THE
MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO
PART 7
Can such things be,
And overcome us like a summer's cloud,
Without our special wonder?
MACBETH
On the next morning, Emily ordered a fire to be
lighted in the stove of the chamber, where St. Aubert used to sleep; and, as
soon as she had breakfasted, went thither to burn the papers. Having fastened
the door to prevent interruption, she opened the closet where they were
concealed, as she entered which, she felt an emotion of unusual awe, and stood
for some moments surveying it, trembling, and almost afraid to remove the
board. There was a great chair in one corner of the closet, and, opposite to
it, stood the table, at which she had seen her father sit, on the evening that
preceded his departure, looking over, with so much emotion, what she believed
to be these very papers.
The solitary life, which Emily had led of late, and
the melancholy subjects, on which she had suffered her thoughts to dwell, had
rendered her at times sensible to the 'thick-coming fancies' of a mind greatly
enervated. It was lamentable, that her excellent understanding should have
yielded, even for a moment, to the reveries of superstition, or rather to those
starts of imagination, which deceive the senses into what can be called nothing
less than momentary madness. Instances of this temporary failure of mind had
more than once occurred since her return home; particularly when, wandering
through this lonely mansion in the evening twilight, she had been alarmed by
appearances, which would have been unseen in her more cheerful days. To this
infirm state of her nerves may be attributed what she imagined, when, her eyes
glancing a second time on the arm-chair, which stood in an obscure part of the
closet, the countenance of her dead father appeared there. Emily stood fixed
for a moment to the floor, after which she left the closet. Her spirits,
however, soon returned; she reproached herself with the weakness of thus
suffering interruption in an act of serious importance, and again opened the
door. By the directions which St. Aubert had given her, she readily found the
board he had described in an opposite corner of the closet, near the window;
she distinguished also the line he had mentioned, and, pressing it as he had
bade her, it slid down, and disclosed the bundle of papers, together with some
scattered ones, and the purse of louis. With a trembling hand she removed them,
replaced the board, paused a moment, and was rising from the floor, when, on
looking up, there appeared to her alarmed fancy the same countenance in the
chair. The illusion, another instance of the unhappy effect which solitude and
grief had gradually produced upon her mind, subdued her spirits; she rushed
forward into the chamber, and sunk almost senseless into a chair. Returning
reason soon overcame the dreadful, but pitiable attack of imagination, and she
turned to the papers, though still with so little recollection, that her eyes
involuntarily settled on the writing of some loose sheets, which lay open; and
she was unconscious, that she was transgressing her father's strict injunction,
till a sentence of dreadful import awakened her attention and her memory
together. She hastily put the papers from her; but the words, which had roused
equally her curiosity and terror, she could not dismiss from her thoughts. So
powerfully had they affected her, that she even could not resolve to destroy
the papers immediately; and the more she dwelt on the circumstance, the more it
inflamed her imagination. Urged by the most forcible, and apparently the most
necessary, curiosity to enquire farther, concerning the terrible and mysterious
subject, to which she had seen an allusion, she began to lament her promise to
destroy the papers. For a moment, she even doubted, whether it could justly be
obeyed, in contradiction to such reasons as there appeared to be for further
information. But the delusion was momentary.
'I have given a solemn promise,' said she, 'to
observe a solemn injunction, and it is not my business to argue, but to obey.
Let me hasten to remove the temptation, that would destroy my innocence, and
embitter my life with the consciousness of irremediable guilt, while I have
strength to reject it.'
Thus re-animated with a sense of her duty, she
completed the triumph of her integrity over temptation, more forcible than any
she had ever known, and consigned the papers to the flames. Her eyes watched
them as they slowly consumed, she shuddered at the recollection of the sentence
she had just seen, and at the certainty, that the only opportunity of
explaining it was then passing away for ever.
It was long after this, that she recollected the
purse; and as she was depositing it, unopened, in a cabinet, perceiving that it
contained something of a size larger than coin, she examined it. 'His hand
deposited them here,' said she, as she kissed some pieces of the coin, and
wetted them with her tears, 'his hand—which is now dust!' At the bottom of the
purse was a small packet, having taken out which, and unfolded paper after
paper, she found to be an ivory case, containing the miniature of a—lady! She
started—'The same,' said she, 'my father wept over!' On examining the
countenance she could recollect no person that it resembled. It was of uncommon
beauty, and was characterized by an expression of sweetness, shaded with
sorrow, and tempered by resignation.
St. Aubert had given no directions concerning this
picture, nor had even named it; she, therefore, thought herself justified in
preserving it. More than once remembering his manner, when he had spoken of the
Marchioness of Villeroi, she felt inclined to believe that this was her
resemblance; yet there appeared no reason why he should have preserved a
picture of that lady, or, having preserved it, why he should lament over it in
a manner so striking and affecting as she had witnessed on the night preceding
his departure.
Emily still gazed on the countenance, examining its
features, but she knew not where to detect the charm that captivated her
attention, and inspired sentiments of such love and pity. Dark brown hair
played carelessly along the open forehead; the nose was rather inclined to
aquiline; the lips spoke in a smile, but it was a melancholy one; the eyes were
blue, and were directed upwards with an expression of peculiar meekness, while
the soft cloud of the brow spoke of the fine sensibility of the temper.
Emily was roused from the musing mood into which
the picture had thrown her, by the closing of the garden gate; and, on turning
her eyes to the window, she saw Valancourt coming towards the chateau. Her
spirits agitated by the subjects that had lately occupied her mind, she felt
unprepared to see him, and remained a few moments in the chamber to recover
herself.
When she met him in the parlour, she was struck
with the change that appeared in his air and countenance since they had parted
in Rousillon, which twilight and the distress she suffered on the preceding
evening had prevented her from observing. But dejection and languor
disappeared, for a moment, in the smile that now enlightened his countenance,
on perceiving her. 'You see,' said he, 'I have availed myself of the permission
with which you honoured me—of bidding YOU farewell, whom I had the happiness of
meeting only yesterday.'
Emily smiled faintly, and, anxious to say something,
asked if he had been long in Gascony. 'A few days only,' replied Valancourt,
while a blush passed over his cheek. 'I engaged in a long ramble after I had
the misfortune of parting with the friends who had made my wanderings among the
Pyrenees so delightful.'
A tear came to Emily's eye, as Valancourt said
this, which he observed; and, anxious to draw off her attention from the
remembrance that had occasioned it, as well as shocked at his own
thoughtlessness, he began to speak on other subjects, expressing his admiration
of the chateau, and its prospects. Emily, who felt somewhat embarrassed how to
support a conversation, was glad of such an opportunity to continue it on
indifferent topics. They walked down to the terrace, where Valancourt was
charmed with the river scenery, and the views over the opposite shores of
Guienne.
As he leaned on the wall of the terrace, watching
the rapid current of the Garonne, 'I was a few weeks ago,' said he, 'at the
source of this noble river; I had not then the happiness of knowing you, or I
should have regretted your absence—it was a scene so exactly suited to your
taste. It rises in a part of the Pyrenees, still wilder and more sublime, I
think, than any we passed in the way to Rousillon.' He then described its fall
among the precipices of the mountains, where its waters, augmented by the
streams that descend from the snowy summits around, rush into the Vallee
d'Aran, between whose romantic heights it foams along, pursuing its way to the
north west till it emerges upon the plains of Languedoc. Then, washing the
walls of Tholouse, and turning again to the north west, it assumes a milder
character, as it fertilizes the pastures of Gascony and Guienne, in its
progress to the Bay of Biscay.
Emily and Valancourt talked of the scenes they had
passed among the Pyrenean Alps; as he spoke of which there was often a
tremulous tenderness in his voice, and sometimes he expatiated on them with all
the fire of genius, sometimes would appear scarcely conscious of the topic,
though he continued to speak. This subject recalled forcibly to Emily the idea
of her father, whose image appeared in every landscape, which Valancourt
particularized, whose remarks dwelt upon her memory, and whose enthusiasm still
glowed in her heart. Her silence, at length, reminded Valancourt how nearly his
conversation approached to the occasion of her grief, and he changed the
subject, though for one scarcely less affecting to Emily. When he admired the
grandeur of the plane-tree, that spread its wide branches over the terrace, and
under whose shade they now sat, she remembered how often she had sat thus with
St. Aubert, and heard him express the same admiration.
'This was a favourite tree with my dear father,'
said she; 'he used to love to sit under its foliage with his family about him,
in the fine evenings of summer.'
Valancourt understood her feelings, and was silent;
had she raised her eyes from the ground she would have seen tears in his. He
rose, and leaned on the wall of the terrace, from which, in a few moments, he
returned to his seat, then rose again, and appeared to be greatly agitated;
while Emily found her spirits so much depressed, that several of her attempts
to renew the conversation were ineffectual. Valancourt again sat down, but was
still silent, and trembled. At length he said, with a hesitating voice, 'This
lovely scene!—I am going to leave—to leave you—perhaps for ever! These moments
may never return; I cannot resolve to neglect, though I scarcely dare to avail
myself of them. Let me, however, without offending the delicacy of your sorrow,
venture to declare the admiration I must always feel of your goodness—O! that
at some future period I might be permitted to call it love!'
Emily's emotion would not suffer her to reply; and
Valancourt, who now ventured to look up, observing her countenance change,
expected to see her faint, and made an involuntary effort to support her, which
recalled Emily to a sense of her situation, and to an exertion of her spirits.
Valancourt did not appear to notice her indisposition, but, when he spoke
again, his voice told the tenderest love. 'I will not presume,' he added, 'to
intrude this subject longer upon your attention at this time, but I may,
perhaps, be permitted to mention, that these parting moments would lose much of
their bitterness if I might be allowed to hope the declaration I have made
would not exclude me from your presence in future.'
Emily made another effort to overcome the confusion
of her thoughts, and to speak. She feared to trust the preference her heart
acknowledged towards Valancourt, and to give him any encouragement for hope, on
so short an acquaintance. For though in this narrow period she had observed
much that was admirable in his taste and disposition, and though these
observations had been sanctioned by the opinion of her father, they were not
sufficient testimonies of his general worth to determine her upon a subject so
infinitely important to her future happiness as that, which now solicited her
attention. Yet, though the thought of dismissing Valancourt was so very painful
to her, that she could scarcely endure to pause upon it, the consciousness of
this made her fear the partiality of her judgment, and hesitate still more to
encourage that suit, for which her own heart too tenderly pleaded. The family
of Valancourt, if not his circumstances, had been known to her father, and
known to be unexceptionable. Of his circumstances, Valancourt himself hinted as
far as delicacy would permit, when he said he had at present little else to
offer but an heart, that adored her. He had solicited only for a distant hope,
and she could not resolve to forbid, though she scarcely dared to permit it; at
length, she acquired courage to say, that she must think herself honoured by
the good opinion of any person, whom her father had esteemed.
'And was I, then, thought worthy of his esteem?'
said Valancourt, in a voice trembling with anxiety; then checking himself, he
added, 'But pardon the question; I scarcely know what I say. If I might dare to
hope, that you think me not unworthy such honour, and might be permitted
sometimes to enquire after your health, I should now leave you with comparative
tranquillity.'
Emily, after a moment's silence, said, 'I will be
ingenuous with you, for I know you will understand, and allow for my situation;
you will consider it as a proof of my—my esteem that I am so. Though I live
here in what was my father's house, I live here alone. I have, alas! no longer
a parent—a parent, whose presence might sanction your visits. It is unnecessary
for me to point out the impropriety of my receiving them.'
'Nor will I affect to be insensible of this,'
replied Valancourt, adding mournfully—'but what is to console me for my
candour? I distress you, and would now leave the subject, if I might carry with
me a hope of being some time permitted to renew it, of being allowed to make
myself known to your family.'
Emily was again confused, and again hesitated what
to reply; she felt most acutely the difficulty—the forlornness of her
situation, which did not allow her a single relative, or friend, to whom she
could turn for even a look, that might support and guide her in the present
embarrassing circumstances. Madame Cheron, who was her only relative, and ought
to have been this friend, was either occupied by her own amusements, or so
resentful of the reluctance her niece had shewn to quit La Vallee, that she
seemed totally to have abandoned her.
'Ah! I see,' said Valancourt, after a long pause,
during which Emily had begun, and left unfinished two or three sentences, 'I
see that I have nothing to hope; my fears were too just, you think me unworthy
of your esteem. That fatal journey! which I considered as the happiest period
of my life—those delightful days were to embitter all my future ones. How often
I have looked back to them with hope and fear—yet never till this moment could
I prevail with myself to regret their enchanting influence.'
His voice faltered, and he abruptly quitted his
seat and walked on the terrace. There was an expression of despair on his
countenance, that affected Emily. The pleadings of her heart overcame, in some
degree, her extreme timidity, and, when he resumed his seat, she said, in an
accent that betrayed her tenderness, 'You do both yourself and me injustice
when you say I think you unworthy of my esteem; I will acknowledge that you
have long possessed it, and—and—'
Valancourt waited impatiently for the conclusion of
the sentence, but the words died on her lips. Her eyes, however, reflected all
the emotions of her heart. Valancourt passed, in an instant, from the
impatience of despair, to that of joy and tenderness. 'O Emily!' he exclaimed,
'my own Emily—teach me to sustain this moment! Let me seal it as the most
sacred of my life!'
He pressed her hand to his lips, it was cold and
trembling; and, raising her eyes, he saw the paleness of her countenance. Tears
came to her relief, and Valancourt watched in anxious silence over her. In a
few moments, she recovered herself, and smiling faintly through her tears,
said, 'Can you excuse this weakness? My spirits have not yet, I believe,
recovered from the shock they lately received.'
'I cannot excuse myself,' said Valancourt, 'but I
will forbear to renew the subject, which may have contributed to agitate them,
now that I can leave you with the sweet certainty of possessing your esteem.'
Then, forgetting his resolution, he again spoke of
himself. 'You know not,' said he, 'the many anxious hours I have passed near
you lately, when you believed me, if indeed you honoured me with a thought, far
away. I have wandered, near the chateau, in the still hours of the night, when
no eye could observe me. It was delightful to know I was so near you, and there
was something particularly soothing in the thought, that I watched round your
habitation, while you slept. These grounds are not entirely new to me. Once I
ventured within the fence, and spent one of the happiest, and yet most
melancholy hours of my life in walking under what I believed to be your
window.'
Emily enquired how long Valancourt had been in the
neighbourhood. 'Several days,' he replied. 'It was my design to avail myself of
the permission M. St. Aubert had given me. I scarcely know how to account for
it; but, though I anxiously wished to do this, my resolution always failed,
when the moment approached, and I constantly deferred my visit. I lodged in a
village at some distance, and wandered with my dogs, among the scenes of this
charming country, wishing continually to meet you, yet not daring to visit
you.'
Having thus continued to converse, without
perceiving the flight of time, Valancourt, at length, seemed to recollect
himself. 'I must go,' said he mournfully, 'but it is with the hope of seeing
you again, of being permitted to pay my respects to your family; let me hear
this hope confirmed by your voice.' 'My family will be happy to see any friend
of my dear father,' said Emily. Valancourt kissed her hand, and still lingered,
unable to depart, while Emily sat silently, with her eyes bent on the ground;
and Valancourt, as he gazed on her, considered that it would soon be impossible
for him to recall, even to his memory, the exact resemblance of the beautiful
countenance he then beheld; at this moment an hasty footstep approached from
behind the plane-tree, and, turning her eyes, Emily saw Madame Cheron. She felt
a blush steal upon her cheek, and her frame trembled with the emotion of her
mind; but she instantly rose to meet her visitor. 'So, niece!' said Madame
Cheron, casting a look of surprise and enquiry on Valancourt, 'so niece, how do
you do? But I need not ask, your looks tell me you have already recovered your
loss.'
'My looks do me injustice then, Madame, my loss I
know can never be recovered.'
'Well—well! I will not argue with you; I see you
have exactly your father's disposition; and let me tell you it would have been
much happier for him, poor man! if it had been a different one.'
A look of dignified displeasure, with which Emily
regarded Madame Cheron, while she spoke, would have touched almost any other
heart; she made no other reply, but introduced Valancourt, who could scarcely
stifle the resentment he felt, and whose bow Madame Cheron returned with a
slight curtsy, and a look of supercilious examination. After a few moments he
took leave of Emily, in a manner, that hastily expressed his pain both at his
own departure, and at leaving her to the society of Madame Cheron.
'Who is that young man?' said her aunt, in an
accent which equally implied inquisitiveness and censure. 'Some idle admirer of
yours I suppose; but I believed niece you had a greater sense of propriety,
than to have received the visits of any young man in your present unfriended
situation. Let me tell you the world will observe those things, and it will
talk, aye and very freely too.'
Emily, extremely shocked at this coarse speech,
attempted to interrupt it; but Madame Cheron would proceed, with all the
self-importance of a person, to whom power is new.
'It is very necessary you should be under the eye
of some person more able to guide you than yourself. I, indeed, have not much
leisure for such a task; however, since your poor father made it his last
request, that I should overlook your conduct—I must even take you under my
care. But this let me tell you niece, that, unless you will determine to be
very conformable to my direction, I shall not trouble myself longer about you.'
Emily made no attempt to interrupt Madame Cheron a
second time, grief and the pride of conscious innocence kept her silent, till
her aunt said, 'I am now come to take you with me to Tholouse; I am sorry to
find, that your poor father died, after all, in such indifferent circumstances;
however, I shall take you home with me. Ah! poor man, he was always more
generous than provident, or he would not have left his daughter dependent on
his relations.'
'Nor has he done so, I hope, madam,' said Emily
calmly, 'nor did his pecuniary misfortunes arise from that noble generosity,
which always distinguished him. The affairs of M. de Motteville may, I trust,
yet be settled without deeply injuring his creditors, and in the meantime I
should be very happy to remain at La Vallee.'
'No doubt you would,' replied Madame Cheron, with a
smile of irony, 'and I shall no doubt consent to this, since I see how
necessary tranquillity and retirement are to restore your spirits. I did not
think you capable of so much duplicity, niece; when you pleaded this excuse for
remaining here, I foolishly believed it to be a just one, nor expected to have
found with you so agreeable a companion as this M. La Val—, I forget his name.'
Emily could no longer endure these cruel
indignities. 'It was a just one, madam,' said she; 'and now, indeed, I feel
more than ever the value of the retirement I then solicited; and, if the
purport of your visit is only to add insult to the sorrows of your brother's
child, she could well have spared it.'
'I see that I have undertaken a very troublesome task,'
said Madame Cheron, colouring highly. 'I am sure, madam,' said Emily mildly,
and endeavouring to restrain her tears, 'I am sure my father did not mean it
should be such. I have the happiness to reflect, that my conduct under his eye
was such as he often delighted to approve. It would be very painful to me to
disobey the sister of such a parent, and, if you believe the task will really
be so troublesome, I must lament, that it is yours.'
'Well! niece, fine speaking signifies little. I am
willing, in consideration of my poor brother, to overlook the impropriety of
your late conduct, and to try what your future will be.'
Emily interrupted her, to beg she would explain
what was the impropriety she alluded to.
'What impropriety! why that of receiving the visits
of a lover unknown to your family,' replied Madame Cheron, not considering the
impropriety of which she had herself been guilty, in exposing her niece to the
possibility of conduct so erroneous.
A faint blush passed over Emily's countenance;
pride and anxiety struggled in her breast; and, till she recollected, that
appearances did, in some degree, justify her aunt's suspicions, she could not
resolve to humble herself so far as to enter into the defence of a conduct,
which had been so innocent and undesigning on her part. She mentioned the
manner of Valancourt's introduction to her father; the circumstances of his
receiving the pistol-shot, and of their afterwards travelling together; with
the accidental way, in which she had met him, on the preceding evening. She
owned he had declared a partiality for her, and that he had asked permission to
address her family.
'And who is this young adventurer, pray?' said
Madame Cheron, 'and what are his pretensions?' 'These he must himself explain,
madam,' replied Emily. 'Of his family my father was not ignorant, and I believe
it is unexceptionable.' She then proceeded to mention what she knew concerning
it.
'Oh, then, this it seems is a younger brother,'
exclaimed her aunt, 'and of course a beggar. A very fine tale indeed! And so my
brother took a fancy to this young man after only a few days acquaintance!—but
that was so like him! In his youth he was always taking these likes and dislikes,
when no other person saw any reason for them at all; nay, indeed, I have often
thought the people he disapproved were much more agreeable than those he
admired;—but there is no accounting for tastes. He was always so much
influenced by people's countenances; now I, for my part, have no notion of
this, it is all ridiculous enthusiasm. What has a man's face to do with his
character? Can a man of good character help having a disagreeable face?'—which
last sentence Madame Cheron delivered with the decisive air of a person who
congratulates herself on having made a grand discovery, and believes the
question to be unanswerably settled.
Emily, desirous of concluding the conversation,
enquired if her aunt would accept some refreshment, and Madame Cheron accompanied
her to the chateau, but without desisting from a topic, which she discussed
with so much complacency to herself, and severity to her niece.
'I am sorry to perceive, niece,' said she, in
allusion to somewhat that Emily had said, concerning physiognomy, 'that you
have a great many of your father's prejudices, and among them those sudden
predilections for people from their looks. I can perceive, that you imagine
yourself to be violently in love with this young adventurer, after an
acquaintance of only a few days. There was something, too, so charmingly
romantic in the manner of your meeting!'
Emily checked the tears, that trembled in her eyes,
while she said, 'When my conduct shall deserve this severity, madam, you will
do well to exercise it; till then justice, if not tenderness, should surely
restrain it. I have never willingly offended you; now I have lost my parents,
you are the only person to whom I can look for kindness. Let me not lament more
than ever the loss of such parents.' The last words were almost stifled by her
emotions, and she burst into tears. Remembering the delicacy and the tenderness
of St. Aubert, the happy, happy days she had passed in these scenes, and
contrasting them with the coarse and unfeeling behaviour of Madame Cheron, and
from the future hours of mortification she must submit to in her presence—a
degree of grief seized her, that almost reached despair. Madame Cheron, more
offended by the reproof which Emily's words conveyed, than touched by the
sorrow they expressed, said nothing, that might soften her grief; but,
notwithstanding an apparent reluctance to receive her niece, she desired her
company. The love of sway was her ruling passion, and she knew it would be
highly gratified by taking into her house a young orphan, who had no appeal
from her decisions, and on whom she could exercise without controul the
capricious humour of the moment.
On entering the chateau, Madame Cheron expressed a
desire, that she would put up what she thought necessary to take to Tholouse,
as she meant to set off immediately. Emily now tried to persuade her to defer
the journey, at least till the next day, and, at length, with much difficulty,
prevailed.
The day passed in the exercise of petty tyranny on
the part of Madame Cheron, and in mournful regret and melancholy anticipation
on that of Emily, who, when her aunt retired to her apartment for the night,
went to take leave of every other room in this her dear native home, which she
was now quitting for she knew not how long, and for a world, to which she was
wholly a stranger. She could not conquer a presentiment, which frequently
occurred to her, this night—that she should never more return to La Vallee.
Having passed a considerable time in what had been her father's study, having
selected some of his favourite authors, to put up with her clothes, and shed
many tears, as she wiped the dust from their covers, she seated herself in his
chair before the reading desk, and sat lost in melancholy reflection, till
Theresa opened the door to examine, as was her custom before she went to bed,
if was all safe. She started, on observing her young lady, who bade her come
in, and then gave her some directions for keeping the chateau in readiness for
her reception at all times.
'Alas-a-day! that you should leave it!' said
Theresa, 'I think you would be happier here than where you are going, if one
may judge.' Emily made no reply to this remark; the sorrow Theresa proceeded to
express at her departure affected her, but she found some comfort in the simple
affection of this poor old servant, to whom she gave such directions as might
best conduce to her comfort during her own absence.
Having dismissed Theresa to bed, Emily wandered
through every lonely apartment of the chateau, lingering long in what had been
her father's bed-room, indulging melancholy, yet not unpleasing, emotions, and,
having often returned within the door to take another look at it, she withdrew
to her own chamber. From her window she gazed upon the garden below, shewn
faintly by the moon, rising over the tops of the palm-trees, and, at length,
the calm beauty of the night increased a desire of indulging the mournful
sweetness of bidding farewel to the beloved shades of her childhood, till she
was tempted to descend. Throwing over her the light veil, in which she usually
walked, she silently passed into the garden, and, hastening towards the distant
groves, was glad to breathe once more the air of liberty, and to sigh
unobserved. The deep repose of the scene, the rich scents, that floated on the breeze,
the grandeur of the wide horizon and of the clear blue arch, soothed and
gradually elevated her mind to that sublime complacency, which renders the
vexations of this world so insignificant and mean in our eyes, that we wonder
they have had power for a moment to disturb us. Emily forgot Madame Cheron and
all the circumstances of her conduct, while her thoughts ascended to the
contemplation of those unnumbered worlds, that lie scattered in the depths of
aether, thousands of them hid from human eyes, and almost beyond the flight of
human fancy. As her imagination soared through the regions of space, and
aspired to that Great First Cause, which pervades and governs all being, the
idea of her father scarcely ever left her; but it was a pleasing idea, since
she resigned him to God in the full confidence of a pure and holy faith. She
pursued her way through the groves to the terrace, often pausing as memory
awakened the pang of affection, and as reason anticipated the exile, into which
she was going.
And now the moon was high over the woods, touching
their summits with yellow light, and darting between the foliage long level
beams; while on the rapid Garonne below the trembling radiance was faintly
obscured by the lightest vapour. Emily long watched the playing lustre,
listened to the soothing murmur of the current, and the yet lighter sounds of
the air, as it stirred, at intervals, the lofty palm-trees. 'How delightful is
the sweet breath of these groves,' said she. 'This lovely scene!—how often
shall I remember and regret it, when I am far away. Alas! what events may occur
before I see it again! O, peaceful, happy shades!—scenes of my infant delights,
of parental tenderness now lost for ever!—why must I leave ye!—In your retreats
I should still find safety and repose. Sweet hours of my childhood—I am now to
leave even your last memorials! No objects, that would revive your impressions,
will remain for me!'
Then drying her tears and looking up, her thoughts
rose again to the sublime subject she had contemplated; the same divine
complacency stole over her heart, and, hushing its throbs, inspired hope and
confidence and resignation to the will of the Deity, whose works filled her
mind with adoration.
Emily gazed long on the plane-tree, and then seated
herself, for the last time, on the bench under its shade, where she had so
often sat with her parents, and where, only a few hours before, she had
conversed with Valancourt, at the remembrance of whom, thus revived, a mingled
sensation of esteem, tenderness and anxiety rose in her breast. With this
remembrance occurred a recollection of his late confession—that he had often
wandered near her habitation in the night, having even passed the boundary of
the garden, and it immediately occurred to her, that he might be at this moment
in the grounds. The fear of meeting him, particularly after the declaration he
had made, and of incurring a censure, which her aunt might so reasonably
bestow, if it was known, that she was met by her lover, at this hour, made her
instantly leave her beloved plane-tree, and walk towards the chateau. She cast
an anxious eye around, and often stopped for a moment to examine the shadowy
scene before she ventured to proceed, but she passed on without perceiving any
person, till, having reached a clump of almond trees, not far from the house,
she rested to take a retrospect of the garden, and to sigh forth another adieu.
As her eyes wandered over the landscape she thought she perceived a person
emerge from the groves, and pass slowly along a moon-light alley that led
between them; but the distance, and the imperfect light would not suffer her to
judge with any degree of certainty whether this was fancy or reality. She
continued to gaze for some time on the spot, till on the dead stillness of the
air she heard a sudden sound, and in the next instant fancied she distinguished
footsteps near her. Wasting not another moment in conjecture, she hurried to
the chateau, and, having reached it, retired to her chamber, where, as she
closed her window she looked upon the garden, and then again thought she
distinguished a figure, gliding between the almond trees she had just left. She
immediately withdrew from the casement, and, though much agitated, sought in
sleep the refreshment of a short oblivion.
CHAPTER XI
I leave that flowery path for eye
Of childhood, where I sported many a day,
Warbling and sauntering carelessly along;
Where every face was innocent and gay,
Each vale romantic, tuneful every tongue,
Sweet, wild, and artless all.
THE MINSTREL
At an early hour, the carriage, which was to take
Emily and Madame Cheron to Tholouse, appeared at the door of the chateau, and
Madame was already in the breakfast-room, when her niece entered it. The repast
was silent and melancholy on the part of Emily; and Madame Cheron, whose vanity
was piqued on observing her dejection, reproved her in a manner that did not
contribute to remove it. It was with much reluctance, that Emily's request to
take with her the dog, which had been a favourite of her father, was granted.
Her aunt, impatient to be gone, ordered the carriage to draw up; and, while she
passed to the hall door, Emily gave another look into the library, and another
farewell glance over the garden, and then followed. Old Theresa stood at the
door to take leave of her young lady. 'God for ever keep you, ma'amselle!' said
she, while Emily gave her hand in silence, and could answer only with a
pressure of her hand, and a forced smile.
At the gate, which led out of the grounds, several
of her father's pensioners were assembled to bid her farewell, to whom she
would have spoken, if her aunt would have suffered the driver to stop; and,
having distributed to them almost all the money she had about her, she sunk
back in the carriage, yielding to the melancholy of her heart. Soon after, she
caught, between the steep banks of the road, another view of the chateau,
peeping from among the high trees, and surrounded by green slopes and tufted
groves, the Garonne winding its way beneath their shades, sometimes lost among
the vineyards, and then rising in greater majesty in the distant pastures. The
towering precipices of the Pyrenees, that rose to the south, gave Emily a
thousand interesting recollections of her late journey; and these objects of
her former enthusiastic admiration, now excited only sorrow and regret. Having
gazed on the chateau and its lovely scenery, till the banks again closed upon
them, her mind became too much occupied by mournful reflections, to permit her
to attend to the conversation, which Madame Cheron had begun on some trivial
topic, so that they soon travelled in profound silence.
Valancourt, mean while, was returned to Estuviere,
his heart occupied with the image of Emily; sometimes indulging in reveries of
future happiness, but more frequently shrinking with dread of the opposition he
might encounter from her family. He was the younger son of an ancient family of
Gascony; and, having lost his parents at an early period of his life, the care
of his education and of his small portion had devolved to his brother, the
Count de Duvarney, his senior by nearly twenty years. Valancourt had been
educated in all the accomplishments of his age, and had an ardour of spirit,
and a certain grandeur of mind, that gave him particular excellence in the
exercises then thought heroic. His little fortune had been diminished by the
necessary expences of his education; but M. La Valancourt, the elder, seemed to
think that his genius and accomplishments would amply supply the deficiency of
his inheritance. They offered flattering hopes of promotion in the military
profession, in those times almost the only one in which a gentleman could
engage without incurring a stain on his name; and La Valancourt was of course
enrolled in the army. The general genius of his mind was but little understood
by his brother. That ardour for whatever is great and good in the moral world,
as well as in the natural one, displayed itself in his infant years; and the
strong indignation, which he felt and expressed at a criminal, or a mean
action, sometimes drew upon him the displeasure of his tutor; who reprobated it
under the general term of violence of temper; and who, when haranguing on the
virtues of mildness and moderation, seemed to forget the gentleness and
compassion, which always appeared in his pupil towards objects of misfortune.
He had now obtained leave of absence from his
regiment when he made the excursion into the Pyrenees, which was the means of
introducing him to St. Aubert; and, as this permission was nearly expired, he
was the more anxious to declare himself to Emily's family, from whom he
reasonably apprehended opposition, since his fortune, though, with a moderate
addition from hers, it would be sufficient to support them, would not satisfy
the views, either of vanity, or ambition. Valancourt was not without the
latter, but he saw golden visions of promotion in the army; and believed, that
with Emily he could, in the mean time, be delighted to live within the limits
of his humble income. His thoughts were now occupied in considering the means
of making himself known to her family, to whom, however, he had yet no address,
for he was entirely ignorant of Emily's precipitate departure from La Vallee,
of whom he hoped to obtain it.
Meanwhile, the travellers pursued their journey;
Emily making frequent efforts to appear cheerful, and too often relapsing into
silence and dejection. Madame Cheron, attributing her melancholy solely to the
circumstance of her being removed to a distance from her lover, and believing,
that the sorrow, which her niece still expressed for the loss of St. Aubert,
proceeded partly from an affectation of sensibility, endeavoured to make it
appear ridiculous to her, that such deep regret should continue to be felt so
long after the period usually allowed for grief.
At length, these unpleasant lectures were
interrupted by the arrival of the travellers at Tholouse; and Emily, who had
not been there for many years, and had only a very faint recollection of it,
was surprised at the ostentatious style exhibited in her aunt's house and
furniture; the more so, perhaps, because it was so totally different from the
modest elegance, to which she had been accustomed. She followed Madame Cheron
through a large hall, where several servants in rich liveries appeared, to a
kind of saloon, fitted up with more shew than taste; and her aunt, complaining
of fatigue, ordered supper immediately. 'I am glad to find myself in my own
house again,' said she, throwing herself on a large settee, 'and to have my own
people about me. I detest travelling; though, indeed, I ought to like it, for
what I see abroad always makes me delighted to return to my own chateau. What
makes you so silent, child?—What is it that disturbs you now?'
Emily suppressed a starting tear, and tried to
smile away the expression of an oppressed heart; she was thinking of HER home,
and felt too sensibly the arrogance and ostentatious vanity of Madame Cheron's
conversation. 'Can this be my father's sister!' said she to herself; and then
the conviction that she was so, warming her heart with something like kindness
towards her, she felt anxious to soften the harsh impression her mind had
received of her aunt's character, and to shew a willingness to oblige her. The
effort did not entirely fail; she listened with apparent cheerfulness, while
Madame Cheron expatiated on the splendour of her house, told of the numerous
parties she entertained, and what she should expect of Emily, whose diffidence
assumed the air of a reserve, which her aunt, believing it to be that of pride
and ignorance united, now took occasion to reprehend. She knew nothing of the
conduct of a mind, that fears to trust its own powers; which, possessing a nice
judgment, and inclining to believe, that every other person perceives still more
critically, fears to commit itself to censure, and seeks shelter in the
obscurity of silence. Emily had frequently blushed at the fearless manners,
which she had seen admired, and the brilliant nothings, which she had heard
applauded; yet this applause, so far from encouraging her to imitate the
conduct that had won it, rather made her shrink into the reserve, that would
protect her from such absurdity.
Madame Cheron looked on her niece's diffidence with
a feeling very near to contempt, and endeavoured to overcome it by reproof,
rather than to encourage it by gentleness.
The entrance of supper somewhat interrupted the
complacent discourse of Madame Cheron and the painful considerations, which it
had forced upon Emily. When the repast, which was rendered ostentatious by the
attendance of a great number of servants, and by a profusion of plate, was
over, Madame Cheron retired to her chamber, and a female servant came to shew
Emily to hers. Having passed up a large stair-case, and through several
galleries, they came to a flight of back stairs, which led into a short passage
in a remote part of the chateau, and there the servant opened the door of a
small chamber, which she said was Ma'amselle Emily's, who, once more alone,
indulged the tears she had long tried to restrain.
Those, who know, from experience, how much the
heart becomes attached even to inanimate objects, to which it has been long
accustomed, how unwillingly it resigns them; how with the sensations of an old
friend it meets them, after temporary absence, will understand the forlornness
of Emily's feelings, of Emily shut out from the only home she had known from
her infancy, and thrown upon a scene, and among persons, disagreeable for more
qualities than their novelty. Her father's favourite dog, now in the chamber,
thus seemed to acquire the character and importance of a friend; and, as the
animal fawned over her when she wept, and licked her hands, 'Ah, poor Manchon!'
said she, 'I have nobody now to love me—but you!' and she wept the more. After
some time, her thoughts returning to her father's injunctions, she remembered
how often he had blamed her for indulging useless sorrow; how often he had
pointed out to her the necessity of fortitude and patience, assuring her, that
the faculties of the mind strengthen by exertion, till they finally unnerve
affliction, and triumph over it. These recollections dried her tears, gradually
soothed her spirits, and inspired her with the sweet emulation of practising
precepts, which her father had so frequently inculcated.
