It was about five in the morning when I entered my father s house. I
told the servants not to disturb the family, and went into the library
to attend their usual hour of rising.
Six years had elapsed, passed in a dream but for one indelible trace, and I
stood in the same place where I had last embraced my father before my
departure for Ingolstadt. Beloved and venerable parent! He still remained
to me. I gazed on the picture of my mother, which stood over the
mantel-piece. It was an historical subject, painted at my father s
desire, and represented Caroline Beaufort in an agony of despair, kneeling
by the coffin of her dead father. Her garb was rustic, and her cheek pale;
but there was an air of dignity and beauty, that hardly permitted the
sentiment of pity. Below this picture was a miniature of William; and my
tears flowed when I looked upon it. While I was thus engaged, Ernest
entered: he had heard me arrive, and hastened to welcome me:
Welcome, my dearest Victor, said he. Ah! I wish you
had come three months ago, and then you would have found us all joyous and
delighted. You come to us now to share a misery which nothing can
alleviate; yet your presence will, I hope, revive our father, who seems
sinking under his misfortune; and your persuasions will induce poor
Elizabeth to cease her vain and tormenting self-accusations. Poor
William! he was our darling and our pride!
Tears, unrestrained, fell from my brother s eyes; a sense of mortal
agony crept over my frame. Before, I had only imagined the
wretchedness of my desolated home; the reality came on me as a new, and
a not less terrible, disaster. I tried to calm Ernest; I enquired more
minutely concerning my father, and here I named my cousin.
She most of all, said Ernest, requires consolation; she accused
herself of having caused the death of my brother, and that made her
very wretched. But since the murderer has been discovered
The murderer discovered! Good God! how can that be? who could attempt
to pursue him? It is impossible; one might as well try to overtake the
winds, or confine a mountain-stream with a straw. I saw him too; he
was free last night!
I do not know what you mean, replied my brother, in accents of
wonder, but to us the discovery we have made completes our misery. No
57