CHAPTER VIII
O'er him, whose doom thy virtues grieve, Aerial forms shall sit at eve, and bend the pensive head. COLLINS
The monk, who had before appeared, returned in the evening to offerconsolation to Emily, and brought a kind message from the lady abbess,inviting her to the convent. Emily, though she did not accept the offer,returned an answer expressive of her gratitude. The holy conversationof the friar, whose mild benevolence of manners bore some resemblance tothose of St. Aubert, soothed the violence of her grief, and lifted herheart to the Being, who, extending through all place and all eternity,looks on the events of this little world as on the shadows of a moment,and beholds equally, and in the same instant, the soul that has passedthe gates of death, and that, which still lingers in the body. 'In thesight of God,' said Emily, 'my dear father now exists, as truly as heyesterday existed to me; it is to me only that he is dead; to God and tohimself he yet lives!'
The good monk left her more tranquil than she had been since St. Aubertdied; and, before she retired to her little cabin for the night, shetrusted herself so far as to visit the corpse. Silent, and withoutweeping, she stood by its side. The features, placid and serene, toldthe nature of the last sensations, that had lingered in the now desertedframe. For a moment she turned away, in horror of the stillness in whichdeath had fixed that countenance, never till now seen otherwisethan animated; then gazed on it with a mixture of doubt and awfulastonishment. Her reason could scarcely overcome an involuntary andunaccountable expectation of seeing that beloved countenance stillsusceptible. She continued to gaze wildly; took up the cold hand;spoke; still gazed, and then burst into a transport of grief. La Voisin,hearing her sobs, came into the room to lead her away, but she heardnothing, and only begged that he would leave her.
Again alone, she indulged her tears, and, when the gloom of eveningobscured the chamber, and almost veiled from her eyes the object of herdistress, she still hung over the body; till her spirits, at length,were exhausted, and she became tranquil. La Voisin again knocked at thedoor, and entreated that she would come to the common apartment. Beforeshe went, she kissed the lips of St. Aubert, as she was wont to do whenshe bade him good night. Again she kissed them; her heart felt as if itwould break, a few tears of agony started to her eyes, she looked up toheaven, then at St. Aubert, and left the room.
Retired to her lonely cabin, her melancholy thoughts still hoveredround the body of her deceased parent; and, when she sunk into a kindof slumber, the images of her waking mind still haunted her fancy. Shethought she saw her father approaching her with a benign countenance;then, smiling mournfully and pointing upwards, his lips moved, but,instead of words, she heard sweet music borne on the distant air, andpresently saw his features glow with the mild rapture of a superiorbeing. The strain seemed to swell louder, and she awoke. The visionwas gone, but music yet came to her ear in strains such as angels mightbreathe. She doubted, listened, raised herself in the bed, and againlistened. It was music, and not an illusion of her imagination. Aftera solemn steady harmony, it paused; then rose again, in mournfulsweetness, and then died, in a cadence, that seemed to bear away thelistening soul to heaven. She instantly remembered the music of thepreceding night, with the strange circumstances, related by La Voisin,and the affecting conversation it had led to, concerning the state ofdeparted spirits. All that St. Aubert had said, on that subject, nowpressed upon her heart, and overwhelmed it. What a change in a fewhours! He, who then could only conjecture, was now made acquainted withtruth; was himself become one of the departed! As she listened, she waschilled with superstitious awe, her tears stopped; and she rose, andwent to the window. All without was obscured in shade; but Emily,turning her eyes from the massy darkness of the woods, whose wavingoutline appeared on the horizon, saw, on the left, that effulgentplanet, which the old man had pointed out, setting over the woods. Sheremembered what he had said concerning it, and, the music now comingat intervals on the air, she unclosed the casement to listen to thestrains, that soon gradually sunk to a greater distance, and triedto discover whence they came. The obscurity prevented her fromdistinguishing any object on the green platform below; and the soundsbecame fainter and fainter, till they softened into silence. Shelistened, but they returned no more. Soon after, she observed theplanet trembling between the fringed tops of the woods, and, in the nextmoment, sink behind them. Chilled with a melancholy awe, she retiredonce more to her bed, and, at length, forgot for a while her sorrows insleep.
On the following morning, she was visited by a sister of the convent,who came, with kind offices and a second invitation from the ladyabbess; and Emily, though she could not forsake the cottage, while theremains of her father were in it, consented, however painful such avisit must be, in the present state of her spirits, to pay her respectsto the abbess, in the evening.
About an hour before sun-set, La Voisin shewed her the way through thewoods to the convent, which stood in a small bay of the Mediterranean,crowned by a woody amphitheatre; and Emily, had she been less unhappy,would have admired the extensive sea view, that appeared from the greenslope, in front of the edifice, and the rich shores, hung with woodsand pastures, that extended on either hand. But her thoughts werenow occupied by one sad idea, and the features of nature were to hercolourless and without form. The bell for vespers struck, as she passedthe ancient gate of the convent, and seemed the funereal note for St.Aubert. Little incidents affect a mind, enervated by sorrow; Emilystruggled against the sickening faintness, that came over her, and wasled into the presence of the abbess, who received her with an air ofmaternal tenderness; an air of such gentle solicitude and consideration,as touched her with an instantaneous gratitude; her eyes were filledwith tears, and the words she would have spoken faltered on her lips.The abbess led her to a seat, and sat down beside her, still holdingher hand and regarding her in silence, as Emily dried her tears andattempted to speak. 'Be composed, my daughter,' said the abbess ina soothing voice, 'do not speak yet; I know all you would say. Yourspirits must be soothed. We are going to prayers;--will you attendour evening service? It is comfortable, my child, to look up in ourafflictions to a father, who sees and pities us, and who chastens in hismercy.'
Emily's tears flowed again, but a thousand sweet emotions mingled withthem. The abbess suffered her to weep without interruption, and watchedover her with a look of benignity, that might have characterized thecountenance of a guardian angel. Emily, when she became tranquil, wasencouraged to speak without reserve, and to mention the motive, thatmade her unwilling to quit the cottage, which the abbess did not opposeeven by a hint; but praised the filial piety of her conduct, and added ahope, that she would pass a few days at the convent, before she returnedto La Vallee. 'You must allow yourself a little time to recover fromyour first shock, my daughter, before you encounter a second; I will notaffect to conceal from you how much I know your heart must suffer, onreturning to the scene of your former happiness. Here, you will haveall, that quiet and sympathy and religion can give, to restore yourspirits. But come,' added she, observing the tears swell in Emily'seyes, 'we will go to the chapel.'
Emily followed to the parlour, where the nuns were assembled, to whomthe abbess committed her, saying, 'This is a daughter, for whom I havemuch esteem; be sisters to her.'
They passed on in a train to the chapel, where the solemn devotion, withwhich the service was performed, elevated her mind, and brought to itthe comforts of faith and resignation.
Twilight came on, before the abbess's kindness would suffer Emily todepart, when she left the convent, with a heart much lighter than shehad entered it, and was reconducted by La Voisin through the woods, thepensive gloom of which was in unison with the temper of her mind; andshe pursued the little wild path, in musing silence, till her guidesuddenly stopped, looked round, and then struck out of the path into thehigh grass, saying he had mistaken the road. He now walked on quickly,and Emily, proceeding with difficulty over the obscured and unevenground, was left at some distance, till her voice arrested h
im, whoseemed unwilling to stop, and still hurried on. 'If you are in doubtabout the way,' said Emily, 'had we not better enquire it at the chateauyonder, between the trees?'
'No,' replied La Voisin, 'there is no occasion. When we reach thatbrook, ma'amselle, (you see the light upon the water there, beyond thewoods) when we reach that brook, we shall be at home presently. I don'tknow how I happened to mistake the path; I seldom come this way aftersun-set.'
'It is solitary enough,' said Emily, 'but you have no banditti here.'
'No, ma'amselle--no banditti.'
'What are you afraid of then, my good friend? you are notsuperstitious?' 'No, not superstitious; but, to tell you the truth,lady, nobody likes to go near that chateau, after dusk.' 'By whom is itinhabited,' said Emily, 'that it is so formidable?' 'Why, ma'amselle,it is scarcely inhabited, for our lord the Marquis, and the lord of allthese find woods, too, is dead. He had not once been in it, for thesemany years, and his people, who have the care of it, live in a cottageclose by.' Emily now understood this to be the chateau, which La Voisinhad formerly pointed out, as having belonged to the Marquis Villeroi, onthe mention of which her father had appeared so much affected.
'Ah! it is a desolate place now,' continued La Voisin, 'and such agrand, fine place, as I remember it!' Emily enquired what had occasionedthis lamentable change; but the old man was silent, and Emily, whoseinterest was awakened by the fear he had expressed, and above all bya recollection of her father's agitation, repeated the question, andadded, 'If you are neither afraid of the inhabitants, my good friend,nor are superstitious, how happens it, that you dread to pass near thatchateau in the dark?'
'Perhaps, then, I am a little superstitious, ma'amselle; and, if youknew what I do, you might be so too. Strange things have happenedthere. Monsieur, your good father, appeared to have known the lateMarchioness.' 'Pray inform me what did happen?' said Emily, with muchemotion.
'Alas! ma'amselle,' answered La Voisin, 'enquire no further; it is notfor me to lay open the domestic secrets of my lord.'--Emily, surprisedby the old man's words, and his manner of delivering them, forbore torepeat her question; a nearer interest, the remembrance of St. Aubert,occupied her thoughts, and she was led to recollect the music she heardon the preceding night, which she mentioned to La Voisin. 'You was notalone, ma'amselle, in this,' he replied, 'I heard it too; but I have sooften heard it, at the same hour, that I was scarcely surprised.'
'You doubtless believe this music to have some connection with thechateau,' said Emily suddenly, 'and are, therefore, superstitious.' 'Itmay be so, ma'amselle, but there are other circumstances, belonging tothat chateau, which I remember, and sadly too.' A heavy sigh followed:but Emily's delicacy restrained the curiosity these words revived, andshe enquired no further.
On reaching the cottage, all the violence of her grief returned; itseemed as if she had escaped its heavy pressure only while she wasremoved from the object of it. She passed immediately to the chamber,where the remains of her father were laid, and yielded to all theanguish of hopeless grief. La Voisin, at length, persuaded her toleave the room, and she returned to her own, where, exhausted bythe sufferings of the day, she soon fell into deep sleep, and awokeconsiderably refreshed.
When the dreadful hour arrived, in which the remains of St. Aubert wereto be taken from her for ever, she went alone to the chamber to lookupon his countenance yet once again, and La Voisin, who had waitedpatiently below stairs, till her despair should subside, with therespect due to grief, forbore to interrupt the indulgence of it, tillsurprise, at the length of her stay, and then apprehension overcame hisdelicacy, and he went to lead her from the chamber. Having tapped gentlyat the door, without receiving an answer, he listened attentively, butall was still; no sigh, no sob of anguish was heard. Yet more alarmed bythis silence, he opened the door, and found Emily lying senseless acrossthe foot of the bed, near which stood the coffin. His calls procuredassistance, and she was carried to her room, where proper applications,at length, restored her.
During her state of insensibility, La Voisin had given directions forthe coffin to be closed, and he succeeded in persuading Emily to forbearrevisiting the chamber. She, indeed, felt herself unequal to this, andalso perceived the necessity of sparing her spirits, and recollectingfortitude sufficient to bear her through the approaching scene. St.Aubert had given a particular injunction, that his remains should beinterred in the church of the convent of St. Clair, and, in mentioningthe north chancel, near the ancient tomb of the Villerois, had pointedout the exact spot, where he wished to be laid. The superior had grantedthis place for the interment, and thither, therefore, the sad processionnow moved, which was met, at the gates, by the venerable priest,followed by a train of friars. Every person, who heard the solemn chantof the anthem, and the peal of the organ, that struck up, when thebody entered the church, and saw also the feeble steps, and the assumedtranquillity of Emily, gave her involuntary tears. She shed none,but walked, her face partly shaded by a thin black veil, between twopersons, who supported her, preceded by the abbess, and followed bynuns, whose plaintive voices mellowed the swelling harmony of the dirge.When the procession came to the grave the music ceased. Emily drew theveil entirely over her face, and, in a momentary pause, between theanthem and the rest of the service, her sobs were distinctly audible.The holy father began the service, and Emily again commanded herfeelings, till the coffin was let down, and she heard the earth rattleon its lid. Then, as she shuddered, a groan burst from her heart, andshe leaned for support on the person who stood next to her. In a fewmoments she recovered; and, when she heard those affecting and sublimewords: 'His body is buried in peace, and his soul returns to Him thatgave it,' her anguish softened into tears.
The abbess led her from the church into her own parlour, and thereadministered all the consolations, that religion and gentle sympathycan give. Emily struggled against the pressure of grief; but the abbess,observing her attentively, ordered a bed to be prepared, and recommendedher to retire to repose. She also kindly claimed her promise to remaina few days at the convent; and Emily, who had no wish to return tothe cottage, the scene of all her sufferings, had leisure, now that noimmediate care pressed upon her attention, to feel the indisposition,which disabled her from immediately travelling.
Meanwhile, the maternal kindness of the abbess, and the gentleattentions of the nuns did all, that was possible, towards soothing herspirits and restoring her health. But the latter was too deeply wounded,through the medium of her mind, to be quickly revived. She lingered forsome weeks at the convent, under the influence of a slow fever, wishingto return home, yet unable to go thither; often even reluctant toleave the spot where her father's relics were deposited, and sometimessoothing herself with the consideration, that, if she died here, herremains would repose beside those of St. Aubert. In the meanwhile, shesent letters to Madame Cheron and to the old housekeeper, informing themof the sad event, that had taken place, and of her own situation.From her aunt she received an answer, abounding more in common-placecondolement, than in traits of real sorrow, which assured her, that aservant should be sent to conduct her to La Vallee, for that herown time was so much occupied by company, that she had no leisure toundertake so long a journey. However Emily might prefer La Vallee toTholouse, she could not be insensible to the indecorous and unkindconduct of her aunt, in suffering her to return thither, where she hadno longer a relation to console and protect her; a conduct, which wasthe more culpable, since St. Aubert had appointed Madame Cheron theguardian of his orphan daughter.
Madame Cheron's servant made the attendance of the good La Voisinunnecessary; and Emily, who felt sensibly her obligations to him, forall his kind attention to her late father, as well as to herself, wasglad to spare him a long, and what, at his time of life, must have beena troublesome journey.
During her stay at the convent, the peace and sanctity that reignedwithin, the tranquil beauty of the scenery without, and the delicateattentions of the abbess and the nuns, were circumstances so soothing toher mind,
that they almost tempted her to leave a world, where she hadlost her dearest friends, and devote herself to the cloister, in a spot,rendered sacred to her by containing the tomb of St. Aubert. The pensiveenthusiasm, too, so natural to her temper, had spread a beautifulillusion over the sanctified retirement of a nun, that almost hid fromher view the selfishness of its security. But the touches, which amelancholy fancy, slightly tinctured with superstition, gave to themonastic scene, began to fade, as her spirits revived, and brought oncemore to her heart an image, which had only transiently been banishedthence. By this she was silently awakened to hope and comfort and sweetaffections; visions of happiness gleamed faintly at a distance, and,though she knew them to be illusions, she could not resolve to shut themout for ever. It was the remembrance of Valancourt, of his taste, hisgenius, and of the countenance which glowed with both, that, perhaps,alone determined her to return to the world. The grandeur and sublimityof the scenes, amidst which they had first met, had fascinated herfancy, and had imperceptibly contributed to render Valancourt moreinteresting by seeming to communicate to him somewhat of their owncharacter. The esteem, too, which St. Aubert had repeatedly expressedfor him, sanctioned this kindness; but, though his countenance andmanner had continually expressed his admiration of her, he had nototherwise declared it; and even the hope of seeing him again was sodistant, that she was scarcely conscious of it, still less that itinfluenced her conduct on this occasion.
It was several days after the arrival of Madame Cheron's servant beforeEmily was sufficiently recovered to undertake the journey to La Vallee.On the evening preceding her departure, she went to the cottage to takeleave of La Voisin and his family, and to make them a return for theirkindness. The old man she found sitting on a bench at his door, betweenhis daughter, and his son-in-law, who was just returned from his dailylabour, and who was playing upon a pipe, that, in tone, resembled anoboe. A flask of wine stood beside the old man, and, before him, a smalltable with fruit and bread, round which stood several of his grandsons,fine rosy children, who were taking their supper, as their motherdistributed it. On the edge of the little green, that spread beforethe cottage, were cattle and a few sheep reposing under the trees. Thelandscape was touched with the mellow light of the evening sun, whoselong slanting beams played through a vista of the woods, and lightedup the distant turrets of the chateau. She paused a moment, before sheemerged from the shade, to gaze upon the happy group before her--on thecomplacency and ease of healthy age, depictured on the countenance ofLa Voisin; the maternal tenderness of Agnes, as she looked upon herchildren, and the innocency of infantine pleasures, reflected in theirsmiles. Emily looked again at the venerable old man, and at the cottage;the memory of her father rose with full force upon her mind, and shehastily stepped forward, afraid to trust herself with a longer pause.She took an affectionate and affecting leave of La Voisin and hisfamily; he seemed to love her as his daughter, and shed tears; Emilyshed many. She avoided going into the cottage, since she knew it wouldrevive emotions, such as she could not now endure.
One painful scene yet awaited her, for she determined to visit again herfather's grave; and that she might not be interrupted, or observed inthe indulgence of her melancholy tenderness, she deferred her visit,till every inhabitant of the convent, except the nun who promisedto bring her the key of the church, should be retired to rest. Emilyremained in her chamber, till she heard the convent bell strike twelve,when the nun came, as she had appointed, with the key of a private door,that opened into the church, and they descended together the narrowwinding stair-case, that led thither. The nun offered to accompany Emilyto the grave, adding, 'It is melancholy to go alone at this hour;' butthe former, thanking her for the consideration, could not consent tohave any witness of her sorrow; and the sister, having unlocked thedoor, gave her the lamp. 'You will remember, sister,' said she, 'that inthe east aisle, which you must pass, is a newly opened grave; hold thelight to the ground, that you may not stumble over the loose earth.'Emily, thanking her again, took the lamp, and, stepping into the church,sister Mariette departed. But Emily paused a moment at the door;a sudden fear came over her, and she returned to the foot of thestair-case, where, as she heard the steps of the nun ascending, and,while she held up the lamp, saw her black veil waving over the spiralbalusters, she was tempted to call her back. While she hesitated, theveil disappeared, and, in the next moment, ashamed of her fears, shereturned to the church. The cold air of the aisles chilled her, andtheir deep silence and extent, feebly shone upon by the moon-light, thatstreamed through a distant gothic window, would at any other time haveawed her into superstition; now, grief occupied all her attention. Shescarcely heard the whispering echoes of her own steps, or thought of theopen grave, till she found herself almost on its brink. A friar of theconvent had been buried there on the preceding evening, and, as she hadsat alone in her chamber at twilight, she heard, at distance, the monkschanting the requiem for his soul. This brought freshly to her memorythe circumstances of her father's death; and, as the voices, minglingwith a low querulous peal of the organ, swelled faintly, gloomy andaffecting visions had arisen upon her mind. Now she remembered them,and, turning aside to avoid the broken ground, these recollections madeher pass on with quicker steps to the grave of St. Aubert, when in themoon-light, that fell athwart a remote part of the aisle, she thoughtshe saw a shadow gliding between the pillars. She stopped to listen,and, not hearing any footstep, believed that her fancy had deceived her,and, no longer apprehensive of being observed, proceeded. St. Aubert wasburied beneath a plain marble, bearing little more than his name and thedate of his birth and death, near the foot of the stately monument ofthe Villerois. Emily remained at his grave, till a chime, that calledthe monks to early prayers, warned her to retire; then, she wept overit a last farewel, and forced herself from the spot. After this hour ofmelancholy indulgence, she was refreshed by a deeper sleep, than shehad experienced for a long time, and, on awakening, her mind was moretranquil and resigned, than it had been since St. Aubert's death.
But, when the moment of her departure from the convent arrived, all hergrief returned; the memory of the dead, and the kindness of the livingattached her to the place; and for the sacred spot, where her father'sremains were interred, she seemed to feel all those tender affectionswhich we conceive for home. The abbess repeated many kind assurances ofregard at their parting, and pressed her to return, if ever she shouldfind her condition elsewhere unpleasant; many of the nuns also expressedunaffected regret at her departure, and Emily left the convent with manytears, and followed by sincere wishes for her happiness.
She had travelled several leagues, before the scenes of the country,through which she passed, had power to rouse her for a moment from thedeep melancholy, into which she was sunk, and, when they did, it wasonly to remind her, that, on her last view of them, St. Aubert was ather side, and to call up to her remembrance the remarks he had deliveredon similar scenery. Thus, without any particular occurrence, passedthe day in languor and dejection. She slept that night in a town on theskirts of Languedoc, and, on the following morning, entered Gascony.
Towards the close of this day, Emily came within view of the plains inthe neighbourhood of La Vallee, and the well-known objects of formertimes began to press upon her notice, and with them recollections, thatawakened all her tenderness and grief. Often, while she looked throughher tears upon the wild grandeur of the Pyrenees, now varied with therich lights and shadows of evening, she remembered, that, when last shesaw them, her father partook with her of the pleasure they inspired.Suddenly some scene, which he had particularly pointed out to her, wouldpresent itself, and the sick languor of despair would steal upon herheart. 'There!' she would exclaim, 'there are the very cliffs, there thewood of pines, which he looked at with such delight, as we passed thisroad together for the last time. There, too, under the crag of thatmountain, is the cottage, peeping from among the cedars, which he bademe remember, and copy with my pencil. O my father, shall I never see youmore!'
As she drew n
ear the chateau, these melancholy memorials of past timesmultiplied. At length, the chateau itself appeared, amid the glowingbeauty of St. Aubert's favourite landscape. This was an object, whichcalled for fortitude, not for tears; Emily dried hers, and prepared tomeet with calmness the trying moment of her return to that home, wherethere was no longer a parent to welcome her. 'Yes,' said she, 'let menot forget the lessons he has taught me! How often he has pointed outthe necessity of resisting even virtuous sorrow; how often we haveadmired together the greatness of a mind, that can at once suffer andreason! O my father! if you are permitted to look down upon yourchild, it will please you to see, that she remembers, and endeavours topractise, the precepts you have given her.'
A turn on the road now allowed a nearer view of the chateau, thechimneys, tipped with light, rising from behind St. Aubert's favouriteoaks, whose foliage partly concealed the lower part of the building.Emily could not suppress a heavy sigh. 'This, too, was his favouritehour,' said she, as she gazed upon the long evening shadows, stretchedathwart the landscape. 'How deep the repose, how lovely the scene!lovely and tranquil as in former days!'
Again she resisted the pressure of sorrow, till her ear caught the gaymelody of the dance, which she had so often listened to, as she walkedwith St. Aubert, on the margin of the Garonne, when all her fortitudeforsook her, and she continued to weep, till the carriage stopped at thelittle gate, that opened upon what was now her own territory. She raisedher eyes on the sudden stopping of the carriage, and saw her father'sold housekeeper coming to open the gate. Manchon also came running, andbarking before her; and when his young mistress alighted, fawned, andplayed round her, gasping with joy.
'Dear ma'amselle!' said Theresa, and paused, and looked as if shewould have offered something of condolement to Emily, whose tears nowprevented reply. The dog still fawned and ran round her, and then flewtowards the carriage, with a short quick bark. 'Ah, ma'amselle!--mypoor master!' said Theresa, whose feelings were more awakened than herdelicacy, 'Manchon's gone to look for him.' Emily sobbed aloud; and, onlooking towards the carriage, which still stood with the door open, sawthe animal spring into it, and instantly leap out, and then with hisnose on the ground run round the horses.
'Don't cry so, ma'amselle,' said Theresa, 'it breaks my heart to seeyou.' The dog now came running to Emily, then returned to the carriage,and then back again to her, whining and discontented. 'Poor rogue!' saidTheresa, 'thou hast lost thy master, thou mayst well cry! But come, mydear young lady, be comforted. What shall I get to refresh you?' Emilygave her hand to the old servant, and tried to restrain her grief,while she made some kind enquiries concerning her health. But she stilllingered in the walk which led to the chateau, for within was noperson to meet her with the kiss of affection; her own heart no longerpalpitated with impatient joy to meet again the well-known smile, andshe dreaded to see objects, which would recall the full remembrance ofher former happiness. She moved slowly towards the door, paused, wenton, and paused again. How silent, how forsaken, how forlorn did thechateau appear! Trembling to enter it, yet blaming herself for delayingwhat she could not avoid, she, at length, passed into the hall; crossedit with a hurried step, as if afraid to look round, and opened the doorof that room, which she was wont to call her own. The gloom of eveninggave solemnity to its silent and deserted air. The chairs, the tables,every article of furniture, so familiar to her in happier times,spoke eloquently to her heart. She seated herself, without immediatelyobserving it, in a window, which opened upon the garden, and where St.Aubert had often sat with her, watching the sun retire from the rich andextensive prospect, that appeared beyond the groves.
Having indulged her tears for some time, she became more composed; and,when Theresa, after seeing the baggage deposited in her lady's room,again appeared, she had so far recovered her spirits, as to be able toconverse with her.
'I have made up the green bed for you, ma'amselle,' said Theresa, as sheset the coffee upon the table. 'I thought you would like it better thanyour own now; but I little thought this day month, that you would comeback alone. A-well-a-day! the news almost broke my heart, when it didcome. Who would have believed, that my poor master, when he wentfrom home, would never return again!' Emily hid her face with herhandkerchief, and waved her hand.
'Do taste the coffee,' said Theresa. 'My dear young lady, becomforted--we must all die. My dear master is a saint above.' Emilytook the handkerchief from her face, and raised her eyes full of tearstowards heaven; soon after she dried them, and, in a calm, but tremulousvoice, began to enquire concerning some of her late father's pensioners.
'Alas-a-day!' said Theresa, as she poured out the coffee, and handedit to her mistress, 'all that could come, have been here every day toenquire after you and my master.' She then proceeded to tell, thatsome were dead whom they had left well; and others, who were ill, hadrecovered. 'And see, ma'amselle,' added Theresa, 'there is old Marycoming up the garden now; she has looked every day these three years asif she would die, yet she is alive still. She has seen the chaise at thedoor, and knows you are come home.'
The sight of this poor old woman would have been too much for Emily, andshe begged Theresa would go and tell her, that she was too ill to seeany person that night. 'To-morrow I shall be better, perhaps; but giveher this token of my remembrance.'
Emily sat for some time, given up to sorrow. Not an object, on which hereye glanced, but awakened some remembrance, that led immediately to thesubject of her grief. Her favourite plants, which St. Aubert had taughther to nurse; the little drawings, that adorned the room, which histaste had instructed her to execute; the books, that he had selectedfor her use, and which they had read together; her musical instruments,whose sounds he loved so well, and which he sometimes awakenedhimself--every object gave new force to sorrow. At length, she rousedherself from this melancholy indulgence, and, summoning all herresolution, stepped forward to go into those forlorn rooms, which,though she dreaded to enter, she knew would yet more powerfully affecther, if she delayed to visit them.
Having passed through the green-house, her courage for a moment forsookher, when she opened the door of the library; and, perhaps, the shade,which evening and the foliage of the trees near the windows threw acrossthe room, heightened the solemnity of her feelings on entering thatapartment, where every thing spoke of her father. There was an armchair, in which he used to sit; she shrunk when she observed it, forshe had so often seen him seated there, and the idea of him rose sodistinctly to her mind, that she almost fancied she saw him before her.But she checked the illusions of a distempered imagination, though shecould not subdue a certain degree of awe, which now mingled with heremotions. She walked slowly to the chair, and seated herself in it;there was a reading-desk before it, on which lay a book open, as ithad been left by her father. It was some moments before she recoveredcourage enough to examine it; and, when she looked at the open page,she immediately recollected, that St. Aubert, on the evening before hisdeparture from the chateau, had read to her some passages from thishis favourite author. The circumstance now affected her extremely; shelooked at the page, wept, and looked again. To her the book appearedsacred and invaluable, and she would not have moved it, or closed thepage, which he had left open, for the treasures of the Indies. Stillshe sat before the desk, and could not resolve to quit it, though theincreasing gloom, and the profound silence of the apartment, reviveda degree of painful awe. Her thoughts dwelt on the probable state ofdeparted spirits, and she remembered the affecting conversation, whichhad passed between St. Aubert and La Voisin, on the night preceding hisdeath.
As she mused she saw the door slowly open, and a rustling sound in aremote part of the room startled her. Through the dusk she thought sheperceived something move. The subject she had been considering, and thepresent tone of her spirits, which made her imagination respond toevery impression of her senses, gave her a sudden terror of somethingsupernatural. She sat for a moment motionless, and then, her dissipatedreason returning, 'What should I fear?' said she. 'If the spirits
ofthose we love ever return to us, it is in kindness.'
The silence, which again reigned, made her ashamed of her late fears,and she believed, that her imagination had deluded her, or that she hadheard one of those unaccountable noises, which sometimes occur in oldhouses. The same sound, however, returned; and, distinguishing somethingmoving towards her, and in the next instant press beside her into thechair, she shrieked; but her fleeting senses were instantly recalled,on perceiving that it was Manchon who sat by her, and who now licked herhands affectionately.
Perceiving her spirits unequal to the task she had assigned herself ofvisiting the deserted rooms of the chateau this night, when she leftthe library, she walked into the garden, and down to the terrace, thatoverhung the river. The sun was now set; but, under the dark branchesof the almond trees, was seen the saffron glow of the west, spreadingbeyond the twilight of middle air. The bat flitted silently by; and,now and then, the mourning note of the nightingale was heard. Thecircumstances of the hour brought to her recollection some lines, whichshe had once heard St. Aubert recite on this very spot, and she had nowa melancholy pleasure in repeating them.
SONNET
Now the bat circles on the breeze of eve, That creeps, in shudd'ring fits, along the wave, And trembles 'mid the woods, and through the cave Whose lonely sighs the wanderer deceive; For oft, when melancholy charms his mind, He thinks the Spirit of the rock he hears, Nor listens, but with sweetly-thrilling fears, To the low, mystic murmurs of the wind! Now the bat circles, and the twilight-dew Falls silent round, and, o'er the mountain-cliff, The gleaming wave, and far-discover'd skiff, Spreads the gray veil of soft, harmonious hue. So falls o'er Grief the dew of pity's tear Dimming her lonely visions of despair.
Emily, wandering on, came to St. Aubert's favourite plane-tree, where sooften, at this hour, they had sat beneath the shade together, and withher dear mother so often had conversed on the subject of a future state.How often, too, had her father expressed the comfort he derived frombelieving, that they should meet in another world! Emily, overcome bythese recollections, left the plane-tree, and, as she leaned pensivelyon the wall of the terrace, she observed a group of peasants dancinggaily on the banks of the Garonne, which spread in broad expanse below,and reflected the evening light. What a contrast they formed to thedesolate, unhappy Emily! They were gay and debonnaire, as they were wontto be when she, too, was gay--when St. Aubert used to listen to theirmerry music, with a countenance beaming pleasure and benevolence. Emily,having looked for a moment on this sprightly band, turned away, unableto bear the remembrances it excited; but where, alas! could she turn,and not meet new objects to give acuteness to grief?
As she walked slowly towards the house, she was met by Theresa. 'Dearma'amselle,' said she, 'I have been seeking you up and down this halfhour, and was afraid some accident had happened to you. How can you liketo wander about so in this night air! Do come into the house. Think whatmy poor master would have said, if he could see you. I am sure, when mydear lady died, no gentleman could take it more to heart than he did,yet you know he seldom shed a tear.'
'Pray, Theresa, cease,' said Emily, wishing to interrupt thisill-judged, but well-meaning harangue; Theresa's loquacity, however,was not to be silenced so easily. 'And when you used to grieve so,' sheadded, 'he often told you how wrong it was--for that my mistress washappy. And, if she was happy, I am sure he is so too; for the prayers ofthe poor, they say, reach heaven.' During this speech, Emily had walkedsilently into the chateau, and Theresa lighted her across the hallinto the common sitting parlour, where she had laid the cloth, with onesolitary knife and fork, for supper. Emily was in the room before sheperceived that it was not her own apartment, but she checked the emotionwhich inclined her to leave it, and seated herself quietly by the littlesupper table. Her father's hat hung upon the opposite wall; while shegazed at it, a faintness came over her. Theresa looked at her, and thenat the object, on which her eyes were settled, and went to remove it;but Emily waved her hand--'No,' said she, 'let it remain. I am goingto my chamber.' 'Nay, ma'amselle, supper is ready.' 'I cannot take it,'replied Emily, 'I will go to my room, and try to sleep. Tomorrow I shallbe better.'
'This is poor doings!' said Theresa. 'Dear lady! do take some food! Ihave dressed a pheasant, and a fine one it is. Old Monsieur Barreauxsent it this morning, for I saw him yesterday, and told him you werecoming. And I know nobody that seemed more concerned, when he heard thesad news, then he.'
'Did he?' said Emily, in a tender voice, while she felt her poor heartwarmed for a moment by a ray of sympathy.
At length, her spirits were entirely overcome, and she retired to herroom.