CHAPTER IX
Can Music's voice, can Beauty's eye, Can Painting's glowing hand supply A charm so suited to my mind, As blows this hollow gust of wind? As drops this little weeping rill, Soft tinkling down the moss-grown hill; While, through the west, where sinks the crimson day, Meek Twilight slowly sails, and waves her banners gray? MASON
Emily, some time after her return to La Vallee, received letters fromher aunt, Madame Cheron, in which, after some common-place condolementand advice, she invited her to Tholouse, and added, that, as her latebrother had entrusted Emily's EDUCATION to her, she should considerherself bound to overlook her conduct. Emily, at this time, wishedonly to remain at La Vallee, in the scenes of her early happiness, nowrendered infinitely dear to her, as the late residence of those, whomshe had lost for ever, where she could weep unobserved, retrace theirsteps, and remember each minute particular of their manners. But she wasequally anxious to avoid the displeasure of Madame Cheron.
Though her affection would not suffer her to question, even a moment,the propriety of St. Aubert's conduct in appointing Madame Cheron forher guardian, she was sensible, that this step had made her happinessdepend, in a great degree, on the humour of her aunt. In her reply, shebegged permission to remain, at present, at La Vallee, mentioning theextreme dejection of her spirits, and the necessity she felt for quietand retirement to restore them. These she knew were not to be found atMadame Cheron's, whose inclinations led her into a life of dissipation,which her ample fortune encouraged; and, having given her answer, shefelt somewhat more at ease.
In the first days of her affliction, she was visited by MonsieurBarreaux, a sincere mourner for St. Aubert. 'I may well lament myfriend,' said he, 'for I shall never meet with his resemblance. If Icould have found such a man in what is called society, I should not haveleft it.'
M. Barreaux's admiration of her father endeared him extremely to Emily,whose heart found almost its first relief in conversing of her parents,with a man, whom she so much revered, and who, though with such anungracious appearance, possessed to much goodness of heart and delicacyof mind.
Several weeks passed away in quiet retirement, and Emily's afflictionbegan to soften into melancholy. She could bear to read the books shehad before read with her father; to sit in his chair in the library--towatch the flowers his hand had planted--to awaken the tones of thatinstrument his fingers had pressed, and sometimes even to play hisfavourite air.
When her mind had recovered from the first shock of affliction,perceiving the danger of yielding to indolence, and that activity alonecould restore its tone, she scrupulously endeavoured to pass all herhours in employment. And it was now that she understood the full valueof the education she had received from St. Aubert, for in cultivatingher understanding he had secured her an asylum from indolence, withoutrecourse to dissipation, and rich and varied amusement and information,independent of the society, from which her situation secluded her. Norwere the good effects of this education confined to selfish advantages,since, St. Aubert having nourished every amiable qualify of her heart,it now expanded in benevolence to all around her, and taught her, whenshe could not remove the misfortunes of others, at least to soften themby sympathy and tenderness;--a benevolence that taught her to feel forall, that could suffer.
Madame Cheron returned no answer to Emily's letter, who began tohope, that she should be permitted to remain some time longer in herretirement, and her mind had now so far recovered its strength, that sheventured to view the scenes, which most powerfully recalled the imagesof past times. Among these was the fishing-house; and, to indulge stillmore the affectionate melancholy of the visit, she took thither herlute, that she might again hear there the tones, to which St. Aubert andher mother had so often delighted to listen. She went alone, and at thatstill hour of the evening which is so soothing to fancy and to grief.The last time she had been here she was in company with Monsieur andMadame St. Aubert, a few days preceding that, on which the latter wasseized with a fatal illness. Now, when Emily again entered the woods,that surrounded the building, they awakened so forcibly the memory offormer times, that her resolution yielded for a moment to excess ofgrief. She stopped, leaned for support against a tree, and wept for someminutes, before she had recovered herself sufficiently to proceed. Thelittle path, that led to the building, was overgrown with grass and theflowers which St. Aubert had scattered carelessly along the borderwere almost choked with weeds--the tall thistle--the fox-glove, and thenettle. She often paused to look on the desolate spot, now so silent andforsaken, and when, with a trembling hand, she opened the door of thefishing-house, 'Ah!' said she, 'every thing--every thing remains as whenI left it last--left it with those who never must return!' She went toa window, that overhung the rivulet, and, leaning over it, with her eyesfixed on the current, was soon lost in melancholy reverie. The luteshe had brought lay forgotten beside her; the mournful sighing of thebreeze, as it waved the high pines above, and its softer whispers amongthe osiers, that bowed upon the banks below, was a kind of music morein unison with her feelings. It did not vibrate on the chords ofunhappy memory, but was soothing to the heart as the voice of Pity. Shecontinued to muse, unconscious of the gloom of evening, and that thesun's last light trembled on the heights above, and would probably haveremained so much longer, if a sudden footstep, without the building,had not alarmed her attention, and first made her recollect that she wasunprotected. In the next moment, a door opened, and a stranger appeared,who stopped on perceiving Emily, and then began to apologize for hisintrusion. But Emily, at the sound of his voice, lost her fear in astronger emotion: its tones were familiar to her ear, and, though shecould not readily distinguish through the dusk the features of theperson who spoke, she felt a remembrance too strong to be distrusted.
He repeated his apology, and Emily then said something in reply, whenthe stranger eagerly advancing, exclaimed, 'Good God! can it be--surelyI am not mistaken--ma'amselle St. Aubert?--is it not?'
'It is indeed,' said Emily, who was confirmed in her first conjecture,for she now distinguished the countenance of Valancourt, lighted up withstill more than its usual animation. A thousand painful recollectionscrowded to her mind, and the effort, which she made to support herself,only served to increase her agitation. Valancourt, meanwhile, havingenquired anxiously after her health, and expressed his hopes, that M.St. Aubert had found benefit from travelling, learned from the flood oftears, which she could no longer repress, the fatal truth. He led herto a seat, and sat down by her, while Emily continued to weep, andValancourt to hold the hand, which she was unconscious he had taken,till it was wet with the tears, which grief for St. Aubert and sympathyfor herself had called forth.
'I feel,' said he at length, 'I feel how insufficient all attempt atconsolation must be on this subject. I can only mourn with you, for Icannot doubt the source of your tears. Would to God I were mistaken!'
Emily could still answer only by tears, till she rose, and begged theymight leave the melancholy spot, when Valancourt, though he saw herfeebleness, could not offer to detain her, but took her arm within his,and led her from the fishing-house. They walked silently through thewoods, Valancourt anxious to know, yet fearing to ask any particularsconcerning St. Aubert; and Emily too much distressed to converse.After some time, however, she acquired fortitude enough to speak of herfather, and to give a brief account of the manner of his death; duringwhich recital Valancourt's countenance betrayed strong emotion, and,when he heard that St. Aubert had died on the road, and that Emilyhad been left among strangers, he pressed her hand between his, andinvoluntarily exclaimed, 'Why was I not there!' but in the next momentrecollected himself, for he immediately returned to the mention of herfather; till, perceiving that her spirits were exhausted, he graduallychanged the subject, and spoke of himself. Emily thus learned that,after they had parted, he had wandered, for some time, along the shoresof the Mediterranean, and had then returned through Languedoc intoGascony, which was his native province, and where he usually resided.
/> When he had concluded his little narrative, he sunk into a silence,which Emily was not disposed to interrupt, and it continued, till theyreached the gate of the chateau, when he stopped, as if he had knownthis to be the limit of his walk. Here, saying, that it was hisintention to return to Estuviere on the following day, he asked her ifshe would permit him to take leave of her in the morning; and Emily,perceiving that she could not reject an ordinary civility, withoutexpressing by her refusal an expectation of something more, wascompelled to answer, that she should be at home.
She passed a melancholy evening, during which the retrospect of allthat had happened, since she had seen Valancourt, would rise to herimagination; and the scene of her father's death appeared in tintsas fresh, as if it had passed on the preceding day. She rememberedparticularly the earnest and solemn manner, in which he had required herto destroy the manuscript papers, and, awakening from the lethargy,in which sorrow had held her, she was shocked to think she had not yetobeyed him, and determined, that another day should not reproach herwith the neglect.