The Mysteries of Udolpho
on the ground. Jean followed it, that he might find out where the man
got into the garden, but it was lost in the grass, and—”
Annette was interrupted: for Emily’s spirits died away, and she would
have fallen to the ground, if the girl had not caught her, and
supported her to a bench, close to them.
When, after a long absence, her senses returned, Emily desired to be
led to her apartment; and, though she trembled with anxiety to enquire
further on the subject of her alarm, she found herself too ill at
present, to dare the intelligence which it was possible she might
receive of Valancourt. Having dismissed Annette, that she might weep
and think at liberty, she endeavoured to recollect the exact air of the
person, whom she had seen on the terrace, and still her fancy gave her
the figure of Valancourt. She had, indeed, scarcely a doubt, that it
was he whom she had seen, and at whom the gardener had fired: for the
manner of the latter person, as described by Annette, was not that of a
robber; nor did it appear probable, that a robber would have come
alone, to break into a house so spacious as this.
When Emily thought herself sufficiently recovered, to listen to what
Jean might have to relate, she sent for him; but he could inform her of
no circumstance, that might lead to a knowledge of the person, who had
been shot, or of the consequence of the wound; and, after severely
reprimanding him, for having fired with bullets, and ordering diligent
enquiry to be made in the neighbourhood for the discovery of the
wounded person, she dismissed him, and herself remained in the same
state of terrible suspense. All the tenderness she had ever felt for
Valancourt, was recalled by the sense of his danger; and the more she
considered the subject, the more her conviction strengthened, that it
was he, who had visited the gardens, for the purpose of soothing the
misery of disappointed affection, amidst the scenes of his former
happiness.
“Dear madam,” said Annette, when she returned, “I never saw you so
affected before! I dare say the man is not killed.”
Emily shuddered, and lamented bitterly the rashness of the gardener in
having fired.
“I knew you would be angry enough about that, madam, or I should have
told you before; and he knew so too; for, says he, ‘Annette, say
nothing about this to my lady. She lies on the other side of the house,
so did not hear the gun, perhaps; but she would be angry with me, if
she knew, seeing there is blood. But then,’ says he, ‘how is one to
keep the garden clear, if one is afraid to fire at a robber, when one
sees him?’”
“No more of this,” said Emily, “pray leave me.”
Annette obeyed, and Emily returned to the agonizing considerations,
that had assailed her before, but which she, at length, endeavoured to
sooth by a new remark. If the stranger was Valancourt, it was certain
he had come alone, and it appeared, therefore, that he had been able to
quit the gardens, without assistance; a circumstance which did not seem
probable, had his wound been dangerous. With this consideration, she
endeavoured to support herself, during the enquiries, that were making
by her servants in the neighbourhood; but day after day came, and still
closed in uncertainty, concerning this affair: and Emily, suffering in
silence, at length, drooped, and sunk under the pressure of her
anxiety. She was attacked by a slow fever, and when she yielded to the
persuasion of Annette to send for medical advice, the physicians
prescribed little beside air, gentle exercise and amusement: but how
was this last to be obtained? She, however, endeavoured to abstract her
thoughts from the subject of her anxiety, by employing them in
promoting that happiness in others, which she had lost herself; and,
when the evening was fine, she usually took an airing, including in her
ride the cottages of some of her tenants, on whose condition she made
such observations, as often enabled her, unasked, to fulfil their
wishes.
Her indisposition and the business she engaged in, relative to this
estate, had already protracted her stay at Thoulouse, beyond the period
she had formerly fixed for her departure to La Vallée; and now she was
unwilling to leave the only place, where it seemed possible, that
certainty could be obtained on the subject of her distress. But the
time was come, when her presence was necessary at La Vallée, a letter
from the Lady Blanche now informing her, that the Count and herself,
being then at the château of the Baron St. Foix, purposed to visit her
at La Vallée, on their way home, as soon as they should be informed of
her arrival there. Blanche added, that they made this visit, with the
hope of inducing her to return with them to Château-le-Blanc.
Emily, having replied to the letter of her friend, and said that she
should be at La Vallée in a few days, made hasty preparations for the
journey; and, in thus leaving Thoulouse, endeavoured to support herself
with a belief, that, if any fatal accident had happened to Valancourt,
she must in this interval have heard of it.
On the evening before her departure, she went to take leave of the
terrace and the pavilion. The day had been sultry, but a light shower,
that fell just before sunset, had cooled the air, and given that soft
verdure to the woods and pastures, which is so refreshing to the eye;
while the rain drops, still trembling on the shrubs, glittered in the
last yellow gleam, that lighted up the scene, and the air was filled
with fragrance, exhaled by the late shower, from herbs and flowers and
from the earth itself. But the lovely prospect, which Emily beheld from
the terrace, was no longer viewed by her with delight; she sighed
deeply as her eye wandered over it, and her spirits were in a state of
such dejection, that she could not think of her approaching return to
La Vallée, without tears, and seemed to mourn again the death of her
father, as if it had been an event of yesterday. Having reached the
pavilion, she seated herself at the open lattice, and, while her eyes
settled on the distant mountains, that overlooked Gascony, still
gleaming on the horizon, though the sun had now left the plains below,
“Alas!” said she, “I return to your long-lost scenes, but shall meet no
more the parents, that were wont to render them delightful!—no more
shall see the smile of welcome, or hear the well-known voice of
fondness:—all will now be cold and silent in what was once my happy
home.”
Tears stole down her cheek, as the remembrance of what that home had
been, returned to her; but, after indulging her sorrow for some time,
she checked it, accusing herself of ingratitude in forgetting the
friends, that she possessed, while she lamented those that were
departed; and she, at length, left the pavilion and the terrace,
without having observed a shadow of Valancourt or of any other person.
CHAPTER XI
Ah happy hills! ah pleasing shade!
Ah fields belov’d in vain!
Where once my careless childhood stray’d,
A stranger yet to pain!
I feel the gales, that from ye blow,
A momentary bliss bestow,
As waving fresh their gladsome wing,
My weary soul they seem to sooth.
GRAY
On the following morning, Emily left Thoulouse at an early hour, and
reached La Vallée about sunset. With the melancholy she experienced on
the review of a place which had been the residence of her parents, and
the scene of her earliest delight, was mingled, after the first shock
had subsided, a tender and undescribable pleasure. For time had so far
blunted the acuteness of her grief, that she now courted every scene,
that awakened the memory of her friends; in every room, where she had
been accustomed to see them, they almost seemed to live again; and she
felt that La Vallée was still her happiest home. One of the first
apartments she visited, was that, which had been her father’s library,
and here she seated herself in his arm-chair, and, while she
contemplated, with tempered resignation, the picture of past times,
which her memory gave, the tears she shed could scarcely be called
those of grief.
Soon after her arrival, she was surprised by a visit from the venerable
M. Barreaux, who came impatiently to welcome the daughter of his late
respected neighbour, to her long-deserted home. Emily was comforted by
the presence of an old friend, and they passed an interesting hour in
conversing of former times, and in relating some of the circumstances,
that had occurred to each, since they parted.
The evening was so far advanced, when M. Barreaux left Emily, that she
could not visit the garden that night; but, on the following morning,
she traced its long-regretted scenes with fond impatience; and, as she
walked beneath the groves, which her father had planted, and where she
had so often sauntered in affectionate conversation with him, his
countenance, his smile, even the accents of his voice, returned with
exactness to her fancy, and her heart melted to the tender
recollections.
This, too, was his favourite season of the year, at which they had
often together admired the rich and variegated tints of these woods and
the magical effect of autumnal lights upon the mountains; and now, the
view of these circumstances made memory eloquent. As she wandered
pensively on, she fancied the following address
TO AUTUMN
Sweet Autumn! how thy melancholy grace
Steals on my heart, as through these shades I wind!
Sooth’d by thy breathing sigh, I fondly trace
Each lonely image of the pensive mind!
Lov’d scenes, lov’d friends—long lost! around me rise,
And wake the melting thought, the tender tear!
That tear, that thought, which more than mirth I prize—
Sweet as the gradual tint, that paints thy year!
Thy farewell smile, with fond regret, I view,
Thy beaming lights, soft gliding o’er the woods;
Thy distant landscape, touch’d with yellow hue
While falls the lengthen’d gleam; thy winding floods,
Now veil’d in shade, save where the skiff’s white sails
Swell to the breeze, and catch thy streaming ray.
But now, e’en now!—the partial vision fails,
And the wave smiles, as sweeps the cloud away!
Emblem of life!—Thus checquer’d is its plan,
Thus joy succeeds to grief—thus smiles the varied man!
One of Emily’s earliest enquiries, after her arrival at La Vallée, was
concerning Theresa, her father’s old servant, whom it may be remembered
that M. Quesnel had turned from the house when it was let, without any
provision. Understanding that she lived in a cottage at no great
distance, Emily walked thither, and, on approaching, was pleased to
see, that her habitation was pleasantly situated on a green slope,
sheltered by a tuft of oaks, and had an appearance of comfort and
extreme neatness. She found the old woman within, picking vine-stalks,
who, on perceiving her young mistress, was nearly overcome with joy.
“Ah! my dear young lady!” said she, “I thought I should never see you
again in this world, when I heard you were gone to that outlandish
country. I have been hardly used, since you went; I little thought they
would have turned me out of my old master’s family in my old age!”
Emily lamented the circumstance, and then assured her, that she would
make her latter days comfortable, and expressed satisfaction, on seeing
her in so pleasant a habitation.
Theresa thanked her with tears, adding, “Yes, mademoiselle, it is a
very comfortable home, thanks to the kind friend, who took me out of my
distress, when you were too far off to help me, and placed me here! I
little thought!—but no more of that—”
“And who was this kind friend?” said Emily: “whoever it was, I shall
consider him as mine also.”
“Ah, mademoiselle! that friend forbade me to blazon the good deed—I
must not say, who it was. But how you are altered since I saw you last!