Then, fresh tears
Stood on her cheek, as doth the honey-dew
Upon a gather’d lily almost wither’d
SHAKESPEARE
After the late discoveries, Emily was distinguished at the château by
the Count and his family, as a relative of the house of Villeroi, and
received, if possible, more friendly attention, than had yet been shown
her.
Count De Villefort’s surprise at the delay of an answer to his letter,
which had been directed to Valancourt, at Estuvière, was mingled with
satisfaction for the prudence, which had saved Emily from a share of
the anxiety he now suffered, though, when he saw her still drooping
under the effect of his former error, all his resolution was necessary
to restrain him from relating the truth, that would afford her a
momentary relief. The approaching nuptials of the Lady Blanche now
divided his attention with this subject of his anxiety, for the
inhabitants of the château were already busied in preparations for that
event, and the arrival of Mons. St. Foix was daily expected. In the
gaiety, which surrounded her, Emily vainly tried to participate, her
spirits being depressed by the late discoveries, and by the anxiety
concerning the fate of Valancourt, that had been occasioned by the
description of his manner, when he had delivered the ring. She seemed
to perceive in it the gloomy wildness of despair; and, when she
considered to what that despair might have urged him, her heart sunk
with terror and grief. The state of suspense, as to his safety, to
which she believed herself condemned, till she should return to La
Vallée, appeared insupportable, and, in such moments, she could not
even struggle to assume the composure, that had left her mind, but
would often abruptly quit the company she was with, and endeavour to
sooth her spirits in the deep solitudes of the woods, that overbrowed
the shore. Here, the faint roar of foaming waves, that beat below, and
the sullen murmur of the wind among the branches around, were
circumstances in unison with the temper of her mind; and she would sit
on a cliff, or on the broken steps of her favourite watch-tower,
observing the changing colours of the evening clouds, and the gloom of
twilight draw over the sea, till the white tops of billows, riding
towards the shore, could scarcely be discerned amidst the darkened
waters. The lines, engraved by Valancourt on this tower, she frequently
repeated with melancholy enthusiasm, and then would endeavour to check
the recollections and the grief they occasioned, and to turn her
thoughts to indifferent subjects.
One evening, having wandered with her lute to this her favourite spot,
she entered the ruined tower, and ascended a winding staircase, that
led to a small chamber, which was less decayed than the rest of the
building, and whence she had often gazed, with admiration, on the wide
prospect of sea and land, that extended below. The sun was now setting
on that tract of the Pyrenees, which divided Languedoc from Rousillon,
and, placing herself opposite to a small grated window, which, like the
wood-tops beneath, and the waves lower still, gleamed with the red glow
of the west, she touched the chords of her lute in solemn symphony, and
then accompanied it with her voice, in one of the simple and affecting
airs, to which, in happier days, Valancourt had often listened in
rapture, and which she now adapted to the following lines.
TO MELANCHOLY
Spirit of love and sorrow—hail!
Thy solemn voice from far I hear,
Mingling with ev’ning’s dying gale:
Hail, with this sadly-pleasing tear!
O! at this still, this lonely hour,
Thine own sweet hour of closing day,
Awake thy lute, whose charmful pow’r
Shall call up Fancy to obey:
To paint the wild romantic dream,
That meets the poet’s musing eye,
As, on the bank of shadowy stream,
He breathes to her the fervid sigh.
O lonely spirit! let thy song
Lead me through all thy sacred haunt;
The minister’s moonlight aisles along,
Where spectres raise the midnight chaunt.
I hear their dirges faintly swell!
Then, sink at once in silence drear,
While, from the pillar’d cloister’s cell,
Dimly their gliding forms appear!
Lead where the pine-woods wave on high,
Whose pathless sod is darkly seen,
As the cold moon, with trembling eye,
Darts her long beams the leaves between.
Lead to the mountain’s dusky head,
Where, far below, in shade profound,
Wide forests, plains and hamlets spread,
And sad the chimes of vesper sound,
Or guide me, where the dashing oar
Just breaks the stillness of the vale,
As slow it tracks the winding shore,
To meet the ocean’s distant sail:
To pebbly banks, that Neptune laves,
With measur’d surges, loud and deep,
Where the dark cliff bends o’er the waves,
And wild the winds of autumn sweep.
There pause at midnight’s spectred hour,
And list the long-resounding gale;
And catch the fleeting moonlight’s pow’r,
O’er foaming seas and distant sail.
The soft tranquillity of the scene below, where the evening breeze
scarcely curled the water, or swelled the passing sail, that caught the
last gleam of the sun, and where, now and then, a dipping oar was all
that disturbed the trembling radiance, conspired with the tender melody
of her lute to lull her mind into a state of gentle sadness, and she
sung the mournful songs of past times, till the remembrances they
awakened were too powerful for her heart, her tears fell upon the lute,
over which she drooped, and her voice trembled, and was unable to
proceed.
Though the sun had now sunk behind the mountains, and even his
reflected light was fading from their highest points, Emily did not
leave the watch-tower, but continued to indulge her melancholy reverie,
till a footstep, at a little distance, startled her, and, on looking
through the grate, she observed a person walking below, whom, however,
soon perceiving to be Mons. Bonnac, she returned to the quiet
thoughtfulness his step had interrupted. After some time, she again
struck her lute, and sung her favourite air; but again a step disturbed
her, and, as she paused to listen, she heard it ascending the staircase
of the tower. The gloom of the hour, perhaps, made her sensible to some
degree of fear, which she might not otherwise have felt; for, only a
few minutes before, she had seen Mons. Bonnac pass. The steps were
quick and bounding, and, in the next moment, the door of the chamber
opened, and a person entered, whose features were veiled in the
obscurity of twilight; but his voice could not be concealed, for it was
the voice of Valancourt! At the sound, never heard by Emily, without
emotion, she started, in terror, astonishment and doubtful pleasure,
and had scarcely beheld him at her feet, when she sunk into a seat,
overcome by the various emotions, that contended at her heart, and
almost insensible to that voice, whose earnest and trembling calls
seemed as if endeavouring to save her. Valancourt, as he hung over
Emily, deplored his own rash impatience, in having thus surprised her:
for when he had arrived at the château, too anxious to await the return
of the Count, who, he understood, was in the grounds, he went himself
to seek him, when, as he passed the tower, he was struck by the sound
of Emily’s voice, and immediately ascended.
It was a considerable time before she revived, but, when her
recollection returned, she repulsed his attentions, with an air of
reserve, and enquired, with as much displeasure as it was possible she
could feel in these first moments of his appearance, the occasion of
his visit.
“Ah Emily!” said Valancourt, “that air, those words—alas! I have, then,
little to hope—when you ceased to esteem me, you ceased also to love
me!”
“Most true, sir,” replied Emily, endeavouring to command her trembling
voice; “and if you had valued my esteem, you would not have given me
this new occasion for uneasiness.”
Valancourt’s countenance changed suddenly from the anxieties of doubt
to an expression of surprise and dismay: he was silent a moment, and
then said, “I had been taught to hope for a very different reception!
Is it, then, true, Emily, that I have lost your regard for ever? am I
to believe, that, though your esteem for me may return—your affection
never can? Can the Count have meditated the cruelty, which now tortures
me with a second death?”
The voice, in which he spoke this, alarmed Emily as much as his words
surprised her, and, with trembling impatience, she begged that he would
explain them.
“Can any explanation be necessary?” said Valancourt, “do you not know
how cruelly my conduct has been misrepresented? that the actions of
which you once believed me guilty (and, O Emily! how could you so
degrade me in your opinion, even for a moment!) those actions—I hold in
as much contempt and abhorrence as yourself? Are you, indeed, ignorant,
that Count de Villefort has detected the slanders, that have robbed me
of all I hold dear on earth, and has invited me hither to justify to
you my former conduct? It is surely impossible you can be uninformed of
these circumstances, and I am again torturing myself with a false
hope!”
The silence of Emily confirmed this supposition; for the deep twilight
would not allow Valancourt to distinguish the astonishment and doubting
joy, that fixed her features. For a moment, she continued unable to
speak; then a profound sigh seemed to give some relief to her spirits,
and she said,
“Valancourt! I was, till this moment, ignorant of all the circumstances
you have mentioned; the emotion I now suffer may assure you of the
truth of this, and, that, though I had ceased to esteem, I had not
taught myself entirely to forget you.”
“This moment,” said Valancourt, in a low voice, and leaning for support
against the window—“this moment brings with it a conviction that
overpowers me!—I am dear to you then—still dear to you, my Emily!”
“Is it necessary that I should tell you so?” she replied, “is it
necessary, that I should say—these are the first moments of joy I have
known, since your departure, and that they repay me for all those of
pain I have suffered in the interval?”
Valancourt sighed deeply, and was unable to reply; but, as he pressed
her hand to his lips, the tears, that fell over it, spoke a language,
which could not be mistaken, and to which words were inadequate.
Emily, somewhat tranquillized, proposed returning to the château, and
then, for the first time, recollected that the Count had invited
Valancourt thither to explain his conduct, and that no explanation had
yet been given. But, while she acknowledged this, her heart would not
allow her to dwell, for a moment, on the possibility of his
unworthiness; his look, his voice, his manner, all spoke the noble
sincerity, which had formerly distinguished him; and she again
permitted herself to indulge the emotions of a joy, more surprising and
powerful, than she had ever before experienced.
Neither Emily, nor Valancourt, were conscious how they reached the
château, whither they might have been transferred by the spell of a
fairy, for anything they could remember; and it was not, till they had
reached the great hall, that either of them recollected there were
other persons in the world besides themselves. The Count then came
forth with surprise, and with the joyfulness of pure benevolence, to
welcome Valancourt, and to entreat his forgiveness of the injustice he
had done him; soon after which, Mons. Bonnac joined this happy group,
in which he and Valancourt were mutually rejoiced to meet.
When the first congratulations were over, and the general joy became
somewhat more tranquil, the Count withdrew with Valancourt to the
library, where a long conversation passed between them, in which the
latter so clearly justified himself of the criminal parts of the
conduct, imputed to him, and so candidly confessed and so feelingly
lamented the follies, which he had committed, that the Count was
confirmed in his belief of all he had hoped; and, while he perceived so
many noble virtues in Valancourt, and that experience had taught him to
detest the follies, which before he had only not admired, he did not
scruple to believe, that he would pass through life with the dignity of
a wise and good man, or to entrust to his care the future happiness of
Emily St. Aubert, for whom he felt the solicitude of a parent. Of this
he soon informed her, in a short conversation, when Valancourt had left
him. While Emily listened to a relation of the services, that
Valancourt had rendered Mons. Bonnac, her eyes overflowed with tears of
pleasure, and the further conversation of Count De Villefort perfectly
dissipated every doubt, as to the past and future conduct of him, to
whom she now restored, without fear, the esteem and affection, with
which she had formerly received him.
When they returned to the supper-room, the Countess and Lady Blanche
met Valancourt with sincere congratulations; and Blanche, indeed, was
so much rejoiced to see Emily returned to happiness, as to forget, for
a while, that Mons. St. Foix was not yet arrived at the château, though
he had been expected for some hours; but her generous sympathy was,
soon after, rewarded by his appearance. He was now perfectly recovered
from the wounds, received, during his perilous adventure among the
Pyrenees, the mention of which served to heighten to the parties, who
had been involved in it, the sense of their present happiness. New
congratulations passed between them, and round the supper-table
appeared a group of faces, smiling with felicity, but with a felicity,
which had in each a different character. The smile of Blanche was frank
and gay, that of Emily tender and pensive; Valancourt’s was rapturous,
tender and gay alternately; Mons. St. Foix’s was joyous, and that of
the Count, as he looked on the surrounding party, expressed the
tempered complacency of benevolence; while the features of the
Countess, Henri, and Mons. Bonnac, discovered fainter traces of
animation. Poor Mons. Du Pont did not, by his presence, throw a shade
of regret over the company; for, when he had discovered, that
Valancourt was not unworthy of the esteem of Emily, he determined
seriously to endeavour at the conquest of his own hopeless affection,
and had immediately withdrawn from Château-le-Blanc—a conduct, which
Emily now understood, and rewarded with her admiration and pity.
The Count and his guests continued together till a late hour, yielding
to the delights of social gaiety, and to the sweets of friendship. When
Annette heard of the arrival of Valancourt, Ludovico had some
difficulty to prevent her going into the supper-room, to express her
joy, for she declared, that she had never been so rejoiced at any
_accident_ as this, since she had found Ludovico himself.