THE ORPHAN OF THE RHINE
PART 13
Chapter 9
Patience and Sorrow strove
Which should express her goodliest; you have seen
Sunshine and rain at once; her smiles and tears
Are like a better May; those happy smiles
That played on her ripe lip, seemed not to know
What guests were in her eyes, which parted thence
As pearls from diamonds dropped; in brief
Sorrow would be a vanity most lov'd.
If all could so become it.
--SHAKESPEARE
Laurette
arose early in the morning unrefreshed by sleep, and being informed that the
party in pursuit of the robbers were not yet returned, remained in a state of
anxious expectation. Dorothée, and the rest of the domestics, whose hopes were
less sanguine, wept incessantly at their loss; though they carefully concealed
from Laurette this appearance of sorrow, lest it should lead to the suspicion
that the case was hopeless.
It was not
till the evening of the ensuing day that Ambrose and the peasantry returned,
without having gained any satisfactory intelligence of the fate of Madame
Chamont. All the information they were enabled to obtain, was at a small
village inn, about a league and a half from the castle, where they were told
that a lady, who seemed to be a person of rank, had stopped for a few moments
in the society of three men of a strange suspicious appearance. They were
unable to give an accurate description of her person, as she was covered with a
veil of unusual thickness, which descended nearly to her feet; but, from the
little observation they had been able to make, she seemed to be above the
middle size; that during their stay at the door of the inn, she had betrayed no
symptom of fear or indisposition; and one of the men, of a less ferocious
deportment than the others, having assured her in a low voice that she had
nothing to apprehend, each of the men took a glass of spirits, without
alighting from their mules, and galloped from the place.
As no hint
respecting their future destination had escaped them whilst they were
refreshing themselves, the party in pursuit were, for a short time,
undetermined which way to proceed; but, as danger might be augmented by delay,
they finally resolved to follow the beaten track, and to make a second enquiry
at the next town. Here they arrived at the break of day but were unable to gain
any hint that could lead to the knowledge they desired. They then pursued their
journey for a considerable way, without better success; and as there appeared
but little chance of overtaking them, or of gaining farther intelligence upon
the subject, they mutually agreed to return.
Laurette,
now finding that the feeble hope which had sustained her was delusive, felt the
keenest affliction, and it was long before a cessation of sorrow allowed time
for reflection, or the animated exertions of fortitude. To indulge in unavailing
regret was, she had frequently been told, vain and impious; but this was a
trial which youth and inexperience could with difficulty support. Every object
reminded her of her valuable friend, and she found it impossible to resist the
pressure of her grief, which now affected her spirits, and undermined her
health.
A letter
from Enrico, which at an earlier period would have been received with the most
innocent effusions of rapture, now tended to increase her uneasiness; it was
directed to Madame Chamont, but having been always allowed the privilege of
perusing his epistles, she ventured to open it.
As the
tender, the dutiful expressions with which it abounded met her eye, her tears
flowed silently and fast; but when she got to that part of the letter which
treated of the danger of his situation, and informed her that he expected soon
to be called into action, her feelings could no longer be restrained, and she
wept and sobbed aloud.
Paoli, who
at first affected to interest himself in her distress, now either totally
disregarded her, as a being unworthy of his attention, or reproached her with
severity for the indulgence of it.
The only
consolation afforded her was derived from the conversation of Dorothée, whose
solicitude to remove her concern mitigated the severity of her own.
The
suspicion that Paoli was indirectly an auxiliary in the affair, would sometimes
occur to the imagination of Laurette, though she could not effectually
reconcile it to her reason or the native candour of her mind. The voices that
excited alarm, which she supposed to be those of the ruffians, and the
circumstance of the steward's requesting the society of Madame Chamont alone,
and at that silent hour, and his walking apparently from the wood from whence
those voices proceeded, was food for conjecture; and a mind less pure and
inexperienced than her own, would have resolutely decided against him. But she
knew the value of that virtue which places the actions of others in the most
favourable light, and willingly rejects every thing that tends to criminate, if
it falls short of conviction.
Had she
been acquainted with La Roque's confinement and escape from the dungeon, which
was carefully concealed from her, or had heard of the bracelet which was found
there by the steward, sufficient evidence would have been collected to justify
the opinion.
The only
consolation that now offered itself, was the probability of Madame Chamont's
being still alive, and in a place of safety; for as one of the men had assured
her she had nothing to fear, there appeared not to be any design upon her life.
Her
silence and apparent tranquillity at the inn could not easily be accounted for;
but from whatever cause it proceeded, it wore an aspect by no means
unfavourable.
These
circumstances she continued to reflect upon with hope; and as the possibility
of meeting again with her beloved friend was presented to her young and
sanguine imagination, her spirits gradually revived.
When the
mind has once escaped from the influence of overwhelming calamity, it
endeavours to extract comfort from surrounding objects at once to apply a balm
to the wounds it has endured, and to compensate for the losses it has
sustained. So Laurette attempted to divert the melancholy that assailed her by
constant and unremitting employment; at first her former amusements were
irksome and uninteresting, in a short time they became more supportable, and
finally, as the reward of effort, assumed the power of pleasing.
Though the
lovely orphan was too much intimidated to venture far from the castle alone,
she continued to stroll as usual in the gardens, whose wild and desolate
appearance was in unison with her feelings, and sometimes, under the shade of
her favourite tree, where she had so often sat with Enrico, would resign herself
to the influence of melancholy reflections.
One
evening as she was returning from this spot, and had arrived at the smaller
gate which led directly to the mansion, she observed Lisette, seemingly much
affrighted, darting along the side of the edifice. Anxious to be made
acquainted with her cause of alarm, she called to her, and desired her to stop.
The girl, not immediately hearing her, did not slacken her pace, till
Laurette's repeating the call occasioned her to turn.
Having
made some enquiries, which the affrighted servant was too much terrified to
answer, she led her into the hall, and observing that she looked unusually
pale, called instantly for assistance. As soon as Lisette revived, she informed
them, that as she was returning from one of the cottages on the margin of the
river, whither she had been to convey some food to a poor woman that was ill,
according to her usual custom in cases of a similar nature, she perceived a
tall dreadful looking figure gliding by the side of the rampart. She was too
much agitated, she added, to observe it minutely; but it appeared much taller
than any human being she had ever seen, and very ghastly.
As soon as
she had arrived within a few steps of the court, she saw the same figure, which
she was assured could be no other than an apparition, stealing along the
avenue. Having turned hastily back, she had, she said, the courage to look
behind, and saw the spectre pursuing her, who having waved its hand mournfully,
as if beckoning her to follow it, vanished suddenly from her sight. In a few
moments a terrible scream, which was more loud and dreadful than any thing she
had ever heard, and which was succeeded by a strange noise or fluttering in the
air, so considerably augmented her alarm as almost to deprive her of her senses.
When a
little recovered from the astonishment which this horrible phantom had excited,
she was, she said, hastening towards home, when the voice of her young lady,
which she believed to be that of the spirit, increased her terror.
Laurette
could not forbear smiling at the latter part of the recital, and though she
could not account for the strange unnatural appearance she described, she was
persuaded that the screams and flutterings in the air which had so powerfully
affected the girl's fancy, were occasioned by the sudden flight of a number of
owls that inhabited the tops of the turrets. But it was difficult to convince
Lisette that it could otherwise be accounted for than by the interposition of
supernatural agency.
Father
Benedicta, who had frequently been at the castle since the departure of Madame
Chamont, having been informed of the strange incident that had been the cause
of it, expressed much surprise and uneasiness. As he was not ignorant of Della
Croisse's escape from captivity being effected by her means, he naturally
suspected the Marchese to be the primary cause. He knew that under an
inscrutable disguise he was capable of executing the most daring villainy;
though accustomed to think with candour, and act with gentleness, the mild precepts
of his religion did not render Father Benedicta insensible to the vices of
others, neither had they obliterated all traces of former resentment.
He
reflected with concern upon the unprotected situation of Laurette, and
endeavoured to dissuade her from the indulgence of unavailing sorrow. As she
appeared to derive comfort from his society, his visits were more frequently
repeated than before the commencement of her misfortunes, and he had the
satisfaction of finding, that when he expatiated upon the indispensable
necessity of guarding against that intellectual weakness, which is sometimes
dignified with the name of sensibility, and of the incontestible advantages
arising from an undiminished fortitude, that she listened to him not only with
attention, but with gratitude.
Though the
Father had resolved to discover, if possible, whither Madame Chamont was
conveyed, and by what authority she was forced from the castle, he executed his
intentions with secrecy, lest it should occasion the indulgence of unwarranted
hope. Yet though he extended his enquiries with perseverance and solicitude,
they were ineffectual, and he was finally compelled to relinquish an enterprize
that was attended with so little success.
Laurette
was for some time irresolute whether to write to Enrico immediately, to inform
him of this unhappy event, or to defer it till some future period. The former
plan seemed to be the most eligible, as his endeavours would be exerted in the
cause; but the mournful intelligence she had to communicate, so entirely
deprived her of the power of action, that though she several times began to
frame an epistle, she was long before she accomplished her design.
The idea
that probably before the arrival of that letter Enrico might be no more, would
sometimes present itself to her disordered fancy, with a thousand dreadful
accompaniments: She saw him, in her terrified imagination, borne bleeding and
lifeless from the field; her heart sickened at the thought, till a shower of tears
that fell in large drops upon the paper, which she had prepared for the purpose
of writing to him, relieved her almost bursting bosom.
She
recollected every amiable qualification he possessed, his graceful, his
dignified deportment, the uniform delicacy of his manners, his tenderness, and
filial affection. When she remembered these, and the expression of his
countenance at the parting interview, and saw the groves through which they had
walked, and the flowers they had together admired, her feelings were too
painful to be endured, and she quitted abruptly the place, as if desirous of
escaping from the memorials of her former happiness.
A letter
from the Marchese to his steward now arrived at the castle, which contained an
account of the death of the Marchesa. She had suffered much from a lingering
and severe illness, with which she had been afflicted some time. Having been
separated from her husband soon after her marriage, she had resided, during
this state of premature widowhood, in a mansion on a German estate, in a
distant part of the country.
The
Marchese, who had been long weary of his present residence, the Castello St
Aubin, determined immediately on the decease of his lady, to have the mansion
where she had resided repaired and modernized for his reception.
This
occasioned the removal of Paoli, who had orders to visit the estate, to observe
what repairs might be requisite, and to employ a sufficient number of hands to
accomplish the work with all possible expedition. Having informed Laurette of
these particulars, and of his intention of returning as soon as the business
was transacted, the steward made some little necessary arrangements, and
commenced his journey.
Laurette,
in the meantime, dedicated her hours to the most worthy and useful employments,
and with the assistance of the good Friar, the Father Benedicta, was soon
enabled to reflect upon the past, and to anticipate the future, with some
degree of tranquillity.
Her
virtues were of the most active kind: she employed means of being acquainted
with the necessities of the indigent, and experienced the delightful
gratification of contributing to their comforts.
This
diffusive humanity, which acquired additional excellence from its being united
with youth and beauty, so exalted her in the estimation of those who were its
objects, that they mingled admiration with gratitude; and though they lamented
the loss of their former benefactress, who had so suddenly and so strangely
disappeared, they soon discovered that her young charge possessed all those
valuable and endearing qualifications which had rendered her so deservedly
beloved.
Though
Laurette, in the course of her reading, had met with some fictitious tales of
distress, those abounding in tender description, and that irresistibly affect
the fancy, were in some measure prohibited. Madame Chamont, though she had
retired early from society, and of course had mixed but little with the world,
was sufficiently acquainted with the human heart to be convinced that works of
this kind might have a dangerous tendency. She therefore discountenanced in her
young pupil that unlimited indulgence, in the passive feelings of sensibility,
which inevitably unfits the mind for any undertaking that requires firm and
vigorous exertion; she knew that, when deeply affected by tales of imaginary
woe, the mind too often sinks into imbecility; and when abstracted from the
influence of romantic delusion, it beholds real objects of compassion divested
of those false and glowing colours in which they have been exhibited by the
song of the Poet, or the pen of the Novelist--it beholds them without that
sympathetic interest which would extend the arm of active benevolence for their
relief.
Chapter 10
I'll read
you matter deep and dangerous.
As full of
peril and adventurous spirit
As to
o'erwalk a current, roaring loud.
On the
unstedfast foot of a spear.
The gentle
mind of Laurette, though strengthened by effort, was yet tenderly alive to
mournful impressions, which solitude and the native softness of her disposition
rendered sometimes irresistible. The silence of Enrico increased her
apprehensions, and though she endeavoured to dissipate her fears, and to
sweeten with hope the cup of affliction, her anguish was sometimes too keen to
be subdued, and her life became a series of sufferance and exertion.
Paoli's
absence being protracted beyond what he had intimated as necessary, it began to
be a matter of doubt whether it was his intention to return, or to remain
stationary in the family of the Marchese; till the trampling of hoofs, heard in
the silence of evening, put an end to conjecture.
Laurette
was sitting in her apartment when he arrived, endeavouring to find comfort in
employment, when a message from the steward, which was delivered by Lisette,
summoned her into the saloon, where he was in waiting to receive her. As soon
as she entered, he presented her with a letter. She was unacquainted with the
hand-writing, but, on opening it, found it bore the signature of the Marchese
de Montferrat. So unexpected a circumstance covered her with confusion, and she
perused it with apparent emotion.
He
expressed much astonishment at the intelligence that had been recently conveyed
to him concerning the departure of Madame Chamont, and also informed her that
it was his intention to remove her, in a few weeks, from her present residence
to a less ancient castle, that was preparing for himself, in the principality
of Salzburg. He was, he added, by unforeseen events, prevented from repairing
thither immediately himself; but, as it would soon be in readiness for her
reception, he had given orders for his steward to convey her to the mansion,
where it was his intention for her to remain during the winter season. He
concluded with desiring her not to regret the loss of her protectress, as all
possible means of discovering the authors of so unjustifiable a proceeding
should be instantly employed.
Laurette
examined the contents of this letter with mingled distress and astonishment. To
leave that beloved retreat, which had been her home from earliest infancy; to
be allowed to ramble no more over those beautiful mountains, which had been the
scenes of youthful festivity, and which were endeared to her by the remembrance
of former happiness, was a subject of painful reflection; but when she
recollected that the felicity which she had once experienced in those
delightful shades was annihilated, and that those who had shared it with her
were separated from her, perhaps for ever, she endeavoured to reconcile herself
to a destiny which, from the unlimited power which the Marchese possessed over
her, she considered as unavoidable.
Paoli, in
the meantime, began to make every necessary preparation for a speedy removal.
And as it appeared probable to Laurette that he was to remain in the castle
mentioned by the Marchese in the absence of his lord, she endeavoured, though
with little hopes of success, to soften the native moroseness of his
disposition with the undeviating sweetness of her own. But though she
frequently attempted to engage him in conversation, she usually failed in her
design; for his mind was so entirely absorbed in its own reflections and
concerns, that he seemed scarcely conscious of her presence. Yet as the
suspicion which she once faintly entertained, respecting his having entered into
a conspiracy with the ruffians who had forced Madame Chamont into the woods,
was now entirely removed, she beheld him with less aversion.
As the
time drew near which was to separate her from the scenes of her earliest
happiness, she found it difficult to support that serene tranquillity of soul
which she so ardently desired to retain, though she did not fail to exert every
effort in her power to preserve that uniformity of conduct she had been taught
to estimate and admire.
When
Father Benedicta again repeated his visit, Laurette informed him of the letter
she had received from the Marchese, and also of his intention of removing her
to another castle in a distant part of the country, whither she was soon to be
conveyed.
The
surprise and uneasiness expressed in the countenance of the Father when the
intelligence was communicated, could not pass unobserved by his lovely young
pupil, who beheld him with a silent and fixed attention.
He asked
eagerly under whose protection she was to be placed, and whether the Marchese
was to reside on this estate during her continuance there.
Assured of
the sincerity of his friendship, and grateful for the interest he had ever
discovered in her concerns, Laurette presented him with the letter. Having
perused it, he sighed, shook his head mournfully, and, as if anxious to escape
from enquiry, arose to depart: 'I shall see you again, my child,' cried the
Monk tenderly, as she followed him towards the door.
Laurette
regarded him steadfastly as he spoke, and thought she perceived a tear steal
down his placid cheek. She would have enquired the cause, but her heart was too
full for utterance, and having attended him to the portal, she watched him as
he proceeded along the avenue till he was lost in distance, and then returning
to the saloon, placed herself in one of the recesses of the windows, and
indulged the acuteness of her feelings in secret.
It was
evident from the words of the Friar, as well as from the tone in which they
were delivered, that there was something either in the stile of the epistle, or
in the proposal it contained, that did not accord with his ideas of propriety.
She wished she had been collected enough to have requested the avowal of his
sentiments, and looked forwards to another interview with somewhat of
impatience.
The
Marchese she had never seen, consequently, though he had offered her his
castle, he was uninfluenced by affection. She had been taught to believe that
he was her only surviving friend and protector; yet, as he had never
conciliated her esteem by winning offices of kindness, her gratitude was
unmingled with tenderness.
The
mysterious silence that had been preserved concerning her birth, she had often
considered with surprise; she was called Laurette, but no other name was added;
and when she ventured to extend her enquiries, her questions were either
evaded, or remained entirely unanswered. When blessed with the protection of
Madame Chamont, the subject was attended with curiosity, and not with regret;
but now that protection was withdrawn, it returned forcibly upon her mind. She
had been told she was an orphan, but every hint that could tend to a farther
knowledge of this mystery was carefully avoided.
These
reflections, which the forlornness of her situation suggested, added to the
uncertainty of the fate of Madame Chamont and Enrico; so entirely occupied her
thoughts, that the taciturnity of the steward, and the presaging gloom of his
aspect were unobserved, or beheld with indifference. But on being assured that
Dorothée and Lisette were to attend her to her place of destination, her
spirits became suddenly reanimated and she began to prepare for her journey
with redoubled alacrity.
As to
ramble alone in the wood, or along the solitary glens of the mountains, was a
charm the most suited to her mind, she yielded to the impulse of her feelings,
and often, in the meek hour of twilight, would gaze with a tranquil kind of
melancholy upon those dear, those much-loved scenes she was soon to resign for
ever.
One
evening, on her return from one of these lonely excursions, she seated herself
against a window in the room which she always called her own, because it
contained the implements of her studies and her amusements.
When
wrapped in pensive reflections, as she was gazing upon the moon gliding
silently along through a clear and cloudless sky, she observed a white figure,
somewhat answering to the description that Lisette had given of the phantom
which had occasioned her alarm, move slowly beneath the arch of the window.
Though
Laurette had before treated this appearance as an illusion, she now felt a
superstitious dread stealing upon her mind. Fear, for a moment, arrested her
faculties, but an effort of fortitude releasing them, she arose and opened the
casement. In a few minutes the same figure emerged from the deep shade of the
trees, and approached towards the window.
She
started and was retreating, till the sound of her own name, uttered in a deep
and hollow tone, rivetted her to the spot. She stopped--it was again repeated,
and venturing to raise her eyes towards the object of her terror, she beheld a
person standing before her, of a pale and melancholy aspect, clad in the habit
of a monk; he was tall and of a singular physiognomy, he wore no cowl nor even
a cloak, and his dress being entirely white, except a narrow black scapulary,
added much to the ghastliness of his appearance.
As he
moved towards the casement, he waved his hand, in token for her to stop, and
again repeating the name of Laurette, with deeper emphasis, 'Beware,' cried he,
'of the Marchese de Montferrat.'
Laurette
trembled, but was unable to articulate; she scarcely knew whether the being
addressing her was human or supernatural; a sensation of mingled terror and awe
almost overcame her, and it was with difficulty that she could prevent herself
from falling.
The Monk,
not seeming to regard her emotion, drew a miniature from beneath his garment,
and then surveying her for a moment in silence, added--'Will you, in
consideration of my holy office, utter a solemn promise, which nothing shall prevail
upon you to violate, never to disclose to any individual living what I am about
to relate?'
Laurette's
tremor increased; but not being allowed time for reflection, and having no idea
that a person in the garb of a religious could act so inconsistently with that
devout character as to exact a promise which she could not make with impunity,
she gave her answer in the affirmative.
'Will you
swear then,' resumed the Father, raising his voice still higher, which acquired
deeper energy of expression as he proceeded, 'by the ever spotless and holy
Maria, by the accepted souls of the departed, and by the blessed assembly of
the Saints and Martyrs, to keep this vow inviolable, till I shall call upon you
to attest the truth of what I shall hereafter declare, at some future and,
perchance, far distant period.'
Laurette
tremblingly assented to the proposition, and the Father repeating the form in
which he wished it to be delivered, she pronounced it after him.
When this
impressive vow was recited agreeable to the desire of the Father, he presented
Laurette with the miniature which he held suspended by a chain of brilliants,
and then softening his voice, added, 'Take this, it is the portrait of thy
mother; wear it as an invaluable gift, and to-morrow, as soon as vespers are
concluded, meet me at the equestrian statue in the inner court. Recollect the
solemnity of your promise, and I will unfold to you an important secret.'
She was
going to reply, but before she was sufficiently collected, he had glided
amongst the trees, and had disappeared.
'The
portrait of my mother!' cried Laurette, fixing her eyes upon the picture with a
look of undescribable astonishment, 'is it possible; and have I then a parent
living?' But in an instant remembering that the delivery of the miniature by no
means implied that she was still in existence, a slight degree of
disappointment was communicated to her heart.
Dorothée,
who entered the room to kindle a fire, broke unwelcomely upon her solitude; but
mindfull of the injunctions of her mysterious visitor, Laurette arose, and,
after secreting the portrait, assumed an appearance of composure.
As soon as
she was again alone, and her thoughts were somewhat recomposed, she began to
muse upon this singular occurrence. If this was the person who had excited so
much alarm in the bosom of Lisette, it was strange that his nocturnal rambles
had not been regularly continued, as since that time no one had been seen about
the grounds in the least answering to that description; and as the subject of
his visits was undoubtedly herself, and the secret he had to declare was of so
important a nature, it was natural to suppose, instead of avoiding her, he
would have loitered within the boundaries of the mansion, in the hope of
meeting with her.
The solemn
manner in which these words were pronounced, 'Beware of the Marchese de
Montferrat!' struck her with dismay. To beware of him whom she had been taught
to revere as a parent, and to look forwards to as the patron of her future
days, was not more astonishing than afflictive. The admonition seemed to
presage some impending evil from which it was impossible to fly; and the dread
of what she might have to encounter, alone and unfriended, now entirely
occupied her thoughts, tending to make her fear more than ever the approach of
that hour which was to separate her from the much-loved scenes of her earliest
youth.
As she
examined the features of the portrait, rendered infinitely more touching by the
sweet pensive cast of the countenance, she thought she had somewhat seen a
painting that strongly characterized it; and as the castle contained all that
had ever fallen under her observation, she was resolved to regard them more
attentively, and, if possible, to trace the resemblance.
The chain,
by which the miniature was suspended, did not fail to attract her admiration;
she had never seen any thing of the sort, and the jewels, though small, being
of the most valuable kind, possessed unusual brilliancy and lustre.
As Laurette
wished to ruminate in secret upon this singular adventure, she retired to her
room earlier than was her custom, at once to abridge the moments of suspense,
and to lose the society of Paoli. But though weary and indisposed, she was
unable to sleep, and arose in the morning but little refreshed.
Her first
resolve was to examine the portraits, which were very numerous, and much
defaced by time and neglect. She had wandered over the greatest part of the
castle, except the northern side of the building which remained always
unopened, before she recollected the paintings in the oriel, which were more
modern, and consequently less injured than the rest.
Here she
examined the picture which had attracted the attention of Madame Chamont soon
after her arrival at the mansion. It represented the figure of a female leaning
upon a tomb, the countenance of which bore some resemblance to the miniature;
the latter, indeed, appeared somewhat younger, and, if possible, still more
beautiful. It possessed the same softness of expression, but there was less of
melancholy; a smile beamed from the eyes, which were dark, and full of the most
animated sweetness, while the light brown tresses that shaded the forehead, and
waved carelessly upon the neck, completed the character of beauty.
But for
whom the portrait was designed, which she imagined was so lively a
representation of that presented by the Monk, she had never been informed;
though she remembered having once questioned Margaritte concerning it. But as
her only hope of gaining intelligence upon the subject depended upon the
expected interview in the evening, she awaited the hour with increasing
solicitude.
To be continued
