CHAP. 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 approaching 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 apartments 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 first she examined was the Marchioness: it represented a woman in all the bloom of youth and of the most exquisite beauty; she turned from it, after expressing her admiration, to Lord Philippe's. But, Oh! what were her feelings at that moment, when the exact resemblance of de Sevignie met her eyes.
With all the wildness of astonishment she gazed upon it: "Are you sure (cried she, glancing for an instant at the housekeeper, and speaking in almost breathless agitation) are you sure this picture was drawn for Lord Philippe?"
"Sure! (repeated the housekeeper) Lord, yes, that I am indeed. Why I saw him, myself sitting for it."
"Good heaven! (said Madeline to herself) what a likeness! Ah! how vain, (she continued) my resolves to forget de Sevignie while his image will be thus almost continually before me."
As if riveted by some spell to the spot, she still continued to stand before it: the more she gazed upon it, the more if possible the likeness grew upon her.
"Do you think it a handsome picture?" asked the housekeeper, elevating the light as she spoke as if to give Madeline a better opportunity of examining it.
"Handsome! (repeated Madeline emphatically and with a deep sigh), yes very handsome indeed."
"Aye, and so do I; (cried the housekeeper), what a sweet smile there is about the mouth!"
Yes, (thought Madeline) the fascinating smile of de Sevignie.
"And the eyes! (continued the housekeeper) how piercing, yet how mild!"
Madeline, who had turned to the housekeeper, again fastened her's upon them, and again fancied she beheld the dark eyes of de Sevignie beaming with unutterable tenderness upon her.
She sighed more deeply than before; and fearful that if she remained much longer in her present situation, she should not be able to conceal the feelings which now almost swelled her heart to bursting, she instantly left the dressing-room.
"Your La'ship looks disturbed, (said the housekeeper); I am afraid the picture of Lord Philippe has affected you, by bringing his melancholy fate to your mind: Poor youth, it was a sad thing indeed; but your La'ship must consider, that if he had not been taken off, your father would never have been restored to his rights; and heaven knows, he was kept long enough out of them."
"I must for ever regret (said Madeline) that his restoration to them was occasioned by the death of his brother."
"Why to be sure, (replied the housekeeper) it would have been better if they could have been regained by any other means; but that that would ever have been the case there was very little probability of; and, between ourselves, (proceeded she, lowering her voice) since your La'ship has hinted at the affair to me, I think even if it was openly proved, instead of being merely suspected, as it is at present, that the Count, your father, when his injuries were considered, would not be condemned; I, for my part, am one of those who would forgive him for what he did."
"For what he did! (repeated Madeline, starting), why what has he done to require forgiveness? What is the affair you say I have hinted at? Speak,—you have agitated my very soul."
The housekeeper receded a few steps in evident terror.
"Why, nothing, I assure your La'ship, (exclaimed she in faltering accents) I only meant that—that—"
Here she paused in the utmost confusion.
"Speak! (cried Madeline, in a voice that betrayed the most dreadful agitation—an agitation caused by recollecting at that instant the conversation which had passed between her and the housekeeper relative to the murder of Lord Philippe on the night she had sought for shelter in the castle); speak, I adjure you, (she repeated, with a distracted air) and relieve me from the horrors you have inspired."
"I am very sorry, I am sure, (said Mrs. Beatrice) that I have so distressed your La'ship; like an old woman, I must always be prating; I only meant, my Lady, I can assure you, to say, that if it was known that the Count, your father, rejoiced at, instead of regretted, the death of his brother, no one could wonder at it, considering the reason he had to hate him as the usurper of his rights."
"And was this all you really meant?" asked Madeline.
"Oh, all, I do assure your La'ship, upon the word of a true Christian; if you do not believe me, I will call all the Saints in Heaven to witness for me."
Madeline could not help smiling:
"As it is a call, perhaps, (said she) they might not obey; I will take your word."
She now endeavoured to compose herself; but not easily could she regain composure, nor dismiss remorse from her mind, for having yielded, but for a minute, to the horrid suggestions which had lately pervaded it.
"Oh! was my father acquainted with them, (cried she to herself), never, never would he forgive me. Ah! how can I forgive myself—Ah! how support, without betraying it, the pain I must ever feel, for having thought unjustly of him."
"You seem well acquainted with the affairs of this family?" said she, sitting down, and making an effort to appear composed.
"Yes, very well acquainted with them indeed, (replied the housekeeper, significantly shaking her head); I have lived in it almost ever since I was born; for my parents dying when I was very young, my aunt, who was housekeeper, took me immediately under her protection."
It now occurred to Madeline, that the domestic who had liberated her unhappy grandmother might still be living; and anxious, if she was, to pay her the tribute of respect she merited, she inquired; and heard, with pleasure, that her present attendant was the person who had performed that generous act.
"Yes, my lady, it was I, (cried the housekeeper, bridling up), who freed the poor unfortunate lady: I was then a fine lively young girl, as your La'ship indeed may well suppose, from the number of years which have passed since that event; and the most tender-hearted creature, though I say it myself, that perhaps ever lived. Dear me, I shall never forget how I cried, when I went with some food to her, and found her sitting on the ground, so pale, yet so beautiful, with her hair, the finest hair I ever saw, about one shade darker than your's, my lady, hanging about her shoulders, and her little baby lying on her lap, on whom her tears were falling so fast, while a cold wind whistled through the broken windows; for she was confined in an upper room, in one of the uninhabited towers."
"Could I see that room?" asked Madeline.
"Why, the stairs which lead to it are now very bad; but if you wish very much to go to it, I think you may venture some day or other. Poor soul!—it has not been opened I believe since she left it. I never shall forget the manner in which she thanked me as I led her from it; or the tears she shed as she put this little ring upon my finger."
Madeline started up and examined the ring; then, after a moment fastening her fine eyes swimming in tears upon the housekeeper,
"Blessed, for ever blessed, (she exclaimed) be the hand which aided the unhappy!"
"There was such a fuss, (resumed Mrs. Beatrice), when it was known that she had escaped, I was very near being dismissed from the castle; nothing but my youth could have obtained my forgiveness: so in it I continued, and on the death of my aunt obtained her place."
"And what was the general opinion about the unhappy Marchioness?" demanded Madeline.
"It was the opinion of the domestics, and such simple folks, (replied the housekeeper) that she was an unfortunate lady, who had been cruelly injured; but all the great people believed, or said they did at least, that she was an artful creature, who had drawn in the Count to have an amour with her."
After conversing a few minutes longer with the housekeeper, Madeline told her, she no longer required her attendance. The night was now indeed waning fast, and most of the inhabitants of the castle had retired to repose, ere she dismissed her; however so much was her imagination affected by the gloom of her apartment, that she could not avoid asking, whether there was an inhabited one near it?
"Not very near it," answered the housekeeper; "the one adjoining it," she said, "had belonged to Lord Philippe, but since his death had been shut up, with all the rest of the chambers in that gallery, except a few near the staircase, one of which had been now prepared for the Count St. Julian."
Left to herself, instead of retiring to rest, Madeline reseated herself by the toilette, and leaning her head pensively upon her hand, began to ruminate over past events. The picture of Lord Philippe, by recalling de Sevignie to her mind, had awakened a thousand tender recollections, which wrung her heart with agony; the idea of de Sevignie's falsehood had failed to conquer her tenderness; she still loved him, still doubted his duplicity, and felt more convinced than ever that all the splendour of her present situation could never restore the cheerfulness her disappointment relative to him had injured: again she regretted that situation, again regretted that situation, again regretted her elevation to a height which would render more conspicuous the melancholy she wished to conceal from every eye.
"The sadness that marks my brow will make me appear ungrateful to heaven, (cried she) for the wonderful change it has effected in my father's favour; and what ill-natured speculations may not be excited by seeing one so young so hopeless!"
Severely, however, did her heart reproach her for regretting that change—a change which removed from the memory of her grandmother the obloquy that had been so long attached to it.
From the sufferings of her grandmother her thoughts naturally reverted to those of her father, and the more she reflected on his narrative, the more firmly convinced she was that much of his life remained untold;—the recollected words of her departed friend confirmed this opinion.
"She told me, (cried Madeline) and her lips knew not falsehood, that the calamities of his life were unprecedented; that its characters were marked by horror, and stained with blood;—but in the view he gave me of it, no such calamities, no such characters met my eye; 'tis therefore too evident, that much of it remained concealed.—Oh! may that concealment now continue, (she proceeded); Oh! may no hand more daring than mine withdraw the veil I have been so cautiously against raising; may no untoward circumstance reveal a mystery, whose elucidation I have now a presentiment would fill me with horror!"
She suddenly paused, for at this instant she thought she heard a groan from the adjoining chamber; which, it may be remembered, has already been mentioned as once belonging to Lord Philippe.
Her heart beat quick, and she turned her eyes towards the partition, as if they could have penetrated it, and discovered the cause of the sound that had alarmed her; but all again was profoundly still, and she at last began to think it was either the wind growling through the casements, she had heard, or some of those unaccountable noises, so common in old houses; such, she recollected, as had often startled her at the chateau of the Countess de Merville.
Thus trying to tranquillize her mind, she was beginning to undress, when the powers of motion were suddenly suspended by a repetition of the sound which had so recently alarmed her—a sound she could no longer ascribe to the causes she had already done.
Deep and dreadful groans now pierced her ear—groans which seemed bursting from the bosom of misery and despair, and which by degrees rose to a yell, intermingled with sighs and sobs.
That Madeline was not an entire stranger to superstition, must have been already perceived; that it was now awakened in her breast, cannot be denied, nor indeed scarcely wondered at, when her situation is considered; in a gloomy chamber, remote from every inhabited one, and assailed by noises from the long unoccupied apartment of a murdered relative.
For some minutes she was unable to move: at length her eyes timidly glanced round her chamber, dreading yet wishing to ascertain whether any terrific object was within it. They encountered a bell near the head of the bed, and which the housekeeper had previously informed her communicated with the gallery where the servants slept; to this she instantly darted, and rung it with violence;—almost immediately she heard a bustle over her head, and then descending steps.
She flew to the light, and taking it up, directly opened the door. Several of the male and female domestics approached, accompanied by her father.
"What is the matter, my love? (cried he), I have been called from my bed by the sound of passing steps."
"Listen!" exclaimed Madeline, with a countenance of horror, and glancing at the chamber.
The yell became, if possible, more savage; and the domestics began to cross themselves. Madeline looked at her father, with an intention of asking his opinion of the noise; but was prevented by observing the disorder and death-like paleness of his countenance.
"How long (demanded he) is it since this chamber was opened?"
"Two months at least, my Lord, (replied the housekeeper), and then it was only opened for a few hours, of a fine sunny day, merely to air it."
"Where is the key?" asked he.
"It hangs beside the door, my Lord;" answered Mrs. Beatrice.
"I will examine it then," cried he.
"Examine it! (repeated the housekeeper) Jesu Maria!—Why, surely my Lord, you could not think of such a thing; surely, surely you, of all men in the world, could not have courage to enter it?"
St. Julian started, and turned quick upon her; and a frown, such as Madeline had never before seen upon it, darkened his brow—his eyes, his piercing eyes, were fastened on her, as if wishing to discover the innermost recesses of her soul, and in an agitated voice he demanded what she meant.
"Meant, my Lord? (said the affrighted Beatrice) meant—why, nothing—nothing that could give your Lordship offence."
St. Julian looked doubtfully at her; then turning, he took down the key, and unlocked the chamber; the moment he opened the door, the women retreated from it, and shame alone, it was visible, prevented the men from following their example:—attended by them and Madeline he entered it, and the noise directly ceased.
The room, like Madeline's, was hung with tapestry; this was now raised, and the walls minutely examined, but no opening could be discovered, nor any means of entrance but by the door in the gallery.
"Were you ever before disturbed by any noise in this chamber?" asked St. Julian.
"No, (the servants replied) never before the present night."
"'Tis strange!" cried he, after pausing for a minute.
They then quitted the chamber, which he relocked.
"I shall keep the key myself, (said he, as he turned from it) it must undergo another examination; though destruction, certain destruction should overwhelm me for doing so, I will try to develop the mystery."
He now took the hand of Madeline, and led her to her room; he tried to tranquillize her, but the trembling of his frame, and disorder of his looks, mocked the efforts he made to do so.
"You look alarmed, my love?" cried he.
Madeline sighed, and might have said,
"And trust me, in mine eye, so do you."
"You have no reason for terror, (said he with a deep sigh), your conduct has made no enemies either in this world or the next."
"I trust not; (cried Madeline), but conscious innocence is not always able to guard the heart against the attacks of fear; and I own I am shocked beyond expression by the noise I have heard."
"I fear you are superstitious," exclaimed her father.
"Could you wonder if I was? (cried she); What we cannot account for, we can scarcely help ascribing to supernatural causes."
"Am I to infer, (said St. Julian, regarding her with earnestness) from what you say, that it is your opinion the groans proceeded from the spirit of the murdered Philippe?"
"With the Supreme nothing is impossible, (said Madeline), and I have been told that the spirits of the injured are sometimes permitted to revisit this world, for the purpose of obtaining retribution; and if 'tis true what the housekeeper once hinted to me,———"
St. Julian started,—"What did she hint?" asked he with eagerness.
Madeline paused for a minute; then with a faltering voice, and timidly raising her eyes to her father's face,
"She told me (said she) that Lord Philippe fell not by the hands of banditti, but—"
"By whom?" demanded St. Julian, in almost convulsive agitation.
"Some relative," replied Madeline.
"And did she acquaint you with the name of that relative?"
"No, and perhaps, after all, it was only an idle surmise of her own."
St. Julian left his seat, and traversed the apartment.
Madeline viewed him with consternation; her thoughts began to grow wild; and fears of the most frightful nature again assailed her heart.
"Oh, God! (she cried to herself, while every nerve was strained with agony at the idea) should the suspicions that now rack my breast be just!—-This torture of suspense is more than I can bear (continued she); I will throw myself at the feet of my father, I will disclose to him my suspicions; if false, he will pardon them, when he reflects on the combination of circumstances which exited them; if true, he will not surely shrink from reposing confidence in his child."
She rose, but almost instantly sunk upon her seat, recoiling from the dreadful idea of a child declaring to a parent her suspicion of his having committed one of the most horrible crimes which human nature can be capable of:—she shuddered, she wondered at her temerity, in having ever thought of doing so; and, as she wondered, the recollection of her father's precepts, his gentleness, his uniform piety, returning, she again began to believe, that in thinking he had ever deviated from integrity, she had done him the greatest injustice.
St. Julian, whose emotions prevented his noticing those of Madeline, soon resumed his seat; his countenance had lost its wildness, and a faint glow again mantled his cheek.
"I trust, my love, (cried he) you will not again listen to the idle surmises of the servants: even on the slightest foundation they are apt to raise improbabilities and horrors, which, in spite of reason, make too often a dangerous impression on the mind, and overturn its quiet, by engendering superstition:—Heaven knows, (he proceeded) the evils of life are sufficiently great without adding to them those of the imagination."
Madeline assured him she would never more encourage any conversation from the domestics, on family affairs.
"You look fatigued, (said he) and I will now (rising as he spoke) leave you to repose; retire to it, my love, without fear or trembling; blessed with conscious innocence, you can dread no evil, no angry spirit demanding retribution:—Oh! never may your bosom lose that peace which must ever belong to virtue!—Oh! never may reflection break your slumbers, or an offended conscience present terrific images to your view. farewell, my child, (tenderly embracing her) would to God thy father could sink to forgetfulness with a mind like thine!"
Heart-struck by the last words of her father, Madeline remained many minutes riveted to the spot on which he had left her, deeply ruminating on them; then starting, as if from a deep reverie,
"I must not think, (said she) since thought is so dreadful."
She felt fatigued, but it was more a mental than a bodily fatigue—that fatigue which repels, instead of inviting rest; besides a secret dread clung to her soul, which rendered her unwilling to go to bed; she therefore threw herself before a large crucifix that was placed near it, and continued to pray for her father, for herself, and for repose to the spirit of the murdered Philippe, till day began to dawn through the shutters. With night her terror decreased, and undressing herself, she then retired to bed; but the sleep into which she soon fell was broken by horrid visions, and she arose in the morning, pale, and unrefreshed.
The sun beamed bright through the casements, and on the stately trees that waved before them, unnumbered birds poured forth their matin lay, intermingled with the simple carol of the woodman: but neither the bright beams of the sun, the melodious notes of soaring birds, nor the wild song of the peasant, could now, as heretofore, delight the mind of Madeline. Saddened beyond expression by obtrusive ideas, she strove to banish that sadness by banishing thought—but, ah! how vain the effort! the "vital spark of heavenly flame" within us must be extinguished, ere we can cease to think.
end of vol. iii.