At length her altered looks and manner discovered to her father the secret of her heart: bitterly he then regretted the hospitality which had introduced so dangerous a guest to her knowledge; and wondered he had not timely foreseen the probable consequences of such a measure, and avoided them. His attentions immediately slackened to de Sevignie; and he scrupled not to hint in pretty plain terms, that his visits at the cottage were attended with inconvenience. Severely however was his generous nature wounded at being compelled to speak in this manner; and as the words passed his lips, he averted his looks from de Sevignie, whose faded cheeks were instantly flushed by a pale hectic. Had Clermont seen a probability of his daughter's attachment ending happily, he would not have acted as he now did; but of this he beheld not the remotest prospect; for though de Sevignie appeared by his looks to admire her, and by his delay in the valley (now that he was sufficiently recovered to leave it), to be attached to her company, not a word expressive of that admiration or attachment ever escaped him: even if he had declared a passion, there would still have been a bar to Madeline's happiness from her father's ignorance of de Sevignie's real situation and circumstances; both which it was obvious he wished to conceal, as Clermont had more than once introduced a conversation calculated to lead to the mention of them, from which, with visible confusion, de Sevignie instantly withdrew.
The day after the alteration took place in Clermont's manner, an alteration Madeline wept in secret, de Sevignie absented himself from the cottage till the close of evening; he then entered the room where Clermont and Madeline sat dejectedly together, and informed them he was come merely for the purpose of taking leave, having fixed on the next morning for his departure: delighted to hear this, Clermont lost all coldness, and would have conversed again as usual with him, had the spirits of de Sevignie permitted him to do so; but Madeline was unable to speak; pensively she sat in a window, wishing, yet fearing, to quit the room, lest her father and de Sevignie should suspect the motive which tempted her to do so.
At length de Sevignie rose to depart; Madeline also involuntarily arose.—"farewell! sir (cried he, addressing Clermont with a kind of solemnity in his looks); I cannot do justice to the feelings that now swell my heart; I shall not therefore attempt to express them.—Once more, sir, farewell! (taking his hand, and pressing it to his breast) may that happiness you merit be ever yours,—greater I cannot wish you: then turning to Madeline—"and you, Mam'selle, who, like a ministering angel, tried to soothe the sorrows of a stranger!"——He paused—a tear at that instant stole from beneath the half-closed eyelids of Madeline, and gave him emotions he could scarcely conceal; he tried, however, to proceed, but in vain; and, clasping her hand between his, he bowed upon it the adieu he could not articulate: then snatching up his hat, rushed from the house, followed by Clermont; not indeed, from any idea of overtaking him, but merely to give Madeline an opportunity of recovering herself.
"He is gone then (said she, sinking upon a chair); we have parted to meet no more!—Oh, de Sevignie! I now almost regret we ever met!"
Absorbed in melancholy, she forgot the necessity there was for trying to suppress her emotions before her father's return, till his step, as she imagined, in the hall roused her from her reverie, and made her precipitately fly to another room which opened immediately upon the stairs. She had scarcely gained her chamber, when Jaqueline entered.
"Come down, Mam'selle (said she), Monsieur de Sevignie is below, and wishes to speak with you."
"With me! (repeated Madeline, starting from the seat on which she had thrown herself); good heaven! (in inexpressible agitation, the agitation perhaps of hope) what can he have to say to me?"
"I am sure that's more than I can tell (said Jaqueline); but I will go and inform him you are coming." So saying, she descended the stairs, followed by Madeline as soon as she had wiped away her tears. De Sevignie was waiting for her at the parlour door—"I came back (said he in a hesitating voice as she entered) to return the poems which you were so obliging as to lend me, and which I forgot this evening when I came to take leave."
The colour which had mantled the cheeks of Madeline died away, and she took the book in silence from him.
"Permit me now (cried he) to return those thanks for your attentions, which, when I saw you before this evening, I had not the power of doing. Oh, Madeline! (as if with irrepressible emotion) who can wonder at my being then incapable of speaking."—Madeline turned from him to conceal the feelings he inspired, and walked to the window; he followed her—"this evening (cried he) I have bade a final adieu to felicity; to-morrow, to-morrow at this hour, oh, Madeline! and I shall be far, far distant from this spot!—I shall only behold this lovely face in idea:—tell me (he continued, taking her hand, and looking at her with the most touching softness), when I am gone, may I hope sometimes to be remembered, as a friend?—to think of living in the memory of those I love, would be to me a soothing pleasure, the only pleasure I can enjoy."
Madeline promised not to forget him; 'twas a promise her heart told her she would truly perform. De Sevignie still lingered after receiving it;—"I must be gone at last (cried he); every moment I stay but increases my reluctance to depart. Oh, Madeline! no words can express my heaviness of heart at thus bidding a last adieu to——" He paused—but his eyes expressed what his tongue left unfinished. Madeline sat down; her tears fell in spite of her efforts to restrain them: de Sevignie grasped her hands in his; he looked at her with a countenance full of anguish.—"I must fly (said he), or I shall no longer have any command over myself." The breeze that blew in at the window had wafted aside the hair of Madeline from her forehead; de Sevignie pressed his lips against it for a moment; and, dropping on his knees, "bless, heaven (he cried) bless with the choicest of thy gifts, the loveliest of thy works!"—then rising precipitately, he once more rushed out of the house.
Madeline, more dejected than ever, returned to her chamber; nor could any effort she made for the purpose so far restore her composure as to enable her to join her father (whose walk had been purposely lengthened on her account) at supper: she excused herself by pleading a head-ache. Clermont sighed, as he thought that a heart-ache was what she should have said. The departure of de Sevignie Clermont trusted would check the passion of Madeline; and that, like an untoward blossom of the spring, it would gradually die away—the "perfume and the suppliance of a moment:" how greatly therefore was he disappointed when convinced of the falsity of this idea, by the alteration which took place in her after the departure of de Sevignie; the rose forsook her cheek; she pined in thought, and neglected all her former avocations: with an anguish which no language can express, he watched over her; he did not hint at the observations he had made; but gently and by degrees he strove to lead her back to her former pursuits, well-knowing that employment was the best antidote against melancholy: he also frequently hinted, that she should be particularly watchful of her peace, as his entirely depended on it. These insinuations at length recalled her to a sense of what was due to him and herself; and she felt guilty of ingratitude in so long giving way to feelings which, by injuring her tranquillity, had interrupted his: a conviction of error was followed by a determination of making every possible atonement for it; she therefore struggled against despondency, and applied herself more assiduously than ever to her wonted occupations: success crowned her exertions; her health returned, and with it its almost constant attendant—cheerfulness; a cheerfulness, however, which derived its principal support from the hope of again beholding de Sevignie, and which sometimes, losing that support, sunk into despondency.
The winter glided away without any event happening in the least interesting to her feelings or her father's; and without lessening the impression which de Sevignie had made upon her heart: the scenes he had particularly admired about the cottage, she still wandered to; and the old castle still continued her favourite haunt; she copied the lines, though her doing so was unnecessary, for they were already deeply impressed upon her memory; and often visited the hou
se where he had lodged, and where every tongue was eloquent in his praise.
CHAPTER IV
Friendship, of itself a holy tie,
Is made more sacred by adversity.
-DRYDEN
One night in the latter part of spring, as Clermont and Madeline were preparing to retire from the parlour for the night, a loud and violent knocking at the hall-door suddenly startled them: an apprehension of danger however never entered their thoughts; some neighbour taken ill, they supposed, had sent for relief; and, under this idea, Clermont hastened to open the door; but how great was his amazement on doing so to perceive a total stranger.
"Don't be alarmed, sir (said the man, who was young and appeared agitated, on perceiving him step back); I am servant to a lady of distinction, who is travelling from Paris to her chateau about ten leagues from this, and has met with an unfortunate accident in the valley, her coach being there overturned, and so much damaged, that she cannot proceed on her journey till it has been repaired: at a loss, in the mean time, for a place to stay in, she has sent to the owner of this cottage, who I suppose, sir, (bowing) you are, to request he will have the goodness either to permit her to remain a few hours in it, or inform her where she can gain admittance."
Clermont instantly desired him to present his respects to his lady, and inform her that he was happy he could have the honour of accommodating her. The servant bowed again, and hurried away, while Clermont put the light into Jaqueline's hands, and returned to the parlour to assist Madeline in settling it. In a few minutes approaching steps were heard, and a lady, somewhat advanced in years, but of a dignified and benignant aspect, entered the room. Clermont approached to welcome and receive her, but suddenly stopped, as did the lady, and, to the inexpressible amazement of Madeline, they both gazed on each other with all the wildness of surprise.
"Good heaven! (exclaimed the stranger, first breaking silence) do I really behold a friend so valued, so long anxiously sought after—do I really behold my ever esteemed—."
Clermont started; turned his eye upon his daughter; as quickly glanced it at the lady, and laid his hand upon his mouth: she seemed to understand the sign; sighed—paused—and looked down; then again raising her eyes—"I bless the accident (cried she), which has been the means of discovering to me the retreat of a friend so valued."
"I cannot indeed regret it (said Clermont, advancing, and taking her hand to his heart); I cannot regret what has again introduced me to the notice of the Countess de Merville,—what has convinced me that a being still exists interested about the unfortunate Clermont."
"Clermont! (repeated the lady, with a mournful voice); oh, my friend! but there is no name, no title by which you would not be equally estimable to me."
"Allow me (said he, looking at his daughter), to introduce another recluse to your ladyship."
She bowed; and Clermont advancing to Madeline, who, lost in wonder, had hitherto stood contemplating them, took her trembling hand and led her forward. The Countess clasped her to her bosom; then suddenly held her to a distance from it, and exclaimed—"what a resemblance!"
"A fatal one (cried Clermont); it often embitters the pleasure I take in gazing on her; the eyes, the voice, the smile!"
"Come, my good friend (said the Countess), reflect that there is no earthly pleasure without alloy, and try to support the common lot with fortitude: I believe I need not bring any proof to confirm the truth of what I have said, that the cup of joy never comes into mortal hands unmixed with bitter ingredients."
"No (replied Clermont), I want no proof of the truth of your words."
"I hope and believe (said she), that the destiny of this dear young creature will be happier than was that of the person she resembles."
"If not (cried Clermont, raising his eyes), grant, oh thou supreme Being! that I may never live to see it fulfilled." His own energy struck him; he recollected himself: handed the Countess to a chair, and briefly informed Madeline, whom he saw almost stupefied by surprise, how she should arrange matters for the accommodation of their guests; entreating her at the same time, to hasten whatever supper could be procured. She directly left the parlour, but was greatly surprised to find two females standing in the hall, younger, but not quite so well dressed as the Countess. She expressed her regret at their having continued so long in such a situation, and her wonder at their not having accompanied the Countess into the parlour: they smiled on each other at this, and said they were only her attendants. Madeline blushed at her mistake, for she had supposed them companions of the Countess, and conducted them into a small room adjoining the parlour, used by her father as a study: here, having procured lights, she left them. She found Jaqueline stirring up the fire, and asked her how she could suffer the strangers to continue so long in the hall?
"Why, Lord a mercy, Mam'selle (said Jaqueline), how could I think of every thing? here have I been in such a fuss, ransacking my brain to know what we should do about supper. Lord, what an unlucky thing it was that Father Pierre dined here to-day; he has always such an appetite; only for him some of the fowl at least would have been left, and then I could have made some rich gravy, and tossed it into a fricassee in a moment. I am sure I am as sorry as the lady herself can be about the accident; not that I should have cared a pin about it had it happened in summer or autumn, when one would have had nothing to do but put out their hand to gather something nice; but now nothing can be got for love or money."
"I am sure (said Madeline, with a look of distress), I don't know what is to be done."
"Well, Mam'selle, there's no use in fretting any more about the matter; I'll dress a good dish of eggs, and what with them and the new cheese, and some of your sweetmeats, we'll be able to furnish the table pretty tolerably."
"We must bestir ourselves, my good Jaqueline, for the rooms are yet to be settled; my father is to have a mattress brought down to the study for himself; and you must make up a bed here for yourself, as I shall be obliged to take your's in consequence of giving my own to the Countess."
"Holy Virgin! what a hurly-burly's here, (exclaimed Jaqueline); Lord what ill luck we had that they should fix on our cottage in preference to any other in the valley."
"Hush, hush, (said Madeline); consider how ill-natured it is to regret giving shelter to those who were benighted and distressed."
"Well, Mam'selle, if you'll lay the cloth, as I am so busy; I'll be after you in a moment with supper."
"Very well (replied Madeline as she took it up); and pray do not forget the strangers in the study." She then proceeded to the parlour, where she found her father and the Countess sitting by the fire, apparently engaged in an interesting discourse, which her presence interrupted. Clermont rose to assist her in laying the cloth; and the Countess watched her every movement with looks that spoke the warmest admiration: never indeed had Madeline appeared more beautiful; surprise and agitation had heightened the faint glow of her cheek to a bright crimson, which increased the lustre of her eyes, and rendered it almost dazzling. With downcast looks and hesitating accents, she apologised to the Countess for the frugal fare she was compelled to set before her. Jaqueline soon made her appearance with it; and ere she retired, was again reminded of the servants in the study, for whom she received some of Madeline's nice sweetmeats, and Clermont's best wine.
Either from compliance to the delicate feelings of her entertainers, or from real inclination, the Countess seemed to enjoy her supper; every thing indeed, though simple, was excellent in its kind. Her conversation now turned on general subjects, and Madeline was disappointed beyond expression, for she had flattered herself it would have recurred to former days, and of course explained to her what she had so long sighed to know, namely, the real origin of her father, and those misfortunes which had occasioned his present seclusion: and her disappointment rendered her unable, as she otherwise would have done, to enjoy the conversation of her new and noble guest; which, like her eye, still retained all the fire of youth, and indicated a spirit at once penetrating and b
enignant.
Clermont appeared unusually animated; and Madeline, amidst her wonder and disappointment, blessed the chance which had produced an incident so pleasing to him. Soon after supper, the Countess complained of fatigue: Madeline immediately took the hint; and having seen that a chamber was ready for her, offered to conduct her to it; an offer which the Countess instantly accepted; but her attendance was not permitted; the Countess's women were summoned, and from their lady's room repaired to the one allotted for them.
Madeline returned to the parlour, hoping that her father would explain whatever appeared mysterious to her, but she was disappointed; for he instantly said that he must wish her good-night, as he was extremely fatigued. Madeline could not help believing this was a pretext to avoid entering into conversation, and with involuntary dejection she received his adieu, and retired to her little chamber. Here she sat a long time pondering over all that had passed, and wondering why such profound secrecy should be observed to her: wearied at last with conjectures, she repaired to bed, but her mind was too much disturbed to let her rest as quietly as usual. About the middle of the night she was startled by a noise from below stairs; trembling she sat up in the bed to listen more distinctly; and in the next moment heard a soft tap at the door of the room adjoining hers, in which the Countess slept; she immediately stole out of bed, and unlatching her door, opened just as much of it as would permit her to observe what was going on without being discovered. She had not stood here a minute, when the Countess's door was opened with as much caution as her own had been, and she saw her coming from it with a light; and then, to her inexpressible amazement, beheld her father standing in the passage, who, taking the hand of the Countess, led her softly down stairs. It was some time before Madeline could move, so much was she astonished; a number of uneasy sensations rushed upon her mind; but she was too innocent to harbour any ideas prejudicial to her father and his friend: she concluded they had chosen this time as the best for talking over affairs which they wished to conceal. What an opportunity, thought Madeline, is there now for discovering those affairs:—she instantly flew to the chair on which her things were thrown, and snatching up a wrapper, threw it over her with breathless impatience, and hastened to the lobby;—but here she paused and reflected,
The Complete Northanger Horrid Novel Collection (9 Books of Gothic Romance and Horror) Page 282