Chapter: CHAPTER VII



     Let those deplore their doom,
 Whose hope still grovels in this dark sojourn.
 But lofty souls can look beyond the tomb,
 Can smile at fate, and wonder how they mourn.
 Shall Spring to these sad scenes no more return?
 Is yonder wave the sun's eternal bed?--
 Soon shall the orient with new lustre burn,
 And Spring shall soon her vital influence shed,
 Again attune the grove, again adorn the mead!
     BEATTIE

Emily, called, as she had requested, at an early hour, awoke, little
refreshed by sleep, for uneasy dreams had pursued her, and marred the
kindest blessing of the unhappy. But, when she opened her casement,
looked out upon the woods, bright with the morning sun, and inspired the
pure air, her mind was soothed. The scene was filled with that cheering
freshness, which seems to breathe the very spirit of health, and she
heard only sweet and PICTURESQUE sounds, if such an expression may be
allowed--the matin-bell of a distant convent, the faint murmur of the
sea-waves, the song of birds, and the far-off low of cattle, which
she saw coming slowly on between the trunks of trees. Struck with
the circumstances of imagery around her, she indulged the pensive
tranquillity which they inspired; and while she leaned on her window,
waiting till St. Aubert should descend to breakfast, her ideas arranged
themselves in the following lines:

THE FIRST HOUR OF MORNING

 How sweet to wind the forest's tangled shade,
  When early twilight, from the eastern bound,
 Dawns on the sleeping landscape in the glade,
  And fades as morning spreads her blush around!

 When ev'ry infant flower, that wept in night,
  Lifts its chill head soft glowing with a tear,
 Expands its tender blossom to the light,
  And gives its incense to the genial air.

 How fresh the breeze that wafts the rich perfume,
  And swells the melody of waking birds;
 The hum of bees, beneath the verdant gloom,
  And woodman's song, and low of distant herds!

 Then, doubtful gleams the mountain's hoary head,
  Seen through the parting foliage from afar;
 And, farther still, the ocean's misty bed,
  With flitting sails, that partial sun-beams share.

 But, vain the sylvan shade--the breath of May,
  The voice of music floating on the gale,
 And forms, that beam through morning's dewy veil,
 If health no longer bid the heart be gay!
 O balmy hour! 'tis thine her wealth to give,
 Here spread her blush, and bid the parent live!

Emily now heard persons moving below in the cottage, and presently the
voice of Michael, who was talking to his mules, as he led them forth
from a hut adjoining. As she left her room, St. Aubert, who was now
risen, met her at the door, apparently as little restored by sleep as
herself. She led him down stairs to the little parlour, in which they
had supped on the preceding night, where they found a neat breakfast set
out, while the host and his daughter waited to bid them good-morrow.

'I envy you this cottage, my good friends,' said St. Aubert, as he met
them, 'it is so pleasant, so quiet, and so neat; and this air, that one
breathes--if any thing could restore lost health, it would surely be
this air.'

La Voisin bowed gratefully, and replied, with the gallantry of a
Frenchman, 'Our cottage may be envied, sir, since you and Mademoiselle
have honoured it with your presence.' St. Aubert gave him a friendly
smile for his compliment, and sat down to a table, spread with cream,
fruit, new cheese, butter, and coffee. Emily, who had observed her
father with attention and thought he looked very ill, endeavoured to
persuade him to defer travelling till the afternoon; but he seemed very
anxious to be at home, and his anxiety he expressed repeatedly, and with
an earnestness that was unusual with him. He now said, he found himself
as well as he had been of late, and that he could bear travelling better
in the cool hour of the morning, than at any other time. But, while
he was talking with his venerable host, and thanking him for his kind
attentions, Emily observed his countenance change, and, before she could
reach him, he fell back in his chair. In a few moments he recovered from
the sudden faintness that had come over him, but felt so ill, that
he perceived himself unable to set out, and, having remained a little
while, struggling against the pressure of indisposition, he begged he
might be helped up stairs to bed. This request renewed all the terror
which Emily had suffered on the preceding evening; but, though scarcely
able to support herself, under the sudden shock it gave her, she tried
to conceal her apprehensions from St. Aubert, and gave her trembling arm
to assist him to the door of his chamber.

When he was once more in bed, he desired that Emily, who was then
weeping in her own room, might be called; and, as she came, he waved his
hand for every other person to quit the apartment. When they were alone,
he held out his hand to her, and fixed his eyes upon her countenance,
with an expression so full of tenderness and grief, that all her
fortitude forsook her, and she burst into an agony of tears. St. Aubert
seemed struggling to acquire firmness, but was still unable to speak; he
could only press her hand, and check the tears that stood trembling in
his eyes. At length he commanded his voice, 'My dear child,' said he,
trying to smile through his anguish, 'my dear Emily!'--and paused again.
He raised his eyes to heaven, as if in prayer, and then, in a firmer
tone, and with a look, in which the tenderness of the father was
dignified by the pious solemnity of the saint, he said, 'My dear child,
I would soften the painful truth I have to tell you, but I find myself
quite unequal to the art. Alas! I would, at this moment, conceal it from
you, but that it would be most cruel to deceive you. It cannot be
long before we must part; let us talk of it, that our thoughts and our
prayers may prepare us to bear it.' His voice faltered, while Emily,
still weeping, pressed his hand close to her heart, which swelled with a
convulsive sigh, but she could not look up.

'Let me not waste these moments,' said St. Aubert, recovering himself,
'I have much to say. There is a circumstance of solemn consequence,
which I have to mention, and a solemn promise to obtain from you; when
this is done I shall be easier. You have observed, my dear, how anxious
I am to reach home, but know not all my reasons for this. Listen to what
I am going to say.--Yet stay--before I say more give me this promise, a
promise made to your dying father!'--St. Aubert was interrupted; Emily,
struck by his last words, as if for the first time, with a conviction of
his immediate danger, raised her head; her tears stopped, and, gazing
at him for a moment with an expression of unutterable anguish, a slight
convulsion seized her, and she sunk senseless in her chair. St.
Aubert's cries brought La Voisin and his daughter to the room, and
they administered every means in their power to restore her, but, for a
considerable time, without effect. When she recovered, St. Aubert was so
exhausted by the scene he had witnessed, that it was many minutes
before he had strength to speak; he was, however, somewhat revived by
a cordial, which Emily gave him; and, being again alone with her, he
exerted himself to tranquilize her spirits, and to offer her all the
comfort of which her situation admitted. She threw herself into his
arms, wept on his neck, and grief made her so insensible to all he said,
that he ceased to offer the alleviations, which he himself could not, at
this moment, feel, and mingled his silent tears with hers. Recalled, at
length, to a sense of duty, she tried to spare her father from a farther
view of her suffering; and, quitting his embrace, dried her tears,
and said something, which she meant for consolation. 'My dear Emily,'
replied St. Aubert, 'my dear child, we must look up with humble
confidence to that Being, who has protected and comforted us in every
danger, and in every affliction we have known; to whose eye every moment
of our lives has been exposed; he will not, he does not, forsake us now;
I feel his consolations in my heart. I shall leave you, my child, still
in his care; and, though I depart from this world, I shall be still in
his presence. Nay, weep not again, my Emily. In death there is nothing
new, or surprising, since we all know, that we are born to die; and
nothing terrible to those, who can confide in an all-powerful God.
Had my life been spared now, after a very few years, in the course
of nature, I must have resigned it; old age, with all its train of
infirmity, its privations and its sorrows, would have been mine; and
then, at last, death would have come, and called forth the tears you now
shed. Rather, my child, rejoice, that I am saved from such suffering,
and that I am permitted to die with a mind unimpaired, and sensible of
the comforts of faith and resignation.' St. Aubert paused, fatigued with
speaking. Emily again endeavoured to assume an air of composure; and, in
replying to what he had said, tried to sooth him with a belief, that he
had not spoken in vain.

When he had reposed a while, he resumed the conversation. 'Let me
return,' said he, 'to a subject, which is very near my heart. I said I
had a solemn promise to receive from you; let me receive it now, before
I explain the chief circumstance which it concerns; there are others,
of which your peace requires that you should rest in ignorance. Promise,
then, that you will perform exactly what I shall enjoin.'

Emily, awed by the earnest solemnity of his manner, dried her tears,
that had begun again to flow, in spite of her efforts to suppress them;
and, looking eloquently at St. Aubert, bound herself to do whatever he
should require by a vow, at which she shuddered, yet knew not why.

He proceeded: 'I know you too well, my Emily, to believe, that you would
break any promise, much less one thus solemnly given; your assurance
gives me peace, and the observance of it is of the utmost importance to
your tranquillity. Hear, then, what I am going to tell you. The closet,
which adjoins my chamber at La Vallee, has a sliding board in the floor.
You will know it by a remarkable knot in the wood, and by its being the
next board, except one, to the wainscot, which fronts the door. At the
distance of about a yard from that end, nearer the window, you will
perceive a line across it, as if the plank had been joined;--the way to
open it is this:--Press your foot upon the line; the end of the board
will then sink, and you may slide it with ease beneath the other. Below,
you will see a hollow place.' St. Aubert paused for breath, and Emily
sat fixed in deep attention. 'Do you understand these directions, my
dear?' said he. Emily, though scarcely able to speak, assured him that
she did.

'When you return home, then,' he added with a deep sigh--

At the mention of her return home, all the melancholy circumstances,
that must attend this return, rushed upon her fancy; she burst into
convulsive grief, and St. Aubert himself, affected beyond the resistance
of the fortitude which he had, at first, summoned, wept with her.
After some moments, he composed himself. 'My dear child,' said he, 'be
comforted. When I am gone, you will not be forsaken--I leave you only in
the more immediate care of that Providence, which has never yet forsaken
me. Do not afflict me with this excess of grief; rather teach me by
your example to bear my own.' He stopped again, and Emily, the more she
endeavoured to restrain her emotion, found it the less possible to do
so.

St. Aubert, who now spoke with pain, resumed the subject. 'That closet,
my dear,--when you return home, go to it; and, beneath the board I have
described, you will find a packet of written papers. Attend to me now,
for the promise you have given particularly relates to what I shall
direct. These papers you must burn--and, solemnly I command you, WITHOUT
EXAMINING THEM.'

Emily's surprise, for a moment, overcame her grief, and she ventured to
ask, why this must be? St. Aubert replied, that, if it had been right
for him to explain his reasons, her late promise would have been
unnecessarily exacted. 'It is sufficient for you, my love, to have a
deep sense of the importance of observing me in this instance.' St.
Aubert proceeded. 'Under that board you will also find about two hundred
louis d'ors, wrapped in a silk purse; indeed, it was to secure whatever
money might be in the chateau, that this secret place was contrived,
at a time when the province was over-run by troops of men, who took
advantage of the tumults, and became plunderers.

'But I have yet another promise to receive from you, which is--that
you will never, whatever may be your future circumstances, SELL the
chateau.' St. Aubert even enjoined her, whenever she might marry, to
make it an article in the contract, that the chateau should always
be hers. He then gave her a more minute account of his present
circumstances than he had yet done, adding, 'The two hundred louis, with
what money you will now find in my purse, is all the ready money I have
to leave you. I have told you how I am circumstanced with M. Motteville,
at Paris. Ah, my child! I leave you poor--but not destitute,' he added,
after a long pause. Emily could make no reply to any thing he now said,
but knelt at the bed-side, with her face upon the quilt, weeping over
the hand she held there.

After this conversation, the mind of St. Aubert appeared to be much more
at ease; but, exhausted by the effort of speaking, he sunk into a kind
of doze, and Emily continued to watch and weep beside him, till a gentle
tap at the chamber-door roused her. It was La Voisin, come to say, that
a confessor from the neighbouring convent was below, ready to attend St.
Aubert. Emily would not suffer her father to be disturbed, but desired,
that the priest might not leave the cottage. When St. Aubert awoke from
this doze, his senses were confused, and it was some moments before he
recovered them sufficiently to know, that it was Emily who sat beside
him. He then moved his lips, and stretched forth his hand to her; as she
received which, she sunk back in her chair, overcome by the impression
of death on his countenance. In a few minutes he recovered his voice,
and Emily then asked, if he wished to see the confessor; he replied,
that he did; and, when the holy father appeared, she withdrew. They
remained alone together above half an hour; when Emily was called in,
she found St. Aubert more agitated than when she had left him, and she
gazed, with a slight degree of resentment, at the friar, as the cause
of this; who, however, looked mildly and mournfully at her, and turned
away. St. Aubert, in a tremulous voice, said, he wished her to join in
prayer with him, and asked if La Voisin would do so too. The old man and
his daughter came; they both wept, and knelt with Emily round the bed,
while the holy father read in a solemn voice the service for the dying.
St. Aubert lay with a serene countenance, and seemed to join fervently
in the devotion, while tears often stole from beneath his closed
eyelids, and Emily's sobs more than once interrupted the service.

When it was concluded, and extreme unction had been administered,
the friar withdrew. St. Aubert then made a sign for La Voisin to come
nearer. He gave him his hand, and was, for a moment, silent. At length,
he said, in a trembling voice, 'My good friend, our acquaintance has
been short, but long enough to give you an opportunity of shewing me
much kind attention. I cannot doubt, that you will extend this kindness
to my daughter, when I am gone; she will have need of it. I entrust her
to your care during the few days she will remain here. I need say no
more--you know the feelings of a father, for you have children; mine
would be, indeed, severe if I had less confidence in you.' He paused. La
Voisin assured him, and his tears bore testimony to his sincerity, that
he would do all he could to soften her affliction, and that, if St.
Aubert wished it, he would even attend her into Gascony; an offer so
pleasing to St. Aubert, that he had scarcely words to acknowledge his
sense of the old man's kindness, or to tell him, that he accepted it.
The scene, that followed between St. Aubert and Emily, affected La
Voisin so much, that he quitted the chamber, and she was again left
alone with her father, whose spirits seemed fainting fast, but neither
his senses, or his voice, yet failed him; and, at intervals, he employed
much of these last awful moments in advising his daughter, as to her
future conduct. Perhaps, he never had thought more justly, or expressed
himself more clearly, than he did now.

'Above all, my dear Emily,' said he, 'do not indulge in the pride of
fine feeling, the romantic error of amiable minds. Those, who really
possess sensibility, ought early to be taught, that it is a dangerous
quality, which is continually extracting the excess of misery, or
delight, from every surrounding circumstance. And, since, in our passage
through this world, painful circumstances occur more frequently than
pleasing ones, and since our sense of evil is, I fear, more acute than
our sense of good, we become the victims of our feelings, unless we can
in some degree command them. I know you will say, (for you are young, my
Emily) I know you will say, that you are contented sometimes to suffer,
rather than to give up your refined sense of happiness, at others;
but, when your mind has been long harassed by vicissitude, you will be
content to rest, and you will then recover from your delusion. You will
perceive, that the phantom of happiness is exchanged for the substance;
for happiness arises in a state of peace, not of tumult. It is of a
temperate and uniform nature, and can no more exist in a heart, that is
continually alive to minute circumstances, than in one that is dead to
feeling. You see, my dear, that, though I would guard you against the
dangers of sensibility, I am not an advocate for apathy. At your age
I should have said THAT is a vice more hateful than all the errors of
sensibility, and I say so still. I call it a VICE, because it leads to
positive evil; in this, however, it does no more than an ill-governed
sensibility, which, by such a rule, might also be called a vice; but
the evil of the former is of more general consequence. I have exhausted
myself,' said St. Aubert, feebly, 'and have wearied you, my Emily; but,
on a subject so important to your future comfort, I am anxious to be
perfectly understood.'

Emily assured him, that his advice was most precious to her, and that
she would never forget it, or cease from endeavouring to profit by it.
St. Aubert smiled affectionately and sorrowfully upon her. 'I repeat
it,' said he, 'I would not teach you to become insensible, if I could;
I would only warn you of the evils of susceptibility, and point out
how you may avoid them. Beware, my love, I conjure you, of that
self-delusion, which has been fatal to the peace of so many persons;
beware of priding yourself on the gracefulness of sensibility; if you
yield to this vanity, your happiness is lost for ever. Always remember
how much more valuable is the strength of fortitude, than the grace of
sensibility. Do not, however, confound fortitude with apathy; apathy
cannot know the virtue. Remember, too, that one act of beneficence,
one act of real usefulness, is worth all the abstract sentiment in the
world. Sentiment is a disgrace, instead of an ornament, unless it lead
us to good actions. The miser, who thinks himself respectable, merely
because he possesses wealth, and thus mistakes the means of doing good,
for the actual accomplishment of it, is not more blameable than the man
of sentiment, without active virtue. You may have observed persons, who
delight so much in this sort of sensibility to sentiment, which excludes
that to the calls of any practical virtue, that they turn from
the distressed, and, because their sufferings are painful to be
contemplated, do not endeavour to relieve them. How despicable is that
humanity, which can be contented to pity, where it might assuage!'

St. Aubert, some time after, spoke of Madame Cheron, his sister. 'Let
me inform you of a circumstance, that nearly affects your welfare,' he
added. 'We have, you know, had little intercourse for some years, but,
as she is now your only female relation, I have thought it proper to
consign you to her care, as you will see in my will, till you are of
age, and to recommend you to her protection afterwards. She is not
exactly the person, to whom I would have committed my Emily, but I had
no alternative, and I believe her to be upon the whole--a good kind of
woman. I need not recommend it to your prudence, my love, to endeavour
to conciliate her kindness; you will do this for his sake, who has often
wished to do so for yours.'

Emily assured him, that, whatever he requested she would religiously
perform to the utmost of her ability. 'Alas!' added she, in a voice
interrupted by sighs, 'that will soon be all which remains for me; it
will be almost my only consolation to fulfil your wishes.'

St. Aubert looked up silently in her face, as if would have spoken, but
his spirit sunk a while, and his eyes became heavy and dull. She felt
that look at her heart. 'My dear father!' she exclaimed; and then,
checking herself, pressed his hand closer, and hid her face with
her handkerchief. Her tears were concealed, but St. Aubert heard her
convulsive sobs. His spirits returned. 'O my child!' said he, faintly,
'let my consolations be yours. I die in peace; for I know, that I
am about to return to the bosom of my Father, who will still be your
Father, when I am gone. Always trust in him, my love, and he will
support you in these moments, as he supports me.'

Emily could only listen, and weep; but the extreme composure of his
manner, and the faith and hope he expressed, somewhat soothed her
anguish. Yet, whenever she looked upon his emaciated countenance, and
saw the lines of death beginning to prevail over it--saw his sunk eyes,
still bent on her, and their heavy lids pressing to a close, there was a
pang in her heart, such as defied expression, though it required filial
virtue, like hers, to forbear the attempt.

He desired once more to bless her; 'Where are you, my dear?' said he,
as he stretched forth his hands. Emily had turned to the window, that he
might not perceive her anguish; she now understood, that his sight had
failed him. When he had given her his blessing, and it seemed to be the
last effort of expiring life, he sunk back on his pillow. She kissed
his forehead; the damps of death had settled there, and, forgetting her
fortitude for a moment, her tears mingled with them. St. Aubert lifted
up his eyes; the spirit of a father returned to them, but it quickly
vanished, and he spoke no more.

St. Aubert lingered till about three o'clock in the afternoon, and, thus
gradually sinking into death, he expired without a struggle, or a sigh.

Emily was led from the chamber by La Voisin and his daughter, who did
what they could to comfort her. The old man sat and wept with her. Agnes
was more erroneously officious.

 Emily wakes up the next morning in a poetic mood . She writes a little ditty called "The First Hour of Morning" about, y'know, waking up. At least she keeps it simple. St. Aubert is ready to hit the road again, but he can't even make it out of his chair without falling down. Yep, he's figured it out. He's dying, no question about it. So now that that's settled, St. Aubert wants to make sure Emily's all set to finish his work. He just has one simple request for her: look for secret papers underneath a sliding floorboard at La Vallee. And then burn them without looking at them. Burn them all! Sure, Emily's a little surprised that her dad is going fire-crazy, but she's happy to oblige. It's go time. St. Aubert calls in his confessor and bids his goodbyes to Emily and La Voisin. He's just got one more thing to say to Emily: don't get carried away with foolish nonsense, girl. Emily's crying too hard at this point to take anything in, but she tries to make her dad comfortable in his final hours. St. Aubert finally passes away, leaving Emily pretty wrecked. What on earth is she going to do now?

