CHAPTER XII

Oft woo’d the gleam of Cynthia, silver-bright,
In cloisters dim, far from the haunts of Folly,
With Freedom by my side, and soft-ey’d Melancholy. GRAY


The Lady Blanche was so much interested for Emily, that, upon hearing
she was going to reside in the neighbouring convent, she requested the
Count would invite her to lengthen her stay at the château. “And you
know, my dear sir,” added Blanche, “how delighted I shall be with such
a companion; for, at present, I have no friend to walk, or to read
with, since Mademoiselle Bearn is my mamma’s friend only.”

The Count smiled at the youthful simplicity, with which his daughter
yielded to first impressions; and, though he chose to warn her of their
danger, he silently applauded the benevolence, that could thus readily
expand in confidence to a stranger. He had observed Emily, with
attention, on the preceding evening, and was as much pleased with her,
as it was possible he could be with any person, on so short an
acquaintance. The mention, made of her by Mons. Du Pont, had also given
him a favourable impression of Emily; but, extremely cautious as to
those, whom he introduced to the intimacy of his daughter, he
determined, on hearing that the former was no stranger at the convent
of St. Claire, to visit the abbess, and, if her account corresponded
with his wish, to invite Emily to pass some time at the château. On
this subject, he was influenced by a consideration of the Lady
Blanche’s welfare, still more than by either a wish to oblige her, or
to befriend the orphan Emily, for whom, however, he felt considerably
interested. On the following morning, Emily was too much fatigued to appear; but
Mons. Du Pont was at the breakfast-table, when the Count entered the
room, who pressed him, as his former acquaintance, and the son of a
very old friend, to prolong his stay at the château; an invitation,
which Du Pont willingly accepted, since it would allow him to be near
Emily; and, though he was not conscious of encouraging a hope, that she
would ever return his affection, he had not fortitude enough to
attempt, at present, to overcome it. Emily, when she was somewhat recovered, wandered with her new friend
over the grounds belonging to the château, as much delighted with the
surrounding views, as Blanche, in the benevolence of her heart, had
wished; from thence she perceived, beyond the woods, the towers of the
monastery, and remarked, that it was to this convent she designed to
go. “Ah!” said Blanche with surprise, “I am but just released from a
convent, and would you go into one? If you could know what pleasure I
feel in wandering here, at liberty,—and in seeing the sky and the
fields, and the woods all round me, I think you would not.” Emily,
smiling at the warmth, with which the Lady Blanche spoke, observed,
that she did not mean to confine herself to a convent for life. “No, you may not intend it now,” said Blanche; “but you do not know to
what the nuns may persuade you to consent: I know how kind they will
appear, and how happy, for I have seen too much of their art.”

When they returned to the château, Lady Blanche conducted Emily to her
favourite turret, and from thence they rambled through the ancient
chambers, which Blanche had visited before. Emily was amused by
observing the structure of these apartments, and the fashion of their
old but still magnificent furniture, and by comparing them with those
of the castle of Udolpho, which were yet more antique and grotesque. She was also interested by Dorothée the housekeeper, who attended them,
whose appearance was almost as antique as the objects around her, and
who seemed no less interested by Emily, on whom she frequently gazed
with so much deep attention, as scarcely to hear what was said to her. While Emily looked from one of the casements, she perceived, with
surprise, some objects, that were familiar to her memory;—the fields
and woods, with the gleaming brook, which she had passed with La
Voisin, one evening, soon after the death of Monsieur St. Aubert, in
her way from the monastery to her cottage; and she now knew this to be
the château, which he had then avoided, and concerning which he had
dropped some remarkable hints. Shocked by this discovery, yet scarcely knowing why, she mused for some
time in silence, and remembered the emotion, which her father had
betrayed on finding himself so near this mansion, and some other
circumstances of his conduct, that now greatly interested her. The
music, too, which she had formerly heard, and, respecting which La
Voisin had given such an odd account, occurred to her, and, desirous of
knowing more concerning it, she asked Dorothée whether it returned at
midnight, as usual, and whether the musician had yet been discovered. “Yes, ma’amselle,” replied Dorothée, “that music is still heard, but
the musician has never been found out, nor ever will, I believe; though
there are some people, who can guess.”

“Indeed!” said Emily, “then why do they not pursue the enquiry?”

“Ah, young lady! enquiry enough has been made—but who can pursue a
spirit?”

Emily smiled, and, remembering how lately she had suffered herself to
be led away by superstition, determined now to resist its contagion;
yet, in spite of her efforts, she felt awe mingle with her curiosity,
on this subject; and Blanche, who had hitherto listened in silence, now
enquired what this music was, and how long it had been heard. “Ever since the death of my lady, madam,” replied Dorothée. “Why, the place is not haunted, surely?” said Blanche, between jesting
and seriousness. “I have heard that music almost ever since my dear lady died,”
continued Dorothée, “and never before then. But that is nothing to some
things I could tell of.”

“Do, pray, tell them, then,” said Lady Blanche, now more in earnest
than in jest. “I am much interested, for I have heard sister Henriette,
and sister Sophie, in the convent, tell of such strange appearances,
which they themselves had witnessed!”

“You never heard, my lady, I suppose, what made us leave the château,
and go and live in a cottage,” said Dorothée. “Never!” replied Blanche
with impatience. “Nor the reason, that my lord, the Marquis”—Dorothée checked herself,
hesitated, and then endeavoured to change the topic; but the curiosity
of Blanche was too much awakened to suffer the subject thus easily to
escape her, and she pressed the old housekeeper to proceed with her
account, upon whom, however, no entreaties could prevail; and it was
evident, that she was alarmed for the imprudence, into which she had
already betrayed herself. “I perceive,” said Emily, smiling, “that all old mansions are haunted;
I am lately come from a place of wonders; but unluckily, since I left
it, I have heard almost all of them explained.”

Blanche was silent; Dorothée looked grave, and sighed; and Emily felt
herself still inclined to believe more of the wonderful, than she chose
to acknowledge.