"'If then (resumed he) you think you can be happy in the retirement in which we live, for my fortune will not permit me to give you the power of entering the gay world, receive the hand of my daughter.'
"On my knees I expressed my gratitude, on my knees with truth assured him, that a desert with her would be a paradise. From his arms I received the most lovely and beloved of women. Oh! moment of ecstasy, in which I folded my Geraldine to my heart as my destined wife—in which I kissed away the tear that hung upon her glowing cheek, like the sweet dew of the morning on the silken leaves of the rose!
"St. Julian, who appeared almost overpowered with delight at my happiness, put off his journey in order to be present at my marriage, and gave me the most solemn assurances of dividing with me his paternal fortune whenever he came into possession of it.
"He left me the most blessed of men. Oh! days of delight, rapid in your course, and succeeded by years of misery and horror!
"I had been married about three months when I received a letter from my brother, informing me that he was ill, and anxiously desirous of seeing me. I sighed at the idea of even a transient separation from my love, but I could not resist the call of friendship, and accordingly set out for a cottage near the castle of Montmorenci, where St. Julian had once before lodged, and now appointed to see me.
"The heaviness of heart with which I commenced my journey was surely a presentiment of the ills that were approaching. Oh! venerable Dunlere, thy happiness and mine was then about setting!
"The chateau de Valdore lay in my way to the castle of Montmorenci; I could not think of passing it without inquiring after the friend of my youth, from whom I had heard but once since my departure from her house; our correspondence, as she then informed me, having been prohibited by her guardian. I went through a private path to the chateau, which conducted me directly to the hall occupied by the servants: here, amidst many strangers I soon discovered some of the old domestics, and from them learned that M. de Valdore and his family resided at the chateau, and that Lady Elvira's situation was unaltered. I sent to request an interview, and was almost immediately summoned to her: she received me with the most rapturous delight, and tears involuntarily fell from me as I recollected the kindness of her parents, and witnessed her pleasure at beholding me.
"When we grew a little composed, I answered her eager enquiries concerning all that had befallen me since our separation, and my present situation: but, Oh! what were my emotions when, as I mentioned that situation, I saw the blood forsake her cheeks, and discovered that it was more than friendship which she felt for me!
"'Married!' she repeated in a faint voice—she paused—she seemed trying to recollect herself, and attempted to wish me joy; but her tongue could not utter what she wished to say, and her head sunk upon my shoulder. Oh! Geraldine, surely I did not wrong thy love by the tears, the tears of unutterable tenderness which I shed upon her pale cheek—by the sighs which heaved my bosom on hearing her's.
"She soon however recovered:—her mind was the seat of every virtue, and shrunk from the idea of betraying feelings contrary to propriety—
"'Lausane, (said she) be assured I rejoice at your present happiness; the period I trust will arrive when I shall have an opportunity of beholding it; prepare your lady against that period to love and esteem me; tell her you have a friend, a sister, to introduce to her.'
"'Already (cried I) she is acquainted with the virtues of Elvira; already taught to love and esteem her.'
"In pity to her feelings, which I saw she could ill suppress, I determined to shorten my visit: when she saw me rising to depart, she desired me to stop another moment—
"'I have a present (said she) to send your lady: you know I often amused myself by copying pictures?—amongst the rest (continued she, with a blush) I copied your's, and now request you will take it to your lady.'
"She retired without permitting me to speak, and returned in a few minutes with it: it was the same which you now have, and which by being an exact copy of the one I sent my father, led to the late discovery.
"From that period particular circumstances, not necessary to explain, prevented my seeing or hearing any thing of the destiny of Elvira, till chance conducted her to our cottage. She then informed me, that soon after she was of age, she had united herself to the Count de Merville, whose virtues and tenderness rendered her, during his life time, one of the happiest of women, and thus rewarded her for the resolution with which she set about conquering her first attachment from the moment she knew it was improper to be indulged.
"From the chateau de Valdore I repaired to the cottage where my brother had desired to see me. He received me with the utmost affection, and I found he had not deceived me by saying he was ill; it was an illness however which seemed occasioned more by agitation than any bodily complaint; and I afterwards discovered I was not wrong in this opinion.
"Oh! had he confided in me; Oh! had he then opened his heart, divulged its cares, its anxieties, what misery, what horror would he have saved us both from experiencing!
"I had not been above a week with him when I was overwhelmed with sorrow by a letter from my wife, containing the melancholy intelligence of her lovely sister Eleanora's death.
"I could not hesitate a moment about returning to her directly; yet at the instant I determined on doing so, my heart was almost divided between her and my brother, who was seized with a violent fever the very day on which I heard from her.
"I will not pain your gentle soul, my Madeline, by describing the situation in which I found your mother, or relating the numerous train of calamities that followed the death of her sister; it is sufficient for me to say that within a few months after her decease I lost my brother and my wife.
"Ah, heavens! even at this distant period I shudder at the recollection of the excruciating anguish I endured on being deprived of friends so beloved. The world seemed a blank, and nothing but religion and tenderness for you could have prevented my quitting it; nor has time done more than appease the violence of that anguish.—Oh! never, never can the barb of sorrow be extracted from my heart; and respect for the memory of my mother, affection for you, could only have tempted me to quit a retirement, where unrestrained and unobserved I could have indulged my feelings.
"Lord Dunlere soon followed his children to their grave; the wreck of his fortune was placed in the hands of a banker at Paris, who failed about the time of his death. Thus, from necessity as well as choice, I sought the obscurity in which you were brought up.
"Disgusted with the world, I changed my name, in order to conceal myself from every one who had known me before, and thus prevent my retirement from being interrupted.
"I carefully concealed my story from you, well knowing from your sensibility the pain you would feel if acquainted with my injuries.
"Alas! too late is the hand of my father extended to do me justice; neither wealth nor titles can now confer pleasure upon me, and the coronet he is about placing upon my brow, I should reject, was it not to have the power of transmitting it to the child of my lamented love."
CHAPTER VI
"Thus conscience does make cowards of us all."
Here ceased Clermont, or, as we shall hereafter call him, St. Julian; but he ceased without gratifying the curiosity of Madeline: much of his story, she was convinced, remained untold, and she shuddered as she thought it was concealed merely because it was too dreadful to be known.
"Oh, surely, (she said, within herself) some mysterious circumstances must have attended the fate of my mother, or ere this my father would have mentioned her to me—ere this would have afforded me the melancholy pleasure of knowing I was descended from so amiable a woman, and taught me to reverence her memory; but what he wishes to hide I will not try to discover, confident as I am that if a full explanation of past events could have given me pleasure, I should have received it from him."
When St. Julian came within sight of his father's residence, the strong emotions which the idea of his approachin
g interview with that father inspired, took from him all further power of utterance.
The day was declining, and the deep gloom of the forest heightened the melancholy which the recital of past events had infused into the hearts of the travellers.
As soon as the carriage entered the court, the doors of the hall were thrown open, and a number of servants appeared, with eager impatience in their looks, to see and receive the newly declared heir of Montmorenci.
St. Julian now strove to regain his composure, that he might appear to bear the unexpected reverse in his situation with that calm dignity befitting a cultivated mind, and one which built not its happiness on the adventitious gifts of fortune; but vainly did he strive to do so. He trembled as he entered the ancient mansion of his forefathers, from which he had been so long unjustly exiled, trembled with violent emotion as he surveyed their warlike trophies, to which the spirit in his bosom told him he might have added, had not the hand of injustice plunged him in obscurity.
The resentment this idea excited was as transient however as involuntary, and though involuntary he repented it.
He was now called, he considered, to the presence of his father to receive from his hands, as far as in his power to make it, atonement for every wrong.
"And if such atonement satisfies heaven, (cried he) as we are assured it does, should it not amply satisfy weak and erring man?"
Agitation caused him to pause in the hall, and the domestics seemed pleased with the opportunity he thus afforded them of gratifying their curiosity; one of them bowing low at length spoke—
"The Marquis impatiently expects your arrival, my Lord, (said he); shall I have the honour of conducting you to him?"
St. Julian assented by an inclination of his head, and was immediately ushered up stairs to the apartment where his father sat.
On reaching the door he took the hand of Madeline, who with trembling steps had followed him to it.
The Marquis attempted to rise at their entrance, but neither his strength nor spirits seconded the effort, and faint and almost breathless he sunk back upon his chair.
St. Julian and Madeline knelt before him.
"Let the blessing of a father, (said St. Julian in a solemn voice) at length rejoice my heart."
The Marquis raised his venerable head—
"I am too unworthy to dare to give it (he exclaimed); but may heaven bless you, may all that can render life desirable be your's, long, long after I am laid within that grave where I now wish to shroud my sorrows and my shame!"
"Oh, my father (cried St. Julian, penetrated by his language), speak not so again; wish not again to deprive your son of an inexpressible comfort—the comfort of trying to mitigate your sorrows."
The Marquis embraced him, but was unable for some minutes to speak; then suddenly raising his head—
"Treat me not with tenderness, (he said, while a frown overspread his countenance) reproach, revile, neglect me, and you will show me mercy; for you will then save my heart from the intolerable pangs which kindness and attention so unmerited from you must give it. Oh! my son, my son, (he continued, clasping his hands together, and all the austerity of his countenance vanishing), you are now amply avenged, and I am amply punished. Had virtue been the guide of my actions, exclusive of that happiness which ever attends a quiet conscience, I should have had the happiness of being able to enjoy the society of my son; but now, what then would have been my blessing, almost becomes my curse; for not a word of tenderness that passes your lips, not a beam of love from your eye, but will come like daggers to my heart."
"Far better had it been then said (St. Julian) that I had remained in my obscurity, if I am only taken from it to aggravate the woes of a father: permit me, my Lord, (cried he, with increasing emotion), again to retire to it; permit me to withdraw from your presence a being so injurious to your tranquillity."
"No, (exclaimed the Marquis eagerly) never, never shall you, except you really wish to do so, withdraw yourself from me. Excuse what I have said, make some allowances for the agitation of such a meeting as our's; my composure will soon, I trust, return, and I shall then, I make no doubt, be able to enjoy your society.
"Rise now, my children, (extending a hand to St. Julian and Madeline) 'tis I should have knelt to you; but since you knelt for a blessing, though unworthy of giving, receive it: may happiness and honour, both in their fullest extent, ever be your's; may thy weakness (turning to Madeline, and kissing her soft cheek), ever find a tender guardian in thy father; and may his sufferings and filial piety to me be amply recompensed by thy affection and duty!"
He seated them on each side of himself, and the violence of his feelings having a little abated, began, notwithstanding the avowed wishes of St. Julian to the contrary, the history of his repentance.
"The dreadful fate of my son made me recollect my past conduct; all its enormities stared me in the face, and I wondered that the punishment of heaven had been so long delayed. Oh! wretch, (I cried, in the excruciating anguish of my soul) thy crimes have at length justly provoked the vengeance of Heaven, and drawn down destruction upon the head of thy son!——
"The idea, that the sins of the father had been the occasion of the death of the son, almost shook Reason from her throne; horrors, beyond language to express, took possession of me:—to try to appease them, appease agonies which often urged me to complete the measure of my guilt, by raising the hand of suicide against my life.
"I sent for a Monk from a neighbouring Convent, to pour out my soul in confession to him; an holy act which I had long omitted, from a consciousness that till now it would have been a mockery of heaven, as till now the real sigh of repentance had never heaved my breast."
"'My son, (cried the good man) you judge rightly in thinking that your conduct has caused your present afflictions; a merciful Being has sent them, in order to awaken you to repentance, and by suffering here, save your precious soul from suffering hereafter. Without further murmurs, therefore, submit to your deprivations as to a righteous punishment, and strive by every atonement in your power to expiate your crimes; so may you hope for a gleam of returning peace, so hope for support in the hour of death, when all the terrors of another world are opening to your view.'
"In consequence of his words, and the pleadings of my own conscience, I directly ordered the most diligent search to be made after you, but without effect. I then drew up a paper, acknowledging my marriage with your mother, and, consequently, you as my heir; which I lodged in the convent where my Confessor lived, that if by any chance either he or any of his holy brothers should hereafter hear of you, or any offspring of your's, they might be able to authenticate your title to the Castle of Montmorenci.
"Gratefully I return thanks to Heaven for permitting me to do that justice to you which I gave to others the power of performing; the pleasure derived from that idea will, I make no doubt, in a few days alleviate my feelings. But, Oh! my son, if your attentions have not always power to mitigate my sadness—if, whilst receiving them, the sigh of regret, the tear of tender recollection, should obtrude, be not offended, whilst I rejoice for the son I have recovered, I cannot help mourning for the one I have lost: he was all that the fondest father could desire! The proudest of the sons of men might have gloried in being called his parent. Ignorant as well as innocent of my great offences, his praises cannot displease you; but if they should, let the reflection of his being now in his cold and dreary tomb, where he can no longer interpose between you and your rights, remove your resentment."
"Oh! my father, (cried St. Julian, his tearful eye evincing the truth of his words) little do you know my heart if you think it can feel displeasure at the praises of my brother."
"I believe you, my son, (said the Marquis) and the belief gives me pleasure; for to think you will sometimes permit me to talk of him to you, sooths my feelings."
The appearance of a domestic now interrupted the conversation, and the Marquis led Madeline down stairs. The supper was laid out in one of the state apartme
nts which had been long disused; and though every thing was magnificent, every thing was gloomy.
Fatigued by her journey, or rather by the emotions of her mind, Madeline soon after supper entreated permission to retire to her chamber; an attendant was accordingly summoned to conduct her to it, and on leaving the parlour she found the housekeeper waiting in the hall for that purpose.
"Well, I am happy, (cried she, simpering and courtesying), that I have an opportunity at last of wishing your La'ship joy. Dear me, I have been so surprised at what has lately happened! Who could ever have thought that the night I had the honour of seeing your La'ship here, I should have had the so much greater honour of calling you Mistress."
Madeline received her compliment with a faint smile, for her heart was too heavy to permit her to answer it as at another time she might have done; nor was her melancholy decreased on entering her spacious chamber, whose faded tapestry and tarnished furniture spoke of its long desertion and neglect.
"I hope your La'ship does not dislike this apartment, (said the housekeeper, on perceiving Madeline pause at the entrance, and look round her with a kind of dread); it is one of the most magnificent in the castle I can assure you, and was occupied by my late Lady, the Marchioness, since whose death it has neither been used or altered."
"No, (replied Madeline, advancing, and endeavouring to shake off the impression which its gloom had made upon her mind), I do not dislike it."
"That door (cried the housekeeper) opens into the dressing-room; there my lady used to pass many of her hours: it was fitted up entirely under her direction, and ornamented with portraits of several of her most particular friends; amongst the pictures is one of herself, and another of Lord Philippe, her son, drawn about a year before his death; the room still remains just in the same state as when she died."
An irresistible impulse prompted Madeline immediately to take a view of these pictures; and she directly entered the dressing-room still attended by the housekeeper.
The Complete Northanger Horrid Novel Collection (9 Books of Gothic Romance and Horror) Page 311
