The Mysteries of Udolpho, Ann Ward Radcliffe [good story books to read .txt] 📗

said she, ‘and am prepared to answer you. I feel, that my heart can never know a second affection; and that I must never hope even to recover its tranquillity—if I suffer myself to enter into a second engagement.’

‘I know, that you feel all this,’ replied the Count; ‘and I know, also, that time will overcome these feelings, unless you cherish them in solitude, and, pardon me, with romantic tenderness. Then, indeed, time will only confirm habit. I am particularly empowered to speak on this subject, and to sympathize in your sufferings,’ added the Count, with an air of solemnity, ‘for I have known what it is to love, and to lament the object of my love. Yes,’ continued he, while his eyes filled with tears, ‘I have suffered!—but those times have passed away—long passed! and I can now look back upon them without emotion.’

‘My dear sir,’ said Emily, timidly, ‘what mean those tears?—they speak, I fear, another language—they plead for me.’

‘They are weak tears, for they are useless ones,’ replied the Count, drying them, ‘I would have you superior to such weakness. These, however, are only faint traces of a grief, which, if it had not been opposed by long continued effort, might have led me to the verge of madness! Judge, then, whether I have not cause to warn you of an indulgence, which may produce so terrible an effect, and which must certainly, if not opposed, overcloud the years, that otherwise might be happy. M. Du Pont is a sensible and amiable man, who has long been tenderly attached to you; his family and fortune are unexceptionable;—after what I have said, it is unnecessary to add, that I should rejoice in your felicity, and that I think M. Du Pont would promote it. Do not weep, Emily,’ continued the Count, taking her hand, ‘there IS happiness reserved for you.’

He was silent a moment; and then added, in a firmer voice, ‘I do not wish, that you should make a violent effort to overcome your feelings; all I, at present, ask, is, that you will check the thoughts, that would lead you to a remembrance of the past; that you will suffer your mind to be engaged by present objects; that you will allow yourself to believe it possible you may yet be happy; and that you will sometimes think with complacency of poor Du Pont, and not condemn him to the state of despondency, from which, my dear Emily, I am endeavouring to withdraw you.’

‘Ah! my dear sir,’ said Emily, while her tears still fell, ‘do not suffer the benevolence of your wishes to mislead Mons. Du Pont with an expectation that I can ever accept his hand. If I understand my own heart, this never can be; your instruction I can obey in almost every other particular, than that of adopting a contrary belief.’

‘Leave me to understand your heart,’ replied the Count, with a faint smile. ‘If you pay me the compliment to be guided by my advice in other instances, I will pardon your incredulity, respecting your future conduct towards Mons. Du Pont. I will not even press you to remain longer at the chateau than your own satisfaction will permit; but though I forbear to oppose your present retirement, I shall urge the claims of friendship for your future visits.’

Tears of gratitude mingled with those of tender regret, while Emily thanked the Count for the many instances of friendship she had received from him; promised to be directed by his advice upon every subject but one, and assured him of the pleasure, with which she should, at some future period, accept the invitation of the Countess and himself—If Mons. Du Pont was not at the chateau.

The Count smiled at this condition. ‘Be it so,’ said he, ‘meanwhile the convent is so near the chateau, that my daughter and I shall often visit you; and if, sometimes, we should dare to bring you another visitor—will you forgive us?’

Emily looked distressed, and remained silent.

‘Well,’ rejoined the Count, ‘I will pursue this subject no further, and must now entreat your forgiveness for having pressed it thus far.

You will, however, do me the justice to believe, that I have been urged only by a sincere regard for your happiness, and that of my amiable friend Mons. Du Pont.’

Emily, when she left the Count, went to mention her intended departure to the Countess, who opposed it with polite expressions of regret; after which, she sent a note to acquaint the lady abbess, that she should return to the convent; and thither she withdrew on the evening of the following day. M. Du Pont, in extreme regret, saw her depart, while the Count endeavoured to cheer him with a hope, that Emily would sometimes regard him with a more favourable eye.

She was pleased to find herself once more in the tranquil retirement of the convent, where she experienced a renewal of all the maternal kindness of the abbess, and of the sisterly attentions of the nuns.

A report of the late extraordinary occurrence at the chateau had already reached them, and, after supper, on the evening of her arrival, it was the subject of conversation in the convent parlour, where she was requested to mention some particulars of that unaccountable event. Emily was guarded in her conversation on this subject, and briefly related a few circumstances concerning Ludovico, whose disappearance, her auditors almost unanimously agreed, had been effected by supernatural means.

‘A belief had so long prevailed,’ said a nun, who was called sister Frances, ‘that the chateau was haunted, that I was surprised, when I heard the Count had the temerity to inhabit it. Its former possessor, I fear, had some deed of conscience to atone for; let us hope, that the virtues of its present owner will preserve him from the punishment due to the errors of the last, if, indeed, he was a criminal.’

‘Of what crime, then, was he suspected?’ said a Mademoiselle Feydeau, a boarder at the convent.

‘Let us pray for his soul!’ said a nun, who had till now sat in silent attention. ‘If he was criminal, his punishment in this world was sufficient.’

There was a mixture of wildness and solemnity in her manner of delivering this, which struck Emily exceedingly; but Mademoiselle repeated her question, without noticing the solemn eagerness of the nun.

‘I dare not presume to say what was his crime,’ replied sister Frances; ‘but I have heard many reports of an extraordinary nature, respecting the late Marquis de Villeroi, and among others, that, soon after the death of his lady, he quitted Chateau-le-Blanc, and never afterwards returned to it. I was not here at the time, so I can only mention it from report, and so many years have passed since the Marchioness died, that few of our sisterhood, I believe, can do more.’

‘But I can,’ said the nun, who had before spoke, and whom they called sister Agnes.

‘You then,’ said Mademoiselle Feydeau, ‘are possibly acquainted with circumstances, that enable you to judge, whether he was criminal or not, and what was the crime imputed to him.’

‘I am,’ replied the nun; ‘but who shall dare to scrutinize my thoughts—who shall dare to pluck out my opinion? God only is his judge, and to that judge he is gone!’

Emily looked with surprise at sister Frances, who returned her a significant glance.

‘I only requested your opinion,’ said Mademoiselle Feydeau, mildly; ‘if the subject is displeasing to you, I will drop it.’

‘Displeasing!’—said the nun, with emphasis.—‘We are idle talkers; we do not weigh the meaning of the words we use; DISPLEASING is a poor word. I will go pray.’ As she said this she rose from her seat, and with a profound sigh quitted the room.

‘What can be the meaning of this?’ said Emily, when she was gone.

‘It is nothing extraordinary,’ replied sister Frances, ‘she is often thus; but she had no meaning in what she says. Her intellects are at times deranged. Did you never see her thus before?’

‘Never,’ said Emily. ‘I have, indeed, sometimes, thought, that there was the melancholy of madness in her look, but never before perceived it in her speech. Poor soul, I will pray for her!’

‘Your prayers then, my daughter, will unite with ours,’ observed the lady abbess, ‘she has need of them.’

‘Dear lady,’ said Mademoiselle Feydeau, addressing the abbess, ‘what is your opinion of the late Marquis? The strange circumstances, that have occurred at the chateau, have so much awakened my curiosity, that I shall be pardoned the question. What was his imputed crime, and what the punishment, to which sister Agnes alluded?’

‘We must be cautious of advancing our opinion,’ said the abbess, with an air of reserve, mingled with solemnity, ‘we must be cautious of advancing our opinion on so delicate a subject. I will not take upon me to pronounce, that the late Marquis was criminal, or to say what was the crime of which he was suspected; but, concerning the punishment our daughter Agnes hinted, I know of none he suffered.

She probably alluded to the severe one, which an exasperated conscience can inflict. Beware, my children, of incurring so terrible a punishment—it is the purgatory of this life! The late Marchioness I knew well; she was a pattern to such as live in the world; nay, our sacred order need not have blushed to copy her virtues! Our holy convent received her mortal part; her heavenly spirit, I doubt not, ascended to its sanctuary!’

As the abbess spoke this, the last bell of vespers struck up, and she rose. ‘Let us go, my children,’ said she, ‘and intercede for the wretched; let us go and confess our sins, and endeavour to purify our souls for the heaven, to which SHE is gone!’

Emily was affected by the solemnity of this exhortation, and, remembering her father, ‘The heaven, to which HE, too, is gone!’ said she, faintly, as she suppressed her sighs, and followed the abbess and the nuns to the chapel.