From these,
however, she was now relieved, and all the circumstances of her
father’s conduct were fully explained: but her heart was oppressed by
the melancholy catastrophe of her amiable relative, and by the awful
lesson, which the history of the nun exhibited, the indulgence of whose
passions had been the means of leading her gradually to the commission
of a crime, from the prophecy of which in her early years she would
have recoiled in horror, and exclaimed—that it could not be!—a crime,
which whole years of repentance and of the severest penance had not
been able to obliterate from her conscience. CHAPTER XVIII

Then, fresh tears
Stood on her cheek, as doth the honey-dew
Upon a gather’d lily almost wither’d
                    SHAKESPEARE


After the late discoveries, Emily was distinguished at the château by
the Count and his family, as a relative of the house of Villeroi, and
received, if possible, more friendly attention, than had yet been shown
her. Count De Villefort’s surprise at the delay of an answer to his letter,
which had been directed to Valancourt, at Estuvière, was mingled with
satisfaction for the prudence, which had saved Emily from a share of
the anxiety he now suffered, though, when he saw her still drooping
under the effect of his former error, all his resolution was necessary
to restrain him from relating the truth, that would afford her a
momentary relief. The approaching nuptials of the Lady Blanche now
divided his attention with this subject of his anxiety, for the
inhabitants of the château were already busied in preparations for that
event, and the arrival of Mons. St. Foix was daily expected. In the
gaiety, which surrounded her, Emily vainly tried to participate, her
spirits being depressed by the late discoveries, and by the anxiety
concerning the fate of Valancourt, that had been occasioned by the
description of his manner, when he had delivered the ring. She seemed
to perceive in it the gloomy wildness of despair; and, when she
considered to what that despair might have urged him, her heart sunk
with terror and grief. The state of suspense, as to his safety, to
which she believed herself condemned, till she should return to La
Vallée, appeared insupportable, and, in such moments, she could not
even struggle to assume the composure, that had left her mind, but
would often abruptly quit the company she was with, and endeavour to
sooth her spirits in the deep solitudes of the woods, that overbrowed
the shore. Here, the faint roar of foaming waves, that beat below, and
the sullen murmur of the wind among the branches around, were
circumstances in unison with the temper of her mind; and she would sit
on a cliff, or on the broken steps of her favourite watch-tower,
observing the changing colours of the evening clouds, and the gloom of
twilight draw over the sea, till the white tops of billows, riding
towards the shore, could scarcely be discerned amidst the darkened
waters. The lines, engraved by Valancourt on this tower, she frequently
repeated with melancholy enthusiasm, and then would endeavour to check
the recollections and the grief they occasioned, and to turn her
thoughts to indifferent subjects. One evening, having wandered with her lute to this her favourite spot,
she entered the ruined tower, and ascended a winding staircase, that
led to a small chamber, which was less decayed than the rest of the
building, and whence she had often gazed, with admiration, on the wide
prospect of sea and land, that extended below. The sun was now setting
on that tract of the Pyrenees, which divided Languedoc from Rousillon,
and, placing herself opposite to a small grated window, which, like the
wood-tops beneath, and the waves lower still, gleamed with the red glow
of the west, she touched the chords of her lute in solemn symphony, and
then accompanied it with her voice, in one of the simple and affecting
airs, to which, in happier days, Valancourt had often listened in
rapture, and which she now adapted to the following lines. TO MELANCHOLY

Spirit of love and sorrow—hail! Thy solemn voice from far I hear,
Mingling with ev’ning’s dying gale:
Hail, with this sadly-pleasing tear! O! at this still, this lonely hour,
Thine own sweet hour of closing day,
Awake thy lute, whose charmful pow’r
Shall call up Fancy to obey:

To paint the wild romantic dream,
That meets the poet’s musing eye,
As, on the bank of shadowy stream,
He breathes to her the fervid sigh. O lonely spirit! let thy song
Lead me through all thy sacred haunt;
The minister’s moonlight aisles along,
Where spectres raise the midnight chaunt. I hear their dirges faintly swell! Then, sink at once in silence drear,
While, from the pillar’d cloister’s cell,
Dimly their gliding forms appear! Lead where the pine-woods wave on high,
Whose pathless sod is darkly seen,
As the cold moon, with trembling eye,
Darts her long beams the leaves between. Lead to the mountain’s dusky head,
Where, far below, in shade profound,
Wide forests, plains and hamlets spread,
And sad the chimes of vesper sound,

Or guide me, where the dashing oar
Just breaks the stillness of the vale,
As slow it tracks the winding shore,
To meet the ocean’s distant sail:

To pebbly banks, that Neptune laves,
With measur’d surges, loud and deep,
Where the dark cliff bends o’er the waves,
And wild the winds of autumn sweep. There pause at midnight’s spectred hour,
And list the long-resounding gale;
And catch the fleeting moonlight’s pow’r,
O’er foaming seas and distant sail. The soft tranquillity of the scene below, where the evening breeze
scarcely curled the water, or swelled the passing sail, that caught the
last gleam of the sun, and where, now and then, a dipping oar was all
that disturbed the trembling radiance, conspired with the tender melody
of her lute to lull her mind into a state of gentle sadness, and she
sung the mournful songs of past times, till the remembrances they
awakened were too powerful for her heart, her tears fell upon the lute,
over which she drooped, and her voice trembled, and was unable to
proceed. Though the sun had now sunk behind the mountains, and even his
reflected light was fading from their highest points, Emily did not
leave the watch-tower, but continued to indulge her melancholy reverie,
till a footstep, at a little distance, startled her, and, on looking
through the grate, she observed a person walking below, whom, however,
soon perceiving to be Mons. Bonnac, she returned to the quiet
thoughtfulness his step had interrupted. After some time, she again
struck her lute, and sung her favourite air; but again a step disturbed
her, and, as she paused to listen, she heard it ascending the staircase
of the tower. The gloom of the hour, perhaps, made her sensible to some
degree of fear, which she might not otherwise have felt; for, only a
few minutes before, she had seen Mons. Bonnac pass.