prompt:
Chapter: 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.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: The monk who attended St. Aubert invites Emily to come visit the nearby convent, but she needs to get it together first. There's a lot of crying going on here, naturally. Emily can't help but hear the same mysterious music she heard on the first night. St. Aubert, is that you? Emily chills at La Voisin's place for a little bit before heading over to the convent to check it out. The lady abbess is a pretty cool gal who gets what Emily is going through. She invites Emily to evening prayers and cheers her up a bit, which is pretty difficult at this point. La Voisin walks Emily back to his house to stay the night before her father's funeral, but she can't get the banditti out of her head . La Voisin isn't too worried about banditti popping out of the woods, but he reiterates that the chateau is not a good place to visit at night. No way, no how. Before the big funeral, Emily asks to spend some time gazing at her father's body. La Voisin peeps in the room and sees Emily lying senseless on the floor. Apparently, the shock was too much. After La Voisin revives her, Emily barely makes it through the funeral. There's lots of shuddering, crying, and moaning going on. Once again, abbess to the rescue! She comforts Emily and asks her to stay a few days at the convent. So Emily hangs out at the convent for a bit, writing a letter to her new guardian to let her know what went down with St. Aubert. Madame Cheron sends a servant to help bring her back to La Vallee, but Emily wants to take a few more days to rest up. Before Emily leaves for good, she wants to visit her father's grave entirely alone. This means waiting until midnight, when no one sane wants to go to a cemetery alone. Emily's a special flower. A nun warns Emily that she must pass a newly opened grave to get over to her dad's grave. Okay, getting a little creepy. Yep, it's definitely creepy. Emily thinks she sees a shadow following her, but it's probably her imagination. But she makes it out alive and starts on the long journey back home. Back at La Vallee, she catches up with her favorite maid, Theresa, and recites a sonnet to commemorate her beloved dad. Theresa tells Emily that their old friend and neighbor Barreaux was particularly devastated by St. Aubert's death. He sent over a pheasant for Emily to eat for dinner, because he's thoughtful like that.


prompt:
Chapter: 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.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: There's a new sheriff in town, Emily, and it's Madame Cheron. The good Madame invites Emily to her estates in Tholouse, but Em hopes to put her off for as long as possible. Emily heads over to the old fishing-house to be mopey, and who should she run into but Valancourt. It's a total coincidence that he's wandering around near her house. Emily fills Valancourt in on what happened while he was off traipsing around the country. Valancourt says he's taking off the next day, but will Emily be around tomorrow morning? He sure would like to see her. Emily's down with that, but seeing Valancourt reminds her of her father's death. Time to burn those papers, girl.


prompt:
Chapter: CHAPTER X

     Can such things be,
 And overcome us like a summer's cloud,
 Without our special wonder?
     MACBETH

On the next morning, Emily ordered a fire to be lighted in the stove
of the chamber, where St. Aubert used to sleep; and, as soon as she had
breakfasted, went thither to burn the papers. Having fastened the
door to prevent interruption, she opened the closet where they were
concealed, as she entered which, she felt an emotion of unusual awe,
and stood for some moments surveying it, trembling, and almost afraid to
remove the board. There was a great chair in one corner of the closet,
and, opposite to it, stood the table, at which she had seen her father
sit, on the evening that preceded his departure, looking over, with so
much emotion, what she believed to be these very papers.

The solitary life, which Emily had led of late, and the melancholy
subjects, on which she had suffered her thoughts to dwell, had rendered
her at times sensible to the 'thick-coming fancies' of a mind greatly
enervated. It was lamentable, that her excellent understanding should
have yielded, even for a moment, to the reveries of superstition, or
rather to those starts of imagination, which deceive the senses into
what can be called nothing less than momentary madness. Instances of
this temporary failure of mind had more than once occurred since her
return home; particularly when, wandering through this lonely mansion in
the evening twilight, she had been alarmed by appearances, which would
have been unseen in her more cheerful days. To this infirm state of her
nerves may be attributed what she imagined, when, her eyes glancing
a second time on the arm-chair, which stood in an obscure part of the
closet, the countenance of her dead father appeared there. Emily stood
fixed for a moment to the floor, after which she left the closet.
Her spirits, however, soon returned; she reproached herself with the
weakness of thus suffering interruption in an act of serious importance,
and again opened the door. By the directions which St. Aubert had given
her, she readily found the board he had described in an opposite corner
of the closet, near the window; she distinguished also the line he
had mentioned, and, pressing it as he had bade her, it slid down, and
disclosed the bundle of papers, together with some scattered ones, and
the purse of louis. With a trembling hand she removed them, replaced the
board, paused a moment, and was rising from the floor, when, on looking
up, there appeared to her alarmed fancy the same countenance in the
chair. The illusion, another instance of the unhappy effect which
solitude and grief had gradually produced upon her mind, subdued her
spirits; she rushed forward into the chamber, and sunk almost senseless
into a chair. Returning reason soon overcame the dreadful, but pitiable
attack of imagination, and she turned to the papers, though still with
so little recollection, that her eyes involuntarily settled on the
writing of some loose sheets, which lay open; and she was unconscious,
that she was transgressing her father's strict injunction, till a
sentence of dreadful import awakened her attention and her memory
together. She hastily put the papers from her; but the words, which had
roused equally her curiosity and terror, she could not dismiss from her
thoughts. So powerfully had they affected her, that she even could not
resolve to destroy the papers immediately; and the more she dwelt on the
circumstance, the more it inflamed her imagination. Urged by the most
forcible, and apparently the most necessary, curiosity to enquire
farther, concerning the terrible and mysterious subject, to which she
had seen an allusion, she began to lament her promise to destroy the
papers. For a moment, she even doubted, whether it could justly be
obeyed, in contradiction to such reasons as there appeared to be for
further information. But the delusion was momentary.

'I have given a solemn promise,' said she, 'to observe a solemn
injunction, and it is not my business to argue, but to obey. Let me
hasten to remove the temptation, that would destroy my innocence, and
embitter my life with the consciousness of irremediable guilt, while I
have strength to reject it.'

Thus re-animated with a sense of her duty, she completed the triumph
of her integrity over temptation, more forcible than any she had ever
known, and consigned the papers to the flames. Her eyes watched them as
they slowly consumed, she shuddered at the recollection of the sentence
she had just seen, and at the certainty, that the only opportunity of
explaining it was then passing away for ever.

It was long after this, that she recollected the purse; and as she was
depositing it, unopened, in a cabinet, perceiving that it contained
something of a size larger than coin, she examined it. 'His hand
deposited them here,' said she, as she kissed some pieces of the coin,
and wetted them with her tears, 'his hand--which is now dust!' At the
bottom of the purse was a small packet, having taken out which, and
unfolded paper after paper, she found to be an ivory case, containing
the miniature of a--lady! She started--'The same,' said she, 'my father
wept over!' On examining the countenance she could recollect no person
that it resembled. It was of uncommon beauty, and was characterized
by an expression of sweetness, shaded with sorrow, and tempered by
resignation.

St. Aubert had given no directions concerning this picture, nor had even
named it; she, therefore, thought herself justified in preserving
it. More than once remembering his manner, when he had spoken of the
Marchioness of Villeroi, she felt inclined to believe that this was her
resemblance; yet there appeared no reason why he should have preserved a
picture of that lady, or, having preserved it, why he should lament over
it in a manner so striking and affecting as she had witnessed on the
night preceding his departure.

Emily still gazed on the countenance, examining its features, but she
knew not where to detect the charm that captivated her attention,
and inspired sentiments of such love and pity. Dark brown hair played
carelessly along the open forehead; the nose was rather inclined to
aquiline; the lips spoke in a smile, but it was a melancholy one; the
eyes were blue, and were directed upwards with an expression of peculiar
meekness, while the soft cloud of the brow spoke of the fine sensibility
of the temper.

Emily was roused from the musing mood into which the picture had thrown
her, by the closing of the garden gate; and, on turning her eyes to
the window, she saw Valancourt coming towards the chateau. Her spirits
agitated by the subjects that had lately occupied her mind, she felt
unprepared to see him, and remained a few moments in the chamber to
recover herself.

When she met him in the parlour, she was struck with the change that
appeared in his air and countenance since they had parted in Rousillon,
which twilight and the distress she suffered on the preceding evening
had prevented her from observing. But dejection and languor disappeared,
for a moment, in the smile that now enlightened his countenance, on
perceiving her. 'You see,' said he, 'I have availed myself of the
permission with which you honoured me--of bidding YOU farewell, whom I
had the happiness of meeting only yesterday.'

Emily smiled faintly, and, anxious to say something, asked if he had
been long in Gascony. 'A few days only,' replied Valancourt, while a
blush passed over his cheek. 'I engaged in a long ramble after I had the
misfortune of parting with the friends who had made my wanderings among
the Pyrenees so delightful.'

A tear came to Emily's eye, as Valancourt said this, which he observed;
and, anxious to draw off her attention from the remembrance that had
occasioned it, as well as shocked at his own thoughtlessness, he began
to speak on other subjects, expressing his admiration of the chateau,
and its prospects. Emily, who felt somewhat embarrassed how to support
a conversation, was glad of such an opportunity to continue it on
indifferent topics. They walked down to the terrace, where Valancourt
was charmed with the river scenery, and the views over the opposite
shores of Guienne.

As he leaned on the wall of the terrace, watching the rapid current of
the Garonne, 'I was a few weeks ago,' said he, 'at the source of this
noble river; I had not then the happiness of knowing you, or I should
have regretted your absence--it was a scene so exactly suited to
your taste. It rises in a part of the Pyrenees, still wilder and more
sublime, I think, than any we passed in the way to Rousillon.' He then
described its fall among the precipices of the mountains, where its
waters, augmented by the streams that descend from the snowy summits
around, rush into the Vallee d'Aran, between whose romantic heights it
foams along, pursuing its way to the north west till it emerges upon the
plains of Languedoc. Then, washing the walls of Tholouse, and turning
again to the north west, it assumes a milder character, as it fertilizes
the pastures of Gascony and Guienne, in its progress to the Bay of
Biscay.

Emily and Valancourt talked of the scenes they had passed among
the Pyrenean Alps; as he spoke of which there was often a tremulous
tenderness in his voice, and sometimes he expatiated on them with all
the fire of genius, sometimes would appear scarcely conscious of the
topic, though he continued to speak. This subject recalled forcibly to
Emily the idea of her father, whose image appeared in every landscape,
which Valancourt particularized, whose remarks dwelt upon her memory,
and whose enthusiasm still glowed in her heart. Her silence, at length,
reminded Valancourt how nearly his conversation approached to the
occasion of her grief, and he changed the subject, though for one
scarcely less affecting to Emily. When he admired the grandeur of the
plane-tree, that spread its wide branches over the terrace, and under
whose shade they now sat, she remembered how often she had sat thus with
St. Aubert, and heard him express the same admiration.

'This was a favourite tree with my dear father,' said she; 'he used to
love to sit under its foliage with his family about him, in the fine
evenings of summer.'

Valancourt understood her feelings, and was silent; had she raised her
eyes from the ground she would have seen tears in his. He rose, and
leaned on the wall of the terrace, from which, in a few moments, he
returned to his seat, then rose again, and appeared to be greatly
agitated; while Emily found her spirits so much depressed, that several
of her attempts to renew the conversation were ineffectual. Valancourt
again sat down, but was still silent, and trembled. At length he said,
with a hesitating voice, 'This lovely scene!--I am going to leave--to
leave you--perhaps for ever! These moments may never return; I cannot
resolve to neglect, though I scarcely dare to avail myself of them. Let
me, however, without offending the delicacy of your sorrow, venture to
declare the admiration I must always feel of your goodness--O! that at
some future period I might be permitted to call it love!'

Emily's emotion would not suffer her to reply; and Valancourt, who now
ventured to look up, observing her countenance change, expected to see
her faint, and made an involuntary effort to support her, which recalled
Emily to a sense of her situation, and to an exertion of her spirits.
Valancourt did not appear to notice her indisposition, but, when he
spoke again, his voice told the tenderest love. 'I will not presume,' he
added, 'to intrude this subject longer upon your attention at this time,
but I may, perhaps, be permitted to mention, that these parting moments
would lose much of their bitterness if I might be allowed to hope the
declaration I have made would not exclude me from your presence in
future.'

Emily made another effort to overcome the confusion of her thoughts,
and to speak. She feared to trust the preference her heart acknowledged
towards Valancourt, and to give him any encouragement for hope, on so
short an acquaintance. For though in this narrow period she had observed
much that was admirable in his taste and disposition, and though these
observations had been sanctioned by the opinion of her father, they were
not sufficient testimonies of his general worth to determine her upon a
subject so infinitely important to her future happiness as that, which
now solicited her attention. Yet, though the thought of dismissing
Valancourt was so very painful to her, that she could scarcely endure to
pause upon it, the consciousness of this made her fear the partiality of
her judgment, and hesitate still more to encourage that suit, for which
her own heart too tenderly pleaded. The family of Valancourt, if not
his circumstances, had been known to her father, and known to be
unexceptionable. Of his circumstances, Valancourt himself hinted as far
as delicacy would permit, when he said he had at present little else to
offer but an heart, that adored her. He had solicited only for a distant
hope, and she could not resolve to forbid, though she scarcely dared to
permit it; at length, she acquired courage to say, that she must think
herself honoured by the good opinion of any person, whom her father had
esteemed.

'And was I, then, thought worthy of his esteem?' said Valancourt, in
a voice trembling with anxiety; then checking himself, he added, 'But
pardon the question; I scarcely know what I say. If I might dare to
hope, that you think me not unworthy such honour, and might be permitted
sometimes to enquire after your health, I should now leave you with
comparative tranquillity.'

Emily, after a moment's silence, said, 'I will be ingenuous with you,
for I know you will understand, and allow for my situation; you will
consider it as a proof of my--my esteem that I am so. Though I live
here in what was my father's house, I live here alone. I have, alas! no
longer a parent--a parent, whose presence might sanction your visits.
It is unnecessary for me to point out the impropriety of my receiving
them.'

'Nor will I affect to be insensible of this,' replied Valancourt, adding
mournfully--'but what is to console me for my candour? I distress you,
and would now leave the subject, if I might carry with me a hope of
being some time permitted to renew it, of being allowed to make myself
known to your family.'

Emily was again confused, and again hesitated what to reply; she felt
most acutely the difficulty--the forlornness of her situation, which did
not allow her a single relative, or friend, to whom she could turn
for even a look, that might support and guide her in the present
embarrassing circumstances. Madame Cheron, who was her only relative,
and ought to have been this friend, was either occupied by her own
amusements, or so resentful of the reluctance her niece had shewn to
quit La Vallee, that she seemed totally to have abandoned her.

'Ah! I see,' said Valancourt, after a long pause, during which Emily had
begun, and left unfinished two or three sentences, 'I see that I have
nothing to hope; my fears were too just, you think me unworthy of your
esteem. That fatal journey! which I considered as the happiest period of
my life--those delightful days were to embitter all my future ones. How
often I have looked back to them with hope and fear--yet never till
this moment could I prevail with myself to regret their enchanting
influence.'

His voice faltered, and he abruptly quitted his seat and walked on the
terrace. There was an expression of despair on his countenance, that
affected Emily. The pleadings of her heart overcame, in some degree, her
extreme timidity, and, when he resumed his seat, she said, in an accent
that betrayed her tenderness, 'You do both yourself and me injustice
when you say I think you unworthy of my esteem; I will acknowledge that
you have long possessed it, and--and--'

Valancourt waited impatiently for the conclusion of the sentence,
but the words died on her lips. Her eyes, however, reflected all the
emotions of her heart. Valancourt passed, in an instant, from the
impatience of despair, to that of joy and tenderness. 'O Emily!' he
exclaimed, 'my own Emily--teach me to sustain this moment! Let me seal
it as the most sacred of my life!'

He pressed her hand to his lips, it was cold and trembling; and, raising
her eyes, he saw the paleness of her countenance. Tears came to her
relief, and Valancourt watched in anxious silence over her. In a few
moments, she recovered herself, and smiling faintly through her tears,
said, 'Can you excuse this weakness? My spirits have not yet, I believe,
recovered from the shock they lately received.'

'I cannot excuse myself,' said Valancourt, 'but I will forbear to renew
the subject, which may have contributed to agitate them, now that I can
leave you with the sweet certainty of possessing your esteem.'

Then, forgetting his resolution, he again spoke of himself. 'You know
not,' said he, 'the many anxious hours I have passed near you lately,
when you believed me, if indeed you honoured me with a thought, far
away. I have wandered, near the chateau, in the still hours of the
night, when no eye could observe me. It was delightful to know I was so
near you, and there was something particularly soothing in the thought,
that I watched round your habitation, while you slept. These grounds are
not entirely new to me. Once I ventured within the fence, and spent one
of the happiest, and yet most melancholy hours of my life in walking
under what I believed to be your window.'

Emily enquired how long Valancourt had been in the neighbourhood.
'Several days,' he replied. 'It was my design to avail myself of the
permission M. St. Aubert had given me. I scarcely know how to account
for it; but, though I anxiously wished to do this, my resolution always
failed, when the moment approached, and I constantly deferred my visit.
I lodged in a village at some distance, and wandered with my dogs, among
the scenes of this charming country, wishing continually to meet you,
yet not daring to visit you.'

Having thus continued to converse, without perceiving the flight of
time, Valancourt, at length, seemed to recollect himself. 'I must go,'
said he mournfully, 'but it is with the hope of seeing you again, of
being permitted to pay my respects to your family; let me hear this hope
confirmed by your voice.' 'My family will be happy to see any friend
of my dear father,' said Emily. Valancourt kissed her hand, and still
lingered, unable to depart, while Emily sat silently, with her eyes bent
on the ground; and Valancourt, as he gazed on her, considered that it
would soon be impossible for him to recall, even to his memory, the
exact resemblance of the beautiful countenance he then beheld; at this
moment an hasty footstep approached from behind the plane-tree, and,
turning her eyes, Emily saw Madame Cheron. She felt a blush steal upon
her cheek, and her frame trembled with the emotion of her mind; but she
instantly rose to meet her visitor. 'So, niece!' said Madame Cheron,
casting a look of surprise and enquiry on Valancourt, 'so niece, how
do you do? But I need not ask, your looks tell me you have already
recovered your loss.'

'My looks do me injustice then, Madame, my loss I know can never be
recovered.'

'Well--well! I will not argue with you; I see you have exactly your
father's disposition; and let me tell you it would have been much
happier for him, poor man! if it had been a different one.'

A look of dignified displeasure, with which Emily regarded Madame
Cheron, while she spoke, would have touched almost any other heart;
she made no other reply, but introduced Valancourt, who could scarcely
stifle the resentment he felt, and whose bow Madame Cheron returned with
a slight curtsy, and a look of supercilious examination. After a few
moments he took leave of Emily, in a manner, that hastily expressed his
pain both at his own departure, and at leaving her to the society of
Madame Cheron.

'Who is that young man?' said her aunt, in an accent which equally
implied inquisitiveness and censure. 'Some idle admirer of yours I
suppose; but I believed niece you had a greater sense of propriety, than
to have received the visits of any young man in your present unfriended
situation. Let me tell you the world will observe those things, and it
will talk, aye and very freely too.'

Emily, extremely shocked at this coarse speech, attempted to interrupt
it; but Madame Cheron would proceed, with all the self-importance of a
person, to whom power is new.

'It is very necessary you should be under the eye of some person more
able to guide you than yourself. I, indeed, have not much leisure for
such a task; however, since your poor father made it his last request,
that I should overlook your conduct--I must even take you under my care.
But this let me tell you niece, that, unless you will determine to be
very conformable to my direction, I shall not trouble myself longer
about you.'

Emily made no attempt to interrupt Madame Cheron a second time, grief
and the pride of conscious innocence kept her silent, till her aunt
said, 'I am now come to take you with me to Tholouse; I am sorry
to find, that your poor father died, after all, in such indifferent
circumstances; however, I shall take you home with me. Ah! poor man, he
was always more generous than provident, or he would not have left his
daughter dependent on his relations.'

'Nor has he done so, I hope, madam,' said Emily calmly, 'nor did his
pecuniary misfortunes arise from that noble generosity, which always
distinguished him. The affairs of M. de Motteville may, I trust, yet
be settled without deeply injuring his creditors, and in the meantime I
should be very happy to remain at La Vallee.'

'No doubt you would,' replied Madame Cheron, with a smile of irony, 'and
I shall no doubt consent to this, since I see how necessary tranquillity
and retirement are to restore your spirits. I did not think you capable
of so much duplicity, niece; when you pleaded this excuse for remaining
here, I foolishly believed it to be a just one, nor expected to have
found with you so agreeable a companion as this M. La Val--, I forget
his name.'

Emily could no longer endure these cruel indignities. 'It was a just
one, madam,' said she; 'and now, indeed, I feel more than ever the value
of the retirement I then solicited; and, if the purport of your visit
is only to add insult to the sorrows of your brother's child, she could
well have spared it.'

'I see that I have undertaken a very troublesome task,' said Madame
Cheron, colouring highly. 'I am sure, madam,' said Emily mildly, and
endeavouring to restrain her tears, 'I am sure my father did not mean it
should be such. I have the happiness to reflect, that my conduct under
his eye was such as he often delighted to approve. It would be very
painful to me to disobey the sister of such a parent, and, if you
believe the task will really be so troublesome, I must lament, that it
is yours.'

'Well! niece, fine speaking signifies little. I am willing, in
consideration of my poor brother, to overlook the impropriety of your
late conduct, and to try what your future will be.'

Emily interrupted her, to beg she would explain what was the impropriety
she alluded to.

'What impropriety! why that of receiving the visits of a lover unknown
to your family,' replied Madame Cheron, not considering the impropriety
of which she had herself been guilty, in exposing her niece to the
possibility of conduct so erroneous.

A faint blush passed over Emily's countenance; pride and anxiety
struggled in her breast; and, till she recollected, that appearances
did, in some degree, justify her aunt's suspicions, she could not
resolve to humble herself so far as to enter into the defence of a
conduct, which had been so innocent and undesigning on her part. She
mentioned the manner of Valancourt's introduction to her father; the
circumstances of his receiving the pistol-shot, and of their afterwards
travelling together; with the accidental way, in which she had met him,
on the preceding evening. She owned he had declared a partiality for
her, and that he had asked permission to address her family.

'And who is this young adventurer, pray?' said Madame Cheron, 'and what
are his pretensions?' 'These he must himself explain, madam,' replied
Emily. 'Of his family my father was not ignorant, and I believe it is
unexceptionable.' She then proceeded to mention what she knew concerning
it.

'Oh, then, this it seems is a younger brother,' exclaimed her aunt, 'and
of course a beggar. A very fine tale indeed! And so my brother took a
fancy to this young man after only a few days acquaintance!--but that
was so like him! In his youth he was always taking these likes and
dislikes, when no other person saw any reason for them at all; nay,
indeed, I have often thought the people he disapproved were much more
agreeable than those he admired;--but there is no accounting for tastes.
He was always so much influenced by people's countenances; now I, for my
part, have no notion of this, it is all ridiculous enthusiasm. What has
a man's face to do with his character? Can a man of good character
help having a disagreeable face?'--which last sentence Madame Cheron
delivered with the decisive air of a person who congratulates herself
on having made a grand discovery, and believes the question to be
unanswerably settled.

Emily, desirous of concluding the conversation, enquired if her aunt
would accept some refreshment, and Madame Cheron accompanied her to the
chateau, but without desisting from a topic, which she discussed with so
much complacency to herself, and severity to her niece.

'I am sorry to perceive, niece,' said she, in allusion to somewhat that
Emily had said, concerning physiognomy, 'that you have a great many of
your father's prejudices, and among them those sudden predilections for
people from their looks. I can perceive, that you imagine yourself to be
violently in love with this young adventurer, after an acquaintance of
only a few days. There was something, too, so charmingly romantic in the
manner of your meeting!'

Emily checked the tears, that trembled in her eyes, while she said,
'When my conduct shall deserve this severity, madam, you will do well
to exercise it; till then justice, if not tenderness, should surely
restrain it. I have never willingly offended you; now I have lost my
parents, you are the only person to whom I can look for kindness. Let me
not lament more than ever the loss of such parents.' The last words were
almost stifled by her emotions, and she burst into tears. Remembering
the delicacy and the tenderness of St. Aubert, the happy, happy days
she had passed in these scenes, and contrasting them with the coarse
and unfeeling behaviour of Madame Cheron, and from the future hours
of mortification she must submit to in her presence--a degree of grief
seized her, that almost reached despair. Madame Cheron, more offended
by the reproof which Emily's words conveyed, than touched by the
sorrow they expressed, said nothing, that might soften her grief; but,
notwithstanding an apparent reluctance to receive her niece, she desired
her company. The love of sway was her ruling passion, and she knew it
would be highly gratified by taking into her house a young orphan, who
had no appeal from her decisions, and on whom she could exercise without
controul the capricious humour of the moment.

On entering the chateau, Madame Cheron expressed a desire, that she
would put up what she thought necessary to take to Tholouse, as she
meant to set off immediately. Emily now tried to persuade her to defer
the journey, at least till the next day, and, at length, with much
difficulty, prevailed.

The day passed in the exercise of petty tyranny on the part of Madame
Cheron, and in mournful regret and melancholy anticipation on that of
Emily, who, when her aunt retired to her apartment for the night, went
to take leave of every other room in this her dear native home, which
she was now quitting for she knew not how long, and for a world, to
which she was wholly a stranger. She could not conquer a presentiment,
which frequently occurred to her, this night--that she should never more
return to La Vallee. Having passed a considerable time in what had been
her father's study, having selected some of his favourite authors, to
put up with her clothes, and shed many tears, as she wiped the dust from
their covers, she seated herself in his chair before the reading desk,
and sat lost in melancholy reflection, till Theresa opened the door to
examine, as was her custom before she went to bed, if was all safe. She
started, on observing her young lady, who bade her come in, and then
gave her some directions for keeping the chateau in readiness for her
reception at all times.

'Alas-a-day! that you should leave it!' said Theresa, 'I think you would
be happier here than where you are going, if one may judge.' Emily made
no reply to this remark; the sorrow Theresa proceeded to express at
her departure affected her, but she found some comfort in the simple
affection of this poor old servant, to whom she gave such directions as
might best conduce to her comfort during her own absence.

Having dismissed Theresa to bed, Emily wandered through every lonely
apartment of the chateau, lingering long in what had been her father's
bed-room, indulging melancholy, yet not unpleasing, emotions, and,
having often returned within the door to take another look at it, she
withdrew to her own chamber. From her window she gazed upon the
garden below, shewn faintly by the moon, rising over the tops of the
palm-trees, and, at length, the calm beauty of the night increased a
desire of indulging the mournful sweetness of bidding farewel to the
beloved shades of her childhood, till she was tempted to descend.
Throwing over her the light veil, in which she usually walked, she
silently passed into the garden, and, hastening towards the distant
groves, was glad to breathe once more the air of liberty, and to sigh
unobserved. The deep repose of the scene, the rich scents, that floated
on the breeze, the grandeur of the wide horizon and of the clear
blue arch, soothed and gradually elevated her mind to that sublime
complacency, which renders the vexations of this world so insignificant
and mean in our eyes, that we wonder they have had power for a moment to
disturb us. Emily forgot Madame Cheron and all the circumstances of
her conduct, while her thoughts ascended to the contemplation of those
unnumbered worlds, that lie scattered in the depths of aether, thousands
of them hid from human eyes, and almost beyond the flight of human
fancy. As her imagination soared through the regions of space, and
aspired to that Great First Cause, which pervades and governs all being,
the idea of her father scarcely ever left her; but it was a pleasing
idea, since she resigned him to God in the full confidence of a pure and
holy faith. She pursued her way through the groves to the terrace,
often pausing as memory awakened the pang of affection, and as reason
anticipated the exile, into which she was going.

And now the moon was high over the woods, touching their summits with
yellow light, and darting between the foliage long level beams; while on
the rapid Garonne below the trembling radiance was faintly obscured by
the lightest vapour. Emily long watched the playing lustre, listened to
the soothing murmur of the current, and the yet lighter sounds of the
air, as it stirred, at intervals, the lofty palm-trees. 'How delightful
is the sweet breath of these groves,' said she. 'This lovely scene!--how
often shall I remember and regret it, when I am far away. Alas!
what events may occur before I see it again! O, peaceful, happy
shades!--scenes of my infant delights, of parental tenderness now lost
for ever!--why must I leave ye!--In your retreats I should still find
safety and repose. Sweet hours of my childhood--I am now to leave even
your last memorials! No objects, that would revive your impressions,
will remain for me!'

Then drying her tears and looking up, her thoughts rose again to the
sublime subject she had contemplated; the same divine complacency stole
over her heart, and, hushing its throbs, inspired hope and confidence
and resignation to the will of the Deity, whose works filled her mind
with adoration.

Emily gazed long on the plane-tree, and then seated herself, for the
last time, on the bench under its shade, where she had so often sat with
her parents, and where, only a few hours before, she had conversed
with Valancourt, at the remembrance of whom, thus revived, a mingled
sensation of esteem, tenderness and anxiety rose in her breast. With
this remembrance occurred a recollection of his late confession--that he
had often wandered near her habitation in the night, having even passed
the boundary of the garden, and it immediately occurred to her, that
he might be at this moment in the grounds. The fear of meeting him,
particularly after the declaration he had made, and of incurring a
censure, which her aunt might so reasonably bestow, if it was known,
that she was met by her lover, at this hour, made her instantly leave
her beloved plane-tree, and walk towards the chateau. She cast an
anxious eye around, and often stopped for a moment to examine the
shadowy scene before she ventured to proceed, but she passed on without
perceiving any person, till, having reached a clump of almond trees, not
far from the house, she rested to take a retrospect of the garden, and
to sigh forth another adieu. As her eyes wandered over the landscape she
thought she perceived a person emerge from the groves, and pass slowly
along a moon-light alley that led between them; but the distance, and
the imperfect light would not suffer her to judge with any degree of
certainty whether this was fancy or reality. She continued to gaze for
some time on the spot, till on the dead stillness of the air she heard
a sudden sound, and in the next instant fancied she distinguished
footsteps near her. Wasting not another moment in conjecture, she
hurried to the chateau, and, having reached it, retired to her chamber,
where, as she closed her window she looked upon the garden, and then
again thought she distinguished a figure, gliding between the almond
trees she had just left. She immediately withdrew from the casement,
and, though much agitated, sought in sleep the refreshment of a short
oblivion.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Emily lights up a fire in her dad's old bedchamber and gets ready to burn. Following St. Aubert's last instructions, she digs up all of his old papers under the floorboards. Whoa, she thinks she sees her father's ghost sitting in his chair. Calm down! As she's in the process of fainting Emily catches a glimpse of writing on the loose sheets of paper. Remember, she's not supposed to see anything. Bad girl, Emily. Hmm, maybe she shouldn't have made that promise to burn the papers without looking at them. Major conscience struggle going on here. Okay. Okay. She's not going to look at the papers. Emily throws them into the fire really quickly so she won't be tempted. Phew. There's also a purse in the cabinet with some money and something else, wrapped in layers of paper. She didn't promise to burn everything, right? Emily unwraps the papers and finds a miniature of a beautiful woman. Uh, what's going on? Why would St. Aubert have a picture of a random not-Emily's-mom woman? Before she can figure out what do, she sees Valancourt heading her way. Quick, hide the contraband! Even though Emily's upset over the picture, Valancourt makes her feel better by bringing up her favorite subject: nature. He's a smart one, that Valancourt. Oh yeah, and he also confesses his love. He is totally, utterly, head-over-heels in love with Emily. Emily's not really sure what's proper under these circumstances, but she definitely likes him too. Valancourt admits that he's been wandering around Emily's house for a while, especially at night. Okay, dude, that's a little weird. When Valancourt and Emily are in the middle of all their love-talk, Madame Cheron stumbles across them. Guess she arrived at a pretty inconvenient moment. Madame Cheron gets a little snippy with Emily and says she's recovered pretty quickly from her dad's death. Who's this new friend of hers, anyway? She sends him away lickety-split. Actually, Madame Cheron first wants to know how much Valancourt is worth. Emily admits that he's from an unexceptional family. Ouch. Madame Cheron plans to shut this thing down, stat. Oh, and she plans to take Emily to Tholouse the next day. On her last night at La Vallee, Emily wanders around being all melancholy. She dwells on childhood memories and remembers the first time she met Valancourt. Wait, doesn't Valancourt like to lurk in the bushes at night? Emily's a little nervous she'll run into him, but she has no such luck. She thinks someone is following her and hurries back to bed. Is that a figure gliding through the garden outside? Spooky.