Sweet is the breath of vernal shower,
The bees’ collected treasures sweet,
Sweet music’s melting fall, but sweeter yet
The still, small voice of gratitude.
GRAY
On the following day, the arrival of her friend revived the drooping
Emily, and La Vallée became once more the scene of social kindness and
of elegant hospitality. Illness and the terror she had suffered had
stolen from Blanche much of her sprightliness, but all her affectionate
simplicity remained, and, though she appeared less blooming, she was
not less engaging than before. The unfortunate adventure on the
Pyrenees had made the Count very anxious to reach home, and, after
little more than a week’s stay at La Vallée, Emily prepared to set out
with her friends for Languedoc, assigning the care of her house, during
her absence, to Theresa. On the evening, preceding her departure, this
old servant brought again the ring of Valancourt, and, with tears,
entreated her mistress to receive it, for that she had neither seen,
nor heard of M. Valancourt, since the night when he delivered it to
her. As she said this, her countenance expressed more alarm, than she
dared to utter; but Emily, checking her own propensity to fear,
considered, that he had probably returned to the residence of his
brother, and, again refusing to accept the ring, bade Theresa preserve
it, till she saw him, which, with extreme reluctance, she promised to
do.
On the following day, Count De Villefort, with Emily and the Lady
Blanche, left La Vallée, and, on the ensuing evening, arrived at the
Château-le-Blanc, where the Countess, Henri, and M. Du Pont, whom Emily
was surprised to find there, received them with much joy and
congratulation. She was concerned to observe, that the Count still
encouraged the hopes of his friend, whose countenance declared, that
his affection had suffered no abatement from absence; and was much
distressed, when, on the second evening after her arrival, the Count,
having withdrawn her from the Lady Blanche, with whom she was walking,
renewed the subject of M. Du Pont’s hopes. The mildness, with which she
listened to his intercessions at first, deceiving him, as to her
sentiments, he began to believe, that, her affection for Valancourt
being overcome, she was, at length, disposed to think favourably of M.
Du Pont; and, when she afterwards convinced him of his mistake, he
ventured, in the earnestness of his wish to promote what he considered
to be the happiness of two persons, whom he so much esteemed, gently to
remonstrate with her, on thus suffering an ill-placed affection to
poison the happiness of her most valuable years.
Observing her silence and the deep dejection of her countenance, he
concluded with saying, “I will not say more now, but I will still
believe, my dear Mademoiselle St. Aubert, that you will not always
reject a person, so truly estimable as my friend Du Pont.”
He spared her the pain of replying, by leaving her; and she strolled
on, somewhat displeased with the Count for having persevered to plead
for a suit, which she had repeatedly rejected, and lost amidst the
melancholy recollections, which this topic had revived, till she had
insensibly reached the borders of the woods, that screened the
monastery of St. Clair, when, perceiving how far she had wandered, she
determined to extend her walk a little farther, and to enquire about
the abbess and some of her friends among the nuns.
Though the evening was now drawing to a close, she accepted the
invitation of the friar, who opened the gate, and, anxious to meet some
of her old acquaintances, proceeded towards the convent parlour. As she
crossed the lawn, that sloped from the front of the monastery towards
the sea, she was struck with the picture of repose, exhibited by some
monks, sitting in the cloisters, which extended under the brow of the
woods, that crowned this eminence; where, as they meditated, at this
twilight hour, holy subjects, they sometimes suffered their attention
to be relieved by the scene before them, nor thought it profane to look
at nature, now that it had exchanged the brilliant colours of day for
the sober hue of evening. Before the cloisters, however, spread an
ancient chesnut, whose ample branches were designed to screen the full
magnificence of a scene, that might tempt the wish to worldly
pleasures; but still, beneath the dark and spreading foliage, gleamed a
wide extent of ocean, and many a passing sail; while, to the right and
left, thick woods were seen stretching along the winding shores. So
much as this had been admitted, perhaps, to give to the secluded votary
an image of the dangers and vicissitudes of life, and to console him,
now that he had renounced its pleasures, by the certainty of having
escaped its evils. As Emily walked pensively along, considering how
much suffering she might have escaped, had she become a votaress of the
order, and remained in this retirement from the time of her father’s
death, the vesper-bell struck up, and the monks retired slowly toward
the chapel, while she, pursuing her way, entered the great hall, where
an unusual silence seemed to reign. The parlour too, which opened from
it, she found vacant, but, as the evening bell was sounding, she
believed the nuns had withdrawn into the chapel, and sat down to rest,
for a moment, before she returned to the château, where, however, the
increasing gloom made her now anxious to be.
Not many minutes had elapsed, before a nun, entering in haste, enquired
for the abbess, and was retiring, without recollecting Emily, when she
made herself known, and then learned, that a mass was going to be
performed for the soul of sister Agnes, who had been declining, for
some time, and who was now believed to be dying.
Of her sufferings the sister gave a melancholy account, and of the
horrors, into which she had frequently started, but which had now
yielded to a dejection so gloomy, that neither the prayers, in which
she was joined by the sisterhood, nor the assurances of her confessor,
had power to recall her from it, or to cheer her mind even with a
momentary gleam of comfort.
To this relation Emily listened with extreme concern, and, recollecting
the frenzied manners and the expressions of horror, which she had
herself witnessed of Agnes, together with the history, that sister
Frances had communicated, her compassion was heightened to a very
painful degree. As the evening was already far advanced, Emily did not
now desire to see her, or to join in the mass, and, after leaving many
kind remembrances with the nun, for her old friends, she quitted the
monastery, and returned over the cliffs towards the château, meditating
upon what she had just heard, till, at length she forced her mind upon
less interesting subjects.
The wind was high, and as she drew near the château, she often paused
to listen to its awful sound, as it swept over the billows, that beat
below, or groaned along the surrounding woods; and, while she rested on
a cliff at a short distance from the château, and looked upon the wide
waters, seen dimly beneath the last shade of twilight, she thought of
the following address:
TO THE WINDS
Viewless, through heaven’s vast vault your course ye steer,
Unknown from whence ye come, or whither go!
Mysterious pow’rs! I hear ye murmur low,
Till swells your loud gust on my startled ear,
And, awful! seems to say—some God is near!
I love to list your midnight voices float
In the dread storm, that o’er the ocean rolls,
And, while their charm the angry wave controls,
Mix with its sullen roar, and sink remote.
Then, rising in the pause, a sweeter note,
The dirge of spirits, who your deeds bewail,
A sweeter note oft swells while sleeps the gale!
But soon, ye sightless pow’rs! your rest is o’er,
Solemn and slow, ye rise upon the air,
Speak in the shrouds, and bid the sea-boy fear,
And the faint-warbled dirge—is heard no more!
Oh! then I deprecate your awful reign!
The loud lament yet bear not on your breath!
Bear not the crash of bark far on the main,
Bear not the cry of men, who cry in vain,
The crew’s dread chorus sinking into death!
Oh! give not these, ye pow’rs! I ask alone,
As rapt I climb these dark romantic steeps,
The elemental war, the billow’s moan;
I ask the still, sweet tear, that listening Fancy weeps!