CHAPTER VI
I care not, Fortune! what you me deny; You cannot rob me of free nature's grace; You cannot shut the windows of the sky, Through which Aurora shews her brightening face; You cannot bar my constant feet to trace The woods and lawns, by living stream, at eve: Let health my nerves and finer fibres brace, And I their toys to the great children leave: Of fancy, reason, virtue, nought can me bereave. THOMSON
In the morning, Valancourt breakfasted with St. Aubert and Emily,neither of whom seemed much refreshed by sleep. The languor of illnessstill hung over St. Aubert, and to Emily's fears his disorder appearedto be increasing fast upon him. She watched his looks with anxiousaffection, and their expression was always faithfully reflected in herown.
At the commencement of their acquaintance, Valancourt had made known hisname and family. St. Aubert was not a stranger to either, for thefamily estates, which were now in the possession of an elder brother ofValancourt, were little more than twenty miles distant from LaVallee, and he had sometimes met the elder Valancourt on visits in theneighbourhood. This knowledge had made him more willingly receive hispresent companion; for, though his countenance and manners would havewon him the acquaintance of St. Aubert, who was very apt to trust to theintelligence of his own eyes, with respect to countenances, he wouldnot have accepted these, as sufficient introductions to that of hisdaughter.
The breakfast was almost as silent as the supper of the preceding night;but their musing was at length interrupted by the sound of the carriagewheels, which were to bear away St. Aubert and Emily. Valancourt startedfrom his chair, and went to the window; it was indeed the carriage, andhe returned to his seat without speaking. The moment was now come whenthey must part. St. Aubert told Valancourt, that he hoped he wouldnever pass La Vallee without favouring him with a visit; and Valancourt,eagerly thanking him, assured him that he never would; as he said whichhe looked timidly at Emily, who tried to smile away the seriousness ofher spirits. They passed a few minutes in interesting conversation,and St. Aubert then led the way to the carriage, Emily and Valancourtfollowing in silence. The latter lingered at the door several minutesafter they were seated, and none of the party seemed to have courageenough to say--Farewell. At length, St. Aubert pronounced the melancholyword, which Emily passed to Valancourt, who returned it, with a dejectedsmile, and the carriage drove on.
The travellers remained, for some time, in a state of tranquilpensiveness, which is not unpleasing. St. Aubert interrupted it byobserving, 'This is a very promising young man; it is many years since Ihave been so much pleased with any person, on so short an acquaintance.He brings back to my memory the days of my youth, when every scene wasnew and delightful!' St. Aubert sighed, and sunk again into a reverie;and, as Emily looked back upon the road they had passed, Valancourt wasseen, at the door of the little inn, following them with his eyes. Herperceived her, and waved his hand; and she returned the adieu, till thewinding road shut her from his sight.
'I remember when I was about his age,' resumed St. Aubert, 'and Ithought, and felt exactly as he does. The world was opening upon methen, now--it is closing.'
'My dear sir, do not think so gloomily,' said Emily in a tremblingvoice, 'I hope you have many, many years to live--for your own sake--forMY sake.'
'Ah, my Emily!' replied St. Aubert, 'for thy sake! Well--I hope it isso.' He wiped away a tear, that was stealing down his cheek, threw asmile upon his countenance, and said in a cheering voice, 'thereis something in the ardour and ingenuousness of youth, which isparticularly pleasing to the contemplation of an old man, if hisfeelings have not been entirely corroded by the world. It is cheeringand reviving, like the view of spring to a sick person; his mind catchessomewhat of the spirit of the season, and his eyes are lighted up with atransient sunshine. Valancourt is this spring to me.'
Emily, who pressed her father's hand affectionately, had never beforelistened with so much pleasure to the praises he bestowed; no, not evenwhen he had bestowed them on herself.
They travelled on, among vineyards, woods, and pastures, delighted withthe romantic beauty of the landscape, which was bounded, on one side, bythe grandeur of the Pyrenees, and, on the other, by the ocean; and,soon after noon, they reached the town of Colioure, situated on theMediterranean. Here they dined, and rested till towards the cool ofday, when they pursued their way along the shores--those enchantingshores!--which extend to Languedoc. Emily gazed with enthusiasm on thevastness of the sea, its surface varying, as the lights and shadowsfell, and on its woody banks, mellowed with autumnal tints.
St. Aubert was impatient to reach Perpignan, where he expected lettersfrom M. Quesnel; and it was the expectation of these letters, thathad induced him to leave Colioure, for his feeble frame had requiredimmediate rest. After travelling a few miles, he fell asleep; and Emily,who had put two or three books into the carriage, on leaving La Vallee,had now the leisure for looking into them. She sought for one, in whichValancourt had been reading the day before, and hoped for the pleasureof re-tracing a page, over which the eyes of a beloved friend hadlately passed, of dwelling on the passages, which he had admired, and ofpermitting them to speak to her in the language of his own mind, and tobring himself to her presence. On searching for the book, she could findit no where, but in its stead perceived a volume of Petrarch's poems,that had belonged to Valancourt, whose name was written in it, and fromwhich he had frequently read passages to her, with all the patheticexpression, that characterized the feelings of the author. She hesitatedin believing, what would have been sufficiently apparent to almost anyother person, that he had purposely left this book, instead of theone she had lost, and that love had prompted the exchange; but, havingopened it with impatient pleasure, and observed the lines of his pencildrawn along the various passages he had read aloud, and under othersmore descriptive of delicate tenderness than he had dared to trusthis voice with, the conviction came, at length, to her mind. For somemoments she was conscious only of being beloved; then, a recollectionof all the variations of tone and countenance, with which he had recitedthese sonnets, and of the soul, which spoke in their expression, pressedto her memory, and she wept over the memorial of his affection.
They arrived at Perpignan soon after sunset, where St. Aubert found,as he had expected, letters from M. Quesnel, the contents of whichso evidently and grievously affected him, that Emily was alarmed,and pressed him, as far as her delicacy would permit, to disclosethe occasion of his concern; but he answered her only by tears, andimmediately began to talk on other topics. Emily, though she forboreto press the one most interesting to her, was greatly affected by herfather's manner, and passed a night of sleepless solicitude.
In the morning they pursued their journey along the coast towardsLeucate, another town on the Mediterranean, situated on the borders ofLanguedoc and Rousillon. On the way, Emily renewed the subject of thepreceding night, and appeared so deeply affected by St. Aubert's silenceand dejection, that he relaxed from his reserve. 'I was unwilling, mydear Emily,' said he, 'to throw a cloud over the pleasure you receivefrom these scenes, and meant, therefore, to conceal, for the present,some circumstances, with which, however, you must at length have beenmade acquainted. But your anxiety has defeated my purpose; you suffer asmuch from this, perhaps, as you will do from a knowledge of the facts Ihave to relate. M. Quesnel's visit proved an unhappy one to me; he cameto tell me part of the news he has now confirmed. You may have heard memention a M. Motteville, of Paris, but you did not know that thechief of my personal property was invested in his hands. I had greatconfidence in him, and I am yet willing to believe, that he is notwholly unworthy of my esteem. A variety of circumstances have concurredto ruin him, and--I am ruined with him.'
St. Aubert paused to conceal his emotion.
'The letters I have just received from M. Quesnel,' resumed he,struggling to speak with firmness, 'enclosed others from Motteville,which confirmed all I dreaded.'
'Must we then quit La Vallee?' said Emily, after a long pause ofsilence. 'That is yet uncerta
in,' replied St. Aubert, 'it will dependupon the compromise Motteville is able to make with his creditors. Myincome, you know, was never large, and now it will be reduced tolittle indeed! It is for you, Emily, for you, my child, that I am mostafflicted.' His last words faltered; Emily smiled tenderly upon himthrough her tears, and then, endeavouring to overcome her emotion, 'Mydear father,' said she, 'do not grieve for me, or for yourself; we mayyet be happy;--if La Vallee remains for us, we must be happy. We willretain only one servant, and you shall scarcely perceive the change inyour income. Be comforted, my dear sir; we shall not feel the want ofthose luxuries, which others value so highly, since we never had a tastefor them; and poverty cannot deprive us of many consolations. It cannotrob us of the affection we have for each other, or degrade us in our ownopinion, or in that of any person, whose opinion we ought to value.'
St. Aubert concealed his face with his handkerchief, and was unableto speak; but Emily continued to urge to her father the truths, whichhimself had impressed upon her mind.
'Besides, my dear sir, poverty cannot deprive us of intellectualdelights. It cannot deprive you of the comfort of affording me examplesof fortitude and benevolence; nor me of the delight of consoling abeloved parent. It cannot deaden our taste for the grand, and thebeautiful, or deny us the means of indulging it; for the scenesof nature--those sublime spectacles, so infinitely superior to allartificial luxuries! are open for the enjoyment of the poor, as well asof the rich. Of what, then, have we to complain, so long as we are notin want of necessaries? Pleasures, such as wealth cannot buy, will stillbe ours. We retain, then, the sublime luxuries of nature, and lose onlythe frivolous ones of art.'
St. Aubert could not reply: he caught Emily to his bosom, their tearsflowed together, but--they were not tears of sorrow. After this languageof the heart, all other would have been feeble, and they remained silentfor some time. Then, St. Aubert conversed as before; for, if his mindhad not recovered its natural tranquillity, it at least assumed theappearance of it.
They reached the romantic town of Leucate early in the day, but St.Aubert was weary, and they determined to pass the night there. In theevening, he exerted himself so far as to walk with his daughter to viewthe environs that overlook the lake of Leucate, the Mediterranean, partof Rousillon, with the Pyrenees, and a wide extent of the luxuriantprovince of Languedoc, now blushing with the ripened vintage, which thepeasants were beginning to gather. St. Aubert and Emily saw the busygroups, caught the joyous song, that was wafted on the breeze, andanticipated, with apparent pleasure, their next day's journey over thisgay region. He designed, however, still to wind along the sea-shore.To return home immediately was partly his wish, but from this he waswithheld by a desire to lengthen the pleasure, which the journey gavehis daughter, and to try the effect of the sea air on his own disorder.
On the following day, therefore, they recommenced their journey throughLanguedoc, winding the shores of the Mediterranean; the Pyrenees stillforming the magnificent back-ground of their prospects, while on theirright was the ocean, and, on their left, wide extended plains meltinginto the blue horizon. St. Aubert was pleased, and conversed much withEmily, yet his cheerfulness was sometimes artificial, and sometimes ashade of melancholy would steal upon his countenance, and betray him.This was soon chased away by Emily's smile; who smiled, however, with anaching heart, for she saw that his misfortunes preyed upon his mind, andupon his enfeebled frame.
It was evening when they reached a small village of Upper Languedoc,where they meant to pass the night, but the place could not affordthem beds; for here, too, it was the time of the vintage, and theywere obliged to proceed to the next post. The languor of illness and offatigue, which returned upon St. Aubert, required immediate repose,and the evening was now far advanced; but from necessity there was noappeal, and he ordered Michael to proceed.
The rich plains of Languedoc, which exhibited all the glories of thevintage, with the gaieties of a French festival, no longer awakened St.Aubert to pleasure, whose condition formed a mournful contrast to thehilarity and youthful beauty which surrounded him. As his languid eyesmoved over the scene, he considered, that they would soon, perhaps, beclosed for ever on this world. 'Those distant and sublime mountains,'said he secretly, as he gazed on a chain of the Pyrenees that stretchedtowards the west, 'these luxuriant plains, this blue vault, the cheerfullight of day, will be shut from my eyes! The song of the peasant, thecheering voice of man--will no longer sound for me!'
The intelligent eyes of Emily seemed to read what passed in the mind ofher father, and she fixed them on his face, with an expression of suchtender pity, as recalled his thoughts from every desultory object ofregret, and he remembered only, that he must leave his daughter withoutprotection. This reflection changed regret to agony; he sighed deeply,and remained silent, while she seemed to understand that sigh, forshe pressed his hand affectionately, and then turned to the window toconceal her tears. The sun now threw a last yellow gleam on the waves ofthe Mediterranean, and the gloom of twilight spread fast over the scene,till only a melancholy ray appeared on the western horizon, marking thepoint where the sun had set amid the vapours of an autumnal evening. Acool breeze now came from the shore, and Emily let down the glass; butthe air, which was refreshing to health, was as chilling to sickness,and St. Aubert desired, that the window might be drawn up. Increasingillness made him now more anxious than ever to finish the day's journey,and he stopped the muleteer to enquire how far they had yet to go to thenext post. He replied, 'Nine miles.' 'I feel I am unable to proceed muchfurther,' said St. Aubert; 'enquire, as you go, if there is any house onthe road that would accommodate us for the night.' He sunk back inthe carriage, and Michael, cracking his whip in the air, set off, andcontinued on the full gallop, till St. Aubert, almost fainting, calledto him to stop. Emily looked anxiously from the window, and saw apeasant walking at some little distance on the road, for whom theywaited, till he came up, when he was asked, if there was any house inthe neighbourhood that accommodated travellers. He replied, that he knewof none. 'There is a chateau, indeed, among those woods on the right,'added he, 'but I believe it receives nobody, and I cannot show you theway, for I am almost a stranger here.' St. Aubert was going to askhim some further question concerning the chateau, but the man abruptlypassed on. After some consideration, he ordered Michael to proceedslowly to the woods. Every moment now deepened the twilight, andincreased the difficulty of finding the road. Another peasant soon afterpassed. 'Which is the way to the chateau in the woods?' cried Michael.
'The chateau in the woods!' exclaimed the peasant--'Do you mean thatwith the turret, yonder?'
'I don't know as for the turret, as you call it,' said Michael, 'I meanthat white piece of a building, that we see at a distance there, amongthe trees.'
'Yes, that is the turret; why, who are you, that you are going thither?'said the man with surprise.
St. Aubert, on hearing this odd question, and observing the peculiartone in which it was delivered, looked out from the carriage. 'We aretravellers,' said he, 'who are in search of a house of accommodation forthe night; is there any hereabout?'
'None, Monsieur, unless you have a mind to try your luck yonder,'replied the peasant, pointing to the woods, 'but I would not advise youto go there.'
'To whom does the chateau belong?'
'I scarcely know myself, Monsieur.'
'It is uninhabited, then?' 'No, not uninhabited; the steward andhousekeeper are there, I believe.'
On hearing this, St. Aubert determined to proceed to the chateau, andrisque the refusal of being accommodated for the night; he thereforedesired the countryman would shew Michael the way, and bade him expectreward for his trouble. The man was for a moment silent, and then said,that he was going on other business, but that the road could not bemissed, if they went up an avenue to the right, to which he pointed. St.Aubert was going to speak, but the peasant wished him good night, andwalked on.
The carriage now moved towards the avenue, which was guarded by a gate,and Micha
el having dismounted to open it, they entered between rows ofancient oak and chesnut, whose intermingled branches formed a lofty archabove. There was something so gloomy and desolate in the appearance ofthis avenue, and its lonely silence, that Emily almost shuddered asshe passed along; and, recollecting the manner in which the peasant hadmentioned the chateau, she gave a mysterious meaning to his words, suchas she had not suspected when he uttered them. These apprehensions,however, she tried to check, considering that they were probably theeffect of a melancholy imagination, which her father's situation, anda consideration of her own circumstances, had made sensible to everyimpression.
They passed slowly on, for they were now almost in darkness, which,together with the unevenness of the ground, and the frequent roots ofold trees, that shot up above the soil, made it necessary to proceedwith caution. On a sudden Michael stopped the carriage; and, as St.Aubert looked from the window to enquire the cause, he perceived afigure at some distance moving up the avenue. The dusk would not permithim to distinguish what it was, but he bade Michael go on.
'This seems a wild place,' said Michael; 'there is no house hereabout,don't your honour think we had better turn back?'
'Go a little farther, and if we see no house then, we will return to theroad,' replied St. Aubert.
Michael proceeded with reluctance, and the extreme slowness of his pacemade St. Aubert look again from the window to hasten him, when again hesaw the same figure. He was somewhat startled: probably the gloominessof the spot made him more liable to alarm than usual; however thismight be, he now stopped Michael, and bade him call to the person in theavenue.
'Please your honour, he may be a robber,' said Michael. 'It does notplease me,' replied St. Aubert, who could not forbear smiling at thesimplicity of his phrase, 'and we will, therefore, return to the road,for I see no probability of meeting here with what we seek.'
Michael turned about immediately, and was retracing his way withalacrity, when a voice was heard from among the trees on the left. Itwas not the voice of command, or distress, but a deep hollow tone, whichseemed to be scarcely human. The man whipped his mules till they went asfast as possible, regardless of the darkness, the broken ground, andthe necks of the whole party, nor once stopped till he reached the gate,which opened from the avenue into the high-road, where he went into amore moderate pace.
'I am very ill,' said St. Aubert, taking his daughter's hand. 'You areworse, then, sir!' said Emily, extremely alarmed by his manner, 'youare worse, and here is no assistance. Good God! what is to be done!' Heleaned his head on her shoulder, while she endeavoured to support himwith her arm, and Michael was again ordered to stop. When the rattlingof the wheels had ceased, music was heard on their air; it was to Emilythe voice of Hope. 'Oh! we are near some human habitation!' said she,'help may soon be had.'
She listened anxiously; the sounds were distant, and seemed to come froma remote part of the woods that bordered the road; and, as she lookedtowards the spot whence they issued, she perceived in the faintmoon-light something like a chateau. It was difficult, however, to reachthis; St. Aubert was now too ill to bear the motion of the carriage;Michael could not quit his mules; and Emily, who still supported herfather, feared to leave him, and also feared to venture alone to such adistance, she knew not whither, or to whom. Something, however, it wasnecessary to determine upon immediately; St. Aubert, therefore, toldMichael to proceed slowly; but they had not gone far, when he fainted,and the carriage was again stopped. He lay quite senseless.--'My dear,dear father!' cried Emily in great agony, who began to fear that he wasdying, 'speak, if it is only one word to let me hear the sound of yourvoice!' But no voice spoke in reply. In the agony of terror she badeMichael bring water from the rivulet, that flowed along the road;and, having received some in the man's hat, with trembling hands shesprinkled it over her father's face, which, as the moon's rays nowfell upon it, seemed to bear the impression of death. Every emotion ofselfish fear now gave way to a stronger influence, and, committing St.Aubert to the care of Michael, who refused to go far from his mules,she stepped from the carriage in search of the chateau she had seen ata distance. It was a still moon-light night, and the music, which yetsounded on the air, directed her steps from the high road, up a shadowylane, that led to the woods. Her mind was for some time so entirelyoccupied by anxiety and terror for her father, that she felt none forherself, till the deepening gloom of the overhanging foliage, which nowwholly excluded the moon-light, and the wildness of the place, recalledher to a sense of her adventurous situation. The music had ceased,and she had no guide but chance. For a moment she paused in terrifiedperplexity, till a sense of her father's condition again overcomingevery consideration for herself, she proceeded. The lane terminated inthe woods, but she looked round in vain for a house, or a human being,and as vainly listened for a sound to guide her. She hurried on,however, not knowing whither, avoiding the recesses of the woods, andendeavouring to keep along their margin, till a rude kind of avenue,which opened upon a moon-light spot, arrested her attention. Thewildness of this avenue brought to her recollection the one leading tothe turreted chateau, and she was inclined to believe, that this was apart of the same domain, and probably led to the same point. While shehesitated, whether to follow it or not, a sound of many voices in loudmerriment burst upon her ear. It seemed not the laugh of cheerfulness,but of riot, and she stood appalled. While she paused, she heard adistant voice, calling from the way she had come, and not doubting butit was that of Michael, her first impulse was to hasten back; but asecond thought changed her purpose; she believed that nothing less thanthe last extremity could have prevailed with Michael to quit his mules,and fearing that her father was now dying, she rushed forward, with afeeble hope of obtaining assistance from the people in the woods. Herheart beat with fearful expectation, as she drew near the spot whencethe voices issued, and she often startled when her steps disturbed thefallen leaves. The sounds led her towards the moon-light glade she hadbefore noticed; at a little distance from which she stopped, and saw,between the boles of the trees, a small circular level of green turf,surrounded by the woods, on which appeared a group of figures. Ondrawing nearer, she distinguished these, by their dress, to be peasants,and perceived several cottages scattered round the edge of the woods,which waved loftily over this spot. While she gazed, and endeavouredto overcome the apprehensions that withheld her steps, several peasantgirls came out of a cottage; music instantly struck up, and the dancebegan. It was the joyous music of the vintage! the same she had beforeheard upon the air. Her heart, occupied with terror for her father,could not feel the contrast, which this gay scene offered to her owndistress; she stepped hastily forward towards a group of elder peasants,who were seated at the door of a cottage, and, having explained hersituation, entreated their assistance. Several of them rose withalacrity, and, offering any service in their power, followed Emily, whoseemed to move on the wind, as fast as they could towards the road.
When she reached the carriage she found St. Aubert restored toanimation. On the recovery of his senses, having heard from Michaelwhither his daughter was gone, anxiety for her overcame every regard forhimself, and he had sent him in search of her. He was, however, stilllanguid, and, perceiving himself unable to travel much farther, herenewed his enquiries for an inn, and concerning the chateau in thewoods. 'The chateau cannot accommodate you, sir,' said a venerablepeasant who had followed Emily from the woods, 'it is scarcelyinhabited; but, if you will do me the honour to visit my cottage, youshall be welcome to the best bed it affords.'
St. Aubert was himself a Frenchman; he therefore was not surprised atFrench courtesy; but, ill as he was, he felt the value of the offerenhanced by the manner which accompanied it. He had too much delicacyto apologize, or to appear to hesitate about availing himself ofthe peasant's hospitality, but immediately accepted it with the samefrankness with which it was offered.
The carriage again moved slowly on; Michael following the peasants upthe lane, which Emily had just quitted, till they came to the moo
n-lightglade. St. Aubert's spirits were so far restored by the courtesy ofhis host, and the near prospect of repose, that he looked with a sweetcomplacency upon the moon-light scene, surrounded by the shadowywoods, through which, here and there, an opening admitted the streamingsplendour, discovering a cottage, or a sparkling rivulet. He listened,with no painful emotion, to the merry notes of the guitar and tamborine;and, though tears came to his eyes, when he saw the debonnaire dance ofthe peasants, they were not merely tears of mournful regret. With Emilyit was otherwise; immediate terror for her father had now subsided intoa gentle melancholy, which every note of joy, by awakening comparison,served to heighten.
The dance ceased on the approach of the carriage, which was a phenomenonin these sequestered woods, and the peasantry flocked round it witheager curiosity. On learning that it brought a sick stranger, severalgirls ran across the turf, and returned with wine and baskets of grapes,which they presented to the travellers, each with kind contentionpressing for a preference. At length, the carriage stopped at a neatcottage, and his venerable conductor, having assisted St. Aubert toalight, led him and Emily to a small inner room, illuminated only bymoon-beams, which the open casement admitted. St. Aubert, rejoicing inrest, seated himself in an arm-chair, and his senses were refreshed bythe cool and balmy air, that lightly waved the embowering honeysuckles,and wafted their sweet breath into the apartment. His host, who wascalled La Voisin, quitted the room, but soon returned with fruits,cream, and all the pastoral luxury his cottage afforded; having set downwhich, with a smile of unfeigned welcome, he retired behind the chair ofhis guest. St. Aubert insisted on his taking a seat at the table, and,when the fruit had allayed the fever of his palate, and he found himselfsomewhat revived, he began to converse with his host, who communicatedseveral particulars concerning himself and his family, which wereinteresting, because they were spoken from the heart, and delineateda picture of the sweet courtesies of family kindness. Emily sat by herfather, holding his hand, and, while she listened to the old man, herheart swelled with the affectionate sympathy he described, and hertears fell to the mournful consideration, that death would probablysoon deprive her of the dearest blessing she then possessed. The softmoon-light of an autumnal evening, and the distant music, which nowsounded a plaintive strain, aided the melancholy of her mind. The oldman continued to talk of his family, and St. Aubert remained silent.'I have only one daughter living,' said La Voisin, 'but she is happilymarried, and is every thing to me. When I lost my wife,' he added witha sigh, 'I came to live with Agnes, and her family; she has severalchildren, who are all dancing on the green yonder, as merry asgrasshoppers--and long may they be so! I hope to die among them,monsieur. I am old now, and cannot expect to live long, but there issome comfort in dying surrounded by one's children.'
'My good friend,' said St. Aubert, while his voice trembled, 'I hope youwill long live surrounded by them.'
'Ah, sir! at my age I must not expect that!' replied the old man, and hepaused: 'I can scarcely wish it,' he resumed, 'for I trust that wheneverI die I shall go to heaven, where my poor wife is gone before me. I cansometimes almost fancy I see her of a still moon-light night, walkingamong these shades she loved so well. Do you believe, monsieur, thatwe shall be permitted to revisit the earth, after we have quitted thebody?'
Emily could no longer stifle the anguish of her heart; her tears fellfast upon her father's hand, which she yet held. He made an effort tospeak, and at length said in a low voice, 'I hope we shall be permittedto look down on those we have left on the earth, but I can only hope it.Futurity is much veiled from our eyes, and faith and hope are our onlyguides concerning it. We are not enjoined to believe, that disembodiedspirits watch over the friends they have loved, but we may innocentlyhope it. It is a hope which I will never resign,' continued he, whilehe wiped the tears from his daughter's eyes, 'it will sweeten the bittermoments of death!' Tears fell slowly on his cheeks; La Voisin wept too,and there was a pause of silence. Then, La Voisin, renewing the subject,said, 'But you believe, sir, that we shall meet in another world therelations we have loved in this; I must believe this.' 'Then dobelieve it,' replied St. Aubert, 'severe, indeed, would be the pangs ofseparation, if we believed it to be eternal. Look up, my dear Emily,we shall meet again!' He lifted his eyes towards heaven, and a gleamof moon-light, which fell upon his countenance, discovered peace andresignation, stealing on the lines of sorrow.
La Voisin felt that he had pursued the subject too far, and he droppedit, saying, 'We are in darkness, I forgot to bring a light.'
'No,' said St. Aubert, 'this is a light I love. Sit down, my goodfriend. Emily, my love, I find myself better than I have been all day;this air refreshes me. I can enjoy this tranquil hour, and that music,which floats so sweetly at a distance. Let me see you smile. Who touchesthat guitar so tastefully? are there two instruments, or is it an echo Ihear?'
'It is an echo, monsieur, I fancy. That guitar is often heard at night,when all is still, but nobody knows who touches it, and it is sometimesaccompanied by a voice so sweet, and so sad, one would almost think thewoods were haunted.' 'They certainly are haunted,' said St. Aubert witha smile, 'but I believe it is by mortals.' 'I have sometimes heard itat midnight, when I could not sleep,' rejoined La Voisin, not seeming tonotice this remark, 'almost under my window, and I never heard any musiclike it. It has often made me think of my poor wife till I cried. I havesometimes got up to the window to look if I could see anybody, but assoon as I opened the casement all was hushed, and nobody to be seen; andI have listened, and listened till I have been so timorous, that eventhe trembling of the leaves in the breeze has made me start. They sayit often comes to warn people of their death, but I have heard it thesemany years, and outlived the warning.'
Emily, though she smiled at the mention of this ridiculous superstition,could not, in the present tone of her spirits, wholly resist itscontagion.
'Well, but, my good friend,' said St. Aubert, 'has nobody had courage tofollow the sounds? If they had, they would probably have discovered whois the musician.' 'Yes, sir, they have followed them some way into thewoods, but the music has still retreated, and seemed as distant as ever,and the people have at last been afraid of being led into harm, andwould go no further. It is very seldom that I have heard these sounds soearly in the evening. They usually come about midnight, when that brightplanet, which is rising above the turret yonder, sets below the woods onthe left.'
'What turret?' asked St. Aubert with quickness, 'I see none.'
'Your pardon, monsieur, you do see one indeed, for the moon shines fullupon it;--up the avenue yonder, a long way off; the chateau it belongsto is hid among the trees.'
'Yes, my dear sir,' said Emily, pointing, 'don't you see somethingglitter above the dark woods? It is a fane, I fancy, which the rays fallupon.'
'O yes, I see what you mean; and who does the chateau belong to?'
'The Marquis de Villeroi was its owner,' replied La Voisin,emphatically.
'Ah!' said St. Aubert, with a deep sigh, 'are we then so near Le-Blanc!'He appeared much agitated.
'It used to be the Marquis's favourite residence,' resumed La Voisin,'but he took a dislike to the place, and has not been there for manyyears. We have heard lately that he is dead, and that it is fallen intoother hands.' St. Aubert, who had sat in deep musing, was roused by thelast words. 'Dead!' he exclaimed, 'Good God! when did he die?'
'He is reported to have died about five weeks since,' replied La Voisin.'Did you know the Marquis, sir?'
'This is very extraordinary!' said St. Aubert without attending to thequestion. 'Why is it so, my dear sir?' said Emily, in a voice of timidcuriosity. He made no reply, but sunk again into a reverie; and in afew moments, when he seemed to have recovered himself, asked who hadsucceeded to the estates. 'I have forgot his title, monsieur,' said LaVoisin; 'but my lord resides at Paris chiefly; I hear no talk of hiscoming hither.'
'The chateau is shut up then, still?'
'Why, little better, sir; the old housekeeper, and her
husband thesteward, have the care of it, but they live generally in a cottage hardby.'
'The chateau is spacious, I suppose,' said Emily, 'and must be desolatefor the residence of only two persons.'
'Desolate enough, mademoiselle,' replied La Voisin, 'I would not passone night in the chateau, for the value of the whole domain.'
'What is that?' said St. Aubert, roused again from thoughtfulness. Ashis host repeated his last sentence, a groan escaped from St. Aubert,and then, as if anxious to prevent it from being noticed, he hastilyasked La Voisin how long he had lived in this neighbourhood. 'Almostfrom my childhood, sir,' replied his host.
'You remember the late marchioness, then?' said St. Aubert in an alteredvoice.
'Ah, monsieur!--that I do well. There are many besides me who rememberher.'
'Yes--' said St. Aubert, 'and I am one of those.'
'Alas, sir! you remember, then, a most beautiful and excellent lady. Shedeserved a better fate.'
Tears stood in St. Aubert's eyes; 'Enough,' said he, in a voice almoststifled by the violence of his emotions,--'it is enough, my friend.'
Emily, though extremely surprised by her father's manner, forbore toexpress her feelings by any question. La Voisin began to apologize, butSt. Aubert interrupted him; 'Apology is quite unnecessary,' said he,'let us change the topic. You was speaking of the music we just nowheard.'
'I was, monsieur--but hark!--it comes again; listen to that voice!' Theywere all silent;
At last a soft and solemn-breathing sound Rose, like a stream of rich distilled perfumes, And stole upon the air, that even Silence Was took ere she was 'ware, and wished she might Deny her nature, and be never more Still, to be so displaced.* *Milton.
In a few moments the voice died into air, and the instrument, which hadbeen heard before, sounded in low symphony. St. Aubert now observed,that it produced a tone much more full and melodious than that of aguitar, and still more melancholy and soft than the lute. They continuedto listen, but the sounds returned no more. 'This is strange!' said St.Aubert, at length interrupting the silence. 'Very strange!' said Emily.'It is so,' rejoined La Voisin, and they were again silent.
After a long pause, 'It is now about eighteen years since I first heardthat music,' said La Voisin; 'I remember it was on a fine summer'snight, much like this, but later, that I was walking in the woods, andalone. I remember, too, that my spirits were very low, for one of myboys was ill, and we feared we should lose him. I had been watching athis bed-side all the evening while his mother slept; for she had satup with him the night before. I had been watching, and went out for alittle fresh air, the day had been very sultry. As I walked under theshades and mused, I heard music at a distance, and thought it wasClaude playing upon his flute, as he often did of a fine evening, atthe cottage door. But, when I came to a place where the trees opened, (Ishall never forget it!) and stood looking up at the north-lights, whichshot up the heaven to a great height, I heard all of a sudden suchsounds!--they came so as I cannot describe. It was like the music ofangels, and I looked up again almost expecting to see them in the sky.When I came home, I told what I had heard, but they laughed at me, andsaid it must be some of the shepherds playing on their pipes, and Icould not persuade them to the contrary. A few nights after, however, mywife herself heard the same sounds, and was as much surprised as I was,and Father Denis frightened her sadly by saying, that it was music cometo warn her of her child's death, and that music often came to houseswhere there was a dying person.'
Emily, on hearing this, shrunk with a superstitious dread entirely newto her, and could scarcely conceal her agitation from St. Aubert.
'But the boy lived, monsieur, in spite of Father Denis.'
'Father Denis!' said St. Aubert, who had listened to 'narrative old age'with patient attention, 'are we near a convent, then?'
'Yes, sir; the convent of St. Clair stands at no great distance, on thesea shore yonder.'
'Ah!' said St. Aubert, as if struck with some sudden remembrance, 'theconvent of St. Clair!' Emily observed the clouds of grief, mingled witha faint expression of horror, gathering on his brow; his countenancebecame fixed, and, touched as it now was by the silver whiteness ofthe moon-light, he resembled one of those marble statues of a monument,which seem to bend, in hopeless sorrow, over the ashes of the dead,shewn
by the blunted light That the dim moon through painted casements lends.* * The Emigrants.
'But, my dear sir,' said Emily, anxious to dissipate his thoughts, 'youforget that repose is necessary to you. If our kind host will give meleave, I will prepare your bed, for I know how you like it to be made.'St. Aubert, recollecting himself, and smiling affectionately, desiredshe would not add to her fatigue by that attention; and La Voisin, whoseconsideration for his guest had been suspended by the interestswhich his own narrative had recalled, now started from his seat, and,apologizing for not having called Agnes from the green, hurried out ofthe room.
In a few moments he returned with his daughter, a young woman ofpleasing countenance, and Emily learned from her, what she had notbefore suspected, that, for their accommodation, it was necessarypart of La Voisin's family should leave their beds; she lamented thiscircumstance, but Agnes, by her reply, fully proved that she inherited,at least, a share of her father's courteous hospitality. It was settled,that some of her children and Michael should sleep in the neighbouringcottage.
'If I am better, to-morrow, my dear,' said St. Aubert when Emilyreturned to him, 'I mean to set out at an early hour, that we may rest,during the heat of the day, and will travel towards home. In the presentstate of my health and spirits I cannot look on a longer journey withpleasure, and I am also very anxious to reach La Vallee.' Emily, thoughshe also desired to return, was grieved at her father's sudden wish todo so, which she thought indicated a greater degree of indispositionthan he would acknowledge. St. Aubert now retired to rest, and Emily toher little chamber, but not to immediate repose. Her thoughts returnedto the late conversation, concerning the state of departed spirits; asubject, at this time, particularly affecting to her, when she had everyreason to believe that her dear father would ere long be numbered withthem. She leaned pensively on the little open casement, and in deepthought fixed her eyes on the heaven, whose blue unclouded concave wasstudded thick with stars, the worlds, perhaps, of spirits, unspheredof mortal mould. As her eyes wandered along the boundless aether, herthoughts rose, as before, towards the sublimity of the Deity, and to thecontemplation of futurity. No busy note of this world interrupted thecourse of her mind; the merry dance had ceased, and every cottager hadretired to his home. The still air seemed scarcely to breathe upon thewoods, and, now and then, the distant sound of a solitary sheep-bell,or of a closing casement, was all that broke on silence. At length, eventhis hint of human being was heard no more. Elevated and enwrapt, whileher eyes were often wet with tears of sublime devotion and solemn awe,she continued at the casement, till the gloom of mid-night hung over theearth, and the planet, which La Voisin had pointed out, sunk below thewoods. She then recollected what he had said concerning this planet, andthe mysterious music; and, as she lingered at the window, halfhoping and half fearing that it would return, her mind was led to theremembrance of the extreme emotion her father had shewn on mention ofthe Marquis La Villeroi's death, and of the fate of the Marchioness,and she felt strongly interested concerning the remote cause of thisemotion. Her surprise and curiosity were indeed the greater, because shedid not recollect ever to have heard him mention the name of Villeroi.
No music, however, stole on the silence of the night, and Emily,perceiving the lateness of the hour, returned to a scene of fatigue,remembered that she was to rise early in the morning, and withdrew fromthe window to repose.