He wished to have the sorrows of her heart acknowledged to him; the acknowledgment would give him a right to offer his sympathy and counsel: and the sympathy, the counsel of a parent, might perhaps, he thought, be efficacious. But though he wished such a divulgement, he would not desire it, well knowing the delicacy of the female mind, and how unwillingly it must confess a hopeless passion.
CHAPTER IV
Ah! happy grove, dark and secure retreat
Of sacred silence, rest's eternal seat;
How well your cool and unfrequented shade
Suits with the chaste retirement of a maid:
Oh if kind heaven had been so much my friend,
To make my fate upon my choice depend;
All my ambition I would here confine,
And only this elysium should be mine.
Clermont went out to see that Lubin was taken care of, thank him for the attention he had paid to Madeline, and inquire whether he would not stop a day or two at the cottage to rest himself; but Lubin said there was a necessity for his immediate return to the chateau, and that after dinner he must depart: he accordingly set out at the time he had fixed, and as he quitted the cottage received the grateful acknowledgments of Madeline for his care of her, and an entreaty that he would remind his lady of the promise she had given of writing soon.
Madeline, now more composed, no longer delayed acquainting her father of her visit to Montmorenci Castle. The instant she mentioned it he started, and betrayed the greatest emotion, but when she proceeded, when she informed him of her being summoned to the presence of the Marquis, of the inquiries he had made concerning the picture, he suddenly exclaimed with uplifted hands and eyes,
"Oh! Providence, how mysterious are thy ways!"
"The Marquis (said Madeline, obeying the motion which her father made for her to proceed) the Marquis promised that when least expected perhaps the mystery should be explained.—"
She paused, for at this moment she heard the trampling of horses feet—she looked towards the window and saw a man alighting at the gate, whom she immediately recollected to have seen at Montmorenci Castle.
" 'Tis a messenger from the Marquis," cried Madeline, sinking back in her chair. Her father started up, and rushed from the room; he met the man at the entrance of the cottage, and Madeline heard them talking together for a few minutes, they then repaired to the study, the door of which was directly bolted, and Madeline remained two hours by herself in a situation that can be better conceived than described—her father then returned to the parlour pale, trembling, disordered;—he entered it, he spoke not to Madeline—he seemed to have no power to speak—but he put an open letter into her hand. With an agitation that shook her whole frame she cast her eyes over it, and read as follows.
"The sigh of repentance has at length prevailed—heaven has given me an opportunity of making some atonement for the injustice I committed in my youth:—
"Come then, son of a much injured and unhappy love, come to your rightful home, to the arms of your father—
"The lamp of life but feebly lights his eyes; hasten then, while he has power to see—to bless you he would add—but that he is unworthy of bestowing a blessing.
"Hasten, that he may sink to his grave with some degree of peace, at beholding his rightful heir acknowledged; at beholding an heir better calculated than himself for supporting the honors of Montmorenci."
The variety of emotions that assailed the heart of Madeline on perusing this letter prevented all utterance, and she stood gazing on her father, the very image of astonishment.
"Yes, (said Clermont, at last, in a solemn voice), I am the son of a much injured and unhappy woman, the rightful though long unacknowledged heir of Montmorenci; called to a situation I was always entitled to, when too late for that situation to afford me any pleasure. So much am I attached to my present retirement, so congenial is it to my feelings, that nothing but respect to the memory of my mother, regard to the interest of my child, could tempt me to forego it."
"Heaven can witness for me, (cried Madeline) how little I desire you to leave it on my account. Oh! my father, no wealth, however great, no rank however exalted, can now confer happiness upon me."
"My child (exclaimed Clermont, clasping his arms round her) do not torture my soul by expressions which intimate such despondence. Oh, try to alleviate my misery, a misery which no time, no circumstance can banish from my mind, by letting me think that you will be happy,—by letting me think that the approaching change of situation will at least promote your felicity."
"I will try, my father, (said Madeline) I will try to be all you wish me."
"I have no longer any reason to conceal my former situation, (said Clermont) to-morrow therefore in our way to the Castle of Montmorenci, I shall relate a long and affecting story to you."
"To-morrow! (cried Madeline, gasping for breath) to-morrow do we go to Montmorenci Castle?"
"Yes, (replied Clermont) the servant who brought me the letter from his Lord and has just departed, informed me that a carriage would be here early in the morning, to convey us thither; tomorrow therefore I bid adieu to this cottage, in which I imagined my last sigh would have been breathed; to those shadowy woods which screened me from an invidious world; to those lonely shades which heard the voice of my complaining."
Madeline was not less affected than her father at the idea of quitting their retirement; the gaiety, the hopes, that would once have rendered her delighted with the prospect that now opened to her view, were fled, never, never she believed, to be revived.
Her father told her he meant merely to inform Jaqueline that they were going on a visit to a friend, but as soon as they were settled in Montmorenci Castle he intended to write to her and put her in possession of the cottage as a reward for her long and faithful services.
The preparations for their journey were made before they retired to rest; Madeline, at the time she accompanied the Countess de Merville had fortunately left some clothes behind, and these were now packed up for her.
In the solitude of her little chamber she gave vent to those feelings which tenderness for her father made her suppress in his presence.
"Alas! (she cried) are my hopes always to be disappointed?—must I resign the tranquillity of this cottage?—must I again launch into a world where I experienced little else than distress and danger?—Oh! scenes dear and congenial to my soul! (she exclaimed, as from a window she viewed the valley, now illumined by a bright moon), Oh! scenes dear and congenial to my soul, had I never left you I had never known the reality of falsehood, never been truly unhappy.
"I am now (she continued) about entering into a situation, which from disappointed hope I am incapable of enjoying; a situation which will give the world claims upon me, that from the sadness of my mind I shall be if not unable, at least totally unwilling to fulfil; far better, far happier than for me to remain in an obscurity, where, without strictures from others, or censures from myself, I might act as inclination prompted.
"But what do I say? (cried she, after a pause) do I repine at a change which restores my father to the rank he has been so long unjustly deprived of; at a change which will give to me the means of dispensing happiness to others. Oh! let me chase from my breast a grief so selfish, let me not wrap myself in sorrow and despair, and because the blessing I desired is not mine reject every other. Let me not, like a froward child, dash the proffered cup of joy from my lips, because there is not in it every ingredient I could wish. Yes, (she proceeded, as if animated by a new spirit), I will try to dispel a grief that enervates, that sinks me into languor, that makes me shrink from the idea of fulfilling the claims of society; and I make no doubt my efforts will be successful, for heaven strengthens those who wish to do right, and I shall be again, if not happy, at least tranquil; the felicity I shall have the means of bestowing on others, will soothe my feelings; the tears I wipe from the cheek of misery will dissipate my own, and the sigh I suppress in the bosom of affliction will prevent mine from risi
ng."
The entrance of Jaqueline now disturbed her, she came to make those inquiries which the presence of Clermont had hitherto prevented.
"Dear Mademoiselle, (said she, sitting down by the little toilette as Madeline began to undress) what in the name of wonder occasioned your coming home in the sudden manner you did?"
"Nothing that can afford you any pleasure to hear, (replied Madeline) I therefore request you may ask no more questions about it."
"Lord, Mademoiselle, 'tis very natural to inquire about what has surprised one so much. Well, if you had taken my advice, you would never have gone with the Countess—I knew very well how she would serve you; I knew there was no dependence to be placed upon the promises of the great, and you find I was not wrong in thinking or saying so: you see after promising you so fine a fortune, how she has popped off without leaving you so much as a sous."
"You hurt me extremely by talking in this way, (said Madeline) I beg you may never speak again in such a manner of a person who was my best friend, and whose sudden death alone prevented her fulfilling her generous intentions towards me."
"Ah! Mademoiselle, you are a good soul, and willing to excuse every one; but people will have their own thoughts let you say what you will. One looks so foolish now, (she continued) for my chief consolation during your absence was telling the neighbours of the fine situation you had got into for life. 'She has been taken (says I) to one of the finest castles in Dauphine, and from thence she is to be carried to Paris, where, no doubt, she will get a grand match as the lady, her friend, intends to give her a very large fortune; and as soon as she is settled in a house of her own. I am to be sent for, either to be her own woman, or housekeeper, 'twill be at my own option which."
"And pray, Jaqueline, how came you to say such things, when you foresaw, as you yourself acknowledge that I should be disappointed by the Countess?"
Jaqueline looked confused—
"Why, Mademoiselle, (said she, after the hesitation of a minute) I was sometimes inclined to think that she might be as good as her word."
"Well, Jaqueline, let this be a caution to you never again to mention expectations which you are not pretty sure of having fulfilled."
"Aye, Mademoiselle, we all grow wiser every day."
She now expressed her regret at the intended departure of Clermont and Madeline, and endeavoured to discover whither they were going; but Madeline evaded her questions, and when nearly undressed dismissed her, highly mortified at not having had her curiosity gratified.
Madeline's mind was too much agitated to permit her to rest, and though she went to bed, she passed a restless night; towards the dawn of day she sunk into a slumber, from which however she was soon disturbed by Jaqueline, who came to tell her the carriage waited. She started up and hastily began to dress.
"Do pray, dear Mademoiselle, (said Jaqueline) do pray come to the window and look at the carriage, I dare say you never saw so fine a one; 'tis so beautifully ornamented, and drawn by six horses, and there are four out-riders and three postilions: dear me, it must be a charming thing to ride in it! I dare say it belongs to a very great man, I should certainly have inquired from the servants, but that my master told me he would be very angry if I asked them any questions."
"Tell my father, (said Madeline) I shall be with him very soon."
"Yes, Mademoiselle, (replied Jaqueline) and by the time you come down the coffee will be made."
Madeline was soon dressed and descended the stairs; but instead of going directly to the parlour, she stole into the garden, to take a last leave of
"The native bowers of innocence and ease,
Seats of her youth when ev'ry charm could please."
Scarcely a spot within the garden but what recalled some happy, some delightful hour to her mind; such hours as she never more expected to experience.
O'er the trees beneath whose shelter she had so often sported in childish gaiety, so often enjoyed a delightful retreat from the meridian sun; o'er the flowers which she had planted, and with her pencil so often amused herself by copying, she could now with difficulty prevent herself from weeping, and like the poet she exclaimed,
"Farewell, ye flow'rs, whose buds, with early care,
I watch'd, and to the cheerful sun did rear;
Who now shall bind your stems, or, when you fall,
With fountain streams your fainting souls recall."
"No more, my goats, shall I behold you climb,
The steepy cliffs, or crop the flowery thyme;
No more extended in the grot below,
Shall see you browsing on the mountain's brow;
The prickly shrubs, and after on the bare,
Lean down the deep abyss and hang in air."
A deep sigh from a little bower near her startled Madeline: she looked towards it, and beheld her father: he came out and taking her hand, led her into the house.
Breakfast was ready, they took some coffee and then rose to depart; Jaqueline cried bitterly, but Clermont comforted her by an assurance of writing soon, and informing her where he was; he also desired her to choose some neighbour for a companion: with a trembling hand he assisted his daughter into the coach, which set off the moment he had entered it. The deepest melancholy appeared to have taken possession of both, and both for a considerable time observed a profound silence.
CHAPTER V
"A parent's soft sorrows to mine led the way."
Clermont at last addressed Madeline.
"I shall now, my love, (said he) fulfil my promise, and relate those events which tenderness made me hitherto conceal from you.
"In the chateau, where you enjoyed the society of one of the most amiable of women, the early and the most happy part of my life was passed under the protection of Count de Valdore, father to your lamented Benefactress; I understood that I was the orphan son of a very particular friend of his, who, though of a respectable family, was unable to leave me any provision, and had in his last moments recommended me to the protection of the Count. Had I been in reality the son of the Count, he could not have paid me greater attention than he did; neither he nor the Countess made any distinction between me and their only child Elvira, with whom, her age being nearly the same of mine, I was educated; the most eminent masters in every branch of literature, and every elegant accomplishment, attending us constantly at the chateau.
"Naturally of a gay disposition, and surrounded by everything which could add to that gaiety, I basked in the sun-shine, nor thought of any clouds that might hereafter obscure its brightness: indeed I had nothing to apprehend, for the Count had always promised me an ample provision. Alas! the happiness I then enjoyed but rendered the misery I afterwards experienced more acute; for recollected joys always sharpen the arrows of affliction.
"The first interruption my happiness received was by the death of the Countess, which happened when I was about eighteen; the grief I felt for her loss was such as an affectionate son must have felt for a tender mother, but, though poignant, it was faint to that experienced by the Count; nobly, however, he tried to check his own feelings, in order to appease those of his daughter and mine: his efforts in time succeeded; but, alas! scarcely were we beginning to regain some degree of tranquillity ere he was taken from us to that blessedness his whole life proved him deserving of. Smothered grief undermined his constitution, and in three months after the death of his lady he was re-united to her in those regions where they could never more be separated.
"When he felt his last moments approaching, he dismissed every one but me and Elvira from his room; we knelt on each side of the bed, and, in the most affecting language, he conjured us to submit, without repining, to the divine will; after he had bestowed a solemn and tender benediction upon his daughter, such as her filial piety deserved, he turned to me and took my hand:
"'My dear Lausane, (said he, for so I was called) I should have died unhappy if I had not had an opportunity of thanking you for the respect, the attention you ever paid to me and mine.'
"'Had heaven spared my life (continued he) a little longer, I should have disclosed to you a most important secret; it was decreed however that from me you should never hear it; but in a small India box, in my cabinet, you will find a packet addressed to you, and containing all the particulars I would have informed you of: when you read them, you will find that without knowing misfortune you have been most unfortunate; that without feeling injury you have been most injured; but as you hope for prosperity in this world, endless happiness in that to come, I entreat you never rashly to resent those misfortunes, or endeavour to revenge those injuries. Should the author of both still withhold that justice you are entitled to, you will not find yourself under any necessity of accepting his bounty, which in such a case would be degrading to you, as in my will, which will be opened as soon as M. Valdore, my daughter's guardian arrives at the chateau, I have made such provision for you as will enable you to hold the same place in society you have hitherto done.'
"I cannot describe the feelings excited by the words of the Count: astonishment overwhelmed my senses, and I would not long have delayed to seek an explanation of them, had he not died almost immediately after he had ceased speaking.
The Complete Northanger Horrid Novel Collection (9 Books of Gothic Romance and Horror) Page 307
