THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO
PART 37
CHAPTER X
Lull'd in the countless chambers of the brain,
Our thoughts are link'd by many a hidden
chain:
Awake but one, and lo! what myriads rise!
Each stamps its image as the other flies!
PLEASURES OF MEMORY
Emily pursued her journey, without any accident,
along the plains of Languedoc towards the north-west; and, on this her return
to Tholouse, which she had last left with Madame Montoni, she thought much on
the melancholy fate of her aunt, who, but for her own imprudence, might now
have been living in happiness there! Montoni, too, often rose to her fancy,
such as she had seen him in his days of triumph, bold, spirited and commanding;
such also as she had since beheld him in his days of vengeance; and now, only a
few short months had passed—and he had no longer the power, or the will to
afflict;—he had become a clod of earth, and his life was vanished like a
shadow! Emily could have wept at his fate, had she not remembered his crimes;
for that of her unfortunate aunt she did weep, and all sense of her errors was
overcome by the recollection of her misfortunes.
Other thoughts and other emotions succeeded, as
Emily drew near the well-known scenes of her early love, and considered, that
Valancourt was lost to her and to himself, for ever. At length, she came to the
brow of the hill, whence, on her departure for Italy, she had given a farewell
look to this beloved landscape, amongst whose woods and fields she had so often
walked with Valancourt, and where he was then to inhabit, when she would be
far, far away! She saw, once more, that chain of the Pyrenees, which overlooked
La Vallee, rising, like faint clouds, on the horizon. 'There, too, is Gascony,
extended at their feet!' said she, 'O my father,—my mother! And there, too, is
the Garonne!' she added, drying the tears, that obscured her sight,—'and
Tholouse, and my aunt's mansion—and the groves in her garden!—O my friends! are
ye all lost to me—must I never, never see ye more!' Tears rushed again to her
eyes, and she continued to weep, till an abrupt turn in the road had nearly
occasioned the carriage to overset, when, looking up, she perceived another
part of the well-known scene around Tholouse, and all the reflections and
anticipations, which she had suffered, at the moment, when she bade it last
adieu, came with recollected force to her heart. She remembered how anxiously
she had looked forward to the futurity, which was to decide her happiness
concerning Valancourt, and what depressing fears had assailed her; the very
words she had uttered, as she withdrew her last look from the prospect, came to
her memory. 'Could I but be certain,' she had then said, 'that I should ever
return, and that Valancourt would still live for me—I should go in peace!'
Now, that futurity, so anxiously anticipated, was
arrived, she was returned—but what a dreary blank appeared!—Valancourt no
longer lived for her! She had no longer even the melancholy satisfaction of
contemplating his image in her heart, for he was no longer the same Valancourt
she had cherished there—the solace of many a mournful hour, the animating
friend, that had enabled her to bear up against the oppression of Montoni—the
distant hope, that had beamed over her gloomy prospect! On perceiving this
beloved idea to be an illusion of her own creation, Valancourt seemed to be
annihilated, and her soul sickened at the blank, that remained. His marriage
with a rival, even his death, she thought she could have endured with more
fortitude, than this discovery; for then, amidst all her grief, she could have
looked in secret upon the image of goodness, which her fancy had drawn of him,
and comfort would have mingled with her suffering!
Drying her tears, she looked, once more, upon the
landscape, which had excited them, and perceived, that she was passing the very
bank, where she had taken leave of Valancourt, on the morning of her departure
from Tholouse, and she now saw him, through her returning tears, such as he had
appeared, when she looked from the carriage to give him a last adieu—saw him
leaning mournfully against the high trees, and remembered the fixed look of
mingled tenderness and anguish, with which he had then regarded her. This
recollection was too much for her heart, and she sunk back in the carriage, nor
once looked up, till it stopped at the gates of what was now her own mansion.
These being opened, and by the servant, to whose
care the chateau had been entrusted, the carriage drove into the court, where,
alighting, she hastily passed through the great hall, now silent and solitary,
to a large oak parlour, the common sitting room of the late Madame Montoni,
where, instead of being received by M. Quesnel, she found a letter from him,
informing her that business of consequence had obliged him to leave Tholouse
two days before. Emily was, upon the whole, not sorry to be spared his
presence, since his abrupt departure appeared to indicate the same
indifference, with which he had formerly regarded her. This letter informed
her, also, of the progress he had made in the settlement of her affairs, and
concluded with directions, concerning the forms of some business, which
remained for her to transact. But M. Quesnel's unkindness did not long occupy
her thoughts, which returned the remembrance of the persons she had been accustomed
to see in this mansion, and chiefly of the ill-guided and unfortunate Madame
Montoni. In the room, where she now sat, she had breakfasted with her on the
morning of their departure for Italy; and the view of it brought most forcibly
to her recollection all she had herself suffered, at that time, and the many
gay expectations, which her aunt had formed, respecting the journey before her.
While Emily's mind was thus engaged, her eyes wandered unconsciously to a large
window, that looked upon the garden, and here new memorials of the past spoke
to her heart, for she saw extended before her the very avenue, in which she had
parted with Valancourt, on the eve of her journey; and all the anxiety, the
tender interest he had shewn, concerning her future happiness, his earnest
remonstrances against her committing herself to the power of Montoni, and the
truth of his affection, came afresh to her memory. At this moment, it appeared
almost impossible, that Valancourt could have become unworthy of her regard,
and she doubted all that she had lately heard to his disadvantage, and even his
own words, which had confirmed Count De Villefort's report of him. Overcome by
the recollections, which the view of this avenue occasioned, she turned
abruptly from the window, and sunk into a chair beside it, where she sat, given
up to grief, till the entrance of Annette, with coffee, aroused her.
'Dear madam, how melancholy this place looks now,'
said Annette, 'to what it used to do! It is dismal coming home, when there is
nobody to welcome one!'
This was not the moment, in which Emily could bear
the remark; her tears fell again, and, as soon as she had taken the coffee, she
retired to her apartment, where she endeavoured to repose her fatigued spirits.
But busy memory would still supply her with the visions of former times: she
saw Valancourt interesting and benevolent, as he had been wont to appear in the
days of their early love, and, amidst the scenes, where she had believed that
they should sometimes pass their years together!—but, at length, sleep closed
these afflicting scenes from her view.
On the following morning, serious occupation
recovered her from such melancholy reflections; for, being desirous of quitting
Tholouse, and of hastening on to La Vallee, she made some enquiries into the
condition of the estate, and immediately dispatched a part of the necessary
business concerning it, according to the directions of Mons. Quesnel. It
required a strong effort to abstract her thoughts from other interests
sufficiently to attend to this, but she was rewarded for her exertions by again
experiencing, that employment is the surest antidote to sorrow.
This day was devoted entirely to business; and,
among other concerns, she employed means to learn the situation of all her poor
tenants, that she might relieve their wants, or confirm their comforts.
In the evening, her spirits were so much
strengthened, that she thought she could bear to visit the gardens, where she
had so often walked with Valancourt; and, knowing, that, if she delayed to do
so, their scenes would only affect her the more, whenever they should be
viewed, she took advantage of the present state of her mind, and entered them.
Passing hastily the gate leading from the court
into the gardens, she hurried up the great avenue, scarcely permitting her
memory to dwell for a moment on the circumstance of her having here parted with
Valancourt, and soon quitted this for other walks less interesting to her
heart. These brought her, at length, to the flight of steps, that led from the
lower garden to the terrace, on seeing which, she became agitated, and
hesitated whether to ascend, but, her resolution returning, she proceeded.
'Ah!' said Emily, as she ascended, 'these are the
same high trees, that used to wave over the terrace, and these the same flowery
thickets—the liburnum, the wild rose, and the cerinthe—which were wont to grow
beneath them! Ah! and there, too, on that bank, are the very plants, which
Valancourt so carefully reared!—O, when last I saw them!'—she checked the
thought, but could not restrain her tears, and, after walking slowly on for a
few moments, her agitation, upon the view of this well-known scene, increased
so much, that she was obliged to stop, and lean upon the wall of the terrace.
It was a mild, and beautiful evening. The sun was setting over the extensive
landscape, to which his beams, sloping from beneath a dark cloud, that overhung
the west, gave rich and partial colouring, and touched the tufted summits of
the groves, that rose from the garden below, with a yellow gleam. Emily and
Valancourt had often admired together this scene, at the same hour; and it was
exactly on this spot, that, on the night preceding her departure for Italy, she
had listened to his remonstrances against the journey, and to the pleadings of
passionate affection. Some observations, which she made on the landscape,
brought this to her remembrance, and with it all the minute particulars of that
conversation;—the alarming doubts he had expressed concerning Montoni, doubts,
which had since been fatally confirmed; the reasons and entreaties he had
employed to prevail with her to consent to an immediate marriage; the
tenderness of his love, the paroxysms of this grief, and the conviction that he
had repeatedly expressed, that they should never meet again in happiness! All
these circumstances rose afresh to her mind, and awakened the various emotions
she had then suffered. Her tenderness for Valancourt became as powerful as in
the moments, when she thought, that she was parting with him and happiness
together, and when the strength of her mind had enabled her to triumph over
present suffering, rather than to deserve the reproach of her conscience by
engaging in a clandestine marriage.—'Alas!' said Emily, as these recollections
came to her mind, 'and what have I gained by the fortitude I then practised?—am
I happy now?—He said, we should meet no more in happiness; but, O! he little
thought his own misconduct would separate us, and lead to the very evil he then
dreaded!'
Her reflections increased her anguish, while she
was compelled to acknowledge, that the fortitude she had formerly exerted, if
it had not conducted her to happiness, had saved her from irretrievable
misfortune—from Valancourt himself! But in these moments she could not congratulate
herself on the prudence, that had saved her; she could only lament, with
bitterest anguish, the circumstances, which had conspired to betray Valancourt
into a course of life so different from that, which the virtues, the tastes,
and the pursuits of his early years had promised; but she still loved him too
well to believe, that his heart was even now depraved, though his conduct had
been criminal. An observation, which had fallen from M. St. Aubert more than
once, now occurred to her. 'This young man,' said he, speaking of Valancourt,
'has never been at Paris;' a remark, that had surprised her at the time it was
uttered, but which she now understood, and she exclaimed sorrowfully, 'O
Valancourt! if such a friend as my father had been with you at Paris—your
noble, ingenuous nature would not have fallen!'
The sun was now set, and, recalling her thoughts
from their melancholy subject, she continued her walk; for the pensive shade of
twilight was pleasing to her, and the nightingales from the surrounding groves
began to answer each other in the long-drawn, plaintive note, which always
touched her heart; while all the fragrance of the flowery thickets, that
bounded the terrace, was awakened by the cool evening air, which floated so
lightly among their leaves, that they scarcely trembled as it passed.
Emily came, at length, to the steps of the
pavilion, that terminated the terrace, and where her last interview with
Valancourt, before her departure from Tholouse, had so unexpectedly taken
place. The door was now shut, and she trembled, while she hesitated whether to
open it; but her wish to see again a place, which had been the chief scene of
her former happiness, at length overcoming her reluctance to encounter the
painful regret it would renew, she entered. The room was obscured by a
melancholy shade; but through the open lattices, darkened by the hanging
foliage of the vines, appeared the dusky landscape, the Garonne reflecting the
evening light, and the west still glowing. A chair was placed near one of the
balconies, as if some person had been sitting there, but the other furniture of
the pavilion remained exactly as usual, and Emily thought it looked as if it
had not once been moved since she set out for Italy. The silent and deserted
air of the place added solemnity to her emotions, for she heard only the low
whisper of the breeze, as it shook the leaves of the vines, and the very faint
murmur of the Garonne.
She seated herself in a chair, near the lattice,
and yielded to the sadness of her heart, while she recollected the
circumstances of her parting interview with Valancourt, on this spot. It was
here too, that she had passed some of the happiest hours of her life with him,
when her aunt favoured the connection, for here she had often sat and worked,
while he conversed, or read; and she now well remembered with what
discriminating judgment, with what tempered energy, he used to repeat some of
the sublimest passages of their favourite authors; how often he would pause to
admire with her their excellence, and with what tender delight he would listen
to her remarks, and correct her taste.
'And is it possible,' said Emily, as these
recollections returned—'is it possible, that a mind, so susceptible of whatever
is grand and beautiful, could stoop to low pursuits, and be subdued by
frivolous temptations?'
She remembered how often she had seen the sudden
tear start in his eye, and had heard his voice tremble with emotion, while he
related any great or benevolent action, or repeated a sentiment of the same
character. 'And such a mind,' said she, 'such a heart, were to be sacrificed to
the habits of a great city!'
These recollections becoming too painful to be
endured, she abruptly left the pavilion, and, anxious to escape from the
memorials of her departed happiness, returned towards the chateau. As she
passed along the terrace, she perceived a person, walking, with a slow step,
and a dejected air, under the trees, at some distance. The twilight, which was
now deep, would not allow her to distinguish who it was, and she imagined it to
be one of the servants, till, the sound of her steps seeming to reach him, he
turned half round, and she thought she saw Valancourt!
Whoever it was, he instantly struck among the
thickets on the left, and disappeared, while Emily, her eyes fixed on the
place, whence he had vanished, and her frame trembling so excessively, that she
could scarcely support herself, remained, for some moments, unable to quit the
spot, and scarcely conscious of existence. With her recollection, her strength
returned, and she hurried toward the house, where she did not venture to
enquire who had been in the gardens, lest she should betray her emotion; and
she sat down alone, endeavouring to recollect the figure, air and features of
the person she had just seen. Her view of him, however, had been so transient,
and the gloom had rendered it so imperfect, that she could remember nothing
with exactness; yet the general appearance of his figure, and his abrupt
departure, made her still believe, that this person was Valancourt. Sometimes,
indeed, she thought, that her fancy, which had been occupied by the idea of him,
had suggested his image to her uncertain sight: but this conjecture was
fleeting. If it was himself whom she had seen, she wondered much, that he
should be at Tholouse, and more, how he had gained admittance into the garden;
but as often as her impatience prompted her to enquire whether any stranger had
been admitted, she was restrained by an unwillingness to betray her doubts; and
the evening was passed in anxious conjecture, and in efforts to dismiss the
subject from her thoughts. But, these endeavours were ineffectual, and a
thousand inconsistent emotions assailed her, whenever she fancied that
Valancourt might be near her; now, she dreaded it to be true, and now she
feared it to be false; and, while she constantly tried to persuade herself,
that she wished the person, whom she had seen, might not be Valancourt, her
heart as constantly contradicted her reason.
The following day was occupied by the visits of
several neighbouring families, formerly intimate with Madame Montoni, who came
to condole with Emily on her death, to congratulate her upon the acquisition of
these estates, and to enquire about Montoni, and concerning the strange reports
they had heard of her own situation; all which was done with the utmost
decorum, and the visitors departed with as much composure as they had arrived.
Emily was wearied by these formalities, and
disgusted by the subservient manners of many persons, who had thought her
scarcely worthy of common attention, while she was believed to be a dependant
on Madame Montoni.
'Surely,' said she, 'there is some magic in wealth,
which can thus make persons pay their court to it, when it does not even
benefit themselves. How strange it is, that a fool or a knave, with riches,
should be treated with more respect by the world, than a good man, or a wise
man in poverty!'
It was evening, before she was left alone, and she
then wished to have refreshed her spirits in the free air of her garden; but
she feared to go thither, lest she should meet again the person, whom she had
seen on the preceding night, and he should prove to be Valancourt. The suspense
and anxiety she suffered, on this subject, she found all her efforts unable to
controul, and her secret wish to see Valancourt once more, though unseen by
him, powerfully prompted her to go, but prudence and a delicate pride
restrained her, and she determined to avoid the possibility of throwing herself
in his way, by forbearing to visit the gardens, for several days.
When, after near a week, she again ventured
thither, she made Annette her companion, and confined her walk to the lower
grounds, but often started as the leaves rustled in the breeze, imagining, that
some person was among the thickets; and, at the turn of every alley, she looked
forward with apprehensive expectation. She pursued her walk thoughtfully and
silently, for her agitation would not suffer her to converse with Annette, to
whom, however, thought and silence were so intolerable, that she did not
scruple at length to talk to her mistress.
'Dear madam,' said she, 'why do you start so? one
would think you knew what has happened.'
'What has happened?' said Emily, in a faltering
voice, and trying to command her emotion.
'The night before last, you know, madam'—
'I know nothing, Annette,' replied her lady in a
more hurried voice.
'The night before last, madam, there was a robber
in the garden.'
'A robber!' said Emily, in an eager, yet doubting
tone.
'I suppose he was a robber, madam. What else could
he be?'
'Where did you see him, Annette?' rejoined Emily,
looking round her, and turning back towards the chateau.
'It was not I that saw him, madam, it was Jean the
gardener. It was twelve o'clock at night, and, as he was coming across the
court to go the back way into the house, what should he see—but somebody
walking in the avenue, that fronts the garden gate! So, with that, Jean guessed
how it was, and he went into the house for his gun.'
'His gun!' exclaimed Emily.
'Yes, madam, his gun; and then he came out into the
court to watch him. Presently, he sees him come slowly down the avenue, and
lean over the garden gate, and look up at the house for a long time; and I
warrant he examined it well, and settled what window he should break in at.'
'But the gun,' said Emily—'the gun!'
'Yes, madam, all in good time. Presently, Jean
says, the robber opened the gate, and was coming into the court, and then he
thought proper to ask him his business: so he called out again, and bade him
say who he was, and what he wanted. But the man would do neither; but turned
upon his heel, and passed into the garden again. Jean knew then well enough how
it was, and so he fired after him.'
'Fired!' exclaimed Emily.
'Yes, madam, fired off his gun; but, Holy Virgin!
what makes you look so pale, madam? The man was not killed,—I dare say; but if
he was, his comrades carried him off: for, when Jean went in the morning, to
look for the body, it was gone, and nothing to be seen but a track of blood on
the ground. Jean followed it, that he might find out where the man got into the
garden, but it was lost in the grass, and'—
Annette was interrupted: for Emily's spirits died
away, and she would have fallen to the ground, if the girl had not caught her,
and supported her to a bench, close to them.
When, after a long absence, her senses returned,
Emily desired to be led to her apartment; and, though she trembled with anxiety
to enquire further on the subject of her alarm, she found herself too ill at
present, to dare the intelligence which it was possible she might receive of
Valancourt. Having dismissed Annette, that she might weep and think at liberty,
she endeavoured to recollect the exact air of the person, whom she had seen on
the terrace, and still her fancy gave her the figure of Valancourt. She had,
indeed, scarcely a doubt, that it was he whom she had seen, and at whom the
gardener had fired: for the manner of the latter person, as described by
Annette, was not that of a robber; nor did it appear probable, that a robber
would have come alone, to break into a house so spacious as this.
When Emily thought herself sufficiently recovered,
to listen to what Jean might have to relate, she sent for him; but he could
inform her of no circumstance, that might lead to a knowledge of the person,
who had been shot, or of the consequence of the wound; and, after severely
reprimanding him, for having fired with bullets, and ordering diligent enquiry
to be made in the neighbourhood for the discovery of the wounded person, she
dismissed him, and herself remained in the same state of terrible suspense. All
the tenderness she had ever felt for Valancourt, was recalled by the sense of
his danger; and the more she considered the subject, the more her conviction
strengthened, that it was he, who had visited the gardens, for the purpose of
soothing the misery of disappointed affection, amidst the scenes of his former
happiness.
'Dear madam,' said Annette, when she returned, 'I
never saw you so affected before! I dare say the man is not killed.'
Emily shuddered, and lamented bitterly the rashness
of the gardener in having fired.
'I knew you would be angry enough about that,
madam, or I should have told you before; and he knew so too; for, says he,
"Annette, say nothing about this to my lady. She lies on the other side of
the house, so did not hear the gun, perhaps; but she would be angry with me, if
she knew, seeing there is blood. But then," says he, "how is one to
keep the garden clear, if one is afraid to fire at a robber, when one sees
him?"'
'No more of this,' said Emily, 'pray leave me.'
Annette obeyed, and Emily returned to the agonizing
considerations, that had assailed her before, but which she, at length,
endeavoured to sooth by a new remark. If the stranger was Valancourt, it was
certain he had come alone, and it appeared, therefore, that he had been able to
quit the gardens, without assistance; a circumstance which did not seem
probable, had his wound been dangerous. With this consideration, she
endeavoured to support herself, during the enquiries, that were making by her
servants in the neighbourhood; but day after day came, and still closed in
uncertainty, concerning this affair: and Emily, suffering in silence, at
length, drooped, and sunk under the pressure of her anxiety. She was attacked
by a slow fever, and when she yielded to the persuasion of Annette to send for
medical advice, the physicians prescribed little beside air, gentle exercise
and amusement: but how was this last to be obtained? She, however, endeavoured
to abstract her thoughts from the subject of her anxiety, by employing them in
promoting that happiness in others, which she had lost herself; and, when the
evening was fine, she usually took an airing, including in her ride the
cottages of some of her tenants, on whose condition she made such observations,
as often enabled her, unasked, to fulfil their wishes.
Her indisposition and the business she engaged in,
relative to this estate, had already protracted her stay at Tholouse, beyond
the period she had formerly fixed for her departure to La Vallee; and now she
was unwilling to leave the only place, where it seemed possible, that certainty
could be obtained on the subject of her distress. But the time was come, when
her presence was necessary at La Vallee, a letter from the Lady Blanche now
informing her, that the Count and herself, being then at the chateau of the
Baron St. Foix, purposed to visit her at La Vallee, on their way home, as soon
as they should be informed of her arrival there. Blanche added, that they made
this visit, with the hope of inducing her to return with them to
Chateau-le-Blanc.
Emily, having replied to the letter of her friend,
and said that she should be at La Vallee in a few days, made hasty preparations
for the journey; and, in thus leaving Tholouse, endeavoured to support herself
with a belief, that, if any fatal accident had happened to Valancourt, she must
in this interval have heard of it.
On the evening before her departure, she went to
take leave of the terrace and the pavilion. The day had been sultry, but a
light shower, that fell just before sun-set, had cooled the air, and given that
soft verdure to the woods and pastures, which is so refreshing to the eye;
while the rain drops, still trembling on the shrubs, glittered in the last
yellow gleam, that lighted up the scene, and the air was filled with fragrance,
exhaled by the late shower, from herbs and flowers and from the earth itself.
But the lovely prospect, which Emily beheld from the terrace, was no longer
viewed by her with delight; she sighed deeply as her eye wandered over it, and
her spirits were in a state of such dejection, that she could not think of her
approaching return to La Vallee, without tears, and seemed to mourn again the
death of her father, as if it had been an event of yesterday. Having reached
the pavilion, she seated herself at the open lattice, and, while her eyes
settled on the distant mountains, that overlooked Gascony, still gleaming on
the horizon, though the sun had now left the plains below, 'Alas!' said she, 'I
return to your long-lost scenes, but shall meet no more the parents, that were
wont to render them delightful!—no more shall see the smile of welcome, or hear
the well-known voice of fondness:—all will now be cold and silent in what was
once my happy home.'
Tears stole down her cheek, as the remembrance of
what that home had been, returned to her; but, after indulging her sorrow for
some time, she checked it, accusing herself of ingratitude in forgetting the
friends, that she possessed, while she lamented those that were departed; and
she, at length, left the pavilion and the terrace, without having observed a
shadow of Valancourt or of any other person.
CHAPTER XI
Ah happy hills! ah pleasing shade!
Ah fields belov'd in vain!
Where once my careless childhood stray'd,
A stranger yet to pain!
I feel the gales, that from ye blow,
A momentary bliss bestow,
As waving fresh their gladsome wing,
My weary soul they seem to sooth.
GRAY
On the following morning, Emily left Tholouse at an
early hour, and reached La Vallee about sun-set. With the melancholy she
experienced on the review of a place which had been the residence of her
parents, and the scene of her earliest delight, was mingled, after the first
shock had subsided, a tender and undescribable pleasure. For time had so far
blunted the acuteness of her grief, that she now courted every scene, that
awakened the memory of her friends; in every room, where she had been
accustomed to see them, they almost seemed to live again; and she felt that La
Vallee was still her happiest home. One of the first apartments she visited,
was that, which had been her father's library, and here she seated herself in
his arm-chair, and, while she contemplated, with tempered resignation, the
picture of past times, which her memory gave, the tears she shed could scarcely
be called those of grief.
Soon after her arrival, she was surprised by a
visit from the venerable M. Barreaux, who came impatiently to welcome the
daughter of his late respected neighbour, to her long-deserted home. Emily was
comforted by the presence of an old friend, and they passed an interesting hour
in conversing of former times, and in relating some of the circumstances, that
had occurred to each, since they parted.
The evening was so far advanced, when M. Barreaux
left Emily, that she could not visit the garden that night; but, on the
following morning, she traced its long-regretted scenes with fond impatience;
and, as she walked beneath the groves, which her father had planted, and where
she had so often sauntered in affectionate conversation with him, his
countenance, his smile, even the accents of his voice, returned with exactness
to her fancy, and her heart melted to the tender recollections.
This, too, was his favourite season of the year, at
which they had often together admired the rich and variegated tints of these
woods and the magical effect of autumnal lights upon the mountains; and now,
the view of these circumstances made memory eloquent. As she wandered pensively
on, she fancied the following address
TO AUTUMN
Sweet Autumn! how thy melancholy grace
Steals on my heart, as through these shades I
wind!
Sooth'd by thy breathing sigh, I fondly trace
Each lonely image of the pensive mind!
Lov'd scenes, lov'd friends—long lost! around
me rise,
And wake the melting thought, the tender tear!
That tear, that thought, which more than mirth
I prize—
Sweet as the gradual tint, that paints thy
year!
Thy farewel smile, with fond regret, I view,
Thy beaming lights, soft gliding o'er the
woods;
Thy distant landscape, touch'd with yellow hue
While falls the lengthen'd gleam; thy winding
floods,
Now veil'd in shade, save where the skiff's
white sails
Swell to the breeze, and catch thy streaming
ray.
But now, e'en now!—the partial vision fails,
And the wave smiles, as sweeps the cloud away!
Emblem of life!—Thus checquer'd is its plan,
Thus joy succeeds to grief—thus smiles the
varied man!
One of Emily's earliest enquiries, after her
arrival at La Vallee, was concerning Theresa, her father's old servant, whom it
may be remembered that M. Quesnel had turned from the house when it was let,
without any provision. Understanding that she lived in a cottage at no great
distance, Emily walked thither, and, on approaching, was pleased to see, that
her habitation was pleasantly situated on a green slope, sheltered by a tuft of
oaks, and had an appearance of comfort and extreme neatness. She found the old
woman within, picking vine-stalks, who, on perceiving her young mistress, was
nearly overcome with joy.
'Ah! my dear young lady!' said she, 'I thought I
should never see you again in this world, when I heard you was gone to that
outlandish country. I have been hardly used, since you went; I little thought
they would have turned me out of my old master's family in my old age!'
Emily lamented the circumstance, and then assured
her, that she would make her latter days comfortable, and expressed satisfaction,
on seeing her in so pleasant an habitation.
Theresa thanked her with tears, adding, 'Yes,
mademoiselle, it is a very comfortable home, thanks to the kind friend, who
took me out of my distress, when you was too far off to help me, and placed me
here! I little thought!—but no more of that—'
'And who was this kind friend?' said Emily:
'whoever it was, I shall consider him as mine also.'
'Ah, mademoiselle! that friend forbad me to blazon
the good deed—I must not say, who it was. But how you are altered since I saw
you last! You look so pale now, and so thin, too; but then, there is my old
master's smile! Yes, that will never leave you, any more than the goodness,
that used to make him smile. Alas-a-day! the poor lost a friend indeed, when he
died!'
Emily was affected by this mention of her father,
which Theresa observing, changed the subject. 'I heard, mademoiselle,' said
she, 'that Madame Cheron married a foreign gentleman, after all, and took you
abroad; how does she do?'
Emily now mentioned her death. 'Alas!' said
Theresa, 'if she had not been my master's sister, I should never have loved
her; she was always so cross. But how does that dear young gentleman do, M.
Valancourt? he was an handsome youth, and a good one; is he well,
mademoiselle?'
Emily was much agitated.
'A blessing on him!' continued Theresa. 'Ah, my
dear young lady, you need not look so shy; I know all about it. Do you think I
do not know, that he loves you? Why, when you was away, mademoiselle, he used
to come to the chateau and walk about it, so disconsolate! He would go into
every room in the lower part of the house, and, sometimes, he would sit himself
down in a chair, with his arms across, and his eyes on the floor, and there he
would sit, and think, and think, for the hour together. He used to be very fond
of the south parlour, because I told him it used to be yours; and there he
would stay, looking at the pictures, which I said you drew, and playing upon
your lute, that hung up by the window, and reading in your books, till sunset,
and then he must go back to his brother's chateau. And then—'
'It is enough, Theresa,' said Emily.—'How long have
you lived in this cottage—and how can I serve you? Will you remain here, or
return and live with me?'
'Nay, mademoiselle,' said Theresa, 'do not be so
shy to your poor old servant. I am sure it is no disgrace to like such a good
young gentleman.'
A deep sigh escaped from Emily.
'Ah! how he did love to talk of you! I loved him
for that. Nay, for that matter, he liked to hear me talk, for he did not say
much himself. But I soon found out what he came to the chateau about. Then, he
would go into the garden, and down to the terrace, and sit under that great
tree there, for the day together, with one of your books in his hand; but he
did not read much, I fancy; for one day I happened to go that way, and I heard
somebody talking. Who can be here? says I: I am sure I let nobody into the
garden, but the Chevalier. So I walked softly, to see who it could be; and
behold! it was the Chevalier himself, talking to himself about you. And he
repeated your name, and sighed so! and said he had lost you for ever, for that
you would never return for him. I thought he was out in his reckoning there,
but I said nothing, and stole away.'
'No more of this trifling,' said Emily, awakening
from her reverie: 'it displeases me.'
'But, when M. Quesnel let the chateau, I thought it
would have broke the Chevalier's heart.'
'Theresa,' said Emily seriously, 'you must name the
Chevalier no more!'
'Not name him, mademoiselle!' cried Theresa: 'what
times are come up now? Why, I love the Chevalier next to my old master and you,
mademoiselle.'
'Perhaps your love was not well bestowed, then,'
replied Emily, trying to conceal her tears; 'but, however that might be, we
shall meet no more.'
'Meet no more!—not well bestowed!' exclaimed
Theresa. 'What do I hear? No, mademoiselle, my love was well bestowed, for it
was the Chevalier Valancourt, who gave me this cottage, and has supported me in
my old age, ever since M. Quesnel turned me from my master's house.'
'The Chevalier Valancourt!' said Emily, trembling
extremely.
'Yes, mademoiselle, he himself, though he made me
promise not to tell; but how could one help, when one heard him ill spoken of?
Ah! dear young lady, you may well weep, if you have behaved unkindly to him,
for a more tender heart than his never young gentleman had. He found me out in
my distress, when you was too far off to help me; and M. Quesnel refused to do
so, and bade me go to service again—Alas! I was too old for that!—The Chevalier
found me, and bought me this cottage, and gave me money to furnish it, and bade
me seek out another poor woman to live with me; and he ordered his brother's
steward to pay me, every quarter, that which has supported me in comfort. Think
then, mademoiselle, whether I have not reason to speak well of the Chevalier.
And there are others, who could have afforded it better than he: and I am
afraid he has hurt himself by his generosity, for quarter day is gone by long
since, and no money for me! But do not weep so, mademoiselle: you are not sorry
surely to hear of the poor Chevalier's goodness?'
'Sorry!' said Emily, and wept the more. 'But how
long is it since you have seen him?'
'Not this many a day, mademoiselle.'
'When did you hear of him?' enquired Emily, with
increased emotion.
'Alas! never since he went away so suddenly into
Languedoc; and he was but just come from Paris then, or I should have seen him,
I am sure. Quarter day is gone by long since, and, as I said, no money for me;
and I begin to fear some harm has happened to him: and if I was not so far from
Estuviere and so lame, I should have gone to enquire before this time; and I
have nobody to send so far.'
Emily's anxiety, as to the fate of Valancourt, was
now scarcely endurable, and, since propriety would not suffer her to send to
the chateau of his brother, she requested that Theresa would immediately hire
some person to go to his steward from herself, and, when he asked for the
quarterage due to her, to make enquiries concerning Valancourt. But she first
made Theresa promise never to mention her name in this affair, or ever with
that of the Chevalier Valancourt; and her former faithfulness to M. St. Aubert
induced Emily to confide in her assurances. Theresa now joyfully undertook to
procure a person for this errand, and then Emily, after giving her a sum of
money to supply her with present comforts, returned, with spirits heavily
oppressed, to her home, lamenting, more than ever, that an heart, possessed of
so much benevolence as Valancourt's, should have been contaminated by the vices
of the world, but affected by the delicate affection, which his kindness to her
old servant expressed for herself.
