn, to indulge the reflections for which the conversation Jacques had overheard, had given him a subject.

It appeared to him evident beyond a doubt that the midnight bell at the castle was tolled by the friars belonging to the monastery of the Holy Spirit, as a confirmation of the castle's being haunted, which report they had probably been the first to circulate, to promote some private interest: thus he conceived also that the black figures which Jacques had seen issuing from the postern gate of the castle, were three of the fraternity, who had been to the castle for the purpose of raising the nightly alarm by sounding the bell, and were returning to the monastery when Jacques beheld them; that they had gone into the castle at first unseen by Alphonsus and Jacques, and the open gate by which the former had entered the castle had doubtless been left so by them, whilst they were in the castle, unsuspicious of any one having ventured to approach so near a place of such general horror as that building was described to be by all that knew it. But how was he to account for Alphonsus's excessive alarm, which could not have been produced by the appearance of three friars, if even he had seen them, which circumstances seemed to contradict that he had, or they him?—for his getting out of the castle, as Jacques had said that the last figure had locked the gate?—and above all for Alphonsus's assertion that he had seen his mother's shade?—Might it not have been the work of priestcraft? he asked himself; but his knowledge of Alphonsus's manly courage, which, though his eyes might have been a moment deceived by any false appearance, would have led him to have investigated the truth, ere he gave himself up to those feelings which alone could have reduced his faculties to the state he was now in, instantly contradicted the idea. Lengthened conjecture tended but to perplex him, and he determined, if the potion administered by father Nicholas had not the desired effect, at all hazards to himself to attempt the solution of the mystery which clouded the castle equally with the real cause of Alphonsus's present state of mind, by personal investigation.

The draught given by the friar was of a somnific nature, and in a short time after its being swallowed by Alphonsus, produced the intended effect.

Towards midnight count Byroff with much difficulty prevailed on Lauretta, who had not tasted rest the preceding night, to retire to bed.

With the dawn Alphonsus awoke; he raised himself on the bed, and drawing back the curtain, seemed to listen,—"Hark!—was it not she that spoke?"

"Who, my friend?" said count Byroff, advancing to the bed.

"My mother."

A pause ensued.—Count Byroff wished to pursue the discourse, but knew not in what manner to continue it.

"Will you go with me to the castle?" said Alphonsus.

"Why do you wish it?—Is she there?"

"Not now, I fear," replied Alphonsus, raising his eyes to the casement, as indicating that day-light was beginning to appear. "It was in the dead of the night that I saw her; did I not tell you that she had a burning lamp in her hand?"

"No."

"But she was dead: her cheeks were pale and sunk; my disobedience called her from the grave: I would fain see her once more, and kneel for her forgiveness: and would she then but calm her angry looks, I should die happy."

"Did she speak angrily to you?"

"I know not whether she spoke at all, my eyes and heart ached so I could not bear her sight;—feel how my temples beat even now."

Count Byroff raised his hand in compliance with Alphonsus's request; he grasped it. "Do not ask me to go to the castle; indeed I will not, I shall double my crime; I must not go, I dare not see her again. If you should see her, tell her—; but you will not see her; you have not disobeyed her; she will not frown on you; think you no more of it; I must bear with it." He hid his face on the pillow, and the count forebore to interrogate him farther on a subject which he saw was beginning to overpower him.

This short conversation, which tended not to enlighten the subject discussed, strengthened however count Byroff's resolution of visiting the castle on the first opportunity offered to him, and endeavouring to gain some light on this strange mystery.

A few hours after sunrise father Nicholas visited his patient; he pronounced him to have been much benefited by the composing draught, and gave the most encouraging hopes of a speedy amendment. Lauretta was not in the chamber when the holy man arrived, but being informed by Jacques that he was visiting her husband, she immediately entered the apartment, and eagerly inquired of him after the health of her Alphonsus.

The name seemed to produce a momentary surprise in the countenance of the friar, but immediately regaining his former composure, he answered to her inquiry: count Byroff alone perceived the effect which had been produced on father Nicholas, nor was he mistaken in imagining that the friar's a second time approaching the bed under pretence of feeling his patient's pulse, was an excuse for more closely investigating Alphonsus's features than he had yet done. Promising to visit his patient in the afternoon, and to bring with him such medicines as were necessary, the father left the chamber, and count Byroff accompanied him to the door of the inn, in order to prevent his holding any discourse with the landlord; and immediately on the old man's departure, he warned the host against acknowledging to any one that Alphonsus had visited the castle, being as yet uncertain whether benefit or harm to Alphonsus was to be expected from such an avowal.

Towards evening the friar returned. Alphonsus's mind was still in a state that baffled count Byroff's most ingenious attempt to draw from him the cause of his disorder. The friar seated himself by the side of the bed; he again inquired in a more exact manner than he had before done, whether they could form no remote conjecture of the cause of the malady under which his patient was labouring; he received the same answers from the count and Lauretta which had before been given him. He remained for some moments silent, his countenance by no means exhibiting a strong conviction of the veracity of their words. "Have you travelled far?" he then said.

"Many leagues," answered the count.

"And is the place whither you are going far from hence?"

"As soon as my friend is sufficiently recovered to proceed, he will determine our route."

"You are then on an excursion of pleasure!"

A slight inclination of the head on the part of count Byroff, was the answer to this demand.

Many other questions, answered with as little satisfaction to the friar's curiosity, were advanced by him, and he departed for the night.

Lauretta, who was not acquainted with the conversation which Jacques had overheard at the monastery, looked upon what the old man had said to have been dictated by a no more than common curiosity, excited by the situation of her husband; count Byroff, though he did not undeceive his daughter in this point, considered it in a very different light, and he even began to conceive that the solution of the mystery would prove count Frederic Cohenburg to have retired to the monastery of the Holy Spirit, to enjoy, unmolested, possessions criminally acquired. Still, however, as it was certain that if his conjecture was a true one, all the friars were privy to the plot, he saw no means of effecting the discovery but by ascertaining by whom the bell at the castle was nightly rung, and this he determined if possible to learn that very night.

The medicine last administered by the friar to Alphonsus, count Byroff perceived to possess the same quality, only in a less potent degree, as the former one he had taken, and this lessened his anxiety at the idea of leaving Lauretta for so long a space of time as was necessary to his purpose: he determined, however, not to inform her of the plan in agitation, and when she entreated him to retire in his turn for the night, which he well knew she would do, he pretended to comply with her request, on condition that Jacques might be her companion in watching over her husband. The landlord having provided him with a lantern, and implements for striking a light, reluctantly, as he trembled for the safety of the count, conducted him as far on his way as the intricacy of the road made it necessary for a stranger to have a guide; and then, with injunctions to secrecy on the part of the count, and prayers for the count's protection from evil spirits, on the part of the landlord, they parted,—the host returning home, and count Byroff proceeding along the road leading to the castle.

Count Byroff had advanced only a few yards when the distant sound of the bell fell on his ear; he regretted that necessity had obliged him to set out later than he had intended, but still resolving to pursue his enterprise, he proceeded forward with an increased speed.

Arrived at the castle, natural curiosity, which the shining moon favoured, induced him to eye it in every part as he walked round it, in search of the postern-gate: for an instant he thought he caught the glimmering of a light from a window in the second range of apartments; he stopped and looked, but it did not return, and he passed on, believing his imagination had deceived him.

At length he arrived at the postern-gate; it was shut; he pushed against it, and it yielded heavily to the pressure of his arm; he entered a few steps; he looked round; all was silence and darkness.

He stepped back without the gate, and having lighted the wick within his lantern, which he held in such a manner as to be able in an instant to conceal it in the skirts of a mantle which he wore over his shoulders, he again entered, and closed the gate after him as he had found it.

He proceeded along a vaulted passage, at the extremity of which a turn to the left conducted through a door into the great hall of the castle. He stepped forward a few paces, and raising his lantern, the better to view surrounding objects, nothing met his sight but cumbrous pillars of fluted marble, which were ranged on each side of the hall; and at the extremity, the dark iron-gates which seemed to form a blot in the azure-coloured wall. He turned himself round; facing the gates was a spacious flight of stairs, on each side of which was a high and narrow door; by one of them he had entered the hall.

He ascended the stairs; to the right and left lay an extensive gallery; he again held up his lantern, and directed his eyes first to the extremity of that on the right; he perceived doors on either side, and that it ended in a blank wall. He then turned to the left; the extent of the gallery was greater than that on the right, and as he viewed it, a figure seemed to flit quickly through the shade at the extremity.

He advanced swiftly along: at the end of the gallery was a turn to the right, which led, by the descent of a few steps, into another gallery, much resembling that he had just left: at the extremity of this a door, partly open, attracted his notice: hiding his lantern he looked in, and perceived that all was dark: he uncloaked his lantern, and entered a chamber richly furnished: there were no apparent signs of its having been lately inhabited, nor was there a second door in it: he returned to the gallery. The shutting of a door at some distance from him next attracted his attention; he could not determine exactly from what part of the castle the sound had proceeded, but he conjectured it to have issued from the gallery on the right of the flight of stairs which had conducted him from the hall: he followed the sound, and the gallery terminated, as the other had done, by a descent of a few steps into a passage of equal size.

After debating in his mind for some moments what plan to follow, he descended the steps: arrived at the end he found a door as on the other side: he used the same precaution with his lantern as he had before done, and was just grasping the handle of the door, with an intent to open it, when he heard a long groan, which seemed to be uttered by a person not far distant from him: he turned round his head; but nothing was to be seen: he was willing to imagine his senses had been deceived, and was again applying his hand to the door, when his action was arrested by what seemed a stifled shriek in the apartment to which that door led. He listened, the same kind of sound was twice more repeated; he was convinced that it had issued from behind the door, close by which he now stood. For a few moments all was still, and he was a third time on the point of entering, when several voices seemed to break out together into tones of supplication: his astonishment was now wound to a higher pitch than before: suddenly the voices changed their tones into the notes of a solemn chant; in this he immediately recognised the work of priests, and determining at once to unravel the mystery, with his lantern still concealed, he pushed open the door and entered.

Nearly opposite to where he had entered, was a small arched door-way, from which issued a faint light; he proceeded a few steps towards it, and on looking forward, immediately found that he was now in a small vestry behind the altar of a chapel, into which the arched door before him led. He ventured cautiously forward to a spot where he could command a view of the greater part of the chapel; at a short distance from the steps leading to the altar, knelt, by the side of a coffin, a figure of a pale and emaciated countenance, in whose left hand was a cross, and in the right a knotted cord.

On the other side of the coffin knelt three friars, who were singing the chant which count Byroff had heard begun, whilst standing by the outer door: the chant being finished, the friars crossed themselves, and began a prayer, in which they supplicated mercy for the guilty. Upon this the figure, whose sex the sable and loose garments it wore, tended not to declare, rose, and began to lash its shoulders with the cord, the pain occasioned by which caused it to send forth sounds of lamentation, such as the count had before heard: this done, the friars offered up another prayer, in which the penitent figure joined, and they then together left the chapel by a door opposite to the altar, taking with them a lamp which during their devotions had been placed on the coffin round which they had knelt.

All count Byroff's former plans of obstinate perseverance into the mystery in which the castle was enveloped, were put to flight by what he had seen: awe and reverence for the solemnity of the religious worship in which he had seen the friars and the suffering person engaged, whose salvation their prayers seemed meant to effect, had forbade him to interrupt their devotions; and when they were ended he felt an insurmountable objection to introducing himself to those who might have a right to dispute his unlicensed entrance into the castle, and refuse to attend to his excuse.

Some minutes were lost by him in reflection how to proceed, when he heard footsteps at a distance in the gallery; but they were no sooner heard, than they died away, and he doubted not, from what Jacques had told him he had seen on the night of his waiting without the castle for Alphonsus, that the friars were now departing; the shutting of a gate, with the sound of which the castle immediately after rang, confirmed him in his opinion.

He resolved to enter the chapel, and if possible, discover whither was gone the figure whom he had seen; for he strongly conceived, he knew not why, that it had not left the castle: as to who the figure was, his mind wavered between count Frederic, and the countess Anna; the former his own ideas taught him to believe it; but the words uttered by Alphonsus seemed to assign a degree of probability to its being the latter: arrived at the end of the chapel, he found that the door through which the persons he had just beheld had passed, was an iron grating; he pulled at it, but it resisted his efforts, being fastened by a spring, which he was not acquainted how to open. As he stood by it, a glimmering of light, at some distance, caught his eyes; he hid his lantern; the light advanced, and showed him that the iron gate led into a long and narrow passage; at the extremity of which, in a few seconds, appeared, bearing a lamp, the figure he had lately beheld in the chapel: it opened a door facing him, and having entered, immediately closed it, and all was again dark.

He again produced his lantern; but the door through which the figure had passed, was too far removed for him to distinguish it with the aid only of the light in his hand: he determined, however, if possible to find it; and, if he could, to address the person who had so strongly excited his attention and surprise.

After entering many chambers and passages in vain, a suite of rooms brought him to a chamber, from a door in which, a small closet, through which he passed, led him into the passage, at the extremity of which was the grated door from the chapel: he moved hastily to the other end, in search of the door by which the figure had vanished from his sight: the form of the wall was a semicircle, constituting, as he concluded, part of one of the turrets, of which there were four at the angles of the castle; but his most minute investigations could discover in it no door, or even crevice.

He placed his lantern on the ground, and for some time continued to pass his hands over every part of the wall, in the hope of discovering some clue to the object of his search; at length he imagined that he felt through the plaster a small elevation, which appeared to the touch like a flat hinge: he took up his lantern in order to examine the spot where he felt it, when, to his great disappointment, he perceived that his wick was dying out in the socket: he now found it necessary to return to the gallery as quickly as possible, whilst he had light to conduct him, lest from his being delayed a longer time than he wished, by searching his way in the dark, his absence should be learned by Lauretta, and add additional fears on his account, to her already too much afflicted mind: he accordingly precipitately retraced the path which had conducted him to this passage, and arrived in the gallery at the moment the last spark in his lantern became extinguished.

Day was fortunately for him beginning to dawn, and he easily descended into the hall, and gained, by recollecting his way, the postern gate, when, what had never occurred to him till he experienced it, the gate was locked, and thus all means of departing excluded from him.

He upbraided himself for not having forestalled the friars' departure, which, had he but considered the matter, Jacques's narrative of the occurrences of the night before the last had warned him to do; he returned to the hall, and attempted to open the great gates, but they baffled his endeavours; how had Alphonsus got out after the departure of the friars? was a question he next asked himself, but he found it not less a difficult matter to answer this demand, than at the present moment to effect his escape.

All he now felt was anxiety for what Lauretta would experience, should she discover his absence, and learn whither he was gone.

Nearly two hours were spent by him in vain attempts to leave the castle, and unavailing lamentations; on a sudden he imagined he heard a key turn in the lock of the postern gate; he stopped a few seconds to listen; no sound followed it; and he almost feared his expectations to have been falsely raised; he determined, however, to ascertain the truth, and accordingly proceeded to the postern gate; it was partly open, his heart leaped with joy, and eagerly crossing the threshold, he set forward without stopping to consider by whom, or from what cause, the gate had been opened.

Arrived at the inn panting for breath, count Byroff instantly inquired of the landlord whether Lauretta had asked for him, and with much satisfaction he learned that she had not. The host had, by the count's desire, sat up till his return, and count Byroff having, in recompense for his complacency, satisfied his curiosity in regard to the tolling of the wonderful bell, they both retired to their respective apartments.

Count Byroff threw himself on the bed, and immediately began to re-examine in his mind the occurrences of which he had been a witness in the castle; and severely did he task himself for not having, at all hazards, aimed at a development of the mystery which it seemed so necessary to the welfare of those with whom he was concerned to have explained; and yet he conceived that he had but acted consistently with the respect due to religious offices.

Unable long to bear this contest of opinions within his own breast, on a matter of so great importance, and of so tender a nature, he entered the chamber of Alphonsus, who was still lulled by the soothing influence of the draught he had taken; Lauretta refused to retire to bed that night; Jacques readily accepted the offer of leaving for a few hours his post of watching.

The count determined not to impart to Lauretta his visit to the castle, as he wished to make one more attempt at solving the enigma, now more perplexing to him than ever, and which he feared her entreaties and alarm for his safety, were she acquainted with his intention, or even surmised it, might induce him to abandon.

It was some hours ere Alphonsus spoke, though he had been long awake: he then called Lauretta to him and embraced her; the tears ran down his cheeks. "Is the holy friar here?" he asked.

Lauretta answered, that she every moment expected his arrival.

"Would he were come!" continued Alphonsus. "I would unburden to him my heart: his counsel might relieve me, if his prayers and intercession cannot obtain my pardon."

"Am not I equally worthy the participation of your secret thoughts?" said Lauretta tenderly.

"Oh my Lauretta!" returned Alphonsus, "it is my love for you, that causes me to hide them from you."

"Do you then suppose that I am less moved to see you unhappy, than if you had acquainted me with all the particulars for your present anxiety?—Oh Alphonsus! can you believe my heart less feeling towards you, than yours has been to me?"

"You are too good, too kind," cried Alphonsus, "to one who, choked by melancholy and despair, has never given you a cheerful smile, in gratitude for those endearments, which have been his only comfort."

"Indeed you wrong yourself. I have been happy, very happy—witness heaven, very happy," said Lauretta, stifling her tears.

"I fear I have said too much," replied Alphonsus, looking steadfastly in her face; "I have already told you what afflicts me; have I not?"

"Forget it, I entreat you," answered Lauretta.

"Never! never!" he exclaimed. "My senses have been lately so disordered, that I scarcely know what has passed; did I tell you that I had seen my mother's shade?"

Lauretta was at a loss how to answer for the best: she looked at count Byroff for advice; she saw he was perplexed not less than herself; the door of the chamber opened, and father Nicholas entered to their relief.

The father passed on to that side of the bed opposite to which Lauretta was standing; "A good and blessed day to thee, my son!" he said.

Alphonsus turned towards him, and said, "Wouldst thou indeed bless me?"

"Thou hast my most fervent prayers to heaven," returned the holy man.

"If thou hast my welfare at heart, thou wilt be secret, if I confess to thee my sorrows," said Alphonsus, with more composure than he had yet spoken.

"Secrecy is a bond of my office; speak freely my son and fear me not."

"Go to the castle of Cohenburg to-night; when the midnight bell has sounded, thou wilt find the postern gate open to thee: enter the chapel, and pray for me forgiveness for my disobedience, of my mother's shade: if thou seest her not, she will hear thee, for she inhabits there; tell her I repent my forbidden visit, though I have learned no secret by it; and if she refuse to pardon me, I will die to prove my penitence."

"Are you indeed the heir of Cohenburg castle?" said father Nicholas, surprise and pleasure mingling in his countenance.

"Oh no! no!" replied Alphonsus, "I am only the lost, abandoned, cursed Alphonsus."

"When did you visit the castle?" asked the friar.

"It was"—said Alphonsus:—he paused: "It was by night; but I cannot recollect whether last night, or not."

"It was two nights ago," said the count.

Lauretta had retired to the window; the friar went to her—"Are you the wife of this young man?"

"I am, father."

"Dry your tears, be comforted; happiness is yet in store for you."

"God grant your words be true."

"Trust to his mercy; through me he compassionates your afflictions."

He again approached the bed: "I will pray for you, my son; rest assured, and place faith in my endeavours;—I shall visit you again to-day; till then peace be with you: farewell."

He departed, and his words for some time occupied, in silent reflection, those he had left.