THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO
PART 6
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 offer consolation 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 conversation of the friar, whose mild benevolence of
manners bore some resemblance to those of St. Aubert, soothed the violence of
her grief, and lifted her heart 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
passed the gates of death, and that, which still lingers in the body. 'In the
sight of God,' said Emily, 'my dear father now exists, as truly as he yesterday
existed to me; it is to me only that he is dead; to God and to himself he yet
lives!'
The good
monk left her more tranquil than she had been since St. Aubert died; and,
before she retired to her little cabin for the night, she trusted herself so
far as to visit the corpse. Silent, and without weeping, she stood by its side.
The features, placid and serene, told the nature of the last sensations, that
had lingered in the now deserted frame. For a moment she turned away, in horror
of the stillness in which death had fixed that countenance, never till now seen
otherwise than animated; then gazed on it with a mixture of doubt and awful
astonishment. Her reason could scarcely overcome an involuntary and
unaccountable expectation of seeing that beloved countenance still susceptible.
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 heard nothing, and only begged that he would
leave her.
Again
alone, she indulged her tears, and, when the gloom of evening obscured the
chamber, and almost veiled from her eyes the object of her distress, she still
hung over the body; till her spirits, at length, were exhausted, and she became
tranquil. La Voisin again knocked at the door, and entreated that she would
come to the common apartment. Before she went, she kissed the lips of St.
Aubert, as she was wont to do when she bade him good night. Again she kissed
them; her heart felt as if it would break, a few tears of agony started to her
eyes, she looked up to heaven, then at St. Aubert, and left the room.
Retired
to her lonely cabin, her melancholy thoughts still hovered round the body of
her deceased parent; and, when she sunk into a kind of slumber, the images of
her waking mind still haunted her fancy. She thought 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, and presently saw his features glow with the mild
rapture of a superior being. The strain seemed to swell louder, and she awoke.
The vision was gone, but music yet came to her ear in strains such as angels
might breathe. She doubted, listened, raised herself in the bed, and again
listened. It was music, and not an illusion of her imagination. After a solemn
steady harmony, it paused; then rose again, in mournful sweetness, and then
died, in a cadence, that seemed to bear away the listening soul to heaven. She
instantly remembered the music of the preceding night, with the strange
circumstances, related by La Voisin, and the affecting conversation it had led
to, concerning the state of departed spirits. All that St. Aubert had said, on
that subject, now pressed upon her heart, and overwhelmed it. What a change in
a few hours! He, who then could only conjecture, was now made acquainted with
truth; was himself become one of the departed! As she listened, she was chilled
with superstitious awe, her tears stopped; and she rose, and went to the
window. All without was obscured in shade; but Emily, turning her eyes from the
massy darkness of the woods, whose waving outline appeared on the horizon, saw,
on the left, that effulgent planet, which the old man had pointed out, setting
over the woods. She remembered what he had said concerning it, and, the music
now coming at intervals on the air, she unclosed the casement to listen to the
strains, that soon gradually sunk to a greater distance, and tried to discover
whence they came. The obscurity prevented her from distinguishing any object on
the green platform below; and the sounds became fainter and fainter, till they
softened into silence. She listened, but they returned no more. Soon after, she
observed the planet trembling between the fringed tops of the woods, and, in
the next moment, sink behind them. Chilled with a melancholy awe, she retired
once more to her bed, and, at length, forgot for a while her sorrows in sleep.
On the
following morning, she was visited by a sister of the convent, who came, with
kind offices and a second invitation from the lady abbess; and Emily, though
she could not forsake the cottage, while the remains of her father were in it,
consented, however painful such a visit must be, in the present state of her
spirits, to pay her respects to the abbess, in the evening.
About an
hour before sun-set, La Voisin shewed her the way through the woods 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 green slope, in front of the
edifice, and the rich shores, hung with woods and pastures, that extended on
either hand. But her thoughts were now occupied by one sad idea, and the
features of nature were to her colourless and without form. The bell for
vespers struck, as she passed the ancient gate of the convent, and seemed the
funereal note for St. Aubert. Little incidents affect a mind, enervated by
sorrow; Emily struggled against the sickening faintness, that came over her,
and was led into the presence of the abbess, who received her with an air of
maternal tenderness; an air of such gentle solicitude and consideration, as
touched her with an instantaneous gratitude; her eyes were filled with 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 holding her hand and regarding her in
silence, as Emily dried her tears and attempted to speak. 'Be composed, my
daughter,' said the abbess in a soothing voice, 'do not speak yet; I know all
you would say. Your spirits must be soothed. We are going to prayers;—will you
attend our evening service? It is comfortable, my child, to look up in our
afflictions to a father, who sees and pities us, and who chastens in his
mercy.'
Emily's
tears flowed again, but a thousand sweet emotions mingled with them. The abbess
suffered her to weep without interruption, and watched over her with a look of
benignity, that might have characterized the countenance of a guardian angel.
Emily, when she became tranquil, was encouraged to speak without reserve, and
to mention the motive, that made her unwilling to quit the cottage, which the
abbess did not oppose even by a hint; but praised the filial piety of her
conduct, and added a hope, that she would pass a few days at the convent,
before she returned to La Vallee. 'You must allow yourself a little time to
recover from your first shock, my daughter, before you encounter a second; I
will not affect to conceal from you how much I know your heart must suffer, on
returning to the scene of your former happiness. Here, you will have all, that
quiet and sympathy and religion can give, to restore your spirits. But come,'
added she, observing the tears swell in Emily's eyes, 'we will go to the
chapel.'
Emily
followed to the parlour, where the nuns were assembled, to whom the abbess
committed her, saying, 'This is a daughter, for whom I have much esteem; be
sisters to her.'
They
passed on in a train to the chapel, where the solemn devotion, with which the
service was performed, elevated her mind, and brought to it the comforts of
faith and resignation.
Twilight
came on, before the abbess's kindness would suffer Emily to depart, when she
left the convent, with a heart much lighter than she had entered it, and was
reconducted by La Voisin through the woods, the pensive gloom of which was in
unison with the temper of her mind; and she pursued the little wild path, in
musing silence, till her guide suddenly stopped, looked round, and then struck
out of the path into the high grass, saying he had mistaken the road. He now
walked on quickly, and Emily, proceeding with difficulty over the obscured and
uneven ground, was left at some distance, till her voice arrested him, who
seemed unwilling to stop, and still hurried on. 'If you are in doubt about the
way,' said Emily, 'had we not better enquire it at the chateau yonder, between
the trees?'
'No,' replied
La Voisin, 'there is no occasion. When we reach that brook, ma'amselle, (you
see the light upon the water there, beyond the woods) when we reach that brook,
we shall be at home presently. I don't know how I happened to mistake the path;
I seldom come this way after sun-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 not superstitious?' 'No, not
superstitious; but, to tell you the truth, lady, nobody likes to go near that
chateau, after dusk.' 'By whom is it inhabited,' said Emily, 'that it is so
formidable?' 'Why, ma'amselle, it is scarcely inhabited, for our lord the
Marquis, and the lord of all these find woods, too, is dead. He had not once
been in it, for these many years, and his people, who have the care of it, live
in a cottage close by.' Emily now understood this to be the chateau, which La
Voisin had formerly pointed out, as having belonged to the Marquis Villeroi, on
the mention of which her father had appeared so much affected.
'Ah! it
is a desolate place now,' continued La Voisin, 'and such a grand, fine place,
as I remember it!' Emily enquired what had occasioned this lamentable change;
but the old man was silent, and Emily, whose interest was awakened by the fear
he had expressed, and above all by a recollection of her father's agitation,
repeated the question, and added, 'If you are neither afraid of the
inhabitants, my good friend, nor are superstitious, how happens it, that you
dread to pass near that chateau in the dark?'
'Perhaps,
then, I am a little superstitious, ma'amselle; and, if you knew what I do, you
might be so too. Strange things have happened there. Monsieur, your good
father, appeared to have known the late Marchioness.' 'Pray inform me what did
happen?' said Emily, with much emotion.
'Alas!
ma'amselle,' answered La Voisin, 'enquire no further; it is not for me to lay
open the domestic secrets of my lord.'—Emily, surprised by the old man's words,
and his manner of delivering them, forbore to repeat her question; a nearer
interest, the remembrance of St. Aubert, occupied her thoughts, and she was led
to recollect the music she heard on the preceding night, which she mentioned to
La Voisin. 'You was not alone, ma'amselle, in this,' he replied, 'I heard it
too; but I have so often heard it, at the same hour, that I was scarcely
surprised.'
'You
doubtless believe this music to have some connection with the chateau,' said
Emily suddenly, 'and are, therefore, superstitious.' 'It may be so, ma'amselle,
but there are other circumstances, belonging to that chateau, which I remember,
and sadly too.' A heavy sigh followed: but Emily's delicacy restrained the
curiosity these words revived, and she enquired no further.
On
reaching the cottage, all the violence of her grief returned; it seemed as if she
had escaped its heavy pressure only while she was removed from the object of
it. She passed immediately to the chamber, where the remains of her father were
laid, and yielded to all the anguish of hopeless grief. La Voisin, at length,
persuaded her to leave the room, and she returned to her own, where, exhausted
by the sufferings of the day, she soon fell into deep sleep, and awoke
considerably refreshed.
When the
dreadful hour arrived, in which the remains of St. Aubert were to be taken from
her for ever, she went alone to the chamber to look upon his countenance yet
once again, and La Voisin, who had waited patiently below stairs, till her
despair should subside, with the respect due to grief, forbore to interrupt the
indulgence of it, till surprise, at the length of her stay, and then
apprehension overcame his delicacy, and he went to lead her from the chamber.
Having tapped gently at the door, without receiving an answer, he listened
attentively, but all was still; no sigh, no sob of anguish was heard. Yet more
alarmed by this silence, he opened the door, and found Emily lying senseless
across the foot of the bed, near which stood the coffin. His calls procured
assistance, and she was carried to her room, where proper applications, at
length, restored her.
During
her state of insensibility, La Voisin had given directions for the coffin to be
closed, and he succeeded in persuading Emily to forbear revisiting the chamber.
She, indeed, felt herself unequal to this, and also perceived the necessity of
sparing her spirits, and recollecting fortitude sufficient to bear her through
the approaching scene. St. Aubert had given a particular injunction, that his
remains should be interred in the church of the convent of St. Clair, and, in
mentioning the north chancel, near the ancient tomb of the Villerois, had
pointed out the exact spot, where he wished to be laid. The superior had
granted this place for the interment, and thither, therefore, the sad
procession now moved, which was met, at the gates, by the venerable priest,
followed by a train of friars. Every person, who heard the solemn chant of the
anthem, and the peal of the organ, that struck up, when the body entered the
church, and saw also the feeble steps, and the assumed tranquillity of Emily,
gave her involuntary tears. She shed none, but walked, her face partly shaded
by a thin black veil, between two persons, who supported her, preceded by the
abbess, and followed by nuns, whose plaintive voices mellowed the swelling
harmony of the dirge. When the procession came to the grave the music ceased.
Emily drew the veil entirely over her face, and, in a momentary pause, between
the anthem and the rest of the service, her sobs were distinctly audible. The
holy father began the service, and Emily again commanded her feelings, till the
coffin was let down, and she heard the earth rattle on its lid. Then, as she
shuddered, a groan burst from her heart, and she leaned for support on the
person who stood next to her. In a few moments she recovered; and, when she
heard those affecting and sublime words: 'His body is buried in peace, and his
soul returns to Him that gave it,' her anguish softened into tears.
The
abbess led her from the church into her own parlour, and there administered all
the consolations, that religion and gentle sympathy can give. Emily struggled
against the pressure of grief; but the abbess, observing her attentively,
ordered a bed to be prepared, and recommended her to retire to repose. She also
kindly claimed her promise to remain a few days at the convent; and Emily, who
had no wish to return to the cottage, the scene of all her sufferings, had
leisure, now that no immediate care pressed upon her attention, to feel the
indisposition, which disabled her from immediately travelling.
Meanwhile,
the maternal kindness of the abbess, and the gentle attentions of the nuns did
all, that was possible, towards soothing her spirits and restoring her health.
But the latter was too deeply wounded, through the medium of her mind, to be
quickly revived. She lingered for some weeks at the convent, under the
influence of a slow fever, wishing to return home, yet unable to go thither;
often even reluctant to leave the spot where her father's relics were
deposited, and sometimes soothing herself with the consideration, that, if she
died here, her remains would repose beside those of St. Aubert. In the
meanwhile, she sent letters to Madame Cheron and to the old housekeeper,
informing them of the sad event, that had taken place, and of her own
situation. From her aunt she received an answer, abounding more in common-place
condolement, than in traits of real sorrow, which assured her, that a servant
should be sent to conduct her to La Vallee, for that her own time was so much
occupied by company, that she had no leisure to undertake so long a journey.
However Emily might prefer La Vallee to Tholouse, she could not be insensible
to the indecorous and unkind conduct of her aunt, in suffering her to return
thither, where she had no longer a relation to console and protect her; a conduct,
which was the more culpable, since St. Aubert had appointed Madame Cheron the
guardian of his orphan daughter.
Madame
Cheron's servant made the attendance of the good La Voisin unnecessary; and
Emily, who felt sensibly her obligations to him, for all his kind attention to
her late father, as well as to herself, was glad to spare him a long, and what,
at his time of life, must have been a troublesome journey.
During
her stay at the convent, the peace and sanctity that reigned within, the
tranquil beauty of the scenery without, and the delicate attentions of the
abbess and the nuns, were circumstances so soothing to her mind, that they
almost tempted her to leave a world, where she had lost her dearest friends,
and devote herself to the cloister, in a spot, rendered sacred to her by
containing the tomb of St. Aubert. The pensive enthusiasm, too, so natural to
her temper, had spread a beautiful illusion over the sanctified retirement of a
nun, that almost hid from her view the selfishness of its security. But the
touches, which a melancholy fancy, slightly tinctured with superstition, gave
to the monastic scene, began to fade, as her spirits revived, and brought once
more to her heart an image, which had only transiently been banished thence. By
this she was silently awakened to hope and comfort and sweet affections;
visions of happiness gleamed faintly at a distance, and, though she knew them
to be illusions, she could not resolve to shut them out for ever. It was the
remembrance of Valancourt, of his taste, his genius, and of the countenance
which glowed with both, that, perhaps, alone determined her to return to the
world. The grandeur and sublimity of the scenes, amidst which they had first
met, had fascinated her fancy, and had imperceptibly contributed to render
Valancourt more interesting by seeming to communicate to him somewhat of their
own character. The esteem, too, which St. Aubert had repeatedly expressed for
him, sanctioned this kindness; but, though his countenance and manner had
continually expressed his admiration of her, he had not otherwise declared it;
and even the hope of seeing him again was so distant, that she was scarcely
conscious of it, still less that it influenced her conduct on this occasion.
It was
several days after the arrival of Madame Cheron's servant before Emily was
sufficiently recovered to undertake the journey to La Vallee. On the evening
preceding her departure, she went to the cottage to take leave of La Voisin and
his family, and to make them a return for their kindness. The old man she found
sitting on a bench at his door, between his daughter, and his son-in-law, who
was just returned from his daily labour, and who was playing upon a pipe, that,
in tone, resembled an oboe. A flask of wine stood beside the old man, and,
before him, a small table with fruit and bread, round which stood several of
his grandsons, fine rosy children, who were taking their supper, as their
mother distributed it. On the edge of the little green, that spread before the
cottage, were cattle and a few sheep reposing under the trees. The landscape
was touched with the mellow light of the evening sun, whose long slanting beams
played through a vista of the woods, and lighted up the distant turrets of the
chateau. She paused a moment, before she emerged from the shade, to gaze upon
the happy group before her—on the complacency and ease of healthy age,
depictured on the countenance of La Voisin; the maternal tenderness of Agnes,
as she looked upon her children, and the innocency of infantine pleasures,
reflected in their smiles. 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
she hastily stepped forward, afraid to trust herself with a longer pause. She
took an affectionate and affecting leave of La Voisin and his family; he seemed
to love her as his daughter, and shed tears; Emily shed many. She avoided going
into the cottage, since she knew it would revive emotions, such as she could
not now endure.
One
painful scene yet awaited her, for she determined to visit again her father's
grave; and that she might not be interrupted, or observed in the indulgence of
her melancholy tenderness, she deferred her visit, till every inhabitant of the
convent, except the nun who promised to bring her the key of the church, should
be retired to rest. Emily remained 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
narrow winding stair-case, that led thither. The nun offered to accompany Emily
to the grave, adding, 'It is melancholy to go alone at this hour;' but the
former, thanking her for the consideration, could not consent to have any witness
of her sorrow; and the sister, having unlocked the door, gave her the lamp.
'You will remember, sister,' said she, 'that in the east aisle, which you must
pass, is a newly opened grave; hold the light 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 the
stair-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 spiral balusters, she was
tempted to call her back. While she hesitated, the veil disappeared, and, in
the next moment, ashamed of her fears, she returned to the church. The cold air
of the aisles chilled her, and their deep silence and extent, feebly shone upon
by the moon-light, that streamed through a distant gothic window, would at any
other time have awed her into superstition; now, grief occupied all her attention.
She scarcely heard the whispering echoes of her own steps, or thought of the
open grave, till she found herself almost on its brink. A friar of the convent
had been buried there on the preceding evening, and, as she had sat alone in
her chamber at twilight, she heard, at distance, the monks chanting the requiem
for his soul. This brought freshly to her memory the circumstances of her
father's death; and, as the voices, mingling with a low querulous peal of the
organ, swelled faintly, gloomy and affecting visions had arisen upon her mind.
Now she remembered them, and, turning aside to avoid the broken ground, these
recollections made her pass on with quicker steps to the grave of St. Aubert,
when in the moon-light, that fell athwart a remote part of the aisle, she
thought she 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 was buried
beneath a plain marble, bearing little more than his name and the date of his
birth and death, near the foot of the stately monument of the Villerois. Emily
remained at his grave, till a chime, that called the monks to early prayers,
warned her to retire; then, she wept over it a last farewel, and forced herself
from the spot. After this hour of melancholy indulgence, she was refreshed by a
deeper sleep, than she had experienced for a long time, and, on awakening, her
mind was more tranquil and resigned, than it had been since St. Aubert's death.
But, when
the moment of her departure from the convent arrived, all her grief returned;
the memory of the dead, and the kindness of the living attached her to the
place; and for the sacred spot, where her father's remains were interred, she
seemed to feel all those tender affections which we conceive for home. The
abbess repeated many kind assurances of regard at their parting, and pressed
her to return, if ever she should find her condition elsewhere unpleasant; many
of the nuns also expressed unaffected regret at her departure, and Emily left
the convent with many tears, 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 the deep melancholy, into
which she was sunk, and, when they did, it was only to remind her, that, on her
last view of them, St. Aubert was at her side, and to call up to her
remembrance the remarks he had delivered on similar scenery. Thus, without any
particular occurrence, passed the day in languor and dejection. She slept that
night in a town on the skirts of Languedoc, and, on the following morning,
entered Gascony.
Towards
the close of this day, Emily came within view of the plains in the
neighbourhood of La Vallee, and the well-known objects of former times began to
press upon her notice, and with them recollections, that awakened all her
tenderness and grief. Often, while she looked through her tears upon the wild
grandeur of the Pyrenees, now varied with the rich lights and shadows of
evening, she remembered, that, when last she saw them, her father partook with
her of the pleasure they inspired. Suddenly some scene, which he had
particularly pointed out to her, would present itself, and the sick languor of
despair would steal upon her heart. 'There!' she would exclaim, 'there are the
very cliffs, there the wood of pines, which he looked at with such delight, as
we passed this road together for the last time. There, too, under the crag of
that mountain, is the cottage, peeping from among the cedars, which he bade me
remember, and copy with my pencil. O my father, shall I never see you more!'
As she
drew near the chateau, these melancholy memorials of past times multiplied. At
length, the chateau itself appeared, amid the glowing beauty of St. Aubert's
favourite landscape. This was an object, which called for fortitude, not for
tears; Emily dried hers, and prepared to meet with calmness the trying moment
of her return to that home, where there was no longer a parent to welcome her.
'Yes,' said she, 'let me not forget the lessons he has taught me! How often he
has pointed out the necessity of resisting even virtuous sorrow; how often we
have admired together the greatness of a mind, that can at once suffer and
reason! O my father! if you are permitted to look down upon your child, it will
please you to see, that she remembers, and endeavours to practise, the precepts
you have given her.'
A turn on
the road now allowed a nearer view of the chateau, the chimneys, tipped with
light, rising from behind St. Aubert's favourite oaks, whose foliage partly
concealed the lower part of the building. Emily could not suppress a heavy
sigh. 'This, too, was his favourite hour,' said she, as she gazed upon the long
evening shadows, stretched athwart 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 gay melody of the
dance, which she had so often listened to, as she walked with St. Aubert, on
the margin of the Garonne, when all her fortitude forsook her, and she
continued to weep, till the carriage stopped at the little gate, that opened
upon what was now her own territory. She raised her eyes on the sudden stopping
of the carriage, and saw her father's old housekeeper coming to open the gate.
Manchon also came running, and barking before her; and when his young mistress
alighted, fawned, and played round her, gasping with joy.
'Dear
ma'amselle!' said Theresa, and paused, and looked as if she would have offered
something of condolement to Emily, whose tears now prevented reply. The dog
still fawned and ran round her, and then flew towards the carriage, with a
short quick bark. 'Ah, ma'amselle!—my poor master!' said Theresa, whose
feelings were more awakened than her delicacy, 'Manchon's gone to look for
him.' Emily sobbed aloud; and, on looking towards the carriage, which still
stood with the door open, saw the animal spring into it, and instantly leap
out, and then with his nose on the ground run round the horses.
'Don't
cry so, ma'amselle,' said Theresa, 'it breaks my heart to see you.' The dog now
came running to Emily, then returned to the carriage, and then back again to
her, whining and discontented. 'Poor rogue!' said Theresa, 'thou hast lost thy
master, thou mayst well cry! But come, my dear young lady, be comforted. What
shall I get to refresh you?' Emily gave her hand to the old servant, and tried
to restrain her grief, while she made some kind enquiries concerning her
health. But she still lingered in the walk which led to the chateau, for within
was no person to meet her with the kiss of affection; her own heart no longer
palpitated with impatient joy to meet again the well-known smile, and she
dreaded to see objects, which would recall the full remembrance of her former
happiness. She moved slowly towards the door, paused, went on, and paused
again. How silent, how forsaken, how forlorn did the chateau appear! Trembling
to enter it, yet blaming herself for delaying what she could not avoid, she, at
length, passed into the hall; crossed it with a hurried step, as if afraid to
look round, and opened the door of that room, which she was wont to call her
own. The gloom of evening gave 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 immediately
observing 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 and extensive
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 to converse with her.
'I have
made up the green bed for you, ma'amselle,' said Theresa, as she set the coffee
upon the table. 'I thought you would like it better than your own now; but I
little thought this day month, that you would come back alone. A-well-a-day!
the news almost broke my heart, when it did come. Who would have believed, that
my poor master, when he went from home, would never return again!' Emily hid
her face with her handkerchief, and waved her hand.
'Do taste
the coffee,' said Theresa. 'My dear young lady, be comforted—we must all die.
My dear master is a saint above.' Emily took the handkerchief from her face,
and raised her eyes full of tears towards heaven; soon after she dried them,
and, in a calm, but tremulous voice, began to enquire concerning some of her
late father's pensioners.
'Alas-a-day!'
said Theresa, as she poured out the coffee, and handed it to her mistress, 'all
that could come, have been here every day to enquire after you and my master.'
She then proceeded to tell, that some were dead whom they had left well; and
others, who were ill, had recovered. 'And see, ma'amselle,' added Theresa,
'there is old Mary coming up the garden now; she has looked every day these
three years as if she would die, yet she is alive still. She has seen the
chaise at the door, and knows you are come home.'
The sight
of this poor old woman would have been too much for Emily, and she begged Theresa
would go and tell her, that she was too ill to see any person that night.
'To-morrow I shall be better, perhaps; but give her this token of my
remembrance.'
Emily sat
for some time, given up to sorrow. Not an object, on which her eye glanced, but
awakened some remembrance, that led immediately to the subject of her grief.
Her favourite plants, which St. Aubert had taught her to nurse; the little
drawings, that adorned the room, which his taste had instructed her to execute;
the books, that he had selected for her use, and which they had read together;
her musical instruments, whose sounds he loved so well, and which he sometimes
awakened himself—every object gave new force to sorrow. At length, she roused
herself from this melancholy indulgence, and, summoning all her resolution,
stepped forward to go into those forlorn rooms, which, though she dreaded to
enter, she knew would yet more powerfully affect her, if she delayed to visit
them.
Having
passed through the green-house, her courage for a moment forsook her, when she
opened the door of the library; and, perhaps, the shade, which evening and the
foliage of the trees near the windows threw across the room, heightened the
solemnity of her feelings on entering that apartment, where every thing spoke of
her father. There was an arm chair, in which he used to sit; she shrunk when
she observed it, for she had so often seen him seated there, and the idea of
him rose so distinctly to her mind, that she almost fancied she saw him before
her. But she checked the illusions of a distempered imagination, though she
could not subdue a certain degree of awe, which now mingled with her emotions.
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 it had been left by her
father. It was some moments before she recovered courage enough to examine it;
and, when she looked at the open page, she immediately recollected, that St.
Aubert, on the evening before his departure from the chateau, had read to her
some passages from this his favourite author. The circumstance now affected her
extremely; she looked at the page, wept, and looked again. To her the book
appeared sacred and invaluable, and she would not have moved it, or closed the
page, which he had left open, for the treasures of the Indies. Still she sat
before the desk, and could not resolve to quit it, though the increasing gloom,
and the profound silence of the apartment, revived a degree of painful awe. Her
thoughts dwelt on the probable state of departed spirits, and she remembered
the affecting conversation, which had passed between St. Aubert and La Voisin,
on the night preceding his death.
As she
mused she saw the door slowly open, and a rustling sound in a remote part of
the room startled her. Through the dusk she thought she perceived something
move. The subject she had been considering, and the present tone of her
spirits, which made her imagination respond to every impression of her senses,
gave her a sudden terror of something supernatural. She sat for a moment
motionless, and then, her dissipated reason returning, 'What should I fear?'
said she. 'If the spirits of those 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 had heard one of
those unaccountable noises, which sometimes occur in old houses. The same
sound, however, returned; and, distinguishing something moving towards her, and
in the next instant press beside her into the chair, she shrieked; but her
fleeting senses were instantly recalled, on perceiving that it was Manchon who
sat by her, and who now licked her hands affectionately.
Perceiving
her spirits unequal to the task she had assigned herself of visiting the
deserted rooms of the chateau this night, when she left the library, she walked
into the garden, and down to the terrace, that overhung the river. The sun was
now set; but, under the dark branches of the almond trees, was seen the saffron
glow of the west, spreading beyond the twilight of middle air. The bat flitted
silently by; and, now and then, the mourning note of the nightingale was heard.
The circumstances of the hour brought to her recollection some lines, which she
had once heard St. Aubert recite on this very spot, and she had now a
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 so often, at
this hour, they had sat beneath the shade together, and with her dear mother so
often had conversed on the subject of a future state. How often, too, had her
father expressed the comfort he derived from believing, that they should meet
in another world! Emily, overcome by these recollections, left the plane-tree,
and, as she leaned pensively on the wall of the terrace, she observed a group
of peasants dancing gaily on the banks of the Garonne, which spread in broad
expanse below, and reflected the evening light. What a contrast they formed to
the desolate, unhappy Emily! They were gay and debonnaire, as they were wont to
be when she, too, was gay—when St. Aubert used to listen to their merry music,
with a countenance beaming pleasure and benevolence. Emily, having looked for a
moment on this sprightly band, turned away, unable to 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. 'Dear ma'amselle,'
said she, 'I have been seeking you up and down this half hour, and was afraid
some accident had happened to you. How can you like to wander about so in this
night air! Do come into the house. Think what my poor master would have said,
if he could see you. I am sure, when my dear 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 this ill-judged, but
well-meaning harangue; Theresa's loquacity, however, was not to be silenced so
easily. 'And when you used to grieve so,' she added, 'he often told you how
wrong it was—for that my mistress was happy. And, if she was happy, I am sure
he is so too; for the prayers of the poor, they say, reach heaven.' During this
speech, Emily had walked silently into the chateau, and Theresa lighted her
across the hall into the common sitting parlour, where she had laid the cloth,
with one solitary knife and fork, for supper. Emily was in the room before she
perceived that it was not her own apartment, but she checked the emotion which
inclined her to leave it, and seated herself quietly by the little supper
table. Her father's hat hung upon the opposite wall; while she gazed at it, a
faintness came over her. Theresa looked at her, and then at 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 going to 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 shall be better.'
'This is
poor doings!' said Theresa. 'Dear lady! do take some food! I have dressed a
pheasant, and a fine one it is. Old Monsieur Barreaux sent it this morning, for
I saw him yesterday, and told him you were coming. And I know nobody that
seemed more concerned, when he heard the sad news, then he.'
'Did he?'
said Emily, in a tender voice, while she felt her poor heart warmed for a
moment by a ray of sympathy.
At
length, her spirits were entirely overcome, and she retired to her room.
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 from her aunt, Madame
Cheron, in which, after some common-place condolement and advice, she invited
her to Tholouse, and added, that, as her late brother had entrusted Emily's
EDUCATION to her, she should consider herself bound to overlook her conduct.
Emily, at this time, wished only to remain at La Vallee, in the scenes of her
early happiness, now rendered infinitely dear to her, as the late residence of
those, whom she had lost for ever, where she could weep unobserved, retrace
their steps, and remember each minute particular of their manners. But she was
equally 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 for her guardian, she was
sensible, that this step had made her happiness depend, in a great degree, on
the humour of her aunt. In her reply, she begged permission to remain, at
present, at La Vallee, mentioning the extreme dejection of her spirits, and the
necessity she felt for quiet and retirement to restore them. These she knew
were not to be found at Madame Cheron's, whose inclinations led her into a life
of dissipation, which her ample fortune encouraged; and, having given her
answer, she felt somewhat more at ease.
In the
first days of her affliction, she was visited by Monsieur Barreaux, a sincere
mourner for St. Aubert. 'I may well lament my friend,' said he, 'for I shall
never meet with his resemblance. If I could have found such a man in what is
called society, I should not have left 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 an ungracious appearance,
possessed to much goodness of heart and delicacy of mind.
Several
weeks passed away in quiet retirement, and Emily's affliction began to soften
into melancholy. She could bear to read the books she had before read with her
father; to sit in his chair in the library—to watch the flowers his hand had
planted—to awaken the tones of that instrument his fingers had pressed, and
sometimes even to play his favourite air.
When her
mind had recovered from the first shock of affliction, perceiving the danger of
yielding to indolence, and that activity alone could restore its tone, she
scrupulously endeavoured to pass all her hours in employment. And it was now
that she understood the full value of the education she had received from St.
Aubert, for in cultivating her understanding he had secured her an asylum from
indolence, without recourse to dissipation, and rich and varied amusement and
information, independent of the society, from which her situation secluded her.
Nor were 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, when she could not
remove the misfortunes of others, at least to soften them by sympathy and
tenderness;—a benevolence that taught her to feel for all, that could suffer.
Madame
Cheron returned no answer to Emily's letter, who began to hope, that she should
be permitted to remain some time longer in her retirement, and her mind had now
so far recovered its strength, that she ventured to view the scenes, which most
powerfully recalled the images of past times. Among these was the
fishing-house; and, to indulge still more the affectionate melancholy of the
visit, she took thither her lute, that she might again hear there the tones, to
which St. Aubert and her mother had so often delighted to listen. She went
alone, and at that still 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 and
Madame St. Aubert, a few days preceding that, on which the latter was seized
with a fatal illness. Now, when Emily again entered the woods, that surrounded
the building, they awakened so forcibly the memory of former times, that her resolution
yielded for a moment to excess of grief. She stopped, leaned for support
against a tree, and wept for some minutes, before she had recovered herself
sufficiently to proceed. The little path, that led to the building, was
overgrown with grass and the flowers which St. Aubert had scattered carelessly
along the border were almost choked with weeds—the tall thistle—the fox-glove,
and the nettle. She often paused to look on the desolate spot, now so silent
and forsaken, and when, with a trembling hand, she opened the door of the
fishing-house, 'Ah!' said she, 'every thing—every thing remains as when I left
it last—left it with those who never must return!' She went to a window, that
overhung the rivulet, and, leaning over it, with her eyes fixed on the current,
was soon lost in melancholy reverie. The lute she had brought lay forgotten
beside her; the mournful sighing of the breeze, as it waved the high pines
above, and its softer whispers among the osiers, that bowed upon the banks
below, was a kind of music more in unison with her feelings. It did not vibrate
on the chords of unhappy memory, but was soothing to the heart as the voice of
Pity. She continued to muse, unconscious of the gloom of evening, and that the
sun's last light trembled on the heights above, and would probably have
remained so much longer, if a sudden footstep, without the building, had not
alarmed her attention, and first made her recollect that she was unprotected.
In the next moment, a door opened, and a stranger appeared, who stopped on
perceiving Emily, and then began to apologize for his intrusion. But Emily, at
the sound of his voice, lost her fear in a stronger emotion: its tones were
familiar to her ear, and, though she could not readily distinguish through the
dusk the features of the person who spoke, she felt a remembrance too strong to
be distrusted.
He
repeated his apology, and Emily then said something in reply, when the stranger
eagerly advancing, exclaimed, 'Good God! can it be—surely I 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 with still more than
its usual animation. A thousand painful recollections crowded to her mind, and
the effort, which she made to support herself, only served to increase her
agitation. Valancourt, meanwhile, having enquired anxiously after her health,
and expressed his hopes, that M. St. Aubert had found benefit from travelling,
learned from the flood of tears, which she could no longer repress, the fatal
truth. He led her to a seat, and sat down by her, while Emily continued to
weep, and Valancourt to hold the hand, which she was unconscious he had taken,
till it was wet with the tears, which grief for St. Aubert and sympathy for
herself had called forth.
'I feel,'
said he at length, 'I feel how insufficient all attempt at consolation must be
on this subject. I can only mourn with you, for I cannot doubt the source of
your tears. Would to God I were mistaken!'
Emily
could still answer only by tears, till she rose, and begged they might leave
the melancholy spot, when Valancourt, though he saw her feebleness, could not
offer to detain her, but took her arm within his, and led her from the
fishing-house. They walked silently through the woods, Valancourt anxious to
know, yet fearing to ask any particulars concerning St. Aubert; and Emily too
much distressed to converse. After some time, however, she acquired fortitude
enough to speak of her father, and to give a brief account of the manner of his
death; during which recital Valancourt's countenance betrayed strong emotion,
and, when he heard that St. Aubert had died on the road, and that Emily had
been left among strangers, he pressed her hand between his, and involuntarily
exclaimed, 'Why was I not there!' but in the next moment recollected himself,
for he immediately returned to the mention of her father; till, perceiving that
her spirits were exhausted, he gradually changed the subject, and spoke of
himself. Emily thus learned that, after they had parted, he had wandered, for
some time, along the shores of the Mediterranean, and had then returned through
Languedoc into Gascony, 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 they reached the gate of the
chateau, when he stopped, as if he had known this to be the limit of his walk.
Here, saying, that it was his intention to return to Estuviere on the following
day, he asked her if she would permit him to take leave of her in the morning;
and Emily, perceiving that she could not reject an ordinary civility, without
expressing by her refusal an expectation of something more, was compelled to
answer, that she should be at home.
She
passed a melancholy evening, during which the retrospect of all that had
happened, since she had seen Valancourt, would rise to her imagination; and the
scene of her father's death appeared in tints as fresh, as if it had passed on
the preceding day. She remembered particularly the earnest and solemn manner,
in which he had required her to destroy the manuscript papers, and, awakening
from the lethargy, in which sorrow had held her, she was shocked to think she
had not yet obeyed him, and determined, that another day should not reproach
her with the neglect.
