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L'Orme

<h4>CHAPTER XII.</h4> I have told all that I remember of that night,--a night whose horrible events still haunt my memory like the ghosts of the unburied on the banks of Styx, often flitting across my mind's eye, when it would fain turn to scenes of happiness and joy. If ever a horrible dream disturbs my slumber, it is also sure to refer to that night, and I find myself labouring on in the midst of wilds and darkness, rocks and precipices, the tempest dashing in my face, and the wind hurling me into the midst of the suffocating snow. My recovery from the sort of stupor into which I had fallen after I had discovered the death of poor Father Francis was very different in all its sensations from my resuscitation after drowning. I remember nothing of the actual return to life, and it must, indeed, have been some weeks before I regained my powers of reason and perception in their full force, passing the interval in a state of delirium, brought on by the cold, and also, perhaps, by the excessive excitement in which I had been for some hours previous to my losing my recollection. When I first woke, as it were, from this state of mental alienation, I found myself lying on a bed, stretched in my mother's toilet chamber. I believe I had been asleep, and felt excessively enfeebled--so much so, indeed, that, though I plainly saw my mother just rising from beside me, I could not summon sufficient energy to speak to her, and I reclosed my eyes. I heard her say, however, "He wakes! try, dear Helen, to soothe him to sleep again, while I go and endeavour to rest myself, for I am very much worn with watching last night." Her steps retreated, for she fancied me still delirious; and I could hear some one else glide forward--though the footfall was, perhaps, the lightest that ever touched the earth--and take the seat my mother had left. So acute had become my sense of hearing, that the least sound was perceptible to my ears, even for many weeks afterwards, to such a degree as to be positively painful to me. I was well aware that it was Helen Arnault--my beloved Helen--that sat beside me; and yet, though I can scarcely say my senses were sufficiently restored for me positively to exercise that faculty which is called thinking, there was upon my mind a vague dreamy remembrance that I had acted wrong in her regard, which made me still keep my eyes closed, trying to call up more clearly the images of all my adventures at Saragossa. As I lay thus, I felt a soft sweet breath fan my cheek, like the air of spring, and then a warm drop or two fall upon it, like a spring shower. I opened my eyes, and saw Helen gazing upon me and weeping. She raised her head slightly, for her lips had been close to my cheek; but thinking that my mind was still in the same wandering state, she continued to gaze upon my face, and I could see in her eyes the look of that deep, devoted, resolute affection, with which woman is pre-eminently endowed--her blessing or her curse! I laid my hand gently upon one of hers which rested on the side of my bed, and drawing it towards me, I pressed it to my lips. She instantly started up, and looked at me with a glance of surprise and joy that I can see even now. "Oh, is it possible!" cried she: "are you better really?" and she seemed as if to start away to convey the tidings to my mother; but I beckoned her to bend her head down towards me, and when she had done so, I thanked her, in a low voice, but with energetic words, for her care, her kindness, and for her love. Her blushing cheek was close to my lips, but sickness, which had rendered all my sensations morbidly acute, had also made my feelings of delicacy much more refined, and had given a degree of timidity I did not often otherwise feel. I would not for the world have taken advantage of the opportunity which her kindness and confidence afforded; and though, as I have said, her cheek, looking like the summer side of a blooming peach, was within the reach of my lips, I let her raise it without a touch, when I had poured forth my thanks into her ear; and I then suffered her to do her joyful errand to my mother, only venturing to tell her, ere she went, how much I loved, and how much I would love her to the end of my existence. A moment after, my mother returned herself, her eyes streaming with tears of joy; and, kneeling by my bedside, she covered my cheek with those fond maternal kisses, whose unmixed purity gives them a sweet and holy balm, which love with all its fire and brightness can seldom, seldom attain. My convalescence was tedious, and months elapsed before I regained anything like the robust health which I had formerly enjoyed. Months of sickness are very apt to make a spoilt child; and had I not lately received some lessons hard to be forgot, such might have been the case with me, when I saw the whole happiness of the three persons I myself loved best depending upon my slightest change of looks. My father's delight at my recovery was not less than my mother's; and every day that I met Helen, I could see her eye rest for an instant upon my face, as if to watch what progress returning health had made since the day before; and when, by chance it gained a deeper touch of red, or my eyes had acquired a ray of renewed fire, the happiness of her heart raised the blood into her cheek, and made her look a thousand times lovelier than ever. We now also met oftener than formerly. The ties which she had entwined round my mother's heart had been, during my illness, drawn more tightly than ever. That restraint no longer existed which had formerly proved so irksome to me; Helen was in every way treated as a child of the family; and, had she chosen it, might have yielded me many an hour of that private conversation which I was not remiss in seeking. But far from it; with an ingenuity, which mingled gentleness, perhaps even affection, with reserve, she avoided all opportunity of hearing what her heart forbade her to reprove, and to which she yet felt it wrong to listen. When before my father or mother, instead of appearing to feel a greater degree of timidity, it seemed as if the restraint was removed, and she would behave towards me as a gentle and affectionate sister; but if ever she encountered me alone, she had still some excuse to leave me, ere I could tell her all that was passing in my heart, or win from her any reiteration of her once acknowledged regard. Her conduct made me grave and melancholy. My bosom was full of a passion that I burned to pour forth with all the ardour of youth, and it drove me forth to solitude to dream over the feelings I was denied the power to communicate. My father observed my long and lonely rambles; and remonstrated with me on giving way to such melancholy gloom, when I had so many causes for happiness and for gratitude to Heaven. "Not," said he, "that I contemn an occasional recourse to the commune of one's own thoughts; it enlarges, it elevates, it improves the mind; and I am convinced that the beautiful Roman fable of Numa and Egeria was but a fine allegory, to express that the Roman king learned wisdom by a frequent intercourse with the divine and instructive spirit of solitude. But your retirement, my dear Louis, seems to me of a gloomy and dissatisfied nature; perhaps it originates in a desire to see more of courts and cities than you have hitherto done. If so, it is easy to gratify you, however painful it may be to your mother and myself to lose your society." In reply, I assured him that I entertained no desire of the kind; but he had persuaded himself that such was the case, and still retained his first opinion, though God knows to leave Helen was the last thing I sought. He continued, however, to turn in his own mind his project of sending me to the court, notwithstanding which, it is probable that the whole would have gradually passed away from his memory, had not my mother, to whom he had communicated his wishes, from other motives, determined upon the same proceeding; and with her calm but active spirit, while my father spoke of it every day, yet took no step towards its accomplishment, she hardly mentioned the subject, but carried it into effect. As I recovered my health, there was of course much to hear concerning all that had occurred, both during my absence in Spain, and my illness after my return. In regard to the first, I shall merely notice the circumstance which occasioned my father to recal me: this was nothing else than a visit from the Marquis de St. Brie, of whom the Chevalier had instilled into our minds so unfavourable an opinion. On his presenting himself at the château, my father received him coldly and haughtily; but the Marquis soon, by the polished elegance of his manners, and the apparent frankness of his character, did away the evil impression which had been created against him. He spoke of his rencontre with me, and he praised my conduct in the highest manner. Courage, and skill, and generous forbearance, were all attributed to me; and the ears of the parent were easily soothed by the commendation bestowed upon his child. Besides, my father was too lazy to hold his opinion steadfastly, when any one strove to steal it from him; and he gradually brought himself to believe that the Marquis de St. Brie was a very much slandered person, and that, so far from having any evil intent towards me, the Marquis was my very good friend and well-wisher. My mother was slower to be convinced; but the language of my former adversary was so high whenever he spoke of me, that she also gradually yielded her unfavourable impressions, and willingly consented to my recal--the Marquis having promised to revisit the Château de l'Orme in the spring, and expressed a wish to see me, offering at the same time, if his interest could be of service to my views, to use it to the utmost in my behalf. My mother looked upon this, at the worst, as an empty profession, and my father almost believed him to be sincere. Thus I was recalled; and my adventures on my return being already told, I have only farther to relate the means by which I was saved from the fate that menaced me. Immediately on quitting Father Francis and myself, my faithful Houssaye had ridden on with the guide to Laruns, as hard as he could. The wind, however, and the snow had delayed them far longer than he had anticipated; and, anxious for my safety, he galloped to the little cabaret in search of some one to return and lend their assistance in finding me out, and rescuing me from the peril in which he had left me. The first persons whom he encountered in the auberge were Arnault, the procureur of Lourdes, and his son, the latter of whom instantly proffered to join the party, and aid with all his heart. But the old procureur was thereupon immediately smitten with a fit of paternal tenderness, such as had not visited him for many years before; and he not only positively prohibited Jean Baptiste from encountering the dangers of the snow himself, but he also pronounced such a pathetic oration upon the horrors and dangers of the undertaking, that of the whole party collected in the cabaret not one could be found to venture. Houssaye's next resource was amongst the cottagers round about, and, by promises and persuasion, he induced eight sturdy mountaineers to accompany him with the resin torches for which they are famous in that part of the country, and which are almost as difficult to extinguish as the celebrated fire of Callinicus. With these they began their search on the road towards Gabas; but scarcely had they passed the defile immediately above Laruns, than the light of the torches flashed over a spot where the snow had evidently been disturbed, and on examining they found a part of my clothes not yet covered with the drift which had come down since the wind had swept Father Francis and myself from the path. We were soon extricated, and carried to Laruns apparently dead. Here all means were applied to recall us to life, but they proved successful only with me; on Father Francis they had no effect, though Houssaye assured me that everything which could be devised was employed in vain. Amongst the most active in rendering me every assistance after I was extricated was the good youth who had saved me before from a watery grave; but in the midst of his endeavours, his father checked him, and calling him on one side, spoke to him for long in a low voice. "The old fox thought I could hear nothing," said Houssaye; "but enough reached me to make me understand he would rather have had you die than live. If he dies, I heard him say, you shall have both--something which I did not hear--and all the property; but if he lives, mark if he do not thwart us, though I will take care to throw obstacles enough in his way! The lad seemed well enough inclined to help you still," proceeded Houssaye, "but his father would not let him; though he came the next morning himself, fawning and asking if he could bear any message back to Lourdes, whither he was about to return, finding that he could not pass into Spain as he had intended." This latter part of the worthy old trumpeter's narration astonished and embarrassed me a good deal; and after turning it in every way that my imagination could suggest, without being able to discover any solution of the mystery, I was obliged to conclude that, in what the narrator declared he had overheard, fancy had full as great a share as matter of fact. Arnault might dislike me--indeed, I was very sure that he did so--but how my life might thwart his views, or my death might profit him, I was at a loss to discover. One thing, however, I remarked--Arnault, after my recovery, came more than once to see his daughter, which he had not done more than twice before, since she had been at the château. Her brother, also, was more frequently with her; and on these occasions, the father, if he met any member of my family, was humble and fawning, the son awkward and sheepish; and it struck me that the behaviour of the latter was very much changed towards myself, as if he were playing a part learned by rote, which neither assimilated with his character nor suited his inclination. I also perceived a change take place in Helen--she grew silent, pale, thoughtful. When she looked at me, it seemed as if her eyes would overflow with tears, were it not for the restraint imposed upon her by the presence of others. Her gaiety was gone; and even the servants, amongst whom she was almost adored, began to remark the sadness of Mademoiselle Helene, and comment on its cause. All this was to me a mystery; and doubt of any kind, even concerning a trifle, has ever been to me a thousand times more painful than evident danger or real misfortune. Doubt is to my mind what the darkness of night is to a ghost-frightened school-boy--I go on gazing anxiously about me on every side, conjuring up a thousand ideal spectres, and distorting every dim object that I see into the likeness of some fearful phantom of the imagination. Nor can all the reasoning in my power divest my mind of the credulity with which I listen either to hope or to apprehension: though I well know that apprehension is to sorrow what hope is to joy--a sort of avant courier, who greatly magnifies the importance of the personage whom he precedes. In the present instance, I determined to change my doubts to certainties, if human ingenuity might do so. Probably I should have accomplished it, but passion--which generally interferes with the best laid schemes of human wisdom, suggesting that the gratification which the heart seeks may easily be blended with the designs which the brain has formed--was ingenious enough to persuade me that the very best thing I could do for the accomplishment of my object was suddenly to explain myself with Helen. She avoided giving me any opportunity of doing so. I persisted with all the ardour of my nature, watching with unwearied assiduity even to gain a quarter of an hour; but I watched in vain. Thus lapsed first a week, and then another, at the end of which the Marquis de St. Brie arrived at the château, full ten days before he had been expected. He came, however, with no train which could incommode his host and hostess. Two servants were all that accompanied him; and the seeming frankness of this conduct even won much upon my opinion. I found him a different person from what I had conceived. He was proud, perhaps, in manner, but not haughty; he was witty--he was well informed--he was pleasing. In short, he was the opposite to that Marquis de St. Brie whom I had more than once regretted not having sent to his long account at the time it was in my power to do so. Was he changed--or was I? Perhaps both; and I am afraid that a degree of pique towards the Chevalier did certainly make me easily receive every favourable impression that the manners and appearance of my former adversary were calculated to produce. In latter years I have tried to judge my own motives in the various events of life--I have judged them strictly--as strictly as it is possible for a man to do; but not too much so, for it is impossible that any one can be too severe upon himself. The result of my self-investigation on this point has been, that had my friendship for the Chevalier been as lively as ever, I should have found less charms in the society of the Marquis de St. Brie. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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