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.

 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.

