Chapter IV (2)

“At seven,” repeated William, “at seven!” and he thought, with a strange feeling of affright, of the soldier who parted from him exactly at that moment. “Yes, seven,” continued Bertram, still laughing. “I do not wonder at your surprise; it is not a usual ghostly hour, but Anne would have it so.” The latter shook her head doubtfully, and prayed that all might end well; while William shivered from head to foot, and would secretly have vowed not to use the magic balls, but that the thought of his ill luck haunted him. “Only one of them,” said he internally; “only one of them for the master-shot, and then I have done with them for ever.” But the forester urged him the next instant to accompany him into the forest; and as he dared not excite fresh suspicions of his want of skill, nor offend the old man by refusing, he was again compelled to make use of his wondrous balls; and in the course of a few days he had so accustomed himself to the use of them, and so entirely reconciled his conscience to their doubtful origin, that he saw nothing sinful or even objectionable in the business. He constantly traversed the forest, in the hope of meeting the strange giver of the balls; for the handful had decreased to two, and if he wished to make sure of the master-shot, the utmost economy was necessary. One day he even refused to accompany Bertram, for the next was to be the day of trial, and the chief forester was expected: it was possible he might require other proofs than the mere formal essay, and William thus felt himself secure. But in the evening, instead of the commissary, came a messenger from the duke, with an order for a large delivery of game, and to announce that the visit of the chief forester would be postponed for eight days longer.

William felt as if he could have sunk into the bosom of the earth, as he listened to the message, and his excessive alarm would have excited strange suspicions, if all present had not been ready to ascribe it to the delay of his expected nuptials. He was now obliged to sacrifice at least one of his balls, but he solemnly swore nothing should rob him of the other but the forester’s master-shot.

Bertram was outrageously angry when William returned from the forest with only one stag; for the delivery order was considerable. He was still more angry the next day at noon, when Rudolph returned loaded with an immense quantity of game, and William returned with none: he threatened to dismiss him, and retract his promise respecting Catherine, if he did not bring down at least two deer on the following day. Catherine was in the greatest consternation, and earnestly besought him to make use of his utmost skill, and not let a thought of her interrupt his duties while occupied in the forest. He departed—his heart loaded with despair. Catherine, he saw too plainly, was lost to him for ever; and nothing remained but the choice of the manner in which he should destroy his happiness. Whilst he stood lost in the agonising anticipation of his impending doom, a herd of deer approached close to him. Mechanically he felt for his last ball; it felt tremendously heavy in his hand: he was on the point of dropping it back, resolving to preserve his treasure at every hazard, when suddenly he saw—O sight of joy!—the one-legged soldier approaching. Delightedly he let the ball drop into the barrel, fired, brought down a brace of deer, and hastened forward to meet his friend; but he was gone! William could not discover him in the forest.

“Hark ye, William!” said the forester to him in the evening, rousing him from the torpor of grief into which he had fallen; “you must resent this affront as earnestly as myself: nobody shall dare utter falsehoods of our ancestor Kuno, nor accuse him as Rudolph is now doing. I insist,” continued he, turning again to the latter, “if good angels helped him, (which was very likely, for in the Old Testament we frequently read of instances of their protection,) we ought to be grateful, and praise the wonderful goodness of God. But nobody shall accuse Kuno of practising the black art. He died happily—ay, and holily, in his bed, surrounded by children and grandchildren,—which he who carries on a correspondence with the evil one never does. I saw a terrible example of that myself, when I was a forester’s boy in Bohemia.”

“Let us hear how it happened, good Bertram,” said all the listeners; and the forester nodded gravely, and continued.

“I shiver when I think of it; but I will tell you nevertheless. When a young man, practising with other youths under the chief foresters, there used frequently to join us a town lad, a fine daring fellow, who, being a great lover of field sports, came out to us as often as he could. He would have made a good marksman, but was too flighty and thoughtless; so that he frequently missed his mark. Once, when we ridiculed his awkwardness, we provoked him into a rage, and he swore by all that was holy that he would soon fire with a more certain aim than any gamekeeper in the country, and that no animal should escape him, either in the air or on the earth. But he kept his light oath badly. A few days afterwards an unknown huntsman roused us early, and told us that a man was lying in the road and dying without assistance. It was poor Schmid. He was covered with wounds and blood, as if he had been torn by wild beasts: he could not speak, for he was quite senseless, with scarcely any appearance of life. He was conveyed to Prague, and just before his death declared, that he had been out with an old mountain huntsman to a cross road, in order to cast the magic balls, which are sure of hitting their mark; but that making some fault or omission, the demon had treated him so roughly that it would cost him his life.”

“Did he not explain?” asked William, shuddering.

“Surely,” replied the forester. “He declared before a court of justice, that he went out to the cross road with the old gamekeeper; that they made a circle with a bloody sword, and afterwards set it round with skulls and bones. The mountain hunter then gave his directions to Schmid as to what he was to do: he was to begin when the clock struck eleven to cast the balls, and neither to cast more nor fewer than sixty-three; one either above or under this number would, when the bell tolled midnight, be the cause of his destruction: neither was he to speak a single word during his work, nor move from the circle, whatever might happen, above, below, or around him. Fulfilling these conditions, sixty balls would be sure of hitting, and the remaining three only would miss. Schmid had actually begun casting the balls when, according to what we could gather from him, he saw such cruel and dreadful apparitions, that he at length shrieked and sprung out of the circle, falling senseless to the ground; from which trance he did not recover till under the hands of the physician in Prague.”

“Heaven preserve us!” said the forester’s wife, crossing herself. “It is a very deadly sin undoubtedly,” pursued Bertram, “and a true woodsman would scorn such practice. He needs nothing but skill, and a good gun, as you have lately experienced, William. I would not, for my own part, fire off such balls for any price; I should always fear the fiend would, at some time or other, conduct the ball to his own mark instead of to mine.”

Night drew round them with the conclusion of the forester’s story. _He_ went to his quiet bed, but William remained in restless agony. It was in vain that he attempted to compose himself. Sleep fled entirely from his spirit. Strange objects flitted past him, and hovered like dark omens over his pillow. The strange soldier of the forest, Schmid, Catherine, the duke’s commissary, all rushed before his eyes, and his fevered imagination converted them into the most dreadful groups. Now, the miserable Schmid stood warningly before him, and hollowly pointed to his newly bleeding wounds; then the dark distorted face faded to the pallid features of Catherine wrestling with the strength of death; while the wild soldier of the forest stood mocking his agony with a hellish laugh of scorn. The scene then changed to his mind, and he stood in the forest before the commissary, preparing for the master-shot. He aimed—fired—missed, Catherine sunk down on the earth. Bertram drove him away; while the one-legged soldier, now again a friend, brought him fresh balls; but too late—the trial was over, and he was lost.

In this manner wore away his agonised night, and with the earliest dawn he sought the forest, hoping to meet with the soldier; the clear morning air chased away the dark images of sleep from his brow, and ennerved his drooping spirit. “Fool!” said he to himself, “because I cannot understand what is mysterious, must the mystery therefore be a sin? Is what I seek so contrary to nature that it requires the aid of spirits to obtain it? Does not man govern the mighty instinct of animals, and make them move according to the will of their master? Why then should he not be able, by natural means, to command the course of inanimate metal which receives force and motion only through him? Nature is rich in wonders which we do not comprehend, and shall I forfeit my happiness for an ignorant prejudice only? No! Spirits I will not call upon, but nature and her hidden powers I will challenge and use, even though unable to explain its mystery. I will seek the soldier, and, if I cannot find him, I will at least be bolder than Schmid, for I have a better cause. He was urged by presumption, I by love and honour.”

But the soldier appeared not, however earnestly William sought him; neither could any of those of whom he inquired give him the slightest information respecting him, and two days were wasted in these anxious and fruitless inquiries.

“Then be it so,” exclaimed the unhappy young man; and in a fit of despair he resolved to cast the magic balls in the forest. “My days,” he added, “are numbered to me; this night will I seek the cross road. Into its silent and solitary recess no one will dare to intrude; and the terrible circle will I not leave till the fearful work shall be done.”

But when the shadows of evening fell upon the earth, and after William had provided lead, bullet-mould, and coals, for his nocturnal occupation, he was gently detained by Bertram, who felt, he said, so severe an oppression, that he entreated him to remain in his chamber during the night. Catherine offered her services, but they were, to her astonishment, declined. “At any other time,” said her father, “I should have preferred you, but to-night it must be William. I shall be happier if he will remain with me.”

William hesitated. He grew sick in his inmost heart. He would have objected, but Catherine’s entreaties were so earnest, her voice so irresistible, that he had nothing to oppose against her wishes. He remained in the chamber, and in the morning Bertram’s dark fears had faded, and he laughed at his own absurdity. He proposed going to the forest, but William, who intended to devote the day to his search for the soldier, dissuaded him, and departed alone. He went, but returned disappointed, and once more resolved to seek the forest at night. As he approached the house, Catherine met him. “Beloved William,” said she, “you have a visitor, and a dear one, but you must guess who it is.”

William was not at all disposed to guess, and still less to receive visits; for at that time the dearest friend would have been the most unwelcome intruder. He answered peevishly, and was thinking of a pretext to turn back, when the door of the house opened, and the pale moon threw her soft ray upon a venerable old man, in the garb of a huntsman, who extended his arms towards him; and “William!” said a kind and well-known voice, and the next instant the young forester found himself folded to the bosom of his beloved uncle.

Ah! magic of early ties, dear recollections, and filial gratitude! William felt them all; his heart was full of joy, and all other thoughts were forgotten. Suddenly spoke the warning voice to the tranquil happy dreamer. The midnight hour struck, and William, with a shudder, remembered what he had lost. “But one night more remains to me,” said he; “to-morrow, or never.” His violent agony did not escape the eye of his uncle, but he ascribed it to fatigue, and excused himself for detaining him from his needful rest, on account of his own departure, which he could not delay beyond the following day. “Yet grieve not, William,” said the old man as he retired to rest; “grieve not for this short hour thus spent, you will only sleep the sounder for it.” William shivered, for to his ear these words conveyed a deeper meaning. There was a dark foreboding in his heart, that the execution of his plan would for ever banish the quiet of sleep from his soul.

But day dawned—passed—and evening descended. “It must be now or never,” thought William, “for to-morrow will be the day of trial.” The females had been busied in preparations for the wedding and the reception of their distinguished guest. Anne embraced William when he returned, and, for the first time, saluted him with the dear name of son. The tender joy of a young and happy bride glittered in the sweet eyes of Catherine. The supper-table was covered with flowers, good food, and large bottles of long-hoarded wine from the stores of Bertram. “Children,” said the old man, “this is our own festival; let us, therefore, be happy: to-morrow we shall not be alone, though you may, perhaps, be happier. I have invited the priest, dear William, and when the trial is over”—A loud shriek from Catherine interrupted the forester. Kuno’s picture had again fallen from its place, and had struck her severely on the forehead. Bertram grew angry. “I cannot conceive,” said he, “why this picture is not hung properly; this is the second time it has given us a fright: are you hurt, Catherine?” “It is of no consequence,” replied the maiden, gently wiping away the blood from her bright curls; “I am less hurt than frightened.”

William grew sick when he beheld her pale face, and forehead bathed in blood. So he had seen her in his distempered dreams on that dreadful night: and this reality conjured up all those fearful fantasies anew. His determination of proceeding in his plan was shaken; but the wine, which he drank in greater quantities than usual, filled him with a wild courage, and ennerved him to undertake its execution. The clock struck nine. Love and valour must combat with danger, thought William. But he sought in vain for a decent pretence to leave his Catherine. How could he quit her on the bridal eve? Time flew with the rapidity of an arrow, and he suffered agonies even in the soft arms of rewarding love. Ten o’clock struck: the decisive moment was come. Without taking leave, William started from his bride, and left the house to range the forest. “Whither go you, William?” said her mother, following him, alarmed. “I have shot a deer, which I had forgotten,” answered the youth. She still entreated, and Catherine looked terrified, for she felt that there was something (though she knew not what) to fear, from his distracted manner. But their supplications were unheeded. William sprung from them both, and hastened into the forest.

The moon was on the wane, and gleamed a dark red light above the horizon. Grey clouds flew rapidly past, and sometimes darkened the surrounding country, which was soon relighted up by the wild and glittering moonlight. The birch and aspen trees nodded like spectres in the shade; and to William the silver poplar was a white shadowy figure, which solemnly waved, and beckoned him to return. He started, and felt as if the two extraordinary interpositions to his plan, and the repeated falls of the picture, were the last admonitions of his departing angel, who thus warned him against the commission of an unblessed deed. Once more he wavered in his intention. Now he had even determined to return, when a voice whispered close to him, “Fool! hast thou not already used the magic balls, and dost thou only dread the toil of labouring for them?” He paused. The moon shone brilliantly out from a dark cloud, and lighted up the tranquil roof of the forester’s humble dwelling. William saw Catherine’s window shine in the silvery ray, and he stretched out his arms towards it, and again directed his steps towards his home. Then the voice rose whisperingly again around him, and, “Hence!—to thy work!—away!” it murmured; while a strong gust of wind brought to his ear the stroke of the second quarter. “To my work,” he repeated; “ay; it is cowardly to return half way—foolish to give up the great object, when, for a lesser, I have already perhaps risked my salvation. I will finish.”

He strode rapidly forward. The wind drove the fugitive clouds over the moon, and William entered the deep darkness of the forest. Now he stood upon the cross road; the magic circle was drawn; the skulls and bones of the dead laid in order around it; the moon buried herself deeper in the cloudy mass, and left the glimmering coals, at intervals fanned into a blaze by the fitful gusts of wind, alone to lighten the midnight deed, with a wild and melancholy glare. Remotely the third quarter sounded from a dull and heavy tower clock. William put the casting ladle upon the coals, and threw the lead into it, together with three balls, which had already hit their mark, according to the huntsman’s usage; then the forest began to be in motion; the night ravens, owls, and bats, fluttered up and down, blinded by the glare of light. They fell from their boughs, and placed themselves among the bones around the circle, where, with hollow croakings and wild jabberings, they held an unintelligible conversation with the skulls. Momentarily their numbers increased, and among and above them hovered pale cloudy forms, some shaped like animals, some like human beings. The gusts of wind sported frightfully with their dusky vapoury forms, scattering and reuniting them like the dews of the evening shades. One form alone stood motionless and unchanged near the circle, gazing with fixed and woful looks at William; once it lifted up its pale hands in sorrow, and seemed to sigh. The fire burned gloomily at the moment; but a large grey owl flapped its wings, and fanned the dying embers into light. William turned shivering away; for the countenance of his dead mother gazed mournfully at him from the dark and dusky figure.

The bell tolled eleven; the pale figure vanished with a groan; the owls and night ravens flew screeching up into the air, and the skulls and bones clattered beneath their wings. William knelt down by his hearth of coals. He began steadily to cast, and, with the last sound of the bell, the first ball fell from the mould.

The owls and the skulls were quiet; but along the road an old woman, bent down with the weight of age, advanced towards the circle. She was hung round with wooden spoons, ladles, and other kitchen utensils, which made a frightful clattering. The owls screeched at her approach, and caressed her with their wings. Arrived at the circle, she stooped down to seize the bones and the skulls; but the coals hissed flames at her, and she drew back her withered hands from the fire. Then she paced round the circle, and, grinning and chattering, held up her wares towards William. “Give me the skulls,” she gabbled; “give me the skulls, and I will give thee my treasures; give me the skulls, the skulls; what canst thou want with the trash? Thou art mine—mine, dear bridegroom; none can help thee: thou canst not escape me; thou must lead with me in the bridal dance. Come away, thou bridegroom mine!”

William’s heart throbbed; but he remained silent, and hastened on with his work. The old woman was not a stranger to him. A mad beggar had often haunted the neighbourhood, until she found an asylum in the mad-house. Now, he knew not whether her appearance was a reality or a delusion. In a short time she grew enraged, threw down her stick, and chattered anew at William. “Take these for our nuptial night,” she cried: “the bridal bed is ready, and to-morrow, when evening cometh, thou wilt be wedded to me. Come soon, my love; delay not, my bridegroom; come soon.” And she hobbled slowly away into the forest.

Suddenly there arose a rattling like the noise of wheels, mingled with the cracking of whips and shouting of men. A carriage came headlong, with six horses and outriders. “What is the meaning of all this in the road?” cried the foremost horseman. “Room there!” William looked up. Fire sprung from the hoofs of the horses, and round the wheels of the carriage: it shone like the glimmering of phosphorus. He suspected a magical delusion, and remained quiet. “On, on, upon it!—over it!—down! down!” cried the horseman; and in a moment the whole troop stormed in headlong upon the circle. William plunged down to the earth, and the horses reared furiously above his head; but the airy cavalry whirled high in the air with the carriage, and, after turning several times round the magic circle, disappeared in a storm of wind, which tore the tops of the mightiest trees, and scattered their branches to a distance.

Some time elapsed ere William could recover from his terror. At length he compelled his trembling fingers to be steady, and cast a few balls without farther interruption. Again the well-known tower clock struck, and to him in the dreadful solitary circle, consoling as the voice of humanity, rose the sound from the habitations of men, but the clock struck the quarter thrice. He shuddered at the lightning-like flight of time; for a third part of his work was hardly done. Again the clock struck, for the fourth time!—Horror!—his strength was annihilated, every limb was palsied, and the mould fell out of his trembling hand. He listened, in the quiet resignation of despair, for the stroke of the full, the terrible, midnight hour. The sound hesitated—delayed—was silent. To palter with the awful midnight was too daring and too dangerous even to the dreadful powers of darkness. Hope again raised the sunk heart of William; he hastily drew out his watch, and beheld it pointing to the second quarter of the hour. He looked gratefully up towards heaven, and a feeling of piety moderated the transport, which, contrary to the laws of the dark world, would otherwise have burst forth in loud and joyous exclamations.

Strengthened, by the experience of the last half-hour, against any new delusion, William now went boldly on with his work. Every thing was silent around him, except that the owls snored in their uneasy sleep, and at intervals struck their beaks against the bones of the dead. Suddenly it was broken by a crackling among the bushes. The sound was familiar to the sportsman, and, as he expected, a huge wild boar broke through the briers, and came foaming towards the circle. Believing this to be a reality, he sprung hastily on his feet, seized his gun, and attempted to fire. Not a single spark came from the flint. Startled at his danger, he drew his hunting knife to attack it,—when the bristly savage, like the carriage and the horses, ascended high above his head, and vanished into the silent fields of air.

The anxious lover worked on steadily to regain the time he had so unhappily lost. Sixty balls were cast. He looked joyfully upwards; the clouds were dispersing, and the moon again threw her bright rays upon the surrounding country; he was rejoicing in the approaching end of his labours, when an agonised voice, in the tones of Catherine, shrieked out the name of “William!” In the next moment, he beheld his beloved dart from among the bushes, and gaze fearfully around her. Following her distracted steps, and panting closely behind her, trod the mad beggar woman, extending her withered arms towards the fugitive, whose light dress, fluttering in the wind, she repeatedly attempted to grasp. Catherine collected her expiring strength in one desperate effort to escape, when the long-sought soldier of the forest planted himself before her and delayed her flight. The hesitation of the moment gained time for the mad woman, who sprung wildly upon Catherine, and grasped her in her long and fleshless hands. William could endure it no longer, he dashed the last ball from his hand, and was on the point of springing from the circle, when the bell tolled midnight, and the delusion vanished. The owls knocked the skulls and bones cluttering against each other, and flew up again to their hiding places; the coals were suddenly extinguished; and William sunk, exhausted with fatigue, to the earth; but there was no rest for him in the forest; he was again disturbed by the slow and sullen approach of a stranger, mounted upon a huge and coal-black steed: he stopped before the demolished magic circle, and, addressing the huntsman,—“You have stood the trial well,” said he; “what do you require of me?”

“Of you, stranger, nothing,” replied William; “of that of which I had need, I have prepared for myself.”

“But with my assistance,” continued the stranger; “therefore a share of it belongs to me.” “Certainly not,” replied the huntsman; “I have neither hired you nor called upon you.”

The horseman smiled. “You are bolder than your equals are wont to be,” said he. “Take then the balls which you have cast: sixty for you, three for me. The first hit, the second miss. When we meet again you will understand me.”

William turned away. “I will not meet you again; I will never see you more,” he cried, trembling. “Why do you turn from me?” demanded the stranger, with a horrible laugh: “do you know me?” “No; no,” said the huntsman, shuddering; “I know you not; I will not even look upon you. Whoever you may be, leave me.”

The black horseman turned his steed. “The rising hairs of your head,” cried he with gloomy gravity, “declare that you do know me. You are right; I am he whom you name in the secrecy of your soul, and shudder to think you have done so.” At these words he disappeared, and the trees under which he had stood let their withered branches sink helpless and dead to the earth.

“Merciful Heaven! William,” said Catherine, on remarking his pale and distracted look on his return after midnight; “what has happened to you? you look as if you had just risen from the grave.” “It is the night air,” he replied; “and I am not well.” “But, William,” said the forester, who had just entered, “why then would you go to the forest: something has happened to you there. Boy, you cannot thus blind me.”

William was startled; the sad solemnity of Bertram’s manner struck him. “Yes, something has occurred,” said he; “but have patience for a few days, and all shall be explained to your satisfaction.” “Willingly, dear son,” interrupted the forester; “question him no further, Catherine. Go to your needful rest, William, and indulge in hope of the future. He who goes on in his occupation openly and honestly, never can be harmed by the evil spirits of the night.”

William had need of all his dissimulation; for the old man’s observations so nearly meeting the truth, his forbearing love, and unshaken confidence in William’s honesty, altogether distracted his mind: he hastened to his room, determined to destroy the magical preparation. “But one ball—only one will I use,” exclaimed he, weeping aloud, with his folded hands held up to heaven; “and surely this determination will efface the sin of the deed I have committed. With a thousand acts of penitence I will make atonement for what is past, for I cannot now step back without betraying my happiness, my honour, and my love.” And with this resolution he calmed the tumult of his spirits, and met the rays of the morning sun with more tranquillity than he had dared to hope.

The commissary of the duke arrived; he proposed a shooting party in the forest, before the trial of skill took place. “For, though we must certainly retain the old form,” said he, “of the essay shot, yet the skill of the huntsman is, after all, best proved in the forest: so come, young marksman, to the woods.”

William’s cheek grew pale, and he earnestly tried to excuse himself from accompanying them. But, when this was refused by the chief forester, he entreated at least to be allowed to fire his trial shot before their departure. Old Bertram shook his head, doubtingly: “William,” said he, “should my suspicion of yesterday be just”—“Father!” replied the youth; and no longer daring to hesitate, he departed with them to the forest.

Bertram had in vain endeavoured to suppress his forebodings and assume a cheerful countenance. Catherine too was dejected, and it was not until the arrival of the priest that she recollected her nuptial garland: her mother had locked it up, and, in her haste to open the chest, broke the lock, and was obliged to send into the village for another wreath, as too much time had been wasted in endeavouring to recover the first. “Let them give you the handsomest,” said Anne to the little messenger, “the very handsomest they have.” The boy accordingly chose the most glittering, and the seller, who misunderstood him, gave him a death garland, composed of myrtle and rosemary, intermingled with silver. The mother and daughter beheld and recognised the mysterious intimation of fate; they embraced each other in silence, and endeavoured to smile away their terror, in imputing it to the boy’s mistake. Again the broken lock was tried; it opened easily now; the wreaths were changed, and the bridal garland was twined around Catherine’s brilliant locks.

The sportsmen returned from the forest. The commissary was inexhaustible on the subject of William’s wondrous skill. “It almost appears ridiculous,” said he, “after such proofs, to require any further trial; yet, in honour of the old custom, we must perform what appears superfluous; we will therefore finish the business as quickly as possible. There, upon that pillar, sits a dove, shoot it.” “For God’s sake,” said Catherine, hastily approaching, “do not shoot that dove. Alas! in my sleep last night I was myself a dove, and my mother, while fastening a ring round my neck, on your approaching us became covered with blood.”

William drew back his gun; but the chief forester smiled. “So timid, little maiden!” said he, “that will never do for a huntsman’s bride: come, courage! courage!—or is the dove a favourite, perhaps?”

“Ah, no,” she replied; “it is but fear.”

“Well then,” replied the commissary, “have courage; and now, William, fire!”

The shot fell, and, in the same moment, Catherine sunk, with a loud scream, to the earth. “Silly girl,” exclaimed the commissary, lifting her up: but a stream of blood flowed over her face, her forehead was shattered, for the ball of the rifle was lodged in the wound. William turned, on hearing loud shrieks behind him, and beheld his Catherine pale, weltering in her blood, and by her side the soldier of the forest, who, with a fiendish laugh of scorn, pointed to his dying victim, and cried aloud to William, “Sixty hit, three miss!”

“Accursed fiend!” shrieked the wretched youth, striking at the detested form with his sword, “hast thou thus deceived me?” His agony permitted no further expression, for he sunk senseless to the earth by the side of the victim bride. The commissary and priest in vain endeavoured to console the childless heart-broken parents. The mother had scarcely laid the prophetic garland of death upon the bosom of the bridal corpse, when her sorrow and life expired with her last-shed tear: the solitary father soon followed her, and the miserable William closed his life in the mad-house.

THE FORTUNES OF DE LA POLE.

In thoughts from the visions of the night, when deep sleep falleth on
men;
Fear came upon me, and trembling, which made all my bones to shake.
Then a spirit passed before my face, the hair of my head stood up.

_Job_, chap. iv.

EARLY in the seventeenth century, on a very cold November morning, a gentleman of Winchester was returning to his home, by a road which then led by the borders of the New Forest. He was conversing gaily with his attendants, when his dogs arrested the mirth of the party, by darting suddenly into the mazes of the forest, and signifying their discovery of some unusual object by loud and continued howls. Sir Bernard Courtenay instantly followed their track, and was startled by discovering, amid the tangled bushes, the corpse of a man, frightfully mangled, and which appeared to have lain some time in its concealment. Little observation was necessary to point out the identity of the sufferer,—Sir Bernard Courtenay almost instantly recognised an intimate friend; and, with deep and painful commiseration, prepared to assist his attendants to convey the body to its home.

Many conjectures were immediately afloat, as to the cause and perpetrator of this dreadful act, and, as is ever usual in such cases, many more absurd and irrational than just:—there was no apparent possibility of tracing the fact; it appeared to mock all the art and all the power of justice. He had not been robbed—murder alone had been intended, and had alone been perpetrated; so that one fact at least was clear, that this deed had been the work of an enemy: no common one, it was presumed, if the appearance of the corpse might weigh any thing in evidence; it was mangled fearfully, and the frightful distension of the muscles, the grim and rigid expression of the features, the many deep and bloody wounds upon the body, and the firm and powerful grasp with which the strained fingers of one hand clenched a dark lock of human hair, while those of the other as firmly closed over the hilt of a broken dagger, gave tokens that a fierce and terrible struggle had preceded his unexpected destruction. It was hoped, that some corresponding token of wounds and fierce exertion might lead to a discovery of the murderer; for none deemed, after beholding the body, and calling to mind the noble courage of the victim when in life, that the destroyer could pass from that gripe unharmed.

He who had thus fallen, was one for whom every eye had a tear and every heart a genuine sigh; he had been the friend of all, the enemy of none; he was young, beautiful, and brave; and his native town had looked up to him as one who was to add new glory to her venerable name, and new lustre to his own princely blood; and cut off in the beginning of his career, the very high day of his happiness and beauty, and so cut off—who was there that did not lament for John de la Pole? But, though all Winchester, and the county in whose bosom it lies, sorrowed over the corpse of John de la Pole, the agony born from his death was to be found in his family alone; there he had been adored, and there most truly and deeply was his sad destiny accused. His young and lovely wife, scarce past her bridal year,—she who had, long before his marriage, been the secret object of his ardent love, and who, upon the death of his father, became the object of his choice—of her grief it was scarcely possible to think without affright; for, in that convulsion of soul into which, in the first horror of eternal separation from all we love, we invariably fall, she had withdrawn herself from all consolation of her friends—all succour of her attendants; and report whispered that she was using means, though quietly, (in order to avoid public shame,) to shorten a life which was now become odious and burthensome. To this cruel resolution she had been driven by a terrible incident: on the morning of the discovery of the body, she had, believing him to be on his road towards his home, ascended her carriage in order to meet him, and was driving cheerfully through the town, when her progress was arrested by the appearance of the crowd bearing the corpse of her husband. She recognised it at a glance, and, before they were aware of their imprudence, a piercing shriek announced to the people that she did so. She took another searching, distracted look at the body, and shrunk into the arms of her attendants, insensible and silent. _They_ thought she was dead—it would not have been wonderful if she had been; the husband of her soul was lying before her, a deep gash across his throat, another had disfigured his snowy brow, and almost divided his once lofty head, while the bosom upon which she had been accustomed to repose was mangled and rent by stabs and blows too many to number—what an object for a young and loving wife! Remembrance was terrible to her, and the inability of justice to discover the murderer added despair to her grief, and thus compelled her to seek for consolation only in the prospect of death.

As bitter a grief, though perhaps not so deep or desperate, had fastened upon the heart of the only survivor of his family, a youth of twenty, of a beauty and virtue equal to his lamented brother, and who had indeed ample reason for his regrets. John de la Pole had been as a father to his youth, and loved him with a warmth far surpassing the kindness of ordinary brotherhood. Eustace had never been taught to remember that he was the younger, for the fortunes of his house were open to him, and the purse of the elder was common to both. On the marriage of the latter with his beloved Agatha, the younger had timidly hinted at his fears of an interruption to their friendship; but John had remedied this, by generously providing for his brother, and entreating his Agatha to allow him still a home at the castle: which being granted, Eustace, though still fearful of the influence of his lovely sister, continued to reside at home.

But the influence he so much dreaded during his life, became singularly apparent after the death of his beloved John. The will of the latter had indeed left an independence to Eustace, but nothing to support the splendour of that princely house of which he was now sole representative. All was assigned to Agatha,—she was the sole heir of her husband,—the being for whose sake alone he appeared to glory in the possession of wealth. Eustace indeed might still enjoy it, but it was upon a condition which drew the blood from the young man’s cheek as he read, and palsied the warm throbbings of the heart in his bosom; it was, that if John de la Pole should die childless before he had attained the age of thirty, Eustace should espouse his widow. His brother even _entreated_ this sacrifice of him: he said, he knew his heart had been sensible of other charms, but he implored him to yield up this transient gratification to his eternal happiness. He could not endure, he said, the thought of averting from Eustace the fortune of his house; yet still less could he endure to know that Agatha would fill a subordinate state in his family to that in which he had placed her. He shuddered at the thought of her being driven, by this circumstance, to become the wife of another—of one who would love her, and whom she could also love. He besought Eustace therefore, if he valued his repose, to wed her, as no attachment subsisted between them, and he was satisfied to believe that by him she would be treated with gentleness. Agatha he entreated to comply with his last wishes, and accept the hand of Eustace within two months after his death, or be content to resign, with her present rank, the estates to the next of kin. Such was the will of John de la Pole. Eustace, full of grief, instantly retired from the castle of his sister, whom he believed as little inclined to fulfil the conditions of the will as himself, and resigned his spirit for some days to despair; but his friends rallied round him, and represented how much depended upon his calm decision. The next of kin had appeared too, a greedy rapacious man, the son of his father’s sister, who seemed to be sure of his inheritance, and whom John, (it was conjectured,) had purposely named, to stimulate his brother to fulfil his dying injunctions. Hugh de Broke was insolent and brutal, had never been upon kindly terms with his cousins, and had once nearly been murdered by the peasantry for wounding John in a quarrel which occurred a few years before. The inhabitants saw him return with disgust; his early brutalities were remembered; and when he boasted, in his drink, that he knew his cousin before his death intended to make a will in his favour, all Hampshire was ready to accuse him of the murder, and many of its gentlemen would have given half their estates to have been able to substantiate the charge. From earnest desire to action there is but one step: the thought was scarcely uttered by one, ere many endeavoured to prove it a fact, and Hugh de Broke became, from an object of mere dislike, one of abhorrence and suspicion. He was not told of the murmurs afloat respecting him; and he was too much accustomed to signs of dislike, to observe any thing new in their conduct. The eyes that glared upon him had nothing in them peculiarly ferocious to him now; nor did the deep mutterings and suppressed curses as he passed, startle him at this period from his path; he remembered the hatred of other days, and if he _did_ observe any increase of this ill feeling towards him, he attributed their malignity less towards himself in his own person, than against the authority he would be enabled to hold over their actions as the fortunate heir of John de la Pole. At all events, he fortified himself against their inflictions, by resorting in some cases to the exercise of his native brutality, in others to a loud and bitter scorn, which only served to increase their abhorrence and his own unsuspected danger.

The accusers were wary in their proceedings, and silently went on collecting proofs and accumulating evidence, until they believed they had truly in the ruffian kinsman, discovered the murderer of their popular favourite. It was remembered, that after three years’ absence, he had appeared in Hampshire about a month previous to the murder of John, and then had suddenly disappeared, to re-appear as suddenly in Winchester after the contents of the extraordinary will were made public. He had boasted a previous knowledge of this document, and he had taken into his service the man who attended John in his fatal journey, and who, by delaying to follow his master, had given courage to the assassin to make the attack. This man had been dismissed by Eustace with a bitter reproof, and had immediately repaired to De Broke. Fear, or too much security, (it was affirmed,) had dictated the measure of his adoption, after a dismissal which ought to have rendered his services every where suspicious. John, it was urged, had been absent nearly a month, on a visit to a distant friend; he had set out on foot on his return, unaccompanied; for this man, according to his own statement, was commanded by his master to follow him with the horses, one of which (De la Pole’s) had been injured by an accident a few days before; but he had loitered long after, in order to keep an appointment which he had made with a damsel in the establishment of his master’s friend. He was for this loudly accused of treachery; and De Broke ferociously became his champion, with a violence that only defeated the object he had in view. The lock of hair found in the gripe of the corpse was remembered and produced; it was a bunch of thick and clustering curls, and had been forcibly torn from the head of the assassin. The hair of the servant was pale, but it was remarked that Hugh’s was dark and curling, and they sought an opportunity to compare them together. De Broke drove the party from his presence with every mark of contempt, and hardly deigned to assent to the repeated asseverations of his servants, that his hair was much darker, and altogether of a different texture from that produced as taken from the corpse. His conduct was resented warmly. By degrees all the gentry assumed the opinions of the mob; and when, in a violent attack upon his person, it was discovered that his hair had lately been polled in order to facilitate the cure of a wound, and which had hitherto been concealed by the (then) extraordinary contrivance of a peruke, the magistrates made open cause with the people, and Hugh was conducted to prison. There his conduct was sullen and brutal; he would give no explanation, save that the wound in his head arose from a fall from his horse. He was unusually ferocious; and considerably aggravated his case, by his constant threats of deep and deadly vengeance against Eustace de la Pole, who, he insisted, had conspired to cheat him of his estate, in conjunction with his other enemies. Many new proofs appeared against him, and the whole county awaited, in trembling suspense, the event of his anticipated trial.

But these anticipations were not to be gratified: a few nights before the arrival of the judges, Hugh had contrived to escape from his prison, and elude the vigilance of his enemies, by the aid, it was supposed, of his servant, for he also fled the country; and neither master nor man again fell into the hands of justice.

In the mean time, the interval months, the short period of time allowed for most important considerations, were fast wearing away; the two persons most interested in their progress had come to no decision; and though Hugh de Broke had for the present withdrawn his claim, yet he had heirs, who, neither more delicate nor more generous than himself, might endeavour to prove his incapacity, and substantiate their own in place of his. At all events, delays were dangerous, and the fortunes of De la Pole were too considerable to be put to hazard. Eustace loved another, and Agatha could not forget her husband; yet a compliance with the terms of the will became an absolute necessity. Though with averted hearts, they joined hands at the earnest entreaty of friends and relatives; nor would it have been possible to have refused, since even royal majesty evinced a solicitude, that the great fortunes and powerful political interest of the family should not pass into any other hands than those of that loyal and princely blood which had hitherto held them so nobly. Agatha and Eustace became man and wife, and vowed to cherish and love each other till death.

But it was soon evident to all, that this was not either in the power or inclination of the new wedded pair: a deeper sorrow had sunk into their minds, and their calm grief was supplanted by looks and feelings of horror and despair. They spent much of their time together; but their conferences seemed rather to heighten than to soothe their mutual suffering. It was at length remarked, that Eustace never passed his nights in the chamber of his wife, but sometimes in deep groans and anguish in the seclusion of his own apartment, or in wandering wildly through the gloomy mazes of the forest. At such times a stupor would overshadow the spirit of Agatha,—a silent and uncomplaining madness that seemed to render her insensible to suffering; and only upon his return did she vent her keen anguish in words, or dissipate her torture by shrieks as piercing as they were fearful.

Those about them saw no other cause for this mental hell, than the grief which had seized upon them, by constantly contemplating their eternal separation from the being they most loved. It was anticipated that time would effect, if not a cure, at least some amelioration of its bitterness; but time rolled on, and their agonies did not decrease. Nor did the prospect of an heir to their disastrous union afford any pleasure or consolation to their minds; they went through the usual routine of preparation, because, as it appeared, it _was_ usual; there was no joyous anticipation on the part of Eustace,—no tender, trembling hope on the side of Agatha; there was no anxiety, no care; it was a thing unspoken of, unnoted; and when the bustle of the house, the importance of the attendants, and the entrance of the friend, (who, unsummoned, save by the servants, yet judged it necessary to be near her,) told Eustace of the near approaching throes of Agatha, he threw himself upon the ground in the chamber adjoining her, and buried his face in his hands.

Eustace, young, beautiful, and of a gallant spirit, was adored by his household, _all_ the members of which fondly contemplated the birth of an heir, as an event well calculated to calm their mutual suffering, and endear them to each other: and though the maternal anguish of Agatha took place before the usual and expected time, the hopes so affectionately cherished were not shaken by the event; but the conduct of their master gave a wound to their generous devotion. Sad and singular as it was, that of Agatha was scarcely less inexplicable: no groans, no tokens of pain accompanied her physical suffering; and it was apparent that some keener pang of the mind, some woe too deep for utterance, had deadened all sense to merely corporal pain. Her eyes were generally closed, except when some louder noise, or the nearer approach of an attendant towards the couch, forced her to open them, and gaze around her for an instant; but, when her senses were thus for a moment awakened, it was evident the object which had aroused them had no share in their attention. Heedless of all that was passing, she took a shuddering rapid glance around the chamber, as if in earnest search of one whom she yet feared to encounter, and then closed them in evident affright, and sunk anew into stupor and silence;—it was amidst this stupor and silence that her first-born son entered the world.

Eustace had not long remained absorbed in his own painful meditations, ere a mighty shriek from the chamber of Agatha broke upon his ear, and made him partly raise his head from the hard pillow to which he had consigned it. But his soul was dead within him;—he thought no further agony could reach him now—no keener pang could inflict a wound in his already crushed heart; and though the scream was one of horror and dismay, a sound of many voices in grief and consternation, it passed over his senses without further notice, and he again drooped his head to the ground, and, grovelling to earth, seemed as he would bury himself from his anguish in the kindly bosom of his only parent—his last—his truest friend.

But repose was not for him—no, not even the repose of despair—he was again to wake, to feel, to suffer; there was an undreamed of agony near—a sting that was to penetrate his palsied bosom, and awake his crushed soul from the dead; to die would have been bliss, but that was a bliss denied him.

The unhappy young man arose;—a footstep was heard hastily rushing towards his chamber—the wife of Courtenay approached him with a look of commiserating regard, and took his arm to draw him to the apartment of Agatha. She did not speak, but Eustace read in the expression of her features that there was yet more to encounter and to endure. He entered the apartment of his wife—_she_ was lying speechless and insensible upon her couch, utterly incapable of any observation of what was passing around her; and by her side lay a deformed and distorted infant, plunged in the still deeper silence of death.