C. W. H.
THE ADVENTURES
OF
ERNEST ALEMBERT
A TALE
BY
C. BRONTË
May 25, 1830.
CHAPTER I
Many years ago there lived in a certain country a youth named Ernest Alembert. He came of an ancient and noble race: but one of his ancestors having been beheaded in consequence of a suspicion of high treason, the family since that time had gradually decayed, until at length the only remaining branch of it was this young man of whom I write.
His abode was a small cottage situated in the midst of a little garden, and overshadowed by the majestic ruins of his ancestral castle. The porch of his hut, adorned by the twisting clematis and jessamine, fronted the rising sun, and here in the cool summer mornings he would often sit and watch its broad orb slowly appearing above the blue distant mountains. The eminence on which his cottage was built formed one side of a wide valley, watered by a stream whose hoarse voice was softened into a gentle murmur ere it reached the summit of a hill. The opposing rocks which guarded the vale on the other side were covered by a wood of young ash and sycamore trees, whose branching foliage, clothing them in a robe of living green, hid their rugged aspect, save where some huge fragment, all grey and moss-grown, jutted far over the valley, affording a fine contrast to the leafy luxuriant branch which perhaps rested on the projection, and imparting an appearance of picturesque wildness and variety to the scene. The valley itself was sprinkled with tall shady elms and poplars, that shaded the soft verdant turf ornamented by cowslips, violets, daisies, golden cups, and a thousand other sweet flowers, which shed abroad their perfumes when the morning and evening summer dews, or the rains of spring, descend softly and silently to the earth. On the borders of the stream a few weeping willows stood dipping their long branches into the water, where their graceful forms were clearly reflected. Through an opening in the vale this noisy river was observed gradually expanding and smoothing until at last it became a wide lake, in calm weather a glassy unruffled mirror for all the clouds and stars of heaven to behold themselves in as they sailed through the spangled or dappled firmament. Beyond this lake arose high hills, at noonday almost indistinguishable from the blue sky, but at sunset glowing in the richest purple, like a sapphire barrier to the dim horizon.
One evening in autumn as Ernest sat by his blazing fire and listened to the wind which roared past his dwelling, shaking the little casement till the leaves of the wild vine which curled around it fell rustling to the earth, he heard suddenly the latchet of his door raised. A man clothed in a dark mantle, with long hair, and a beard of raven blackness, entered. At sight of this singular figure he started up, and the stranger immediately accosted him as follows:
‘My name is Rufus Warner. I come from a great distance, and having been overtaken by darkness in the valley I looked about for some roof where I might pass the night. At length I espied a light streaming through this window. I made the best of my way to it, and now I request shelter from you.’
Ernest, after gazing a moment at him, complied with his demand. He closed the door, and they both seated themselves by the fire. They sat thus for some time without interchanging a word, the stranger with his eyes intently fixed on the ascending flame, apparently quite inattentive to any other object; and Ernest as intently viewing him, and revolving in his mind who he might be—the cause of his strange attire—his long beard—his unbroken taciturnity—not unmixed with a feeling of awe allied to fear at the presence of a being of whose nature he was totally ignorant, and who, for aught he knew, might be the harbinger of no good to his humble dwelling. Dim, dreamlike reminiscences passed slowly across his mind concerning tales of spirits who, in various shapes; had appeared to men shortly before their deaths, as if to prepare them for the ghostly society with which they would soon have to mingle.