Delphi Complete Works of Ann Radcliffe (Illustrated) (168 page)

Viewless, through heaven’s vast vault your course ye steer,

Unknown from whence ye come, or whither go!

Mysterious pow’rs! I hear ye murmur low,

Till swells your loud gust on my startled ear,

And, awful! seems to say — some God is near!

I love to list your midnight voices float

In the dread storm, that o’er the ocean rolls,

And, while their charm the angry wave controuls,

Mix with its sullen roar, and sink remote.

Then, rising in the pause, a sweeter note,

The dirge of spirits, who your deeds bewail,

A sweeter note oft swells while sleeps the gale!

But soon, ye sightless pow’rs! your rest is o’er,

Solemn and slow, ye rise upon the air,

Speak in the shrouds, and bid the sea-boy fear,

And the faint-warbled dirge — is heard no more!

Oh! then I deprecate your awful reign!

The loud lament yet bear not on your breath!

Bear not the crash of bark far on the main,

Bear not the cry of men, who cry in vain,

The crew’s dread chorus sinking into death!

Oh! give not these, ye pow’rs! I ask alone,

As rapt I climb these dark romantic steeps,

The elemental war, the billow’s moan;

I ask the still, sweet tear, that listening Fancy weeps!

CHAPTER XVI

Unnatural deeds

Do breed unnatural troubles: infected minds

To their deaf pillows will discharge their secrets.

More needs she the divine, than the physician.

On the following evening, the view of the convent towers, rising among the shadowy woods, reminded Emily of the nun, whose condition had so much affected her; and, anxious to know how she was, as well as to see some of her former friends, she and the Lady Blanche extended their walk to the monastery. At the gate stood a carriage, which, from the heat of the horses, appeared to have just arrived; but a more than common stillness pervaded the court and the cloisters, through which Emily and Blanche passed in their way to the great hall, where a nun, who was crossing to the staircase, replied to the enquiries of the former, that sister Agnes was still living, and sensible, but that it was thought she could not survive the night. In the parlour, they found several of the boarders, who rejoiced to see Emily, and told her many little circumstances that had happened in the convent since her departure, and which were interesting to her only because they related to persons, whom she had regarded with affection. While they thus conversed the abbess entered the room, and expressed much satisfaction at seeing Emily, but her manner was unusually solemn, and her countenance dejected. ‘Our house,’ said she, after the first salutations were over, ‘is truly a house of mourning — a daughter is now paying the debt of nature. — You have heard, perhaps, that our daughter Agnes is dying?’

Emily expressed her sincere concern.

‘Her death presents to us a great and awful lesson,’ continued the abbess; ‘let us read it, and profit by it; let it teach us to prepare ourselves for the change, that awaits us all! You are young, and have it yet in your power to secure “the peace that passeth all understanding” — the peace of conscience. Preserve it in your youth, that it may comfort you in age; for vain, alas! and imperfect are the good deeds of our latter years, if those of our early life have been evil!’

Emily would have said, that good deeds, she hoped, were never vain; but she considered that it was the abbess who spoke, and she remained silent.

‘The latter days of Agnes,’ resumed the abbess, ‘have been exemplary; would they might atone for the errors of her former ones! Her sufferings now, alas! are great; let us believe, that they will make her peace hereafter! I have left her with her confessor, and a gentleman, whom she has long been anxious to see, and who is just arrived from Paris. They, I hope, will be able to administer the repose, which her mind has hitherto wanted.’

Emily fervently joined in the wish.

‘During her illness, she has sometimes named you,’ resumed the abbess; ‘perhaps, it would comfort her to see you; when her present visitors have left her, we will go to her chamber, if the scene will not be too melancholy for your spirits. But, indeed, to such scenes, however painful, we ought to accustom ourselves, for they are salutary to the soul, and prepare us for what we are ourselves to suffer.’

Emily became grave and thoughtful; for this conversation brought to her recollection the dying moments of her beloved father, and she wished once more to weep over the spot, where his remains were buried. During the silence, which followed the abbess’ speech, many minute circumstances attending his last hours occurred to her — his emotion on perceiving himself to be in the neighbourhood of Chateau-le-Blanc — his request to be interred in a particular spot in the church of this monastery — and the solemn charge he had delivered to her to destroy certain papers, without examining them. — She recollected also the mysterious and horrible words in those manuscripts, upon which her eye had involuntarily glanced; and, though they now, and, indeed, whenever she remembered them, revived an excess of painful curiosity, concerning their full import, and the motives for her father’s command, it was ever her chief consolation, that she had strictly obeyed him in this particular.

Little more was said by the abbess, who appeared too much affected by the subject she had lately left, to be willing to converse, and her companions had been for some time silent from the same cause, when this general reverie was interrupted by the entrance of a stranger, Monsieur Bonnac, who had just quitted the chamber of sister Agnes. He appeared much disturbed, but Emily fancied, that his countenance had more the expression of horror, than of grief. Having drawn the abbess to a distant part of the room, he conversed with her for some time, during which she seemed to listen with earnest attention, and he to speak with caution, and a more than common degree of interest. When he had concluded, he bowed silently to the rest of the company, and quitted the room. The abbess, soon after, proposed going to the chamber of sister Agnes, to which Emily consented, though not without some reluctance, and Lady Blanche remained with the boarders below.

At the door of the chamber they met the confessor, whom, as he lifted up his head on their approach, Emily observed to be the same that had attended her dying father; but he passed on, without noticing her, and they entered the apartment, where, on a mattress, was laid sister Agnes, with one nun watching in the chair beside her. Her countenance was so much changed, that Emily would scarcely have recollected her, had she not been prepared to do so: it was ghastly, and overspread with gloomy horror; her dim and hollow eyes were fixed on a crucifix, which she held upon her bosom; and she was so much engaged in thought, as not to perceive the abbess and Emily, till they stood at the bedside. Then, turning her heavy eyes, she fixed them, in wild horror, upon Emily, and, screaming, exclaimed, ‘Ah! that vision comes upon me in my dying hours!’

Emily started back in terror, and looked for explanation to the abbess, who made her a signal not to be alarmed, and calmly said to Agnes, ‘Daughter, I have brought Mademoiselle St. Aubert to visit you: I thought you would be glad to see her.’

Agnes made no reply; but, still gazing wildly upon Emily, exclaimed, ‘It is her very self! Oh! there is all that fascination in her look, which proved my destruction! What would you have — what is it you came to demand — Retribution? — It will soon be yours — it is yours already. How many years have passed, since last I saw you! My crime is but as yesterday. — Yet I am grown old beneath it; while you are still young and blooming — blooming as when you forced me to commit that most abhorred deed! O! could I once forget it! — yet what would that avail? — the deed is done!’

Emily, extremely shocked, would now have left the room; but the abbess, taking her hand, tried to support her spirits, and begged she would stay a few moments, when Agnes would probably be calm, whom now she tried to sooth. But the latter seemed to disregard her, while she still fixed her eyes on Emily, and added, ‘What are years of prayers and repentance? they cannot wash out the foulness of murder! — Yes, murder! Where is he — where is he? — Look there — look there! — see where he stalks along the room! Why do you come to torment me now?’ continued Agnes, while her straining eyes were bent on air, ‘why was not I punished before? — O! do not frown so sternly! Hah! there again! ‘til she herself! Why do you look so piteously upon me — and smile, too? smile on me! What groan was that?’

Agnes sunk down, apparently lifeless, and Emily, unable to support herself, leaned against the bed, while the abbess and the attendant nun were applying the usual remedies to Agnes. ‘Peace,’ said the abbess, when Emily was going to speak, ‘the delirium is going off, she will soon revive. When was she thus before, daughter?’

‘Not of many weeks, madam,’ replied the nun, ‘but her spirits have been much agitated by the arrival of the gentleman she wished so much to see.’

‘Yes,’ observed the abbess, ‘that has undoubtedly occasioned this paroxysm of frenzy. When she is better, we will leave her to repose.’

Emily very readily consented, but, though she could now give little assistance, she was unwilling to quit the chamber, while any might be necessary.

When Agnes recovered her senses, she again fixed her eyes on Emily, but their wild expression was gone, and a gloomy melancholy had succeeded. It was some moments before she recovered sufficient spirits to speak; she then said feebly— ‘The likeness is wonderful! — surely it must be something more than fancy. Tell me, I conjure you,’ she added, addressing Emily, ‘though your name is St. Aubert, are you not the daughter of the Marchioness?’

‘What Marchioness?’ said Emily, in extreme surprise; for she had imagined, from the calmness of Agnes’s manner, that her intellects were restored. The abbess gave her a significant glance, but she repeated the question.

‘What Marchioness?’ exclaimed Agnes, ‘I know but of one — the Marchioness de Villeroi.’

Emily, remembering the emotion of her late father, upon the unexpected mention of this lady, and his request to be laid near to the tomb of the Villerois, now felt greatly interested, and she entreated Agnes to explain the reason of her question. The abbess would now have withdrawn Emily from the room, who being, however, detained by a strong interest, repeated her entreaties.

‘Bring me that casket, sister,’ said Agnes; ‘I will shew her to you; yet you need only look in that mirror, and you will behold her; you surely are her daughter: such striking resemblance is never found but among near relations.’

The nun brought the casket, and Agnes, having directed her how to unlock it, she took thence a miniature, in which Emily perceived the exact resemblance of the picture, which she had found among her late father’s papers. Agnes held out her hand to receive it; gazed upon it earnestly for some moments in silence; and then, with a countenance of deep despair, threw up her eyes to Heaven, and prayed inwardly. When she had finished, she returned the miniature to Emily. ‘Keep it,’ said she, ‘I bequeath it to you, for I must believe it is your right. I have frequently observed the resemblance between you; but never, till this day, did it strike upon my conscience so powerfully! Stay, sister, do not remove the casket — there is another picture I would shew.’

Emily trembled with expectation, and the abbess again would have withdrawn her. ‘Agnes is still disordered,’ said she, ‘you observe how she wanders. In these moods she says any thing, and does not scruple, as you have witnessed, to accuse herself of the most horrible crimes.’

Emily, however, thought she perceived something more than madness in the inconsistencies of Agnes, whose mention of the Marchioness, and production of her picture, had interested her so much, that she determined to obtain further information, if possible, respecting the subject of it.

The nun returned with the casket, and, Agnes pointing out to her a secret drawer, she took from it another miniature. ‘Here,’ said Agnes, as she offered it to Emily, ‘learn a lesson for your vanity, at least; look well at this picture, and see if you can discover any resemblance between what I was, and what I am.’

Emily impatiently received the miniature, which her eyes had scarcely glanced upon, before her trembling hands had nearly suffered it to fall — it was the resemblance of the portrait of Signora Laurentini, which she had formerly seen in the castle of Udolpho — the lady, who had disappeared in so mysterious a manner, and whom Montoni had been suspected of having caused to be murdered.

In silent astonishment, Emily continued to gaze alternately upon the picture and the dying nun, endeavouring to trace a resemblance between them, which no longer existed.

‘Why do you look so sternly on me?’ said Agnes, mistaking the nature of Emily’s emotion.

‘I have seen this face before,’ said Emily, at length; ‘was it really your resemblance?’

‘You may well ask that question,’ replied the nun,— ‘but it was once esteemed a striking likeness of me. Look at me well, and see what guilt has made me. I then was innocent; the evil passions of my nature slept. Sister!’ added she solemnly, and stretching forth her cold, damp hand to Emily, who shuddered at its touch— ‘Sister! beware of the first indulgence of the passions; beware of the first! Their course, if not checked then, is rapid — their force is uncontroulable — they lead us we know not whither — they lead us perhaps to the commission of crimes, for which whole years of prayer and penitence cannot atone! — Such may be the force of even a single passion, that it overcomes every other, and sears up every other approach to the heart. Possessing us like a fiend, it leads us on to the acts of a fiend, making us insensible to pity and to conscience. And, when its purpose is accomplished, like a fiend, it leaves us to the torture of those feelings, which its power had suspended — not annihilated, — to the tortures of compassion, remorse, and conscience. Then, we awaken as from a dream, and perceive a new world around us — we gaze in astonishment, and horror — but the deed is committed; not all the powers of heaven and earth united can undo it — and the spectres of conscience will not fly! What are riches — grandeur — health itself, to the luxury of a pure conscience, the health of the soul; — and what the sufferings of poverty, disappointment, despair — to the anguish of an afflicted one! O! how long is it since I knew that luxury! I believed, that I had suffered the most agonizing pangs of human nature, in love, jealousy, and despair — but these pangs were ease, compared with the stings of conscience, which I have since endured. I tasted too what was called the sweet of revenge — but it was transient, it expired even with the object, that provoked it. Remember, sister, that the passions are the seeds of vices as well as of virtues, from which either may spring, accordingly as they are nurtured. Unhappy they who have never been taught the art to govern them!’

‘Alas! unhappy!’ said the abbess, ‘and ill-informed of our holy religion!’ Emily listened to Agnes, in silent awe, while she still examined the miniature, and became confirmed in her opinion of its strong resemblance to the portrait at Udolpho. ‘This face is familiar to me,’ said she, wishing to lead the nun to an explanation, yet fearing to discover too abruptly her knowledge of Udolpho.