CLERMONT.
CHAP. I.
——————Witness ye Pow'rs
How much I suffer'd, and how much I strove.
The evening was far advanced when Madeline went upon the lawn. It was now the dusky hour of twilight, when the glow worm "'gan to light his pale and ineffectual fires" amongst the tangled thickets of the forest, and the vespers of the birds and the toils of the woodman had ceased. The beetle had now commenced its droning flight, and the owlet her sad song from the ivy mantled turrets of the castle, intermingled, or rather lost at times, in the hoarse and melancholy cries of waterfowl returning to the little islands on the lake, across which came the hollow sound of a distant convent bell.
Madeline stood some minutes upon the lawn as if to enjoy sounds, which by suiting, soothed the dejection of her mind; but the kind of pleasing trance into which they lulled her, was of short continuance; all the perturbed thoughts which anxiety and attention about the Countess had, during the day, in some degree dissipated, soon returned with full power; and as she cast her eyes on the bleak and distant mountains, fancy, torturing fancy presented de Sevignie to her view, a sad and solitary wanderer about them. His head unsheltered, exposed to the unwholesome dews of night; his ideas unsettled, perhaps wandering after her, who like himself was a child of sorrow.
Wrapt in melancholy meditation, heedless almost whither or how far she went, she now wandered down a lonely and romantic path, which led along the margin of a lake to a stupendous mountain that terminated it: in this mountain were numerous cavities, some of which had been formed into agreeable summer retreats by the Count and Countess de Merville; the foremost of these was a spacious grotto, whose sides and roof were formed of rugged stone, ornamented by beautiful crystalline substances, which sparkled in the rays of the sun, that sometimes pierced through crevices in the roof like the finest brilliants; its floor consisted of smooth pebbles curiously inlaid, and its arched entrance was nearly overgrown by a thick foliage of ivy, whose dark green was enlivened by the bright tints of several wild flowers: while thick around the myrtle, the laurestine, and the arbutus, reared high their beauteous and fragrant heads, stretching their fantastic arms through its crevices: immediately above them rose a wood of solemn verdure, which reached half way up the ascent; the rest of the mountain was rocky and bare of vegetation. The beauty and sweetness of the shrubs; the lovely prospect it commanded of the lake and skirting woods, and the solemn shadows cast upon it by the trees above, rendered the grotto a delightful place for retirement.
————————————In shady Bower,
More sacred or sequester'd tho' but feign'd,
Pan or Sylvanus never slept, nor Nymph,
Nor Fauns haunted.
From this cavity, through an irregular but not inelegant arch, formed by a chasm in the rock, was an entrance into another, in the centre of which a deep and spacious bath had been contrived many years back, which was constantly supplied by the cold limpid streams of the mountain; this bath, like the grotto, received its only light from apertures in the roof, from whence wild shrubs hung in fantastic wreaths; and about it were smaller caves that answered the purpose of little dressing-rooms; but those caves, the bath, and grotto, had been long neglected: for since the death of the Count, who had constantly resorted to them for health and pleasure, the Countess had never been able to bear the idea of approaching them. Her desertion confirmed the superstitious stories, which had long been in circulation amongst the servants and peasantry, of their being haunted by some of the former inhabitants of the chateau; nor would one of them venture near the mountain after sun-set, for almost any consideration.
Hither, as I have already said, Madeline now wandered, almost without knowing whither she was going; but when she found herself at the grotto, feeling a little fatigued, she sat down upon a moss covered stone at its entrance: the present scene was perfectly adapted to her feelings, and like the poet she might have said,
Those woods, those wilds, those melancholy glooms
Accord with my soul's sadness, and draw forth
The voice of sorrow from my bursting heart.
The grotto behind her was now involved in utter darkness, and the lake, which lay before her, tinctured with the gloom of closing day, appeared black and dismal; except where it reflected one of the beautifully chequered clouds of evening, or the scattered stars that alternately glittered and disappeared: as if unwilling to disturb the silence of the hour, it stole with gentle undulations to its green banks; and no sounds, but those of its soft murmurs, the melancholy rippling of the water within the grotto, and now and then a hoarse scream from a wild-fowl on the lake, could be distinguished.
The thoughts of Madeline were therefore not interrupted; and fancy again represented de Sevignie rambling about the gloomy heights, whose outlines she could just discover: She shuddered at the idea of the dangers to which such conduct exposed him.
"Oh, de Sevignie! (she cried aloud, speaking in the agitation of her soul, ) would to Heaven we had never met, since by meeting, we have only become sources of wretchedness to each other; painful as is our separation, that pain to me would be mitigated, did I know you were in any degree happy; but while I imagine you miserable, peace must continue a stranger to my breast."
She paused, for at this instant a deep sigh, from the innermost recesses of the grotto, pierced her ear, and made her start with terror from her seat. Though she had early been taught to contemn the weakness which gives rise to superstition; and, though in the hour of composure she derided it, yet there were moments when her spirits were exhausted, such a moment as the present, in which it found admission to her breast.
Every fearful story, which she had heard of the grotto and other caves of the mountain, now recurred to her memory, and she almost feared the spectres they described would start to her view; for of a human creature being in the grotto at an hour of darkness, such as the present, she had not an idea, from the dread she knew entertained of it. She was hastening away as fast as her trembling limbs could carry her, when the sound of an approaching step took from her all power of motion, and she sunk to the earth in an agony of fear; almost instantly, however, she was snatched from it, while a voice to which her heart vibrated, the soft the tremulous voice of de Sevignie, assured her of her safely.
"Madeline! (he exclaimed, while he prest her to his throbbing heart) my Madeline! can you forgive the terror I involuntary caused you."
"Good heaven! (said Madeline, raising her head from his shoulder) do I really behold, (as if doubting the evidence of her ears, and eyes, ) do I really behold de Sevignie,—why (she continued) why, for what purpose did you come hither."
"Ah, Madeline! (he said) cannot your own heart inform you; have you no idea of the sympathy which drew me hither, to wander round the mansion you inhabit; to indulge my feelings by treading, or fancying I trod, in the paths you frequented. Oh, Madeline! what to happiness would be trifles, are to sorrow and despair matters of importance."
While he spoke, the tremors of Madeline had somewhat subsided; but emotions different from those of fear, though not less painful, still agitated her mind; emotions which delicacy, dissatisfied with itself, had given rise to; she did not desire, nor ever had attempted to conceal her friendship for de Sevignie, but situated as they were, she did not wish him by any means to know, it was of so fervent a nature as her expressions in the grotto must have implied; and overwhelmed with confusion at the idea of them, she endeavoured, as soon as she could move, to disengage herself from his arms, in order to return home.
"Against your inclination I will not detain you, (said he) and yet (contradicting his words by still holding her to his breast) to part with you so soon, at such a moment as this, is almost more than I can bear; oh Madeline! to affect ignorance of what you said in the grotto, would be to betray insensibility; I have heard you (he continued, with a voice of rapture) I have heard you in accents which pity might acknowledge her's, pronounce my name. Think then, Madeline, and excuse my doing so, whether at a moment which has given me the sweet assurance of being sometimes thought of, sometimes pitied by you, I can without the utmost reluctance let you depart immediately."
"You have heard me, de Sevignie (cried Madeline, trying to speak in a collected voice,) but on your honour, on your delicacy I rest, to bury in oblivion what you heard."
"In my heart eternally," said de Sevignie.
"You must promise to forget it, (proceeded Madeline) that I may try to be reconciled to myself."
"Forget! (repeated de Sevignie) no Madeline, never will I give a promise which my heart protests against fulfilling; the memory of what I have heard I will cherish; I will treasure, as all that can give pleasure to my existence; in all my wanderings, amidst all my cares, I will recur to it for comfort and support; for never can I feel quite forlorn, never utterly miserable, while I imagine I am regarded, I am thought of by you."
Madeline sighed, and averted her eyes from his, in order to conceal the feelings his language excited. Reason opposed a longer continuance with him, by convincing her a lengthened conversation would only add to her subsequent anguish when they parted: but her heart recoiled from the idea of quitting him so soon, so abruptly, when perhaps they might never meet again; she wished too, to stay a few minutes longer, to caution him against the dangers which his wild and solitary rambles exposed him to.
For this purpose, after a little irresolution, she ceased to make an effort to leave him, and opened her lips but her voice faltered; and she felt that she could not express her apprehensions for his safety, without betraying the tender interest she took in it. Suddenly, therefore, she broke from him and moved on.
For a minute he stood transfixed to the spot where she had left him; then starting, he exclaimed thus, "thus, do I ever find my happiness transient! oh, how exquisite was that, which but a few moments ago pervaded my soul at the idea of your pity;—a pity, which your abrupt departure convinces me you either wish to disavow or suppress."
"Alas! (cried Madeline, involuntarily pausing, and turning to him) of what avail would be my pity."
"Oh, it would sooth my cares; it would assuage my sorrows: Repeat, then, my Madeline, repeat the sweet assurance of it, and spare a few minutes longer to wretchedness and me."
"No, (said Madeline, who ashamed of her past weakness resolved to give no farther proof of it, ) it grows late, and I must quit this place; to continue much longer here, would, I am convinced, occasion a search after me, and consequently might subject me to the reproach of carrying on clandestine proceedings."
"Go, then, Madam! (exclaimed de Sevignie, in passionate accents) go, Madam! obey the rigid rules of propriety, and disregard my sufferings; sufferings, which you yourself have caused. Yes, Madeline, 'tis on your account my youth is wasted, my hopes o'erthrown, my comforts blasted: but go—no assurance of pity now would sooth me; for I am now convinced, what you feel for me is not a settled feeling, but a mere involuntary impulse, such as any son of sorrow may equally excite."
He turned abruptly from her, and with quick, yet tottering steps hastened to the grotto, against whose side he suddenly flung himself, as if for support.
At another time to be accused of insensibility might well have inspired Madeline with resentment; but now she could only feel compassion and tenderness for him, whose pale and disordered looks gave such melancholy evidence of his sufferings. Not more affected by his words, than terrified by his manner, to depart without seeing him in some degree composed, was impossible, and she walked slowly towards him, trusting, that at her approach he would rise, and that she might then be able to prevail on him to quit the Forest. He did not move however, and after standing a few minutes by him she ventured softly to pronounce his name. Still he continued silent and motionless, and her alarm increased; she stooped down, but could not hear him breathe,—his hand lay extended from him, she gently raised it, but almost immediately let it drop with horror at finding it cold and lifeless.
He was dying perhaps, and she had not power to assist him. "Oh, de Sevignie! (she exclaimed, in the agony of her soul) de Sevignie! speak to me for heaven's sake, or I shall sink with terror."
He started, as if the vehemence of her words had roused him; turned and surveyed her for a minute with a vacant eye. His recollection then returned, and with it all his gentleness.
"I have been ill, (he said) extremely ill; I never was so disordered before, but 'tis the effect of weakness; this is the first day I have been able to come out since we last parted."
"Good heavens! (cried Madeline) what imprudence to come hither; oh, de Sevignie, what can make you act in a manner so injurious to yourself, so distressing to your friends."
The energy of her voice, the paleness, the wildness of her countenance, proved to de Sevignie the alarm he had given her.
"Ah, Madeline, (said he, taking her soft trembling hand in his, ) I seem fated to give you uneasiness; but be composed I beseech you, and also be assured, I never more will intrude into your presence;—to-morrow, I leave V——— for ever. Too long indeed have I persecuted you; I blush at the recollection of my impetuous conduct; to apologize for it as I wish is impossible; but never, never, shall I cease to regret it. Permit me, (he added) to leave you near the house, the way to it is solitary, I will then depart."
"No, (replied Madeline) there is no danger in my going alone; besides, if I permitted you to accompany me, I should bring you out of your way: for this path near the grotto is the shortest one to the road."
"Farewell, then (cried he, pressing her hand to his cold lips, ) farewell, (he repeated as he resigned it, ) but as this is the last time we shall probably ever meet, let me have the comfort of hearing from you, that you do not utterly detest me for the uneasiness I have caused you."
Madeline attempted to speak, but her voice was lost in the emotions of her soul, and she hung her head to conceal the tears which trickled down her cheeks. They did not, however, escape the penetrating eyes of de Sevignie: he again took her hand, "I cannot leave you, (said he) "in this situation; you weep, you tremble; oh, my Madeline, rest upon me."
"No! (cried she, resisting the effort he made to support her) I am now better; let us therefore part, and part for ever."
De Sevignie repeated the word, then yielding, or rather overcome by the anguish of his heart, he fell at her feet; he implored the choicest blessings of heaven for her; he besought her forgiveness for the rashness, the impetuosity of his conduct. "The remembrance of such forgiveness may at some future period (he continued) a little alleviate the pain of separation."
How unnecessary for Madeline to assure him by words, of that forgiveness which her looks exprest; with streaming eyes she hung over him; yet not their separation alone caused her tears. His broken health and spirits were subjects of yet greater regret, and scarcely,—scarcely could she prevent herself from kneeling on the earth beside him, and supplicating that heaven he had so recently addrest on her account to restore them; but though the supplication did not burst from her lips, it was breathed from the very depth of her heart.
In a moment of agitation like the present, the feelings of that heart could no longer be supprest, and de Sevignie now beheld the strong hold he had of its affections.
But the confirmation of her affection could not lessen his wretchedness, on the contrary, it seemed to increase it: He arose from her feet.
"Oh, Madeline! (he said) how inconsistent is the human heart; but a few minutes ago, and I fancied the assurance of your pity and regard would render me in some degree happy; now when you have permitted me to receive it, I feel myself more miserable than ever, and think, since the obstacles to our union cannot be conquered, I should have been less so had I still imagined you indifferent."
Madeline shuddered, "would to heaven! (cried she, emphatically) we had never met." Scarcely was she able to forbear asking what those obstacles were which he alluded to, but propriety checked the question; she regretted bitterly, regretted the divulgement of her sentiments, and the consciousness of its being an unpremeditated divulgement, could scarcely mitigate her regret for it; anxious to avoid the imputation of total weakness, either from de Sevignie or herself, she now summoned all her resolution to her aid, and after the silence of a few minutes, addrest him in a collected voice.
"Let us (said she) endeavour to reconcile ourselves to an inevitable necessity, the efforts of fortitude and virtue can never fail of being successful, and how can they be more nobly exercised, than in trying to repel useless sorrow. Let us from this moment, that no interruption may be given to such efforts, determine sedulously to avoid each other."
"Yet we shall meet again; (exclaimed de Sevignie in a passionate accent, and grasping her hand) our souls were originally paired in heaven; and though now separated by a wayward destiny, they will, my Madeline, be re-united in that heaven."
A tear, in spite of her efforts to restrain it, strayed down her pale cheek, but she wiped it hastily away. "'Ere we part for ever in this world, (she proceeded with a softness she could not repress) let me entreat you, de Sevignie, to exert that fortitude, which from reason, from education, from principle, you ought, nay you must if you please, be master of. 'Tis an injustice to yourself, to society; above all, to that divine Being who implanted such noble faculties in your mind as I know you to possess, to let them be destroyed by sorrow; besides, what grief must not the conduct which impairs your health and weakens your mind, give to all your connexions."
"My connexions! (repeated de Sevignie, looking steadily at her) my connexions;" and his eye loured on her.
"Yes, (replied Madeline) to your connexions, if their feelings are at all like mine. Oh, de Sevignie! if you really regard my tranquillity, promise, ere we part, to try and conquer your dejection, and to give up your solitary rambles; the idea of the dangers to which you expose yourself by them terrifies me."
"Ere we part, (said de Sevignie, who seemed only to have attended to those words) Oh! what a death-like chill comes over my heart at the idea of doing so. Never—never, Madeline, if honour, if gratitude permitted, would we separate."
"If they are combined against us (cried Madeline) it were not only foolish but criminal to think of acting otherwise than we are now doing."
"They are! (exclaimed de Sevignie) for would it be not dishonourable, ungrateful in the extreme, to attempt leading the daughter of Clermont—he to whose compassionate care, under heaven, I perhaps owe the preservation of my life; would it not, I say, be base, to attempt leading her from ease, security, the enjoyment of all that affluence can give, into care, danger, and obscurity. No, Madeline, I am not selfish; I am not a villain: I would not, for the mere gratification of my own passion, involve the woman I adore in trouble; nor should I gratify it by such conduct:—that storm which I could brave alone, I should sink beneath with her."
The obstacles which he had alluded to, seemed now explained: from fortune, want of fortune, Madeline was convinced they sprung. Charmed by the noble, the generous conduct of de Sevignie; ignorant of the difficulties and sorrows of life, when unpossessed of a competence; and believing, firmly believing, that her attachment for him could never be conquered, she was almost tempted to offer him her hand. To assure him ease, security, the enjoyment of all that affluence could give, would gladly be relinquished by her for the sake of sharing his cares, dangers, and obscurity; but delicacy, that celestial guardian of her sex, checked the rash impulse of romantic tenderness. She suddenly recollected herself, and recoiled, from the idea of the action she had been about committing, as if from a precipice.
"Gracious heaven! (she exclaimed within herself) how mean how despicable should I have appeared in his eyes, who can so nobly triumph over his own passion. Had I followed the impulse of mine, and offered my hand unsolicited, unsanctified, by the approbation of a parent or a friend. Ah, Madeline, you may well blush for your weakness."
Lest she should betray that weakness, she determined not to stay another minute with him, and bidding him a hasty adieu, she walked on. De Sevignie in a few minutes followed her, but he continued many by her side, ere he again spoke to her; at last he stopped, and taking her hand to detain her—"Madeline, (said he, as if hitherto absorbed in profound meditation, ) do you think, if I could render my situation more prosperous than it at present is, that your friends, if you had the generosity to desire it, would permit our union."
"I do (cried Madeline, hesitating, yet not able to repress this acknowledgment of tenderness, ) I think they would not oppose what would contribute to my happiness."
A sudden smile, the smile of rapture, illumined the countenance of de Sevignie; he clasped her hands in his; he raised them to heaven.—"Oh, what transport! (he said) to be able to contribute to your happiness; grant, heavenly powers, such blessedness may yet be mine! May I detain you Madeline, a few minutes longer to acquaint you with the plan, which I have just conceived, for conquering the obstacles that at present impede our wishes." Madeline could not reply in the negative, and de Sevignie began:
"To another"—said he.
At this instant an approaching step was heard, and in the next, the shrill voice of Floretta, calling upon Madeline.
Provoked by this interruption, de Sevignie attempted to lead Madeline amongst the trees which bordered the path; but though as much disappointed as he could be, she resisted the effort.
"No, (said she) I cannot go, 'tis the Countess, I am convinced, that has sent after me, and she would be terrified if I could not be found; besides if her servant discovered me trying to avoid her, what might she not say. Some other time must do for the explanation which you were about giving, and which I will confess, you could scarcely be more anxious to utter than I to hear."
"What time, (asked de Sevignie) I shall be all impatience, all suspense, till we meet again; to-morrow evening you may surely come hither."
"Perhaps," said Madeline.
"No perhaps, (cried de Sevignie) you must give me a positive answer."
"Well then, you may be confident, if in my power I will come."
"Adieu, then," cried he; again pressing her hand to his lips, then suddenly darting into the nearest path, he was out of sight in a moment.
Madeline paused on the spot where he had left her, to reflect on all that he had said, and congratulate herself on the prospect of felicity which was now opening to her view.
Her pleasing meditation was soon, however, interrupted by the appearance of Floretta. "Well, I am sure, (cried she, ) I am glad I have found you. Lord bless my soul, Mam'selle, how can you venture into such lonely places by yourself. I am sure nothing but compulsion could make me do so."
"I hope none has been used to-night," said Madeline, as she proceeded with her towards the chateau.
"That there has, indeed, nothing but the absolute commands of my Lady could have made me come hither; I wonder, I am sure, what could make her fix on me to look for you. She might have known it was not proper to send any girl by herself into such wild places."
"Your Lady knew there was no danger, (said Madeline, ) as none but her own peasants and servants are about them."
"Why, I don't say Mam'selle, there is any danger of meeting thieves, but there is of meeting much worse. Ah, Mam'selle, you know well enough what I mean; and you must be either very incredulous or very hardy, to venture near the grotto, after the horrid stories you have heard in the chateau about it; besides those stories, I could tell you others of it, which if you heard, would frighten you so much, that I dare say you would not be able to move."
"If you think they would have that effect upon me, pray don't tell them at present, (said Madeline, ) for I want to make haste to the chateau."
"Indeed I don't intend to do so, (cried Floretta, ) the very telling them would frighten me, and I am sure I am sufficiently terrified already."
"Why did you not get some one to accompany you," asked Madeline.
"A likely thing indeed, that any one would accompany me in the dark to such places; not but I tried, I can assure you. The butler was the first I asked; but no truly, he was getting his knives and spoons ready for supper. Then I entreated Mr. Jacques, the coachman, but he was just going to visit the horses; and as to the footmen, I know I might as well try to bring the pillars of the hall along with me. I tried the maids also, but one was going to settle the chambers, and another wanted to help the cook to get supper ready; and another—but in short they had all some frivolous excuse or other."
"Well, (said Madeline, ) though you did come alone, you met with nothing to frighten you."
"That shall never prevail on me, however, to venture again to such a place by myself, if I can help it."
By this time they had reached the chateau, and Madeline being informed by a servant, whom she met in the hall, that the Countess was in the supper parlour, directly repaired thither.