Affection for her aunt, whom she tenderly esteemed, and consideration for her daughter's interest, to whose fortune the possessions of her aunt would make a very splendid addition, determined Madame Chatteneuf to accept this invitation without delay; and she immediately ordered preparations to be made for her journey the ensuing day; and, in overlooking those preparations, and arranging domestic concerns, was detained at her house till within a short time of the Countess de Merville's usual dinner hour.
Amidst all the bustle that was going forward, Madeline sat motionless, and in the deepest dejection. She regretted the intended departure of her friends, not only as a means of depriving her of the exquisite pleasure she enjoyed in their company, but as a means of destroying her hopes of again beholding de Sevignie; for, notwithstanding what he had said, she was convinced he would continue a little longer at V——; and she had flattered herself that the Countess would again have permitted her to visit Madame Chatteneuf, and thus have afforded her once more an opportunity of seeing him; an opportunity she could not help sighing for, though now assured their attachment was hopeless.
In their way to the chateau, Olivia made her promise to correspond with her; a promise which Madeline gave with pleasure, yet with diffidence from a fear that she might not prove as entertaining a correspondent as her friend expected.
On entering the chateau, a presage of ill struck her heart at not beholding the Countess, who generally came forward to the hall with a smiling countenance, like the genius of hospitality, to welcome her friends.
"Where is your lady?" asked Madeline, turning to one of the servants.
"Above, Mam'selle, in her dressing-room; she has been rather indisposed to-day."
Madeline heard no more. Heedless, or rather forgetful at that moment of all ceremony, she instantly flew up stairs, leaving Madame Chatteneuf busy in ordering her servants to have the coach ready at an early hour, and found her friend sitting, or rather reclining, in a great chair, with an appearance of illness and dejection, which equally surprised and alarmed Madeline.
"Oh, madam! (said she inexpressibly affected, and taking her hand, which she pressed to her lips and her bosom), why, why did you not send for me before?"
"Because I did not wish to break in upon your happiness," replied the Countess returning the pressure of her hand, while her heavy eyes brightened with a sudden ray of pleasure, and a smile broke through the gloom of her countenance.
"Alas, madam (cried Madeline mournfully), you could not have broken in upon my happiness, for I experienced none (said she, suddenly recollecting herself), which I could have put in competition with that of attending you."
"I am truly sensible of your affection, my love (cried the Countess), and am grateful for it."
"You must have been indisposed longer than to-day I am sure, madam?" said Madeline.
The Countess acknowledged she was right in thinking so.
"And why, madam (said Madeline), did you permit your servant to deceive me last night by saying you were well?"
"I did not wish to give you pain while it was possible to avoid doing so," answered the Countess.
"Ah, madam (said Madeline, with an involuntary sigh), pain is doubly great when not expected."
Madam Chatteneuf and her daughter now entered, and both, by their words and looks, expressed their regret for the illness of the Countess. The former tenderly reproached her for not having immediately acquainted them of it.
"Why you may know (said she) by the short stay which Madeline has made with you, that I have not long concealed it from you. I was only taken ill the evening after she left me; and, had I grown better, I should yet a little longer, in compliance with your wishes, have debarred myself the pleasure of her company. But do not distress me (she continued, raising herself in her chair, and looking round with her wonted benignancy), by this melancholy; I am already better; your presence, my friends, like a rich and precious cordial, has revived me."
The exertion she made cheered her friends; and the conversation soon took a more cheerful turn. Madame Chatteneuf apologised for not coming at an earlier hour, by assigning the reason of her delay; and the Countess sincerely congratulated her on an event which had given her such pleasure.
"From the prospects of my friends (cried she), I must now derive my chief satisfaction."
"If they are as bright as your own (said Madame Chatteneuf) they must be pleasing ones indeed."
The Countess sighed deeply, but spoke not.
Olivia saw dejection again stealing round, and rallied her spirits to drive it away. No very difficult task indeed for her, as she was delighted with the idea of her journey to Italy. She talked of the conquests she expected to make; declared nothing less than a Marquis would satisfy her: and said the moment she was settled in her palace, she should invite the Countess and Madeline to it.—"And we will then try (she continued), whether our fair friend will follow my example, and give her little French heart in exchange for an Italian one."
"Seriously (cried Madame Chatteneuf, addressing the Countess), if we stay any long time at Verona, I shall flatter myself with a hope of having the pleasure of your company and Mademoiselle Clermont's."
"Do not indulge such a hope (said the Countess); for, be assured, my good friend, it would end in disappointment. There is but one journey which I can now look forward to."
The solemnity of her voice and manner, gave them no room to doubt the nature of the journey she alluded to.
"My dear friend (cried Madame Chatteneuf) you will really infect me with your gloom, and I shall begin my long and fatiguing journey with quite a heavy heart. At your time of life you may well look forward to many years. And, as I know of none whose continuance in life is more anxiously desired, so neither do I know of any who should more fervently desire that continuance themselves than you should, possessed as you are of every blessing which can render it happy—affluence—universal esteem—the consciousness of deserving it—and an amiable daughter who adores you, and is settled as happily as your fond heart can wish her to be."
"I am truly sensible of the blessings I possess (cried the Countess), and truly grateful for them, impute my melancholy not to discontent, but to illness."
Dinner was now served in the dressing-room; and, soon after its removal, Madame Chatteneuf rose to depart, having many important matters yet to arrange at home. She assured the Countess, but for the material reasons she had for hastening to Verona, she would have put off her journey thither till she saw her perfectly recovered. This was a measure the Countess declared she never would have consented to, and one by no means necessary to prove the strength of her friendship.
Madeline attended her friends down stairs, and in the hall received their adieu. She wept as they gave it; for their pleasing manners and kind attentions had inspired her with the truest regard.
"farewell! Madeline (said Olivia, tenderly embracing her); remember your promise of constantly writing; and may heaven grant us all a happy meeting to make amends for this melancholy parting."
"Amen!" said Madeline in a faint voice as she followed her to the coach, where Madame Chatteneuf was already seated, and which now drove off without any farther delay.
Perhaps no sound strikes the heart with greater melancholy than the sound of the carriage which conveys from us the friends we tenderly love, in whose society we have been happy, and whom we know not when we shall behold again. At least Madeline thought so; and her tears were augmented as she stood listening at the hall door to the heavy rumbling of Madame Chatteneuf's coach wheels. "Heaven grant we may have a happy meeting (cried she, repeating the words of Olivia): and yet, was I to give way to the present feelings of my heart, I should little expect such a meeting; but I will not (continued she, turning from the door to rejoin the Countess), I will not deserve evil by anticipating it."
CHAPTER X
Some melancholy thought that shuns the light,
Lurks underneath that sadness in thy visage.
-ROWE
She found the Countess leaning against the side of the chair, as if quite overcome by the parting with her friends. Madeline hung over her, but was too much affected to speak. In a few minutes she raised her head—"I feel rather faint (said she), and I will go upon the lawn, for I think the evening air will revive me."
She accordingly rose, but was so weak, she was obliged to lean upon the arm of Madeline in descending the stairs; and was then so exhausted by this exertion, that she had only power to reach a seat beneath the spreading branches of a chestnut;—a seat to which she had often led Madeline, as to one peculiarly dedicated to love and friendship; it owed its formation to her lord, whom the noble size and situation of the tree had charmed; and this circumstance, together with a complimentary line, devoting it to her, was carved upon its rind: in a beautiful opening of the wood it stood, commanding a fine view of the lake, and all around
The violet,
Crocus, and hyacinth, with rich inlay
Broider'd the ground.
"I love the shelter of those venerable boughs (said the Countess); they recall a thousand tender recollections: at such an hour as this, when day was declining, often I have sat beneath them with my lord, watching the sports of our children,—the lovely boys, whose loss first taught me the frailty of human joys, first convinced me that it is hereafter we can only expect permanent felicity. 'Tis a conviction of this kind, which loosens the hold the world too often almost imperceptibly gains upon the heart; let us therefore never dare to murmur at events that draw us still closer to our God."
Madeline sighed; she felt indeed that nothing will so soon detach us from life as disappointment.
"I fear, my love (cried the Countess), that I have infected you with my gloom."
"No, madam (replied Madeline) you have not."
"I fear (resumed the Countess, regarding her with earnestness), that some secret sorrow preys upon your heart; a sorrow which, perhaps if I knew, I might be able, if not to remove, at least to lessen."
"Oh, no, madam," exclaimed Madeline with involuntary quickness, terrified at the idea of revealing her hopeless passion.
"Then heaven forbid (cried the Countess), I should seek to probe a wound I could not heal."
"Forgive me, madam (said Madeline), I spoke unthinkingly. I know of none more qualified to heal the sorrows of the heart than you are; but—but my feelings (continued she, hesitating and blushing), require more the exertions of my own reason, than the sympathy of a friend; and—and be assured, madam I, to the utmost of my power, will use those exertions."
"I trust so, my love," said the Countess, who guessed the sorrow of Madeline proceeded from the disappointment of her hopes relative to de Sevignie.
"I trust so, my love; not only on your own account, but your father's, who, from your happiness, hopes to receive some consolation for the numerous, the dreadful, the unprecedented calamities of his youth."
"Ah, Heavens (cried Madeline, starting, and forgetting, in the horror and agitation of the moment, the resolution she had once formed of never attempting to discover the nature of those calamities), you shock my very soul by your words. Oh, why, why is there such a silence observed as to his former life!—a silence which makes me tremble lest some heavy misfortunes, in consequence of the events of it, should still be hanging over him."
"Madeline (said the Countess in a solemn voice), in my concern for your father, I spoke unguardedly; and I already repent having done so from the situation I see you in: but, as some atonement for doing so, I will take this opportunity of cautioning you against all imprudent curiosity; let no incentive from it ever tempt you to seek an explanation of former occurrences; be assured your happiness depends entirely on your ignorance of them: was the dark volume of your father's fate ever opened to your view, peace would for ever forsake your breast; for its characters are marked by horror, and stained with blood."
Madeline grasped the Countess's arm in convulsive agitation;—"I swear (said she, raising her other hand, and looking up to heaven), from this moment, never, by any means, direct or indirect, to try and discover ought that my father wishes to conceal."
"I rejoice to hear this resolution (cried the Countess, kissing her cheek); I rejoice at it on your own account. And now, my love, let us change this discourse. You have promised (she continued) to try and recover your spirits; and I shall attentively watch to see whether you fulfil that promise. Oh, Madeline, grief in the early season of youth, is like frost to a tender flower, unkind and blighting; and no tongue can describe, no heart, except a parental one, conceive the bitter, the excruciating anguish which a parent feels at seeing a beloved child wasting the bloom of youth in wretchedness,—pining, drooping, sinking beneath its pressure.—From such wretchedness may heaven preserve your father! Oh, never, never may the distresses of his child precipitate him to his grave!"
Madeline almost started, she looked earnestly at the Countess; and fancied that the energy with which her words had been delivered, declared a self-experience of the sorrow which she mentioned. The idea however was but transitory; and as she dismissed, she wondered she had ever conceived it. "No," she said to herself, "the Countess has felt no sorrow but what the common casualties of life have occasioned."
Both were silent for some minutes; Madeline at length spoke:—"It grows late, my dear madam, and I fear your staying longer in the night air may hurt you."
The Countess instantly rose, thanked her for her kind solicitude about her; and, leaning on her arm, returned to the house; they supped together in her dressing-room, and parted soon after for the night.
Madeline retired to her chamber deeply affected by the incidents of the day,—incidents which had increased the dejection she felt in consequence of those she had experienced at V——to a most painful degree. Instead of undressing, she sat down to indulge her melancholy thoughts, but was soon interrupted by a tap at the door; on desiring it to be opened, Floretta, one of the Countess's women, entered.
Whenever attendance was necessary, it was she that waited upon Madeline, who liked her much for her liveliness and good-nature; she had been in the Countess's suite at the time she stopped at Clermont's, and was daughter to an old and favourite deceased waiting-woman, whose place since her death she had filled.
"I was longing, Mademoiselle (said she with a smile and a courtesy), for an opportunity of welcoming you back to the castle. I hope you had a pleasant time at V——; but indeed I dare say you had, for Madame Chatteneuf sees a power of company they say; and she is in the right of it—company is the life of one; besides, it gives her daughter a chance of being married soon; I warrant she has a number of admirers; and I make no doubt but you, Mam'selle, came in for your share."
"You are mistaken indeed Floretta," said Madeline smiling.
"Not entirely, Mam'selle: Lord, didn't Jacques and Philippe tell me the first evening you went to Madame Chatteneuf's, there was no one there half so much admired as you were; and how you danced with the handsomest gentleman present who looked so tender on you, Monsieur—lord, I forget his name, but I dare say you recollect, Mam'selle."
Too well, thought Madeline. She sighed, but made no reply; and, rising, began to undress in order to conceal the agitation which the mention of de Sevignie had excited in her mind.
"You are come back to a dismal house, Mam'selle (said Floretta, echoing her sigh, which she imputed to regret for past pleasures), to a dismal house indeed, (shaking her head), now that my poor lady is ill."
"Its gloom on that account will soon be dissipated I trust (cried Madeline), by the perfect restoration of her health."
"Alas! I fear not (said Floretta with a greater seriousness than Madeline had ever before remarked in her countenance), her mind is too much disturbed to permit me to think it will."
"Disturbed! (repeated Madeline in an accent of the greatest surprise, and turning to her), why what has happened to disturb her mind?"
"Lord, don't you know?" asked Floretta with a kind of eager stare.
"No, I
can't even conjecture," said Madeline.
"Well, I could never have supposed my lady would have been so secret with you (cried Floretta, after the pause of a minute); though after all it does not surprise me, for I know it shocks her to have any one suspect his wickedness."
"Whose wickedness (asked Madeline eagerly)? you astonish me beyond expression by your words."
"Aye, and I could astonish you much more, Mam'selle (said Floretta), if I was to tell you all I know; for, from my mother's being a favourite with the Countess, and from my being always in her service, I know more of her affairs than perhaps any other person except Agatha does; often and often she has made me promise to keep them all profoundly secret; and to be sure so I have, and would always, except (continued Floretta, whose passion for telling secrets was equal to her passion for hearing them), except with a little hesitation, to such a friend as you are to her."
Highly as the curiosity of Madeline was raised, she instantly recoiled from the idea of learning the Countess's private affairs through the channel of a servant.
"No, Floretta (said she), except from the Countess, I can never hearken to such secrets as you would impart; had she wished me to know them, she would have communicated them herself. Had I been surprised into listening to them, I should have blushed tomorrow when I beheld her face, from the consciousness of having acted meanly and basely towards her; and so would you I am confident, at the idea of having violated your promise, and betrayed what should be ever sacred to you, the confidence of your Protectress and friend."
The Complete Northanger Horrid Novel Collection (9 Books of Gothic Romance and Horror) Page 289