Harper's New Monthly Magazine, Volume 1, No. 4, September, 1850

“There are some who maintain,” said the physician, “that a part of the walls of the eastern tower itself are of Roman origin; but that would surely be difficult to prove.”

“But, gentlemen,” observed the baroness, “you are losing yourselves in learned descriptions as to the erection of the castle, and our guest is kept in ignorance of what he is anxious to hear.”

“Indeed, madam,” replied the chaplain, “this is not entirely foreign to the subject, since in the most ancient part of the building lies the chamber in question.”

“Where apparitions have been seen?” inquired Edward, eagerly.

“Not exactly,” replied the baroness; “there is nothing fearful to be seen.”

“Come, let us tell him at once,” interrupted the baron. “The fact is, that every guest who sleeps for the first time in this room (and it has fallen to the lot of many, in turn, to do so), is visited by some important, significant dream or vision, or whatever I ought to call it, in which some future event is prefigured to him, or some past mystery cleared up, which he had vainly striven to comprehend before.”

“Then,” interposed Edward, “it must be something like what is known in the Highlands under the name of second sight, a privilege, as some consider it, which several persons and several families enjoy.”

“Just so,” said the physician, “the cases are very similar; yet the most mysterious part of this affair is, that it does not appear to originate with the individual, or his organization, or his sympathy with beings of the invisible world; no, the individual has nothing to say to it – the locality does it all. Every one who sleeps in that room has his mysterious dream, and the result proves its truth.”

“At least in most instances,” continued the baron, “when we have had an opportunity of hearing the cases confirmed. I remember once in particular. You may recollect, lieutenant, that when you first came in I had the honor of telling you, you were not quite a stranger to me.”

“Certainly, baron; and I have been wishing for a long time to ask an explanation of these words.”

“We have often heard your name mentioned by a particular friend of yours – one who could never, pronounce it without emotion.”

“Ah!” cried Edward, who now saw clearly why the baron’s name had sounded familiar to him also; “ah! you speak of my friend Hallberg; truly do you say, we were indeed dear to each other.”

“Were!” echoed the baron, in a faltering tone, as he observed the sudden change in Edward’s voice and countenance; “can the blooming, vigorous youth be – ”

“Dead!” exclaimed Edward; and the baron deeply regretted that he had touched so tender a chord, as he saw the young officer’s eyes fill with tears, and a dark cloud pass over his animated features.

“Forgive me,” he continued, while he leaned forward and pressed his companion’s hand; “I grieve that a thoughtless word should have awakened such deep sorrow. I had no idea of his death; we all loved the handsome young man, and by his description of you were already much interested in you before we had ever seen you.”

The conversation now turned entirely on Hallberg. Edward related the particulars of his death. Every one present had something to say in his praise; and although this sudden allusion to his dearest friend had agitated Edward in no slight degree, yet it was a consolation to him to listen to the tribute these worthy people paid to the memory of Ferdinand, and to see how genuine was their regret at the tidings of his early death. The time passed swiftly away in conversation of much interest, and the whole, company were surprised to hear ten o’clock strike; an unusually late hour for this quiet, regular family. The chaplain read prayers, in which Edward devoutly joined, and then he kissed the matron’s hand, and felt almost as if he were in his father’s house. The baron offered to show his guest to his room, and the servant preceded them with lights. The way led past the staircase, and then on one side into a long gallery, which communicated with another wing of the castle.

The high-vaulted ceilings, the curious carving on the ponderous doorways, the pointed gothic windows, through many broken panes of which a sharp night wind whistled, proved to Edward that he was in the old part of the castle, and that the famous chamber could not be far off.

“Would it be impossible for me to be quartered there,” he began, rather timidly; “I should like it of all things.”

“Really!” inquired the baron, rather surprised; “have not our ghost stories alarmed you?”

“On the contrary,” was the reply, “they have excited the most earnest wish – ”

“Then, if that be the case,” said the baron, “we will return. The room was already prepared for you, being the most comfortable and the best in the whole wing; only I fancied, after our conversation – ”

“Oh, certainly not,” exclaimed Edward; “I could only long for such dreams.”

During this discourse they had arrived at the door of the famous room. They went in. They found themselves in a lofty and spacious apartment, so large that the two candles which the servant carried, only, shed a glimmering twilight over it, which did not penetrate to the furthest corner. A high-canopied bed, hung with costly but old-fashioned damask, of a dark green, in which were swelling pillows of snowy whiteness, tied with green bows, and a silk coverlet of the same color, looked very inviting to the tired traveler. Sofa and chairs of faded needlework, a carved oak commode and table, a looking-glass in heavy framework, a prie-dieu and crucifix above it, constituted the furniture of the room, where, above all things, cleanliness and comfort preponderated, while a good deal of silver plate was spread out on the toilet-table.

Edward looked round. “A beautiful room!” he said. “Answer me one question, baron, if you please. Did he ever sleep here?”

“Certainly,” replied Friedenberg; “it was his usual room when he was here, and he had a most curious dream in that bed, which, as he assured us, made a great impression on him.”

“And what was it?” inquired Edward, eagerly.

“He never told us, for, as you well know, he was reserved by nature; but we gathered from some words that he let slip, that an early and sudden death was foretold. Alas! your narrative has confirmed the truth of the prediction.”

“Wonderful! He always had a similar foreboding, and many a time has he grieved me by alluding to it,” said Edward; “yet it never made him gloomy or discontented. He went on his way firmly and calmly, and looked forward with joy, I might almost say, to another life.”

“He was a superior man,” answered the baron, “whose memory will ever be dear to us. But now I will detain you no longer. Good-night. Here is the bell,” he showed him the cord in between the curtains; “and your servant sleeps in the next room.”

“Oh, you are too careful of me,” said Edward, smiling; “I am used to sleep by myself.”

“Still,” replied the baron, “every precaution should be taken. Now, once more, good night.”

He shook him by the hand, and, followed by the servant, left the room.

Thus Edward found himself alone in the large, mysterious-looking, haunted room, where his deceased friend had so often reposed – where he also was expected to see a vision. The awe which the place itself inspired, combined with the sad and yet tender recollection of the departed Ferdinand, produced a state of mental excitement which was not favorable to his night’s rest. He had already undressed with the aid of his servant (whom he had then dismissed), and had been in bed some time, having extinguished the candles. No sleep visited his eyelids; and the thought recurred which had so often troubled him, why he had never received the promised token from Ferdinand, whether his friend’s spirit were among the blest – whether his silence (so to speak) proceeded from unwillingness or incapacity to communicate with the living. A mingled train of reflections agitated his mind: his brain grew heated; his pulse beat faster and faster. The castle clock tolled eleven – half past eleven. He counted the strokes; and at that moment the moon rose above the dark margin of the rocks which surrounded the castle, and shed her full light into Edward’s room. Every object stood out in relief from the darkness. Edward gazed, and thought, and speculated. It seemed to him as if something moved in the furthest corner of the room. The movement was evident – it assumed a form – the form of a man, which appeared to advance, or rather to float forward. Here Edward lost all sense of surrounding objects, and he found himself once more sitting at the foot of the monument, in the garden of the academy, where he had contracted the bond with his friend. As formerly, the moon streamed through the dark branches of the fir-trees, and shed its cold, pale light on the cold, white marble of the monument. Then the floating form which had appeared in the room of the castle became clearer, more substantial, more earthly-looking; it issued from behind the tombstone, and stood in the full moonlight. It was Ferdinand, in the uniform of his regiment, earnest and pale, but with a kind smile on his features.

“Ferdinand, Ferdinand!” cried Edward, overcome by joy and surprise, and he strove to embrace the well-loved form, but it waved him aside with a melancholy look.

“Ah! you are dead,” continued the speaker; “and why then do I see you just as you looked when living?”

“Edward,” answered the apparition, in a voice that sounded as if it came from afar, “I am dead, but my spirit has no peace.”

“You are not with the blest?” cried Edward, in a voice of terror.

“God is merciful,” it replied; “but we are frail and sinful creatures; inquire no more, but pray for me.”

“With all my heart,” cried Edward, in a tone of anguish, while he gazed with affection on the familiar features; “but speak, what can I do for thee?”

“An unholy tie still binds me to earth. I have sinned. I was cut off in the midst of my sinful projects. This ring burns.” He slipped a small gold ring from his left hand. “Only when every token of this unholy compact is destroyed, and when I recover the ring which I exchanged for this, only then can my spirit be at rest. Oh, Edward, dear Edward, bring me back my ring!”

“With joy – but where, where am I to seek it?”

“Emily Varnier will give it thee herself; our engagement was contrary to holy duties, to prior engagements, to earlier vows. God denied his blessing to the guilty project, and my course was arrested in a fearful manner. Pray for me, Edward, and bring back the ring, my ring,” continued the voice, in a mournful tone of appeal.

Then the features of the deceased smiled sadly but tenderly; then all appeared to float once more before Edward’s eyes – the form was lost in mist, the monument, the fir grove, the moonlight, disappeared: a long, gloomy, breathless pause followed. Edward lay, half sleeping, half benumbed, in a confused manner; portions of the dream returned to him – some images, some sounds – above all, the petition for the restitution of the ring. But an indescribable power bound his limbs, closed his eyelids, and silenced his voice; mental consciousness alone was left him, yet his mind was a prey to terror.

At length these painful sensations subsided – his nerves became more braced, his breath came more freely, a pleasing languor crept over his limbs, and he fell into a peaceful sleep. When he awoke it was already broad daylight; his sleep toward the end of the night had been quiet and refreshing. He felt strong and well, but as soon as the recollection of his dream returned, a deep melancholy took possession of him, and he felt the traces of tears which grief had wrung from him on his eyelashes. But what had the vision been? A mere dream engendered by the conversation of the evening, and his affection for Hallberg’s memory, or was it at length the fulfillment of the compact?

There, out of that dark corner, had the form risen up, and moved toward him. But might it not have been some effect of light and shade produced by the moonbeams, and the dark branches of a large tree close to the window, when agitated by the high wind? Perhaps he had seen this, and then fallen asleep, and all combined had woven itself into a dream. But the name of Emily Varnier! Edward did not remember ever to have heard it; certainly it had never been mentioned in Ferdinand’s letters. Could it be the name of his love, of the object of that ardent and unfortunate passion? Could the vision be one of truth? He was meditating, lost in thought, when there was a knock at his door, and the servant entered. Edward rose hastily, and sprang out of bed. As he did so, he heard something fall with a ringing sound; the servant stooped and picked up a gold ring, plain gold, like a wedding-ring. Edward shuddered; he snatched it from the servant’s hand, and the color forsook his cheeks as he read the two words “Emily Varnier” engraved inside the hoop. He stood there like one thunderstruck, as pale as a corpse, with the proof in his hand that he had not merely dreamed, but had actually spoken with the spirit of his friend. A servant of the household came in to ask whether the lieutenant wished to breakfast in his room, or down stairs with the family. Edward would willingly have remained alone with the thoughts that pressed heavily on him, but a secret dread lest his absence should be remarked, and considered as a proof of fear, after all that had passed on the subject of the haunted room, determined him to accept the last proposal. He dressed hastily, and arranged his hair carefully, but the paleness of his face and the traces of tears in his eyes, were not to be concealed, and he entered the saloon, where the family were already assembled at the breakfast-table, with the chaplain and the doctor.

The baron rose to greet him; one glance at the young officer’s face was sufficient; he pressed his hand in silence, and led him to a place by the side of the baroness. An animated discussion now began concerning the weather, which was completely changed; a strong south wind had risen in the night, so there was now a thaw. The snow was all melted – the torrents were flowing once more, and the roads impassable.

“How can you possibly reach Blumenberg, to-day?” the baron inquired of his guest.

“That will be well nigh impossible,” said the doctor. “I am just come from a patient at the next village, and I was nearly an hour performing the same distance in a carriage that is usually traversed on foot in a quarter of an hour.”

Edward had not given a thought this morning to the shooting-match. Now that it had occurred to him to remember it, he felt little regret at being detained from a scene of noisy festivity which, far from being desirable, appeared to him actually distasteful in his present frame of mind. Yet he was troubled, by the thought of intruding too long on the hospitality of his new friends; and he said, in a hesitating manner,

“Yes! but I must try how far – ”

“That you shall not do,” interrupted the baron. “The road is always bad, and in a thaw it is really dangerous. It would go against my conscience to allow you to risk it. Remain with us; we have no shooting-match or ball to offer you, but – ”

“I shall not certainly regret either,” cried Edward, eagerly.

“Well, then, remain with us, lieutenant,” said the matron, lying her hand on his arm, with a kind, maternal gesture. “You are heartily welcome; and the longer you stay with us, the better shall we be pleased.”

The youth bowed, and raised the lady’s hand to his lips, and said,

“If you will allow me – if you feel certain that I am not intruding – I will accept, your kind offer with joy. I never care much for a ball, at any time, and to-day in particular – ” he stopped short, and then added, “In such bad weather as this, the small amusement – ”

“Would be dearly bought,” interposed the baron. “Come, I am delighted you will remain with us.”

He shook Edward warmly by the hand.

“You know you are with old friends.”

“And, besides,” said the doctor, with disinterested solicitude, “it would be imprudent, for M. de Wensleben does not look very well. Had you a good night, sir?”

“Very good,” replied Edward.

“Without much dreaming?” continued the other, pertinaciously

“Dreaming! oh, nothing wonderful,” answered the officer.

“Hem!” said the doctor, shaking his head, portentously. “No one yet – ”

“Were I to relate my dream,” replied Edward, “you would understand it no more than I did. Confused images – ”

The baroness, who saw the youth’s unwillingness to enlarge upon the subject, here observed,

“That some of the visions had been of no great importance – those which she had heard related, at least.”

The chaplain led the conversation from dreams themselves, to their origin, on which subject he and the doctor could not agree; and Edward and his visions were left in peace at last. But when every one had departed, each to his daily occupation, Edward followed the baron into his library.

“I answered in that manner,” he said, “to get rid of the doctor and his questioning. To you I will confess the truth. Your room has exercised its mysterious influence over me.”

“Indeed!” said the baron, eagerly.

“I have seen and spoken with my Ferdinand, for the first time since his death. I will trust to your kindness – your sympathy – not to require of me a description of this exciting vision. But I have a question to put to you.”

“Which I will answer in all candor, if it be possible.”

“Do you know the name of Emily Varnier?”

“Varnier! – certainly not.”

“Is there no one in this neighborhood who bears that name?”

“No one; it sounds like a foreign name.”

“In the bed in which I slept I found this ring,” said Edward, while he produced it; and the apparition of my friend pronounced that name.

“Wonderful! As I tell you, I know no one so called – this is the first time I ever heard the name. But it is entirely unaccountable to me, how the ring should have come into that bed. You see, M. von Wensleben, what I told you is true. There is something very peculiar about that room; the moment you entered, I saw that the spell had been working on you also, but I did not wish to forestall or force your confidence.”

“I felt the delicacy, as I do now the kindness, of your intentions. Those who are as sad as I am can alone tell the value of tenderness and sympathy.”

Edward remained this day and the following at the castle, and felt quite at home with its worthy inmates. He slept twice in the haunted room. He went away, and came back often; was always welcomed cordially, and always quartered in the same apartment. But, in spite of all this, he had no clew, he had no means of lifting the vail of mystery which hung round the fate of Ferdinand Hallberg and of Emily Varnier.

PART II. – CONCLUSION

Several weeks passed away. Edward spared no pains to discover some trace of the lady in question, but all in vain. No one in the neighborhood knew the family; and he had already determined, as soon as the spring began, to ask for leave of absence, and to travel through the country where Ferdinand had formed his unfortunate attachment, when a circumstance occurred which coincided strangely with his wishes. His commanding officer gave him a commission to purchase some horses, which, to his great consolation, led him exactly into that part of the country where Ferdinand had been quartered. It was a market-town of some importance. He was to remain there some time, which suited his plans exactly; and he made use of every leisure hour to cultivate the acquaintance of the officers, to inquire into Ferdinand’s connections and acquaintance, to trace the mysterious name if possible, and thus fulfill a sacred duty. For to him it appeared a sacred duty to execute the commission of his departed friend – to get possession of the ring, and to be the means, as he hoped, of giving rest to the troubled spirit of Ferdinand.

Already, on the evening of the second day, he was sitting in the coffee-room with burghers of the place and officers of different regiments. A newly-arrived cornet was inquiring whether the neighborhood were a pleasant one, of an infantry officer, one of Hallberg’s corps. “For,” said he, “I come from charming quarters.”

“There is not much to boast of,” replied the captain. “There is no good fellowship, no harmony among the people.”

“I will tell you why that is,” cried an animated lieutenant; “that is because there is no house as a point of reunion, where one is sure to find and make acquaintances, and to be amused, and where each individual ascertains his own merits by the effect they produce on society at large.”

“Yes, we have had nothing of that kind since the Varniers left us,” said the captain.

“Varniers!” cried Edward, with an eagerness he could ill conceal. “The name sounds foreign.”

“They were not Germans – they were emigrants from the Netherlands, who had left their country on account of political troubles,” replied the captain.

“Ah, that was a charming house,” cried the lieutenant, “cultivation, refinement, a sufficient competency, the whole style of the establishment free from ostentation, yet most comfortable; and Emily – Emily was the soul of the whole house.”

“Emily Varnier!” echoed Edward, while his heart beat fast and loud.

“Yes, yes! that was the name of the prettiest, most graceful, most amiable girl in the world,” said the lieutenant.

“You seem bewitched by the fair Emily,” observed the cornet.

“I think you would have been too, had you known her;” rejoined the lieutenant; “she was the jewel of the whole society. Since she went away there is no bearing their stupid balls and assemblies.”

“But you must not forget,” the captain resumed once more, “when you attribute every thing to the charms of the fair girl, that not only she but the whole family has disappeared, and we have lost that house which formed, as you say, so charming a point of reunion in our neighborhood.”

“Yes, yes; exactly so,” said an old gentleman, a civilian, who had been silent hitherto; “the Varniers’ house is a great loss in the country, where such losses are not so easily replaced as in a large town. First, the father died, then came the cousin and carried the daughter away.”

“And did this cousin marry the young lady?” inquired Edward, in a tone tremulous with agitation.

“Certainly,” answered the old gentleman; “it was a very great match for her; he bought land to the value of half a million about here.”

“And he was an agreeable, handsome man, we must all allow,” remarked the captain.

“But she would never have married him,” exclaimed the lieutenant, “if poor Hallberg had not died.”

Edward was breathless, but he did not speak a word.

“She would have been compelled to do so in any case,” said the old man; “the father had destined them for each other from infancy, and people say he made his daughter take a vow as he lay on his death-bed.”

“That sounds terrible,” said Edward; “and does not speak much for the good feeling of the cousin.”

“She could not have fulfilled her father’s wish,” interposed the lieutenant; “her heart was bound up in Hallberg, and Hallberg’s in her. Few people, perhaps, knew this, for the lovers were prudent and discreet; I, however, knew it all.”

“And why was she not allowed to follow the inclination of her heart?” asked Edward.

“Because her father had promised her,” replied the captain: “you used just now the word terrible; it is a fitting expression, according to my version of the matter. It appears that one of the branches of the house of Varnier had committed an act of injustice toward another, and Emily’s father considered it a point of conscience to make reparation. Only through the marriage of his daughter with a member of the ill-used branch could that act be obliterated and made up for, and, therefore, he pressed the matter sorely.”

“Yes, and the headlong passion which Emily inspired her cousin with abetted his designs.”

“Then her cousin loved Emily?” inquired Edward.

“Oh, to desperation,” was the reply; “He was a rival to her shadow, who followed her not more closely than he did. He was jealous of the rose that she placed on her bosom.”

“Then poor Emily is not likely to have a calm life with such a man,” said Edward.

“Come,” interposed the old gentleman, with an authoritative tone, “I think you, gentlemen, go a little too far. I know D’Effernay; he is an honest, talented man, very rich, indeed, and generous; he anticipates his wife in every wish. She has the most brilliant house in the neighborhood, and lives like a princess.”