Clermont/Chapter 3
CHAP. III.
Each lonely scene shall thee restore,
For thee the tear be duly shed;
Belov'd till life can charm no more,
.......Collins
They had nearly reached the castle, when Clermont, recollecting some business he had to settle with a cottager who lived at the opposite side of the river, or rather brook, for it scarcely deserved a better appellation, desired Madeline to stop where she was, and, promising to return in a few minutes, crossed over to him.
A little above the spot on which her father left her, hid from it by intervening trees, was a low rock overshadowed by willows, upon which Madeline loved to sit, and watch the gambols of the summer flies upon the water, and those of its speckled inhabitants. Somewhat fatigued by her walk, she determined to go thither, and there wait the return of her father.
As she passed the castle, she turned her eyes towards it, but all around was awful uninterrupted solitude. The stranger she concluded had departed: but how great was her surprise when, on advancing a few steps farther, she beheld him, the same she was convinced of whom she had a transient view the preceding evening,—the same, she had no doubt, that Jaqueline had described to her in the morning,—seated on the rock, retouching a landscape laid against a book, and which, by the distant view Madeline had of it, appeared to be one of the surrounding scenes.
His attention was so much engrossed, that the light step of Madeline did not disturb him; and she paused—paused to contemplate an object who, though unknown, had strongly interested her.
He appeared of the first order of fine forms; and to all the graces of person and bloom of youth, united a countenance open, manly, and intelligent, but overcast by a shade of melancholy, which seemed to declare him acquainted with misfortune, and from nature and self experience formed to sympathize with every child of sorrow; his hat lay beside him, and the breeze had wafted aside his dark hair from his forehead, and discovered his polished brows, where, according to the words of the poet, "sate young simplicity;" in his eyes, as he sometimes raised them from the paper, was a fine expression, at once indicative of refinement and sensibility; and as Madeline gazed on them, she involuntarily said to herself, one glance from those benignant eyes last night, would at once have dissipated every terror.
As if riveted to the spot by a magic spell, she stood immovable, till roused by the voice of her father calling her at a distance. She started, and as she turned to obey the summons, she caught those eyes she had just been admiring, the consciousness of which perhaps occasioned the blush that instantly mantled her cheeks and an agitation that scarcely permitted her to walk: yet was her emotion faint to that which (though she but glanced at him) she saw the stranger betray when disturbed by the voice of her father; he looked towards her, starting from his seat; the paper he held dropped from his hand, and wildly, yet delightedly, he gazed on her.
She met her father on the spot where they had parted, and informed him, though not in a very articulate voice, of the motive which had made her quit it; her agitation was too great to escape his observation, and he enquired if any thing had frightened her? No, said she, nothing. Clermont therefore imputed it to the haste she had made to meet him. As they had walked a good way, he now proposed that they should return home, to which she did not object; but never had she been so silent, so absent before, since of an age to be his companion as she was at this time with her father.
On arriving at the cottage, they found supper already prepared, to which they immediately sat down: they had scarcely finished, however, when one of the young villagers rushed into the room, and with a trembling voice and pale face, besought Clermont, for the sake of heaven and his own soul, to come out and give his assistance to a poor gentleman whom he and his brother, returning from their daily labour to their cottage, had found lying bleeding and senseless, as they supposed, in consequence of a fall, at the foot of the hill upon which the castle stood. 'Tis surely the stranger, thought Madeline, and instantly her colour changed.
"Do you know him?" asked Clermont, rising as he spoke.
"No," replied the young peasant. Nevertheless he and his brother had carried him to their mother's cottage, who had laid him upon her best bed, and was then trying to bring him to himself. "But (added he) except his wounds are dressed, she can be of little service to him."
I have already said, that studying the works of nature was a favourite amusement of Clermont, and from that study and reading, he had learned the healing property of many simples, which he carefully gathered and administered with success to the external as well as internal complaints of his poor neighbours: to him the young peasant had therefore come without hesitation to solicit relief and assistance for the wounded stranger.
"You will go, my father?" said Madeline.
"Go, my child! (said he); yes, and happy I am to think I can in any degree mitigate the sufferings of a fellow-creature." He hastily collected what things he wanted, and went out.
Madeline left her supper unfinished, and in a state of agitation, such as she had never before experienced, watched in the little grove before the cottage for his return. The moment she saw him approaching the gate, she flew to meet him.
"Well, my dear sir, (cried she), is there any hope?"
"Hope! (repeated Clermont), heaven forbid there was not; the unfortunate young man, though severely, is not dangerously hurt; and I trust, and make no doubt, but that in a few days, with proper care and attention, he will be able to rise: his senses, which the shock of the fall alone deprived him of, were completely restored ere I went to him, and he was perfectly sensible of every thing I did for him, though too much exhausted to express his thanks, which his looks evinced him anxious to do, but which indeed a common act of humanity like mine does not merit." Clermont proceeded to say that he thought the stranger, though in such a situation, one of the finest young men he had ever seen. Madeline blushed; and, perfectly relieved from her uneasiness, felt a conscious pleasure at her father's opinion coinciding with her's.
The next morning, before breakfast, Clermont went to visit his patient; when he returned, his countenance announced pleasing intelligence.
"Well, (said he, seating himself at the breakfast table) I believe I shall soon grow vain of my skill, and declare myself a professed physician; as I prognosticated, my patient is already better, and I have had some conversation with him." Madeline looked earnestly at her father.
"He had learned (resumed Clermont), from the good dame of the cottage that I was not a surgeon, but merely attended him from good will; in consequence of which he would have loaded me with thanks, had I not stopped him by declaring, that if he persisted in talking of obligations, I would instantly bid him a final adieu.
"After I had silenced him on that subject, he proceeded to tell me his name was de Sevignie, and that a love of rambling, inspired by a wish of seeing all in nature and art worthy of observation in his native country, had led him to a little hamlet about a league from our valley, where enquiring, as was his custom whenever he halted, if there was any place in the neighbourhood worth visiting, he had been directed by his host to the old castle, as one of the finest monuments of art and antiquity in this part of the country. 'I visited it almost immediately, (said he); and from that time, which was about a fortnight ago, have never failed repairing to it every evening at sun-set, attracted thither by an irresistible impulse.'
"I am sorry (said I), your visits were at last so unfortunately terminated; your present accident is, I suppose, to be imputed to them."—His reply was 'Yes'; he had wandered unheeding whither he went, into a wrong path, extremely rugged, where, his foot slipping, he fell from the top to the bottom of the hill. His spirits seemed low, (continued Clermont); so I rallied my own to endeavour to raise them.
"There is I believe (said I) some spell, in that castle which allures, or rather draws, people thither, whether they will or no; I have a little girl who is always gadding to it, in defiance of all the ghosts, hobgoblins, and fairies, which, according to the account of the villagers, continually haunt it."
Madeline felt her cheek glow; and, withdrawing her eyes from her father, she pretended to be busy in pouring out the coffee.
"My forced gaiety was however lost upon him (said Clermont); he grew agitated, so I took my leave, promising to call upon him again in the course of the day; and, at his desire, sent one of the young men of the cottage to the hamlet for his servant, whom he wished, in preference to a stranger, to attend him. As soon as you have breakfasted, my love, I wish you would take a loaf of white bread, which cannot be procured where he is, and a bottle of last year's vintage to the cottage for the young stranger."
No commission could be more pleasing to Madeline than the present one. The moment she rose from table, she tied on her hat, and putting the bread and wine into a small osier basket, proceeded to the cottage, at the door of which its mistress sat netting.
"Ah! how kind (said she, rising and taking the basket from Madeline), is Mr. Clermont! heaven will requite him for his goodness: won't you come in, Mam'selle; 'tis a warm day, and I am sure you must be tired by your walk; all my folks, old and young, are gone to the vineyard (it was now the vintage season), and I am a little lonely or so in their absence."
"Your guest is better?" cried Madeline, entering as she spoke, and taking a chair.
"Yes, Mam'selle, heaven and your father be praised for that; he is a fine youth, and it would be a pity indeed if any thing ailed him long. I must, now that I have so good an opportunity, show you, Mam'selle, a little picture, which I think belonged to him, as my Claude found it near the spot where he fell." So saying, she opened a drawer, from whence she took the picture, and presented it to Madeline, who, the moment she cast her eyes upon it, recollected it to be the same she had seen in the hands of the stranger; and this convinced her of what indeed she had scarcely doubted before, that he and de Sevignie were the same person.
She now found it to be a highly-finished landscape of the castle and surrounding scenes, in which a small female figure was conspicuously drawn. This bore so great a resemblance to her own person, that she had no doubt of its being designed for her. Such an indication of attachment touched her young and simple heart more perhaps than the most impassioned declaration could have accomplished.
"As soon as he departs, I shall pin this picture up (proceeded his hostess); it will look so pretty against the wall; but till then I should be afraid to do so, lest he should demand it."
"I think (said Madeline, who feared the good woman or some of her family might discover the resemblance which the figure in the drawing bore to her), you had better return it."
"No, indeed (replied Janette), I shall do no such thing; he does not know I have it, so there can be no harm in keeping it."
"Well, do as you please," said Madeline, rising to depart, and taking up her empty basket. All the way back, her thoughts were engrossed by what she had seen; and she felt agitated at the idea of being introduced to Sevignie, which she supposed would now be the case as soon as he had recovered.
The attentions of her father were unremitted; and he returned from every visit more and more pleased with his new acquaintance, who, though too severely hurt to be able to rise for some days, was perfectly capable of conversing with him.
"I never (said Clermont to his daughter, on returning one evening), met with a mind more indebted to nature, or more improved by education, than that of de Sevignie; yet, with all his abilities and acquirements, he is unobtrusive, unassuming, and unaffected; he does not study for subjects calculated to display his talents, as too many possessed of such would ostentatiously do; instead of leading, he is rather led to them; and his modesty, not only from its intrinsic merit, but its novelty, greatly heightens his perfections."
Such encomiums on de Sevignie were inexpressibly pleasing to Madeline; they seemed to give a sanction to the tender interest she felt for him; and they made her, besides, feel a sensation of gratified pride at being an object of regard to so amiable a youth.
At the end of a week, her father told her that his patient was able to rise, and expressed a wish that she would take some little delicacies, which he mentioned, to the cottage for him.
Madeline never obeyed a wish of her father's more readily; tying on her straw hat, she proceeded almost directly to the cottage with her osier basket upon her arm, well filled, and covered with a napkin. The cottage door lay open, but Janette (as in general was the case) was not there; neither was she nor any other person in the little room it opened into. Madeline, not willing to depart without seeing her, proceeded to an apartment which looked into the garden, and was divided from the one she had left by a long passage, at the door of which she tapped; it was instantly opened by Janette, and Madeline was entering, when the appearance of de Sevignie, who had not, she imagined, yet left his room, seated in a wrapping gown at an open window, as if to inhale the balmy and refreshing sweetness of the air, made her suddenly start back. Janette, however, prevented her retreating entirely:—"Lord, Mam'selle, don't be frightened (cried she), 'Tis only Monsieur de Sevignie you see, who has left his chamber this morning for the first time; do pray come in, and wish him joy of his recovery; he will be very glad I am sure to see you."
"Permit me, Madam (said de Sevignie, who on her first appearance had risen, though with evident tremor and difficulty), permit me, Madam, (advancing to her) at least to have an opportunity of thanking you for your humane attention to a stranger. Oh, to the daughter suffer me to express what to the father I am forbade—my warm, my fervent sense of the obligations which both have conferred upon me."
"You rate much too highly, sir (said Madeline, raising her eyes from the ground), any little attentions we had the power of paying you."
"See, Monsieur (cried Janette, taking the basket from Madeline's arm, and uncovering it), how good Mam'selle is to you, what nice things she has brought you: do pray come in, Mam'selle, and take some refreshment; Monsieur, I dare say, will be very glad to have you sit a bit with him."
"Glad," repeated he with energy, while his eyes were fastened upon Madeline; "that were a poor expression indeed for what I should feel if I were so highly honoured."
The words of Janette, and the looks of de Sevignie, heightened the blushes which had already overspread the beautiful cheeks of Madeline.—"I cannot stop another minute," said she, confused, and turning to Janette as if solely to address her.
"Well, I am sorry that you can't (replied Janette); but before you go, won't you tell Monsieur how happy you are at his recovery."
"I am very—happy indeed (said she with some hesitation), that he is so well.—Adieu, sir (again glancing at Sevignie, whose eyes eloquently expressed his wishes that she would comply with the request of Janette, though diffidence and timidity prevented his seconding it); adieu, sir, I trust you will soon be perfectly recovered." She then, without waiting for him to speak, hurried to the outer room, followed by Janette—"I assure you, Mam'selle (said she), if you had sat a little while with Monsieur, you would have liked him vastly, he is so gentle and good-humoured; did you observe what a beautiful smile he has?"
"Yes—no," answered Madeline moving to the door.
"Do you know, Mam'selle, (cried Janette, still following) I was obliged to restore the little picture; he enquired so particularly about it, and seemed so uneasy at the idea of losing it, that I could not find in my heart to keep it from him."
As Madeline walked back, she regretted the confusion she had betrayed at the sight of de Sevignie, which she feared he might impute to a consciousness of his sentiments towards her; and his wish of concealing them was so obvious, that the idea of being suspected of knowing them, shocked her beyond measure. She therefore resolved, if ever they again met, to have a better guard over her feelings, to endeavour to remove such a suspicion if it really existed.
Her resolution was however easier to plan than to carry into effect; for when, on the second day after her interview with him, of which she informed her father, Clermont ushered him into the parlour where she sat at work; she suddenly rose from her chair with an emotion that rendered her for some minutes incapable of speaking.
"You and my daughter have already met (said Clermont to him); any introduction is therefore unnecessary. Madeline, my love (addressing her), I am sure you will feel happy at Monsieur de Sevignie's being able to come abroad again, and at his kind intention of devoting this, his first day of recovered health, to our gratification."
"I shall indeed, sir," said Madeline bowing.
The eloquent eyes of de Sevignie seemed to thank her for this assurance. Clermont made him take a seat by her; and her confusion gradually subsiding, they soon entered into conversation. The situation, simplicity, and ornaments of the cottage were pleasing themes to de Sevignie; the latter he particularly admired, perhaps from knowing they were Madeline's performances; and Clermont listened with unspeakable delight to the praises bestowed upon the taste and ingenuity of his daughter, nor could he forbear, with the pride so natural to a paternal heart, joining in them.
"Yet, 'tis not so much from the beauty of these works that I derive my pleasure (said Clermont) as from the consideration of their being specimens of a taste which will always furnish my child with agreeable employment, and prevent her from feeling that most disagreeable of all sensations, weariness of herself: but excuse me, my love (seeing a blush steal over the cheek of Madeline), for speaking as I have done; modest merit I know always shrinks from public praise. Monsieur de Sevignie will also I hope have the goodness to pardon me; to speak of what we love, is a foible we are all, particularly a parent, liable to; and some years hence, when he is himself perhaps a parent, he will be able to make allowances for its being indulged."
"You do not know my heart (said de Sevignie, with warmth), or you would not suppose I could not now make these allowances:—cold and unfeeling indeed should I consider that soul which was not proud, which did not boast of, such a treasure as you possess."
After dinner, when the heat of the sun had declined, they walked out to the garden; and from thence ascended by an easy path to the summit of the hill which overlooked it, to enjoy the lovely prospect and the fresh breeze that played around so delightful after the oppressive warmth of an autumnal day.
Immediately before them, they could only see the white chimneys of the cottages rising amidst embowering groves; but, on either side, they commanded a full view of the valley, o'er which the sober colouring of closing day was already spread, heightening the gloomy solemnity of its hanging woods, and giving a deeper tint of green to the smooth and sloping banks of the stream which, now clear and beautifully serene, reflected, as in a glass, those sloping banks, the neat cottages, the waving woods, that rose above them, and the blue firmament, yet marked by the glories of the setting sun; whilst beside it lay its ruminating herds, and all around was silence, as if nature and her works were hushed to repose by the declining hour.
"How delicious is this prospect (said de Sevignie, in a voice of rapture)! the eye could never be tired of it; yet is its tranquillity even more pleasing to the mind, than its beauties to the eye."
"'Tis delightful indeed (cried Clermont), to a mind that has been harassed by care."
"Would to heaven (exclaimed de Sevignie, with fervour), fate had destined a situation of such tranquillity for me!"
"Not now," cried Clermont.
"Yes, at this very period," replied de Sevignie.
"Suppress such a wish, my friend (said Clermont); it is unworthy of you; it would be an ill requital to the goodness of Providence, if you sought to bury such talents as it has given you (talents calculated to benefit mankind) in obscurity; besides, you could not at present enjoy such a situation."
"Not enjoy it!" repeated de Sevignie, with a degree of astonishment.
"No (replied Clermont); at your time of life you cannot have seen much of the world, or experienced many of its vicissitudes; and without doing so, we can seldom, or rather never I should say, understand the real value of rural tranquillity.
"Think you the sailor, who always glided upon smooth seas, would thoroughly enjoy his haven of security?—no; 'tis the remembrance of the perils he has experienced upon those seas, which renders it so delightful to him: he vaunts to his friends of the dangers he has encountered with an exultation, a happiness which those could never feel who always enjoyed a state of safety; and with that exultation and happiness is intermingled gratitude of the most fervent nature to that Almighty Being who lent his supporting arm through those dangers; and, should any little crosses arise, all murmurs, on their account, are instantly suppressed, by reflecting how insignificant they are, compared to what he has already suffered.
"Thus have I attempted to prove, that to render retirement truly pleasing, we should first intermix in active life, and understand what we gave up in withdrawing from it; and also, that a knowledge of its difficulties will silence that discontent which is too apt to rise at every little trial; for he who has witnessed or braved the storm, will never shrink from the biting blast."
The arguments of Clermont were too just to be controverted; at least de Sevignie had not the temerity to attempt doing so: they continued to converse till the lovely prospect they had been admiring, became all one swimming scene, uncertain if beheld. They then rose to return to the house.
De Sevignie offered his hand to Madeline: as she took it, she felt it tremble. A rising moon began to dissipate the darkness as they descended the hill, and soon o'er all
her silver mantle threw,
And in her pale dominion check'd the night.
"How lovely is this scene (said de Sevignie, stopping at the foot of the hill); how soft, how pleasing the shadowy light of the moon! how beautifully does it tip the waving trees with silver; and what a solemn glory does it cast upon the mouldering battlements of yonder castle."
They entered the cottage; supper was prepared for them, and they sat down to it with no other light than what the moon afforded, and by an open window, through which a soft breeze wafted delicious odours; no sound could now be heard in the valley, but the melancholy rippling of the water.
After supper, "this is an hour (said Clermont), which my Madeline often devotes to music; the soul is never more suited for the enjoyment of harmony, than at such an hour as the present, when the busy cares of day are over, and the more painful ones of recollection are softened by the universal tranquillity of nature and her works: you, de Sevignie, are I am sure a performer, and you will not, I hope, refuse to accompany my Madeline."
De Sevignie spoke not, but his smile declared his readiness to oblige; Clermont put his oboe into his hands, and they proceeded to a rustic bench, beneath the spreading branches of a chestnut tree, near the cottage. Here they passed a considerable time in a most delightful manner; the execution of de Sevignie was in the most masterly style, but his taste if possible surpassed it, and never had his companions been more gratified than they were by listening to him: at last they rose to return to the cottage, and he then bade them farewell.
From this day de Sevignie became almost an inmate of the cottage: and as Clermont, then engrossed by the vintage, could not devote much time to him, Madeline was almost his sole, and during the mornings, his only companion; those mornings were generally spent either in reading poems to Madeline, to which the harmony of his voice imparted new charms, in watching the progress of her pencil, or in listening to the melody of her lute. The melancholy which oppressed him made Madeline exert all her powers to try and beguile it, but without effect; every day seemed to add to it; and often, affected by its soft contagion, Madeline has swept the chords of the lute with a disordered hand, and abruptly quitted the room to wipe away the tears it occasioned:—she ascribed, she wished to ascribe, her feelings for him to pity, but they proceeded from even a tenderer impulse than pity.
At length her altered looks and manner discovered to her father the secret of her heart: bitterly he then regretted the hospitality which had introduced so dangerous a guest to her knowledge; and wondered he had not timely foreseen the probable consequences of such a measure, and avoided them. His attentions immediately slackened to de Sevignie; and he scrupled not to hint in pretty plain terms, that his visits at the cottage were attended with inconvenience. Severely however was his generous nature wounded at being compelled to speak in this manner; and as the words passed his lips, he averted his looks from de Sevignie, whose faded cheeks were instantly flushed by a pale hectic. Had Clermont seen a probability of his daughter's attachment ending happily, he would not have acted as he now did; but of this he beheld not the remotest prospect; for though de Sevignie appeared by his looks to admire her, and by his delay in the valley (now that he was sufficiently recovered to leave it), to be attached to her company, not a word expressive of that admiration or attachment ever escaped him: even if he had declared a passion, there would still have been a bar to Madeline's happiness from her father's ignorance of de Sevignie's real situation and circumstances; both which it was obvious he wished to conceal, as Clermont had more than once introduced a conversation calculated to lead to the mention of them, from which, with with visible confusion, de Sevignie instantly withdrew.
The day after the alteration took place in Clermont's manner, an alteration Madeline wept in secret, de Sevignie absented himself from the cottage till the close of evening; he then entered the room where Clermont and Madeline sat dejectedly together, and informed them he was come merely for the purpose of taking leave, having fixed on the next morning for his departure: delighted to hear this, Clermont lost all coldness, and would have conversed again as usual with him, had the spirits of de Sevignie permitted him to do so; but Madeline was unable to speak; pensively she sat in a window, wishing, yet fearing, to quit the room, lest her father and de Sevignie should suspect the motive which tempted her to do so.
At length de Sevignie rose to depart; Madeline also involuntarily arose.—"Farewell! sir (cried he, addressing Clermont with a kind of solemnity in his looks); I cannot do justice to the feelings that now swell my heart; I shall not therefore attempt to express them.—Once more, sir, farewell! (taking his hand, and pressing it to his breast) may that happiness you merit be ever yours,—greater I cannot wish you: then turning to Madeline—"and you, Mam'selle, who, like a ministering angel, tried to soothe the sorrows of a stranger!"———He paused—a tear at that instant stole from beneath the half-closed eyelids of Madeline, and gave him emotions he could scarcely conceal; he tried, however, to proceed, but in vain; and, clasping her hand between his, he bowed upon it the adieu he could not articulate: then snatching up his hat, rushed from the house, followed by Clermont; not indeed, from any idea of overtaking him, but merely to give Madeline an opportunity of recovering herself.
"He is gone then (said she, sinking upon a chair); we have parted to meet no more!—Oh, de Sevignie! I now almost regret we ever met!"
Absorbed in melancholy, she forgot the necessity there was for trying to suppress her emotions before her father's return, till his step, as she imagined, in the hall roused her from her reverie, and made her precipitately fly to another room which opened immediately upon the stairs. She had scarcely gained her chamber, when Jaqueline entered.
"Come down, Mam'selle (said she), Monsieur de Sevignie is below, and wishes to speak with you."
"With me! (repeated Madeline, starting from the seat on which she had thrown herself); good heaven! (in inexpressible agitation, the agitation perhaps of hope) what can he have to say to me?"
"I am sure that's more than I can tell (said Jaqueline); but I will go and inform "I am sure that's more than I can tell (said Jaqueline); but I will go and inform him you are coming." So saying, she descended the stairs, followed by Madeline as soon as she had wiped away her tears. De Sevignie was waiting for her at the parlour door—"I came back (said he in a hesitating voice as she entered) to return the poems which you were so obliging as to lend me, and which I forgot this evening when I came to take leave."
The colour which had mantled the cheeks of Madeline died away, and she took the book in silence from him.
"Permit me now (cried he) to return those thanks for your attentions, which, when I saw you before this evening, I had not the power of doing. Oh, Madeline! (as if with irrepressible emotion) who can wonder at my being then incapable of speaking."—Madeline turned from him to conceal the feelings he inspired, and walked to the window; he followed her—"this evening (cried he) I have bade a final adieu to felicity; to-morrow, to-morrow at this hour, oh, Madeline! and I shall be far, far distant from this spot!—I shall only behold this lovely face in idea:—tell me (he continued, taking her hand, and looking at her with the most touching softness), when I am gone, may I hope sometimes to be remembered, as a friend?—to think of living in the memory of those I love, would be to me a soothing pleasure, the only pleasure I can enjoy."
Madeline promised not to forget him; 'twas a promise her heart told her she would truly perform. De Sevignie still lingered after receiving it;—"I must be gone at last (cried he); every moment I stay but increases my reluctance to depart. Oh, Madeline! no words can express my heaviness of heart at thus bidding a last adieu to———" He paused—but his eyes expressed what his tongue left unfinished. Madeline sat down; her tears fell in spite of her efforts to restrain them: de Sevignie grasped her hands in his; he looked at her with a countenance full of anguish.—"I must fly (said he), or I shall no longer have any command over myself." The breeze that blew in at the window had wafted aside the hair of Madeline from her forehead; de Sevignie pressed his lips against it for a moment; and, dropping on his knees, "bless, heaven (he cried) bless with the choicest of thy gifts, the loveliest of thy works!"—then rising precipitately, he once more rushed out of the house.
Madeline, more dejected than ever, returned to her chamber; nor could any effort she made for the purpose so far restore her composure as to enable her to join her father (whose walk had been purposely lengthened on her account) at supper: she excused herself by pleading a head-ache. Clermont sighed, as he thought that a heart-ache was what she should have said. The departure of de Sevignie Clermont trusted would check the passion of Madeline; and that, like an untoward blossom of the spring, it would gradually die away—the "perfume and the suppliance of a moment:" how greatly therefore was he disappointed when convinced of the falsity of this idea, by the alteration which took place in her after the departure of de Sevignie; the rose forsook her cheek; she pined in thought, and neglected all her former avocations: with an anguish which no language can express, he watched over her; he did not hint at the observations he had made; but gently and by degrees he strove to lead her back to her former pursuits, well-knowing that employment was the best antidote against melancholy: he also frequently hinted, that she should be particularly watchful of her peace, as his entirely depended on it. These insinuations at length recalled her to a sense of what was due to him and herself; and she felt guilty of ingratitude in so long giving way to feelings which, by injuring her tranquillity, had interrupted his: a conviction of error was followed by a determination of making every possible atonement for it; she therefore struggled against despondency, and applied herself more assiduously than ever to her wonted occupations: success crowned her exertions; her health returned, and with it its almost constant attendant—cheerfulness; a cheerfulness, however, which derived its principal support from the hope of again beholding de Sevignie, and which sometimes, losing that support, sunk into despondency.
The winter glided away without any event happening in the least interesting to her feelings or her father's; and without lessening the impression which de Sevignie had made upon her heart: the scenes he had particularly admired about the cottage, she still wandered to; and the old castle still continued her favourite haunt; she copied the lines, though her doing so was unnecessary, for they were already deeply impressed upon her memory; and often visited the house where he had lodged, and where every tongue was eloquent in his praise.