CLERMONT.
CHAP. I.
—————————Something still there lies
In Heaven's dark volume which I read through mists.
On descending to the breakfast parlour, she found her father already there; he stood with his back to the door, and so deeply engaged in contemplating a large picture, that he did not hear her enter. Madeline approached him softly, and could not help being struck with horror on perceiving the picture was a representation of the murder of Abel. It was fancy, no doubt, which at that moment made her imagine, in the features of the agonized and affrighted Cain, there was a resemblance to her father's. A slight noise she made roused him; and, starting, he turned with evident confusion to her. He had scarcely recovered from it, when the Marquis entered the room. Contrary to his usual custom, he had forsaken his bed at an early hour, anxious, by every attention in his power, to make amends to his son for his long neglect.
After the usual salutations were over,—"I was sorry to hear (said he, as they seated themselves at the table), that your rest was disturbed last night; Lafroy informed me of the noise which alarmed you; I can no otherways account for it, than by supposing some ill-minded person resides in my family who wishes to overthrow its tranquillity by exciting superstitious fears. I have heard more than once of such tricks being played in other houses, by people who imagined they should reap advantage from the general confusion that was the consequence of them. If one is practised here, I will if possible detect it: this very morning I am determined to examine the chamber, to try if there is any other entrance to it than by the gallery; though that examination will be attended with the utmost pain, as I have never visited it since the death of my Philippe."
Lord St. Julian informed him he had secured the key for that purpose. As soon as breakfast was over, they accordingly repaired to it, accompanied by Madeline. The door was closed immediately on their entrance; and while the Marquis, overcome by afflicting recollections, sat almost motionless on the bed, the tapestry was raised, and the wall critically inspected, but without discovering any other crevices in it than those which time had made.
"'Tis strange (cried the Marquis, after the fruitless examination was over), I cannot now possibly conjecture from whence the noise could have proceeded:—what did it sound like?"
"Like the groans, or rather yells, of excruciating distress (replied St. Julian); never before did sounds so horrible pierce my ear."
"I shall place some of the servants I can depend on in the gallery as a watch upon this door to-night; and if any villainy is practised, I think (said the Marquis), by that means it will be detected. Though this room (continued he) affects, it also pleases me; it seems to me a place peculiarly consecrated to my Philippe, as since his death it never has been inhabited, nor never shall whilst I live. Will you indulge me by remaining a little longer in it with me?"
St. Julian and Madeline instantly seated themselves.
After some further conversation, the Marquis requested to hear the particulars of his son's life.
St. Julian seemed somewhat embarrassed: after a little hesitation, however, he gave the desired recital. But how great was the astonishment of Madeline to find it differ essentially from the one he had given her; every circumstance relative to his brother was now suppressed.
On finding his expectations of fortune blasted, he had set out for Italy, he said, with an intention of cultivating a taste for painting; trusting, from that source, he should be enabled at least to derive a support. "I had not proceeded far on my journey (continued he), ere an accident introduced me to the hospitable Lord Dunlere": he then gave the same account of that nobleman to the Marquis that he had already done to Madeline; and concluded by saying, he had lost his wife, and her father, in consequence of their grief for the premature death of his lovely sister-in-law: after which he had forsaken their habitations, unable to bear the scene of his former joys, and retired, changing his name, to a lonely cottage, amidst some of the most wild and romantic mountains of Dauphine.
The Marquis was affected by the sufferings of his son; but at the same time pleased to hear he had been united to a woman of rank and virtue: it gratified his pride to find the heiress of his fortunes could boast on every side of illustrious connexions.
But how different were the feelings of Madeline from his, on hearing this second narrative from her father: she was shocked to find so great a difference between the one he had given her, and the one he had given the Marquis. "Ah, why (cried she to herself) conceal the generosity of his noble brother!—Yet, perhaps (continued she, after some some minutes' reflection), he only forbore mentioning him, from a fear of awaking painful emotions in the Marquis's breast."
Soothed by this idea, the composure of her mind was returning, when again it was disturbed by the Marquis's suddenly enquiring on what part of the Alps the habitation in which Lord Dunlere had lived was situated, and by the agitation her father betrayed at the question: in faltering accents he answered it, and the Marquis instantly exclaimed—
"Oh, God! it was there my Philippe fell!—You resided with Lord Dunlere at that time (continued he, after the pause of a moment), and you heard perhaps of the murder?"
"A rumour of it (replied St. Julian), but without knowing the sufferer's name."
"You knew not then, till lately, that the vengeance of Heaven had overtaken me: the offended Majesty of Heaven could not indeed have inflicted any punishment upon me half so severe as that of depriving me of my son. Oh, Philippe! lovely and beloved! days, years have elapsed since your death,—but without witnessing any diminution of my grief!—Had I received your last sigh—had I paid the last sad duties to your remains, its poignancy I think would have been abated: but far from your kindred you fell!—and never will the tomb of your forefathers receive you."
"You have heard, perhaps (continued the Marquis), from your vicinity to the spot, where he fell—that the body could never be found. At the time he received his death wound, he was on his way to Italy, and had stopped for the night at a little obscure inn; from whence, tempted by the sublimity of the scene, he had wandered to an adjoining mountain, to pass an hour or two, attended by a favourite servant: both were unarmed; and the moment he was attacked, the servant fled for assistance; but, alas! ere he returned with it, the murdered and the murderer were gone. No doubt the body was dragged into some recess, a prey for the ravenous wolves which infest that part of the country; and even now, perhaps, his bones, unburied, lie bleaching in the mountain blast. Oh! never may my eyes be closed till they have seen vengeance fall upon the head of his murderer! accursed may he be! may his days be without comfort—his nights without repose!—and may his pangs, if possible, be more intolerable than those he has inflicted on my soul!"
"Perhaps (cried Madeline, in a faint voice), he does not live."
"Suggest not such an idea again (exclaimed the Marquis, with a kind of savage fury in his countenance); the hope of yet bringing him to punishment has hitherto, more than any other circumstance, supported me amidst my sufferings; to relinquish that hope, would be to relinquish almost all that could console me.—Still then will I retain it; still then will I trust, O God! that some heaven-directed hand shall point out the murderer of my son."
The Marquis and the Count sat on the same side, and Madeline directly opposite to them. As her grandfather uttered the last words, she withdrew her eyes from his for the purpose of stealing a glance at her father; but as she was turning to him, they were suddenly arrested by a sight which struck her with horror.
She beheld a hand thrust through the tapestry behind him, extended and pointing to him. Shrieking aloud, she started from her seat, and, with a desperate resolution, was flying to the wall in order to examine it, when her strength and senses suddenly receded, and she fell fainting on the floor.
Alarmed by her too evident terror and illness, St. Julian flew to her assistance; whilst the Marquis, scarcely less affected than her father, rung the bell with violence. Some of the servants immediately hastened to the room; and restoratives being procured, Madeline soon revived. The moment she opened her eyes, she raised her languid head from the shoulder of her father, and turned them to the spot from whence she had seen the dreadful hand extended. But it was gone; and she then begged to be carried to her chamber.
St. Julian would not permit any one to continue in it with her but himself. He had some secret reasons for wishing no one at present to listen to their conversation. He tried to sooth, he tried to tranquillize her, but without effect; and he besought her to acquaint him with the cause of her illness.
Unwilling to tell a falsehood, yet unable to declare the truth—"Oh! my father (cried she, bathing his hands with tears as she pressed them between her's), ask me no farther questions on the subject; place the same confidence in me now you have hitherto done, and believe that your Madeline will never have any concealments from which you can disapprove: you seem ill yourself," observing his pale and haggard looks.
"At my being disordered (cried he), you cannot wonder after what has passed."
"Passed!" repeated Madeline, recoiling with horror at the idea of his having seen the hand.
"Yes (replied St. Julian), after what has passed,—after being cursed by my father."
"Cursed!" cried Madeline aghast.
"Did you not hear him curse me?"
"No, surely not (answered Madeline); I heard him curse, but———she paused—she hesitated.
"But whom?" demanded St. Julian impatiently.
"The murderer of his son," replied Madeline in a faint voice, and turning her eyes from her father.
St. Julian groaned; he clasped his hands upon his breast and traversed the apartment.
"True (cried he, suddenly stopping, and flinging himself upon a chair); true, it was not me he cursed. I believe my reason is disordered by the sudden change in my situation. Ah! would to heaven (said he in a half-stifled voice), since so long delayed, that change had never taken place!"
"Would to heaven it never had!" said Madeline.
"Oh! my child (resumed St. Julian, rising and embracing her), you have no reason to join in that wish; the Castle of Montmorenci can lead you to no dreadful retrospections, can awaken no torturing recollections in your breast."
"Alas! my father (replied Madeline), if it has that effect upon your mind, mine must necessarily be disturbed: she whom you nurtured with tenderness, the child of your bosom, cannot, without the most agonizing sorrow, behold your distress."
At this moment a servant rapped at the door to announce dinner. Madeline declared herself unable either to go down or take any refreshment at present. But she promised her father she would exert herself to be able to attend him and the Marquis in the evening, and reluctantly he left her.
But how vain were the efforts she made to fulfil the promise she had given to her father; as well might she have attempted to still the wild waves of the ocean as the agitations of her breast, proceeding as they did from her newly-revived suspicions concerning him.
She hesitated whether she should disclose them or not. "Shall I throw myself at his feet (cried she, traversing her chamber with hasty steps), and entreat him to confirm my horrors, or dissipate my fears? Ah! what rapture to think he could do the latter!—but, alas! his unguarded expressions, the mysterious circumstances that have happened since our arrival at the castle, leave me little reason to imagine he can."
Absorbed by the dreadful ideas which had taken possession of her mind, Madeline heeded not the passing minutes, and was surprised by her father in a situation that made him start as he entered her apartment.
Never indeed was anguish more strongly depictured than by her; her hair, dishevelled, fell partly on a bosom whose tumultuous throbs indicated the disorder of her heart; and the wildness of her eyes declared the agitation that had mantled her cheeks with a feverish glow.
"Madeline (said her father as he approached her), is it thus you have kept your promise with me?"
She sighed.
"Your countenance (resumed he in a solemn voice, and taking her hand), renders concealment with you impossible; I shall not therefore ask what has disordered you, for your looks have informed me."
Madeline involuntarily averted her head.
"Yes (continued he), I know your present ideas. But, Oh, Madeline! reflect on the tenor of my conduct, on the precepts I instilled into your mind, and then think whether you have done me justice or injustice in harbouring them?"
Madeline withdrew her hands, and covered her face.
"I forgive you, however (proceeded St. Julian), from my soul I forgive you. I know a strange combination of circumstances excited your suspicions—circumstance which I may yet perhaps satisfactorily account for: at any rate, be assured, at some period, perhaps not far distant, I will elucidate all the mysteries of my life, explain my reasons for sinking to the Marquis, and not to you, my intimacy with my brother."
"Oh! my father (cried Madeline, throwing herself at his feet), how can I ever sufficiently evince my gratitude for your forgiveness—a forgiveness which cannot be followed by my own. True, a strange combination of circumstances led me into error; but nothing can now justify me in my own opinion for it. Ah! never can I reflect without horror, that there were moments in which I doubted your integrity,—ah! never can I think myself punished enough for doing so; though my feelings, in consequence of such doubts, were such as almost to annihilate existence. You say you forgive me; but ah! my father, can I hope that you will ever look upon me again without internal resentment?"
"Without a trace of it shall I regard you (cried he, raising her from the ground): had our situations been reversed, I make no doubt I should just have thought as you did: let us now endeavour to banish all that is disagreeable from our recollections."
"With ecstasy (said Madeline). Oh! never, my father, shall my faith in your virtues be again shaken. Ah! happy should I now be, could I be reconciled to myself. Your words have removed a mountain from my breast; and all the horrors of doubt and suspicion are over."
"My happiness depends on your's (said St. Julian); the best proof, therefore, you can give me of your regard, is by endeavouring to recover your spirits."
"Every effort then shall be made (replied Madeline); and efforts in a right cause are generally successful."
Her father then led her to the apartment where the Marquis sat, who expressed much pleasure at seeing her better.