THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO
PART 4
CHAPTER VI
I care not, Fortune! what you me deny;
You cannot rob me of free nature's grace;
You cannot shut the windows of the sky,
Through which Aurora shews her brightening
face;
You cannot bar my constant feet to trace
The woods and lawns, by living stream, at eve:
Let health my nerves and finer fibres brace,
And I their toys to the great children leave:
Of fancy, reason, virtue, nought can me
bereave.
THOMSON
In the morning, Valancourt breakfasted with St.
Aubert and Emily, neither of whom seemed much refreshed by sleep. The languor
of illness still hung over St. Aubert, and to Emily's fears his disorder
appeared to be increasing fast upon him. She watched his looks with anxious
affection, and their expression was always faithfully reflected in her own.
At the commencement of their acquaintance,
Valancourt had made known his name and family. St. Aubert was not a stranger to
either, for the family estates, which were now in the possession of an elder
brother of Valancourt, were little more than twenty miles distant from La
Vallee, and he had sometimes met the elder Valancourt on visits in the
neighbourhood. This knowledge had made him more willingly receive his present companion;
for, though his countenance and manners would have won him the acquaintance of
St. Aubert, who was very apt to trust to the intelligence of his own eyes, with
respect to countenances, he would not have accepted these, as sufficient
introductions to that of his daughter.
The breakfast was almost as silent as the supper of
the preceding night; but their musing was at length interrupted by the sound of
the carriage wheels, which were to bear away St. Aubert and Emily. Valancourt
started from his chair, and went to the window; it was indeed the carriage, and
he returned to his seat without speaking. The moment was now come when they
must part. St. Aubert told Valancourt, that he hoped he would never pass La
Vallee without favouring him with a visit; and Valancourt, eagerly thanking
him, assured him that he never would; as he said which he looked timidly at
Emily, who tried to smile away the seriousness of her spirits. They passed a
few minutes in interesting conversation, and St. Aubert then led the way to the
carriage, Emily and Valancourt following in silence. The latter lingered at the
door several minutes after they were seated, and none of the party seemed to
have courage enough to say—Farewell. At length, St. Aubert pronounced the
melancholy word, which Emily passed to Valancourt, who returned it, with a
dejected smile, and the carriage drove on.
The travellers remained, for some time, in a state
of tranquil pensiveness, which is not unpleasing. St. Aubert interrupted it by
observing, 'This is a very promising young man; it is many years since I have
been so much pleased with any person, on so short an acquaintance. He brings
back to my memory the days of my youth, when every scene was new and
delightful!' St. Aubert sighed, and sunk again into a reverie; and, as Emily
looked back upon the road they had passed, Valancourt was seen, at the door of
the little inn, following them with his eyes. Her perceived her, and waved his
hand; and she returned the adieu, till the winding road shut her from his sight.
'I remember when I was about his age,' resumed St.
Aubert, 'and I thought, and felt exactly as he does. The world was opening upon
me then, now—it is closing.'
'My dear sir, do not think so gloomily,' said Emily
in a trembling voice, 'I hope you have many, many years to live—for your own
sake—for MY sake.'
'Ah, my Emily!' replied St. Aubert, 'for thy sake!
Well—I hope it is so.' He wiped away a tear, that was stealing down his cheek,
threw a smile upon his countenance, and said in a cheering voice, 'there is
something in the ardour and ingenuousness of youth, which is particularly
pleasing to the contemplation of an old man, if his feelings have not been
entirely corroded by the world. It is cheering and reviving, like the view of
spring to a sick person; his mind catches somewhat of the spirit of the season,
and his eyes are lighted up with a transient sunshine. Valancourt is this
spring to me.'
Emily, who pressed her father's hand
affectionately, had never before listened with so much pleasure to the praises
he bestowed; no, not even when he had bestowed them on herself.
They travelled on, among vineyards, woods, and
pastures, delighted with the romantic beauty of the landscape, which was
bounded, on one side, by the grandeur of the Pyrenees, and, on the other, by
the ocean; and, soon after noon, they reached the town of Colioure, situated on
the Mediterranean. Here they dined, and rested till towards the cool of day,
when they pursued their way along the shores—those enchanting shores!—which
extend to Languedoc. Emily gazed with enthusiasm on the vastness of the sea,
its surface varying, as the lights and shadows fell, and on its woody banks,
mellowed with autumnal tints.
St. Aubert was impatient to reach Perpignan, where
he expected letters from M. Quesnel; and it was the expectation of these
letters, that had induced him to leave Colioure, for his feeble frame had
required immediate rest. After travelling a few miles, he fell asleep; and
Emily, who had put two or three books into the carriage, on leaving La Vallee,
had now the leisure for looking into them. She sought for one, in which Valancourt
had been reading the day before, and hoped for the pleasure of re-tracing a
page, over which the eyes of a beloved friend had lately passed, of dwelling on
the passages, which he had admired, and of permitting them to speak to her in
the language of his own mind, and to bring himself to her presence. On
searching for the book, she could find it no where, but in its stead perceived
a volume of Petrarch's poems, that had belonged to Valancourt, whose name was
written in it, and from which he had frequently read passages to her, with all
the pathetic expression, that characterized the feelings of the author. She
hesitated in believing, what would have been sufficiently apparent to almost
any other person, that he had purposely left this book, instead of the one she
had lost, and that love had prompted the exchange; but, having opened it with
impatient pleasure, and observed the lines of his pencil drawn along the
various passages he had read aloud, and under others more descriptive of
delicate tenderness than he had dared to trust his voice with, the conviction
came, at length, to her mind. For some moments she was conscious only of being
beloved; then, a recollection of all the variations of tone and countenance,
with which he had recited these sonnets, and of the soul, which spoke in their
expression, pressed to her memory, and she wept over the memorial of his
affection.
They arrived at Perpignan soon after sunset, where
St. Aubert found, as he had expected, letters from M. Quesnel, the contents of
which so evidently and grievously affected him, that Emily was alarmed, and
pressed him, as far as her delicacy would permit, to disclose the occasion of
his concern; but he answered her only by tears, and immediately began to talk
on other topics. Emily, though she forbore to press the one most interesting to
her, was greatly affected by her father's manner, and passed a night of
sleepless solicitude.
In the morning they pursued their journey along the
coast towards Leucate, another town on the Mediterranean, situated on the
borders of Languedoc and Rousillon. On the way, Emily renewed the subject of
the preceding night, and appeared so deeply affected by St. Aubert's silence
and dejection, that he relaxed from his reserve. 'I was unwilling, my dear
Emily,' said he, 'to throw a cloud over the pleasure you receive from these
scenes, and meant, therefore, to conceal, for the present, some circumstances,
with which, however, you must at length have been made acquainted. But your
anxiety has defeated my purpose; you suffer as much from this, perhaps, as you
will do from a knowledge of the facts I have to relate. M. Quesnel's visit
proved an unhappy one to me; he came to tell me part of the news he has now
confirmed. You may have heard me mention a M. Motteville, of Paris, but you did
not know that the chief of my personal property was invested in his hands. I
had great confidence in him, and I am yet willing to believe, that he is not
wholly unworthy of my esteem. A variety of circumstances have concurred to ruin
him, and—I am ruined with him.'
St. Aubert paused to conceal his emotion.
'The letters I have just received from M. Quesnel,'
resumed he, struggling to speak with firmness, 'enclosed others from
Motteville, which confirmed all I dreaded.'
'Must we then quit La Vallee?' said Emily, after a
long pause of silence. 'That is yet uncertain,' replied St. Aubert, 'it will
depend upon the compromise Motteville is able to make with his creditors. My
income, you know, was never large, and now it will be reduced to little indeed!
It is for you, Emily, for you, my child, that I am most afflicted.' His last
words faltered; Emily smiled tenderly upon him through her tears, and then,
endeavouring to overcome her emotion, 'My dear father,' said she, 'do not
grieve for me, or for yourself; we may yet be happy;—if La Vallee remains for
us, we must be happy. We will retain only one servant, and you shall scarcely
perceive the change in your income. Be comforted, my dear sir; we shall not
feel the want of those luxuries, which others value so highly, since we never
had a taste for them; and poverty cannot deprive us of many consolations. It
cannot rob us of the affection we have for each other, or degrade us in our own
opinion, or in that of any person, whose opinion we ought to value.'
St. Aubert concealed his face with his
handkerchief, and was unable to speak; but Emily continued to urge to her
father the truths, which himself had impressed upon her mind.
'Besides, my dear sir, poverty cannot deprive us of
intellectual delights. It cannot deprive you of the comfort of affording me
examples of fortitude and benevolence; nor me of the delight of consoling a
beloved parent. It cannot deaden our taste for the grand, and the beautiful, or
deny us the means of indulging it; for the scenes of nature—those sublime
spectacles, so infinitely superior to all artificial luxuries! are open for the
enjoyment of the poor, as well as of the rich. Of what, then, have we to
complain, so long as we are not in want of necessaries? Pleasures, such as
wealth cannot buy, will still be ours. We retain, then, the sublime luxuries of
nature, and lose only the frivolous ones of art.'
St. Aubert could not reply: he caught Emily to his
bosom, their tears flowed together, but—they were not tears of sorrow. After
this language of the heart, all other would have been feeble, and they remained
silent for some time. Then, St. Aubert conversed as before; for, if his mind
had not recovered its natural tranquillity, it at least assumed the appearance
of it.
They reached the romantic town of Leucate early in
the day, but St. Aubert was weary, and they determined to pass the night there.
In the evening, he exerted himself so far as to walk with his daughter to view
the environs that overlook the lake of Leucate, the Mediterranean, part of
Rousillon, with the Pyrenees, and a wide extent of the luxuriant province of
Languedoc, now blushing with the ripened vintage, which the peasants were
beginning to gather. St. Aubert and Emily saw the busy groups, caught the
joyous song, that was wafted on the breeze, and anticipated, with apparent
pleasure, their next day's journey over this gay region. He designed, however,
still to wind along the sea-shore. To return home immediately was partly his
wish, but from this he was withheld by a desire to lengthen the pleasure, which
the journey gave his daughter, and to try the effect of the sea air on his own
disorder.
On the following day, therefore, they recommenced
their journey through Languedoc, winding the shores of the Mediterranean; the
Pyrenees still forming the magnificent back-ground of their prospects, while on
their right was the ocean, and, on their left, wide extended plains melting
into the blue horizon. St. Aubert was pleased, and conversed much with Emily,
yet his cheerfulness was sometimes artificial, and sometimes a shade of
melancholy would steal upon his countenance, and betray him. This was soon
chased away by Emily's smile; who smiled, however, with an aching heart, for
she saw that his misfortunes preyed upon his mind, and upon his enfeebled
frame.
It was evening when they reached a small village of
Upper Languedoc, where they meant to pass the night, but the place could not
afford them beds; for here, too, it was the time of the vintage, and they were
obliged to proceed to the next post. The languor of illness and of fatigue,
which returned upon St. Aubert, required immediate repose, and the evening was
now far advanced; but from necessity there was no appeal, and he ordered
Michael to proceed.
The rich plains of Languedoc, which exhibited all
the glories of the vintage, with the gaieties of a French festival, no longer
awakened St. Aubert to pleasure, whose condition formed a mournful contrast to
the hilarity and youthful beauty which surrounded him. As his languid eyes
moved over the scene, he considered, that they would soon, perhaps, be closed
for ever on this world. 'Those distant and sublime mountains,' said he
secretly, as he gazed on a chain of the Pyrenees that stretched towards the
west, 'these luxuriant plains, this blue vault, the cheerful light of day, will
be shut from my eyes! The song of the peasant, the cheering voice of man—will
no longer sound for me!'
The intelligent eyes of Emily seemed to read what
passed in the mind of her father, and she fixed them on his face, with an
expression of such tender pity, as recalled his thoughts from every desultory
object of regret, and he remembered only, that he must leave his daughter
without protection. This reflection changed regret to agony; he sighed deeply,
and remained silent, while she seemed to understand that sigh, for she pressed
his hand affectionately, and then turned to the window to conceal her tears.
The sun now threw a last yellow gleam on the waves of the Mediterranean, and
the gloom of twilight spread fast over the scene, till only a melancholy ray
appeared on the western horizon, marking the point where the sun had set amid
the vapours of an autumnal evening. A cool breeze now came from the shore, and
Emily let down the glass; but the air, which was refreshing to health, was as
chilling to sickness, and St. Aubert desired, that the window might be drawn
up. Increasing illness made him now more anxious than ever to finish the day's
journey, and he stopped the muleteer to enquire how far they had yet to go to
the next post. He replied, 'Nine miles.' 'I feel I am unable to proceed much
further,' said St. Aubert; 'enquire, as you go, if there is any house on the
road that would accommodate us for the night.' He sunk back in the carriage,
and Michael, cracking his whip in the air, set off, and continued on the full
gallop, till St. Aubert, almost fainting, called to him to stop. Emily looked
anxiously from the window, and saw a peasant walking at some little distance on
the road, for whom they waited, till he came up, when he was asked, if there
was any house in the neighbourhood that accommodated travellers. He replied,
that he knew of none. 'There is a chateau, indeed, among those woods on the
right,' added he, 'but I believe it receives nobody, and I cannot show you the
way, for I am almost a stranger here.' St. Aubert was going to ask him some
further question concerning the chateau, but the man abruptly passed on. After
some consideration, he ordered Michael to proceed slowly to the woods. Every moment
now deepened the twilight, and increased the difficulty of finding the road.
Another peasant soon after passed. 'Which is the way to the chateau in the
woods?' cried Michael.
'The chateau in the woods!' exclaimed the
peasant—'Do you mean that with the turret, yonder?'
'I don't know as for the turret, as you call it,'
said Michael, 'I mean that white piece of a building, that we see at a distance
there, among the trees.'
'Yes, that is the turret; why, who are you, that
you are going thither?' said the man with surprise.
St. Aubert, on hearing this odd question, and
observing the peculiar tone in which it was delivered, looked out from the
carriage. 'We are travellers,' said he, 'who are in search of a house of
accommodation for the night; is there any hereabout?'
'None, Monsieur, unless you have a mind to try your
luck yonder,' replied the peasant, pointing to the woods, 'but I would not
advise you to go there.'
'To whom does the chateau belong?'
'I scarcely know myself, Monsieur.'
'It is uninhabited, then?' 'No, not uninhabited;
the steward and housekeeper are there, I believe.'
On hearing this, St. Aubert determined to proceed
to the chateau, and risque the refusal of being accommodated for the night; he
therefore desired the countryman would shew Michael the way, and bade him
expect reward for his trouble. The man was for a moment silent, and then said,
that he was going on other business, but that the road could not be missed, if
they went up an avenue to the right, to which he pointed. St. Aubert was going
to speak, but the peasant wished him good night, and walked on.
The carriage now moved towards the avenue, which
was guarded by a gate, and Michael having dismounted to open it, they entered
between rows of ancient oak and chesnut, whose intermingled branches formed a
lofty arch above. There was something so gloomy and desolate in the appearance
of this avenue, and its lonely silence, that Emily almost shuddered as she
passed along; and, recollecting the manner in which the peasant had mentioned
the chateau, she gave a mysterious meaning to his words, such as she had not
suspected when he uttered them. These apprehensions, however, she tried to
check, considering that they were probably the effect of a melancholy
imagination, which her father's situation, and a consideration of her own
circumstances, had made sensible to every impression.
They passed slowly on, for they were now almost in
darkness, which, together with the unevenness of the ground, and the frequent
roots of old trees, that shot up above the soil, made it necessary to proceed
with caution. On a sudden Michael stopped the carriage; and, as St. Aubert
looked from the window to enquire the cause, he perceived a figure at some
distance moving up the avenue. The dusk would not permit him to distinguish
what it was, but he bade Michael go on.
'This seems a wild place,' said Michael; 'there is
no house hereabout, don't your honour think we had better turn back?'
'Go a little farther, and if we see no house then,
we will return to the road,' replied St. Aubert.
Michael proceeded with reluctance, and the extreme
slowness of his pace made St. Aubert look again from the window to hasten him,
when again he saw the same figure. He was somewhat startled: probably the
gloominess of the spot made him more liable to alarm than usual; however this
might be, he now stopped Michael, and bade him call to the person in the
avenue.
'Please your honour, he may be a robber,' said
Michael. 'It does not please me,' replied St. Aubert, who could not forbear
smiling at the simplicity of his phrase, 'and we will, therefore, return to the
road, for I see no probability of meeting here with what we seek.'
Michael turned about immediately, and was retracing
his way with alacrity, when a voice was heard from among the trees on the left.
It was not the voice of command, or distress, but a deep hollow tone, which
seemed to be scarcely human. The man whipped his mules till they went as fast
as possible, regardless of the darkness, the broken ground, and the necks of
the whole party, nor once stopped till he reached the gate, which opened from
the avenue into the high-road, where he went into a more moderate pace.
'I am very ill,' said St. Aubert, taking his
daughter's hand. 'You are worse, then, sir!' said Emily, extremely alarmed by
his manner, 'you are worse, and here is no assistance. Good God! what is to be
done!' He leaned his head on her shoulder, while she endeavoured to support him
with her arm, and Michael was again ordered to stop. When the rattling of the
wheels had ceased, music was heard on their air; it was to Emily the voice of
Hope. 'Oh! we are near some human habitation!' said she, 'help may soon be
had.'
She listened anxiously; the sounds were distant,
and seemed to come from a remote part of the woods that bordered the road; and,
as she looked towards the spot whence they issued, she perceived in the faint
moon-light something like a chateau. It was difficult, however, to reach this;
St. Aubert was now too ill to bear the motion of the carriage; Michael could
not quit his mules; and Emily, who still supported her father, feared to leave
him, and also feared to venture alone to such a distance, she knew not whither,
or to whom. Something, however, it was necessary to determine upon immediately;
St. Aubert, therefore, told Michael to proceed slowly; but they had not gone
far, when he fainted, and the carriage was again stopped. He lay quite
senseless.—'My dear, dear father!' cried Emily in great agony, who began to
fear that he was dying, 'speak, if it is only one word to let me hear the sound
of your voice!' But no voice spoke in reply. In the agony of terror she bade
Michael bring water from the rivulet, that flowed along the road; and, having
received some in the man's hat, with trembling hands she sprinkled it over her
father's face, which, as the moon's rays now fell upon it, seemed to bear the
impression of death. Every emotion of selfish fear now gave way to a stronger
influence, and, committing St. Aubert to the care of Michael, who refused to go
far from his mules, she stepped from the carriage in search of the chateau she
had seen at a distance. It was a still moon-light night, and the music, which
yet sounded on the air, directed her steps from the high road, up a shadowy
lane, that led to the woods. Her mind was for some time so entirely occupied by
anxiety and terror for her father, that she felt none for herself, till the
deepening gloom of the overhanging foliage, which now wholly excluded the
moon-light, and the wildness of the place, recalled her to a sense of her
adventurous situation. The music had ceased, and she had no guide but chance.
For a moment she paused in terrified perplexity, till a sense of her father's
condition again overcoming every consideration for herself, she proceeded. The
lane terminated in the woods, but she looked round in vain for a house, or a
human being, and as vainly listened for a sound to guide her. She hurried on,
however, not knowing whither, avoiding the recesses of the woods, and
endeavouring to keep along their margin, till a rude kind of avenue, which
opened upon a moon-light spot, arrested her attention. The wildness of this
avenue brought to her recollection the one leading to the turreted chateau, and
she was inclined to believe, that this was a part of the same domain, and
probably led to the same point. While she hesitated, whether to follow it or
not, a sound of many voices in loud merriment burst upon her ear. It seemed not
the laugh of cheerfulness, but of riot, and she stood appalled. While she paused,
she heard a distant voice, calling from the way she had come, and not doubting
but it was that of Michael, her first impulse was to hasten back; but a second
thought changed her purpose; she believed that nothing less than the last
extremity could have prevailed with Michael to quit his mules, and fearing that
her father was now dying, she rushed forward, with a feeble hope of obtaining
assistance from the people in the woods. Her heart beat with fearful
expectation, as she drew near the spot whence the voices issued, and she often
startled when her steps disturbed the fallen leaves. The sounds led her towards
the moon-light glade she had before noticed; at a little distance from which
she stopped, and saw, between the boles of the trees, a small circular level of
green turf, surrounded by the woods, on which appeared a group of figures. On
drawing nearer, she distinguished these, by their dress, to be peasants, and
perceived several cottages scattered round the edge of the woods, which waved
loftily over this spot. While she gazed, and endeavoured to overcome the
apprehensions that withheld her steps, several peasant girls came out of a
cottage; music instantly struck up, and the dance began. It was the joyous
music of the vintage! the same she had before heard upon the air. Her heart,
occupied with terror for her father, could not feel the contrast, which this
gay scene offered to her own distress; she stepped hastily forward towards a
group of elder peasants, who were seated at the door of a cottage, and, having
explained her situation, entreated their assistance. Several of them rose with
alacrity, and, offering any service in their power, followed Emily, who seemed
to move on the wind, as fast as they could towards the road.
When she reached the carriage she found St. Aubert
restored to animation. On the recovery of his senses, having heard from Michael
whither his daughter was gone, anxiety for her overcame every regard for
himself, and he had sent him in search of her. He was, however, still languid,
and, perceiving himself unable to travel much farther, he renewed his enquiries
for an inn, and concerning the chateau in the woods. 'The chateau cannot
accommodate you, sir,' said a venerable peasant who had followed Emily from the
woods, 'it is scarcely inhabited; but, if you will do me the honour to visit my
cottage, you shall be welcome to the best bed it affords.'
St. Aubert was himself a Frenchman; he therefore
was not surprised at French courtesy; but, ill as he was, he felt the value of
the offer enhanced by the manner which accompanied it. He had too much delicacy
to apologize, or to appear to hesitate about availing himself of the peasant's
hospitality, but immediately accepted it with the same frankness with which it
was offered.
The carriage again moved slowly on; Michael
following the peasants up the lane, which Emily had just quitted, till they
came to the moon-light glade. St. Aubert's spirits were so far restored by the
courtesy of his host, and the near prospect of repose, that he looked with a
sweet complacency upon the moon-light scene, surrounded by the shadowy woods,
through which, here and there, an opening admitted the streaming splendour,
discovering a cottage, or a sparkling rivulet. He listened, with no painful
emotion, to the merry notes of the guitar and tamborine; and, though tears came
to his eyes, when he saw the debonnaire dance of the peasants, they were not
merely tears of mournful regret. With Emily it was otherwise; immediate terror
for her father had now subsided into a gentle melancholy, which every note of
joy, by awakening comparison, served to heighten.
The dance ceased on the approach of the carriage,
which was a phenomenon in these sequestered woods, and the peasantry flocked
round it with eager curiosity. On learning that it brought a sick stranger,
several girls ran across the turf, and returned with wine and baskets of
grapes, which they presented to the travellers, each with kind contention
pressing for a preference. At length, the carriage stopped at a neat cottage,
and his venerable conductor, having assisted St. Aubert to alight, led him and
Emily to a small inner room, illuminated only by moon-beams, which the open
casement admitted. St. Aubert, rejoicing in rest, seated himself in an
arm-chair, and his senses were refreshed by the cool and balmy air, that
lightly waved the embowering honeysuckles, and wafted their sweet breath into
the apartment. His host, who was called La Voisin, quitted the room, but soon
returned with fruits, cream, and all the pastoral luxury his cottage afforded;
having set down which, with a smile of unfeigned welcome, he retired behind the
chair of his guest. St. Aubert insisted on his taking a seat at the table, and,
when the fruit had allayed the fever of his palate, and he found himself
somewhat revived, he began to converse with his host, who communicated several
particulars concerning himself and his family, which were interesting, because
they were spoken from the heart, and delineated a picture of the sweet
courtesies of family kindness. Emily sat by her father, holding his hand, and,
while she listened to the old man, her heart swelled with the affectionate
sympathy he described, and her tears fell to the mournful consideration, that
death would probably soon deprive her of the dearest blessing she then
possessed. The soft moon-light of an autumnal evening, and the distant music,
which now sounded a plaintive strain, aided the melancholy of her mind. The old
man continued to talk of his family, and St. Aubert remained silent. 'I have
only one daughter living,' said La Voisin, 'but she is happily married, and is
every thing to me. When I lost my wife,' he added with a sigh, 'I came to live
with Agnes, and her family; she has several children, who are all dancing on
the green yonder, as merry as grasshoppers—and long may they be so! I hope to
die among them, monsieur. I am old now, and cannot expect to live long, but
there is some comfort in dying surrounded by one's children.'
'My good friend,' said St. Aubert, while his voice
trembled, 'I hope you will long live surrounded by them.'
'Ah, sir! at my age I must not expect that!'
replied the old man, and he paused: 'I can scarcely wish it,' he resumed, 'for
I trust that whenever I die I shall go to heaven, where my poor wife is gone
before me. I can sometimes almost fancy I see her of a still moon-light night,
walking among these shades she loved so well. Do you believe, monsieur, that we
shall be permitted to revisit the earth, after we have quitted the body?'
Emily could no longer stifle the anguish of her
heart; her tears fell fast upon her father's hand, which she yet held. He made
an effort to speak, and at length said in a low voice, 'I hope we shall be
permitted to look down on those we have left on the earth, but I can only hope
it. Futurity is much veiled from our eyes, and faith and hope are our only
guides concerning it. We are not enjoined to believe, that disembodied spirits
watch over the friends they have loved, but we may innocently hope it. It is a
hope which I will never resign,' continued he, while he wiped the tears from
his daughter's eyes, 'it will sweeten the bitter moments of death!' Tears fell
slowly on his cheeks; La Voisin wept too, and there was a pause of silence.
Then, La Voisin, renewing the subject, said, 'But you believe, sir, that we
shall meet in another world the relations we have loved in this; I must believe
this.' 'Then do believe it,' replied St. Aubert, 'severe, indeed, would be the
pangs of separation, if we believed it to be eternal. Look up, my dear Emily,
we shall meet again!' He lifted his eyes towards heaven, and a gleam of
moon-light, which fell upon his countenance, discovered peace and resignation,
stealing on the lines of sorrow.
La Voisin felt that he had pursued the subject too
far, and he dropped it, saying, 'We are in darkness, I forgot to bring a
light.'
'No,' said St. Aubert, 'this is a light I love. Sit
down, my good friend. Emily, my love, I find myself better than I have been all
day; this air refreshes me. I can enjoy this tranquil hour, and that music,
which floats so sweetly at a distance. Let me see you smile. Who touches that
guitar so tastefully? are there two instruments, or is it an echo I hear?'
'It is an echo, monsieur, I fancy. That guitar is
often heard at night, when all is still, but nobody knows who touches it, and
it is sometimes accompanied by a voice so sweet, and so sad, one would almost
think the woods were haunted.' 'They certainly are haunted,' said St. Aubert
with a smile, 'but I believe it is by mortals.' 'I have sometimes heard it at
midnight, when I could not sleep,' rejoined La Voisin, not seeming to notice
this remark, 'almost under my window, and I never heard any music like it. It
has often made me think of my poor wife till I cried. I have sometimes got up
to the window to look if I could see anybody, but as soon as I opened the
casement all was hushed, and nobody to be seen; and I have listened, and
listened till I have been so timorous, that even the trembling of the leaves in
the breeze has made me start. They say it often comes to warn people of their
death, but I have heard it these many years, and outlived the warning.'
Emily, though she smiled at the mention of this
ridiculous superstition, could not, in the present tone of her spirits, wholly
resist its contagion.
'Well, but, my good friend,' said St. Aubert, 'has
nobody had courage to follow the sounds? If they had, they would probably have
discovered who is the musician.' 'Yes, sir, they have followed them some way
into the woods, but the music has still retreated, and seemed as distant as
ever, and the people have at last been afraid of being led into harm, and would
go no further. It is very seldom that I have heard these sounds so early in the
evening. They usually come about midnight, when that bright planet, which is
rising above the turret yonder, sets below the woods on the left.'
'What turret?' asked St. Aubert with quickness, 'I
see none.'
'Your pardon, monsieur, you do see one indeed, for
the moon shines full upon it;—up the avenue yonder, a long way off; the chateau
it belongs to is hid among the trees.'
'Yes, my dear sir,' said Emily, pointing, 'don't
you see something glitter above the dark woods? It is a fane, I fancy, which
the rays fall upon.'
'O yes, I see what you mean; and who does the
chateau belong to?'
'The Marquis de Villeroi was its owner,' replied La
Voisin, emphatically.
'Ah!' said St. Aubert, with a deep sigh, 'are we
then so near Le-Blanc!' He appeared much agitated.
'It used to be the Marquis's favourite residence,'
resumed La Voisin, 'but he took a dislike to the place, and has not been there
for many years. We have heard lately that he is dead, and that it is fallen
into other hands.' St. Aubert, who had sat in deep musing, was roused by the
last words. 'Dead!' he exclaimed, 'Good God! when did he die?'
'He is reported to have died about five weeks
since,' replied La Voisin. 'Did you know the Marquis, sir?'
'This is very extraordinary!' said St. Aubert
without attending to the question. 'Why is it so, my dear sir?' said Emily, in
a voice of timid curiosity. He made no reply, but sunk again into a reverie;
and in a few moments, when he seemed to have recovered himself, asked who had
succeeded to the estates. 'I have forgot his title, monsieur,' said La Voisin;
'but my lord resides at Paris chiefly; I hear no talk of his coming hither.'
'The chateau is shut up then, still?'
'Why, little better, sir; the old housekeeper, and
her husband the steward, have the care of it, but they live generally in a
cottage hard by.'
'The chateau is spacious, I suppose,' said Emily,
'and must be desolate for the residence of only two persons.'
'Desolate enough, mademoiselle,' replied La Voisin,
'I would not pass one night in the chateau, for the value of the whole domain.'
'What is that?' said St. Aubert, roused again from
thoughtfulness. As his host repeated his last sentence, a groan escaped from St.
Aubert, and then, as if anxious to prevent it from being noticed, he hastily
asked La Voisin how long he had lived in this neighbourhood. 'Almost from my
childhood, sir,' replied his host.
'You remember the late marchioness, then?' said St.
Aubert in an altered voice.
'Ah, monsieur!—that I do well. There are many
besides me who remember her.'
'Yes—' said St. Aubert, 'and I am one of those.'
'Alas, sir! you remember, then, a most beautiful
and excellent lady. She deserved a better fate.'
Tears stood in St. Aubert's eyes; 'Enough,' said
he, in a voice almost stifled by the violence of his emotions,—'it is enough,
my friend.'
Emily, though extremely surprised by her father's
manner, forbore to express her feelings by any question. La Voisin began to apologize,
but St. Aubert interrupted him; 'Apology is quite unnecessary,' said he, 'let
us change the topic. You was speaking of the music we just now heard.'
'I was, monsieur—but hark!—it comes again; listen
to that voice!' They were all silent;
At last a soft and solemn-breathing sound
Rose, like a stream of rich distilled
perfumes,
And stole upon the air, that even Silence
Was took ere she was 'ware, and wished she
might
Deny her nature, and be never more
Still, to be so displaced.*
*Milton.
In a few moments the voice died into air, and the
instrument, which had been heard before, sounded in low symphony. St. Aubert
now observed, that it produced a tone much more full and melodious than that of
a guitar, and still more melancholy and soft than the lute. They continued to
listen, but the sounds returned no more. 'This is strange!' said St. Aubert, at
length interrupting the silence. 'Very strange!' said Emily. 'It is so,'
rejoined La Voisin, and they were again silent.
After a long pause, 'It is now about eighteen years
since I first heard that music,' said La Voisin; 'I remember it was on a fine
summer's night, much like this, but later, that I was walking in the woods, and
alone. I remember, too, that my spirits were very low, for one of my boys was
ill, and we feared we should lose him. I had been watching at his bed-side all
the evening while his mother slept; for she had sat up with him the night
before. I had been watching, and went out for a little fresh air, the day had
been very sultry. As I walked under the shades and mused, I heard music at a
distance, and thought it was Claude playing upon his flute, as he often did of
a fine evening, at the cottage door. But, when I came to a place where the
trees opened, (I shall never forget it!) and stood looking up at the
north-lights, which shot up the heaven to a great height, I heard all of a
sudden such sounds!—they came so as I cannot describe. It was like the music of
angels, and I looked up again almost expecting to see them in the sky. When I
came home, I told what I had heard, but they laughed at me, and said it must be
some of the shepherds playing on their pipes, and I could not persuade them to
the contrary. A few nights after, however, my wife herself heard the same
sounds, and was as much surprised as I was, and Father Denis frightened her
sadly by saying, that it was music come to warn her of her child's death, and
that music often came to houses where there was a dying person.'
Emily, on hearing this, shrunk with a superstitious
dread entirely new to her, and could scarcely conceal her agitation from St.
Aubert.
'But the boy lived, monsieur, in spite of Father
Denis.'
'Father Denis!' said St. Aubert, who had listened
to 'narrative old age' with patient attention, 'are we near a convent, then?'
'Yes, sir; the convent of St. Clair stands at no
great distance, on the sea shore yonder.'
'Ah!' said St. Aubert, as if struck with some
sudden remembrance, 'the convent of St. Clair!' Emily observed the clouds of
grief, mingled with a faint expression of horror, gathering on his brow; his
countenance became fixed, and, touched as it now was by the silver whiteness of
the moon-light, he resembled one of those marble statues of a monument, which
seem to bend, in hopeless sorrow, over the ashes of the dead, shewn
by the blunted light
That the dim moon through painted casements
lends.*
* The Emigrants.
'But, my dear sir,' said Emily, anxious to
dissipate his thoughts, 'you forget that repose is necessary to you. If our
kind host will give me leave, I will prepare your bed, for I know how you like
it to be made.' St. Aubert, recollecting himself, and smiling affectionately,
desired she would not add to her fatigue by that attention; and La Voisin,
whose consideration for his guest had been suspended by the interests which his
own narrative had recalled, now started from his seat, and, apologizing for not
having called Agnes from the green, hurried out of the room.
In a few moments he returned with his daughter, a
young woman of pleasing countenance, and Emily learned from her, what she had
not before suspected, that, for their accommodation, it was necessary part of
La Voisin's family should leave their beds; she lamented this circumstance, but
Agnes, by her reply, fully proved that she inherited, at least, a share of her
father's courteous hospitality. It was settled, that some of her children and
Michael should sleep in the neighbouring cottage.
'If I am better, to-morrow, my dear,' said St.
Aubert when Emily returned to him, 'I mean to set out at an early hour, that we
may rest, during the heat of the day, and will travel towards home. In the
present state of my health and spirits I cannot look on a longer journey with
pleasure, and I am also very anxious to reach La Vallee.' Emily, though she
also desired to return, was grieved at her father's sudden wish to do so, which
she thought indicated a greater degree of indisposition than he would
acknowledge. St. Aubert now retired to rest, and Emily to her little chamber,
but not to immediate repose. Her thoughts returned to the late conversation,
concerning the state of departed spirits; a subject, at this time, particularly
affecting to her, when she had every reason to believe that her dear father would
ere long be numbered with them. She leaned pensively on the little open
casement, and in deep thought fixed her eyes on the heaven, whose blue
unclouded concave was studded thick with stars, the worlds, perhaps, of
spirits, unsphered of mortal mould. As her eyes wandered along the boundless
aether, her thoughts rose, as before, towards the sublimity of the Deity, and
to the contemplation of futurity. No busy note of this world interrupted the
course of her mind; the merry dance had ceased, and every cottager had retired
to his home. The still air seemed scarcely to breathe upon the woods, and, now
and then, the distant sound of a solitary sheep-bell, or of a closing casement,
was all that broke on silence. At length, even this hint of human being was heard
no more. Elevated and enwrapt, while her eyes were often wet with tears of
sublime devotion and solemn awe, she continued at the casement, till the gloom
of mid-night hung over the earth, and the planet, which La Voisin had pointed
out, sunk below the woods. She then recollected what he had said concerning
this planet, and the mysterious music; and, as she lingered at the window, half
hoping and half fearing that it would return, her mind was led to the
remembrance of the extreme emotion her father had shewn on mention of the
Marquis La Villeroi's death, and of the fate of the Marchioness, and she felt
strongly interested concerning the remote cause of this emotion. Her surprise
and curiosity were indeed the greater, because she did not recollect ever to have
heard him mention the name of Villeroi.
No music, however, stole on the silence of the
night, and Emily, perceiving the lateness of the hour, returned to a scene of
fatigue, remembered that she was to rise early in the morning, and withdrew
from the window to repose.
