Clermont/Chapter 24
CHAP. V.
"A parent's soft sorrows to mine led the way."
Clermont at last addressed Madeline.
"I shall now, my love, (said he) fulfil my promise, and relate those events which tenderness made me hitherto conceal from you.
"In the chateau, where you enjoyed the society of one of the most amiable of women, the early and the most happy part of my life was passed under the protection of Count de Valdore, father to your lamented Benefactress; I understood that I was the orphan son of a very particular friend of his, who, though of a respectable family, was unable to leave me any provision, and had in his last moments recommended me to the protection of the Count. Had I been in reality the son of the Count, he could not have paid me greater attention than he did; neither he nor the Countess made any distinction between me and their only child Elvira, with whom, her age being nearly the same of mine, I was educated; the most eminent masters in every branch of literature, and every elegant accomplishment, attending us constantly at the chateau.
"Naturally of a gay disposition, and surrounded by everything which could add to that gaiety, I basked in the sun-shine, nor thought of any clouds that might hereafter obscure its brightness: indeed I had nothing to apprehend, for the Count had always promised me an ample provision. Alas! the happiness I then enjoyed but rendered the misery I afterwards experienced more acute; for recollected joys always sharpen the arrows of affliction.
"The first interruption my happiness received was by the death of the Countess, which happened when I was about eighteen; the grief I felt for her loss was such as an affectionate son must have felt for a tender mother, but, though poignant, it was faint to that experienced by the Count; nobly, however, he tried to check his own feelings, in order to appease those of his daughter and mine: his efforts in time succeeded; but, alas! scarcely were we beginning to regain some degree of tranquillity ere he was taken from us to that blessedness his whole life proved him deserving of. Smothered grief undermined his constitution, and in three months after the death of his lady he was re-united to her in those regions where they could never more be separated.
"When he felt his last moments approaching, he dismissed every one but me and Elvira from his room; we knelt on each side of the bed, and, in the most affecting language, he conjured us to submit, without repining, to the divine will; after he had bestowed a solemn and tender benediction upon his daughter, such as her filial piety deserved, he turned to me and took my hand:
'My dear Lausane, (said he, for so I was called) I should have died unhappy if I had not had an opportunity of thanking you for the respect, the attention you ever paid to me and mine.'
"I would have spoken, I would have told him how inadequate that respect, that attention was to the care, the affection I had experienced from him and his family, but the fullness of my heart prevented utterance.
"Had heaven spared my life (continued he) a little longer, I should have disclosed to you a most important secret; it was decreed however that from me you should never hear it; but in a small India box, in my cabinet, you will find a packet addressed to you, and containing all the particulars I would have informed you of: when you read them, you will find that without knowing misfortune you have been most unfortunate; that without feeling injury you have been most injured; but as you hope for prosperity in this world, endless happiness in that to come, I entreat you never rashly to resent those misfortunes, or endeavour to revenge those injuries. Should the author of both still withhold that justice you are entitled to, you will not find yourself under any necessity of accepting his bounty, which in such a case would be degrading to you, as in my will, which will be opened as soon as M. Valdore, my daughter's guardian arrives at the chateau, I have made such provision for you as will enable you to hold the same place in society you have hitherto done.'
"I cannot describe the feelings excited by the words of the Count: astonishment overwhelmed my senses, and I would not long have delayed to seek an explanation of them, had he not died almost immediately after he had ceased speaking.
"The confusion of the family, the grief of his daughter, who would only listen to consolation from me, and my own affliction then deadened my curiosity, and his interment had taken place ere I thought of visiting the cabinet; nor perhaps should I have done so as soon as I did, had I not found myself, the very evening after his funeral, seated with Elvira in the room where it stood. We were alone; for her guardian, who lived in a remote part of the kingdom, was not yet arrived. The moment I beheld the cabinet my curiosity was revived, and I eagerly wished to take from it the important papers; the eyes of Elvira followed mine, and the words of her father instantly recurred to her recollection.
'My dear Lausane, (said she) I am confident you must have suffered much from the suspension of your curiosity; delay no longer to gratify it—it may be requisite for you to be immediately acquainted with the secret my father spoke of; I will retire to give you a proper opportunity of perusing the packet.'
"No, Elvira, (I replied, taking her hand as she rose to withdraw), you have hitherto honored me with the appellation of brother, and heaven can witness for me I bear you the affection of one; a brother should have no secrets from an affectionate sister; since you therefore permit me to consider you as one, condescend to hear the mysterious words of your father explained; they have prepared me for a tale of distress, and if any thing can alleviate the sorrow it may perhaps excite, it can only be the gentle sympathy of such a friend as you are.'
"She re-seated herself, and tremblingly I approached and unlocked the cabinet: the first thing I beheld within it was the India box. I took it out, I drew back the lid, and beheld a large sealed packet, directed in the hand-writing of the Count to me. I felt my whole frame agitated, and could scarcely reach the sofa on which Elvira sat.
"Many minutes elapsed ere I could summon sufficient resolution to break the seal. I felt as if about to raise a veil which had hitherto concealed terrific images from my view, and shuddered at the idea of the horrors they might excite; at length I ventured to do so, and found several sheets of small paper within the envelope, all closely written, and in a hand entirely new to me. Elvira leaned over my shoulder, and together we began to peruse the following story."
Here Clermont paused; and, taking a manuscript from his pocket, he put it into the hand of his daughter, and desired her to read it to herself,
"When you have finished it, (said he) I will go on with my narrative."
Madeline bowed, and read as follows:
"Ere those pages meet your eye, the hand that wrote them will be crumbled into dust. Oh! my son, offspring of an unhappy and ill-requited love, long before you peruse them, every trace, every memorial of your unfortunate mother will be obliterated from your mind, nor will all your efforts be able to recall to recollection the period in which her bitter tears bedewed your innocent cheek, in which with happy playfulness you hid your head in her distracted bosom:—but I run into complaints ere I assign the sad occasion of them—I will, if possible, be brief.
"Ere I was born, love, unhappy love, I may say, laid in some degree the foundation of my misery. My mother, the daughter of Count St. Paul, whose family is well known for its antiquity and pride in the Province of Normandy; untinctured either by the ambition or avarice of her parents, selected for herself at an early age a partner whose only portion was merit, and thus disappointed the expectations which her birth, beauty, and accomplishments had raised in her family; in consequence of doing so she was utterly discarded by every member of it, her youngest brother excepted, who had then however nothing to bestow but—assurances of friendship.
"St. Foix, the descendant of a noble but reduced family, to whom she had united herself, was in the army, and with him she launched into the world, whose storms and distresses she had hitherto known only by report; too soon, alas! she had a sad experience of them.
"But with a noble fortitude she sustained them, not only from tenderness to her husband, but from a consciousness of having drawn them upon herself. St. Foix, however, the delirium of passion over, and the pressure of distress experienced, bitterly regretted having yielded to an affection which heightened his cares, by involving the woman he adored in sorrow, and in little more than two years after his marriage, and a few months after my birth, he fell a victim to his feelings. The grief of my mother may be imagined, but cannot be described, and in all probability she would soon have sunk beneath it, had not her brother flown to her relief: an union just then completed with an heiress of considerable fortune, gave him the power of serving her as he wished, and he endeavoured to calm her sorrows by assurances of being a never-failing friend to her, and of supplying to me, to the utmost of his power, the place of the parent I was so early deprived of. He immediately took a small cottage, in a sequestered and romantic part of Dauphine, for her, and settled upon her a yearly stipend, amply sufficient to procure her all that she could want or desire in retirement.
"Time and religion softened her anguish, and as I grew up, her heart again began to be sensible of pleasure; a pleasure, however, frequently embittered by a conviction of the unhappiness her brother experienced in consequence of serving her; for his wife, selfish and illiberal in her disposition, could not with any degree of patience bear the idea of his regarding any one out of his own immediate family, or of his expending on them any part of that fortune she so frequently boasted of having given to him.
"Long he withstood her solicitations to withdraw his bounty, long opposed her inclination; but at length, tired of domestic strife, of continual upbraidings for the intention he avowed of providing for his niece in a manner suitable to her birth, he hinted a wish to my mother for my retiring into a convent.
"This was an unexpected blow, and one which overwhelmed my mother, by destroying those hopes that, with the natural vanity and partiality of a parent, almost from my birth she had indulged, of seeing me at some period or other happily settled, and of enjoying beneath my roof that tranquillity which sorrow and dependence had hitherto prevented her from experiencing.
"With tears, with agonies which shook her frame, she conjured him not to deprive her of her only earthly comfort, not to entomb her child alive, or in one short minute undo all he had hitherto done.
"Ah! my mother, well had it been for your Madeline, if your lips had never uttered such a supplication; well had it been for her, if in the first bloom of life, ere her heart was sufficiently expanded to feel that tenderness which constitutes our greatest happiness or misery, the walls of a convent had immured her from a world, where her peace, her fame, were destined to be wrecked.
"My uncle was too generous to repeat a wish which gave such pain; he regretted ever having mentioned it, and strove to make amends for having done so, by reiterating the most solemn assurances of fulfilling the intentions he had before avowed towards me.
"Thus was the storm which threatened the peace of my mother, overblown; but, alas! the calm that succeeded it was to me of short duration. I had scarcely attained my sixteenth year when I was deprived of this inestimable parent. In the language of despair I wrote to my uncle, then at Paris, to inform him of this event; and at the same time enclosed a letter, written by my mother in her last hours, and, which I afterwards found contained a supplication not to permit me to enter a convent without I wished myself to do so, and an entreaty for his protection to be continued to me.
"He directly hastened to me, and used every method in his power to sooth my sorrows; he repeated his assurances of continued kindness, and declared from that period I should reside with him till I had a proper habitation of my own to go to.
"I accordingly accompanied him to Paris; and here, in all probability, the sadness of my heart might soon have been diverted by the novelty of every thing I saw, had I met with any of that tenderness I had always been accustomed to; but the most chilling coldness, or else the most contemptuous disdain, was the treatment I received from my aunt and her family. My uncle, in order to try and prevent my mind from dwelling on it, insisted on my being taken to all the places they frequented; but this, instead of alleviating, rather aggravated my misery, for my aunt soon took it into her head that I was a rival to her daughters. A year I dragged on in a state of wretchedness, which no language could justly express: at the expiration of that period, worn out with ill treatment, and agonized by beholding my benevolent protector in continual disquietude on my account, I determined, with a kind of desperate resolution, to terminate that disquietude and my indignities, by retiring to a cloister: but how impossible is it to express the pangs with which I formed and announced this resolution: yet what, you will say, could have occasioned those pangs? surely not the idea of renouncing a world which contained no tender friend to supply the place of the one I had lost?—
"Alas! it then contained a being dearer to me than life itself:—St. Julian, the Marquis of Montmorenci's son, visited at my uncle's, and had not long been known ere he was beloved! Those who knew him could not have wondered at my sudden attachment; every virtue, every grace which ennobles and adorns humanity he appeared to possess. Oh! St. Julian, Heaven surely endowed you with every virtue; for candour and benevolence sat upon your countenance, and it was only an improper education, or pernicious company that rendered you deceitful, and led you to betray the unsuspicious heart, which reposed upon you for happiness.
"Secretly I indulged my passion, yet without the smallest hope of having it returned; for though a soft beam from the eye of St. Julian sometimes tempted me to think I was not utterly indifferent to him, I never had reason to imagine he thought seriously about me; but, notwithstanding my hopelessness respecting him, so great, so exquisite was the pleasure I derived from seeing, from listening to him, that the idea of foregoing it was infinitely more painful to me than that of death.
"My uncle heard my determination of retiring to a cloister with a satisfaction which he could not disguise, though he attempted it; and my aunt and her children with evident delight: generous to the last, my uncle left me free to choose a convent—I accordingly fixed on one, with which I was well acquainted, near the habitation where alone I had been happy.
"Immediate preparations were made for my removal, and in a few days after I had avowed my intention of quitting it, I was hurried from my uncle's house.
"Accompanied by an old female domestic, I commenced my journey; what I suffered on doing so I shall not attempt to describe. I felt like a wretch going into a gloomy exile, where the features, the voice he loved, would never more charm his eye, or sooth his ear.
"At a late hour we stopped for the night. As soon as my companion had retired to her chamber, I locked myself up in mine, and gave way to the agonies of my soul. In the midst of my lamentations I was startled by a tap at the chamber-door; I listened attentively, and heard it repeated, and at the same time my name pronounced in a low voice. Still more surprised, I hastily unlocked the door, door, and beheld—ah! gracious Heaven! what were the feelings of that moment, St. Julian!—I involuntarily receded, and sunk half fainting upon a chair. The words, the tenderness of St. Julian soon revived me, and brought me to a perfect sense of my happiness; he implored my pardon for the agitation he had caused me.
"He had loved me, he declared, almost from the first moment he beheld me, and would at once have divulged his passion, had he not feared its being then discovered to my aunt, whose malice he knew would betray him to his father; he had therefore determined, if he beheld no chance of losing me, to conceal it till the expectations he entertained of a splendid independence at the death of a very old relative were realized, and he consequently secured from suffering any pecuniary distress through the displeasure of his father, which he could not deny his thinking would follow the disclosure of our union.
"My sudden resolution, (he proceeded to say) had been concealed from him till I had quitted my uncle's; with difficulty on hearing it he could hide his emotions, and almost instantly pursued me, trembling lest I should be lost to him for ever.
"He now implored me to consent to a private union, and put myself immediately under his protection, solemnly assuring me, that the moment he could acknowledge me as his wife, without involving me in distress, with equal pride and pleasure he would do so.
"You may well believe I did not, could not resist his supplications:—a carriage and confidential servants were in waiting, and we directly set out for Paris, which we reached at the dawn of the day, and, stopping at the first church we came to, were united.
"St. Julian then took lodgings for me in a retired part of the town, under a feigned name, passing himself for a secretary to a man of consequence, and unable, from his situation, to be always with me.
"I had now no drawback on my felicity but that which proceeded from sorrow at my mother's not being alive to witness it, and uneasiness at the disquiet, which I learned from St. Julian, who still continued to visit at his house, my uncle felt on my account, not being able to form the slightest conjecture of what had become of me: Perfect happiness, however, I knew was unattainable in this world, and as the best proof of my gratitude to Heaven for that portion which I enjoyed, I sedulously endeavoured to repel the sigh of regret that sometimes involuntarily heaved my bosom.
"Before the expiration of a year you were born. Oh! with what rapture did I receive you to my arms! with what delight did I present you to your father! and, with mingled emotions of tenderness and pleasure, beheld the tear which stole down his cheek, as I endeavoured in your infant features to discover a resemblance to his.
"I had now attained my summit of felicity; and my sun was soon to set in misery and despair.
"Soon after your birth, the visits of your father became less frequent; he did not assign any reason for their being so, nor did I inquire; for suspicion was a stranger to my breast; my faith was unbounded, great, and firm as my love; and while I wept his absence, I ever hailed his presence with a smile.
"At length a long space ensued in which I did not behold him; my spirits involuntarily drooped, and with them my health declined; yet, notwithstanding my sufferings, the moment I again saw him, I thought myself amply rewarded for them.
"The pleasure, however, which filled my heart on his entering my chamber, was quickly damped by the coldness of his manner: he scarcely returned my caresses, or noticed you.
'Well, Madeline, (said he, seating himself at a distance from me), I trust you have been well and happy since I last saw you.'
"As well and happy (I replied, looking at him with that tenderness which my heart experienced) as I could be without the society which constitutes my chief felicity."
'Ah! Madeline, (cried he) I trust when you mix more in the world, you will be able to enjoy felicity without that society.'
'Could the world (said I) produce any change in my present sentiments, I should wish for ever to be secluded from it.'
"He arose and approached me.
'I came, Madeline, (said he) with a hope of receiving proofs of your good sense instead of your tenderness; do not interrupt me, (continued he, seeing me about to speak) listen attentively to what I am about saying:
'All hopes of an independence are terminated by my uncle, who died some days ago, bequeathing the whole of his property to a religious house; I am therefore entirely at the mercy of my father; consequently to disclose our marriage would be to involve me in certain ruin, as I am convinced no supplications, no entreaties would ever prevail upon him to pardon so imprudent a step; 'tis absolutely necessary therefore that we should conceal it for ever.'
"'For ever! (repeated I) gracious Heaven! would it not be better to avow it, than to be teased with continual importunities (which must be the case) to form another connexion.'
"'I will not deny, Madeline, (said he) that it is not my intention to be deaf to such importunities: as our marriage is a profound secret, I mean it never shall be known; that from henceforth we shall be strangers to each other, and each again enter the world free to make another choice.'
"Good heavens! what words were those for a wife, for a mother to hear!—The blood run cold through my veins, and for some time the faculties of speech were suspended.
"Have I lived, (I at length exclaimed) have I lived to hear the husband I adore declare his intention of disowning me? Have I lived to hear St. Julian avow his design of branding his child with infamy?"
'Do not, Madeline, (said he) with the weakness peculiar to your sex, run into complaints at once unjust and unavailing; when you mix more in the world, and have opportunities of comparing my conduct with that of others, you will then be convinced that it is not quite so base or cruel as you now imagine; you will then see numbers of your sex, perhaps as amiable as yourself, cruelly forsaken after the first ardour of passion is extinguished, instead of which you will find yourself, if your obstinacy does not counteract my intentions, in possession of an ample provision, with which you can retire to some other part of France, where you are not known, and there, passing yourself as a widow, bring up your son, and, perhaps, make another choice more calculated than your present one to render you happy.'
"My heart felt bursting; but I strove to repress the grief, the indignation with which it laboured.
"No, St. Julian, (said I, in a solemn voice), never will I enter the road of infamy you have marked out for me to take; I am your wife, nor shall any power but that, whose mandate we must all obey, make me give up my claims. What! did you snatch me from the altar of my God, from the dwelling of piety and peace, but to plunge me into guilt and misery?"
'Madeline, (cried he) be wise, nor mar my good intentions towards you by useless endeavours to support claims, which I am determined to deny; 'tis impossible, you know, for you to prove your marriage; there were, you may recollect, no witnesses to it, and with the name of the priest who performed the ceremony you are unacquainted.'
"Alas! those were truths which could not be controverted, and destitute as I was of any friend to interfere in my behalf, my uncle having paid the last sad debt of nature some weeks before, I saw no means of escaping the fate he doomed me to. I wept, I upbraided, I supplicated, but all without effect; and I was soon convinced that every spark of his former affection was extinguished, and that some dangerous rival had taken entire possession of his heart.
"Agonized by this conviction, I might perhaps have silently submitted to his wishes, assured that his name, without his regard, could give me no happiness, had I not considered that with his unhappy mother the son of St. Julian must also sink; maternal tenderness urged me therefore to make some effort to counteract his cruel and unjust intentions.
"I accordingly formed the resolution of flying to Dauphine, to throw myself at the feet of his father, and implore his protection for the deserted wife and offspring of his son. Alas! it was a resolution which despair and ignorance of the world only could have prompted; for a heart occupied by avarice and ambition, as was the Marquis's, is ever dead to the nobler softer claims of justice and humanity.
"As St. Julian departed, he told me he would give me a day or two to consider of what he had said; if at the expiration of that time he found me inclined to accede to his wishes, he would at once secure to me the provision he had promised; but if, on the contrary, he found me still inclined to dispute them, he would, without farther hesitation abandon me to a world which would laugh at all the allegations I could make against him.
"I saw no time was to be lost; the moment therefore he had left me I stole from the house, and hired a carriage, which I ordered to meet me at an early hour, the next morning, at the end of the street. Faint, trembling, oppressed with a thousand horrors, I commenced my journey with you in my arms.
"Fearful of being pursued, I made the driver, as night approached, turn into an obscure village, some leagues from the road. Here a violent illness, brought on by the dreadful agitation I suffered, detained me two days, and when I recommenced my journey, I was more dead than alive.
"Oh! how impossible to describe the emotions which shook my frame as I approached the mansion of Montmorenci; as I stopped before those gates which I once hoped I should have entered as the acknowledged wife of St. Julian! for many minutes my feelings prevented my declaring to the astonished domestics the purport of my visit; at length I summoned sufficient resolution to desire to be shown into the presence of their Lord. I drew near his apartment more like an unhappy criminal about deprecating vengeance, than an injured sufferer going to implore justice: the moment I beheld his countenance, where pride and sternness only were visible, the faint hope of obtaining his protection, which had hitherto cheered my heart, died away; like the drowning wretch, however, grasping at every straw, I determined to essay every thing which had a chance of procuring me relief—I therefore cast myself at his feet, and poured forth my sorrows; but scarcely had I concluded my sad tale, scarcely had I raised my tearful eyes to his to try if I could perceive one gleam of pity in them, ere a door burst open, and St. Julian entered. He entered with a countenance inflamed by rage and every direful passion. Oh! had a dagger pierced my breast I could not have suffered greater agonies than I experienced when I beheld those eyes which had once beamed unutterable tenderness, now darting the keenest glances of resentment on me.
'You see, my Lord, (said he, addressing his father) that I was not mistaken with regard to this unhappy woman. I was well convinced of the lengths her artifice and ambition would carry her.'
'Such artifice in one so young is really astonishing, (replied the Marquis) and renders it absolutely necessary that we should prevent her having another opportunity of trying to deceive.'
"I attempted to speak, but was interrupted by St. Julian, who directly called in two servants, and ordered them to bear me to a remote apartment. Thither, shrieking with despair, and with you in my arms, I was carried and locked in. A kind of madness seized me—I could not weep—I could not speak—by cries, by groans I could alone express my misery.
"Night approached ere any one came near me; a young female then appeared—I merely cast a glance at her, and then averted my eyes, as a trembling wretch would have done from his executioner; for every heart in the mansion of Montmorenci I fancied steeled against me. She came to me and entreated me to take some refreshment.
"Surprised by the entreaty, and by the gentleness with which it was delivered, I looked at her, and beheld a tear stealing down her cheek; it was a sacred tear, which pity had engendered, and operated more powerfully in calming the violence of my feeling than any arguments could have done. Oh! how sweet, how soothing, when we believe ourselves utterly abandoned, utterly friendless, to be surprised by finding a heart that compassionates us!—
"My tears immediately began to flow, the fever in my brain abated, and I stretched out my hand to press her's to my bosom.
'Alas! unhappy lady, (she exclaimed) I pity you from my soul, and wish it was in my power to save you from the fate that awaits you.'
"What fate? (cried I, gazing on her) have they planned my death? Ah! no—they would not be so merciful as to terminate the anguish they have inflicted."
'About the middle of to-night (said she) they mean to put you into a carriage, and send you to a house of penitents near Paris, where you will for ever be confined from the world, and separated from your son.'
—"Horror for some time took from me the power of speech.
"Oh! St. Julian, (I at length exclaimed) is this the fate you have decreed for Madeline?—Is this the destiny you have doomed her to, whom but a few short months ago you wooed to your arms with vows of never-changing love?—Oh, never let my sex again confide in man!—Oh, never more let them gaze with pleasure upon the beam of tenderness, nor listen with delight to the language of love!'—
"On my knees I implored my informer to assist me to escape.
"Not on my own account (cried I) do I plead; stripes, dungeons, or perpetual imprisonment, could give little pain to her who has experienced the so much greater pain of being deserted by the man she loves; but on the account of him, who, if deprived of me, would surely be deprived of his only earthly friend; for those who exercised such unprecedented cruelty upon his mother, would no doubt but ill protect his helpless youth: By the God, then, which you worship; by that heaven which you hope to attain, assist me to fly with my son to some solitary gloom, where I may rear his youth with tenderness, or see him, while unconscious of calamity, laid within his grave."
"She raised me, and told me, if I would be calm, and thought I could brave the horrors of travelling through lonely woods at such an hour as the present, she would try to assist me in escaping. I gave her every assurance she desired, and she lost no time in conducting me down a flight of back stairs terminated by a door that opened into the forest. I gave her, at parting, almost all I had to bestow, my thanks, and put a little fancy ring upon her finger to bring me sometimes to her mind, and make her now and then offer up a prayer for me and my babe.
"My mind was too much disturbed to suffer me to arrange any plan for my future destiny: all I could think of was to seek some lonely cottage, where I might sequester myself till the heat of that pursuit, which I supposed would be made after me, should be over.
"Without knowing whither I went, or how far I had wandered, I found myself, as if instinct had guided me thither, about the middle of the night as well as I could conjecture, the hour which was to have borne me to endless confinement, near the habitation where I had resided with my mother, and which, since her death, had been unoccupied. Gently the moon dispensed her silvery light, and gave a perfect view of all the dear and lovely scenes of early youth: Oh! how agonizing were my feelings as I contrasted my present misery with the happiness I had enjoyed amongst them a happiness of which, like a bright vision, no trace remained but in my memory:—Oh! how excruciating my pangs as I gazed upon the cottage where I had experienced the care, the tenderness of a parent, and reflected that I was now a wretch forlorn, without one friend to protect me, without any covering for my head but the canopy of heaven, without any pillow to repose it on but the cold sod; nothing but religion, which had been early and strongly implanted in my mind, could have prevented my raising the hand of despair against a life, which from being no longer valuable to others, was hateful to myself.
"But I will not (said I) I will not, by any act of rashness forfeit that heaven, where only I can be recompensed for my sorrows."
"Exhausted by my sufferings, I threw myself upon the ground, and as I lulled you upon my bosom, sleep insensibly stole upon me.
"The horror of my waking thoughts tinctured my sleeping ones, and I suddenly awoke in terror: as I started from the ground I beheld a lady and gentleman standing by me, for the morning was far advanced; I gazed upon them wildly, and in the features of the female at length recognized those of the Countess de Valdore, who had married a few months previous to my mother's death, and with whom, from having resided both before and after her union near our cottage, I was well acquainted; she expressed the utmost astonishment at the situation in which she had discovered me, and with a degree of pity that quite overcame me: for as a profusion of viands will overpower the famished wretch, so will unexpected compassion the sad heart that has deemed itself utterly abandoned.
"A total weakness seized me, and I could only answer her inquiries with my tears. She seated herself on the ground, and supported my head on her lap, while the Count hastened to the chateau for a carriage to convey me thither. There I lay a week before I had power to disclose my unhappy story; when I concluded I had the comfort of finding I had secured two friends for my child, who would never desert him; and this comfort was surely requisite to save me from distraction, for I now learned that St. Julian had been married four months to the rich and beautiful heiress of Charette.
'To attempt now, therefore, to redress your wrongs, would be unavailing, (said the Count); whilst St. Julian is intoxicated with love and the attainment of his wishes, any effort to do so would in all probability expose you to his vengeance, and perhaps occasion your final separation from your son: we must therefore leave him to the workings of conscience; though sometimes slow, it is always sure in its operations, and will yet raise its scorpion stings within his breast.'
"With his amiable Countess the Count united in assurances of friendship and protection; the Countess told me of the high esteem and regard she had always felt for me, and that at the death of my mother both she and the Count would gladly have offered me an asylum in their house, had they not naturally supposed I preferred my uncle's; from the period of my quitting Dauphine, she had never heard concerning me.
'Had I sooner known your fate, (she said) I should sooner have tried to alleviate it.'
"Certain that St. Julian would make diligent search after me, in order to try and get me into his power, which if he once discovered me, it would be impossible to prevent his doing, from his having represented me as an artful woman, who had seduced his youth and endeavoured to ruin his character; it was deemed expedient that I should in future be secluded from the world: for such a purpose no place appeared so eligible as the deserted monastery in the valley; thither I was accordingly conveyed without the knowledge of any of the family but a confidential servant of the Countess. A few months after my retirement, I resigned you to the arms of my friend, for the purpose of having you conveyed to her house, as the orphan of an esteemed acquaintance of her Lords.
"Two years have elapsed since that period, during which I have heard of St. Julian's attaining his paternal title, of his having a son, born to his wishes, and of his leading a life of unbounded gaiety and pleasure—-Ah! how different from the one he has doomed me to!
"The attentions of the Count and Countess have been unremitted; could kindness, could compassion have healed the wounds of my heart, they would long since have been closed.
"In their visits to me you are often brought:—Ah! how does my breast heave with mingled pain and pleasure as I clasp you to it, and hear your lisping accents. Fair is the promise of your infancy, but never, my son, will your unfortunate mother see it fulfilled; affliction has undermined my health, I daily, hourly grow weaker; I fade like an early flower, o'er which the desolating blast has past, ere half its beauties are expanded; and long, long before the blossoms of your youth are blown, I shall be laid within my cold grave.
"From that grave, as you peruse this narrative, Oh! think the spirit of your mother speaks, and charges you to attend to the advice which it contains—charges you never, in resentment for her wrongs, to forget the respect due to your father; she wishes you to plead for your rights, to vindicate her character, and prove to the world, that the descendant of St. Paul, the daughter of St. Foix, never disgraced the noble families from which she sprung, but she wishes you to plead with calmness, and, if unsuccessful, to be resigned.
"She also charges you, if only acknowledged as the son of an illicit love, to fly from any overtures of kindness which may be made you.
"The Count and Countess de Valdore have promised never to withdraw their protection. Generous pair! may Heaven recompense their kindness to me and mine.
"They have also promised, ere they put this narrative into your hands, to prepare you in some degree for my unfortunate story: Sad and painful has been my task in writing it—Oh! agonizing in the extreme to divulge to my son the crimes of his father.
"Oh! St. Julian, beloved, though perjured from every mortal eye, I would have concealed those crimes, had not justice to your child compelled me to disclose them.
"Farewell, my boy—my child, farewell! I leave you all I have to bestow, my blessing—may your conduct ever entitle you to that of Heaven, may your mind be fair as your person, may your heart ever glow with fervour in the cause of virtue, and your hand never lie idle by your side when misery or innocence call for assistance!
"In happy ignorance and childish gaiety often perhaps will your light steps bound o'er the sod which covers my remains; but the period I trust will arrive when tenderness and sensibility shall guide you to it, to drop a tear to the memory of her whose last prayer will be breathed for your felicity, to bedew with the sacred drops of filial affection the grave of your mother.
The tears of Madeline fell as she perused the narrative of her unfortunate grandmother, which (too much affected by it to speak), she returned in silence to her father.
"You can better conceive than I can describe (said he) the feelings I experienced on perusing this story. I wept for my mother, I blushed for my father, and my heart was divided between affliction and resentment.
"With the natural impetuosity of youth, I determined not to let another day elapse without pleading for those rights which I had been so long and so unjustly deprived of; but convinced that my agitation would not permit me to plead for them in person, as I could wish, I resolved on sending a letter by a special messenger to the castle of Montmorenci, where I knew my father resided, declaring the late discovery of my birth, and the manner in which I had been protected from the distresses his desertion had exposed me to.
"I accordingly withdrew from Elvira as soon as I was sufficiently composed to pen my letter, which I did in the most respectful yet energetic manner, and enclosed within it a small miniature of myself, drawn by the Countess de Valdore's desire a few months previous to her death, along with her daughter's, for the purpose of ornamenting a cabinet, whence I now received it from Elvira: I sent it with a hope that it might perhaps, by recalling to his memory some feature of the woman he had injured, and once tenderly loved, soften his mind in my favour, and incline him to do me justice.
"My sufferings till the return of my messenger mock description. At his first appearance I flew with breathless haste to meet him. The Marquis of Montmorenci (he said) was too ill to answer my letter, but he desired me without delay to repair to his castle.
"Oh! gracious Heaven, how rapturous were the feelings of that moment!—I could not doubt but that he desired to see me for the purpose of blessing, of acknowledging me as his son, of vindicating the fame of my injured mother.
"Elvira thought as I did; and while a tear of regret for my intended departure strayed down her cheek, congratulated me in the most fervent manner on the prospect there appeared of having my wishes realized.
"I set out unattended for the mansion of my father, which I entered, though with hope, with emotions that shook my frame; the domestics were prepared to receive me, and immediately conducted me to the apartment where their Lord lay, apparently much indisposed, and exhibiting but the ruin of those graces which had captivated the too susceptible heart of my mother.
"Trembling I approached, and knelt before him, supplicating by my looks his blessing.
'With pleasure (said he, extending his hand) I acknowledge you as my son; to disown you never was my intention.'
"I pressed his hand to my lips, but could not speak; the reception I met with, the idea of being able to vindicate the fame of my mother, quite overpowered me. Alas! short was the duration of my joy.
'Rise, (continued my father) I have much to say; but ere I proceed, let me (looking as he spoke towards a young man who sat at some distance from the couch, and whom my agitation had hitherto prevented me from noticing) let me present you to the Count St. Julian, who has kindly promised to consider you as a brother.'
"Surprise, intermingled with indignation pervaded my heart, on hearing the Marquis address another person by the title to which alone I had a right. I suppressed those feelings however from a hope that an explanation would ensue, which should appease them.
'Chance (proceeded my father) made him acquainted with your story: During a late illness, from which I am now but barely recovered, I ordered every letter or message which came to me to be delivered to him—consequently your's fell into his hands; I therefore deemed it requisite that he should be present at our interview, deemed it an absolute duty to him, his mother, and myself, that he should, whilst he heard me acknowledge you as my son, solemnly disacknowledge you as the heir of Montmorenci; no ties but those of love ever existed between your mother and me, and if you have been credulous enough to give implicit credit to the artful tale she fabricated, all my schemes in your favour must be defeated:—Be wise, study your own interest, declare your total renunciation of your chimerical claims, and ensure my kindness and protection.'
"Never, my Lord, (cried I); if your kindness and protection can only be acquired by stigmatizing the character of my mother, and degrading myself, the son of Madeline St. Foix will never consent to be called the child of infamy; my opinion of her veracity is unalterable, and though I may not be able to support, I never will renounce my claims."
'Then you must for ever be an alien to me, (said the Marquis). Go, (he continued, with an agitated voice and a countenance inflamed by resentment), go, lest you should tempt me to curse the hour in which you were born.'
"With difficulty I suppressed the feelings which swelled my heart almost to bursting, but I determined not to forget that the author of my injuries was also the author of my being.
"I directly left the castle, and set out for the mansion which had fostered my helpless infancy. Ah! how different was the situation of my mind now from what it had been when I journeyed from it!—On entering it a servant informed me that M. de Valdore was arrived. I was too much disturbed to think of then paying my compliments to him, but I desired to be shown directly to Lady Elvira. Her tenderness, said I to myself, will soften the bitterness of disappointment; her gentleness will sooth the perturbations of my soul.
"I found her alone and in the deepest dejection. She started with astonishment at my unexpected appearance, and her eyes instantly brightened with pleasure; a brightness, however, which quickly vanished on surveying my countenance.
'My dear Lausane, (said she, extending her hand) what mean those looks?'
"Ah! my Elvira, (cried I) do they not render language unnecessary?—do they not tell you that my hopes were too sanguine?—that I have returned without finding the father I expected?'
'Good Heaven! (said she, bursting into tears) you overwhelm me with misery.—Oh! Lausane, what will become of you?'
"Do not, my dear Elvira, (cried I) aggravate my feelings, by giving way to your's. My situation is not desperate!—Reflect that the bounty of your noble parents secured me from experiencing any pecuniary distress through the desertion of my father."
'Oh! Lausane (exclaimed she in an agony) you are mistaken. M. de Valdore, who reached the chateau soon after you had left it, immediately opened the will of my father, in which your name was no where visible: this, I am convinced, unintentional omission, would give me little concern, could I immediately do what I know my father meant to have done for you; but M. de Valdore, without whose consent I cannot act, appears too selfish and illiberal to let me hope he will permit me to follow my wishes. Surely, surely my father was deceived with respect to the disposition of his relative, or he never would have chosen such a guardian for his Elvira; already he has told me, that if you returned to the castle, he would not suffer you to continue in it; views respecting me and his son, have, I am confident, inspired this resolution; he wishes an alliance to take place between us, and thinks that if you remained here, you might perhaps defeat those wishes: but I will kneel, I will supplicate him to drop the determination he has avowed; should he, however, have the cruelty to persevere in it, I can give you jewels of sufficient value to support you in the stile of life you have hitherto been accustomed to, till I am of age, when the doors of Elvira's mansion shall be again opened with delight to the adopted son of her parents, the friend of her youth, the brother of her heart.'
"Sad, silent, overwhelmed with misery, I listened to Elvira; her words gave the final stroke to my happiness; all the horrors of dependence stared me in the face, and ere she had ceased to speak, I had determined on ending the life upon which they seemed entailed.
"Formed for domestic comforts, (said I within myself) such comforts as my situation precludes my enjoying, life without them would be a burden. I will not, therefore, toil to support an existence valueless to me; I will not enter a world where I have no relative to guide, no friend to sooth me; where I might meet such men as the Marquis of Montmorenci and M. de Valdore; I will go to the mansion from which I am exiled, and gratify its master by destroying, perhaps in his presence, the being he detests.
"A kind of gloomy composure took possession of me from the moment I had conceived my fatal resolution. I made no comments to Elvira upon the conduct of her guardian; I attempted not to dissuade her from pleading to him in my favour, but pretending fatigue, I said I would retire for a little while to my chamber.
"As soon as I entered it, fearful of myself, fearful that my resolution would be shaken if I allowed myself a moment's thought, I put into my bosom a dagger, the gift of my late departed benefactor, and stealing out, bid, as I then thought, a last adieu to my hitherto happy home. I flew rather than walked, and about sun-set found myself in the gloomiest part of the forest of Montmorenci, and within view of the castle. Exhausted by fatigue and agitation, I threw myself upon the ground: it was a fine summer evening, and the beauty and serenity of nature formed a melancholy contrast to the horror and agony of my mind; the hour recalled a thousand tender images to my memory, a thousand happy scenes in which I had been engaged with the beloved protectors of my youth.
"Oh! joys departed! (I exclaimed) how bitter is your recollection!—but, for the last time, it now wrings my heart; to-morrow I shall be insensible of pain or pleasure.—Oh! sun, (I cried, raising my eyes to that resplendent orb, which in majestic glory was retiring from the world) never more will thy bright beams give me joy or vigour; ere they again visit the earth, I shall be cold and inanimate as the sod on which I now rest. Father of mercies! (I proceeded, raising myself on my knees) to thee I fly. I am forlorn, I am an outcast, where then but in thy bosom can I expect comfort or protection? Forgive me then, forgive me, for appearing in thy presence unsummoned; and, Oh! should the eye of a father behold my remains, behold them with compunction, let, I implore thee, that compunction extenuate his errors, nor suffer the blood I shed to rest upon his head."
"I attempted to raise the dagger to my heart, but felt at the instant my arm seized. Astonished, I looked round, and beheld him who was unjustly titled St. Julian.
"I rose, and tried but in vain, to disengage myself from him—rage took immediate possession of my soul.
"Release me (cried I) directly, lest passion should endue me with double strength, and tempt me to raise that hand against your breast which now I only wish to turn against my own."
'Your threats are in vain, (said he); I will not release you till you assure me you have dropped your present dreadful intentions—till you assure me that you will have mercy upon your own soul.—Oh! kneel and deprecate the vengeance of heaven, for having thought of disobeying its most sacred injunctions, for having doubted its promises of protection, and despairingly determined on destroying what, as it gave, so only it should take.'
"The acknowledged heir of Montmorenci, the son of tenderness and prosperity, (cried I) may preach against a crime which he beholds no prospect of ever being tempted to commit; but were our situations reversed, was he, like me, an outcast, an exile from the house that should have sheltered and protected him, he would, like me, perhaps gladly resign a being valueless to himself from being so to others."
'To more strength of mind, more firmness than other men, (said he) I do not pretend; but still I humbly trust that in the very depth of misery the sacred sentiments of religion I have imbibed would guard me against an act which would for ever close the doors of happiness against me. You shall not (he continued) throw me from you; I will save, I will serve you—we are brothers, suffer us to be friends. My heart conceived a partiality for you the first moment I beheld you, and I should then have declared it, had I thought its disclosure would have been pleasing to you.'
"I will not, my love, (proceeded Clermont, after a short pause) dwell longer upon a scene which I perceive has already inspired you with horror; suffice it to say I was not able to resist his kindnesses, which, from being unexpected, had a double effect; his gentleness allayed the stormy passions of my soul, his arguments convinced me of the enormity of the crime I had been about committing, and I dropped the instrument of intended destruction to clasp his hand to a breast which heaved with strong emotion, forgetting in that moment that he was the usurper of my rights.
"Ah! had he been convinced he was the usurper of them, I am confident he would, without hesitation, have withdrawn from the place I should have filled; but the artful tale of the Marquis of Montmorenci completely deceived him: and while his generous heart acknowledged me as his brother, he considered me as the illegitimate son of his father.
"From the hour our friendship commenced I determined never more to mention the painful subject of my mother's wrongs and mine. But ere I would accept his offers of assistance, I made him assure me that his own feelings alone prompted him to serve me, solemnly vowing within my mind never through any hands, or by any means, to receive any mark of kindness from my father, except acknowledged by him in the light I wished.
"St. Julian (for so I now called him, though my heart swelled as I did so), informed me that in a few days he was going to Italy, and asked me to accompany him thither. This I gladly consented to do, and, in the interim he said he would bring me to the house of a cottager, where I might be secretly lodged: 'And ere we return to France, (continued he) we may think of some plan for your future establishment in life.'
"Ere I commenced my journey, I wrote to Elvira, acquainting her of the friend I had gained, and imploring her forgiveness for quitting her house in the abrupt manner I had done, carefully concealing, however, the motive which had prompted me to do so.
"St. Julian informed me, that his present excursion was merely for pleasure, as he had already made the tour of Europe.
"I shall pass over the admiration, the enthusiastic delight, which pervaded my mind as I ascended the Alps, and viewed nature in some of her most sublime forms.
"On the evening of the first day's journey St. Julian told me he meant to pass the night at the habitation of a very particular friend of his.
'Some months ago, (said he) as I was returning from Italy to France, I was severely hurt near his house by the overturning of my carriage, and from him, to whom I was then a total stranger, received every attention which politeness or humanity could dictate. I should therefore deem myself highly ungrateful if I could think of passing his door without paying him my respects.
'He is a foreigner, far advanced in life; a man of distinction, but unfortunate. Of the troubles which some years back agitated England, and its sister kingdom, I dare say you have heard. Lord Dunlere (so my friend is stiled) was one of the most faithful and zealous supporters of James the Second, and in consequence of his attachment to that unhappy Prince, became an exile from his native country, Ireland, and lost a considerable property in it:—with all he could preserve, a small pittance, he retired to the obscurity of these mountains, where, with two daughters, and a few affectionate followers, he lives a life of peaceful retirement, looking back on the world he has left without regret, and forward to the one to come with every hope of felicity.
' 'Tis impossible to give you any adequate idea of the benevolence of his disposition, the urbanity, the cheerfulness of his temper: he continually brings to mind the stories we have heard of the patriarchs; his simplicity, his hospitality, exactly accords with the account we have received of them.
'Of his daughters I must not speak, because I could not do them justice. I must, however, timely caution you against the charms of the elder, who is engaged to a gentleman, to whom she is prevented by particular circumstances from being immediately united; but the heart as well as the hand of the younger are at liberty I understand, and to wish them my brother's would be to wish him the greatest blessing man could possess.'
"Soon after this conversation we stopped at Lord Dunlere's. St. Julian went in first to prepare him for my reception, and in a few minutes returned with his venerable friend, whose looks were calculated to excite an immediate prepossession in his favour.
"He welcomed me with the utmost kindness, and conducted me to the apartment where his daughters sat. I cannot give you any idea of the surprise, the admiration which seized me on beholding them:—I saw indeed that my brother was right in not attempting to describe charms which no description could have done justice to. My eyes wandered for some time from one to the other, scarcely knowing which to give the preference of beauty to, but at last settled on the lovely face of Geraldine, the younger.
"Instead of staying but one night, we remained a week under the roof of Lord Dunlere—a week of such happiness as I had never before experienced—a week in which new feelings, new sentiments took possession of my soul, and taught me that I had hitherto been a stranger to the greatest pleasure, the greatest pain man can feel. I wished, I determined, however, if possible, to conceal my feelings—I regarded my passion as hopeless, and pride actuated me to hide it; but in vain I strove to do so; my melancholy, my total abstraction, amidst the new and lovely scenes through which I travelled, and the conversations into which I insensibly entered, betrayed me to St. Julian. He laughed, yet pitied, but neither desired me to hope nor despair.
'Lausane (said he, one morning, after we had been two or three weeks in Italy), would it be vastly disagreeable to you if, instead of passing two months here as we at first proposed, we returned to Lord Dunlere's, and spent them there?'
"Ah! St. Julian, (cried I) you know my heart too well to render it necessary for me to answer you."
"In short, without longer delay we returned to that mansion on which my thoughts continually dwelt. Here, in the presence of her whom my soul adored, I forgot my resolution of trying to conquer—to conceal my passion:—ah! how indeed could I do so, when in the soft glances of her eyes I sometimes fancied I saw an assurance of its being returned. At length the period for quitting her arrived—for quitting without the smallest hope of again beholding her: the most excruciating anguish filled my heart the moment it was announced, and with difficulty I concealed it.
"Unable to converse the evening preceding the day fixed for my departure, I left Lord Dunlere and St. Julian together, and withdrew to an alcove in a lonely and romantic part of the garden, where some of my happiest hours had been passed with Geraldine, indulging a melancholy kind of pleasure at the idea of there giving vent to my feelings.
"You may imagine what my emotions were, when, on entering it, the first object I beheld was Geraldine!—She was alone, and dejectedly leaning on a little table. Reason bid me fly, but passion overpowered, and at her feet I poured forth my sorrows. Ah! how amply did I think myself recompensed for those sorrows when I beheld the tear of pity stealing down her cheek, when I heard her soft and faltering accents declare I was not indifferent to her:—but the rapture that declaration gave was transient: I reflected on my situation, and my soul immediately upbraided me with cruelty to her, and treachery to Lord Dunlere, in avowing my passion, and pleading for a return to it, when no hope existed of our ever being united.
"Pity me, Geraldine, (said I, wildly starting from her feet), but no longer love me; yield not to sentiments which will, if indulged, entail anguish upon your gentle soul, such anguish as now pervades mine—the anguish of a hopeless passion:—we must part, part without an idea of again meeting;—I cannot, dare not ask you to become mine; cannot ask you to bestow your hand on him who is but a dependant. No, Geraldine, were it offered I would reject it, from a conviction that by accepting it I should plunge you in distress!—Oh! mild as your virtues may your destiny be,—different, ah! far different from that of the unhappy Lausane's!"
"A sudden rustling amongst the trees behind me made me turn round, and I beheld Lord Dunlere. I was a little startled, but the consciousness of not having attempted to take any advantage of the tenderness of his daughter, prevented my feeling that confusion I should otherwise have experienced at being thus surprised. I bowed, and was retiring from the alcove, when he stopped me—
'Lausane (said he), do not let me frighten you away: let me try (added he, with a benignant smile) whether I cannot obtain your pardon for my intrusion.'
"He seated himself by the almost fainting Geraldine, and motioned me to sit beside him.
'You will not, Lausane, (said he, after a pause) be surprised I think, when I inform you that I have overheard your conversation, nor will you, I hope, regret my having done so; it was one which reflected the highest honour on your heart. He who can soar above selfish considerations, who can resist the pleadings of passion for fear of inconveniencing the woman he loves, evinces a generosity, a sensibility, that does credit to human nature.
'I have long suspected your attachment; you will believe I did not disapprove it, when I confess I felt happy to think it was returned.
'To men of virtue, not to men of greatness, I always wished to give my daughters; they only, of all the numerous connexions which once blessed me, remain; consequently my felicity solely depends upon their's: I therefore determined never to control their inclinations, if such as reason could approve.'
"Oh! my Lord, (I exclaimed) I cannot give utterance to my feelings; but, ah! will you indeed persevere in your generous intentions when you hear my sad story, when you hear that I have been not only deprived of fortune, but the name I have a right to?"
'I am already acquainted with your story, (he replied); Count St. Julian related it a few days after your introduction to me. Your now mentioning it reminds me of a preliminary which must be settled ere I positively consent to give you my daughter, namely, that you solemnly promise never to enter again upon the subject of former grievances.'
"This was a promise which, even without having such an inducement as he now held out for making, I would not have hesitated to give, having long before determined to be silent about wrongs which I could not gain redress for.
'If then (resumed he) you think you can be happy in the retirement in which we live, for my fortune will not permit me to give you the power of entering the gay world, receive the hand of my daughter.'
"On my knees I expressed my gratitude, on my knees with truth assured him, that a desert with her would be a paradise. From his arms I received the most lovely and beloved of women. Oh! moment of ecstasy, in which I folded my Geraldine to my heart as my destined wife—in which I kissed away the tear that hung upon her glowing cheek, like the sweet dew of the morning on the silken leaves of the rose!
"St. Julian, who appeared almost overpowered with delight at my happiness, put off his journey in order to be present at my marriage, and gave me the most solemn assurances of dividing with me his paternal fortune whenever he came into possession of it.
"He left me the most blessed of men. Oh! days of delight, rapid in your course, and succeeded by years of misery and horror!
"I had been married about three months when I received a letter from my brother, informing me that he was ill, and anxiously desirous of seeing me. I sighed at the idea of even a transient separation from my love, but I could not resist the call of friendship, and accordingly set out for a cottage near the castle of Montmorenci, where St. Julian had once before lodged, and now appointed to see me.
"The heaviness of heart with which I commenced my journey was surely a presentiment of the ills that were approaching. Oh! venerable Dunlere, thy happiness and mine was then about setting!
"The chateau de Valdore lay in my way to the castle of Montmorenci; I could not think of passing it without inquiring after the friend of my youth, from whom I had heard but once since my departure from her house; our correspondence, as she then informed me, having been prohibited by her guardian. I went through a private path to the chateau, which conducted me directly to the hall occupied by the servants: here, amidst many strangers I soon discovered some of the old domestics, and from them learned that M. de Valdore and his family resided at the chateau, and that Lady Elvira's situation was unaltered. I sent to request an interview, and was almost immediately summoned to her: she received me with the most rapturous delight, and tears involuntarily fell from me as I recollected the kindness of her parents, and witnessed her pleasure at beholding me.
"When we grew a little composed, I answered her eager enquiries concerning all that had befallen me since our separation, and my present situation: but, Oh! what were my emotions when, as I mentioned that situation, I saw the blood forsake her cheeks, and discovered that it was more than friendship which she felt for me!
'Married!' she repeated in a faint voice—she paused—she seemed trying to recollect herself, and attempted to wish me joy; but her tongue could not utter what she wished to say, and her head sunk upon my shoulder. Oh! Geraldine, surely I did not wrong thy love by the tears, the tears of unutterable tenderness which I shed upon her pale cheek—by the sighs which heaved my bosom on hearing her's.
"She soon however recovered:—her mind was the seat of every virtue, and shrunk from the idea of betraying feelings contrary to propriety—
'Lausane, (said she) be assured I rejoice at your present happiness; the period I trust will arrive when I shall have an opportunity of beholding it; prepare your lady against that period to love and esteem me; tell her you have a friend, a sister, to introduce to her.'
"Already (cried I) she is acquainted with the virtues of Elvira; already taught to love and esteem her.'
"In pity to her feelings, which I saw she could ill suppress, I determined to shorten my visit: when she saw me rising to depart, she desired me to stop another moment—
'I have a present (said she) to send your lady: you know I often amused myself by copying pictures?—amongst the rest (continued she, with a blush) I copied your's, and now request you will take it to your lady.'
"She retired without permitting me to speak, and returned in a few minutes with it: it was the same which you now have, and which by being an exact copy of the one I sent my father, led to the late discovery.
"From that period particular circumstances, not necessary to explain, prevented my seeing or hearing any thing of the destiny of Elvira, till chance conducted her to our cottage. She then informed me, that soon after she was of age, she had united herself to the Count de Merville, whose virtues and tenderness rendered her, during his life time, one of the happiest of women, and thus rewarded her for the resolution with which she set about conquering her first attachment from the moment she knew it was improper to be indulged.
"From the chateau de Valdore I repaired to the cottage where my brother had desired to see me. He received me with the utmost affection, and I found he had not deceived me by saying he was ill; it was an illness however which seemed occasioned more by agitation than any bodily complaint; and I afterwards discovered I was not wrong in this opinion.
"Oh! had he confided in me; Oh! had he then opened his heart, divulged its cares, its anxieties, what misery, what horror would he have saved us both from experiencing!
"I had not been above a week with him when I was overwhelmed with sorrow by a letter from my wife, containing the melancholy intelligence of her lovely sister Eleanora's death.
"I could not hesitate a moment about returning to her directly; yet at the instant I determined on doing so, my heart was almost divided between her and my brother, who was seized with a violent fever the very day on which I heard from her.
"I will not pain your gentle soul, my Madeline, by describing the situation in which I found your mother, or relating the numerous train of calamities that followed the death of her sister; it is sufficient for me to say that within a few months after her decease I lost my brother and my wife.
"Ah, heavens! even at this distant period I shudder at the recollection of the excruciating anguish I endured on being deprived of friends so beloved. The world seemed a blank, and nothing but religion and tenderness for you could have prevented my quitting it; nor has time done more than appease the violence of that anguish.—Oh! never, never can the barb of sorrow be extracted from my heart; and respect for the memory of my mother, affection for you, could only have tempted me to quit a retirement, where unrestrained and unobserved I could have indulged my feelings.
"Lord Dunlere soon followed his children to their grave; the wreck of his fortune was placed in the hands of a banker at Paris, who failed about the time of his death. Thus, from necessity as well as choice, I sought the obscurity in which you were brought up.
"Disgusted with the world, I changed my name, in order to conceal myself from every one who had known me before, and thus prevent my retirement from being interrupted.
"I carefully concealed my story from you, well knowing from your sensibility the pain you would feel if acquainted with my injuries.
"Alas! too late is the hand of my father extended to do me justice; neither wealth nor titles can now confer pleasure upon me, and the coronet he is about placing upon my brow, I should reject, was it not to have the power of transmitting it to the child of my lamented love."
