University of Virginia Library

12. XII.

“It was not so late as Carl had fancied it, and
his wife was still awake. He had not been away
much longer than was his wont, when he went
forth on his usual evening rambles; and though
she had suffered from his absence, yet it was not
through any apprehensions for his safety. Still
she had no complaints, and the pleasure in her
eyes when he did return, was, probably, one of the
best arguments against his wandering forth again.
She was still melancholy and apprehensive, and
when she observed the anguish, not to say the
agony, which was apparent in every feature of his
face, her apprehensions underwent a corresponding
increase.

“`What is the matter, Carl? What was troubled
you?' she demanded of him in agitated accents.

“`Nothing, nothing!' with an effort, he made
out to reply.

“`It is something — something terrible, dearest
husband — your cheeks are haggard, your
eyes are wild — you tremble all over. Tell me,
tell me, my husband, what is it that troubles you.'

“`Nothing,' he again replied — `return to your
bed,' (she had risen when she beheld his face,)
`return to your bed and heed me not. I will be
better soon.'

“He quieted, if he did not satisfy her. She
returned to the couch as he bade her; and he
prepared to follow her. But there was one duty
which he omitted that night, which, from his childhood,
he had never neglected to perform before.
He did not pray. He strove to do so, but his
mind could not be brought to address itself in supplication.
He forgot the words; and others, foreign
to his object, took their places. He gave up
the effort in despair. He could think of nothing
but the terrible laugh, and the demoniac visage
which had met him in the abbey. All the next
day he was like one whose senses wandered. His
wife strove to soothe his mood, which was fitful —
and to attract his attention, which strayed continually;
but he smiled upon her kindly, with a sickly
smile, and gave no farther acknowledgment. As
night approached he grew visibly agitated, and as
he became conscious that his efforts at concealment
were unavailing, he sought his chamber, to
hide in its dimness what he might not otherwise
conceal. But his agony seemed to increase with his
solitude. Dreadful images were about him in his

chamber, and a chuckle, like that he had heard in
the abbey, was uttered, at intervals, even over his
shoulder. He descended to the apartment in
which he had left Matilda, preferring that she
should see the agony that he could not endure
alone. But her presence gave him no consolation,
and her solicitude became an annoyance.

“`Trouble me no more!' he exclaimed, in tones
which she had never heard from his lips before,
replying to one of her fond appeals to know the
cause of his sufferings. `Trouble me no more —
it is nothing — nothing which I may tell you.'

“She turned from him in sorrow not less deep,
though less acute than his, and the tears filled
her eyes. His heart reproached him as he beheld
her action, and readily conceived her pain; but
there was a wilful impulse in his bosom, which refused
to permit of his making the usual atonement.
Sullen and sad, he glowered about the
apartment 'till night came on, and supper was announced,
when Matilda saw that his agitation was
visibly increasing. With the meek and blessing
spirit of an angel, forgetting the harsh rebuff
which he had given her, she approached him —
threw her fond arms about his neck, and implored
him to smile again upon her. He tried to do so
but the effort produced only a ghastly grin, no

less shocking to her eyes than the effort had been
irksome to his mind. He went to the supper table,
and, unobserved by him, her glance watched
him while he strove to eat. He left the table in
horror, for the face of Herman stared at him from
the plate. There was no hope of escape from the
pursuing fiend, and the unhappy Carl rushed out
of the house. Where should he go?

“`To the abbey! to the abbey! I will speak
— I will demand its meaning. I will know and
hear all. If it be Herman, in truth — my brother
and my friend —'

“`Ha! ha! ha!'

“The infernal laugh was at his elbow. He
turned in desperation to behold — not the gorgon
stare which had so terrified him in the abbey,
but a face rather good natured than otherwise —
the face of the bacchanalian who had encountered
him on the preceding night. A mischievous grin
was upon the features of the stranger, whose broad
mouth and little twinkling eyes, with the fat, hanging
cheek, and the red and pimpled nose, seemed
the very personification of fun and frolic. Not a feature
in his face appeared of demoniac origin. The
subtle malignity of the satanic attributes were entirely
wanting, and in place of them, reckless mirth,
indifferent to all matters but good cheer, was the

prevailing expression. But the laugh! That,
certainly, had been very like the laugh he had
heard in the abbey. No two sounds could have
seemed more alike to the ears of Carl. A new
thought entered his mind with this conviction.
This drunken fellow might have been the proprietor
of the former laugh, as he certainly was of
that which he had just heard. To him might be
ascribed the design to frighten himself and Herman.
When he looked into the cunning, merry,
blubber-face of the reveller, conjecture became
conviction. `It must be so!' said Carl, half aloud.

“`To be sure it must,' exclaimed the other.
`We will have a glass together now, though you
did refuse to be a good fellow last night. Come.
Here's old Dietrich hard by. I can answer for
his liquors, though I cannot for his conscience. I
believe in the one, and — damn the other. Come,
my friend, let's try him.'

“Carl was half disposed to be civil with the
stranger. The notion which had suddenly possessed
him that he and the ghost of the abbey were
one and the same person, brought a singular relief
to his mind; and he was half persuaded to forgive
him the impertinence of the fright which he had
received, in consideration of the solution of the
mystery which the conjecture brought. The

stranger pressed him, expatiating upon the sweets
of wine, and the luxury of good company.

“`Wine,' says he — `wine, Carl —'

“`How the devil does he know my name!'
thought Carl to himself, but he did not say it.

“`Damn my instinct,' said the other — `I find
it the hardest thing in the world not to know,
what, indeed, it is not necessary that I should
know.'

“`What do you mean?' said Carl.

“`Oh, nothing — I was only regretting that
my passion for wine — I had almost thought it an
instinct — should sometimes make me indifferent
to the sort of company I fall in with. Here, I've
been on the eve of eulogizing the rich Hochheimer
to you, who are a judge, doubtless, of the
noble beverage, simply because, in my intercourse
with mankind, I meet hourly with so many to
whom the eulogy is a sort of key to their tastes,
that it is now almost habitual with me to dwell
upon it. To you, however, any idle talk upon
the merits and effects of good wine would be only
an impertinence.'

“`I am no judge — I drink little,' said Carl,
to whom the seduction of appearing more than he
was, or of knowing more than he did, had always
been a very small one.

“`You belie yourself,' said the stranger — `I
know that you are a judge — I see it in your face.
Come with me — you shall give me your opinion
of the wine of Dietrich.'

“`Nay, you must excuse me,' said Carl.

“`Can't — never excuse a man from his wine,'
said the other, bluntly. `Excuse a milk-sop, of
course — but never a man.' And as he finished
a sarcasm which has led thousands of goodly young
men to their ruin, he familiarly took the arm of
Carl to lead him forward to the tavern. But Carl
was not vain of being esteemed manly in this respect.
His philosophy was that of an English
poet, whom he never read:

and he gently, but firmly refused.

“`Why, man,' said the other, `Am I then
mistaken in you. I thought you a good fellow,
who loved good company, good wine, and a good
story —'

“`Good story!' exclaimed Carl, touched in
the right place.

“`Ay, a good story — a tale of the mountains
— of the miners, and the red demons of the mines
— the gnomes and the salamanders.'

“`Have you, indeed, such stories?' inquired
Carl, now rather curious.

“`Ay, that have I, and, nearer home, of the
old abbey here. I can tell you a ghost story of
those ruins, that 'll make every hair of your head
stand on end.'

“Carl hesitated and lingered, and his companion
laughed at his hesitation. That laugh chilled
him — it reminded him of what he had been willing
to forget. It reminded him of the face of Herman
— the ghastly grin upon his lips, and the
dreadful laugh — so like to that of the stranger,
which he had then heard. He broke away from
the arm which held him.

“`Not now,' said he, `you must excuse me.
I have business to attend to.' And with these
words, amid the curses and the derision of his companion,
he hurried forward to the abbey.