"Never, my Lord, (cried I); if your kindness and protection can only be acquired by stigmatizing the character of my mother, and degrading myself, the son of Madeline St. Foix will never consent to be called the child of infamy; my opinion of her veracity is unalterable, and though I may not be able to support, I never will renounce my claims."
"'Then you must for ever be an alien to me, (said the Marquis). Go, (he continued, with an agitated voice and a countenance inflamed by resentment), go, lest you should tempt me to curse the hour in which you were born.'
"With difficulty I suppressed the feelings which swelled my heart almost to bursting, but I determined not to forget that the author of my injuries was also the author of my being.
"I directly left the castle, and set out for the mansion which had fostered my helpless infancy. Ah! how different was the situation of my mind now from what it had been when I journeyed from it!—On entering it a servant informed me that M. de Valdore was arrived. I was too much disturbed to think of then paying my compliments to him, but I desired to be shown directly to Lady Elvira. Her tenderness, said I to myself, will soften the bitterness of disappointment; her gentleness will sooth the perturbations of my soul.
"I found her alone and in the deepest dejection. She started with astonishment at my unexpected appearance, and her eyes instantly brightened with pleasure; a brightness, however, which quickly vanished on surveying my countenance.
"'My dear Lausane, (said she, extending her hand) what mean those looks?'
"'Ah! my Elvira, (cried I) do they not render language unnecessary?—do they not tell you that my hopes were too sanguine?—that I have returned without finding the father I expected?'
"'Good Heaven! (said she, bursting into tears) you overwhelm me with misery.—Oh! Lausane, what will become of you?'
"Do not, my dear Elvira, (cried I) aggravate my feelings, by giving way to your's. My situation is not desperate!—Reflect that the bounty of your noble parents secured me from experiencing any pecuniary distress through the desertion of my father."
"'Oh! Lausane (exclaimed she in an agony) you are mistaken. M. de Valdore, who reached the chateau soon after you had left it, immediately opened the will of my father, in which your name was no where visible: this, I am convinced, unintentional omission, would give me little concern, could I immediately do what I know my father meant to have done for you; but M. de Valdore, without whose consent I cannot act, appears too selfish and illiberal to let me hope he will permit me to follow my wishes. Surely, surely my father was deceived with respect to the disposition of his relative, or he never would have chosen such a guardian for his Elvira; already he has told me, that if you returned to the castle, he would not suffer you to continue in it; views respecting me and his son, have, I am confident, inspired this resolution; he wishes an alliance to take place between us, and thinks that if you remained here, you might perhaps defeat those wishes: but I will kneel, I will supplicate him to drop the determination he has avowed; should he, however, have the cruelty to persevere in it, I can give you jewels of sufficient value to support you in the stile of life you have hitherto been accustomed to, till I am of age, when the doors of Elvira's mansion shall be again opened with delight to the adopted son of her parents, the friend of her youth, the brother of her heart.'
"Sad, silent, overwhelmed with misery, I listened to Elvira; her words gave the final stroke to my happiness; all the horrors of dependence stared me in the face, and ere she had ceased to speak, I had determined on ending the life upon which they seemed entailed.
"Formed for domestic comforts, (said I within myself) such comforts as my situation precludes my enjoying, life without them would be a burden. I will not, therefore, toil to support an existence valueless to me; I will not enter a world where I have no relative to guide, no friend to sooth me; where I might meet such men as the Marquis of Montmorenci and M. de Valdore; I will go to the mansion from which I am exiled, and gratify its master by destroying, perhaps in his presence, the being he detests.
"A kind of gloomy composure took possession of me from the moment I had conceived my fatal resolution. I made no comments to Elvira upon the conduct of her guardian; I attempted not to dissuade her from pleading to him in my favour, but pretending fatigue, I said I would retire for a little while to my chamber.
"As soon as I entered it, fearful of myself, fearful that my resolution would be shaken if I allowed myself a moment's thought, I put into my bosom a dagger, the gift of my late departed benefactor, and stealing out, bid, as I then thought, a last adieu to my hitherto happy home. I flew rather than walked, and about sun-set found myself in the gloomiest part of the forest of Montmorenci, and within view of the castle. Exhausted by fatigue and agitation, I threw myself upon the ground: it was a fine summer evening, and the beauty and serenity of nature formed a melancholy contrast to the horror and agony of my mind; the hour recalled a thousand tender images to my memory, a thousand happy scenes in which I had been engaged with the beloved protectors of my youth.
"Oh! joys departed! (I exclaimed) how bitter is your recollection!—but, for the last time, it now wrings my heart; to-morrow I shall be insensible of pain or pleasure.—Oh! sun, (I cried, raising my eyes to that resplendent orb, which in majestic glory was retiring from the world) never more will thy bright beams give me joy or vigour; ere they again visit the earth, I shall be cold and inanimate as the sod on which I now rest. Father of mercies! (I proceeded, raising myself on my knees) to thee I fly. I am forlorn, I am an outcast, where then but in thy bosom can I expect comfort or protection? Forgive me then, forgive me, for appearing in thy presence unsummoned; and, Oh! should the eye of a father behold my remains, behold them with compunction, let, I implore thee, that compunction extenuate his errors, nor suffer the blood I shed to rest upon his head."
"I attempted to raise the dagger to my heart, but felt at the instant my arm seized. Astonished, I looked round, and beheld him who was unjustly titled St. Julian.
"I rose, and tried but in vain, to disengage myself from him—rage took immediate possession of my soul.
"Release me (cried I) directly, lest passion should endue me with double strength, and tempt me to raise that hand against your breast which now I only wish to turn against my own."
"'Your threats are in vain, (said he); I will not release you till you assure me you have dropped your present dreadful intentions—till you assure me that you will have mercy upon your own soul.—Oh! kneel and deprecate the vengeance of heaven, for having thought of disobeying its most sacred injunctions, for having doubted its promises of protection, and despairingly determined on destroying what, as it gave, so only it should take.'
"The acknowledged heir of Montmorenci, the son of tenderness and prosperity, (cried I) may preach against a crime which he beholds no prospect of ever being tempted to commit; but were our situations reversed, was he, like me, an outcast, an exile from the house that should have sheltered and protected him, he would, like me, perhaps gladly resign a being valueless to himself from being so to others."
"'To more strength of mind, more firmness than other men, (said he) I do not pretend; but still I humbly trust that in the very depth of misery the sacred sentiments of religion I have imbibed would guard me against an act which would for ever close the doors of happiness against me. You shall not (he continued) throw me from you; I will save, I will serve you—we are brothers, suffer us to be friends. My heart conceived a partiality for you the first moment I beheld you, and I should then have declared it, had I thought its disclosure would have been pleasing to you.'
"I will not, my love, (proceeded Clermont, after a short pause) dwell longer upon a scene which I perceive has already inspired you with horror; suffice it to say I was not able to resist his kindnesses, which, from being unexpected, had a double effect; his gentleness allayed the stormy passions of my soul, his arguments convinced me of the enormity of the crime I had been about committing, and I dropped the instrument of intended destruction
to clasp his hand to a breast which heaved with strong emotion, forgetting in that moment that he was the usurper of my rights.
"Ah! had he been convinced he was the usurper of them, I am confident he would, without hesitation, have withdrawn from the place I should have filled; but the artful tale of the Marquis of Montmorenci completely deceived him: and while his generous heart acknowledged me as his brother, he considered me as the illegitimate son of his father.
"From the hour our friendship commenced I determined never more to mention the painful subject of my mother's wrongs and mine. But ere I would accept his offers of assistance, I made him assure me that his own feelings alone prompted him to serve me, solemnly vowing within my mind never through any hands, or by any means, to receive any mark of kindness from my father, except acknowledged by him in the light I wished.
"St. Julian (for so I now called him, though my heart swelled as I did so), informed me that in a few days he was going to Italy, and asked me to accompany him thither. This I gladly consented to do, and, in the interim he said he would bring me to the house of a cottager, where I might be secretly lodged: 'And ere we return to France, (continued he) we may think of some plan for your future establishment in life.'
"Ere I commenced my journey, I wrote to Elvira, acquainting her of the friend I had gained, and imploring her forgiveness for quitting her house in the abrupt manner I had done, carefully concealing, however, the motive which had prompted me to do so.
"St. Julian informed me, that his present excursion was merely for pleasure, as he had already made the tour of Europe.
"I shall pass over the admiration, the enthusiastic delight, which pervaded my mind as I ascended the Alps, and viewed nature in some of her most sublime forms.
"On the evening of the first day's journey St. Julian told me he meant to pass the night at the habitation of a very particular friend of his.
"'Some months ago, (said he) as I was returning from Italy to France, I was severely hurt near his house by the overturning of my carriage, and from him, to whom I was then a total stranger, received every attention which politeness or humanity could dictate. I should therefore deem myself highly ungrateful if I could think of passing his door without paying him my respects.
"'He is a foreigner, far advanced in life; a man of distinction, but unfortunate. Of the troubles which some years back agitated England, and its sister kingdom, I dare say you have heard. Lord Dunlere (so my friend is stiled) was one of the most faithful and zealous supporters of James the Second, and in consequence of his attachment to that unhappy Prince, became an exile from his native country, Ireland, and lost a considerable property in it:—with all he could preserve, a small pittance, he retired to the obscurity of these mountains, where, with two daughters, and a few affectionate followers, he lives a life of peaceful retirement, looking back on the world he has left without regret, and forward to the one to come with every hope of felicity.
"''Tis impossible to give you any adequate idea of the benevolence of his disposition, the urbanity, the cheerfulness of his temper: he continually brings to mind the stories we have heard of the patriarchs; his simplicity, his hospitality, exactly accords with the account we have received of them.
"'Of his daughters I must not speak, because I could not do them justice. I must, however, timely caution you against the charms of the elder, who is engaged to a gentleman, to whom she is prevented by particular circumstances from being immediately united; but the heart as well as the hand of the younger are at liberty I understand, and to wish them my brother's would be to wish him the greatest blessing man could possess.'
"Soon after this conversation we stopped at Lord Dunlere's. St. Julian went in first to prepare him for my reception, and in a few minutes returned with his venerable friend, whose looks were calculated to excite an immediate prepossession in his favour.
"He welcomed me with the utmost kindness, and conducted me to the apartment where his daughters sat. I cannot give you any idea of the surprise, the admiration which seized me on beholding them:—I saw indeed that my brother was right in not attempting to describe charms which no description could have done justice to. My eyes wandered for some time from one to the other, scarcely knowing which to give the preference of beauty to, but at last settled on the lovely face of Geraldine, the younger.
"Instead of staying but one night, we remained a week under the roof of Lord Dunlere—a week of such happiness as I had never before experienced—a week in which new feelings, new sentiments took possession of my soul, and taught me that I had hitherto been a stranger to the greatest pleasure, the greatest pain man can feel. I wished, I determined, however, if possible, to conceal my feelings—I regarded my passion as hopeless, and pride actuated me to hide it; but in vain I strove to do so; my melancholy, my total abstraction, amidst the new and lovely scenes through which I travelled, and the conversations into which I insensibly entered, betrayed me to St. Julian. He laughed, yet pitied, but neither desired me to hope nor despair.
"'Lausane (said he, one morning, after we had been two or three weeks in Italy), would it be vastly disagreeable to you if, instead of passing two months here as we at first proposed, we returned to Lord Dunlere's, and spent them there?'
"Ah! St. Julian, (cried I) you know my heart too well to render it necessary for me to answer you."
"In short, without longer delay we returned to that mansion on which my thoughts continually dwelt. Here, in the presence of her whom my soul adored, I forgot my resolution of trying to conquer—to conceal my passion:—ah! how indeed could I do so, when in the soft glances of her eyes I sometimes fancied I saw an assurance of its being returned. At length the period for quitting her arrived—for quitting without the smallest hope of again beholding her: the most excruciating anguish filled my heart the moment it was announced, and with difficulty I concealed it.
"Unable to converse the evening preceding the day fixed for my departure, I left Lord Dunlere and St. Julian together, and withdrew to an alcove in a lonely and romantic part of the garden, where some of my happiest hours had been passed with Geraldine, indulging a melancholy kind of pleasure at the idea of there giving vent to my feelings.
"You may imagine what my emotions were, when, on entering it, the first object I beheld was Geraldine!—She was alone, and dejectedly leaning on a little table. Reason bid me fly, but passion overpowered, and at her feet I poured forth my sorrows. Ah! how amply did I think myself recompensed for those sorrows when I beheld the tear of pity stealing down her cheek, when I heard her soft and faltering accents declare I was not indifferent to her:—but the rapture that declaration gave was transient: I reflected on my situation, and my soul immediately upbraided me with cruelty to her, and treachery to Lord Dunlere, in avowing my passion, and pleading for a return to it, when no hope existed of our ever being united.
"Pity me, Geraldine, (said I, wildly starting from her feet), but no longer love me; yield not to sentiments which will, if indulged, entail anguish upon your gentle soul, such anguish as now pervades mine—the anguish of a hopeless passion:—we must part, part without an idea of again meeting;—I cannot, dare not ask you to become mine; cannot ask you to bestow your hand on him who is but a dependant. No, Geraldine, were it offered I would reject it, from a conviction that by accepting it I should plunge you in distress!—Oh! mild as your virtues may your destiny be,—different, ah! far different from that of the unhappy Lausane's!"
"A sudden rustling amongst the trees behind me made me turn round, and I beheld Lord Dunlere. I was a little startled, but the consciousness of not having attempted to take any advantage of the tenderness of his daughter, prevented my feeling that confusion I should otherwise have experienced at being thus surprised. I bowed, and was retiring from the alcove, when he stopped me—
"'Lausane (said he), do not let me frighten you away: let me try (added he, with a benignant smile) whether I cannot obtain your pardon for my intrusion.'
"He seated himself by the almost fa
inting Geraldine, and motioned me to sit beside him.
"'You will not, Lausane, (said he, after a pause) be surprised I think, when I inform you that I have overheard your conversation, nor will you, I hope, regret my having done so; it was one which reflected the highest honour on your heart. He who can soar above selfish considerations, who can resist the pleadings of passion for fear of inconveniencing the woman he loves, evinces a generosity, a sensibility, that does credit to human nature.
"'I have long suspected your attachment; you will believe I did not disapprove it, when I confess I felt happy to think it was returned.
"'To men of virtue, not to men of greatness, I always wished to give my daughters; they only, of all the numerous connexions which once blessed me, remain; consequently my felicity solely depends upon their's: I therefore determined never to control their inclinations, if such as reason could approve.'
"Oh! my Lord, (I exclaimed) I cannot give utterance to my feelings; but, ah! will you indeed persevere in your generous intentions when you hear my sad story, when you hear that I have been not only deprived of fortune, but the name I have a right to?"
"'I am already acquainted with your story, (he replied); Count St. Julian related it a few days after your introduction to me. Your now mentioning it reminds me of a preliminary which must be settled ere I positively consent to give you my daughter, namely, that you solemnly promise never to enter again upon the subject of former grievances.'
"This was a promise which, even without having such an inducement as he now held out for making, I would not have hesitated to give, having long before determined to be silent about wrongs which I could not gain redress for.
The Complete Northanger Horrid Novel Collection (9 Books of Gothic Romance and Horror) Page 310
