THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO
PART 40
CHAPTER XIII
Ah why did Fate his steps decoy
In stormy paths to roam,
Remote from all congenial joy!
BEATTIE
Emily,
mean while, was still suffering anxiety as to the fate of Valancourt; but
Theresa, having, at length, found a person, whom she could entrust on her
errand to the steward, informed her, that the messenger would return on the
following day; and Emily promised to be at the cottage, Theresa being too lame
to attend her.
In the
evening, therefore, Emily set out alone for the cottage, with a melancholy
foreboding, concerning Valancourt, while, perhaps, the gloom of the hour might
contribute to depress her spirits. It was a grey autumnal evening towards the
close of the season; heavy mists partially obscured the mountains, and a
chilling breeze, that sighed among the beech woods, strewed her path with some
of their last yellow leaves. These, circling in the blast and foretelling the
death of the year, gave an image of desolation to her mind, and, in her fancy,
seemed to announce the death of Valancourt. Of this she had, indeed, more than
once so strong a presentiment, that she was on the point of returning home,
feeling herself unequal to an encounter with the certainty she anticipated,
but, contending with her emotions, she so far commanded them, as to be able to
proceed.
While she
walked mournfully on, gazing on the long volumes of vapour, that poured upon
the sky, and watching the swallows, tossed along the wind, now disappearing
among tempestuous clouds, and then emerging, for a moment, in circles upon the
calmer air, the afflictions and vicissitudes of her late life seemed pourtrayed
in these fleeting images;—thus had she been tossed upon the stormy sea of
misfortune for the last year, with but short intervals of peace, if peace that
could be called, which was only the delay of evils. And now, when she had
escaped from so many dangers, was become independent of the will of those, who
had oppressed her, and found herself mistress of a large fortune, now, when she
might reasonably have expected happiness, she perceived that she was as distant
from it as ever. She would have accused herself of weakness and ingratitude in
thus suffering a sense of the various blessings she possessed to be overcome by
that of a single misfortune, had this misfortune affected herself alone; but,
when she had wept for Valancourt even as living, tears of compassion had
mingled with those of regret, and while she lamented a human being degraded to
vice, and consequently to misery, reason and humanity claimed these tears, and
fortitude had not yet taught her to separate them from those of love; in the
present moments, however, it was not the certainty of his guilt, but the
apprehension of his death (of a death also, to which she herself, however
innocently, appeared to have been in some degree instrumental) that oppressed
her. This fear increased, as the means of certainty concerning it approached;
and, when she came within view of Theresa's cottage, she was so much
disordered, and her resolution failed her so entirely, that, unable to proceed,
she rested on a bank, beside her path; where, as she sat, the wind that groaned
sullenly among the lofty branches above, seemed to her melancholy imagination
to bear the sounds of distant lamentation, and, in the pauses of the gust, she
still fancied she heard the feeble and far-off notes of distress. Attention
convinced her, that this was no more than fancy; but the increasing gloom,
which seemed the sudden close of day, soon warned her to depart, and, with
faltering steps, she again moved toward the cottage. Through the casement
appeared the cheerful blaze of a wood fire, and Theresa, who had observed Emily
approaching, was already at the door to receive her.
'It is a
cold evening, madam,' said she, 'storms are coming on, and I thought you would
like a fire. Do take this chair by the hearth.'
Emily,
thanking her for this consideration, sat down, and then, looking in her face,
on which the wood fire threw a gleam, she was struck with its expression, and,
unable to speak, sunk back in her chair with a countenance so full of woe, that
Theresa instantly comprehended the occasion of it, but she remained silent.
'Ah!' said Emily, at length, 'it is unnecessary for me to ask the result of
your enquiry, your silence, and that look, sufficiently explain it;—he is
dead!'
'Alas! my
dear young lady,' replied Theresa, while tears filled her eyes, 'this world is
made up of trouble! the rich have their share as well as the poor! But we must
all endeavour to bear what Heaven pleases.'
'He is
dead, then!'—interrupted Emily—'Valancourt is dead!'
'A-well-a-day!
I fear he is,' replied Theresa.
'You
fear!' said Emily, 'do you only fear?'
'Alas!
yes, madam, I fear he is! neither the steward, or any of the Epourville family,
have heard of him since he left Languedoc, and the Count is in great affliction
about him, for he says he was always punctual in writing, but that now he has
not received a line from him, since he left Languedoc; he appointed to be at
home, three weeks ago, but he has neither come, or written, and they fear some
accident has befallen him. Alas! that ever I should live to cry for his death!
I am old, and might have died without being missed, but he'—Emily was faint,
and asked for some water, and Theresa, alarmed by the voice, in which she
spoke, hastened to her assistance, and, while she held the water to Emily's
lips, continued, 'My dear young mistress, do not take it so to heart; the
Chevalier may be alive and well, for all this; let us hope the best!'
'O no! I
cannot hope,' said Emily, 'I am acquainted with circumstances, that will not
suffer me to hope. I am somewhat better now, and can hear what you have to say.
Tell me, I entreat, the particulars of what you know.'
'Stay,
till you are a little better, mademoiselle, you look sadly!'
'O no,
Theresa, tell me all, while I have the power to hear it,' said Emily, 'tell me
all, I conjure you!'
'Well,
madam, I will then; but the steward did not say much, for Richard says he
seemed shy of talking about Mons. Valancourt, and what he gathered was from
Gabriel, one of the servants, who said he had heard it from my lord's
gentleman.'
'What did
he hear?' said Emily.
'Why,
madam, Richard has but a bad memory, and could not remember half of it, and, if
I had not asked him a great many questions, I should have heard little indeed.
But he says that Gabriel said, that he and all the other servants were in great
trouble about M. Valancourt, for that he was such a kind young gentleman, they
all loved him, as well as if he had been their own brother—and now, to think
what was become of him! For he used to be so courteous to them all, and, if any
of them had been in fault, M. Valancourt was the first to persuade my lord to
forgive them. And then, if any poor family was in distress, M. Valancourt was
the first, too, to relieve them, though some folks, not a great way off, could
have afforded that much better than he. And then, said Gabriel, he was so
gentle to every body, and, for all he had such a noble look with him, he never
would command, and call about him, as some of your quality people do, and we
never minded him the less for that. Nay, says Gabriel, for that matter, we
minded him the more, and would all have run to obey him at a word, sooner than
if some folks had told us what to do at full length; aye, and were more afraid
of displeasing him, too, than of them, that used rough words to us.'
Emily,
who no longer considered it to be dangerous to listen to praise, bestowed on
Valancourt, did not attempt to interrupt Theresa, but sat, attentive to her
words, though almost overwhelmed with grief. 'My Lord,' continued Theresa,
'frets about M. Valancourt sadly, and the more, because, they say, he had been
rather harsh against him lately. Gabriel says he had it from my Lord's valet,
that M. Valancourt had COMPORTED himself wildly at Paris, and had spent a great
deal of money, more a great deal than my Lord liked, for he loves money better
than M. Valancourt, who had been led astray sadly. Nay, for that matter, M.
Valancourt had been put into prison at Paris, and my Lord, says Gabriel,
refused to take him out, and said he deserved to suffer; and, when old
Gregoire, the butler, heard of this, he actually bought a walking-stick to take
with him to Paris, to visit his young master; but the next thing we hear is,
that M. Valancourt is coming home. O, it was a joyful day when he came; but he
was sadly altered, and my Lord looked very cool upon him, and he was very sad,
indeed. And, soon after, he went away again into Languedoc, and, since that
time, we have never seen him.'
Theresa
paused, and Emily, sighing deeply, remained with her eyes fixed upon the floor,
without speaking. After a long pause, she enquired what further Theresa had
heard. 'Yet why should I ask?' she added; 'what you have already told is too
much. O Valancourt! thou art gone—forever gone! and I—I have murdered thee!'
These words, and the countenance of despair which accompanied them, alarmed
Theresa, who began to fear, that the shock of the intelligence Emily had just
received, had affected her senses. 'My dear young lady, be composed,' said she,
'and do not say such frightful words. You murder M. Valancourt,—dear heart!'
Emily replied only by a heavy sigh.
'Dear
lady, it breaks my heart to see you look so,' said Theresa, 'do not sit with
your eyes upon the ground, and all so pale and melancholy; it frightens me to
see you.' Emily was still silent, and did not appear to hear any thing that was
said to her. 'Besides, mademoiselle,' continued Theresa, 'M. Valancourt may be
alive and merry yet, for what we know.'
At the
mention of his name, Emily raised her eyes, and fixed them, in a wild gaze,
upon Theresa, as if she was endeavouring to understand what had been said.
'Aye, my dear lady,' said Theresa, mistaking the meaning of this considerate
air, 'M. Valancourt may be alive and merry yet.'
On the
repetition of these words, Emily comprehended their import, but, instead of
producing the effect intended, they seemed only to heighten her distress. She
rose hastily from her chair, paced the little room, with quick steps, and,
often sighing deeply, clasped her hands, and shuddered.
Meanwhile,
Theresa, with simple, but honest affection, endeavoured to comfort her; put
more wood on the fire, stirred it up into a brighter blaze, swept the hearth,
set the chair, which Emily had left, in a warmer situation, and then drew forth
from a cupboard a flask of wine. 'It is a stormy night, madam,' said she, 'and
blows cold—do come nearer the fire, and take a glass of this wine; it will
comfort you, as it has done me, often and often, for it is not such wine as one
gets every day; it is rich Languedoc, and the last of six flasks that M.
Valancourt sent me, the night before he left Gascony for Paris. They have
served me, ever since, as cordials, and I never drink it, but I think of him,
and what kind words he said to me when he gave them. Theresa, says he, you are
not young now, and should have a glass of good wine, now and then. I will send
you a few flasks, and, when you taste them, you will sometimes remember me your
friend. Yes—those were his very words—me your friend!' Emily still paced the
room, without seeming to hear what Theresa said, who continued speaking. 'And I
have remembered him, often enough, poor young gentleman!—for he gave me this
roof for a shelter, and that, which has supported me. Ah! he is in heaven, with
my blessed master, if ever saint was!'
Theresa's
voice faltered; she wept, and set down the flask, unable to pour out the wine.
Her grief seemed to recall Emily from her own, who went towards her, but then
stopped, and, having gazed on her, for a moment, turned suddenly away, as if
overwhelmed by the reflection, that it was Valancourt, whom Theresa lamented.
While she
yet paced the room, the still, soft note of an oboe, or flute, was heard
mingling with the blast, the sweetness of which affected Emily's spirits; she
paused a moment in attention; the tender tones, as they swelled along the wind,
till they were lost again in the ruder gust, came with a plaintiveness, that
touched her heart, and she melted into tears.
'Aye,'
said Theresa, drying her eyes, 'there is Richard, our neighbour's son, playing
on the oboe; it is sad enough, to hear such sweet music now.' Emily continued
to weep, without replying. 'He often plays of an evening,' added Theresa, 'and,
sometimes, the young folks dance to the sound of his oboe. But, dear young
lady! do not cry so; and pray take a glass of this wine,' continued she,
pouring some into a glass, and handing it to Emily, who reluctantly took it.
'Taste it
for M. Valancourt's sake,' said Theresa, as Emily lifted the glass to her lips,
'for he gave it me, you know, madam.' Emily's hand trembled, and she spilt the
wine as she withdrew it from her lips. 'For whose sake!—who gave the wine?'
said she in a faltering voice. 'M. Valancourt, dear lady. I knew you would be
pleased with it. It is the last flask I have left.'
Emily set
the wine upon the table, and burst into tears, while Theresa, disappointed and
alarmed, tried to comfort her; but she only waved her hand, entreated she might
be left alone, and wept the more.
A knock
at the cottage door prevented Theresa from immediately obeying her mistress,
and she was going to open it, when Emily, checking her, requested she would not
admit any person; but, afterwards, recollecting, that she had ordered her
servant to attend her home, she said it was only Philippe, and endeavoured to
restrain her tears, while Theresa opened the door.
A voice,
that spoke without, drew Emily's attention. She listened, turned her eyes to
the door, when a person now appeared, and immediately a bright gleam, that
flashed from the fire, discovered—Valancourt!
Emily, on
perceiving him, started from her chair, trembled, and, sinking into it again,
became insensible to all around her.
A scream
from Theresa now told, that she knew Valancourt, whom her imperfect sight, and
the duskiness of the place had prevented her from immediately recollecting; but
his attention was immediately called from her to the person, whom he saw,
falling from a chair near the fire; and, hastening to her assistance,—he
perceived, that he was supporting Emily! The various emotions, that seized him
upon thus unexpectedly meeting with her, from whom he had believed he had
parted for ever, and on beholding her pale and lifeless in his arms—may, perhaps,
be imagined, though they could neither be then expressed, or now described, any
more than Emily's sensations, when, at length, she unclosed her eyes, and,
looking up, again saw Valancourt. The intense anxiety, with which he regarded
her, was instantly changed to an expression of mingled joy and tenderness, as
his eye met hers, and he perceived, that she was reviving. But he could only
exclaim, 'Emily!' as he silently watched her recovery, while she averted her
eye, and feebly attempted to withdraw her hand; but, in these the first
moments, which succeeded to the pangs his supposed death had occasioned her,
she forgot every fault, which had formerly claimed indignation, and beholding
Valancourt such as he had appeared, when he won her early affection, she experienced
emotions of only tenderness and joy. This, alas! was but the sunshine of a few
short moments; recollections rose, like clouds, upon her mind, and, darkening
the illusive image, that possessed it, she again beheld Valancourt,
degraded—Valancourt unworthy of the esteem and tenderness she had once bestowed
upon him; her spirits faltered, and, withdrawing her hand, she turned from him
to conceal her grief, while he, yet more embarrassed and agitated, remained
silent.
A sense
of what she owed to herself restrained her tears, and taught her soon to
overcome, in some degree, the emotions of mingled joy and sorrow, that
contended at her heart, as she rose, and, having thanked him for the assistance
he had given her, bade Theresa good evening. As she was leaving the cottage,
Valancourt, who seemed suddenly awakened as from a dream, entreated, in a
voice, that pleaded powerfully for compassion, a few moments attention. Emily's
heart, perhaps, pleaded as powerfully, but she had resolution enough to resist
both, together with the clamorous entreaties of Theresa, that she would not
venture home alone in the dark, and had already opened the cottage door, when
the pelting storm compelled her to obey their requests.
Silent
and embarrassed, she returned to the fire, while Valancourt, with increasing
agitation, paced the room, as if he wished, yet feared, to speak, and Theresa
expressed without restraint her joy and wonder upon seeing him.
'Dear
heart! sir,' said she, 'I never was so surprised and overjoyed in my life. We
were in great tribulation before you came, for we thought you was dead, and
were talking, and lamenting about you, just when you knocked at the door. My
young mistress there was crying, fit to break her heart—'
Emily
looked with much displeasure at Theresa, but, before she could speak,
Valancourt, unable to repress the emotion, which Theresa's imprudent discovery
occasioned, exclaimed, 'O my Emily! am I then still dear to you! Did you,
indeed, honour me with a thought—a tear? O heavens! you weep—you weep now!'
'Theresa,
sir,' said Emily, with a reserved air, and trying to conquer her tears, 'has
reason to remember you with gratitude, and she was concerned, because she had
not lately heard of you. Allow me to thank you for the kindness you have shewn
her, and to say, that, since I am now upon the spot, she must not be further
indebted to you.''
'Emily,'
said Valancourt, no longer master of his emotions, 'is it thus you meet him,
whom once you meant to honour with your hand—thus you meet him, who has loved
you—suffered for you?—Yet what do I say? Pardon me, pardon me, mademoiselle St.
Aubert, I know not what I utter. I have no longer any claim upon your
remembrance—I have forfeited every pretension to your esteem, your love. Yes!
let me not forget, that I once possessed your affections, though to know that I
have lost them, is my severest affliction. Affliction—do I call it!—that is a
term of mildness.'
'Dear
heart!' said Theresa, preventing Emily from replying, 'talk of once having her
affections! Why, my dear young lady loves you now, better than she does any
body in the whole world, though she pretends to deny it.'
'This is
insupportable!' said Emily; 'Theresa, you know not what you say. Sir, if you
respect my tranquillity, you will spare me from the continuance of this
distress.'
'I do
respect your tranquillity too much, voluntarily to interrupt it,' replied
Valancourt, in whose bosom pride now contended with tenderness; 'and will not
be a voluntary intruder. I would have entreated a few moments attention—yet I
know not for what purpose. You have ceased to esteem me, and to recount to you
my sufferings will degrade me more, without exciting even your pity. Yet I have
been, O Emily! I am indeed very wretched!' added Valancourt, in a voice, that
softened from solemnity into grief.
'What! is
my dear young master going out in all this rain!' said Theresa. 'No, he shall
not stir a step. Dear! dear! to see how gentlefolks can afford to throw away
their happiness! Now, if you were poor people, there would be none of this. To
talk of unworthiness, and not caring about one another, when I know there are
not such a kind-hearted lady and gentleman in the whole province, nor any that
love one another half so well, if the truth was spoken!'
Emily, in
extreme vexation, now rose from her chair, 'I must be gone,' said she, 'the
storm is over.'
'Stay,
Emily, stay, mademoiselle St. Aubert!' said Valancourt, summoning all his
resolution, 'I will no longer distress you by my presence. Forgive me, that I
did not sooner obey you, and, if you can, sometimes, pity one, who, in losing
you—has lost all hope of peace! May you be happy, Emily, however wretched I
remain, happy as my fondest wish would have you!'
His voice
faltered with the last words, and his countenance changed, while, with a look
of ineffable tenderness and grief, he gazed upon her for an instant, and then
quitted the cottage.
'Dear
heart! dear heart!' cried Theresa, following him to the door, 'why, Monsieur
Valancourt! how it rains! what a night is this to turn him out in! Why it will
give him his death; and it was but now you was crying, mademoiselle, because he
was dead. Well! young ladies do change their mind in a minute, as one may say!'
Emily
made no reply, for she heard not what was said, while, lost in sorrow and
thought, she remained in her chair by the fire, with her eyes fixed, and the
image of Valancourt still before them.
'M.
Valancourt is sadly altered! madam,' said Theresa; 'he looks so thin to what he
used to do, and so melancholy, and then he wears his arm in a sling.'
Emily
raised her eyes at these words, for she had not observed this last
circumstance, and she now did not doubt, that Valancourt had received the shot
of her gardener at Tholouse; with this conviction her pity for him returning,
she blamed herself for having occasioned him to leave the cottage, during the
storm.
Soon
after her servants arrived with the carriage, and Emily, having censured
Theresa for her thoughtless conversation to Valancourt, and strictly charging
her never to repeat any hints of the same kind to him, withdrew to her home,
thoughtful and disconsolate.
Meanwhile,
Valancourt had returned to a little inn of the village, whither he had arrived
only a few moments before his visit to Theresa's cottage, on the way from
Tholouse to the chateau of the Count de Duvarney, where he had not been since
he bade adieu to Emily at Chateau-le-Blanc, in the neighbourhood of which he
had lingered for a considerable time, unable to summon resolution enough to
quit a place, that contained the object most dear to his heart. There were
times, indeed, when grief and despair urged him to appear again before Emily,
and, regardless of his ruined circumstances, to renew his suit. Pride, however,
and the tenderness of his affection, which could not long endure the thought of
involving her in his misfortunes, at length, so far triumphed over passion,
that he relinquished this desperate design, and quitted Chateau-le-Blanc. But
still his fancy wandered among the scenes, which had witnessed his early love,
and, on his way to Gascony, he stopped at Tholouse, where he remained when
Emily arrived, concealing, yet indulging his melancholy in the gardens, where
he had formerly passed with her so many happy hours; often recurring, with vain
regret, to the evening before her departure for Italy, when she had so
unexpectedly met him on the terrace, and endeavouring to recall to his memory
every word and look, which had then charmed him, the arguments he had employed
to dissuade her from the journey, and the tenderness of their last farewel. In
such melancholy recollections he had been indulging, when Emily unexpectedly
arrived to him on this very terrace, the evening after her arrival at Tholouse.
His emotions, on thus seeing her, can scarcely be imagined; but he so far
overcame the first promptings of love, that he forbore to discover himself, and
abruptly quitted the gardens. Still, however, the vision he had seen haunted
his mind; he became more wretched than before, and the only solace of his
sorrow was to return in the silence of the night; to follow the paths which he
believed her steps had pressed, during the day; and, to watch round the
habitation where she reposed. It was in one of these mournful wanderings, that
he had received by the fire of the gardener, who mistook him for a robber, a
wound in his arm, which had detained him at Tholouse till very lately, under
the hands of a surgeon. There, regardless of himself and careless of his
friends, whose late unkindness had urged him to believe, that they were
indifferent as to his fate, he remained, without informing them of his
situation; and now, being sufficiently recovered to bear travelling, he had
taken La Vallee in his way to Estuviere, the Count's residence, partly for the
purpose of hearing of Emily, and of being again near her, and partly for that
of enquiring into the situation of poor old Theresa, who, he had reason to
suppose, had been deprived of her stipend, small as it was, and which enquiry
had brought him to her cottage, when Emily happened to be there.
This
unexpected interview, which had at once shewn him the tenderness of her love
and the strength of her resolution, renewed all the acuteness of the despair,
that had attended their former separation, and which no effort of reason could
teach him, in these moments, to subdue. Her image, her look, the tones of her
voice, all dwelt on his fancy, as powerfully as they had late appeared to his
senses, and banished from his heart every emotion, except those of love and
despair.
Before
the evening concluded, he returned to Theresa's cottage, that he might hear her
talk of Emily, and be in the place, where she had so lately been. The joy, felt
and expressed by that faithful servant, was quickly changed to sorrow, when she
observed, at one moment, his wild and phrensied look, and, at another, the dark
melancholy, that overhung him.
After he
had listened, and for a considerable time, to all she had to relate, concerning
Emily, he gave Theresa nearly all the money he had about him, though she repeatedly
refused it, declaring, that her mistress had amply supplied her wants; and
then, drawing a ring of value from his finger, he delivered it her with a
solemn charge to present it to Emily, of whom he entreated, as a last favour,
that she would preserve it for his sake, and sometimes, when she looked upon
it, remember the unhappy giver.
Theresa
wept, as she received the ring, but it was more from sympathy, than from any
presentiment of evil; and before she could reply, Valancourt abruptly left the
cottage. She followed him to the door, calling upon his name and entreating him
to return; but she received no answer, and saw him no more.
