CHAP. 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 benignant.
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,
"Good heavens! (cried she, whilst she felt her cheeks suffused with the burning blushes of shame); good heavens, what am I about doing!—going to steal meanly upon the privacy of my father and his friend!—a father, from whose uniform tenderness I might well suppose that nothing which had a tendency to promote my happiness would be concealed;—a father, who has so sedulously cautioned me against any action contrary to virtue; that any deviation in me is inexcusable.—Fie, fie, Madeline, what a wretch art thou! how unworthy of his goodness! how little benefited by his precepts!" She returned to her chamber, fastened the door, and sitting down upon the bed, burst into an agony of tears—"I shall be ashamed to meet my father's eyes in the morning (cried she), I am sure my looks will betray my guilt: well I am resolved I will punish myself for it; henceforward I'll never express the smallest curiosity to be acquainted with his affairs; and never more will I scold Jaqueline when I catch her with her ear to the key-hole listening to our discourse."
She continued lamenting her conduct and imploring heaven to forgive it, till she heard the Countess, notwithstanding the lightness of her step, returning to her chamber. Roused by this, she then first perceived that day was dawning, and cold and exhausted crept into bed, where she lay till it was time for her to rise. As soon as dressed, she went down to assist Jaqueline in preparing breakfast, and found her the only person yet up.
"Why, Mam'selle (said she, the moment she saw Madeline), I believe you slept but poorly last night, for you look very pale."
"Do I," said Madeline, with a sigh.
"Yes, indeed; and I fancy I don't look vastly blooming myself, for my rest was not over good I can assure you; I thought I heard strange noises last night; do you know, Mam'selle, I don't half like those strangers."
"We must give them their breakfast however (said Madeline); so pray, Jaqueline, let us lose no more time in talking."
"Bless you (cried Jaqueline), you'll find I have lost no time in getting it ready; the coffee is ready for making, the things are laid, and I am just going to the dairy for the butter and cream."
Madeline turned into the parlour, and walked to the window, but not now, as heretofore, to gaze upon the prospect with delight: her mind was sunk in the heaviest dejection; for, for the first time, it was conscious of error; and all that had before charmed, was now disregarded.
Oh, Innocence! first of blessings! how tasteless without thee would all the pleasures of life appear to a heart of sensibility! as no state can be happy without thee, neither can any be truly wretched with thee; thy smiles can give fortitude to the weak; thy power can blunt the arrows of adversity: he who cherishes thee shall, in the hour of misery, be rewarded by thy consolations,—and blessed, thrice blessed are they who know them.
Madeline was not long in the parlour ere her father entered. After the usual salutations, he began a conversation which seemed contrived for the purpose of knowing whether Madeline felt any curiosity about the proceedings of the last night; he at length took her hand, and leading her to a chair, seated himself by her,
"My dear Madeline (said he), you were no doubt surprised at what you saw last night; and your silence respecting that surprise, pleases me more than I can express, as it at once convinces me of the command you have over yourself, and the respect you have for me."
Praise so undeserved was more cutting to the heart of Madeline than the severest reproaches could have been; she burst into tears; declared her unworthiness, her contrition, and implored her father's forgiveness.
"An error (exclaimed Clermont, after the pause of a minute, and taking the hand which he had suddenly relinquished), so ingenuously acknowledged, so sincerely repented, I cannot deny my pardon to: but, my dear Madeline, let the conviction of your weakness, render you more fervent than ever in imploring heaven to strengthen your virtuous resolutions: let it also influence you to make allowances for the frailty of others; 'tis inexcusable in any one to triumph over the indiscretions of another, which perhaps the want of similar temptations alone prevented their falling into; but doubly inexcusable in those who are conscious of having committed them."
"From the first pang of remorse, judge of the horrors which ever attend misconduct, and strive to avoid them by ever resisting inclinations that side not with your duties: to oppose our passions, is finally to conquer them; like cowards, they are tyrannical with the weak, but timid with the brave: and no victory can be so glorious as one obtained over them; 'tis applauded by our reason, sanctioned by our conscience, and applauded by him who records the smallest effort in the cause of virtue."
"Oh, my father (said Madeline), henceforward I trust I shall convince you I have profited by your lessons."
"Be your error forgotten (resumed Clermont), or only remembered as a caution against any future one. And now, my child, to return to last night; you were no doubt astonished at the feelings manifested by the Countess de Merville and me at our unexpected meeting; but strong as is our mutual regard, friendship is the only tie between us: how that friendship commenced, or was interrupted, would not be more painful to you to hear, than to me to relate, supposing our stolen interview was for the purpose of talking over affairs which we wished to conceal; a wish dictated by regard to your tranquillity; as the Countess knew my past, so was she now acquainted with my present situation; and in consequence of being so generously noble, humanely offered to take you under her protection."
Madeline started, and would have spoken, had not a motion from Clermont enjoined her to silence.
"You know not (he continued), heaven only knows it, the load of anxiety her offer has removed from my heart; unnumbered have been the sleepless nights, the wretched days I have passed on your account; looking forward to the hour which should deprive you of my protection (a tear dropped from Madeline on his hand); which should leave you forlorn in a world too prone to take advantage of innocence and poverty: the asylum of a cloister was the only one I had means of procuring you; but to that you ever manifested a repugnance, and I could not therefore influence you to it; the free-will offering of the heart is alone acceptable to heaven: besides, I do not thoroughly approve such institutions; I think they are somewhat contrary to nature; and I can never believe that beings immured for life, can feel gratitude so ardent, piety so exalted to the Almighty, as those who, in the wide range of the world, have daily opportunities of exploring his wonders, experiencing his goodness, and contemplating the profusion of his gifts. The Countess de Merville is just the guide to whose care I can consign my beloved girl with confidence and pleasure; her virtues are as fascinating as her manners; and though her ability to do good is great, her wish is still greater.
"With her you'll move in a sphere of life very different from your present one; and against the dangers so often attending sudden exaltation I would caution you, did I not know that she will at once cherish you with the tenderness of a parent, and watch you with the sedulity of a friend: all I shall therefore say is, that I trust you may ever continue the unaffected child of nature; ever remember that modesty is the best ornament of a female, and simplicity her chief attraction: the Countess departs after breakfast, and you then accompany her."
Madeline again started; all the pleasure she might from a lively fancy have derived at the prospect of such a change of scene, was damped by the idea of leaving him;—"oh, my father! (she said, bursting into tears), how can I leave you!"
"Equally affected as herself, and bitterly lamenting the cruel necessity which could alone have caused a separation, he clasped her to his bosom, and mingled tears with hers; in pity to his feelings, he besought her to moderate hers; to consider the tranquillity he should enjoy from having her under such protection. He told her in a few months, if it pleased heaven, they would again meet, as the Countess then intended to return to Paris, and had promised in her way to it to make some stay at his cottage.
Madeline, comforted by those words, wiped away her tears, and said, she would try to compose herself. Clermont then took a small picture, plainly set, from his pocket; "I know (said he), your tenderness will be gratified by this present; accept therefore, my dear Madeline (putting it into her hand) the copy of what your father was when his cheek was unfaded by age or care, his spirit unbroken by disappointment."
Madeline had never before seen this picture, she received it with transport; though from its being done at a very early period, she could now scarcely trace any resemblance in it to her father.
The Countess now entered the parlour with a countenance open as day, and irradiated with the sunshine of good-humour:—"Well (cried she to Clermont), have you told our young friend that I mean to run away with her?"
"Yes (replied he), and she has no objection to the measure, but what proceeds from her reluctance at leaving me."
"If she did not feel that reluctance, (said the Countess), she would be lessened in my esteem; but while I admire, it will be my study to remove it."
"I am convinced it will," said Clermont.
"And I, madam, (said Madeline), am truly sensible of your goodness; I feel it at my heart; and it will be the height of my ambition to merit it: oh, what joy should I derive from it, but for quitting my father!"—A tear, in spite of her efforts to restrain it, trickled down her cheek; but she hastily wiped it away, and seated herself at the table, to which Clermont handed Madame. The emotions of Madeline prevented her eating and she lingered over the breakfast things, long after her attendance was necessary, till the Countess, looking at her watch, begged she would pack up whatever she wanted to take along with her, as she expected the carriage every moment, and was anxious to begin her journey that it might be terminated at an early hour, the roads about the chateau being very lonesome.
Madeline immediately rose and repaired to Jaqueline to obtain her assistance, and inform her she was going.—"Alack a day, it was an unlucky hour which brought those strangers to our cottage! (cried the good-natured Jaqueline); here they have come to disturb our happiness and comfort, and leave me and my poor master like two solitary hermits: we never more shall have any pleasant music! never more any midnight serenades, or dancing on the lawn—no, no! Claude and Josephe will never more come about the house with their flutes when you have left it;—poor lads! often and often have I scoffed at them for doing so, and said they might as well pipe to the kids on the mountains as to you, who was a lady born, I was sure. And then, Mam'selle, if the Chevalier de Sevignie should ever re-visit the cottage, how sadly he'll be disappointed at finding you gone; for I'll never believe but what he was deeply in love with you; what else could have kept him in the valley so long after he was recovered, or make him come loitering about the cottage as I discovered him one morning?"
Jaqueline had now touched a chord which could not bear vibration. Madeline from being pale, turned red, and then pale again; and, hastening up stairs, desired Jaqueline to follow her directly, Jaqueline obeyed; and Madeline, too much agitated to do much for herself, gave her the things to pack up which she wanted to take with her; then leaning pensively against a window which commanded a view of the castle, "I am going then, (said she to herself); going, I may say, into a new world, without really knowing the family to which I belong,—the mother from which I sprung, or one circumstance about her: but why do I indulge this restless curiosity? oh, let me try to repress it, as well from the resolution of last night, as from the conviction, that could the knowledge I desire add to my happiness, it would not be kept from me:—never, therefore, may my rashness again attempt to raise the veil which prudence as well as tenderness, I must believe, has cast over past events."
"Well, Mam'selle (cried Jaqueline), your things are now packed, but heaven knows most unwillingly. Is there no way by which you could avoid going?"
"No, (replied Madeline), for my father wishes me to go, happy to have me under the protection of a lady who is as good as she is great."
"She may be very good indeed (said Jaqueline); but that's more than her attendants are, I fancy; I don't like them at all, they did so titter at me last night when I went to the study with their supper, though I am sure I paid my compliments to them very handsomely: Lord they think, because they have been in Paris, that no body but themselves knows any thing of good-breeding."
Madeline now descended to the parlour; and in a few minutes after the coach appeared. She trembled and wept, and the fortitude of Clermont almost forsook him; he blessed, he embraced her with unutterable tenderness; he put her hand into the Countess's, and said he committed to her charge his only earthly happiness,—the only treasure he had preserved from the wreck of felicity,—his sole friend, almost his sole companion, for fifteen years.
The Countess, convinced that to delay would rather increase than diminish the emotions of both, hastened to the carriage, The Countess, convinced that to delay would rather increase than diminish the emotions of both, hastened to the carriage, led by Clermont, and followed by Madeline, her attendants, and the weeping Jaqueline.
"I shall certainly break my heart (cried the latter as she walked by Madeline), and this great lady will have my death to answer for: Lord send she mayn't have any more sins upon her conscience; they say those Paris folks are sometimes very wicked."
Madeline cast her pensive eyes alternately on her father, his cottage, and the lovely prospect surrounding it: "oh, dear preceptor of my youth! oh, solitary scenes of early infancy! (she cried to herself) how gladly would I resign all the pleasure which, perhaps, awaits my entrance into another situation, to continue the companion of one,—the peaceful inmate of the other!"
More dejected than words can express, she entered the coach, whose swiftness soon made her lose sight of her father; but while one glimpse of his habitation could be seen, she did not turn her eyes from it; and when a winding of the valley hid it from her view, she again sighed, and implored the protection of heaven for its beloved owner.