During the last days of dear Bertha’s illness I was not able to write
to you. Before then I had no idea of her danger. I have lost her, and now learn
_all_, too late. She died in the peace of innocence, and in the
glorious hope of a blessed futurity. The fiend who betrayed our
infatuated hospitality has done it all. I thought I was receiving into
my house innocence, gaiety, a charming companion for my lost Bertha. Heavens! what a fool have I been! I thank God my child died without a suspicion of the cause of her
sufferings. She is gone without so much as conjecturing the nature of
her illness, and the accursed passion of the agent of all this misery. I devote my remaining days to tracking and extinguishing a monster. I
am told I may hope to accomplish my righteous and merciful purpose. At
present there is scarcely a gleam of light to guide me. I curse my
conceited incredulity, my despicable affectation of superiority, my
blindness, my obstinacy—all—too late. I cannot write or talk
collectedly now. I am distracted. So soon as I shall have a little
recovered, I mean to devote myself for a time to enquiry, which may
possibly lead me as far as Vienna. Some time in the autumn, two months
hence, or earlier if I live, I will see you—that is, if you permit me;
I will then tell you all that I scarce dare put upon paper now. Farewell. Pray for me, dear friend.”

In these terms ended this strange letter. Though I had never seen
Bertha Rheinfeldt my eyes filled with tears at the sudden intelligence;
I was startled, as well as profoundly disappointed. The sun had now set, and it was twilight by the time I had returned the
General’s letter to my father. It was a soft clear evening, and we loitered, speculating upon the
possible meanings of the violent and incoherent sentences which I had
just been reading. We had nearly a mile to walk before reaching the
road that passes the schloss in front, and by that time the moon was
shining brilliantly. At the drawbridge we met Madame Perrodon and
Mademoiselle De Lafontaine, who had come out, without their bonnets, to
enjoy the exquisite moonlight. We heard their voices gabbling in animated dialogue as we approached. We joined them at the drawbridge, and turned about to admire with them
the beautiful scene. The glade through which we had just walked lay before us. At our left
the narrow road wound away under clumps of lordly trees, and was lost
to sight amid the thickening forest. At the right the same road crosses
the steep and picturesque bridge, near which stands a ruined tower
which once guarded that pass; and beyond the bridge an abrupt eminence
rises, covered with trees, and showing in the shadows some grey
ivy-clustered rocks. Over the sward and low grounds a thin film of mist was stealing like
smoke, marking the distances with a transparent veil; and here and
there we could see the river faintly flashing in the moonlight. No softer, sweeter scene could be imagined. The news I had just heard
made it melancholy; but nothing could disturb its character of profound
serenity, and the enchanted glory and vagueness of the prospect. My father, who enjoyed the picturesque, and I, stood looking in silence
over the expanse beneath us. The two good governesses, standing a
little way behind us, discoursed upon the scene, and were eloquent upon
the moon. Madame Perrodon was fat, middle-aged, and romantic, and talked and
sighed poetically. Mademoiselle De Lafontaine—in right of her father
who was a German, assumed to be psychological, metaphysical, and
something of a mystic—now declared that when the moon shone with a
light so intense it was well known that it indicated a special
spiritual activity. The effect of the full moon in such a state of
brilliancy was manifold. It acted on dreams, it acted on lunacy, it
acted on nervous people, it had marvelous physical influences connected
with life. Mademoiselle related that her cousin, who was mate of a
merchant ship, having taken a nap on deck on such a night, lying on his
back, with his face full in the light on the moon, had wakened, after a
dream of an old woman clawing him by the cheek, with his features
horribly drawn to one side; and his countenance had never quite
recovered its equilibrium. “The moon, this night,” she said, “is full of idyllic and magnetic
influence—and see, when you look behind you at the front of the schloss
how all its windows flash and twinkle with that silvery splendor, as if
unseen hands had lighted up the rooms to receive fairy guests.”

There are indolent styles of the spirits in which, indisposed to talk
ourselves, the talk of others is pleasant to our listless ears; and I
gazed on, pleased with the tinkle of the ladies’ conversation. “I have got into one of my moping moods tonight,” said my father, after
a silence, and quoting Shakespeare, whom, by way of keeping up our
English, he used to read aloud, he said:

“‘In truth I know not why I am so sad. It wearies me: you say it wearies you;
But how I got it—came by it.’


“I forget the rest. But I feel as if some great misfortune were hanging
over us. I suppose the poor General’s afflicted letter has had
something to do with it.”

At this moment the unwonted sound of carriage wheels and many hoofs
upon the road, arrested our attention. They seemed to be approaching from the high ground overlooking the
bridge, and very soon the equipage emerged from that point. Two
horsemen first crossed the bridge, then came a carriage drawn by four
horses, and two men rode behind. It seemed to be the traveling carriage of a person of rank; and we were
all immediately absorbed in watching that very unusual spectacle. It
became, in a few moments, greatly more interesting, for just as the
carriage had passed the summit of the steep bridge, one of the leaders,
taking fright, communicated his panic to the rest, and after a plunge
or two, the whole team broke into a wild gallop together, and dashing
between the horsemen who rode in front, came thundering along the road
towards us with the speed of a hurricane. The excitement of the scene was made more painful by the clear,
long-drawn screams of a female voice from the carriage window. We all advanced in curiosity and horror; me rather in silence, the rest
with various ejaculations of terror. Our suspense did not last long. Just before you reach the castle
drawbridge, on the route they were coming, there stands by the roadside
a magnificent lime tree, on the other stands an ancient stone cross, at
sight of which the horses, now going at a pace that was perfectly
frightful, swerved so as to bring the wheel over the projecting roots
of the tree. I knew what was coming. I covered my eyes, unable to see it out, and
turned my head away; at the same moment I heard a cry from my lady
friends, who had gone on a little. Curiosity opened my eyes, and I saw a scene of utter confusion.