The Mysteries of Udolpho
listened, but they returned no more. Soon after, she observed the
planet trembling between the fringed tops of the woods, and, in the
next moment, sink behind them. Chilled with a melancholy awe, she
retired once more to her bed, and, at length, forgot for a while her
sorrows in sleep.
On the following morning, she was visited by a sister of the convent,
who came, with kind offices and a second invitation from the lady
abbess; and Emily, though she could not forsake the cottage, while the
remains of her father were in it, consented, however painful such a
visit must be, in the present state of her spirits, to pay her respects
to the abbess, in the evening.
About an hour before sunset, La Voisin showed her the way through the
woods to the convent, which stood in a small bay of the Mediterranean,
crowned by a woody amphitheatre; and Emily, had she been less unhappy,
would have admired the extensive sea view, that appeared from the green
slope, in front of the edifice, and the rich shores, hung with woods
and pastures, that extended on either hand. But her thoughts were now
occupied by one sad idea, and the features of nature were to her
colourless and without form. The bell for vespers struck, as she passed
the ancient gate of the convent, and seemed the funereal note for St.
Aubert. Little incidents affect a mind, enervated by sorrow; Emily
struggled against the sickening faintness, that came over her, and was
led into the presence of the abbess, who received her with an air of
maternal tenderness; an air of such gentle solicitude and
consideration, as touched her with an instantaneous gratitude; her eyes
were filled with tears, and the words she would have spoken faltered on
her lips. The abbess led her to a seat, and sat down beside her, still
holding her hand and regarding her in silence, as Emily dried her tears
and attempted to speak. “Be composed, my daughter,” said the abbess in
a soothing voice, “do not speak yet; I know all you would say. Your
spirits must be soothed. We are going to prayers;—will you attend our
evening service? It is comfortable, my child, to look up in our
afflictions to a father, who sees and pities us, and who chastens in
his mercy.”
Emily’s tears flowed again, but a thousand sweet emotions mingled with
them. The abbess suffered her to weep without interruption, and watched
over her with a look of benignity, that might have characterised the
countenance of a guardian angel. Emily, when she became tranquil, was
encouraged to speak without reserve, and to mention the motive, that
made her unwilling to quit the cottage, which the abbess did not oppose
even by a hint; but praised the filial piety of her conduct, and added
a hope, that she would pass a few days at the convent, before she
returned to La Vallée. “You must allow yourself a little time to
recover from your first shock, my daughter, before you encounter a
second; I will not affect to conceal from you how much I know your
heart must suffer, on returning to the scene of your former happiness.
Here, you will have all, that quiet and sympathy and religion can give,
to restore your spirits. But come,” added she, observing the tears
swell in Emily’s eyes, “we will go to the chapel.”
Emily followed to the parlour, where the nuns were assembled, to whom
the abbess committed her, saying, “This is a daughter, for whom I have
much esteem; be sisters to her.”
They passed on in a train to the chapel, where the solemn devotion,
with which the service was performed, elevated her mind, and brought to
it the comforts of faith and resignation.
Twilight came on, before the abbess’s kindness would suffer Emily to
depart, when she left the convent, with a heart much lighter than she
had entered it, and was reconducted by La Voisin through the woods, the
pensive gloom of which was in unison with the temper of her mind; and
she pursued the little wild path, in musing silence, till her guide
suddenly stopped, looked round, and then struck out of the path into
the high grass, saying he had mistaken the road. He now walked on
quickly, and Emily, proceeding with difficulty over the obscured and
uneven ground, was left at some distance, till her voice arrested him,
who seemed unwilling to stop, and still hurried on. “If you are in
doubt about the way,” said Emily, “had we not better enquire it at the
château yonder, between the trees?”
“No,” replied La Voisin, “there is no occasion. When we reach that
brook, ma’amselle, (you see the light upon the water there, beyond the
woods) when we reach that brook, we shall be at home presently. I don’t
know how I happened to mistake the path; I seldom come this way after
sunset.”
“It is solitary enough,” said Emily, “but you have no banditti here.”
“No, ma’amselle—no banditti.”
“What are you afraid of then, my good friend? you are not
superstitious?” “No, not superstitious; but, to tell you the truth,
lady, nobody likes to go near that château, after dusk.” “By whom is it
inhabited,” said Emily, “that it is so formidable?” “Why, ma’amselle,
it is scarcely inhabited, for our lord the Marquis, and the lord of all
these find woods, too, is dead. He had not once been in it, for these
many years, and his people, who have the care of it, live in a cottage
close by.” Emily now understood this to be the château, which La Voisin
had formerly pointed out, as having belonged to the Marquis Villeroi,
on the mention of which her father had appeared so much affected.
“Ah! it is a desolate place now,” continued La Voisin, “and such a
grand, fine place, as I remember it!” Emily enquired what had
occasioned this lamentable change; but the old man was silent, and
Emily, whose interest was awakened by the fear he had expressed, and
above all by a recollection of her father’s agitation, repeated the
question, and added, “If you are neither afraid of the inhabitants, my
good friend, nor are superstitious, how happens it, that you dread to
pass near that château in the dark?”
“Perhaps, then, I am a little superstitious, ma’amselle; and, if you
knew what I do, you might be so too. Strange things have happened
there. Monsieur, your good father, appeared to have known the late
Marchioness.” “Pray inform me what did happen?” said Emily, with much
emotion.
“Alas! ma’amselle,” answered La Voisin, “enquire no further; it is not
for me to lay open the domestic secrets of my lord.”—Emily, surprised
by the old man’s words, and his manner of delivering them, forbore to
repeat her question; a nearer interest, the remembrance of St. Aubert,
occupied her thoughts, and she was led to recollect the music she heard
on the preceding night, which she mentioned to La Voisin. “You were not
alone, ma’amselle, in this,” he replied, “I heard it too; but I have so
often heard it, at the same hour, that I was scarcely surprised.”
“You doubtless believe this music to have some connection with the
château,” said Emily suddenly, “and are, therefore, superstitious.” “It
may be so, ma’amselle, but there are other circumstances, belonging to
that château, which I remember, and sadly too.” A heavy sigh followed:
but Emily’s delicacy restrained the curiosity these words revived, and
she enquired no further.
On reaching the cottage, all the violence of her grief returned; it
seemed as if she had escaped its heavy pressure only while she was
removed from the object of it. She passed immediately to the chamber,
where the remains of her father were laid, and yielded to all the
anguish of hopeless grief. La Voisin, at length, persuaded her to leave
the room, and she returned to her own, where, exhausted by the
sufferings of the day, she soon fell into deep sleep, and awoke
considerably refreshed.
When the dreadful hour arrived, in which the remains of St. Aubert were
to be taken from her for ever, she went alone to the chamber to look
upon his countenance yet once again, and La Voisin, who had waited
patiently below stairs, till her despair should subside, with the
respect due to grief, forbore to interrupt the indulgence of it, till
surprise, at the length of her stay, and then apprehension overcame his
delicacy, and he went to lead her from the chamber. Having tapped
gently at the door, without receiving an answer, he listened
attentively, but all was still; no sigh, no sob of anguish was heard.
Yet more alarmed by this silence, he opened the door, and found Emily
lying senseless across the foot of the bed, near which stood the
coffin. His calls procured assistance, and she was carried to her room,
where proper applications, at length, restored her.
During her state of insensibility, La Voisin had given directions for
the coffin to be closed, and he succeeded in persuading Emily to
forbear revisiting the chamber. She, indeed, felt herself unequal to
this, and also perceived the necessity of sparing her spirits, and
recollecting fortitude sufficient to bear her through the approaching
scene. St. Aubert had given a particular injunction, that his remains
should be interred in the church of the convent of St. Clair, and, in
mentioning the north chancel, near the ancient tomb of the Villerois,
had pointed out the exact spot, where he wished to be laid. The
superior had granted this place for the interment, and thither,
therefore, the sad procession now moved, which was met, at the gates,
by the venerable priest, followed by a train of friars. Every person,
who heard the solemn chant of the anthem, and the peal of the organ,
that struck up, when the body entered the church, and saw also the
feeble steps, and the assumed tranquillity of Emily, gave her
involuntary tears. She shed none, but walked, her face partly shaded by
a thin black veil, between two persons, who supported her, preceded by
the abbess, and followed by nuns, whose plaintive voices mellowed the
swelling harmony of the dirge. When the procession came to the grave
the music ceased. Emily drew the veil entirely over her face, and, in a
momentary pause, between the anthem and the rest of the service, her
sobs were distinctly audible. The holy father began the service, and
Emily again commanded her feelings, till the coffin was let down, and
she heard the earth rattle on its lid. Then, as she shuddered, a groan
burst from her heart, and she leaned for support on the person who
stood next to her. In a few moments she recovered; and, when she heard
those affecting and sublime words: “His body is buried in peace, and
his soul returns to Him that gave it,” her anguish softened into tears.
The abbess led her from the church into her own parlour, and there
administered all the consolations, that religion and gentle sympathy
can give. Emily struggled against the pressure of grief; but the
abbess, observing her attentively, ordered a bed to be prepared, and
recommended her to retire to repose. She also kindly claimed her
promise to remain a few days at the convent; and Emily, who had no wish
to return to the cottage, the scene of all her sufferings, had leisure,
now that no immediate care pressed upon her attention, to feel the
indisposition, which disabled her from immediately travelling.
Meanwhile, the maternal kindness of the abbess, and the gentle
attentions of the nuns did all, that was possible, towards soothing her
spirits and restoring her health. But the latter was too deeply
wounded, through the medium of her mind, to be quickly revived. She
lingered for some weeks at the convent, under the influence of a slow
fever, wishing to return home, yet unable to go thither; often even
reluctant to leave the spot where her father’s relics were deposited,
and sometimes soothing herself with the consideration, that, if she
died here, her remains would repose beside those of St. Aubert. In the
meanwhile, she sent letters to Madame Cheron and to the old